#if your relationship with him ever reaches the point that you transcend into being counted as his family....

[paimonial-rage]

hey i'm the anon who asked the questions about lyney and it's totally fine! you can just do question 21 then i really don't mind lol<3

[Character Analysis Ask Meme]

What's Lyney's breaking point in a relationship?

It's hard to imagine, really. With how much Lyney may seem in love, the idea there's a point a relationship would be too much for him is hard to believe. But when you really think about it, his breaking point is simple. As strong as his feelings may be for you, his devotion to his family and its cause outweighs everything else. Should your relationship with him ever reach a time where it encroaches upon that which is the most precious to him, then there's nothing more he can do than let you go.

[divinehedons]

peaches.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: ~3.1k words

Summary: You're Joel's slice of paradise. And he's not so keen on sharing.

Warning: explicit content ahead, minors do NOT interact. porn with a little plot, somnophilia, oral (f receiving), explicit p in v sex, cockwarming (if you squint), possessive!Joel, submissive!reader, joel needs a hug (or some fucking, who knows), time is a continuum and canon is fluid, established relationship, sexism (not by joel), graphic depiction of violence, death, proceed with caution!

A/N: This is a first fic so be kind, be kind, be kind!

reblogs and comments much appreciated; requests are welcome!

All there was at the end of the world was time. Oceans of it, stretched out, endless, all encompassing, so much of it that Joel mostly feels it as the tightening of his chest. As if he lies in wait. As if by standing still, he could stop feeling so cornered. At some point, perhaps weeks after Sarah's death, the world had begun to feel like something that happened to him than something that he was moving in. The clocks stopped. The world moved on.

He just didn't know it would go on without him.

Solitude follows shortly thereafter, walking hand-in-hand with the unbearable weight of his grief. The void grows in the darkness. He was no stranger to insomnia; and there were nights where he woke heaving, feeling that primordial chaos grow, borne from the very cracks of his being.

Perhaps that was what made the discovery of paradise so much more sweeter. And paradise came, as he remembered it, with the sweetest doe eyes he ever did see.

The same doe eyes that looked to him now, pleading, begging, pulling him close to the unmade bed he had just risen from a few minutes ago. "Tommy'll be looking for me, darlin'," he had reasoned, only to surrender to the sweet sound of your whimper as you catch his lip in a sleepy kiss, as if asking him to take you completely from the realm of sleep that tried to pry you from him in the early hours of the morning.

"It's barely light out," you murmur, leaning into the caresses his callused hands pressed against the softness of your cheek. "Stay for a little."

He chuckles, watching the way your soft eyes travel over his features. Memorizing him in a way that reminded him how it felt to be so human. "I think you want me to stay forever, peach."

He likes imagining, sometimes. When the mornings are quiet, somewhere between the siren call of sleep and the irresistible taste of your cunt. He likes imagining that time, that which once had felt so empty and all-encompassing, slowly shrinking until all he could see was you, so tangible and within reach. Alive, soft with the breath of the living. So close that he just had to taste.

You had often woken with his tongue devouring your folds, moans subdued and oh-so-maddening. One look at your face was enough to nearly send him past the edges of his limits, hard cock wet and straining to immortalize you in that state of bliss for all eternity. It was where the nickname came. So easily, so languid. Something transcendant and yet all too natural.

"You're just sweeter than peaches, aren't you, sweetheart?" he had grumbled as his lips wrapped itself around your needy little clit, the sudden motion leading to the softest cry that made his knees buckle. His large hands would affix your legs more firmly over his shoulders. Then his left arm pinned down your grinding hips, all while two fingers from his right hand sank so easily between those weeping folds he'd gladly lay his life down for for if it meant having this. Always.

"Oh, fuck, Joel-" you weep, tugging on his hair so needily as your body arches to try and capture the peak of his movements. "Oh, please... pleasepleasepleaseplease-"

He'd raise his head, devil that he is, wetness coating his beard in a way that almost made you pull him close and kiss him, desperate to taste yourself on his tongue. "Use your words properly, sweet girl..."

He likes to pretend, too. Pretend that he doesn't care so much; that the thought of losing his one last tether to sanity doesn't drive him to fits of boiling hot rage. He'd pretend there weren't nights where he simply lay awake with your head on his chest, the soft lull of your breast reminding him you're alright. So he takes. He takes and takes and takes. He is insatiable. You are divine.

"Want to cum, sir, please-" A growl escapes him, sinking back between your legs to savour the sweetness that seeps like ichor for the gods. And if this was heaven, he'd never want to be parted from that fount of sustenance. Even when he's bursting full. There is never too much when it comes to you. His soaked fingers reach up so easily, welcomed by your warm lips as you suckled on the fruit of your own desire.

For a moment, he wonders if this was what Adam witnessed in the garden of Eden. Was this the very same temptation that forever damned humanity? If it was, he muses as he lets you finish, then he'd gladly set the world on fire in worship of you and only you.

"Give it t'me, peach. s'alright," he whispers, cradling your hips as you trembled in his arms, completely consumed in the ferocity of the riptide, emanated by the sweetest cry between your parted lips. The gush of your release eases him into his own bliss, the worries of their post-apocalyptic clarity melting away in the haze of watching each and every reaction coaxing your features.

He blinks, and he is taken back to your lips, the early dawn, his brother waiting at the edges of paradise. Reality slips between the cracks, and he sighs, gently laying you back amongst the tumbled sheets.

"You seein' a movie later?" he asks, to which you smiled, nodding shyly as you attempted to raise yourself again.

"Mhm. But Maria needed help with something, so that goes first." You palm at his scruffy beard, leaning up to place a trail of kisses against his covered cheek.

"Go back to sleep, hm?" You groan, and he chuckles at his stubborn girl. "Y'need the rest." He slowly departs from you, as if by being pressed against your skin for a few moments more meant keeping the scent of your skin close to him for longer.

"Like you don't, old man," you'd mumble, rolling over and letting sleep take you again. "You'll come home, yes?"

It freezes him. It makes his heart ache. He hears the hesitation, the worry, the things you had always tried to hide to make things feel a little more normal. He swallows, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Always, peaches."

The silence enraptures everything beyond the hubbub and safety of Jackson. It was routine, it was repetitive. Sometimes people would let their guards down. Never him, though.

New recruits huddled together, waiting to be paired, to be picked, to be chosen. As if they couldn't wait to feel the chilling presence of death in the form of a gun. The possibility of violence, child's play that didn't know any better; didn't know what others had to lose from the battlefield just for them to be desperate to jump right into it.

Joel keeps his good ear to the group, picking out artillery with the precision of someone who had been to too many battles. In the mumblings, he catches out a voice.

"What about that pretty thing that likes movies?" He hears your name and traces it back to the face that dared speak of you. "She'd probably look pretty on her knees. I bet she could-"

"Who's the kid?" Joel mumbles, head snapping to see his brother.

"Christopher. He's with me."

The blood pumps in his ears. The thought of those thoughts, ones that only belonged to him, ones only he should be privy to, filling up someone else's brain... "'m taking him."

His sweet peach, glorious, eternal, divine. You didn't deserve this, do you?

He told you once that you'd drive him mad. You giggled, leaning over the dining room table to kiss him gently. "You're all soft," you teased, pinching his cheek before letting him go back to his work. He rarely admits to the things that haunted him. For so long, he had tried to hide it all from you- the blood on his hands, the violence that he had lived with, devoured like sticky fruit on a summer's day. The two of you do not speak of the nightmares that would wake him, only to settle at the feel of your kisses and the weight of your body on his.

He never believed in religion, and perhaps he would never again step foot in a cathedral. But one thing that felt right was confession. A word from you and he would come spilling, emptying his grief on a platter for the goddess to consume gloriously. He'd tell you of Sarah, of Tess, sometimes in a mess of hushed whispers. Fragments of incomplete sentences and the sweet scent of your skin as you held him.

One word from her and he had never felt so clean.

Perhaps madness was how he ended up here, looming over the same boy who had dared saying that about you. The onslaught of violence had remained blurry in his head. Now Christopher slumps against the nearest wall, face and flesh combined in a gruesome depiction of his rage. His heart thunders in his ears, and he lifts the boy's head by his hair.

"Hey, hey," he grumbled, gently patting his cheek. "Look at me. Christopher, isn't it?"

The kid sputters, coughs up blood as he nods. "Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Joel flicks his knife open trailing the blade to his thigh. "I don't know what you want, man!"

"You don't talk about women like that, kid." He watched those young eyes widen, pained cry escaping him as he sinks the blade into the meat of his thigh.

"Fuck, fuck!" The gritting of teeth, the taste of blood, the smell of it permeating the room. And beneath it all is the slowly trickling smell of fear. Joel looks, growling as he twists the knife harder, letting Christopher scream. "I didn't know she was yours, man. I'm sorry-"

"Not very bright are you, kid?"

The screams would echo in the room for hours. He could've killed him. Perhaps he should've. All because he had dared to look at her that way. His peach. All because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

When he enters Jackson, he sees you standing there, pacing, cheeks red, hands trembling. He swore he felt his heart skip at the sight of Maria trying to comfort you, assure you that he was alright. It was only when those soft doe eyes find him that you finally believed her. You're running, and all he could do is stand there, let you collapse in his arms as the tears finally escaped you.

"They said," you had whispered, tugging him by the lapels of his coat, "they said there was an encounter- someone died, and... and..." It is a few minutes before they had finally begun to walk home, with you tucked to his side as your tears dry with the wind.

Within the confines of the house, it is all too easy. All too natural to surrender to the needing kisses you had peppered against his jaw, hands tugging off the blood-specked coat that now seemed to weigh on his shoulders. His large hands pull you close by the cheeks, kissing you wantonly and with a low grumble. The drying blood on his hands smear the unblemished skin of your cheek, marking you with the evidence of his sacrifice. Looking to you, breathless and inevitably all the more in love, he tries not to lose it then and then.

There had always been something primal about loving you. Something about the way he seemed to lay everything at your feet, like a devoted man in the presence of worship. Something about the way your cheeks bear his sacrifice now, and the way you don't even notice, already whining for another kiss after he had stared for too long.

"I'm right here, peach. It's okay," he whispers softly, arms carrying you to the couch, kissing once, twice, a few more times before he moves to the crook of your neck. He hears the soft sniffles, feels the wetness of your tears. "Hey, hey..."

Your arms wrap around him in the same way they did in the morning before he left. You pretend sometimes, too. You pretend that the feeling of his heart beating against your cheek whenever you lay on his chest settles you instead of terrifying you. You pretend time wouldn't steal him away and silently thank empty air whenever he returns home from whatever battlefield he emerges from.

Desperately, he marks you with his lips, the pressure of broken capillaries telling you everything you needed to know. That he's safe. He's alright. He did fulfil his promise after all.

Are you like me? you had wanted to ask once, do you leave marks on everything you love, too? When he looks at you with those eyes, it is all too easy to wrap your legs around his waist and let him place you on his lap, calloused hands exploring your thighs as if grounding himself back to the reality of your warmth.

Do they always leave, Joel?

All you taste is the metallic flavor of iron on his lips, clothed core pressing and grinding against his hardening cock. You finally speak again.

"Never, ever terrify me like that again." He'd smirk, pushing back your hair to observe your face, committing it to memory as if it would be the last time he will have you like this.

"Alright, baby. Alright. Let me take care of you, now," he murmurs as he lifts you, arms tensing as he carried you to the bedroom, to the sheets you had fixed after he left. You looked just as divine sprawled on his bed, just as divine when he had stripped you into nothing but your underwear. He couldn't help but admire the lacy pair you had on, watching your face redden as he sinks into another kiss once more. "Did you wear all this for me?"

Your meek nod is all he need. All he required for a groan to reverberate against your skin. "Wanted to surprise you, sir." He kisses down the valley of your torso, admiring the way you had turned into putty in his hands. You moan out his name, gasping as that devious tongue of his traced the outline of your folds through your underwear. You feel him press against your entrance, sinking just enough to be felt but not enough to feel good. His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, your voice driving him into shambles of desire.

"Fuck, Joel, don't tease," you'd almost beg, enough for him to smirk, shushing your desperate whines as he pulls you on his lap whilst he leans back.

"Alright, peach. Take what you want. S'all yours, isn't it?" You hum in agreement, leaning up to kiss him, leading his hands to your underwear and almost begging for him to take it off. He stares, a soft smirk on his features before his hands tear off the flimsy material that kept him from enjoying you.

"I'm all yours, Joel," you whisper, reaching for his pants and lowering it just enough to free him. His eagerness leaves you humming, moaning into the warm air of the bedroom. It was too much, you had been so good.

You'd give up forever just to have him like this.

You let his dripping cockhead catch where you're wet and dripping, eventually just sinking to the hilt. The stretch is glorious, it is otherworldly. He grips your hair and catches you in a desperate kiss as you slowly impale yourself on him. You moan. You whine, you tremble, and you practically sob.

"It's not like this with other people, is it?" you whisper, to which he growls and turns you over, legs thrown over his arms as he desperately ruts where you're perfect and absolutely divine. "Fuck, I'll always need you, Joel."

"I know-" he cuts you off, holding your face as you both fall into a heavenly rhythm. "Absolutely fuckin' perfect for me, peach..." He knows he had found that one spot that always drove you so wild when he hears that high squirm that escapes you. He presses more kisses and hickeys against his skin, as if reminding himself you're all his. Gently, he lets you suck on his bloodstained fingers, letting it quiet you as his thrusts intensify.

He wonders if you see just what you do to him. He wonders if you know that just the threat of someone else having you is enough to send him into blind and needy thrusts. He wonders if you know your touch is the only salve that takes away the rage bubbling under his skin.

It's a few moments more before he takes his fingers away, watching as you hold on to him, begging to let go, to slowly release.

"I'm all yours," you cry out against his shoulder, and he has to bite your skin to control himself. To let you go first. "Please let me, I need to- I'm so- so fucking close-"

He lays you back down, letting the fingers you had wet with your tongue reach down and rub your throbbing clit. "Look at me, peach. Come on, baby, show me those eyes of yours."

You look, doe-eyed, soft, and absolutely angelic in the face of debauchery that he literally growls.

"That's it. Give it to me, peach. Fuck, yes-" One word from him and you're letting go, eyes trained on him as your features contort into the most heavenly view he had seen. He feels you tighten, clench, and spasm against him that it pushes him just enough.

"That's such a good girl," he rasps, catching your lips in one more kiss as he spills between your folds, bodies pressed and coupled in an inseparable hug. The kiss dwindles as he presses his nose against your bloodstained cheek, breathing in the scent of your skin painted with his unannounced present. "That's it. Such a good, good girl, aren't you?"

You whine, moaning softly as you kissed what you can reach of him, heart racing as you basked in how gloriously full you felt. How gloriously loved. "I'm absolutely in love with you, Joel," you whisper, reddening as he kisses you again.

Joel Miller is a man of very few words. But you know you matter to him too. Just how much was another question entirely. It takes moments before he catches his breath. A few moments more before he's moving.

Another whine escapes you, and he peers down worriedly at your pouting features. "Stay," you whisper, pulling him until he lay his weight against your fragile, marked-up body. "Just like this, please."

He could have sworn he felt his cock twitch at the thought.

"Fuck, peaches," he mumbles, surrendering into your arms. "You might just be the death of me."

[majestyeverlasting]

What Happens in the Dark

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: As surely as the days change, people do too. This is a story in which Bucky and the reader are fully awakened to the fact that what lies between them is transcendent of the bounds of friendship. And as a storm comes to rest over the city, they find that they don't need a whole lot of words to express how they feel.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: There's nothing quite like a good friends to lovers story. This one is very fluffy and contains moments I hope you all find cute and enjoyable to read. I had so much fun writing it, and can't wait to put out more of my work in the near future. <3

The sky held promise of rain. Not any time soon, but surely by nightfall. From your place on Bucky’s couch, you casted occasional glances out the french windows to look up at it. The vibrance of the autumn leaves stood out against the pale gray as they moved in the breeze. An old sitcom rerun played on the TV, its laugh track erupting every few beats. But everything that lied unspoken between you was too resonant to attempt to pay any true attention.

Yet it seemed as though Bucky was making out fine, his blue eyes studying the characters on the screen. At least it was that way until you sighed, and started repositioning yourself with small grunts. You didn’t settle again until your legs were extended across the cushions to where he sat at the opposite end. You pushed your feet into his thigh. A small smile found its way to his face as he met your gaze.

“Yes?” His fingers wrapped around your right foot in a gentle squeeze. Even through your sock, the warmth of his palm registered against your skin.

Earlier that afternoon when he’d invited you over, you hadn’t given him a definite okay. The thought of being with him had scared you in a way you’d never admit felt pleasant. Your relationship dynamic had been changing for weeks on end. First, in discrete increments. But it seemed as though the hands of time had begun moving faster than you anticipated. Leaping and bounding towards a point when you’d no longer be able to consider each other friends alone. It started with the breakfast dates on the weekends. Then came the day he gifted you a bouquet of irises, claiming there was a special sale so why not. All the while, you’d been seeking each other’s proximity in ways like never before.

But neither of you ever said anything of it. You simply allowed yourselves to be guided by the unshakable impulses that seemed to spring forth from your innermost being. But you wanted to bring it up. Desperately. Just so it didn’t weigh in your chest like a million shining stars.

Bucky’s eyes never left yours as he waited for you to speak. Part of you wanted to hide. The other wanted to express that you couldn’t sit there with him for much longer. Not when he had his hair pulled back like that and appeared so comfortable with you an arm’s reach away. You needed to do something to get your mind off of how easy it was to be alone with him. Because you were moments away from making a move that only seemed right in your mind.

“Maybe we should go for a walk,” you said. “You know, just to get out for a bit.”

He hummed. “It’s supposed to rain.”

“Not for another few hours. We don’t have to go far,” you said. “Oh! We can go to that new thrift store. Maybe we’ll find something to liven up this living room of yours.”

His shoulders shook with a chuckle. “Alright. If that’s what you wanna do.”

Sometime between running your fingertips over small figurines and admiring a section of framed wall art, Bucky had draped his right arm over your shoulders and pulled you closer to his body. It was a thoughtless action, something he often did. But unlike before, it made your chest flutter. There weren’t a lot of people in the shop given it was evening, and scheduled to close soon. The interior was more expansive than the exterior suggested. The inventory included clothes, furniture, and everything else in between. Instrumental versions of classic hits flowed through the space. You hummed along to the ones you knew. The atmosphere as a whole was a stark contrast from the rather modern deli you and Bucky made the last minute decision to dine at before heading to the store.

Upon making it to an aisle stocked with seasonal decor, you strayed from Bucky’s side. Most of the items were fall related with a few Christmas knick-knacks sprinkled in. Something fuzzy caught your attention from between two ceramic pumpkins. It obviously was misplaced. Before Bucky knew it, you were taking a step closer to him and placing a cat ear headband on his head. Your fingers were careful as you made sure it was secured behind his ears. He made no attempt to push your hands away.

“Purrfect,” you quipped. You were laughing at yourself a second later. It was a musical sound that Bucky’s heart wanted to fall in rhythm with. All he did was shake his head with a fond smile.

An older woman happened to pass the aisle and spot you two. Even though she flashed a kind smile, Bucky’s face grew warm.

“Oh, how cute is that?” She gushed. The way you smiled at her would’ve made the sun jealous, he noted.

“Right?” You said, shooting Bucky a wink. “Very cute indeed.”

The woman chuckled. “You guys enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Thanks, you too,” you said.

The woman went about her way, and the two of you browsed for a few more moments before making your way to the register. Your persuasion had led Bucky to settle on a few decorative pieces to set on his coffee table. The pattering of rain had become audible as the cashier handed him the bag. It wasn’t until you made it to the door that you saw how the sky had turned pink as the sun began to set. Darker clouds loomed.

“It’s coming down pretty hard. You can wait here and I’ll drive up to get you,” he offered. He’d parked on the street at the end of the block.

“No, it’s fine. A little rain won’t hurt.”

It had been quite some time since you last ran in the rain. The gentle rush of wind and cool droplets were like a blessing from the universe against the warmth of your face. There were certain areas in the sky where sunlight shone through the clouds in thin beams. Soon, your fingers were wrapping around the door handle of Bucky’s truck, tugging a couple times. It popped open on the third try, and you all but climbed into the passenger seat before pulling it closed behind you. A sigh slipped past your lips as you relaxed with a shiver. The air smelled like Bucky and carried an additional hint of spice.

Glancing out the window gave you sight of him. His head was bowed as he walked but his stride was no less collected than it always was. When he joined you in the truck, the first thing he did was offer you a smile as he placed the bag in the back. There were a few wet streaks on his face that he then moved to wipe away with the back of his hand. You mirrored his actions.

“I told you I could’ve picked you up at the door so you wouldn’t get all wet.”

“And I told you it was fine. I didn’t melt.” He breathed a chuckle as he started the engine. When he rested his forearm on the center console, your eyes drifted to his hand. It was larger than yours and strong. A few faint veins were visible. You almost reached out to take it in yours.

By the time you made it back to his place, a storm had settled overhead. You had planned to head back home, but decided to wait it out with him. He disappeared into his bedroom to change, and you ended up on his couch once again. Conflicted feelings crept back to the forefront of your mind. A sudden bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a wave of thunder that shook the walls. With the weak flicker, the lights faded out. Only a fleeting hint of sunlight entered in to make a silhouette of your figure. The rain grew fiercer. Your heart was beating a little quicker.

Bucky sauntered back into the room with careful steps. “You okay?”

You found his gaze. “I’m all good,” you said. “Just scared me a bit. I wasn’t expecting the power to go out.”

“Me neither. It hardly ever does. I’m gonna go grab a couple emergency lanterns. ”

“Wait…” He listened, remaining in his place. “It kinda looks cool in here. Like, an ominous cool.” There was an almost giddy feeling stirring within you. You thought back to the thunderstorms in your childhood when the whole family would be together in one room telling jokes and attempting to ease any nerves.

“Until one of us stubs a toe,” he countered. “It’s gonna be completely dark soon. I can hardly make out your face now.”

Another bolt of lightning brightened the sky. Then came more thunder.

“But you know I’m right here.” You pushed yourself from the couch and went to stand closer to him. “Between the two of us, you would be the first to stub your toe.” With a scoff, he turned to seek out the lanterns. But you chuckled and grabbed his arm. “I’m kidding.”

“Good. Let me go.”

“Why? Are you afraid of the dark?” You smiled.

It wasn’t the dark he was afraid of. It was the feeling of your delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. And the fact that not being able to see all of your features would’ve made it easier to kiss you without being reminded that you bore the face of a friend. Even as he attempted to pull away, your grip remained. He was almost convinced you knew what you were doing. But your giggles sounded sweet enough to be innocent. They were a contrast to the storm raging outside.

It was the little things, he realized. Perhaps it always had been. And with you, their culmination was beautiful and terrifying in a way that seemed to know no bounds. The desire they set ablaze was unlike any feeling he had ever known; unyielding and all-consuming. Yet his body welcomed it as if it were a friend. His heart opened itself, and his bones embraced the pleasant ache. With each passing moment, a seemingly forbidden confession inched closer to the tip of his tongue, threatening to push past his lips.

You let him go eventually, smiling at the way he stood still, gazing down at you. Irritating him proved fun at times, but you hadn’t realized he was far from irritated. You figured that out the second his hands cupped your face and his soft lips met yours. Every part of you was overcome with warmth. Even as your buzzing hands shook, you managed to place them on his waist.

“M’not afraid of the dark,” he murmured against your lips. “Haven’t been for the past century.”

In spite of yourself—in spite of everything, you laughed. Right against the lips you’d never felt before. And all the stars that once weighed upon you found their way into the air around you, finally allowing you to breathe. Not like in the same way you had before, but in a way made anew. Bucky kept kissing you, nice and slow, and more gentle than you could’ve ever dreamed. You jumped when a burst of thunder sounded.

He smiled. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” There was a hint of teasing in his hushed tone. When you two parted, he rested his forehead against yours, and you listened to the rain and each other’s breaths. “I think…” His sentence trailed off.

“What? What do you think?”

“That this happened exactly when it was supposed to.” His breath fanned over your lips as he spoke.

Your hands rose to cup his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble against your palms for the first time. Then you let them trail to caress the nape of his neck. His hair was still secured in a small knot, and it fell to his shoulders when you pulled out the hair tie to release. You secured the band around your wrist before running your fingers through the strands. He made a small, satisfied sound.

“I think so too.”

Bucky went on to retrieve the lanterns. When their light illuminated your faces, the people you saw each other as were different from who you were in the dark, and even before that in the former light. You were renewed, transformed, more sure of what was and all that could be. But rather than addressing it, you enjoyed what it felt like to be close to one another. Because that was enough. And when the storm let up, you made no attempt to prepare to head back to your place. Because in more ways than one, it felt as though you were already home.

-

Thank you so much for reading!

More fluffy Bucky fics here.

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[sevlgi]

sugar pt. 2

requested: yes

group: mamamoo

pairing: solar x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst

contents: sugar mommy!solar, sugar baby!reader.  part 1 here!

warnings: implied sex

synopsis: You’re not so sure about how much longer you want to be Yongsun’s sugar baby.

a/n: none

word count: 1.9k

Being a sugar baby was never meant to last. You didn’t ever expect a relationship like Sooyoung and Joohyun, one that transcended deals of money and sex into a real love; Yongsun was supposed to just be the woman who bought you diamonds in exchange for a couple expensive dinners together. 

But instead, you found yourself falling dangerously quickly for someone who shouldn’t have even breathed the same air as you. You found your relationship evolving, from a simple sugar mommy and the girl she spoiled into just... girlfriends.

You were lucky enough to meet someone who felt the same way as you and would never take advantage of you in any way. Yongsun let you make all the first moves and never rushed you, which would’ve been perfect if not for the fact that in everyone else’s eyes, you were still just a sugar baby.

Joohyun smiled at you when you were led inside the hotel lobby by your girlfriend. You were gaping at the chandeliers, still self-conscious about the form-fitting Chanel gown that you wore; to be honest, you didn’t look like you’d been with Yongsun for almost 5 months. “Glad you could make it, you two.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Joohyun.” Yongsun, in contrast, was perfectly relaxed in her natural environment. You’d quickly come to learn that a coat of red lipstick and a fancy dress was enough to transform her from the gentle woman you loved into Solar, CEO of her own entertainment company. “Congratulations on the debut of your new group,” she smiled, seizing two glasses of wine off a waiter.

The other woman was about to speak when Sooyoung sidled over, slipping her hand into the crook of Joohyun’s arm like it was nothing. “Wow, Y/N, your sugar mommy’s obviously treating you well,” your best friend laughed good-naturedly, gesturing at the heavy rope of diamonds around your neck. 

She didn’t mean anything adverse, but you frowned, Yongsun’s hand tightening around yours. “Sugar baby?”

“Well, yeah,” Sooyoung shrugged. “I mean, Yongsun unnie is still buying you stuff. And you’re still... together, right?”

Your girlfriend patted your arm to stop you from opening your mouth again. “Right. Uh, if you’ll excuse us, I think I saw Byulyi somewhere, and I need to talk to her.”

As you were led away, you tugged at Yongsun’s hand. “Hey. What was that about? You should’ve let me tell her that I’m not your sugar baby anymore.”

The CEO sighed, waving mindlessly at some tall man that you vaguely recognized. “Y/N-ah. You have to realize that while I still buy you things and we’re together, no one will believe that we’re anything other than sugar mommy and baby. It doesn’t matter how many times we explain... you can’t just leave a relationship like this behind in the past.”

You quieted for a second, but you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting out, “Well, maybe we should leave the entire relationship behind.”

Yongsun stared at you with startled eyes. As someone approached her, though, she had to slip the mask back on, her hand tight on yours the only indication that she did hear what you said. “Good evening, Min PD. How’re you?”

“Did you mean it?”

Your lips tightened on the rim of your glass of tea as Yongsun poured one out of her own. It was the morning after the gala; you didn’t speak in the car ride home, at least not about anything other than Joohyun’s new group, and you went straight to sleep after arriving in your apartment. It was one of the rare nights that you slept early (or at all), especially when you considered that you didn’t even go to Yongsun’s penthouse. Instead, you let yourself in in the early morning, surprised when your girlfriend was already awake. “Mean what?”

“You know damn well.” She tapped her fingernails on the glass surface of her teacup, sighing and stopping when she realized how nerve-wracking it was. “You said we should leave the entire relationship behind. You... what did you mean by that?”

“I just meant that I don’t want to be your sugar baby anymore.” You set your cup down, raking your hands through your hair quickly. “I know I started this because I needed the money, but I-- but you got me a job. I earn my own money now, and I don’t need the diamonds, or the Chanel, or anything else.”

Yongsun reached for your hands, almost pouting as she said, “But baby. I like spoiling you, don’t you get it?”

“Buying me an entire store of Hermès isn’t normal spoiling,” you protested. “Normal is... buying me nice bread! Or just some nice heels for my birthday that cost less than a thousand dollars. Yongsun-ah, I want to be your girlfriend.”

Her lips opened in a soft “o” at that. Perhaps she had never really thought about how a normal relationship worked, or maybe she just qualified Hermès scarves as a normal birthday gift. Either way, you were tired of being thought of as just a sugar baby. “I get it. But I already told you, there’s no way that you can just shed the label like that,” she frowned, snapping her fingers for emphasis. 

“Then we break up.” When Yongsun opened her mouth to protest, you held your hand up to quiet her, pleading, “Hear me out, okay? We break up as sugar mommy and baby, but we continue... whatever this is in secret. After a couple weeks, we announce that we decided to just date normally. I can still come to your functions, because I know Sooyoung, and we can even have an amicable breakup!”

The brunette considered it, perfectly drawn eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I mean. It could work?”

You beamed, sitting back in your chair. “Then it’s settled! We break up.”

Yongsun still frowned. She obviously didn’t like the idea of breaking up with you at all, though you knew she’d cave eventually if only for the idea of calling you her girlfriend instead of her sugar baby. “...Fine. But you have to let me buy the new Louis collection for you in return.”

“No.” At the growing smile on the woman’s face, your eyes widened and you reached to keep her from standing and going to her extensive closet. “Yongsun--”

With the secretive glances that you and Yongsun kept exchanging at Joohyun’s next celebratory dinner, you were surprised that no one picked up on something else going on. But then again, with your seatmate hitting on you, you were sure that no one was paying much attention.

Hyesook was cute, sure. You weren’t sure exactly why she was at the dinner; she didn’t look like a CEO, but the Rolex on her wrist screamed money. And she was probably younger than Yongsun, not unattractive at all, but you despised the way he leaned towards you. “So. You and the CEO are broken up, huh?”

“Yeah.” You sipped at the company-provided alcohol to distract yourself, though not too much in case Hyesook made a move. Thankfully, you wore a high-collared shirt with pants this time, almost looking like a CEO yourself with the flamboyant Gucci tag on the neck of the jacket. “It was amicable, we’re still close.”

“I’m sure.” She gulped at her own wine, and you sent panicked eyes at Sooyoung’s back across the table, your best friend laughing at something that the man behind her said. “You’re in the market, then? For another sugar mommy? I might not make as much as Kim Solar, but I can easily spoil you just as well. Or better.”

You winced and tugged a plate of crackers towards yourself. Your girlfriend was nowhere to be seen, nor Joohyun or anyone else you recognized. “I’m not, actually. Learned my lesson, don’t really want to rely on someone for money again.”

“I wouldn’t ask much.” Hyesook’s eyes felt invasive, even as they just remained on your face. “Dinners, maybe a couple nights. A quick fu--”

“Excuse me. What’s going on here?”

A relieved breath almost escaped you when you felt a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. Yongsun stood tall in her heels, a smooth smile on her face concealing her brimming anger. Hyesook waved offhandedly, moving to grab your free hand. “Just getting to know each other.”

You snatched your hand away at the same time that Yongsun batted the other woman’s hand away. “From my point of view, my girlfriend isn’t enjoying it. And I won’t tolerate that at my best friend’s company dinner.”

Hyesook raised her eyebrows, smirking as she leaned back. “Girlfriend, huh? And here I thought I was flirting with a free woman,” she shook her head. “Pity.”

Yongsun scoffed, “Yeah, girlfriend. Do you have a problem with that? Because I’m sure that Yoongi won’t hesitate to fire you if I have a quick chat with him about your behavior.”

Yoongi. A producer then, you noted, standing and placing your hand on your girlfriend’s shoulder. “Come on, Yongsun. Let’s go,” you mumbled, flashing a sarcastic smile at Hyesook as you walked away. “You shouldn’t just...”

“What? Defend you?” For once, Yongsun almost looked angry, her crimson lips pinched tight and her eyes narrow, though you knew her too well to be scared at whatever she planned to do. “I promise you, Y/N, I won’t let anyone violate you.”

Before you could ask what she meant, the two of you were standing in the very center of the dinner hall, the other woman’s hands on her hips and her voice commanding. “Everyone, if you would give me your attention for a second.”

Your cheeks flushed when all the voices and conversations quieted, eyes turned upon you as Yongsun spoke. “As I’m sure you know, Y/N was once my sugar baby. I gave-- and still give-- expensive gifts, and that seems to make all of you think that she is still just that. A sugar baby.”

Joohyun’s smile almost blinded you from a couple tables away, but it served as reassurance to not melt into the floor like a puddle as your girlfriend continued on. “From now on, I would like all of you to remember that Y/N is my girlfriend. I love her, more than anything in this world, and I will not tolerate any kind of disrespect towards her or our relationship.”

A whoop sounded, probably belonging to Sooyoung, and Yongsun switched to a grin as she clasped your hand in hers. When it became apparent that she had finished, quiet applause sounded in the audience and the chatter resumed, though you saw Hyesook slink off through a door somewhere.

When you turned back to her, Yongsun’s smile was a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Y/N-ah... I don’t know if that was okay for me to say.”

Instead of answering, you cupped her face in your hands and pressed your lips to hers softly. You almost bent over backwards with how strongly Yongsun reciprocated, a breathy giggle escaping you. “It was more than okay. Thank you, actually.”

“Now, should we get to telling Yoongi about his employee’s indecency?” At your obviously coming protest, Yongsun started pulling you towards the producers’ table, laughing as she did. “No excuses, Y/N. I love you~”

[burnedbyshoto]

love is in the air | bakugou k.

— Different worlds, different stories, different beginnings. It didn’t matter what universe you were in because there was one consistency in these worlds: you and Bakugou were always in love. Was it just a coincidence that love is in the air whenever the two of you were involved? No, it was destiny. —

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pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

warnings: cursing (all), fluff (all), alcohol consumption (story 3)

word count: 3,505

a/n: so this is for my springtime anon for the bnhaclaimedmysoul event!!!! this was written for @brattyquirks​ !!!! anyways, I couldn’t decide what to write you sab, so I decided to hell with it and gave you four little short stories based off your favorite cliches!!!! I hope you enjoy 🌺

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SPIN THE BOTTLE 

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“If you don’t spin the bottle, we’re going to make you kiss Mineta!”

“You can’t make me do shit, raccoon eyes! This’s a fucking brats game anyways, why the hell am I going to play?!”

Your eyes shone with ever-loving glee at the sight of Bakugou, gritting his teeth with his lip pulled up into a snarl. His eyes were focused on Mina, who was waving the bottle in her hand, her face in a full grin while she stared on the peeved ash blond man.

“Because its a staple to a teenager’s life, and apparently no ones played yet!”

“It’s not going to be something I fucking play!”

It often amused you that Mina was one of the only people in the class who wasn’t afraid to play chicken with Bakugou, even more hilarious being that she won the majority of the time.

“Midoriya and Todoroki already took their chances at spinning it once,” Mina sighed, her arms picking up into a shrug while she shook her head. You watched in quiet glee in the way her eyes slowly opened, like some predator corning in on her prey. “But hey, I guess that means you’re not—”

“Give me the fucking bottle!”

And she had won.

Folding your arms, you watched Bakugou break into the circle of students, slamming the glass bottle onto the floor and turning it as quickly as he could, the words “die” announced to the class. You took in the way that his face was set into a frown, the corners of his mouth cemented into this permanent scowl. But you knew that it was for show, even you knew Bakugou better after three years of being his classmate, his eyes always told a different story. 

The two of you were pretty close for what could be considered relationships for Bakugou. While you weren’t apart of his core group of friends, the two of you held mutual respect and trust for each other that transcended that of daily interaction. The bottle spun for what seemed like ages, and you watched in hopefulness that it would land on someone good.

Slowly the lip of the bottle landed on Shoji, and Bakugou raged that it wasn’t fair. 

Much to Bakugou’s unamusement, to Shoji’s prayers that he wouldn’t be killed, and to the rest of your classmates tear-jerking howling laughter they kissed.

“I’m fucking out of here!” Bakugou screamed, throwing himself to his feet, ready to retreat to his room with the hours of night looming in. “Get this shitty game away from me, I never want to play—”

“You can’t leave yet!” Mina cried out, grabbing his wrist before he could escape the circle, “Y/n-chan is the last one to go, and you have to watch!”

“I don’t fucking care if it was All Mights damn turn, I’m not staying!”

“Come on, Bakugou, it’s not like it’ll take more than ten seconds!” you chide, your nose wrinkling at him in your mock disgust. “What’s the worst that’ll happen? I get to kiss your best friend?”

Bakugou’s nostrils flare, a visible indicator that he took in your words as a challenge of sorts and would follow through with staying. So with a grin, you grabbed the bottle and spun it.

You didn’t really care about who it landed on; after all, most of your classmates had already had strange matchups, the worst being a kiss from Kaminari and Mineta. As long as you didn’t land on Mineta, you’d call that a win. The bottle stilled, and you looked down to where it was pointing.

Bakugou.

His eyes widened, pupils were blown, and his jaw to the floor.

“HELL NO, I JUST KISSED OCTOPUS LIKE HELL I’M GOING TWICE!”

“Oh my god, you big baby,” you laugh, standing up. You reach Bakugou, who looks seconds from fighting, moments from running, yet allowed you to approach him regardless. What a rule-abiding nerd he could be.

“Pucker up,” you tease and seal your lips over his while your classmates scream.

After you pulled away, you hated to admit that your heart hammered in your ears, months of denial over your feelings gone up in flames while he stares at you in silence. Your classmates begin to clean up; no one quite aware of how you were both just staring. But when Mina’s arm is thrown around your shoulders, your attention is stolen, and you walk off, ready to help out.

In twenty minutes, you make it back to your room, your lips still tingling in their tiny explosions of the past feeling of his smooth lips against yours. A wistful sigh escaped your lips, you knew better than to expect anything from King Explosion Murder himself.

A knock on the door startled you. Having been caught up in thought, the noise made you curse under your breath. Walking to the door, you opened it up, your eyes widening when you saw Bakugou there, his eyebrows knit, lips pursed.

“You okay, Bakugou?” you asked, concerned for your friend.

He finally meets your gaze, and his stare is intense. Vermillion eyes hold yours without a single waiver in them; it’s intense, almost too intense to the point where you want to look away. But you don’t, you can’t look away. A harsh expel of air escapes his nose, and you’re useless to the way that he surges forward, hands grasping your cheeks and lips crashing against yours.

There’s nothing to say to this, but you can attest to the fact that your hands grabbed his biceps, your lips moving passionately with his until your bedroom door closed behind him.

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BEST FRIENDS BEING IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER

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Days at the lake were something you earnestly enjoyed. The gentle feeling of spring in the air, the sun warm against your skin, and the fresh green plants emerging from the once dead fields. It was perfect, almost tranquil if you were quiet enough.

But if there was anything to know about you and your best friend Bakugou Katsuki, it was that tranquility was something that happened once in a lifetime, and that moment was not now.

“Running away is useless!” Bakugou roared from a distance.

The cold sand flung from your feet while you ran as fast as you possibly could, the oxygen in your veins feeling like fire as you attempted to both run away and laugh at the predicament he was in.

What had started as a fun day at the lake that had finally thawed over from winter winds, turned into something stupidly competitive. You wouldn’t say you were a sore loser because you didn’t lose, but in this case where Bakugou had very obviously beaten you in rock skipping contest because he applied his quirk after you went without using your own. So in your fuming loss, you used your quirk to dump water all over his hair, leaving his hair and shoulder soaked.

His reaction to this was almost feline-like, his back arching, face set in an uproarious hiss while you howled with laughter, already running away. It took him time to respond to your act of war, but with him running like hell was at his heels, it was only a matter of time before he caught up to you.

You screamed for forgiveness, trying with everything you had to escape from his tight and torturous grasp, but you were losing. 

“This is what you get for soaking me with water!” Bakugou exclaims, tossing you into the ice-cold water, your shocked and defeated scream echoing across the water until it was drowned out by you going under. 

“You’re a dick!” you scream when you reemerge from under the water, fake tears pouring from your eyes, the cold water clinging, and stabbing into your body that was now exposed to the sweet air.

Bakugou looks ashamed right away, and you were sure that he hadn’t expected to have flung you so far into the water, or for you to not land on your feet. “Shit, I’m so — hEY!!!”

With your hands on his wrist, you threw him into the water, his angry screams erupting across the land the moment he reemerged from the lake. So there the two of you stood, thigh-deep into the lake, both soaked to the bone. Hands gripping each other, a feeble attempt at wrestling each other. His wet hair was slick to his forehead, the shine on his face from the water, and his heated words only inciting a fire within you that made you forget that you too were cold.

“You’re the worst!” you yell, trying to shove him forward with your interlaced fingers. “A tiny dildo is what you are!”

“A fucking dildo?! Why the ever-loving fuck would I be—?!”

“Cuz, you’re fake like plastic!!!”

“You’re an idiot, fucking dumbass nerd!”

“Oh yeah, well, you like this dumbass nerd!”

“And what if I do?!”

There was a silence that overcame the both of you, his cheeks simmering to the same degree as yours. In this silence, you weren’t sure what to say, and in a moment where you were unsure of the warmth being from your elation of his words or from your cold body hyperventilating from the cold water, you spoke.

“Do something about it then.”

There was no saying as to how this transpired, honestly it was one of the weakest fake arguments you’ve ever had with Bakugou, but with the rebirth of spring, there must have been something in the air to make his lips come crashing against yours. A wild and powerful force that ignited sparks and explosions within you, and a promise for more between both of you.

You pulled away, your eyes wide and wild, you took in Bakugou’s soft and heavy-lidded eyes and watched as his lips perked into a pleasant smile.

“Took you long enough, dumbass…”

“HOW IS THIS MY FAULT, BAKUGOU KATSUKI?!”

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ACCIDENTAL KISS

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The world was blurry while you brought your hand to your mouth. But where you had been expecting a bottle of whatever alcohol you had been drinking, you were met with nothing but your warm hand.

“Where’s my drink?! Oh no, did I drop… did I drop it?! Bakugou is going to kill me!”

Your typical cheerful and chaotic energy while being drunk had become sad and chaotic energy at the realization that you couldn’t find your drink that you knew you had. And even more so at the thought of the man you had a crush on hating on you for dropping it on the floor.

“What the hell are you wailing about, I have your drink right here, idiot.”

You whip to the side and see that Bakugou is the person holding your hand, guiding you back to your apartment. 

“Katsuki, you’re taking me back to my dorm?” you sniffle, tears springing into your eyes at the thought of how kind your crush was being to you. “You didn’t have to do this!”

“Yeah, well, your drunk ass was not walking back home alone, especially not this late at night when weirdos and perverts can be out,” he justified, making sure you avoided the bush when you stumbled against a bump on the floor. 

“I’m drunk, huh,” you giggle, pressing into his side, your body warm with the bitter liquid coursing through your veins. “That’s pretty crazy because I distinctly remember only taking… one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nineeeeeee shots! That’s not even that much!”

“Nine shots?! I’m going to kill that drunk idiot when I get back!” Bakugou snarls his arm fastening around your waist when you climb up the stairs, something you don’t understand why he does considering, all in all, you were walking just fine.

“Katsuki, can I confess something to ya?” you hum against his warm shoulder, breathing in his caramel scent with a happy sigh. 

“Not if you wouldn’t admit it when you’re sober.”

“Well, that’s no fun to drunken confession and besides!” you slur, slamming your hand against his chest. “I don’t ever make sense.”

“Well, that much is true,” Bakugou sighs, grabbing your keys and opening your apartment door. “Come on, get in.” 

You comply without a fight, skipping into your apartment with a stretch.

“Now, now, you get back home and text me when you get back, no funny business young man!” you exclaim, thrusting a finger into his chest, your lips pulled into a serious pout.

“Ya fucking right dumbass, I’m getting your ass into bed before I leave,” Bakugou grunt turning you towards your bathroom to assist you in getting ready for bed.

Within the next thirty minutes, you nearly succeed in getting Bakugou to rip his hair from his scalp. From first refusing to pee unless he was holding your hand, then forbidding to brush your teeth until he hugged you first. Of course, then it was the fact that you walked out butt naked after claiming you didn’t care if he saw you naked, and that you hated the PJs he chose for you. And how he had to chase you around the apartment to get you into bed.

But finally, Bakugou squatted at the edge of your bed, his face close to yours while you took long blinks, sleep catching up to you quickly.

“Goodnight, pain in my ass,” Bakugou says to your nodding off form.

“Thank you for always taking care of me,” you whimper, your hand stretching out to touch his face, the world slowly spinning. “You might act like a bad boy, but it’s okay, I can handle it for moments like this.”

“I don’t know what you’re — mmph!”

Your lips were pressed against his, a kiss that tasted faintly of alcohol on his own lips and the mint of your toothpaste.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips before pulling away, sleep consuming you before Bakugou could speak.

When you woke up the next morning, your body hangover-free, you were shocked and scared to see Bakugou sitting on your chair fast asleep. It wasn’t until he woke up did you genuinely feel fear crawl and bite you in the throat when he spoke up after staring at you for a minute straight.

“So, about last night.”

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FAKE DATING

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“I can’t believe I got stuck with you,” Bakugou grits while the both of you walk around the mall, your fingers dancing along your chin while you check out the clothes in the window.

“Why’s that? Is it because I make your hands sweat, heart skip beats, and make you stammer more than anyone else in the world?” you tease your focus entirely on the outfit in the window, trying to imagine how it would look like on your body instead of the mannequin.

“You know damn well that’s not the fucking case!”

Laughing, you nodded, turning to look at Bakugou with a grin, “Well, I’m sorry you drew the short end of the stick!”

What had started off as a class after school field trip had become ‘where the fuck is everyone?’

It maybe was your fault for dragging Bakugou into the nearest store because you saw the stupidest skull shirt you wanted him to buy and ended up with the two of you coming out of said store, the black skull shirt folded neatly in a bag that Bakugou held, and your classmates were gone. Bakugou had yelled at you for five minutes while you apologized profusely for separating the two of you from the group. 

A quick text from Kirishima had stated that everyone went their own ways anyway, but that meet up time at the food court would be at 5:30. 

“How do you think that would look on me?” you asked, pointing to the white spring outfit in the window. You had needed more outfits, years of not having anything cute had made you want to try something new with the new spring season.

“Fucking weird,” was Bakugou’s automatic response despite not looking at the outfit.

“Come on, brat, look at it first!”

“Who the hell are you calling brat?” Bakugou grumbled but looked at the white outfit in the window. He was quiet for some time, almost too quiet for how you knew Bakugou was. He looked over at you, his face set seriously, and he sighed. “It would look great on you.”

You smiled widely and nodded, “Okay!”

It took ten minutes for you to find the outfit in your size, to affirm it was a good fit, to buy it, and then to leave the store. Bakugou took the green cream bag from your hand, adding it to the other bags he had been holding for the two of you, and you were grateful.

Grabbing his elbow, you were ready to drag him off to a store he would like better, but you froze when you saw a familiar pair of eyes in the distance.

It was your ex-boyfriend.

It had been a year relationship that started off beautifully and ended disastrously. While you wished you could have concluded that relationship on amicable terms, it ended on something closer to, “I hate you,” and “don’t ever talk to me again,” and “I can find someone better than you any day,” and finally, “you couldn’t find someone to like you back.”

To say the least, you still hadn’t found anyone knew, and your arm firmly locked around Bakugou’s arm, your body stiffening slightly.

Bakugou felt it.

“What the fucks wrong with you?” he asked, his eyebrows knit in confusion, and you looked up at him, your eyes relaying to him everything.

“I see my ex, and I said I would be with someone the next time I saw him,” you whisper, your feet feeling cemented onto the floor as your ex drew nearer and nearer.

Bakugou’s lips twitched, his nose scrunching in his premeditative way of know just what you were going to ask. 

“You fucking owe me,” he hissed under his breath, his hand moving to rest on your hip, keeping you close as only lovers do. 

“Thank you,” you whispered in graciousness, your lips pecking his cheek in a display of affection.

“Y/n!” your ex called, and you look at him, he was standing in front of you, a confident smile on his face. “Long time no see, how have you been?”

“Good,” you answer with a tight smile. “You?”

“Much better now, but I gotta say I do miss you a lot.”

Your face wrinkles in astounded horror, the slightest bit of disgust and disbelief while he seems to ignore Bakugou all together.

“Listen, I know I said a lot of shitty things to you awhile back, but I’m so sorry!” he says, his face nor tone showing regret. “I know you’re not seeing anyone right now, so if you want to have an amazing boyfriend again, I’ll consider taking you back!”

“Fucking horse mouth,” Bakugou snapped, his teeth gritting together while he glared at your ex, his finger digging into your side. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

“Hm?” he alliterated, his eyes lazily falling onto Bakugou, “Oh, sorry! I didn’t see you there!”

“Yeah, and fucking back off before I shove my fist down your throat, asshole,” Bakugou threatened, his eyes squinting, his shoulders stiff.

“And why should I?” he asked, his lips pulled into a taunt. “Even if you’re dating, y/n-chan, it’s not like you’re any better than me, right Bakugou Katsuki? Y/n is grown, and I’m obviously the more mature one of…” he trailed off.

Why exactly?

Well, it seemed both you and Bakugou had the same exact idea. Your fingers thread through the thick hair at the nape of his neck. His fingers slipping under your shirt to rest against your warm back and your lips meeting in a passionate affair. His lips were tantalizing against yours, viciously warm, effortlessly smooth while your mouths moved in synch. Fireworks exploded behind your eyelids, electricity emitting through your joined lips while they moved impassioned for each other. 

His hold was tight, and your head tilted with your tongue, obviously coming to sweep at his bottom tongue.

“Do you have any shame?!” a voice broke from your left, and you saw an elder staring at the two of you with obvious shock at the intense PDA the two of you had just shared.

You couldn’t even find the words to apologize, your mind utterly consumed with the need to have Bakugou’s mouth pressed against yours once again. The both of you were blissfully unaware of the fact that your ex had since scurried away the moment the kissing took a sensual turn.

“Um,” Bakugou seemed to be at a loss too, and you studied his face that seemed to be going through a million more emotions than he was used to. “Was that—?”

“If you want,” you tease, bringing your lips once more to the corner of his mouth before grabbing his hand and pulling him away.

[thechangeling]

Enough.

So a while ago I made a headcannon post about Ty's sexuality and the autistic exploration of sex and sexual desire. I have now written a fic about it. This ones for Alex @bedspells my very own Alyssa. Also side note I want to make it clear that yes, I still ship kitty 100%. But I've seen plenty of people write fics and headcannons about Kit exploring things with other people. There's no reason why Ty can't do the same.

Edit: Ok a long time ago this fic actually got a hate comment on Ao3 saying that I was erasing Ty's sexuality by having him hook up with a girl because he was cannonly gay due to a tweet CC made in 2013. Now I don't even have twitter and I wasn't a part of the fandom back then. Despite all of that I actually don't really consider that to be the basis of canon? And in the books he doesn't really express interest in anyone except for Kit. So as far as I'm concerned this was fair game. Not to mention gay people sometimes experiment before they realize they're gay. Especially autistic people!! And that was actually kind of the point of this fic. So maybe just keep that in mind going forward. Thanks!

Tw for mentions and discussions of sex.

Ty could count the instances he hadn't been bothered by another person's touch on one hand. This was certainly one of them. It was so late into the night it could certainly be considered the next morning. Anush, Ty and Alyssa had been doing research on Livvy and the effect she seemed to be having on a serge of demonic activity in the area.

Ty was fairly stressed about the possibility to say the least. It felt like everything was spilling away from him. Livvy, his family, his career.

Kit.

He really didn't want to think about Kit but it was difficult. It was like trying to ignore a bleeding wound that everyone kept referring to as a paper cut.

The shining lights in all of this were Anush and Alyssa. Befriending both of them had been the best part of coming to the scholomance.

Especially Alyssa.

Meeting someone who shared some of his thoughts, feelings and experiences was more then refreshing. It was liberating. Talking, laughing and crying with Alyssa about the things that no one else would understand was like a balm for Ty's soul.

At a certain point Anush had announced that he was retiring to bed and they should both probably do the same. Livvy was still floating around the room observing their work. But as time went on Ty had stopped paying as much attention to her. Now he was resting against Alyssa with his head in her lap. She was sitting on the couch in the library, carefully running her fingers through his hair and rambling on about something, Ty wasn't exactly sure what.

Ty reached up to wrap a lock of her long dark hair around his finger, then watched it spring back into place again. Alyssa's hair was wavy but not curly like- like some peoples. So it didn't spring and bounce very well. That was the interesting thing about Ali in general. So many parts of her dress and appearance were so neat and polished and well put together that Ty almost wondered what it would be like to see her more disheveled. What would it be like to grab and twist and pull until she was left with something that wasn't glossy perfect waves.

Ty panicked a little at that thought. Where exactly had that come from? He was now more then ever painfully aware of the fact that he was lying in an attractive person's lap. And his sister was still in the same room.

Ty looked up to search for Livvy but realized that she was gone. Guiltily he realized she could have been gone for awhile now. But he hadn't noticed. Lately he had been feeling further and further away from his twin and he hated it.

"Do you think stars have feelings?" Alyssa asked wistfully. Ty laughed joyfully, feeling so light and and so far away from every bad thing that had happened three years ago.

"Because I was just thinking," she continued. "Like, what if they're lonley you know?" Ty had to smile at the Alyssa charm of it all. Also the autistic perspective might have had something to do with it.

"I don't know," Ty said, sitting up. "Maybe they're like us. Maybe they like being alone." Alyssa pondered this for awhile.

"Well no one can be alone forever," she pointed out, then laughed, rolling her eyes. "God how did we get here? Remember when we were supposed to be doing actual work Ty?"

"Well we were stupid to think that would last," Ty announced matter of factly. Alyssa shrugged and leaned back against the sofa.

"Probably. Once the neurotypical left it was all downhill from there."

"I disagree, Ty said softly, meeting her gaze. "I enjoy spending time with you." Alyssa instantly smiled, the kind of beautiful, honest, heartfelt smile that allistic people wrote poetry about.

Instantly Ty was reminded of someone else, another brilliant smile.

He shook it off.

"Me too," Alyssa finally answered. Then she shook her head. "Ugh feelings. Gross."

Ty rolled his eyes at her and laughed.

Then Alyssa sat up again as she seemed to remember something. "Oh yeah I meant to ask you about Anush. Do you like him?"

Ty shrugged. "Yeah he's really nice. He's become a good friend."

Alyssa shook her head. "No, no Ty, I mean-" She paused. "I mean do you like him like you wanna date him? Or do you have romantic feelings for him?" She asked.

Ty paused. He honestly wasn't sure. He had been trying to avoid thoughts of those types of feelings for a very specific reason. A Herondale reason. But the truth was he did like really like Anush. He enjoyed being around him. Ty just wasn't sure what that meant.

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "Maybe." Alyssa fiddled with her hair, rubbing it between her fingers.

"Hmm. Well do you even like boys?" She asked. "I just realised I've known you for five months now and I dont really know what your deal is," she said contemplating. "Like sexual orientation wise. I mean not that it matters, it totally doesn't," she stammered.

Ty shrugged. "It was never really relevant before. But I'm not really sure. I guess I'm fine with whatever." Alyssa beamed.

"So I guess that means you're kinda like me huh? She said happily. "I'm pansexual. Women are so beautiful and angelic and soft and squishy and awesome, but men can be good too," she mused. "I mean men are......men, but some of them aren't so bad. I mean look at you!" Alyssa tossed her hair back over her shoulder.

"Thanks," Ty responded dryly.

"Anyways you know what I mean," Alyssa waved her hand. "So are you attracted to him at least?" Ty sighed.

"Yeah I am," he admitted. "But I don't- I don't want a relationship Ali. I just can't."

Alyssa studied him for a moment. "Does this have anything to do with the Herondale pendent you wear that you always tell me never to ask questions about?"

Ty scowled. "Yes, but I don't want to talk about it." Alyssa rolled her eyes and put her hands up in surrender.

"Fucking shit fuck! Fine!" She complained. "Anyways, my point is you dont need to date him neccesarily. Just have sex with him and see how you feel?"

Ty sat up and faced her. "What?"

Alyssa laughed. "You heard me. There's nothing wrong with causal sex between consenting adults. I mean, if you want to."

Ty felt the urge to stand up to try and aliviate some of the anxiety he was feeling, but he stayed sitting.

"I've never done it before," he admitted. Ty was 19, he knew most of the people his age had already had some sort of sexual experience. But he had always been too afraid. Too afraid of people touching him and demanding things from him with harsh vague bullshit. In Ty's mind it was just another social interaction that he could screw up and then pay the price for it.

Alyssa shrugged. "It's no big deal. Virginity is just a social construct anyways." Alyssa was playing with her hair casually and biting her lip slightly, to indicate that she was mulling something over.

Ty shook his head trying to explain it. "No, it's- I mean see, you say that, but, one of the things I've learned about this world is that social constructs kind of matter to a lot of people." Ty was taping his fingers against his leg and trying to stop himself from shaking. Alyssa noticed this.

"Because people tell you that's it's no big deal and not to worry, and then other people make it into a big deal like it means something, and then everyone's telling you to do something different," Ty explained with a panicked, rushed voice. "I don't know who you listen to, or what to do!" He was moving his hands frantically while he spoke to emphasize his points.

"Hey it's ok," she cooed, inching towards him. "Trust yourself. Or if you feel like you can't, then trust me." Ty felt a pang in his chest. A cacophony of conflicting emotions erupted within him. But mostly he found that despite his better judgement he actually believed her.

They had created something different between the two of them. Something that almost transcended labels or rules or traditional allistic boundaries. Alyssa was like the armor he put on every morning, with the strength and confidence that he wasn't alone in this world. In the midst of all of their jokes and late night heartbreaking conversations. In the midst of this fragile peace they had created, there was something there. Something indescribable.

Something like the sound of the page being turned in one of his Sherlock novels, or the sound of their favourite songs. A connection. A lifeline.

Ty looked over at Alyssa's concerned face and smiled softly. "I trust you," he promised. "I don't really trust many people, but I've always trusted you," he admitted. Alyssa inhaled sharply. She made an interesting facial expression that might have been a facial stim and then gaped for awhile before finally closing her mouth and avoiding Ty's gaze.

"Yeah that's cool. I trust you too," she said casually. She had gone back to pulling at her poor hair which was shedding everywhere. Anush always joked that he could always tell where Alyssa was by following the trail of hair.

"So, about the whole sex thing," she continued rather unceremoniously. Ty had to laugh a little. "Do you think it's something you're actually interested in? Or do you just feel like you have to?" She asked.

Ty pondered this for a moment. "I think I might want to. I just want to be with someone that I trust. Someone who will be considerate of my boundries, you know?" Ty did a quick glance around the room to make sure Livvy was still gone.

"Wait she's not here right?" Alyssa asked anxiously, catching on. Ty shook his head.

Alyssa paused for a moment, looking lost in thought. She was flicking her fingernails against each other and continuing to murder her bottom lip by chewing on it. Finally she looked up at him, looking rather amused.

"Ok. This might just be the exhaustion talking, or the autism, or a combination of both. So if you feel uncomfortable with what I'm about to say, then afterwards we can just forget it ok?" Alyssa sounded serious. Ty just nodded, trying not to be concerned.

Alyssa gave him an interesting look, one that he was pretty sure he had never recieved before. Her eyes scanned him up and down, then she smirked.

"I could potentially offer my services," she said innocently. Ty blinked a few times, then continued to stare at her. She stared back unflinching.

Wait. What?

Ty shook his head in confusion. "Hold on. Wait. You mean-?" He cut himself off. Alyssa nodded with that same smirk. "Yeah I mean why not right?" She shrugged, relaxing back against the sofa. "But if you dont want to then that's totally fine."

"Wait." Ty attempted to clear his head and stay focused. He stayed frozen for awhile, thinking. Then he folded his arms around himself, applying pressure. "Why exactly?"

Alyssa shrugged again. "Well why not? You're hot. I'm hot, and besides you know me," she pointed out. She paused, and then giggled.

"Four hours into investigating the paranormal phenomenon of his dead twin sister and chill, then she offers to take his virginity," she cackled. "I so enjoy our quality time together."

"The way your mind works really concerns me sometimes, you know that?" He asked playfully. Alyssa rolled her eyes at him and shoved him gently.

"Hey you don't have to, it was just an idea," she said, raising her hands in defense. Ty was silent. He was still thinking about it.

"Most people don't really do stuff like this right?" He asked warily. "Like most friends don't just randomly hook up and then laugh it off later."

Alyssa shook her head slowly. "Honey do you see me laughing?"

Ty was conflicted. There was something in him, a new, complicated feeling. A burning desire that nagged at the back of his mind everytime Alyssa bit her lip or pouted.

If he was really honest with himself. Ty could remember another time when he felt this way. But that was different, that was-.

He shook his head. No. Ty wasn't thinking about that anymore. He needed a distraction.

"God I can practically hear you thinking over here Ty," Alyssa teased. "Listen. If it freaks you out to much then we can forget about it. But-." She paused and reached towards him. Their fingertips met and she slowly dragged her fingertips down the top of Ty's hand.

"I want to do this for you because I care about you," she said solemnly. "I want make you feel good. Because you're special, and I dont mean that in the bullshit ableist way. I mean I think that you're special because you have such a big heart and you care so much," she said with a laugh.

Ty felt like he was about to cry. He was taking in long deep breaths trying not to get overwhelmed. He didnt know how to respond to this, this kind of attention and praise. His heart felt warm and tight absorbed in so much fondness and melancholy and regret all at once.

He knew this wasn't anything like what had happened that day on the beach. This wasn't that kind of love that he was feeling for Alyssa and that was a good thing. Romantic love, he decided, was too complicated.

"You deserve good things and good experiences. You deserve to have your first time be somewhere familiar. Somewhere you feel safe, and with someone who loves you." Alyssa wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

"God sorry for getting all emotional like that," she joked.

Ty couldn't speak, so he just squeezed her hand. He hoped she would understand.

I love you too.

Ty took a breath, then nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah I want that. I want you."

Alyssa exhaled, then grinned. "Ok then. Great. I'll see if I can pencil you in sometime this week," she joked. Ty cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"Oh," he murmered, suprised with how disappointed he felt. "You mean later?" Alyssa laughed.

"Well yeah, I mean aren't you tired?"

"Are you?" Ty countered.

Alyssa shrugged. "Hey you know how it is, autistic sleep cycle. I'm gonna be up for awhile. I just figured you might want some time to think."

Ty shook his head. "No I don't want to think anymore. I'm tired of thinking Ali. I'm tired of worrying and overanalyzing everything." His eyes met hers, she seemed a little worried.

She moved closer to him so that she was practically in his lap. "You need a distraction," she said matter of factly. "It's ok." She moved her hands from his arms to grasp his waist.

"Is this good?"

Ty flinched. "More pressure," he replied in a tone that was hopefully not too demanding. Alyssa pressed her fingertips down harder into his skin. A soothing feeling washed over him.

"Good?" She asked, scratching his skin with her fingernails. Ty just nodded, feeling slightly dazed.

Alyssa smiled, lowering herself gracefully into his lap. Everything she did was with precision and grace. Alyssa was a dancer. It was one of her special interests. She had stopped taking lessons a long time ago though because she found it challenging to dance in a group.

She could never copy what everyone else was doing exactly on count when she was supposed to. She was always going off and improvising on her own. There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

Alyssa's weight against him was comforting. She was moving her hands up and down his back underneath his shirt while still applying pressure. Ty felt heat beginning to pool in the base of his stomach. He stared at her curiously, taking in her soft curves and her smooth golden skin.

"Can I touch you?" Ty asked, feeling his fingers twitch.

Alyssa moved her hands to his chest. "Sure." She said softly. "Just be careful. Remember pressure and all of that, and try to avoid my stomach area. For some reason it's really sensitive." Ty nodded, instantly reaching for her long wavy dark hair and twisting his fingers around it, pulling slightly. She laughed.

This drew Ty's attention to her mouth. Her lips were cracked and rough looking from Alyssa constantly biting them, but Ty still wanted to kiss her. He had never kissed anyone before. He needed to know what it felt like.

He moved his hands to her shoulders and then to her sides, pulling Alyssa even closer. "Can you teach me how to kiss?" He asked looking her in the eye briefly. She snorted.

"I don't think you'll like it very much," she murmered. "It's not really a good sensory experience. At least not for me. Allistic people seem to like it though."

Ty nodded. "Exactly that's my point," he said, using one hand to cradle the side of her neck. "I need to learn for other people later on." He absentmindedly pressed his thumb into one of the divots in her neck, just to fill the space. Alyssa sighed and dug her fingernails into his chest.

"Ok fine but you're gonna hate the tounge thing," she breathed. She leaned down very slowly and then carefully pressed her lips to Ty's, kissing him softly.

It was a weird sensation but not entirely unpleasant. Ty happily slid his hands back into her hair and began to fiddle with a few thick pieces. Alyssa moved her own hands up his chest to cradle her face, applying pressure with thumbs against his cheekbones.

Alyssa deepened the kiss and slid her tounge into his mouth. Instantly Ty winced and felt every cell in his body seize up. But he didn't stop. He was determined to figure this out. If he wanted to kiss someone who wasn't autistic in the future then he would need to. Ty relaxed his body and kissed her back forcefully, making out with Alyssa until the uncomfortable noise in his head was too much and he broke the kiss.

Ty shook his head and Ali laughed, stroking his hair. "I fucking told you so," she exclaimed. Ty shut his eyes and allowed his breathing to return to normal.

"Ok so that's something we can forget about for now, thank god. The beauty of this whole situation is that we dont have to follow any allistic script for this sort of thing." Ty opened his eyes. Alyssa was watching him carefully, still only centimeters away from his face.

"So is there anything you want to do?" She asked him. "Just tell me and I'll see if we can make it happen."

Ty saw no need to maintain any sort of filter. "Well there are a lot of things actually, but for some reason I really want to bite you," he said pointedly, glancing down at her neck. Alyssa burst out laughing, nearly falling over.

Ty glared at her. "I'm sorry," she gasped breathlessly. "I'm sorry it's just,-," she regained her composure, shaking her head. "I just love how we all used to be the weird kids who growled and hissed at people on the playground if they bothered us and now as adults we're just super kinky. Like it's kind of poetic in a way," she laughed.

Ty rolled his eyes. There was no need to ask what she meant by we. When Alyssa said we, it only referred to one thing.

"I'm sure it's not absolutely every autistic person," he protested. "Also we should move, on account of the fact that this is still a public setting." Alysza's eyes widened as if she had just remembered that.

"Oh right. Shit, as if these people needed any more reasons to hate me. Let's go!" She rolled off of Ty and stood in front if him, holding out her hand. "We can use my room." Ty stayed sitting, taking a moment to fully absorb it all.

He couldn't help but feel the weight of the Herondale pendent against his chest as a heavy reminder. He willed himself not to get distracted. Alyssa smiled at him slightly, almost as if she knew.

"Enough," she said softly.

Ty didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't even sure if their was anything he wanted say. Then finally he understood.

"Enough," he echoed back.

He took her outstretched hand and let her take him away.

@ti-bae-rius @eutony-in-whisper @dianasarrow @dianasarrow @stxr-thxif @talia-lightwood @doitforthecarstairs @thelandunderthehilll @zfoxdraws @waterlillies

[ourstarscollided]

jatp fanworks appreciation - day 3 (wips)

wip wednesday - I didn’t think I wanted to join in on this day for my own stuff considering I’ve never posted anything original for this fandom, but I think this might just be the little boost I need from myself to actually finish the wips that I have sitting around. I am peer pressuring myself and holding myself accountable by posting this - or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Most of the past 6 mths has just been me screaming to no one in a Google Doc, so here are some things I’ve been ruminating about over the last 6 months (and if my secret agenda is to get other people to write about it so I don’t have to? Then that’s between you and me).

Everything’s under a read more because I like giving context and that usually spirals out of control!?!?

If you would like to see more from any of the below, feel free to shoot me an ask/message and I can definitely share some more! (Or you can just come yell at me about JATP in general.)

Strangers Fake Dating AU // Julie x Luke

I’m a simple person. I see a prompt, I latch onto it, and then I completely miss the entire point of the prompt as my imagination goes wild for no real reason. This really was supposed to be a super short drabble, but it manifested into a 3k+ thing that isn’t even finished.

Julie’s not really sure what she’s supposed to do now. Nothing has ever prepared her for a situation in which she’s supposed to pretend to be a stranger’s girlfriend, especially if that situation involves parents. Does she continue this ruse? Can she come up with a quick enough excuse to tell this Luke character that she actually can’t stay? What if this is just all an elaborate plan to kidnap her? Has she been listening to too many true crime podcasts? Why does Luke smell so good? Does he know how to cook? Why does his shirt not have sleeves? What-

“I can hear you thinking from here.” Her head whips up at the sound of Luke’s voice, which is now at a whisper and kind of frantic. “I just- I just really needed to get my mom off my back, so I kinda need you to pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for the night. I swear I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Julie studies Luke’s face and it’s nearly impossible to not cave under his gaze, which can only be simply described as ‘puppy dog eyes’. She finds herself smiling back, letting out a huff, “I hope you like lasagna.” And the grin that spreads across the boy’s face is enough for her to know that he’s incredibly relieved that she agreed.

“I’m Luke by the way. Luke Patterson.”

(Okay, he’s kinda cute. And no one this cute is a serial killer. Right?)

She gives a small smile back, “I’m Julie.”

//

5+1 alive!Juke AU // Julie x Luke

Inspired by paper - LANY

This is one of the first things I ever felt the urge to write down back in September because I love exploring the idea of how two people can appear to be the perfect relationship on the outside, but are actually fighting their own demons. Especially when it comes to celebrities and people who are in the spotlight. It’s basically a 5+1 fic about the moments from other people’s perspectives who happen to orbit around Julie/Luke that all revolve around paper. My outline for this is so long because I can’t manage to narrow it down, and there’s zero cohesiveness but I do have little things jotted down.

“Hey little man,” Luke’s knelt down to match his 5 year-old height, and a hand extends out to him for a high five, “What are you doing here?”

His eyes flicker to the left, towards his own apartment door, where his mom is giving him an encouraging nod. “ I- I just wanted to-” he stutters and finds himself looking at his feet as he shuffles back and forth on the spot. “I- I drew you guys something!”

He shoves the paper out towards the older boy in front of him, but doesn’t look up.

//

Reincarnation AU // Julie x Luke

I had a random thought in December about how magical it is that Julie and Luke are so tied to one another that their love transcends time and space, which will always lead them back to one another. I remember reading a book a long time ago about how the main character is fated to die at a certain age, and that kind of sparked this little idea. I can’t bring myself to actually plot out every single timeline right now, but I did manage to write a little bit.

It will never be as complex as Rosie’s idea and all the wonderful additions in the link here, and I don’t really plan on it being anything more than a small idea. But I really do still think someone should write some sort of reincarnation AU cause I’d hop on that so fast!!

“Okay- that’s not- Luke. You seriously just ran away?”

“What was I supposed to do Alex? We all know how this ends.”

His friend looks at him, face painted in understanding and he sighs, “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

Because it’s true, Alex does know, so does Reggie and Bobby. Most importantly, so does Luke. It’s the exact same tragic love story every time.

Call it a curse or fate or destiny. Maybe it’s because Mercury is in retrograde. Whatever. It always ends the same way - with a heartbreaking goodbye, a whisper of the promise that they’ll find each other again, and the possibility of a happy ending. He’s said the same goodbye at least 734 times, but it’s not like he’s counting or anything. Fuck the universe and its mystical ways.

//

Competitive Alex // Alex x Willie

No real thoughts or reasons for this other than I just think I self-projected my need to play board games with people in real life into a fic. And maybe a little bit of my competitiveness onto Alex and then threw in Willie because I think he would be able to handle it while also finding it endearing. I also have written nothing about the actual competitiveness, it’s just 2k words of Alex crushing on Willie.

“Wait,” his eyes dart between the three boys, “You both know Willie? How come I’ve never met him?”

His roommates look at each other, and there’s a smirk on Luke’s face when he says, “Actually Alex, I think you have. Remember that time you got really drunk after one of our shows?”

Oh no. He really hopes that it’s not the time he’s thinking of, so he tries to sound nonchalant. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Luke.”

“The night we played at that tiny bar at the edge of the campus! We got paid in those tiny colourful shots?” He doesn’t really know where Luke is going with this, so he’s slowly nodding along. “And you were super upset that the hot dog vendor at the end of the street was closed?”

//

Dear Julie, Love Mom series

I made myself sad with this thought when I first watched the show and was talking to my friend about how I think that Rose would’ve left messages for the Molina family, especially when we found out that Wake Up was actually from her mom. I wrote a bigger explanation for it here.

Anyways, I started with the one for Julie’s wedding and it kind of became an 8k monster with three different POVs?!? As much as I love how I wrote this, I feel too unsure about my writing to share it in full, so you will get carefully selected looks alkfe. (I’m also kind of stuck on some of the more emotional scenes and I may or may not have procrastinated by photoshopping a moodboard for it.)

Excerpt 1 (Julie POV): A look into where I’m going with this whole letters from Rose thing.

The key clicks into place, and with a turn, the latch falls open. She’s not sure what she wants to find in the box, and she’s too scared to think about it really. All she knows is that this was the sign from her mom that she was waiting for all week, and in true Rose fashion, her mom had managed to give it to her, even if at the last second. Her dad turns the box to face Julie, and gestures to her to open up the lid.

Tucked inside is a VHS tape, the words ‘For Julie, on your wedding day’ written in her mom’s cursive on the cover. Some loose glitter and confetti fall back into the box as she reaches in to pick up the tape and turn it over in her hands. There’s a little purple butterfly etched on the back, the same one that’s been drawn on all the other messages that her mom had left her. Her finger automatically finds its way, tracing the shape of the small doodle.

“Do you want me to leave you alone, mija?”

Excerpt 2 (Julie POV): This part has absolutely nothing to do with the main plot of the story, but it self-inserted itself into this fic after @tangledstarlight and I talked about You’re Still the One by Shania Twain being their first dance. This whole scene came to me at 4am one night and might be the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written.

They knew that when they had asked Reggie to be in charge of the first dance performance, that they (and Alex) weren’t allowed to veto any of his ideas. Luke had warned Julie that that would be a mistake, but the giddiness that radiated off of Reggie when she had told him he could have free reign was worth it. She just hadn’t thought that he would actually take it to heart and run with it.

Sure, they had chosen You’re Still the One by Shania Twain as their first dance song, and sure it was more or less a country song, but she didn’t really imagine that she’d be staring at her adoptive brother, Carlos and her Dad wearing cowboy hats and boots at her wedding. They had somehow managed to ditch their Flynn-approved suit jackets and were sporting a taupe-coloured suede-textured vest over their dress shirts. If she looked closely, she could see that they had somehow also found some gaudy looking bolo ties with a matching set of ornamental clasps to wear. When she envisioned her wedding, she really didn’t expect that her first (public) dance as a married couple would be a full-on Western themed occasion. The only exception was Alex, who had settled on his cajon in the back, still in his pink suit, eyes rolling when she met his gaze. But even she knew how there was no real annoyance in the blonde’s reaction or else he wouldn’t also be wearing one of the tacky ties around his neck as well.

“I’m gonna seriously kill him.” She hears Luke grumble under his breath, only low enough for her to hear. But she’s still too busy giggling to actually be mad, and she knows that Luke isn’t really going to kill Reggie. At least she doesn’t think so.

Excerpt 3 (Luke POV): Idk man. My mind went “What about Luke?” and I said “You’re right!! What about him?!?”

He doesn’t realize that he’s just been silently staring at the woman in front of him, until a gentle voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Julie’s peering at him from under her eyelashes, a curious look on her face.

“You just-” he gives a little shake of his head, trying to come up with the right words. He wants to tell her she’s beautiful. Stunning. A wicked beauty. But she’s more than that - she’s almost angelic. “I can’t believe you’re my wife.”

“Luke, we’ve been legally married for like, a whole year.” Her lips are quirked up in a grin, amusement in her voice. “You’ve only just realized that now?”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah? Different how?”

This feels a little strange to post and a little like my inner self seeking validation but let’s not talk about that.

Kskssj anyways present me @ future me: finish one of these because writing has been really cathartic for you and you didn’t think it would bring you so much joy!!!

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

[katyatalks]

Spoon.2Di April 2019 - Character Designer Kameda & Director Tachikawa’s MP100 Interviews + Design & Episode Notes

Here’s Character Designer Kameda & Director Tachikawa’s interviews from Spoon.2Di April 2019 - contains some notes on certain episodes from season 2 & some extra character design notes. Very short and sweet; includes comparisons made between Reigen & Spike, and entirely new Mogami design notes.

INTERVIEW Character Designer Kameda Yoshimichi

Kameda is asked what was a challenge for him with Mob Psycho 100 II. “I suppose I wanted to make sure the art didn’t change from how it is in season 1. [...] I’ve seen it in other anime; when a second season or so on gets produced, the art changes... the atmosphere shifts a little from how it is in the manga. You end up with a work that’s meant to be a sequel, but looks and feels like something else entirely.”

He’s asked about any events that happened during production that left an impression on him. “Fujisawa-san who covered storyboard production for episode 3, Haku-kun [Go Hakuyu] who did storyboard production & was the animation director for episode 5, Nakamura-kun who was animation director for part B of episode 10, Tsuchigami-kun who did storyboard production for episode 11… they gave us episodes that have plenty of highlights, but also brought on board pretty much all the key animators!”

He's asked what part of Mob Psycho 100 has stayed in his heart, and the reason. “At the end of S2E7, Mob-kun says, ‘Shishou, happy birthday.’ When I watched that part, I was on the verge of tears. To be congratulated on your birthday by the person you wanted to hear it from the most… I’m so glad. Good for you, Reigen!!”

He’s asked to give a message to readers. “At last, we’ve reached the end of season 2!!! Sad, isn’t it! I’m sad too! We’re all sad! I don’t want it to end, but for the time being, the anime is reaching its final episode! Please enjoy it right up to the end!!! However, the manga is still continuing through the spin-off - the world of Mob Psycho 100 continues to expand! If you continue to give us your support, perhaps we’ll be able to continue the anime!! I patiently await that day!!”

***

MOGAMI KEIJI -  DESIGN POINT

"Mogami was the first character I designed for this season. He appears in one cut in season 1 - I think as a result of that I didn't really struggle with him, despite only drawing him once. His suit has the same texture as it has in the manga, giving him a special feeling, but his existence is somewhat of a sad one. So I was careful in making sure he didn’t appear too lively.”

SERIZAWA KATSUYA - DESIGN POINT

"With a hanten on top and jinbei below, I gave Serizawa clothes that'd pretty much completely hide the silhouette of his body. I'll be glad if you're able to understand that he doesn't enjoying fighting just by looking at his clothes. I already knew that Serizawa was popular with manga readers, but I was shocked to find out that this unpolished, fluffy-haired version of him is popular too. How unexpected (laughs)."

SUZUKI TOUICHIROU - DESIGN POINT

As written in the design booklets albeit a little more casually

***

STORY PLAYBACK

MOGAMI KEIJI ARC - EPISODES 4 & 5

Tachikawa’s comment: “Mogami is depicted as a character meant to contrast Mob. The critical thing that differs between them is the kindness of the people around them. We paid attention to stuff like his lines and how we portrayed him. We struggled with balancing the amount of serious stuff there is… it was difficult.”

Kameda’s comment: “Go Hakuyu-kun, who covered storyboard production for episode 5, included a lot of his own original settings. I tried to not disturb him too much, lol. He let me help out a little in the bit where we see Teru, Ritsu-kun, Reigen etc.”

WHITEY ARC - EPISODES 6 & 7

Tachikawa’s comment: “Reigen’s expressions. We adopted the use of a spinning camera many times in episode 7 in order to show Reigen’s face. Count them if you’d like; the final one transcends time and space (laughs).”

Kameda’s comment: “Due in part to me being animation director for episode 7 I have a big emotional attachment to it. I paid more attention to facial expressions than movements. It’s an episode in which Reigen & Mob-kun’s relationship develops, so it’s a part I’ve wanted to animate ever since I read the manga. Tachikawa-san was also very enthusiastic when we looked at the scenario & storyboards - I didn’t want to lose to that enthusiasm!”

CLAW ARC - EPISODES 9-12

Tachikawa’s comment: “Depicting the Ultimate Five and Suzuki was difficult. We aimed to show off what makes each of them charming in the space of time we had. At any rate there’s plenty of characters, and of those characters plenty of them are loved, so the whole process of figuring out just what we should do left an impression on me (laughs).”

Kameda’s comment: “I was the animation director for episode 12, but the scene in which Reigen and Suzuki face off was done by Cowboy Bebop’s character designer Kawamoto-san. Because of that, when Reigen is holding up the gun he looks like Spike - super nice! I left that as it is. The only thing I made altercations to was Mob-kun’s beaten up form, lol.”

***

INTERVIEW Director Tachikawa Yuzuru

Interviewer mentions that in a previous interview with Spoon.2di, Tachikawa said that Mob Psycho 100 is a welcoming work so there’s stuff left that they can challenge. He’s asked to revisit that statement now that S2 is ending. “Season 2 contained things that we avoided in season 1, like a certain level of seriousness and realism.”

His previous comment of Mob’s growth and Reigen’s uchizura [more hidden, private self] being highlights is brought up, and he’s asked his thoughts again. “Reigen coming face to face with the problem that plagues his uchizura - ‘who am I’ - and trying to move forward ... depicting that touched me. Mob’s ‘people can change’ is a phrase Mob would’ve internalised from Reigen’s words. As a result, much like Reigen saved Mob, Mob has saved Reigen. I think they’re a great combo. ‘Be a good person - that’s all!!’ has become a famous saying!!!”

He’s asked about any events that happened during production that left an impression on him. There were moments when, depending on the scene, they’d use 20 cuts - ie. the equivalent to one episode of a TV show. He also mentions the amazing work of the young animators who joined them for season 2, and the degree of freedom that Mob Psycho 100 offers.

He’s asked about the performance of the voice actors, and anyone whose performance left an impression on him. “In particular, Dimple when he possessed Gouda was so cool. That performance had me shivering (laughs).”

Finally, he’s asked to give a message to readers. “We’re approaching the final episode. Of course, pay mind to the end of the story, but I find Mob’s growth in particular to be something moving. Please be sure to enjoy the final episode in real time. I’m very happy for all the support we’ve been given! And please continue to support Mob Psycho 100!!!”

---

Crossposted on Twitter here.

[walkerismychoice]

Stripped Bare - Chapter 4 (Bryce X MC AU)

Pairing: Bryce X MC Charlie Hawkins

Summary: Charlie and Bryce make their way to Jamaica (yes I really did write an entire chapter just about their travel day)

Rating: 18+ for Mature themes (language and adult themes, nothing necessarily NSFW yet but there will be later in the series)

Word Count: 1923

Charlie lies on her bed the night before the big trip, staring at the post of her and Bryce for probably the millionth time. Word of her new “relationship” had spread like wildfire, but thankfully she had gotten a chance to explain things to the girls before any of them saw the post. By explain, she means she told them Bryce is pretending to be her date as a favor so Charlie can avoid being humiliated in front of her cousin. She had kind of omitted the part where she is paying him $10,000 in addition to his travel expenses. They'd all given her a hard time about him actually being into her, and as much as a part of her would like to believe that, there’s no way the two of them could ever really work in the real world.

There are certain expectations for the type of guy Charlie will end up with, and although she likes to believe she’d never count out a man who had a less traditional career, for lack of a better term, she can’t envision having to explain that her significant other takes his clothes off for a living. Even if she could get past that, or if he moved on to a more socially acceptable career, he’d still be out of her league in almost every other way. She’s got a pretty face, but she would never kid herself and say they are on the same level as far as looks are concerned. He’s got more confidence and charm in his pinkie finger than she has in her entire body. So although it's nice to to look at the picture perfect couple on the screen, she's not going to fool herself into believing it could ever be something real.They’ll play boyfriend/girlfriend for this trip, and then he can just fade away.

---

Charlie feels a tap on her shoulder and looks up from her bloody mary. “Bryce, hi!” Relief washes over Charlie at the fact that he hasn’t stood her up. She knows she was early, like she usually is, but being nervous about flying, on top of everything else has left her seriously on edge. “I hope you don’t think I’m an alcoholic or anything. I don’t usually drink at eight in the morning.”

Bryce takes a seat on the barstool next to her. “I’m pretty sure the normal rules of time and space don’t exist in airports. Plus we are on vacation time now. No judgement here.” He flags down the bartender. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

“Thanks. I’m not the biggest fan of flying, so I need something to take the edge off.”

The bartender hands Bryce his drink, and the two of them make small talk over the next half hour until it’s time to board the flight. Charlie walks in ahead of Bryce, but stops as they reach the seats. “Would you mind taking the window seat?”

“I’d love to.” Bryce puts his carry-on in the overhead bin and scoots in first. “I haven’t flown in a plane in awhile, but looking at the view is one of the best parts. I can’t say that I’ve ever flown in first class though. You are going all out for this trip, huh?”

“I can imagine how I look to you - paying you all this money to come with me, first class seats-”

“Don’t forget your designer luggage.” Bryce Chuckles

Charlie laughs under her breath. “I come off as a pretentious snob, don’t I?”

Bryce cocks his head to the side, looking her over appraisingly. “I wouldn’t go as far as snobby, but maybe a tad pretentious,” he replies with a smirk and Charlie swats him playfully on the shoulder.

“The luggage was actually a gift from my parents, and the seats were purchased with my boyfriend’s, opps, I mean ex-boyfriend’s frequent flyer miles.” Charlie cringes at her slip-up. 

“Ah, that’s right. I almost forgot I’m the emergency stand-in. Well from what you’ve said he sounds kind of like an asshole, so at least you got a parting gift.”

Just then, the flight attending comes on, saving her from having to continue that conversation. The plane starts to roll down the runway. Charlie’s breaths became shallow, and she grips the armrests tightly. “Take-offs and landings are the worst part.”

Bryce works his hand between hers and the armrest and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Charlie. Deep breaths, in for four and out for four. You don’t want to hyperventilate."

Charlie takes a deep breath in, exhales with equal measure, and smiles weekly. She’s no stranger to airline travel, and it never gets any easier, except this time Bryce’s presence seems to have a paradoxical effect. She feels safe next to him, yet she still can’t help her heart from racing. Maybe it’s because now that she’s not thinking about the plane crashing down, she’s fixated on the feel of his hand on hers, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her skin. She needs to get a grip because she’s not going to survive this trip if she turns into a bumbling mess any time they touch. So when the plane reaches altitude and he still hasn’t let go, she doesn’t pull away either - just to get used to him she tells herself.

"Alright, now that we've gotten through takeoff, maybe we should start learning more about each other." Bryce suggests.

Charlie pulls her hand away, suddenly brought back to the reality of the situation. She and Bryce hadn't had much time to talk or get together again before the trip, but Charlie figured their six and a half hour flight would be significant enough to build a relationship history. "Well the most common questions you will likely be asked will pertain to what you do for a living, and how we met. I’d prefer we don’t mention the strip club at all.”

Bryce rubs his chin thoughtfully. “How about we say we met in medical school - kill two birds with one stone.”

“How is that going to work?” Charlie eyes Bryce skeptically. “It’s not like you can just bulshitt your way into pretending to be a doctor like some other careers.”

“I know some things. How much am I really going to need to say anyway? The wedding isn’t going to be full of doctors, is it?”

“Only the douchebag groom,” Charlie scoffs. “You’ll want to steer clear of him anyhow. I guess you have a point. What’s your specialty going to be?”

“Surgery, of course. I’m great with my hands, if you know what I mean.” 

Charlie rolls her eyes at the innuendo to avoid getting flustered by him yet again. “And where do you work?”

“I’m just about to start my intern year at Edenbrook,” he answers almost too quickly, but she doesn’t think much of it.

“You think everyone is going to believe we both ended up with a job at the same hospital?”

“Again, most of them aren’t doctors, so they probably won’t think anything of it. Besides, we both went to school in Boston. It’s not such a stretch to believe we’d both get matched to the same hospital.”

Charlie’s caught off guard a bit by his language, surprised that he knows about the matching process. But again she thinks she making something out of nothing, and he’s probably just watched a few too many hospital dramas. "You're probably right. So now that we've covered that, we should get to know each other better. What are you into...aside from taking off your clothes?"

A wicked grid spreads across Bryce’s face, and Charlie already knows she’s  made a mistake with her choice of words. “Hmm, taking of my clothes pretty much covers it. Whether for work...or play.”

“Oh my god, you are terrible, but I totally set myself up for that, didn’t I?

“I just like to see all the different shades of red I can make your cheeks turn.” He reaches over and twists one of her curls around is finger. “The current one is just about the same as this...oops, now it’s too bright.”

“Stop!” Charlie laughs and batts his hand away.

“But you make it so easy...and it’s cute.”

She has to look away from him before her color transcends to a new shade of crimson. “Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Okay, for real, I pretty much like anything active and adventurous. I have to spend a lot of my spare time working out, for obvious reasons, but I like most sports, basketball in particular, and anything that gets my adrenaline going - racing, rock climbing, skydiving...”

“Ahh, hence the cliff diving.”

“I take it that’s not your thing?” Bryce questions.

“Heights in general are not my thing,” Charlie admits. “I’m really not a fan of any activity where I could easily plunge to my death.”

Bryce chuckles. “I could tell, but maybe I’ll change your mind a little bit.”

“Doubtful.”

“Then what do you like to do for fun?”

“Hmm...” She has to think on it because the last four years for Charlie haven’t been filled with much fun outside of med school and studying. “I like to read, travel, go hiking...but on mainly level ground.”

“I could work with that,” Bryce responds thoughtfully.

He could work with that? What the hell is that supposed to mean? “Well, I don’t think you’ll have much time to worry about my interests or your own this week.”

His smile falters briefly before he recovers with his typical cheeky grin. “Oh, right, you almost had me forgetting for a minute we are just pretending. I guess we’ll easily fool everyone else.”

“Yeah... What else do we need to know about each other?” Charlie changes the subject because she doesn’t want to let her mind go where it was starting to go. “Tell me about your family.”

“We’re not close, and I’m going to leave it at that.” His expression hardens, and this time it stays that way.

She realizes she’s touched a nerve and she doesn’t know what to say. “Okay, no family talk then. Maybe we can take a questioning break and just relax for a bit. She has no right to press him on this, so she just stares ahead to the in-flight movie. She’s getting drowsy so she leans back against the headrest, and the next think she knows, Bryce is calling her name.

“Charlie, time to wake up. We’re here.”

Charlie straightens herself upright, disoriented momentarily to time and place. “What do you mean we’re here?”  She peers around Bryce, out the window, to see solid ground. “You let me sleep through the whole descent?”

Bryce shrugs with a smile playing on his lips. “I didn’t want you to have to worry again about your possible impending death.”

Despite his cheeky reply, his intentions had been rather sweet, so she chooses to focus on that. “Thank you,” she says but then out of the corner of her eye, she spots something that ruins whatever kind of moment had been happening, and her jaw drops. “Oh my god, I am so sorry.”

Bryce looks down at his shoulder and back up at her with that same mischievous look on his face. “It’s no problem, really. I’m used to people drooling over me all the time.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and before she can formulate a comeback, the flight attendant dismisses them. “You ready?” She stands up grabbing her carry-on and Bryce follows.

“Can’t wait.”

[bonesthebeloved]

Of sunsets and Evening gowns - a Good Omens fanfic

@punk-aziraphale I thought you might like this???

count: 5772

Summary: A brief history of a fallen angel, his soulmate, his struggle with gender and a ineffable happy ending

TRIGGER/SQUIK WARNING: Period typical trans/homophobia, crying, emotional distress, discription of pain (the fall), mention of food (if I forgot any, feel free to point them out to me)

Story:

He'd always rather enjoyed sunsets.

One of the almighty her better inventions; colours bleeding through the sky and shadows stretched long and dark, the red and orange and deep purple hitting the objects in the light's way to the earth underneath his feet, wrapping them in the soft glow of the last hours of the day.

Now that he thought of it, he wasn't quite sure if God herself had created the colourful wave of goodbye the sun gave the earth every time it turned.

It must've been another angel, She had never been one for details like these.

And maybe it was well known who had created it!

Dawn and Dusk, morning and evening.

Yes, maybe it was. Though he wouldn't know either way.

He'd never really had contact with the others, too far off in the galaxy creating stars and nebulas to be around them much and always getting ushers away from them when he got too close.

'I want to see what they are making,' he had said. Well, not really. Back then they didn't really have a voice. Or something that could be considered a body, for that matter.

'Don't dwell on them, brother,' had been his answer. 'They are lesser, as we are the ones that give shape to the divine plan.'

Back then, when everything had still been peaceful and emotions and actions were being named left and right, he had agreed with his brother. Simply because, in the short time that the emotion had existed, he had felt nothing but annoyance for Gabriel.

A few years went by (after someone had gone through the trouble of naming them just that) before he returned to earth, his newest creations merely small white dots in the endless dark of the night sky as he sat on what would soon be called the wall of Eden, the feet of his now human-shaped form, dangling over the edge of it as he looked out over the garden;

The trees and flowers and water and dirt still untouched by any living creature except for the angel that brought them into existence.

"Brother, what are you doing here? Gabriel has been asking for you."

The term brother didn't feel as if it were fitting for his relationship with the other archangels. Not really.

Though a different term for what they would then be hadn't been invented yet and he didn't bother doing it himself.

"Hello, Lucifer. Sorry for worrying you. Was just curious 'bout what the other angels have been so busy creating down here. Seems like it's quite a lot."

"That it does, Raphael."

"You ever wonder what this is all supposed to be for? Her, creating all of this just to test the humans I mean?"

Lucifer sat down next to him now, a reserved expression on his face, both of their wings brushing the stone beneath them where they were stretched comfortably behind them. There was no reason to hide their wings. Not yet anyway.

"Every day I wonder brother. You're not alone in your doubts. I overheard her saying terrible things: Talk of death and disease. Of war and hunger. I wonder why she would subject any creature of her own making to such cruelty. Wonder if the souls that will be lost due to her testing would mean anything to Her. And, if they do not, if ours don't do so either."

Lucifer had always had a way with words. Good at getting what he wanted when he wanted it by carefully selecting them and twisting them into complex puzzles which one would only figure out when listening to them a couple of times.

Raphael nodded in agreement before actually realising he was doing so.

But there were more important things about this that he should have realised.

Like how Lucifer was more manipulative than he was simply pushy. That he had him wrapped around his finger and, that with that simple nod, he had signed for his own execution.

***

He liked to tell others that he didn't really fall. That it hadn't hurt him as much as it had the others and that he went on his accords; only because he wanted to go and not so much because God had cast him out.

But when one hits the ground so harshly, any fragile human would have died on impact, his wings burning and burning and his sight gone, body heat dropping rapidly, there is not much else one could do except scream in pure agony.

After what felt like double the time he had been alive for until then -which had been quite a while- he regained his vision again, now able to see significantly better in the dark and make out his wings, black as night and every movement hurting him so severely he was certain he had burns all over the muscles and fat underneath the burned mass of feathers.

It wasn't crowded, not yet anyhow.

Lucifer and he had fallen first.

'To show the others that She will have no mercy,' his brother had said. The darkness around them so dark that it hid what he had become or currently was becoming.

Once more angels fell, he asked his brother what they'd do now. Though before he could even get past the last vowel of his name he heard Lucifer hiss at him as if the mere mention of his name had hurt him.

'We can't keep our old names brother. They are God-given and will, therefore, do us harm. Demons aren't made to have anything angelic.'

The word 'demon' had never been used before that exact moment. Though as it rolled off of his brother's tongue, Raphael knew that that was exactly what they were...

***

He got the job just four days after falling.

Lucifer, who now called himself Satan and who Raphael no longer saw as anything close to a brother (or an ally and trustworthy person for that matter) telling him to 'cause some trouble' as that was what they were now meant to be doing.

He was happy to leave; Hell (which is what they had called their new home) had gotten awfully crowded and, as the boundaries had disappeared with angels falling from the sky, way too touchy for his liking. He'd refused a position of power after being offered one. Had refused to rule alongside Satan or do anything that would elevate his status in any way. So Satan, seeing no other use for him, had given him a mission and it was so that he made his way to earth for the very first time since the fall.

He searched out a reflective surface -in this case, a large body of water he would later learn was called a lake- as soon as he arrived, finally able to see what he looked like and if he had changed anywhere near as severely as Lucifer had done.

He hadn't, it turned out. His skin was not red and burned like his brother's was and in almost every way he looked the same as he had done before the fall. Maybe dishevelled and wearing black, ash stained clothing instead of the pure and clinical white he'd worn before, though the same none the less,

That is, nearly everything.

He stared at his reflection. Yellow, reptile-like eyes staring back at him, unblinking. The slits thin and fearful looking. The yellow having driven away every bit of white in his eyes.

He hadn't found it so bad at first. Had almost found them charming in the way they reminded him of his creations, the only animal-like creatures he had created that slithered through the trees and winded their elegant bodies around the branches, scales shimmering in the sunlight.

After hearing about how there was only one rule he could have the newly made humans break to satisfy Lucifer's urging on to make them break as many as possible, it only seemed logical to turn into one of his serpent friends and tempt the curious Eve to eat an apple.

***

The angel was strange.

For starters, he knew that they were supposed to be enemies. That the divine had urged them all on to smite every demon within smithing range.

What he also knew though, was that Aziraphale would not be doing any smithing and that hiding from the rain under an angel's wing was comfortable and way more so than he had deemed appropriate for all of his four days in Hell.

Another thing he did know was that, as soon as the name Crawley had left his lips, rolling off his tongue while they watched the humans set their first steps outside of the garden, was that he didn't like it. It almost sounded like an insult to him and to the lovely creatures Eve was so kind as to give the name 'snakes' to.

Of course, he wouldn't ask Aziraphael what his name was before a good hundred years had passed. That he technically didn't have to ask as he had somehow known it before he had even crawled up on the wall of Eden was beside the point.

***

The relationship they formed over the decennia, over thousands of years, was something that transcended human description.

Some might call them lovers when seeing them walk alongside each other in the park or dine at yet another small establishment Crowley had found for them. Maybe it was the way Aziraphale always called him dear in that soft, endearing ton of his or maybe it was because Crowley had called Aziraphale angel so many times it had led to the humans making it a pet name of their own after one of them overheard him saying it.

Others would call them friends. With the way, they always were there for each other and could talk for hours and hours with a good bottle of wine. Discussions going on deep into the night about the memories they had made.

The ones who called them soulmates would probably be the ones closest to an even vaguely accurate explanation.

The way they felt lost when the other was gone. How they seemed to know every quirk and every thought and the thought process behind it so well it seemed to others as if they had invented telepathy.

And yet, Aziraphale always seemed just out of reach.

When Crowley asked for them to go to a restaurant the first time, he got shot down with a dismissive wave and an awkward laugh,

When he asked again about three-hundred years later, he got a soft 'You go to fast for me Crowley' in return and proceded to wrack his brain over that sentence. He had goten drunk and sobered up and got drunk again and had talked to his plants while they shook in fear, their owner rambling on about those seven words. Speculating if it was only ment to be about the speed at which he drove and if it wasn't, what the angel had ment by it otherwise.

It had taken him hours and several bottles of various types of alcohol to come to the conclusion that, if it meant something other than him using the entirety of his bentley's speedometer, that he would just wait and see how their relationship progressed.

***

Crowley and Aziraphale, just like all angels and demons, were both technically genderless.

Both of them had corperations which would be considered male though. And because they also tended to dress in mostly masculine ways (Crowely had once told the angel that the only reason for that was that most mens clothing was way more comfortable) and they had both chosen a male presenting bodies, they were spoken to as such and neither of them really minded.

But Crowley had always loved mixing it together.

'Womans' pants and skirt he liked he would buy without even thinking about the ridiculous gendering of things.

His 'experiments' had gotten less risky over the milenia as humans started to develop genderrolls and he was burned at the stake for wearing a lovely lightgrey and black dress in 1652. Aziraphale was still convinced that the burning had taken place because of the fire that had been floating just above Crowley's palm which he was using to heat up his tea with. But he could also admit that the wonderfully crafted dress probably hadn't helped his case.

The very first time (which also turned out to be the last time for quite a while) that Aziraphale had actually been there to witness Crowley's bolder fashin choices (the demon would laugh in your face for calling a certain piece of fabric a 'bold choice')  had been in the 80's.

A riot in Germany surrounding the wall that seperated the country in two had driven them both away and so they found themselves fleeing from their respective places to go to the safehouse they had created for the two of them somewhere in the late 20's.

England, which is were the lovely little cottage was located, was completely safe at the time, so, after greeting eachother with a handshake and a smile (Crowley had to restrain herself from giving the angel a hug.)  they decided on going to one of their newest discoveries: A small restaurant in an alleyway lit with fairy lights where they sold the most wonderful creme brulé.

Aziraphale was already waiting for the demon when she finally came out of her room, hands twisting nervously in the material of the slightly flowy skirt. The fabric looked like some very light cotton, the jet black thing having a high waistband that made the dark grey button-up she had tucked into it poof up a little.

With her currently delightfully long and partly braided hair completing the look Aziraphale had a hard time keeping his hands to himself as Crowley gave him an anxious smile, eyes flickering from Aziraphale to the floor, to the wall and back to Aziraphale again.

"You look wonderful my dear. Come on now, dinner awaits."

The angel knew, of course, that this was the first time Crowley wore anything considered too feminine for a mostly male presenting person to wear since that dicorperation about 360 years ago.

What Aziraphale also knew though, was that his companion looked positively deligtful and so very fragile in the way she kept adjusting the skirt. He would try to make sure the fragilness would be replaced with confidence even if it was the last thing he did.

So he stuck out his arm, offering it to the demon with a small smile. It quickly turning into a wide grin as Crowley reluctantly took it and smiled back at him as he opened the door for the both of them.

"Shall we then, my dear?"

***

Humans could be cruel.

He had realised this many times in the past and would realise it again on many occasion in the future.

That didn't mean that he was prepared in the slightest for what waited for his partner outside of the bookshop.

Slur after slur was thrown her way. Their way, in some occasions of people taking note of their linked arms. Pebbles and food was thrown at Crowley (all of it miraculously missing her of course) and glare after glare, whisper after wisper he saw the small smile slide of off her lips,

Hadn't it been for Aziraphale letting go off the simple spell that kept his ethernal form hidden and showing some rather rude gentelmen his true form, Crowley would have actually been assaulted. (That she could very well defend herself or, if need be, simply transform into a snake and slither away from them, did not occur to him.)

They returned to the bookshop before less than an hour had passed between that moment and them first exiting it. 

They hadn't gone to the restaurant and Aziraphale now had a firm arm around Crowley who was strangely quiet, even her slightly too fast intakes of breath being nearly unnoticable.

"My dear, are you alri-" "It'sssss fine angel. I'm doing sssssuper."

Crowley seemed to get slightly mad after the last part, Harshly ripping the skirt off and miracled herself into a large black hoodie and some jeans. She pulled her legs up and curled up on the couch rather then taking on her usual position of laying sprawled out over it in the most obnoxious way possible, hair now up in a messy bun that made the angel itch to undo it and run his hands through her hair.

Aziraphale watched her, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he nodded and silently went to make his demon some tea.

He had just poured the water into the cups as he felt something nudging his left pants leg, looking down just in time to see the end of a scaled black tail before the head of a rather large snake peeked over the counter to look at him. The snake reluctantly slithering towards the angel's outstretched hand after a while.

"Oh! Hello there beauty" Aziraphale's voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke to the snake, carefully petting her head before letting her wind herself around his arm and drape over his shoulders comfortably, size seeming to be significantly smaller as she had been a second ago.

Aziraphale simply smiled and ran a hand over the smooth scales before picking up the two mugs and carrying them (and the serpent) towards his rarely used bedroom rather than towards the couch they had previously been sitting on.

The snake (or rather, Crowley as a snake, let's not beat around the bush here) hissed quietly in a manner that the angel identified as one of unease, resulting in Aziraphale quietly explaining that she needed some rest.

And thus the cups were set down, Aziraphale miracled himself into some rather comfy pyjamas (He still prefered to sleep nude, though he didn't think Crowley would apprechiate that very much at that particular moment) and the demon lay rolled up comfortably in the angels arms, yellow eyes with dialated pupils lazily looking up at him before blinking shut.

The angel laid them both down carefully, shifting the serpent in his arms to make sure they were both comfortable. He was sure that Crowley had fallen asleep by the time he whispered a soft 'you looked wonderful in that skirt my dear.' And then, ten minutes later, he finally felt able to say the rest: "I hope you know that I love you, no matter what form, body or clothing, I always will."

After ten long seconds of silence, Aziraphale already accepting that he wouldn't get a reply and have made peace with the fact that it simply was a conversation for another time, felt Crowley slowly shift back into her human form and, once she was fully changed, wrap her arms around the angel.

He didn't get a verbal reply back then. Didn't get one for a long time after that either. But angels weren't anything if not patient. And it was alright.

He could live with it. He hadn't been pushed away or told of after all.

***

Crowley, for all the years he had loved Aziraphale in a way that couldn't just be explained with a simple 'I love you' was utterly useless when it came to telling the other that the feeling of love wat mutual. Nothing really changed after that evening after all. Thought Crowley didn't wear skirts again up until it being his desguise in their plan to prevent Armagedon.

He didn't say anything about the confession Aziraphale had made up until Armaged-oh-never-mind and a bit after that.

He didn't say anything until four months after said even had not taken place and he and the angel had decided that today was an excelent day to visit Anathema. The Them had just left, Adam giving them both a wide and highly un-Antichrist-like grin as Pepper rambled on about how they ought to make mudpies this time instead of the horendous stone and sand filled cake they'd made last time Wensleydale wanted to play bakery.

Anathema had told the two celestial beings to go sit in the back room and make themselves comfortable while she and Newt prepared dinner and so they sat, watching the raindrops on the windows when Aziraphale started the conversation.

"Do you remember what it was like? Heaven, I mean. I've heard of demons forgetting everything before the fall and we've never talked about it before but I fell as if... You talk about certain things, like the stars and the galaxy as if you watched them be created and I- Oh dear is this a bad subject?"

Crowley knew the last part had been added because of how pale he had gotten. How still he was sitting. 

Crowley also knew that, how much easier it would be to lie put aside, he would never do that to Aziraphale.

So he secured himself. Mentally hiding away in his little bomb shelter and hoping for the best.

"Yeah, most of them forgot. Memory wiped. Clean slate and all that. I... remember though. Not everything of course, and it took me a he- heav- an awfully long time to recover them.

I remember... I remember the fall. How it felt. The creations we all put into the world..."

Aziraphale, though he'd pulled away, backpaddled as soon as he realised this topic was making his partner highly uncomfortable, latched onto the new conversation topic like a predator to its prey.

"What was your favourite creation then?"

Crowley thought for a moment, Snakes had been It by a long shot had you asked him 6000 years ago. But times change, and so do celestial beings. And his hatred for the snake eyes that had always made him not able to fit in just right ran deep.

"I quite enjoy the Nebula's I helped create. Alpha Centaury still has that little something that just pulls me towards it. Two stars always circling until they will eventually collide and become one, go down together."

"Wasn't Alpha Centaury-" "The one I asked you to run away to? Yeah. A bit selfish of me to pick my own I know."

Aziraphale stayed very quiet as Crowley watched how the raindrops ran down the glass. Grey clouds obscuring the sunset that should be happening right about now and putting a slight damper on the contentness he felt.

"...Did- Didn't the archangels create all the stars, my dear boy?"

Ah, that's what he had been forgetting then. He looked at Aziraphale out of the corner of his reptilian eye, seeing how the angel was watching him closely.

"Crowley?"  he turned his head now, meeting his partners gaze head-on at that specific moment felt nearly as difficult as it had been to walk on the holiest of grounds in the body that wasn't his to undergo an execution which he knew would fail. Nearly.

"Crowley were you- and don't lie to me, my dear. We're you-"

He must've said it. Crowley was sure of it. But he hadn't heard it.

The word forbidden, burning him like a red hot iron rod would have done. And Aziraphale must've noticed him hissing. Watched him crumble and catch his breath as if he'd just been punched.

"Crowley?"

"Yeah. Fine- I'm fine. I jussst-whatss the he-heav-ssssomthing! What was that? "

"I don't know. Are you alright?" and then, once he was sure Crowley was not harmed in any way: "And I know I'm pushy my dear but this is important. Are y-" Crowley silenced him with a hiss and a warning finger. Eyes wide and panicked.

"Don't- don't say that. The name. I- It hurts me."

"So... So you are-"

"Yeah. I guess I- I don't know angel. Whatever you said, whatever name must be correct as otherwise, it wouldn't have-... Yeah. The name is the only thing I could never remember."

Aziraphale kept silent, simply looking at him with a strange sort of sadness in his eyes. Maybe a bit of betrayal.

" I'm sorry I never told you, angel. I was just... Scared, I guess. "

The other nodded, still sitting very still and watching him. Behind them, thunder rumbled as the sky darkened.

"W-what was your favourite? Creation I mean."

The angel gave him a sad smile at the change of topic and reached out, wanting to pat his hand, though decided against it and laid his own on the armrest instead.

"I always quite liked the pufferfish I made. Funny creatures, those things.

Though sunsets are my favourite I believe. The pretty colours making up the golden hour, quite proud of those."

Crowley, who had been fidgeting with one of his jacket pockets, looked up sharply, staring at the angel for a hot second before blurting out 'you made the sunset?' immediately followed by a quick 'sorry' as he realised how blunt that sounded.

Though Aziraphale only looked happily surprised at the reaction, glad he could lend the other a distraction.

"I did. Always found it too boring so I threw some colours in. I'm not sure Emanuel was happy with me playing around with his morning and evening concept but it made the humans smile once they saw it so I think it was worth it."

"Sunsets have always been my favourite thing about the earth," Crowley said without really being able to stop himself.

"I've always wondered who would think of such a thing. Looking back I suppose it should be obvious that you would be that angel. You've always been the only creative one out of all the bastards up there."

They both laughed at that, light and unbothered as the raindrops raced each other down the glass.

" I meant what I said in the 80s you know. "

The topic change came sudden and made Crowley forget that his human body needed air for a few moments.

It was said with such intense casualty. The meaning carefully woven through the words and tone one that would be normal if this had been said mere hours, or perhaps days, after that confession. Not nearly forty years.

"About me loving you no matter what, I mean. We do need to talk about you being... Them. Someday, that is. But not now if you don't want to. And I do get it if you don't want to be associated with me like that. But I wanted you to know so you-" "Angel"

Aziraphale looked at him, cutting his nervous ramble short, eyes round, blown wide as he let Crowley take his hand.

There were so many ways he had told the angel that he cared about him deeply without having said 'I love you'.

He didn't think it was needed. That there were better ways of showing it. Like dinners and offers for a lift home. Like picking up a signed copy of a book that the angel just happened to be looking for for the last few months and like an offer to stay at his flat while the both of them sat on a bench in a small village.

And perhaps, for him there were. But Aziraphale needed the confirmation. Needed those words so he would stop doubting what they had was special.

"Aziraphale..."

He said again, a small smile tugging at his lips."I love you to angel."

Said celestial seemed to suddenly relax as if all of the air had been let out of him. Like a deflating balloon, as his face lit up with a smile so bright Crowley felt the need to reach for his shades that sat on the table beside them.

"Oh thank the lord-" (Crowley whispered a quick 'she had nothing to do with it' under his breath at that) "-Then I won't have to return this." And with one fluid movement, he pulled out a little velvet black box.

"Zira... Is that-" "A wedding ring yes you're correct." "And you want to-... With me?"

Aziraphale smile got possibly even brighter as he nodded enthusiastically. "As if I would ever give it to anybody else. I thought, as we are already bound to each other for life and both care about each other very much, why not get married!"

"You-I- we can't- demon?"

"Crowley, if you're about to say that we can't because of our respective sides, let me remind you of a certain conversation we've had about us being on our own side."

"No, Zira I didn't--well, I did but that's not what I wanted to say."

What Crowley actually had wanted to say, would have been something along the lines of 'I've been dropping hint for 6000 FUCKING YEARS angel but to straight-up ask me to marry you might be moving a bit to fast even for me.' or perhaps 'Of course I'll say yes angel don't give and never have given two shits about what above or down under think now please show me the ring or I might cry.'

Though what actually came out of the demon's mouth, was sputtering and a slightly chocked up sound, Aziraphale merely waiting for his response to get somewhat closer to becoming words, the little black ring box still closed in his slightly outstretched hand.

"Can I... Can I see it? The ring I mean."

"Oh, of course, my dear. Though I must warn you, it's a bit cheesy. If you truly don't like it we can always go get ourselves some new ones."

When Crowley opened the little box, a high pitched noise came out of his throat, the only thing he could manage was to simply stare down at the ring.

Two light gold angel wings, tips and basses touching to form a perfectly round circle Crowley was sure to fit like a glove once he put it on. The represented his angel, of course.

"Aziraphale, I-" "It's alright if you don't like it. That's not what it's about after all but-" "No angel, I love it. It's beautiful but I-well I've had this for so long and I didn't know you would-... Well, beat me to the punch I suppose."

At that he reached into his inner pocket to pull out a pure white box, the thing having sat in the pocket for such a long time that the angel has stopped noticing that there was something there.

The demon opened the box, revealing a simple silver band, a small and incredibly detailed black snake wrapping around it two times.

" Crowley is that-" "An engagement ring? Yes. I should've asked sooner, or at least told you but... Well, I'm not the best at expressing any sorts of love."

"Well then, we better get on with it then, right?"  the angel said, giving Crowley a nervous smile before getting down on one knee.

Both of them were too wrapped up at the moment to notice Anathema standing by the door, leaning against the doorframe as she watched the scene unfold.

" Anthony J. Crowley." Aziraphale started, watching as the fond little smile on the demons faces morphed into a full-on, gleeful grin. "I've known you since the very beginning, we've gone through literally everything together and while no human word would be able to accurately describe what we are to each other, I've found that the word soulmate to be a term I've grown quite fond of when referring to you in my head. We've known each other since the very beginning and will continue to know each other till the very end. This human formality is not necessary in any way. But 'my husband' or 'my wife' has always had a nice ring to it for me and I'm certain it would feel like just another type of connection we'd share.

So Crowley. Anthony J- demon- Crowley, will you marry me?"

Crowley's world seemed to be nearly as frozen as it had been when he had actually stopped time.

He was aware of his heart thumping very fast, almost obnoxiously so, seeing as it technically had no purpose whatsoever. He was aware of the sound of the drops hitting the cemented tiles on Anathema her terras and was fully and wholeheartedly aware that neither of those things should be holding his attention right now.

"I-yeah. Yes of course angel."

Aziraphale. Even as Crowley didn't dem it possible, smiled even brighter as he had before, a bit of his angelic grace momentarily slipping through, the faint outlines of wings shimmering in the air behind his back.

He hugged Crowley then, soft curls tickeling his counterparts neck as his face lay buried in his neck.

Now, it's important that you are aware of a certain quirk that our angel has. Aziraphale, when extremely happy or content, would accidentally influence his surroundings. Not that a poor man suddenly winning the lottery with the single ticket he'd bought or every rose in the garden blooming in mid-winter was a particularly bad thing, it was just rather odd to most bystanders. And, because Crowley had experienced such phenomenon before and was fully aware of the possibility of it happening at that moment he was only mildly surprised when it stopped raining and every flower in Anathema's garden opened up at once.

"Aziraphale?" they were still hugging, Crowley resting his chin on his angel's shoulder, Anathema smiling and slipping away (before either of them could notice her) to go and get the two of them a slice of cake by their tea as a form of celebration.

"Yes, my dear boy?"

"What would you say if I were to wear a dress to our wedding?"

Aziraphale felt like a bit of his heart melted at the fragile tone that barely covered up layers and layers of insecurities his demon had hid away for so long it had become another part of his personality.

"I would tell you that I would be absolutely delighted and quite sure that you would look all kinds of wonderful Crowley."

The demon made a little happy noise in the back of his throat muffled by the angles shoulder as he watched the last of the raindrops race each other down the glass and a soft breeze swept away the clouds to reveal the sun setting between the trees of Anathema's garden.

And the evening sky tinted red and yellow as the sun sank down, at peace with the world she was leaving behind.

[hoes4bangtan]

Remember Me | Part 0.5

Pairing: pjm x reader

Genre: lots of angst, fluff, eventual smut

Word count: 3,159

Summary: After being in an accident and being in a coma for months, you finally wake up. But you don’t remember this stranger next to your bed, — even when he claims he’s your one and only: Park Jimin.

(Snippet of) Life in Death

Life with Y/N in a coma

* ✦ . ⁺ . *

Your head was hurting so much. The talking of the doctors and nurses didn’t help your situation either. All day you heard them talked about you like you weren’t there. It gave you a sense of not belonging. As if you could be detached from the world with the flip of a switch.

You were ready.

I mean you felt ready…

Were you?

As you gathered strength, you thought about your life. You had already re-told your entire life more than a dozen times. You were getting tired of it.

Your name is Y/N L/N from [Hometown]. You moved to Seoul a little over two years ago to study. You were in the second semester of your third year of college. You want to become an author and permanently move to Seoul. Your closest friends are Albina Vanin and Lee Gael.

Albina is another foreign student at your university. She’s the very first person that talked to you. She’s a year older than you, social and quite open to people. As a matter of fact, she was the one that walked up to you confidently, asking you questions left and right. If you’re being completely honest, she made you uncomfortable in the beginning, but now you’re best friends. She had another best friend, Lee Gael, who she introduced you to one day in the dining hall.

Lee Gael is one of the nicest boys you’ve ever met. One of the most handsome as well, his features resembling those of a Disney prince. He was born in Seoul to a Korean father and a Spanish mother, and for majority of his life, he’s lived in Korea, except for that time when he lived in Spain with his grandmother for a year and a half. Since the first time you approached him in the dining hall, you’ve had a small crush on him. That crush only intensified when he started to show interest in you, bringing you flowers and buying you chocolates every chance he’d get. When he asked you on a date, you were over the moon. Now, it’s been 11 months, and you’ve created a beautiful and serious relationship. During this time, the only actual flaw you can give Gael is his jealousy and even then, he is still perfect.

A big throbbing in the side of your head, just above your ear. Out of reflex, you try to reach up to relieve some of the pressure but you find that you still cannot move.

Try again, Y/N. Try. Are you going to leave your family alone? Your friends? Gael?

C’mon.

Do it for him.  

Dark bags reside under Jimin’s sunken eyes. The guilt has been eating at him, swimming around in his head and following the blood stream down his body. It fills up his stomach, allowing him to go days on end without food. It doesn’t let him sleep. Haunting and devilish, it’s like Jimin is living in a nightmare especially designed to make him suffer. His reality is one he cannot escape, transcending into his unconsciousness.

His hair is matted and tangled, skin sickly pale, muscles just slightly deteriorated from all the time he’s spent sitting down next to her hospital bed. His clothes fitting a little bigger than they used to before, and he has to wear a belt now to stop his pants from falling down. He’s always tired. Oh, so tired, all the damn time.

He was broken. He is broken.

Completely shattered and utterly useless. He tries to make himself useful by bathing her and assisting her nurses as much as they let him. He had become a slave to his guilt. Free falling into endless darkness he is sure no one can pull him away from. He’s in too deep now for anyone to reach him, no one’s hands long enough to grab him and pull him up.

Most mornings he would open his eyes to see her face being kissed by the sun, her face glowing beautifully. Not today. The sky was gloomy, dark clouds unapologetically covering the sheening sun. The wind rattles with the trees, playing with the sticks and teasing the leaves. The hospital smelled of antibiotics and disinfectant and chemicals, as it always did. The quiet steps of the nurses, doctors, staff, and patients every once in a while.

Y/N used to love the rain. From the inside, not the outside, she would always explain. She would take a book, whatever she was in the mood for, and make herself whichever hot beverage, though hot chocolate was her preferred one. He loved laying in her stomach as she read the book, sometimes out loud for him to hear. Admiring her, from the tip of her nose to the end of her eyelashes to the base of her neck and the start of her collarbone. She was and will always be beautiful. He hated to admit it, but he was losing hope — had been for some time now. He long accepted his fate as well.

“Some patients are complaining about you,” Eunbi, a nurse with dyed orange hair and pierced nose stood by the door, “You should probably get a shower, your friend brought a different pair of clothes for a reason, didn’t he?”

Yoongi-hyung and Taehyung-shi were often in the hospital with him. They, together with Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, and Jungkook had become close friends with Y/N. Every few days, Namjoon would come and check up on Y/N and him, though his job didn’t permit him to come by as often. Every single time Seokjin would come by, he’d order the kitchen staff to get him the best food there is. Everyone there knows him, some trying their best to hide their distaste, while others outwardly show it. He only wanted the best for his brother. Hoseok is a lawyer, and he’s been trying nonstop to put whoever did this to his family in jail. Finding the guy was the easy part, the car being found within the first two hours of the hit and run, under the name of a rich businessman. The man paid bail and was out in the streets after a couple of hours, and now it was up to Hoseok and Y/N’s mother to fight for justice. Jimin hadn’t seen Hoseok in a few days, and thank God he hasn’t seen his mother-in-law in just as long. Jimin didn’t like to deal with those sorts of things, he simply thought Y/N was much more important, his mind much too occupied with her well-being.

Jungkook only went to visit once, when Y/N had been admitted into the hospital. He hated hospitals. He especially hated seeing Y/N like this, in a bed hooked to machines, barely breathing. The only way to not feel the sinking feeling in his stomach is by not seeing her, and so, he never went. Jimin hasn’t seen the boy in months, and though he should feel bitter that he isn’t present in such a moment in his and Y/N’s life, he understands that some people deal with hardships differently. The only difference between him and Jungkook was that he didn’t want the last time he saw Y/N to be in her funeral.

“I will not permit it.”

“Mr. Park, please, understand—,” the doctor tried to reason with the shaken man.  

“No, you will not be taking my wife off life support and no, you will not be taking her organs.” Jimin abruptly shakes his head, his heart thumping heavily in his chest, and hands shaking uncontrollably. No, they won’t take her from him. “That’s my final answer.”

“We cannot begin to understand what you must be going through, but please, give some consideration to the other people who she can save.” They want to let her die. They don’t think she’ll wake up. She will though. She has to.

“She will wake up,” Jimin says with his last bits of hope, “She will, she’s the strongest woman I’ve ever meet.” He stands tall in front of Y/N’s bed, serving as a protective guard dog. His head is high, once again the confident man he portrayed himself as before any of this had happened.

“I’m sure she is, but her assessment of potential recovery is too low for us to be confident that later, at some point, she will wake up.” The sympathy is clear in the doctor’s eyes, she understands where Jimin is coming from, how broken he must feel. Her heart goes out to him. Though he’s caused some ruckus in her time with his vegetative wife, she cannot imagine a person who loves someone more than Jimin loves Y/N. “I will leave you now, but please, give it some thought.”

Once the doctor left the room, Jimin uninflated. Shoulders dropping, head lowered. His hands still slightly shaken from what felt like a confrontation, a test of his devotion to his wife, to her life. How much longer will he be able to continue like this? To keep up? How much longer until he can’t do it anymore?

Not much longer, no.

‘Let’s make it more interesting, shall we’ the universe seemed to be scheming, as it always did with him lately.

He was exhausted, — mentally, physically and emotionally. His thoughts were all jumbled up, but one question stood above every other thought: can she still wake up?

He finally decided to take that shower, not entirely for hygiene purposes but rather to wash away his fears. Jimin walked to the small bathroom in the room — a small rectangle consisting of a toilet, sink, a small circular mirror, and a shower.

In the beginning, people used to constantly tell him not to lose hope, to keep fighting. After a month, nurses would silently look at him, giving him smiles of sympathy, full of pity, though rarely any empathy. As more time passed, people seemed to lose any shred of hope they had left. This was the third time this week that they told him that he should disconnect Y/N out of life support and for the first time, he was beginning to believe what people have been telling him. She might not wake up. She would want to help others, but he doesn’t want randoms fiddling with her organs. He wants her to be at peace.

Jimin felt his chest closing in, contracting as he tried to let air in. He couldn’t take the beeping of the machine, white noise he was previously immune to. The peonies in corners of the room. The blank walls, white with yellow outlines. The sealed window in the farthest side of the room. He became suddenly hyper-aware of everything. After 6 months, he’s never felt more alone. His glass heart filled to the brim with hope breaking into thousands of pieces, all of its contents leaking out so quick he can barely register the change. He no longer saw the point in talking with Y/N, when that had been his favorite past time just yesterday. No longer seeing the point in reading the books he brought in the bookstore downstairs. No longer seeing the point in life. A life without her.

No.

Jimin, don’t do this to yourself. She can still wake up. Don’t listen to what the doctor said. Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to them.

Don’t

Listen

To

Them.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Go buy another book. Read. She loves reading. She’ll like it. Maybe she’ll like it so much she’ll wake up from her nap and discuss it with you. Say how much she loved the characters. Or get the worst book possible, make her so angry she’ll just have to wake to assassinate the author of such a horrible book, disgusted with whoever decided to commit the heinous act.

Gathering his wits as much as he could, Jimin exited the small shower. Without looking into the mirror, he splashed his face with water and with the towel, he dried both his tears and the tap water. He dried his body, changed into his clean clothes. He strode to the door leading to the hallway and closed the door behind him, silently as if to not disturb her when he wanted the exact opposite.

In-patients walk around in their hospital gowns, while a few sit with their visitors. Today was Saturday, and many families took this day to visit their family member without the worry of missing a day of work or school. Kim Minho was one of the patients, an older man with a daughter in intensive care for leukemia. He and Jimin would often play chess together in the recreation room, or sometimes just sit together in front of a window, simply talking about their lives. About Y/N, about Minho’s daughter. Everything, really. Minho was a dear friend, positive even when his daughter, Gayoon, doesn’t seem to be getting any better.

30 steps to get to the elevator, 50 to the bookstore. He was in and out quickly, considering one particularly uneventful evening he took the liberty of going through every single shelf and compiling a list of books that Y/N would love to read.

When he stepped out of the elevator on Y/N’s familiar floor, the first thing he noticed was the commotion in the usually almost-completely quiet halls. Involuntarily, his heartbeat quickened. Nurses rushed by, families staring while completely stiff as if someone had yelled “Freeze!” only their eyes betraying them from being the next champions of the old Mannequin Challenge.

“Someone page Dr. Yejin!” Jimin heard one of the nurses yell. That’s Y/N’s doctor.

His heart dropped. His feet were cemented to the floor, heavy and he had no control whatsoever. Time slowed. He found that he no longer had enough strength to hold onto the newly purchased paperback, legs buckling in place. His face paled even more, and he could feel the blood draining from his head, the oxygen leaving his body but not enough coming back in. He was getting dizzy. Ears ringing, empty palms sweating, eyes clouding, balance lacking. Disoriented and terrified, Jimin stood in the hallway three doors away from the source of chaos. Exactly 30 steps away.

Jimin barely registered the ring of the elevator, but as Dr. Yejin rushed past him, her eyes briefly meeting his, he fell from whatever cloud he was laying in simply to land harshly in the cruel human world.  

What the fuck is he doing, just standing there?

Go to Y/N.

NOW.

His feet started running without his consent, carrying in the direction of room 413 and past Dr. Yejin, who was speed walking, almost jugging. Too slow, Jimin reasonably thought even with his mind in the state that it was.

He didn’t bother stopping to look inside, he dove into the chaos, practically running over everything and everyone who got on the way between him and his love. Jimin takes hold of Y/N’s hand, focusing on her twitching face. Her hand shook out of his hand, making Jimin want to grip her hand firmly — and he would have if it hadn’t been for the nurse yelling at him not to touch the patient. How was he not supposed to touch her?

“Okay, so someone tell me what happened,” Dr. Yejin demands as she walks through the door, making quick work of putting sterile gloves. He watched Y/N helplessly, as the nurses rotated her to her side, and placed a pillow below her head for support. He tried to move forward to help hold her on her side, but the nurses glared at him not to. Was he really going to watch Y/N die right in front of his eyes?

Eunbi, a new nurse at the hospital, responds, “I was coming to check her vitals, but when I came, her ventilator was off, and I thought that Mr. Jimin had decided to disconnect her, but then she started having a seizure.” Voice trembling but firm. She was yet to be brave enough to speak up in front of the doctor, even after working there for more than 2 months. Jimin seemed to shrink into himself, just like Eunbi in this very moment, when the nurses demanded him to stop trying to get close to Y/N. He walked to the far corner of the room, next to a vase of peonies, and watched the scene before him unfold. In the hospital bed: his dying wife giving her last breaths.

“Alright, Nurse Eunbi, get the blood sample, check for blood count and glucose.” Dr. Yejin turns the information given by Eunbi in her head. “What are her vitals? And for God’s sake, someone get neurology in here.”

“Doctor, her heart rate is dropping.”

“Start CPR, Dr. Jaeho. Nurse Haeil, defibrillators to 200 joules.” Y/N’s doctor demanded as she lifted the woman’s hospital gown, a new one that Jimin had changed her into earlier in the day.

“200 joules.” Echoed the named nurse.

Y/N’s heart rate was decreasing by the seconds, and the electric shock didn’t help in the slightest.  

“Up to 300 joules.” The doctor went for the second round of shocks. The familiar pressure of eyes on her, as she tried to save the life of the woman in the bed.

“300 joules.”  

Nothing. The heart monitor veered into a lone line of death, symbolizing the worst fear of her husband. Jimin had been escorted out of the room by one of the nurses, but he could still peer inside from the small window in the door. He could hear the long beep, the absence of a rate, no contracting.

No.

He slammed his fist into the door, yelling for the doctors and nurses to open the door, to let him in. They didn’t. As a matter of fact, it was as if he wasn’t even there. Two staff members took him by the arms, taking him away from the thing he was already losing: his home. He felt her sliding right through his greedy fingers, into the floor and becoming a mush of nothingness. They can’t take her away. They just can’t.

“Don’t stop CPR! Up to 360 joules.” Inside, desperation was in the air. None of them wanted Y/N to die, they all had become very well acquainted with her and her husband’s story. It would be a tragedy, not only in the sense that every death is a tragedy. No, if anything, this story had to be one of the saddest story they ever have been a part of.

“360.”

Still nothing.

“Doctor, we need to declare a time of dea—”

“Not yet! Up to 380.” Recharging the defibrillator, the doctor was ready for the next round.

“But Doctor—”

“Do it.” With ferocity in her eyes, Dr. Yejin was willing to risk everything to not have this woman die and make her husband suffer more than he already has. She wanted to tell him that she tried everything she could, and that — she wanted to be genuine.

“380 joules.”

[mi6-cafe]

The MI6 Cafe prides itself on being a hub for our fandom community. And as a part of that community, we would like to get to know you! We will start, but from there, we will interview who you want us to. Just leave a fandom member you want to know better in the MI6 Cafe askbox and we will reach out to them.

Standard questions:

Introduce yourself. Roseforthethorns, mid/late 20s, she/her pronoun, bookworms and exhausted human being, intermittent writer, full time teacher, beginning nap expert (seriously, can I get some sleep?)   

What was your first encounter with James Bond?   I used to play this computer game called Spy Fox, which was a parody of James Bond but with animals- it wasn’t until later that I realized what they were making fun of. I count Skyfall as my first film, and my curiosity at that point was magnified by failing the JB questions on a pub quiz, and my girlfriend at the time insisting I watch Skyfall. 

What is your favourite Q branch gadget?   I’m rather fond of the spy watches. Stylish, they tell time. Sometimes they explode. 

If you could cast yourself as any James Bond role, what would it be?   Can… can I say Bond Girl if it means I got to sleep with James at least once? Maybe Q, otherwise. 

Who or what are your most important creative influences?  Tolkien, Rowling, Colfer, Lewis, Snicket. I read everything I could get my hands on as a child. And those five authors were my biggest influences as I grew up. 

Self-chosen questions:

Bond:

If you could write/direct a Bond film, what issues would you tackle? LET BOND BE BISEXUAL. I want to see him have a mission in a gay club and see him happily pull men without it making him less of a man. I want to see him get to mentor women instead of always bedding them. I want a really in depth villain who scares the fuck out of me (high stakes like Silva- absolutely terrifying).     

Have you seen any of the Bond cast in the theatre, and if so what did you think? if not, which performance do you wish you had seen and why? I got to see Othello and The Crucible in the same year, and boy howdy. I was bowled over by Ben’s sheer power onstage in his ability to emote and live entirely in the present moment. Daniel as Iago was… transcendent. They are masters of their craft and I still want to cry just thinking about those performances. They were phenomenal and I know how lucky I am to have seen them both. 

Get to know you:

What was your first fandom?  In the modern sense of the word, Sherlock, but I was a bit in the HP fandom in terms of reading and discussing meta. I never wrote for that fandom though. The stories I grew up with are somewhat sacred in my mind and I can’t combine them with fic. 

What is your favorite genre to read? Create for?  I love fiction. I grew up with a lot of fantasy, but realistic fiction is probably my favorite to read now. In terms of writing, I suppose gay spies is my genre of choice. 

Plug yourself! What is one of your favorite things that you’ve ever created in the fandom?  Oh gosh. I would probably say The Hacker and the Hit Men. Two summers ago I wrote 100K words in 3 months, and that story was my first full fic over 30K all on its own. I’m so proud of the chapter titles, the polyamory, or working in explicit consent and of giving Q a loving and healthy relationship. It was also my first dabbling with Silva as a villain, and even just writing him made my skin crawl. 

What are your goals for the future as a creator? What is something you want to try? I really want to write something on the level and scale of a work like Blue Eyed Monster (Truth, you are a goddess among humans). I want to actually manage a slow burn story built in a rich world with complex characters that has strong, poignant payoff for the reader. 

Want to nominate someone for us to spotlight? Leave us a note in the MI6 Cafe ask box!

[lj-writes]

Finn the trickster hero

Finn is a lot of things--a military genius, a conscientious objector, a crack shot, an iconoclast--but beyond the realm of military and politics he also has mythological qualities in embodying certain archetypes, and to me the most prominent is that of the trickster.

Trickster figures are recognizable by distinguishing traits such as solving problems by wit and resourcefulness, actions that upset the social order, humor, crossing boundaries between realms, and physical transformation. Finn’s story contains all of these and more, with the effect that he plays the trickster’s role, a bearer of the unexpected and an agent of change.

A trickster is first and foremost defined by, well, trickery. Some tricksters are conspicuously lacking in physical force, such as Jacob in the Old Testament of the Bible in contrast to his stronger brother Esau. Some are depicted as smaller, weaker animals compared to their adversaries, such as Reynard the Fox in Western European fables in comparison to the wolf Isengrim, or Bre’r Rabbit of the Southern United States in comparison with Bre’r Fox. Other times martial prowess simply isn’t a big part of their story, such as Coyote of the Crow and Plains tribes’ mythologies and Prometheus in Greek mythology. Rather than physical force the trickster often uses some flaw in their opponent, such as vanity or cruelty, to get out of a tight situation or win the prize in a situation where they are at a disadvantage.

This is true of Finn, who made and executed a plan to steal a TIE fighter and rescue a Resistance pilot from under the First Order’s nose. In doing so he ingeniously exploited a flaw in the First Order’s organization by claiming it was Kylo Ren who wanted the prisoner--Ren, who reports directly to Snoke and is not a part of the strict military hierarchy that Hux so prizes, who has his own agenda and will act for it rather than his given orders, as he demonstrated more than once in The Force Awakens.

If Finn had tried to claim the prisoner transfer order had come from Hux or Phasma he may well have been required to verify the command, given that both these figures operate within the standard military system. But Ren? Who was going to question him and risk his explosive temper, short of Hux or Snoke himself?

In other words, Finn used the personal and organizational failings of his oppressors to brilliant effect in planning and executing his escape, and this planning made it possible for him and Poe to reach the TIE fighter without a single shot fired. Once they flew the TIE and hit a (literal) snag shots were fired indeed, in a sequence I have analyzed at length. A confrontation was inevitable at some point anyway, but it was due to Finn’s clever subterfuge that he and Poe were able to get so far without attracting deadly attention. This is itself a significant achievement that may have saved their lives when they were seriously outnumbered and Poe had endured physical and mental torture.

Finn also uses a subtle trick on the Resistance but of a different sort, which I will discuss near the end in the section about the trickster as communicator.

A characteristic of tricksters related to their trickery is humor. Trickster stories are replete with wit and fun, like Bre’r Rabbit laughing behind his hand as he begs Bre’r Fox not to throw him in the brier patch, or the Yoruba trickster god Eshu breaking his penis while using it for a bridge. (All I’m saying is, never, ever question Eshu’s dedication to infrastructure.) They are not adverse to being the butt of the joke, either, as when Anansi the spider, a beloved trickster figure of West Africa and the Caribbean, failed to hoard all the wisdom in the world and ended up dispersing it instead.

A few trickster stories are dark and frightening--no, I’m pretty sure the broken penis doesn’t count--usually when the forces of order and hierarchy catch up to the trickster and mete out torment as punishment, most notably with the Norse Loki and the Greek Prometheus. Even then, however, the trickster has a long and laughter-filled streak before they’re caught.

John Boyega made it clear in an interview that he explicitly went for humor when he auditioned for Finn, and the character correspondingly has a lot of funny moments in The Force Awakens. In fact, some of Finn’s tensest moments are also his funniest, as when he pleads with BB-8 to tell him the location of the Resistance base, or when he helps an injured Chewbacca who is in pain and lashing out violently.

[Image: Chewbacca has gripped Finn by the throat and pulled him close]

The trickster’s humor has a larger basis in his subversion of social norms, the way he upends the social expectations placed on him. The trickster’s stories are a surprise because they invert the prevailing power structure: the weak triumph over the strong with fast talk and wits, laughing at the high-and-mighty all the while. In this way the relative weakness, trickery, and humor of the trickster all act together to turn the tables on the strong and oppressive.

You can see this with Finn throughout The Force Awakens in the way he defies expectations of his role as a Stormtrooper. I mean, Stormtroopers don’t care about anyone or anything except the mission, right?

[Image: Finn bends over a dying Slip]

Stormtroopers follow orders without question.

[Image: Finn lowers his blaster, unable to shoot the prisoners]

They don’t think and act independently. They don’t go out of their way to help people. They respect their superiors no matter what. They- well, you get the idea. Finn takes every idea about Stormtroopers and turns it on its head. Heck, the guy can even shoot!

This upsetting of the social order means that tricksters are necessarily agents of change. They smash the status quo and bring not only laughter and fun but also insights into life and new ways of being. 

As quite a few fans have rightly pointed out, nothing in The Force Awakens would have happened without Finn. The awakening of his conscience and his resulting determination to get away from the First Order, both of them unexpected and indeed unthinkable developments that threw the First Order brass into confusion, were the catalysts for all the major events of the movie--Poe’s escape, Rey and BB-8’s departure from Jakku, and the destruction of Starkiller Base. He was not the only mover and shaker in these events but he provided the spark, the first push.

Such changes are a crossing over from one state of being to another, and indeed it is a common trait of tricksters to cross boundaries, both in the external world and sometimes in their own selves by changing gender and shape.

In the former capacity as a boundary crosser the trickster brings gifts from another world, such as the celestial or underground regions, to the earthly realm. This is the case with such figures as the Rainbow Crow, from the myth of the Lenni Lenape tribe of the Northeast United States, who flew up to the heavens to bring back the gift of fire; Coyote of the South Plains in the United States who released the buffalo from Humpback’s enclosure onto the earth; and Anansi of the Ashante people of Ghana, who bargained with the god Nyame to bring stories to the world.

In the latter capacity as a shapechanger the trickster changes their own shape and identity, again flitting around and between boundaries except this time within themselves and their relationship to the world. The aforementioned South Plains Coyote changes first into a bird and then a dog to release the buffalo. Loki of Norse myth is another famous example who frequently changed his race, gender, and species in stories.

Finn is both a boundary crosser and a shapechanger who went from the servitude with the First Order to freedom, bringing the Order’s secrets and his inside knowledge to the cause of fighting it. He also changes his identity and literal shape in the process, going from a Stormtrooper to a purported Resistance fighter to a traumatized fugitive to an actual Resistance fighter, though one who fights alongside the Resistance rather than giving himself fully to them. We even get a beautiful metaphorical scene of his transformation in a desert, reminiscent of Moses from the Old Testament after he himself fled from a genocidal, enslaving regime:

[Image: Finn walks through the desert, pieces of discarded Stormtrooper gear marking his path]

The ability to cross boundaries also means that the trickster is a communicator. Whether the boundary in question lies between socially expected behavior and unexpected/prohibited behavior, between states of being, between worlds, between identities, or between people, the trickster navigates these boundaries, shows that they are more porous than at first sight, brings goods from one side to another, and creates change through exchange across these divisions.

This communicator aspect is very explicit in the Yoruba god Eshu (Legba in the Fon tribe), a god of languages and information, and the Ashante god Anansi, a god of knowledge and stories. There is a story about Eshu that he walked on the boundary between the fields of two friends while wearing a hat that was black on one side and red on another. The friends quarrelled about what color the man’s hat was, only to to have Eshu intervene to show them the trick in the hat and tell them off for not putting him first in their dealings with each other.

I understood this story, besides being a wonderful example of trickster humor, to be an emphasis on the importance of communication in relationships. If you don’t try to see the other person’s point of view and open yourself to the possibility of transcending your own narrow perspective, you’re inevitably going to have misunderstandings and fights. Also remember, when the internet has a collective freakout over the color of a dress or a sneaker, that’s Eshu totally playing us.

[Image: A statue of Eshu]

Comparing Finn to a god of language and communication may seem paradoxical, given that the character is only shown speaking Basic and is not presented as multilingual, being unable to speak Shyriiwook or Binary in contrast to Rey who understands these and more. In fact Finn’s lines make a point to emphasize his lack of knowledge (”You can understand that thing?” “I don’t speak that.” “What’d he say?”).

What interests me, however, is just how effectively Finn communicated with Chewie and BB-8 despite his inability to understand their languages. Think about it: He successfully saved Chewie’s life, reasoning with him despite the language barrier (a boundary, to put it another way) and faced with a much larger and stronger being who was getting violent from pain and fear. Finn also convinced a Resistance droid to reveal the location of their secret base with the same linguistic difficulty--and this, right after revealing to said droid that he was not actually Resistance.

The levels of empathy and trustworthiness it took for Finn to work with and talk to these beings under these extraordinary circumstances are simply phenomenal. These incidents demonstrate that Finn is an extremely effective communicator even when he is hindered by language. He crosses the boundaries of interpersonal mistrust and caution on a level that goes deeper than words.

In their capacity as communicators tricksters may also use and manipulate language, especially in situations where they experience a disadvantage in power. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. called this act Signifyin’ after the Signifying Monkey, which he treats as an equivalent to the Yoruba god Eshu. The Signifying Monkey uses the power of figurative language to outwit Lion, his oppressor, something Gates compared to dismantling the master’s house using the master’s tools, repurposing the quote of activist and writer Audre Lorde that “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.”

We watch Finn engage in this careful use of speech when he talks the Resistance into letting him onto the mission to Starkiller Base. When Han asks him whether he can disable the shields around the base, Finn replies:

“I can disable the shields. But I have to be there, on the planet.”

When Han asks him again later on the base, of course, Finn freely admits he doesn’t know how to disable the shields; he was just there to get Rey.

Notice, however, that Finn did not lie outright as he did when he told Poe’s guards that Ren wanted the prisoner or when he told Rey he was with the Resistance. Finn’s words can be interpreted as, “I can disable the shields [by figuring out how when I get there]. But I have to be there, on the planet [so I can see the situation for myself and make a plan].” In this sense this statement is not factually incorrect per se, rather an expression of confidence spoken with the certainty of fact.

Finn knew, however, that saying he definitely can disable the shields in response to Han’s question would be taken as saying yes, he knew how to disable the shields. He was, if not lying, deliberately misleading the Resistance here by exploiting a gap between the literal meaning of his words and the understanding of them in context.

Just to be 100% clear, I don’t blame Finn for this deception one bit. He did in fact find a way to disable the shields and it’s not like the Resistance had any better options, so anyone who wants to hold this conversation against him can fuck off. He employed this trick not out of malice but because he was trying to overcome a disadvantage: If he wasn’t seen as someone who could contribute, he wouldn’t be able to go on the mission with Han and Chewie, and his strengths in having worked on the base and his considerable tactical smarts might be dismissed in a newcomer and stranger. The Resistance may not have been his oppressors but he had just met them, and it’s not a stretch to say his trust of authority in general was running low after his experiences with the First Order.

So what does Finn’s role as a trickster hero mean for the future of his story? For one thing, I believe he will continue to bring about profound change to a galaxy far, far away in whatever capacity he is in--whether as a Jedi, a badass Resistance fighter, a leader in the renewed Republic, or, my favorite possibility, the leader of a Stormtrooper uprising.

Another thing we can infer about his character is that he won’t get complacent. The Republic (Old and New), the Jedi Order, even the Rebel Alliance at points became set in their ways and a hindrance to progress and justice. Finn as a trickster can keep subverting expectations and changing course so that any organization he leads or influences can keep its actual goals in sight instead of blundering forward out of sheer inertia.

Finn’s ability as a communicator, the way he resonates with people on an emotional level, and his commanding grasp over language and story also open exciting possibilities for his character. Remember how beautifully he told his truth to Rey? Imagine his story inspiring thousands. Millions. Imagine him setting people’s spirits across the galaxy on fire with his inspiring speeches, as Anansi the Spider did in American Gods, urging them to fight, to reach out and grasp justice in their hands.

We have in Finn a character who constantly renews himself and the world around him, who upends power structures, and keeps us laughing all the while. Life with a trickster is never dull, and if used correctly the character of Finn will keep us guessing, keep us interested, and keep us inspired. That’s what being a trickster hero is all about.

[saintaugustinerp]

Congratulations Mads! You have been accepted for the role of The Meteorite with the faceclaim Joe Collier.  Please be sure to check out the accepted applicants checklist! Also be sure send us a link to your blog within the next twenty-four hours. Welcome to St. Augustine!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name/alias: Mads

Age (18+) : 19

Gender/Preferred pronouns: She/her

Timezone: EST

 IN CHARACTER

Desired Skeleton: The Meteorite Character Name: Andre van Hurston

Age (18+): 20

Gender/Pronouns: He/Him

Hometown: Johannesburg, South Africa

Major: Literature

Desired Faceclaim: Joe Collier

Character blurb: That boy is the embodiment of an absolute mess: perhaps the 13-hour, restless trip from South Africa is what inspires the wrinkled-collar, tousled-hair look. His tired eyes glance around nervously, as if he feels like he is being watched: and he very well might be. Andre van Hurston is a name familiar to his peers at Saint Augustine, some of whom own copies of a small, gilded book with his named plastered on the front. From his pockets fall crumpled, ink-stained slips of paper full of words that would be completely incoherent, if anyone were bothered to pick them up from the snowy, cobblestone road.

Developed Head Canons:

CLAIM TO FAME: One of the only reasons why Andre was accepted into Saint Augustine was because his riveting, award-winning novel based on the life of his family and his family’s experience during apartheid in South Africa. In particular, Andre’s novel specifically highlighted the story of his grandparents’ drive-in movie theater and how it fostered love and acceptance across races in a highly tense period in history. He began writing the novel after hearing his grandmother tell stories about the people she met, which prompted him to conduct research and collect photos and quotes from the characters she had painted so vividly with her words. Always a skilled and crafty writer, Andre decided that it was a story that could not be overlooked, and shared the story with the world by publishing his novel titled Bliss, which immediately took off. The book has been sold millions of times worldwide, and while he is proud of the story he has told and the message he has been able to spread, he still feels guilty and over-privileged, perhaps feeling that he overstepped bounds and told the story of those whose experience he could never understand fully.

SCHOOLING: Andre grew up in a relatively small, low-income neighborhood of Johannesburg, where he and his family (consisting of his mother, his father, and his little sister Adeline) lived modestly, never forgetting to appreciate the unspoken privileges they had following the hardships of his ancestors. He attended a public school, learned to appreciate mathematics and sciences like any other adolescent, but thrived as he flipped the pages of his history books and the literary classics. He developed close relationships with his English teachers, often asking for feedback on his works or for recommendations for books to read. He never anticipated being offered the chance to study at a school like Saint Augustine, never in his life, but saw it as a chance to refuel his muse and be injected into a setting where he could find more insight of the inner workings of humanity – perhaps something he could put to pen and paper again.

TRAVEL: The twelve-hour flight from Johannesburg to London, followed by a two-hour flight from London to Switzerland gives Andre perhaps a little too much time to think by himself. The distant humming of propellers keeps his creative mind moving, and often times, he finds little blips of muse as he observes the people in the airports and in the rows of kevlar-covered seats. He muses, ponders, jots down notes about peoples’ habits and personalities, all from afar. Traveling is one of Andre’s favorite parts of the year, because he gets to be a complete stranger for a couple hours; no more of his peers pestering for him to forward their work to his publisher nor those criticizing every line of his prose, no more crazed neighbors asking him when his next novel would be released. The pressure is off, just for a bit – and he can be himself again, free from any expectation.

HUMILITY: It’s hard to believe that someone as famed and young as Andre would be so humble about his success. He believes that part of this stems from his upbringing: his parents, who both worked multiple jobs each day, fought every day to raise their family, and such, Andre, as the eldest child, was often expected to take care of his little sister whenever shifts got extended or circumstances arose. He never had the time to reflect on his own desires – but when he finally got a breather, when the paychecks for his book came in – he couldn’t just turn that selflessness off. Of course, he still feels an immense pressure to come up with something as brilliant and as moving as his first novel, mostly because he feels he has the responsibility to do more, to represent more people, to share stories of prejudice and hardship. After he took care his family, Andre donated the earnings from his novel to charities and to shelters where people had far less than he had. He tries to keep himself in check, to keep himself grounded, as it sometimes gets easy to get caught up in oneself in the intense environment of Saint Augustine.

Writing Sample:

A long sigh escaped from Andre’s chapped, cracked lips. Even in the heated dorms of Saint Augustine, Andre never quite got used to the cold. If you looked closely, you could still see the fading tan lines from a brief South African summer tickling his jaw, that people swore looked both soft and angular at the same time. It was a mystery, like many things about Andre - none more puzzling than the reason why he seemed to take the trash out of his room every other hour.

If anyone was on the other side of the wooden door, they would have seen him in what seemed to be his perennial state: his long, slightly-toned legs draping over the end of the bed, his torso contorted such that he could not-so-comfortably jot notes down in one of his many black, leather-bound notebooks. Like most days, once the ink reached the end of the page, instead of turning to the next one to finish his thoughts, the page would often be met with the same, unfortunate fate: torn hastily out of its bindings, crumpled in the shape of some sad excuse for a ball, and introduced to a resounding grunt of despair. It was no secret that Andre had ideas: he would always be someone who participated in class, someone who countered points across the dining table, who would stay after class to discuss the news with his professors – but it seemed, to him, that none of his ideas would ever be good enough.

The bags under his eyes were as dark and as heavy as the pressures that perpetually loomed over Andre’s head – the empty pages bore holes into his heart, as if to remind him of the fact that he hadn’t produced anything worth being proud of since he had told his first story to the world. Compliments and warm messages, articles of praise and recognition quickly matured from commendations into expectations. His peers would nitpick his every move, questioning his integrity to write from experience; his professors would expect more from him, to improve his writing to levels of ungodly mastery; his fans would contact him, asking for advice and for more content. For a while, Andre had felt so ill with the thought that he was a bust, a one-shot wonder: the criticism had poisoned his once-creative, once-naive, once-idealistic brain. He believed he would never produce anything as powerful or as moving as Bliss. He would trudge along in the snow, wondering if he would ever experience anything as emotional as reliving his family’s past again. Instead, he had convinced himself that his life was monotonous, that he was just like any ordinary teenaged boy, whose problems and emotions would never transcend the fervor of his ancestors’ past. But he had to learn to accept that: he certainly wasn’t growing up in the same type of hardship, not by far. Broken hearts would never be as painful as apartheid. While he learned to numb the stresses from the constant buggings and expectations, none could ever prepare him for the pressure he put on himself.

With a half-hearted toss, the newest member of Andre’s failed ideas list crinkled on the wooden floors of his dorm room. A quick glance outside would have juxtaposed the mood perfectly: the silent, calm snowfall was the very opposite of how Andre was feeling - how he had been feeling the past few years. He had thought he would have become more inspired here: the snow-capped mountains, the picturesque views, the plethora of people who he could count on to pick his brain, to challenge him in the best ways possible. And maybe he was getting some of that, maybe he was inspired by that one soul who yielded so much power in the most intriguing way possible; maybe he was finally finding something warm in this cold, cold world; maybe maybe the events of the past year had sparked a little something inside him. He was feeling close, close to something good enough, but he just couldn’t find the right words.

The right words.

That’s what made writing oh-so hard; if only Andre weren’t so fascinated by words; by the way certain words could make him feel, for he knew, above all, that he wanted others to feel, too: feel sorrow, pain, empathy, love through words and words alone. It was times like these, when he reminded himself of the journey and the purpose he had set upon himself, that the crestfallen mold that he once filled would be forgotten and brushed aside in this new wave of confidence.

Andre sat up in his four-poster bed, the sheets tangled in wild bunches behind him, indicative of the many restless nights he would endure. He got to his feet, just like he would do every other hour, and begin picking up the scattered thoughts that just weren’t quite good enough.

Other: This blog will be updated with some musings and such!

Other than that, thank you so much for considering my application and for keeping the submit open for me! I really really appreciate it! Good luck with reading applications, no matter the decision about my membership, I know this roleplay will go far :~)

[yoongisbbydoll]

transcendence, 01 (m.)

⇢ pairing  ─  min yoongi, reader (+ park jimin and jeon jeongguk)

⇢ genre ─  vampire

⇢ count  ─  2,191 words

⇢ warnings  ─  smut, gore, blood and death in metaphorical sense 

⇢ synopsis  ─  We are all born into the light, die in the dark. The two phases are linear—start and finish—two definite points in time. But you are unique, crimson in both birth and death, lustful and dark. It stings your eyes and drips down your throat like liquid fire. And for you, there is no escape.

[ chapter index ; here. ]

Transcendence

Even after the Change, you were still the same—blunt and obnoxious. Yoongi reminds you of it every day. You always disagree with him, but somewhere inside of your cold heart, you know it’s true.

In the early stages of your relationship, Yoongi had exposed his true form. It scared you at first, but there was no denying that it was attractive as hell. You loved pushing his buttons, because whenever he was angry his dark eyes would flare red, exposing his fangs.

This time, though, you had gone too far.

Disobeying him had become a sort of game, testing how long he could last before he pressed you against the wall, over the couch, shoved you into the family bathroom at the mall. This time, he had asked you to stay in your room while his friends were over. Normally, you could hang out with them, but last time you dared to wear a short skirt and in front of everyone and then promptly bent over to “pick up the mess on the coffee table.”

Yoongi was furious, ordering his friends out of the apartment so he could properly bend you over the coffee table and give you what you had coming.

But you loved it, Yoongi had something no one before did. He kept you on edge and you challenged him to be the same.

When you peeked through the crack in your bedroom door, Yoongi didn’t seem phased. He knew sooner than later you would come out and jump into the conversation. But, you had to outdo yourself from the last fiasco, and this time you knew exactly how to get to Yoongi.

Under a thin white shirt, you adorned Yoongi’s favorite lacey black bra, and to top it off you decided to slip on a pair of skimpy sleep shorts with no panties. The shorts barely left anything to the imagination, and as soon as the door was closed behind you, all eyes were on you.

Mendaciously swaying your hips, you walk to the living room. Jeongguk and Jimin look away from you, knowing fully well the wrath of their friend. But you greet them by name with a wide smile.

Jeongguk and Jimin swallow harshly and you grin even bigger. You turn to sit on the couch, but you quickly decide to accidentally fall into Jimin’s lap. “Oops,” you giggle, pressing your ass down on his cock innocently.

Jimin has no time to say anything before a hand is roughly pulling you away. Your back slams down on the coffee table, Yoongi hovering over you with a voracious stare. His fiery eyes glare at you before he pulls you to your feet.

“Strip.”

Yoongi shoves you so you’re standing in the middle of the living room. Your eyes glance at Jeongguk and Jimin as they awkwardly move to stand up.  “No.” He holds his hand out, “You two stay right where you are.”

You cover your chest with your arms, whining, “Yoongi.”

“If you want to show off, do it.” His mischievous smirk lights up the room.

Slowly, you reach down to the hem of your shirt, but it’s not fast enough for Yoongi and he snaps his fingers. Like fire, you pull of your shirt. Yoongi gives you a look that tells you to keep going but you look anxiously over Jeongguk and Jimin.

You reach behind your back and unclasp the bra, letting it slip down your shoulders. It falls to the floor silently. Yoongi stares directly at you while Jeongguk and Jimin seem occupied with the floor.

“Anything else?” Yoongi asks, corner of his mouth lifting.

You shake your head and Yoongi falls onto the couch, chuckling. He motions for you to come closer and you step daringly towards him. In seconds, Yoongi has you over his knee, shorts ripped and discarded on the floor.

“Jeongguk, give me a number.” Yoongi looks over at the man covering his hard-on with his hands.

“Two?” Jeongguk seems confused, not fully aware of what’s going to happen.

But you know exactly what he’s going to do and you dig your face shamefully into the couch. “Oh, that’s far too low. Jimin give me another number, please.”

Jimin dares to look over at Yoongi, your ass displayed over his lap. “Eight?”

“Twenty-eight it is.” Yoongi says, using one hand to kneed your ass. “You know the rules.”

You nod, but Yoongi’s hand has already come down on your ass, the smack ringing through the silent apartment. “One,” you squeak.

Yoongi shoves two fingers harshly into your cunt, holding them there. “Louder, I don’t think our guests can hear your.”

“O-one,” your voice shakes, Yoongi kneads the fleshy part of your ass.

“What did I say?” He barks, hand falling sharply onto the back of your legs. You can feel the imprint of his hand engraved into your skin, it bites into your skin like a rabid dog. You say it louder this time, Yoongi looks between Jeongguk and Jimin, smirking. “Loud and clear for our guests now, okay?”

You nod, pressing your face farther into the couch, it’s suffocating but so are three sets of eyes on ass. Three hard strikes fall onto your bottom before another thought can pop into your head and you chant them out like a student reciting a presentation.

It’s infuriating, being degraded in front of people you consider friends. You’d never thought Yoongi would take it this far—and despite feeling bad for yourself, somewhere in the back of your head, you like it.

Jeongguk and Jimin awkwardly shift in their seats, battling their thoughts as they look between you and the wall. Yoongi gets to ten before Jimin lets out an awkward squeak. Immediately, Yoongi turns to him, smiling like the devil himself.

“I think Jimin wants a turn,” Yoongi whispers, pulling your hair until you sit up.

Jimin has a pillow over his crotch, and his eyes are focused on your breasts. From behind, Yoongi cups them with both hands, commenting, “Perfect size.” Jimin shifts again, awkwardly locking eye contact with you before looking down at his lap shamefully.

Yoongi chuckles, then he shoves you onto the floor, your knees scrape the rug and you land over the coffee table, knees burning on the rug and cheek digging into the wood. You’re facing Jeongguk now, who tries covering his bulge with his hands.

From behind you, Yoongi shuffles into the right position and shifts your hips, barely giving you a breather before his hand smacks your ass. The muscles in your thighs are on fire from the uncomfortable feeling, but you don’t dare move, focusing on counting loud enough to hear.

Like an open IV of sedatives, you find yourself getting lost in the feeling of Yoongi’s hands on you. The bruises will be beautiful—Yoongi will tell you that later as he admires them in bed. Your eyes fall shut and every time Yoongi’s hand comes down on you, your hips press back for more, more, more.

You barely notice Yoongi has finished until he hits the back of your legs, startling your eyes open. Yoongi chuckles, large hands pressing soothing circles into your abused ass. It feels euphoric and you let a moan slip out before you can remember that you aren’t alone.

Yoongi leans over, whispering in your ear, “Think you can last a little longer? I believe Jeongguk and Jimin need help with their issues.”

You snap your eyes open. Gaze landing directly at Jeongguk’s crotch. He looks down at you shyly and Yoongi cups your cunt daringly. You furrow your brows. Yoongi doesn’t like it when you laugh at one of the boy’s jokes but now he wants you to-

“Are you not going to help?” He daunts, pulling you up by your hair.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you nod and scurry in front of Jeongguk. You run your hands up his thighs, opening them. His cock forms a tent in his sweats, Jeongguk stares at you with a painful expression.

Trying not to let too many thoughts into your mind, you immediately press your palm onto him through his pants. Jeongguk lets out a startled grunt, almost jumping up at your aggressive behavior. But you shush him and tug on the band of his pants. After lancing at Yoongi, he lifts his hips off the couch and you drag everything down. His cock slaps his shirt, a small spot forms from the precum and you lick your bottom lip before grabbing Jeongguk with two hands.

His cock twitches in your hands as you pump him lightly, running the pad of your thumb over the tip. Yoongi grunts from the other couch, “Mouth.”

Bending to his demands, you bring Jeongguk’s tip to your lips, giving him kitten licks before swirling your tongue around him. His hand grips the back of your head, pushing you down demandingly.

You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing around his aching cock. Thankfully, Jeongguk comes quickly, you politely swallow, wiping your mouth as you sit back on your knees. Yoongi smirks, knowing that he can last much longer.

But you aren’t finished. Jimin has been shifting ever since you entered the room and Yoongi jerks his head in the boy’s direction. “I think you better help Jimin with the problem you caused.” Yoongi teases.

Jimin has already spread his legs for you and you plant yourself between them. He smiles, knowing what comes next. He doesn’t hesitate to lift himself up when you begin pulling at the waistband of his jeans.

His cock twitches, your mouth aches at the thought. But you don’t dare disobey Yoongi, not when he’s in this mood. His eyes are still a burning red as he stares you down. Yoongi has no shame in palming his cock as he watches you.

With Jimin, you grip his base for a moment, the poor boy looking like he’s ready to finish just at the sight of you on your knees for him. He groans, hips jerking as you try to delay his orgasm. You suppose he’s never been denied one before. You chuckle to yourself.

You bring him to your lips, kissing down the side of his cock then running your tongue up the underside. When you take him into your mouth, he immediately grabs your hair. Yoongi may do it, but this isn’t the same thing and you wince at his aggression.

But you swallow around him and cup his balls, pushing him off the edge. He comes within seconds and you grimace when his grip gets even tighter while he rides out his orgasm.

When you pull back, there’s saliva running down your chin and your lips are swollen. But Yoongi’s eyes tell you that there’s more and your eyes well up. He unhooks his belt and pops the button on his slacks, relaxing into the couch with a grin.

You knell before him, leaning your temple on the inside of his leg. “Please, daddy.” You beg, batting your lashes. “I won’t do it again, please.”

The back of your throat is screaming in pain, the dull aching in your bottom not helping either. But Yoongi grabs your chin and leans close. “I don’t believe you.” He smirks and pushes you back, slipping out his slacks.

He grabs his cock and you present your mouth for taking. Yoongi taps the tip against your tongue a few times before you take him past your lips. You scold yourself for being so defiant, knowing Yoongi will last much longer than Jimin and Jeongguk.

Yoongi lifts his hips as you swirl your tongue around his tip, pumping the rest of his aching cock. When Yoongi presses down on the back of your head, you take a deep breath and allow him all the way in. You can barely breathe, tears form in your eyes, and your throat tightens. But you endure it, swallowing dryly around him.

He sighs, throwing his head back and pulling his hand away, allowing you to pull up. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, staring up at him with wide eyes. He smiles, grabbing your arm and pulling you up, “Princess, I’m not done with you but I hope you learned your lesson. Go into the bedroom and wait for me.”

You nod frantically, coving your chest and running to the back room. You don’t even bother to look at Jimin and Jeongguk though you can feel their eyes trailing you.

Yoongi pulls on his pants, seething at the feeling of his confined cock. He stands, clapping his hands and heading to the door. Jeongguk and Jimin trip over themselves as they get up to leave. As they leave, Yoongi puts a hand on their shoulders.

“Jeongguk,” the young man looks up at Yoongi, “just because a woman can handle your cock, doesn’t mean you should force her to.” Yoongi then turns to Jimin, smiling, “And you, don’t rip a woman’s hair out while she’s on your dick. Now get out so I can fuck her raw.”

Yoongi smirks, slamming the door in their faces.

⇢ next. 

⇢ playlist coming soon!

note: my original intention was to fill this request, not to make the au into a series if i am honest. but I enjoyed the idea of exploring mythical creatures and how they came to be, their every day lives, their lovers too much to pass up the opportunity and have turned this into a small series that i will add onto whenever I can.  

Thank you for reading! Find more from me, July, here.