#like what? WHO CARES?????? like fifty people care apparently cause that’s how many like they got on their first tweet!

[ujuro]

I’ve been mostly away from kpop fandom spaces for a good while now but since mx is returning to group activities I’ve been looking around some fan accounts on twitter recently for updates outside of the changkyun solo bubble I was in and oh my god I did not fuckin miss how whiny everybody is like so many things stans complain about are not that deeppp

[forestdeath1]

Re: Dumbledore headcanons reading like conspiracy theories. I one hundred percent agree. People go down some insane spirals, where they remove themselves further and further from any reasonable interpretation of canon events as described.

The thing that gets me most about it is just how inconsistent the theories often are within themselves. Dumbledore is somehow a super genius who knows everything about everybody and his only goal is to... idk, furhter his own fame, I guess? Become more powerful? But then he doesn't USE the fact that he knows everything about everybody and can manipulate any event towards any outcome in order to do thta except to like. Put Harry in uncofortable situations year after year? For what?

This is a man who could have been the Minister for Magic if he had ever indicated that he wanted that position. He's already a beloved war hero and highly respected for his abilities. What, exactly, do people even think he's trying to accomplish by psychologically torturing Harry and probably causing the rise of Voldemort in the first place and, I don't know, sacrificing children to the blood god, probably.

Like, this idea that he knows everything and can predict how everything is going to go all the time is so ridiculous to me. It is very clearly something that Harry THINKS when he is a kid (even speculating on whether Dumbledore wanted him to go after Quirrell) but I've never read that as anything but a childish need to have an adult around who has a handle on things. Dumbledore himself keeps saying in books five and six that he doesn't know everything and he makes mistakes. His ability to predict Voldemort is fifty percent having a spy and fifty percent hard work over a long time to understand the man as well as he possibly can. He simply doesn't have a time to build a dossier like that on everybody he meets.

Sorry for the rant, I apparently had a lot to say about this topic. I always kind of wish that if people want to make him a villain, they at least do it properly: a man who has managed to fool an entire country for fifty years and is widely beloved -- with unexpected, loyal supporters in many places -- despite being secretly evil would be a scary villain to take on. Instead people somehow make him stupid and very easily foiled on top of everything at which point I have to ask... how did he even get this far?

For what?

Obviously, Dumbledore is just EVIL. This EVIL person refused all real positions of power and stays in his shabby Hogwarts, where he can easily be discredited and lose power, and makes genius cunning plans, simply because he’s evil and a psychopath. He makes Harry search for Horcruxes because he obviously enjoys watching Harry suffer. Dumbledore knew everything about the Horcruxes from the start but didn’t want to do it himself. It’s like a hunger game, he sits and watches from above as Harry runs after Horcruxes, a vile manipulator. And Voldemort isn’t bad, Dumbledore made him that way.

It reminds me of "XXX are ACTUALLY evil and were created by a secret government, you're being MANIPULATED" lmao

I think, most people can’t forgive him for "neglecting" Harry’s emotional state and personal well-being. For them, personal well-being is so much more important than everything else that anyone who threatens someone’s personal well-being isn’t just a person, they are an evil psychopath. According to the narrative, Harry is the only one who can save their lousy world and thousands of people, and they think that Dumbledore should have hidden Harry from all harm and sent him to Mallorca, and then watch as Muggle-borns and Muggles are genocided. Then he wouldn’t be an evil psychopath.

Dumbledore is emotionally detached, yes, and he’s not perfect, but for example, to say that Aberforth is kinder than Dumbledore because Aberforth took care of Harry – what are they measuring kindness with? How warmly you are dressed and fed? They don’t care that people around them are dying, right? Aberforth is not the kindest person, he’s just afraid of moral responsibility and doesn’t really care about the people in the WW.

There’s no such thing as a mass of people, every mass is made up of individuals. But people often forget about it. That’s why people sympathise more with Harry because they see his suffering on every page. But there are also hundreds, if not thousands, of Muggle-borns, half-bloods and Muggles who suffer, die and are tormented every day. But they don’t matter, right? There’s no book written about them.

Sirius, for example, also thinks that the well-being of others is more important than personal well-being (his "conversation" with twins). Harry thinks so too. I don’t understand why people think Harry would refuse to search for Horcruxes. He’s not the type of person who would enjoy life while others are dying. He cares deeply for others, and this sense of responsibility runs right through his heart and it’s clear from the very first books.

The trolley problem is thought to be "unsolvable" among people, but 60% of professional philosophers think that you should flick the lever. This is the essence of moral responsibility for our actions. Refusing to flick the lever and letting five people die instead of one isn’t good, it’s moral irresponsibility. Aberforth actually creates much more evil than Dumbledore. And many studies have shown that about 80% of people will flick the lever. Bit this number drops when this one person is someone close to them. That’s why Dumbledore is an evil psychopath to them, they can’t understand how he could not "care" about Harry (but he actually did care, he just wasn't emotionally close to him).

[hel-phoenyx]

26) Doctor's visit/Sad eyes

I am a lot of things.

I am head of the Frosilaen dynasty.

I am Queen of the Divine Mandate.

I am the one that held her grounds against a Worm.

I am the woman that fought against a god trying to incarnate.

I am the cultist that lost faith and gave back a world to people I once hated.

I am the one who almost reached the end of the Tournament of Glory while being old and weakened.

I am the one that looked God in the eyes and told Them to fuck off.

I am Lina Frosilaen.

People call me the Feline Queen, the Last Fortress, the Striker. All of those are true. I am a cat, I held my grounds, and I always, always, strike first.

But today, I am only a woman lying down in a bed, some kind of nursery bed, while a man in a white blouse is turning around me like a nervous cat. That man is the head doctor of the Mandatian palace. He is also my husband, and the father of my children.

And boy is he pissed.

"What the hell were you thinking, Lina ?! Running away without anyone knowing to none other place than the fucking Tournament for Glory ? You could have been killed !"

I roll my eyes. It's always like this. It's been like this since I was thirteen. Today, I am older than eighty. Not dying anytime soon, even if I do admit my body is failing me. My last adversary, I could have gotten him. Or not. He's evenly matched. Who knows.

It's been like this since I met him, but it still annoys me.

"Calm your tits, Baku, I was not here without supervision, Selene was here and she could have patched me up in a minute. Well, using a lot of my life force, no doubt, but people die at one point or another."

Except him, as young as he was when I gifted him that dagger. As young as he was when he put the wedding ring on my fingers. I look like I'm forty, maybe fifty now ; he's as immaculate as the first day.

People born recently joke on our apparent age difference. It's true, we do look like we have decades between us. The truth is, however, than even though I am the oldest, he follows me three years behind.

His pained look stays the same.

"Lina, I do not want to see your life end prematurely, nor do I wanna see your lifeless body again. If Chiara wasn't here that day..."

He's right. Thymos killed me. Chiara used her powers to bring me back. That I remember.

He doesn't remember she died in my place. That Death brought her back to help through the Beyond, and They cristallized their ressurection to reward me for not dying, and reaching Her.

There's not a lot of people that remember death.

I sigh.

"Baku, com'on, do you really believe one of this fuckers would manage to harm me ?"

"Well, SOMEONE did."

"And he left me alive when I forfeited. I didn't wanna reach the end, anyway. I already got my destiny."

The Tournament of Glory, for many youngsters, is the place where everyone can try and reach a glorious destiny between the hands of War herself. For me, it's just a way to see if I am still the hero they all pray for. I already got my glorious destiny. Plus, don't wanna fight my daughter-in-law. That's for the younglings that haven't lived a lot.

Baku is patching me up. We're alone in this tent and I want to do a little joke about other ways to patch me up ; not that he would care, and it proves I am in good health despite the wounds. But his eyes look so sad, so pained, I can't do that.

So I let him bandage my wounds in silence.

A silence he ends up breaking, after a long while.

"You used your Berserker form."

Oh.

So that's the cause of his anguish.

"Well, needed to put up a good fight."

"You know how I feel about pushing your Domain to the extreme."

I know. Baku thinks those powers are too much for my body. Maybe they are, since until a not so recent date, using that form always brought me to coma. But I know how to control them now. That was both an effort from my part, and a present from Them.

I remember when I was about twenty-five. The look in the eyes of the one that would become my most trusted advisor, one of my best friends, when I transformed for the first time in front of him. My magic has always been there, it sounded so natural, so normal ; apparently it wasn't.

Apparently it's an heritage from my father. A peculiar form of the Infinite Domain that lets me assume the form of every species I could have been. Limited to non-intelligent ones, because I am no changeling.

Mairù says it's a combo between the Infinite Domain from the old fucker, my Traveller blood and the human part I got from the woman that would have been my mother.

The Berserker is a problem because it is not a species per se. It's a vision of what I would have been if I was, myself, devoid of everything but pure, animal fighting instinct. That's why my body can't bear it, according to Crow. Because it is supposed to be outside my limits.

I don't care about all those magical chit-chat. I am me, I am my powers, I am my physical strenght and speed, I am my love for my spouses and children. I am Lina Frosilaen.

Baku and I only see the harm that form brings me.

"I know."

"Then why did you use it ?"

"Because it may come a day when I will be forced to do so. I need to train so that day, it won't cause me any harm."

He smiles. His eyes are still sad.

"You've done enough for this world, Lina."

"Never enough for you."

My wedding ring is bruning around my thumb.

His wedding ring. From a world where I wasn't enough.

Something is caressing my cheek. Wet, a little rough, the hands of a doctor. Yet, so soft, so warm.

"You've done all I ever wanted by just existing."

Sadness still glimmers in his iced blue eyes, and yet I see behind the light of pure, unalterable love. Those eyes that made me fall for the teen he was despite our fights and his black magic problems, the eyes that never, ever, ever, looked upon me and saw a stranger.

He's here.

It's all I've ever wanted, too.

[wincore]

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff 

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of. 

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low. 

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours. 

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget. 

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore. 

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume. 

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type. 

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises.  If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts. 

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself. 

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask. 

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it. 

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it. 

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.  

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily. 

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year. 

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately. 

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one. 

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt. 

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover. 

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours. 

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth. 

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words. 

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.  

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table. 

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad. 

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back. 

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing. 

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters. 

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs. 

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.” 

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can. 

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off. 

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating. 

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know. 

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young. 

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.” 

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling. 

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung. 

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses. 

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention. 

Inviting him somewhere. 

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure. 

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more. 

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter? 

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.  

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him. 

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.” 

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.” 

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.” 

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts. 

You’re disappointing. 

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose. 

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps. 

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask. 

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you. 

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue. 

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.” 

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you. 

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families. 

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe. 

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard. 

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them. 

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out. 

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up. 

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt. 

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart. 

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it. 

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him. 

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak. 

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.  

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time. 

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional. 

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love. 

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved. 

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding. 

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either. 

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next  meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple. 

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action. 

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t. 

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days. 

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.” 

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by. 

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers. 

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever. 

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout. 

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!” 

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?” 

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this. 

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose. 

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond. 

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—” 

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder. 

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him. 

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too. 

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again. 

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling. 

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you. 

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care. 

 “Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there. 

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally. 

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer. 

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand. 

[xpeachesncream]

fiend | one shot

f i e n d ;

a person who wants something really bad, and keeps coming back for more.

because that's exactly what you are with your boss who dicks you down properly, time and time again.

pairing: assistant!reader x ceo!yg

genre: ceo au | smut

words: 2.7k

warnings: cussing, mature language/implied sexual content, bondage, unprotected rough sex that makes you cry, multiple orgasms, breast play, fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), pussy smacking, ass smacking, dirty talking, doggy style, choking, i think that’s it? 

note: uh, definitely filthiest smut i’ve ever written by far.. i’m sorry lmao i’m trying to experiment with smut and yoongi is the one i’ve decided to experiment with. again, pls excuse any errors. enjoy!

Your eyes drifted down the hallway, quickly making eye contact with your boss before you turned the corner. Soon after, you heard his foot steps following behind you, his fingers grazing the buttons of his blazer as he unbuttoned them and quickly loosened the tie around his neck as he continued to follow your path.

You bit your lip as you took one last look behind you, seeing him coming for you, the lust seeping through his skin. Apparent in his eyes. In his walk. The way he licked his bottom lip.

You turned the knob to a room, not knowing who's it was but you didn't give a single fuck. All these rich folk and their big ass homes, there was no way any of them truly and actually cared about each and every single room in the house. Before you could fully shut the door, your boss slips himself in, silently shutting it close for you and locking it.

"Running away from me?" Yoongi asks in your ear, his breath grazing your neck.

"There's no fun if I don't, right?" You slightly cock your head to the side, a smirk slowly growing at the corner of your lips. Suddenly, you feel the cold material from his tie wrap around your wrists.

"Hmm." He hums. "Now that I've got you though, you're not going anywhere." He says lowly, holding the tie tightly as he bends you forward onto the side of the drawer against the wall. He finishes tying his tie around your wrist, your breathing slightly hitching when he tightens it. You feel him lift the back of your dress up, your thong exposing your ass cheeks and your folds almost swallowing the material with how bent you are at the moment.

How you got here? You didn't know, but you also didn't care. Min Yoongi was one of the youngest thriving CEOs to exist and out of all applicants, he had chosen your innocent ass as his assistant. You literally had just graduated not too long ago, finding an ad for the position online as you nonchalantly surfed the web and did your rounds of poking for entry-level positions. It didn't contain many requirements, which sparked your interest. But you figured you'd never land the job having interviewed amongst other women and men who had been executive assistants previously for months, even years.

Little did you know that you'd star in your own Fifty Shades of Grey movie, and honestly, all this shit was worth it to you. You didn't care about the dirty ass looks the rest of the staff would give you. You didn't care about the shit talking they'd do. You were never one to worry about little things like that; You did you and you carried your own shit. You knew the women were jealous, and you knew they wanted to be you.

Why would you be mad about that?

It ultimately became Yoongi's weakness. You just had it like that.

You'd watch as they'd take your job and prepare Yoongi's coffee in the morning, hoping to bat an eyelash and shower him in compliments. You sat at your desk smirking to yourself at how hard they tried. Sometimes Yoongi would acknowledge it, most of the time - he didn't. Because he was fixated on you and you had yet to learn that.

He wasn't one to build relationships with his staff, he made sure to keep his personal life separate from his career. He didn't talk much in the beginning, having random people train you before he began to step in and show you the ropes himself. He'd come off cold at first, barely showing any expressions. Barely acknowledging you by name, even. But as time went on, you were able to exceed his expectations, doing things before he'd even ask and you found him slowly unraveling around you. He'd tell you goodmorning as soon as he'd catch sight of you at your desk. He'd ask how your day was. He'd ask for your opinion on certain things. He'd ask for you to fully handle his schedule because he loved the way you treated him so delicately, moving appointments around just so he'd have time to breathe and eat. Then, you'd catch his smile. His laugh. How he'd shower you in compliments, talking about how nice you looked that day. He'd leave you notes on your desk, thanking you for your hard work.

If you weren't mistaken, you had felt a small crush developing for your boss. But, you knew you had to keep it professional. That is - until Min Yoongi had caught on and acted on it. He stood behind you as he looked over your shoulder at the computer screen. He had one hand planted on your desk, while the other rested on the top of your chair. You looked up at him from your seat, his eyes locked onto yours. He edged his face closer to yours, locking your lips with his. You couldn't help but gasp as you quickly pulled away, pushing yourself off after reality had settled in. But he had grabbed your wrist ever so gently, shaking his head as he told you to stop holding back.  Something so innocent had turned lustful, full of desire and passion. You gave in and allowed him to get a taste of all of you. Once you were in, there was no going back. He fucked you so good that you could barely walk, fucking you in all places you could imagine - his office, his car, his home, his kitchen, balcony, now this party that was flooded with such highly important people. All you wanted was him, all you craved for was him; Just as he had craved for you every second of his day.

That's why your ass was bent over on someone's expensive ass black dresser, Yoongi's tie tied tightly around your wrists as he swipes his fingers down his tongue before giving your pussy a good smack. You let out a small whimper as he pulls your panties down and throws them aside, his tongue licking a stripe in between your folds.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?"

"Yes." You whimper once again when you feel him spread your cheeks to take full advantage of the position you were in. You feel his tongue gently probe your entrance before you hear him suck you dry, a slight chuckle releasing from his lips as he pulls away and starts to insert two fingers to stretch you out. His long fingers start slowly, Yoongi full out enjoying the sound of your wetness every time he pulls in and out. He curves his digits upwards, causing you to twitch on the drawer from how deep he's tickling your core.

"Ohhhhh, Yoongi, please." You mewl. Your hands are slightly getting tired from being held behind you, but at the same time, you're so fucking turned on at how rough he's handling you - like he had been wanting you all night. Which, he has. He couldn't believe the audacity you had to show up to this party in that tightly fitted dress, hugging you in all the right places. You caught on quick, teasing him throughout the night by grazing your hand against his, brushing your fingers across his manhood area ever so gently in passing, whispering how good he looked in his suit.

"Stay still. You said you'd be good." He says, quickening his pace while he held the tie down to keep your hands in place. The faster he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the quicker you feel yourself coming undone.

"Hohhhh, fuck." You moan. "I'm close."

"Gonna cum around these fingers, baby?" You want to hold on so badly, but you can't. And you don't. You find yourself trembling on top of the dresser, Yoongi licking up your mess and completely disregarding how overly sensitive you are right now. The pain turns into more pleasure for you, and you want nothing more than to feel him inside of you.

But he has other plans first. He wastes no time bringing you back up to standing position by holding his tie, aggressively getting you on your knees in the middle of the room.

"You better make good use of those hands when I let them go." He says, undoing his tie. You slightly wince at how sore you are from keeping your hands in one position for some time, but you brush it off as Yoongi stands in front of you, ready for you to unzip his pants and let his aching dick free. He loves watching you suck him on your knees, the sight of your pretty face and his dick going in and out of your mouth being something out of this world for him. He ain't ever gotten head so good until he's gotten it from you.

And so you're craving to make him feel just as good as he made you feel, gripping his hardened member when it springs free from his boxers, your tongue following its length like a guide. His dick wasn't the thickest, but it was long and that shit never failed to make you cum time and time again. That shit never failed to tear you up. You suck his tip, your tongue swirling around the pooling pre-cum before you pull back with a pop. You watch from below as he tilts his head back in pleasure, small moans leaving his mouth as his hands are tangled in your hair. He begins to lower you onto his dick, steadying the pace before he wants you to start taking him all the way. His tip tickles the back of your throat while he keeps you there for a good minute, tears streaming from your eyes as you choke on him, saliva trailing from your mouth and his tip once he tugs your head back.

"So fucking pretty when you take my shit like that." He smirks before biting his bottom lip, his grey hair lightly brushing past his eyes. You swallow him whole a couple of times more, more saliva trailing down his dick and between your mouth and his tip before he's satisfied with how fucked out you look simply from taking his dick down your throat. "What do you want me to do to you, pretty girl?"

"Fuck me, please." You whine. He grips your chin and stands you up to eye level.

"You want me?" You nod. "Tell me how much you want me, babygirl."

"I want you so bad, Yoongi. Please. Wanna feel you."

He smirks. "Gonna make you feel good, sweetheart. Don't worry about that." He doesn't hesitate to carry you, albeit he struggles a bit with his pants below his ankles, allowing you to wrap your legs around his torso before dropping you onto the bed. You wiggle yourself up a little higher before he crawls on top, his lips pressing against yours. The kiss quickly becomes messy, your hands getting tangled in his hair as his tongue sensually caressed your mouth. You moan into it while his hands work to bring the bottom portion of your dress above your waist. He pulls down your top portion just enough to expose your bare breasts, his hands giving them a good squeeze before taking your nipples in between his fingers and giving them a good pinch. You let out a small cry as he pulls away from the kiss, your nipples feeling incredibly hard and sensitive from his touch. He brings his mouth down to one nipple at a time, toying with it for a second by using his tongue to flick the bud around before sucking.

"That feels so good." You let out breathily. He lets out a small moan as he sucks on the other before bringing his mouth back up to yours. You wiggle yourself onto him, feeling his tip graze your folds, driving you insane. The heat is pooling in your core, almost unbearable at the fact.

"You want this dick in you now?" He whispers in your ear, nibbling at your earlobe right after. You let out a hiss as you nod, letting out a small whimper as you watch him pump his dick a few times below you. He inserts the tip, your mouth slightly open at how fucking good he feels slowly filling you up. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grip onto his shirt while he bottoms out, the sound of your wetness bouncing off of the walls while he rolls his hips into you, working inwards and outwards. He keeps your legs open with his hands, making sure your wide enough to feel every inch of him inside of you.

"Fuuuuck, Yoongi." You moan. "Give it to me." He picks up his pace. "Just like that, just like that." You repeatedly whine until you can't cry it out any longer. The pleasure completely takes over your body as you bounce up and down in his grip, his eyes marveling at your titties bouncing around while he fucks you senselessly.

"Always so good to me." He groans. "Taking me in so perfectly. I wish you could see how fucking good you look crying out for me." You were absolutely perfect to him, in every way possible. The music outside is so loud at this point that you're sure no one can hear you yelling his name in this room. Your nails are digging into his clothed arms, his hands now making his way up to your neck to slightly grip onto it while he aggressively hammers into you.

"I'm gonna cum again." You manage to spit out as his hands are barely giving you room to speak. Sooner or later, one to two more powerful thrusts in, you feel yourself spiraling out of control, groaning as you tremble underneath him. He bites onto his bottom lip as he slows his pace to help you ride out your high and places a sloppy kiss onto your lips.

"Turn around for me." He says, you quickly obeying silently. He has you on your fours towards the edge of the bed, his tie now wrapped around your mouth and in between your teeth. He tugs on it ever so slightly to the side, getting a good look at your face before planting a kiss on on your neck. He quickly swipes his hand down your pussy, knowing full well how sensitive you still are. You twitch at the sensation, Yoongi letting out a small chuckle at how sexy and vulnerable you are right now. He slips himself in, letting out a moan at how wet you are around him. He holds onto his tie as he fucks into you quick, tears streaming down your cheeks. You let out a loud moan, but it's muffled through the material of his tie, enjoying every bit of the pain and pleasure your boss is bringing you at this moment. He grips your ass with his free hand before giving it a good smack, groans leaving his mouth as he pumps in and out.

"Who's pussy is this?" He leans forward and asks in your ear.

"Yours." You mumble.

"Who's?"

"Youuuuurs." You cry.

"Shit, babygirl. I'm gonna cum. Gonna fill you up so good." He leans back, his high coming to a close. Your eyes shut close as you feel your walls constrict around him at the same time he lets himself go, his cum coating your walls while you coat his dick. He lets the tie go gently, allowing you to breathe through your high, huffing and puffing to regulate yourself. You let out a small gasp feeling him remove himself from inside of you, cum leaking out of your throbbing pussy. You can barely fix your position, your legs trembling and weak from how fucked out you are. Yoongi takes a napkin from the nearby dresser, wiping you clean before getting himself together and helping you up.

"So much for enjoying the party like you wanted." You tease as you fix yourself in the full length mirror near the bed. Yoongi stands behind you, adjusting his blazer and shirt and tossing his tie aside since it had been drenched from your saliva.

"Didn't have to be such a tease."

"I thought that's what you wanted." He comes from behind you, lowering himself to your ear.

"You know I always want you though, so there's no need to be one. You ever think about that?" He says lowly near your ear as he lifts up your long lost panties with his finger.

[inwhichiramble]

Why Gabriel Agreste Should Have His Kneecaps Stolen

Good grief this dude ~Has *repeatedly* said he wants to rule the world ((in addition to his wish to resurrect Emilie; in fact, it was the first thing he ever said he wanted (Origins) and I really don’t think it was a red herring considering the actions that followed)) ~tried to pawn Ladybug's earrings AND Chat’s ring AS GABRIEL. How did he think that would go??? ~Uses as many as, if not more puns than his son (but they’re much worse) ~Akumatized himself?? Bro is dumb but not an idiot ~BATTED HIS SON OUT OF THE AIR LIKE SOME KIND OF DESPICABLE BABE RUTH WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU ~Does not like being around people (fair) ~Thought that he could make an akumatized baby work ~Knows very well that LB and CN are teens but he's very determined to obliterate them so that's fun ~Wanted to start WORLD WAR 3?? Like come on dude what on earth were you thinking??? ~When he thought Adrien was Chat Noir his response was to DROP HIS SON OFF A BUILDING ~Is extremely abusive like dude honestly ~Isolates and neglects his son for his whole life and then is like "kids should be able to do whatever and yadda yadda yadda" ~The only times he allows Adrien to do something he always has an ulterior motive and it's almost never in Adrien's best interest. Several time Nathalie has to remind him that he has a son.  ~Canonically threw a mini temper tantrum when Gigantitan completely ignored him (that was hilarious though) ~Has been saved by LB and CN TWICE as Gabriel, and was literally shown mercy as Hawkmoth despite being their mortal enemy and still did not care ~Has used the pun "revenge is a dish best served cold" at least THREE TIMES. Dude, plz think of something new ~This boi really said "feel the burn" ~Okay but how many times does he go in and out of his lair? I feel like people would start to notice his window opening and closing all the time lol. ~Gabe really backfired with his "let's akumatize a robot" plan, like that was an all time low ~Hawkmoth knows that akumatizing Marienette would be just about the smartest thing he could do as a villain. Obviously he doesn't know the biggest reason that this will work in his favor, but he knows that she would make a very strong supervillain. I'm very worried about this as A) he's right and B) it's probably foreshadowing ~Was about to let Feast eat every single miraculous known to France if he succeeded?? I mean, dude has nerve. ~HE HAS AN AGREEMENT WITH KAGAMI'S MOTHER??? WHAT IS THIS ABOUT??????? ~PRIORITIZES BEING HAWKMOTH OVER BEING A DECENT FATHER AND HUMAN BEING ~Like he says "this is so Adrien can be happy" and blah blah blah but doesn't even tell his son or ask him what he thinks or anything UGH ~Has literally no qualms about any destruction that might be caused by his or his akumas' actions. "no matter the cost" he says ~AS OF THE NEW YORK SPECIAL HE HAS AKUMATIZED MR. RAMIER FIFTY-ONE TIMES ~FIFTY-ONE TIMES ~Honestly dude give the guy a break, how desperate are you??? ~side note was the secret basement and akuma headquarters always in the Agreste Mansion or did he have them installed? How were the builders not suspicious? Who decorated these places? How does he cover up however he got all his butterflies? ~THIS MAN IS LITERALLY STUNTING THE GROWTH OF EVERYONE IN PARIS BECAUSE THEY DON'T LEARN HOW TO DEAL WITH THEIR EMOTIONS Obviously the game is changing as people are more used to akumas and LB's lucky charms are going into circulation, but some people aren't strong enough to fight off akumas! Only THREE PEOPLE have done it (Chloe, Alya, and Nino). Mr. Ramier was akumatized SEVENTY-TWO times and what do you think he learned from that??? NOTHING THAT'S WHAT. Because rather than having the ability to work out their emotions and deal with them accordingly, Parisians get akumatized and then forget everything that happened. They are very emotionally unstable, and we can very clearly see why! And them being weakened works in Hawky's favor. It's disgusting and I really hope everyone in Paris gets therapy or something. ~He flung a random teenager (Fei) by the arm through a waterfall and into a very deep well like some kind of despicable frisbee ~More evidence that he quite literally does not care about his son's needs if they get in the way of his villainism. The only time during Shanghai that he is concerned about Adrien is when the monster HE CREATED is about to destroy the whole city ~Since when has he called Marinette by her full name and HOW ON EARTH DOES HE NOT KNOW SHE'S LADYBUG ~Maybe he'll figure it out now, idk ~Also whatever this Prodigious is it has been made quite clear that Hawkmoth has been in the works long before Gabriel started sending out akumas. I strongly strongly suspect that there's something about Adrien we don't know yet because if this villainism has been in the works for 15 YEARS?? Yeah something is up. And, as has been stated by another fandom member... Mama Agreste might not be as great as we were led to believe. ~Gabe may have diverted his attention from Adrien being Chat but he is definitely, definitely suspicious of Marinette, I'm telling you ~His voice got more evil over time I swear ~Also again he was only worried about Adrien (before his plan backfired severely, AGAIN LOL) and not that the akuma might kill literally thousands of people in Shanghai, haha way to go Gabe ~Yeah sorry Mari but Hawky takes no vacations ~HE WENT AFTER NEW MAGIC AND THEN BECAME SHADOW MOTH?? W H A T ~Kay so apparently Shadowmoth is much smarter than Hawky. At least... more tactical.  And he accepts help from Nathalie. But he still ain't winning lol, even if he's getting closer. ~And even though he was *this close* to getting the turtle miraculous, he was even closer to getting HIS TWO MIRACULOUS STOLEN ~STOP REAKUMATIZING PEOPLE, IT'S NOT GONNA WORK ANYMORE ~On Mr. Pigeon's 24th akumatization Hawky was really like "this man is hopeless" and proceeds to akumatize him 48 more times ~I love how he assumes he's still gonna be Hawkmoth by the time LB  and CN are adults XD like he'd literally be in his 70s ~the fact that he had every single miraculous holder in one place and didn't realize it ~I love how he has no problem letting Alec watch his whole villain spiel ~mans really said that negative emotions turn him on ~the fact that one of his smarter villains was a five year old -_-

[sugiwa]

small dreams

It took one 27 second long video for Keigo to fall in love

The video looped through every news cycle, and each reaction varied from outright derision to almost mythical awe emerging. On YouTube, it was viral in fifty-three different countries and Starburst—a name derived from a candy company that the pro-hero was fond of—jokingly tweeted that she was more famous than All-Might.

And she might have been thanks to the reporter that not only caught her decking the father of a girl she just saved but also recorded the subsequent twenty-seven seconds it took for three police officers to pull her off him and pull her away. The peace sign Y/N threw up as the police led her into a car probably didn’t help, nor did the live stream of her twenty-four hours in a holding cell while they investigated her claim of the man’s abuse and finally released her.

Though there were news outlets that tried to pin Starburst down as a hero on the edge of villainy, her public reputation hadn’t taken any damage. It was hard, after all, to claim that she did the wrong thing when they heard the girl’s testimony and pulled her medical records. But, Starburst—or L/N Y/N—still faced punishment from the Hero Public Safety Commission despite all this.

Attacking an unarmed civilian was apparently a big no-no—even if he was an abusive asshole. She was spared having her license revoked until she retested the simple principle that she had refrained from using her quirk. Her sentence was lessened to a month-long suspension with a strict patrol schedule in some city near Tokyo.

Y/N could work with it. She could put up with the Commission’s inane chatter for the sake of her job, but she drew the line at issuing an apology. It took three hours to wiggle her way out of a press conference to address the event. By the time her meeting with the Commission and sentencing was done, Y/N retweeted the initial video with the caption: Totally worth it.

Keigo was slightly in love with Starburst. Maybe it was the way she strolled into the Hero Public Safety Commission building fresh out of handcuffs and bluntly told them that she wasn’t apologizing and would rather become a vigilante than listen to ten more minutes of them debating the future of her career.

Or maybe it was the video which he’d seen a hundred times over, where she looked like a hero. The kind he’d always dreamed of as a kid, the kind who swooped in and beat the bad guy and then offered you stickers and candy and told you everything would be alright because it was exactly what she’d done for that little girl.

Either way, L/N Y/N was a hero who deserved a little rest, which was why he was currently tailing her patrol route and taking care of the problems before she could move. Her quirk was right out of a comic book too. The golden energy that left her capable of issuing an instant KO.

“Will you leave me alone?” she snapped, finally turning around to glare at him. She had a warm face, not made for anger which was probably why the glare fell away a moment later, replaced by a smile. “I appreciate the help, but I’m not offering any fanservice in exchange.”

“Who said I was a fan?” His wings flapped, feathers flying back toward him.

“You regularly stalk girls mid-air? That sort of thing does not fly with me.” Y/N laughed, nose scrunching at her own joke. “Get it…cause we both fly….”

He smiled innocently, “Thought of that all on your own?”

Y/N groaned, twisting her earring, “Just because I didn’t go to a fancy-ass hero school like Wet Jeanist and Flameo Hotman doesn’t mean I’m dumb.”

Slight insulted by the nickname she gave his favorite hero, he asked, “Flameo Hotman? You mean Endeavor-san?”

“Ohhh, that’s a man-crush voice.” Her eyes tightened with mischief, “I’m gonna have to dip since I got a hot date with my credit card. See you later, Chicken Little.”

He watched her go in slight awe because Y/N really was as crazy as the stories said. Starburst was a hero that had a bit of a cult following. She wasn’t high enough in the rankings to be wildly popular the way he was—up until she went viral, that was. A graduate of Ketsubutsu who went on to attend college before actually becoming a hero, she was on a watch list with the Hero Public Safety Commission.

Apparently, non-conformity was an issue…who knew.

A rain of confetti fell over Keigo’s head, brightly colored and all covered in specks of glitter. He inhaled deeply, turning to see Starburst’s grinning face as she eagerly clapped. Endeavor, like always whenever he was forced to be in Starburst’s proximity, turned around and stalked down the hall. Her confetti burned in his wake. Y/N’s voice followed him, offering an empty congratulations to the hero.

“How’s my precious senpai doing?” she asked, turning her attention to him.

“You really know how to annoy him, huh?” asked Keigo staring at the empty hall. If you gave Y/N too much attention, she ran with it. “What’s the deal?”

Y/N shrugged, rolling her shoulders confidently, “Some people are not equipped to handle true talent.”

“Yeah, right,” snorted Keigo.

“I may or may not have drunkenly confessed that I had no idea who he was to a bunch of reporters during last week.” Y/N made a rude gesture with her hand. “I mean, if you’re not Number One, then do you really matter?”

“Harsh,” he ruffled his wings, freeing the last of her glitter confetti and letting it rain on the ground. “You all good with the Commission now?”

“All thanks to you! I owe you one, you know that?”

“Nah,” Keigo waved her off, resisting the urge to laugh as she made her bright eyes as wide as possible. “It was pretty brave of you. Plus, I think anyone would have done the same thing.”

Three months out of trouble, Y/N once again made headlines for ‘accidentally’ dropping a child trafficker off a building. She caught him before he hit the ground, but apparently, the authorities deemed the emotional damage a little extreme.

“They probably would have been a bit smarter about it, though.”

“Well, don’t worry, no one expects you to be the brains.”

Y/N pouted. “True.”

Keigo laughed. “What are you doing here anyway? You’re not in the top ten.”

“Is bullying the new rage these days?” Her pout grew, arms crossing over her chest, “Everyone’s got something snippy to say to me. Where’s Rumi when I need her?”

“Gonna hide behind her?”

“Fuck yeah.” Y/N nodded emphatically as she reached into her pocket for a pack of gum. She offered him a piece. “Let’s see how your chicken wings stand against her legs.”

Keigo looked at the gum and then her. The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, “Wanna get something to eat?”

Her smile looked like the sun, “Thought you’d never ask.”

“So, what’s the deal with you and Dragonbreath?” asked Y/N, sprawling across his couch. It was the third time this week she was here. He should tell her to leave, but the words die in his throat in his mouth every time he tried.

There’s too much risk. Dabi’s listening in on everything he does these days, and he doesn’t want her anywhere near them. Not when he’s aware of what they’re planning. Not when he knows how Y/N would react.

She was rough and improper in everything she does, but there’s no one brighter or better when it came to genuine goodness.

Keigo dodged the question with his own. “Endeavor again?”

“Ran into him last week and got yelled at for ten minutes for getting in his way. The guy was in my path, and I’m the one getting yelled at? Next time, I’m drop-kicking him off his skyscraper.” She kicked her leg in the air, reminding him that she was scarcely dressed.

Was this what having a girlfriend like? Constantly jumping between fondness and horniness? He wasn’t complaining.

He heard this threat a million times. “Still mad about the fact that he has one?”

“I’m a simple country girl. I’d be happy with a peach orchard and some chickens.”

“Come here,” he crooked his finger at her. Y/N got up instantly, crossing the room toward the balcony where he stood. Her hands wrapped around his waist, slipping under his shirt, across his skin, over his chest. Too much and too little at the same time.

“You’ll get cold out here,” she murmured. He could sink in the warmth she offered.

“It’s nice seeing the world so still.”

A noise left her throat, wet and worried, “Hawks, whatever it is, whatever they’re making you do, I’ll be here. I promise.”

People joked about Y/N being dumb—he did it too often to count, but she saw more than most people did when it mattered.

“Why’d you become a hero?”

“Saved a cute boy once, and he gave me a kiss,” she said. He’d heard that story before. She offered it in every interview, never expanding on what boy or how she saved him. It was also a glaring lie.

He didn’t push her. He lied about too many things to count.

Keigo took her face between his hands—the urge to kiss that tiny speck by her eyes thrummed through him. It would take a thousand-thousand years for him to forget her face. Y/N turned, her lips skimming his palm, cold and warm at once.

He loved her because she was Y/N. Because in her, he could love himself and not grow cold from it. Because the numbness he’d always known leaked out in place of affection. He loved her boundlessly—above, below, and across—unhindered, without ill will, without enmity.

It was with her that he was Takami Keigo and not the current Number Two.

His hand cupped her neck, fingers tangling in the curls of her hair. Her lips opened under his. A trail of fire burst across his lips, and for a moment, he only knew the sweetness of her mouth. He drank her in, each breath, each hushed sound leaving her throat.

He would do what they asked and make the choices no one else could.

It was worth the world he dreamed of.

[mymoonagedaydream]

Not sure what kind of AUs you write, but could you possibly do a Mob!Bucky x Soft!reader? And by soft!reader I mean she’s generally very kind, gentle, and cutesy, the “wouldn’t hurt a fly” type, except when defending those she cares for, then it’s like someone flipped a switch and she’s hell on wheels lol

All Bark and No Bite

Summary: When you fell on hard times, comfort came from the very last place you expected

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Soft!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Language, intimidating behaviour

Author’s Note: I really loved this request :) thanks so much anon

---

Approaching the front door of your apartment, you heard low talking coming from inside. Your dad hadn’t mentioned anything about having guests over, but you were making his favourite spaghetti for dinner, so maybe he’d just invited a friend over to try it.

He loved showing you off to people, and you loved the proud smile he wore whenever he did.

You turned the key and pushed open the door, seeing your father in the front room, sitting beside a youngish man you didn’t recognise. Clean shaven with neatly slicked back hair and a pretty expensive-looking suit, he was absolutely nothing like the friends who were usually brought home for dinner.

As soon as your father saw you he jumped up from the couch, looking a little antsy. ‘Hi sweetie. This is Bucky, a friend from work.’ He walked over to you and gave you a kiss on the cheek, before turning round to look back at his friend. ‘This is my daughter, y/n.’

You gave Bucky a warm smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too darlin.’ He had a thick, deep Brooklyn accent that made your stomach tingle.

‘Are you staying for dinner? I’m making spaghetti.’

Bucky sent a nervous look towards your father, who seemed to be attempting a very subtle head shake, hoping you wouldn’t notice. There was definitely something weird going on, you could’ve cut the tension in the room with a knife.

‘That’s alright.’ Bucky eventually replied. ‘I should get going soon.’

There was a slightly uncomfortable silence as you took your coat off and hung it by the front door. Only when you walked through to the kitchen did you hear the deep mumbling start again, far too quietly for you to make out any of the words.

You heard the front door open and close, then you heard your dad quickly shuffle into his bedroom.

---

An hour after the guest had left, dinner was ready, but your father was still locked away. You walked to his bedroom and timidly knocked on the door, inching it open to see him sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

‘Dad? Is everything alright?’

He looked up, you could immediately tell he’d been crying. He sighed and patted the bed, inviting you to sit by him.

‘I sorry, sweetheart.’ He reached out for your hand and squeezed it. ‘You know we’ve been struggling a bit lately and, well, I owe some money to some bad people.’

‘That man, who was here earlier?’

‘He’s one of them, but he was here to try and help me out. If they found out he could get into a lot of trouble.’

His grip on your hand was tightening, almost to the point of being painful, but if that’s what he needed to do to keep him grounded then you were happy to let him.

‘How bad is it?’

He turned to look at you, tears welling in his eyes. ‘We could lose everything.’

That hit you like a punch in the gut. He looked absolutely devastated. You hadn’t seen him like this for years, not since you lost your mother.

You moved your arms to circle his shoulders, giving him a tight hug.

‘It’s okay dad. We’ll figure it out.’

---

The next day, while your father was out at work, you were woken by aggressive banging on your apartment door. You considered ignoring it, but they didn’t let up, almost thudding the door off of its hinges.

Opening it cautiously, you saw two burly, intimidating guys staring down at you, and Bucky stood slightly behind them looking a little sheepish.

‘Hey there sweet thing.’ The one at the front said, his alcoholic breath washing over your face. ‘Is your daddy home?’

‘No, he’s not.’ Bucky’s face dropped slightly, obviously shocked by your firm tone.

‘Can you tell me where he is sugar?’

‘No.’

Bad breath gave a low, sinister chuckle before stepping forward and lowering his face to level with yours. ‘I really think you should. We don’t want to have to do this the hard way.’

You were probably being stupid and reckless, but no way were you going to be intimidated into compromising your dad’s safety. You leaned in even closer to your unwelcome guest, leaving barely an inch between your forehead and his.

‘If you so much as touch me, I’ll scream this fucking building to the ground.’

It took a second, but he eventually backed up. ‘I like you, kid. I’ll be seeing you. Soon.’

He turned and walked away, the other man you didn’t recognise following him closely. Bucky hesitated for a second, staring at you while his mouth curled into an impressed smile. He grabbed a cigarette from behind his ear and put it between his lips, winking at you before finally following his colleagues down the hallway.

After firmly pushing the door closed and sliding the chain across, you squeezed your eyes shut and let out a few shaky breaths, thankful that you’d come out of that interaction unscathed.

You never told your father what had happened. He had enough to worry about.

---

A few days later, you were working a double shift at the diner, trying to earn as much money as you could to help your dad out. You’d been on your feet for thirteen hours straight but, thankfully, it was pretty late, so the place was almost completely dead.

You were filling up the coffee machine with beans when you heard the bell above the door go. Turning your head, you saw Bucky saunter in, eyes glued to the newspaper in his hands.

He took a seat at the counter. You wiped your hands on your apron and went to stand opposite him.

‘Hi there.’ He seemed to recognise your voice, his head snapped up as soon as you spoke.

‘Hey.’ A wide smile spread across his face. ‘I’ve never seen you in here before.’

‘I don’t usually do the graveyard shift. Just, y’know, trying to earn some extra money.’

His smile dropped slightly after hearing the exhaustion in your voice.

You hadn’t intended to make him feel guilty. If anything, you owed him your gratitude, cause knowing that there was someone else helping your father out made you feel so much better about this shitty situation.

‘Coffee?’ You chirped, trying to lighten the mood a little.

‘Great, thanks.’ You grabbed him a mug and started pouring. ‘I, uh- I’m really sorry about the other day. Doorstep intimidation was really unwarranted, I tried to convince them out of it.’

‘It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.’

He smirked slightly. ‘You handled it well enough. I was impressed.’

‘Oh I’m definitely all bark and no bite.’ You passed him his coffee and gave him a warm smile. ‘But keep that to yourself.’

Pottering around behind the counter for a while, you felt his gaze on you whenever you passed by him. It was actually quite nice, having this devilishly handsome man show some interest, so you found yourself coming up with as many excuses as possible to walk in front of him.

Ten-or-so minutes after he’d arrived, you had to duck into the kitchen briefly, and when you came out you found yourself pretty disappointed to see that he’d left.

You trudged over to his empty coffee mug, picking it up and double-taking when you saw that it’d been sitting on top of a fifty dollar note.

He must’ve left it by accident, surely? Fifty dollars is a ridiculous tip for a cup of coffee.

You slid it into your apron, figuring you’d give it back next time you saw him. You could even use it as an excuse to get your dad to invite him back to the house, but you hoped you wouldn’t have to resort to that- you hoped that maybe he’d come around by choice.

---

It’d been a week since you’d seen Bucky at the diner, the fifty dollar note was still sitting in your bedside dresser. Your father had been going downhill, getting worse everyday, and the temptation to give the money to him was getting more and more difficult to resist.

Coming back from the grocery store, you climbed the stairs of your apartment building and turned into your hallway, the sight that greeted you making you stop dead.

Bucky was sitting outside your apartment, leaning against the door, looking like he’d just been in a horrific car crash. As soon as he saw you he struggled up onto his feet, the full extent of his injuries becoming apparent as you got closer.

‘I’m really sorry y/n, I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘God Bucky, what happened to you?’

‘They found out what I’ve been doing.’

Your eyes widened in shock. ‘They did all this just because you helped my dad out?’

‘Not exactly.’ He winced as he limped out of the way of your door. ‘I haven’t been playing ball with them for years, I’m tangled up in more shit than I can keep track of.’

It was definitely a stupid idea to let a guy being chased by the mob into your home, you knew that, but you were really struggling not to feel sorry for him. He looked completely broken.

‘My dad’s gonna be out all day.’ His dejected nod at that was the final straw, you knew you had to help him. ‘But I’ll clean you up.’

You gave him a reassuring smile as you let him through the door. He steadily lowered himself onto the couch while you fetched a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. You didn’t really know what you were doing, but you figured at the very least you could give him a bit of comfort and wipe all the dried blood off his face.

You took your makeshift first aid kit into the front room and sat next to him.

‘Look at me.’ He shifted his face towards you. You wrung out the cloth and gently pressed it to a deep gash above his eyebrow, making him wince. ‘I’m really sorry this happened, you didn’t deserve it.’

He chuckled lightly. ‘You gotta teach me how to do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Flick between the nicest and the scariest person I’ve ever met.’

You gave him a faintly amused smile. ‘We lost my mom when I was a kid, my dad needed all the kindness he could get.’ Bucky looked a little shocked at your honesty. ‘But he’s also stupid as hell, so he needs defending pretty often.’

‘He’s lucky to have you.’

Your eyes flicked to meet his, sensing a hint of sadness behind his words. ‘Do you have anyone?’

‘If I did, I probably wouldn’t have ended up beat to shit and on the run.’

You sighed and nodded, dropping the cloth back into the bowl and scanning your eyes over his face again. ‘That’s about the best I can do. You’ve stopped bleeding, but you won’t be winning any beauty contests for a while.’

He chuckled and ran his hand over his hair, taking a deep breath.

You were really conflicted about what to do next. Having him here could put both you and your father at risk, but were you really just going to throw him back out on the street? Anything could happen to him out there, you’d never forgive yourself if he would up in an even worse state.

‘Bucky, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.’

‘Thanks.’ You could almost see a wave of relief passing over him. ‘I don’t think my place is safe at the moment.’

You reached out for his hand and squeezed it tight, a calm silence falling as your eyes locked together. He slowly moved his free hand up to brush a strand of hair away from your eyes, then letting it come to rest at your jawline, gently cupping the side of your face.

You closed your eyes and settled further into his hand, almost feeling yourself melting under his soft touch. Between working and looking after your father, you’d never really had the chance to get close to anyone like this, so these sensations were pretty new to you.

You felt his body shift slightly, and a second later felt his lips press against yours. It was unexpected, shocking you a little at first, but it didn’t take long before you relaxed completely and returned the kiss. It felt like there was electricity flowing through your body, making all your hairs stand up and your stomach do flips.

Getting a little carried away, you lifted your hands up to hold his face to, completely forgetting his extensive bruising. He winced slightly and pulled away.

‘Oh god, sorry I forgot.’

‘S’alright.’ He flashed you a wide smile. ‘I knew you had some bite in you.’

---

[project-paranoia]

Let’s Watch: Yin Yang Master: Dream of Eternity

I have watched this movie 85 Whole Entire Times and I do not regret.  The only thing wrong with this movie is that it wasn't a fifty episode series.  I cried, I laughed, I fell in love.  The cinematography is on point, the acting is amazing, the crew member who put snow on people's eyebrows did an amazing job, and the acting!  The subtlety, the gentleness, the love and affection, the discussion of race is one of the best I've ever seen.

As people have pointed out before in series like X-Men that fear of mutant's is practically if not thematically justified due to the laser eyes in a way that fear of ethnic minorities just isn't in real life.  In Dream of Eternity however humans are equally if not sometimes more super powered than the yao they hunt.  Demons - very much not in the Christian sense - are a mixture of spirits, resentful souls, and animals and plants who cultivated to human form.  They often appear human at first glance and in some cases the extent of their power seems to be the limited to turning into a smaller more vulnerable animal.  Qingming's deliberate care and gentleness not only reflects his upbringing as a Yin Yang Master, but parallels the experience of racial minorities labelled as aggressive.

The movie takes particular care as well in the way it looks at trauma, grief, and love.  The three of which haunt the main characters and send out ripple effects into the world around them.  In the world of Dream of Eternity no loss is purely private, it spools out into the world around the person effected until they make an effect to acknowledge and deal with their experiences.  Qingming's warmth and gentleness isn't just marked by his behaviour but by the orange light he's lit by and his variety of shishen - but he is also separate, standing alone in frame and facing away from the people around him.  Boya's loss has made him unforgiving and as cold as the blue light he's lit in, and yet he is open and instinctive, talking and acting as soon as the thought enters his head.  The Empress is lost and drifting, trapped and grief stricken, vulnerable to those who profess to love her.  The film is simple, it says and shows what it means when it means it - but it is also as complex as the very human characters it depicts.  

The movie is made even more complex by its pull from theaters.  Claims of plagiarism drench the edges of the movie, which as true as the assertion that Fan BingBing went on a spa vacation in 2018.  Although this blog is about Chinese censorship dealing specifically with BL content, Chinese censorship also effects those who criticize governmental policy.  I hope that supporters of this blog will also support Chinese media threatened by censorship for many reasons so that artists and others involved in film making can continue to make meaningful content.

Doing a watchthrough of a movie is not feasible, but please enjoy a few thousand words - with spoilers on Yin Yang Master included:

* That gentle chiming and rain soundscaping is so soothing, what a great way to calm and lull the audience before the movie even starts * Qingming is so small and isolated in the frame - cinema! * The lighting and cinematography is just so good * Shifu, soft gentle teacher * So much love stored in the Shifu * Instant grow * This boy is Sassy * This theme of deflection in Qingming's character is established early * Deflection with a teleportation portal and then immediately deflection verbally * Shifu is certainly an attractive man aged up, but his face is also soft and gentle, something to note when his double pops up later * Also the awkward question of don't you have someone you want to protect, maybe part of the problem is that shifu is just really bad at wording things * The answer that yes he does has several meanings, one of which is immediately apparent when Shifu acts out one of those Father Saves Child By Yeeting them youtube videos * ACtion MuSIC * I love them your honour * The spirit guardian's design is so specific and elegant, absolutely superb you funky little shishen * I wonder if Qingming ever thinks about that if he didn't come back with all his fellow disciples that Shifu would have been fine * Maybe it's not that he doesn't have someone he wants to protect and more that he believes that he's not capable of protecting those he wants to * subtle indication Shifu's qi is corrupted * Precious Magic Childe ;-; * The framing, I'm living for it * The Serpent graphic is lovely * Also the way they set things up * Qingming cares so much about his shifu * Mark Chao just has the ability to crumple his face like paper * Sad Time exposition involving the corrupting influence of desires * "When you're gone I'll be all alone" in just about all you need to know about Qingming at this point in the story * Also like, sympathy for Shifu in raising this lonely child.  By all accounts he was an absolutely superb father figure, and Qingming I'm sure was not an easy child to raise.  He's the sort of kid that would take a lot of calm and patience. * Slumber party! * It's kind of interesting that this is an activity Fangyue and He Shouyue are doing together.  He's definitely obsessed and in love with her and she's just doing friends and family activities with him * Also yellow/gold lighting is kind of their thing * It's interesting how they do the make up for He Shouyue.  The actor is very attractive, but they make him up to look doll like, a little too pretty, a little too shiny.  Like a porcelain doll. * Cool lit Boya and warm lit Qingming appear! * Camels! * The framing is so good, they're careful to be sure he's shown as obviously isolated as much as possible * And it should go without saying that I adore the City * The matte painting is outstanding * But there's also the lighting, the vignettes, the clusters, the foliage * It is a supremely beautiful set * The irony that Killing Stone is playing along with Boya's music and then it's Boya who kicks him around * A small note, but one I appreciate - even when Boya has warm highlight's they're red instead of orange * "It's Jason Bourne!" * I hope Qingming paid for that water taxi * It's interesting how Killing Stone goes from the safety of Qingming's orange light to the danger of Qingming's blue * Colour related foreshadowing! * Look at this poor sweet man, how could anyone suspect him of anything.  He's just a sad man who loves his dead wife * Qingming's use of a fan is interesting - battle fans show up all over wuxia and xianxia, but it feels like it also ties into the way he's so very careful in how he presents himself.  There's that quote that a sword can only be a sword but other weapons are also able to serve other purposes - not a perfect quote but the point is got across. * The way Qingming just knocks Boya back, like get An Clue, my dude * The way that Killing Stone curls around the pipa ;-; * So the movie is based on the book series 'Onmyoji' by Yumemakura Baku.  The books start with Seimei (Qingming) and Hiromasa (Boya) already in a relationship talking about various cases Seimei has recently experienced.  Plotwise, obviously the stories are different, however thematically Seimei and Hiromasa discuss why some yao stick around and solutions to the difficulties and dangers they might cause - which is generally from Seimei's very successful perspective to listen and treat them like humans.  So in that way the plots of the books and the movie are quite different, but the themes are just about identical. * Boya says Don't Talk Me I Angy and also that demons don't have feelings and Qingming's face takes out a billboard that's just like Ah, Another Fantasy Racist, Excellent * Qingming also does what should be done in this situation, taking care of the victim not the racist * Fight scene!  Fight scene! * Qingming's first few moves aren't to attack, they're to distract and just hold his fan up to block Boya's way and his view - it's only when Boya persists in attacking that Qingming fights back * Qingming's sassy smile, he is very much deliberately irritating Boya as much as he's refocusing his attention and distracting him * "nICE sWORD" * I've sighed that sigh before * This boy is taking great pleasure from teasing Boya, but also he makes a really good point * I understand and relate to what Qingming did, but also I can understand why Boya was ready to throw rocks at Qingming when he saw him again * Killing Stone lit in Qingming's orange light again * Killing Stone, my beloved * A good gauge to the state of the world for yao is no one has told this sweet boy before that demons have feelings too * There are several lines like this in the movie that just drop kick you with Implications * The same way Qingming clung to Zhongxing, Killing Stone wants to join up with Qingming to have some compassion in his life * The way he asks to be a spirit guardian is so formal too, and Qingming is so gentle with him, I cry ;-; * The warm orange light of Qingming's love ;-; * He heals the wounds * It took me an embarrassing amount of time to realise it's the actual imperial degree speaking and not one the of Jingyun Temple Masters * The mutual this guy again is delicious * "Is it because of your pretty face" * Boya draws his sword so fast and Qingming is so amused by it * Longye!  Queen!  I love her! * The two of them seem to understand each other instantly * Those sassy little smiles * He Shouyue looks even more like a doll than before * Longye has her head on a swivel from second one, she plays the Maiden so well like she's not a skilled master * And her customer service smile * Qingming is shooketh

* What happens next?  You'll have to watch and find out!

[everythingsinred]

Let's Talk About NatsuMikan: Natsume (pt. 12)

Oof, the long-awaited Christmas Ball arc has finally arrived! Let's get into it!

What does it look like to see Natsume at his most selfish? One needs only to look at Chapter Fifty.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The Christmas Ball is finally here!

Natsume has to begin the ball just like he has to begin the festival, sitting on stage with the other Principal students, as if he’s some kind of representative. When he catches Mikan looking at him, he sticks his tongue out at her, and she’s taken aback and offended, but he’s trying to be cute. When Natsume is around Mikan, they always bicker and argue. She’s someone he can argue with, something he can’t do with most people. He can’t argue with the people in the DA class because he’ll get punished. He can’t argue with Ruka because he already causes him enough stress. With Mikan, none of the arguments are deep. She forgives and forgets easily, and he can act freely act like a little kid. In the last chapter, even, he smiles at her when they’re in the midst of an argument, because just the freedom of being able to bicker makes him happy.

He's trying to be cute, so go easy on him, Mikan.

He sticks his tongue out at her, acting silly and childish, because she’s special and he can act silly and childish around her.

For most of the ball, Natsume is content to sit in the tree, minding his own business and keeping away from the commotion. He does notice Mikan, though, because he always does, when she acts as Trash Santa to help Youichi play with Mr. Bear. He doesn’t say anything, and he’s only present for a couple panels, but it’s obvious she stands out to him.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Natsume is eating a good piece of cake when he meets with Ruka, who is overcome with guilt for kissing Mikan on the cheek a few minutes ago. Ruka knows that Natsume likes Mikan too, but he doesn’t understand that Natsume has jumped that ship before it could even leave the dock. Natsume gets that Ruka is conflicted about something, so he playfully squeezes Ruka’s nose to assure him in his own way. Natsume’s love language is physical touch even if it is awkward, whether it’s ruffling Ruka’s hair or squeezing his nose. That’s how he comforts people, particularly Ruka.

It apparently does make Ruka feel better, because when he next sees Mikan, he doesn’t freak out like she does. He’s calmed down a bit, isn’t quite as guilty. So he does his own version of what Natsume did for him at the alice festival closing dance. He gets Mikan to dance with Natsume. It’s his way of evening the score, giving Natsume the same chance he got. Either he doesn’t understand that Natsume isn’t playing the game at all, or he’s trying to convince him to start.

He walks away and Natsume and Mikan are left standing there without their masks. There’s a moment of awkwardness, where they stand around and don’t say anything, but Natsume has a moment of resolve. He takes her hand and pulls her close. It starts off proper and gentle, like a dance is supposed to be. They dance and Natsume notices that Mikan is not happy to be with him at all. She’s quiet and frowning. He’s seen her smile while dancing before, because she always catches his eye, so he knows she’s capable of it. She’s danced with Ruka, Tsubasa, Narumi, and all sorts of people, and she’s had a big grin on her face for all of it. For some reason, that smile is absent when her partner is Natsume.

Natsume got upset and hurt when Mikan said she would never want to dance the last dance with him. He’s hurt now that she seems so reluctant to dance with him in a zero-stakes dance at the Christmas Ball. He will be hurt in the future too, because he has a low self esteem. This girl that he likes may see him as a friend, but she gets so uneasy around him, and only him. Natsume thinks he cares so much more about her than she does about him, and it’s moments like these where he gets the feeling more than ever, and it hurts. He thinks it’s a given. He’s helped make it happen on purpose. But he still wishes deep down that it wasn’t that way.

He's doing everything right and she's still upset to dance with him! What's her deal? (heheheh)

And so he argues with her. Why isn’t she smiling with him, huh? He’s doing it all right, the way he’s supposed to. He’s dancing normally and she seems to hate it. He turns to insults because it’s his most reliable technique, and suddenly Mikan is energetic.

To avoid making a scene, they bicker and insult each other under their breaths, dancing just the same as they had before, but with a new aura around them. He twirls her and she’s smiling now. And his eyes get soft, because that’s all he wanted. One moment of selfishness for him to keep in his memories, where they danced and she actually liked it.

The moment ends when they get shoved and fall over, Mikan landing with her teeth on Natsume’s lip.

They’re both tense and uncomfortable with what just happened in front of so many people. Natsume hates that he tripped in front of everybody, so his mood has suddenly soured. If this had been a proper kiss, he wouldn’t have gotten so angry, and he won’t, spoiler alert. He was actually having a nice time, only for the moment to be so abruptly stolen from him. He fell down and now his lip is bleeding. Her teeth hitting his mouth also could be the closest he’ll ever get to a kiss with Mikan, and she looks horrified. Being under so many watchful eyes, all nervous about what’s about to happen. He has very few options, really. He can walk away, or he can cause upset. Natsume isn’t in the mood to run away, since he’s already embarrassed himself by tripping, so he tells her that she’s bad at dancing and kissing, even though he obviously very much likes dancing with her.

He is a problem child.

Chapter Fifty

Mikan is enraged that he had the audacity to call what happened a kiss. There’s also the trouble of Ruka, who had been nice and arranged for them to dance in the first place, only for this to happen.

Now it’s Natsume’s turn to feel guilty. It was an accident, of course, but Natsume already messed up by calling it a kiss, so now Ruka is upset. The only thing he can say to comfort his friend is to downplay it, acting as if everyone is making a big deal over nothing.

Don't worry about it, man. It's a whatever situation.

Natsume’s admirers take that as some sort of confirmation that he’s the man, probably going around kissing all the time. This really meant nothing, because it’s just one kiss of many. It’s far from the truth: Natsume has never kissed anybody before. This kiss doesn’t mean anything only because it was an accident.

Natsume escapes. He feels horrible for hurting Ruka, and probably let down that the teeth-kiss is the closest he’ll ever get to the real thing, least of all with Mikan. He stays in his tree, safe and isolated, alone with his thoughts. He has no intention of returning to the party.

In fact, it’s Mikan who finds him, when she climbs up the tree to find someone to comfort her. She’s looking for Tsubasa or Hotaru or Ruka or Iinchou. Not him. She admits that she’s just settling for him (or at least that’s the way it comes off in the TokyoPop version), and not being one of the people she can count on is something that he sadly resigns himself to.

Still, even if she’s only venting to him because there’s nobody else around, he listens to her whole story.

Just like with the Christmas Ball prep, he insults her and it somehow works. The worry leaves her face and she grins.

Forgive me. These scans leave much to be desired. Apologies.

Natsume is a bit preoccupied. He’s had some time to think and he has a lot on his mind, so he reminds her that she was angry at him just a bit ago, reviving her rage. It’s short-lived, though, because then he asks what happened between her and Ruka. Mikan shuts down, then tries to change the subject, mentioning all the gossip about his many kisses, suggesting Natsume talk about himself before demanding to know other people’s business, which leads him to the conclusion that she’d kissed Ruka.

They argue a bit more, but then she insists that the accident before didn’t count as a kiss, so he decides to fix that.

Natsume’s selfish acts are still in the single-digits, but this belongs on the shortest list in the world. Keep in mind that Natsume is convinced that Mikan and Ruka kissed already. They did, but that was a cheek kiss, and not on the same level. He has no idea. They’re arguing, so it won’t seem romantic or mushy at all, especially when compared to whatever Ruka surely did (though he did not do anything at all, in fact) and she won’t get the wrong (right) idea. It seems like a low-consequence move, like something he could do, so that he could have it for the rest of his life and then die with it. He doesn’t dare assume it’ll mean something to her.

He pulls her into a kiss, in any case.

She pushes him away, gasping for breath.

He explains that he did it because she said it wasn’t real before. An easy excuse. Then he muses, “So that’s what kissing is like…” and essentially answers her question from earlier, about all the rumors that he has plenty of experience kissing. He says it’s no big deal and then jumps from the tree.

"Wow! That sucked! Let's do more of this next year!"

To him, it is a big deal.

He says things aren’t a big deal when he wishes he could do them, like competing in the alice festival and now with kissing. Things are a big fuss over nothing when he can’t do them but wants to. Just like the alice festival, this is something he can’t look forward to. This is done, and it’ll probably--definitely--never happen again. Being selfish once is one thing. He wouldn’t do that to Ruka.

Downplaying it is supposed to comfort her. It’s no big deal after all, so she can just move on and keep kissing Ruka, which she probably prefers anyway. It obviously meant a lot to him, since in about a year he’d ask for more and more kisses, but for now, he’s content with one. It’s all he can ask for, and all he needs. Just one kiss, to know what it’s like to kiss the girl he loves. And now he’s done.

His post-kiss behavior is all for her sake, acting casual and blase about it so that she doesn’t catch on that it meant something more to him. “Huh, whatever,” is an easier kiss to get over than a romantic and sappy one, in his mind.

Besides, she’s not like him. It’s not like she’s never kissed somebody before.

Chapter Fifty-One

It’s post-Christmas cleaning day in Class B and the kids are gathering in a circle to tell scary stories on their lunch break. Koko calls Natsume over to make a demon fire for the atmosphere. Ruka and Natsume catch Mikan’s gaze and she runs to avoid them both.

She’s an anxious mess because of the Christmas Ball, unable to look either of them in the eye.

Natsume and Ruka both join the group anyway, and once Mikan is thoroughly spooked, Natsume scares her even more with Yo-chan’s help. It’s not that he wants her to suffer, but he wants to seem as unaffected as possible. See, he’s right back to normal, so there’s nothing to worry about. She doesn’t need to freak out about what happened, because ultimately, nothing happened. It was no big deal, a big fuss over nothing.

Jinno then separates the class into smaller cleaning groups, and Mikan is stuck with Natsume and Ruka. She’s awkward and anxious, Ruka’s embarrassed and doesn’t know what to say, and Natsume’s not the type to talk much anyway.

He isn’t really the kind of person who fixes things, but it’s on him now, because the other two sure as hell won’t. So first he teases Mikan by scaring her. She gets a little upset, so he tells her to quit ignoring Ruka. He makes it about Ruka, because he’s okay being the one ignored. Again, he’s never considered himself in the running for Mikan’s affections. He’s Team Ruka, all the way.

Ruka is touched, and there’s obviously no hard feelings about the accidental kiss at the ball. That doesn’t mean that they’re talking much, or that there’s no tension. They both know that something happened with the other in regards to Mikan, and broaching that topic is uncomfortable. They’ve been letting it sit for so long untouched--months even, since the very start of it all--and it’s only gotten bigger and bigger.

Before they can have an actual conversation, though, the lights go out.

They’re all sitting against the wall, Ruka and Natsume on either side of Mikan.

They’re both aware that Mikan is easily scared and that she’s particularly afraid of the dark, and so they both independently decide to hold her hand in an attempt to comfort her. Natsume remembers how afraid she’d been when they were trapped together in the haunted house, and how all she’d wanted at the time was to hold his hand, because if they’re touching, they’ll be warm and less scared.

Don't overthink it, Mikan. You might figure him out.

For now, it’s not about being selfish, just being helpful, because he wants to reassure her and comfort her. He’s learning ways that he can be comforting to Mikan, that don’t necessarily involve insults and getting her mad.

But then he looks up and he and Ruka notice each other, see what the other is doing, and after all this built-up tension and awkwardness and lack of conversation, it only makes sense that…

They start laughing. They start talking, suddenly so honest, because the hardest part is over. They got to skip over the confrontation and now they can just talk about it with each other. They’ve known the truth about each other all along, but now they don’t have to pretend to hide it anymore.

And Ruka feels free to tease Natsume, and Natsume can tease Ruka, and that’s amazing too. Even before Mikan came to the academy, Natsume and Ruka had a lot left unsaid. They didn’t communicate well, and their talks never involved bickering or friendly teasing. It’s like all the tension that had accrued between them for years has suddenly lifted, and they can laugh about it now.

There's so much honesty here now.

Natsume can tease that Ruka has terrible taste in women, Ruka can shoot back that that means Natsume does too, and Natsume can scold him for putting himself on his level.

If anything, this was good for their relationship. They’re in a place now where they can communicate about their feelings somewhat. Natsume is never really that emotionally open, even at his most communicative, and he’ll continue to keep his secrets, but the wall that has built between them has been more or less knocked down.

This moment doesn’t seem romantic at all to Mikan, but romance is intrinsic to their conversation. Ruka swears he won’t lose, and Natsume scoffs that he’d never intended to win in the first place.

And just like that, without even including Mikan in their conversation, everything is back to normal, or even better than normal. The Christmas Ball tensions have officially been eliminated. The feelings may still be there, but the problems are gone.

But it’s still dark and scary, and now it seems that a ghost has joined them in the hall, wielding scissors--so Ruka and Mikan run away. Natsume is not so easily spooked, so he sticks around long enough to see that the ghost in question is Nobara.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Natsume starts his conversation with Nobara by reminding her of an off-screen (off-page?) conversation, where he told her to stay away from Mikan. Nobara explains that she came to see him, because she was watching Mikan for the entire Christmas party and has something to tell him. Though it’s a bit creepy, the lengths Nobara went to in order to watch Mikan (including special opera glasses that catch sound), she says she saw something strange.

At first, Natsume thinks she’s going to mention the kiss, and he’s uncomfortable that Nobara probably knows about it. First, she’s still just as untrustworthy to him as before, because she’s loyal to Persona. That their kiss might get back to Persona could be potentially quite dangerous, and he might face serious punishment as a result. Secondly, he’s also capable of getting embarrassed, and the idea that this girl was watching when he had no idea at all, especially during such a vulnerable moment, is a little off-putting.

But Nobara isn’t talking about the kiss. She’s talking about the fact that the person who danced with Mikan and upset her by making her mask fall was probably the ESP. She tells Natsume because she’s seen the way he looks at her and she knows that he cares about her. She can even tell that Natsume forbidding her from talking to Mikan is his way of protecting her, even though she must not be a fan of such a rule. She’s a middle-schooler, and not as close to Mikan, but Natsume is in her class. He’s her partner and he cares about her, so he is the best person to have protecting her. Because he will, no questions asked.

Natsume remembers the warning he’s been given, that he should continue isolating himself or bad things will happen to his loved ones, so we can tell that he finds himself somewhat responsible for the ESP upsetting Mikan. More than that, he’s understandably concerned that this is merely the first move of many, and that the ESP will continue to antagonize her and even put her in danger, and that it would all be his fault.

In any case, Natsume is kind of stuck regarding his options.

He can go back to trying to avoid her. He was never that great at it in the first place, but it’s bound to be even harder now. But he also has to protect her, and that will be harder to do from a distance. Besides, the damage seems to have already been done. Whatever happens, he’s willing to take all the punishment in her stead, as long as she’s safe.

Conclusion

Natsume has done all he intends to do: he got a kiss from Mikan and now he'll more or less step aside. Or will he? The plot thickens! But in any case, he's up to face some serious repercussions for his actions so far, and his punishment will be any day now...

Also, sorry, I couldn't find full scans for Chapter Fifty-Two, so there's no pics. It's okay, I wouldn't have done much for it anyway, because Natsume's only around for a few pages.

Hope y'all are having a nice day! Thank you so much for reading this far!

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[ibijau]

How to Woo a Lan pt1 / On AO3

Jin Ling is determined to court Lan Sizhui, but can't seem to say two words to him without insulting him. He decides that what he needs is the help of someone who has already successfully seduced a Lan, and he knows something about Nie Huaisang that others don't.

It had been, to put it mildly, a bit of a wild year. Jin Ling had gone from being treated as a child by everyone who met him and being barely mature enough to be trusted alone on a Night Hunt, to having to behave like a full grown adult because he suddenly was the leader of a cut-throat sect that was half falling apart after the early death of its corrupt former leader.

Fifteen was never an easy age, but Jin Ling was pretty sure he had it a little rougher than most people.

Of course, it could have been worse. For one thing, he could have been dead. In fact, he had come pretty close to it a few times, most memorably when he was kidnapped and trapped in the Burial Mounds with other juniors, and when his beloved uncle Jin Guangyao had used him as a hostage and threatened to cut his throat open with a guqin string if he wasn’t allowed to run away after it was revealed he had murdered a number of people, like Jin Ling’s grandfather, and indirectly caused the death of others, like Jin Ling’s father. And then after that there had been a handful of other attempts on Jin Ling’s life once he had become sect leader, because he had older relatives who thought they’d be better at the job, or who other people thought would be easier to corrupt… but really, those attempts just hadn’t been very impressive.

Jin Ling had been raised by Jin Guangyao, so he knew a thing or two about avoiding poison. And he’d been raised by Jiang Cheng as well, so even at his age, there weren’t that many adults who could pose a threat to his life, should they directly attack him.

All in all, the murder attempts hadn’t been so bad. The paperwork and meetings, on the other hand, were the worst thing ever. There were so, so many letters to read, and to analyse, and to answer. And then there were Night Hunt reports. Tracking the progress of junior disciples. Bills. An astonishing number of bills, oftentime for things Jin Ling didn’t even understand, so he had to ask during meetings what the sect was spending money on this time. There was a forty percent chance that it was something frivolous he could cut off, and a fifty percent chance that it was just barely concealed corruption, but since there was the ten percent possibility of that bill being something actually useful, Jin Ling still had to investigate every single one, just in case.

With all this going on, Jin Ling was lucky when he could find an hour here and there to meditate, or work on his cultivation, or train Fairy. He had considered skipping sleep from time to time, but Jiang Cheng had heard about it, somehow, and rushed to Jinlin Tai to scream at him about being irresponsible with his health, as if he were any better. Everyone knew Sandu Shengshou ran on two hours of sleep, medical pills, and rage… but apparently Jin Ling wasn’t alone to do the same. Unfair.

Equally unfair was the fact that in the six months between Jin Guangyao’s death and Jin Ling’s fifteenth’s birthday, he had only gone on two night hunts.

The first was… not so bad. Jin Ling had been forced to have some other Jin disciples come along, which was boring, but then they’d all met up with some Lan and with Ouyang Zizhen, which had been pretty nice. Not quite as nice as it could have been if a certain person had been there, but not quite bad either, because Jin Ling had been able to chat with Ouyang Zizhen who was smarter than he looked, and to argue with Lan Jingyi who was fun to have a shouting match with.

And then, there had been that second Night Hunt. Jin Ling, still dealing with the aftermath of a slightly more efficient assassination attempt after which part of Jinlin Tai had really thought him dead for a good shichen and a half, had stumbled upon a man who had come to beg for the help of his sect and decided he’d help with that. He needed a break from his murderous cousins anyway.

So instead, he called the worst asshole he knew to help him deal with this, for fun.

And Lan Jingyi, for some reason known only to him, decided to let Wei Wuxian come as well.

That was the first problem, Jin Ling later decided. If Wei Wuxian hadn’t been there, things would have gone better. But he just didn’t really know where he stood with the man who had, technically, caused both of his parents to die and whom Jin Ling had, technically, tried to murder in return. The man who had also saved his life several times, without any hesitation.

Lan Jingyi knew that Jin Ling had mixed feelings about Wei Wuxian, who he hadn’t seen since the death of Jin Guangyao. So he had to have asked him to come along on purpose, because Lan Jingyi was a damn asshole and Jin Ling hated his guts, for all that he was probably his best friend at this point.

It wasn’t hard to be the best of something when you were almost the only one.

Anyway, Jin Ling should have guessed that Wei Wuxian would get involved in this, so it wasn’t such a surprise.

But then…

Then, when he arrived at the agreed meeting point, Jin Ling saw Lan Sizhui.

It had been six months, almost. In all that time, Jin Ling hadn’t once gotten any news from the older boy. He’d asked Lan Jingyi during that one Night Hunt, and then again when Lan Jingyi had needed to crash in Jinlin Tai some weeks later, in vain. All Lan Jingyi knew was that Lan Sizhui had gone away with Lan Wangji’s blessing, and that nobody could tell when he’d be back… or if he’d come back at all for that matter, which Jin Ling had found rather ominous. Sure, Lan Sizhui’s father figure had officially married another man, and not the best of men at that, but was it reason enough to run away? Did Lan Sizhui hate Wei Wuxian in particular, or did he have a problem with all cut sleeves? In the first case, it was understandable. In the second case, Jin Ling’s heart would be crushed forever and he would never know happiness again.

But Lan Sizhui was there, and standing next to Wei Wuxian when Jin Ling arrived, chatting with a peaceful yet happy expression and looking quite animated, at least by Lan standards. Jin Ling had the sensation that the two of them hadn’t met in a while, which Lan Sizhui personally confirmed later when Jin Ling had a talk to him as well.

Six months wasn’t such a long time, and yet it had felt an eternity. Lan Sizhui hadn’t grown during that time away, not exactly, but he had a new air of maturity to himself, a certain spark in his eyes that said he had seen more than most others his age. He was a little less willowy as well, his clothes fitting differently on him compared to before, hinting at more strength than he used to have. His smile, though, remained as gentle as ever.

Jin Ling almost cursed upon seeing him.

It seemed he hadn’t gotten over his stupid crush at all.

Thankfully, for most of this, Jin Ling was too busy with the actual Night Hunt to make too much of a fool of himself. It was a pretty weird situation, with a haunted room in which a thief had died, which then led to a story about a man who had killed multiple women in a very gruesome manner. Jin Ling thought they’d handled that pretty well, really. He even got to be a little cool when he volunteered to stay the night in that haunted room to check if the ghost had really been taken care of. 

Of course it hadn’t, and that was absolutely terrifying, but Jin Ling kept his cool and got to show off to all those Lan disciples in the morning when he recounted what had happened to him. He thought Lan Sizhui looked a little impressed, but that might just have been because he’d been so sure he’d solved the situation with Lan Jingyi the day before. And Jin Ling was also the one to realise the ghost they were dealing with must have been looking for a certain missing body part, which they needed to retrieve if they were to solve the case.

All things considered, Jin Ling thought he had done really great during this whole Night Hunt, and properly demonstrated to everyone, but especially a certain Lan in particular, what a great mature person he had become.

Of course Jin Ling had to ruin that.

It was just the sort of luck he had.

Jin Ling’s only defence was that he’d been exhausted at that point. They’d just spent five entire days looking for a tongue that had been cut off decades earlier, and although it would have been wise to get some sleep before all heading back to their respective sects… but they were young, they were victorious, and the only adult around to supervise them was Wei Wuxian who firmly believed that Lan juniors should be encouraged to misbehave. So of course they had all gathered at an inn, ordered plenty of food, more drink than reasonable (but that was because Wei Wuxian had to be bribed into silence) and had a bit of a party to celebrate their success.

Because Lan Sizhui had been the one to find the ghost’s tongue, everyone wanted to sit with him, it was only natural. Jin Ling had to glare and bare his teeth and elbow a few people so he could sit next to his friend, while Lan Jingyi easily found his place on the other side of Lan Sizhui by virtue of having known him basically since birth. A most unfair advantage, and one more reason to dislike Lan Jingyi, who was luckier than he had any right to be.

Lan Sizhui didn’t appear to notice how much attention was on him. Or if he did, he pretended it didn’t affect him. He just seemed happy to be spending time with everyone, and to no longer be searching around for that damn tongue. Lan Sizhui laughed at other’s jokes, blushed at their praise, made sure that everyone had enough to eat, and just generally behaved like the most perfect person the world had ever known, which he was. Jin Ling was so delighted to have him back around, and happy to see him so admired by everyone else, so of course he had to let it be known in the worst possible way.

“Of course it’s Lan Yuan who gets all the glory,” Jin Ling said at one point, while pouring himself some wine. “Isn’t it always like this? I’m sure some people must have been glad you disappeared for so long, leaving the rest of us a chance to do something. But now that you’re back, I expect it’ll all be about you, right?”

“What do you mean?” Lan Sizhui asked, his beautiful smile falling down.

Jin Ling frowned at the question. What he meant was that Lan Sizhui was, and by far, the best cultivator of their generation, so it was only natural for people to admire him. Sure some others might envy his great skill, but that was their problem, and now that Lan Sizhui was back in the Cloud Recesses, of course he’d gotten back his rightful place in the spotlight.

What else could he have meant?

“I’ve said what I said,” Jin Ling replied. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Sure Gusu Lan valued modesty, but someone as great as Lan Sizhui had to know how good he was at everything, so there was no need to be so humble.

“Shut up or I’ll punch you,” Lan Jingyi threatened, his tone vicious enough to catch the attention of Wei Wuxian who’d been mostly ignoring the juniors in favour of his own jars of wine. 

Even Jin Ling was startled. It was common enough for Lan Jingyi and him to argue. In fact, that was their main bonding activity, they were always bickering, but there was rarely any actual anger to it. If anything, Lan Jingyi usually seemed to enjoy that he had someone he could snap at who wouldn’t scold him for breaking sect rules. But that night, he suddenly looked earnestly furious, and it puzzled Jin Ling.

Must have been the wine, he figured. Those Lan just couldn’t handle alcohol.

“Don’t drink if you can’t deal with it,” Jin Ling said. “And don’t get angry at people just because they’re right.”

Lan Jingyi jumped to his feet, but before he could say anything more, Lan Sizhui grabbed him by the wrist and forced him to sit down away. He had to have put some strength into it, because Lan Jingyi immediately obeyed.

“Jingyi, that’s enough,” Lan Sizhui said, rather more dryly than Jin Ling was used to from him. “If that’s how Jin zongzhu feels, then that’s how it is. I hadn’t meant to be taking the spotlight in an undue manner, and I am sorry if I gave the impression I seek attention. In the future, when working with Jin zongzhu, I’ll be sure to keep my distance to avoid bothering him so much. I thought we’d work as a good team, but…”

Lan Sizhui stood up, fists clenched tight on either side of his body.

“If Jin zongzhu really hates working with me, then of course I’ll respect his choice. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed now. I’ve had a pretty long day.”

He turned away and left the room, leaving behind him a suddenly heavy atmosphere. None of the juniors spoke for a good while, most of them staring at the door through which Lan Sizhui had left. Jin Ling in particular was flabbergasted, scrambling to understand what exactly had just happened there.

At his end of the table, Wei Wuxian snickered as he poured himself more wine.

“You really get your people’s skills from your uncle,” he said, not quite looking at Jin Ling, but quite obviously directed at him nonetheless. “And not the right one for that, might I add. That’s something for you to work on, I’d think.”

“I’m not hearing that from you!” Jin Ling complained. “You’re a weirdo who makes everyone uncomfortable!”

“And yet I caught myself a husband,” Wei Wuxian retorted, wiggling his eyebrows in a manner that should have been illegal around impressionable young people. “Clearly I can’t be so bad at dealing with people. I can give you some lessons, if you’d like? Could teach out to flirt even. Hanguang-Jun thinks I’m very good at it.”

All the juniors shivered in fear at the idea of flirting lessons from Wei Wuxian. Even Lan Jingyi threw Jin Ling a sympathetic glance, before remembering he had randomly decided to be furious at his friend and glaring at him.

“Who… who’d want lessons from you about anything?” Jin Ling exclaimed. Then, because he tried to be fair, he added: “Unless it’s about Night Hunting. You’re good at that, when you stop acting all goofy. But for everything else, you’re too weird! If Hanguang-Jun didn’t have such weird tastes to begin with…”

The Lan juniors exploded at the implication their personal hero Lan Wangji was anything less than perfect in all aspects.

“Watch it, Jin zongzhu!”

“Hanguang-Jun’s tastes are excellent for almost everything!”

“It wasn’t enough to be mean to Sizhui, now you have to also go after Hanguang-Jun?”

That last one puzzled Jin Ling, who blinked numbly, trying to understand at what point, exactly, he’d been mean to Lan Sizhui. Before he could ask about that, Wei Wuxian started cackling and thanked all the juniors present for approving of his marriage. This backfired when it turned out that the boys were, in fact, very supportive of the union, and had drunk just enough to not feel ashamed about it. Wei Wuxian, always so quick to tease others with great declarations of affection at a bad moment, completely collapsed under that unexpected wave of affection, which pushed the Lan juniors to be even more demonstrative, until everyone’s attention was on Wei Wuxian.

Jin Ling took his chance and left the table without being noticed, suddenly needing some fresh air. He couldn’t go very far, in case others started to worry, but he still left the inn and started walking up and down the street where it stood, trying to put some order in his thoughts.

He didn’t think that he had been rude to Lan Sizhui, of course. Or at least, he had certainly not intended to be. But between intentions and results there could be a world of difference, and it was true that Jin Ling was sometimes… he tried hard, he really did. He wanted to be as smooth as Jin Guangyao had been (though with less secrets), and he wanted to be as respected as Jiang Cheng was (though preferably without needing to resort on inspiring fear quite as much). But he had a tendency to sometimes say the wrong thing. 

More than sometimes. 

Things would be quite clear in his mind, and then he opened his mouth and said something that pissed off everyone. It didn’t usually matter too much, because he was Lanling Jin’s sect leader, meaning he had enough money and power that people wouldn’t dare get angry at him too openly. But it had always been more of a problem when it came to his personal life. He’d gotten in many fights with his various cousins over the years because they deemed him rude and proud. 

With juniors of other sects, he didn’t really get along all that well either, for the same reason, not until everything that happened in Yi city the year before… and even that had more to do with the people he’d met than with any personal improvement. Ouyang Zizhen was just the sort of person who got along with everyone, even with spoiled brats like Jin Ling. Lan Jingyi was an awful little pest, but he hadn’t been scared by Jin Ling’s status in the least, so they’d quickly found a way to co-exist, even if most people didn’t realise they’d become good friends. And as for Lan Sizhui… well, he was the most perfect person in the world, patient in spite of Jin Ling’s temper, kind to everyone, always striving to bring peace around him, always willing to see the best in others.

Jin Ling stumbled, and nearly fell face first into the dirt of the street.

Lan Sizhui had really looked upset when he’d left, so Jin Ling really must have said something wrong. The most perfect, most patient person in the world, and Jin Ling had managed to make him angry. That really wasn’t a good way to start courting someone.

And he wanted to court Lan Sizhui. Seeing him again after a few months had only made it clear to Jin Ling that this wasn’t just a crush, it was love. He was in love with Lan Sizhui, and determined to make him fall in love back… somehow.

What he needed was… what he needed…

Somewhere behind him, the inn’s door cracked open, just enough for Wei Wuxian to peek outside.

“Jin Ling, it’s getting late!” he shouted, uncaring that he might wake up the whole street. “Everyone’s going to bed and you should as well.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Don’t make me come get you,” Wei Wuxian warned. “Come, you’ll feel better in the morning. Just apologise to Sizhui at breakfast and he won’t hold it against you, he’s a good boy like that.”

Mortified at the idea that Wei Wuxian might try to drag him to bed like a petulant child, Jin Ling made his way back to the inn. He was annoyed though. He’d been on the verge of a great idea when Wei Wuxian had called for him, and now he’d lost it. Hopefully, he’d remember later.

Right then, he just went to sleep as ordered.

In the morning Jin Ling apologised to Lan Sizhui, though he still wasn’t sure what he’d said wrong, and Lan Sizhui apologised back for reacting so strongly to a little bit of criticism. Jin Ling hadn’t dared to say he hadn’t meant to criticise, because then he’d have had to explain he was trying to compliment Lan Sizhui, and everyone was there watching them, and it would have been too embarrassing.

The Lan then left to head back to Gusu, while Jin Ling had to return to Lanling to write a report on this situation they had solved.

The whole time he flew towards home, he couldn’t help but wondered if he hadn’t somehow managed to ruin his entire love life at the ripe age of fifteen, just because his mouth and his brain couldn’t get along.

[blee-bloop-im-a-bee]

a scuffed scuffed podcast summary/liveblogging?

(mostly focused on dream, quotes might be off but its the general gist, timestamps not exact to second lol)

- Praise and congratulations all around for Sapnap and Punz’s valorant skills 

- Dream: “well I woke up this morning and I found out I was a racist soo..” (context: Someone asked Jack how he felt about the Queen being racist and he replied that doesn’t really know anything about that and that he didn’t really care)

- They didn’t get into it though, Train said he was never going to get into Dream’s drama on this podcast (which he remarks is because it gives him anxiety, but I appreciate him for doing it nonetheless)

- on Tubbo joining in: Train confirming he would need a different cast because he’s concerned about Tubbo’s audience (& parents) and wants to set up another podcast properly where it would be more appropriate for them, to which Dream comments is respectable.  

- Dream mentioned geoguessr

- after Train’s weird (/lh) intro for dream 1:22:00---

     Dream: “You didn’t mention--oh nevermind it’s fine” 

     (Me, wondering if he was talking about his drama still)

     Train: “OH YEAH, AND ONE OF THE FATTEST C**** IN  HISTORY”

     Dream laughing and going “you didn’t mention it, you mentioned it for everyone else..” 

- Ludwig on having to limit his subs: yeah I’ve had to limit them but I found that some people have still managed to get around that

     “I don’t think anybody would try to get around that”- Dream

- They talked about the david dobrik drama, I didn’t care so much for the topic so I spaced out but Dream put in some thoughts about someone’s apology it seemed like he wasn’t on board with it (sorry I wasn’t paying attention)

- Dream, was that you that mentioned jenna marbles? (1:41:35) crumbs of my favorite ccs colliding??

- Dream: acknowledging the difficulty of females coming forward to speak out against creators for fear of being lashed out at by the fanbase (1:42:00)

- Abdou: Do you think big creators actually don’t realize the power they have?          Will: I think it’s more that they start forgetting that their fanbase are still real people... (neat food for thought, they were still talking in the context of david dobrik but because they were also mentioning how he achieved fame at a young age, i couldn’t help but think about dream)---- dream said nothing during this part

- topic on among us, Dream chiming in at 1:51:00 (spaced out didn’t listen)

- spaced out more, dream’s face reveal went trending on twitter apparently just cause of an earlier mixup when punz’s face showed up in the box where dream’s name was 

- in the background, dream was also on his private twt to reassure a fan commenting on how moe brought up dream’s fans negatively (i remember moe bringing us up but i didn’t catch the context)

- ~2:10:00 ish?? Youtube talk, dream didn’t say much :(

- Dream once again declaring that Ludwig will definitely keep streaming until the end of the month and that he’ll make sure of it

- Ludwig saying Dweam

- Ludwig not leaving until he heard Dream say goodbye which dream claims he did, and that Ludwig couldn’t pick and choose his goodbyes. Ludwig threatened to ban Dream’s alt to which Dream was like “NO no no don’t i want to be able to read your chat”

- Dream, loudly: “I have never had sushi” (not unprompted, they were talking about sushi, but I just liked how he said it-- he used the voice)

- Dream lore: He had walmart sushi. He got roasted for it (deserved)

- Talking about cancel culture:: ~~2:53:00        2:57:30 Dream brings up his drama and summarizes it but does agree that if he those videos about him been true, he should be cancelled (I think that was his gist?)

      Train’s point is that there is too many people who are quick to cancel, but when they are wrong, do nothing to make things right ie. Johnny Depp situation

      Moe acknowledging that theres a culture of bandwagoning on hating on popular creators

       3:01:00 Will bringing together all the points & mentioning Kacey and kpop stans bringing up the time they bought out trumps speech tickets- and hopes that all of the stans (kpop, minecraft) continue to have this passion when they turn 18 to affect the ballots

- Train talking about weebs and about to go a buck fifty, dream and karl were warning him to “be careful” lmao (i think train said something about how its always the ones with anime pfps saying the weirdest shit)

- I wonder what dream is doing while they’re all talking about manga/comics- I’m waiting for him to come in and say: I have never watched anime in that voice he didn’t end up saying this

Dream: “Gorillas are really strong..” King kong vs. Godzilla convo

Dream saying something about spiderman, then Train calling spiderman a pussy and like wtf man I was starting to think you were alright, and then talking over dream?? unforgiveable. /j

-oop they’re going back into cancel culture when Train reads out a tweet: ~3:34:00     I can’t summarize this, this is a little too deep for my sleepy brain, but I feel like train is talking about how quick to judge people are almost being ready to jump the gun just to cancel someone thinking that that person wanted to cancel him, but Dream is pointing out that both sides don’t really understand each other and that person probably wasn’t trying to cancel Train. Jack also spoke up to help clarify to which you could hear Dream agreeing.

     Dream acknowledges that there is a need for creators to make an effort to understand discussion that goes around and to be respectful at the same time, admitting that he’s reacted in anger in the past and disregarded discussions. 

     ^ There were a lot of points made, and I didn’t get all of dream’s responses. It was interesting conversation because we have Train being honest and venting his frustrations about cancel culture which I can sympathize with.  Dream (and Jack) spoke up a lot during the whole thing to try to shift Train’s point of view and the things he said were really admirable 

     Dream brings up the thing that happened with charlie a while back and said he dm’d charlie about that misunderstanding as dream puts it- and says that they are good now and saying something along the lines of open communication being so important

- Someone: “the only thing that matters is that my wife doesn’t cancel me.”      Dream: “that’s really sweet”  <- no u

-  “Would you let your kids watch on Twitch” Dream: As long as you’re aware and know about Twitch and Youtube, and as long as you teach your kids internet safety it should be fine

- Dream, on Train saying he hopes everyone will still be friends with him after this: “I actually hate you now” (in a joking tone). Dream wants to play among us with Train.     Dream, prompted to say one nice thing about Train and also the last words he said on the podcast: “An attractive motherfucker.”

[ask-spider-man-61610]

The Infiltration: Part Two of Three

In the ten years he had been a vigilante, Peter Parker had become very good at sneaking into places he shouldn't have been.

Air vents were useless. The vast majority of them were far too narrow for anybody to slip through without becoming amorphous, and even when the ducts were large enough it was impossible to move inside one without making enough noise to alert the entire block. The subceiling--the space above the ceiling tiles, but below the actual architectural structure--was a far better bet, but that was similarly cramped--and besides, only some buildings had gaps in the walls to allow for movement like that.

Using a disguise to sneak in was better all around, but it required a lot of skill and care. You couldn't disguise yourself as a scientist unless you were genuinely an expert in the field you were pretending to study. Nor, in this particular case, could you just dress up as any old agent--they had security levels. Executives were out, reporters were only viable if the people you were trying to fool had reason to believe a reporter was going to be there, and the less said about solicitors the better. The key was to attract as little scrutiny as possible, to not raise any questions you'd have trouble answering; because the second someone grew suspicious of you, your cover was all but blown.

Janitors, then, were perfect.

Nobody pays attention to a janitor. It's practically one of the perks of the job. Beneath notice means beneath scrutiny, and people only give custodians the slightest thought when a place needs cleaned. Even then it's just an assertion that a custodian needs to be there. Nobody questions what a janitor is doing in a room, even in the dead of night. Nobody questions why a janitor is wearing gloves, or where they got their ring of keys. There's no better disguise for going somewhere that people generally can't go.

Peter had been pretending to be a janitor in the main headquarters of the Cape Code Authority for several days now. He had listened intently as he'd mopped the floors, mapped out the layout in his head, figured out where the labs were and who had access to what while keeping his head down. He'd owned this coverall for years now, for infiltrations exactly like this, and now with the security cameras disabled he hooked his cart on the handle of his mop and dragged it towards the door the three agents had just left.

The door had locked automatically. Of course it had, all laboratory doors locked automatically around here, and even the custodians needed special permissions to get them unlocked. But as the door had swung closed, Peter had pressed the trigger in his palm under the guise of adjusting his grip on his mop, and now the door's latch was glued down beneath a small splatter of webbing. Pulling on a latex glove, Peter tugged the door open a crack and slipped into the lab.

He adjusted his hat as he glanced around the lab, the hat that had blond curls sewn to the inside to disguise his brown hair, and scratched at his false nose. The hologram table sat in the center of the room, still softly glowing even after its deactivation--an enormous waste of energy, but apparently nobody cared. Ignoring it entirely, Peter headed straight for the computer monitors against the far wall, grabbing a chair without breaking stride and only stopping to climb on top of it and crouch on the seat like a gargoyle on a rooftop.

Like everything Reed Richards ever touched, the computers were encrypted. But Peter had dated Johnny Storm for five months once, and he didn't spend so much time nearby his fellow supergenius without taking some time to figure out how to bypass their usual security. It took him just over five minutes to get through the firewalls, and then he stuck a translucent plastic sticky note to the screen and began to browse.

The sticky note was, of course, a data drive. Peter had learned about these only recently, but he was fast growing to like them; they were easy to conceal on his person and, unlike a USB stick, didn't require a specific size of port. As he opened up the computer's files, the drive pinged off of the computer's software and integrated itself into the system without leaving a trace. Cracking his knuckles, Peter typed a few cursory searches into the file browser and tapped Enter.

Perpetual Holographic Avatar/Nano-Tech Offensive Monsters had been a thorn in his side for over two years now. They didn't move like humans; their range of motion didn't have the limits that their skeletal shape implied; their systems adapted and learned and coordinated in ways that he'd never seen before in artificial intelligence. Even Octavius, permanently on the cutting edge of AI and biorobotics development, wasn't sure what the hell was going on with them. Last year, in the middle of beating the multi-armed megalomaniac's face in, Spider-Man had asked for Otto's thoughts on the Phantoms; the technology, both of them suspected, wasn't exactly beyond Otto's work so much as to the side of it. The systems were hyperspecialized: they had no connection to neural networks of old, and were practically useless for advancing them in the future. They were, in a word, alien.

Peter suspected Chitauri tech. The War of the Worlds had left countless remnants of the Chitauri on Earth; some of them still remained, like the Leviathan rotting in Maine, but far too many of them had seemed to simply vanish. Anyone who gave it more than ten seconds of thought could realize that governments of the world had squirreled the stuff away to study and reverse-engineer. Now, as Peter's eyes darted back and forth across the screen, he skimmed through the blueprints and models that he found in the folder and tried to see if any of it matched the distinctive look of the Chitauri.

Some of it did, he found as he kept searching, but not a huge amount. Reed had done some work with Chitauri tech in the past; traces of its influence were obvious in the composition of the Phantoms' gun barrels, and in the way their hard-light armor projected itself over the skeleton. Kid stuff, nothing that explained the problems he'd had with them. Peter's brow furrowed as he copied the files he found to his data drive and peered over his shoulder at the hologram table behind him.

What had Reed been saying to Flint in here only a few minutes ago? Peter had a spiderlike hypersensitivity to vibration; he could feel footsteps on the other side of the building rumbling through the floor, and the variations in air pressure caused by the fly drifting around the ceiling. But it didn't work like hearing did, nor was it interpreted by the same part of the brain. Though he had felt Reed talking in here, it just felt like a continuous drone of vibration against his skin--he hadn't heard him, and so couldn't interpret the words. And, like an idiot, he hadn't thought to bug the room beforehand.

He pushed his tongue against his upper lip in thought. Had it had something to do with why Flint had registered with the CCA in the first place?

Kicking a foot against the bottom of the desk, Peter rolled his chair over to the hologram table and set to work getting past the security there too. This took even less time than it had with the computer, now that Peter knew how Reed had updated his security measures over the last few years. Within three minutes of typing so fast an observer would have seen his fingers as blurs he was browsing through the most recently accessed files.

The image lifted out of the table and filled the room with its soft light, and Peter frowned at the image of the Phantom he saw. How on earth was this related to Flint's desire to Be A Real Boy? He typed a few commands into the table and watched the Phantom's white shell disappear to reveal the mechanical skeleton beneath. A few notes by Reed appeared to highlight key points, and Peter read through each with steadily rising concern.

Very little of the Sandman's mass was actually Flint Marko. When he had been disintegrated all those years ago, most of his body had become just plain old sand--only his nervous system had become anything different. Over the years, he had gained entire truckloads worth of sand and lost enough to fill beaches, but the gallon or so of milky white silica that had once been his brain and nerve cells had remained, scattered evenly through every shape and sculpture he made himself into. They assimilated granules of a similar composition through static cling, arranging them with an intricate electric charge that neither Flint nor Peter had ever fully understood, and now it looked like Reed wanted to apply that same static charge to the Phantom project.

Looking through the notes, Peter could already see that Reed wasn't putting much effort into following through on his promise. The conjectures and theories put forth in them were ludicrous--ideas that Peter had discarded years ago in his various scrambles to stop one of Marko's rampages. But he read between the lines, read ideas that Reed had intended for his own eyes only, and his blood grew steadily colder in his veins.

It wouldn't take much modification to turn a Phantom into a suitable chassis for Flint's nerve granules, so went Reed's idea. The skeleton already contained organic elements, and they already received commands from a biological source rather than a computer. This flew in the face of Peter's assumptions about the Phantoms.

They were only partially robots. They were like Octobots; their processing units were very much alive.

Peter waved a shaky hand over the table. The hologram deactivated, which wasn't his intent at all, but he was too taken aback to care.

Deep in the bowels of the building, ignored by Peter until now but always scratching at the back of his mind, the vibrations of mechanical footsteps rumbled through the walls and floor. The central hub of manufacturing and deploying Phantoms was located fifty feet under the foundation--a fact he'd known all along, but which he had to investigate now. Now, when he knew that within those robotic skeletons were living and thinking beings. Now, when he knew that the drills whirring and 3D printing that he felt even from here were working tirelessly to imprison and enslave something. Jumping off the chair, he retrieved his data drive from the computer and took barely a minute to wipe all evidence of his presence from the room. Then, readjusting his disguise and checking for the presence of witnesses, he slipped out of the room and finally allowed the door to lock.

The route to the underground hub was a circuitous one. As the operations were almost entirely automated, not even the janitors were given clearance to enter that level; maybe four people had access, and Peter wasn't one of them. No matter. There were more ways to sneak around than just throwing on a coverall and mopping a floor. If Peter's disguise only took him this far and no farther, it was time to drop it. Some places you could only reach as the wall-crawler.

Had the security cameras not mysteriously lost power earlier that afternoon, they would've seen a janitor shedding his hat, kicking off his shoes, and beginning to unbutton his coverall. Without breaking stride, he snatched a small bag from where he'd hidden it in his cart before and pulled on a mask; whatever features, real or fake, a witness might have noticed, they were now hidden by dark red fabric and two gleaming grey bug eyes. In short order the coverall and hat were gone--wrapped up into a web-knapsack that he slung onto his back even as he swapped his shoes out for red spandex boots. Pulling on his gloves right as he reached the elevator, Spider-Man stopped to politely tap the call button beside the sliding metal doors.

With a ding, the elevator doors slid open, and Spider-Man immediately smashed straight through the emergency hatch at the top of the lift.

Elevator shafts were always a bit more complicated than one expected. Even Peter, who could feel the constant motion of the metal boxes through the building and their cables sliding against pullies, always needed a moment to figure out how to squeeze through the systems that controlled its rise and fall. He paused as he examined the mechanism of this particular elevator before he sucked in his stomach and crawled around the box with a few inches to spare. Then, once he was beneath it, he released his grip on the elevator shaft and let himself fall.

He caught himself fifty feet later, his fingertips sticking instantly to the concrete as he touched it. Just across the shaft from him was a set of elevator doors, which he hopped onto and began to pry apart. It was slow going. Like everything in the CCA headquarters, these doors were made with superhumans in mind, and they had a magnetic lock that Spider-Man found himself straining to overpower. He pulled on them for a few seconds, changed his mind, and crawled two feet to the left to begin messing with the wiring that controlled the lock. There was a moment of silence, a low, hollow ding, and the doors slid open.

With one hand still stuck to the wall Spider-Man lowered himself into the unlit chamber, dropping to the floor and landing there in a crouch. What little light had made it down with him reflected off his mask's glaring eyes. For a moment he was still, one hand pressed to the metal beneath him and his attention fully on the vibrations of the environment. Then, mentally sorting through the sea of threats that his spider-sense whispered and squirmed at, he rose to his feet and nonchalantly slapped the lightswitch on the wall behind him. Sparse florescent lights flickered on above him, and he blinked and furrowed his brow as he adjusted.

Now that he was down here the vibrations were sharper, like a the world coming into focus as you come up from underwater. They travelled through the air, through the concrete, and through a metal catwalk that served as a floor, branching into pathways and situated above buzzing, whirring machinery. No wonder it had been so difficult to discern what was going on up above, Spider-Man reflected as he glanced over the guardrail and watched robotic limbs carry a Phantom chassis through a gap in the wall and to another room. He turned his attention ahead of him, where similar chasses were held in racks upon racks that spanned nearly wall to wall across the room, black robotic skeletons awaiting deployment.

But there was a difference between these Phantoms and the ones he so often encountered on the battlefield. Frowning under the mask, Spider-Man stepped forward, leaned over the catwalk's railing, and set a finger against the nearest collection of servos and solid-light projectors. Yes. There it was, the constant, ambient tremor of air in motion; the chasses were hollow like the frame of a bicycle. Whenever he'd fought them, they hadn't displayed any such emptiness.

Right. Mechanical systems supported by biological processing. He took his attention away from the chasses, looking instead at that hole in the wall that one of them had vanished into as he'd come in here. He could feel the Phantom in the next room over being hooked up to--to something, metal vibrating on contact with metal and stabilizing with a little pop. His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitching nervously, his breath held, he began to pace down the catwalk towards the door to that room.

A window on one side greeted him as he stepped through, displaying the Phantom under maintenance. Screens embedded into the window offered diagnostics and schematics, all of which Spider-Man ignored. He turned instead to the far wall, where what looked like a large cabinet was anchored in place and had a hundred or so pipes no wider than test tubes leading into and out of it. A quick ripping of metal, and he tossed a mangled padlock over his shoulder as he threw the cabinet doors open. The interior was poorly organized, and called to mind a prototype rather than anything intended for widespread implementation: a screen with a series of codes flashing across it, a mess of piping and tubing, and in carefully arranged racks hundreds upon hundreds of test tubes, most full of some amorphous fluid.

Spider-Man's brow furrowed as he selected a vial at random. Working carefully, he unscrewed the valve that connected it to the mess of piping and slid it out of the vial's stopper--without it, the test tube's lid sealed airtight again. He held it above eye level and turned to see the light filter through from overhead. The fluid inside surrounded what looked almost like a pipe cleaner, thousands of copper wires branching out from a central silicon rod. As he tilted it one way, an air bubble slid up the glass wall, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw--

--a tendril, as black as the rest of the liquid, squirming in that air pocket in a bid for freedom.

Spider-Man's eyes widened behind the mask. Oh my god.

Dead Leviathans and alien technology hadn't been the only things the Chitauri had brought to Earth. It had taken the terrestrial armies, and the remnants of SHIELD that Spider-Man had fought alongside, far too long to realize that the shape-shifting battlesuits that their enemies had used were themselves a separate species. Earth hadn't been the only planet to face invasion under the Chitauri; centuries ago, those invaders had conquered and enslaved a species called Klyntar. Amorphous, shapeshifting, symbiotic creatures, the Klyntar had the distinction of being able to use every single cell as musculature, digestive system, armoring, and neurons. Nobody was sure how long the Chitauri had been selectively breeding and brainwashing their symbiote slaves into battle armor, and until now Spider-Man had assumed that practice had stopped with the aliens' defeat.

The little vial of Klyntar sample in his hand was far from his first experience with the species. He had, for six months during and after the war, worn a stolen symbiote as a battlesuit of his own, and even after he and Vee had separated he'd been up close and personal with the species many, many times. But he had believed that Vee's defection from the Chitauri had been a fluke; that they had been the only Klyntar to be recovered from the Chitarui alive.

But now Spider-Man stood in the basement of the Cape Code Authority, holding a vial that contained another member of that species, and right next to him were over a hundred identical vials. All at once, the control systems of the Phantoms became obvious to him.

Without hesitation he turned back to the cabinet and began yanking the tubes out of their holders. The brush-like machinery in each vial, he figured as he worked, must have been some kind of brainwashing system; the copper wires made contact with as many of the Klyntar's neurons as possible, with controlled electric shocks frying out whatever thoughts the aliens tried to form and replacing them with--with whatever programming was necessary to get the Phantoms working. As he pulled each tube out, he killed the electrical charge, but for now he didn't release the Klyntar within from their cells. Where would they go down here? Did they even remember what they were? At best they'd die, at worst the CCA would collect them again and make it even harder to get to them again. No, for now he stuck the vials together with webbing, bundling them together in a padded sack of sorts--he could keep them safe until he knew what else to do, but for now--

--for now, he could feel footsteps vibrating through the concrete fifty feet above. Could feel the elevator starting to move, and the frantic tingling in his head suddenly concentrated all its alarm on the man upstairs. He paused, but only for the smallest fraction of a second; then he worked even faster, his hands becoming blurs again. Grab, break, thwip, grab, break, thwip. The bundle of vials and webbing in his arms was becoming untenably large. He kept at it anyway, always careful not to smash the vials, always careful to separate them from their neighbors with a carefully padded layer of webbing. Even as he webbed up the last one, he wove backpack straps onto the sack and pulled them onto his shoulders. Then he turned on his heel and darted out the door, ready to make an escape.

But as the elevator began its slow descent towards him, he paced around the room and realized that there was no escape to be found. No windows or doors, because he was in a basement, and the air ducts were of course far too small to crawl through. If he didn't have the Klyntar vials, he would've been able to crawl past the elevator, but with that bundle on his back there was no room. If he wanted to save these Klyntar, he was trapped down here with them.

Well, decided Spider-Man as his pacing came to a stop directly in front of the elevator. If he was about to be discovered down here, he certainly wasn't going to let whoever was about to discover him get a dramatic moment about it. There would be no voice booming out from behind him as he frantically looked for a hiding place, there would be no cat and mouse as the person looked for him in this increasingly exposed room. He folded his arms and leaned against the guardrail right in front of the elevator, glaring at the doors. Waiting.

When the doors dinged open, Scrier momentarily hesitated, not having expected to see Spider-Man so out in the open. He blinked behind those blank white eyes, far more awkward than a supervillain wanted to be, before he lamely managed, "I thought that was you, Spider-Man."

[alphadaddyderek]

Not all math puns are awful, just sum (sterek fic, high school au)

ao3 link: click if you dare

summary: ’what is the probability that anyone will pass this fucking class? I’m thinking 1 in 100’

Stiles shakes his head because that was such a bad math joke that it was actually kinda funny. And, based on the expressions on people’s faces during class, also very true.

'i think there is statistical data to back up your theory’

AU where Stiles and Derek have to share a textbook and they write terrible math puns back and forth to each other.

Stiles sincerely, genuinely, regrets taking AP classes.

Well, kinda.

They would look great on his resume. Colleges wouldn’t even second guess accepting him and he would receive so many scholarships which would help his dad big time.

AP classes will also raise his GPA crazy high which, again, looks great to colleges.

Sometimes they just suck.

His AP Statistics class is definitely #1 on the ‘classes that suck straight ass list’.

It’s boring and it can be kinda hard. Plus it’s math so it’s automatically gross.

Stiles is good at math, but it’s not his forte, that’s more Lydia Martin’s thing.

Anyway, Beacon Hills High had to have some budget cuts this year, like, serious budget cuts. The sports teams are lucky that people care about people throwing balls all over the place, otherwise they would’ve gotten cut too.

Since the school has had budget cuts, the students don’t get individual textbooks anymore. Meaning, that they can only use it during class and then they have to leave it in the classroom for the next class to use.

So, yeah.

It’s the third week of junior year, AP Stat is as boring as always. He has Lydia to talk to sometimes but she has other friends in the same class, so he's not always entertained.

The teacher didn’t really care about whether or not students did the work, he just played chess on his computer the whole class anyway. He gave the page number that we were supposed to work on and that was that.

Stiles prefers that to lectures, but still. When he’s done the work there’s nothing left for him to do. He could go on his phone, but even that gets boring eventually.

What he’s trying to say is that he’s bored, okay?

Turning to the page that the teacher assigned, Stiles is shocked and wildly amused, to already see writing on the margins of the page. He figured it would take at least half the school year before people started vandalizing the textbooks. Although, it’s written in pencil so it’s easily erasable.

When Stiles actually reads what was written he snorts. Luckily, it’s loud in the class so the most attention he gets is when Lydia shoots him a weird look which he ignores.

'what is the probability that anyone will pass this fucking class? I’m thinking 1 in 100'

Stiles shakes his head because that was such a bad math joke that it was actually kinda funny. And, based on the expressions on people’s faces during class, also very true.

Should he write something back? Stiles doesn’t know if the person who wrote this is hoping for a response, or if they wrote in the book because they’re just as bored as Stiles is.

Eh, fuck it. Why not?

'i think there is statistical data to back up your theory’

Stiles snickers at his equally bad math joke before finally deciding to focus on the actual work. He didn’t want to be one of the ones who didn’t pass the class, because that would suck. So he does the work and for the remainder of the class he lets out a giggle or two every once in a while because even though he’s 16 years old, he apparently still has the sense of humor of a child.

π π π

It’s the next class and honestly, Stiles kind of forgot about the writing in the textbook. After he left that class he went to AP Geography where there was immediately a test, which he nailed by the way. Plus, with all his other classes, he just didn’t think it was important to remember a bad, but still funny, math joke in a textbook.

The teacher assigns them another page number full of questions to work on. And, just like last time, there’s writing in the margins.

‘i’m sorry, that was pretty mean of me to say’

That one has Stiles laughing out loud. Not too loud though, because he doesn’t have that much of a death wish. He just laughs loud enough to make Lydia send him another weird look, except this time Lydia questions him about it.

“What is so funny?” she asks, twirling her hair with her pencil.

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing really. Just somebody writing lame math jokes on the book pages.”

“Well, you’re laughing at them. So doesn’t that make you lame as well?”

Stiles dramatically gasps.

“Wow, Lydia, that was pretty mean of you to say,” Stiles replies before bursting into more laughter.

At this point, Lydia is looking at him like he has brain damage but he really can’t bring himself to care. It’s hilarious and if she doesn’t think so then oh well. Her loss.

Well, she doesn’t know that that was the joke inside the textbook, but still, whatever.

It’s funny.

π π π

By this point, it’s kind of like Stiles and this unknown jokester are pen pals.

It’s been a week filled with terrible math jokes and Lydia probably losing more and more respect for him as the days pass.

He’s told Scott about his little pen pal and of course, Scott doesn’t really get it, but he’s supportive nonetheless.

It’s a Friday night and Scott is at Stiles’ house. They’re playing video games and eating so much pizza that Stiles will be bloated for an entire week.

Thankfully, his dad is on the night shift, otherwise, he would be heavily judgmental of Stiles’ life choices.

After several rounds of Mario Kart, they take a break to eat said pizza and talk a bit.

“So,” Scott takes a huge bite of his slice. “how are you and your math buddy doing?”

Stiles takes a bite of his own slice. “Why are you asking? Jealous?”

Scott laughs. “Oh yeah, I’m so jealous. Please, Stiles, make terrible math jokes with me.”

Stiles flips Scott off. “You only mock because you really are jealous.”

Scott rolls his eyes and then the topic is dropped.

At least for the next hour or so. Then after that, it gets brought back up.

“Do you think it’s weird to have a crush on someone you’ve never met?” Stiles asks, playing with a loose thread on his jeans.

Scott looks at Stiles, and Stiles does not want to see the weird look Scott has on his face so he continues looking down.

“You have a crush on this person?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re funny, and obviously, they’re smart if they’re in AP Stat. I would like to meet this person though, maybe. I don’t know.”

Stiles feels his cheeks heating up.

Scott nudges Stiles with his elbow. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not weird at all. It’s kinda like online dating, but like medieval style.”

Stiles can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his throat. “What?”

It’s like medieval style! ‘Cause, it’s in a book. Instead of online.”

Scott is always able to make Stiles feel better, no matter the situation. His goofiness especially lightens his mood.

“Okay, Scott. Are we going to go jousting next?”

“I don’t know. What you guys do on your first date is none of my business,” Scott says with a sly smile.

Stiles snorts and grabs a pillow off the couch behind them and smacks Scott in the face with it, resulting in a pillow fight ensuing.

And if anybody asks, Scott did not win. He didn’t!

π π π

2 weeks after he and Scott had that talk, Stiles continues talking with his pen pal. Although, maybe Stiles is looking too deep into this, but it kind of seems like flirting now?

Hear him out.

In the margins, the person started adding smiley faces and winky faces after every message.

Ooh and they actually put their initials! D.H.

Stiles doesn’t think he knows anyone in school with those initials. Granted, Stiles isn’t exactly a social butterfly so he’s not doubting their existence at all.

AP Stat only has 5 minutes left in the class. Stiles has already embarrassed himself in front of Lydia more times than he can count, so he decides to ask Lydia if she knows someone with those initials.

She purses her lips. “Why do you ask?”

Stiles sighs inwardly before answering. “Uh, well. I was just...wondering. Ya know. Trying to expand my friend circle.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow. And Stiles sighs outwardly this time.

“Fine. You know the jokes that were in the book?”

“You mean from like a month ago?”

“Well...we’ve kinda been continuing to exchange jokes and notes and stuff. And then recently they put their initials. Or, at least I think it’s their initials. I don’t know what else it would be. So, yeah.”

Lydia looks at him for a moment before her lips curl up into a smile. “You mean you’ve finally found someone who has a worse sense of humor than you?”

Stiles returns the smile. “I’ll have you know, my sense of humor is advanced. Way too advanced even for you.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, the only name that comes to mind is Derek Hale.”

Stiles chokes on his own spit. “Derek Hale? You mean the star of the basketball team? The guy with eyes that are like fifty different colors and bunny teeth that would look ridiculous on anyone else but he somehow looks gorgeous with them? That Derek Hale?”

“Yes. Other than that, I don’t know anyone else with those initials.”

“Does he take AP Stat?”

Lydia shrugs. Stiles takes that as a no.

There’s no way that Derek Hale is the one writing these notes. No way in hell. Stiles isn’t that lucky.

Plus, even if Derek is the one writing these, hypothetically speaking, Derek wouldn’t be interested in him. Don’t get Stiles wrong, he knows he’s a pretty attractive guy. But nobody in this school is as attractive as Derek Hale. Let's be real here.

Okay, maybe Danny. Danny is kinda gorgeous.

But besides Danny, nobody is even on the same level as Derek.

Well, Lydia is too.

Okay, dammit. People are on the same level as Derek Hale. The point is that Stiles isn’t.

Stiles sighs for what seems like the eighth time in. “Okay. Thanks.”

Lydia gives him a scrutinizing look before nodding and getting on her phone.

Stiles sits there and ponders why his life is like this before deciding that he must've done something to piss off fate in a past life. Pleased with his conclusion, Stiles shoves his notebook and pencils into his backpack just in time for the bell to ring.

π π π

Okay, so, Stiles must be going crazy.

When he saw that his pen pal had written his initials he figured, ‘hey, I might as well do the same. It’s only decent right?’ so he had, and ever since then Derek Hale has been shooting him looks in the hallway.

Maybe he’s hallucinating, because Derek Hale is, well, Derek Hale. Out of everyone in the hallway, why would he be looking at Stiles?

Also, Stiles can’t be the only person in the school with the initials S.S. although, he probably is the only S.S. that’s taking AP Stat so there’s that.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do, should he wave? Shoot him a smile?

Actually no, he should do neither of those things because if he does, and Derek actually wasn’t looking at him, that would be so unbelievably embarrassing. So embarrassing that Stiles would have to transfer schools immediately.

Stiles shakes his head and opens up his locker to gather his things for his next class. When he closes the locker Derek is standing right there like they’re in a horror movie and Stiles jumps so hard that he drops his notebook.

“Shit. Sorry,” Derek says and bends down to swipe Stiles’ notebook off the floor.

“No, it’s okay. You’re awfully quiet for an athlete.”

Stiles holds his hand out for his notebook but Derek doesn’t seem all that interested in returning it to him just yet. Derek looks at the front of his notebook.

“Hmm. AP Stat. Interesting.”

Stiles bites his lip and nods. “Yep,” he says popping the ‘p’. “it is interesting. Well, actually it’s not. AP Stat is yuck sometimes and it can get boring but it’ll look great on my resume so.”

Derek nods. He looks at Stiles for a few more seconds before he opens his mouth, and the second he does, Stiles’ stomach fills with butterflies.

“What is the probability that anyone will pass that fucking class? I’m thinking 1 in 100.”

Stiles bites his lip to stifle his smile. He doesn’t want to cheese like an idiot in front of Derek Hale but he thinks that ship has already sailed cause Derek’s lips stretch into a big smile.

Stiles clears his throat. “I think there is statistical data to back up your theory.”

“Oh, is there?” Derek asks, smile turning into a smirk.

Stiles nods then looks at his notebook that is still in Derek’s hand. “Can I have my notebook now? I’m not sure what exactly you’re plotting but I don’t like it.”

Derek scrunches his face up. “Wow, that was bad.”

Stiles’ mouth gapes. “Like yours were any better.”

Derek shrugs, smile returning to his face. “I thought my mean joke was pretty hilarious.”

“Yeah, hilariously bad. I didn’t laugh at all, not one bit.”

Derek looks like he doesn’t believe a word Stiles just said, which is fair, he shouldn’t.

“So,” Derek begins, eyes boring into Stiles’— seriously, what is up with Derek’s eyes? — “what is the probability that you will give me your number?”

Stiles pretends to think about it for a second. “I'm thinking 100 in 100.”

[five-rivers]

Nascent

*Throws a oneshot at my followers, beans one of them in the head, then leaves.*

.

.

.

Ever since the Accident, everything had felt different.  Way different.  Maybe part of that was the whole ‘nearly caused the death of best friend, but apparently holes in the universe can give you superpowers’ discovery.  Sam still couldn’t get the sound of Danny’s screams out of her head, and it had been over a week.  

Although it was possible the nightmares contributed to that.  

Yeah.  

Anyway, being concerned (not necessarily worried) about Danny and Tucker all the time was normal after something like that, right?  They hung out all the time before, what was a little more?  What was a lot more?  

(It annoyed her parents.  They complained that she was never home.)

So, yeah.  Normal. Trauma response.  Also, Danny needed someone to pull him out of the floor when he phased partway through it or (ironically) hide his sudden spurts of involuntary invisibility.  

If that were all that had changed, Sam wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

But she was curled in front of her computer, writing the fifth email haranguing a school official about having a vegetarian week next year.  It was nearly eleven.  This was not normal behavior.  Not even for someone who was avoiding sleep.  

She’d also been spending more time in her greenhouse, lately, and had been getting in more (and louder) fights with her parents, but she wasn’t sure if those two things weren’t just stress (or being a teenager).  Even factoring in how long she’d spent getting the fertilizer around her tomatoes just right.

(The only reason she’d stopped was because she would have been late to meet with Danny and Tucker otherwise.  And she was still stressing about it.  She hadn’t gotten it quite even around the last plant.)

Back to the emails.  

She’d been thinking about proposing some changes to the school menu.  The vegetarian options were laughably limited, and the monthly plan had been the same since the fifties, it looked like.  It was actually sort of impressive that it had held up for so long, given all the school lunch reforms and programs the government had done over the years.  Whoever had put it together had really cared, Sam decided.  

But it wasn’t good enough.  Not anymore.  People knew more about food, now, and whoever was in charge of inventory had contracted with the absolute cheapest suppliers.  Everything they made was full of preservatives.  

It had to change.  Now.  Before Sam and her friends were forced to deal with it.  

She’d started the project the night Danny got out of the hospital.  She hadn’t been able to sleep then, either.  

How many emails had she sent, in total?  It had to be nearing fifty.  That one night, she hadn’t slept until four in the morning.

She probably wouldn’t sleep until then, today, either.  

This couldn’t be normal, right?

(Since when did she care about being normal?)

.

Tucker scanned through the programming tutorial with an almost fevered fervor.  It wasn’t quite what he was looking for, but he was more than ready to drink in any information he could.  

He had always loved technology.  Especially hand held technology.  This was about that, but also not.  

Danny had shown him and Sam the portal because they were curious.  Sam because ripping a hole to the afterlife sounded metal, and Tucker because Fenton tech was cool.  Even if the ghost stuff never worked, the Fentons did live on Jack and Maddie’s patents.  

‘Because it was cool’ was a really stupid reason to die.

If Tucker had known more about engineering, about programming, about the tech he had begged to see, if he could have properly read even one of the dials and instruments attached to the portal, would he have noticed it was still powered up?  That electricity was running through it?  That it was a death trap?

(Sure, Danny had grown up around Fenton tech, and between the two of them, he had been the one more interested in the engineering side of things, but that didn’t matter.)

Tucker was determined not to let that happen again. Hence his current course of study. He was going to know everything about technology, all technology, or die trying.  

Well.  At least the technology he interacted with on a daily basis.  

If that meant losing even more of his eyesight as he labored over poorly formatted readme files at midnight, then so be it. His friends were worth it.  

.

Danny jolted into wakefulness with a gasp, his heart hammering.  He was freezing, despite being wrapped in his sheet and comforter, despite how hot it had been when he went to bed.  

Something was wrong.  

Immediately, his thoughts jumped to his family.  Something was wrong.  They were in trouble.  He had to help.

In a daze, he phased through his blankets, barely noticing that this was the first time his ghost powers had done what he wanted and exactly what he wanted.  He padded out into the hall, not noticing that his feet weren’t leaving impressions in the carpet.  

Jazz slept with her door open, so it was easy to check in on her.  She was safe. No mysterious shadows menaced her as she slept.  Her breathing was slow and even.  

His parents?  He crept towards their door, part of his mind whirling while the other was deadly sharp.  How could he protect them without revealing his… whatever this thing that had happened to him was?  That he would have to protect them, that he could protect them, that thought went unchallenged.  

He put his head against the wood of his parents’ door and let his fingers skim the surface.  He inhaled, exhaled, and stepped through the solid object.  

Jack Fenton’s snores were deafening.  Neither he nor Maddie stirred.  Nor did they notice that their room was bathed in dim green light.  

Danny’s eyes locked on to the green blob’s pinpoint red ones.  His lips drew back, and he hissed, his eyes burning oddly as he did so.  The little… ghost?  Was it a ghost?  It fled from the room.  

Whatever was going on with Danny’s brain settled into a kind of contentment.  Right up until he realized he was in his parents’ room and had no reason he could give them for being there.  

Getting the very squeaky door open so he could get out again gave him five separate heart attacks, even if his parents couldn’t hear him.  

.

“Hey,” said Sam, as they met in Danny’s room the next morning.  

“Hey,” echoed both boys, tiredly.  

“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said Danny.  

“Same,” said Tucker.  “You, too?  Your makeup is heavier than you usually do it.”

Sam stuck out her tongue, then sighed. “Yeah.  Have you guys…”  The question trailed off, and Sam’s face twisted.

“Have we what?” asked Danny.  

“Had any, like… weird thoughts?”

Danny scrubbed a hand through his hair.  His friends did not mention that he briefly flickered out of sight.  “I mean, I did di—almost die, I guess?” said Danny.  

No one mentioned this slip, either.  

“That’s…”  Danny’s voice went soft.  “I’m not like Jazz, or anything, but that’s trauma, right?  Like, feeling weird or overprotective or… or whatever, it’s just… That’s just how it is?  It’s a—a normal response?”

Despite Danny’s uncertain delivery, Sam and Tucker both nodded.  

“Yeah,” said Sam.  “That’s all it is.  Okay.”

(They did not think of this moment again until they discovered the term liminality.)

[minetteskvareninova]

This war is horrible, and itself would be enough of a reason to be angry, but I don’t think anything has pissed me off so far like the recent status from Ľuboš Blaha.

Ľuboš Blaha is a member of the Slovak parliament, who could’ve been called far right if it wasn’t for his incessant pining for our communist past. It’s a bit like American conservatives and their pining for the fifties culture, except even worse, because he celebrates the time we were an actual totalitarian regime. There’s a whole bunch of people like that in Slovak politics, and, if the Facebook is anything to go by, general populace, ranging from politicians who are trying to maintain at least the appearance of reasonability, to fringe conspirationist weirdos that not even their brethren takes seriously. Together, they create something of a movement - staunchly conservative and anti-progressive, catholic, somewhat anti-capitalist (or at least happily using anti-capitalism as a bludgeon against the USA, while not talking about their own economic policies very much), anti-American and pro-Russian. They also kinda folded the diet Nazis like Marián Kotleba into their movement, which is ironic considering how much some (like Blaha) adore the late USSR.

Ľuboš Blaha is one of the most prominent members of this movement, known for his long opinionated Facebook rants. Now, you would THINK that his ilk would shut the fuck up about Putin and focus on other things, considering their past unconditional simping, and some do... But the more radical or shameless ones (like Róbert Fico, a.k.a. a former prime minister, who is notoriously corrupt and is now using this movement as a way to get ahead) chose denial instead. You know the drill - Ukraine is a Nazi country (completely unlike Slovakia, which has a DIET NAZI PARTY IN THE PARLIAMENT), we should care about our own people instead (which means leaving refugees starving on our borders or whatever, I have no fucking idea what these fuckers expect), there is propaganda and bad people on both sides, Ukraine was developing biological weapons, NATO was threatening Russia - you know the drill, it’s pure Russian propaganda, because Putin could start a nuclear war and these asshole would still kiss his hand and other body parts. I didn’t talk about it on this blog, because what’s the point - after all, I bet there are idiots like this in many countries, and it’s probably best to ignore them. Their lies don’t even phase me anymore.

But I draw the line at atrocity denial.

Blaha starts his rant relatively innocuously - by reminding us that there is still some confusion over what exactly happened at Bucha, and that we can’t proclaim any particular person a war criminal untill the whole thing is fairly judged by an independent tribunal. Which, fair, I’ve met some fairly progressive people who think the same. However, he then starts insulting “mainstream media” (another popular tactic of this movement) and telling the reader to get their information from social media. Which is like complaining about a leaky roof and then running outside straight into the rain. He then makes the distinction between liberal “elites” and “common people”, which is a fairly standard feature of modern conservative to fascist movements, you know the drill. And then he reminds people of the Snake Island incident, insinuates that it was caused not by genuine confusion or Russia withholding information, but by Ukrainian propaganda. Because apparently, there is “propaganda on both sides”, and “Zelenskiy is liar” (this from a man who not only doesn’t acknowledge Putin lies, but happily spreads them). And then he all but proclaims the recent events in Bucha were a Ukrainian false flag operation, pointing out its utility in pro-Ukraine agitation, and also that Russians have nothing to gain from this. Because it’s not like they have been met with fierce civilian resistance, which they would want to quell by any means necessary. And Putin would never allow such atrocities to be committed, since he totally cares about what the rest of the world thinks - that’s why he started this war in the first place.

Man, FUCK this dude and his lies. I wrote this rant so that my hatred can be accessible to the biggest possible range of people. The whole world needs to know what horrible things this guy posts, so that he might be as widely condemned as possible.