#into looking forward to seeing him and getting a hit of that pure optimism. getting a hit of seeing yourself the way he sees you

[aro-ortega]

i slept with daniel. i hate that im enjoying his romance route

[reverie-starlight]

OKAY- so you know the song “baby it’s cold outside”? I was thinking that maybe if it’s okay with you of course, to write a pre-Timeskip Osamu miya x f! Reader, inspired around that song, not entirely about that song.

So Osamu and reader have been dating for quite some time now, and it’s their first Christmas as a couple, so Osamu being an absolute sweetheart he is, he invites his gf over for Christmas because her parents are overseas for work and can’t make it in time for Christmas.

So the two yk just like hangout and make snowman’s together or smth like that, yk Christmas activities. I won’t be to specific with the activities so u can choose them, but at one point I do want atsumu to be like third wheeling and being an absolutely annoying person constantly mocking them with like kissy sounds.

I understand if you don’t want to write this, but ty for your time <33 I hope your having a great day! -anon

ohhh anon this is adorable!! I’m sorry I’m posting it so long after you sent it in but I wanted to save it for Christmas!! And then I realized that the whole week would be insanely busy so enjoy it as my first work of the new year! I decided to keep it GN!reader as well, I hope that’s alright with you <3

(And I hope you’ll forgive me extra because in my excitement to write this I totally missed the “pre-timeskip” part I’m so sorry- everything else is included though!!)

GN!reader

warnings: timeskip spoilers kinda?? Other than that, none! just pure fluff, atsumu third wheeling and being a menace, you and atsumu annoying each other, lots of winter activities, wholesomeness, aside from one very tiny suggestive bonus scene at the end <3

{Baby it’s Cold Outside- M. Osamu}

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

“Come in, let me help ya with the bags.”

You stumbled into Osamu’s apartment and happily let him take some of your things. “Thank you, baby.”

He gave you a minute to settle in the front hall and take your winter gear off before taking the heavier things and leading you to his room. “I’m so happy yer able to stay here for the next little while. I mean, obviously it really sucks that yer parents couldn’t make it home in time, but I’m looking forward to this year.”

You grinned at him. “I’m looking forward to our first holiday season together, too, Samu.”

The whole reason you were staying with him over the holidays was because your family was overseas for a work trip and they weren’t able to make it back in time. So your boyfriend (who you’ve been dating for almost a year now) immediately offered to let you stay and spend them with him and his family.

There was still a few days until they officially started but Osamu insisted on you coming early so you could really optimize your time together. You had no complaints about that whatsoever.

Once all of your bags were settled in a corner on the floor in his room, he took you into a warm embrace. “If you’re not too tired from the workout we just did, I have a few things planned for us to do.”

You nuzzled further into his chest and smiled. “That sounds perfect. Did I see some baking ingredients in the kitchen earlier? Can we start with cookies?”

“Of course, let’s go.”

Neither of you made any effort to head to the kitchen right away, instead just basking in the comforting arms you had wrapped around each other.

After few more minutes of that, you finally pulled away and lead him to the kitchen to do some baking. One mini food fight with lots of shrieking and laughter later, you put the cookies in the oven and set a timer.

While you waited, you sat on the couch drinking hot chocolate curled into Osamu’s side. Looking out the window, you noticed the snow was a bit lighter now but still falling just enough to make it look peaceful outside.

“Samu?”

“I’m way ahead of you, babe, just let me finish this sip and we can head out for a bit.”

Two minutes later you were both getting your winter gear back on and heading into the cold. The minute your foot hit the snow, you were gathering some up and throwing it at Osamu.

“Hey! Not fair, ya cheater!”

“You snooze, you lose baby!” You did your best to put some distance between yourselves but it proved to be meaningless when some soft snow hit you in the face as you turned back around.

You spluttered a bit and wiped it out of your eyes, laughing a bit. “Let’s not aim for the face anymore, I don’t really feel like wearing an eyepatch to end off the year.”

Osamu looked mildly guilty. He apologized quickly and came over to kiss all over your face to “make sure it healed properly” (there was no wound, you both knew he just wanted to kiss you). You giggled a bit and basked in the extra warmth he was providing you with. 

Fake gagging and the sound of a car door slamming shut pulled the two of you out of your bubble. Atsumu was walking over to you guys, not dressed nearly warm enough for this weather in your opinion.

“You guys are disgusting, this is so not what I wanted to see as I drove up.”

You stuck your tongue out at him as he messed with your hat and fist bumped his brother, who looked less than stoked to see him. “What are ya doing here, tsumu? Yer not supposed to show up for another few days.”

“I came early. Duh.”

“No shit, Sherlock, but why?”

“Got a few days off of practice earlier than expected so I figured I’d just come here right away. You have the room, right?”

Your boyfriend rolled his eyes. “Yes, but call and tell me these things before ya show up unannounced ya ass! What if I had plans with Y/n?”

“Do ya?”

“Do we?”

Both twins looked at you. “Technically no, but I count relaxing with you before my family comes solid plans.”

Atsumu shrugged. “Well I’m here, so suck it up! We’re gonna have fun.”

“Me and Y/n are gonna have fun, yer gonna be a third wheel.”

“Oh, Samu, don’t purposefully leave him out of our activities, we still have time together! Let’s enjoy his company.” He raised an eyebrow at your tone. You were obviously planning something but he wasn’t sure what. 

“Yea, Samu, just enjoy my company. At least Y/n has the right ide-”

Atsumu was cut off by a mouthful of snow. You gasped and tried to wipe it away but your boyfriend just laughed at his brother and dragged you along as he ran away. 

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t aiming for your face!”

“Agh! Y/n you’d better watch yer back, I’m comin’ after ya in a minute!”

Osamu tossed him the keys to the apartment. “Try it and yer dead! There’s some extra gloves and scarves in the front hall’s closet, hurry up ya scrub!” 

While Atsumu was gathering some warmer clothes, you and Osamu spent your time hiding and building up some ammo. “Do we ambush him or wait for him to attack first?”

You thought about it for a minute. You’ve known the twins for a long time, even before you and Osamu started dating, so you knew how to catch the blond off guard. “Attack first and don’t let up for a second. Make him beg for mercy.”

Osamu looked at you with wide, adoring eyes. “I love you so much.”

You just grinned and started sneaking off with some snowballs closer to the building’s entrance. Too late did you realize that the target was outside already and looking right at you. 

“Sorry, Y/n, looks like yer plan didn’t work. I’m not goin’ down without a fight and it looks like yer guard dog isn’t anywhere to be found. I’ll be taking that~” He reached over and took your small pile of snowballs. 

You made a mad dash back towards Osamu, snowballs raining down... beside you. Turning your head slightly, you called back to him “Jeez, Atsumu, you’d think a professional setter would have better aim, no?”

He huffed and chased after you, but before he could catch up, Osamu tackled him from the side. Both twins groaned but your boyfriend was quick to regain his senses. “Y/n, get him!”

And so you proceeded to show Miya Atsumu the wrath of someone who wanted a peaceful night in with their boyfriend. 

An hour later, when you were all back inside, eating slightly burnt cookies and warming up again, he was still complaining about it. “Why’d ya have to team up on me like that? Totally not fair.”

“Oh shush, ya big baby, I did tell ya that if ya tried anything with Y/n you’d be dead. Ya got what ya deserved.” 

You snickered at that, handing Atsumu a mug of hot chocolate. Then you curled up in Osamu’s lap and sighed in contentment. “Thanks for saving me out there, baby, couldn’t have done it without you.”

He hummed and nuzzled his face into your shoulder. “I doubt that, yer pretty scrappy when ya wanna be.”

You cupped his face and pressed a kiss to his head. “True, but it was still a team effort. I love you.”

He lead some kisses up your neck and ended at your cheek. “Love ya too, angel.” 

“Ya guys are so cute it’s actually gross, keep the PDA to a minimum around me, would ya? Or am I gonna have to start mocking Samu for being all soft on his partner?” He made some faux kiss noises and Osamu just punched him in the arm. 

“Yer the one who crashed at my place a few days early, yer just gonna have to deal with me lovin’ on my partner a little bit. Just watch the movie.” He kissed your cheek a few times in quick succession making you laugh and try to pull away. 

“No way, c’mere, I’m not done yet.” 

And so the rest of the night was a blur of take-out, teasing from Atsumu every time you guys showed affection, even more affection from Osamu in retaliation, and lots of love during the holiday season on a cold December night. 

BONUS, the next morning at breakfast:

“....”

“....”

“....”

“...so did you guys have a good night?”

“...shut up Atsumu.”

“I slept great, thanks for asking.” 

“It’s too early for yer bullshit.”

“Well maybe if ya didn’t stay up so late-”

“Shut up, Atsumu.”

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

...if the ending feels rushed, it kind was. I didn’t know how to end it so I added a bonus scene.

Hope you enjoyed!! pls consider reblogging and commenting :) 

Happy New Year! <3

[yoonpobs]

bad boy good thing x.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: smut, jungkook is really an asshole, the angst hurts a lot tbh, unhealthy relationships (?)

words: 8, 711

summary: a series of drabbles where you're confused and jungkook's confusing

a/n:

so here is the mini monster chap !! i know I said this was going to be a drabble series but I clearly got carried away LOL

anyways, no spoilers for this chap but I can say it's one of my favs that I've written and I think we see oc getting the comfort that she deserves (and needs!)

and also !! this is my first time updating a series on tumblr and it feels *exciting* hehe, I hope you enjoy this chapter c:

let me know your thoughts in my asks!! i'd love to hear what you think so far :3

all the love and I hope you're having a great

day/night/evening/afternoon wherever you are ❤️

“Open up!”

The only person that would opt to yell to get your attention than ring on your doorbell like a normal person would be Yena. And it helped that you immediately recognised her voice from the first syllable she uttered. That and you were currently moping in your living room with lactose-free ice cream, courtesy of Jimin that dropped it off a day ago when he heard that you were ‘sick’. Even if you hadn’t seen him face-to-face, you remember him softly hoping you’d get better.

You don’t know why she’s at your door, but you’re already on your feet to get her when you hear her begin to mutter curses directed at you behind the thin wood of your entrance.

“I can hear you!” You call.

“Well bitch then open the damn door!” She snaps.

You roll your eyes, and so far with the number of times you’ve hung out with her, it’s safe to say that the two of you were comfortable. You never knew how fun having a girl best friend was until you met Yena, and sure it’s only been a little under two weeks since you’ve gotten to know her through various messages and FaceTimes, but you feel like she’s your friend soulmate.

And when you expressed that to her over a FaceTime call a few nights back, you remember her gagging all while you flush and attempt to take it back. You know her candidly calling you bitch rather than your name was her saying she felt the same.

You pull the door open as she stands there with her eyes narrowed into slits, eyeing you up and down before she scrunches her nose.

“There’s a thing called a shower that you should look into. You look like a rundown version of long-haired Noah Beck.” She grimaces when she eyes you up and down.

You scowl. “You did not just compare me to him.”

She clicks her tongue before she shoves you aside by shoving a plastic bag of the takeout food into your arms and steps into your apartment.

Yena ignores the glare you shoot at the back of her neck when she looks around your living room, scrunching her nose like she was here to inspect your room than pay you a visit.

“Did someone die in here or was that just your will to live?”

You scoff. “Wow. Drag me.”

She waves you off before plopping onto your couch while you sigh, immediately heading to the kitchen to prep the food she brought over.

“For a moment I thought you were dead.” She confesses casually.

When you return with bowls and plates, with the cutlery to match—you give her a dry look before you’re taking your seat on the floor; attempting to hide your half-eaten tub of ice cream, which Yena immediately spots.

“So your first instinct was to yell at my door in hopes that I wasn’t actually dead?” You ask dryly.

She picks up your ice cream and grimaces at it, silently judging you for the flavour before she gives you a shrug.

“Yeah. I was hoping that your spirit would confer.”

You snort. “And the food?”

“A peace offering.” She tells you like it’s obvious.

You sigh, you loved Yena—you really did. She was all over the place and random, but it was a refreshing difference that you needed in your life from the usual law and order you often opted for.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your concern,” You tell her, pulling out a container to see your favourite lemon chicken as you eye her suspiciously. “But what brings you here? I told you I was sick.”

Yena scoffs. “And sick you are, bitch. What kind of sick person devours ice cream? Sure, you look the part but your diet says otherwise. Don’t think I didn’t see the empty packet of snickers in the trash.”

You scowl.

“I recovered yesterday.” You lie, taking a bite out of the chicken.

Yena rolls her eyes and you know she doesn’t believe you. She leans into your couch while she watches you eat, “Namjoon texted me that you may need some company.” At that, you choke.

Her eyes widen as you hit at your chest to get the food to go down, eyes still wide at her revelation.

“Why would he do that?” You cry.

“Girl, I know you’re not trying to deflect—you’re literally about to choke and die.”

You glare at her. “I’m fine.” You cough for good measure, then you’re levelling another serious gaze at her.

“I’m fine.” You reiterate with an emphasis on your state even though you were anything but. “I don’t know why the hell he thinks I need company.” You mutter under your breath.

At this, Yena’s face softens as she leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees while you avoid her gaze; idly poking at your food.

“I don’t know either, and you don’t need to tell me anything.” She says softly. “That’s all I’m here for. To be your company, whether you need it or not.”

You don’t know how much Namjoon told her over a text message, but you don’t think it’s much. Purely because he didn’t seem like a snitch and he was too respectful to ever let other people into the business that wasn’t his own. Even at the thought, you want to groan because you essentially lured him into thinking it was okay for him to kiss you while you were … you don’t even know what the fuck was happening anymore.

“I—” You say weakly, and all Yena does is offer you a comforting smile.

For some reason, the fact that she’s here right in front of you after you spent the day crying and feeling like your heart has been repeatedly stomped over with the addition of your rumination—it feels nice to have someone with you, even if it’s just their presence.

But the way she doesn’t look at you and expects something out of your conversation makes you feel even more overwhelmed, and that’s probably why the dam breaks.

Yena’s eyes widen as she immediately darts out to wrap her arms around you when you end up in violent sobs. You don’t know why you’re crying but you are, and you’re tired of hiding things, your feelings and your intent just to pretend like things were okay.

“It’s okay.” She strokes your hair and it feels warm, like a mother comforting a crying baby and you realise that this is what friends should feel like.

“N-no it’s n-not!” You cry into her shirt and it’s messy, but she doesn’t seem like she minds. Especially when she supports your pliable frame.

“You wanna talk about it?” She asks softly, giving you a kind smile.

You sniffle, staring forward as you feel your eyes swell with the escalation of your tears.

“I don’t know.” You whisper.

She hums, “It’s okay not to know. You don’t need to know everything.”

“I’m just so tired, Yena.” You tell her in a hushed breath.

“Life is difficult.” She admits. “It’s natural to be tired.”

You’re thankful to hear that she doesn’t comfort you with blind optimism. She’s real and she acknowledges how shitty things may be, and frankly, you didn’t need another wannabe altruist telling you that things will get better. You knew that, everyone did. But when you’re at rock bottom and all you see is darkness, you’re not looking for better. You’re looking for a reason to continue.

“Can I say something?” She asks. The way she looks at you is soft and open, and non-judgemental. You feel safe.

You nod your head, teary eyes staring up at her.

“You’re not responsible for anyone’s feelings except your own.” She looks at you so seriously that you nearly feel your breath escape. “There are things that you can and cannot control—and the latter usually falls under the people around you.”

You suck in a breath, and you wonder how she’s so spot on without ever touching on the true context.

“Namjoon texted me but I didn’t come here because he asked me to. It’s because you deserve to have someone be around you when you’re clearly not okay.”

“I’m—”

“You’re not.” She blinks, and you almost pout at her firm tone. “And that’s okay. I don’t need to know what happened to justify how you feel. You could’ve stubbed your toe and feel like absolute shit and I have absolutely no right to judge you on how or when you feel emotions.”

You wonder where she’s been your entire life and why she was only in your life now.

“But the thing is,” She sighs. “You don’t always have to choose between something or the other. Sometimes you need to choose yourself.”

You stare up at her in awe because Yena was cool in general, her laidback and unbending personality was mainly what drew you to her because you’d argue you were the opposite. Even if Jungkook’s words stung, you could take it at face value and accept that it was true.

You were uptight and you were a bit of a prude, and for the longest time, you always resented that aspect of you. But you realised with Yena, she had traits that were resented in a woman as well. And you realise that you’d never be perceived the way you want unless you perceive yourself in a positive light first.

So when she speaks to you so sternly, yet with a tone of care as she picks apart her words so carefully—you realise what you have to do.

“I think I like Jungkook.”

Yena pauses for a brief second, but you don’t see any judgement in her face. Just confusion, a warranted emotion you don’t blame her for having.

“I figured as much.”

Your eyes widened, “How—?”

It’s almost like a repeat of the first night at the football game when you befriended each other, but she only shoots you a gentle smile.

“Call it a woman’s intuition.”

You blink, fiddling with your fingers before you stare up at her, continuing your drawls.

“And we kissed.”

At this, Yena cocks an eyebrow up, “Was this recent?”

You fiddle with your thumbs before you sigh and push yourself up.

“Thing is …” You mumble, “I’m not like that.”

You don’t answer her question because you can’t think of a proper enough response to tell her that yeah—you did kiss him, amongst other things that you foolishly allowed yourself to indulge in. You knew Yena wasn’t judgemental but you also knew that you couldn’t retrieve your words the moment they left your mouth. It was your own judgement that stopped you from saying the things you really wanted and it sucked, royally. Because you could tell that Yena wasn’t out here to crucify you for being … liberated. She just wanted to be there for you.

Yena scrunches her eyebrows in confusion as she allows your words to settle, pondering a response.

She settles for a huff, “Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t … do things like that.” You say softly. “I’m shy and quiet. I’m not active in the social sphere and I only have three friends that I can reach out to if I wanna hang out. But even then, I don’t … I don’t like partying, or drinking, or loud spaces. I’m awkward and horrible at social interaction let alone being able to navigate my romantic feelings. And … I felt so bad about it.”

Yena’s eyes soften, but you can’t look at her just yet. Not when this is the first time you’ve ever laid yourself vulnerable, emotionally that is, to someone that wasn’t just the confines of your thoughts.

“I always wondered what it’d like to be confident, to be liked on campus and not just be known as the smart girl.” You whisper. “My entire personality was built around my achievements and I didn’t know what else to do. What if … what if I peak here and fail after?” Your eyes are wide in despair, and you feel your lips quiver when you speak.

“You’ll never know.” Yena reminds you gently. “You won’t know who likes you or what people say about you—but you’re going to be hearing your own thoughts 24/7 and that’s what kicks you down or drives you further.”

You sigh, nodding your head.

“It’s just … Jungkook and I were close. We grew up together even if he’s younger than me. But we just got along well and he … he saw me. He used to comfort me whenever I’d tell him how pressuring it got and—I feel so stupid because he probably says that to everyone and I fell for it.” You chuckle with no emotion, staring at the stray thread poking outside of your couch pillow.

“Have you spoken to him about your feelings?” She asks softly.

Immediately, you scoff and the sour emotion peaks through again.

“He’s made it clear what he wants to hear from me.” You mutter.

Yena purses her lips before resting her hands gently on your shoulder.

“You’re not answering my question, ______.” She chides gently.

You nibble on your bottom lip and shake your head. That earns a sigh from her as she wraps her arms around you once again, resting her chin on your shoulder as you allow yourself to feel the comfort of her warmth.

“He kissed me first and we did things together.” Your lips quiver when you recall the memories, “A-And he’s with Jennie. I just …” You flutter your eyes shut, “I don’t want to say that I’m the other girl but I feel a lot like a second option and it sucks.”

Yena doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t need to justify why you felt the way you did, so she holds you tighter.

“Babe.” She gently turns you to look at her with both hands resting on your shoulders. “Did you talk to him? Properly? Do you really know if he’s with her?”

“I think them kissing proves enough to me.” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re being so hostile, especially to Yena.

She purses her lips, “You kissed him and you aren’t together.”

You wince and she shoots you an apologetic look. She sighs before reaching out to squeeze your hand, all while you stare at the ground to level out your emotions.

“I’m not saying that you can’t feel the way you do. But I’m offering objectivity here. Men are … they’re blunt creatures and that’s the biggest difference between men and women.” You furrow your eyebrows as she takes a deep breath before she continues. “And the idea that we’re equal? No, we’re not. I’m not talking about our systemic positions in society but on an emotional level. Men take things surface value and work with it, they don’t stop to think about the layers of feelings that go into interpersonal relationships with friends, family or lovers. Women? We go big or we go home. All we see is the big picture and sometimes the little details get lost in translation. This isn’t me justifying Jungkook playing home with you or Jennie at the same time, but offering you a perspective that may be hard for you to see because you aren’t him.”

It was true, and you hated yourself for being aware but not putting action based on your own thoughts. Yena only reaffirmed the idea that you overthought every single interaction and maybe that was why you were the one that was hurting.

That, or you and Jungkook had horrible communication problems that neither of you was ready to face just yet. But how could you? When the two of you were on two different wavelengths and you were trying to be just enough for him while he was jumping off pedestals to see you.

It didn’t feel nice, and it sucked because he was the same person that comforted you and broke you all at once.

“I’m scared.” You whisper.

She smiles at you gently, patting your head gently as you peer up at her with tears between your lashes.

“And that’s okay.” She reassures you with a soft voice, “The only thing scarier than being scared is not feeling at all.”

Before you go to where your heart tells you to—your mind is the only thing that keeps you rooted in some form of rationale. That’s probably why you’re outside of Namjoon’s dorm. You don’t think you’ve ever paid his place a visit despite him telling you his address on multiple occasions, usually opting to hang out in public yet serene places where you were able to get a breather.

Your feet feel heavy and your fist is raised, but it barely moves. Especially when you’re just eyeing his door like a deer caught in headlights. You’ve rehearsed the apology on your tongue a million times, even if you don’t really know what you’re apologising for. But you feel like you must, particularly because you’ve senselessly let him see all of the feelings that you were trying to suppress in hopes of retaining the same ones he had for you.

You take a deep breath and deliver the first knock, the vibrations making your arm feel weak.

But you’re tired of always surrendering to bigger and more frightening things that you could understand. So you purse your lips and play the waiting game.

It seems like a long twenty minutes that you wait, but in reality, it’s only two when the door swings open. You brace yourself to see Namjoon, apology already sitting on your tongue.

You should’ve dropped a text, you knew that. But you decided against it because you haven’t spoken to Namjoon since what happened a few days ago. Neither of you speaking about the kiss or the way your eyes glistened when you saw Jungkook and Jennie together.

“____?” He asks confusedly.

You give him a meek smile, “Hi. Can I come in?”

He blinks at you, and you notice he still has his glasses that he usually forgoes during the times you’ve hung out—and you feel a little guilty for catching him at a bad time.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sure.”

Namjoon steps aside and you’re welcomed into the space of his living room. The first thing you notice is the interior, and how … Namjoon it was. It’s both cluttered and neat, the palette of his furniture matching the overall vibe he emanated. His furniture is mostly wood, light sandalwood that makes it feel all the homier.

And you tell him such, “You have a very homey place.”

Namjoon turns his head to look at you right before he plops himself back onto his couch where you see the bits and pieces of paper scrambled across the floor and the couch. Even then, he was able to look so welcoming even though you reckon he has a right to be hostile—for a reason you came here to apologise for.

“Thank you.” He flushes, patting a spot in front of him for you to take your seat.

When you settle, the atmosphere turns strained when you mull over your words so that you wouldn’t stumble over them. You practised, you did—about a hundred times before you came here and you thought you were ready to apologise and put things behind you but it’s proven difficult when all he does is look at you in earnest.

“Not that I—uh—mind,” He mumbles, “But is there a reason why you’re here?”

You blink at him as you ignore the quiver in your heart.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt.

“_____ why are you—”

“You didn’t deserve what happened the other day.” You interject, voice soft but unwavering when you force yourself to look at him as his eyes widen.

“I wasn’t the one that saw something I shouldn’t have.” He reminds you with a frown.

You swallow, “I kissed you. And you …” It wasn’t helping that he was looking at you so gently as he awaits your continuation. “You didn’t need to save me back then, Namjoon.” You end in a whisper.

Namjoon reaches out to grab your shoulder, touch gentle as he searches for your eyes.

“I didn’t save you …” He tells you tenderly.

“It’s not just that!” You exasperate while you throw your hands up in the air. “I-it’s everything … from the way you treat me and the way you look at me. You didn’t need to do any of that and you even—” You trail off, fluttering your eyes shut. “—what did you say to Jungkook right before we left?”

Namjoon’s eyes enlarge as his grip becomes tense against your shoulder. You can almost see the way his mind kicks into gear as he thinks of a response.

“That—I—does it matter?” He huffs.

Your eyes soften, “Namjoon.” You force yourself to look at him even if now he was the one that tries to avoid your gaze. “What did you say?”

Namjoon tightens his lips before he sighs deeply, head dropping forward before he looks at you.

“I told him to be honest.” He says softly.

You furrow your eyebrows, “To be honest …?”

“I know you have feelings for him.”

Your face blanches when Namjoon basically exposes you. It’s one thing for you to be self-aware of your complicated feelings towards the other boy. But when someone else points it out, especially when it’s Namjoon—the boy who’s been nothing but kind and patient with you while you’re too busy being caught up in your emotions—it’s like a slap across your face.

“I-I don’t—”

“You don’t need to lie to save my face, ______.” He chuckles dryly, eyes darting away as he tries to neutralise his expression. You wince at the spite he establishes, but you know deep down that Namjoon isn’t angry at you. No, he was far too understanding to be. Disappointed? Frustrated? Sure, but never angry,

The silence answers for you when you look away this time, eyebrows scrunched as you attempt to navigate the conversation. You came here to apologise, and to be honest.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“Don’t.” He takes a deep breath as you flinch. “Don’t … apologise.” He sighs.

“I didn’t mean to lead you on, Namjoon.” You murmur apologetically.

He shoots you a half-hearted chuckle, “You didn’t do anything. Really.”

“But I did, Namjoon. I kissed you back.” You frown.

“That doesn’t imply anything. I kissed you, and you reciprocated. We all kiss someone and not mean anything by it.”

You flinch, and you’re familiar with that more than anyone else. The reminder only stings because it makes you realise that you were not much different from Jungkook, the same person you’ve claimed to have messed with you and fucked you over.

“I’m—”

“Please don’t apologise anymore.” He says. “I already feel like shit.”

You smile sadly at him, “How do you manage to be so nice even when other’s do you wrong?”

Namjoon sighs, then he grabs both your hands in his. “You didn’t wrong me, _____. It’s not your fault you don’t feel the same way I do.”

“How did you …” You trail off.

“How did I know you had feelings for Jungkook?” He chuckles. “The same way he knew I had feelings for you.”

You purse your lips, eyes dropping to your lap. “It’s not that simple, Namjoon …” You say softly.

Namjoon smiles at you gently, “Is it?” He gently nudges your knee with his so that you’d look at him. “Life is simple. It’s not easy. But it’s simple.”

You scoff even if a small smile teases your lips, “You really are a philosophy major, aren’t you?”

The two of you grin in tandem before he purses his lips, possible mulling over something before he faces you.

“The two of you are close so … why beat around the bush?”

Your eyes flutter shut, shaking your head. “Like I said, it’s really not that simple.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but it’s not to mock or taunt you. Namjoon simply sees a naive, yet an intelligent girl who doesn’t see what’s right in front of her.

“Remember what I said? I’m a simple guy.” He reminds you, lips in a grin. “Try me.”

You snort, but you’re still nervous. You still remember that he has feelings for you, so you’re hesitant. And he immediately recognises the guilt-ridden expression that you mar.

Namjoon shoots you a stern glare, “Don’t overthink it.”

You sigh.

“Jungkook and I …” You start, fiddling with your thumbs. “We grew up together.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes and shoots you another one of his bland stares. “I know the history. I just want to know why?”

You furrow your brows, “Why?”

“Why the two of you insist on being so emotionally constipated.”

You gape at his audacity, and you’re glad the atmosphere isn’t as tense because Namjoon simply snickers at your reaction.

“I am not—!”

He waves you off, “Really?” He adds dryly.

You purse your lips and relent, even if you didn’t want to agree with him—you knew that he was … right. To a certain extent.

“We kissed.” You blurt.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, “That’s not surprising.”

You shoot him a dry look before he raises his hands in defence.

“He was my first kiss.”

At this, Namjoon’s widen.

“When you were in high school?” He pries.

You flush, embarrassed that you had to tell him otherwise.

“Two months ago.” You mutter.

Namjoon splutters, and you can’t help but glare at him when he quite literally chokes on his spit. You know you caught him off guard, but him rubbing salt in the wound that’s relatively fresh makes you scowl.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. Then he repeats, “Oh.”

You scoff, “Yeah. Oh.”

“Then … what happened?” You know he’s treading carefully with you when he asks you his question softly.

You purse your lips, and you recall every single moment you’ve shared with him. From giggles to hushed kisses, to intimate touches and sweat-stained sheets that have you gasping for air. You remember it all, and they meant … they meant the world to you, but just a speck in his memory.

“Things escalated and we … did stuff together.” You wince.

Namjoon nods in understanding, he gestures his hands around, “Like—”

“I’m a virgin.”

Namjoon blinks.

“And for the longest time, I felt embarrassed about it.”

“Oh.”

“I struggled to find my footing between being sexually liberated and being a woman because for the longest time I thought those two were mutually exclusive. For me, at least.” You say softly.

Namjoon only stares at you.

“And I always wanted validation from someone else to tell me that what I was doing was the right thing to do. Or the supposed thing to do. Never what I really wanted to do.”

“Not that I’m uncomfortable but … why are you letting me in on this?” Namjoon asks with a raised brow.

“Because I want to do something for myself for once.” You whisper.

“Okay …?”

“Why do you like me? Even if I’m … boring and not as sexy as other women?”

You sound pathetic, and the first person you find yourself comparing yourself to is Jennie—a beautiful, confident woman who looked so assured in herself.

“You’re not—”

You groan.

“Namjoon.”

“Okay.” He sighs. “If you’re asking me if I care that you’re a virgin, then no. I really don’t. Because frankly, that concept to me is false and problematic. Whether or not you’ve had sex or not isn’t any of my business.”

You duck your head.

“And I like you because you’re interesting. You’re funny and you’re assured in your own way. You don’t need to be a certain standard of pretty or sexy or whatever for me to like you. I like you because of the time we’ve spent together and that I’ve gotten to know you. The real you and not the person I admired from afar but the girl who throws in jokes out of nowhere but fits so well with the situation. The girl who’s willing to spend three extra hours of her time to help with content that wasn’t prescribed to her. I like you because I’d like to think I’ve grown to understand who you are.”

Namjoon says all of those things while staring at you straight in the face and you feel compelled to cry. Because no one has ever been so honest with you and you hate that your heart can’t reciprocate what should be an easy feeling that comes naturally.

“Fuck.”

His eyes widen.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He coos, a hand petting your hair gently as you sniffle.

“It’s not, Namjoon. Everything sucks because everything is so complicated. Why can’t I just have feelings for you instead?”

It’s selfish, and Namjoon winces. But you’re so overwhelmed that you miss it, and Namjoon is too nice to point his own feelings out.

“You don’t pick and choose your battles, _____.” He murmurs softly.

“That’s not what my mom told me.” You whimper.

He chuckles, “Yeah. Most people like to believe that because it makes them think that they have a choice over the bad things that happen in their lives. But in reality? They don’t. No one decides what happens to them. You pick and choose how you react to things. How you deal with situations and what you make out of those situations is what you can choose to do. You don’t like me, and that’s fine. You don’t have to just because I’m nice to you, _____. Being nice is the absolute bare minimum and something that everyone should feel and do.”

Your face crumbles, “Why are you so wise?”

Namjoon smiles, “I’m not. It’s called offering a different perspective. Just because I see things one way doesn’t make me any better than you who sees things in another. That’s why we meet different types of people throughout our lives. The good, the bad, the in-between. There’s always something people offer to us in the midst of chaos.”

You sigh.

“I’m sorry, Namjoon.”

He pats your head, “I said don’t apologise.”

“No, but I want to. You’ve been nothing but kind to me and you picked up a shitty situation to be in when Jungkook and Jennie were at the library. Even right after I kissed you. That was … a horrible thing to do. I shouldn’t have done that just because—just because I was confused … you don’t deserve that.”

He doesn’t look angry, and that’s even worst because you want him to react, to call you a bitch and say that you were a horrible person.

“I don’t.” He shrugs while you wince. “But a lot of the times we don’t deserve a lot of things that we get. And that’s okay. You did what you thought was justified then, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. But you’re hurting too, and you’re confused—that’s what drove you to do the things that you did, and even here. That’s why you’re apologising to me, right? Because you’re not as confused anymore?”

You shake your head.

“I am, I’m still so confused.” You whisper.

“Then let me offer you another perspective.”

You look up to him with big eyes as he smiles at you gently.

“You have feelings for Jungkook.” You immediately flinch, even if he didn’t hit you. But Namjoon continues. “You’re trying to keep the picture as simple as you can even if it hurts you in the process. But

“You don’t understand, Namjoon … we … did things … that I’m not proud off …”

“You don’t have to—”

“He was my first kiss. My first … sexual experience. Even if it was just … third base,” You cringe, but Namjoon isn’t judging you at all. “A-and that’s all I was to him. An experience.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do I, Namjoon?” You say softly. “He said things to me that were so hurtful. And a stupid part of me forgives him but it still hurts every time I think about it and when I see him with Jennie.”

You whisper the words Jungkook’s said to you, and for the first time, you see Namjoon’s jaw harden. The most emotion that wasn’t rationale you’ve seen in Namjoon ever since you first arrived.

“I know it hurts.” He murmurs, holding you close. “And I really don’t want it to seem like I’m justifying his words … but would you want to hear me out?”

You purse your lips and nod nevertheless.

“Jungkook isn’t a bad person.” You blink, you never thought he was. “I know you don’t think he is but you want to. Because of the things he’s said to you because why would a good person say those kinds of things, right? But the world isn’t black and white like that. There’s a grey area where 99% of the population falls into because we operate on emotion and sometimes we say things that we may feel but not necessarily believe in.”

“Jungkook … he’s still young. And I know we’re in college and stuff but he’s still three years younger than I am and two years younger than you. He’s spoken to me about how hard it was to adjust to a high school life where you, Jimin and Tae weren’t a part of. And I don’t know about you but if the only friends I’ve ever known suddenly left because they had to … I wouldn’t know what to do either. He was at a point in his life where his environment played a huge part in the values and internalised beliefs he had.”

You look away as you reflect on his words, nibbling on your bottom lip.

“He mixed around with different groups of people, and I hate this saying but it’s still a common belief to many—especially people his age, almost out of high school. But the ‘boys will be boys’ mentality is more than just misogyny and sexism, but a culture where it feeds off complacency and peer pressure. Jungkook suddenly had to shift from three, good friends who were progressive and influential in an objectively good way to people he was obliged to like because they were his peers.”

You gape at him, purely because you knew that Namjoon was smart and wise but his introspection leaves you breathless and enlightened.

“But that doesn’t change the core of Jungkook,” Namjoon says. “He’s still Jungkook. He doesn’t know how to ask for things that he wants without feeling like he’s betraying his masculinity. And again, I’m not justifying his actions because he’s a grown man too. But he’s lost, and the only thing he knows to uphold this sense of masculinity is by being sexually liberated. Even if he conflates his own emotions with his endeavours.”

“I … I don’t even know what to say Namjoon.” You murmur, eyes looking up through your lashes.

“You don’t need to say anything. I just want you to be honest to yourself, not anyone else. But yourself.” He tells you, carding a gentle hand over your head.

You fiddle with your thumbs.

“What do you want?”

Despite you confiding two different people, you find yourself at a convenience store at 12AM, scarfing down ramen from a cup noodle because your mind was a funny place when it was muddled with a hundred different thoughts. You knew sleep wasn’t an option for you either, and you were hungry. But somehow you didn’t have anything back in your apartment that screamed ‘I’m in a crisis’ enough for you to eat.

Which is why you’re here, while the cashier keeps his eyeball to himself when he sees yet another college student who’s probably having their third mental breakdown of the day.

It is, but not for the right reasons, you think dryly.

You think you’re alone until the chime of the bell momentarily distracts you and you turn your head to acknowledge the next lone customer who may be going through their own set of issues, or had a fucked up sleeping schedule.

But you’re not expecting to make eye contact with Jennie, out of everyone or any stranger you could’ve come across.

She spots you, shoots you a weird look that has you nearly choking on a string of noodles before she moves on to what she came here to do and stops at the snack section, skimming through her options before she settles on a pack of shrimp chips. Your heart churns because they were Jungkook’s favourite. You don’t want to wonder why she picked them.

You turn to your noodles, scarf them down some more because you want to eat your thoughts away even if you’re half-considering to call Jungkook, tell him you wanted to talk. But you knew that if you spoke to him now when you were still sorting out your thoughts, you’d end up in a situation you won’t be ready to deal with.

So when you poke at your food and sigh to yourself, you almost miss the way the stool beside you scrapes against the floor as you cringe.

You turn to shoot a petty glare at the person, and you see Jennie; casually tearing open her chips and popping one into her mouth

You blink at her, and you’re left even more speechless when she juts her hand out as if to offer you a shrimp cracker. Like it was a weird symbol of a truce. Even if you weren’t really … enemies.

“Want some?”

You stare at her, and before you can think twice your lips are moving.

“The crackers or your company?” You say dryly.

Her eyes widen, and so does yours. You didn’t expect to say your exact thoughts and you don’t think she expected a quiet, timid girl like you to have said that—out loud at least. Like Yena said, everyone has a mean bone in them. Some longer and larger than others, but they were still there.

“Wow.” She huffs, but she doesn’t seem offended. “Rude, much?”

You wince and feel compelled to apologise. “Sorry.”

She waves you off and you feel odd to be sitting next to her. You always expected her to be more malicious, a lot more of a bitch. And you frown to yourself because you suppose it’s your own preconceived notions of her due to the association she has with Jungkook that had you thinking of her that way.

“What’s someone like you doing here on a weekday?” She asks off-handedly.

The term ‘someone like you’ doesn’t sit well with you, and you scowl.

“I’m eating. What does it look like?” You retort, and Jennie only raises an eyebrow at your response. Much like an angry kitten.

“Damn, I was just asking.” She mutters under her breath, “I’m hungry. Needed a snack.” She shakes the crackers in front of you, “You sure you don’t want one?”

You can’t believe her as you gape at her easy-going state when she thrusts the bag of crackers into your face yet again.

“No.” You furrow your brows, gently pushing it away as she shrugs her shoulders.

“It’s good.” She reasons, and you don’t know why she’s so adamant about having you take one.

The irrational part of you thinks she wants to poison you, to eliminate you for good so she won’t have to deal with your pathetic pining over a person that wasn’t even yours.

“I know.” You mutter. “I tried it before.”

Jennie nods her head slowly, observing the content of the packet on the back before she turns to face you, “Jungkook introduced this to me. Didn’t see the appeal but it’s addictive.”

You freeze, and your ramen soup is getting cold with the way you haven’t prodded at it for a while and in the air-conditioning in the convenience store. You feel your stomach drop, especially now that your initial suspicions were confirmed.

“That’s nice.” You grit. It really isn’t.

“Did he introduce it to you?” She asks with a tilt of her head.

Why you’re still talking to her, or why she was bothering to talk to you when she’s ignored you all this while—you aren’t sure. But you still answer her despite the spite that forms in your chest.

“I introduced it to him.” You inform.

She hums, unbothered. It only irritates you more.

“Is there a reason?” You huff. “Why you’re here?”

She raises an eyebrow, “I’m hungry?”

You scoff. “No.” You slam the table ever so slightly because even if you were annoyed and confused, you weren’t that brave and you didn’t want to cause a scene at a convenience store at midnight. “Why are you here. Talking to me.”

Jennie blinks at you, then stares at you for seconds too long that you flush under her unwavering stare before she ends up in a fit of giggles. You almost think she’s here to mock you, to call you out on your pathetic and humiliating pining for someone who doesn’t care about you the same way you do to him. But she pats you on the shoulder, and you want to think it’s condescending but it doesn’t seem that way at all.

“You’re an acquaintance. You looked like you needed the company.”

You frown, “I don’t.”

She rolls her eyes, munching on another chip.

“You do. Your posture looks depressing.”

“Excuse me?” You scowl.

“It’s true.” She shrugs. “You don’t seem the type to be here wallowing unless it’s really bad. You seem like you have your shit together.”

And because your mind is already muddled and confused, and filled with irrational thoughts. Her words set you off, and you seem to be underrating or overreacting more than usual. So you snap, you shove your cup aside that the soup nearly sloshes out and send her a glare so blazing that Jennie’s caught off guard.

“And you think you know me well enough to gauge whether or not I’m ‘like this’ or the type to have a perfect mental breakdown regimen because I’m smart?” You seethe. Jennie’s eyes widen. “I have mental breakdowns like every other student and I binge eat when I’m stressed and I fuck up from time to time. I curse, yes! I see your face. Oh does she not curse? Well, look at me, bitch. I can curse like a motherfucking sailor at sea when the fishes come because I’m human. I’m just like you. So fuck off with your ‘you seem like you have your shit together’ because I don’t and I’m so fucking annoyed with your stupid face whenever I see it because it only reminds me of Jungkook!”

The silence is defining, even the cashier stops counting his bills for the night because you don’t hear the rubbing of money together. You feel his stare on your back, and more pressingly, you feel Jennie’s shocked expression linger on your face, and now that you’ve come down from your rage. Your face heats up in embarrassment.

You don’t even recall what you said, except for the fact you’ve mentioned her and Jungkook in the same sentence. And your face pales.

“I …” She chokes.

You flush, before you’re turning away, snatching your belongings to leave and forget this convenience store and never return because you don’t think you can show your face here ever again.

But before you’re able to make a run for it, a hand grabs your elbow that stops you from moving any further.

“This is already as embarrassing—” You exasperate, trying to snatch your arm away.

“For a girl so smart, you’re really dumb, aren’t you?” She deadpans.

You gape, finding enough strength to retrieve your arm as you stare at her with a dumbfounded expression.

“Excuse me—?”

“Firstly, let’s unpack what you just said because there are a lot of things that need to be dissected here.” She says blankly.

You scowl, “Look I don’t—”

“One.” She blinks as if she was doing a presentation for a course and not talking to an alleged acquaintance. “I don’t think you should act a certain way just because you’re smart. You’re entitled to your own mechanisms and I’m not judging you for them. I was simply pointing out my own observations, and I’m sorry for being insensitive.”

You’re stunned to silence, because did Jennie just … apologise to you?

“Two.” She says. You listen silently. “I think you have things you need to talk to Jungkook about, and frankly—I would’ve stayed away if I knew that the two of you were a thing.”

“We’re not a thing!” You cry, face flushed.

She shoots you an unimpressed look, “Really. So that oddly targeted blow-up was because of your mental breakdown and not because you don’t have feelings for Jungkook?”

She’s the third person to call you out the same day, or within the first one in the next. And it’s even more embarrassing because it’s the girl you’ve compared yourself to countless times because of your own insecurities.

“Yes.” You snap childishly.

Jennie sighs, gesturing for you to sit on the stool. You want to defy her out of spite, but you’ve already gotten this far into the conversation and you feel like you’d miss out on something if you left now.

“Why are you mad at me?” She asks.

“I-I’m not mad—” You weakly protest.

“You are. There’s anger in you and if it’s not directed to Jungkook then it’s directed to me. Is it because I’m a woman?”

Your eyes widen, “What—?”

“Let me reword that,” She sighs. “Is it because I’m the woman with Jungkook?”

You flinch at her declaration, especially since she indirectly confessed to being with him, while you weren’t.

“I don’t …” You trail off in a whisper.

“I don’t blame you for being angry.” She says. “But I need you to understand that I would never have done anything with him if I knew that the two of you were together.”

“We’re not.” You blink, and her unimpressed look is still there that makes you speak a little louder. “We’re not together.”

She opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it. You see her furrow her eyebrows before she settles for a response that comes a few moments after.

“Okay, then if you’re not together then why the resentment?” She puts it so simply and now that you’re listening to her, you feel a lot stupider.

“I just …” You croak, fiddling with your fingers, “I don’t …”

She sighs, “Listen. We’re both women here. I know how it feels to be left in the dark when it comes to things like this but there’s no point in being angry at me when in reality it’s Jungkook you need to talk to. If you aren’t together then I don’t understand why you’re angry with me—or with him.”

You sit there in silence, nearly pouting like a scolded child.

“You’re his type.” You say softly.

Jennie pauses before she raises an eyebrow.

“And you believe that?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “I mean, of course?” You mumble, “You’re pretty, confident and sexy. Any guy would like you.”

For a moment, you think you’ve said too much. Looked to vulnerable. But Jennie doesn’t do the typical mean girl thing where she laughs in your face and threatens to expose you. Instead, her eyes soften, and her hand reaches out to hold yours.

“____.” She calls your name gently, and you look away, embarrassed. “You’re pretty. You’re confident. You are sexy.”

You flush, “No. I’m not.”

She scoffs, “_____, there isn’t a set definition of what a pretty woman is like. Nor is there a one-dimensional understanding of a confident woman. There are confident women who strut in their walk and commands all the attention in the room. But there are also quiet, assured women who are intelligent and confident in their capabilities. Both of them are so different, but the one thing that they have in common?” She prompts as your eyebrows furrow. “They’re both women who are worthy of love.”

You blink up at her when her tone goes softer.

“I don’t think I’m Jungkook’s type.” She tells you.

But for some reason you need to deny it, again.

“I think you are.” You mumble, “You’re … you. And you’re probably … experienced.” You cringe at what you say, and you’re mortified if you need to explain yourself to her. But Jennie immediately picks up on it, and you don’t notice how she tenses for a split second but recovers immediately.

“We’ve done things together, yes.” You feel your heart shatter, “But you don’t have to do anything with him for him to like you.”

You sigh, “Maybe. But that's the only way he’s ever wanted me.” You say so softly that Jennie almost doesn’t catch it.

Jennie’s face softens much more, turning into a much gentler expression as she nudges your chin to look at her. And when you do, you feel wounded. You feel so much less assured than you were when you were raging at her. You hated it, how she treated you so kindly when she should’ve been cursing at you like you did to her.

“Do you want to know something?” She asks.

You nibble on your lips before you nod your head.

“If someone doesn’t want you. It’s not because you’re lacking. It’s because they’re lacking the sense to perceive you in a way that recognises your inherent worth to be loved.”

Your breath hitches and Jennie continues.

“I’ve had instances where men didn’t want to sleep with me because I was too confident, too sexually liberated for them. As if who I slept with mattered because it wasn’t them. It was never going to be them.”

“I didn’t sleep with Jungkook.” You tell her, voice soft as if you needed to clarify.

“And you don’t need to. You don’t need to sleep with anyone for them to want you. If Jungkook only wants you for your body then he doesn’t deserve you.” She points out.

You feel your heart clench, and the realisation coming from Jennie only hurts even more.

“But he’s important to me …” You whisper.

“What’s important is not always what’s good for you.” She informs you with a gentle smile. “Your sexuality is yours. And if you want to sleep or be sexual with someone, you do it because you want to. Not because someone coerced you into doing it.”

Your eyes widened, “N-No. Jungkook didn’t force me. I consented. To all of it.” You murmur, “I wanted to do it. B-But I just felt so … lacking? In comparison and … since then all he’s came to me for was just … that.”

Jennie nibbles on her bottom lip, “Jungkook’s not a bad person.” She says softly. And she’s the second person that tells you that. So you know it’s a true reflection of his character.

“I know.”

She smiles, “We both do.” She nods, “But he’s misguided. He’s never had the ability to be with someone he really cares for and I think when that happened—he dealt with it the only way he knows how to.”

You furrow your brows, “But he’s with you.”

She shakes her head with a small chuckle, “No. Not emotionally, at least.” She informs. “And he doesn’t care about me. I know. He’s always kept me at arms-length away, and I’m fine with that because I don’t like him like that either.”

You blink, and your ears turn red. “H-How do you—?”

“How do I separate lust from affection?” She laughs. “It’s because I can. Not everyone can do that, and Jungkook is one of them.”

“But you just said that he didn’t care about you.”

“I’m not talking about me,” She smiles sadly.

Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion until you realise what she was implying. And you don’t want to assume anything, never. Because hope was the one feeling that was worse than fear and you didn’t want to subject yourself to that just yet.

“Oh.” You mumble.

She nods, squeezing your hand.

“I think he misses you.”

You purse your lips.

You missed him, too.

[idoloveouradventures]

Petite Pictures #7 (Duneagle Moments 1/3)

“Is it as grand as you remember?” Cora leaned over Robert to get a better view out of his window.

“Every bit as grand. If not more,” Robert replied, his eyes fixed on the approaching castle.

If she was being honest, she had always enjoyed their time spent at Duneagle. She felt like Robert was always more light hearted when he was surrounded by the rolling hills of the highlands. The fresh air was a treat for all of them. Cora hoped that Mary, who had insisted on coming along, could find a bit of relaxation before the baby arrived. Cora sat back in her seat, musing of their past trips to Duneagle. She recalled being in a similar position to Mary, though not as far along, when she was traveling this same road and pregnant with Sybil. She couldn’t blame Mary for being so stubborn, for she had behaved in the same way. Not three months from her due date, Robert had insisted she stay at Downton and rest going as far as offereing to postpone his departure for Duneagle and return early. But she wanted to be with her girls and knew how much Robert was looking forward to getting away from Yorkshire. Nearly thirty years ago, Cora was amazed she could remember the specific details.

She was pulled from her memories by Robert’s voice and a hand on her knee.

“We mustn’t let Mary exert herself.” As if reading her mind, Robert gave her a concerned glance.

“Mary is going to do what she wants. And it won’t hurt for her to have a change of scenery. She’ll speak up if anything becomes too much.” Cora’s arm snaked around his bicep.

Robert hummed, temporally satisfied. They rode is silence for a few moments, soaking up the sunshine that poured into the car. It was a welcome feeling that contrasted the chill of the outside air.

“I hope Susan and Shrimpie can behave. Mama said their bickering has gotten worse.” Robert knew that if something were going to put a damper on the trip, it would be the two of them.

“I’m sure our coming will be a distraction. And they won’t have to see each other more than lunch and dinner.” Cora hated that their marriage had gone south. They had always been civil when the children were young, but their underlying mutual dislike had been suppressed for too long.

“Well. We can only hope.” Robert put on his hat in preparation for the arrival and smiled at Cora’s optimism.

“I’m glad to see you so giddy.” Cora kept her eyes on him. Pure joy had been hard to come by over the past year. They always felt a twinge of guilt during happy times, but constantly reminded themselves that Sybil wouldn’t want them to live under a cloud of gloom.

“I am rather giddy.” His smile continued as the car rolled to a stop.

“Brace yourself, my dear.” Robert squeezed her gloved hand, just as the driver flung open the door and they were hit with a whiff of the cool mountain breeze.

[sakurology]

Szn’s Creamings

Miya Osamu x Fem!Reader

Warnings: oof a lot sorry- eggnog(its delicious and you’re all just mean), corruption if you squint, clandestine sex I guess? Choking, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), nipple play, the Miya accent, improper use of Christmas decorations, bondage, unprotected sex(you should know to expect this from my writing by now), vaginal penetration, squirting, creampies/breeding, use of the word daddy like ONCE, cum eating, a dash of overstim for optimal flavor, ahegao (😌) aaaaand snowballing (aka spitting cum in someone’s mouth) swearing obviously ummmmm shit man idk anymore I’m 999% sure that’s it- good shit below da cut

Wc: 2.5k

A/N: Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and a VERY Happy Holiday no matter your culture’s festivities! This is part of my collab with my lovely friends in The Sewer Server- @rat-suki ty anu for organizing it all! I’m love u. This fic was written in an eggnog & fireball induced  blackout, and is singlehandedly fueled by lust for Osamu’s Dorito body and my love for Steak n’ Shake.

Cheese-on’s Greetings Collab mlist here 🎄🎁🐁

“This... is it?” He cocked an eyebrow at the concoction, the red and green sprinkles bleeding dye into the whipped cream, the sad cherry on top sunken into it. 

“This is what you’ve been goin’ on about fer the last 3 weeks?” 

This- was an eggnog milkshake. A wintertime classic, and a staple at the local diner in your hometown. Simple enough. It didn’t look like much- in fact, it honestly wasn't. But to you, this shitty, artificially-flavored diner milkshake encompassed all the joys of holiday magic into one tall, frosted glass. You could count the years you spent in this diner, knocking them back. You’ve grown of course, but the nostalgia always stays the same. Having Osamu come to your hometown for the holidays was a pretty big step in your relationship, sure, but including him in the milkshake tradition usually reserved for your best friend? That was even bigger. 

“You haven’t even taken a sip, you ass,” you giggled, putting your own straw to your lips, reveling in the cool flavor that was coating your tongue. Pure sugar, just a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon- perfect as always. You pushed the glass over to him, urging him to try for himself. He took in a large drink, letting it rest before clicking his tongue a few times and looking over at your eyes- eyes that were aglow with anticipation and gingerbread men? No, that was just the reflection of the gaudy tinsel that adorned the booth you sat in. 

“Soooo?” 

“Not bad,” he sighed, pushing the glass back your way. Always anticlimactic. 

“But I could definitely make one that’s better.”

“I’d like to see you try,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. 

One thing you knew he could never resist was a challenge. Grabbing his wallet, he slammed some bills on the table, whisking you away from the diner in 2 minutes flat, the milkshake an ever present memory, like that of the favorite Christmas gift from childhoods passed. You didn’t think he’d take it that seriously, but you also knew that Osamu took everything- especially food- seriously.

Even still, the drive back to your parents’ was a calm one, like every night adventure. The only difference was the bitter cold in the air, and the soft crooning of songs about Santa Claus on the radio. The only thing was- you just couldn’t stop pressing your thighs together….

“Put it away, sir.” you said jokingly, shifting your current position on the couch. Miracle on 34th Street shown on the small screen of the television as you flicked through what seemed like every Christmas movie ever made with the remote.  The feeling of his cock starting to stiffen at your back told you everything you needed to know; that Osamu wasn’t interested in whether or not Santa Claus was real, or  whatever the ‘true’ meaning of Christmas was- he was solely interested in the meaning of that which currently resided between your legs. 

A sneaky had drifted under your shirt, breath hitching in your throat as his thick fingers rolled one of your nipples, the soft tugging leaving you mewling as the sensation traveled down to your now throbbing clit. You leaned into it for a split second, but you were bought back to reality by the sight of your family’s Christmas photos on the fireplace mantle. There was no way in hell you could get fucked in front of a photo of your grandmother. You swatted Osamu’s hand away.

“We can NOT do this right now-” your words fell on deaf ears as  his hand snaked up your thigh, leaving a trail of warmth in  its wake as he settled them right above your stomach, fiddling with the drawstrings of your shorts. 

“My mom and dad are literally upstairs….” The words left your mouth faintly your body lurching toward him.

Again, you tried. A valiant attempt. It wasn’t a lie- they most certainly were upstairs, presumably fast asleep, as they had been up there for almost two hours now, leaving you and Osamu to watch a few corny Christmas movies- or so they thought. But he saw through your objections. Hearing the way your voice softened, seeing how your chest wavered as he got closer and closer to your face, he simply couldn’t contain himself. 

“It’s not my fault ‘ya wanted to stay here,” he huffed, large hands seizing your own, pushing away their protests as he passed his thumb up and down your clothed slit. You bit your lip in an effort to silence the moan that was bubbling its way up and out of your mouth. You had started to become feverish, your own state of vulnerability apparent as Osamu used one arm to pin your wrists above your head, sending your lower half flailing and bucking up into his free hand as you whimpered desperately for his touch.

“You want it, don’t ya, little love?” Little love. The one pet name you could never resist. Almost like a switch, you moaned a particularly needy, not-so-hushed “hmmhm- yes, daddy,” that definitely would have blown your cover. Luckily, Osamu’s thick fingers worked their way into your mouth to silence you, your lips immediately wrapping around them and obediently sucking to heed his words.

“Just be s’quiet as possible,” his hushed tone came out in a low baritone. He pressed a finger to his lips, pointing another up toward the ceiling from the couch of your parents living room. 

Keeping your arms restrained, your boyfriend’s free hand pushed past your layers of clothes, your saliva coated his fingers, providing just enough slickness to enter your hole with ease, gently curling against that soft spot right inside. You were so warm, so needy, easily molding into his touch as he watched your eyes widen within his. You fixed your mouth to open, but it hung there as his fingers worked, your cunt sucking  them in manically. 

“F-fuck,” you could barely manage that. “Please I-hmph- please…”

“Use yer words, little love,” he cooed, the tone of his voice was sickeningly slow as he teased you, slowing his fingers down. You bucked your hips in protest, pouting and wiggling underneath him to feel some form of friction.

“Stop Squirmin’.” His demeanor shifted immediately, darkening at your perceived disobedience. The hands that held your wrists met your throat, a half gasp escaping you as he gently squeezed, your face softening into a pout. 

“I said- use yer words.”

“Please, please fuck me,” you squeaked. “F-fill me up.”

“Then we gotta find a way t’keep ya nice n’ still. Will you be good fer me?”

You nodded. You always were. Osamu’s ability to render you a compliant, malleable toy for him to fuck was astounding. You could spend the rest of your life being his obedient little thing without a care in the world or a complaint.

“I know ya will,” he pressed a kiss to your lips. “My little love’s always s’good…” 

You knew you were in for it- but you didn’t expect this. It was a little different from your normal setup, but at the same time, the rush of excitement built in the pit of your stomach just as it did the first time ‘Samu ever bound you. It just so happened that there were some discarded lights nearby the Christmas tree. You could see the glimmer of an idea in his eyes as he plugged them in, smiling as the glow lit up his face. He looked at you on the couch and wiggled his eyebrows- as much as you wanted to laugh out loud, you weren’t in the position to be picky about your rigging tonight. You had to make do. 

“It’s…. festive?” You could tell that even he was amused. But amusement aside, the desire that built between you, the stored tension of having not touched each other for almost two days now was clearly screaming to be addressed. His large hands made a bite in the wiring of the lights and they quickly found themselves around your wrists, the illumination beautiful, but also kind of blinding this close to your face. With a kiss to your lips, he moved from your wrists and down toward your torso, trailing an interesting track of holiday cheer into a harness around your chest and tying in your back. Your arms were bent forward at the elbow, snugly enough so that you could wiggle your fists, but your wrists were of no use.

 Pushing you onto your knees, you felt the press of your boyfriend’s hand against your back as he repositioned your arms and elbows to place you on all fours. Cool air immediately hit the skin of your lower half as you felt him pull your bottoms off. You wriggled your hips in an effort to help, but instead your flesh was met with an aggressive strike. Managing to catch your discomfort in your throat, a lowered hiss bared through your gritted teeth, soon followed by a sharpened inhale as you felt the presence of him towering over you. 

“Been thinking about the way those cute lips were wrapped around that straw all night,” he panted, palming his cock through his sweats. You could see how uncomfortably hard he was- it lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t wait to serve him, you couldn’t wait to feel the weight of his thick cock against your tongue- and stretching your pussy past it’s limits.

“I bet’cher sweet mouth wrapped around my cock would look even prettier, don’t ya think?” 

His words hit at your core. Your mouth began to water in anticipation as he pulled himself out of his sweats, gently pumping before lining up at your mouth. 

Delicately, your tongue swirled down the slit of the head, plush lips wrapping around the pink bulb. Osamu’s hands guided your head down the length, drool sliding out of your mouth and down your  chin, where it dripped onto your chest, riddled with bright multicolored light. Slowly, he fucked himself with your throat, allowing you to adjust to his girth. 

“Yep,” he exhaled deeply, hissing at how warm your mouth felt around him.

 “Ev’n prettier.”

 His motions sped up as he bobbed your head up and down, the slight saltiness of his precum going down easily, leaving you practically begging for a full load.  You always craved him on your tongue- he tasted much better than any diner milkshake could. The soft gargling of his assault on your throat slowed to a stop as he pulled you off, leaving you gasping for air. Licking the drool from the corners of your lips, Osamu kissed you passionately before throwing your bound body onto the couch.

You clenched haphazardly around his cock as soon as he entered you, head flying forward with the force of his thrusts. His arm held you upright, parallel to his chest as his cock pistoned in and out of your hole. 

“‘S-sa-ah!~ ‘Samu- ffuck!” Your eyes snapped shut as he fucked into you. His breathy grunts resounded deep in your ears, sending jolts of molten lust down your spine, chest heaving as you tried keeping your voices down. Your hot, wet cunt sucked him in deeper and deeper each time he entered you- your urge to milk him for everything he had was only made more apparent by it. 

“I can feel you baby,” He purred into your ear. “So fucking wet.” 

Osamu released you from his hold, letting you fall forward into the couch, one hand pushing your head into the cushions, the other roughly kneading at the flesh where your ass and hip met, digging his nails into the flesh as he began to carnally pound into your pussy. Each stroke hit your sweet spot with a ridiculously precise skill. Your muffled sobs echoed into the cushions of the couch as he drilled you, never once slowing the rate in which his hips snapped into yours. You wouldn’t be surprised if the smacking of his skin against yours woke your parents at this rate- you couldn’t be bothered to care with your orgasm this close to the horizon. 

Somehow you managed to free a hand from your twinkling ties, immediately pushing it to your clit to rub it feverishly. The squelching started up shortly after, your ears beginning to ring as your throat squealed itself raw into the deep void beneath you. Osamu pulled you back by your hair, pressing his lips to your ear and clasping a hand to your mouth.

“Keep rubbing that pretty pussy, sweet girl, so fucking close to cumming fer me, aren’t ya?”

You could only whine in response. He softened the hand on your mouth, muffled words spilling out.

“I’m gonna cu-ah-cum! Please let me cum!” 

“Hmmm? Gonna cum? Did I hear ya right, little love?” He knew what he was doing, egging you on like this.

You were mere milliseconds away from losing it, the edge pulling up to you so close that you could barely collect yourself as you began to feel yourself slip over it- eyes whiting out as Osamu gave you the go-ahead. 

“Just let me c-” he finished your sentence for you.

“Cum.” It was a simple word, a simple command. But the way it hit your ears: the way the low growl tore through your body- you didn't stand a chance. The warm wetness of your release sprayed against his abs, trickling down your thighs and pooling into the upholstery. Your eyes crossed, face contorting further into lewd bliss as a scream tried to escape your mouth- but only silence hiccuped its way out. 

“Good fucking girl- now take this, baby. Take it all…” God, he was the devil. 

Fucking you through it- your boyfriend chased his own high, cock twitching inside as the vision of you wrapped in lights blurring into colorful stars as he spilled into you, his load coating your insides with a mass of sticky, soothing heat. You both collapsed into each other, bodies writhing as you caught your heavy breaths. 

As he slipped out of you, Osamu lifted your hips to his mouth, sucking in the mixture of his and your own release, savoring it on his tongue. Your puffy, fucked-out cunt spasmed at the contact, the sensation overwhelming as you tugged at his steely grey locks, snapping his head back. 

“Hmmph-  s’too much ‘Samu!” Your thighs clamped together as soon as he released you.

Humming a soft apology, he moved up from your lower lips to the upper ones, pushing his tongue past them, spitting arousal across your tongue. You swallowed the mixture greedily, smiling against his lips. You could still feel ropes of cum pouring from your spamming hole and leaking onto your thighs.

“Whaddaya think?” The words were slurred against the skin at the crook of your neck while he peppered your skin with kisses.

“Delicious.” You looked at him with a smirk, mind still hazy as your body shook its way through a few more aftershocks. 

“Told ya I could make a better milkshake.”

 As he said it, laughter broke out between the two of you. Your chest struggled against the harness, as it was still pretty tight. Osamu unplugged the decorations, gently untying you as snow fell outside your living room window, the faint jingling of bells filling the room again as the tv light illuminated you both. 

 Taglist Starseeds (check ur privacy settings if your url is in bold): @honey-makki @crushzone @yumekosgamblingroom @boujiesav @onesingleravioli @ushijimasfarmhat @trouvelle @nekoma-hoe @right-shoe-jpg @atsumusc0ck @ukeis @nivky0-0 @animoozies @charmarsmith

[modern-vellichor]

Hellloooo!

Please could I request a fic where the reader is really upset about something and life is just getting too much to the point where she starts throwing and breaking things and Bucky has to physically grab her and hug her while she thrashes around to get away from him and then eventually she just breaks down and cries while Bucky holds her?

I could really use a comfort fic like this :(

Thank you so much xx

this. I hope you feel better my love <3 I needed this too.

warnings: angst, breakdowns, violence? (throwing things, hitting etc).

You rubbed at your eyes. The words on your monitor blurred. You couldn't see. You were so tired. It felt as if the world weighed on your shoulders. You could barely keep your eyes open.

The digital clock on your desk flashed at you. You tried to read it. Too late, it told you. Too late to be awake. Too late to be working. The world was asleep.

You pushed away from your table and trudged towards the door. You slugged through the hauntingly empty halls, it was quiet, it was sleepy. Through the dark corridor you cursed, light spilled through the gap under the door to your bedroom.

Bucky was awake.

He always waited for you. It was an affection you weren't used to, and one you often forgot. Which lead to many unforeseen naps on the forever uncomfortable couch in yours and Bucky's shared room. He would always wait for you.

The door clicked open and you hoped he wouldn't be awake. But there he was, splayed across the couch, eyes glued to the nonsense that played on the TV.

"Hey," he sang quietly, standing up and approaching you. "How was your day? I missed you."

He smiled at you. His eyes bright and twinkling and full of life. In that moment you decided, you just weren't in the mood.

The life had been drained from your body. You couldn't bare to deal with his blind optimism that was so unjustified. A man that tortured was expected to be a pessimist, and yet he stood before you preaching about the bright side.

"Not tonight, Bucky." You mumbled, gently pushing him away from you.

You shrugged off your cardigan, allowing it to fall to the floor. You kicked your shoes off. You dragged your feet across the hardwood floors until you reached your bed. The cool covers were a welcome feeling on your skin, cheek flush against the pillow as your eyes shut.

"What's wrong, babe?"

You groaned. Bucky's voice cuts through the blissful silence.

"Nothing," you snap, rolling over until your legs dangled over the side of the bed and your back is bine straight. "I'm just tired."

Bucky seems offended by your outburst. He really just wants to help. He loved you so much. It pained him to see you like this, pale, drained of all your usual colour and brightness and love for life. Your usual yearning for excitement and attention had disappeared. He was hurt. You were hurt.

"Let me help you, doll," he pleaded. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing!"

Very suddenly you stood up. Bucky almost jumped. You backed yourself against the wall. Bucky knew better than to approach you. He kept his distance, allowed you your space.

"Please love. I just want to help."

"I don't want your help!" You scream. "I'm so sick of being treated like a charity case by you people!"

Bucky does jump this time. You never shout at him. You never even raise your voice. You were always so gentle with him, so patient and loving. Bucky would have been frightened by your outburst if he had not known how stressed you were.

He took small steps. He inched forward, slowly so that you didn't notice as you ranted.

"You people think you're so high and mighty and I'm just some rat to be poked and prodded! And then I come home to your false sympathy! For one goddamm second I want to be left alone and you look at me like I'm some nutcase!"

You reached for the empty vase that sits on your desk. It was purely decorative, worthless too. So you felt nothing as it left your grip, colliding with the wall on the other side of the room. Bucky flinched as it shattered, shards of ancient porcelain falling to the floor.

Bucky took a big step forward now. He was lunging for you. He wanted no destruction. He wanted to subdue you, calm you. He wanted to love you.

He grabbed your wrist as you reached for the little statue on your desk. It was something that held more sentimental value, and if Bucky let you break it now, you'd be devastated in the morning.

You fought against him, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. Bucky pulled you forward. Your cheek hit his chest. You balled your hands into fists and half heartedly slammed them into his chest.

"Let go of me!"

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, unaffected by your efforts. His chin rested on your head as he shushed you.

"It's okay, honey," he cooed quietly. "Calm down, I've got you."

Eventually, you stilled. You grabbed fists of Bucky's shirt and broke down. You sobbed quietly, burying your face into the crook of his neck. You snaked your hands around Bucky's waist as you cried.

He backed the both of you up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He collapsed onto the sheets and curled around you. He cradled you close to his chest for what seemed like hours until your cries soused.

Your face is stained and red, eyes puffy. Your breathing is still ragged when Bucky takes your face in his hand. He kisses the stray tears off of your cheeks, peppering chaste kisses all over your face.

"I love you," he whispers, pulling you back against his chest.

"I love you, too."

[journalxxx]

By Hook or by Crook (4)

Oh God, there’s another one.

The thought came unbidden to Toshinori’s mind, and it engulfed him in the closest thing to pure dread he had felt in years. It had taken two centuries, the sacrifice of seven One For All users, and two of his own major organs to take down a single All For One wielder, and now a brand new one had somehow sprouted right in front of him.

Now. Now that he had finally decided to tackle the hurdle of entrusting a relatively stable Japan to a successor, now that he was weaker and less capable than ever of defending it from a new threat. Now that the deadline of Nighteye’s prophecy was drawing closer and closer. His own gruesome death on the battlefield, and the sudden reappearance of All For One’s quirk. The unavoidable connection between the two facts almost robbed him of his breath.

Toshinori couldn’t tear his eyes away from the boy’s hand. It looked diminutive in comparison to his own, and completely inoffensive. It had the soft, unblemished appearance that suited someone who had never hit anything bigger than a fly, whereas the hero’s skin had long since been roughened by calluses, and his joints slightly thwarted by the occasional fracture. Yet, that single, unassuming dimple in the middle of its palm made it more potentially destructive than a hundred of Smashes combined.

A sort of choked whimper made Toshinori finally raise his gaze. He realized he had stopped trying to school his expression only when he saw his own strung-out stupor mirrored in Midoriya’s features. 

“I-I… Sorry, I r-really have t-to…” The boy took a step back, his hand slipping from the man’s grasp, then he suddenly turned on his heels and motioned to sprint away.

“Hey, hey!” Toshinori reached forward, grabbing Midoriya’s wrist by sheer reflex. He had already wasted enough time and energy chasing slimy villains and rash teenagers all over the town that day, thank you very much. “Where are you going?”

Midoriya froze on the spot, as if shocked by an electric current. His arm was rigid in Toshinori’s grasp, pulling away from it but without any real conviction. His head turned slowly towards the hero but not fully, letting him see only half of the boy’s face. The unmistakable terror etched in those wide eyes made something constrict in Toshinori’s chest.

“I-I’m… I’m so sorry…” The boy’s voice was down a trembling, barely audible whisper.“I didn’t mean to d-do that… I’ve never… I won’t do it again, I swear, j-just…” 

Midoriya’s free hand hovered over the hero’s, maybe having half a mind of prying it open, but he didn’t even dare to touch it. Toshinori let go of him immediately. The kid wasn’t expecting it, judging by his flabbergasted expression, and all he did with his regained freedom was backing away from him with a couple of uncertain steps, bumping into a nearby electric pole with his backpack and just standing there, pretty much like a cornered mouse cowering before a lion.

The sight jolted Toshinori back to reality with brutal efficiency. God, what was wrong with him today? He was handling this abysmally. That was no two-hundred-year-old manipulative slaughterer, that was a child. A child rapidly working himself into a panic, if his onsetting tremors were of any indication. Ironically, the realization grounded Toshinori even more. Frightened victims and distraught relatives were a daily occurrence in his line of work, and his professional composure slipped back in place almost subconsciously.

“You don’t need to apologize. Quite the opposite. You saved everyone. The hostage, the bystanders… even me. I’m not sure I’d have had the energy to keep up appearances after another smash.” He put up his hands and showed his palms with slow movements, keeping his voice low and level. “You did nothing wrong back there.”

Midoriya slowly slumped down the pole, his limbs huddled in a distressed heap. He blinked quickly as his eyes shied away from Toshinori’s, hands bunching up the fabric of his trousers nervously. “...I-I can give it back. The quirk. I want to give it back to its owner.”

“That can be easily arranged.” Something about the whole situation was nagging at Toshinori, but he pushed that feeling aside for the moment. The boy wasn’t holding himself in any way that hinted at specific injuries, but fear could be one hell of an anesthetic. He gazed up and down the road, finding it completely deserted. He still felt slightly abuzz with the adrenaline rush caused by his second encounter with the sludge villain and the recent revelation of Midoriya’s quirk. He gauged that he could probably (possibly, maybe, hopefully) abuse One For All for another twenty seconds or so if need be, just the time to scoop up the boy in his arms and power run back to the ambulances at the site of the accident. That was likely to cause even more distress to the poor kid though, so he’d rather hold off on it unless clearly necessary. “Are you sure you aren’t in any pain?”

“I-I’m f-fine.” The boy wiggled the backpack off his shoulders and rummaged through it shakily, a few tears rolling down his cheeks and his hiccups becoming harder to contain. “I’m fine…”

“Hey, kid. Look at me. Deep breaths.” Toshinori finally ventured a step and a half towards Midoriya, squatting at a reasonable distance to his side instead of right in front of him, to make sure he wouldn’t feel too crowded. Toshinori offered him a couple of tissues (always plentiful in his pockets) while the boy tried to regain a semblance of calm. “It’s all right. I am here.”

That got the boy’s attention. The catchphrase had slipped out of him automatically, without his trademark panache or blinding smile or overflowing optimism, but Midoriya looked at him like he’d been thrown a lifeline nonetheless. The dam broke and big, shiny tears erupted from his eyes as he accepted the tissues and buried his sobs in them. They remained like that for a while, the kid quietly working through his sniffles while Toshinori sat cross-legged on the dusty asphalt, reminding him to take his time whenever he got a little fidgety.

“Sorry if I spooked you.“ Toshinori eventually offered with a small smile, after Midoriya had finally settled down. “I’m a little out of it myself, today. Not the most auspicious first day in my new neighborhood, but what can you do?”

“Uh? Do you mean you’re moving here?” Midoriya asked while he accepted the fourth tissue and wiped away the remaining dampness from his face.

“Mh-hm.” After the debacle on the rooftop, this didn’t feel like too much of a sensitive bit of information to share. Besides, the kid was a fan, so maybe throwing him a bone would help him relax a little more.

“Why? Isn’t it inconvenient for you? I thought you lived in a penthouse above Might Tower, in Tokyo’s Minato Ward, Roppongi 6-12-”

...Ah, he was that kind of fan. Obviously. “Indeed, but I’ve decided to move to… broaden my professional horizons, so to speak.”

“Oh! Are you planning to open a branch of your agency here? Or are you joining some local long-term operation?“ That spark of morbid curiosity in the boy’s eyes made Toshinori regret bringing up the topic in two seconds flat.

“I’m afraid that’s all I can say on the matter, everything’s still under tight wraps. You’ll hear all about it from the news, eventually.” He stood up and patted some dirt off his hands and pants. “Do you live far from here? I’ll walk you home if you’re feeling better.”

“Oh, uh…” The boy gaped at him in surprise. “Thank you, but there’s no need for you to go out of your way! I’m fine, really!”

“Think nothing of it.” Toshinori hooked three fingers under the strap of the boy’s backpack and hauled it over his own shoulder. It hit his back with unexpected oomph. What did kids even put in those things, weren’t textbooks all digital these days? “Clearly this isn’t your lucky day either. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that you reached your house safely without being run over by a truck or abducted by aliens.”

The joke got a half-smile out of Midoriya, at long last. He held out his hand to the boy to help him back on his feet. The obvious hesitation and near disbelief he couldn’t hide before gingerly accepting the proffered hand gave Toshinori another small wave of unease. There was definitely something strange about all this, aside from the obvious. He gestured for the kid to lead the way, and they set off towards their new destination.

Toshinori granted him a few minutes of silence before breaching the pivotal subject. “So… you have quite the interesting quirk.”

“...Mh.” Midoriya visibly stiffened. So it had been the quirk talk to give him cold feet, rather than a generic reaction to the day’s stress...

“Why didn’t you use it against the villain the first time he attacked you?” Toshinori asked, opting for a more roundabout approach.

“Ah… I’m sorry. I really should have. You wouldn’t have had to waste your power if I’d-”

“Forget about me! Why didn’t you use it to defend yourself? Did you panic?”

“Uh, well, not too much.” The kid shoved his hands in his pockets and dropped his gaze to the ground, his voice lowering to a droning mutter. “I can take quirks, but I don’t automatically learn how to use them. The villain’s quirk looked like it may be difficult to handle. What if I couldn’t maintain a solid form and just turned myself into a puddle of goo? What if some parts of my slime got detached from the main body during the scuffle, and I found myself missing chunks of flesh upon turning back human? What if the sludge was only an outer layer over my body, and without fine control I ended up drowning in it? Stuff like that… I should have just taken the villain’s quirk without activating it, but I was afraid that he’d get even angrier and he’d just beat me up anyway. I’m not, uh, strong. Or fast. At all. I didn’t consider that he might freak out long enough for me to run away…”

Toshinori blinked. “...Sorry, how long had that guy been harassing you before I showed up?”

“Oh, not long at all. Twenty or thirty seconds, I think.”

“And you went through all of that in twenty seconds. While being ambushed and choked.”

Midoriya just shrugged.

“That is… some quick thinking, all right.” Toshinori commented. He omitted the fact that it was a brand of quick thinking that was more likely to get you killed rather than saving your skin during an emergency. Apparently Midoriya would hesitate to protect himself from a violent attacker, but he’d run for the hills the moment the Symbol of Peace gave him a bit of an odd look. The kid’s fight-or-flight response was all over the place.

“I would have used my quirk to fight back eventually, if you hadn’t arrived so soon… probably…”

“...But?” Toshinori encouraged, sensing the unspoken addition.

“But… not many people know about my quirk. Very few, actually. And I’d like to keep it that way. If it’s possible.”

“Why?”

“...It’s not a good quirk.” Midoriya frowned, hunching his shoulders a bit. “One could do really bad things with it.”

“I could squash a man’s skull with my thumb and level a city block with a punch.” Toshinori countered plainly. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

“It’s… it’s different. You can choose to use your quirk only for good, but mine requires…” The boy trailed off, then hazarded a glance at the hero. “You know what I mean. You understood as soon as I told you, I saw it.”

Toshinori couldn’t argue on that point, unfortunately. Still… 

There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for Midoriya to wield All For One. For one, it could be a different quirk altogether, one that simply mimicked Toshinori’s nemesis’, but that wasn’t quite the same, maybe with some unmentioned limitations (although the palm marks made for quite the uncanny similarity). Moreover, much like look-alikes, duplicate quirks between unrelated people weren’t unheard of, although said quirks were usually quite simple ones, like basic physical enhancers or elemental emitters.

What really bothered Toshinori were the boy’s evident sense of guilt and fear of exposure. Virtually any moderately powerful quirk could be employed to ‘do really bad things’, but hardly any children grew up to be so blatantly scared and ashamed of their own abilities. Family and school usually nurtured a degree of confidence and trust in their own capabilities. Toshinori’s knee-jerk reaction was a byproduct of specific knowledge and experience, but Midoriya’s? If only few people knew about his quirk, it must mean he hadn’t used it much, if at all, in the past, ruling out peer pressure as well. What explanation, what innocent explanation could there be for such a strong negative bias, aside from knowledge and experience he wasn’t supposed to have?

“At least your parents know about your quirk, I hope?”

“My mother doesn’t. My father… isn’t really around.” Toshinori couldn’t decide if that last bit of information was a good or a bad sign.

“So… who did you tell?”

“Just one friend and my father.” Ah, we had one likely culprit then. A father that was around but not really. Suspicious. “And now you, I guess. And… everyone who saw what I did to that villain… including the police…” Midoriya looked just about ready to dig a ditch and roll in it. 

“Well, as I said, everyone seemed to think I took care of the matter, so-”

Midoriya shook his head, utterly demoralized. “Kacchan will tell them.”

“Kacchan?”

“Ah, the hostage. He’s my friend, the one who knows about my quirk. I don’t think he’ll lie to the police for my sake.”

“Ah, I see. I hadn’t realized you two were acquainted.” Toshinori offered him a supportive smile. “I guess that explains your burst of heroism.”

“...No one else was doing anything. I saw you among the crowd, but… I thought you couldn’t help.”

The boy had an almost tortured expression, which reignited the deep-seated guilt that had plagued Toshinori in those harrowing minutes. “...I thought I couldn’t help either.” 

“But you did jump in though. Even though… it hurts you?” Midoriya scanned him from head to toe in concern, as if looking for unnoticed signs of damage. “Why?”

“Why did you decide to intervene, despite your fear?”

“I… I just couldn’t let my friend suffer because I messed up.”

“Well, there you have it.” Toshinori simply said. The boy stared at him thoughtfully, apparently weighing his words carefully, before nodding slowly and resuming his perusal of the ground. Toshinori let the silence stretch for a minute. There was still plenty he wanted to ask, especially regarding Midoriya’s father, but-

“I really do want to give the quirk back.” The kid mumbled. “Should I just… go to the police and ask them? They’ll come looking for me anyway, I guess, but…”

Toshinori pondered the issue for a moment, then he pulled his phone out of his pocket. The least he could do was make this whole ordeal as smooth as possible for the kid. “I think I can help with that. Give me your number. I’ll text you to let you know when we can visit the villain. If we’re lucky, it may be as early as tomorrow.” 

Toshinori registered the boy’s contact information as they entered a quaint residential area with neat little rows of numbered buildings, pleasantly tinged with the warm hues of the sunset.

“Ah, that’s where I live.” Midoriya said afterwards, pointing at a nearby apartment complex. “Thank you for everything, All-”

Toshinori shushed him with a sharp gesture as he gazed around the street nervously. “Please, don’t call me that when I’m in this form.”

Midoriya froze, then bowed respectfully. “R-Right! Thank you, sir! I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble, and taking so much of your time, and-”

Toshinori waved the upcoming barrage of apologies off and bid him a good evening, waiting for the boy to leave. Which he didn’t do.

“Uhm.” Midoriya pointed at Toshinori’s shoulder with an awkward smile. “I need that…”

Oh, right, backpack. “Whoops, there you go.” He tossed Midoriya’s belongings to their owner and watched the kid bustle up the stairs of the building and into one of the apartments. Then he fetched his phone and picked the third number on speed-dial.

“Tsukauchi? Do you have a moment? ….Ah, fine, thank you. Listen, can I drop by your place this evening? Something’s come up and I’d rather not discuss it on the phone… No, but definitely worth looking into sooner rather than later…”

He hung up a couple of exchanges later, after agreeing on the time for the meeting. Toshinori decided he had enough time to make his way back home, shower and have some sort of passable dinner before ruining his friend’s evening. And then he would head back home and he would sleep, even if he had to repeatedly bash his head against a wall to achieve that. He inhaled deeply and let out a long-overdue, exhausted sigh. 

What a day. 

Hopefully tomorrow wouldn’t be quite as taxing.

“THIEF”

Izuku was stuck on the spot, his feet and ankles wrapped in a thick layer of sludge that stretched on the ground as far as the eye could see. The faint light filtering from both ends of the underpass gave it flickering, changing hues, now green like bile, now brown like vomit, now black like tar. It smelled like sewer and dirty toilets. 

“BASTARD”

The slime clung to the walls of the underpass, climbing on them as if endowed with its own will. It crawled up higher and higher, and then went on to expand onto the ceiling. Its surface boiled and squirmed producing disgusting squelching sounds. Izuku looked away from the revolting goo-coated structure he was boxed in, he looked towards the exit, hoping that something, someone would show up to drag him out of that hell.

“GIVE IT BACK”

Someone emerged from the sludge, a few meters ahead of him. A man. A flabby, hairless, mucky man, with haunted eyes and a mouth open in a silent scream. He sweated slime, cried slime, drooled slime, from every orifice and every pore of his body. He waded towards Izuku slowly, an arm extended before him as if to grab him. Izuku couldn’t stand that sight either. He aimed his gaze at the ceiling, right when a huge bubble of gunk popped right above him, and chunky dollops of filth splashed on his face, into his nose and mouth.

“OR I’LL RIP IT OUT OF YOU”

Izuku coughed and heaved, trying to expel the repulsive substance from his pipes, but two cold, slick hands clamped around his throat, trapping it in his body. He could feel the ooze drip down into his lungs, his stomach- he could feel it wiggle and push, like a living parasite trying to break free from the flesh constraining it. Izuku scrambled to tear the man’s hands off him, but those too melted under his fingers like the same fluid that was everywhere, closing down on him, choking him, pulling him apart from the inside-

 Izuku woke up with a whole-body lurch that nearly sent him rolling off the bed, sweaty and breathless. He took in the familiar shadows of his room, and the red numbers of his alarm clock floating in the darkness at his eye level. 

6:20 AM.

Izuku turned on his belly with a frustrated groan, sinking his face into the pillow. Sure, he’d had a pretty harrowing day yesterday. It was bound to leave him a little shaken and maybe disturb his sleep for a while. But seven nightmares in the span of as many hours seemed slightly excessive. Especially seven instances of the exact same nightmare, sentient goo and Munch-like villain and all. The boy fumbled blindly for his phone to check if he’d received any new messages in the last fifty-five minutes. He hadn’t, of course. He prayed that All Might would contact him soon, it didn’t take a degree in psychology to guess the nature of the ‘unfinished business’ his subconscious was so keen on grilling him about.

He stared at the screen blankly, wondering, for roughly the hundredth time, if he should call his father. On one hand, he very probably should. If the man had deemed that little scuffle with Kacchan emergency-worthy, surely a mess this humongous in size warranted a call as well. On the other hand… Izuku didn’t really want to. 

The previous night’s news broadcast had covered the sludge villain incident rather haphazardly, it being a relatively contained accident with no serious consequences or injuries. Izuku was sure they had bothered to touch on the fact in the first place just because All Might had been involved, and the number one hero would receive prime time coverage even for something as trivial as being spotted buying soda at a convenience store. Curiously, Izuku hadn’t been mentioned at all, not even indirectly. Kacchan had been named and shown as the victim, the other heroes had been acknowledged, but All Might had been appointed as the sole person responsible for the resolution of the mishap. Not a word about any irresponsible middle schoolers joining the fray.

Izuku had taken it as a promising sign. All Might had likely interceded for him with the police and obtained a modicum of discretion about his involvement, at least in regards to the media. The hero had been so very understanding the previous day - just thinking about it made the boy almost tear up anew. He had barely reacted to the shocking revelation of his quirk, he had tolerated his unseemly outburst, he had spoken to him as if… as if Izuku was just another innocent victim caught up in a bad situation, rather than a potential menace. He hadn’t hesitated even for a second to offer him his hand, despite knowing the threat that Izuku’s own hands posed. He had… he had made him feel safe, and trusted. He had allowed Izuku to hope that maybe, just maybe, this whole thing could be fixed, that Izuku could handle it with his help, even without subjecting his father to undue sniveling.

And, objectively speaking, what could Izuku’s father do at this point? Izuku doubted that, regardless of his governmental position, the man could prevent the truth from spreading once it had reached both the police and the number one hero. Izuku could make an educated guess about his reaction too, and it wasn’t all that encouraging. It was too late for stern recommendations about secrecy, or for disappointed sighs and gratuitous snark about Izuku’s blind faith in All Might’s mediation skills. And, to be perfectly honest, Izuku dreaded the possibility of finally and completely alienating the sympathy of the one person that had supported and advised him for his whole life, in his own peculiar way. Yes, it was childish of him. Yes, he would have to tell his father anyway, eventually. But he’d rather do it after the matter had been settled, hopefully for the best, and after he’d had a little more time to gather his thoughts and figure out how to word it a little less unfavorably for himself. So, there. It was the 28th of April too, he could wait another day or two, at least. No biggie.

By breakfast time, Izuku had reviewed the issue three more times, had another nightmare, and accepted the fact that this was going to be a long day. 

School went by in that typical hazy fashion that was the result of intellectual activities synergizing poorly with a sleep-deprived brain. Izuku kept eyeing Kacchan warily throughout the first three classes, harboring the half-baked notion of addressing yesterday’s events. He regretted doing it the very moment he opened his mouth to greet him during recess.

“What?” Kacchan growled without sparing him a single glance.

“Uh, ah, I…” How are you was one possible conversation starter. A bad one, for sure. Worrying about Kacchan’s well-being implied that he may not be okay, which implied weakness, which invited aggression as a counter-argument. Did you tell anyone else about what I did yesterday was downright rude, as if Izuku’s quirk was more important than his friend being almost murdered. In fact, any reference to the villain incident was a minefield. Braver classmates than Izuku had already made their inquiries during homeroom, and Kacchan hadn’t taken kindly to their snooping. This really was a bad-

“WHAT?” Kacchan barked, turning sharply towards Izuku and banging his fist on his desk for emphasis.

“Uh, nothing! Just saying hello! Hi! Bye!” Izuku fled the classroom without looking back before Kacchan decided to force-feed him his own shoes.

The first bit of good news of the day reached him during lunch, under the guise of a text.

Hey kid! We can drop by the police station this afternoon at 5 if you’re free

Izuku brought up the virtual keyboard to reply, but he stopped with his finger poised over the screen. He blinked at the unlabeled string of digits identifying the sender.

He had All Might’s phone number. One of many, probably. Definitely one of the lowest priority lines. Or maybe just some sort of burner phone for communications with civilians only. Still. He had All Might’s phone number. All Might was texting him. The realization made him half-choke on his rice.

Should he save it? Would that be a breach of confidentiality? Even if he used a not-too-obvious handle? N1? SP? AM? Ante Meridiem? ...That would just make it more suspicious, wouldn’t it? He’d just… commit it to memory for now. In case he ever needed it again. For purely altruistic reasons.

Sure, I’m free! Thank you very much for the help!

Izuku’s phone chimed again a couple of minutes later.

We’ll come pick you up at your place

That ‘we’ raised a small wave of anxiety in Izuku, but he willed himself to suppress it. He couldn’t expect All Might to shield him from any and all interactions with the force. It’d be fine. He could handle this.

The perspective of visiting the villain revived Izuku’s attention for the remaining lessons, only for him to crash back into fidgety inactivity as soon as he got home and found himself without anything to do for almost two hours before the agreed time. Homework was out of the question, he was too distracted. He figured a nap would be the most inoffensive way to while away the time while also recovering some higher brain functions. And so it was only with a mild heart attack that Izuku was roused by the ringing of the doorbell at 4.50 PM.

“Young Midoriya! Good afternoon!” Even at a glance, Izuku could tell that All Might was in better shape than the previous day. He stood a bit straighter, his smile was a bit wider, his hair was slightly less chaotic. He was also wearing slacks and a button up shirt that, while still dramatically oversized, made him look a bit less like a phthisic hospital runaway. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes! Thank you so much for going out of your way to take care of me!” Izuku declared with a rigid bow to All Might and to the other man standing by his side - definitely a detective, judging by his stereotypical trench coat.

All Might patted the man on the back with an even bigger grin. “This is Naomasa Tsukauchi, my favorite detective on the force! You may speak freely before him, you won’t find anyone more trustworthy in the whole of Japan!”

“A pleasure to meet you, Midoriya.” Tsukauchi politely removed his hat and shook the boy’s hand with an amused smirk, a sign that he was probably familiar with the hero’s odd choice of an introduction. He then peeked behind Izuku’s shoulders towards the inside of the house. “Isn’t your mother going to join us?”

“Ah no, she had a doctor’s appointment booked for today. It’s fine though, I’ll just send her a text to let her know where I’m going.” Izuku had warned his mother that he may have to visit the precinct soon. He had had to justify his singed and grimy school uniform the day before, so he had told her that he’d been marginally involved in the sludge villain incident, and the police was likely to want to collect his statement on the matter. It was only by pure chance that the news broadcast hadn’t outed his abridgment of the facts.

“Ah… We were hoping to have a few words with her too, actually.” Tsukauchi glanced at All Might, whose eyes darted briefly between the detective and the boy.

“I… may have forgotten to mention that.” All Might scratched the back of his neck with an apologetic grimace. “Well, I guess it can’t be helped. We’ll catch up with her another time, if necessary.”

Izuku had the sneaking suspicion that being All Might’s favorite detective came at a price. Tsukauchi just sighed, before regarding him with a gentle smile. “Well, if you are sure you don’t mind coming with us all by yourself…”

“I don’t mind at all!” Izuku hurried to reassure them. 

A minute later he was in the backseat of Tsukauchi’s speeding car, typing a message to his mother and struggling to suppress a monstrous yawn, courtesy of his interrupted nap.

“Tired?” All Might asked, intercepting his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“A bit. I didn't sleep well last night.”

“Ah, I know that feeling.” The hero’s expression mellowed in sympathy. “I’m sure you’ll rest more easily once this is over and done with.”

“I hope so.” Izuku pocketed his phone and gazed at the moving buildings out of the car window, mostly just to break eye contact. Somehow All Might’s open kindness felt undeserved, especially for something as trivial as a bunch of spooky dreams. He focused on more urgent matters. “So, uh… how are we going to do this? Does the villain know I’m coming, will I explain things to him? Will you, uh, keep an eye on things from outside or accompany me...?”

“Well, we were thinking of throwing you into his cell, locking the door and letting the two of you fight for dominance and ownership over the quirk- “ All Might grinned widely in response to Izuku’s exasperated gape.

“Yagi!” The detective reprimanded him, only mildly scandalized. The name bounced a few times around Izuku’s brain, plain and mystifying at the same time.

“Sorry, just trying to lift his spirits.” 

“You have nothing to worry about, it’ll be perfectly safe.” Tsukauchi provided, clearly having a much better understanding of the state of Izuku’s spirits despite knowing him for a scant ten minutes. “The villain will be in his cell and we will escort you inside, of course. You won’t really interact with each other, as he’ll likely be deeply asleep.”

“Asleep?”

“Yes. The apparent loss of his quirk has upset him greatly. He’s barely spoken since we took him into custody, and he’s spent the whole night in severe emotional distress. We would have transferred him to a hospital this morning if you hadn’t agreed to help so promptly. As things stood, we simply had a doctor prescribe him a strong sedative. Hopefully he’ll settle down spontaneously after you return his quirk.”

The man’s words weighed on Izuku’s heart like a ton of bricks. Damn, that was… horrible. He’d been holding onto someone else’s quirk for barely a day, and it had already caused that much sorrow. That wasn’t how Izuku’s power was supposed to be used. It would never be, as far as he was concerned.

“I’m sure he will.” All Might commented, all traces of humour vanished from his demeanor. “Don’t worry, kid. It’ll be a matter of a minute.”

Izuku nodded, and didn’t speak again for the rest of the trip. When they reached their destination, he let All Might guide him towards the detention area of the complex while Tsukauchi wandered off somewhere else, probably taking care of the bureaucratic side of things. He reappeared relatively soon, and they entered one of the cells all together.

The cell was small and mostly barren, furnished with only the most essential goods and surfaces for a relatively short stay. Idly, Izuku wondered what systems they had in place to prevent a… slippery criminal such as the current occupant from escaping from toilets or sinks. Surely they were prepared to- he realized he was spacing out. He should just get on with it.

The villain was indeed sleeping, huddled in a small foldable bedding on the floor. Izuku had barely caught a glimpse of the man’s human form the previous day, yet he was identical to how he’d envisioned him in his dreams. His subconscious was just that observant, apparently. It suddenly occurred to Izuku that he hadn’t even asked for the man’s name yet. The news broadcast hadn’t reported- he was procrastinating again. Just do it, Izuku.

The boy glanced questioningly at the detective, who made a small gesture to indicate that he was free to proceed. He approached his assailant and crouched beside him. The villain’s hand was sticking out from under the blanket, next to his head. Izuku rested his palm against the back of it, and simply willed the quirk out. 

Just like that, it was done. Izuku stood up and stepped back as the man’s body swiftly changed its texture and color, morphing and rearranging itself until a vaguely man-shaped, green heap of goo had replaced the slumbering human. The villain remained dead to the world throughout the entire process.

“...I’m done.” Izuku whispered, quite redundantly. He peered back at the two men at the opposite side of the room, and he didn’t miss the quick, sharp side-glance they’d just quietly exchanged.

“Thank you very much for your cooperation.” Tsukauchi said with the utmost honesty once they were again in the hallway. “While you’re here, would you mind if I collected your statement about the incident? It won’t take long, we already have a clear picture of the situation thanks to All Might.”

“Uh… Okay.” Izuku had hoped, rather optimistically, to skip that part, but he had no reasonable excuse to refuse. Tsukauchi led them to an empty room a couple of corridors further ahead, and held the door open for them. All Might lingered on the threshold.

“May I sit in?” His question was aimed at Izuku for some reason, rather than at his friend. 

“Of course!” Izuku confirmed, when both adults just stared at him in silence, clearly waiting for his permission. The hero thanked him with a small nod and an equally small smile.

They all sat around the desk in the middle of the room, Tsukauchi on one side, and Izuku and All Might on the other. It struck Izuku as a little strange, automatically expecting the two upholders of the law to face him side by side. He wondered if it may be a setup for some sort of good-cop-bad-cop routine. Not that either of them seemed especially suited to the latter role. Tsukauchi was very much the embodiment of professionalism, and All Might… All Might looked especially non-threatening in that moment, almost meek. He was sitting very tidily, big hands folded in his lap and long legs pressed against each other, occupying a remarkably small space considering the size of his frame. It made Izuku straighten his back and sit more neatly by reflex.

The questioning did proceed very smoothly at first. Tsukauchi let Izuku narrate his version of the events without interrupting at all, just humming and jotting down a few lines in his notepad now and then. All Might was just as unobtrusive, volunteering a sentence or two when Izuku happened to stumble on his words, or when he openly allowed him to recount the little scene on the rooftop, since the detective was already in on the big secret. Smooth sailing all round, until the point when Izuku had to bring up his quirk.

“On the subject of your quirk… when did it first manifest, exactly?” Tsukauchi asked.

“A little less than two years ago.”

“Ah, you’re quite the late bloomer! And you’ve only shared that fact with your friend Bakugo and your father, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And your father is one... Hisashi Midoriya, right?” Tsukauchi fished out a sheet of paper from the folder he’d retrieved before beginning the interrogation. He slid it across the table so that the boy could read it.

“Yes.” Izuku blinked, an undefined sense of unease gripping him all of a sudden. “...Why did you bother printing his personal details?”

“You’ve been filed as quirkless in the national registry after a routine medical examination when you were four years old. Your registration hasn’t been updated since then, as far as I could ascertain.” Tsukauchi explained calmly.

“Y-Yeah. I know.”

“...That is a punishable offense, I’m afraid. An accurate quirk registration is mandatory for all citizens.” Tsukauchi’s expression softened when Izuku utterly failed to hide his dismay. “This has no consequence on you, as minors aren’t expected to take care of these things by themselves, especially since quirk recording is often carried out when they’re extremely young. Your mother bears no blame either if, as you say, she’s as clueless about it as the rest of the world. But if your father knew and neglected to sort out the necessary paperwork for so long-”

“Oh.” Oh. Oh crap. Izuku had never thought of that. Why on earth had he never thought of that? Why, in almost two years, had he never considered the legal implications of all that secrecy? Why hadn’t his father? “Are you going to press charges against him?”

“Not yet. We’re at least going to get in touch with him and hear him out before taking any further steps.” The detective gave him a genuinely reassuring smile. “But even if we did, there is no cause for concern. These bureaucratic hitches are usually settled with a small fine.”

“I-I see.” Izuku gulped. He wasn’t going to wait until May. He was going to call his father as soon as he was alone. This probably wasn’t going to snowball into a lengthy legal conundrum, but still…

“What’s his occupation? I’m reading ‘administrative assistant’ here, which is a bit generic…”

“I don’t know much about that. He works for the government, I think, and he always says that all his activities are classified, so I try not to pry... Too much…”

“That is very judicious of you. I wish you could teach some of that tact to my sister…” Tsukauchi sighed, only half-jokingly. All Might let out a low chuckle at that. “Does your father know that you’ve been so reserved about your quirk so far?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t find it odd in the slightest?”

“...No.” 

“Why do you think that is?” Izuku was suddenly very aware of both adults observing him quite intently. He really didn’t want to make things look any worse for his father. He could… slightly reframe the truth, maybe.

“I, uhm… Mine is a bit of a unique quirk. Difficult to use without, uh, stepping on other people’s toes. And I’ve been quirkless for most of my life, and… it’s no mystery that I envied other kids a lot because of that. I was worried that my schoolmates could be wary of me if they knew that I could… act on that envy now.”

Tsukauchi hummed, twirling his pen slowly between his fingers. “I can understand your concern. But quirk counselling is specifically designed to help children cope with such issues, and you’ve been missing out on it because of this extreme discretion. Your father should have realized he was doing you more harm than good by letting these fears fester in your mind.”

Izuku dropped his gaze on his father’s profile sheet. Detective Tsukauchi had a point, but… the matter was more complicated than that, as well as intricately intertwined with his father’s job and the troubled history of their quirk, and… Izuku didn’t want to delve into any of that at the moment. 

“We’ll definitely schedule some counselling sessions for you in the future, I’m sure you’ll find them beneficial.” Tsukauchi hesitated. “...Did something catch your attention?”

Something did, in fact. Izuku was idly skimming through the content of his father’s profile, and a couple of details were giving him pause. The first was, unsurprisingly, his father’s listed quirk. Fire Breathing.

...nor do I have it printed in bold letters in my personal documents…

Yeah, Izuku wasn’t going to bring that up. The other thing, a little more surprisingly, was his photo.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just… I haven’t seen any photos of my father in a long time.”

“You haven’t seen ‘any photos’ of him?” Tsukauchi cocked his head curiously.

“Yeah… I’ve never met him in person, he travels a lot because of his job and he never has enough time to stop by. I only know what he looks like because of an old photo my mother showed me. I haven’t seen it in years too, so…”

“Only a single photo, uh? And this picture here doesn’t strike you as familiar?”

Izuku observed it more closely... No, he was surely mistaken. “No no, there’s… there’s definitely a resemblance. Mine was a very old photo, taken before I was born. And it wasn’t even a photo of him specifically, he just happened to be in it, at an odd angle and in the middle of a crowd… I’m sure this one is more accurate.”

“Are you still in possession of that photo, by any chance?” All Might chimed in unexpectedly, his bright eyes narrowing slightly.

“Yes, I think so… Hang on, let me check.” Izuku fetched his phone, opened the internet browser… Crap, it really had been a long time since he’d looked at the thing. Back then, he’d saved the file his mother had passed him on a free online storage site that… hopefully still existed? He hadn’t used it in at least four years. Was his account still active? Could he even retrieve the credentials with his current email address? “Uh… Actually, I don’t think I can get it right away. But I printed a copy of it once, it should be at home… somewhere…” Stashed in one of those boxes of old notebooks and magazines on top of his wardrobe, right? Or had it been thrown away when they had moved to their current apartment…? He fiddled with his phone with growing discomfort, acutely aware of the utter unhelpfulness of his babbling.

“We’d certainly be grateful if you could retrieve that photo for us, when you have a minute.” All Might finally conceded, taking pity on Izuku's floundering.

“Sure! I’ll try to find it as soon as I get home.”

“Much obliged.” Tsukauchi flipped quickly through his folder. Izuku was about to ask why the mention of that photo had sparked their interest so much, when Tsukauchi put Hisashi's file back into the folder and closed it with a snap. “Well, I think we’ve covered everything. Again, you’ve been immensely valuable to us, Midoriya.”

Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. All Might positively beamed at him and flashed him a thumbs up, which was its own, heart-warming reward. They all stood up and made to leave, when Izuku remembered he owed the two men a proper thanks.

“Ah, I really appreciate that you used your influence to… to get the papers off my back. It was… unreasonable of me to ask, but I  really  appreciate you humoring my hope for discretion anyway. I hope that it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

Tsukauchi and All Might traded a puzzled glance. 

“We did nothing of the sort, kid. What makes you-” All Might stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Ah! You did mention it yesterday, didn’t you? That you were expecting your friend to expose your quirk…”

“Yes. I… I imagine Kacchan told the journalists, and you took care of, uh, correcting his version?”

“No, no, there was no need to.” All Might waved his hand dismissively. “Your friend didn’t mention you at all. He was on the verge of fainting when you rushed in, he’d been strenuously fighting back against the villain for a while by that time. He was too exhausted to notice your intervention, and you bolted immediately afterwards. He never realized you were there.”

Izuku’s jaw dropped half-way open, but he shut it immediately with an audible click. 

“...Ah.” Kacchan hadn’t realized. The bystanders hadn’t realized. The police hadn’t realized. All Might hadn’t really realized. That meant that no one, no one, would know about his quirk right now… if he hadn’t gone and spilled the beans about it himself. If he hadn’t dumped an unnecessary confession to the number one hero out of sheer, emotional anxiety.

...Boy, that next phone call was going to be one for the ages.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone's Symphony | Day One | Persephone

Hey lovelies— so as per my usual shenanigans I've decided this will have no schedule and that I will play god to my own creation because what is life without some chaos? The pros are you might not have to wait a week between updates, the cons are you might have to wait a week between updates. In all seriousness, please enjoy my lovelies!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: Mentions of death, at times semi-graphic, eventual smut

Word count: 3.1k

Previous | Next

Master List

She can’t hear what the man in the truck says to him— the walls of this house are surprisingly thick. She supposes that’s a good thing. It means she will be able to go about her days normally while cooped up here. Well, as normal as possible. She doubts she’ll be able to get away with her three am rom-com marathons and ice-cream binges. She doubts she’ll get away with screaming in her sleep— and in the shower and at the breakfast table and when doing any, little thing that makes her remember that her life is one, constant nightmare.

It’s only three days— all she has to do is stay awake for three days.

While his head— her body guard’s head— is turned she leans against the kitchen sink, inching back the white lace curtain for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s like a little game at this point. She peeks at him, his eyes snap to hers, and she squeals and drops the curtain. Thank god the walls are thick. It’s almost unnerving how tuned he is to every little movement— not almost, it is unnerving but she supposes that is what makes him a good fit for this job. A good fit for keeping her alive. Like she has been doing for months now, she ignores the way her chest squeezes painfully.

Through the little strip of window that she allows for herself, she traces over his features one last time. Cropped black hair, a square jaw, at least two days worth of stubble. He looks like a bodyguard— rough, dangerous, manly— and that’s before taking into account the sheer size of the man. She is on her tiptoes, one hand pushing against the stainless steel below her for dear life, and she still has to crane her neck to properly see his face. She refuses to let her eyes wander any further than that— she had already glimpsed at the rest of him when he had made the short walk from the truck to the house. She already knows he’s massive.

His eyebrow twitches and she drops the curtain— she may not be as fast as he is but she’s a quick learner. Had she held the curtain open longer she is sure his eyes would have flicked to hers again. Those are the rules of the game, after all. She hears a muted thumping and the door handle jiggle from across the room, spinning towards the faded farmhouse door. She watches as the door handle turns, her throat tight, wondering where all the air in the room went— it was there a second ago.

The door pushes open and she jumps away from the sink, only just realizing what it’ll look like if he comes inside to her still hunched over the window. Of course, he’s already seen her but that’s beside the point. Part of the game is not talking about the game. A boot comes into view— the black, military grade kind— and it hits her like a punch to the gut that this is real— there really is someone out there trying to kill her. Now she really can’t breath. She can only force her lungs to expand to draw in some oxygen before her bodyguard finds her sprawled in an unconscious heap on the ground.

The boot is quickly followed by a leg, which is then, by default, followed by a torso and a head. A head that turns and watches her freeze, red handed like a bandit, in the middle of the kitchen. Gods, she should have just kept leaning against the sink— this is worse! Her hands are up and everything, shot out in front of her like she’s about to jump him or something. Yes, her— the girl currently in a hoodie that pools around her legs, displaying her knobby knees and bad posture— about to jump him— the man who had to practically duck to get through the doorway. She could laugh. In fact, she almost wishes he would laugh at her. She wishes he would do anything but look at her with that blank expression and those ice blue eyes.

“Uhm—” she blinks, trying to think of something to say other than holy shit you’re a giant— which, for the record, is what she wants to say— “hi?”

Are you serious, y/n?

He tilts his head at her and she almost cries. Not the same fear ridden, heartbroken, panicky cries of late. More so the awkward, why the fuck would you say that to the man charged with keeping you alive brand of cries. The normal kind. She drops her hands to her sides, slipping them into the pouch of her hoodie and tangling her fingers together. She can only allow herself to display one embarrassing thing at a time.

The man stays silent for a moment, each second of which makes her cheeks flame hotter and hotter, before finally opening his mouth. “Hi.”

Her chest deflates— some of the heat subsiding. He copied her. Whether purposefully or mockingly it alleviates some of the stupidity she’s feeling. She takes a few steps backwards, her bare feet pittering rather loudly over the worn hardwood. Well, that didn’t last long— there’s that embarrassment again.

“I’m y/n,” she squeaks out— gods, is Mickey Mouse in the building? “I guess you already know that though, huh?”

It was a stroke of genius putting her hands in her pocket— at least now he can’t see the way they shake furiously. She has to resist smashing her head against the sink. Nothing about this situation is optimal, to say the very least. Here she is making small talk with a man who could tear her in half. Her eyes drift to where his red henley pulls taut around his biceps— are they bigger than her head?

“James—” her eyes flick back up, face hotter than the sun, both from her blatant staring and the deep gravel of his voice— “but most people call me Bucky.”

Her eyes widen. She doesn’t know why, probably because she’s an idiot or because she isn’t expecting him to say more than three words. He seems like the strong, silent type. Maybe that is just the rom-coms though. Maybe her brain is just mush now.

“Okay,” she all but whispers, backing further into the sink. His piercing eyes have yet to leave her— something which makes her knees knock together and fingers clench. “Which should I call you?”

He tenses, his dark eyebrows pulling together, and she has to swallow the bile that rises in her throat. It’s day one and she’s already offending him. She pulls her lip between her teeth, biting down until the tangy, metallic taste that she has grown too familiar with these past months floods her mouth. She tells herself that she does it to keep from cursing. Lying to herself is another game she likes to play.

The longer he remains quiet, the more she regrets asking the question. His blue eyes are still latched on her, drifting over the space between her eyes and her busted lip, but somehow they also seem miles away. She can’t tell if he’s looking at her— seeing her— or if he’s seeing something else entirely. It isn’t until she pushes off the counter, taking a hesitant step forward, her foot slapping against the wood like it’s trying to embarrass her again, that he blinks. She pulls one of her hands from the puddle that is her hoodie, sliding it over her hair. Can he see the way it shakes?

Probably.

“Nevermind, forget I asked. It was a dumb ques—”

“Bucky,” the word is rushed out, falling over her own stuttered babbling. He slows after that, his face remaining stoic but his cheeks dusting with the slightest hint of pink. “Call me Bucky.”

She doesn’t point it out— she doesn’t have a death wish. Her being here right now, standing across from a literal giant, barefoot and shaking, is proof enough of that. Instead she nods gently, lowering her hand slowly. He’s not going to attack her— he isn’t a wolf— but still she takes the precaution. Better safe than sorry.

“Bucky it is then.”

He nods stiffly and she pretends like it doesn’t make her hands shake harder. She waits for him to speak, eyes drifting over the blue cupboards and the breakfast nook, taking in the applications of the home and trying not to scream. She feels so out of place, not used to the warmth in the room— the lingering smell of yeast and the flowers in the vase on the table. She used to bake all the time. Now she can barely bring herself to microwave frozen dinners. The sun that filters through the crack in the curtains and lands against her cheek feels like pure fire. She spends her days in the dark— she wouldn’t be surprised if she was allergic to the sun itself now. Allergic to all the things she used to enjoy.

The silence is too much— she has to speak to keep her throat from closing. If she doesn’t then it may not open again.

“So—” she draws the word out, her eyes flopping to the floor where her toe scuffs against a particularly worn board— “we just kinda follow each other around then?”

His face doesn’t change, his lips remaining in the same, expressionless line— a master of one trade. “Pretty much. I follow you.”

“And make sure I don’t die.” She fills the rest in— there’s no point not to. He’s definitely seen the pictures.

Finally his expression shifts, his lips pressing together tersely. It’s an answer in it’s own right— he pities her. He shifts his weight between his feet, the floorboards creaking below him. It could just be her but the sound slices through the room— loud and unforgiving— and she can’t stop the way she flinches. He freezes, obviously noticing her reaction. She almost slaps herself. Leave it to her to make an already tense situation worse. Is it going to be this awkward the entire time?

“You’re not going to die.” His voice is softer than his boots, barely reaching her ears as it cuts through the rigid atmosphere.

She doesn’t know what to say— how do she tell her bodyguard that she doesn’t believe him? He’s supposed to be the one saving her life. It feels risky to suggest that he wouldn’t be able to do that. Like telling the universe that she wants to die. She doesn’t want to die. It’s just hard not to think about death when it follows her everywhere she goes. For twenty-four years she was just y/n. Now look at her.

The queen of death.

She doesn’t know what to say so instead she changes the subject.

“Are you hungry?”

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

She makes grilled cheese for lunch. It is nothing special but the smell of the butter alone makes the energy she has to scrape together to make them worth it. She can’t remember the last time she cooked like this— the last time she tasted anything but freezer burnt macaroni and lumpy gravy. A couple times she almost drops the spatula, her fingers not used to having to be so coordinated, but the promise of melted cheddar has her fighting through the tremors. That and the audience of one, standing next to her with his arms crossed like he’s judging her culinary skills rather than looking for snipers.

It’s all in her head. That’s what she tells herself at least.

“You want extra cheese?”

She can feel Bucky’s eyes on the side of her face— is there something on her cheek? “Sure.”

It’s all in her head.

She flips the sandwiches, watching as the fluffy white bread is replaced with a perfect, golden brown toast. Her stomach growls, the sound somehow louder than the sizzling pan in her hand. The scream bubbles in her throat again— fuck. Why must everything she does be so humiliating? Why can’t she just keep it together for three days!

“Bacon?” Cue the voice crack.

“Bacon?” He repeats the word back like he hasn’t the faintest clue what a pig is— like somehow he’s a giant of a man but has never touched a piece of meat in his entire life.

Like it’s the dumbest question he has ever been asked. She swallows— hard— her cheeks pooling with heat again. She’s starting to wonder if it ever even left. If he asks she’ll blame it on the steam rising off the pan or her hoodie or both. But he won’t ask— he won’t speak until he has to. It did not take her long to gather that fact.

“You’ve never had bacon on grilled cheese?” It feels like he’s glaring at her.

It’s all in her damn head.

The floorboards groan underneath Bucky again and instead of flinching this time she tries to imagine what they might be saying. Save me, he’s crushing me! She flicks her eyes down, glancing at those military grade boots and then at her own toes, tiny and feeble compared to the size of his gear. One wrong step and her foot would likely be broken. She isn’t too worried about that though— he seems careful. His movements thus far have been slow and calculated, skirting around her and leaving at least a few feet between them at all times. Maybe that isn’t to keep from stepping on her though— maybe he just doesn’t like her. She wouldn’t blame him.

“You say it like that’s unheard of.” He doesn’t say it angrily but there’s no exuberance in his voice either— just the monotone she’s come to expect. It’s been one hour and she can already see how the next seventy-one are going to play out.

“Where I’m from it is.”

There’s a pause— the sound of butter crackling against the pan and of the steady picking up of rain against the kitchen window as it eats away at the sunshine— and she’s expecting the conversation to drop there. He isn’t there to entertain her, after all. That’s what the TV is for— what Leonardo DiCaprio is for.

But then there’s an answer. “Where are you from?”

The corner of her mouth lifts— an action so foreign she can practically see the dust shedding from her rusty smile— and she turns from the frypan long enough to meet his icy eyes and to throw out an arm, putting the front of her hoodie on display for the stoic man.

“SoCal.”

Her mouth lifts higher when Bucky raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. He could be mocking her but she chooses to believe he’s interested. She chooses to believe that they are making progress and that she won’t have to spend three days talking to the walls. She turns back to the sandwiches, flipping them for the last time before laying down a few strips of bacon next to them.

She isn’t expecting him to keep going but she also isn’t complaining when his voice tickles her ears again. “Caltech, huh? S’that Pasadena?”

She tries to keep her smile from morphing into a full blown grin— she isn’t sure if her poor lips would be able to handle it. It’s been too long since she last used her mouth this much; both for smiling and talking. “Yes sir— born and raised.”

He hums and she watches from the corner of her eye as he leans to the window, peering out of it for a moment. There’s no one out there— at least she strongly doubts there is. This place is in the middle of nowhere. She hasn’t even heard a car since the truck that dropped Bucky off drove away. It’s supposed to be peaceful. She doesn’t see it. All she sees is the dreadful but necessary silence— at least hopefully that way they’ll hear someone coming.

“How about you? Where are you from—” she flips the bacon, pushing it around the pan, her mouth watering at the thought of the greasy, gooey goodness she’s about to consume— “You mind finding some plates?”

She hears him rummage through the cupboard above his head— well, above her head, in front of his— before two mismatched pieces of dishware appear before her nose. Grabbing them, she lets the corners of her lips tick up just the tiniest bit further.

“Indiana— but spent most of my time in Brooklyn.”

“It shows.” She muses, not turning to see whether or not he appreciates the comment.

It’s true regardless— she can hear some of the mannerisms of New York in his voice. Not many. He hasn’t said enough for her to truly gauge just how strong his accent is. Still it’s there, in the gruffness of his tone, just like she’s sure the SoCal shines through in her. At least it normally does— lately she hasn’t exactly been the picture of sunshine.

She removes the sandwiches from the pan, layering them carefully onto the plates. After staring at them for a moment she settles on the one that she wants, handing Bucky the bigger of the two. It’s only fair— he could probably eat at least four. She watches as the giant gives it a glance, rolling her eyes when he hesitantly lifts it to his lips, taking the smallest of bites. Is he afraid of a sandwich?

“I promise I’m not trying to poison you— I need you to stay alive, remember?”

He only grunts.

She has to turn away when he takes a bigger bite, her eyes refusing to detach themselves from his lips. Unprofessional and inappropriate. The orphan and the bodyguard. She takes a bite of her own sandwich, shoving the thought to the back of her mind and replacing it with the heavenly taste of gooey cheese, melted butter, and greasy bacon. She doesn’t have to dissect the thoughts of her delicious food like she would have to the other ones. Cheese doesn’t require a checklist about whether or not her grief quota is up to code. Clearly it’s not— clearly she’s just sick in the head. She takes another bite.

The two eat in silence for a couple minutes, the tension in the room melting for the first time since she introduced herself. Thank gods for cheese.

After a few more moments Bucky sets his plate down, turning back to the window. At first she thinks she is hearing things— like her mind is now also playing tricks on her as well as making her feel like a terrible person— but then it registers and she has to fight back another inappropriate smile.

“You were right about the bacon.”

Maybe three days won’t be so bad.

____________

Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license​

[theji]

我的世界守则 The Rules of My World: An Analysis

I came across this video while browsing Weibo last night. It was taken during Yibo's rehearsal for his 'The Rules of My World' performance. I've listened to the song countless times and I like it, the rhythm and all, and the dance. But as with many rap music, I don't pay attention to the lyrics. I suddenly realised I don't really know what the song is talking about, save for the few phrases that stood out. That sparked my interest and inspired today's post. I had previously done some analysis of Zhan's songs, so it's Yibo's turn.

Disclaimer: I am not a professional translator or lyricist. And obviously I'm not Yibo nor do I know him personally, so I can't say for sure what the song is really about. The following analysis is purely based on my personal interpretation. It has CPN components. Please skip if you don't believe that BJYXSZD.

'The Rules of My World' is the 2nd song that Yibo penned the lyrics to himself. The fact that he wrote the lyrics is significant and makes the song worth analysing. 2019's 'Wu Gan' was more 'inward-looking'; about Yibo expressing his own thoughts on navigating the entertainment industry. To me, 'The Rules of My World' is him making a statement, a stand, at the same time, he's sending a message to those he cares about - GG and his (real) fans. Yibo released this song on 30 Dec 2020. The timing is interesting cos it like he's summing up his sentiments based on the events that took place during the year. To outsiders, 2020 was a good year for Yibo. He had many endorsements, projects, high exposure, his commercial value rose. But in CPN reality, 2020 was terrible for so many reasons. GG's incident, him being overworked, crazy fan wars and antis etc etc..anyone who cares about Yibo would be delusional to think he had it good last year.

欢迎你们来加入我的世界 (You're welcome to join my world)

入场券上面有正义的光源 (There's a light of justice on the admission ticket)

DD is giving fans an open invitation to enter his world, to understand him as a person and not just an idol. And he also hopes that his world can bring some light to the fans' world, to bring some positivity, encouragement and guidance to them.

此生面对严厉又仁慈的一切 (In this life we'll face harshness but also kindness)

轻松一点，我们一起度过黑夜 (Just relax, together we'll overcome darkness)

In the entertainment world (or life in general), there will be ups and downs, criticisms and compliments. Regardless of what may come, we can overcome any challenges together. Darkness here could also refer to the antis who seem determined to bring GGDD down. This could be a message to fans - to tell them that they don't always have to rush to defend him, and they don't need to retaliate (aka fan wars). It could also be a message to GG, to make a stand of solidarity and to reassure GG that DD will face any challenges alongside him.

新的征途 (A new journey)

愚蠢的，不好相处 (These fools, they aren't easy to get along with)

愚蠢的，不会打住 (These fools, they won't stop)

但衬托明天更耀眼的路 (But they will set off a brighter path for tomorrow)

It was said that DD matured considerably after the 2*7 incident. Took up more responsibility, became more focused on his career and mindful of future advancements etc. Started to take on more serious acting projects and to shift his career trajectory towards something more sustainable and less 'idol'. The new journey could be a reference to this new path. The fools - the antis, those against GGDD - may have caused damage but their actions have also sparked off DD's desire to do better and to find his footing in the entertainment industry. He now has a clearer view of what he wants, the path he wants to take.

我是我的样子 (This is how I am)

我生来就固执 (I was born stubborn)

讲自己的故事 (I'll tell my own story)

活独特的气质 (Living my unique self)

Follow me, 找到自己的价值 (Follow me, find your own value)

不去迎合别人活 才会觉得有意思 (Life is interesting if you don't cater to others)

我的世界不退让 (It's my world I won't give in)

我的世界不退让 (It's my world I won't give in)

Here, DD is being assertive. This is me, I follow my own rules, I'll make my own decisions, I'll forge my own path, I won't be influenced, I won't give up on my beliefs. So antis, capitalists etc can f*ck off.

It could also be seen as an advice to his fans - to follow his lead and live their own lives. This is also something that GG has repeatedly said to fans - to focus on their own lives, personal relationships, studies, careers etc. Don't devote so much time on chasing idols, online fan wars etc.

阳光耀眼 (The sun is dazzling)

乐观地，走向前 (Just move forward with optimism)

阳光耀眼 (The sun is dazzling)

无所谓，多危险 (Doesn't matter how dangerous it is)

阳光耀眼 (The sun is dazzling)

这是我的世界 (This is my world)

我世界的守则，不许你诡辩 (These are the rules of my world, I won't allow any sophistry)

I see this as DD's words of encouragement, to himself and to GG. Despite all the challenges and hardship, darkness will pass and the sun will come out eventually. And it's shining brightly, there is hope left in this world, there's is much to look forward to. So don't fear, be brave and forge ahead.

Sophistry: the use of clever but false arguments, especially with the intention of deceiving

Poor DD is always hit with industry rumours, about him dating his co-stars etc. Last year, someone even made a false police report against him. Just look at the number of statements his company had to put out. There have also always been ongoing rumours about rivalry between GGDD, tales of backstabbing etc, especially in 2020 at the height of the incident. DD is saying that this is his life, his world. No one knows better than the both of them. So to those who don't know better but continue to spew nonsense about his life and relationships and spread hate, know that I don't care about your antics, they don't hurt me but I won't tolerate them as well.

在我世界行走 (Walking in my world)

什么人生主题你透露 (What kind of life theme do you envisage)

是胆大勇猛所向披靡 (Is it to be bold, courageous and invincible)

或胆小逃避钻进壳里 (Or to be timid and escape into your shell)

喧闹倾诉众人party (Is it to pour out your troubles at a rowdy party)

寂寞相思不停地哭泣 (Or to cry silently non-stop out of loneliness and love-sickness)

都欢迎你来我这里 (All are welcome)

只要跟从自己的内心 (So long as you follow your heart)

跟限制和噪音 说一声 bang bang (I'll say 'Bang Bang' to restriction and noises)

怪兽都退散 (Monsters, be gone)

What kind of person am I in your eyes? The cool guy or soft sweet babie Yibo? Here, DD is acknowledging that the public has many different perceptions of him, and fans love different personas of him and he's ok with that. But if you love him, then let him be. Don't try to restrict him, don't quarrel or force him into a certain mould of your preference. He won't hesitate to shoot the haters (monsters) down.

迈出轻盈的步伐 (Take a light step forward)

一声令下 (With a single command)

来宣布 告别孤勇 (To announce a farewell to having to fight alone)

On this new path, with a new-found realisation of what he wants, DD is clear of what he wants to achieve and he is no longer burdened by fear, uncertainties etc. Both GGDD now have each other by their sides, they share a common purpose as they navigate the intricacies of the entertainment industry together and work their way to the top. And I think this is something that we're seeing more in the fandom since end 2020 - GGDD seemingly becoming more bold in their actions and messages they put out (silent or otherwise).

想要做盘旋的龙 (Wanna be a hovering dragon)

还想做懒散的虫 (Or a lazy worm)

别打扰我 走开 没空 (Don't bother me, go away, I have no time for that)

In public, DD is that proud and confident king. He's not a pushover. But behind the cameras, he just wants to chill and relax (and play games). Please don't bother me, give me some privacy to lead my own life, don't tell me what I can or cannot do.

Cue DD's message. He meant it.

Follow me, 找到自己的价值 (Follow me, find your own value)

不去迎合别人活 才会觉得有意思 (Life is interesting if you don't cater to others)

我们永远不退让 (We will never give in)

我们永远不退让 (We will never give in)

This is a repetition of the earlier verse but what has changed is the last 2 lines. From <It's my world I won't give in>, DD now says <We will never give in>. This was actually the first thing that sparked off my CPN, and hinted to me that this song concerns GG in some ways. Who's We? We all know how GGDD almost always use the word 'we' in their CQL promo interviews and bts, as though they come as a package and all views represent both of them as a entity. This also echoes the earlier sentiments - both of them, after the 2020 incident, have developed a steely resolve. They won't let the antis or challenges or societal views hold them back anymore. Their world, their rules. They will fight for their rights and what they believe in, and they are determined to reach their goals.

阳光耀眼 (The sun is dazzling)

乐观地 走向前 (Just move forward with optimism)

阳光耀眼 (The sun is dazzling)

无所谓 多危险 (Doesn't matter how dangerous it is)

阳光耀眼 (The sun is dazzling)

这是我的世界 (This is my world)

我们的世界不会被改变 (Our world will never be changed)

Again, similar to the above 'we' example. From this part of the song onwards, DD is referring to them both. The last line could also be viewed as an affirmation of GGDD's commitment to each other. Whatever is it, our relationship will not change. We will go through it all together.

Don‘t stop, get it, get it

Let me see you work up on it

Don’t stop, get it, get it

Let me see you all up on it

Let me see you work up on it

Don‘t stop, get it, get it

Don't stop

Hey

I interpret this as DD's words of encouragement to GG. Like don't stop fighting, continue to work hard towards your (our) goals. Go for it, you can do it!

在我的世界 (In my world)

本能很关键 (Instinct is the key)

坚持自己 (Stay true to yourself)

就是你们的世界 (It is your world)

DD's parting words to fans: to stay true to oneself, to build and enrich your own worlds, to fight for your goals, like how he is trying.

Well, I had fun working on this. Maybe I'll do Wu Gan another time. Reminded me of literature class during my schooling days, although I never did Chinese literature back then. Feel free to share your thoughts on the song with me. =D

[remmushound]

Bay/rise 25!! @brightlotusmoon @errorfreak88 @selfindulgenz

“COWABUNGA!”

That simple cry was all it took for the mutants and the soldiers they were locked in combat with to stop fighting. Their eyes searched a short while until they saw four more figures jumping from the rafters armed with sai, nunchaku, Bo, and odachi.

“My beautiful experiments!” Draxum gasped, then tossed Raph and Donnie aside like toys he was bored with. 

The four mix-matched ninjas landed in a semi-decent formation, more for drama than any useful fighting technique. Cassandra saw Leo’s bewildered expression and took advantage of it to smack him over the head with the wooden part of her weapon before flipping away. 

“Ah— what are you doing here?” Leo growled and rubbed his head.

“Saving you guys!” Leonardo shot back out of impulse, then quickly withdrew with a softer, “Uh— I— I think?”

“Draxum!” 

Michelangelo squeaked and ran over to hug the yokai. Draxum grunted at the tight squeeze and his expression turned into a shamefaced, almost haunting look. He didn't seem to know what to do, not returning the hug but not quite pushing the box turtle away either.

“How’d you get here? You came to help us! Oh! I knew you would!” Michelangelo nuzzled into Draxum’s chest.

“Drax, daaaaaamn.” Leonardo whistled. “Looking Fine ~”

“Where’d you get the cool armor Drax?” Raphael asked excitedly.

“And more importantly, are they still producing them?” Donatello poked out from behind Raphael, “because I am interested!”

“I…” Baron Draxum brought his hands carefully to Michelangelo’s carapace, looking around at the gallery of other turtles and then to Cassandra who looked on with an almost heartbroken expression. Baron then snapped his attention back to Michelangelo, pulling his lips back in a snarl. “Don’t you dare touch me, vile traitor!”

Michelangelo looked up at Baron with wide, confused eyes. Draxum didn't let himself witness the sadness and heartbreak in them as he tossed Michelangelo hard. 

“MIKEY!” The rise brothers all cried out at once.

Michelangelo didn't try to catch himself. He let the impact come full force. The crack of his carapace against stone almost seemed to break Draxum’s heart in two, but he didn’t let it show. His face remained stagnant.

“Now fight, worthless terrapins! Like I made you for!”

“Draxum…?” Michelangelo’s voice was softer than a whisper, mixed with a sniffle as tears fell from his eyes and trailed down his beak. For a few seconds of shock shared between all present, the only sound was heavy breathing and the steady trickle of tears as they fell to the cold stone.

The sound that broke the silence was a roar of pure rage as Raphael brought his fist down hard on Baron Draxum’s cheek and sent the yokai slamming into the far wall, leaving an indent where his body had collided. Draxum, stunned by the blow, could only watch in mounting horror as the snapping turtle roared once more, not unlike a dinosaur from an old movie. His eyes were glossed over white, frothy foam flying out of his mouth as his breaths came heavy and labored. Raphael dug his feet into the floor for a second before charging Draxum at an incredible speed.

Cassandra gasped. “Master!” 

She was on Raphael’s trail the minute he started to charge. Her mind worked faster than a bumble bee, locking onto the bandages wrapped around the turtle's shell and remembering the damage her master had done to him. She angled her naginata to strike him in that same area for optimal damage, but her blade was intercepted by another.

“I got your back, Raph!” Leonardo locked his odachi with her bent naginats so neither of them could go anywhere.

Raph tried to charge back into the fray.

“Wait.” Leo held out his arm to stop Raph, “I wanna see something…”

Raph and Donnie reluctantly stood by their leader and watched the other turtles as they took on the yokai and the human general. Draxum overcame his shock in just enough time to launch himself out of Raphael’s war path. He didn't dare try to take on the snapper in his state— not hand-to-hand anyway. He grabbed the snapper’s legs with his vines to try and hold him back, but they were little more than a nuisance to Raphael who snapped them with ease.

Cassandra finally broke free of the stalemate with Leonardo by dropping suddenly and trying to ankle-swipe, but Leonardo was ready for her and flipped away into a quick recovery.

“Dang girl! You should totally join a circus!” 

Leonardo ducked as Cassandra tried to swing at him, dodging the speeding attack with a slide that came natural to him. He turned his duck into a charge, slamming hard into Cassandra’s stomach to knock her off balance before speeding away from her attempted counterattack.

“You’d be great at the trapeze!”

Cassandra chased after him, trying to corral him into a corner. Leonardo didn't dare stop once he got his momentum going, and when it came time for what should have been an impact, he jumped and flipped off the wall, completely missing Cassandra. Unable to stop in time, Cassandra hit the wall rather hard. Leonardo already knew what was going to happen when he landed, and so he prepared for the ouch as his feet slid out from under him and he slammed into the hard stone.

“Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow!” He scrambled to his feet and sped away.

Leo whistled. “Good move on his part. Could improve his landing though.” Some small part of him simmered with jealousy at how easy the slider could manage the soldier that Leo himself could barely land a hit on.

When Cassandra shook off her mistake, she did just as Leonardo had expected and reared her weapon into the air while shouting, “You dare make a mockery of the Foot Clan?!”

Her question gave Donatello enough time to swoop past, while Cassandra’s eyes were still locked in a bloodlust against Leonardo, and he snatched the mystic orb from her belt.

“I’ll take that!”

Cassandra had to do a double take to figure out what had happened before she growled and changed her target to charge at Donatello.

“GIVE THAT BACK!”

Donatello was fast, but not as fast as Leonardo. The slider did a wide turn and zoomed past to side-check Cassandra and make her slip before she could reach his brother. Leonardo snatched the orb from Donatello, circling the warehouse once more.

“HEADS UP!”

He tossed the ball up to the platform where April watched, and the kunoichi dove to catch the speeding artifact, ignoring the pain still radiating through her as it landed safely in her hands.

Donatello was handling Cassandra okay enough, and so Leonardo's next target was his youngest brother.

“Miguel! We could really use your help out here!”

Michelangelo hadn’t moved from his stunned position, his eyes still glazed over with tears. “Draxum…”

Leonardo gave a nervous whine, his eyes shooting every which way to take in the current situation before he grabbed his brother’s hands and yanked him up, forcing him into focus.

“Come on, Mike, you know drill! Let’s knock that renegade out the rafters!”

Leonardo spun quick circles; he gripped Michelangelo hard as his brother's feet left the ground. Leonardo couldn’t get nearly as much force into the toss as Raphael could whenever they played the brother ball technique, so he had to rely on pure speed and luck. And he was the luckiest one out there! Leonardo went through the calculations in his mind, humming the countdown in Spanish until he got to uno and let Michelangelo fly.

“DON! BROTHER BALL!”

Draxum was too focused on the snapping Raphael to notice the speedball headed his way. His hooves found footing easily on the rafters, dancing between the beams with a perfect balance as he angled attacks downward. Michelangelo slammed into Draxum’s back with a solid clang of keratin and metal that sent both falling.

Donatello broke from his spar with Cassandra and ran forward for the recovery, holding the wooden staff high. Michelangelo popped out of his shell when the time was right and grabbed a hold of the staff, Donatello lifting him safely away from impacting the ground. Draxum, however, landed full force.

“Nice save, Don!” Leonardo whistled as he sped past, readying himself to jump right back into the battle.

Draxum knew when to call it quits, and now was the time. His vines pulled from the ground and created a pink rift, which he promptly grabbed Cassandra and heaved her through. Raphael attempted one last charge, but Draxum was already gone and so was the portal.

[sanktnikolais]

lost in the echo

A/N: this was supposed to be posted some time later before the actual release of Rule of Wolves, but it’s been released early so :>

or me just finding an excuse to write demon Nik going feral after seeing Zoya hurt :>

Word count: 3591

The King continues to fight his battle with his own demon. After seeing his General hurt in the war that they had fought tooth and nail for, Nikolai is one step closer to letting the darkness consume him.

Pain. 

          It was something that Nikolai knew so well and yet he could never get used to it. Whether it was entirely physical or emotional, it was always there, lurking and lingering like his own shadow. 

          Why? 

          The question came to his mind as another shout tore from his throat. It sounded almost like a wail, a desperate call for help. For himself? For his people? For everyone else that died in every war the country had been under for centuries? 

          For Ravka? 

          A head-splitting ache hit him, and he doubled over. He held onto the feeling, that one fleeting moment he felt the ground under his hands, before he was back to trying to regain control again. But despite the war for control in his mind, he realized that for once, there was one thing he and the demon shared the same sentiment—revenge. 

          For what? 

          Images flashed in his eyes. A shade of blue rushing towards him. A crack of gunshot. Blood. The excruciating pain in his chest. 

          Then nothing. 

          You cannot even protect and save her, young king. 

          There was another piercing pain in his chest, and this time, it felt like his heart was being torn out from his chest as he remembered looking at Zoya’s frail, bleeding form in his arms—

          Zoya? Did something happen to her?

          At that, the demon pushed back for control. The urge—the need—to destroy everything in his path was suddenly stronger than his will to get back to himself. Fury was the only thing driving him forward. Nothing else mattered.

          Yield, demon king, there's nothing else you can do for her, the monster said. Let the darkness come and take over.

          Nikolai closed his eyes and calmed.

          Let go. 

          He felt the monster’s claws on his shoulders, its grip tightening as the shadows slowly shrouded him in a veil of hushed whispers and angry voices. It felt almost natural, like welcoming a long lost friend after being apart for so long. Because in reality, he never really got free from the darkness the Darkling inflicted upon him; it chose the right time to let itself show again, when he was backed in a corner without any means of escape aside from accepting the demon that lurked within his heart. 

          Perhaps it was the main reason why it never left him, so he would have a last resort to turn to when things left him with no other choice. 

          All else faded to a blur, and then to darkness, his thoughts flitting away as if they were mere leaves easily carried by the winds until there was nothing left other than rage. 

          Talons extended from his scarred hands again, followed by the sound of an inhuman growl coming out from his lips. His wings burst from his back, and he braced his feet on the ground to launch himself in the air—

          Giving up so easily, King Wretch? 

          He froze. That voice—it sounded so familiar. Where had he heard it? He was sure he knew it. 

          A heavy feeling stirred in his chest, the nagging sensation of something begging to be released, to be free. He held on to that, a small speck of light amidst the endless darkness. For a moment, his mind quieted. Even the demon stayed silent, lurking. Listening. 

          It came again shortly after. This is not who you are. 

          But who was he? The nagging feeling became heavier and stronger as if something was forcing its way out and trying to escape whatever confines caged it down. 

          An irritated hiss escaped his mouth. It had come from the demon, the sound coming out like it was in pain. The question still lingered in his mind. Who was he? 

          The claws around his shoulders loosened, the shadows started to dissipate. He could still feel the monster reach out for them, but this time, he himself was holding back. 

          Who was he? 

          Come back to me, Nikolai. 

          Then there was like the sound of a glass shattering, and everything came rushing back to him. 

          Nikolai opened his eyes and fought back. 

          As he had expected, the monster tried to pull him back, its grip on him becoming much stronger than before. Still fighting the losing battle, young king? 

          He gritted his teeth. He knew the monster was goading him, throwing him off by telling him he was already losing. But he also knew it was starting to get weaker fighting against his sudden, newfound strength that allowed him to resurface again. 

          And it definitely didn't know how many times he had been backed to a corner and yet still found a way out. 

          Yield, the demon demanded again. 

          "I am the King of Ravka," he said, his voice hoarse from the demon's control but it was nevertheless his. "I do not yield to anyone." 

          But then the monster decided to show him his failure: Zoya taking the bullet that was meant for him. 

          For a moment, his will faltered, and the demon grabbed the chance to push the knife deeper into his resolve—into his heart. 

          You cannot do anything for her.  

          A shout of pure anguish tore from his throat as his mind focused on the person that mattered the world to him. 

          Zoya saving him from falling in the Fold. Zoya staying up with him most nights to grudgingly help him with the ton of correspondence. Zoya defending them from the dukes that dared to insult them during political gatherings. Zoya staying in his chambers and holding his hand tightly when his fears got the better of him. 

          Zoya, always Zoya.

          And yet you failed her. 

          The shadows overwhelmed him again, suffocating him. He knew he must fight them back but his resolve started crumbling again. 

          It was no use. He failed her. He failed her like he had failed Dominik, and then Alina. 

          Now everyone else. 

          And yet a small part of him still pushed back and never believed Zoya was gone. Because he would know. She was the other half of his soul, the other end of the red string tied around his wrist. There wasn't a single thing that she wasn't to him. 

          She was all and everything more.

          "She's still alive," Nikolai growled, and he felt the demon flinch like it had been burned. "I have not failed her. Only at the untimely end of my short life will I ever stop protecting her, then I will continue doing so in the next one I’ll live." 

          The monster cackled, and it could only do so much as its grip on him loosened again. He pushed back, feeling its clutches around him go weaker and weaker. 

          Come back, her voice from the day he took the thornwood to his heart echoed in his mind again, and he held onto it like his lifeline. Promise you'll come back to us. 

          Come back to me, Nikolai. 

          "I will." 

          The demon let out an angry hiss, the last threads of its ties around him snapping, and it grudgingly shrunk back to whatever darkness it hid. 

          Then there was nothing. 

***

There was still pain when Nikolai finally opened his eyes. But it was more of the physical rather than the one inside his heart. 

          His vision swirled as it slowly adjusted to the surroundings. The sky was bathed in a bright orange glow, the first signs of the approaching nightfall. It was when he realized that he was lying on the ground somewhere in the middle of the woods. 

          He sat up, but immediately regretted it when pain shot up to his side, making him stop his movements. Where was he? And how did he get here? 

          As if to answer his question, his head throbbed, and it hurt enough for him to double over to his side. Everything tilted sideways again. 

          "Saints," Nikolai groaned. He blinked several times to clear his vision, and when it adjusted again, he stopped. 

          Amidst the dimming light from the sky and the dark scars on his hands, he saw a single thread of a blue ribbon clutched in his palm. 

          The memory flashed back in his mind. Zoya fighting beside him. Zoya pushing him out of harm's way. Zoya bleeding in his arms. Zoya's hand falling from where she touched his face. 

          Zoyazoyazoyazoya—

          "Zoya." Nikolai's voice trembled when he called her name. "Zoya!" He looked around wildly, as if she would appear in front of him, alive and well, scowling at him and demanding him where he had been. But she didn't. 

          Tears fell from his eyes. Find her. He pushed up to his feet, forcing himself to stay upright, though his surroundings were swaying. 

          Find her. 

          Tying the blue ribbon around his wrist, he limped forward. And even when his body screamed in pain, he continued on. There was no assurance that he was going in the right direction, but it was better than staying put and not doing anything. Nikolai would trust his instincts. 

          Find her. 

          The woods seemed to be endless, the cluster of trees becoming thicker as he walked deeper into the forest. He didn’t know how long he had been walking—minutes? Hours? Days? He didn’t know. His foot found an uneven surface on the ground, and Nikolai stumbled forward. "She's alright," he hissed through the pain that shot up to his hands when he fell. With another growl of frustration, he repeated, "She's alright."

          She had to be. He didn’t know what he would do if she wasn’t. 

          “I’m coming back to you, Zoya,” he said, his voice breaking as he tried not to think of the worst case scenario that made another wave of tears fall from his eyes. He tried to push back up to his feet, but the images of Zoya looking so small and so frail in his arms kept appearing in his mind, and it made him feel weaker than he already was. “I’m coming back to you.”

          Get up, then, he chastised through his lamenting. Get up and find her. 

          Whatever strength he had before was slowly fading, dissipating into the thin air. The thought of seeing Zoya again was the only thing driving him forward. He wasn’t going to let go of that smallest sliver of hope he had in his heart, but its spark that continued to light his path was dwindling the more he tried to stay optimistic.

          Optimism was his strong suit, but it could also be the one to bring down the axe and shatter his heart for being too hopeful. 

          “She’s alright,” Nikolai repeated, but the saints knew how it was getting harder for him to convince himself that she was. His next words came out in a desperate, begging sob. “Zoya, please.”

          The blue ribbon around his wrist caught his gaze, the sight of it causing another sob from his throat. He clutched it to his chest as the sobs continued to rack out from his body. The helplessness he was feeling overpowered his logic. This wasn’t the time to grieve over things that he wasn’t sure of yet. But for someone who had always used his heart over his head, he could only do so much not letting his emotions take over. 

          It’s not you to let your guard down and quit, Lantsov, her voice came again, steady and strong like her will to set things right, the personality that Nikolai had grown to love dearly. Oh, how he wished to hear her voice again. Up on your feet, Your Highness. 

          A huffed laugh escaped his lips through his tears. Even in his imagination, she lingered. He really was a goner for her. 

          With the last ounce of strength he had, he willed his tears to stop and forced himself back up to his feet. He would come back to her. He would always come back to her, even if it meant fighting another thousand lifetimes and wars. Anything for her. 

          Nikolai took the path forward again. He hadn't gone that far when there was a rustle of leaves somewhere nearby. There wasn't a time for him to find a place to hide when there were suddenly people coming out from the bushes in front. 

          One moment he was standing upright, then the next second he was doubling over, gasping for breath. He fell down to his knees with his hand braced on the ground and the other on his chest. 

          "What—" He stopped. Grisha. 

          There was a series of clicks that followed, and the feel of the barrel of a rifle being trained at his temple. 

          "Identify yourself." 

          If Nikolai wasn't being deprived of his ability to breathe, he knew he still would stop breathing when he heard the voice. Tears stung his eyes, and it wasn't because of being suffocated to death. 

          Could it be—

          He lifted his head up. His current state made it very difficult, but he forced his way through the restrain. 

          And when his eyes met with the familiar blue ones that always appeared in his dreams, Nikolai felt as if he could breathe freely again. 

          Her grip on her powers faltered, and he drew in a breath when his airway cleared. 

          She's alive.

          The soldier holding the gun to his head sprung back, going down on his knees instantly with his rifle to the ground. His other First Army companions followed suit, but Nikolai couldn't acknowledge them, not when his mind had tunneled to focusing on her, and only her. 

          Tamar and Tolya stood their ground, relief obvious on their expressions, though there was still a lingering suspicion in their eyes. 

          His legs trembled as he slowly stood up. She's alive. Tears stung his eyes again, and he didn't bother to hold them back. He didn't care if the King of Ravka was crying openly. He didn't care if it was in front of his soldiers that expected him to be the tough figurehead he was supposed to be. 

          There was only one thing that mattered to him right now. 

          Nikolai took a step forward, his heart in his throat. His voice trembled when he called her name. "Zoya—"

          Tamar held out an axe and pointed it at him, making him stop abruptly. Confusion clouded his mind when he stared back at the woman, and then at Zoya. 

          Her eyes were bright, the longing in them not unnoticeable by him, who had been too blind to see the same looks being sent his way ever since he announced his engagement. What an utter fool, he was. 

          Zoya lifted her chin, the stoic face of the General of Ravka returning, and her voice was shaking when she said, "How do we know it's you?" 

          Nikolai huffed a laugh. Of course, precautions first before anything. He gave her a grin through his tear-stained face. "Is there any other king this handsome and idiotic and also afraid of spiders in suit?" he said. It was nonsense and he didn't know what else he could say. He just desperately wanted to run to her and pull her in his arms. "Should I retell the time I once tried to butcher geese?" 

          There was a short silence, and then he heard Zoya let out a disbelieving breath, but there was only an obvious relief on her expression. She looked tired; her bloodshot eyes gave away the worry she’d seemed to have since he disappeared, and her slightly pale skin and strained only meant she was still reeling from her injury. 

          And yet when he looked at her, he couldn’t think of anything else to describe her other than beautiful.

          Tamar let out a light laugh and lowered her axe. Her face softened when she gave him a smile and a nod, mouthing, "Good to see you, Your Highness."

          He mirrored her smile with his own before he turned his attention back to Zoya, his heart reaching out to her, the missing piece he had been finding for a long time. But she was already running towards him, her steps rushed as if the world would crumble down under her feet if she didn't reach him fast enough. 

          Nikolai met her halfway, his arms wide open as their bodies collided in a tight embrace, and finally, his heart was whole again. 

          She’s alright. She’s breathing. She’s alive. 

          “You’re alright,” he said, burying his face to her hair. He felt her arms tighten around his neck, and the feel of her warmth against him only made it clear that this was real. Another sob racked his body when he said, “Oh, saints. You’re alive.”

          Zoya let out a tired laugh. “You’re a mess,” she said against his neck as her hand came to clutch at his back. “You were gone for most of the day so I guess it’s only fair.”

          Nikolai pulled away just enough to look down in her eyes, seeing the old fire that never stopped burning even at their worst times, the same one that he thought was extinguished when she saved his life. She had always been the light to his darkness, the healing to his pain, and he vowed he would keep it that way even if he had to give his life over and over again.

          He reached a hand to her cheek as his eyes searched her face. “I thought I lost you,” he breathed, his voice coming out broken when another wave of tears hit him. His vision blurred. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.” 

          She closed her eyes and turned her face to his palm, her fingers coming around his wrist to rub soothing circles to his pulsepoint. “You worry too much,” she said. There was a smirk on her lips that she usually had, and it washed away the worry off her face. But the moment was short-lived, because she was suddenly heaving, her eyebrows knitting tightly together as if she were in pain. Her hand tightened on his wrist as a tear fell from her closed eyes. And then in a broken whisper, she said, “I thought I lost you too.”

          “I guess we both worried for each other so much today,” Nikolai murmured, resting his forehead against hers. He brought his other hand to her face and closed his eyes as well. “I’m here now.” 

          “You weren’t there when I woke, Nikolai,” said Zoya. Tears he never thought he would see her shed again fell freely from her eyes. “They said you were gone and I couldn’t do anything—”

          “Zoya, Zoya, my love,” he said, tilting her face up to his, and she opened her eyes. There was both fear and desperation in them, the same one she had when her amplifiers broke in the Fold. He gave her reassuring smile. "You saved me. Just like always." He gently wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. "You did everything you can, and it gave me another chance to live. Never forget that." 

          Zoya searched his eyes frantically, possibly to see if there were some underlying lies in his words. But if there was something Nikolai didn't want to do, it was to lie to her. They had faced enough problems to fill up for their next lives, shed blood and tears fighting for their forsaken country, for them just to let lies hang between them as their thread to keep them together. 

          They were the King and the General. The Too-Clever Fox and the Stormwitch. Nikolai and Zoya. 

          They were two halves of a whole, the one wouldn't function well without the other. 

          Together, they completed each other. 

          Without any more hesitation in her eyes, Zoya pulled him down to her level and pressed her mouth to his. 

          It was like coming home, the warm and light feeling in your chest when encountering something so familiar, and it was all Nikolai could have dreamed how kissing Zoya Nazyalensky would be like. 

          Years of longing stares and stolen glances and conversations that had hid their true feelings flowed through their kiss, the love they had been trying to hide burning brighter than any light that shone in the night. 

          Nikolai was aware of the people around them, of what they could have been thinking as they witnessed the king and his general crossing the line they had set for themselves, and yet he didn't care. Neither of them did. He buried his hand to her hair as his other arm snaked around her waist to pull her even closer to him, and Zoya responded by kissing him deeper, her lips opening under his. 

          The war was still ongoing but they could have this one stolen moment for just the two of them. 

          A moment that had been long overdue.

          When the need for air became stronger than the taste of each other's lips, Nikolai reluctantly pulled away, resting his forehead back to hers. She still had her eyes closed and he could feel her breaths ghosting on his lips.

          "I love you," Zoya said, and it left him floored in euphoria after hearing those sweetest words from her mouth. She opened her eyes to look back at him. "I love you so much." 

          He huffed a laugh, feeling as if his heart would burst with all his love for her any second. This was more than he could have asked for. With a contented sigh, he said, "I love you too, General."

          And when he met her halfway as she pulled him down to kiss him again, Nikolai finally felt the one thing he had always longed for. 

          Peace. 

[the-sympathetic-villain]

U!patton and Remus for the Remus prompt. my friend and I had an idea where Patton forces Remus to wear a muzzle so he can’t talk

Okay, I don't know how to write short prompts so I went a little overboard on this. I also threw in some protective Janus just for fun. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! <3

Pure Thoughts

Description: Remus makes his way over to the light side of the Mindscape to patch up his relationship with Virgil, but he doesn't quite make it to his friend.

Characters: Remus, Patton, Janus, Virgil and Logan Mentioned Pairings: Platonic Dukeciet Word Count: 3256 Warnings: Remus-Type Content (Sexual Innuendo, Somewhat Graphic Descriptions, Etc), Threats, Attempted Erasing of a Side, Swearing, Death mention, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, Unsympathetic Patton (Let me know if I missed anything!)

---

Remus poked his head into the dim, empty corridor of the mindscape, pausing to check for the other sides before tiptoeing around the corner. Any other night, he'd be making his way down the hall with cymbals on the feet and a kazoo in his mouth, but tonight was the night to be covert. For once, he was actually trying not to be noticed, and notably, he was succeeding. Which was as perfectly satisfying as his pet eldritch demon's tentacle slime, because the last time he'd made one of his more spectacular entrances in their shared spaces, the Microsoft Nerd™ had nearly blown a gasket.

He'd lectured Remus for nearly forty-five minutes about ‘optimal sleep schedules’ and ‘the importance of brushing your teeth’ or whatever the dork had been saying. Quite frankly, Remus hadn't been listening. Learning from his mistakes wasn't exactly his jam, and if nerdy Wolverine’s brain was too full of Crofter’s to have realized that, that seemed like a him problem.

Besides, that was the past. Right now, the future seemed so much juicer. His fabulously favorite emo had eased up on his prickly sarcasm enough to give him a chance to talk things out, and as ambivalent as he may pretend to be, he wasn’t going to pass on the opportunity to make amends with his old friend. He wanted to salvage any small piece of their damaged relationship, so here he was, sneaking into the light sides' half of the mindscape to duke it out with his anxious nightmare.

The only challenge left was passing the other light sides’ rooms. Virgil's room of course had of course moved to the farthest corner of their space, making it the most difficult to reach without being noticed. Of course, he could make it easy if he cut across the common room. That way,  he'd miss Roman’s room entirely and the only one he'd have to worry about was—

“Hey, kiddo.”

Remus head spun on his shoulder to the sound of Patton’s voice. The usually friendly father figure's familiar voice filled the room with a soft kind of seriousness that sent shivers down Remus' spine. The chill in Patton's voice was new and unsettling, but still, Remus cracked a cocky grin as he stared into the shadows and waited for Patton's lecture. After a moment, the lamp on the far side of the room clicked on to reveal a seriously scary looking frown on Patton’s face. Remus straightened upright as a tingling of fear crept up his arms. The creep factor of the amber lighting alone would have put Remus' own efforts to shame, but this was Patton.

Pun-loving, puppy cuddling Patton.

Patty boy’s harmless.

Right?

Remus swallowed nervously before summoning up his usual carefree front and staggering across the soft carpet. “Hey, Padre. Sorry, if you were looking for a late night suck, but I'm actually in a bit of a hurry. Maybe later—”

“Language, Remus.”

Remus stalled at the coldness in Patton’s tone. He licked his lips. The hostility in the air was nearly palpable as Remus stared across the room, trying to get a gauge on this new side Patton. It wasn't often one of the other sides left Remus speechless, but he was unsure of how to react to such an open display of hostility, especially from the side whose entire being was rigged toward being nurturing. Oh, well. There wasn't much else for him to do and he was on a schedule tonight. Remus let out a breath, falling back on familiar habits as an attempt to cover his exit. “Don't get your panties in a bunch, Patty daddy. I know you’re not the type blow and go without a sticky emotional mess, but you don’t have to worry—”

“You’re not going, Remus.”

Remus’ grin faltered at the finality in Patton’s voice, biting his lip as he eyed the direction of Virgil's room. “Um, what?”

“Virgil’s been doing so good.” Patton growled as he rose to his feet. Remus' feet felt like lead holding him in place while Patton moved to block his way. “I finally got my kiddo realizing how toxic you are to him and I’m not going to let you play with him anymore.”

Remus' mustache twitched with displeasure at the insinuation, though a part of him wasn't denying Patton's brusque statement. “Listen, Pattycake. As well as you play the daddy dom role, Virgil asked for me to come and I don’t see where this is your business, so I'll just be—"

“Virgil needs help knowing what's good for him.” Patton continued as a deep hatred started to burn in his eyes. “and that isn't you, Remus.”

Remus brushed him off, starting towards the door. He'd only made it a few steps before Patton waved his hand the door disappeared. Defensiveness turned to frustration as he reeled on Patton. “You can't just—”

“Go back to the whole where you belong before force you into your place.”

Remus froze as Patton's stomp connected with the ground, sending a shiver across his skin as the particles of his body destabilized. A choking breath caught in his throat and his hands shot to his chest in a manic frenzy as his body solidified again. He glanced up at the dangerous sparkle in Patton's eye. Remus was alive for now, but he got the feeling Patton wasn’t done with him yet.

“Hold on, Pat. Let's talk about this—” A bead of sweat dripped down Remus temple as he began stepping away from the door. His hands lingered in the air as he tried to reason with Patton. “—I thought we were good. The human pocket protector told you it was best to play nice with me. I get you don't like me, and it don’t have to be an orgy or nothing, but you can't just piss all over the nerd's hypoth—”

���Shut up.”

Remus sucked in a sharp breath as a black, leather muzzle appeared over his face. The leather molded to his skin as his hands shot to his face in a sudden manic moment of fear. Desperately, he pulled at the leather with all the force he could muster as the glowing rage in Patton’s eyes slowly backed him into a corner.

“I'm sick of you bullying Logan and dragging Virgil down.” The lights in the room flickered as Patton cried out and shoved Remus to the ground. “I don't care what Thomas says or Logan thinks. You don’t deserve to stay. Thomas is better off without you."

Remus hesitated. His hands lingered on the muzzle as his eyes flitted the door back to his own room. He knew he could retreat to his own room, but the idea of letting Virgil think he’d stood him up gave him pause. The choice was made for him a moment later when  Patton’s power vibrated in the air and Remus let out a muffled cry as he felt his being wavering. The particles of his body began to weaken and fade as his resistance crumbled. He was unable to push back or even speak as Patton started to force him into the subconscious.

“Virgil will be disappointed when he realizes you forgot about him,” Patton whispered as Remus tipped his head up to meet the horrifying smile spread across Patton's face. “but he'll understand once you’re gone. I'll make sure he knows how bad you really are.”

Panic shot to Remus’ heart as he clutched at his fading body, choking as the muzzle as it grew tighter on his lips.

“I should have put that muzzle on you years ago." Patton’s laugh cracked in his ear. “Your silence is music to my ears. Finally, we can be good. Thomas can be good without you hear to ruin—"

“Is everything okay in here?”

Remus let out a heaving breath as his body hit the ground. He clutched his hands to his body, feeling around to make sure he was still fully there as Patton's grip loosened on him.

“Mind your own business, Janus.”

“Remus is my business. You made it clear years ago that he is my responsibility.” A flicker of worry flashed over Janus' eyes as Remus glanced up to him, but his gaze remained cold and distant as he maintained eye contact with Patton. “In fact, I think I'll be taking him now.”

Remus fingers raised to his lips as Patton’s muzzle fell away at Janus’ snap. His body was numb as Janus moved between him and Patton, extending a hand down to him. Remus swayed, staring at the fury in Patton's eyes as Janus pulled him to his feet.

“You have no right—”

“I think you'll find that I'm quite within my rights to do as I please.” Janus muttered as he absently brushed the dust from Remus’ shirt and shot a deathly glare at Patton. "but if you want to test that theory, I have no problem getting Thomas involved.”

Patton growled his discontent as Janus stepped forward to shield Remus from Patton's gaze. The silence hung over them, weighing heavy on Remus' shaking body, until the air shifted and Patton took a step back. “Keep him away from Virgil or I may not be so forgiving next time.”

“Don’t worry. You've won this battle, Morality, but I hope you know that Virgil will start to question your iron grip on him eventually. I taught him better than to simply follow others.” Janus muttered bitterly. His head bowed in reluctant acceptance of Patton's good grace, though his voice remained rebellious as their eyes remained locked together. “ He will not accept your word on blind faith.”

“Virgil will learn not to question me when he realizes how toxic you are to him. He can be molded into something better, unlike the cretin you're using so much of your dwindling energy to protect.” Patton spat as he turned to the door. “Now, go back to your hole before I change my mind."

“Remus, go.” Janus shoved him to the door.

“But—”

“For once in your life, don’t argue with me.” Janus muttered as he guided the shell-shocked Remus back to the dark sides' hallway. His voice dropped after a few steps and he glanced down at Remus. “Not a single word until he can't hear us. Got it?”

Remus nodded, still numb as Janus dragged him toward his own room. He could hear Janus’ breathing become heavy as he guided Remus through the narrowing hallways with an unnatural speed, not stopping until they reached Remus' black door at the end of the hallway.

“Jan—”

“Not yet, Re.” Janus whispered as he cast one last suspicious glance down the empty hallway before shoving Remus inside the narrow door frame.

“Janus, what the h—”

Remus' diatribe was knocked out of him as Janus' body slammed into his chest. He froze as Janus' arms curled around him, unsure of how to process the man's tight grip. He tensed, ready to struggle when he realized Janus was actually hugging him.

“Are you hurt?”

“What? No—” Remus whispered. His body went limp as released him enough to look him up and down. “I'm—I'm fine, Jan.”

“I'm going kill that self-righteous bastard.” Janus seethed. His grip on Remus' shoulders tightened as he stared past Remus to the closed door. “How dare he threaten you—”

“Janus—”

“—and especially when you were actually working to make things right with Virgil—"

“I don’t—” Remus blinked as Janus' words registered in his mind. "Wait, how did you know that's what I was—"

“I mean, where does he even get off thinking he can control Virgil's life without his input anyway?" Janus growled, gesturing abruptly to the door. "Virgil isn’t some helpless child. He’s able to make his own decisions—"

“Am I on fucking mute or something?”

“—and you!” Janus spat, gesturing towards the Remus. Remus immediately flinched at Janus' anger, though he wasn’t sure what he'd done to deserve the lying side's ire. “He could have killed you—”

"What?" Remus flailed as Janus grabbed the collar of his shirt like a disobedient child. “Hey, that's not fair! I didn’t know that Pattoncake was secretly a sadist—”

“You should have been more careful—"

Remus' head reeled as Janus spun him around, but he managed to stifle his nausea long enough to shout at Janus. “Jan—For fuck's sake, either fuck me or take my head off your fucking chopping block—”

Janus blinked, finally taking in Remus' red face as he swayed uneasily in Janus' grip. “What?”

"Listen, I like it rough and all but if I knew that you could manhandle me like that—" Remus blinked blearily as Janus loosened his grip. "Fuck the possibilities are endless, but—"

"Remus, I'm really not in the mood for your games tonight—"

“I'm not playing—Just ignore all of that. I needed to get your attention because you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. ” Remus muttered, waving his hands as he found his bearings. “Jan, you—you frickin' saved me.”

"Now is the time you decide to censor yourself?"

"I'm trying to give you a compliment, Janus." Remus cut him off with a wave of his arms. "Hello, I wasn't expecting to become a damsel in distress but you make a hell of a knight in shining armor to have actually stepped in to save me.

“Of course, I saved you." Janus muttered after a moment, dipping his head in embarrassment. "I felt Patton’s emotions start to well up. I knew he was going to cause trouble and I wasn't about to leave you to his mercy.”

“What so you mean you felt him?” Remus mouth dropped in confusion.

Janus shrugged as his gaze dropped to the ground, still agitated. “I feel a lot of things Patton does.”

“But why?” Remus growled angrily as Janus clammed up. "Just spit it out already, Jan—"

“Because he's Thomas’ biggest lie.” Janus blurted out without thinking, gesturing to the door.

“What?” Remus whispered as he watched Janus begin to pace the room.

“The source of Thomas’ morality is corrupt.” Janus yelled, though he was quickly losing steam. “Not Thomas himself. God, not Thomas. But his insistence on clinging to his purity complex and thinking he can please everyone if he just tries hard enough—It's the most insidious evil that's ever taken root in him.

Remus went quiet as Janus explained and everything suddenly began to click into place.

“Thomas can't just turn his attention away from every reality he doesn't like.” Janus shrugged as he looked up at Remus. “Trying to eliminate anything uncomfortable or unpleasant in his life is a slippery slope to much more dangerous ideas.”

“Okay,sure, but this is still happy pappy, sunshine-coming-out-of-his-ass Patton. You sure you don't got a screw loose in that big brain of yours?” Remus managed to blurt out in exasperation. The scene had just played out before his own eyes,  but he couldn't help that his brain turned to fuzz every time he attempted to process it. “Ya know? Maybe, we’re in a some sort of shared delusion.  I mean, I know he's cute and all but now's not the time to think with your other head—”

"Remus," Janus let out an exasperated sigh as he glared at Remus. “I know you can’t help it but I would strongly prefer you think before you speak, like a normal person—”

“But, Jan. Come on—"

“His perceived innocence is part of the ruse, Remus. Why do you think Thomas' Logic is blind to his actions?” Janus muttered as his voice became nearly manic. "Why do you think his Creativity fawns over him and his Anxiety is soothed by him?"

Remus giggled as the human side of Janus' face became a brilliant shade of red. "Couldn't just be that he's just more personable than you, Janus?"

"Remus, I swear I'll strangle you myself—"

“Ya know, it's not often I'm the one fighting to talk over you.” Remus interrupted as he giggled and leaned into Janus' fury with a crooked grin. “If I knew you'd get all hot and bothered by Patty getting rough with me, I would’ve shoved my—"

“If you value your life, you will not finish that thought.” Janus muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “This is serious, Remus. You—You could have died.”

“Everything’s always serious, Jan-Jan. You should give yourself a break.” Remus grinned, gesturing up and down at himself. "Do I look dead to you?"

“I know, but—”

Remus' grin widened as he rambled. “I mean, I've got a plan for when the heart attack kills you and all, but I'm not like dying to use it.”

“That's not the—Wait, you do?”

“Well, yeah. I wouldn't let you go out without a bang." Remus' grin widened as Janus turned up him curiously. "Figured I'd have some fun with it and put your head under someone’s covers. It’s very Godfather-esque.”

“Huh—" Janus leaned back, suddenly contemplative to Remus' proposal. "To whom would you do this?”

“Well, not Pattycake anymore.” Remus laughed, patting Janus on the back. “Maybe, Roman though. He needs good jolt every once in a while.”

“He certainly could stand to come down a few notches on his ego.” Janus sighed, rolling his eyes. He paused, finally taking a breath as he stared at Remus unfaltering smile. “I have no idea how you're managing to stay calm after what just happened."

“Well, that's easy." Remus purred with cocky smile as he leaned into Janus. “I got my big, bad protector here with me.”

"I got lucky, Remus." Janus huffed. “If I hadn't have been paying attention to Patton's power flaring up,  you would've—”

“Whatever, you felt that Patty boy was about to turn me to dust and you showed up.” Remus brushed off Janus' excuses. “That means something, Jan—Means a lot to me actually.”

Janus blinked as he looked up to the suddenly serious expression on Remus' face.

“The deadly dad freaked me out and I have to admit he had me kinda buying the story that I'm not that great of an influence on Virgil—” Remus sighed as he let his grin dropped away. “— or Thomas even, but I figure if you saved me, I can’t actually be all bad.”

“You’re not bad, Remus.”

“Yeah, well, even I need a reminder of that every once in a while.” Remus smiled. He shifted on his feet as he looked up at Janus. “So, thanks.”

“Anytime, Re.” Janus smirked at Remus' sincere smile. "I've always got your back."

“I know you do.” Remus breathed with a worried glance back at his door. “Saving me might have been the easy part though, Jan. Patton didn't seem like he was gonna let our Stormy Nightmare go.”

“Virgil will see through his lies,” Janus breathed as tasted the air. “The power's shifting and he can't hold me back forever. We aren't going down without a fight, and once Thomas sees his true nature, the game's over for Morality.”

“Well, better get cracking then,” Remus grinned. “before Patton finishes brainwashing 'em all.”

Janus nodded with a glance at the wall as a sudden chill ran up his spine. He could feel someone watching, but he supposed it didn’t matter. There was no turning back now. “Yes, Remus. I think it’s time to start pushing back.”

---

@justanotherhumanstuff @im-an-anxious-wreck @shadowyplaidpurseegg

[anxious-logic]

5 Times Janus Gave His Boyfriends a Nickname, and 1 Time They Gave Him One

A Secret Santa gift through @sanderssides-secretsanta for @jowritesthingss here on tumblr!! I hope you like it!

Ship: Romantic Roloceit (Roman/Logan/Janus)

Word Count: 2,385

Warnings: Food mention, overworking, self-deprecating/negative thoughts. Let me know if there’s anything else!

Summary: Janus loves his boyfriends a lot, and shows that love in unique ways. And maybe his boyfriends will return the favor.

-1-

Janus was curled up on the sofa, reading a book on his bed under his heat lamp. The room was quiet, only the occasional rustle of pages from him or his boyfriend interrupting the silence.

Janus shifted slightly, readjusting so his legs didn’t fall asleep. He basked in the feeling of the heat hitting him at a slightly different angle, warming some of the skin that had been previously cool. He searched for where he had left off from his book.

He was startled out of the comfortable silence by a quiet buzz coming from Logan. The other side took out his phone, tapping on the screen a few times before the soft buzzing ceased.

“Bedtime,” Logan said quietly, placing a bookmark in his spot and standing up. He stretched his arms over his head.

Janus noted the page he was on before leaning over to turn off his heat lamp. He let out a quiet, mournful sigh as the heat dissipated, before standing up.

“Sleep well, darling,” he said, standing on his toes to brush a soft kiss across Logan’s forehead. He pulled back to see the other side blushing red.

“I- ah- you as well,” Logan stammered uncharacteristically before quickly making his way out the door.

Janus frowned as his eyes followed where Logan had been.

What was that about…?

 -2-

Roman looked up in surprise as Janus knocked on his doorframe, peeking his head in.

“Roman?” he asked quietly. Roman rolled his shoulders back, putting down his pen.

“Come in,” he replied.

Janus gave him a small smile as he entered the room, his hands full with a sandwich and a glass of water. He saw Roman’s face light up at the sight of the sandwich.

“Crofters?” he asked hopefully.

Janus let a smile spread across his face at his boyfriend’s excitement. “Yes.”

Roman held out his hands, his fingers opening and closing. “Gimme gimme gimme!”

Janus let out a small chuckle, handing the plate over to Roman. His boyfriend bit into it, his expression turning to pure bliss at the taste of the strawberry Crofters.

“Fank oo,” Roman mumbled through the sandwich.

Janus put a hand on Roman’s shoulder, squeezing slightly.

“Remember to take breaks,” he said. “Your work is important, but if you haven’t got your health, you haven’t got anything.”

Roman quickly swallowed his sandwich. “Princess Bride? Yes.” He reached over for the water glass, quickly depleting it.

“I’ll leave you alone now,” Janus said after a moment. “Remember to take breaks, beloved.”

Roman choked on his water, spluttering a few times and clearing his throat. “Ah- yes, of course,” he said distractedly. “I’ll… remember that.”

Janus leaned over, giving him a kiss. “See you later.”

He walked out of Roman’s room, barely keeping a straight face. As soon as he made it back to his own room, he closed the door behind him, collapsing back into it as he let out the laughter he’d been holding in.

Nicknames, huh?

He could work with that.

 -3-

Janus softly tapped his knuckles against the dark blue door in front of him.

“Logan?” he called gently. “Are you in there?”

There was a pause, and he could very faintly hear rustling coming from inside the room.

“Yes,” Logan called back. “I was under the impression I was not expected until dinner, has that changed?”

Janus glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty at night, Logan.”

Suddenly, the door opened, letting Janus speak face-to-face with his boyfriend. “I- eleven thirty? When- what?” Logan appeared distracted, but he was focusing intently on Janus.

Janus raised his eyebrows, feeling his lips quirk up. “New special interest?”

Logan shook his head rapidly, as though trying to clear something from his mind. “I- apparently so, I suppose.”

Janus held out a hand in invitation. “I can make you some dinner, and you can infodump what you’ve learned, if you like.”

Logan glanced back, seeming conflicted, but grabbed onto Janus’s hand. Janus rubbed his thumb over the back of Logan’s knuckles, not wanting to overwhelm him.

“Or if you’d rather, I can bring food up here. But I’d like to be sure that you finish it, because special interests can be fun, but you need to stay healthy regardless.”

Logan gave a slow nod. “Can I finish this article, and then you can get me to come down for some food?”

Janus brought Logan’s hand up to his lips, laying a gentle kiss on the back of it. “Of course, dear.”

He let the hand slip out of his fingers as Logan blushed slightly pink, turning back to his room. Janus just barely heard a giggle as the door closed behind him.

…Hm. Something to remember.

 -4-

Janus gently combed his hands through Roman’s hair, the creative side’s breath hitching slightly.

“I don’t- I can’t-”

Janus hummed quietly as Roman collapsed forward into him, his arms coming up around Janus’s back. Janus materialized a few more arms, securing one around Roman’s shoulders and rubbing another up and down his back.

“I know, sweetheart,” he said gently into Roman’s hair. “It’s hard, I know it’s hard, but I promise it’ll be okay.”

He knew that the words didn’t help the situation – creative block was an absolute bitch, and when it came right before a big deadline like this? Well, everything just built up at once, and there was no hope of Roman staying together any longer.

(Which was okay. Because everyone deserves to break, sometimes.)

Right now, it was two days before a major video was due. Thomas had been under a huge amount of stress recently, between video due dates and his new boyfriend (!!!) and, well, have you seen the state of the world? Not all of it was bad stress (again, the boyfriend), but it was stress nonetheless.

And then Roman had hit a creative block right as Thomas was gearing up for a last-minute editing spree, and it had all spilled over.

“It’s going to be okay,” Janus said into Roman’s hair, rocking them back and forth slightly. “I love you.”

He heard Roman take a shaky breath, and felt his arms drop down from where they had been draped over Janus’s shoulders. He made his extra arms vanish, leaving one hand bracing the back of Roman’s neck and one hand still gently rubbing circles on his back.

“Thank you,” he heard Roman mumble, from where his head was still tucked into his neck.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Janus said, pressing a kiss onto the top of Roman’s head. “Anytime.”

 -5-

Janus was overwhelmingly content.

He was snuggled between his two loves, their body heat keeping him warm. Logan was infodumping about black holes – terrifying things, in Janus’s opinion, but the way Logan presented it just made them fascinating – and Roman was also listening along. Janus was curled tightly into Roman’s side, his head on the creative side’s shoulder, and one leg thrown over Logan’s lap. Logan was gesturing as he talked, his hands occasionally flapping with excitement.

Janus felt a warm feeling in his chest that couldn’t be explained by the closeness he had to his boyfriends. He closed his eyes, tilting his head further into Roman’s neck as he let a happy smile spread across his face, letting himself enjoy the peacefulness of spending time with his boyfriends.

Janus tuned back in just in time to hear Logan fall silent in the middle of a paragraph. He frowned to himself; Logan didn’t usually stop so abruptly, and when he did, it usually wasn’t for a good reason.

“You okay?” he asked, letting his eyes flutter open and lifting his head up to look at Logan.

The other man was staring at him, a sappy smile on his face.

“I am perfectly optimal,” Logan said softly. He relaxed into the couch back slightly, a smile still firmly on his face. “You two are the closest thing to perfect that is possible.”

“Thank you, love,” Janus said, hearing the besotted note in his voice.

“I love you,” Logan said, before carefully, gently picking up Roman’s hand from where it was curled around Janus’s shoulder and raising it to his lips. “Both of you. An infinitely large amount.”

Janus felt Roman tense. “You don’t mean infinitesimal?”

“I assure you, I do not,” Logan replied shortly, but Janus could tell that the annoyance was false.

He relaxed back into Roman even more, reaching a hand over to touch Logan’s thigh. “Love you too.”

 +1+

Janus wasn’t doing well.

He couldn’t help it. He was doing his best to stay happy, stay calm, keep it together. But, well.

He always told Roman that it was okay to break sometimes. He supposed that advice had to go for him, too, eventually.

Every time he looked in the mirror, all he saw was the inhuman scales, glinting back at him. The snake eye, staring soullessly at him from his reflection. The layers upon layers of his clothes, hiding (always hiding) more and more and more lies and truths and who Janus himself was-

And, well. Today it just happened to be worse. And so today was the day he broke.

He was staring at himself in the mirror again, trying to ignore what his thoughts were telling him. (Because they weren’t true. He knew they weren’t true.) Because – no. He did what he had to, at the time. He was honest with his boyfriends – as much as being the literal personification would allow him to be. He didn’t manipulate anyone in the Mind Palace, or Thomas. (At least, not anymore.) He wasn’t inhuman. He did deserve what he had. And he did deserve a breakdown.

The only problem was, it could be really hard to listen to those thoughts when others were screaming over them constantly.

He was manipulative. He wasn’t honest with people. He was inhuman. He didn’t deserve any of the good things in his life. And no way in hell did he deserve a breakdown.

His intense eye contact with his reflection was interrupted by a gentle knock on his door.

“Janus?”

Roman’s voice floated through the door. Janus ripped his eyes off of the mirror, hastily wiping the tears from the human side of his face.

“Yes?” he called back, doing his best to hide the quaver in his voice.

“Are you well? You have not been out of your room today.”

Logan’s voice joined Roman. From what Janus could hear through the door, his voice was steady, but the short, precise words showed his worry and preoccupation.

“I- yes,” Janus called back, almost choking on the word. Lying. “I’m just… tired.” Manipulative. “A bit of time under my lamp and I will be well, I’m sure.” Inhuman.

There was a pause. Janus could hear quiet murmurs from the other side of the door, but he didn’t try to make them out. He knew what they would be saying anyway. He can survive without us. He’ll be fine. No need for us to worry. He enjoys having time alone.

And, well. All of those things were technically true, but not right now. Right now those statements just hurt.

“Can we come in?”

Janus startled at the sentence, looking at the door in surprise. “Yes,” he said before he could engage his brain-to-mouth filter.

The door slowly opened, light illuminating the room Janus hadn’t even realized was still dark.

“May I turn on the light?” Logan asked quietly. Janus nodded, before realizing that the other two couldn’t see him.

“Yes,” he agreed, still slightly stunned.

The light flickered on in the room, Janus’s eyes quickly adjusting to the brightness to reveal his boyfriends’ worried faces.

“I’m sorry for being blunt, Janus, but you don’t really… you don’t really look okay,” Roman said hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

Janus was about to say yes again, tell them I’m okay, I promise, before the echo of manipulative lies reached his mind, and he felt tears well up in his eyes once more.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” Roman murmured, reaching out to Janus before pausing. “Can I touch you, is that okay?”

Janus nodded, letting Roman take a step forward to envelop him in his arms.

“May I- also-” Logan began haltingly. Janus interrupted him by reaching out his arms and making grabby hands, opening and closing his fingers a few times. Logan obligingly stepped around the tangle of Janus and Roman, pressing up against Janus’s back to sandwich him between them.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours,” Roman murmured into Janus’s ear.

Janus couldn’t help but crack, telling them all of the lies that his head was telling himself. Lying. Manipulative. Inhuman. Undeserving.

“Oh, darling,” Logan whispered into Janus’s ear. “I promise you, you are not manipulative. You did what you believed you had to do, and you are no longer the same person you were then.”

“And you are human,” Roman added quickly. “Well- we’re manifestations of another person’s personality. But we’re as close as we can get. We all have our own hopes and dreams, our own personalities. We all have different feelings. Just having beautiful snakey traits doesn’t change any of that, and doesn’t make you any less human.”

“To add on, you absolutely do deserve everything that you have,” Logan interjected. “You work hard for Thomas. You do the best that you can, with the information you have. We all do. If you don’t deserve it, if you’re not human, than neither are we.”

Janus sniffled, shifting slightly to wipe the tears off of his face. “Okay.” He looked over to his bed, where the heat lamp was glinting enticingly. “Can we- can we move to the bed?”

“Of course,” Roman said gently, nudging the three of them over towards Janus’s bed. “We can stay as long as you need, love.”

“Thank you,” Janus managed to whisper as they all laid down, shifting around and tangling together. Roman snapped comfortable clothes onto all three of them, t-shirts in their signature colors and coordinating pajama pants appearing on all of them.

“It’s going to be okay, love,” Logan said gently as Janus tucked his head into his chest. “These thoughts can seem like the worst enemy to face. But I promise you, beloved, we are here to help you fight through them.”

Janus smiled.

[oscopelabs]

‘America’s Not a Country, It’s Just a Business’: On Andrew Dominik’s ‘Killing Them Softly’ By Roxana Hadadi

“Shitsville.” That’s the name Killing Them Softly director Andrew Dominik gave to the film’s nameless town, in which low-level criminals, ambitious mid-tier gangsters, nihilistic assassins, and the mob’s professional managerial class engage in warfare of the most savage kind. Onscreen, other states are mentioned (New York, Maryland, Florida), and the film itself was filmed in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans, though some of the characters speak with Boston accents that are pulled from the source material, George V. Higgins’s novel Cogan’s Trade. But Dominik, by shifting Higgins’s narrative 30 or so years into the future and situating it specifically during the 2008 Presidential election, refuses to limit this story to one place. His frustrations with America as an institution that works for some and not all are broad and borderless, and so Shitsville serves as a stand-in for all the places not pretty enough for gentrifying developers to turn into income-generating properties, for all the cities whose industrial booms are decades in the past, and for all the communities forgotten by the idea of progress._ Killing Them Softly_ is a movie about the American dream as an unbeatable addiction, the kind of thing that invigorates and poisons you both, and that story isn’t just about one place. That’s everywhere in America, and nearly a decade after the release of Dominik’s film, that bitter bleakness still has grim resonance.

In November 2012, though, when Killing Them Softly was originally released, Dominik’s gangster picture-cum-pointed criticism of then-President Barack Obama’s vision of an America united in the same neoliberal goals received reviews that were decidedly mixed, tipping toward negative. (Audiences, meanwhile, stayed away, with Killing Them Softly opening at No. 7 with $7 million, one of the worst box office weekends of Brad Pitt’s entire career at that time.) Obama’s first term had been won on a tide of hope, optimism, and “better angels of our nature” solidarity, and he had just defeated Mitt Romney for another four years in the White House when Killing Them Softly hit theaters on Nov. 30. Cogan’s Trade had no political components, and no connections between the thieving and killing promulgated by these criminals and the country at large. Killing Them Softly, meanwhile, took every opportunity it could to chip away at the idea that a better life awaits us all if we just buy into the idea of American exceptionalism and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps ingenuity. A fair amount of reviews didn’t hold back their loathing toward this approach. A.O. Scott with the New York Times dismissed Dominik’s frame as “a clumsy device, a feint toward significance that nothing else in the movie earns … the movie is more concerned with conjuring an aura of meaningfulness than with actually meaning anything.” Many critics lambasted Dominik’s nihilism: For Deadspin, Will Leitch called it a “crutch, and an awfully flimsy one,” while Richard Roeper thought the film collapsed under the “crushing weight” of Dominik’s philosophy. It was the beginning of Obama’s second term, and people still thought things might get better.

But Dominik’s film—like another that came out a few years earlier, Adam McKay’s 2010 political comedy The Other Guys—has maintained a crystalline kind of ideological purity, and perhaps gained a certain prescience. Its idea that America is less a bastion of betterment than a collection of corporate interests, and the simmering anger Brad Pitt’s Jackie Cogan captures in the film’s final moments, are increasingly difficult to brush off given the past decade or so in American life. This is not to say that Obama’s second term was a failure, but that it was defined over and over again by the limitations of top-down reform. Ceaseless Republican obstruction, widespread economic instability, and unapologetic police brutality marred the encouraging tenor of Obama’s presidency. Donald Trump’s subsequent four years in office were spent stacking the federal judiciary with young, conservative judges sympathetic toward his pro-big-business, fuck-the-little-guy approach, and his primary legislative triumph was a tax bill that will steadily hurt working-class people year after year.

The election of Obama’s vice president Joe Biden, and the Democratic Party securing control of the U.S. Senate, were enough for a brief sigh of relief in November 2020. The $1.9 trillion stimulus bill passed in March 2021 does a lot of good in extending (albeit lessened) unemployment benefits, providing a child credit to qualifying families, and funneling further COVID-19 support to school districts after a year of the coronavirus pandemic. But Republicans? They all voted no to helping the Americans they represent. Stimulus checks to the middle-class voters who voted Biden into office? Decreased for some, totally cut off for others, because of Biden’s appeasement to the centrists in his party. $15 minimum wage? Struck down, by both Republicans and Democrats. In how many more ways can those politicians who are meant to serve us indicate that they have little interest in doing anything of the kind?

Modern American politics, then, can be seen as quite a performative endeavor, and an exercise in passing blame. Who caused the economic collapse of 2008? Some bad actors, who the government bailed out. Who suffered the most as a result? Everyday Americans, many of whom have never recovered. Killing Them Softly mimics this dynamic, and emphasizes the gulf between the oppressors and the oppressed. The nameless elites of the mob, sending a middle manager to oversee their dirty work. The poker-game organizer, who must be brutally punished for a mistake made years before. The felons let down by the criminal justice system, who turn again to crime for a lack of other options. The hitman who brushes off all questions of morality, and whose primary concern is getting adequately paid for his work. Money, money, money. “This country is fucked, I’m telling ya. There’s a plague coming,” Jackie Cogan says to the Driver who delivers the mob’s by-committee rulings as to who Jackie should intimidate, threaten, and kill so their coffers can start getting filled again. Perhaps the plague is already here.

“Total fucking economic collapse.”

In terms of pure gumption, you have to applaud Dominik for taking aim at some of the biggest myths America likes to tell about itself. After analyzing the dueling natures of fame and infamy through the lens of American outlaw mystique in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Dominik thought bigger, taking on the entire American dream itself in Killing Them Softly. From the film’s very first second, Dominik doesn’t hold back, equating an easy path of forward progress with literal trash. Discordant tones and the film’s stark, white-on-black title cards interrupt Presidential hopeful Barack Obama’s speech about “the American promise,” slicing apart Obama’s words and his crowd’s responding cheers as felon Frankie (Scoot McNairy), in the all-American outfit of a denim jacket and jeans, cuts through what looks like a shut-down factory, debris and garbage blowing around him. Obama’s assurances sound very encouraging indeed: “Each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will.” But when Frankie—surrounded by trash, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and eyes squinting shut against the wind—walks under dueling billboards of Obama, with the word “CHANGE” in all-caps, and Republican opponent John McCain, paired with the phrase “KEEPING AMERICA STRONG,” a better future doesn’t exactly seem possible. Frankie looks too downtrodden, too weary of all the emptiness around him, for that.

Dominik and cinematographer Greig Fraser spoke to American Cinematographer magazine in October 2012 about shooting in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans: “We were aiming for something generic, a little town between New Orleans, Boston and D.C. that we called Shitsville. We wanted the place to look like it’s on the down-and-down, on the way out. We wanted viewers to feel just how smelly and grimy and horrible it was, but at the same time, we didn’t want to alienate them visually.” They were successful: Every location has a rundown quality, from the empty lot in which Frankie waits for friend and partner-in-crime Russell (Ben Mendelsohn)—a concrete expanse decorated with a couple of wooden chairs, as if people with nowhere else to go use this as a gathering spot—to the dingy laundromat backroom where Frankie and Russell meet with criminal mastermind Johnny “Squirrel” Amato (Vincent Curatola), who enlists them to rob a mafia game night run by Markie Trattman (Ray Liotta), to the restaurant kitchen where the game is run, all sickly fluorescent lights, cracked tile, and makeshift tables. Holding up a game like this, from which the cash left on the tables flows upward into the mob’s pockets, is dangerous indeed. But years before, Markie himself engineered a robbery of the game, and although that transgression was forgiven because of how well-liked Markie is in this institution, it would be easy to lay the blame on him again. And that’s exactly what Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell plan to do.

The “Why?” for such a risk isn’t that hard to figure out. Squirrel sees an opportunity to make off with other people’s money, he knows that any accusatory fingers will point elsewhere first, and he wants to act on it before some other aspiring baddie does. (Ahem, sound like the 2008 mortgage crisis to you?) Frankie, tired of the crappy jobs his probation officer keeps suggesting—jobs that require both long hours and a long commute, when Frankie can’t even afford a car (“Why the fuck do they think I need a job in the first place? Fucking assholes”)—is drawn in by desperation borne from a lack of options. If he doesn’t come into some kind of money soon, “I’m gonna have to go back and knock on the gate and say, ‘Let me back in, I can’t think of nothing and it’s starting to get cold,’” Frankie admits. And Australian immigrant and heroin addict Russell is nursing his own version of the American dream: He’s going to steal a bunch of purebred dogs, drive them down to Florida to sell for thousands of dollars, buy an ounce of heroin once he has $7,000 in hand, and then step on the heroin enough to become a dealer. It’s only a few moves from where he is to where he wants to be, he figures, and this card-game heist can help him get there.

In softly lit rooms, where the men in the frame are in focus and their surroundings and backgrounds are slightly blown out, slightly blurred, or slightly fuzzy (“Creaminess is something you feel you can enter into, like a bath; you want to be absorbed and encompassed by it” Fraser told American Cinematographer of his approach), garish deals are made, and then somehow pulled off with a sobering combination of ineptitude and ugliness. Russell buys yellow dishwashing gloves for himself and Frankie to wear during the holdup, and they look absurd—but the pistol-whipping Russell doles out to Markie still hurts like hell, no matter what accessories he’s wearing. Dominik gives this holdup the paranoia and claustrophobia it requires, revolving his camera around the barely-holding-it-together Frankie and cutting every so often to the enraged players, their eyes glancing up to look at Frankie’s face, their hands twitching toward their guns. But in the end, nobody moves. When Frankie and Russell add insult to injury by picking the players’ pockets (“It’s only money,” they say, as if this entire ordeal isn’t exclusively about wanting other people’s money), nobody fights back. Nobody dies. Frankie and Russell make off with thousands of dollars in two suitcases, while Markie is left bamboozled—and afraid—by what just happened. And the players? They’ll get their revenge eventually. You can count on that.

So it goes that Dominik smash cuts us from the elated and triumphant Russell and Frankie driving away from the heist in their stolen 1971 Buick Riviera, its headlights interrupting the inky-black night, to the inside of Jackie Cogan’s 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado, with Johnny Cash’s “The Man Comes Around” providing an evocative accompaniment. “There’s a man going around taking names/And he decides who to free, and who to blame/Everybody won’t be treated all the same,” Cash sings in that unmistakably gravelly voice, and that’s exactly what Jackie does. Called in by the mob to capture who robbed the game so that gambling can begin again, Jackie meets with an unnamed character, referred to only as the Driver (Richard Jenkins), who serves as the mob’s representative in these sorts of matters. Unlike the other criminals in this film—Frankie, with his tousled hair and sheepish face; Russell, with his constant sweatiness and dog-funk smell; Jackie, in his tailored three-piece suits and slicked-back hair; Markie, with those uncannily blue eyes and his matching slate sportscoat—the Driver looks like a square.

He is, like the men who replace Mike Milligan in the second season of Fargo, a kind of accountant, a man with an office and a secretary. “The past can no more become the future than the future can become the past,” Milligan had said, and for all the backward-looking details of Killing Them Softly—American cars from the 1960s and 1970s, that whole masculine code-of-honor thing that Frankie and Russell break by ripping off Markie’s game, the post-industrial economic slump that brings to mind the American recession of 1973 to 1975—the Driver is very much an arm of a new kind of organized crime. He keeps his hands clean, and he delivers what the ruling-by-committee organized criminals decide, and he’s fussy about Jackie smoking cigarettes in his car, and he’s so bland as to be utterly forgettable. And he has the power, as authorized by his higher-ups, to approve Jackie putting pressure on Markie for more information about the robbery. It doesn’t matter that neither Jackie nor the mob thinks Markie actually did it. What matters more is that “People are losing money. They don’t like to lose money,” and so Jackie can do whatever he needs. Dominik gives him this primacy through a beautiful shot of Jackie’s reflection in the car window, his aviators a glinting interruption to the gray concrete overpass under which the Driver’s car is parked, to the smoke billowing out from faraway stacks, and to the overall gloominess of the day.

“We regret having to take these actions. Today’s actions are not what we ever wanted to do, but today’s actions are what we must do to restore confidence to our financial system,” we hear Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson say on the radio in the Driver’s car, and his October 14, 2008, remarks are about the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008—the government bailout of banks and other financial institutions that cost taxpayers $700 billion. (Remember Will Ferrell’s deadpan delivery in The Other Guys of “From everything I’ve heard, you guys [at the Securities and Exchange Commission] are the best at these types of investigations. Outside of Enron and AIG, and Bernie Madoff, WorldCom, Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers ...”) Yet the appeasing sentiment of Paulson’s words applies to Jackie, too, and to the beating he orders for Markie—a man he suspects did nothing wrong, at least not this time. But debts must be settled. Heads must roll. “Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still/Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still/Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still,” Cash sang, and Jackie is all those men, and he’ll collect the stolen golden crowns as best he can. For a price, of course. Always for a price.

“I like to kill them softly, from a distance, not close enough for feelings. Don’t like feelings. Don’t want to think about them.”

In “Bad Dreams,” the penultimate episode of the second season of The Wire, International Brotherhood of Stevedores union representative Frank Sobotka (Chris Bauer), having seen his brothers in arms made immaterial by the lack of work at the Baltimore ports and the collapse of their industry, learns that his years of bribing politicians to vote for expanded funding for the longshoremen isn’t going to pay off. He is furious, and he is exhausted. “We used to make shit in this country, build shit. Now we just put our hand in the next guy’s pocket,” he says with the fatigue of a man who knows his time has run out, and you can draw a direct line from Bauer’s beleaguered delivery of those lines to Liotta’s aghast reaction to the horrendous beating he receives from Jackie’s henchmen. Sobotka in The Wire had no idea how he got to that helpless place, and neither does Markie in Killing Them Softly—he made a mistake, but that was years ago. Everyone forgave him. Didn’t they?

The vicious assault leveled upon Markie is a harrowing, horrifying sequence that is also unnervingly beautiful, and made all the more awful as a result of that visual splendor. In the pouring rain, Markie is held captive by the two men, who deliver bruising body shots, break his noise, batter his body against the car, and kick in his ribs. “You see fight scenes a lot in movies, but you don’t see people systematically beating somebody else. The idea was just to make it really, really, really ugly,” Dominik told the New York Times in November 2012, and sound mixer Leslie Shatz and cinematographer Fraser also contributed to this unforgettable scene. Shatz used the sound of a squeegee across a windshield to accentuate Markie’s increasingly destroyed body slumping against the car, and also incorporated flash bulbs going off as punches were thrown, adding a kind of lingering effect to the scene’s soundscape. And although the scene looks like it’s shot in slow motion, Fraser explained to American Cinematographer that the combination of an overhead softbox and dozens of background lights helped build that layered effect in which Liotta is fully illuminated while the dark night around him remains impenetrable. Every drop of rain and every splatter of blood stands out on Markie’s face as he confesses ignorance regarding the robbery and begs for mercy from Jackie’s men, but Markie has already been marked for death. When the time comes, Jackie will shoot him in the head in another exquisitely detailed, shot-in-ultrahigh-speed scene that bounces back and forth between the initial act of violence and its ensuing destruction. The cartridges flying out of Jackie’s gun, and the bullets destroying Markie’s window, and then his brain. Markie’s car, now no longer in his control, rolling forward into an intersection where it’s hit not just once, but twice, by oncoming cars. The crunching sound of Markie’s head against his windshield, and the vision of that glass splintering from the impact of his flung body, are impossible to shake.

“Cause and effect,” Dominik seems to be telling us, and Killing Them Softly follows Jackie as he cleans up the mess Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell have made. After he enlists another hitman, Mickey (a fantastically whoozy James Gandolfini, who carries his bulk like the armor of a samurai searching for a new master), whose constant boozing, whoring, and laziness shock Jackie after years of successful work together, and who refuses to do the killing for which Jackie secured him a $15,000 payday, Jackie realizes he’ll need to do this all himself. He’ll need to gather the intel that fingers Frankie, Russell, and Squirrel. He’ll need to set up a police sting to entrap Russell on his purchased ounce of heroin, violating the terms of his probation, and he’ll need to set up another police sting to entrap Mickey for getting in a fight with a prostitute, violating the terms of his probation. For Jackie, a career criminal for whom ethical questions have long since evaporated, Russell’s and Frankie’s sloppiness in terms of bragging about their score is a source of disgust. “I guess these guys, they just want to go to jail. They probably feel at home there,” he muses, and he’s then exasperated by the Driver’s trepidation regarding the brutality of his methods. Did the Driver’s bosses want the job done or not? “We aim to please,” Jackie smirks, and that shark smile is the sign of a predator getting ready to feast.

Things progress rapidly then: Jackie tracks Frankie down to the bar where he hangs out, and sneers at Frankie’s reticence to turn on Squirrel. “They’re real nice guys,” he says mockingly to Frankie of the criminal underworld of which they’re a part, brushing off Frankie’s defense that Squirrel “didn’t mean it.” “That’s got nothing to do with it. Nothing at all,” Jackie replies, and that’s the kind of distance that keeps Jackie in this job. Sure, the vast majority of us aren’t murderers. But as a question of scale, aren’t all of us as workers compromised in some way? Employees of companies, institutions, or billionaires that, say, pollute the environment, or underpay their staff, or shirk labor laws, or rake in unheard-of profits during an international pandemic? Or a government that spreads imperialism through allegedly righteous military action (referenced in Killing Them Softly, as news coverage of the economic crisis mentions the reckless rapidity with which President George W. Bush invaded Afghanistan and Iraq after Sept. 11, 2001), or that can’t quite figure out how to house the nation’s homeless into the millions of vacant homes sitting empty around the country, or that refuses, over and over again, to raise the minimum wage workers are paid so that they have enough financial security to live decent lives?

Perhaps you bristle at this comparison to Jackie Cogan, a man who has no qualms blowing apart Squirrel with a shotgun at close range, or unloading a revolver into Frankie after spending an evening driving around with him. But the guiding American principle when it comes to work is that you do a job and you get paid: It’s a very simple contract, and both sides need to operate in good faith to fulfill it. Salaried employees, hourly workers, freelancers, contractors, day laborers, the underemployed—all operate under the assumption that they’ll be compensated, and all live with the fear that they won’t. Jackie knows this, as evidenced by his loathing toward compatriot Kenny (Slaine) when the man tries to pocket the tip Jackie left for his diner waitress. “For fuck’s sake,” Jackie says in response to Kenny’s attempted theft, and you can sense that if Jackie could kill him in that moment, he would. In this way, Jackie is rigidly conservative, and strictly old-school. Someone else’s money isn’t yours to take; it’s your responsibility to earn, and your employer’s responsibility to pay. Jackie cleaned up the mob’s mess, and the gambling tables opened again because of his work, and his labor resulted in their continued profits. And Jackie wants what he’s owed.

“Don’t make me laugh. ‘We’re one people.’”

We hear two main voices of authority urging calm throughout Killing Them Softly. Then-President Bush: “I understand your worries and your frustration. … We’re in the midst of a serious financial crisis, and the federal government is responding with decisive action.” Presidential hopeful Obama: “There’s only the road we’re traveling on as Americans.” Paulson speaks on the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act, and various news commentators chime in, too: “There needs to be consequences, and there needs to be major change.” Radio commentary and C-SPAN coverage combine into a sort of secondary accompaniment to Marc Streitenfeld’s score, which incorporates lyrically germane Big Band standards like “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” (“You work, you save, you worry so/But you can’t take your dough”) and “It’s Only a Paper Moon” (“It's a Barnum and Bailey world/Just as phony as it can be”). All of these are Dominik’s additions to Cogan’s Trade, which is a slim, 19-chapter book without any political angle, and this frame is what met so much resistance from contemporaneous reviews.

But what Dominik accomplishes with this approach is twofold. First, a reminder of the ceaseless tension and all-encompassing anxiety of that time, which would spill into the Occupy Wall Street movement, coalesce support around politicians like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, and fuel growing national interest in policies like universal health care and universal basic income. For anyone who struggled during that time—as I did, a college graduate entering the 2009 job market after the journalism industry was already beginning its still-continuing freefall—Killing Them Softly captures the free-floating anger so many of us felt at politicians bailing out corporations rather than people. Perhaps in 2012, only weeks after the re-election of Obama and with the potential that his second term could deliver on some of his campaign promises (closing Guantanamo Bay, maybe, or passing significant gun control reform, maybe), this cinematic scolding felt like medicine. But nearly a decade later, with neither of these legislative successes in hand, and with the wins for America’s workers so few and far between—still a $7.25 federal minimum wage, still no federal paid maternity and family leave act, still the refusal by many states to let their government employees unionize—if you don’t feel demoralized by how often the successes of the Democratic Party are stifled by the party’s own moderates or thoroughly curtailed by saboteur Republicans, maybe you’re not paying attention.

More acutely, then, the mutinous spirit of Killing Them Softly accomplishes something similar to what 1990’s Pump Up the Volume did: It allows one to say, with no irony whatsoever, “Do you ever get the feeling everything in America is completely fucked up?” The disparities of the financial system, and the yawning gap between the rich and the poor. The utter lack of accountability toward those who were supposed to protect us, and didn’t. And the sense that we’re always being a little bit cheated by a ruling class who, like Sobotka observed on The Wire, is always putting their hand in our pocket. Consider Killing Them Softly’s quietest moment, in which Frankie realizes that he’s a hunted man, and that the people from whom he stole would never let him live. Dominik frames McNairy tight, his expression a flickering mixture of plaintive yearning and melancholic regret, as he quietly says, “It’s just shit, you know? The world is just shit. We’re all just on our own.” A day or so later, McNairy’s Frankie will be lying on a medical examiner’s table, his head partially collapsed from a bullet to the brain, an identification tag looped around his pinky toe. And the men who ordered his death want to underpay the man who carried it out for them. Isn’t that the shit?

That leads us, then, to the film’s angriest moment, and to a scene that stands alongside the climaxes of so many other post-recession films: Chris Pine’s Toby Howard paying off the predatory bank that swindled his mother with its own stolen money in Hell or High Water, Lakeith Stanfield’s Cash Green and his fellow Equisapiens storming billionaire Steve Lift’s (Armie Hammer’s) mansion in Sorry to Bother You, Viola Davis’s Veronica Rawlings shooting her cheating husband and keeping the heist take for herself and her female comrades in Widows. So far in Killing Them Softly, Pitt has played Jackie with a certain level of remove. A man’s got to have a code, and his is fairly simple: Don’t get involved emotionally with the assignment. Pitt’s Jackie is susceptible to flashes of irritation, though, that manifest as a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and as an octave-lower growl that belies his impatience: with the Driver, for not understanding how Markie’s reputation has doomed him; with Mickey, for his procrastination and his slovenliness; with Kenny, for stealing a hardworking woman’s tip; with Frankie, when he tries to distract Jackie from killing Squirrel. Jackie is a professional, and he is intolerant of people failing to work at his level, and Pitt plays the man as tiptoeing along a knife’s edge. Remember Daniel Craig’s “’Cause it’s all so fucking hysterical” line delivery in Road to Perdition? Pitt’s whole performance is that: a hybrid offering of bemusement, smugness, and ferocity that suggests a man who’s seen it all, and hasn’t been impressed by much.

In the final minutes of Killing Them Softly, Obama has won his historic first term in the White House, and Pitt’s Jackie strides through a red haze of celebratory fireworks as he walks to meet the Driver at a bar to retrieve payment. An American flag hangs in this dive, and the TV broadcasts Obama’s victory speech, delivered in Chicago to a crowd of more than 240,000. “Crime stories, to some extent, always felt like the capitalist ideal in motion,” Dominik told the New York Times. “Because it’s the one genre where it’s perfectly acceptable for the characters to be motivated solely by money.” And so it goes that Jackie feels no guilt for the men he’s killed, or the men he’s sent away. Nor does he feel any empathy or kinship with the newly elected Obama, whose messages of unity and community he finds amusingly irrelevant. The life Jackie lives is one defined by how little people value each other, and how quick they are to attack one another if that means more opportunity—and more money—for them. Thomas Hobbes said that a life without social structure and political representation would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” and perhaps that’s exactly what Jackie’s is. Unlike the character in Cogan’s Trade, Dominik’s Jackie has no wife and no personal life. But he’s surviving this way with his eyes wide open, and he will not be undervalued.

The contrast between Obama’s speech about “the enduring power of our ideas—democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope”—and Jackie’s realization that the mob is trying to underpay him for the three men he assassinated at their behest makes for a kind of nauseating, thrilling coda. He’s owed $45,000, and the envelope the Driver paid him only has $30,000 in it. Obama’s audience chanting “Yes, we can,” the English translation of the United Farm Workers of America’s slogan and the activist César Chávez’s iconic “Sí, se puede” catchphrase, adds an ironic edge to the argument between the Driver and Jackie about the value of his labor. Whatever the Driver can use to try and shrug off Jackie’s advocacy for himself, he will. Jackie’s killings were too messy. Jackie is asking for more than the mob’s usual enforcer, Dillon (Sam Shepard), who would have done a better job. Jackie is ignoring that the mob is limited to “Recession prices”—they’re suffering, so that suffering has to trickle down to someone. Jackie made the deal with Mickey for $15,000 per head, and the mob isn’t beholden to pay Jackie what they agreed to pay Mickey.

On and on, excuse after excuse, until one finally pushes Jackie over the edge: “This business is a business of relationships,” the Driver says, which is one step away from the “We’re all family here” line that so many abusive companies use to manipulate their cowed employees. And so when Jackie goes coolly feral in his response, dropping knowledge not only about the artifice of the racist Thomas Jefferson as a Founding Father but underscoring the idea that America has always been, and will always be, a capitalist enterprise first, the moment slaps all the harder for all the ways we know we’ve been let down by feckless bureaucrats like the Driver, who do only as they’re told; by faceless corporate overlords like the mob, issuing orders to Jackie from on high; and by a broader country that seems like it couldn’t care less about us. “I’m living in America, and in America, you’re on your own … Now fucking pay me” serves as a kind of clarion call, an expression of vehemence and resentment, and a direct line into the kind of anger that still festers among those continuously left behind—still living in Shitstown, still trying to make a better life for themselves, and still asking for a little more respect from their fellow Americans. For all of Killing Them Softly’s ugliness, for all its nihilism, and for all its commentary on how our country’s ruthless individualism has turned chasing the American dream into a crippling addiction we all share, that demand for dignity remains distressingly relevant. Maybe it’s time to listen.

[fyeah-bangtan7]

The Boundless Optimism of BTS

IT IS THE MORNING OF CHUSEOK, A KOREAN HARVEST FESTIVAL akin to Thanksgiving, and the members of BTS would normally be spending it with their families, eating tteokguk, a traditional rice-cake soup. Instead, Jin, 28; Suga, 27; J-Hope, 26; RM, 26; Jimin, 25; V, 24; and Jung Kook, 23, are working. Practicing. Honing their choreography. In a few days, the biggest musical act in the world will perform in the live-stream concert that, for now, will have to stand in for the massive tour they spent the first part of this year rehearsing. At this moment, they’re seated inside Big Hit Entertainment headquarters in Seoul, South Korea, the house they built, dressed mostly in black and white, ready to answer my questions. They’re gracious about it. And groggy.

Before I’m done speaking with them for this story, BTS will have the number-one and number-two songs on the BillboardHot 100, a feat that’s been achieved only a handful of times in the sixty-odd years the chart has existed. Their next album, Be, is weeks away from being released, and speculation about the record, the tracklist, the statement, is rampant across the Internet. BTS are, to put it mildly, huge.

There is something about complete world domination that can really cement a friendship. What jumps out at me as I connect with the members of BTS is their level of comfort with one another. Tension has a way of making itself evident—even over Zoom, even through a translator. There’s none to be found here. They are relaxed in the manner of family. Lounging with their arms around each other’s shoulders, tugging on each other’s sleeves, fixing each other’s collars. When they speak about one another, it is with kindness.

“Jimin has a particular passion for the stage and really thinks about performance, and in that sense, there are many things to learn from him,” J-Hope says. “Despite all the things he has accomplished, he still tries his best and brings something new to the table, and I really want to applaud him for that.”

“Thank you for saying all these things about me,” Jimin responds.

Jimin turns his attention to V, explaining that he is “loved by so many” and describing him as one of his best friends. Suga jumps in, sharing that Jimin and V fight the most among the group. V replies, “We haven’t fought in three years!” They tell me this distinction now belongs to Jin and Jung Kook, the oldest and youngest members. “It all starts as a joke, but then it gets serious,” Jimin says.

Jin agrees and recounts what their arguments sound like. “Why did you hit me so hard?” he says, before mimicking Jung Kook’s response: “I didn’t hit you that hard.” And then they start hitting each other. But not that hard.

Since the start of their careers, BTS have shown a certain confidence in their aesthetic, their performances, and their music videos. It’s right there in the name: BTS stands for “Bangtan Sonyeondan,” which translates to “Bulletproof Boy Scouts,” but as their popularity grew in English-speaking markets, the acronym was retrofitted to mean “Beyond the Scene,” which Big Hit has described as “symbolizing youth who don’t settle for their current reality and instead open the door and go forward to achieve growth.” And their affection with one another, their vulnerability and emotional openness in their lives and in their lyrics, strikes me as more grown-up and masculine than all the frantic and perpetual box-checking and tone-policing that American boys force themselves and their peers to do. It looks like the future.

“There is this culture where masculinity is defined by certain emotions, characteristics. I’m not fond of these expressions,” Suga tells me. “What does being masculine mean? People’s conditions vary day by day. Sometimes you’re in a good condition; sometimes you aren’t. Based on that, you get an idea of your physical health. And that same thing applies mentally. Some days you’re in a good state; sometimes you’re not. Many pretend to be okay, saying that they’re not ‘weak,’ as if that would make you a weak person. I don’t think that’s right. People won’t say you’re a weak person if your physical condition is not that good. It should be the same for the mental condition as well. Society should be more understanding.”

When I hear these words in October 2020, from my house in a country whose leader is actively trying to make the case that only the weak die of COVID-19, well, it sounds like the future, too.

IF YOU ARE JUST NOW CONSIDERING GETTING INTO BTS, IT IS natural to feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff. It’s a bit like saying, right this second, “Let’s see what Marvel Comics is all about.” In the streaming age, BTS have sold more than twenty million physical units across fourteen albums. Their multi-album concept cycles, The Most Beautiful Moment in Life, Love Yourself, and Map of the Soul, have unfolded over multiple records and EPs. There are collaborations with brands, including a BTS smartphone with Samsung. There is a series of short films and music videos, called BU, or BTS Universe, and an animated universe called BT21, in which they’re all represented by gender-neutral avatars. Their fan base, known as ARMY, is a global cultural movement unto itself.

“Dynamite,” their first English-language single and their first American number one, is pure, ecstatic pop. Shiny and joyful. What sets them apart from many of their peers, and many of the pop acts who achieved worldwide fame before them, is what came earlier. Beneath the sheen and the beats has always been an unflinching examination of human emotion. Their lyrics seek to challenge the conventions of society—to question and even denounce them. BTS’s first single, “No More Dream,” unveiled at their debut showcase in June 2013, concerns the intense pressure South Korean schoolchildren face to conform and to succeed. According to Suga, lyrics about the mental health of young people were mostly absent in Korean pop music. “The reason I started making music is because I grew up listening for lyrics that speak about dreams, hopes, and social issues,” he tells me. “It just came naturally to me when making music.”

Suga’s early ambition of making music didn’t involve him being in a group at all. About a decade ago, in his hometown of Daegu, the fourth-largest city in South Korea, he started recording underground rap tracks under the name Gloss, listening to and learning from the early works of songwriter and producer Bang Si-hyuk, known as Hitman Bang. Bang is the founder and CEO of Big Hit Entertainment. In 2010, Suga, a junior in high school, moved to Seoul to join Big Hit as a producer and rapper. Then Bang asked him to become part of a group, envisioning a hip-hop act with fellow new Big Hit recruits RM and J-Hope. The guys call this “season one” of their development.

“At that time, I don’t think our label exactly knew what to do with us,” RM says. “They just basically let us be and we had some lessons, but we also just chilled and made music sometimes.”

It got more intense. The family grew, occasionally by accident.

V accompanied a friend to a Big Hit casting call in Daegu for moral support and ended up being the person chosen from those sessions.

Jung Kook was signed in a feeding frenzy after being dropped from the talent show Superstar K, fielding offers from numerous entertainment companies before settling on Big Hit because he was impressed by RM’s rapping.

Jimin was a dance student and class president for nine years running at his school in Busan; he auditioned at the behest of his teacher.

And then, to hear him tell it, Jin got picked up off the street. “I was just going to school,” he says. “Someone from the company approached me, like, ‘Oh, this is my first time seeing anyone that looked like this.’ He suggested having a meeting with me.”

“Season two is when we officially underwent hard training,” J-Hope says. “We started dancing, and that’s how I would say our team building started.”

School in the daytime, training at night. “We slept during classes,” V says.

“I slept in the practice studio,” J-Hope counters.

Hitman Bang kept the pressure comparatively low. And he encouraged the guys to write and produce their own music, to be honest about their emotions in their lyrics. Suga is on record saying that no BTS album would be complete without a track that scrutinizes society.

And yet for their new album, Be, they’re putting that aside. Even this has a greater purpose that relates to mental wellness: RM, the group’s main rapper, says, “I don’t think this album will have any songs that criticize social issues. Everybody is going through very trying times right now. So I don’t think there will be any songs that will be that aggressive.”

Though the new rules of COVID-19 mean they can’t come here and promote Be, its first single might not have happened in the first place but for the pandemic. “ ‘Dynamite’ wouldn’t be here if there was no COVID-19,” says RM. “For this song, we wanted to go easy and simple and positive. Not some, like, deep vibes or shadows. We just wanted to go easy.”

Jin agrees. “We were trying to convey the message of healing and comfort to our fans.” He pauses. “World domination wasn’t actually our plan when we were releasing ‘Dynamite.’ ” World domination just happens sometimes. You get it.

MAP OF THE SOUL ONE AIRED VIA THEIR ONLINE FAN PLATFORM and attracted almost a million viewers across 191 countries. The guys say they tried not to think about the enormousness. J-Hope adds, “I felt a little bit more nervous knowing that this was being broadcast live. I actually feel less nervous performing live at a stadium.” Jin replies with a smile, “J-Hope, born to perform at a stadium.”

The graphic layout of the title throws a colon between the final N and E, which makes it look like Map of the Soul On: E, and as I watch it live, as I do in my office at 3:00 a.m. with noise-canceling headphones and a steaming pot of coffee, it feels a lot like I’m watching Map of the Soul on E. It is an explosion of color and fashion and passion, over four gigantic stages, from the boozy swagger of “Dionysus” to the emo-trap introspection of “Black Swan.” Not a step, not a gesture, not a hair is out of place. If there were nerves, they didn’t come through.

There is also, at the end of Map of the Soul One, an intimate version of their 2017 track “Spring Day,” which encapsulates what’s really made BTS stand out. On the surface, it’s about nonspecific love and loss, about yearning for the past. “I think that song really represents me,” says Jin. “I like to look to the past and be lost in it.”

Fair enough, but there is an undeniable allusion, in both the song’s video and its cover concept, to a specific incident in recent South Korean history. “Spring Day” was released just a few years after the sinking of the Sewol ferry, one of the country’s biggest maritime disasters, in which a poorly inspected, overloaded ferry toppled in a sharp right turn. Hundreds of high school students drowned, having obeyed orders to stay in their cabins as the boat was going down. According to some reports, the South Korean government actively tried to silence entertainers who spoke out against it, with the Korean Ministry of Education fully banning the tragedy’s commemorative yellow ribbons in schools. I ask whether it was about a specific sad event, and Jin tells me, “It is about a sad event, as you said, but it is also about longing.” The song kept the disaster front of mind for young Koreans and for the media, indirectly leading to the impeachment and removal of then president Park Geun-hye.

If an overburdened, undermaintained, slow-moving vessel capsizing because of a reckless rightward turn strikes you as somehow symbolic of the country in which BTS are about to explode even further, you won’t hear it from them. “We’re outsiders—we can’t really express what we feel about the United States,” says V. But their actions speak volumes; in the wake of the George Floyd murder and subsequent protests in America, the group made a $1 million donation with Big Hit Entertainment to Black Lives Matter, one that was matched by BTS ARMY.

The fans offer a fascinating inversion of stan culture: Rather than bullying rivals like many other ardent online fan bases do, ARMY have put the positive message of the music into action. Their activism goes deep. Through micro-donations, they’ve regrown rain forests, adopted whales, funded hundreds of hours of dance classes for Rwandan youth, and raised money to feed LGBTQ refugees around the world. Where pop fans a generation ago might have sent teddy bears or cards to their idols for their birthdays, where five years ago they might have promoted a hashtag to get a video’s YouTube viewer count up, for RM’s twenty-sixth birthday in September, international fan collective One in an Army raised more than $20,000 for digital night schools to improve rural children’s access to education during the COVID-19 crisis. ARMY may have even entered the conversation around the 2020 presidential election when hundreds of thousands of Tulsa Trump rally tickets got snapped up online in June. The event’s actual attendance was pathetically low. No particular person or entity claimed credit for this top-notch trolling, but a video urging BTS fans to RSVP to that rally did get hundreds of thousands of views. We have no choice but to stan this fan base.

The relationship is intense. “We and our ARMY are always charging each other’s batteries,” RM says. “When we feel exhausted, when we hear the news all over the world, the tutoring programs, and donations, and every good thing, we feel responsible for all of this.” The music may have inspired the good works, but the good works inspire the music. “We’ve got to be greater; we’ve got to be better,” RM continues. “All those behaviors always influence us to be better people, before all this music and artist stuff.”

Yet for every devoted member of BTS ARMY, there is someone who’s looked right past BTS. Jimmy Fallon, whose Tonight Show hosted the group for a full week this past fall, was one of those people. “Usually if an artist is on the rise, I hear about them ahead of time. With BTS, I knew they had crazy momentum, and I’d never heard of them.”

Here’s a thought that used to be funny to me: There were members of the live audience of The Ed Sullivan Showon February 9, 1964, who weren’t there to see the Beatles. Elvis was in the Army, Buddy Holly was gone, and the three number-one albums in the months before Meet the Beatles! were an Allan Sherman comedy record, the West Side Story original cast recording, and Soeur Sourire: The Singing Nun. America had left rock ’n’ roll behind for the moment, and with the culture aimless and fragmented, it wasn’t quite sure what to pick up in its place. It is possible to imagine that a youngish, reasonably hip, and culturally aware human being might cop a ticket to that week’s show, settle into his seat, and say, “Bring on a medley of numbers from the Broadway musical Oliver! and banjo sensation Tessie O’Shea.”

The instinct is to laugh at that guy, and it’s a good instinct, because what a dope.

And then you become that guy.

Sometimes there is a whole universe alongside your own, bursting with color you’re too stubborn to see, bouncing with joy you think is for someone else, with a beat you thought you were finished dancing to. BTS are the biggest thing on the planet right now, yet the job of introducing them to someone new, particularly in America, seems like it’s never done. Maybe it’s because they are adored by screaming teenagers and we live in a society patriarchal enough to forget that screaming teenagers are nearly always right. Maybe it’s the cultural divide, in a moment when our country is unashamed enough of its own xenophobia to get openly bent out of shape when it has to press 1 for English. Maybe it’s the language barrier, as though we understood a single word Michael Stipe sang before 1989.

Whatever the reason, the result is that you might be missing out on a paradigm shift and a historic moment of pop greatness.

IF BTS SEEM A BIT CAUTIOUS WITH THEIR WORDS PUBLICLY, IT’S because—perhaps more than any other massive pop act in history—they have to be. Shortly after our second meeting, BTS were given the General James A. Van Fleet Award by the U. S.–based Korea Society for their outstanding contributions to advancing relations between the United States and Korea. In his acceptance speech, RM said, “We will always remember the history of pain that our two nations shared together, and the sacrifices of countless men and women,” as seemingly diplomatic and innocuous a statement as he could have made. But because he didn’t mention the Chinese soldiers who died in the Korean War, it didn’t go over well. The Samsung BTS smartphone disappeared from Chinese e-commerce platforms, Fila and Hyundai pulled ads in China that featured the group, the nationalistic newspaper Global Times accused them of hurting Chinese citizens’ feelings and negating history, and the hashtags “BTS humiliated China” and “there are no idols that come before my country” began trending on the social-media site Weibo. The pressure is not small.

Even as the number-one pop group in the world, even with their hard work day in and day out, even with tens of millions of adoring fans redefining the concept of “adoring fans” by literally healing the planet in their name, these guys still suffer from impostor syndrome. RM explains, “I’ve heard that there’s this mask complex. Seventy percent of so-called successful people have this, mentally. It’s basically this: There’s this mask on my face. And these people are afraid that someone is going to take off this mask. We have those fears as well. But I said 70 percent, so I think it’s very natural. Sometimes it’s a condition to be successful. Humans are imperfect, and we have these flaws and defects. And one way to deal with all this pressure and weight is to admit the shadows.”

The music helps. “When we write the songs and lyrics, we study these emotions, we are aware of that situation, and we relate to that emotionally,” J-Hope says. “And that’s why when the song is released, we listen to it and get consolation from those songs as well. I think our fans also feel those emotions, maybe even more than us. And I think we are a positive influence on each other.”

If there’s one thing they’re sacrificing, besides free time and the ability to speak freely without the Chinese foreign ministry releasing an official statement, it’s a love life. I ask about dating, broad questions like “Are you?” and “Is there time?” and “Can you?” and the answer to all of them is pretty clear: “No.” “The most important thing for us now is to sleep,” Jung Kook insists. Suga follows right up with “Can you see my dark circles?” I cannot, because there are none, because flawless skin translates even over Zoom when there’s an ocean between us.

So they’re not, at least publicly, having romantic relationships with anyone. If there is a strong relationship that’s guided their journey into adulthood, it’s with Big Hit. “Our company started with twenty to thirty people, but now we have a company with so many employees,” RM says. “We have our fans, and we have our music. So we have a lot of things that we have to be responsible for, to safeguard.” He considers it for a moment. “I think that’s what an adult is.”

“Our love life—twenty-four hours, seven days a week—is with all the ARMYs all over the world,” RM adds.

In a world that is determined to sand down anything that isn’t immediately recognizable to the average pop-music fan, when it comes to acquainting you with Korean culture, BTS very much do not wanna hold your hand. While the first song on night one of their Tonight Show week was a joyous but expected take on “Dynamite” with Fallon and the Roots, they took some chances during their second performance.

As a friend of mine, a thirty-three-year-old BTS fan in Los Angeles, told me, “The second song they performed was ‘IDOL,’ ” from 2018’s Love Yourself: Answer, “and it celebrated their Korean identity. They performed it in Gyeongbokgung Palace in Seoul. They wore clothes inspired by traditional dresses called hanboks;it was almost entirely in Korean, so it felt super subversive. As a fan, I read it as: ‘Dynamite’ was an invitation, and this is who we are and this is our home.”

“I was a little concerned that people might not understand,” Fallon says. “I was like, ‘There’s nothing in English here.’ But what you see is just pure star power. Pure talent. Immediately, I thought, Oh, this is everything. If you’re that powerful, it transcends language.”

American popular music in the twenty-first century is more fragmented than it has been since . . . well, since Allan Sherman, Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim, and the Singing Nun battled for that number-one spot. The monoculture that the Beatles helped bring on has breathed its last breath. Each of us is the program director for our own private radio station, letting our own past habits and streaming-service algorithms serve up something close to what we want. Which is great, except that huge moments can whiz right past our ears. Each of us, even if we’re more clued in than our parents were when they were our age, can miss some era-defining, excellent shit. Particularly if the radio is our Spotify Discover Weekly, or the Pandora channel based on the band whose T-shirts we wore in college. We can let a moment pass us by if prime time is a Netflix binge, and the Tonight Show hour is spent on one more episode before bed. But we shouldn’t. “Honestly, I think it’s history that we’re living through with BTS,” Fallon says. “It’s the biggest band I’ve seen since I’ve started late night, definitely.”

THERE IS ALSO THE SMALL DETAIL THAT, UNLIKE THE BEATLES AND literally every other worldwide sensation to break in America, BTS don’t particularly need to go to the trouble. They are massive all over the world. Thanks to the recent IPO of Big Hit Entertainment, of which each member is a partner, they are all now incredibly wealthy. (Hitman Bang is the first South Korean entertainment mogul to become a billionaire.) What good is a culture in decline to a pop act this much on the ascent? “When I dreamed of becoming an artist, I listened to pop and watched all the awards shows in the United States. Being successful and being a hit in the U. S. is, of course, such an honor as an artist,” says Suga. “I feel very proud of that.”

They’re breaking out in a country that either worships them or fails to notice them. So do they feel like they’re getting enough respect in America? “How can we win everyone’s respect?” Jin asks. “I think it’s enough to get respect from people who support us. It’s similar everywhere else in the world. You can’t like everyone, and I think it’s enough to be respected by people who really love you.”

Suga agrees. “You can’t always be comfortable, and I think it’s all part of life. Honestly, we are not used to getting a ton of respect from when we first started out. But I think that gradually changes, whether it be in the States or other parts of the world, as we do more and more.”

There is, without a doubt, one colossal, unmistakable sign of respect for a musician: a Grammy. They’ve been nominated only once, and even then it was for best recording package. But their sights are set on a big one next year. RM puts it out there: “We would like to be nominated and possibly get an award.” Dragging the hoary, backward-looking, and Western-focused Grammys into the gorgeous, global world of the present through sheer force of will, talent, and hard work? Stranger things have happened. “I think the Grammys are the last part, like the final part of the whole American journey,” he says with a smile. “So yeah, we’ll see.”

The Recording Academy’s seal of approval is one thing. But BTS have already conquered the world, clowned tyrants, inspired individual fans to perform the small and achievable acts of activism that have collectively begun to save the planet, challenged toxic masculinity by leading with vulnerability, and, along the way, become bajillionaires and international idols. Whether the Grammys are paying attention matters about as much as what an Ed Sullivan audience member expected to see that night in 1964. BTS have already won.

© source

[roseherondale]

Golden Hour

Summary: Pandora opens up to Icarus and Mayes, finding a way to move forward. Set during the time jump in episode 1 of Winds of Fortune (Life of the Party D&D)

Theme: Gold

Word Count: 1,310

Warnings: mentions of trauma

Read it on AO3 here

Golden rays hit the mountain in perfect arcs that covered Arx Volatus in a beautiful haze of radiant light. Below, was a pool of crystal clear water, sparkling and rippling where a waterfall trickled into it, sending delicate spirals across the surface. Across the horizon, the sun was perched low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow across fields and trees.

Beside the water, hidden behind the waterfall, was Icarus, eyes closed against the bright light, one hand on his necklace, the other resting on his lap. A light breeze ruffled the dark curls around his face, and he smiled, relaxed, as he brushed one back behind his fin-like ear. Across his face, the patterns of flowing water mixed together in a dance of shadow and light, constantly changing and flickering. The fluttering darkness made the scene on his arm, of storm clouds and lightning, seem real, as though the waves were actually turbulent.

A slight distance away, cast in the same incandescent light as the scenery below, was Mayes, the sun symbol of Pelor enclosed in one hand. Their brown hair was tied back in its usual bun, the sun illuminating the different shades. Unlike Icarus, they were sat completely within a patch of sunlight, hunched over and sketching, thin strands of hair falling into their face. The light scratch of pencils and rustle of paper accompanied the gentle rush of the water.

After a while, the sound of footsteps joined in, steadily getting louder until Pandora appeared in the small sanctuary. She was an ethereal vision, resembling a sunset herself with orange skin, hair the colour of fire and her golden freckles illuminated like stars. Her horns dripped with golden jewellery and on her collarbones were the dark inked markings of laurel leaves, a symbol of peace since destroyed.

When she reaches the base of the steps, she hesitated for a moment, watching her friends and taking in the atmosphere, feeling calmer and more at home than she had since they had arrived in Arx Volatus, on the backs of griffons, escaping Erran.

“Hey, Pandora,” Icarus said, without opening his eyes or moving at all.

“Hello. Can I sit?” She asked, wringing her hands in front of her, nervously.

Icarus opened his eyes and gestured that she sit down with one hand. Mayes turned around so that they were facing her, silhouetted by the sun and the warmth on their back was as though Pelor was laying a comforting hand on their shoulder. Carefully, Pandora sat, facing both of them, arranging her dress around her.

Since arriving a couple of months ago, she had withdrawn herself from her friends, focusing on studying magic and trying to forget everything that had happened in Erran. The further she pushed herself away, the more she felt herself slipping, the cliff rapidly approaching, and the less she felt she could stop.

In a moment of pure helplessness, she had found herself walking down to where she knew Icarus and Mayes would be, where they always were when they weren’t working. She craved the comfort and company of her friends, the unbridled joy and optimism they brought, and she so desperately needed but continued to meet with bitter scepticism.

“Everything okay?” Mayes asked, a slight line appearing on their forehead as they frowned.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Pandora said, quickly. Then, “no, actually it’s not.”

“We’re here for you if you need to talk.” Icarus said, after a moment of hesitation, holding out his hand. She took it and reached out her own for Mayes’.

“I know I’ve been… different, and you didn’t ask for this version of me as a friend. But thank you for looking out for me and being patient. We all lost a lot when we left Erran, but I never came to see if you were okay or needed anything; I just closed myself off.” She felt tears in her eyes and her voice came out as strangled. “I’m sorry, but I want to be better, to do better, to be a better friend to you both.”

“Don’t say that,” Mayes whispered. “You’re a good friend, Pandora; we love you. We know it’s been hard, and we didn’t want to pressure you.”

A couple of tears escaped, trickling down Pandora’s cheek, across golden freckles. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I pushed myself away; why I didn’t come to you both sooner.”

“You’re here now. And we’ll always be here for each other, even if you don’t want us to be.” Icarus smiled weakly, squeezing her hand.

“You can talk to us whenever you’re ready to, Dora.” Mayes said.

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, it was with a raw vulnerability; the product of allowing all of her thoughts to fester within her for weeks. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see Perseph… her face in my mind as she chose that,” she spat the last word, venomously, “over her family; over me.”

She took a deep breath. “I play it over and over in my head, thinking of anything I could have done differently. I go back to when we were kids and then, to before I went to Delphos. What did I do? What did I do so wrong that she chose to do this? Why would she abandon her family like this? Why would she abandon me?” Weeks of pushing down her emotions and channelling them into anger caught up with her, and she pulled her hands from Icarus and Mayes’, burying her face in them as she began to sob.

Icarus and Mayes glanced at each other, alarmed, before immediately moving closer and putting their arms around her.

“It’s not your fault.” Mayes whispered into her hair, repeating it over and over as she cried. The sun seemed to blaze brighter behind them, embracing them all in a swirl of gold.

“You’re safe, Dora. You don’t have to go through anything alone.” Icarus said, when her tears slowed, and she sniffed.

The quiet warmth was intoxicating. She opened her eyes, looking out over her friends’ shoulders, watching the glint of light in the water. Heavier footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them.

“I thought I’d find you down here,” Damen said, softly.

“Hey, Dames.” Icarus responded, voice muffled from where his face was pressed against Pandora’s hair. The tall, red hobgoblin looked down to where his friends were huddled on the floor, his eyes, one green and one gold, filled with fondness and sorrow for everything that had happened to them. They reminded him of his son, Panos, and he was grateful that if he couldn’t be with him at all, he could still be with his makeshift family.

Mayes raised their head, smiling sadly. “Come join us.”

Damen knelt down between Icarus and Pandora, putting his arms around them.

“It’ll be okay, firefly. We’re here. No matter what has happened and what will happen, we’re not going anywhere.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“We’ll always be together,” Icarus smiled, weakly. “We can face anything; even this.” Damen’s mouth curved into a smile and he raised one hand to ruffle Icarus’ hair.

“Always.” Mayes said, firmly.

In that moment, there were a million things Pandora wanted to say, but instead, she clung onto her family, holding onto them, tightly, as though they were her lifeline. In a way they were. They were her last tether to the world, the only things keeping her afloat in the stormy sea that encompassed her. They were her remaining link to her life in Erran. Together, they had been through so much, and finally, for the first time in weeks, under the golden rays of the setting sun, she felt like she was home.

Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it! This was my first fanfiction for LOTP so let me know what you thought x