#it makes my life drenched in mental illness feel like it’s not been for nothing

[justtogetthrough]

Today while driving home my best friend told me that they’ve become a better therapist since I came into their life because we have so many conversations about mental health and therapy and social work and helping people. It was really sweet. Speaking of things that ground me. The things I’ve said have changed how they view things and they feel that makes them better at their job. That’s a kind of permanence, an existence that’s real.

My ex used to tell me all the time that I made her a better person, her life was better with me in it, but that really felt like a caretaking role. She’d say it and I’d shuffle awkwardly because she didn’t make me better. In fact, she made me worse and I was keenly aware of it the whole time.

But my best friend? They have hugely made my life better, have helped me become better, and they have had such an integral role in my mental health recovery rather than it’s deterioration like my ex. I’ve learned so much about boundaries, I’ve had someone close to me also working towards goals and being healthy which helps me do those things too (as opposed to endless self destruction and a total lack of support when it came to taking care of my basic needs).

It’s neat to feel like I’ve had a positive impact on someone, that someone who is only in my life because they choose to be - I’m not paying them to listen, I’m not stuck working at the same agency as them - feels that they are better off for knowing me. To hear that today totally blindsided me and it makes me so happy.

[cult-of-the-eye]

inspired by @archivus' statements, i decided to give it a try myself

tw for depersonalisation, body image issues, body horror, slight gore

Out of Body Experience

Statement of Rebekah Fitch, regarding something that wasn’t her body. Original statement given 5th March 2018. Recording by [REDACTED], Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Manchester. Committed to tape 26th March 2024. 

Statement begins. 

I never thought I would end up like this. I just-

I guess I should start from the start. 

Throughout my life, I’ve had a complicated relationship with my body. Not to get too, um, personal or anything, but let’s just say it's tough being the child of an immigrant mother, especially, well, my mother. She would make comments about my body, small ones, I’ll admit, but ones that certainly built up to…recent events. On top of all that, I spent a lot of my teen years dissociating. Tricking my brain into believing that I wasn’t real. That nothing was. It’s a bit difficult to solidify an image of your body when half of you is ashamed of it and the other half doesn’t even consider your ownership of one. Ownership. I guess that’s sort of where it all began. 

It was sometime in January when it all started to go wrong. I don’t exactly have a habit of staring at myself in the mirror, in fact, the only mirror I own in my cramped little flat is the bathroom one. It’s somehow always stained, a fact which I hesitate to admit helped me live with my…issues. The point is, the majority of the time, I didn’t know how I looked.

And then one day, I watched myself wake up. 

I remember exactly how it felt. You know how people sometimes slice oranges in half and then take the peel, dig their fingers into the sides and push, letting each segment split from the other, hungrily leaning up towards you? That’s how I felt. Inverted. Wrong. I saw myself in a way that I had never, ever seen before. Each and every part of me that bulged where it shouldn’t have, thinned and yellowed at the edges like a fruit in its off-season. Whatever was happening to my eyes didn’t hurt, exactly, but I could feel every single part of my body as if it had suddenly awoken from a deep unconsciousness. It disgusted me. The life of it all. I panicked, of course, I thought I was having a really, really bad dream and that all I needed to do was wake up. But, no matter how many times I attempted to shield myself from the view, no matter how many times I willed every single synapse in my brain to connect and let my goddamn eyes close, nothing happened. 

That nothing was the most excruciating nothing that I had ever experienced in my life. I was forced open, boneless and writhing. The me on the bed that I was watching slept soundly. 

I don’t remember when I snapped out of it. I don’t remember how long it had been. I sat up, drenched in sweat, determined to be rid of the one mirror I had left. Putting it in the bin didn’t feel as triumphant as I believed it would. I guess part of me knew that this was no one-off. 

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. It could just be a hallucination. I could be traumatised or mentally ill or on drugs. Well, I’m actually all of those things, which means that I have the unique ability to prove you wrong. I know what a hallucination feels like, I know what drug side effects feel like, and I know what my episodes feel like. And this? This was entirely separate. I don’t have to tell you that it happened again. I don’t have to tell you that I went from GP to GP, therapist to therapist to find out what was happening to me. But I will end this with proof. 

Statement Ends. 

Post-statement records include a medical report of one Rebekah Fitch. It outlines a series of scars of unidentified means on the underside of her eyelids, spelling out the phrase “I know that I exist.” Any attempts to follow up have led to dead ends. However, I’m afraid that I may be able to guess how this one ends.

[general--winter]

uchiha shisui x reader - not a snowbird

author's note: I PROMISE I'm working on requests, I've just been working a bit more on ventfic one shots in my free time since it's finals and I kinda can't function, especially since I graduate university in two weeks, lol. This fic is greatly inspired by my own experiences with anxiety attacks and mental illness, so it's definitely not a one-size-fits-all type of deal. Hope you all enjoy!

rating: teen

fandom: naruto

pairing: uchiha shisui x gn!reader

word count: 2419

warnings: anxiety attacks, self-doubt/self-loathing, general mental illness descriptions

summary: snowbird - someone who migrates to warmer climates to avoid the winter cold

Sometimes, you can feel the void in your chest.

It burns ice into your heart, into your stomach. You shiver but you aren’t actually cold. It sucks the oxygen out of your lungs and causes you to hyperventilate. Your extremities tremble, every muscle in your body tenses. You try to catch your breath. There was no air to be consumed. You’re drowning in anxiety, the ice seizing control of every nerve in your body and brain, curling through them and freezing you from the inside-out. Your limbs scrunch up and your throat constricts, fighting against your instinct to breathe. At some point, the feeling in your hands and feet has vanished. It’s almost as if your body wants to shut down. That would certainly make sense, considering your inability to form any cohesive thought. Primitive thought was all you were capable of. Basic survival instincts. But even those are pushing to their max; seeing as your heart rate has skyrocketed and you’re heaving for breath faster than if you’d just ran a mile. Even though quite literally nothing had happened to make your fight-or-flight instincts surface.

Yeah. Anxiety attacks were fun. Especially when you had to hide them from your  house party guests. When they're the presumed cause.

You pulled yourself into a ball, trying to drain any heat you could from the wool blanket you kept in the bathroom for this very purpose. All you were able to do was drench it in your chills-induced sweat. And the tile floor pressed against your cheek was certainly not doing you any favors.

All the while, your thoughts raced. There were so, so many people around. All asking you about every minute detail about your life. Teasing you about your worst insecurities, prodding at topics that made you freeze up. It was too much at once. Everyone here was just a reminder of your past failures. Asking you why you never moved away from home, what happened to the rebellious nature you used to flaunt, why you were so compliant with the life path you always denounced—

From tailbone to skull, a violent, spasming shiver wracked your body. Where did all of your body heat go during times like these, you wondered? Did the cool floor drain it away? Or was your body leeching every ounce of warmth into the air to further torture you? There simply was no answer now, though you rationally knew it was just a sensation. A trick of the body and mind.

This situation sucked. And you had to reel it in before the partygoers got suspicious of their host’s absence. The music and chatter of your family and friends taunted you from outside, morphing into a muffled rumble as they entered your perception. Were you underwater? Your lungs might as well be filling with water rather than air. There was no relief from your stressed breathing.

It was a failure. Just like everything else in your life. Like how you couldn't do what you promised at seventeen, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the doors of your university. Sure, you had graduated, but now what? You’re back in your hometown, right where you said you would never go again. Now your body’s natural instincts were betraying you, were kicked into overdrive. Making you a panicked mess on the floor of your new apartment’s bathroom. It was pathetic, you thought.

Knock, knock, knock!

The clear, rapt knocks of the wooden door pierced your eardrums through the haze of noise beyond, causing you to jump in place, clutching ever stronger to anything you could use to ground yourself, to physically keep yourself from sinking. Who came to your bathroom? The party was in another part of the apartment with a half-bath nearby. No one even knew where this one was, nor did they have any reason to come all the way here. It was your safe space. A defensive cove no one would find while you were breaking down. Honestly, you were shocked you had half a mind to stumble in here however long ago you started to panic. A few minutes? An hour? What time was it, anyway?

“Hey, is everything alright in there?” a voice gently spoke from the other side. Who had come here to laugh at your misery? Your senses were so overwhelmed that you barely registered the identity of the voice.

You couldn’t, didn't want to muster a response to this mystery person. They were surely someone you knew, and out of the twenty-or-so people at your place right now, there was only one you think you could eventually be okay with finding you here.

And, well, to your (mis)fortune, that exact person picked the lock of the bathroom effortlessly and nudged the door open. It made sense, after all. He was the only person who could ever tell when you left the room; it seemed that sometimes you were invisible to everyone but him. Your sunken-in, puffed eyes met his near-black ones above, sparkling and wide with concern. Half-delirious, you weren’t sure if he was an angel coming down from above to save you or a devil stalking over its prey.

“Oh, sweetie,” he sighed, coming to kneel down in front of you after quietly closing the door. The closer he got, the faster your breath rushed through your lungs. When he got too close, you were sure he could feel the arctic rush of air settled around your cocoon.

“Shisui… help,” you managed in a herculean effort.

“Do I help by staying or leaving?” he whispered, still crouched.

“Staying,” you forced out, reaching for his hand like you were about to tumble down a sheer cliff.

“Physical touch is okay?” he checked.

“Yes… No more talking for now… please.” The voice croaking those words was almost foreign. 

With a nod, Shisui scooped you up, blanket and all. He was so, so warm. Like you were laid atop a furnace. You sucked every ounce of heat from his body while he silently took you to your bed. His breathing obviously deepened and took on a steady rhythm. Was he trying to get you to match?

Shisui placed you gingerly under your comforter, pulling away the emergency blanket from your shoulders. In an instant he'd worked his way around to the other side of the bed and slipped under to grasp your halfway-catatonic body, folded instantly into a cocoon, in a warm embrace.

There was something about the way Shisui cuddled you, especially at times like these. While you were in that fetal position with your eyes clamped shut, trying to catch your breath at his pace like you ran a marathon, the pressure of his arms and body on you breathed life back into your icy limbs. Sensations in your fingers and toes returned, first to static and then to the gentle rubbing of Shisui's dress shirt and pants.

And when his hand stroked your head in just the right way, Shisui was blown back by the force of your reciprocated hug. He let out a gentle chuckle and continued to calm you. One of Shisui's arms was anchored around your shoulders, making sure you were tethered to reality, to your bed. His free hand traced gentle, random patterns on the plane of your clothed back. A long time ago, you'd told him that it was one of the most relaxing things someone could do to you. Ever since, it has been Shisui's go-to in these situations.

Your face dug into his chest, the scent of cologne overtaking your senses. The familiarity of it all smashed the breaks on your heartbeat and your body’s functions started to finally decelerate. Shisui was a very soft person to lay on. He was a lot more fit than you, but there was still some squish to his body. It filled out his figure aesthetically, but what mattered more to you was that it made him so much more comfortable to cuddle.

However, you suddenly became self-aware of how much your grasping hands must have been messing up his shirt and wrinkling the entire backside. Oh great, and you were starting to cry on his chest, making it all soggy. What if Shisui wanted to get back to having fun with everyone? If you remembered correctly, he was in an animated conversation with your dad about something. Weren’t you holding him back from doing what he wanted? And… did you even deserve to be comforted after abandoning your guests?

Swiftly, you let go of Shisui and tried to turn your back to him to make him let go. That, infuriatingly, did nothing to sway his grasp on your body, although now he was quite confused. His brows knitted together and his soft gaze was fixated on you. Only you.

I don’t even think I deserve to be comforted, you spiraled. I’m ripping Shisui away from his fun time and letting everyone else down just because I’m too pathetic to put up with some silly questions.

“You can go back,” you breathed out onto his shirt after trying in vain once again to worm your way from his arms and cocoon once again into your bed. “I don’t want to keep you. And I should go back soon, too.”

“Hey, you little dumpling,” gently teased Shisui, the soft lilt of his voice drawing a sob closer to your throat. You felt one of his rough hands run atop your head again. “I’m here for you, you've gotta get better. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

You opened your eyes and looked upwards, facing his tender expression. Normally, your heart would waver, but right now you were too caught up in your own self-loathing and panic to even think about that.

“But we really should get back to the party. I don’t want to hold you back from everyone,” you whispered. “I’ve already messed up your shirt too. It’s not presentable anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry.” A firm, but loving tone accompanied these words. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. I know this can happen to you. I’m sorry that this is something you experience.”

Shisui shifted to sit up with a creak of the bed, dragging your head to lay on his soft lap. Your gaze focused up his body to look at him. One cheek was pressed against his body, the other caressed by his hand, gently wiping away the mist of tears on your lashes.

“If I could take on all of the hurt, all of the anxiety you experience, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t. So the second best thing I can do is be here while you do.”

“But I’m wasting your time,” you whimpered. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

“Hey. No,” Shisui gently scolded, bringing his palm to stroke your one upturned cheek. You hesitantly met his intense gaze, focusing more on his eyelashes than his pupils. “When I said I wanted to be your boyfriend all that time ago, I meant it. And that means I’m your partner. During the ups and downs, during times of suffering and joy. I’m not a snowbird, I’m here for all of it. I chose to be with all of you. And this is included. So I will dedicate myself to you fully.” He smirked. "That's just the kind of guy I am, yeah?"

You let out a little snort, his speech breaking through the final layer of ice surrounding your heart. “That kind of sounded like wedding vows.”

A red-hot blush spread across Shisui’s face, and his once-intense eyes now shied away. He muttered while shoving his face slightly into your pillow, but you were able to catch what he said:

“Maybe I should write that down so I can say it again one day.”

A ghost of a smile graced your lips. Once again, you wrapped your arms around Shisui’s waist, now enjoying the rise and fall of his breath. The periodic motion and slight whistle of his nose slowed your beating heart while finally and successfully matching your breaths to his. No longer was ice pumping through your veins, but real, genuine blood that breathed life into your body once more.

You allow the sensation of being present in the moment to wash over you a bit more. In this time, you shift yourself back up into a sitting position to nuzzle into Shisui's shoulder, his arm draping over you once more and one hand reaching out to pinch your nose shut.

"If you don't mind me asking," he spoke with care, "what's got you so worked up? I've gathered that you feel guilty for keeping me and for leaving the party, but—"

You cut him off in a nasally voice. "I was just super overwhelmed by everyone asking me questions that shamed me. It wasn’t on purpose, I don’t think. They're all done by now, it was at the beginning of the party, but it was just really digging under my skin."

"Okay," Shisui replied with a snicker, letting go of your nose. "It’s over, then. You’ve got it out of your system. There’s no need to feel guilty, either. You were feeling unwell, so you left. I’m pretty proud of you for that. Maybe we can work up to leaving before an attack starts. You know, set some boundaries.”

“Yeah, I can talk to my therapist about it,” you replied. “I still feel a little guilty about everything, but… thank you for being here for me.”

“Of course. Anything for you, alright? Are you up to going back?”

“I think I spent all of my energy,”  you said, volume barely above a whisper. “I don't think I’ll be able to get out of this bed no matter how hard I try.”

“The party’s been winding down anyway. I’ll get rid of everyone for you, yeah?”

Shisui slipped out of the bed in one fluid motion, leaving a pool of warmth behind. Your head hit the backboard and your eyes slid closed, soaking in the presence that Shisui left behind as he took care of wrapping up your get-together. He was always so kind and understanding with you. It made your heart race in a different, more pleasing fashion. No matter what, he always made sure you knew you were supported by him. And, well, no matter how hard your brain tried to fight, you knew Shisui would always be there to grapple back until you learned how.

[hakawati93]

MERLOT

"Just another lonely night." is the constant thought that swarms my mind.

My life is nothing but a routine that never ends; there is no spark or thrill, and it ends with me sitting on this squeaky, lumpy old couch that I have grown to love over the past few years. Sadly, the longest relationship I have had is with this couch, and our dates include a tv show I have watched repeatedly and a bottle of Pinto.

I can go out and enjoy all that life offers a 26-year-old, with nightclubs, parties, one-night stands, etc. Just the thought of it alone causes the taste of dinner to wiggle up my esophagus to the back of my throat. I have never been interested in the usual antics of someone in their twenties. I enjoy staying home, reading, writing, and watching classic movies, but I also hate it because the feeling of loneliness sits right next to me like an old friend. It greets me when I climb into bed; it lays next to me, wraps its arms around me, and whispers the harshness of my life choices and how they will always be here.

I know it's depressing, but it is all I know; I have been alone since my mother gave birth. I know I have family and friends with me, but how can you call them such when you feel no real connection with them? How can they be family and friends when they can't fill the deep hole within your soul? That's the right, soul, not heart, and no, I am not being over dramatic! My soul feels like it has a growing hole, and it continues to grow and deepen with each passing day.

Do you know what I wish for, what I have prayed for every night since I was a child who could fully understand the need for companionship? I have prayed and wished! For someone to come into my life and fill my soul and heart with much love and happiness. I will meet someone who can bring up every emotion on the spectrum. Anger, happiness, sadness, etc. I don't care; I just want to feel something other than nothing at all. I take these thoughts to bed with me, and don't tell me, "well, maybe you suffer from depression." I know I suffer from depression and three other mental illnesses, but when medicine no longer works, and those feelings still exist, what then? You start to ask yourself, is it a chemical imbalance in your brain or spiritual? Has my soul been alone since my first life, and has it carried this loneliness for every life? Have I not had anyone to fill this void in my soul? God! another horrid thought to take to bed.

Turning off the Tv, I annoyingly shuffle my feet to my bedroom, rolling my eyes at the fact my roommate once again is entertaining "one of her hoes," Shame is a new feeling right now because I have tried walking a mile in her shoes. Is that the right word for it? I guess I had my share of "hoes" and didn't enjoy a millisecond. Every kiss, touch, and thrust (cringe) felt wrong and foreign to me like I shouldn't be doing this or at least with this person. After 5 attempts, I finally gave up on the hoe thing and decided to just wait, but how long will this delay be?

As I climb into bed and get all snuggly, I daydream about the perfect guy and our relationship. Sometimes they are fanfictions on a book I have read, a tv show, or a comic book universe (DC!), and I throw myself in it, making my own sensible character. I have already taken my antipsychotics for the night and can feel them slowly ease my body to relax. When I take my medicine, it feels like someone is pressing a chloroform-drenched cloth over my nose and mouth, and I fall into a deep sleep. Like I am doing now, right before I drift to dreamland, I feel my bed dip, and it's like someone has climbed into it. It can't force me to open my eyes and check there is no rush of adrenaline to cause me to jump out of bed. I just lay here, letting them crawl and lay next to me. Like I have been tossed down Alice's hole into wonderland, I begin to fall with the whispers of "Mine" echoing around me.

Can't scream or move, and fear is starting to spread throughout my veins! I want to wake up now, please!

"Be still, my love.", A husky voice calls out to me.

I don't know why I care that his voice sounds like warm honey being brushed all over my body, but for some reason, I do.

"Open your eyes." commanding little shit, isn't he?

I open my eyes to find myself in my living room, but instead of grey-painted walls, they are a dark deep red. No couch or boxes of books were scattered around the room, just a long dining table in the center. I look towards the window, and there are no street lights, just void blackness, the type of black that no light can shine through. I'm not even going to bother looking at the man because I can't see anything, and I also don't care enough to look. Probably because I am peeing my pants scared, and if he looks like some horrible creature from sinister (I freaking hate that movie!), I will have a damn heart attack. He laughs, like those deep-throaty laughs you read in romance novels that sound so sexy toward the female character.

"Are you done with your inner monologue? You have wished and prayed for me since you were a child, and now that I am here, you fear me? What an odd little creature."

As if I was bitched slapped, my head turned towards him and, with great disappointment

"Once again with the inner monologue? Little one, just speak to me."

"Fine! Why can't I see you?" Freaking twat muffin!

"Because I am too far from you; if I was closer, I could show myself more clearly. Not that that matters we have met before and you have seen my face. You just don't remember. Also any thought that you have, I can hear it."

"ops"

I turn my head away slightly and hide my smile cause; honestly, it is a little funny.

"Is it now?" Th,e sexy voiced man then placed a glass of red wine in front of me, and all I had to say was it better not be Merlot.

"It is, little love; I apologize that the type of wine is not your liking, but if you want, you can always change it the next go around. I am giving you a choice here, little love, to end your suffering to rid you of your loneliness. To stay here with me and get everything you ever wanted in life, and all you have to do, my love, is to give in. Drink the wine and stay with me or return to your current life and continue to suffer alone."

"Just give in, right?" I reach for the glass……….

[tetsoorou]

fancy business shoes

♡ pairings: timeskip!kuroo tetsurou x gn!reader

♡ warnings: sfw, fluff ?, tiny bit of hurt/relationship trauma/very bleak opinion of love mentioned, kind of implied that reader used to be going through it w an unspecified mental illness

♡ wc: 860

♡ synopsis: you used to think love was stupid, but then you met kuroo. just a short lil drabble that kind of describes how you used to think, how you met him, and how he changed your mind.

♡ a/n: ok so i was coming up empty on where to go with another wip, decided to start on a different one, intentions of writing a spicy lil fic w my boy kuroo here, and then 30 min later this happened ??? no idea what this !!

life with kuroo is easy.

it’s easy and fun and full of life and love and jokes so bad, they’re good. full of laughing until you’re crying at three in the morning on the kitchen floor, and watching the sun rise in his eyes between hushed whispers of “you’re such a dork” (“i love you”) on a weekday because you got so lost in the way he talks about the things he loves, that one hour turned into four which quickly turned into eight.

loving him comes so naturally, you swear the only reason you were put on this earth was to love him for the rest of your lives and then some.

before kuroo, you thought the idea of soulmates – of love – was stupid; something made up to give lonely people enough hope to grab onto to make it through the night. just a notion to make the unbearable weight of life feel light enough to will yourself out of bed in the morning.

you thought by not believing in love you were better than those “poor fools” who had been cruelly tricked into believing its existence. at least you weren’t deluded by some false pretense that there was someone out there made just for you, and you them, right? how arrogant must they be to believe such a thing?

it’s not that you hadn’t experienced love before – oh, no, you certainly had. but it was nothing like what all the movies and books and disgustingly-in-love old married couples told you.

it was hard. it was full of pain and sorrow and hate – what you once thought was the opposite of love quickly became synonymous with it. all those stupid tales about how love is so beautiful and all-encompassing made you produce a sound that sounded exactly like a laugh, but was far too hollow and devoid of joy to call it such.

that was what you truly believed until one particular rainy day in university – the very first day in the last year of what was supposed to be the “best four years of your life” – though, “best four years of your life” is far from what you’d use to describe it.

it had been raining nonstop that day – something you normally wouldn’t mind – save for the fact that the buses weren’t running because you unfortunately secured the worst lab section you’d ever had the displeasure of taking. not only was it three hours long and started so late that the buses were already shut down, but it was also on the opposite side of campus, and you had ten minutes between classes to make the twenty-minute walk to get there.

so by the time you showed up – late of course – you were drenched, shivering, and grumbling about the grim state of life under your breath between little gasps for air. and as if life heard your grumbling and was hell-bent on getting the last laugh; the door was locked.

before you could shout expletives into the empty corridor, a tall, gangly man with incredibly messy hair – somehow, even though it was soaking wet, it still stuck out in every direction – came noisily burling around the corner, mere centimeters away from knocking you over. his jacket was falling off his shoulder and his chest was rising and falling rapidly from sprinting up the stairs, pathetically limp notebook in one hand - probably from trying to use it to shield his head from the rain, albeit unsuccessfully.

he looked like he was having just as terrible a day as you.

“locked, huh?” he had said, and when you nodded in confirmation he actually laughed. to this day, you have no idea why or what he was laughing at. perhaps it was just one of those times where the only thing you could do was laugh; the best alternative to crying.

but nonetheless, his laugh boomed and echoed through the silent, empty hallway of the building (and also your heart) - a little loud and a tad obnoxious, but also contagious. and for the first time in a long time, you laughed too. a real laugh.

that’s when you knew, and as they say, “the rest is history.”

you’re still not sure if you believe in soulmates – the concept seems silly, though kuroo would argue and insist you’re just being pessimistic, gesturing between the two of you as if to say “of course they do. we’re proof, duh.” – but you do believe in love.

love in the form of keen eyes that always seem to be glimmering with a touch of mischief and disheveled black hair that has never learned to lie flat. love in the form of a smirk that never quite seems to completely fade and a laugh so boisterous it could stir the stillest of hearts.

love in the form of fancy business shoes, little gifts that just “reminded him of you,” and an old, but in pristine condition, number one jersey pushed to the back of your shared closet – a testament to the careful way he loves and the kindness he extends to everyone he meets.

love in the form of a man named kuroo tetsurou.

[too-kinky-to-live]

taste

happy vo.re day everyone!!! here’s my cringe fic to commemorate :-) 

(no ao3 link this time im too self conscious) 

this idea came about while talking to the lovely @chili-kinks and they made this in conjunction with my fic so please check them out!!

anyway this fic features pre.game oum.asai and soft, same size vo.re, you have been warned. also bad words

“IIIIT’S PUNISHMENT TIME!!!”

The screen cut to a large Monokuma towering over the latest blackened, a small blonde girl with a long pigtail. The demonic bear picked up the girl and began to lick all over as she struggled in his grasp. Slowly lifting her above his head, Monokuma bent his head back and opened the gates of hell: his half-fanged mouth, with drool beginning to form around it. The girl was screaming and flailing about as she was lowered further down to her demise. Monokuma’s fist released her without effort, the blackened dropping right into his gaping maw. It slammed shut with a metal clang, and the bear gave a loud, deafening gulp. 

Saihara’s eyes were glued to the T.V., in a more intense manner than usual. What a cruel way to go, even for Danganronpa standards. He had many ideas about his own execution someday, but this… this was definitely one to consider. He could only imagine how she felt wriggling around in his large belly, put to an eternal sleep with a comforting blanket of warmth. His shaky hands moved to text his boyfriend Ouma, who sadly couldn’t make it to their weekly Danganronpa viewing because of heaps of school projects. He knew Ouma was more into the mystery aspect of the show than the gruesome killings, but he simply couldn’t resist. 

Saihara: omgomgomg did you see the latest episode???

Ouma: I did. I had it on in the background so I could work. 

Saihara: what did you think of the execution? :D

Ouma: It was… something. Unexpected, definitely. 

It was difficult for the taller boy to contain his fantasizing, to say the least. 

Saihara: i love the way she was screaming for dear life,,, it was soooo satisfying in the end! god i wish i were monokuma… tasting a victim would be so worth ittt

Ouma: Uh, Saihara?

Saihara: yea?

Ouma: I think you should go to bed. You have school tomorrow. And… you’re scaring me a little. 

Saihara: sorry kichi… but fiiiine ill see you tomorrow.

The last thing he wanted was to make Ouma uncomfortable. And he was a man of his word, he’d take his advice and get to bed. However, there was one thing he wanted to try first. Rummaging around in his snack drawer, he found a small bag of Monokuma-themed gummy bears. He couldn’t stop thinking about having something whole run down his throat… and what better way to do it than try on a small candy? He frantically opened the bag and plucked out a red gummy. Dangling it above his drooling maw, he licked his lips. 

“My first victim… down the hatch!” 

He shoved the gummy in his mouth and had to stop himself from chewing. Positioning it for swallowing, he let it slide down his throat with a hard gulp. Saihara traced a hand over his chest to feel it going down to his stomach, shivering slightly. What an amazing feeling… he couldn’t chew these ever again! He happily shoved more in his mouth and gulped them down, pretending they were meek little prey against his predatory might. 

Saihara tossed the bag aside and rubbed his belly blissfully. One day, maybe he could have a person inside him. Despite his affinity for Danganronpa, he could never bring himself to kill someone. He was going to rely on Team Danganronpa’s directors to change that for him. No, he merely wanted someone in his belly for a while, just to feel what it’s like. 

Surely a normal human like him couldn’t achieve that, right? 

Only one way to find out. 

Ouma looked on nervously as Saihara effortlessly swallowed half a sandwich whole. His previous victims included sushi, apple slices, candy, cookies, and brownies. It was almost inhuman how the taller boy could open his mouth to fit a seemingly endless array of food. 

"Saihara, you're gonna make yourself sick."

Saihara simply chuckled. "I'll be fine, 'Kichi." 

The smaller boy knew Saihara had a somewhat unhealthy obsession with Danganronpa, but he never would have imagined it would affect him this much. Despite how unnatural it was, Ouma couldn't help his morbid curiosity. He couldn't deny how interesting the latest execution was (no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise), and a small part of him absolutely loved watching Saihara scarf down food and seeing it travel down his throat. 

Nope, he definitely didn't enjoy this. 

Every so often, the taller boy would lift his food above him and slowly ease it into his mouth, as if to simulate eating a person. Ouma was immensely thankful the other patrons of the cafe were ignoring them. Maybe this sudden fascination would fade once the next Danganronpa episode came out; but with Saihara, anything was possible. 

Saihara: hey could you come over today? i wanna try something. 

Two weeks later, Ouma received a rather unceremonious text from Saihara one night. 

Ouma: Sure. What is it you want to try? 

Saihara: i don't think i can say over text

Ouma furrowed his brow, his mind racing to the absolute worst possible scenarios. Did something happen between him and his uncle again? 

Ouma: ...why not? 

Saihara: i just can't i'm sorry 

Saihara: pls come over asap 

Ouma: Alright.

It was unsettling how vague his friend was being, and that made him all the more worried. He hurriedly packed his things and ran to Saihara's house. 

The two sat across from each other on the floor in Saihara’s room, neither saying a word. The taller boy had his eyes cast down, deep in thought with Ouma left to wonder just what the hell happened to him. The air was unnerving, and Ouma couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you okay, Saihara?”

The boy in question took a second to look up at him, meeting his eyes with an emotionless face Ouma had not seen in him before. 

“Do you remember the episode where the girl got eaten alive?”

Oh.

“I… I want to try it out. I’ve been practicing so I could make it happen.”

Oh.

Saihara couldn’t possibly think this would work, right? Humans aren’t capable of eating each other without… killing the other. Ouma shuddered. 

“Saihara,” he spoke slowly. “Do you really think you can do this? I mean, Danganronpa is just fiction after all… and one of us wouldn’t s-survive,” his voice began to quiver. 

The taller boy sat up slightly and looked at Ouma with soft eyes. “I won’t let that happen. I’ve been looking stuff up. I’ve been training myself. And… you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

Part of Ouma didn’t want to. That part was constantly pushing the fact that this could end up very bad. However, another part slowly began to rise up - the feeling of being the closest he can to the one he has a crush on. And of course, there was that naughty side of him thrilled at the idea. 

“...I’ll do it.”

Saihara’s eyes lit up. “Really?!”

“I trust you. And, well, I’m kinda curious too.” 

Hearing Ouma have mutual feelings to this weird activity made Saihara’s heart race. The smaller boy began to remove his clothing, too embarrassed to make eye contact with his crush. Saihara finally noticed how bony Ouma was. He’d make sure to get him a proper meal later. Ouma removed everything but his boxers, feeling somewhat self-conscious and looking away with a blush. 

“Could you uh, close your eyes while I do this? I don’t think I could make eye contact with you.”

“S-Sure.”

Ouma complied and Saihara inched his way towards him, shaking slightly. Ouma trusted him. He wasn’t about to let that be for nothing. Raising himself above Ouma’s head, Saihara opened his maw until it became unhinged. He gently bit down on the smaller boy’s head of hair. The flavor was a sweet grape with a bit of lavender, which made Saihara drool slightly. He couldn’t help but smile in bliss as he took more of the boy in. He felt Ouma flinch a bit, so he brought his hands to Ouma’s arms and rubbed for reassurance. The smaller boy calmed down and Saihara reached his shoulders. 

Perhaps it was Ouma’s smaller stature, but this was going a lot easier than Saihara had anticipated. He wanted to lick at him to get more of his sweet flavor, but he didn’t want to gross him out. He also wished he could ask how Ouma was holding up, but, well… he was a bit preoccupied. As Saihara reached the smaller boy’s torso, he realized the boy had entered his stomach. He was already feeling full, but there was no going back now. He took a hand off of Ouma to rub his belly, his hand gliding over the dent created in it. Reaching Ouma’s boxers wasn’t nearly as thrilling of a milestone, since his taste was interrupted by bland fabric. 

He picked up the pace and shoved the covered part of Ouma’s body down his gullet. He mentally apologized for being so rough. Resuming the wonderful taste of Ouma, he slid down his spindly legs. All that remained was below the knees, and those were consumed just as quickly. Saihara could feel Ouma squirming a bit to get comfortable, and that’s when the true euphoria started. 

It felt fucking amazing. 

It was everything he hoped it would be. He leaned back and let an arm support him from behind, using the other to support the massive weight added to him. His stomach stretched past his knees with many bumps protruding from it. Red-faced, Saihara panted heavily with his tongue lavishly hanging out. God, this was so worth it. He rubbed around to feel for Ouma, who was surprisingly calm during the whole ordeal. 

He opened his mouth to ask Ouma how he was doing, but a massive belch burst from his lips instead. The smaller boy, meanwhile, was fumbling around trying to make out his surroundings in the dark. His body was drenched in saliva; but strangely, no stomach acid was present. The world quaked around him as Saihara let out a loud burp, and Ouma found it hard to be grossed out given his current circumstances. 

“Are you *urp* okay, ‘Kichi?” 

Saihara’s hand found Ouma’s head between the fleshy wall separating them, and Ouma couldn’t help but lean into the touch. He never saw himself in the stomach of his crush, yet here he was. 

“I’m okay. It feels… really nice,” he blushed, accentuated with a small rub to the stomach walls. He was amazed at how elastic Saihara’s stomach was, he hoped he wasn’t putting too much strain on it. 

“Haah… I’m great, ‘Kichi! The best I’ve ever felt, actually! You tasted incredible,” he grinned, licking his lips. 

Suddenly, the buttons on his dress shirt holding on for dear life relented and popped right off, exposing his large belly. That was… pretty hot, Saihara realized. Ouma started to rub more of the walls surrounding him, causing Saihara to moan rather loudly. He was a complete mess around his crush, but it was just too difficult to contain his bliss. 

“Saihara, why aren’t there any stomach acids yet?” 

The taller boy gave his belly a gentle pat. “I found recipes online for drinks that *hic* could subdue stomach acids for a bit. It looks *hic* like they worked pretty *hic* well, huh?” 

Ouma smiled and let himself lean back into the warm stomach walls. 

“You’ll let me out when I’m ready, right?” he asked tiredly. 

“Of course,” Saihara whispered, rubbing Ouma’s head.

“Thank you, Saihara.”

[f0rever15elf]

Gold Rush

Pairing: Modern!Ezra x f!reader Word count: 6,391 Rating: T+ Warnings: Slight swearing, short description of a brutal injury, mention of medical opiate administration via injection

Find the continuation of the story with Colorado Rocky Mountain High

Summary: It’s been a long time since the precious mineral rush hit the Rockies of Colorado. So when national news breaks of a potential gold vein left untouched in your quiet little town, no one is prepared for the rush that follows. And you certainly weren’t prepared for the man you meet. 

A/N: So, I adore Ezra’s vocabulary and accent. I felt like a modern twist on it could be interesting. Someone really needs to control me when I start writing these oneshots xD

Masterlist |  Ao3

You would never forget the day you first laid eyes on him. He looked a mess, dirt and soot clinging to his sweaty face. Mud clung to his coveralls, and his hair stood up in all directions having just taken his safety helmet off, a little blonde patch catching your eye. He looked positively exhausted as he lounged on a boulder set off a little bit from the rest of the commotion. The grueling heat from the mid-day summer sun did little to help the heat you felt rush to your cheeks when his warm brown eyes locked on yours. You averted your gaze quickly, scurrying off to finish your work in preparing the food for the new prospectors.

Your little mountain town tucked up in a secluded region of the Colorado Rockies had always been exceptionally quiet. That is, until a kid happened to stumble upon the start of what looked to be a gold deposit. It wasn’t unheard of, the mountains were rich with all kinds of valuable minerals. Hell, some of the towns got their names from the gold and silver deposits that brought them to life. Finding something here though, in your quiet and reclusive neck of the woods, was something your town was drastically unprepared for.

News broke nationally and within a week the town was flooded with prospectors and independent contractors all vying for their piece of the pie. The economic boost for the town was good, but the available resources were minimal, and the town felt the burden. There wasn’t enough room in the one bed and breakfast the town had to house them all, making little tent camps near the edge of town a very common sight.

Naturally, the close knit community rose to the occasion, coming together to make community meals for the visitors. Communal lunches were the most anticipated time for the workers, and they would flock to the picnic tables to fill their bellies as soon as the lunch bell rang. Most were nice and talkative, thanking the town for doing this for them, and promising to go visit the shops when they finished for the day. Some kept to themselves, staying quiet. Others would talk your ear off, but you had to approach them first. It was a strange new normal, but one that was easy to fall into routine with.

It’s been a little over a month now, and prospecting is in full swing. The little bit of gold the boy had found was just the beginning of one of the richest gold deposits this region of the Rockies had ever seen. More and more miners made their way to your town every day, and your new full time job became helping with the meals; making food runs down into the nearest large supermarket or tending to the vats of food that seemed to always be simmering away. But even when you were distracted with all of this hubbub, it seemed impossible to forget the man with the small blonde patch.

Today is a grey day. The clouds thick in the sky promise heavy rains. Yet still the lunch bell rings, calling the prospectors from their mine shafts and tents to come and join the community for food. The man with the blonde patch sits closer today, his usual boulder taken over by two of the newer prospectors whose names you had yet to learn. As you work, you feel his eyes following you, watching you like a hawk as you do your best to ignore it. Quite a few of the prospectors spent time ogling you, but this man’s gaze consistently feels different. Arms full of things to take back to your house to clean, you begin making the trek up the incline that leads to your house when lightning cracks the sky. The resounding rumble of thunder through the canyon scares you out of your wits, and the dishes go crashing to the ground as you lose your footing, stumbling backwards. You close your eyes, preparing yourself to hit the ground, knowing you’d be tumbling for a bit before you could regain yourself, but the ground never meets you.

���Careful there, sunshine.” The voice is honey thick, a deep Tennessee drawl that borders on music as it drips from the lips of the man who catches you. Opening one eye, you look up to see the man with the blonde patch holding on to you, having been the one to keep your from falling down the hill. You open your other eye as well, looking up at him for far longer than you are sure was proper before your cheeks grow hot and you scramble to get your footing again.

“I’m so sorry! The thunder frightened me, I didn’t mean to..I just...I – Thank you.” You blabber as you crouch down to start gathering the dropped and scattered dishes, cramming everything back in the chili pot.

“Not a worry, sunshine. Would have been a mighty rough fall there.” He crouches down to help you gather the dishes, only pausing to look to the sky when the first few drops land on his face. You look up with him and sigh.

“It’s going to be a hell of a storm.” His beautiful eyes turn back to you at your comment, an eyebrow raised. “The season is changing,” you grunt, getting to your feet. “Best to make sure your tent is secure, sir. Else this rain and the wind that will come with it will blow it half way down the canyon.”

“I appreciate the advice, but I do not believe that to be something I need concern myself with presently.” The way he spoke, words pouring from his mouth with such sweetness, was unlike anything you had ever heard. “I haven’t a tent to my name, you see. Just the clothes on my back and tools on my hip.”

“You didn’t bring a…?” Your voice tapers off in concern and confusion as the drops fall more rapidly, the rest of the prospectors dispersing to tend to their own things. “Come inside with me. You stay out in a storm like this you’ll get sick. Come on.” Turning, you begin your trudge uphill again, eyes on the sky as you wait for it to bottom out. The strange prospector follows you in silence, his tools clanking on his belt with every step.

And then it happens.

The sky opens up, the deluge drenching you both and you let out a small scream, sprinting down the street to the safety of your porch, the man hot on your heels. “C-Colorado rain is always so damn cold,” you chatter through clenched teeth, opening your front door and kicking off your soaked shoes. You’re half way to the kitchen when you realize the man hadn’t come in after you. Looking back over your shoulder, you see him standing just outside the doorway, the spitting image of a drenched kitten, conflict clear on his face. “Don’t just stand there, come inside where it’s warm.”

“It would be rather impudent of me to make a mess of your home in such a way.” You wave your hand at his comment, setting the dishes on the counter before returning to him.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t alright with it. Come on, you’re letting the cold in.” When he still doesn’t move, you roll your eyes and grab his hand, tugging him inside before shutting the door behind you. “You can use my shower to get cleaned up. Go on.” You all but push him down the hall, him protesting in far more words than necessary as you do. “There’s towels in the wicker basket. Use whatever you need.” You turn to leave, stopped only by his hand catching your wrist in his gentle grip.

“Thank you, sunshine.” You look up at him, struck by the sincerity on his face, in his eyes. “I am beholden to your unbridled grace and kindness.” You flash him a shy smile and nod as he drops his hand from your wrist.

“I’ll get you something dry to change in to once you’re done getting cleaned up.” Your voice is soft as you turn, letting him to his business as you go to find him some clothes. It is at this time that you’re beyond grateful that your brothers were so damn forgetful, having left several articles of clothing at your place every time they visit. Humming a low tune, you rummage through their chest of forgotten clothes, pulling out a v-neck you’re pretty sure will fit him along with a pair of gray sweatpants that might be just a touch too short. They were better than nothing, at least. You quickly fold the clothes, setting them in the hallway outside the bathroom door before knocking.

“Sir, there are warm and dry clothes for you in the hall way. I’ll wash your wet ones when you’re out.” Over the sound of the running water, you catch a muffled, loquacious reply. You have only been speaking to him for a few minutes, but he’s already proven to have a more robust vocabulary than most anyone you’d met. Chuckling, you make your way back to the kitchen to get the dishes cleaned up, resuming your humming.

A bit later, you’re interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing. You look over your shoulder to see the prospector there, leaning against the doorway into the kitchen. Relief washes over you when you see the clothes did fit, making a mental note to not tell your brothers that you were giving away their clothes. “Enjoy your shower?”

“The breadth of generosity you’ve show this old man of ill repute is without measure,” sugar sweet words drip from his lips again, bringing a heat to your cheeks.

“Oh please, it’s nothing, really.” You gesture outside to the torrential downpour. “If you have no shelter in this type of weather, it has the potential to bring a rapid end to your prospecting career. The nights are too cold up this high to go to sleep drenched to the bone.” Your eyes rake over his figure, settling on his hair again, sticking out in all sorts of directions after having towel dried it. A smile pulls at your lips before you look back at his face.

“Well, all the same sunshine, I seem to find myself indebted to your good graces.” The corner of his mouth tugs up in a lopsided smirk that makes your heart stutter.

“Well if that’s the case, help me dry the dishes and I’ll call us square.” You grin and toss a towel to him as he joins you at your side. “By the way, I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“How discourteous of me! I go by Ezra. Just Ezra. Pray tell what name such an absolute vision of beauty such as yourself goes by?” You can’t help the giggle that bubbles from your lips as a heat rushes to your cheeks. You give him your name, a nervous air in your voice. He nods, repeating your name back to you and you can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine as your name sounds like liquid gold on his lips. You wouldn’t mind hearing him say it again and again, you think.

“I like that name. Ezra. I think it suits you.” You flash a smile as you hand him a pot to dry. “Tell me though. How have you been here since the rush began, yet still you don’t have so much as a tent to cover your head?” His laugh is deep and rich as he takes the next dish, drying it thoroughly.

“I find it more prudent to be frugal with one’s earnings in such a tumultuous line of business as freelance prospecting. Nature tends to provide what my mortal body needs as far as shelter, so the earnings I amass in mining go towards improving my station.” You nod, turning off the water as you hand him the last plate.

“And you’ve been living this way for how long?”

“By my approximation, I’d say I’m just about at the ten year mark.”

“I can’t imagine the lifestyle is easy…”

“There is an ache that lingers in my bones, no doubt, but the drive to press ever on towards greatness...well, that is what distinguishes those who simply chase a dream of getting rich quick from those of us who yearn for something beyond that which words can describe.” He turns, leaning against the counter to cross his arms, eyes staring off into space. You’re quiet for a moment as you watch him, taking note of the creases on his weathered face. Laugh lines linger along the corners of his lips, and smile lines accent the corners of his eyes. He is beautiful in every sense of the word.

“And when you reach the end of the vein here? Where will you go to next?” His eyes refocus on you and he smiles, pondering the question for a moment.

“I suppose that entirely depends up the riches chanced upon during my toils in your hospitable hamlet.” The way he says riches as his eyes watch you strikes a chord within you, and you have a feeling that it isn’t just the gold he is speaking of. Something about this man bewitched you, and you find yourself struggling to break eye contact with him. His smile is warm and welcoming, but there is something there just below the surface that hints of danger. And it thrills you. Another crack of lightning and rumble of thunder startles you from your trance and you push away from the counter with a nervous chuckle.

“Well, I do hope you’re able to find what you’re looking for here, Mr. Ezra. Please make yourself at home, I’m going to go set your clothes into the wash for you.” You turn and all but sprint down the hallway to the bathroom, Ezra chuckling in the kitchen behind you.

As you start his laundry, you take a moment to compose yourself. Your heart is racing and your hands trembled in a nervous excitement as they braced against the washer. The air around Ezra is different, you think. Something about the man sets him apart from those you had had the chance to speak to so far, and you are determined to figure it out. After calming yourself to a reasonable level once again, you make your way out to join Ezra in the living room. He’s found your meager book collection, helping himself to one of your novels, and the sight of him perched on your sofa with it balanced on his knee looks like the most natural thing in the world.

“Avid reader?” you question, sitting down on the other side of the couch, tucking your feet up underneath you.

“I have been known to indulge when such an opportunity affords itself to me.” He flashes you that lopsided smile that you just can’t help but return before re-affixing his eyes to the text in front of him. You watch him for a time, trying to learn as much about him as you can from his posture, his looks, until your eyes drift to the window behind your couch. The rain blurs the windowpanes, turning the landscape into some abstract watercolor painting and all that can be heard is the sound of the rain accented with the occasional turn of the page as Ezra reads. Relaxing into the couch, your eyes slowly slip shut as you drift off into a peaceful sleep.

When you finally come around, the sun has set and the rains have stopped. The house is quiet save for a gentle fire in the fireplace, one you hadn’t set before falling asleep. A blanket has been delicately draped over you and you smile to yourself. You sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes, searching for the friendly prospector. “Ezra?” Your voice is heavy, still thick with sleep as you stand to look for him. You find him outside on your porch, leaning against the siding as he looks out over the canyon visible from your home. “Ezra? Is everything alright?” He simply nods, not looking over to you. The full moon illuminates his skin in the most radiant of ways, accentuating every curve and plane of his face, brightening that little blonde patch in his hair. It left you near breathless. A shiver runs through you at the crisp mountain air, left cooler after the rains, and you wrap your arms around yourself to cope. Ezra shifts his attention to you.

“You should be inside, sunshine. The cold will do you no favors.” He pushes off of the wall, turning to usher you back inside. You hear it though, the slight sadness in his voice that wasn’t present earlier today. You allow him to lead you back inside, shutting and locking the door behind him before you turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, Ezra?” A flash of emotion crosses his face so quickly you aren’t even sure you actually saw it. But if you did...for a moment he looked almost...pained…

“Nothing, sunshine. The chill of the night just leaves an ache in my bones, is all.”

“You’re lying,” you whisper, stepping closer. Perhaps it was the bleariness of sleep that still lingered with you that emboldened you. Or perhaps it was the tantalizing aura that surrounded him that drew you in. Either way, you find yourself staring up at him, concern shining in your eyes bright as the full moon outside. His smile is forced, you can tell, as he puts his hand on your shoulder.

“Little gem, I promise you, the weight I carry is not something I need burden you with. Your hospitality has been unparalleled, and I will not permit myself to impose on you more than I already have.” His warm, tender eyes search yours, begging for you to listen to him. But stubbornness has always run hot in your veins.

“Didn’t I tell you before?” You reach up and take his hand gently in yours. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure. Ezra, what’s wrong?” His hand twitches in yours before he gently pulls away, his smile significantly sadder.

“The life of a reprobate like myself should never tarnish the luster of someone like you, sunshine. I will not give you my sins to carry.” He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before smiling and moving past you to lay down on the couch. A glance to the clock shows you’ve well missed dinner time, sitting at 8:30 now. With a sigh, you meander back into the living room, taking a seat on the floor in front of the fire, letting the heat warm your soul from the chilly night air.

“We all have our own sins to deal with, you know.” Your voice is low as you watch the sparks wick up the flue. You can feel his eyes on your back, waiting for you to continue. “Everyone has a story. But the mountains don’t care about that. They don’t care about who you were before you arrive here. They don’t care about blood on your hands or the loss you’ve endured. They were here long before us and will remain here long after you or I return to the stardust we are made of.” You turn your head to look over your shoulder to see Ezra still staring at you, the fire flickering in his chocolate eyes. “The mountains offer you a chance, Ezra. That’s why I’m here...and as fate would have it, it’s why you’re here as well.” You turn your face back to the fire, Ezra staying quiet for some time behind you.

“The life I have taken to isn’t an easy one, gemstone.” His voice is low and gruff, his drawl more prominent. “I’ve done things in this life that I am ashamed to admit. Lost as much as I’ve gained, taken as much as I’ve given. And every single soul I’ve urged on to whatever follows this painful existence torments me every time I attempt a moment of respite.” The sigh from his lips is heavier than any weight you’ve ever carried, and it pains you to know he carries it alone. “I tell myself it’ll all be worth it in the end. That I’m toiling away day in and day out for a greater purpose. But it’s been near a decade, gemstone, and the end never nears.”

“You’re tired,” you whisper, turning around to look at him, taken aback by the shine in his eyes. “You’re tired and lonely. I can’t even imagine how heavy your soul feels carrying everything you do all alone, and still managing to put a smile on your face. Lord knows I couldn’t...not ‘till I came here, that is, and the town helped me bare my burden. Ezra, I don’t think it’s a coincidence you ended up here in our town. I really don’t.” You flash him a gentle smile, standing up to grab another spare blanket from the linen box, handing it to him. “Think about it, okay? Stay here for tonight. This cold is no place for anyone right now.” He takes the blanket from your hand, perplexity painting his face as you smile down at him. “Goodnight, Ezra. I hope the fire keeps the specters at bay for you tonight.” He nods as you turn, heading back to your room after turning over the laundry. He was odd, but you liked him.

Bright and early you hear a rummaging in the kitchen, the smell of bacon permeating the air. Stretching, you stumble from bed, following your nose and growling stomach. Ezra is there in your kitchen in just the sweats he was borrowing, humming to himself as he cooks. The broad expanse of his back is littered with faded white scars, some that looked to be from blades, and some from burns. His humming voice is lovely, you think, smiling as you lean against the doorway to watch him. He seems so at home, you feel it inappropriate to disturb him. It’s when he turns to put a bowl in the sink that he catches you from the corner of his eye.

“Well good morning, sunshine. I beg your pardon but I permitted myself the liberty of preparing a warm breakfast for the two of us.” His smile that pulls at his lips is brighter than last night, and you felt certain the dread that plagued him had passed for now.

“Did you sleep well?” You inquire, moving into the kitchen to pull down two glasses to fill them with orange juice.

“A specterless dream for the first time in what seems like forever, gemstone.” He places his hand on the small of your back as he moves past you to keep you from bumping back into him, setting the plate of eggs and bacon on the table. The touch feels electric, and you find yourself shocked in how much you enjoy the feeling.

“The mountains have that effect on a weary soul,” you smile, bringing the glasses over. “Coffee?”

“That would be magnificent. But I don’t presume that the mountains have much to do with the reprieve I was so graciously afforded last night.” Your smile doesn’t fade as you put the coffee pot on to percolate, taking down two mugs after the fact.

“Pray tell what you think might be the source of such a thing?”

“I do believe it might have a thing or two to do with the enchantress that graces my vision in the radiance of the morning light.” Heat floods your cheeks as the coffee pot buzzes, the smell of fresh brew mingling beautifully with that of the bacon. You pour two cups, handing Ezra his before joining him at the table.

“I’m a simple mountain girl, I doubt it has anything to do with me.”

“You humble yourself far too much, gemstone. A heart of purer gold than the ore I mine, and the shining soul to match.” He holds his mug up in a toast before bringing it to his lips. “Ones like you are few and far between.”

“And ones like you even more so, I would say.” You return his toast before serving yourself a bit of breakfast. “Thank you for cooking, Ezra. It was very kind of you to do.”

“But the smallest thanks I could give in return for such philanthropy as what you have shown me these past twelve hours.” He chuckles, eating rather quickly, a habit that you feel was one developed over the long time spent in his lifestyle. He finishes well before you, standing to clear his plate. “I’ve imposed for far too long, I fear. I’ll change and be on my way. Gold doesn’t mine itself, I’m afraid.” You chuckle and nod, standing to stop him as he moves towards the hallway.

“Ezra, you are welcome here always. Tent or no tent, you’re welcome to kick your feet up on my hearth whenever you wish. And I do mean that.” Your voice is soft as you look up at him, eyes to match. He returns your gaze, a gentle smile working his way across his lips as he smooths your bed-messed hair.

“There is that heart of gold, my little gemstone.” The tenderness in his voice warms you through, and your heart aches when he steps away. “But I won’t impose a moment longer.” His smile stays as he goes to collect his clothes, quickly changing in the bathroom before making his exit, heading back down to the mine.

And so the days continue. The miners would come for lunch and you would help to serve it, each day Ezra staying close to you to keep you company. His honey dipped accent brought you more joy than you thought a simple sound could, and it made the days pass more quickly. In the evenings when he was done at the mine, he would come to your doorstep, leaning against the support as he talked with you, reveling in the laugh he was able to earn from you with his tales. Each night, you would offer him a warm place to lay his weary head, but every night was the same. A polite decline and an insistence that he could not allow himself to burden you more than he already had before he would excuse himself, heading back to the ridge where the trees would keep him company.

The night he doesn’t come to talk to you, you find yourself watching out the window for him, worry seizing your heart. The sky had been boiling as you had finished working in your yard for the evening, waiting on the loquacious prospector to come and keep you company as he had for weeks now. Rain was coming, you could feel it in your bones, a chill gripping you as the night grows colder. As far as you knew, Ezra still hadn’t purchased himself a proper shelter to ward off the rain, and that thought terrified you. No one should be out in such conditions, no matter how much they felt they deserved to be.

Lightning cracks the sky, your worried reflection flashing back at you for the briefest of moments as the bottom opens out of the sky. A Colorado thunderstorm, true to form. A shiver runs through you at the thought of Ezra out in this, and you decide it best to start a fire in the event that he happened to stumble to your doorstep. And no sooner have you worked the fire up to a low roar in the hearth, do you hear a knock at the door. You wrap your knit blanket around your shoulders, moving to open the door, and there he stands looking more akin to a drowned rat than you have ever seen. Lightning illuminates his face and all you can see is pain, sending your heart into a sprint as you reach for him, pulling him inside.

“Ezra, oh my God, what happened? Why were you out in this?” You lead him into the living room, sitting him down in front of the fire to dry him out and warm him through. “Are you hurt, what happened?” He only groans, leaning forward until his face rests against your shoulder, his breathing ragged. Your arms gingerly wrap around him, holding him to you. “Ezra, you’re scaring me, what happened?”

“A-Accident. In the mine. Rock slide. Hurt m-my arm…” He groans and your throat all but closes as your blood runs cold. You pull back gently, cradling his chin in your palm. The way his forehead creases in pain terrifies you before you even so much as see his arm. You pull back just enough to see the blood soaking through his drenched jacket, his arm cradled at an unnatural angle.

“Oh fuck…” You pull back, easing him down as gently as possible as you pull out your phone, cradling his head in your lap. After the third ring, a gentle voice answers. “Dr. Renslier, I need you to come to my house right away. I have an injured miner here. His arm is badly hurt and he’s bleeding through his clothes. I’m scared to move him…” Ezra’s breath hitches as he bites back another groan, guilt settling in his stomach at causing you so much worry.

“G-Gemstone, stop those tears…” He reaches up with his good hand, wincing as it jostles his right arm, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “An incorrigible man such as myself is undeserving of such acts of affection. Save those diamonds, little gem.” You tilt your head into his touch, fear still paralyzing your heart.

Dr. Renslier was the only doctor in town, a retired surgeon from Denver Medical Center. He was the best of the best during his time there, and decided to take his skills to this little community, settling in with his wife and their three dogs. The town loved him, and he was one of the few people you would trust with your life in a fraction of a heart beat. So when your door opens and you hear his voice calling from the doorway, a wash of relief floods over you. He kneels next to Ezra, already pulling out scissors to cut away the bloodied jacket. The sight this reveals has your stomach turning and you fight to keep dinner down.

“W-Well? How bad is it doc?” Ezra’s usually rich voice is weak and strangled as he battles with the pain. “Give it to me st-straight.”

“It’s...not good. I don’t think...I don’t think we can save it.” Bone protruded through what was left of the skin in multiple places, the breaks jagged and splintered. “Even if we were in Denver I don’t think I could...save this.” He rummages in his bag for a syringe, tapping out the air before squeezing the flesh of Ezra’s shoulder, administering the injection. “That will help with the pain.” He grumbles about the storm as he pulls out a tourniquet, tying it off just below the shoulder. “We need to get him to the office. He’s going to need a transfusion and I need to operate, now.” You nod as you shift out from under Ezra, him already feeling the effects of what you could only assume was morphine, before helping the doctor to carry him to the car. You elect to ride along, knowing he would need help getting Ezra inside before the nurse on duty would take over.

As soon as you are ushered from the operating bay, you stagger to a chair, sitting down heavily as the adrenaline finally wears off. Tears brim and spill over once again before you drop your face to your blood covered hands, sobbing. Eventually, your sobs turn to whimpers turn to pained sniffles before exhaustion overtakes you, succumbing to a fitful sleep. You are awoken by the nurse, a gentle, pity-filled smile on her face. “He’s out of surgery and resting in a bed now. We need to get you cleaned up before you can see him, ok? We have a set of scrubs you can wear for now.” You simply nod, getting up to follow her as she leads you to the bathroom. The scrubs are folded neatly on the bench by the sink and you smile despite yourself.

Once clean and dressed, you make your way back out to the hall, the nurse waiting to lead you to the recovery beds. You feel as if you could collapse in sobs once more seeing Ezra laid up as he is, face pale and IV drip in his arm. Small bandages littered his face and what you could see of his left arm. As for his right...all that was left was a nub just below his shoulder, tied off in a neat bandage. You draw up a seat next to him, taking his hand in yours, drawing circles along the skin with your thumb. You would wait here for him to wake, you decide.

And so you do, falling asleep with his hand in yours. The feeling of his hand twitching in yours is what wakes you, your eyes snapping open to check on him. The groan that slips from his lips sounds so pained. Slowly, his eyes flutter open, squinting at the bright lights of the med bay before they land on you. A smile tugs at those lips of his when he realizes you were still there, beside him, and he squeezes your hand weakly.

“My little gemstone…” His voice is hoarse, but sweet, traces of that honey slowly returning. “Did you stay here the whole time?”

“As long as they would let me, Ezra.”

“You really didn’t nee-” You cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

“I wanted to. Please don’t ask me to leave, Ezra, because I won’t. I’m not leaving your side.” Rich chocolate eyes grow glassy at your proclamation, hips lips pressing into a tight line, but he nods all the same, secretly relieved that you wanted to stay with him.

“You must believe me a damn fool for finding myself in such a predicament.” His voice is tinged with humor, and you flash him a tired smile, shaking your head.

“It was an accident, Ezra. You said so yourself. I’m just relieved you’re alive to joke about it.” You return the squeeze to your hand and his eyes travel down to where you have interlocked your fingers with his. “Ezra,” you say quietly, drawing his eyes back to yours. “I want you to stay with me.”

“Well, I imagine that will certainly be preferable to the minute comforts an institution such as this could afford me whilst I recover as best I can…” His voice trails off, tight at the end of his statement as he looks to what remains of his arm.

“That’s not what I mean,” you whisper, your voice trembling with trepidation. Concerned eyes find yours again, an eyebrow arched. “I want you to stay with me. No more roaming, no more running...stay here. After the rush leaves, I want you to stay. With me.” His lips part slightly as you vocalize a desire he has had since the day he first followed you home.

“Sunshine, I couldn’t possibly be such a burden on you.”

“Dammit you bullheaded man! Listen to me! You aren’t a burden, you aren’t a hassle. Arm or no arm, I want you here, with me. Sharing my home, my life. I want that, Ezra.” You pick up his hand, bringing it to your lips to brush them over his knuckles. “I want you. I want an us…” You clench your eyes closed and you feel him pull his hand away before he lays it against your cheek.

“Gemstone...look at me.” You do as asked, looking up at him with glassy eyes that match his own. “Do you mean it? Do you really want me here? Is that what your heart is singing to you?” You nod, laying your hand over his against your cheek.

“Yes, Ezra, and I think it has been since the day you followed me home. Please, Ezra…” Confliction flashes in his eyes as he watches your face, your tears spilling over once more and he quickly wipes them away with the calloused pad of his thumb.

“No tears for me, little gemstone. I...I’ll stay…” You blink, almost not believing the words that came from his mouth.

“You...you mean it?”

“I do. My bones are tired, gem. My soul is tired. And since you extended such kindness to me that night, my dreams have left me in peace. All I dream about are your eyes which hold galaxies and your musical laugh. And being next to you…” You turn your head to nuzzle his hand, warmth flowing through you as you take in his words before you look back to him.

“We’re not so different then. You haven’t left my dreams, or my thoughts, since that night.” Ezra chuckles lowly before letting out a yawn, sinking back into the pillows. “Rest now, alright? I’ll be here when you wake.” He nods, pulling your hand away from where it holds his to your face, bringing it to his lips to place a feather-light kiss to your knuckles before laying it to rest by his side, his eyes slowly slipping shut.

The gold rush brought many people to your quaint little mountain town; miners and prospectors, dreamers and fighters, men and women with delusions of grandeur and those just trying to scrape by. But out of all of them, all of those you had befriended in your time helping to ensure they were fed, the one most important to you was Ezra. You don’t think it was a coincidence he ended up running to the same town you did so many years ago. The universe worked in ways no mere mortal would every truly understand. But that didn’t matter. So long as you had him by your side, the universe could act however it saw fit. Because with Ezra here beside you, your two weary souls could finally find solace in the cradle of the mountains.

~~~~~

Tag lists:  Permanent: @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​, @tangledlove27​, @paintballkid711​, @lose-eels​, @adamdrivercouldchokeme​

Tag lists are open! Requests are open!

[pedros-mustache-main]

for reasons wretched & divine

summary: unfit: unfit for duty, unfit for a proper teaching position, unfit for you.

word count: ~14k 

warnings: ~inappropriate~ student/teacher relations, age gap (27 & 19), war related topics, mental illness related topics, some suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), angst, innuendo, language

a/n: what can i say? i’m a hoe for period pieces. i have been laboring over this for an embarrassingly long time so i’m pleased to finally share it with you all! would love to hear your thoughts. also: big big thank you to @joemazzmatazz​ for being an extra set of eyeballs on this one and listening to me ramble about my insecurities every other day! love you long time, sis. xoxo.

(photo: @consumedbygwirst​)

snowshill, gloucestershire, england. 1917.

a deaf ear, that’s why they wouldn’t take him; a deaf ear. he’d tried—god, he’d tried—to convince someone on the medical board that he was fit for duty. he’d come dangerously close to offering a bribe; something, anything, to be able to go and fight alongside his kinsman. but in the end, they’d still slapped his file with a rejection stamp.

gwilym james lee: unfit for duty by reason of physical impairment necessary for proper military response.

the words are engraved on his very heart now. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

his hands shake as he gathers the papers littered across his desk. the tremor has plagued him since he left his review with the medical board. why he can’t say for certain, and he doesn’t like to probe the issue too deep, but it’s always there, fluctuating in intensity. a slight waver in his fingers one moment and a full-scale trembling the next. it makes him feel like an old man, his deaf ear, his shaking hands. he’s twenty-seven years old, in the prime of his life, not eighty.

it’s sunday, and the mid-afternoon sun warms him through the window. he’s been in snowshill for a fortnight now yet his students—all twelve of them—remain a mystery. it’s clear they miss their former schoolteacher, but, like most, jefferson lewis has gone to serve his country. the vicar, bless him, had proven to be of more harm than good during his brief tenure as schoolmaster for the last four months, hence, gwilym’s new post: a stone, one-room schoolhouse on the edge of a vast field; a community away from civilized society, away from his father, away from any place he could soil the family name with his failures.

materials gathered, he slips out the front door. he considers locking the place up, but if anyone does break in, there isn’t much to steal. he’d come by this afternoon on a whim. lodging with an elderly woman and her six cats is one of the many things about snowshill that grates on his nerves, and the quiet air of the schoolhouse is a welcome respite from constance’s inane titterings. it’s nearly time for afternoon tea, though, and she’ll be cross if he doesn’t show, so he heads down the dirt lane, hands in his pockets, head bent low.

his steps slow, but do not stop, when the sound of his name reaches his ears. it sounds muffled, far away, as most things do. still, it’s loud enough to give him pause. he throws a glance over his shoulder. two pupils—maryanne clouder and you—walk down the lane. you stroll arm in arm with maryanne, your hair tied back in a long braid. maryanne’s arm is raised in a motion meant to flag him down. begrudgingly, he stops.

“mr. lee!” maryanne is not coy in the way she grabs your wrist and drags you across the road. her cheeks are flushed when she reaches his side, her elbow still circled around yours. “we didn’t see in you sunday service this morning.”

he shifts on his feet, fingers curling around the strap of his satchel. “no, i didn’t attend.”

“any reason?” maryanne’s head tilts to the side, her lower lip caught between her teeth. he stifles a sigh. the girl is young, merely fifteen. she’s cute in a girlish sort of way; one might see her as a pesky sister. still, she tries to catch his attention each day, her eyelashes batting against her sun-chapped cheeks, her legs swinging back and forth at her desk.

“i... overslept,” he lies. 

his eyes flick to your face, which struggles to remain unamused. you’re the eldest of his pupils, nineteen and itching to capture whatever semblance of freedom is left in the world. maryanne is your closest classmate in age, and he rarely sees you without her on your tail. to your credit, you never complain, never seem to mind. he admires that. there had once been a day he’d been like maryanne—so eager to please whoever would give him the time of day—but those days are long gone.

“well, mother asked after you,” maryanne continues. “she’d like to invite you over for supper sunday next—as a proper welcome to snowshill.”

he’s quick to turn her down, as he has two other families since his arrival. “that’s very kind, maryanne, but i’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

“nonsense, sir!” he hopes his eyebrows don’t rise too much in surprise when you jump to maryanne’s aid. “i’ll be there with my niece and my grandfather, and mrs. coulder makes the best roast you’ve had this side of london. you must come.”

from behind his circular, wire-rimmed glasses, he wonders if you can see the way his eyes widen. since arriving at the schoolhouse, he’s known you only as the eldest, wisest, and least rambunctious of his class. you’re quiet, but well-spoken; authoritative, but not domineering. the way you carry yourself—shoulders held straight, chin extended outward, eyes soft yet purposeful—he could easily mistake you for a woman. but you’re not. you’re a girl, his student, and just because you insist he attend sunday supper does not mean you look at him as anything other than your teacher. certainly, he doesn’t look at you as anything other than his student.

he clears his throat. it’s been a long day. he’s tired, on edge. he shouldn’t be thinking about these things.

forcing a tight smile, he gives a nod. “it seems i have no choice.” maryanne claps her hands together as he says, “tell your mother i’ll be there.”

“oh, goody! you won’t regret it, sir, i promise. i’ll be sure to tell hastings not to pester you too much.”

a groan nearly surfaces as he remembers the previous week’s antics of maryanne’s brother. he bites his tongue to keep from retracting his acceptance. “hastings doesn’t bother me, maryanne.” 

her grin turns sly, and she pushes his arm in a playful gesture. “you don’t have to lie, mr. lee.” her tone is slow, drawling, and he has the integrity to blush. his ears feel hot, uncomfortable—and not at all pleasurable. 

you tug on maryanne’s arm. “come on, mary.” stepping away, you jerk your head toward town, a measure of concern hidden beneath your smooth features. “we should leave mr. lee be. we’ve bothered him enough already.”

he doesn’t refute your statement. even if he jogs the rest of the way, he’ll still be late for afternoon tea, and he’ll still bear the brunt of constance’s wrath. in truth, you have bothered him enough already. so he lets you steer maryanne away without another word. at the last moment, he thinks he’s imagined it when you twist to look over your shoulder, your eyes running over him with a modicum of interest. he shakes the feeling off; it must have been his untoward imagination.

by the time he reaches contance’s cottage, a light drizzle has wet the shoulders of his suit jacket. his hair is damp, his glasses foggy. he ducks to avoid smacking his head against the doorframe as he enters. the cottage smells of tea and scones, both fresh, both warm.

from the kitchen, constance’s shrill voice meets his ears. no matter his hearing loss, her voice will never be one he can ignore. “is that you, gwilym?” she putters to the kitchen arch, wrapped tight in her pink robe, tea kettle in hand. when she sees him standing in the doorway, she frowns. “you’re late.”

“yes, yes, i’m sorry.” he sheds his jacket and places it on the wooden banister. rolling up his shirt sleeves, he makes his way to the kitchen. “i was accosted by some of my students.” 

constance laughs, her fleshy cheeks taut with a smile. “oh, child, you make it sound like you loathe those students.”

he says nothing, simply brushes a few crumbs away from his place at the table. a fat cat jumps to take his seat before he can settle, and he sighs. constance chuckles at his misfortune, placing the tea kettle in the center of the table. she shoos the cat for him, and he sits.

“pour for us, won’t you?” she says, turning to gather the scones.

gwilym hesitates. his hand flexes on his thigh, but there’s no point in arguing with constance, so he lifts the kettle. heavy with hot water, the pot wavers in his hand. as he pours, his tremor grows stronger, the pot shaking so violently water makes it everywhere but the teacup. 

“dammit,” he mutters. he puts the kettle down with more force than is strictly necessary; enough that he can feel constance’s eyes slide to his back as he rises to mop up the spilled water. it’s hot as it drenches the napkin, and he takes the moment of pain as punishment. he uses both hands to pour on the second go around. there’s still an unnatural rhythm to the stream of liquid as it descends to the teacups, but it hasn’t ruined the tablecloth, and he supposes that’s all that matters.

“there we are.” constance places a scone—blueberry iced with cream; she always makes his favorites—before him, and she does not mention the spilled water. “who were the rascals that accosted you this time?”

between bites of scone and sips of tea, he answers. “maryanne coulder and [y/n] [y/l/n].”

constance replaces her teacup on its saucer with a knowing nod. “ah, i know the coulder family. good bunch, except for that son of theirs.” her smile widens as his face blanches. “it seems you know him too.”

“he put tacks on my stool this thursday.”

“did you sit on them?”

he shakes his head. “no, but i might’ve.”

“and it would have given all the children a royal laugh.” she takes another sip, challenging him over the rim of her cup. “[y/n] i don’t know so well.”

“she’s in her last year. bright girl.” he doesn’t know why he feels to need to say such a thing. he’s barely given constance any information about his students thus far, but there’s something about the way she’s watching him that makes him speak and speak fast. “she could go on to university if she put her mind to it.”

“nineteen, i think, yes?”

he shrugs. “i think so.” constance hums and reaches over to pet an orange tabby cat. “they’ve wrangled me into sunday dinner next week. the coulders, i mean,” he adds.

“oh?”

“it was impossible to say no.”

“well, i believe it’s about time you show your face around town.” constance lifts a barely visible brow. “you really much try and engage your students more, gwilym. no one likes a sour puss.”

heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. she’s right, of course. he hasn’t always been this way, but since the war broke out and his subsequent service denial, he’s been nothing but a gray cloud in every room. he can’t help it.

constance changes the subject as her eyes move to the window at the back of the cottage. “did you know michael livingston went and shot a fox at four o’clock this morning?” she tuts her tongue. “that man! he really is the bane of my existence. a horrid excuse for a neighbor.”

gwilym’s gaze drops to his teacup, and he filters out what he can of constance’s prattle. she’s right. he should work on connecting with his students more. his father is a master at that. he has every student at the university eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the first term week. gwilym thought he might have the capacity to do the same, but it seems he had been wrong. his students are respectful enough, but aside from maryanne and her silly crush, they are largely unattached. though, it isn’t as if he wants their affection or even their approval...

he’s fine without it. really, he is. 

still, it wouldn’t hurt to at least seem approachable. he’s in snowshill for the foreseeable future. he might as well face it and try to appear like he gives a damn.

at four o’clock sharp the following sunday, he stands outside the coulder household, his fist poised ready to knock on the dark green front door. only he can’t seem to bring himself make his arrival known. 

if he knocks, he has to be sociable. if he doesn’t knock, he can retreat to his attic room and spend the rest of his sunday in peace.

if he knocks, he might begin to chip away at the three-foot-thick barrier he’s placed around himself. if he doesn’t knock, he remains hidden, but protected.

his fist trembles in front of the door.

“mr. lee, are you alright?”

he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice. dropping his hand and readjusting his hold on the plate of muffins constance sent along with him, he turns away from the door. you stand halfway down the stone path leading to the home, one hand holding the chubby fingers of a toddler he doesn’t recognize. your other hand is pressed against the back of an old man, his shoulders bent with age, hands wobbling as he uses a cane.

gwilym swallows and looks away. “oh, hello. i just...” he can’t think of an excuse, so he, lamely, settles for the truth. “well, if i can be frank with you, miss [y/l/n], i was—am—feeling a bit apprehensive.”

you just smile and lift the toddler from the ground. with the girl on your hip, you come to stand by his side. he shifts when he catches a whiff of your shampoo. you glance up at him, your smile lifting, before knocking on the front door yourself.

“there’s nothing to be nervous about, sir,” you whisper in the lull between your knock and the door opening. “’s just maryanne.”

he isn’t certain, but he thinks you’re teasing him. the possibility makes his skin crawl in more ways than one. he hates that.

saved the duty of response, he pulls his mouth into a tight smile as the door opens. mrs. coulder, flanked by her daughter, stands in the threshold, brightly patterned apron snug around her waist.

“oh, mr. lee!” she stretches out her hand, and he shakes it, the plate of muffins tipping precariously in his opposite palm. “we’re so glad you decided to join us.”

“thank you for the invitation, mrs. coulder.” he waits until you’ve passed with your grandfather to cross the threshold. 

“please, call me vivianne. can i take that for you?” she nods to the plate of muffins, eyes sparkling all the while.

“yes, thank you. from constance pruder,” he adds. “she told me to tell you hello.”

“how kind of her!” vivianne takes the muffins from his arms and gestures toward the back of the house with her chin. “my husband, john, is out back. why don’t you go and chat until supper’s ready. he is ever so eager to meet you.”

gwilym fights to hold back his cringe. fathers—he doesn’t do well with them. not his own, not anyone else’s. it’s just another item on his long list of dislikes and annoyances. 

but he’s a guest, and he really does want to try. so he fixes his tie and follows vivianne’s directions to the back garden. 

john is sat on a wrought-iron chair, his hands braced against the arms, round face pulled tight in a frown as he watches maryanne play with the toddler on the grass. he stands when gwilym ducks to step outside. he extends a hand, his grip painful.

“lee,” he barks in greeting before dropping back to his seat.

the old man—gwilym assumes he’s your grandfather—twists from his place in a similar chair. “forgive me if i don’t get up, son.” the way his fingers waver in the air makes gwilym’s stomach clench; his own hand shakes slightly as he touches the old man’s palm. “name’s richard.”

“sit down.” john points to a bench against the house. “i’ve got questions for you.”

gwilym hesitates, caught bent at the waist as he goes to sit. his hands are firm on his thighs, and unwittingly, his eyes flick to yours. he’s surprised to see you already watching him, your fingers twirling in the blades of grass around your legs. when the moment has stretched far too long, he sits and smooths his sweaty palms against his trousers.

“i hope easy questions, sir,” he says. his tone is light, but his teeth are gritted.

“easy enough if you tell the truth.” john withdraws a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket. jamming a butt between his teeth, he offers the case to gwilym, who declines with a shake of his head. john puffs on the cigarette for a moment before saying, “why aren’t you off fighting, lee? all the other lads from gloucestershire are doing their part. what makes you special enough to stay away from the battle?”

to say gwilym is shocked by john’s pointed question would be an understatement. the force of the query, spoken in harsh, biting tones, is enough to tilt him sideways in his chair. he’s sure his face is red, his chest tight from forgetting to release the breath he holds in his lungs. his hands curl against his trousers, his knuckles gone white with rage.

“well, sir,” he drawls, careful to keep his tone even. more than anything, he wants to stand, leave, and slam the door on his way out for good measure. his ears burn with embarrassment. “i would certainly be fighting if i could.”

it’s an honest answer, the truth if ever he’s spoken it. what he wouldn’t give to be away from snowshill, rushing the battle field with his brothers-at-arms. what he wouldn’t give to be worthy of a moment’s notice when he returned from war. 

but he’s not worthy and he’s not fighting. he’s stuck in the back garden of his most precocious and love-sick student, the sun beating down on his brow with an undue heat, his muscles twitching with the restraint it takes to keep from decking snowshill’s most prominent lawyer. 

john narrows his eyes across the cobblestone patio. “if you could? what’s wrong with you?”

gwilym says nothing. red—the color of blood, ambulance sirens, and fire—flashes before his eyes.

“in my day,” john continues. “we fought no matter our delicate sensibilities.” he huffs around his cigarette, his chest ballooning like a baboon. “i’d say that i—”

“mr. coulder!” your voice is sharp, though not unkind, when you break into coulder’s soliloquy. gwilym’s eyes snap from john’s throbbing forehead muscle to you. you stand beside your grandfather, your skirt tangled around your legs in your apparent haste to stand. there’s grass pressed against your knees, and a faint tinge of red on your cheeks. “i believe i heard mrs. coulder calling for your just now,” you say, sweetening the blow of your interruption with a smile.

john looks to the open door, a pucker forming between his brows. “oh,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. “i’d better go see what that’s about.” he ambles on bowed legs into the house, and gwilym is left to pick of the pieces of his fractured dignity.

he dares glance at you. your eyes lift from the ground slowly, your fingers curling along the hem of your cardigan. when you meet his gaze, you look away first, as if you’re scared—scared to look at him, scared to admit you had to rescue him like a drowning puppy. he swallows hard and stands, though he isn’t sure why. he just can’t stay sitting anymore.

vivianne pops her head around the frame of the back door. “come come, everyone. supper is ready! mr. lee, you sit beside john. he has so much he wishes to discuss with you.” she grins and waves him inside, and who is he to refuse her?

later that night, when his back is pressed against his firm mattress, moonlight washing through the attic room, gwilym feels the overwhelming urge to cry. he can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. after his mother’s passing—god rest her soul—tears have seemed... pointless. they didn’t bring his mother back; they won’t cure his deaf ear or his tremor, won’t stop people like john coulder from asking questions.

still, his chest aches. there’s something in his lungs scratching to get out. it rises in his throat like a lump and bubbles forth in a broken sob. he presses his hand to his mouth, feels a hot tear slide down his cheekbone.

god, he hates it here.

really, he hates it everywhere. there’s nowhere he can go to escape from himself.

class on monday is disjointed. 

he didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning the whole night long, his dreams plagued with images of his mother, the war, you staring at him like a broken man. he woke several times in a cold sweat, his bedclothes drenched and sticky. 

his students bear the brunt of his poor night’s rest. he is tired to the very core of his being, and it shows in the way he waves hastings away after one-too-many attempts at the same arithmetic problem. it shows in the way he sits at his desk before the class, rubbing at this throbbing temples, the echo of the previous night’s supper ringing in his ears. though the sentiment is there most days, today he truly does not care if his students learn or not. he just wants a stiff drink, maybe a quick shag, something to take his mind off it all.

shifting in his seat, he withdraws the pocket watch snug in his trouser pocket. the gold around the clasp is worn with decades of use, and when he unlocks the face, the watch within is slightly obscured by a thin crack over the number five. still, despite its flaws, the clock ticks on. there’s a metaphor there, he knows, about himself: worn, broken, but still working. he’s too jaded to believe it.

he rises from his chair. the legs scrape against the floor. “it’s lunch,” he announces, breaking the heavy silence of the classroom with his deep voice. “take your things and go home. class is dismissed for the rest of the day.”

from her place in the front row, maryanne bats her eyelashes in confusion. “what’s the occasion, sir?” she sits straight at her desk, eager to please, panting for some drip of his attention.

gwilym doesn’t have any attention to spare for maryanne, for any of his students, really. his eyes flick from maryanne to the open window to you. he clears his throat and looks away. “it’s a nice day out, maryanne,” he says. “we shouldn’t waste it inside. don’t you agree?”

she grins and nods as she hastily gathers her things together. “oh, yes, of course!”

his jaw goes tight as he says, “thank your mother again for inviting me to supper yesterday. it was very kind of her.”

scarlet blush crawls over maryanne’s cheeks. she holds her books snug against her chest, her shoes dancing back and forth in nerves across the hardwood floor. “you are more than welcome any time, sir.”

he nods once, glancing toward the open schoolhouse door. she gets the picture; their conversation is through. grabbing hastings hand, she drags her brother out of the building and into the sunshine, leaving gwilym in blessed silence. he drops to his chair with a groan, cradling his forehead between his pointer finger and thumb. outside he can here his pupils laughing in the field. he removes his hands from his face and looks out the window-lined wall. hands crossed in his lap, he watches the children play, wonders what it feels like to live so carefree. 

had he ever been like that as a child: wild, uninhibited? he must’ve been—surely. his long-term memory is poor, brought on by a hard tumble he’d taken from a horse at an early age, but memory impairment aside, he wasn’t always this sullen, this removed. surely.

“mr. lee?”

he jolts at the sound of your voice, twisting in his chair to see you standing before his desk, a crease of worry between your brows. he frowns. “miss [y/l/n]? have you been there long?”

you shake your head, and a lock of hair falls out from behind your ear. you tuck it back, your eyes falling momentarily to the floor before you say, “no. well, yes. i was gathering my things, and you looked... pensive.”

he sits upright, and the urge to smooth his hair works its way to his fingers. he adjusts his glasses instead. “pensive? that doesn’t bode well.”

at his half-hearted attempt at levity, the corner of your mouth lifts. you step closer to his desk. “i wanted to be sure you were alright after supper last evening.”

his gut clenches at the memory, the shame of john coulder’s interrogation, at having to be saved by his own student, at that student being you. “i’m fine, truly,” he says, an edge to his voice he doesn’t mean.

still, you push further. “it’s just that mr. coulder... he’s not very diplomatic when it comes to asking questions. i thought maybe you—”

for the second time, gwilym stands from his chair with the intention of ending the conversation. he will not discuss sunday’s supper with you. the memory is still too raw, and his dream of you coming to his rescue is thoroughly and completely humiliating. yet when he stretches to his full height and sees you standing there, the most earnest expression of concern he’s ever seen on another face, he is powerless to stop himself from admitting the truth. he shoves his hands in his pockets, rolling his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“your concern is kind. mr. coulder’s questions were ill-phrased but not unwarranted. the men of this country hold a heavy duty right now. i suspect he was only asking out of patriotism.”

you blink, lips pressed together. he’d thought you’d be satisfied with his answer, but it appears you are not. the crease in your brow deepens. “sir, he was very unkind to you.” you speak as if he didn’t realize, as if he didn’t wet his pillow with tears of shame and hurt.

he nods. “perhaps.”

“it’s not fair, though. i’m sure whatever your reasons are for staying away from the front are valid.”

“again, your kindness does you credit.”

“i’m not trying to flatter you, mr. lee. i’m only speaking the truth.”

gwilym hesitates before saying, “i did not assume you were the flattering type.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

he’s not sure if it’s just the warm spring breeze drifting through the open window, but the air feels heavier than it did moments before. his eyes search yours. searching for what he can’t say, but he searches nonetheless. you hold his gaze until the faintest of blushes rises to your cheekbones. 

“i must thank you, though, miss [y/l/n], for coming to my aid last evening.” he’s surprised by his confession. it should drive him to his knees in embarrassment that he must concede to his student after they help him with a man twice his age. he is embarrassed, but something—manners, the desire to replicate your honesty, your doe eyes—makes him say it. “i am not sure i would have answered mr. coulder’s questions with a cool head, but you showed great tact. i’m indebted to you for that.”

he bites his tongue. too far, perhaps. a teacher should never be indebted to his student. least of all his oldest, brightest, and yes, he will admit it: most attractive student.

your chest lifts as you draw in a breath through your teeth. “well, i know a way you can repay me.”

his eyes widen, his throat seizing around his adam’s apple. he removes his hands from his pockets and shuffles a stack of unmarked papers on his desk. his hand wavers as he moves, though he’s not sure if it’s due to his tremor or an unwarranted image of you in his arms flashing through his mind.

too far. too far. you’re just a student. he’s just your teacher.

“what would you have me do?” it’s stupid to ask, to play along, but he can’t help it when your hands are clasped behind your back, the ribbon at the end of your braid falling over your shoulder. 

“there’s a benefit next week,” you say, and your face eases into a smile. “it’s for the wounded soldiers, and i’m in charge of the bake sale. my grandfather is too old to help and my niece is too young, so i thought perhaps you might like to help me? i’m sure more people will stop by if you’re there. everyone’s still curious about the new schoolmaster.”

gwilym stills, his eyes falling on you. not for the first time, he wonders if there’s something beneath your gaze, beneath your question. there can’t be; there isn’t. just like he is not interested in you, you are not interested in him.

unless...

he clears his throat and looks down at his desk. he brushes a stray pencil to the side. it rolls, rolls, rolls, stops against a heavy book. “i suppose i can make the time to assist.” he meets your eyes despite his gut telling him not to entertain this foolishness any longer. “for you, miss [y/l/n].”

your face clears in something akin to shock. you blink rapidly, your eyelashes fluttering against your freckled cheekbones. for a moment, gwilym imagines maryanne in the moments past, batting her own eyes. it hadn’t made his gut twist like this.

“it’s not for me,” you whisper, and the breathy sound of your voice sends a rush of blood from his head to his manhood. “it’s for the soldiers.”

“yes,” he replies. your gaze is locked on his, deep and probing. “the soldiers.”

a pebble hits the window with a sharp ting, and you both startle—you with a gasp, he with a muttered curse. turning, he stares out the window long enough to see a few of his male students playing a game of stickball with pebbles. a sigh shudders through his chest. no one had seen, had felt the thick tension in the room. thank heaven.

when he turns back to ask you how he can help before the benefit, you are gone.

the day of the benefit dawns bright and clear. it’s warm despite the month. april is generally cool and balmy, but gwilym breaks a sweat as he carries arrangement after arrangement of flowers to a little red wagon outside the cottage. constance sits perched on her portable stool, a cane between her legs as she watches him work.

“be careful with those, gwilym james,” she chides. “i spent all week and won’t have you breaking a single one.”

“i’m being careful, constance.” he huffs as he lowers a bouquet of blue hydrangeas to the wagon. the glass rattles as it squeezes between the dozens of other vases. the wagon is full to bursting of flowers of all kinds and where constance unearthed such of a treasure trove of flowers, he cannot be sure. “you truly expect to sell all these in one afternoon?”

constance draws in a sharp breath and whacks the butt of her cane against his shin. “how dare you!” he yelps, clutching his offended leg, but for once finds it easy to match her sly smile. “my flowers are sought after in the next three counties!”

“i’m sure they are,” he says, chuckling at her twisted features. 

she stands, snapping her stool shut with ease. with her chin tilted, she gestures with her cane to the road. “we’ll be late. you know i detest being late.”

rolling his eyes, gwilym grabs the wagon handle from the ground and gently maneuvers the vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the center of the village. the flowers jostle and clang as the wagon dips with the unevenness of the road, but the arrangements hold steady. constance’s steps are slow and small, so he shrinks his stride to match hers. a whisper of a breeze cools the sweat lingering on the back of his neck, and he glances at the cloudless sky. no one could have asked for better weather.

“i hear you are to assist miss [y/l/n] in her confection sale today?”

gwilym nearly trips over a rut in the road, but catches himself at the last moment. he adjusts his hold on the wagon handle, his hand trembling even curled against the cool metal. “yes—she had no one else to help her.”

constance’s eyebrows lift. “ah.”

“you did tell me to be more kindly with my pupils.”

“that i did.”

“then why do you look so displeased?”

“i’m far from displeased, child,” she says with a laugh. “merely cataloging this moment for later.”

gwilym doesn’t ask for further explanation. he doesn’t want to know. it’s bad enough that he spent the entire morning primping and preening over his own reflection. god, he’d felt like such an idiot. 

but he couldn’t deny the urge to at least try and put some effort into his appearance. he would be spending the day by your side, after all. not that it mattered...

by the time he rolls constance’s wagon into the village square, the benefit is well under way. snowshill is a small parish; only one-hundred-twenty-three residents, yet it seems every soul has turned out for the event. colorful streamers whip through the mid-morning breeze. a gaggle of musicians sitting underneath a shade tree amble through a litany of well-known tunes. the baker twins, annie and joy, race past gwilym, hand in hand as they head for the dunking booth. he pauses in his study of the square. there’s happiness here. despite it all—the war, the fathers and brothers and husbands so far away, the uncertainty of the future—the villagers have still found a reason to smile. surely, he can to.

“i’ll take this.” constance pulls gwilym from his thoughts as she pries the wagon handle from his hand. “you go over there,” she adds, nodding to a booth on his left. “miss [y/l/n] is waiting.”

he ignores the telling sparkle in her eyes. she can see right through him, the old bat, see straight to the part of his heart he so desperately wants—no, needs—to ignore. 

chasing the thoughts away, he turns to locate the corner set aside for the bake sale. it isn’t hard. in an uncomfortable but familiar sort of way, he’s drawn to you, and he finds you easily. at the base of the church gardens, you’re already hard a work. your hair is loose around your shoulders, and the sun glints off a pearl barrette clipping a portion of the strands back. stepping forward, he allows his eyes, for the briefest of moments, to run over your frame. your forest green dress is cinched at the waist with a wide gold band, accentuating your curves. the sleeves of the dress, which fall to your elbows, are sheer, and he can see your skin glistening beneath the sway of shadows and sun. you’re lovely, breathtaking even. he hates the way his heart gallops in his chest at the sight, like he’s a love-struck schoolboy. in reality, he is your teacher and a grown man. the thought alone makes him advert his eyes from the picture of you, dressed well and elegantly, smiling as you speak to a customer.

“there you are!” you twist away from the pie, cake, and cookie laden table to grace him with a brilliant smile. knowing you first and foremost as the level-headed student who rarely speaks save to impart pearls of wisdom, the sight of your wide smile is near blinding. “i was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

he shakes his head. “never.”

“good.” you point up the hill to the church. “the rest of the pies are in the kitchen. bring them down, won’t you?”

he does so without complaint, returning to the booth with a cherry pie in one hand and a rhubarb pie in the other. he places them on the table with care before asking, “who made all these?”

you shrug and straighten the sign hanging from the makeshift portico attached to the table. “mostly the older ladies of the parish. though,” you say, your eyes sliding to his with mischief. “i did make those.” you point to a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. “you can steal one if you like. i won’t tell.”

gwilym narrows his eyes. “how do i know if i can trust you?”

you laugh—a clear, bell-like laugh—and it goes straight to his gut. “try it and you’ll just have to find out.”

you sit, your attention caught by the toddler scooting about on the a picnic blanket behind the table. gwilym hesitates before taking one of the cookies. it snaps in his hands, and he nudges your arm with his knuckles. you look over your shoulder, glancing at the half of a cookie melting between his fingers.

“take the other half,” he says. “that way we both get in trouble. if i’m going to go down, i’ll take you with me.”

your cheeks color, and he wonders where your mind has gone, but then you take the cookie and your fingers brush his palm. a jolt shoot through his arm, but he ignores it, sitting in the seat beside you. 

“it’s very good,” he says after swallowing the dessert. “chocolatey.”

you smile in thanks then reach out, your thumb nearing his cheek. he stills, uncertain if he should move back and risk offense or lean in and risk it all. you swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth, your touch fleeting but like fire all the same. sitting back, your grin widens.

“you had a bit of chocolate on your lip,” you explain.

“oh.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks the opposite direction. 

few villagers have meandered over to the bake sale booth, but the day is early yet. he dares relax and lean back in his chair. he unbuttons his suit-jacket, letting the breeze waft through his sleeves and around his torso. when he turns his head to look at you, he finds you already watching, your eyes trained against his chest which strains against his snug waistcoat. all thoughts evaporate until your eyes lift to his and you blush.

he clears his throat. “uh—the child?” he questions, pointing to the toddler on the ground. she’s chubby, her legs stumpy beneath a yellow day dress and bloomers. “who does she belong to?”

you lift the baby and set her on your knee. the little girl smiles at him and leans against your shoulder, her mouth gnawing around her fist. “my sister,” you say. “she’s away, so grandfather and i are left to take care of eliza.”

“and where is your grandfather?”

“he’s with his mates. they’ve set up shop outside the pub and are more than likely pestering anyone who will listen with their own war stories.”

“he seems like a kind man.”

“oh, he is!” you grin and return eliza to her spot in the shade. “after my parents died, he took me and peggy—that’s my sister—in without a moment’s hesitation.”

before gwilym can question you any further, a familiar voice hits his ears. he rises alongside you as vivianne coulder draws close to the booth. 

“oh, look how darling! [y/n], you’ve really outdone yourself!” vivianne eyes the sweets with interest. “however am i to make such a choice? there’s simply too many good things here to choose from.”

“you can always buy multiples, mrs. coulder.” you press your palms against the table, leaning forward to watch as vivianne surveys the array of food. gwilym’s eyes stray toward your backside, which is pushed out, until vivianne breaks his train of thought.

“mr. lee, how did you get mixed up in a bake sale?” she asks, dropping a few coins in your palm as she makes her purchase. “i might have thought you’d participate in the dunk tank like my john.”

as if to punctuate her question, a bell across the square rings followed by a cheer and a splash. someone hit the bullseye.

“mr. lee owed me a favor,” you say. “i had to watch the class one afternoon while he tended to a feral dog in the yard.”

the story isn’t a falsehood, but it’s certainly not why he stands beside you now. he’d almost forgotten about that dog, but perhaps the mangy mutt had been a godsend after all. it certainly kept you from having to admit the real reason for his appearance at the bake sale.

vivianne giggles behind her gloved hand. “how brave!”

your hand, ungloved and warm, lands on his arm. your fingertips squeeze the flesh of his bicep nearly imperceptibility but he feels the gentle pressure like a vice around his skin. “yes,” you continue, seemingly oblivious to the way your touch wrecks him. “he was quite brave.”

vivianne chats with you a moment more—something about maryanne and her sixteenth birthday celebration—but he can barely focus. he’s unnaturally hot under his jacket, despite the cover of shade protecting the table of sweets. he wants to shake your hand from his arm, loosen your hold around his gut, but he doesn’t want to appear rude. he doesn’t want to push you away.

so he stands still. he lives with your fingers against the curve of his shoulder like a man readying himself for execution. his jaw is tight, his eyes focused on the people milling about the square.

when vivianne finally ambles away, he feels free enough to step out of your grasp. he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. his eyes dart from the ground to your face. you stare at him, your own eyes wide and lips parted ever-so slightly. god, he could kiss you. maybe it would quell the fire in his stomach and get you out of his head. maybe the simple touch would fix all the worn-out and tired thought swirling through his head. he would give into his desire but there’s too many people around and maybe that’s a good thing. he’s not sure he could stop himself if he started.

blessedly, a trio of older women approach the table. he jerks his attention away from you and finds a modicum of solace in auctioning off the bake sale items to whomever will purchase them. the faster the table is clear, the sooner he can go home and take a cold shower.

fate, it seems, has other plans for him because it is not until past-dusk that the charity benefit ends. the last of the pies have been sold off, your niece dragged home by your grandfather when the hour gets too late. gwilym helps you break down the table in silence, the only sound a bird twittering in its nest overhead and the rumble of the dunk tank being hauled away. you look tired, and he’s sure he does too. on the whole, he enjoyed himself. you are pleasant company and skilled at carrying on conversation. in truth, he finds himself wondering if he could spend every waking moment simply sitting by your side. the busy-bodies and children who came by the booth brought him small smiles, as well. the occasional woman called him handsome, even though her age well surpassed his own, and it buoyed his neglected heart. mothers thanked him profusely for his work at the school. he had not realized how much his students seemed to appreciate his efforts in the classroom. on more than one occasion, he’d left the schoolhouse under the impression the vast majority of his pupils were plotting his demise for being so sullen and boring. but perhaps not...

with your aid, he carries the booth’s table to the basement of the church. it is cool in the dark hallway of the building. his shoes sound against the stone floor as he searches for a light switch with nothing but his gaze. he hears a sharp bang followed by a muffled curse.

“you alright?” he asks, casting a glance over his shoulder. he can barely make out your form what with the dim hall and your form covered by night.

you adjust your hold on the end of the table. “yes, i’m fine. i bumped into the doorframe ‘s all.”

“where do we put this table then?”

“the vicar got it out for me early this morning. i suppose we could simply leave it by the pantry in the kitchen.”

“i’m afraid i don’t know where that is.”

he swears he can see you smile despite the low light. “perhaps i should have led the way.”

he mirrors your grin. “perhaps you should have.”

nodding to the left, you say, “that way. down the hall and first door on the right. i left it open.”

with some trouble, he manages to make it to the kitchen, though he too runs into the doorframe of the hallway and you giggle at his misfortune. together, you lower the table against the kitchen wall and step back. you brush your hands together with an air of finality.

“well,” you say with a sigh. “nothing like a good day’s work.”

gwilym turns to look at you in the darkness of the kitchen. a beam of moonlight filters through a single window in the corner of the room. it falls agains the back of your head, shrouding you in a halo of yellowy light. you’re looking at him, too; he can feel it. you look soft, and you stand close enough to touch. he keeps his hands at his sides; they tremble against the creases of his trousers.

“thank you, miss [y/l/n],” he whispers. “i needed a day like today.”

silence reigns supreme for the longest of moments. universes are born and wither in the space between his confession and your response.

but then your lips are on his. 

your hands grasp the material around his shoulders, your nails pressing through the fabric in earnest. he can think of nothing else to do—nothing else he should do—other than remain planted firm on the stone floor of the church kitchen. he itches to hold you, to weave his fingers through your hair, and move his mouth over yours. you taste sweet, like cookies, for the brief moment you claim him as your own. still, he is level-headed enough, rational enough, scared enough, to not react—no matter how much he wants to.

you pull back, swallowing hard. your fingertips skim over your mouth. you stare at him, starlight caught in your eyelashes, then run from the basement before he can say a word.

you do not come to class for several days. he calculates that it must be three days you’ve skipped out on him—no, on school. really, he can’t be certain how long you’ve been gone. since he felt the touch of your lips on his, he has thought of little else. the memory consumes him, threatening to swallow him whole. it distracts him when he turns around from the blackboard to see your seat empty and when he dismisses class at the end of the day and does not see you gathering your belongings with your elegant movements. he has lost track of time and of order. at night, he lays awake and stares at his ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. he runs the moment over and over again, replaying and reframing how it could have gone different.

he could have pushed you away the second you moved closer. at least then he would be able to claim he tried to be a professional, that he tried to distance himself from his interest in his own student.

he could have kissed you back. he’d wanted to. he’d wanted to so badly. he’d wanted to so badly the mere thought of how he’d kept his hands still at his sides makes his brain clench with discomfort.

the thursday after the benefit, after yet another day without your presence in the cramped schoolhouse, he drags his feet to your home. he’s reluctant to go, knowing he should allow you to come back on your own time. whatever it was that possessed you to kiss him, he knows you probably regret the action as much as he regrets not seizing the moment for himself.

you live on the outskirts of snowshill on your grandfather’s sheep farm. the dirt road leading to the white farmhouse is clogged with tufts of fresh grass, revealing its lack of traffic. a handful of hens peck the ground beneath a sprawling oak tree. a flat swing hanging from a thick branch sways back and forth with the afternoon breeze. it’s idyllic—removed from the rest of the world, even as far as snowshill goes, but idyllic.

he’s out of breath from the walk by the time he reaches the front door, but gwilym is self-aware enough to know he would out of breath regardless of his mode of transportation. he’s nervous. his hands shake, and there’s an incessant ringing in his deaf ear. he waits, unsure if anyone on the other side of the bright red door has heard his knock.

“mr. lee?”

the sound, garbled by the blood rushing to his ears and the tilt of his head, comes from his right. he twists to see you standing at the corner of the house. there’s a basket in your hand; it’s empty, save for a pair of small scissors which catch the sun. your blue-checkered dress is faded, the sleeves bunched around your elbows. one of the pockets on either hip seems weighed down with an invisible object. he stops his perusal and notes the clear frown on your face.

he steps forward, huffing out a rushed “miss [y/l/n]”, and nearly topples off the rail-less stoop. he catches himself at the last moment, his hand darting out to press against the frame of the farmhouse.

you gasp, dropping your basket, and rush forward, but when you see he’s righted himself, you stop. “goodness,” you say. “that would’ve been a bad tumble. i’ve told grandfather dozens of times that we need a railing.”

gwilym chuckles in a lame attempt to save face. he takes the three steps to the safety of solid earth and crosses to stand before you. you blink up at him, your lips pinched. there’s a mysterious lack of sparkle in your gaze, and he wonders if he’s the cause of its disappearance. 

“you’ve not been to school,” he says.

you shake your head as you turn to pick your discarded basket. “no.”

“why?”

you lift a slim brow. “isn’t the answer obvious, sir?”

“no.”

you hold his stare, and he is the one to look away first. a chill settles around his spine despite the warmth of the day. he wrings his hands together as he looks over the field.

“if that’s all, sir—”

his eyes snap back to yours. “no!” he winces at the desperation in his tone and tries again. “no. i think we should talk, miss [y/l/n], about what happened at the benefit.”

this time you do look away, your cheeks tinged with blush. you gesture toward the meadow behind your home. “i was going to walk down to the river. i need to replenish our herb stock. you may join me if you like.”

“that’s fine,” he says, nodding. “you lead the way.”

the beginning of your walk is spent in silence. the meadow grass tangles around the hem of his trousers, staining them green with leftover dew. you trail ahead of him, your basket skimming over the weeds and grasses like a sailboat in an ocean of nature. he realizes you are without shoes, and the sight of your bare calves and ankles sends his thoughts elsewhere.

you lead him into a grove of cherry and birch trees. pink petals cover the ground and obscure the sky. it’s a haze of color here—cherry blossoms and green leaves, the flutter of an anxious bird’s wings, the clear but rushing waters of the creek. he stops when you do and inhales deeply. strangely, tears prick the corners of his eyes. he could stay here, he thinks, in this picturesque place—no one to bother him or question him or loathe his very existence. 

“i never knew snowshill boasted such a beautiful spot,” he admits.

from your place crouched against the ground, your voice is muffled. “yes. i keep it secret”—your voice is clearer when you rise and look over your shoulder—“from nearly everyone. it’s too special to share with the world.”

you lean down again and use your small pair of scissors to snip at a collection of herbs growing along the creekbed. gwilym dares take a step closer, and he points to the herbs in your hand.

“what are those?”

“mint. it grows well by the water.” you lift the bundle. “would you like some?”

instead of taking the offer, he squats beside you. his knee, bent as it is, almost brushes your elbow. he plucks a small leaf of the mint and puts it on his tongue.

you watch as he allows the herb’s flavor to coat his tongue. “my mother used to make very good lemonade with mint.”

“my mother too.” he clears his throat, glances at the trickling stream, then back at you. “miss [y/l/n], about the benefit...”

to your credit, you do not shy away from his pointed gaze. your jaw tightens, but you maintain eye-contact, and he wonders if you can see all the thoughts racing through his head as he looks at you.

“i’m sorry if you misunderstood my gratefulness for our interactions at the coulder dinner and at the benefit. my intention was not to give you any untoward thoughts or—”

“why are you not fighting? in the war?” you interrupt with ease and do not blink as you question him.

despite his initial shock at the change of topic, he finds himself rushing to answer, to explain himself—though to anyone else, he would balk and turn away. “my right ear is deaf.”

“oh.”

“has been for a long time,” he continues. “apparently, good hearing is the mark of a good soldier.”

“and your hands?”

“my hands?”

“why do they tremble?”

at this, gwilym does balk. he stands, running the hands in question through his hair as he turns his back to you. “my hands do not tremble,” he says, his tone close to seething.

you stand to your full height, which isn’t much next to him. “yes they do. i’ve seen them—in class, at the benefit. were you denied service because of that, too?”

he openly glares at you, but he answers truthfully. “no. it developed after my denial.”

“oh,” you say again.

“really, miss [y/l/n], this is not why i wanted to speak with you.”

“i know. you wanted to talk about us.”

“there is no us. there can be no us.”

“i disagree.”

“yes, you would because you are a child, and you don’t understand that you and i giving in to whatever is between us would mean disaster.”

the slap that lands across his cheek echoes in the small grove of trees. he whirls, clutching his face as he stares at you in disbelief. his ear is ringing again, and it’s painful this time, but he knows he deserves it.

your chest heaves when you next speak. “i’m not a child.”

he knows this. he’s seen you as a woman—dreamt of you as a woman—too many times to count.

dropping his hand from his face, he nods. “i know. forgive me.”

you’re quiet, thinking, then you open your mouth to speak.

“i don’t think you realize, gwilym, how good you are for this community.” the sound of his name on your lips is sinful, threatening to tear his focus away from your words. “in the short time you’ve been here, i’ve seen the children in that schoolhouse learn more than they ever did before you came. you’re truly teaching them about the world, not just maths and reading and science. why, even last week hastings actually apologized for pulling on my braids in the past. he told me that you taught him that.”

gwilym frowns. “how? i never told—”

“they watch you. he told me you apologized to mark after you were short with him one afternoon. he told me he wanted to be like you—not his father, you.”

“miss [y/l/n]—”

“and my grandfather? he so admires you. i think he sees himself in you, after he came home from the way. he told me you’re very brave. and constance swears you have the gentlest soul built for caring for others. you may hide it, but she knows that you—”

“that’s enough—please.”

you fall silent, unshed tears washing over your eyes before you say, “don’t you see, gwilym? you walk around with such a weight on your shoulders, but all anyone wants to do—all i want to do—is ease the load. you’re worth that.”

he shakes his head and swallows hard. your speech all but shatters his heart. more than anything, he wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s good for something. but the pesky thoughts in the back of his mind grip him hard. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

“i kissed you that night because i think you are wonderful.” your face cracks into a smile, vibrant and gut-wrenching. “wonderful and smart and handsome and—”

he puts a stop to your words. winding his arms around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest, his mouth lowering to capture yours. you’re stiff at first, in shock by his sudden change of heart, but then you relax, your arms lifting to circle his neck, drawing him ever closer. his lips explore yours with desperation, the weeks he’s spent pining after you crashing to the surface in an explosion of want and need. he moves his hands to cradle your face, and your hands skim to his shoulder blades, your fingers pressed into the skin beneath his waistcoat and shirt. you taste like fresh mint. it’s all he can do to not lower you to the bed of blossom petals on the ground and ravish you until the sun dips below the horizon.

he pulls away, breathing heavy, his forehead rolling against yours. “[y/n]...” you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, and he realizes it must be the first time he’s spoken your name aloud in your presence. “[y/n],” he whispers again. “we can’t.”

you fist your hands in his shirtsleeves. “don’t say that. you feel it as much as i do.”

nodding, he moves to hold your waist. the feel of your body under his hands is heaven. you are divine, like an goddess escaped from la primavera. “i do,” he admits. “i feel it.”

he bends his head to kiss you again. the touch is softer this time, more hesitant, but when he gathers the nerve to pull you closer, your hips against his, you whimper into his mouth, and the sound pulls him back to reality. he practically trips backward, breathing labored, thoughts muddled, and body rigid. 

the space between you swims with lust and desire and yearning. your lips are plump, your cheeks flushed. your eyelids flutter, seemingly dazed, but not at all confused. you know what you want; he knows what he wants.

“we must keep it secret,” he says.

you nod.

“i won’t be able to touch you or—or be with you in public.”

“i know.”

“i could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out.”

you flinch at this, briefly looking to the side. “i know.”

shaking his head, he mutters “god help me, it would be worth it even if i did” as he crosses the space between you and crashes his lips to yours once more.

there is no hesitation now. he moves with purpose and you follow his lead. gently, he guides you to the blossom-strewn floor, his fingertips discovering the valleys and contours of your body with ease. his lips graze the curve of your neck, a feather’s touch, a butterfly’s kiss. you shift beneath him and pull his face level with yours. you glance between his eyes, chest brushing against his with the labor of your breathing.

he removes a twig from your hair, flicking it away. “do you want this?” he asks.

“always.” you smile, and it sends his heart tumbling in his chest. 

you reach down and lift the hand pressed against the ground beside your hip. it leaves him in an awkward hunch overtop of you, only his left elbow propping him up, but he’s curious at your movements. holding his wrist, you touch your left palm to his.

“your hand isn’t shaking,” you whisper.

he looks at your joined flesh, at the way his fingers stand straight against yours. there isn’t the slightest waver in his hand. dropping his palm from your grasp, he melds his body against yours beneath the cherry tree as the sun inches toward the horizon.

it goes on like this for some time: you and he stealing moments throughout the week, in whatever privacy is available. for the first time in years, he is happy. he’d grown so used to his sullen state he forgot what joy felt like, but you’ve given it back to him in bundles.

he’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so. perhaps it is your whole being.

you are intelligent, easily tutoring your classmates when they fall behind. you are generous, often sharing your meals with the neediest of students. you are witty and lively in your silliest of moods and gentle and serene at your most centered. you listen to him when he speaks—truly listen—and you challenge him with your observations and questions. 

he enjoys holding you, caressing your soft skin, kissing your lips. the cherry blossom grove is where he holds you most. it is a safe place amidst an unsafe world. beneath the shade of the birch trees, he is untouchable. he is free to speak as he wishes, love you as he pleases. he is open and honest and everything he feels he cannot be in town.

and, yes, he thinks he loves you—even after such a short time. he would be a fool not to have fallen for you by now. despite the years between you, despite the complexities of his position, he knows he would chose you again.

the weeks bleed into months. spring edges into the beginning of summer. you will finish school soon and be out from under his tutelage, released to the frayed fragments of freedom to which britain still clings. neither of you have spoken on the topic. though it looms overhead, it’s still far yet. you have time.

you are cradled against his chest, the aftermath of your most recent lovemaking still lingering on your bodies and in the air. you hum into the crook of his neck, and your fingers swirl around the hair peppering his chest.

“gwilym?” you press a kiss to his shoulder before adjusting yourself to lean on your elbow, looking down on him.

he opens one eye. “hmm?”

“what do you think will happen after the war ends?”

he opens both eyes at this and moves his head to meet your questioning gaze. the blanket beneath him rustles, and the branches overhead sway with the warm breeze. he isn’t sure what question he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you posed. you surprise him every day in that way—always curious, always searching for answers.

“i’m not sure,” he says. “provided we win, i suppose germany will be forced to make reparations. with the americans in the fight now it won’t be long before the kaiser gives up.”

“will you leave us then? once everything’s back to normal?”

he answers quickly and honestly, surprised at the passion in his own voice. “no, never.”

your brow creases. “but you came here running from the war. won’t you go home when it’s done?”

he blinks and considers. months ago, he would have said yes. given the chance, he would have fled back to london without a moment of hesitation. now... now he’s not so sure.

“home is wherever you are.” the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them, but once they hang in the air, he knows they are the truth. wherever you go, he will follow. he would forsake his entire past if it meant he could stay by your side.

your lips tug into a small smile, and you sit straighter, turning your face away. “you mustn’t say things you don’t mean.”

he runs a fingertip over the curve of your exposed shoulder, down the rise and fall of your spine. if anyone were to break through the line of trees, they would see you both and have no issue filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle, naked as you both are. still, he’s comfortable; he always is around you.

“i mean what i say, [y/n]. i’m not a flatterer.”

your head whips around, and your eyes twinkle with mirth. “don’t steal my words, gwilym,” you say with a laugh, pushing at his chest.

sitting up, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against his side. “i can steal whatever i please. like this,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss on the mouth. “or this.” he kisses the flesh beneath your collarbone. “or—”

you press a finger to his lips. “not everything.” your grin turns sly, and you coquettishly bat your eyelashes. “i’m a virgin, after all, and must remain so for my future husband.”

gwilym laughs, tossing his head back. “is that so?”

you nod. “my maidenhood is the most sacred thing about me.”

“oh, we’ll see about that!”

with an easy maneuver, gwilym has you on your back. your giggles—girlish but edged with desire—circle his head like a drug. you swat at his shoulders when he braces himself over you, his mouth like a tattoo on your skin. he could stay like this forever—just you and him, the cherry blossom trees, and the endless sky. he would stay, too, but after your picnic dinner and an argument over the smartest literary character of all time (he insists sherlock holmes; you insist portia from the merchant of venice), he must walk you home before your grandfather begins to worry.

he wonders if the old man suspects anything. he comes to your house multiple afternoons a week under the guise of preparing you for university should you choose to go further with your education. that study time always floats from the kitchen table to the back garden to the grove of trees, and you’re gone for hours. you always return looking rumbled, your dress askew, his tie undone, but the old man never says a word if he does know the truth. for that, gwilym is thankful.

tonight, he leaves you at the backdoor. the sky is a blanket of stars, and the moon shines bright overhead. standing as you are on the lowest stair leading to the door, you can meet his eyes with ease, and you seem to appreciate the change in perspective. you run your hands through his hair, your fingernails grazing his scalp. his eyes flutter shut at the feeling, his grip on your hip tightening.

“don’t do that, [y/n],” he breathes.

you smirk. “why? do you like it?”

he grits his teeth and opens his eyes to level you a dark stare. “you know i do.”

grinning, you kiss him hard, enough to leave him breathless when you pull away. “tomorrow? same place?”

“i have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the vicar. i’ll come by afterwards.”

you shake your head and smooth your hands against his shoulders. the action is so domestic, so wifely, he can’t help but picture you as his wife, sending him away for a day of work. “don’t bother. i think i’ll pop around for tea with constance. perhaps i’ll run into you then?”

gwilym audibly groans at the idea of seeing you in his own home, sat across from his landlady, smiling and laughing, all the while making eyes at him from across the table. he shivers—but not because of the cold. “you’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

you touch his cheek with such tenderness it makes his knees weak. “i hope so.”

maryanne is the one who ultimately discovers and reveals your affair. even so, gwilym blames himself and himself alone. he got too comfortable. months of loving you in secret—months of tasting you and knowing you and cherishing you—cannot be hid behind a sullen face. and his face is not longer sullen. 

he finds himself smiling more, asking his students about their lives instead of their assignments. he grades easier, waves his hand at forgotten homework, prolongs lunch break so he can eat with you. perhaps the change in his demeanor was what sent maryanne on the hunt. that—or the fact she caught him kissing you amongst constance’s prized hydrangea bushes.

he hadn’t been positive if the flash of pink fabric and yellow hair was maryanne, so he’d never mentioned it to you. he’d just kept kissing you, though his attention had slipped and his movements turned distracted when he heard the rustle of a bush. he’d opened his eyes long enough to see the out-of-place pink nestled within the green bushes and blue flowers, but then the color was gone and you were whispering something filthy in his ear and it made him laugh. he’d forgotten; he’d gotten comfortable.

now he wishes he’d grabbed maryanne and forced her to keep her mouth shut. with two weeks until your graduation, time is of the essence. he’d lose you if anyone found out, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

he hadn’t caught maryanne, though, and she’d rushed home to tell her mother who had promptly told the idiot john coulder who had informed the vicar and the vicar had come to relive gwilym of his teaching duties—no questions asked.

“you do realize what a mess you’ve made, haven’t you?” the vicar had said upon his arrival. “there will have to be an investigation. we don’t stand for this sort of thing in snowshill.”

gwilym hadn’t said anything. he’d simply loomed over the squat man and summoned as much of a glower as he could. it wasn’t very hard, not with his entire world crashing down around him.

he lies down that night and wonders what will become of him. he will be a social pariah, an outcast, the man who seduced a child, the teacher who coerced a student. it isn’t like that; he knows it and you do too. he loves you, though he hasn’t said as much. he suspects you love him too.

he could take you away from here. you could both start over somewhere new, where no one knows your names. the idea is tantalizing, and it wouldn’t be hard, but he knows you won’t leave your grandfather and niece behind.

there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and he sits up, hitting his head on the slope of the attic ceiling. rubbing the offended area, he frowns.

“who is it?”

“who do you think?” constance says, her tone as unamused as his.

“i’m not really in the mood for visitors.”

he knows she knows. he knows she stood in the front parlor and listened to every word the vicar spat at his feet. he just didn’t have the guts to look her in the eyes before he fled to his room.

“you missed supper, child. i’ve brought you a bowl of soup.”

reluctantly, gwilym slides from bed and goes to open the door. constance stands at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a purple robe, the neck lined with feathers. she pushes him a bowl of split-pea soup and swishes into the room to drop in the single, hard-backed chair. it creaks beneath her weight. he turns to look at her; the heat of the bowl burns his hands, and his palms tremble.

“constance, i—”

“i must admit that i’d hoped you would find a friend in [y/n] [y/l/n], perhaps even something more.”

his jaw slackens. “i’m sorry?”

“when you mentioned you were going to the coulder house for supper and she would be there, i knew she would do you well. i knew her mother before she died, and that girl has her mother’s tender heart. both could heal even the sternest of wounds.”

he blinks, looks away. yes, you could. you healed him, after all.

“i simply wished you would have been more careful. my hydrangea bushes are not the most secretive spot in the world.”

“you knew?”

she nods, her painted lips tight. “mhm. ever since you came home that first afternoon smelling too much like women’s perfume and sheep’s wool.”

gwilym drops to his bedside, the soup in his bowl sloshing with the movement. “why didn’t you say anything?”

she laughs as if she’s taken offense by his query. “i may concern myself with everyone’s business, gwilym, but it is not my business to go about spreading the business which i know.”

“you are a strange woman.”

“you are a man in love.”

he looks down at the rapidly-cooling food in his lap.

“i shouldn’t tell you this,” constance continues. “it will only make you hope, but i know what it is you’re feeling.”

he scoffs. “do you?” somehow he doubted that. constance, having never been married, knew more of felines than she did feelings. at least, any of the feelings roiling through his person now.

“when i was seventeen i had an affair with my teacher. he was young and handsome and charming, and i was happy. but we were found out, and he was run out of town. i never saw him again.”

“how is this supposed to give me hope?”

“my xavier was not given the chance to explain himself before his accusers. you are being afforded that opportunity. use it.”

“they’ve taken my position already. they can do nothing more. this hearing is a farce, and you know it.”

constance smooths the wrinkles of her dressing gown and flicks away a spot of imaginary dust as she shrugs. “prides goeth before the fall. remember that come thursday.” she rises. “you have the chance to keep her, gwilym. she turns twenty next month and will graduate in a fortnight. even if you leave snowshill together, will you be able to live with yourself knowing you did not defend her honor before the people who know her best? sleep on that, won’t you?”

she exits the room before he can respond, and he falls asleep to growing pit of desperation in his stomach.

there’s a ping against his window some time late wednesday night. it startles him out of his uneasy sleep, and he sits up, rubbing his eyes. when it happens again, he turns to look out the window over his head. nothing but the black, starless night sky and open meadow beyond constance’s gardens. he huffs. perhaps it had been a bird or—

another ping.

teeth gritted, gwilym flings his window open and peers into the darkness, straining his eyes to see. what he doesn’t see, he hears, despite his deafness.

“gwilym!” the whisper is harsh and frantic, but a beautiful melody nonetheless. somewhere in the darkness, you stand, looking up at him. “gwilym, come down here!”

he doesn’t need to be told twice.

forgoing his shoes, he tumbles down the stairs and into the back garden. the night is brisk, chilly, a precursor of what is to come at dawn. he finds you in the darkness, or maybe you find him, but you’re there, in his arms, and that’s all that matters. you cling to him, your hands fisted in his bedshirt, ear pressed against his chest. he hasn’t seen you since maryanne revealed your relationship to the world; you feel like heaven amidst hell.

“i don’t have much time,” you whisper. “mrs. coulder is at the farm, watching over me to make sure i don’t come to find you.”

gwilym draws back. he holds your face in his hands and is struck by how large his palms are against the side of your head. your hair feels soft under his shaking fingers. the tremor is back; it has been since his world collapsed. 

“are you alright? have they done anything to you?”

“i’m fine. the vicar questioned me yesterday, tried to make me confess that you’d pressured me into being with you, but i only told the truth.”

“the fucker,” he mutters. “i’m sorry you had to do that. the blame lies entirely with me.”

“don’t worry about me. you have to speak before everyone tomorrow.”

“and it’ll be fine.”

“will it?” tears sparkle in your eyes as you look up at him. “no one will accept us even if—”

he silences you with a kiss to the forehead. “hush, [y/n]. whatever happens will happen. so long as you are well cared for, it will all be fine.”

“you sound as if you’re prepared to go away.”

“if they ask me—”

“gwilym, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”

he looks down at you. god, he loves you. with every fiber of his being, he longs to make you his. but he’s reminded of constance’s story every time he thinks of you now, and he’s been imagining a new sort of life by your side. one filled with dirty looks and whispers around every corner; of evenings alone, no friends to call on, no family to worry over; of a job in a far off village which takes him on the road and leaves you to yourself in that overly large farmhouse; friendless children; lonely in old age.

can he subject you to such a life? a life so similar to the one you’d pulled him from? he’s not sure he can—and he’s begun to wonder if constance’s xavier did the right thing by leaving her, by giving her a second chance.

“i know i did,” he finally says.

“then why are you talking like this? like you want to go?”

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and feels his gut wrench. “that’s the last thing i want.”

you chin quivers beneath his fingers, and he removes his hand from your face. “then tell me what it is you’re planning to do. please, gwilym. don’t you owe me that?”

in lieu of answering you, he wraps his arms around your back, lifting you so your feet merely brush the carpet of grass. he kisses you softly, savoring the touch and tucking it away in his heart for a future moment. he wants to memorize the map of your skin beneath his fingers and the feel of your mouth on his. he wants to commit the smell of your hair and the contours of your body and the feeling of love that crashes over him to memory. he’s not sure if he’ll have a moment like this again, so he prolongs the touch until he can barely breathe. he returns you to solid ground and pulls away.

“gwilym—” you’re crying, and he wonders how he didn’t taste your tears.

“don’t come tomorrow. i don’t want you to hear what they say.”

you set your jaw. “i’ll be there. i won’t leave you.”

he knows you’re bating him to reveal his plan, but he won’t. until his dying day, he will protect you from harm. tonight, he must protect you from himself.

because he can’t help it, he grabs your elbow and pulls you in for a last bruising kiss. you circle your arms around his neck and cling to him, even as he tries to pull away.

“let me go, [y/n],” he whispers. 

you hold tighter, your eyes screwed shut as you shake your head. “no.”

“let me go, angel.” with some amount of effort, he pries you from his body. a rush of cold fills the spot where you’d stood, pressed against him. 

he turns away, returning to the cottage, but not before he sees you hide your face behind your hands and hears you sob softly into the darkness.

you arrive at the hearing dressed in red. the sight of you flanked by your grandfather, wearing your boldest, brightest red dress, almost makes him laugh. you’re nothing if not brave. 

standing in the doorway of the church, you survey the room, which is full to bursting. everyone has turned out for the event of the year, and the air is hot with sweat and summer and scandal. when your eyes meet his from across the room, he can’t help but offer a smile. you smile in return, and the softness around your eyes is a balm to his soul. you point to an empty pew in the back of the hall and take your seat. though your face is obscured, he can make out the shoulders of your bright dress from his place in a chair on the dais. 

he sits before the entirety of snowshill, the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. he feels close to vomiting, but he knows what he must do. he’s ready.

when the vicar begins the proceedings, outlining your entire affair in torrid detail, gwilym keeps his face set firm. his hand bunches the fabric at his thighs and his teeth press against his tongue but he’s calm to the untrained eye. it’s only when the vicar asks him to say his piece that his facade begins to crumble.

he stands too rapidly, and his chair crashes to the floor. he leaves it lying against the cobblestone. he opens his mouth and releases a squeak. heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he clears his throat. from her place in the front pew, constance leans forward, her brows knit tight in concern. his gaze skips to you and, standing now, he can see your face. 

you’re beautiful.

gwilym opens his mouth to speak. “everything you have said about me here today is true, vicar.” there’s a muffled gasp throughout the crowd, but he continues. “i did enjoy an illicit affair with my own pupil and, though i admit i should have perhaps waited to court the girl in question until after her graduation, i will not concede that what we did was wrong.”

the vicar’s hands curl around the pulpit, his face ashen. “have you no shame, sir?” 

“no shame in partaking in what the lord intended us for: communion and fellowship with one another.”

“how dare you!”

gwilym ignores him and returns his eyes to yours amidst the crowd. “if i am guilty of anything, i am guilty of doing as the lord commands us: loving my fellow man—or, in this case, woman. the greatest of these is love, i believe, yes? so yes, i am guilty, but guilty only of loving a woman whole-heartedly.” he pauses and feels the overwhelming urge to laugh bubble in his chest. “i love you, [y/n], and that is the truth. if that is my crime, i will bear it with honor.” 

tears blur his vision as he extends his hand to you. a beat of silence and then—

you stand, your red dress a spotlight among the sea of browns and greens and grays. you step into the aisle, smile, and he notes as you walk forward that his hand does not shake as he waits for you to reach his side.

[wallwriterstuff]

Am I allowed to place in a request for Mr svelte tracker boi Demetri? I need my greek boi fix. 😅😂 My stimming (due to my slight autism and anxiety) has been kinda bad lately and I was wondering if you could do some headcanons on how he would be with a reader who has that going on? (For example, some of my stimming signs are restless, uncontrollable finger twitches sometimes, and sudden limb movements and facial twitches I can't control 😅) Thanks! Also, sorry if this is too touchy a subject!🙈

You most certainly are allowed and I cannot express how hard I fangirled when I realised it was you in my ask box. I played it very cool but just know I was dying inside from the moment I saw your username come up XD 

TW: Mentions of anxiety and sensory overload. If that’s a little personal to you please be cautious about reading this one!

I’m incapable of writing short things it seems so it’s another long one.

Self-stimulating behaviour, known more commonly as stimming, usually involves repetitive movements and/or sounds. Though it is most often associated with autism (I know when I first saw the word stimming that was where my mind immediately went to) everybody stims in some way, shape or form to relieve stress, tension, anxiety, boredom etc. Some ways are less noticeable than others such as nail biting or finger tapping, while others can be more obvious and disruptive to your social/daily life like licking certain objects or scratching at skin.

I learned all this from doing a bit of reading before taking on this request and if you want to know more then the link to the article I read is right -----> HERE <------ ! It’s informed my ideas for this headcanon request and though I’m open to discussions about the topic to help educate myself and anyone else who wishes to learn more, what I will not tolerate is any sort of hate or discrimination based on the links to developmental disorders and mental illness that stimming has. This blog has and always will be a safe space for anyone and everyone and a little respect for one another will help keep it that way. Be kind folks!

So without further ado, how would Demetri react to you stimming I wonder?

Part 1: Headcanons below the Keep Reading Line Part 2: Teeth (fic) Part 3: Control (fic) 

·         He honestly wouldn’t really notice for a while because, well, humans aren’t exactly designed to be as flawless as vampires

·         Impromptu nosebleeds, migraines, sneezes…they’re just glitches in a faulty system so why is the way your leg just bounced up off of the floor while your sitting any different to those other equally as involuntary things

·         He’s struggling right now to, after all he just met his very human mate and it’s quite overwhelming for him to have to adapt to all these new feelings and situations he finds himself in, but he deals because he can

·         Some days, you just…can’t

·         Getting attacked by a man with some bizarre fascination with your neck is bad enough but being whisked away by strangers is somehow even worse. At least in the first scenario once it’s over it’s over, now you’re just living an anxious person’s nightmare in a new place full of new people

·         Volterra was beautiful, but it wasn’t home. No cosy apartment, no neighbours cat to feed, no monotonous shifts at work…

·         Actually, most of the time you’re left utterly alone to navigate an unfamiliar castle, and the times you aren’t alone is when there’s a man claiming to be your eternal lover in front of you

·         Try to convince me this man doesn’t rip the band aid off and profess his love for you with dramatic flair just TRY

·         Your days are filled with endless boredom where you’re doing nothing at all until someone checks on you, and then fight or flight kicks in because oh HELLO Mr Vampire guard are you here to give me lunch or kill me?

 ·         Demetri had thought that perhaps you were okay with that, since you hadn’t really outwardly reacted beyond the way your cheek twitched up into a smirk once or twice as he spoke. Hell, you’d even winked at him…right?

·         You did that a lot so he really genuinely thought that maybe you were just trying to flirt with him, build a relationship with him. Your constant little winks and the way your fingers twitched when he was nearby, like you so desperately wanted to reach out to him…

·         It took a few weeks before he realised how wrong he was

·         You’d reached for a sip of water and your arm had just whipped outward from your body

          + You’d absolutely drenched him with your entire glass of water and could only stare in abject horror wondering what the supposed vampire would do next, since you’d interrupted him rather smugly detailing his plans for your first date

·         Silence

·         There was just silence

·         It only made your anxiety worse and the muscles in your face just spasmed without your permission and - god did you just smirk at him again, oh no        

         + “I’m glad one of us finds this amusing. If you did not like the idea there were other ways to tell me so.”

 ·         You almost want to cry from sheer embarrassment at this point because the date really had sounded like it could be fun and now you’d just straight up thrown water in his face like he’d insulted you in the worst way imaginable

·         So you come clean and tell him about your stimming

·         He’s really worried at first because autism? Anxiety he’s heard of but autism sounds very dangerous, are you dying? You’re probably dying. He’s going to lose his mate –

·         Another involuntary finger twitch from you forces him to calm down because your anxious enough without his worrying on top, so he kind of brushes it off and makes no big deal out of it

·         Squeezes your hand and kisses your forehead to try and reassure you all is forgiven, even if he does have to go change a very expensive looking designer shirt and god you’re so sorry

·         Of course, that kind of makes it worse for you because anxiety brain is activated and your 99.9999% sure he’s actually furious with you still and has only pretended to forget it while he’s plotting his revenge

·         You see him late at night when you struggle to fall and stay asleep, reading in the low lamplight at his desk across the room, his laptop propped open and a notebook before him but you’re too scared still to ask what it is he’s reading so intently (probably good suggestions on places to bury your body welp)

·         It’s a complete surprise to you therefore when he does take you out on that date he promised you not two weeks later

 ·         He’s chosen a nice overcast day so he’s in the least conspicuous clothing he owns

            + Demetri’s least conspicuous clothes still consist of the most chic and expensive brands you know of and he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the quaint little market stalls he’s brought you to see

·         Despite the gloomy weather the people of Volterra are out in full force though, swarming the market stalls and chattering and laughing as flashes of gold and silver from jewelry hit your eyes, bright coloured fabrics following

·         It’s all just too much

·         There’s people everywhere and so much noise, so many colours and lights and people brushing past you…

·         Your fingers clench tight around his, his hand immersed in a glove to keep his freezing skin from chilling you too much

·         He squeezes back lightly, eyes shifting to glance down at you with the kindest smile on his lips

         + “Keep squeezing my hand whilst we find somewhere quieter to stand.”

·         Your fingers seemed to take turns pressing into his rock solid skin, an odd sort of comfort coming from the fact you know you can press down hard and he won’t so much as register the sensation, and Demetri squeezes back, just firm enough he knows you can feel the pressure of his palm on yours

·         He takes you to a quiet little side road where the noise is much more faded and there is so much free space around you you feel like you can finally breathe again

·         He still hasn’t stopped squeezing your hand, taking turns with you as you take some steady breaths and try to focus your senses a bit, one thing you can feel, two things you can see, three you can smell...

 ·         “I hope you can forgive me, I did not expect the market to be so busy today with the weather like this.”

·         His apology takes you completely by surprise because how would he even know you struggled with crowds? You barely know each other?

·         Seeing your surprise Demetri rather sheepishly admits as to what exactly he’s been reading all those nights you’ve seen him at his desk, and you’re a little overwhelmed to realise he’s been reading about you

·         Medical journals, mummyblogs, charity websites and more, if it had any information about autism and stimming he’s browsed through it and taken copious amounts of notes, observing you religiously to see what might be relevant to you and how he can help ·         +  “I read somewhere you self-stimulate to calm yourself when you are anxious or your senses feel overwhelmed, is that what happened?”                                    “Well, yes, actually, I…I…”

            “And did it help? Taking you away from the source of stress and letting you squeeze my hand like that?”

·         It had actually, you felt much calmer and Demetri’s obvious acceptance and willingness to help you manage your stimming and anxiety today were one of the first little moments you fell in love with him, looking back on it 

·         He didn’t stop there either. Together you sat down and made a list of all the things that you found most often triggered your stimming, and all of the things that brought you joy so he could figure out things to avoid and things you might like for your future dates

·         Within hours of arriving home you’d gotten a whole new daily routine set up so you weren’t left to languish and wonder what was going to happen next

·         Three days later an express shipment of your favourite smelling scented candles arrived alongside a Bluetooth speaker, supplies Demetri insisted were necessary for nice calming baths on the days your anxiety was playing up

·         He started doing mindfulness practices with you in the evenings

·         He never touched the volume controls for his laptop, speaker or TV, leaving it to you to control the volume so you could set it to a level you were comfortable with, and he religiously policed the noise on his floor to           + “Where are you going? The movie just started…”                                                    “To tell Felix to turn his music down.”               “You’re vampiring again Metri, I can’t even hear that.”

·         When he signed you up for Yoga and meditation classes at a centre in town you drew the line and told him he was going overboard, but bless him he had tried

·         Overall he’s a solid 15/10 for effort, even if some ideas are still experimental - you’re enjoying the deep pressure massages a lot though – and he sometimes goes a bit mother-hen trying to get you out of situations he thinks you’ll struggle with, when actually you’re coping just fine today

·         You love him dearly for it

[sparklinpixiedust]

Why Izumi Uses the Backdoor.

Okay first of all I want to clear a few things up. This is my first Zuko fanfic so I apologise if things seem OOC.

Secondly, I haven't written anything in years , so the writing may be off. It'll take a while before I get my groove back so I'm sorry if seems rushed or weird. Also I can't type even if my life depended on it, so expect spelling mistakes. Not a lot , I have proof read it but still.

Okay now, on with the story.

~~~~~~~

He stood there, shivering in front of the giant Palace gates , flowers in one hand and a certain princess in the other.

When he first asked out Izumi , he hadn't thought about how she was the Princess of the fire nation. She had just been this cute dorky girl whom he had a crush on.

Taking her home after their date tonight though felt like he was suddenly drenched with a bucket of cold water.

She was the princess of the firenation.

What was he thinking?! One wrong move and he could actually be killed.

"I had fun tonight" Izumi said in a quiet voice. She was nervous too but for a different reason. This was her first date and it had been perfect in the eyes of the spectacled 14 year old.

The boy relaxed a bit. "Well um I guess ill see you around" he said, glad he had made her happy. He handed over the flowers and she smiled.

Fire Roses, her favorite.

She opened her mouth to thank him when suddenly the palace gates opened, revealing nothing but darkness. A small flicker could be made in what could be assumed was the end of room.

"Come in both of you" a deep raspy voice echoed.

The boy was horrified and Izumi just smacked her head.

She knew she celebrated her date way too early.

They walked towards the flicker which only got larger to reveal a dark cloaked figure. Large flames danced behind with the shadow of a large dragon.

The boy gulped.

"Um Da-"

"Silence!" The voice boomed off the walls.

" you boy , do you know what time it is?"

"Oh... um...8..no...9.. 9:36?" The date stuttered.

"Exaclty! You were supposed to bring the princess home by 9:30 !"

"Dad stop it!" Izumi whined. She had never wanted to bury herself more than she did right now.

Zuko paid no attention to his daughter, she simply didn't understand the way teenage boys were. But he knew, having been one himself. They needed to be treated with strictness.

"Actions have consequences" he snapped his fingers, signalling the dragon behind him to grow in size.

Druk slithered his way to the teenage couple till he was only a few inches from them.

The boy cowered behind the girl ,who just stood there looking the beast in the eyes, clearly unimpressed.

"Now Druk, eat him!"

What?

"What?!" Izumi cried. Her father had lost it.

"Yes, that's the price you pay for da-"

"What the flameo is going on?"

Light flooded in and all the inhabitants of the room squinted their eyes shut.

Mai walked in, her eyes flickering between her husband and her red faced daughter.

"And why does the he look like he's about to faint?" She pointed to the the paled boy behind the princess.

"Mai, we're kinda in the middle of something" Zuko huffed in a raspy tone, clearly annoyed at his wife for interrupting his moment.

She raised an eyebrow at him, " what's up with the voice? Are you sick? Have you been spending time in the turtleduck pond after 6 again? How many times have I to-"

Izumi watched her parents bicker. Well it was mostly her mother talking and her father trying to speak up but you know , whatever.

" oh mom" she said aloud, making her mother turn to face her. She knew it would only get her father in more trouble.

"Dad told Druk to eat my date"

Mais eyes widened and she snapped neck back to a sheepishly smiling zuko.

" what is wrong with you?! You know Druk is a vegetarian!"

And also having people eaten is wrong? Izumi mentally added.

"And you!" She pointed a finger at Druk, "what are you doing past your bedtime? Don't you have to fly Zuko to Ba Sing Se early in the morning." The beast growled apologetically.

"But Maiii.."

" No zuko, I've had it, I-..."

Izumi stood watching with a gaunt smirk on her face, oblivious to the boy sneaking away slowly behind her and running away.

It took her while to realize she could no longer feel a presence behind her and sighed.

He was gone and something told her he wasn't coming back anytime soon.

She made a mental note to herself later that night. Always use the back door when coming home from dates.

~~~~~~

Weeelll ? Whatya think? Comment and let me know your thoughts.

Let me know if you wanna see Zuko ruin some more of Izumis dates :)

[normal-thoughts-official]

UWU I'm in the mood for some Raphael talk, I love the headcanon you've talked about in the chat about Raphael tolerating Alec only because he makes his dad happy (which is so damn valid of him), and it's one of my most fave things do you have more slightly silly headcanons about it?

you really want me to be beaten up huh may. you want them to come for me again. you want to ruin my life

okay disclaimer Alec stans pwease dont hate me uwu I'm not saying i hate Alec I'm saying that i dont think Raphael would vibe with him. especially after the whole punch which I'll never get over cuz like i KNOW rationally that alec didnt have the full story and if izzy was hurt and sitting beside a white shadowhunter he would go there and beat them up all the same cuz alec's like this, but I'm still upset eidndidjdid my boy doesnt deserve this okay

anyway with that being said

i dont think its Raphael like, genuinely hating him as much as them having nothing in common besides their mutual love for Magnus and desire to see him happy. so Raphael can tolerate him fine, but he's not exactly dying to be best friends. besides, alec's like, all of the most annoying things about shadowhunters (all serious, never fucking relaxes, must have a weapon close at all times, doesn't understand food, doesn't listen to music, doesnt-) that arent like straight up nazist bigotry. so hes just like. ugh. whatever. I'm here for Magnus. leave pls

i can absolutely see that tbh Raphael just goes to their house and is all like "Alec leave i want to talk to Magnus" and alec's like "this is my house?" and raphael's like "and?" and alec's like "Fine, ill take a walk. Magnus, Raphael is here." but he also kisses Magnus goodbye in front of Raphael because he can, in fact, be an ass

also i know i told u about that already but Raphael lowkey challenges him every time like. he'll come by Magnus' and bring food, and of course theres food for 3 because Raphael is not gonna be that rude and he doesn't want to make Magnus feel like Raphael wants him to choose between Raphael and Alec. Alec makes Magnus happy and Raphael would never want to make Magnus feel like his love or presence in his life is conditional. Plus, he doesn't actually hate him. Just a little.

anyway so he brings the food and he's like (clearly judgemental tone) "i brought hot sauce because i figured Alec doesn't usually eat spicy food" and he's obviously correct, Alec had never eaten anything with season in his life before he met Magnus, much less pepper. he's the kind of ultimate, boss-level gringo who puts salt on his food when he's feeling adventurous

so Raphael sits down and puts the food on his plate and he pours hot sauce into his plate while making unwavering eye contact with Alec (yeah raphael can eat in this because he deserves it and i said so) and it's an obvious challenge and it evidently works because Alec 1- is competitive, and 2- actually wants Raphael's respect because he knows how important he is to Magnus. so he takes the salsa from Raphael and starts pouring it too while maintaining eye contact right back, jaw clenched in challenge, looking all serious and Magnus is like "children, please" and raphael's all like "oh no no no, let him" but Alec considers that a win because Raphael is clearly trying to contain a smile and thats the first step to winning him over

so anyway Alec sweats and grimaces through the whole meal, cuz like, look yes he may have pain tolerance because he's a shadowhunter but he's also the bitch who reacted to taking a sip of beer like someone had farted on his face. he can't hide his reactions for shit, but fuck if he doesn't lick the plate clean (not literally like gross) and doesn't shed a single tear, even as he clearly can't keep his eyes open with the effort

Magnus is like "Alexander, you dont have to do this" and alec's like "(eyes squeezed shut, grimacing, drenched in sweat) do what? this is very good" and Raphael is smiling into his plate even as Magnus shoots him dirty looks

then Alec is like "i won. i ate it all" and Raphael is like "(looking at his red sweaty face and puffy eyes) really?"

also look ill always love the hc that Raphael resents Alec for his height and Alec doesnt even notice. Raphael is not short, god damn it, hes 175! thats TEN whole centimeters above the mexican average! he was the tallest boy in Guadalajara! RAPHAEL IS TALL, OKAY

EXCEPT everyone in the goddamn shadow world is apparently a god damn giant. Its humiliating enough that Magnus is 180. but Magnus is his dad, so whatever. but Alec is FUCKING 190. no one needs that much tall. no one! Raphael went from being the tallest boy in the neighborhood to the shortest, and boy he is so not pleased about it

but Alec has no idea because who cares? (Raphael. Raphael cares. deeply. he cares so much) it's not even good to be that tall, he keeps banging his head on things. so there will be moments like. Raphael is standing in front of the bookshelf, seeming very focused. Alec shrugs, figures he's looking for something, and puts the book he was going to put there up. Raphael shoots him a dirty look that might as well be a stab, and Alec's like ???????? did i disrupt you? sorry? and Raphael just crosses his arms like "you didnt do anything, i dont know what you're talking about"

in reality the shelf was too high up because Magnus adjusted his shelves to his and Alec's height, and Raphael refused to stand on his tiptoes or god forbid, a stool, to grab his book, so he was just glaring at the shelf until the book came to him or something. and when Alec put the book up he was mad cuz Alec could reach it fjdndid

later Alec tells Magnus about it like "i dont get what i did. is he just that private?" and Magnus is like "hmm. i have no idea, darling" but next time Raphael comes, the shelves have been spelled to adjust to the book picker's height

also this always makes me think of that scene in hsm where zeke tries to talk to sharpay and she goes "evaporate, tall person!" and leaves and i love that mental image tbh

also like. eventually Alec apologizes for the punching thing (look. look. Im still salty and Raphael deserves it okay) and Raphael is like. moved because something deep inside of him still believed it was his fault and he was a monster, and it's. nice. and Alec kind of extends his arms and Raphael is like "dont think so" and crosses his arms and Alec kind of very very slowly lifts his arm and pats Raphael's head once and Raphael wants to scream and Alec looks very awkward and sheepish and Magnus bursts out laughing

(Raphael doesnt mind, though, because Magnus is genuinely so happy all day that they had a good interaction. so happy. and Raphael thinks, okay, this is okay. it's good if it makes Magnus happy.)

(Magnus also pats his head and plays with his hair, but its okay because Magnus has always done that and Raphael doesnt mind. only from him though. and raphael's partners. but anyway)

plus whenever Magnus is like, upset, or sick or something, theyre like. an unit. because for all they have no common interests they do think very alike (autistic solidarity i guess) and are very practical when it comes to taking care of others, and they both just. adore Magnus, okay. so Raphael will arrive, make Magnus soup. while he makes soup, Alec stays with him and takes his temperature. once Raphael is back with the soup, Alec goes out to buy medicine, and Raphael stays with him to make him company. and so on. at some point Alec is almost falling asleep by Magnus' side and Raphael taps his shoulder and points to the chair nearby, and Alec nods and dozes off for a while. then its the other way around. Magnus isnt seriously sick, of course, but he doesn't usually get sick so it's an event, plus they're both Like This. and for all the grief they give each other, they trust each other to take care of Magnus. theres no argument about that

(Magnus was resting, but he did see some of these moments, and smiled a bit to himself before dozing off again)

also Raphael and Ragnor gave Alec the ultimate shovel talk (Ragnor doesn't trust anyone after Camille, and while neither do cat and dot, they were more chill), but it lowkey backfired because they were like "if you ever hurt him, we'll remove your kneecaps" and Alec was like "(nodding seriously) thats fair"

also i know we've talked about this already but i also love the idea that Raphael goes to their house and is all absentmindedly like "hm can i have some coffee" and alec's like "sure, ill make it :) you stay here and talk to Magnus" and when Alec comes back he hands Raphael his coffee in a "best. bonus son. ever" mug and then he leans back against the wall, sipping his own coffee from his "world's #1 stepdad" mug that he bought himself, trying to hide his shit eating grin, and Raphael scowls and deliberately holds it so his hand covers the words, and Magnus laughs and his eyes shine as he sips his tea.

(later, Raphael is like. guess me and lightwood have a dynamic now. gross. but he still rolls with it)

in short Raphael and Alec being little shits to each other but still building something of a relationship for Magnus and always taking care of him..... ultimate trope

[unlockthelore]

Influence

Considering Tsuchigomori was being stingy with the exam answers, there’s only one recourse — studying. Thankfully, Hanako can help Yashiro with that. Right?

Part 1 of the Rumors of Kamome series. For more updates, follow the rumors of kamome tag on this blog. 

It was uncommon for Tsuchigomori to see the 7th School Mystery alone as of late. At least during the day. With his newfound assistant and “overseer”, Hanako was almost always surrounded by others rather than aimlessly filling his day with his duties and distant observation of the students coming and going.

Overall, it wasn’t a terrible change of pace.

Tsuchigomori enjoyed watching the trio blunder through one mystery after the other. Their squabbling often leading to another embarrassing secret or special moment in their books, entertaining him when the weight of everything felt too heavy.

Yako took pleasure in knowing what the group she dubbed the “Toilet Trio” were up to. The two of them taking to talking about it in their spare time, carefully avoiding any mention of the moments none of them wanted to remember.

Ones bathed in sadness and drenched with ill feeling, a look-alike to the ghost they called their leader, pain twisting a young boy’s resolve of peace to revenge, and the impending loss of a tiny light — too bright and too good to go out so soon.

It was easier to pretend that these lazy days would go on forever and nothing would change. But, like all dreams, Tsuchigomori knew it would end one day. For now, living in the present was bittersweet. Ignoring what was to come and making every moment count.

Poetic as it sounded, Tsuchigomori couldn’t help but notice the irony. He was a supernatural and yet he wanted to ignore the future, bask in the present, and move on from the past — just like a mortal. Even his books weren’t as comforting as they’d been before.

Knowing how things ended didn’t give him any sort of satisfaction as it used to.

But if fate could be changed once, he hoped it would be again, just so these children could find a happy ending in a world where there were few.

─── 地縛少年花子くん

The afternoon school bell rang and as the students left one by one, Tsuchigomori bid them farewell with a slight nod of the head or a wave. It took some cajoling to get Minamoto Kou through the doorway, Yokoo and Satou leading him out with one pushing at his back while the other grasped his hands. Kou sputtering about seeing something and trying to call over his shoulder with both boys telling him nothing was there. Tsuchigomori waved when the blond looked at him helplessly, sighing once the door slid shut and the room was quiet aside from the buzz in the halls.

“Honorable Number Seven, don’t you think this an abuse of your power?” Tsuchigomori asked with a tired sigh, glancing up from the doorway to the ghost lazily floating through the air.

Without even a hint of repentance, Hanako floated over with his legs crossed and hands rested on his knees. “Ehhh~?” He drawled in a light-hearted tone, tipping his head to one side, his hat slipping over his eyes for a moment. “Whatever do you mean, Tsuchigomori-sensei?”

Throughout the entire class, strange things had been happening. The students were wise enough not to interrupt Tsuchigomori’s lecture but seeing as he could pinpoint the source of the disturbance — he couldn’t be upset with them if they had. Hanako floated from one corner of the room to another.

Giving students cold chills, messing with books, poking erasers until they tumbled to the floor and adjusting small things. It was enough to be noticeable but not enough for the students to panic. All aside from Minamoto-kun.

The poor boy was close to breaking his glasses with how tightly he clenched them. Having gotten fed up with Hanako poking at the temple earpieces tomato them lift then fall over and over.

Tsuchigomori took some pity on him with answering questions but tried not to let it show. Hanako was doing a stellar job of getting under the blond’s skin, an unwise decision considering the boy’s older brother was still out for the 7th Mystery.

Still, this was the thirty-sixth class in a row the 7th Mystery had disturbed even in his own way. Eventually, the students would start catching on and although he knew Hanako took his duties seriously — he didn’t need to deal with their murmuring and rumor spreading this close to exams.

Gathering his class roster and the stack of papers he would have to grade, Tsuchigomori kept his voice low when a group of students passed by. “I know that you want to help Yashiro with her exams, but there’s other ways to go about it then interrupting my classes.”

Hanako hummed, pressing his finger to the underside of his chin, his head tipping to the other side and hat following suit. “It would be easier if you gave me the answers,” he suggested cheerfully, as if it were the easiest solution to come to. His hands clasping together with a bright smile. “And then I could give them to Yashiro to study.”

Tsuchigomori blinked slowly, then narrowed his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Ehhh~?” Hanako sighed, floating over as Tsuchigomori started patting down everything to see if he had all he needed. “Why not?” Eyes narrowing, Hanako studied him critically then gasped. “Don’t tell me, you have an honor code as a teacher?”

Out of all the things he could have come up with. An honor code, really? Tsuchigomori sighed, really wishing he could smoke now but with most of his co-workers nearby and the students it would really hurt his image.

“No,” Tsuchigomori groused, tucking the materials under his arm and leveling Hanako with a flat stare. “There’s nothing in it for me.”

Hanako blinked at him a few times then rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest and floating backward. A few of the Mokke beginning to make their way through the classroom through one of the openings in the wall. “Stingy,” Hanako sighed, and the Mokke repeated the word enthusiastically, hopping up and down.

Tsuchigomori narrowed his eyes at them. “I’m not above letting Yako eat one of you, she would enjoy a snack and I could go for a few minutes of peace and quiet.”

Immediately, the chanting stopped and Tsuchigomori pressed his fingers to his temple. There had to be a way to help Hanako understand the importance of this. Although, Tsuchigomori couldn’t deny the curl of pride he felt with how fiercely the 7th Mystery went at this. He truly wanted to help his “assistant” even if it meant spending his free time pestering him.

No, was that pride or annoyance?

Ah, he couldn’t tell now.

“Think about it, Honorable Number Seven,” Tsuchigomori began, setting one hand on his hip. “Yashiro Nene isn’t long for this world — right?”

The Mokke which gathered near Hanako as he floated to the ground, immediately went rigid. With his back turned to him, the ember sun rays outlining his translucent form, Tsuchigomori felt a thin trail of regret. Especially when Hanako didn’t reply right away. The knife he often used wasn’t summoned to his hand but his hands fell to his side, palms open and shoulders loosened.

They didn’t speak of the Picture Perfect world or the promise he must have made to Yashiro Nene there. He and Yako were aware of Number Four’s doings but the curiosity in the 7th Mystery’s lack of an attempt to stay her hand was what puzzled him. Whatever conclusion Hanako came to must’ve been for Yashiro’s sake but at what cost —

“Studying can be taxing on a student’s health, both mental and physical, if she’s procrastinating then she may be stressing herself with how the results will turn out…”

It was a deplorable truth. Students were meant to take tests on subjects which might not have had much bearing in their futures but decided their future. He wasn’t fond of the process even now with how much it’d changed over the decades. But he could only lighten their burdens so much.

In spite of Hanako’s silence, Tsuchigomori continued on with his preparations to leave. Thumbing through the books despite knowing all he had was there in his arm, trying to buy time for the words to sink in.

“If she’s studying too hard, then it may have the same effect,” Tsuchigomori continued, ignoring the tension in Hanako’s shoulders. “Instead of pestering about the answers, why not be her solution?”

The Mokke gathered around cast him venomous looks but they dispersed from Hanako’s side, quickly leaving the classroom like rats jumping over a ship’s side. Hanako’s shoulders slowly rose and held before lowering with a shuddering sigh.

“Tsuchigomori…” He muttered, his voice hollow and softer than a whisper on the wind. A silent declaration for him to get on with it.

Quietness aside, Hanako had seemed different ever since he returned. Whether for the better or worst, Tsuchigomori wasn’t sure but there was a way to lighten his burden even indirectly.

“She isn’t long for this world, and I knew that…” Tsuchigomori acquiesced, remembering their earlier argument when Yashiro glimpsed her book and he hadn’t stopped her beforehand despite knowing she had stepped foot in his Boundary. “But she wants to live a normal life, doesn’t she?”

Hanako turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth visible, downturned into a sullen frown.

“This is part of it. Studying for exams, spending the days wondering what comes next —“ Walking to the door, Tsuchigomori placed his hand on the handle and stared down at his feet. “Waiting on friends.”

His own shadow wasn’t what it appeared to be but those who weren’t aware of the supernatural wouldn’t see. Hanako on the other hand —

“There are better ways to spend your time, Honorable Number Seven.”

A long moment of silence passed between them and not once did it cross his mind that keeping his back to Hanako may have been dangerous. Counting backward from ten in his head, Tsuchigomori nodded and opened the door, feeling a light brush against his back.

“Thanks for the advice, Tsuchigomori-sensei…”

Turning around sharply, the empty classroom awaited him without a hint that the 7th Mystery had even been there.

─── 地縛少年花子くん

Hanako’s fingers twitched as he walked. Seconds from summoning his knife to hand, he had to remind himself there was no point. Tsuchigomori might not have been the best at fighting but he also wasn’t wrong. There was no sense in being angry. Even this — lingering around trying to garner the answers for an exam — was a distraction. He wasn’t sure what they were all doing half the time. Simply trying to wish away a problem and hope that nothing else would go wrong. Attempting to smile when they knew it would end in heartbreak.

He wanted to laugh bitterly. God, that “arbitrary” being who gave him this solemn duty, did he know that someone like her would cross his path? Someone who he would be willing to give up everything to save. Did he put this time limit on Yashiro’s soul to punish him? Sending a tiny light to save him from despair only to let it flicker out the moment his hands touched it?

Fists curled, he couldn’t even feel the press of his nails against the palm of his hand. Searing pain was no longer something he knew well. But he was learning again. Learning what it felt like to be torn from the inside out by the world around him. Clinging to one person to try and find comfort in the twist and turns of fate.

Taking a deep breath, he tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling of the hallway in the old building’s third floor. Tsuchigomori. Would he be able to find it in himself to forgive him even when it was no one’s fault in the bitter end?

Even he knew Yashiro wasn’t long for this world but he didn’t know how he would feel for her. Couldn’t Tsuchigomori have warned him of that? So he wouldn’t have felt this pain.

Did he want him to?

Hanako sighed, opening his hands and dropping his head, the brim of his hat covering his eyes. Two students walking down the hall from the opposite end were talking warmly. Passing by him without even a backward glance and he was grateful. Like this, he didn’t want to be seen. He wasn’t sure if he could put on a smile even if it was mocking. As they walked home, talking about their plans and the homework they had, supernaturals watched them — kept only at bay by the presence of the 7th Mystery who promised a swift punishment if either of their souls were touched.

The pair exited the building slowly and Hanako watched from the window, pressing his hand to the glass. Warmed from the sunlight, it chased away the chill in his “skin” but only for so long.

“What am I doing?” He sighed, clapping his hands together as he rocked back on his heel. “It’s about that time, I should start heading back, huh?”

Turning on his heel, he clasped his hands behind his back and walked with a hum. Perhaps Yashiro would be there, he thought with a smile. Or maybe she was preparing a way to tell him that she had to head home.

「 Studying can be taxing on a student’s health, both mental and physical.  」

Hanako’s smile fell gradually.

「 If she’s studying too hard, then it may have the same effect.  」

Would it be better if she went home for the day? What if she worked herself too hard? There was nothing he could do from here.

「 Instead of pestering about the answers, why not be her solution?  」

Standing outside of the bathroom door, Hanako’s hand hovered over the handle and he hesitated. If she was there then what would he say to her? If she wasn’t there, then what would he say the next time he saw her? He’d been spending all of his time trying to help by gaining the answers for her that —

He brought his hand to his mouth, pressing his fingers to his skin then pulling them away, grabbing the door’s handle. He would look after her. One way or another, he would do his best to look after her.

“Yashiro!” Hanako called, cupping his hand around the side of his mouth as he opened the door. “Y—“

He sniffed, glancing down and his eyes widened. Curled up on the floor with her head resting against the wall and an open textbook propped up on bent knees, her ashen-teal hair slipping over folded arms was Yashiro. In the shade of the bathroom sinks, her skin seemed much paler and he couldn’t see the rise and fall of her shoulders very well. Alarm rose in his chest and in an instant, he was at her side, reaching for her shoulder.

Wake up, Yashiro. You’re just sleeping, right?

The cold brush of his fingers against her skin elicited a low grumble and he’d never been happier to hear that sound. Her brows furrowing and twitching as she fought likely to remain in the last vestiges of sleep. Slowly, her eyes opened. Hazy ruby a blessed sight and Hanako felt the tension dissipate, his hand resting on her arm. It took a few minutes for Yashiro to wake and he glanced down at her notebook in the meantime. It was outlined with notes in the margins, doodles of the Mokke, and other things.

He squinted slightly when he saw something written with ‘H’, trying to peer closer when her hand obscured it. A yawn parting her lips as she rubbed her eyes, undeniably cute with the little pout to her lips.

As if registering him being there for the first time, she smiled sheepishly. “Hanako-kun, sorry… I was trying to study a bit before I started cleaning.”

Studying… and cleaning?

He wanted to ask if that was too much. Surely, she could just go home and get some rest. But she came here to clean. Hanako reached out for the book, brushing her hands aside despite her protests.

With a cheery smile, he said, “Nope!” and shut it.

“Eh…?” Yashiro stared up at him as he rose to his feet with the book in hand. “H-Hanako-kun!”

“Noooope~!” He waved the book back and forth, tapping her lightly on the head, a smile curving his lips despite the ache in his core. “That’s enough studying, Ya-shi-ro~.”

A soft pink blossomed across her cheeks and her breath hitched. Two things he adored greatly, though his mind traitorously mentioned it would be two things he missed sorely. Yashiro’s voice cut through his thoughts and he stepped aside when she stood, reaching for the book. “I already told you what’ll happen if I don’t pass, right?”

As if he would forget. Still, he wouldn’t let Yashiro put herself hard to see him only to make herself feel worse.

Wait, she could just be trying to avoid supplementary classes so she doesn’t have to take them. It’s not necessarily for me, is it?

“Hanako-kun!”

Oh right, she was waiting for her book.

Tossing it up and down, he smiled back at her. “Mhm. And you’ve been working hard,” he turned back to face her, hiding it behind his back. “Which is why today, we’re going to take a break.” Spying the Mokke peeking out from behind one of the sinks, he let one part of the notebook show as Yashiro tried to process his words. Strolling past, he turned on his heel when Yashiro glanced back at him suspiciously, reaching out for the book and narrowly missing.

“What do you mean we are going to take a break?” Yashiro huffed, folding her arms across her chest, her cheeks puffing.

Hanako almost dropped the book in his shock. Why was she this cute? With his hands freed, he stepped toward her and the pout fell as he leant closer. His reflection in her eyes the closer they got and he grinned.

“I mean we,” he said, spinning past her then reaching out to lift her up in his arms.

The sudden movement had her sputtering and she wiggled in his grasp. Narrowly avoiding having his hat knocked off with one outward strike of her arm. Really, she was getting good at that.

“W-W-Wait a minute, Hanako-kun!”

Hanako adjusted his hold on her, smiling softly. “You’re tired, right?” He asked, tilting his head, fondness easing where doubt had been when she stopped flailing and stared up at him with wonder. “Don’t worry, I’ll carry you.”

There wouldn’t be anyone by this time and he didn’t have to worry about the Minamoto brothers either. Carrying her out of the bathroom, Yashiro’s arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers curled in his uniform jacket. Having her so close to him was a little distracting but he tried to keep his steps as light as possible and his face from reddening.

“But I’m—“

“You’re not heavy,” Hanako interrupted, giving her a side-long glance when her lips parted again. “And you’re not a burden.”

He hated that look on Yashiro’s face. A flicker of pain, hurt, regret — she always spoke of him saving her and looking after her. Granting her wishes. Didn’t she know that she granted all of his? That she was what he wished for.

No.

Perhaps she didn’t.

And maybe it was his fault for not letting it be known. Her head tucked against his shoulder and he glanced down at her, his eyes softening and cheek pressing to the top of her head. Another moment neither of them would speak of.

So close and yet so far.

Opening the door to the rooftop, Hanako grinned. “And here we are!”

He turned to look down at Yashiro and tease her for being so quiet when he heard the quiet breaths.

“Yashiro?”

Her hold on him was loose, one of her hands curled up at his chest, a grip on the front of his uniform while the other was draped over his shoulder. Listening to her breathing and the gentle cadence of her heart was better than any song.

“…. You were that tired, huh?” Hanako muttered, walking to the edge of the roof and sitting down with Yashiro in his lap, his head resting atop of hers. “An hour or two is fine, the sun won’t go down til then…”

He looked up at the sky, watching a pair of birds soar on the wind currents and disappear into the honey-gold sky. Yashiro sighed and pressed her cheek against his shoulder, drawing his attention back to her.

Maybe their story wouldn’t end like her fairy tales. And he wasn’t the type to kiss someone when they weren’t awake to tell him if he could. But he held her as close to him as possible as if he could protect her from anything and everything — even time itself.

“Sleep well, Yashiro.”

For now though? He would guard her dreams.

[baepop]

PRIVATE // 3

You attend the ill-fated party that changes everything.

Word Count: 8.3k

Pairing: Jungkook x You x Jennie

Genre: Slight smut / Angst, angst, and more angst

A/N: Who are you guys rooting for? I want to know :)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

The ride back to Jennie’s apartment was full of heavy silence, so loaded with her questioning stares and your unspoken frustration. Your leg couldn’t help bouncing up and down anxiously as you stared out of the window. Your mouth rested on your palm, covering your pained expression. It was a rare occurrence for you to cry, and much less over a guy, so you were willing yourself to get over it. You couldn’t though.

“We’re here babe.” Jennie’s voice was barely over a whisper. She’d never seen you this upset. It’s always her who needs to be comforted, so she was out of her element.

You wordlessly climbed out of the car and lead the way up to her penthouse. Taking your shoes off at the door, you rushed into her apartment and began pacing in front of the giant windows in between her living room and her kitchen. The sun was setting behind the skyscrapers that decorated the spectacular view thirty floors up, but you were two busy biting the nail polish off your freshly manicured fingers.

Jennie dropped her handbag on top of the dining table then settled down in a chair to watch your mental breakdown front row. She brought her foot up on the seat to rest her chin on her knee. The girl patiently waited until you paused to look out at the cloudless pink sky with your hands on your hips before clearing her throat. Your head snapped in her directed, realizing how rude you were being.

You turned your gaze back to the view before breaking the silence. “I’m sorry. I owe you an explanation. I’m just trying to calm down before I tell you everything.”

Jennie chewed on her bottom lip with furrowed brows. “It’s okay, you don’t need to explain. I think I already know what’s going on.”

You whipped around to stare at the girl who grew increasingly nervous in her chair. “What do you mean?”

“You saw Jungkook at the restaurant…didn’t you?” You dropped your hands limply to the side, utterly lost for words. Did she see me being an idiot at his table earlier? “I…sort of already knew he’d be there.”

“But...how? Ugh Jennie just tell me already. What the heck is going on!?” You rushed over to the table to sit next to her, but she refused to face you.

“Yesterday, I hung out with Jungkook at the bar. He left to take a phone call, and when Yoongi and I met up with him outside he seemed really frantic on the phone. It seemed like he was talking to a girl, and he didn’t want us to hear his conversation, so he agreed to meet her at that restaurant today before hanging up.” Jennie peaked at your face with a sheepish expression before continuing. “And when I woke up this morning, I realized he had been over last night because his jacket was laying on the couch. I hated thinking this, I really do Y/N,” she reached out to grab your hand, but you pulled away before she could, “but we needed to know if he was two-timing you. And obviously he was! I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Jennie watched you with wide eyes as you scooted your chair back and stood over her. “Wow Jennie…that was...”

“Thoughtful?” She offered.

“Manipulative.” Your word wounded her deeply, and it shown in her crumpled expression. “Jennie, that was humiliating…and if you felt like he was shady why didn’t you just speak up!?”

Jennie sighed, “Because you wouldn’t listen! You’re sooo head over heels for this guy despite acting like you’re not! You needed to see for yourself!”

You drew in a shaky breath, “Jennie you had no right. I cannot believe you.” You turned towards the door, but your friend grabbed your arm before you could get far. This time it was her eyes that were glassy.

“Why are you acting like I’M the problem here? HE’S the one who’s the dirt bag! I don’t get why you’re so mad!”

You ripped your arm out of her grasp and looked her in the eyes. The sad and frustrated expression on her face would’ve normally worn you down by now, but you just couldn’t find it in yourself to forgive her, at least not right away. “No Jennie, you’re the problem here. You need to realize how fucked up your logic is.” You quickly stepped into your shoes and slammed the door on your way out. Jennie’s tears spilled over at the sound of the door’s echoes reverberating through her giant empty apartment.

“Why are you here again?” Yoongi flipped to the next page in his textbook and continued taking notes at his desk under the soft light of his lamp.

Jungkook laid in Yoongi’s bed with his arms crossed under his head staring at the ceiling. The two had been inhabiting the older boy’s bedroom for a while in comfortable silence.

“I don’t know man…I’m just frustrated. I can’t believe my luck right now. Out of all the places to run into her, why across town…and of all days, why tonight…?”

“Dude, you have to back up and start from the beginning. I don’t understand anything you’re saying to me right now.”

Jungkook explained his awkward run in with you at the restaurant just two hours ago. “Wait… so, she thought Jisoo was your date or something?” Jungkook nodded in response. “I mean she’s hot but, that’s just gross.” Jungkook chucked a pillow at Yoongi’s face as he laughed at the boy’s misery.

“Don’t talk about my cousin like that!” Yoongi held his hands up in defeat. “What should I do? She looked really upset. You know how rude J can be.” Yoongi nodded thoughtfully, recalling his own run in with the ice queen.

“You should just be transparent with her. She’s a reasonable person.”

Jungkook plopped back down on the bed and returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Yeah I know…but then I’d have to explain WHY I was seeing Jisoo and that’s not going to be a fun conversation. I just can’t shake the feeling of how weird this all was. Do you think she’s stalking me?”

Yoongi chuckled at the thought of you of all people stalking his friend. “There’s a zero percent chance of that being the case. That seems like something Jennie would do though,” Yoongi added nonchalantly as he scribbled notes in his notebook.

Jungkook scowled as the realization dawned on him. She must have been listening in on his phone call yesterday, he was sure of it now. Did she think she could cause problems between you two and get away with it? Jungkook sat up on the couch suddenly. His blood was boiling, and he needed to figure out a way to turn the tables.

“Thanks for the talk. I’ll see you in a few days for your party.” Yoongi barely acknowledged the younger boy’s departure as he focused on his notes for the big test coming up.

On his way to your apartment, Jungkook called your phone three times but you didn’t answer. His knocks on your door went unanswered as well, much to his disappointment. He hated leaving you alone to mull over something that just was not true, but he had no choice if you were avoiding him.

The boy sat down on your steps and tried your phone one last time before hearing the familiar beep of your voicemail. “Hey Y/N…You looked pretty upset earlier and I just wanted to make sure we were fine. I was having dinner with my cousin and we were discussing some private things. I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea. And I’m sorry about her demeanor. Call me back when you get this.” He slipped his cell back into his pocket then begrudgingly left your apartment.

Jennie turned the chrome knobs of her shower faucets until the water was exactly the way she liked it. The steady streams of liquid fire silently descended from her state-of-the-art waterfall showerhead, causing her vanity mirror to fog rather quickly. After brushing her long hair one hundred times exactly3, she slipped out of her plush robe and entered the shower. The water fell over her head, drenching her locks on the way down to her toes. She knew the hot water was awful for her hair but worrying about the details of her beauty routine was exhausting when she was already worrying about tons of other things. You were at the top of those things.

A few days had passed since she last talked to you. It was easily the longest time apart the two of you had spent since becoming friends. Although she wanted nothing more than to call you or show up to your apartment unannounced, her pride was getting in the way. She just couldn’t believe she was the one getting the short end of the stick despite trying to help you. Although, if she was being entirely truthful, it was for her own benefit. She began thinking that perhaps you were right, perhaps she did need to figure some things out. Jennie never had anyone in her life who would reprimand her and tell her when she was doing things wrong, not until you. It made her love you so much more for it.

Still, she couldn’t allow herself to come crawling back and beg for you to give her the time of day, at least not right away. All Jennie ever wanted to do was be around you, know what you’re thinking, how you’re feeling. She tried not to think about her feelings for you, choosing instead to occupy herself with other things when she wasn’t hanging out with you. The truth was that it scared her to death. She never felt like this about anyone. Jennie had dated countless boys and all types including bad boys, ivy leaguers, guitarists from up and coming bands, even a politician once. Nothing was as thrilling as sleeping next to you.

At first, she thought she had finally found the kind of friendship she had grown up seeing on TV; the kind where you’d do anything for each other, no questions asked, the kind where you’d drop everything and come running no matter what, the kind that would rival the longest marriages. While all that was true, she eventually realized that’s not all this was. Jennie realized she was in love with you on the night she saw you flirting with a woman for the first time.

Jennie had known you were bisexual, but she had never given it a second thought, nor had she ever analyzed her own sexuality for that matter. So, her reaction to seeing you seduce someone else came as quite a shock to her. Squirting cherry blossom scented body wash onto her bath sponge, she recalled that crystal clear memory. It was the day after that one stressful test. You had spent the entire week indoors, studying your ass off. Once it was over, all you wanted to do was go out and have some fun. She remembered you telling her you preferred calm pubs over crowded clubs, so it came as a surprise to Jennie when you invited her to go clubbing that night. She remembered the exact outfit you wore too: a little black dress with a light jean jacket and black doc martens. Normally you wore your hair down, but that night you decided on an updo with wispy curls that framed your face.

When you both arrived at a club in the downtown district of the city, you realized it was Latin Night. Jennie was never much of a dancer, so she was content with sitting at the bar and watching your expert salsa moves on the floor from afar. She hadn’t seen you that carefree and graceful before. Your sheer magnetism and confidence had entranced her, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be you or be under you. As if the universe was trying to send her a sign, the redhead who was sipping her drink at the bar two seats away decided to make her way to you on the dance floor. The guy you were reluctantly dancing with was getting a little handsy, and the redhead arrived just in time to save you from him. She had grabbed your hand, spun you around then wrapped her arms around your neck. The male stranger immediately took the hint and backed off, and you were oh so grateful for it. Jennie remembered how you placed your hands on her hips after the mysterious woman began swaying them wildly from side to side.

It happened long ago, but the memory still stung just a bit. It also turned her on a lot. Jennie’s nipples hardened as she pictured the way you romanced that woman. Taking her time rubbing the suds on her stomach and around her breasts, she closed her eyes and suddenly she was at the club again. She watched intently as you held her tightly to you, grinding on her leg in time to the beat of the song. You both smiled at one another, never leaving each other’s eyes. It seemed that the redhead thought you were the funniest person in the world with the way she threw her head back in obnoxious laughter. At that moment, you subtly leaned into her neck and took a whiff of her perfume. It seemed no one noticed such an intimate move, not even the redhead, but Jennie did.

Amidst the steam in her shower, Jennie began pinching her right nipple with her right hand. Her left hand slowly traveled downwards past her navel to her sex. Her breathing grew shallow as her memory played like a projector in her mind.

She remembered how you spun her around as the beat slowed down, so the redhead was grinding on your front. The more she rotated her hips the harder you gripped onto her. As if feeling brazen from your reaction to her dancing, the amber-haired seductress dipped into a squat and rubbed her ass on you the entire way up, flipping her hair cheekily in the process. Jennie could tell you were already feeling the effects of the liquor you had downed before heading to the dancefloor. The lazy smile on your face from her move had Jennie squeezing her glass of liquor tightly in envy. She wished so badly that she could reverse time so she could be the one to steal you away from the guy with grabby hands. Just then, a broad chest blocked your view of the dancers. Jennie’s look of annoyance wasn’t enough to deter his advancements. The blonde stranger chatted away about playing some sport, but Jennie was too focused on watching you two to pay any attention to him. Nodding and throwing “mhm’s” his way every once in a while was all she could manage as she watched you two from the bar.

Jennie’s fingers swirled around her clit. Sighs of contentment and light moaning could be heard from beyond the glass that lined her shower. Jennie’s body writhed in pleasure as she recalled your brazen actions that fateful night. As the sexy stranger grinded on you, you moved her hair off her shoulder, but not without lightly touching the exposed skin on her collarbones and holding up a few strands close to your face. You then leaned into her ear and began whispering things to the girl that made her smile and close her eyes. Jennie surmised that you had suggested they take a break and get a drink, probably because the male onlookers your show had attracted was becoming quite obvious, even to Jennie who was perched at the bar. As the two of you made your way towards her hand in hand, your eyes met Jennie’s. You smiled, looking in between her and the man who was in her way, wiggling your brows. Jennie smiled halfheartedly, realizing you weren’t feeling the same jealousy that she was. She didn’t care the way you did.

Jennie was growing wetter and wetter by the second, and it had nothing to do with the water dowsing her body. She bit her lip as she dipped a finger into her core. She placed a foot on the rim of the shower to get better access and held onto the wall for support. She curled her finger to reach her g-spot and thought about what that night would have been like if she had been braver. She could almost feel what your hands might feel like, gripping her hips that same way. Jennie began panting at the pleasure she was feeling. She slipped another finger in, pumping them in and out with increased speed. Taking turns rubbing each breast, she bit her lip and imagined what it might have felt like for you to whisper filthy things in her ear, for your finger to caress her skin, to feel you pushing your body up against her.

Jennie’s eyes burst open as the telling signs of her orgasm shown. Her walls clenched around her fingers and her toes curled involuntarily. She barely registered the curses slipping from her lips, reveling in images of you and her enthralled in the heat of romance.

As the pale brunette toweled off in her bedroom, she finished recalling the memory of that night. She had watched you flirt with the redhead for nearly an hour before deciding to feign illness. She barely had to act, since watching the two of you together really had made her sick to her stomach. She blew off the muscular blonde and interjected in between you two as the redhead was in the middle of telling you a story. Thankfully, you immediately jumped to your feet and agreed to take her home. The sexy stranger’s soured expression at your goodbyes made Jennie secretly happy, as if inflicting a karma that the girl had unknowingly accrued. When you two reached the doors of the high-rise building, she begged you to stay the night to which you conceded. As if another cosmic sign had presented itself to the lucky girl, you left the crumpled-up phone number that the redhead slipped you on Jennie’s nightstand unknowingly. When you phoned her the next day asking if she had seen the small piece of paper, Jennie assured you she hadn’t but would keep an eye out for it.

She pulled her drawer out and picked up the piece of paper she had kept from you. She never understood why she refused to throw it out, but now it was quite clear. The paper served as physical proof of the intentions you were accusing her of, like some kind of righteous magnetic force, she couldn’t escape the truth of her deceitful behavior.

It had been almost a week since you’d spoken to Jennie and Jungkook. It was also the slow season for retailers, so the unstimulating hours at work each day afterward gave you lots of time to reflect on the situation.

While Jungkook had reached out several times, you still had yet to receive a simple text from your best friend. This didn’t surprise you in the slightest, however. Jennie was not the best at making amends, much less making the first move. You weren’t sure that you were ready to make up anyway. You hated feeling like her little puppet, like you were too stupid to realize what was going on without her help. And listening to Jungkook’s voicemail explaining what was really going on made your fight with Jennie worse because it confirmed how willing she was to come between you two without knowing all the facts. You weren’t any better though, because you quickly assumed the worst too, which is why you still hadn’t answered Jungkook’s messages. You were older than him, yet you felt you handled the situation immaturely and you hated it. You wanted to spend a few more days sulking alone, but Yoongi was being extremely persistent on getting you to attend his house party tonight. You laid on your couch with your head hanging off the edge staring at his name flashing on your cell phone’s screen. With a groan, you answered the call, “What do you want from my life?”

“Get over here now. The party’s already started and you’re going to be doing some serious catch up if you don’t get a move on.” Yoongi spoke closely into the receiver as the music blared in the background. He wanted to beg you to come over because he was tired of seeing Jungkook’s face drop every time someone walked in and it wasn’t you. “Come on. You’ve been all moody and MIA for days now. It’s starting to weird me out.”

You groaned extra loudly into the receiver knowing he was right. You couldn’t hide out forever, and you weren’t a coward who avoided fun parties where you knew a certain someone might be. “Give me 20 minutes.” You abruptly ended the phone call and dragged your feet every step of the way to the closet to find something to wear.

Yoongi sighed with relief as he put his phone in his back pocket and headed to the kitchen for another drink. The sight of Jennie swaying drunkenly atop his marble counter stopped him in his tracks. “Uhhhhh…when did you get here Jen?”

“I let myself in through the back. What’s in this jungle juice by the way? I’m totally feeling it right now.” Yoongi tried to take the red cup out of her hand but she moved it out of his grasp, sloshing the liquid toward the cabinet.

“Dude you’re way too drunk way too early. Slow down.” He tried to grab the cup once more, but she mushed his face away with her free hand.

“Stop it. I’m sad. I need this. Leave me alone.” Jennie pouted childishly into her cup. Yoongi sighed and retreated to the fridge to make his own drink.

“Why is everyone so goddamn sad right now? I need new friends.” The blonde boy slammed the fridge and headed into the living room to rejoin the party.

It was only 10 minutes later that you joined the party. Jungkook had been too busy cheering on one of his friends who was shotgunning a beer to notice your arrival. Yoongi, however, saw you at once and pulled you to the side.

“Come with me.” Yoongi grabbed your forearm and led you to the kitchen. “We need to get you drunk. And more importantly you need to make Jennie fun because she’s really stinking up the party right now.” As you entered the kitchen, you immediately noticed the brunette animatedly conversing with a stranger by the fridge. The guy looked happy you two had come in and took his chance to escape the conversation, and the kitchen for that matter, as Jennie turned her attention on you. “Please handle this.” Yoongi pushed you in her direction before busying himself with making your drinks.

You figured she hadn’t told him about your fight, or else he wouldn’t be acting the way he was. You tongued the inside of your cheek and crossed your arms while Jennie pretended you weren’t even there. The pale girl flipped her hair and sipped on her drink, staring ahead. You snatched the cup out of her hand and placed it out of her reach. “OK, that’s enough. You’re way too drunk, I can already tell.”

“Why do you care? Jungkook’s in the living room if you haven’t noticed. Why don’t you join him so he can deceive you some more?” Jennie rolled her eyes.

“You know what, Jennie? I think I will. Excuse me.” Yoongi’s eyes followed you as you marched out of the kitchen angrily. He immediately realized what was going on and felt bad for pushing the two of you together.

You found Jungkook sipping from his cup on the couch. His eyes instantly locked with yours as you entered the room and you noticed how rosy his cheeks were already. His hair was curlier than usual, and he wore those ripped jeans that drove you crazy. Fuck, he’s way too hot. Without hesitating, you grabbed his drink and downed the entirety of it in seconds. The boy stared at you in confusion and admiration. The taste of the liquid was extremely tart and unnaturally sweet, but you didn’t care. When Yoongi appeared by your side with the drink he had made you, you did the same to that one as well.

Wiping your mouth with your hand, you turned towards Jungkook. “Can we talk?” He nodded in response before you lead him into Yoongi’s bedroom. You closed the door softly and turned to the boy who had plopped down on the bed. His expectant stare made you blush, or maybe it was the alcohol kicking in already. The way his thighs spread out has he comfortably supported himself with his hands behind him made your mouth go dry, but his expectant stare had you clearing your throat. “I’m sorry I’ve been so lame. I’m thankful you called to explain what happened, because I definitely got the wrong idea,” you chuckled nervously before continuing, “But to be honest, I’ve been in a shitty mood after arguing with Jennie that night, so I’ve been avoiding this conversation. But we’re both here now and…I’m realizing I should’ve just called you back.” Your blush crept over your face and made your complexion the color of a tomato.

Jungkook’s smile had grown twice in size after listening to you rambling. He was peeved with you at first but quickly became enamored with your bravery. His smug expression only flustered you more. “Yeah, you should’ve called me back. But you’re right, we’re here now. So how are you going to make it up to me?” The way his head tilted back exposing the veins on his neck instantly had you thinking filthy things. However, you didn’t want to make having sex with him within earshot of other people a regular occurrence. The liquor flowing through your system, however, did not agree one bit.

“I…I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me how I can make it up to you?” You swallowed thickly as Jungkook got up from the bed and made his way to you still standing in front of the door. He stopped with only a few inches of space in between you. Burying his head in the crook of your neck, he inhaled deeply, making your baby hairs stand at attention. He then brushed his lips so lightly along the soft skin below your ear that you weren’t sure whether he really did it or not.  As he brought his hand up to your face, he pulled on a curl of yours so that it sprang back once he let go. A shiver ran down your spine, making his cocky crooked smile return. You stared at his lips, willing them to make contact with yours, but instead, the words you least expect to hear from him tumbled out of them.

“Be my girlfriend?” You stared at his mouth forming the words, unable to understand them for some reason. When your eyes shifted upwards to gaze at his innocent expression, you realized exactly what was going on.

“You’re asking me to be your girlfriend? After I made a scene in front of your cousin then ghosted you?” You couldn’t help your giggles that followed.

Jungkook laughed and tipped your chin up with his finger to get a better look at your face. “Yeah, I guess I am. Look, I don’t know any other girl that would’ve had me at the palm of their hands this past week without so much as a text. I like you. And I’m not willing to share you. So, what do you say?” Jungkook squeezed your nose playfully, making you giggle again and swat his hand away.

Suddenly the memory of his weird behavior before he went down on you came creeping back. “Why do you keep insinuating that you’d have to share me? Did your ex fuck you up that bad Jeon?” Your joke seemed to have hit a nerve as his smile faded.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not the only one who’s interested in you Y/N.” You couldn’t help but laugh at his statement because he didn’t understand how utterly single you were. “What’s so funny?”

“You. You’re what’s funny. The fact that you think you have to compete with anyone else is hilarious. Look, I don’t really do the whole girlfriend thing but it’s sweet that you care about that kind of thing.” You attempted to curl your arms around his neck, but he stopped you before you could.

“Well it’s important to me and I’d like it if you reconsider.”

“Why is it so important to you?” You stared into his eyes but he avoids your gaze. Before you could press him for answers, there was a loud knock on the door that startled the both of you. You opened it to see Yoongi on the other side.

“Please don’t fuck in my room,” Yoongi remarked as he looked between you both.

Jungkook placed his hand on your hip and kissed your temple. “Don’t worry, we’ll find somewhere else to do the deed.” He then lifted you off your feet and proceeded to carry you away. You squealed at his unexpected notion as he carried you back to the kitchen. The curly haired boy placed you on the counter a few feet away from Jennie then wrapped your legs around his waist. “So, where were we? Oh yeah, you were agreeing to be my girlfriend!” He smiled widely up at you so you just couldn’t help but run your fingers through his silky raven locks.

Boys like him were so dangerous. You’d agree to anything he wanted from you just so he could look at you this way again, like you’re the only girl in the world. But you’d been through this before. You’d done the whole gross couple young love thing and you found out you just weren’t cut out for it. You hated sacrificing your needs and your wants to accommodate someone else. You hated having weird domestic expectations thrust onto you when all you wanted was to fuck and maybe have some stimulating conversation afterwards if you felt like it. Maybe it was the utter boredom of your last relationship that turned you away from doing relationships at all, maybe it was the exciting hookups that had turned sour after making it a regular thing. Either way, you couldn’t find it in yourself to give Jungkook exactly what he wanted, so you were hoping he’d be willing to compromise.

Jennie’s sounds of disgust broke the silence between you two. You looked over at her and realized she was witnessing your tender moment with Jungkook. You were getting so fed up of her negativity that you turned back to the cute boy between your legs and said, “Ignore her. Say something to convince me to let you have me all to yourself.” He met your smirk with his own, leaning in to steal a soft kiss from your lips.

“Wow Y/N, I didn’t know you were so into fuckboys,” Jennie remarked casually.

“As opposed to what? You?” Jungkook spoke up with pure venom directed at the drunken girl. You stared between the both of them, confused as to what was going on.

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jennie squeezed her cup and glowered at the tall boy.

“Sure you do! Why don’t you just admit that you’re madly in love with Y/N already? Everyone knows it.” Jennie chewed on the inside of her lip, unable to say a word. “Y/N, I’m sorry for being so frank, but you have realize she’s getting in the way of us for a reason, right?”

You looked back at Jennie whose piercing dark eyes were still trained on Jungkook as if his head would spontaneously combust if she focused hard enough. You turned back to Jungkook who was returning her hateful stare. “Jennie’s my BEST FRIEND Jungkook. Just because she cares about me doesn’t mean she’s in love with me.”

“So I suppose her bragging to me about sleeping in your bed every night is a show of friendship too, huh?” You couldn’t understand what he was saying, and why they hated each other so much. It was obvious they developed more of a relationship than either of them let on. But there was no way Jungkook’s words held any merit. They couldn’t. You looked back at your friend whose cup was shaking in her trembling hands.

“Jungkook! That’s enough. You’re upsetting her. What’s the matter with you?” You pushed him away so you could console Jennie, but she had already gone out the back door.

“What’s the matter with me?! Seriously Y/N? Are you that blind? That girl wants you and for some reason you’re none the wiser.” You looked up at Jungkook feeling as if you didn’t recognize him anymore. Before you could register what you were doing, you slapped him so hard your hand tingled. He clutched his throbbing cheek and regarded you incredulously. Before he could say anything, you were already out of the door in search of your friend.

It was very dark in Yoongi’s backyard due to the lack of lighting on his back porch and the late hour, not to mention there were a ton of trees that offered the house privacy from the neighboring houses. You had to squint to spot her. Jennie was stumbling through the grass holding herself up on a tree. You were no doubt already drunk yourself, so you tried not to trip as you hurried over to the girl.

“Jennie! Wait up!” You called out to your friend, but she walked deeper into the foliage ignoring you. When you finally caught up to her you grabbed her shoulder and turned her towards you. “Jennie!” As you looked at her face you realized she was crying. You hated when she cried. “I’m really trying here. But I don’t know what to do. How do I fix this?” You buried her head in your chest as her sobs wracked her thin frame. She wrapped her arms around you and held you tightly close to her. Her tiny sniffles broke your heart every time you heard one slip out. “Babe…it’s not like you to cry when someone’s being mean to you. Is it ‘cause you’re drunk?” You crooned your words as you rested your chin on her head. She shook her head “no” in response. “Then what is it?”

Jennie looked up at you. You could barely make out her tear stained cheeks in the darkness. She uncurled her arms from around you to place her hands on your shoulders. Suddenly she was pushing you against the nearest tree with enough force to let loose the breath you didn’t know you were holding. Her cold fingers knotted themselves in your hair as she leaned in to crash her lips against yours. Your entire body was frozen with pure shock. Time stopped as her fervent lips pressed into your still mouth, willing them to return the sentiment. Jennie was kissing you and you didn’t know how to react, so you settled for just letting it happen. Your mind struggled to process the moment, but your body had other ideas. Your hands, which were glued to the rough bark of the tree, found a new home on her waist. Your lips began imitating the rhythm that her mouth was setting. Soon you were holding her body against yours and leaning into her to deepen the kiss. The unexpected passion lit something inside of you and suddenly you needed more. Both of your hands began exploring each other’s bodies. Hers took turns resting on your cheeks then on the back of your neck as yours glided across her lower back then down to her upper thighs. A small voice at the back of your head repeatedly asked you what the hell you were doing right now, but you didn’t have any answers for it.

Leaning down to find the back of her knee, you hiked her leg onto your hip as your other hand got a full grip on her hair. You tugged at it until her neck was exposed to you and began planting open mouthed kisses on her alabaster skin. Jennie’s soft mewls barely disturbed the stillness of the night. “Is this what you wanted from me?” You manhandled Jennie with her hair, willing her to look you in the eyes. Her blown out pupils could only focus on your puffy lips as her chest heaved dramatically. “Answer me!” You turned your bodies so that she was now caged by you against the tree. From beyond your hidden spot in the woods, you could see the back door swinging open to reveal a few students from the party spilling out into the backyard.

The low buzzing of the far-off conversations sobered Jennie enough to look up at you. “Well, I guess Jungkook was right after all.”

You backed off the tree to see the serious expression on her face. Her words brought back the anger you still hadn’t worked through. “What the hell is happening here Jennie? You’re not gay. Is this another one of your manipulative moves to get me away from Jungkook?!”

“You don’t know what the hell I am!” Jennie screamed back at you. Her sudden outburst alerted a few of the stragglers by the back porch, so you pressed your hand tightly against her mouth to keep her quiet until they stopped looking into the wooded area. Jennie pulled your hand away so she could continue, “Stop being so naïve Y/N. I just needed to know that you wanted this too. And you do.”

You stared at the girl, realizing you didn’t recognize her either. You wanted to scream and call her a psychopath, but goddamn you also wanted to taste her again too. Without a warning you took her face in your hands and kissed her intensely. Instead of kissing you back, she bit your bottom lip roughly and dragged it out.

Jennie struggled to get her words out as you both stood there panting, centimeters from each other’s mouths. “I’m tired of waiting for you Y/N. I want you. And you want me too. So I’m leaving this party to go climb into your bed. And I won’t be wearing much when you find me. Don’t keep me waiting.” With that, Jennie pushed herself off the tree and started walking back towards the house. You turned your back and leaned on the tree for support, feeling how fast your heart was beating with your clammy hand.

“I’m drunk right now. I’m so drunk right now.” You said aloud to yourself as you tried to process what the hell was going on. Your best friend wants to fuck you tonight, meanwhile the boy you’ve been dating is inside with a red cheek. “OMG, Jungkook!” You gasped aloud and hurried inside to make amends with him, only for Yoongi to tell you that he jetted off 15 minutes ago.

“What the hell happened Y/N!? He said you slapped him then left the party! You are the least dramatic person I know, so this doesn’t sound like you at all.” Yoongi admonished you quietly by the front door as his party guests busied themselves with the brand-new keg that had just arrived.

“Ugh Yoongi, I know! I think I‘ve seriously screwed things up and I don’t know how it got away from me. Those two just…they just get my blood boiling!” You covered your eyes as your head thudded against the wall. “Everything’s all screwed up.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and placed his hands on your shoulders. “Y/N, don’t be so dramatic! Jungkook is head over heels for you. I’m sure if you just go over to his place and apologize, he’ll forgive you! As far as Jennie’s concerned…well I don’t know. You’ve really got your hands full with that one.” You groaned as he chuckled humorlessly. “Come, let’s get you some liquid courage so you can deal with your messy life.” Yoongi ushered you forward toward the keg as you reluctantly led the way.

Twenty minutes later you were laughing at the top of your lungs listening to a story from a theatre major. By now, there were twice as many people in the room and the simultaneous conversations occurring made it hard to hear. Your drink sloshed around in your cup as you drunkenly traded stories with the group of people keeping you company. Your entire body was warm and buzzing from all the beer you had consumed in record time. You had finally started to forget about the love triangle you were in before your phone buzzed in your pocket. Without a second thought, you pulled it out to see what the notification was. Jennie texted you a picture. When you unlocked your phone to see what she had sent you, you almost dropped your phone inside of your drink. Holding It to your chest, you looked around to see if anyone had noticed what was on your screen. Since no one seemed to be paying any attention to you, you slowly tipped your phone back to get a better look. It was a picture of Jennie laying on your bed, wearing a red lace lingerie set. You gulped as your eyes traced the curves of her body barely covered by the delicate material. The bright color against her perfect skin turned you on. She was laying sideways on your bed on top of rumpled sheets. Her shiny hair seemed to have been falling off her shoulder mid picture. Her top leg was folded over the other, showing you just a little bit of her ass cheek. Her head rested against her palm and the other laid on her thigh in a pose that said “I’m bored, get over here already.” You chuckled at the thought of her propping the phone up against your windowsill and striking a pose. You knew her like the back of your hand.

You also remembered exactly where that lingerie set was from, because you helped her pick it out. A few months ago, Jennie had dragged you all around the mall during a routine shopping trip. Only this time, to end it off, she led you into an Agent Provocateur to pick out a full set of lingerie. You smiled at the memory of her rudely turning the salesperson away in favor of your expertise. You made your way along the decorated wall, feeling all kinds of fabrics and cups and beaded designs with your fingers until you settled on a beautiful balcony bra with a matching panty, and garter belt.

“Who’s this for?” you remember asking her during check-out.

She blushed and answered simply, “For someone special.”

You locked your phone and put it away to contemplate on what to do. On one hand, Jennie was waiting for you to show her a good time. And boy did you really want to. On the other hand, if you waited too long to make amends with Jungkook you may end up losing him for good. But if you kept Jennie waiting, she might get mad and leave which would prolong your fight. You also weren’t ready to end whatever this thing that was going on between you two was. You sighed and closed your eyes. Either way someone was going to be hurt, and you hated it. What would you even say to Jungkook? What would you say to Jennie? It would be all too easy to just stay here with Yoongi and pretend tonight didn’t happen, but you knew you couldn’t.

However much you tried to simplify the situation, you knew it was way more complicated than just choosing someone. They were both making you feel things you hadn’t felt in a really long time. But it seems Jennie isn’t out of the closet yet, so you knew this thing with her would not be easy by any means. She was also your best friend and continuing to go down this road with her could lead to your friendship being completely over. The thought of never speaking to her again was painful.

You downed the rest of your drink and said your goodbyes to the nice strangers who were sad to see you go. Yoongi was busy chatting up a girl by his bedroom door, so you decided to leave without saying anything to him. As you walked down the block, the brisk air licked at your rosy cheeks, but the alcohol in your system kept you too warm to care. You knew Jungkook’s dorm was only a few blocks away, so you decided to just walk instead of Uber, hoping that the fresh air would clear your head so you’d know just what to say.

After a few minutes, the grey exterior of the residence halls came into sight. Your stomach flip flopped, knowing you’d be seeing Jungkook again. You bit your lip, thinking about how sweet it was that he insisted on making you his girlfriend. You really should try to keep your hands to yourself, what a mess they’ve made tonight.

Once you reached the steps leading to the door of the lobby, you took a seat and called Jungkook. He didn’t answer so you sent him a quick text asking if he could open the door for you. Five minutes passed without any sign of him. You weren’t sure if he was sleeping or just ignoring you. Either way, you weren’t giving up.

12:06 am – Open the door Jeon. We need to talk.

12:07 am – I need to see you right now. Don’t leave me hanging out here.

12:09 am – Please?

The door swung open in the middle of you typing your next text to Jungkook. You turned around to see him holding a frozen bag of peas up to his face as he held the door for you. You smiled with relief and let yourself into the building. As he led the way to his room, you focused on what he looked like from the back. It seemed he had showered and changed into his pajamas on your way here. His pants hung low on his hips, exposing his boxer briefs just a bit. You gulped and looked upwards to deter your inappropriate thoughts. Instead, you focused on how his hair bounced subtly with every step he took. If you were sober, you’d be planning what to say to him right now. Drunk you, however, was content with absorbing every bit of his presence.

You caught the door to his room as Jungkook opened it and entered. He placed the cold pack of vegetables back into his mini fridge then sat down on his bed with a heavy sigh. You stood in the center of his bedroom, unsure of what to do. When he finally looked at you, you realized just how mad he was.

When you refused to speak first, Jungkook initiated the talk, “Y/N, what are you doing here?”

“I told you, I really needed to see you.” Your voice sounded so small you couldn’t believe it was coming from you.

“Y/N…you don’t want to be with me. You should’ve just sent your apology over text. I can take a hint.”

You could understand why he felt this way, but it still upset you nonetheless. You crossed the room to sit next to him on the bed. “Jungkook…I’m sorry that I slapped you. Believe me, I feel really guilty looking at that giant red mark on your cheek. I won’t make excuses for my behavior, but I also need you to understand that what you did tonight was not cool.”

“I know,” Jungkook answered before you could get the rest of your speech out, “What I did to Jennie was fucked and I need to apologize to her. Outing her like that…it definitely wasn’t cool. But Y/N…” He paused to run his fingers through his hair frustratedly. He looked at you and smiled bitterly. “I really fucking like you. I’m just not sure I fit into your life. At least not in the way that I want to be in it.”

You gently turned Jungkook’s face towards you so he could see the honesty in your words. “Jungkook, I really fucking like you too. And I think you’re wrong. I think it’d be really stupid to end things here. As long as we’re both open and honest with each other from now on, I don’t see why we can’t still get to know each other.” Jungkook searched your eyes before looking down at his feet to mull over your words.

You held your breath waiting for his reply. When he finally looked up at you, he said, “Then stay with me tonight.” You stared back at him, knowing the statement wasn’t as innocent as it seemed. If you agreed, then you’d be standing Jennie up. If you left, then things would definitely be over between you. His wide-eyed expression was too much for you to handle. Fuck.

“Sure. I’ll stay.” Jungkook smiled with relief. It was only just past midnight, but you were both already spent. As he laid down and patted the spot beside him, you placed your phone on the nightstand next to him then removed your pants. Climbing over him to claim your spot next to the wall, you laid down on your side to be little spoon. Jungkook reached over and turned off the lamp, leaving you both in the dark.  

[nicolasnelson]

Sizzie fic - Silence the Rumors [oneshot]

Title: Silence the Rumors Relationship: Lizzie Saltzman/Sebastian Additional Tags: Discussions of mental illness, Bullying, Jealousy, Unrequited Crush, Dual POV, added scenes for 2x09 Words: 2,134

Summary: Lizzie overhears Alyssa and her friends calling her crazy. Sebastian arrives to defend her and uncovers a secret about Alyssa.

Requested by anon​ // Prompt: Sebastian defending Lizzie to anyone and Lizzie overhears.

[AO3 LINK]

Lizzie went to the library, desperate to distract herself from thoughts of Sebastian. After the witches attacked him in the Old Mill, all Lizzie wanted to do was run to him and comfort him. He’d looked so vulnerable and scared. But Lizzie was resolved not to have sex with him again today. Twice was enough.

She was in the most boring part of the library, a history section filled with old tomes tucked away in the corner of the room. She liked that no one could see her behind the tall shelves while she browsed the books. If they did, they’d no doubt wonder what on earth she was doing there.

The door swung open, and Lizzie peeked around the side of the shelf to see who it was. Even though she was trying to stay away from Sebastian, she couldn’t help but hope to see him. Unfortunately it was Alyssa and her posse of witches.

Ugh. She still couldn’t believe what they’d done to Sebastian. Not wanting him to stay at the school was one thing, but exposing his fears and using an aneurysm spell on him were overkill.

Lizzie tried to ignore their incessant giggling, picking up a book on vampire pirates, but Alyssa’s haughty voice carried across the library.

“I still can’t believe she stopped us in the middle of a spell. That vampire deserved so much worse.”

“Think he’ll get kicked out?” another girl asked.

“No doubt about it,” Alyssa said, sounding smug. “That guy is pure evil. His past is literally drenched in blood. Lizzie shouldn’t be defending him.”

“Did you hear they’re sleeping together?”

“Oh, yeah, MG told me all about that,” Alyssa said, groaning. “She’s having sex with a serial killer. It’s so disgusting.”

The girls laughed. “Well, what do you expect from Crazy Lizzie?”

Alyssa snorted. “She’s certainly living up to her name. That’s the only way to explain her obsession with danger. She’s definitely in a manic state right now. Only a matter of time before she realizes how crazy she’s been acting lately and comes crawling back to us, begging for our forgiveness.”

Lizzie clenched her fists as she leaned against the bookcase. That was it. She was going to storm out there and give Alyssa a piece of her mind, possibly with the aid of some magic. Really teach that witch a lesson.

A drawling voice stopped her in her tracks, and she peered around the edge of the bookcase to see what was going on. She was surprised to find Sebastian had appeared in front of Alyssa.

...

Sebastian hated to get involved in so-called teenage drama. He was feeling bad enough from the witch delving into his mind earlier. But when he heard slanderous talk about Elizabeth, he couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

He’d rushed into the library at vamp speed, startling Alyssa and her friends. He smirked with satisfaction at her reaction. Oh, this was going to be fun. Sebastian was not above a little petty revenge.

“You speak about mental illness as if you know something about it,” Sebastian drawled. “But I don’t believe you do. You’re using it to belittle Elizabeth and make yourself feel better about your sad existence. Alyssa Chang, was it? You are wasting your life away with these silly mind games and power plays. If you want real power, this isn’t the way to do it.”

Alyssa lifted her chin, not looking the least bit frightened by him. Big mistake. “I’m not playing games, vampire. I’m just stating facts.”

Sebastian smiled at her. Oh, he was loving this. “If we’re just stating facts then, I have a few of my own to share with the group.”

“This isn’t show and tell,” Alyssa said. Her expression said she was above childish games, but he had proof that she wasn’t.

“That’s not what it seemed like earlier when you had your little glowing orb.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Fine then. What have you got to show?”

“It’s more of something I want to tell, really.” He took a step closer to her, watching her carefully. He had a hunch that she had feelings for him, but it was clear from her steady breathing and unflinching gaze that he was wrong. Still, there was definitely something she was hiding. “You’re awfully concerned with Elizabeth’s love life.”

There it was. A second of surprise, her eyes darting towards her friends as if she was worried they would find out her secret. And now he knew what it was. Alyssa didn’t have feelings for him, no. She had feelings for Elizabeth. He couldn’t blame her. Elizabeth was the most exquisite creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. It was no wonder Alyssa and Milton had eyes for her. In fact, he was surprised more people weren’t vying for her attention. Part of that was likely due to these vicious rumors that Alyssa herself was spreading.

Sebastian knew a lesser man would utterly humiliate Alyssa and expose her little crush. The witch deserved to suffer, but he didn’t want to make Alyssa feel ashamed about her feelings. There was no shame in loving someone. He would rather make her feel guilty about her tactics, enough that she would stop attempting to sully Elizabeth’s good name.

“You’re jealous. Because you fancy me,” he said, smirking. He watched the relief play across Alyssa’s face and her jaw tighten smugly. An ordinary witch wouldn’t have noticed, but a vampire like him had been trained to notice these micro-expressions.

“Dream on, vampire.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms.

“Oh, I shall, but first I’d like to ask you for a favor. You see, I may not have known Elizabeth for a long time, but I know a great deal more about her than you do. She is not crazy, as you say. She struggles with mental illness, yes, but so do many of us. You yourself seem to be quite the narcissist.”

“I’m not,” she defended, but her friends were exchanging looks like they agreed with him.

“You claim that Elizabeth is obsessed with me, but you’re obsessed with making people suffer. You’ve made Elizabeth suffer a great deal. Which one of us is the real monster here? Hm?”

“I know you’ve killed people,” Alyssa said. “I’ll tell Lizzie all about the terrible things you’ve done.”

Sebastian laughed. “My dear, you only know how I felt about what I did. You do not know any specifics. I feel guilty about my past, but I’ve never tried to hide that from Elizabeth. From the moment I met her, I warned her I was dangerous. She knows how I feasted on humans before I was desiccated. Elizabeth is a smart girl capable of making her own decisions. You don’t give her nearly enough credit.”

Alyssa seemed at a loss for words. He knew he’d backed her into a corner. She couldn’t claim that she knew Elizabeth better than he did without revealing how much she paid attention to her. And now she could reflect on how much her words had hurt Elizabeth. Guilt was a powerful thing. Hopefully it would be enough to put an end to her bullying.

Just then Elizabeth appeared from behind a bookcase and stormed up to him. Her eyes were alight with strong emotion and her cheeks were flushed from the exertion, making her look so stunning. She pulled Sebastian into a passionate kiss right there in front of the witches.

Sebastian ran his fingers through her hair and smiled against her mouth. Elizabeth was truly the most wonderful woman he’d ever known. Instead of cowering in a corner, she’d taken charge of the situation and claimed Sebastian for herself.

When she finally pulled back, she looked him up and down appreciatively. “That was so hot,” she said.

Sebastian couldn’t stop his smile. He turned his gaze on the witches. “Well, this has been a lovely conversation, Miss Alyssa. I wish you luck as you learn etiquette and manners.” Before she could say a word, he walked out of the room, arm draped over Elizabeth’s shoulders.

...

Lizzie had felt confident in the moment, determined to show those witches that they couldn’t faze her and that she was sure about her own choices, but now she was feeling a little embarrassed. Sebastian didn’t say a word to her until they were outside in the stone corridor.

“That was unexpected,” he admitted, his eyes filled with lust.

Lizzie smirked. “Alyssa doesn’t get to walk all over me.”

“I never believed you would let her. Did you hear that entire conversation in the library?”

“Yes.” Lizzie had no reason to hide it. “Thank you. For defending me.”

He smiled at her, and she was reminded of the warmth of this morning when they’d made out in the hallway. “I will do whatever I can to protect you, Elizabeth.” He said it like a sacred promise he would uphold to his death.

“You really don’t think I’m crazy?” Lizzie asked, her voice small.

“No, not at all. I’ve met my share of crazy people in my days. Power-hungry people who are never satisfied by the riches they steal. The town leadership in Roanoke was full of them. You are nothing like that, Elizabeth.”

“I’m so sorry your life has been so difficult. But you have a chance to start over here. I don’t care about your past. You could have been a smuggler or pirate for all I care.”

Sebastian laughed. “Now that’s ridiculous,” he teased.

“Hey, at least I’m not as crazy as Alyssa. You were so right. She is obsessed with making other people feel bad.”

“Alyssa isn't crazy either,” Sebastian said. “She's just lonely.”

Lizzie felt a pang of worry in her chest. “You’re not interested in her, are you?”

Sebastian stared at her, clearly surprised. “It astounds me that someone as remarkable as you has so little confidence in yourself.”

Lizzie blushed. “When you’re told you’re crazy all your life, it’s hard to feel good about yourself.”

“Yes, I understand that very well.” A dark expression crossed his face, filled with sadness and regret.

Lizzie swallowed, realizing what was going on. “Dad kicked you out, didn’t he?”

“Not yet,” Sebastian said. “But it’s only a matter of time. I don’t belong here.”

“You do,” she insisted. She put a hand on his arm. “I’ll talk to my dad. I’ll let him know the witches provoked you. I’ll fight for you to stay, Sebastian.”

“I know you will,” he said, sounding sad. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

Lizzie wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him in for a gentle kiss. It was slow and sweet, far different from their passionate, hungry kisses, and yet, it was the most intimate kiss Lizzie had ever had.

“Care for some more copulation?” Lizzie asked, raising her eyebrow.

Sebastian smiled, but he shook his head. “No, not right now.”

That was unusual. Sebastian had never turned down an offer for sex before. If he was truly leaving, wouldn’t he want one last time with her? Or maybe he was still upset about what Alyssa had done with the orb. He surely had a lot of emotions to work through today.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Everything’s going to be okay, Sebastian. Even if you do have to leave, we can still see each other. We could meet in the town, copulate to our hearts’ content.”

Sebastian chuckled. He cupped her face in his hand and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “That sounds beautiful, Elizabeth.” He pulled away from her, and she felt the absence of his touch like a physical pain in her chest. “It’s time I take my leave.”

“Where are you going?” Lizzie asked, worried.

“I think I will head to the gymnasium, work out some of these feelings I’ve been keeping all bottled up.”

“That’s a great idea,” Lizzie said. “I do that too actually. It really helps me start seeing things clearly again.” She rubbed his arm, admiring how toned his muscles were. Her thoughts went back to last time they’d had sex and how much she wanted to do it again, but she could wait. Self care was important, and Sebastian had just had a really tough day.

She was just so grateful to have him in her life. No one had ever stood up to Alyssa like that before. Most boys stopped showing interest in Lizzie the moment they heard the rumors. She knew she was incredibly lucky to have Sebastian, and she was determined to hold on to him.

“Come find me afterwards, if you feel up to it.” Lizzie twirled her hair, a hint of suggestion in her eyes.

Sebastian shot her a dazzling smile. “Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

[kokkuri3]

I think VnC’s treatment of female characters is better than in PH, where most of them were props, tools to further the development of males, *coughLacieyoudeservedbetter*, tools to humanise the males *coughAdayoucan’tfixhimwithlove, endlessly forgiving and impossibly saintly *coughreallyAlyssyou’rejustgonnaforgiveJacklikethatyouarenotangryatall??*, amongst other problematic tropes.

VnC’s treatment of female characters is absolutely better than PH’s-- in fact, I’d say VnC was one of the few shounen manga to consistently treat its female characters with the same passion and respect as its male ones. One thing I say often is that VnC feels as thought it was written with Mochizuki having acknowledged PH’s problems (the complete lack of nonwhite characters, the continual mistreatment of female characters, the at times facetious treatment of issues such as incest or pedophilia which is... Not A Fan) and to that effect, I think she is making a deliberate effort to make multiple female characters with their own arcs which exist outside of men, who have important relationships with other women, who are capable of agency in the same capacity as their male counterparts.

This post isn’t really about VnC though so I’m not gonna sing its praises much anymore. I’ve talked before about how, despite being written by a woman, despite clearly acknowledging misogyny as a chronic problem among violent men PH is... not especially self aware when it comes to the misogyny of its own narrative.

I’ve made my thoughts on Lacie clear before (see here) and particularly how I believe her treatment was one of the times where PH’s treatment of women was particularly remarkable in that it’s good, despite her arc being drenched in misogynistic abuse and violence. I absolutely wish that the atrocities pinned on Lacie being not her fault was made more clear (aside from what I said in the post, and Oz saying that Lacie would never desire for the destruction of the world she loved) but I don’t think her writing itself was misogynistic-- I’d even go as far as to say it was feminist, though, obviously, I’m open to disagreement.

What most certainly does piss me off, however, is the writing of Ada’s arc. Yesterday I joked about Ada being the ‘anti-Lacie,’ and while it was a joke, I still intended some seriousness with it. Unlike Lacie, who was forced to constantly reevaluate her morals and the positions of her and her loved ones as a person whose existence was an inherent sin and who was abused throughout her life, Ada’s arc is built around the fact that she has never had to question anything. Similarly, while Lacie’s arc is about how she sought her own agency despite being surrounded by and allowed only those who were at best complacent in her suffering, Ada’s arc is about how... she continually sought out and apologized for a misogynistic predator despite being surrounded by better options.

The gender of the Core of the Abyss is something which I think warrants a separate post, but the official translation refers to the Core as being female, and for nearly the entire story she takes the form of a girl. Lacie reached out to an entity referred to and most often perceived as female, sought to understand her, and was abused as a specific consequence of this. Ada, meanwhile, made no real attempts at sympathy for her female counterparts. She never sought to question the circumstances of Noise, or Echo, or their relationship with Vincent. She gave forgiveness for crimes she had not been affected by nor did she even understand; her defense of Vincent was done not out of concern for Noise’s psyche but out of unquestioned pity for her abuser.

Ada’s arc bothers me for its utter lack of agency. She was a teenaged girl, expected to fix a predatory, abusive man in his twenties, and throughout her arc she is given no real means of choosing other options nor protecting herself. Her decision to defend a predator was not even an educated one; she simply did not know. Nor did she ever really come to understand anything about Vincent, aside from brief glimpses into his past. Ada is dragged around by the plot, pursuing an abuser she did not know was an abuser yet still felt sure she could heal, being forbidden from choice-- where she was not denied choice in the sense that she lacked the knowledge to make one, she was denied choice via other characters forbidding her. She was not allowed to protect Vincent though she wanted to because Vincent felt it was too dangerous to allow her to, she was not allowed to remain beside her friends and family though she wanted to because they felt it was too dangerous to allow her to, she wasn’t allowed to stay with Vincent because it was too dangerous, she wasn’t allowed to see him again because it was too dangerous... and she’s never given the choice to do anything but go along with it.

Alyss’s forgiveness of Jack is... a more complicated issue. That Ada “forgive” Vincent-- along with many of their other interactions, I might add-- felt utterly meaningless to me. Ada had never really perceived Vincent as performing a slight against her, being perfectly willing to assign any violence he committed against her as either her own fault, or part of his mental illness, thus Not His Fault. That Alyss forgive Jack, who was violent towards her, who she understood as victimizing her and others... I don’t like it, exactly, but at least it’s not the same.

I’m not sure “forgive” is even the correct word for what she did-- she acknowledged him, and she was gentle, but she never told Jack that she forgave him. Vincent’s dialogue during Retrace CIII supplements this in saying he suspects that Alyss’s feelings for Jack are the same as his own.

Vincent feels unable to either forgive Jack nor reject him entirely, feeling that he had done too much good for him to ever really hate him. Alyss, similarly, felt too strong a love for Jack to reject him outright. She never expressed sympathy for his actions, nor did she make any attempts to defend him. There was no misunderstanding on Alyss’s part on whether her love for Jack was unhealthy, but she loved him nonetheless. When she finally “finds” him, she offers no words of kindness. She simply expressed her gratitude in having done so before calling him a hopelessly lonely man, making no further attempts at even acknowledging him.

Of course, there is the inherent misogyny of a character arc about a young girl infatuated with an adult man, to the point of destroying her other relationships in pursuit of it. That Alyss was deliberately isolated and that Jack be the only person aside from the other Alice and the Core of Abyss-- two entities that cannot be meaningfully separated from herself-- is an obvious contributor, but that does not erase the problematic aspects of her arc. Then there’s the matter of Alyss’s wish to die being the only one treated as though it was a necessary evil, as opposed to a reflection of the individual’s personal instability that should be addressed through supporting them as opposed to killing them. It’s sort of an unfair double standard, and that the plot make Alyss’s death a necessary evil is a matter of author choice, not something inherent to the work.

On the topic of other instances of misogynistic writing in PH as a whole, there’s the matter of Alice and Sharon’s arc. While I don’t think either arc is in itself misogynistic, both characters are totally ignored in favor of their male counterparts. Despite Alice being one of the most important characters in the series, she has almost no narration and is frequently characterized as, to quote a friend of mine, a “feral animal.” She’s not given the same emotional or psychological depth as Oz or Gil, despite having around the same number of appearances and being the plot’s catalyst. Sharon has her own arc, theoretically, but we only ever see it within the context of Break or Reim despite being more of a main character than the latter. That Sharon spend entire volumes not appearing a single time is a recurring joke. A major part of her characterization-- that she feel insecure in relationships due to her halted aging-- is not revealed until the last chapter of the comic. Her arc ends with her marrying to a character who... I wouldn’t have been upset if the two of them had had any real interactions outside of Break, but they didn’t. There’s no inherent problem with their relationship except it’s boring and rushed.

Then there’s the matter of the sheer number of female versus male characters whose purpose in the plot is to die violently-- the Flower Girl, Vanessa Nightray, Bernice Nightray, Miranda Barma, Mary, etc. All of these characters did little or nothing to actually progress the plot, and all are murdered by a male character with the exception of the Flower Girl (who is a sex worker in the anime adaptation, and while I don’t know the canonicity of that, I feel it worth mentioning). 

Ultimately, PH suffers a lot for Mochizuki’s internalized misogyny. Her narrative seems over eager to forgive perpetrators of misogynistic violence, and in many ways over eager to characterize sympathetic men as misogynists. A Pandora Hearts without its themes of misogyny seems... nearly incomprehensible, though that’s in large part because of how meticulous the narrative as a whole is. The improvements Mochizuki has made subsequently, though, are noticeable and greatly appreciated.

[aprilwritesabook]

I appolgize in advance for this long ass post haha.

Alright, so here's the deal. This post is gonna be part rant, part confessional, and part inspirational speech. So if your following this blog purely for the updates on my books you can skip it haha.

I know a currently published author. I used to kinda be friends with them in highschool, but it was more like a friend of a friend type deal. But I digress. Point is. They recently released there second book on Amazon. And I really wanna be happy and proud of them, and to see it as an inspirational thing, buuuuut I'm almost 100 sure they are actually a fraud?

And that's not me being bitter. I really really really wish this wasn't the case. But I have the evidence to back this theory up.

1- they claimed that there first book sold out multiple times. And to be fair this one might be at least partially true. Its rated pretty high on amazon, But then again they only have 4 people rate it and three of those people are the editor formattor and artist for the book. Soooo. Yeah I sure hope they rated it well.

2- they are constantly posting stories to there social media that are far fetched at best. They work in a bookstore. And almost every other week its a slightly diffrent story about a customer who "didn't even know" he was the author who would "burst into tears" the second he told them what the book was about because they were just Soooo touched by the message that they wept to a total stranger??? If that had happened even once it would have been an odd occurance. And this is something that apparently happens alllll the time to them. (I hate to drudge up old memes like this, but)

3- this person has recently made a tick tock and a youtube channel. And like, the content isssss questionable? And that's not necessarily a crime or anything. But they give updates about it on social media as if they are speaking to a mass of adoring fans and like...you can see how many subs and views a person has. We know he dosn't have a big fan base. And I know that sounds harsh. But like, some more gullible people have asked him for advise on how to be "successful" and "gain a following", and he answers them with authority. Like he has the answers even though he clearly dosn't? And that feels really... disingenuous at best?

4- along the same vein as 3. They recently made a post on twitter about how they are "overwhelmed by the amount of love and support they have found on the site" and how they get "some many heartfelt messages." Annnd again. I clicked the account. They literally have 5 followers. And not a SINGLE person has EVER liked, retweeted, or commented on a SINGLE tweet of theirs. Not one. Soooo like not only are you pretending to have a huge fan base that dosn't exist your also making up there engagement with you? Which this alone I feel brings validate to my doubts about the other things. Clearly they arn't above blatant lying and extreme over exaggeration. And also they either don't realize we can all seeeee these facts. Or they don't think anyone will actually check and call them on it ?????

Now there's a lot of other examples I could give. But my point isn't to put this ONE person on blast. I'm not trying to start beef or cause damage to their reputation or anything. Which is why I won't say their name or what there books are. The only way you'd know who I'm talking is if you also knew them in real life. In which case you either already know all this, or you should, so you don't fall victim to their lies.

The reason I'm saying any of this at all is because I think I know why they are doing it. And why so many indie authors or would be media mogels feel the need to do this.

The issue with trying to "build an audience" and "self market" yourself, is that you really only have 2 ways of guaranteed sucess.

You either need to have a pre established audience based on success you've already had in the past. (IE youtubers and movie stars writing successful books cause there fans will buy anything of there's reguardless.)

Or you need to buy your way in. Be it by quitting your day job to make social media your full time job, buying ads, hiring a social media person,or hiring a team of people with their own audiences (audio book narrators, cover artists, managers, ect)

And if you don't ALREADY have an audience, and you don't have the funds to BUY your way in, then your just gonna have to get real lucky.

You can be lucky for knowing somebody with an "in". They work in publishing, or advertising, or they're your rich uncle. Just someone who you can go to to get that boost one way or another to get one of the first two methods going for you.

You can get lucky by commenting the right thing on the right post and gaining followers that way. Or by being in the right place at the right time to meet somebody important.

You can be lucky by having lots of supportive friends and family who will promote you and your work FOR you.

Or lastly (and this is in the realm of being a one in a million case here. So it basically never happens without one of the other things I mentioned also being true.)

You can be lucky by working REALLY hard, and being REALLY talented, and having the world actually NOTICE YOU somehow? Just one person with influence who can find you in your dark hole of insignificance and shine a light on you so now the world can actually seee you.

And that sucks.

You could write the greatest book in the whole world. Truly a masterpiece. But if nobody buys it or reads it because they don't know who you are??? Then it dosen't matter does it?

It sucks Soooo hard.

Because untill you get those people with influence to shine a light on you, theres nothing you can do. And the market is soooooo drenched in new indie authors that the odds of the right people finding and liking your book are slim to none.

Its super unfair.

The people who have the influence arn't gonna buy a book with 0 reviews and no social media following.

Why? Because THEIR brand depends on only recommending the good shit. And they need to find that good shit NOW. If they read every book written by nobody's online, they'd have to wade through ALOT of garbage. wasting all their valuable time and money till they found something worthy. And honestly, from a business stand point, you cant really fault them for that

This is where the lies come from.

So basically no matter how you look at it, or what your strategy is, In order to get fans, you need to ALREADY HAVE THEM.

When your just starting out. And I mean truly at square one. It really feels like the only way to "make it" is to "fake it"

If you PRETEND to have a big following. And you PRETEND your books are selling really well already. And you PRETEND that people care deeply about you and your work... Then there is a chance that nobody will do the homework to find out its all a lie.

And if they think your successful already, then it sends a message to the consumers brains of "well they must be good. Everybody loves it/them".

It sucks that so many people who have found real success did so with lies, cash, and being already well connected.

And then they buy it, and they follow you, and the confirmation bias sets in, and eventually you'll dupe enough people into liking you that you don't HAVE to lie anymore.

Those of us with no cash and too high a conscious to lie our way to the top are left with virtually no chance of succeeding no matter how hard we work or how good our content is.

And I'm not claiming to be "better than" or "more worthy" than anyone else. I wanna make it clear that of your in the portion of having it fake it so you can follow your dreams then more power to you. Its a valid strategy. I hate that it works and I hate that its the only option sometimes. But I don't hate the people as creators for "doing what it takes." I get it. Really I do.

And it suckks major ass that so many people feel like this is the only way.

My whole point here. Is that we have slowly built a system where this is our reality. And honestly? End of the day? There's not a damn thing we can do to change it at this point.

In a perfect world made of unicorns and puppies. I could say "hey lets all go ready books by completely unknown authors. Be the change you wanna see in the world." But at the end of the day, especially in the unfiltered world of self publishing, It would be a complete shot in the dark to spend your resources on something completely unknown. We rely on word of mouth, and "best sellers" and high following to do the work of filtering out the bad stuff for us and it would be unrealistic if not impossible to go back on it now. Even if we wanted to there algorithms and shit built into the code. You'll never find the books that Amazon dosnt want you to find unless you search for it directly.

Now comes the confession/inspirational bit

I know all of the above to be true...But I'm choosing not to care

I'm not gonna lie my way to the top. I'm not gonna hide my struggles out of fear of seeming inferior. So here goes

I struggle a lot with depression and anxiety. I've been working on it, and I've gotten so much better in recent years. But there are always gonna be times when I slip up and my mental illnesses take over

When I was writing my first book I felt really empowered and good about myself for finally getting past all my own barriers and following my dreams.

And then once I was done writting and editing and I was ready to show the world and get feedback. I flopped.

I couldn't find anyone willing to beta read. Those who said they would do it (even people who claimed they "couldn't wait") ghosted me after I actually sent it to them

I was hoping to get 20 people. I really wanted it to be the best it could be. Only 11 actully signed up. Of that 11, 5 people actually read it: My spouse, my brother, my best friend, and 2 others. Those two others read the first bit I sent them, took a few weeks to get back to me, said they loved it, but then Neeeeeeeeever got back to me when I sent them the next chunk.

Now you can look at all that and come to the conclusion that it sucks. I know I sure did.

The struggles at each step made me doubt myself more and more to the point that I almost gave up writing all together.

And I didn't want to take about it or how it was making me feel, even though it was having a serious impact on me. I wanted to bottle it all up and let it consume me. Allllll because I didn't want people online to write me off as a failure before even giving me the chance.

I wasn't lying about being successful. I was just trying to hide the fact that I wasn't.

And that's almost as bad. Because then all the new authors just feel worse about themselves and their journey because they think they are the only ones.

Your not alone.

Everyone is struggling.

We just aren't talking about it.

I haven't written a word in over a week because I've been so afraid my second book will be dead on arrival like my first.

And I KNOW somewhere out there is someone just like me whose thinking of giving up.

Don't.

Just keep going.

Do your best. And then come find another struggling writer and share with each other. The world outside might not understand your struggle. But another author might.

We can't change the market. We can't change the way social media works, or how people decide if they will buy things

But what we CAN change, is whether those of us within the community want to be honest about our struggles and frustrations. Or if we want to hide them away and lie about them for the sake of making more sales

I think by being honest with one another we can create a better network.

That way the next time you feel like garbage for not being an "instant celebrity" like everyone else. you can look at the community and realize that you were never the problem

If we just keep making new writing friends our collective reach will eventually take hold in the outside world. Don't wait for a random influencer to notice you. Just make one friend at a time. Be known amongst your peers and maybe the rest will follow

And if your a writer desperate for feedback, or just a friend to share your troubles with. Hit me up. My inbox is always open.