#nearly died a few times but only bc i’m not actually used to drawing these fits

[citricchatter]

Yeah this is extremely stupid silly. bc @meatballerino posted this https://www.tumblr.com/meatballerino/717160720642523136/jeanvic-in-thisplease and I AGREE and maybe he would have his blonde wig too <3

[wander-wren]

okay so i AM going to talk about the problems with shiver but in a serious way. keeping in mind i’ve read the books a few times but it’s been at least a year or two since i did more than pick through them, so. memory shot

i’m also trying to be as factual and neutral as possible but i will give my personal opinion on everything and i’m biased bc i love this book so it is. generally critical-positive.

shiver & neurodivergence/mental health

while it’s not explicitly stated, grace’s mom (potentially dad?) and her best friend rachel are both heavily adhd-coded. rachel is described as “ditzy” and is always hyper and excitable. i think she’s a little bit stereotypical, a little over the top, but nothing about her strikes me as especially bad rep. grace’s mom, on the other hand, is incredibly distracted and always off doing The Art, and neither of grace’s parents ever have time for her or remember that she exists. so. there’s that.

idk i have adhd and i don’t really have a problem with it, i feel like rachel’s coding was very deliberate and the parents’ less so. the parents’ actions are definitely never excused just bc they’re flighty and distractible, which is correct, it’s still their job to raise their kid regardless of their issues. but i won’t speak for everyone.

second, salem is one of the minor wolf pack members, characterized by his “running eye” and the implication that he’s not All There. we don’t see enough of him in flashbacks to really tell what’s going on there, but he seems to have a solid place in the pack as both a wolf and a human. i always felt like him Looking Crazy was overkill, but again, we only see him as a human in flashbacks, and very rarely, so i can’t draw many conclusions.

there’s also shelby and jack, two side characters who are frequently referred to as “psycho” or “psychotic.” mostly by isabel. i’m inclined to let this slide with a critical look bc the book did come out in 2009, and isabel is absolutely the kind of girl who would use those words. she’s mean. but the language and the implications are there, and ofc i don’t experience psychosis so i can’t say it’s fine or not definitively.

we see shelby more. she seems to lack empathy and have a sadistic side, as shown by her torturing a bird and releasing mr. darrio’s dogs to attack (and nearly kill) paul. beck implies once that she comes from an abusive home, so it’s possible she has a personality disorder caused by trauma. i don’t know enough about personality disorders to attempt to diagnose her, though. she’s also shown to have an obsession with sam, who is about her age, talking about them being mates as wolves someday when they’re both pre-teens. she likes being a wolf for the escapism, which is fair, actually. she does attempt to kill both grace and sam a couple of times and successfully kills grace’s friend olivia. i think shelby is super scary and interesting but there’s also definitely some very ugly implications there. she dies unredeemed.

jack is isabel’s brother who is presumed dead in a wolf attack until he shows up as a werewolf. pre-wolf, he’s known to be violent and a bully, and actually provoked the pack to attack him by shooting them with a BB gun. as a wolf he is mostly unstable and violent, but doesn’t kill anything more consequential than his family dog. ouch. he does, however, kidnap grace at one point in an attempt to find a “cure” for werewolfism, and would have killed her if she didn’t comply. he just seems to have a lot of anger management issues, to be quite honest. he does die in the process of actually curing his werewolf-ness and this is treated as sad. it’s definitely a horrific way to go (untreated bacterial meningitis. the idea is you burn the wolf out via fever, then hope you can treat the meningitis in time. did not work for him). i think jack is just generally a dick and isabel calls him a ps*cho bc that’s how she is.

finally, there’s cole, who as i mentioned is deeply suicidal and he does drugs and becomes a werewolf about it. he also gets a whole book to himself, it’s great. he’s…basically just your standard bad boy rockstar who’s actually a tortured genius who’s actually an asshole, but he has Growth. i love him, personally. i can’t think of anything wrong with his portrayal in the books but i thought i’d include him in the interest of thoroughness.

shiver & representation.

there are zero (0) characters of color in shiver. it’s set in minnesota. the one exception MIGHT be paul, who is described as “dark” (not dark-skinned or dark-haired, just dark) and is black in wolf form. if you do decide that paul counts, he does die, but so do like, a fuckton of characters, and he does make it through most of three books iirc. werewolves are NOT a racism allegory in this series. and i’m white, so again, not my place to decide, but i think “no poc” is at least a step above “poc but they’re all treated horribly.”

originally this was just a race section but i’m back to add that (other than the section above), there are no characters from marginalized groups at all. again, it’s better than bad rep, and sign of the times and all, but it’s…definitely a thing.

shiver & cliches

yeah now that we’ve gotten through the ~problematic~ bits we gotta address the “twilight knockoff cashgrab” allegations. i have not read twilight (i feel so unqualified to be doing this?? i have no expertise on anything), BUT my main impressions are:

vampires

super special immune to vampires MC

werewolves

love triangle

so, shiver has werewolves. that’s it. the werewolves in shiver turn into regular old wolves every winter, then to humans in the summer. every year, it takes less cold to turn them wolves and more heat to turn them human, shortening their human time, until roughly 20 years in they become wolves forever. no special powers, no imprinting mess, nada.

(if you’re curious the book explains that moving to a warm climate doesn’t work. some of the pack moved to texas, but the constant heat just made them hypersensitive to cold and one of them got turned by air conditioning. you can cure werewolfism with an extremely high fever, but this also obviously has a high chance of killing the human as well.)

no vampires. no love triangle. one dude has an obvious crush on grace but she brushes him off even before sam is an option.

technically grace is a little bit special because she was attacked by wolves but didn’t turn. this is bc soon after she was locked in a hot car by her parents while also having the flu, and, you guessed it, got hot enough to cook the wolf out of her. she does still have some wolf traits like the ability to communicate with them in their telepathic image-language a bit. her experience is how they figure out the cure later on, but it’s not permanent and she does eventually become a werewolf as well. she and sam do have a Special Connection, but it’s because he was the wolf who dragged her away from the pack when they attacked her as a kid, and she remembered and watched him in the woods after that while he developed a crush.

the only twilight things i know a lot about are breaking dawn pt 2 the movie and that is absolutely nothing like shiver, lol. there’s no politics in shiver, there’s barely even a wolf pack by the time the current plot happens.

i will actually talk about the “cashgrab” element in another post bc it started getting too long so stay tuned

shiver & unproblematic crimes

i think the book uses “sexy” as a descriptor like, four times, and i hate that.

i think rachel is kinda annoying.

sam has never done anything wrong ever in his life and has so much plot armor. actually i don’t think this is a problem. i love him and he deserves everything

“lovely summer girl” is not actually that great. it’s very sweet but eh. some of sam’s other bits of lyrics throughout the book are cool though

the tl;dr of all of this is that shiver has some uncomfortable issues. but i don’t personally think that they make it unreadable or not worthwhile if you’re interested in that kind of thing. it is a little bit cringe at times, it’s not stiefvater’s best, but it’s good at being disturbing and devastating and romantic, which is the point.

[galacticlamps]

im sorry im sorry im sorry i know it’s been well over a year but i accidentally thought about Short Trips: Deleted Scenes (again) and it’s killing me (again) so i think im just gonna go ahead and post all these stupid thoughts that have been plaguing me about it since i first heard it & maybe that’ll help clear up some space in my head for like, real life things.

Spoilers I guess? It’s like a year and a half old but also high key the most recent 2nd doctor content i believe we’ve gotten which is like, the only negative thing I can say about it

The TLDR version is this:

I literally cant believe how sweet it is? Painful, but sweet. Like. I don’t honestly know what’s more likely - did they set out to write Jamie a nice little straight love interest and just fail miserably at it by constantly likening her to the Doctor AND paralleling the Doctor’s perspective with her ex’s AND putting Jamie’s relationships with both of them in direct tension with each other while constantly letting his with the Doctor win out?

OR - did they do a very 1960s thing and say hey we’re gonna write what’s essentially a story about how much Jamie and the Doctor love each other and release it on Valentine’s Day thinly disguised as a one-off romance with a french lady?

Now, as a general rule, my attitude toward questions like that is usually “don’t know, don’t care, doesn’t matter” - and while I 100% stand by that, I also have to admit that this particular audio seems to pay enough attention to detail that I’d kind of think I was selling it short if I assumed too many of these things were just meaningless coincidences, you know?

Anyway, that’s the most coherent/overarching thought. And here’s a disorganized list of things I absolutely cannot get over about it (they don’t form any kind of argument, mind, they just all happen to live rent free in my head):

- Celine is first taken in by Jamie being an idiot (specifically him claiming not to speak French, in perfect French); likewise, her entrance in the scene where they actually kiss is marked with a little anecdote about her hat getting stuck on a doornail and her scolding it as she attempts to fix her un-tameable appearance, and the narration says Celine “would often clown for Jamie like this” - all of which, while undeniably adorable, don’t exactly strike me as entirely original traits to have been assigned to Jamie’s love-interest (but also Celine is so cool and her perspective on film/media/time is an excellent addition to the long list of dr who characters)

- When they’re in the present, describing Jamie’s relationship with Celine in 1908, they call him her “companion” and highlight his going nearly everywhere with her, which earns a laugh from the 4th doctor (and me as well, though probably for slightly different reasons - but like, is that really all it takes to have a fling with someone in 60′s era who? bc if so...)

- Celine’s ex-fiance is still in love with her and is jealously watching when she kisses Jamie ... and then the Doctor appears beside him, evidently doing the exact. same. thing. They have the following conversation:

“You know, it’s not prudent to spy on people. But then, people in pain can’t be expected to act prudently.”

“Pain, monsieur? You mistake me.”

“Ah, do I? Good, because I rather thought you’d lost something.”

“What would you know about loss monsieur?”

- I’m sorry doc but who do you think you are, saying stuff like that and smiling sadly at the floor to boot? I 100% had to pause it here the first time I listened, just to not throw my laptop across the room. 

- Then when I recovered continued, the Doctor closes the door so they can’t watch anymore and explains “Possessing things comes so terribly easily to some men that losing them can feel cruel, intolerably cruel. In my experience, only the very best of men cannot be tempted to answer that cruelty with more - I do sincerely hope that you are the best of men.” (guess who gets described as the best of men by the end of the audio?)

- Jamie and the Doctor apparently develop a habit of walking along the river in Paris in silence

- During one such walk, Jamie suggests Celine come with them since she already figured out about the Tardis - and when the Doctor’s worried by this, he says he only allowed Jamie & Celine to grow closer “because of Victoria.” Jamie takes offense at the ‘allowing it’ comment and also refuses to admit he knows what the Doctor means about Victoria, which leads the Doctor to say that he knows how fond Jamie was of her - he was too, of course, but with him, “it was different, wasn’t it?” Jamie only says maybe that’s true and maybe that’s not, but his voice catches until he changes the subject

- Jamie doesn’t see Celine for days both times that she’s recovering from the shock and depression of her work being destroyed. In contrast, when the Doctor’s not well, Jamie’s "afraid” and “guilty” and hardly seems to leave his side at all, if his being there “rushing to embrace him” the second he wakes up - after a period Jamie describes as “at least a week” - is anything to go by, anyway. so either bf writers need to learn how to write a committed straight relationship or admit that’s not what they ever intended in the first place

- Oh yeah, and the Doctor spends that week "asleep” in Jamie’s bedroom - no, there’s no explanation as to if that’s where he was when he first collapsed or if it’s where Jamie decided to take him bc why would they feel the need to explain him being there? why was it even relevant to tell us it was Jamie’s room in the first place?

- The Doctor somehow manages to control the Tardis enough to take Celine on one trip to an alien planet and then return to the correct time & place for her to use the footage she recorded there in her new film - and while the audio doesn’t do very much to explain how that was possible, it does treat this as A Pretty Big Deal, and immediately afterward the Doctor has to spend a week communing with his past self (and/or the Tardis?) debating how likely it is that the Time Lords could use this to trace him. When he decides it’s not worth the risk and they have to stop the film from ever being shown to the public, Jamie asks why he agreed to it in the first place, and all he can say is “Because, Jamie, you asked me to!” earning awkward stares from the crowd.

- Oh, but, lest we forget, that little outburst is also immediately followed by him putting his arm around Jamie’s shoulders, and, shockingly, apparently beginning to actually explain the truth about the danger from the Time Lords - until they’re interrupted, of course idk why exactly but the idea of a 60s dr wanting to come clean with a companion but not being allowed to bc the show demands the war games be something of a reveal hurts me in a very good way

- The mental image of “the Doctor and Jamie, resplendent in borrowed evening wear”

- The audio admitting that Jamie’s not very good at subterfuge, and the Doctor asking if he’s going to be alright with them having to steal the film back from Celine - and Jamie’s little “Aye, Doctor” as he feels a ‘glass arrow piercing his chest’ glad to see bf is reading all my letters about exactly how i feel any time something sad happens to james robert mccrimmon

- The Doctor’s anxious to get out of there for obvious reasons, but he hangs around bc Jamie wants to see Celine again - which doesn’t happen, because of her aforementioned shock & depression, but she does leave Jamie a note that ends “you and that Doctor of yours - look after him Jamie, he loves you dearly, as do I.” yeah, if you didn’t want people to draw a parallel there, you could’ve picked, like, any other wording in the world.

- In case you weren’t fully convinced I’ve been reading too much into this whole audio already, consider this: Celine dies in Long Island in 1968, three days before her birthday - 1968 is when this story would’ve taken place in the show’s history (between Fury & Wheel), and dying three days before/after a birthday in America seems a bit... well I had some deja vu from it, anyway

- Four of all people being the one to bring back the film - I know he does it bc Sarah Jane makes him, but personally, I often feel like despite the length of his run, 4 is the Doctor with which we might’ve gotten the fewest glimpses into his interiority, so the fact that it’s him and not one of the more overtly sentimental Doctors makes it feel like it carries even more weight somehow, to me anyway. I think I wrote a post saying roughly the same thing about 4 & Fate of Krelos/Return to Telos but maybe I only did that inside my own head lol. Still, I’m all for any opportunities for Jamie to be one of the few characters to draw some noticeable emotion out of Four, but in fairness I haven’t touched too much of his EU stuff to really be able to compare the frequency with which this happens with other past companions

- Is Four referring to Two or Jamie when he says he got the film from “an old family friend”? Two did the actual stealing, but he probably means Jamie’s involvement - either way, it’s an interesting way of describing old companions - or selves?

- When Jemima goes to call Jamie a thief, Four is “roused” to defend him: “he really was the very best of men” again, any time four freely shows he cares about someone, im over the moon about it

- Oh ha ha, there’s an audio called “Deleted Scenes” featuring the Doctor who’s most affected by junked episodes. And at the end of it, a character who’s spent her life researching and lecturing about a lost film gets to watch it be ‘rediscovered’ after it’s gone unseen for decades. I feel marginally less stupid for reading into the other details of a story like this when it ends up deciding to be to be clever & slightly meta like that

But yeah

all in all, it’s kind of amazing to me that this genuinely reads like they sat down and said okay boys it’s valentines day, let’s write an audio where jamie kisses a girl, since that hasn’t happened except as a plot device in one story in 1967 - but then when they got down to business they accidentally(?) wrote a story all about how important his bond with the Doctor is and how easily that can be compared to a legitimate love interest (even if the love interest in question is a one off character & the extent of the relationship appears to be like one kiss & then having Jamie spend most of his time around the Doctor instead)

I realize there’s something slightly illogical about writing the words “shipping aside” after a post like this but seriously - no matter how many categories you’re able to see two & jamie’s relationship fitting into, this is 40 minutes of big finish just hitting you over the head with how powerful/special/important that relationship is, and with them being two of my favorite characters, i really haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since

[asian-hero]

You are literally the best at writing angst, your fics make me feel some typa way. Can I request a todoroki shoto fic where him and reader are dating and he’s a prohero and she’s a doctor. And shoto is absent a lot bc of work and s/o gets sad bc she feels the relationship is 1sided. They fight bc shoto prioritizes hero-ing, & rder is like “but I save lives too”. They get “close” to splitting, but they makeup somehow. Thank you!!!!!!!

A/N: You think you can get away with breaking my heart just because you complimented me on my writing? 😤 (but in all seriousness, thank you for the compliment!)

You guys know you can request fluffy shit too, right?

Summary: You knew that you and Shouto came from different worlds, and while both of your jobs helped to save people, that didn’t mean that the two of you necessarily saw eye to eye on certain things. One of the things that the two of you never seemed to agree on was your relationship, and you were starting to feel that the two of you would never agree when it came to that.

Words: 3,307

You knew from the start that dating a pro hero wasn’t going to be easy. One day you could wake up next to the love of your life, and then five hours later, you find out that they died while watching the evening news. Or, one day you could find yourself being abducted by villains as a pawn to lure your hero lover into rescuing you, and either become scarred from the trauma of being kidnapped, or be the reason why your partner had fallen. Along with this, the hours for a pro were sporadic and unpredictable, which made it even harder to keep up a healthy relationship. So, it was safe to say that most heroes didn’t usually get into relationships with civilians, and, as a doctor, who had to deal with said heroes, you promised yourself to never get involved with one of them. If not for your physical health, then for your mental health.

Oh, how naive you were.

Somehow, whether it be due to some force in the universe that wanted to prove you wrong, or your own lack of willpower, you not only caught the attention of a certain elemental hero, but he had also caught yours as well. At first, you blamed your flustered state on the fact that he seemed to be one of your most, regular, patients. You tried to fool yourself that you were just simply worried for his health. After all, it wasn’t healthy to be visiting a hospital almost every other week. A few weeks of trying to convince yourself, and you suddenly were faced with the horrendous idea that you may have actually been worried about him because you cared about him, more than you were supposed to. It didn’t help that he was so handsome and sweet. In all honesty, it was truly a marvel that you managed to keep it together for as long as you had.

While you tried to keep your feelings tucked away deep inside of your heart, Shouto seemed to have other plans. On the days that he wasn’t in your hospital, bothering you with some large gash from a villain, or some serious bruises and broken bones from attempting to catch a falling building, he would still make his presence known through vases of flowers addressed specifically to you, as thanks for patching him up. Soon, arrangements of flowers were no longer delivered by the mailman, but instead by Shouto himself. He’d make sure to catch you on your break, or whenever you weren’t busy, just so he could strike up a conversation with you. It was both the most sweet and baffling thing that someone has done for you. Fairly soon after his common visits, the hospital became like his second home, where everyone knew why he was there, and the glamour of having a famous pro hero in their work environment was no longer exciting. 

So, no one could really blame you when you started dating him a few months later. 

Loving Shouto was one of the easiest things that you’ve ever done. Being in love with him came naturally to you, as if it were another part of your body. He was always so kind and caring, and while he did have his moments where his inexperience in terms of relationships truly showed, he always strived to be the best boyfriend that he could be. You knew that Shouto was the one who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, to grow old with. In fact, about a year into your relationship, Shouto had suggested that the two of you move in together, under the guise that you would both be saving a lot of money when it came to water and electricity, since the two of you practically lived together anyways. Not that you needed a reason to move in with him.

However, life wasn’t always that easy, and relationships don’t always turn out the way you thought they would.

After two years of dating Todoroki Shouto, you knew that the two of you would fall into some form of routine. The “honeymoon” phase wasn’t going to last forever, and you were perfectly fine with that. You still loved him dearly, and even though you both didn’t express it nearly as much as you used to, the feelings were still there, at least, on your side of the relationship.

While the two of you began to fall into your normalcy, with you growing comfortable with each other’s company, you found yourself realizing just how absent Shouto was. It started when he’d cancel your little dinner dates at home, saying that you shouldn’t wait up for him, since he’ll be home late. Of course, you gave him the benefit of the doubt, because you knew that his schedule wasn’t always the best, so you never complained to him. Soon, though, instead of missing dinner, Shouto was missing the entire day. It wasn’t very often that you had the day off, so when you did, he promised that he’d be home as well, so the two of you could make up lost time. But, when the time came, you woke up alone in your shared bed, a short note on your bedside table being your only indication that he’d left the house, and that he wouldn’t be home until late at night. Eventually, your shared apartment started to feel as though you were the only one living in it, and the only way that you knew Shouto was still living there was because the leftovers you’d put in the fridge for him would be gone the next morning.

At first, you tried really hard to be understanding. You knew that he couldn’t always be there with you, as he had a job to do. Any annoyance that you held toward him would be instantly replaced by guilt, since you knew that he was busy. However, as the days turned into months, your patience began to grown thin, and you were starting to question whether or not he even loved you anymore. If he did, he certainly never showed it, nor did he seem to feel the need to tell you that he loved you. In all honesty, you couldn’t remember the last time he told you he loved you, or the last time you ever felt loved. At this point, you were just wondering if he even cared if you were around, or if you were just someone who he knew would always be there.

Though you had managed to keep your feelings away from him for a while, it didn’t take long for your heart to no longer be able to carry your sorrows, and soon enough, you found yourself sitting on your couch at one in the morning, balling your eyes out as you waited for Shouto to come home.

Luckily for you, you didn’t need to wait much longer, as you could hear the soft click of the lock, and in a matter of seconds, you found yourself staring down the love of your life, who seemed shocked at the fact that you were still awake.

“(Y/N)?” He called out, concern filling his voice, “Why are you still awake?”

Wiping your eyes, you took in a deep breath, preparing yourself for what was to come. “We need to talk,”

Though it was a bit hard to see, with only the light from the kitchen illuminating your apartment, you could make out the tired expression on Shouto’s face. With a soft sigh, he moved toward you, patting your head.

“Can we talk about this in the morning?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms across your chest. “Will you even be here in the morning?”

Hearing the edge to your voice seemed to catch his attention, as he tilted his head, clearly confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged your shoulders, standing up from the couch in order to meet his eyes. “It’s a simple question, Shouto. You’re not even here when I wake up, so how are we supposed to talk?”

He furrowed his brow, not quite understanding what you were getting at. When he didn’t respond, you let out an obnoxious sigh, all of the anger you’ve been bottling up for the past few months finally rearing its ugly head.

“You know, at first I was fine with you cancelling for dinner. I did my best to understand that you’re a hero, and you have an important job to do,” Your eyes bore into him, almost as if you thought you could convey all of your hurt and anger by just your stare, “But, when you start to become less of a ‘roommate’ and more of a cryptid, that’s where I draw the line.”

“What are you talking about?” You could hear the defensive edge in his voice, and it did nothing to stop the fire from raging in your stomach.

“Do you even remember the last time that the two of us were together? The last time we did something that was remotely romantic? I certainly can’t!” You knew that you were unloading a lot of feelings onto him, but you couldn’t care less at this point.

“Well I’m sorry that I can’t be here all the time, but it’s not like I can just stop what I’m doing just to come home and chat,”

You wanted to rip your hair out. “I’m not asking you to do that!”

“Then what do you want?” He asked, his tone becoming as sharp as a knife, “Do you want me to quit my job? To stop being a hero? I’m not going to stop just because you feel upset. There are actual lives on the line.”

“Do you think that I don’t understand that?” You snapped, your nails digging into the palms of your hands.

“I save lives too, you know! Every single day I go to work and do my best to help out those who need me the most, but you don’t see me neglecting this relationship,”

He scoffed, his lips quirking downwards. “Just because you don’t see the work I put in doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. You knew what my life was like when we started dating, I don’t know why this is surprising,”

“I know what I got myself into! I just wish that I would matter just a fraction as much as your job,”

“You want me to prioritize you over my duty to the people?”

“That’s not what I’m saying! I just want to feel like I’m important to you,” You could feel your shoulders deflating, “Why is that so hard to understand?”

The two of you could have fought the entire night and have gone in circles. Instead, Shouto merely took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Can we just talk about this in the morning? It’s late, and I can’t think about this right now.”

All of the fight that was in you had suddenly dissipated, and all you were left with was this hollow feeling in your chest. Shaking your head, you brushed past him, heading towards the guest room.

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing to talk about anymore,” You didn’t even bother turning towards him, “Just, do whatever you want.”

With that, you shut the door behind you, locking it and then throwing yourself onto the bed, praying that you’d get at least a couple hours of sleep before your shift.

Unfortunately for you, you ended up getting about two hours of sleep before waking up at six in the morning. Wordlessly, you got ready for work, not bothering to check if Shouto was still home, though, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d just taken off right after you left.

Once you had arrived at the hospital, you were instantly greeted by the concerned stares from your coworkers, with some even voicing that you didn’t look so good. Not wanting to worry anyone, you told them that you were fine, and that you just didn’t get that much sleep last night. It wasn’t a complete lie, and it got them off of your case, so, you figured that you got away with it.

You honestly couldn’t remember what happened during the rest of the day. Bits and pieces would come to you, like when you had to do a routine check-up for one of your favorite patients, or when you took a thirty minute nap during your lunch. Other than that, you truly could not remember what you did. In fact, if your receptionist didn’t tell you that it was nearly eight in the evening, you were sure that you would’ve stayed the night by accident.

As you left your shift and hurried onto the next train to take you home, you couldn’t help but replay the conversation you had with Shouto. You weren’t quite sure where your relationship stood. Neither of you had made the effort to contact the other, and although it had only been one day, you couldn’t help but feel anxious. While of course, you were glad that you told him how you felt, and that you wished he could be more present as a partner, you felt bad about how you went about telling him. There were better ways of telling him that you felt as though he didn’t care anymore, and snapping at him was probably one of the worst ways to go about it. So, as you continued your journey home, you figured that you’d apologize for snapping at him like you did, but you were in no way going to apologize for how you felt, or for telling him that you didn’t feel like a priority for him.

Once the train had reached its destination, and you had finally made it to your front door, you were just about ready to collapse onto the couch. Maybe get in a quick nap before eating dinner, or maybe you’d just head straight towards your bed and get a full eight hours of sleep. However, once the door swung open, rather than being greeted by the deafening silence that you had grown accustomed to, you could hear the soft hum of the radio being played, along with the quiet sizzling of something being cooked. Closing the door gently, you took off your shoes and jacket, quietly making your way towards the kitchen. As you peered from the doorway, you watched in awe as Shouto stood over the oven, watching almost warily at whatever he was making. It was obvious that he had no idea what he was doing, and, judging by how messy your kitchen looked, it was clear to you that this wasn’t his first attempt. Glancing over at the dining table, you noticed the pair of bowls and cups that were set, as if he were setting the table for two.

Deciding that you were tired of just standing there, you cleared your throat, making your presence known.

He jumped a bit, whipping his head towards the source of the noise, before letting out a sound of relief. Quickly turning off the stove, he faced himself towards you, and you could tell that he felt awkward.

“What are you making?” You asked, trying to break the tension in the room.

“Fried rice,” He started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I thought I could make dinner, it seemed simple enough,”

You hummed, slowly making your way over to him, trying to gauge his reaction. When he didn’t move away, you stepped closer, peering into the pan to look at what he made. While it was slightly overcooked, you appreciated the effort. Motioning toward the table, you spoke, “Go grab the bowls,”

After a few more beats of silence, the two of you found yourselves sitting in front of each other, staring awkwardly at your bowls of fried rice, unsure of what to say. While you really did want to apologize, you weren’t sure of how to approach the topic. You were worried that, if you brought up last night, it’d just end up with the two of you fighting again.

It seemed as thought Shouto had the same idea as you, as he finally spoke up, “I think we should talk about last night,”

Putting down your spoon, you nodded. Glancing up, you noticed the nervous expression on his face, and though you were about to talk about something serious, you couldn’t help but find comfort in the fact that he was just as nervous as you.

“Before we start,” You began, placing your hands in front of yourself, “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry that I got so angry last night. I was bottling up all of my emotions, and instead of just telling you, I let them get the best of me, and I exploded when I didn’t mean to,”

He frowned, moving to take one of your hands in his own, “I’m sorry that I tried to brush off your feelings and got defensive. I was tired and ready to go to sleep, so when you said you wanted to talk, I just snapped.”

You squeezed his hand, offering him a small smile. He returned it almost immediately, holding onto your hand as if you were his anchor. Rubbing his thumb against your knuckles, he gave you a reassuring look.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t listening last night, but I am now,” He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, “Tell me what’s going on,”

You felt a pang of anxiety rushing through you, but you pushed through. Even though you felt awful saying it, the two of you didn’t fight just for the fun of it.

“I know that being a hero means the world to you, and I’m so proud of what you do. You constantly put yourself in harms way in order to protect those who can’t save themselves, and I admire that,”

He nodded his head, ushering you to continue, “But?”

“But,” You said, trying to choose your words carefully, “I feel like you put so much of yourself into your work that there’s not enough of you left when it comes to our relationship.”

You smiled sadly at him. “I’m not saying that I should be your number one priority, I know that would be too selfish. I’d just like to be in the top five, you know?”

The frown on his face made you rethink your words. Mirroring his features, you squeezed his hand. It took him a minute to respond, letting your words sink in. Once he found his voice, he spoke, “You shouldn’t feel like you have to settle for the top five,”

He got out of his seat, pushing it closer to you before sitting down once more. This time, he took both of your hands in his, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you weren’t important to me,”

You shook your head, your nose gently bumping against his. “I know you’re busy,”

“Never too busy when it comes to you,”

You found yourself breaking out into a small grin, laughing a bit. Seeing your relaxed figure, Shouto found himself laughing with you, disconnecting his hands from yours in order to place them on your waist, pulling you closer. As you found yourself practically straddling him, you couldn’t help but run a hand through his hair, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. He seemed to relish in your touch, as he leaned closer to you as you pulled away, causing you to let out another stream of giggles.

While the two of you still had to figure out how to manage your schedules, you were finally filled with a sense of comfort and love, one that you hadn’t felt in a long time. 

[ddaenggtan]

forever rain | knj | m

Being dead isn't anything exciting. Just a lot of walking the same halls of the same apartment day after day after day. Things change when the new tennant arrives, though. Kim Namjoon isn't anything you could have expected; not the way he's so careful and gentle with his plants because he breaks so many other things, not the way his friends joke that he's psychic because you refuse to let him get in the face one time, and certainly not the way he comes home after literal months spent moving things away from table edges for him and announces that he knows he's being haunted and he has some questions for you. You didn't know ghosts could fall in love, but he makes you feel alive again, like you're standing in the rain while thunder crashes around you. You should've known nothing good would come of falling in love with someone living, though. You should've known that heartbreak was the only way this could end...that the rain doesn't last forever. 

part of the Love Yourself Collab, please please please go check out the other fics. Everyone involved is so freaking talented and I have been vibrating out of my skin with how excited I’ve been to read all of these. 

pairing | kim namjoon x reader (unspecified gender, even!)

word count | 18.8k | cross posted to ao3

genre/warnings | ghost!reader, slight fluff, hard angst, literally the most angst ever it gets fluffy for a bit but litERALLY this is an angst fic, major character death, unprotected sex (idk what the etiquette for ghost sex is but you should still wrap it before you tap it fam), depictions of terminal illness (v mild), mentions of blood (several, but not graphic), major character death, allusions to violence, namjoon is a klutz whats new, depictions of terminal illness, major character death, i added that tag three times pls dont read this if you aren’t comf with mcd bc i literally tagged it three times so y’all would definitely see it, also probably have some tissues ready bc i cried while writing it so 

a/n | this is, to date, the saddest thing i have ever written in my entire fucking life. formal apologies to this joon bc oh my god you poor soul. i’m not kidding when i say you might cry, because i’m a big baby wuss and cried while writing the fucking outline when i first decided to write this for the collab so like......rip my own heart. i was really honored when i was approached about the LYA collab, bc like,,,,,mE? WHAT? and i was really nervous because i’ve never been part of any collabs in any fandom ever, and to have to do something like forever rain and mono as a whole justice, like,,,,,,, *screaming* y’know?? so i went on mono lockdown and just had the whole thing on repeat and was like “alright. what emotions does this make me feel.” and i eventually settled on the loneliness and isolation that he expresses, and feeling like no one understands what you’re going through, but that ultimately the album as a whole and forever rain give off this feeling of like. things get better, you’re not as alone as you feel, and you just gotta get through the bad stuff to find the good stuff. basically i just got really in my feels about it and was like ‘lets make myself cry ahahaha’ and,,,i dID i cried several times while planning and writing and editing bc im a Soft Bitch and don’t read much angst for that exact reason lmao. so buckle tf up y’all, this a helluva ride!! 

Of all the things you'd heard about death, all the different possibilities that existed in the world, the one thing you hadn't been prepared for was the boredom. You hadn't been prepared for any of it, really, too surprised by your own demise to plan at all, but even if you'd been able to, you don't think that this is what you would've counted on. An eternity - or however long ghosts existed - of being stuck in the same studio apartment you'd lived in when you died. The same walls, the same floor, the same view out the only window of the alley beside the building. It's boring and lonely and boring.

You've found more creative ways to entertain yourself as time passes. First, you started by figuring out just what being a ghost meant. You can't really communicate with anyone, haven't figured out how to make sure everything you say is heard, but you can manipulate objects pretty easily these days. The most difficult thing is becoming fully corporeal - completely visible and able to interact with things at the same time. It's hard enough to be visible, and you aren't really sure what the point of it would be when it would just scare whoever's living in your apartment; that's the last thing you want to do, run them off when they're the best source of amusement you've found.

You won't lie, you were a little offended when the first tenants moved in after you. It was difficult to watch your things get packed up and moved out by your friends, hard to lose all of the little things you loved in your apartment, like the shitty bead curtain you'd gotten as a gag gift or the photo collage of all of your loved ones. It's frustrating to not know how they're all doing these days; the one time you got brave enough to fuck with a laptop to check on them, you nearly broke the thing, and you haven't tried since. Still, it seemed cathartic for them to clear out your apartment, and it was a bittersweet sight, but you tried to focus on the positive side of it.

And then the couple moved in.

Not only did they fuck like rabbits - which is something you're going to stay pissed about, because there's no satisfaction to be had by you anymore, and it's the one thing you can think of that would be endlessly entertaining - but the couple was also grossly obnoxious. They had zero respect for your apartment , or you, and while one could argue that they didn't actually know you were there, it still made the sting of losing your entire life that much worse. You spent you don't know how many nights hovering awkwardly in the bathroom while they fucked, would constantly wander in to see them going at it on the kitchen counter at ass o'clock in the morning, and once you came in to see them tossing actual literal eggs at the ceiling like the absolute fucking weirdos they were.

So, naturally, you got a little mad. How dare they treat your apartment like that? They had no respect, but they were going to learn it real quick if they were going to live there with you, whether they wanted to or not.

They didn't last long after the first night of slamming cabinets and squealing hinges, but the thrown picture frame of their family was the conclusive end to their stay.

There have been others, since then. They haven't all been terrible, not like that first couple, but most of them have been sub-par roommates, and if you decided early on that if the rest of your immortal life is going to be locked in one shitty apartment with the absolute worst view in the city - because no one wants to see the drunken hookups and potential body dumps that take place in that alley - then you're at least going to share said apartment with someone nice to exist with.

You release a heavy sigh, staring at where your hand disappears through the shower wall. You've taken to testing the boundaries of the apartment again; you already know what the result will be, learned in the first few hours that you're stuck here, but you can't help trying when you get really bored. You just got distracted fucking around with the pipes in the meantime, because you're literally too bored to even focus. It's part of why you miss the last tenants so much, because you weren't ever really bored with them around.

A single mother and her two kids, crammed into a much-too-small apartment because it was all they could afford, and they were the light of your un-life. One a budding teenager that wrote angsty poetry who loved your trick of making things float around, and one an adorable toddler who adored playing peekaboo with you and coloring, and a mom that was too busy to notice anything out of the ordinary. It was like having a family again, made you feel useful when you could pull the meat out of the freezer for her to make dinner with or scratch a quick 'do your homework' on a steamy bathroom mirror. It was fun and it made being dead that much more bearable.

You really should've known that letting the toddler draw the two of you would be a bad idea, especially since there were several artistic liberties taken. It's not your fault the kid thought you'd look cool with fangs and bloody holes instead of eyes and claws that reached the floor. It was art, it was supposed to be a little different from reality. Still, you can't blame her for seeing the picture of her kid and 'my new best friend' and immediately calling the landlord. And a priest.

So, perhaps you gave the apartment a bit of a reputation. Maybe it's been a couple of months since the mom moved out and took your two buds with her. There might be the possibility that you've been the slightest bit salty about losing your friends and you've been extra-ghost-y whenever someone comes by to view the place in an attempt to make yourself feel a little better. Can you really be blamed for that? You just want a decent damn roommate for your life after death, and if that means putting the potentials through a little bit of a test, then so be it. You only feel a little bit bad for the landlord.

The creak of the front door pulls you from your thoughts, and the echo of a voice makes you narrow your eyes. Your first instinct is to slam some windows to scare off whoever's in your apartment, but you repress the urge. You'd die of boredom if you could die again, and whoever this is could provide a few hours' entertainment at the least.

You pop your head through the bathroom wall to see what's going on, and wow , who let an actual giant into your apartment? Fucking with the pipes could definitely wait for this guy.

"I know it's last minute, yeah," He says into the phone that's held carefully between his cheek and shoulder. His arms are loaded down with boxes and he's angled away from you just enough that you can't see his face, but he's tall and broad and wearing what looks like the world's comfiest sweater, and you want to badly to wrap yourself up in him. "But you know Joon needs the help. Don't pretend you aren't constantly willing to put off your thesis, I know for a fact that you went out to look at stationery with Tae last week, and everyone knows that's the most boring thing on the planet."

He's quiet, listening to the soft crackle of a voice from the other end. You slide through the wall completely, hovering as close as you dare to try and hear what the other person is saying. Tall, Broad, and Comfy scoffs.

"He can stare at one sheet of paper for at least ten minutes, Yoongi. Do I need to remind you of the time he spent an entire fucking hour debating which set of holiday scrapbook to buy because, and I quote, 'this one has the really nice rose pattern on it that would look great with the invitations, but, oh, look at the pinstripes in this one!'" His voice morphs into what you guess is an approximation of whoever Tae is, and you laugh at the high-pitched, nasally tone.

Tall and Broad spins, eyes narrowing as he looks around the room, and fuck , he's literally gorgeous. You've never seen someone more attractive in your life or your death and it would probably knock the wind out of you if you actually had breath. Comfy McGorgeous turns back around and sets the stack of boxes in the corner, continuing his tirade about Tae and stationery while simultaneously trying to talk Yoongi into coming, you assume, to help Joon move. You don't know who any of these people are, but they're already proving to be the most entertaining bunch that's ever graced these walls.

The door to your apartment flies open, making both you and Boyfriend Material whip your head around.

"Christ, Jin, you couldn't hold the fucking door open for us?" Someone grunts. Beauty Von Softness - or, Jin, as you should probably refer to him - winces and strides over to do just that as two more guys stagger in with a couch suspended between them. The second they're in the door they drop it to the ground and flop onto it, panting and sweaty.

"Listen, I was busy trying to get our resident hermit out of his cave to help us carry some of this shit," Jin spits back. "And you all know what it's like getting him out and about."

"Did you tell him that there's pizza after we're done? Because I've found that food is the best motivator for him," the guy closest to the door says. His hair is soft-looking and long and you wish you could pet it.

The other guy, the one who cursed Jin out and has the softest pink hair you've ever seen, laughs. "Jeongguk, you always think the best motivator is food."

"Well, yeah, because it is."

"For you, maybe. Other people require actual rewards."

"But food is a reward," Jeongguk mutters into the fabric of the couch. Jin tsks and smacks As Yet Unnamed on the back of the head.

"You're lucky I hung up on him when you bombarded your way into this place, or he'd definitely not come help us," Jin says as he leans against the back of the couch.

Unnamed starts to say something else but is cut off by someone running straight into the end of the couch. They all shoot to their feet, spouting apologies as the three of them maneuver the couch into the apartment properly.

"Sorry, sorry, Jimin distracted us from properly finishing our job," Jeongguk says quickly. He looks to the stranger with a small apologetic smile, and you're pretty sure if it were humanly possible, there would be actual literal stars in his eyes.

"Oh, it's okay, Jeonggukkie. I should've been looking where I was going." New Challenger walks straight towards where you stand, and you realize seconds before it's too late that he is not aware there is a massive stack of boxes in his path. Instinctively, you shove them to the side with your foot. Tall And Oblivious sets his boxes down without any trouble, none the wiser about any of it, and the three near the couch are too busy bickering in hushed whispers to have noticed you doing anything.

The newcomer straightens and turns to look at them all with a bright smile, and you think you might actually see The Light in the way his cheeks dimple. If you thought the other three were beautiful - which they are, no doubt about that, you're seriously wondering why the hell a bunch of supermodels are moving stuff into your apartment - then this guy is easily an Actual Fucking God or something. His brown hair is soft and shiny, his smile is warmer than the sun, and you're fairly positive that for the first time since you died, you feel goosebumps along your arms.

"Seriously, Namjoon, we should've realized you'd be up soon. You stay, start unpacking while we go get the rest of the furniture." Jimin shoves Jeongguk out the door while he's speaking, ignoring the taller's complaints, and Jin just shakes his head at the sight.

"Yoongi'll be here soon, he's finishing up another draft of his thesis. Hobi and Tae are stopping to get the pizzas and then they'll be here, too." Jin's voice is calmer than it was Jimin and Jeongguk, more soothing, and it makes you curious. Not only because of the tone change, but because you know Hobi, he owns the building and is the one who rented you the apartment when you first moved in. One of your favorite things to do is scare him when he comes by to make sure everything’s ready for a viewing.

"What? No, I said I was gonna pay for pizzas!" Namjoon looks distinctly more upset about this than someone should over not having to pay for pizza, at least in your mind, and it only makes you more curious.

"Yeah, but you also just moved out of your old apartment because it was too expensive, and had like an hour to load everything into a truck, so you're gonna let their trust fund asses pay for pizzas. We're seven adult men, and Guk could eat an entire horse and still be hungry. I'm not letting you pay for that."

Silence hangs in the apartment for a while before Namjoon gives a soft thanks to Jin. They share a smile before Jin makes his way back out. You follow each step, shadowing him all the way to the door before you're stopped. You lean your entire body forward, struggling against the invisible barrier keeping you inside, and the force of it nearly slams you back into the wall when you sag in defeat.

You aren't sure why you try anymore, but you know yourself well enough to admit that you're not going to stop until you can at least make it to the hallway.

Whatever you expected Namjoon to be like as a roommate, however unknowing he is about the situation, you don't think you could've guessed what he's actually like.

Out of the seven boys you saw the day he moved in, he's the only one living there. Not a complete surprise, considering it's a studio apartment, but you remember when there were nine people living there at one point, and there was barely room for anyone to breathe even if it had been pretty consistently amusing. Still, for one person, he's got a ton of stuff, and it's a shock it all fits. His bed is massive and comfortable and the best place to lay during the day because it's shoved between the brick half-wall and the large windows that take up one wall. The area's supposed to be for a dining table, you think, but you'd had your bed there, too, and the familiarity is nice.

His couch is small and old but manages to fit five of them, and it's a pleasantly jarring difference from the coffee table that looks like - and might actually be - an old steamer trunk. The exposed brick wall you love holds his mounted TV, a feat that took Jeongguk and Yoongi a solid hour and a half because they kept stripping the screws, and it's got one of those 8-cubicle bookshelf things under it that stores a frankly obnoxious amount of books.

He's got mugs for days, an adorable if odd collection of figurines and mini-statues scattered around the apartment, a strange obsession with some reclaimed wood shelf he's got hanging above his bed, but the absolute highlight of it all is The Wall.

It took them three hours to get it installed and set up the way he wanted, between the placements and the thick wooden shelf they’re perched on with supports and a small safety bar along the edge to keep them from falling off, but along the entire windowed wall and partway after it turns the corner runs a long shelf absolutely covered in plants. There are some elsewhere, like the one he keeps hanging from the bathroom ceiling and the couple in the kitchen, but most are on The Wall. Each one is in its own special pot, each a unique color with a name painted carefully along it, and most of them look half-dead. They're all distinct and unique from each other and they all surely have different needs and ideal conditions, but you'd never guess because Namjoon is so wholly committed to them all. He takes time every day to water them and prune them if he needs to, he checks on them constantly. He even reinforced the safety bar for the ones that sit beside his bed, so there was less chance he'd accidentally knock them around while sleeping.

It's fascinating, watching him tend to them. He's so careful and gentle, with absolute precision in every moment. He cares for his plants the way some people would care for a pet or a child. He doesn’t believe any of them are past caring for, slowly nurses all of them back to health and frequently turns up with more he’s saved from some department store. The most endearing thing, though, you decide as you sit curled among the haphazard blankets of his bed and watch, is the talking. It's every day, for as long as it takes him to care for the plants, and it's the cutest thing in the world. He's talking to some succulent as you just stare at him, filling the comfortable silence of the apartment with his soft, soothing voice, and you wish he could hear you when you talk back to him.

"I know they mean well, but at some point, I've just gotta live my own life, y'know? I can't study something just because everyone expects me to, and I can't pursue some dream just because people think I'd be good at it. I've gotta do what's right for me, don't I?" His tone is positive and bright, a contrast to the gloomy sky that casts shadows across the apartment.

You float over, hovering beside him to look at the plant he's lovingly stroking with his thumb. It's in a pretty periwinkle pot, with the name 'Mang' painted in careful but shaky black handwriting. It's not your favorite - that's the one in the bathroom that hangs over its light blue bowl, a quickly scrawled 'Koya' on the bottom - but it seems to be one of Namjoon's personal favorites based on how often he talks to it specifically.

"I think it's nice you do things for yourself," You tell him. He doesn't react, unable to hear you, but it's nice to hear your own voice after so long. You slide one of the plants - Chim, in a small yellow bowl - to the side and away from his elbow, and he doesn't notice. "You know yourself better than they do. You should trust yourself."

He keeps mumbling to Mang, something about everyone following their own dreams and doing what they need over what people want or expect, when you lay your hand over his.

Thunder cracks through the sky and the first raindrops hits the window as your non-existent skin hits his, and it's the most real thing you've felt in a long time. It's as if the scent of ozone and electricity is in the apartment itself, crackling in your hair and filling your nose with the overpowering scent of the sweet summer rain. You can almost feel the water hit your skin, the way the wind whips at your hair, and it's so intoxicating that you almost miss the sharp inhale from the man beside you.

He's not looking at his plant when you look up, but instead at the window in front of the two of you. You glance at it, and for a fraction of a second, you can see yourself in the reflection. The glimpse has you jerking towards it before you can stop yourself, desperate to know if something has changed. You haven't seen your reflection since you died, not in the mirror or the window or the toaster, and maybe, just maybe, it means something's changed.

Your hand stops against the glass of the window as you reach forward. You can't feel the cool of it under your palm, but it's no less a barrier for you as it would be for Namjoon. Something in you breaks as you watch the raindrops race each other to the ground.

"Ah, I forgot the forecast called for rain today," he mutters, eyes focused on the lightning that streaks by. He doesn't react when your fist slams against the glass, nor when you let out the scream that's been building in you for however long it's been since you died. You're so close, not even a hair's breadth from feeling something new yet familiar for the first time in so long, and you can't. You're still stuck in these four walls, unable to even reach the air outside.

You just want to feel the rain again.

You move dejectedly away from the window, ignoring the way Namjoon shivers as you pass. The temperature in the apartment has dropped considerably, you think, between the storm and your own mood. You can't tell, really. You haven't felt warm or cold or hungry or anything since you died that isn't the oppressive loneliness of life after death.

A dry sob tears itself from your throat and you hurry to hide in the bathroom as Namjoon turns to look around him. He mumbles something you can't hear and after a few minutes, he returns to tending to his plants, leaving you to your tear-less cries in peace.

It becomes quickly apparent to you that Namjoon should really have a roommate, if only to save him from himself. It takes a few weeks for you to realize this, but luckily he seems to narrate his life as he goes through it - which is overwhelmingly adorable to you, and you refuse to acknowledge that - and that means that you hear it every time he goes, "Ah, Namjoon, be more careful next time," or "Oh, shoot, that's not, fuck, I gotta buy more eggs now." It's painful to watch, even for you, and at some point, you just couldn't take it anymore. No one else is around to help, but someone needs to you, and clearly the universe means for you to be that someone.

It's a full-time job, protecting him from himself. You've saved countless mugs, pushing them farther away from the edges of counters and tables, and been just in time to shove bowls or vases an inch over so that his elbows glide harmlessly past them. It's almost exhausting, if you could get tired you would, but it's worth it, you think, as you catch the bookshelf under the TV as it tilts. You slide it gently to the floor, glad that Namjoon is distracted by how close he came to losing a toe to notice.

Because that's the other thing about this tree of a man: he's the most oblivious person you've ever fucking seen. It doesn't matter what it is you do, whether it's bouncing his spray bottle of water so it doesn't break on the hard floor or shake the counters so that the knife he's about to drop on his fucking hand falls the other way, he doesn't see a single fucking thing. You'd think he was blind if he wasn't so attentive to the way his plants grow. He notices nothing and you're glad for it because you really aren't sure what he would do if he knew you were going around haunting him just to keep him alive. You just want to help, want to keep the soft smile he wears more often around for as long as possible.

You don't dare to look into why you want that, too afraid of what you might find there.

It's also just fun to watch him and his friends, relaxed and unreserved. You never had many friends when you were alive, just a small handful that you really truly loved and whom you miss every day. Watching these seven boys fills you with nostalgia and a strange sense of joy because they really are some of the funniest people you've ever been around.

Like now, with four of them sprawled on the couch while Jeongguk and Hoseok make themselves comfortable leaning against the bookshelf under the TV - which has been bolted to the wall since it almost broke Namjoon's foot - and Namjoon watches them all from his bed since it's the only other place to sit. There are beer bottles scattered around and decorating the half-wall that separates the bed from the room proper, everyone is varying levels of drunk, and you're curled up close to Namjoon, leaning against the wall so you can stop him from knocking over any of the bottles nearby because you know him too well at this point.

"I'm just saying, I don't understand why they made him so over-powered in the new movies, because he's supposed to be some kid from Brooklyn! Giving him the high-tech suit essentially strips him of the friendly neighborhood persona that he's always relied on!" Jeongguk has been ranting for a while about the newest release in the Spiderman franchise - apparently, he's part of the actual Avengers now, which is a shock to you since the last thing you heard before you died was that the franchise was canceled until further notice or something.

"And I'm saying that if they didn't give him the suit then it would've made no sense how he was able to do those things," Yoongi responds. You're pretty sure he's just arguing to be contrary at this point, because you remember him telling Namjoon the other day that he prefers DC over Marvel.

"Garfield's Spiderman could do those things," you mutter, "And he didn't have a fancy suit."

"Okay, then how do you explain Andrew Garfield's version being able to do that stuff? He doesn't need the suit, he never has!" You preen at the way Jeongguk echoes your thoughts. "I'm telling you, I don't care how good the relationship with Holland's Spidey and Iron Man is, by giving him the tech and the advancements they did, they've undermined everything that Spiderman is supposed to be about."

"Jeongguk come off it, everyone knows Garfield's Spidey was just all bad writing. I mean, what kind of person can do all that stuff, realistically? He's the one that really needed the Stark suit." Taehyung's voice is slurred and quiet, definitely as drunk as the rest of them. 

"What-! No! I could do half of that without being bitten by a weird science spider!" Jin scoffs at Jeongguk's words. 

"Yeah, sure, Guk. The same way you can do that bottlecap challenge."

"Bottle cap challenge, and yeah, I could!" The youngest stands and you don't bother to hide your grimace. 

"This isn't going to end well, is it?" You ask. No one acknowledges you, too busy finding something Jeongguk can kick the cap off of as the boy readies himself. He's steady on his feet but his face is red and he can't seem to stop giggling. 

"If I do this, you gotta call me SpiderGuk from now on, okay?" He says. No one agrees, but it doesn't stop him from laughing again and doing a couple of roundhouse kicks to warm up. 

"Okay, okay, Joonie doesn't have any regular water bottles, but we found a screw-top beer in the fridge so ya gotta use that," Jimin says as he stumbles over with said bottle. Jeongguk just nods, an adorable focused expression on his face. Jimin holds the bottle in the air, and you can already tell his grip isn't tight enough to keep the bottle still when Jeongguk kicks it. 

The next ten seconds happen in slow-motion. Jeongguk's leg flies out to kick but his drunken body isn't able to handle the sudden shift in balance, and he slips. His foot hits the bottle slightly too low, and it goes flying out of Jimin's weak grip into the air. Everyone in the room watches as it hurtles straight towards Namjoon's face, and you react out of habit and instinct, catching it in one hand before you even realize you've moved. 

Everyone freezes, staring at where the bottle hovers in front of Namjoon's face. You're the only one able to see your fingers wrapped around it. A shock jolts through you at the realization of what you've done and you drop the bottle as if it burned you. Fuck, they were all going to freak, then Namjoon would move out and you'd be stuck alone once more. You should've just shoved him out of the way, what were you thinking, you're so fucking stupid-

"Dude," Hoseok mutters from where he's perched on the arm of the couch. "Holy shit, Joon, you're fucking telepathic." 

Yoongi rolls his eyes and smacks his chest. "Telekinetic, you fucking-"

"Holy shit, you've got fucking superpowers!" Jeongguk squeaks. "Do it again!"

Namjoon isn't even able to get a word out before there's a book flying at his face, and you panic. You can't catch it, too rushed, but you manage to deflect it so it hits the bed with a soft thump instead of braining Namjoon straight in the nose. 

"Woah, you really do have superpowers," Jimin whispers. He lobs a bottlecap at Namjoon, and you catch it in your palm before letting it drop onto the half-wall. 

"I don't have...what the fuck you guys," Namjoon insists. His eyes are as wide as saucers behind the thick glasses he has on. He looks freaked out and you want nothing more than to hug him. Your hand reaches out of its own accord, halfway closing the distance to stroke his hair before you catch yourself. 

"Hey, levitate your plants," Jin demands. Namjoon looks panicked as he glances at the wall of plants, and you heave a sigh. With any luck, they're so drunk that they'll remember this as a strange fever dream, but you can't just let them keep throwing things at him. You crawl over to the wall, avoiding Namjoon as you do, and grasp one of the plants tight. It's a white pot with red polka dots, a simple RJ on the side, and it's fucking heavy. You only get it a few inches off the shelf before you're forced to put it down.

"Oh my god, catch this!" Taehyung throws a coffee mug straight at Namjoon's head and you panic again. You catch it, and you've decided you're fucking sick of them throwing things at him, so you lob it back and dart across the room to bounce it safely to the counter before it can break. 

Everyone in the room stares at the mug and then looks back at Namjoon, who hasn't moved from his spot on the bed. 

"Oh my god, you're a superhero," Jeongguk whispers, awe in his eyes. 

"That's fucked up," Yoongi mutters, wincing when Hoseok elbows him. 

"Maybe we should get some sleep," Namjoon says quietly. The others look like they want to disagree with him, and you have no doubt they want to explore the newfound 'abilities' of their friend, but they still start gathering trash together before they head out. 

Namjoon lays awake for a long time that night, glasses folded and sitting atop the half-wall beside you. He's oblivious to the way you watch him, too lost in thought to feel the weight of your stare or the chill in the air. 

"I don't understand," He says after a while. "I really don't, but there's got to be a reason for it." He doesn't elaborate, merely turns over and evens his breathing out until he starts snoring, but you watch him for most of the night. He's fascinating, this human, and you wonder what makes him so different from the others you've met. 

He apparently decides to experiment. You've known Namjoon is intelligent since he first moved in and you saw his collectible encyclopedias, but you hadn't realized just what it would be like in actuality. 

It starts simple. He'll toss something in the air and let it clatter to the ground. Nothing big, just little things like pencils or bottlecaps, and not far, just enough that his eyes narrow as he apparently tries to use his telekinetic abilities to manipulate them. 

It slowly graduates from there. Next comes the way he stares at something across the room, hyper-focused on whatever it is until you notice and move it around for him. It's a guessing game, sometimes, trying to figure out just what he wants to move or how he wants to move it, but each time you're successful, he smiles so brightly, dimples on full display. Who wouldn't want to make him smile like that?

It's hit or miss, sometimes. You're only so strong, and while you've had a lot of practice, you still get tired. You lifted his bookshelf almost a full inch before blacking out. Next thing you knew, a couple of days had passed and Namjoon was staring at a coffee mug. That was a significantly less fun day; between losing time and having to catch coffee mug after coffee mug, you were exhausted and a little shaken. 

So when he stops staring at things for extended periods of time, when he starts to go back to reading and scrolling the internet and bingeing all the completed shows that Netflix and Amazon had to offer, you're grateful for it. He still occasionally tests it out; he's always subtle about it, choosing to stare quietly until you notice and make whatever it is float around for a minute. Once you wandered around looking for him - a feat in a studio apartment - and found him just sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at a shampoo bottle.

You'd like to say that you don't move things entirely because he wants you to. It's a good test of your abilities and how far you can push yourself until it becomes too much, and it's always nice to have actual evidence that you still exist - in some form, at least - in the world. The validation that comes from seeing him smile every time you lift a pencil or slide a coffee mug to the side, it's not for any reason but the satisfaction of knowing that you have some kind of existence. Some kind of impact on the world, even if you can't be seen and can't leave the apartment.

It's part of why you start moving things around yourself more often; you're hoping he just blames it on his overactive 'abilities' if he notices because you really aren't sure what he would think otherwise. But you also know for a fact that just seeing that you have some kind of sway over the world still - over the things inside this tiny apartment - makes you feel just that bit better about being dead.

Which is why it's such a fucking shock when the door to the apartment slams open one evening just for Namjoon to slam it closed again and announce into the air, "So I know you're haunting me, please don't try to deny it, I only want to talk to you."

You freeze where you are, halfway through the closet door from where you were reorganizing his clothes because they made no sense and you were bored. He's looking around the apartment, almost desperate in the way he's searching, and you can't bring yourself to move. It's obvious he can't see you, and you aren't even sure if he's being serious, but the way he huffs and clenches his jaw before moving into the kitchen tells you that he probably is.

You follow him, curious, and watch as he pulls a small package out of his bag and starts ripping it open. You float the remains of what looks like gift wrap over to the trashcan, because you know Namjoon will forget, before going back to watching him. He's only a little careful as he cracks something in his hands and then slaps it onto the fridge, and you peek around him to see that it's some kind of words or something. There’s a wide variety, with no clear theme to them, as well as at least one of each letter of the alphabet. It's then you remember the throwaway comment Yoongi made during that night - "You need, like, poetry stuff, like those magnets that go on the fridge that people write that deep shit with, y'know? I'm gonna buy you one," - and realize that he'd followed through on his vow. 

"Alright," Namjoon says, leaning against his kitchen counter and staring at the magnets. "First and foremost, am I really being haunted or is this some kind of hallucination?" His gaze never falters, doesn’t ever drift from the magnetic words now spread across his fridge doors. It takes several minutes to build up the energy and the courage to move closer to the fridge.

You don't look at him as you move the words around, but you can hear the sharp intake of breath. That's likely all the confirmation that he needs, but still you clear a spot and let the words ' I am here ' sit where he can see them clearly. You wrinkle your nose, disliking how formal it sounds, but you have to make do, you suppose.

"Okay," Namjoon breathes. "Okay, prove it. My brain could work this into a hallucination. How do I know you're really a ghost?"

"Seriously?" You huff. "What the fuck am I supposed to do that wouldn't work into a hallucination, dude?"

He gets fidgety in the few minutes that you spend wondering how the fuck you're going to prove that you're a real actual ghost to someone who clearly doesn't believe in them. His foot taps at the floor and he scratches at his hand, which only makes you want to wrap your own hands around his until he stops, much like your best friend used to lay her legs across your lap to get you to stop shaking your knee.

The realization comes in a flash, and you're moving letters around before you can stop yourself.

Face book, Park Jihyo, best friend.

Namjoon stares at it for a long while before he brings his phone out of his pocket and begins to tap at the screen. You don't get too close; you've got a history with shorting out electronics, and you aren't sure you want to know what your best friend is up to without you there with her.

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Okay, I've never seen her before, so I don't think my brain could work her into a hallucination. Okay. Alright. I'm being haunted. This is fine."

"Calm down, I'm haunting the apartment, not you." He doesn't react to your words, as usual, but it still makes you feel the slightest bit better. He stares at his phone for a little longer, and the curiosity burns under your skin, but you resist. You know from experience that if you try to get too close, his phone will stop working. Just like TV, the stereo, the laptops, everything. You've had enough experience with that kind of thing to know what will happen.

"Okay, Casper," Namjoon huffs out after several minutes of waiting. He looks up and his eyes dart around the apartment, and you wonder if he's just nervous or if he's trying to spot you. "Where are you right now? Can you make yourself visible? I mean, I know you're a ghost, but it feels rude not talking to you to your face."

You huff a laugh but reach for a coffee cup. You know you can't just make yourself visible at will; you've only done it a couple of times, to your knowledge, and none of them have been on purpose. It's even more difficult to make yourself corporeal and physical, harder than just manipulating objects, but you did it once. Back when the single mom still lived here, when her toddler was falling and you had no way to cushion the fall except with your own body; you still aren't sure how it happened, but you remember being able to feel the floor against your back and the warmth of the baby on top of you for a split second before you were gone again. You won't forget that any time soon.

You float the mug towards where you stand, holding it in front of your face long enough that when you pull it away, Namjoon's eyes don't follow it. It's a strange feeling; you know he can't see you, can tell by the way his brow furrows and his eyes slide around the space, but it feels like he's looking straight at you. It feels like you're being seen for the first time since you died.

"So, where are you from, Casper?" His tone is forcibly conversational, as if he's trying his best to keep himself calm. You roll your eyes and move the magnets to show ' here ' and he nods. "You're not gonna try to possess me, or kill me, or run me off, are you? No offense or anything. I figure you would've already at this point, but...cover my bases."

No. Am nice. I think.

"You think? You don't know if you're a nice ghost?"

Does anyone truly know if they are nice? You frown, trying to figure out how to say what you want to say with the limited words available. I can only try. It's still not perfect; there's more that you want to say, more that you want to be heard, but this has to do for now.

"I can accept that. Alright. Just talking to a ghost in my kitchen. Okay. This is totally normal." He rubs a hand over his face, and you're a little impressed. Everyone else that's lived here has freaked when presented with the knowledge that you're a ghost. Namjoon looks very much like his world is exploding, but he doesn't have the same fear and apprehension in his eyes. He's certainly coping better than the single mom.

"Are you the only ghost? Here, I mean, are you the only ghost here?" He breathes a sigh of relief at your 'yes.’ "Can you see other ghosts? Do you know any other ghosts?" The 'don't know, no' that you move around on your fridge seems to unsettle him a little, but there's a curiosity burning behind it that makes your skin tingle.

Can't leave, is what you say next, cutting off whatever question he was about to ask.

"You can't leave at all? The building, or the apartment?"

The second.

"Wow. You're really stuck here?" He looks around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time and sucks in a breath. "What do you do all day?"

Watch. He cocks a brow. You are... You hesitate. The word you need isn't there, everything that comes to you is too poetic or corny for you to actually say, but the weight of his eyes is heavy on your hands. Fun is what you settle on, but it's not right either. 'Interesting' isn't there, nor is 'fascinating' or 'lovely,' and you don't want to scare him off by telling him that part of the reason you watch him so much is that he's so full of life that you feel less dead when he's around.

He laughs at your words though and shakes his head ever so slightly. "Alright, well, I'm gonna shower, so just, don't...watch that?" You squawk at the insinuation that you would, quickly rearranging the letters to spell ' privacy' and making a large angry face out of the rest of the words. He's already turned away, though, and it makes you angrier.

You don't want him thinking that you would peep at him. You already make sure that you're facing the windows when he finishes showering, you've been determined to not be creepy since the day he moved in, and to have him think otherwise is like a slap in the face. You slam the mug against the counter and he startles, turning to gape at it. You carry it to where your words and make-do emoji sit waiting for him to notice them.

"Okay," He says quickly. "Okay, privacy, yeah, got it. You respect my privacy. Appreciated."

"How fucking rude," You mutter as you set the mug back down. You don't adjust the magnets as he disappears into the bathroom. You want him to see them, want him to be reminded of the fact that being dead doesn't mean you don't have basic decency.

You can't get him to shut up now that he knows you're there. He still forgets sometimes, mostly when he's talking to his plants or narrating the way he carefully constructs some origami creation, but more often than not, he's talking to thin air. He spends a lot of time perched on his counter, watching you move magnets around his fridge through the thick lenses of his glasses before he spouts off some other question for you to answer. 

He covers the basics first: how old you were when you died, when your birthday is, your favorite color, what you were studying in school, and of course your name, though he insists on calling you Casper. You aren't sure why but you also don't get a chance to question it, because he hits you with more and more questions every day. Sometimes you don't answer because you can't, too limited by the poetry magnets to be able to really converse; sometimes you just don't have the energy to move the magnets around, but those are days are rare. The only times you use the tired magnet are when you find your limbs too heavy to move, weighed down with the memories of what it meant to be alive. 

Those are the bad days, but his questions make them just a little easier.

"How do you move around? Do you just float everywhere?" Walking, but different. No weight. Soft.

"How are you able to manipulate things in my world? Are they different from things in your world?" Focus. Takes time. Same.

"Do you sleep at all? Do ghosts dream?" No sleep. Just existing.

"You don't eat, do you? Should I be stocking up on snacks for you?" No. Save your sustenance. "What was the last thing you ate?" Don't remember. "Huh. I hope it was something good." Same.

"Were you ever in a relationship?" Once. A long time before. "Do you miss them?" Not anymore.

"What did you do while you were alive?" School. "Oh, really? Do you remember what you studied?" Boring. Important then, but it made me forget to live. Not important now. Namjoon goes quiet for a long moment after this one, staring out the window at something you can't see. He nods but doesn't ask any more questions, and he reads for the rest of the night.

It only takes a couple of weeks for both you and Namjoon to get tired of standing in his kitchen fucking around on the fridge. His legs get tired and he gets distracted by his thoughts, and you can barely keep up with the rapid-fire questions you get.

So Namjoon buys one of those cheap cookie sheets with the slightest lip at the edge and dumps the magnets on that. He leaves it on the coffee table, usually, there for you to pick up if he asks something but out of the way for when he stretches out to nap lazily in the afternoon sun.

You like the cookie sheet more than the fridge. He watches you as you work out your responses, can see the way you start to move one word before moving another instead; it makes it feel more like a conversation.

It becomes a favorite pass-time of Namjoon's, curling on the couch and putting some sort of music on in the background and just talking to you. A lot of nights his questions stop with a lingering silence from one or both of you; yours because you don't have the ability to share the words running rampant through your mind, and his for reasons still unknown to you. Still, you've missed it. You've missed talking to someone, being heard when you speak, having someone ask how you are at the end of the day.

It's the little things.

"You said you can't leave, right, Casper?" Namjoon's curled up on his couch, tucked into the arm with a blanket thrown over his lap, a mug of something warm in his hands to combat the chill of the season, and some R&B track playing lightly from his phone. You knock your fist against the cookie once - a sign for yes that you'd both agreed on. "So, are you just always here then? You don't go anywhere else?"

"Fuck, how do I explain this?" You mutter. You stare at the magnets in front of you for a long time before rearranging them. Not always. Tired sometimes, disappear.

"Disappear?" He reads. "What do you mean? You just, what, stop existing?"

Don't know, you respond. Only happens when tired. When used too much of me. He hums an acknowledgment, eyes focused on where the cookie sheet sits on the couch between you. You? What entertains you?

"Everything," he answers without hesitation. "I'm trying to work through my stack of books I want to read and finish all the shows I'm interested in, but the guys would have my head if I didn't get out and do things like a normal person."

That's where you leave to?

"Yeah." He sets his mug - now empty - on the coffee table and settles into the blankets. He looks cozy and soft and you would wrap yourself up with him if you could. "I take a lot of walks, and bike rides. I like to see the river, the trees, all the animals that live there. The beach is always fun, I get to see all the crabs and whatnot that wander in and out of the ocean."

"I wish I could go with you," you whisper.

Fun is what you spell on your sheet.

"I guess," he mutters. "It's enjoyable, at least. I'll bring you some souvenirs, or pictures next time."

You let the sheet settle on the couch as he turns the TV on, setting up a drama that he's on recently. He doesn't say anything else for a few hours, waits until the sound of rain hits the windows and stifles the apartment in an otherworldly haze.

"How long have you been dead?" His voice lingers in the air. You've been expecting these questions, and you're honestly impressed he's held them back for as long as he has. That angsty teen hadn't hesitated a single second to start asking you questions.

A while. Years. I think .

"Do you ever get tired of being a ghost?" There's something in his voice that you can't place, something that tells you this is more than just his usual morbid curiosity. Every part of your soul - whatever's left of it, anyway - is screaming at you to lie to him, to tell him that no, being a ghost is great. You've never wished he could hear you more than this moment, when all you want to is wrap your arms around him and ask him why he looks so much older than he is.

Sometimes, you tell him. It is lonely here, and boring. Fun to be unseen, but unable to do much more.

He nods like that makes all the sense in the world to him, and he brings the blanket up around his shoulders. "Do you ever miss your friends, or your family?"

Would you not? He huffs out an unamused chuckle, nodding again.

"Yeah," He says softly. "Yeah, I would. Do you want me to help you check on them? See what they're up to?" The single knock that echoes in the room is deafening to you, filled with a hope that you haven't felt in years. You've never let yourself think about them for long; if you did, you don't think you'd be able to come back from whatever that place is that you disappear to when things become Too Much.

Namjoon pulls his phone closer and starts fiddling with it. He doesn't hesitate when he types in your name, and you feel an emotional blush fill you when you see that he doesn't even have to finish typing for your profile to pop up. You glance at him, the way his brows are furrowed behind his glasses and his tongue pokes into his cheek just a little while he concentrates, and you wonder how many times he's looked at the pictures of you when you were alive. How many times has he scrolled through, reading the words people shared after you were gone, scrolling through the grief and loss to get to the words you posted yourself, the little snippets of your daily life that you would give anything to be able to relive?

"Do I still look like that?" You wonder aloud. As expected, he doesn't react, just continues tapping at his phone.

You two spend the rest of the night like that, each curled at opposite ends of the couch while Namjoon slowly looks up your friends and family and updates you on each of them. Jihyo got married, to someone she'd gone on a date with a few weeks before you passed, and she's apparently trying to start having kids; Your mother and father aren't very active, but they never were. They both share pictures of you when you were a baby each year on your birthday, and more recent photos of you on the anniversary. They have a dog now. It's cute. You wonder if it helps them cope with the loss.

Your other friends are doing well, too; most of them are still figuring out their lives, but it seems like all of them are settling in their skin and finding comfort in who they are. They're out there, navigating the world and doing things they enjoy, meeting new friends and making new memories.

You stand by the window for a long time, cookie sheet of magnetized words pressed against your chest as if you can feel the cool of the metal against your skin, and watch rain drip down the panes as you imagine what your life could have been.

You can always hear Namjoon before you see him. He whistles as he walks down the sidewalk, his small way of letting you know he's on his way back from wherever he's gone that day, and today isn't an exception. Relief sags through you and you move away from the windows, let your fingers trail against the ceramic of the newest succulent he'd bought, and head towards the kitchen. The kettle is turned on and heating a few moments later while you pull a mug down from your cabinet and set it carefully on the counter where Namjoon will see it.

It's a regular routine, for the two of you. He heads out, usually in the early morning after turning on some music or a show for you, and when he comes back, you make sure there's hot water for his tea or cocoa or whatever he feels like drinking that day. The sound of his whistling gets louder the closer he gets, a simple way to let you know he's safe and he's home. You glance through the cabinets and quickly make a note on the fridge that he needs to buy more of his special tea blend soon.

The lock turns and you smile, waiting patiently as Namjoon saunters into the apartment. He sets something down on the kitchen counter just as the kettle starts to scream, and you wait while he pours the water and gets it ready.

"The cherry blossoms bloomed," He says. You grin. "They look great. I got some really nice pictures while I was there, I'll show you tonight. I was thinking we could try to finish Voltron tonight if you want. We'll have to go back an episode though, I think I fell asleep during the last one." You knock once against the counter beside you, and he turns with a wide grin to glance at the spot where you stand.

It's ridiculous for your heart to speed up in your chest, for the hair on the back of your neck to rise, for breath to catch in your throat; you don't have a heartbeat, you don't have breath, you're a shadow of the person you used to be, and yet...

And yet, seeing his dimpled smile focused so naturally on where you are, as if it's just second-nature, is like a breath of fresh air after years underwater. It smells like flowers, like dirt and earth and a new beginning. It feels like you're alive again, and you don't want it to end, but too soon he's turning away to finish steeping the tea. Something lingers in the air for a moment after but it's gone too soon for you to place it.

You both settle on the couch, Namjoon tucking whatever he brought home with him under his arm, between his body and the arm of his ratty old couch. Your cookie sheet is in its place on the coffee table, unneeded at the moment. You can't help the glare that you give it; the things you would give to be able to just speak and be heard are endless.

It rattles a little and you look away.

Namjoon is quiet as the show plays. He doesn't react when you move to turn the oven on, but he does laugh quietly and thank you for it when he goes to put his dinner in. He eats and you don't bother him, though the way he keeps his little package hidden away makes curiosity burn through you. Eventually, once he's eaten and washed his dishes and laughed at the way you rubbed them dry before setting them carefully in their places, he settles back into his blankets and turns on the music he loves so much.

He's got a book balanced in his hands and your cookie sheet rests on the coffee table, and you both just sit like that for a long while, enjoying existing.

"You remember your life, right Casper?" You thump lazily against the wall in response, eyes drawn from where you watch the gloomy sky slowly get lighter with the dawn. He isn't looking at his book anymore; he probably hasn't been for a while, based on the way the pages have migrated around his thumb, too busy staring at the wall across from him. "Do you remember your death?"

You hesitate. You've tiptoed around the subject before. He's always been too afraid to ask directly, and it's too painful for you to offer it freely. You thump against the wall once more, and he nods like he already knew the answer.

"Are they very different?" His glasses are falling down his nose and your fingers itch to push them up. Instead, you reach for your cookie sheet. He makes a sound in the back of his throat when he sees it moving, reaching under him for his package. "I forgot, I got you this. Thought it might be easier."

He sets it down and you slide the contents out of the wrapping easily. Inside is a small dry-erase board, complete with markers and eraser, small things that should be easy for you to manipulate. You beam at him; he can't see it, but you think he might be able to feel it because he perks up and smiles a little.

"You don't have to answer," He adds. "I was just curious to know if being dead is really as different as everyone makes it out to be." You nod and thump once against the board before you uncap a marker and start writing.

It's a bizarre feeling, after so long. The muscles in your hand don't ache, no matter how much you write, and you can't feel the smooth surface of the board under your fingers or the weight of the marker in your palm, but it glides against it cleanly and leaves a thick black streak behind.

It takes you a minute to write everything out, get it worded how you want. Namjoon doesn't interrupt you, just watches the marker move against the board and smiles every time you go to erase something that isn't right. Eventually you show it to him.

There are similarities. I'm still me, I still enjoy TV and music and books. Things are duller now, like there's a filter over them, and it's harder to do things. Like when you're in water, or mud, like that. Resistance.

"Oh," Namjoon replies, "That's not what I expected. It makes sense though I guess." His hand moves against his chest, rubbing lightly as he looks over your words again. "Is there anything you actually like about being a ghost?"

"Well, being invisible is pretty cool," You say, writing the words as you do. "And it's actually really fun being able to walk through walls and stuff, even if I can't go anywhere outside of the apartment."

"I'm sorry you're stuck here," Namjoon says. You startle a little, looking up at him. You think he actually heard you for a split second, but his eyes are locked on where you're writing your words out on the dry erase board.

"Yeah, me too," You tell him. He stares at the board for a long moment, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he does. "Ask what you want to ask, Joon," You write as you say it.

"How did you die?" He blurts. You sigh and he jumps a little, looking fully at where you sit. You're shocked; you know that sometimes little noises cross over, like when Jin heard you laughing, but it's still rare. You can't figure out how it works, but you want to.

You write for a long time, letters small so they fit on the board. The whole thing is crowded together, looks like one long string of letters instead of the story it is.

There's a lot of violence in this neighborhood. You probably know that by now. People are always getting robbed or mugged or something around here. Someone tried to break into my apartment by banging the door down. It didn't work, luckily, but I got really paranoid afterwards. One night I was cooking, and someone's door slammed really hard. I spilled the water I was boiling, slipped. Blacked out after a while, and when I came to, there were police everywhere. I guess I hit my head harder than I thought, because they carted me away, and I couldn’t follow.

"I'm sorry," Namjoon says softly. "You deserved more time."

Yeah. The universe had a different plan, I guess. He smiles at that, and it settles the anxiety thrumming under your skin. Wouldn't have met you, so I guess that's a bonus. He rolls his eyes at you but he laughs softly, so you consider it a win. You doodle on the board then, simple little designs that don't mean anything beyond being able to see your effect on the world.

Namjoon sucks in a breath beside you and you look up at him. He's always been good about looking towards where you are, doing his best to make eye contact with someone he can't see, but he still always tends to look through you.

Not this time.

This time, electricity sings through the air as your eyes meet his. You don't know how, but you know he can see you. His eyes roam over you, taking in the crumpled sweater you were wearing with the stain you like to think is pasta sauce on the arm, the hair you can't ever really tame, the way you sit cross-legged on his old thread-bare couch with a dry erase board in your hands.

Neither of you moves. He looks torn between fear and amazement, every emotion in between flitting quickly over his features, and you're terrified that if you move, whatever spell that's been cast will fade. It had been so long since you talked to anyone when Namjoon slammed those magnets on the fridge, and the conversation has been a reprieve, but to be seen for the first time in years...

It's invigorating.

Watching Namjoon just look at you is something you won't ever forget, not for as long as you exist in the world. He looks at you like he's memorizing every detail, every hair and wrinkle and pore, and just knowing that he can see you fills you with something new.

"Namjoon...?" You call hesitantly. His eyes fall on your lips.

"Again," He says. Your brows must furrow, maybe you frown, you don't know because it's been so long since you've needed to pay attention to your facial expressions, but he notices your confusion. "Will you say something again?"

Breath you don't have catches in your throat, wraps itself around a heart that doesn't beat, but you smile a little. "I'm glad I met you."

Namjoon smiles. It's big and blinding and knocks everything out of you except for that emotion that's been sitting in your chest since the first time you watched him talk to his plants. You lean forward, and you can tell the exact moment you disappear, because his smile falls and his eyes unfocus. A whimper leaves your throat, but he doesn't react, and that may be the most painful thing that's ever happened to you.

"Can I feel you?" His voice is hushed but the words reverberate in your head. His eyes dart around, looking for any glimpse of you, and your hand trembles as you reach out.

Goosebumps raise on his cheek where your hand touches him and his breath stops for a moment, but he smiles again and leans into the chill. You bring your other hand up to cup his other cheek, your dry erase board lying forgotten on the ground, and Namjoon's eyes flutter closed.

"I think I might love you," You say quietly just before you press your lips to his. He doesn't react to your words, but he lets out a soft sigh at your kiss. Thunder cracks through the apartment, a torrent of rain unleashed on the windows, but you don't move.

The two of you sit like that for hours, until he starts shivering and his nose turns red, like it does when he forgets his scarf on the cold days, and his breath puffs in the air. When you finally pull away from him, he smiles, and the blush on his cheeks has nothing to do with the cold air that makes up your form.

"Yeah," He says softly, voice nearly drowned out by the storm raging outside. "Yeah, I can feel you."

If you expected things to change much after that, you were wrong. At least a little. Namjoon still disappears to go on his walks, you still start the kettle the second his whistles drift up to the apartment. He still asks you a million questions, but they're more normal now. Your favorite music, color, what you wished you'd done with your life, if you've been able to corporealize again recently, what you wanted to watch that night.

"Come on, Casper," Namjoon groans. "I promise you can do it." You huff and he smiles, clearly having heard it. You're tempted to just disappear somewhere, rattle some pipes in the bathroom or the kitchen so he thinks you're in there and leaves you alone, but he smiles at you again and you're weak for that dimple.

You grip the watering can again, doing your best to lift it and manipulate it the way you need to. It's heavy, and something about the metal makes your skin itch, but the more you struggle the more you're able to pour the slightest bit of water where RJ - a giant plant that you don't even know the name of - sits in the corner of the room across from Namjoon's bed. It's the twentieth-something time you've tried this today, and you're ten seconds from just giving up completely, but you can tell this is important to Namjoon.

He's been talking all week, between the late nights where you lay over his blanket-wrapped form and the mornings where he ducks out with a soft goodbye. He's told you everything about his plants that you think he possibly could, teaching you about them and showing you how to care for them. It's interesting, you won't lie, and it's always fun to see him light up when you recall something he's told you, but you're exhausted and every part of you is shaky, and you're more than a little worried of what might happen if you push too far again.

Still, Joon hasn't looked great lately, like he might be getting the flu, and you want to be able to help him with all the things he does in the house. You've already started doing the dishes and folding laundry, since those were the two things he was the absolute worst at, but you feel like you should be doing more.

"Good job, baby, I'm proud of you!" You grunt and let the watering can fall back to the ground with a loud thump that almost definitely has the downstairs neighbors cursing Namjoon's name. "See, and now we're done for the day! C'mon, we can put on Sens8 and cuddle."

He's on the couch before you can stop him, wrapping himself in blankets except for one lone hand that sticks out, expectant. You roll your eyes and sit beside him, close enough that if you had a body you would be cuddling instead of just sitting awkwardly beside him.

You know that this is just going to make your hand all pink and gross, right?

He just smiles when the board flips around to reveal itself and wiggles his fingers. "It's worth it," He says. "I'd rather be pink and gross than never get to hold your hand at all."

You can't even feel my hand, Joon, there's literally no point to this. He huffs and wraps his hand around the marker in your hand, shivering at the chill that runs through him when he does. He grins and gestures down to where the tips of his fingers are already turning red.

"Clearly I can feel it, Casper."

You're glad he can't see you, that you don't have a heart that beats or blood that runs, because if you did, your face would no doubt be red. You have no doubts that Namjoon would tease you about it.

He's quiet as you both watch the show; he makes the odd comment here or there, but his mood seems to have calmed some. When he first got back from whatever place he visited that day, he'd been anxious and jumpy and entirely too on edge.

"Hey, Casper?" He asks quietly. You slide a hand against his cheek to let him know you're there, and he leans into the chill again. "What do you think about me?"

You don't move for several seconds, hand still poised around his cheek.

"Like, your feelings. What are they? Will you tell me?" You knock once on the wall behind the couch. Your hand stays poised over your board for long enough that Namjoon starts to get a little restless. Words refuse to come to you. Every time you start to think you have a way to describe to him what he means to you, they disappear as quick as fog on a summer's afternoon. Frustrated, you let the board fall to the couch and scrawl a quick 'hold on' so he knows you aren't just ignoring him.

It's been weeks since you've seen what you're looking for, your cookie sheet with the word magnets having been basically forgotten in lieu of the more personal and convenient dry-erase board, but right now you know that if words won't come to you, you'll have to go to them.

You finally find it, shoved under several encyclopedias and magazines, and the noise you make is so triumphant that even Namjoon hears it. You curl back up beside him, careful to make sure the blanket is wrapped tight around him, and make sure he can see the words as you move them. It still takes a long time, constantly changing and rearranging and stacking to make sure it conveys the things you need it to convey.

You are like music. A symphony of summer days and peach skies with soft rain. You are a storm in the moonlight. I'm not lonely when I have you pouring around me. You make me feel alive again.

Namjoon is silent for a long time, and you wonder if you've gone too far. It's more poetic than you'd like, too frilly and fancy and emotional than you usually are, but they're the only words you have.

After too long, he exhales. It's heavy and deep and it feels like he's trying to expel more than just air from his body.

"You make me feel alive, too," is all he says, whispered into the softness of his blanket in a voice too small for his long limbs. He shivers, and you hear him choke down a cough, and then he disappears into the bathroom for a long time. When he comes back out, he doesn't say anything, just slides into the mass of blankets on his bed and lays his arm out across the mattress. You spread out across from him, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he looks through you and out the window where the rain is letting up.

"Looks like the rainy season is gonna last longer than everyone thought." You slide your hands around one of his large ones and just hold them like that. His eyes sink closed and something like relief stands on his face for a moment before it's gone, swept away by the peace of sleep.

You wonder what it is that he sees when he looks out the window. If it's the plain brick wall and windows of the building next door, or something more.

You aren't sure you want to know.

Namjoon's flu only seems to get worse. He leaves early in the mornings, as if he thinks you might not notice the way he coughs into his scarf just because the sun hasn't risen fully yet. He stays gone most of the days, and even when he apologizes quietly during the twilight when he slinks back in to the sound of the kettle screeching on the stove and his tea already waiting to be steeped, he still doesn't stop.

You've taken to playing blues while he's gone, mostly the old school stuff, digging out the vintage record player he has buried in the closet and setting it up on the coffee table. It’s the only technology you can use without shorting it out. You don’t know why, but it makes you grateful the record collection Namjoon keeps tucked away inside the coffee table that you’ve learned is in fact an actual steamer trunk that he salvaged and restored himself.

The music fills the apartment, distracts you from the oppressive weight of his absence. He knows you wait at the window for him, you told him that back when the two of you were first getting to know each other.

You're so fragile, you had told him. He had laughed at you, quiet and fond, and waited for you to explain further. You're so full of life and breath and possibility, and the world is so big and so dangerous. I'm scared you won't come back.

"Of course I'm going to come back," he told you. You didn't even need to tell him that you're afraid of what being alone might do to you, now that you're so used to his presence. You're being heard again, sometimes even seen, and you don't know if you can go back to the stagnant depression of solitude. "I'll always come back to you."

That was the first time you thought you might love Namjoon. The feeling has only gotten stronger, and now that you wait at the window with your eyes focused on that tiny section of sidewalk you can see at the end of the alley, it threatens to consume you whole.

You wait at the window for hours. You know because you glance at the clock every minute and a half, mocking you with every tick as it hangs limply on the bathroom door. The sun sinks below the horizon, the moon rises to take its place, and they switch again while you wait. The dawn paints the sky in beautiful shades of pink and red and orange and the faintest purple, but you can't appreciate any of it, because you're too anxious.

He could be hurt. He could be gone, and you wouldn't ever know until his friends came to pack his things. He could have left, too; maybe he finally decided that living with a ghost was just too much for him and just ran. Maybe he figured out that you love him, that you would move heaven and earth if it meant he was safe forever if only you could leave this apartment, and it was too much for him.

What if he knows about how you lay beside him every night? How you tuck the blankets tighter around him, cover him in warmth and comfort before settling on top of them and closing your eyes and pretending that you can feel his arm draped over your waist and his breath on the back of your neck. What if he felt you, that night you wandered into the bathroom while he was showering to write on the steam-covered mirror that he needs to buy more eggs soon and got distracted by the way he looked stepping out of the shower? What if he knows your stomach flipped at the long limbs and the hidden muscles and the sheer size of him? What if he knows the real reason you were quiet that night, the way you kept replaying the moment in your mind and wishing you had a body so you could have just touched him, at least.

It's closer to noon than midnight when his whistle echoes up through the window.

"Hey, I'm home," He calls as he enters the empty apartment. You're upset, but you're more filled with relief than anything because at least he's safe and he's here now. He makes a beeline for where the kettle is just starting to whistle, already reaching for the honey and the tea you set out on the counter for him, and you do your best to calm the storm of emotions inside you.

Did you have fun, wherever you were? You ask him, floating the whiteboard in front of his face so he has to acknowledge it.

"Yeah, I did," he responds as he stirs his tea. "Jin invited everyone over for some end of summer thing. I didn't feel too great at the end of it, so I just spent the night there."

Don't party too hard, you might remember how to have fun, you joke. It falls a little flat based on the grim smile Namjoon gives you. Are they gonna come over here again anytime soon? I've missed scaring Hoseok.

He lets out a real laugh at that. "I don't know, maybe. My birthday's coming up, after Jeongguk's, so they could definitely be planning something. I'm heading over to Yoongi's later to help plan for Guk's party. I might stay there tonight, so try not to worry, Casper."

I'll try, you tell him. You both know you'll stand at the window every second he's gone, but you don't want to tell him why. You don't want to tell him that you love him through a dry erase board, or some fancy poetry magnets. It doesn't matter that you may as well have already said so by telling him that he makes you feel alive again; you haven't said the words to him, he hasn't seen 'I love you' in the messy scrawl that is your handwriting on some stupid board, and therefore he doesn't know.

You don't know if you want him to.

He stays gone that night, as he said he might, and reappears the next day to shower and change before he vanishes again. The next time he shows up, he takes a bag with him when he leaves, which only worsens your fears. He stays gone for three days this time, doesn't apologize when he turns up again and just mumbles a soft hello into the air before he makes tea and sags into his couch. He's asleep in seconds, and as much as you want to scream at him, you can't bring yourself to disrupt how peaceful he looks.

When he wakes, he takes a shower and ignores the ' can we talk ' you scrawled in the steam. He packs a bag of fresh clothes and doesn't say goodbye when he leaves, just disappears and leaves you standing at the window with the pail in your hand, caring for the plants he isn't. The slam of the door sounds like nails in a coffin and breaks what little was left of your soul.

He shows back up nearly a week later, and the relief at seeing him again is overridden by the sheer anger at being left in the first place. You don't start the kettle when you hear his whistle, the quiet and hoarse tune of a familiar song barely reaching the window, but there's plenty of noise when he enters.

The cabinet doors are quaking with your fury, the lights flicker and threaten to burst, and Namjoon just leans back against the door. He’s soaked from the storm thundering outside, even his jacket plastered to his skin, and he’s shivering slightly, but you can’t see anything past the rage.

"Where the fuck were you?" You demand; there's no point, it's not like he can hear you, but the way he sighs makes you feel like he can, so you continue anyway. "It's been almost a week, you didn't even think to stop by for ten seconds so I know you're okay? I thought you were dead somewhere, you could've been, like, shot, or something, I don't know, just bleeding out in some ditch, and I wouldn't know! And what about all the plants? I know how to take care of them, sure, but do you know how hard it is for me to do it?"

Namjoon sighs again, the breath catching in his throat and coming out in a cough, but you don't pay much attention to it.

"Why would you act like this, Namjoon? What did I do, is it because of the things I said? Do you not want me to feel like this about you? Because this a damn good way of making sure I don't, I assure you, so by all means, just keep disappearing and leave me alone with the plants you decided to rescue and save!"

His cough gets worse and he just shakes his head, covering his mouth and making his way towards the bathroom.

"If you want me to hate you, it's too fucking late, Joon!" The slam of the bathroom door punctuates your sentence, and you quiet at the sound of continued coughing. You knew his flu was getting worse, but it's never sounded like that. Even when you were alive, you knew that the wet sound that's muffled by the bathroom door isn't what a cough should sound like. The lock of the door clicks, and it shocks you into movement because he's never - never - locked you out of anywhere. He knows it wouldn't stop you, knows it as well as you know that you'd respect that boundary if he set it, and yet here he is, locking you out even as he coughs up what sounds like a lung in the other room.

You hesitate at the door, torn between respecting his boundaries and knowing what’s happening. You want him to trust you, always, and yet you find your hand disappearing through the door before you can stop it. You stand like that for a long moment, just listening to the sounds of his wracking coughs; the sound of a crash echoes through the apartment, though, and you’re through the door completely in the span of a heartbeat. 

Nearly everything that had been on the counter is scattered on the ground, Namjoon himself gripping the sides of the toilet as if he would fall apart otherwise. A single glance tells you that the crash happened as he turned from the sink to the toilet, and if his jolting shoulders didn’t tell you why, the sounds of his retching would. That isn’t what fills you with dread though; the disorientation, the vomiting, all of it comes with being sick sometimes, but the red staining the bathroom sink? 

That’s not normal, and you know with every part of you that it’s the reason he’s been gone so much. 

The temperature in the apartment drops with the sun, but your arms surround Namjoon as best they can. Goosebumps break out on his arms, shivers run down his back, but you don’t move away from him; he doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his forehead pressed against the cool of the porcelain. He stands eventually, ignores the way he passes completely through your body to rinse the sink and brush his teeth. 

You let him stay quiet until you’re both on his bed; you’re pressed up against his side and running your hands along his forearms, idly wondering if you would be able to feel his heartbeat if you were alive. 

“It’s not...it’s not gonna get better,” He says eventually. “There’s not a cure, just some things to draw it out and give me a little bit longer even if they come with more pain. I go once a week to see if it’s gotten worse, check how much longer I have. It’s why Hobi let me move in here rent-free. He pays the bills, says it’s the least he can do. I wanted to be closer to him anyway, so that’s a bonus, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry, Joon,” you whisper. Your board lies forgotten, somewhere on the couch maybe, you aren’t sure and can’t be bothered to pull yourself away from him long enough to find it. You don’t need it right now, though; he knows what you mean by the way the cold presses against his bicep with your palm. 

“I didn’t want you to know.” You’re not exactly surprised at that; you’d figured as much. You just don’t understand his reasoning. “I didn’t want you worrying about me, or anything like that, like the guys do. They always look at me and it’s all they can see. Like they’re already mourning me, even though I’m still here. I didn’t want to feel like that with you.” 

“I know,” you say. You don’t, not really. Your own death was sudden, a shock to everyone you knew; you didn’t get the luxury of saying goodbye, didn’t have the burden of knowing you would be gone soon. 

The two of you sit in silence for a while, until you can feel Namjoon’s chest quivering under your palm. When you look up, he looks at you, really and truly at you , and he has tears in his eyes. 

“I don’t want to die, Casper,” He whispers. You suck in a breath because he can see you, and you don’t even know why, but you don’t want to lose this moment. “I don’t want to leave all of this behind. I don’t want to leave you.” 

“It’ll be okay,” you say softly. His brow furrows and a tear slides down his cheek. “I promise you it will be okay, Namjoon. It gets easier, and people remember but they aren’t stuck forever. And I…” You falter, and it takes his eyes meeting yours to make you realize he can hear you. And there’s only one thing you’ve ever needed him to hear. 

“I love you,” You tell him. “I love you, and I will never forget you.” 

He surges forward, lips meeting yours in a rush of air. You moan at the feeling of him against you, realizing that for the first time since you died, you can feel something under your fingers. His skin is warm against your fingers, his lips soft against your own, and when he reaches up to cup your jaw with his hand, he doesn’t pass through your form. Instead his hand settles heavy against you, and he moves your head to lick into your mouth. 

Tears that won’t fall prickle at the back of your eyes and you climb into his lap before he can stop you. He’s still crying so you wipe away the tears before they can fall, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his dimples, his nose, every bit you can reach. A question sits at the back of your mind, and you can see it lingering in his eyes, but neither of you asks it.

“You’re so cold.” His whisper is nearly lost amidst the thunder that shakes the apartment, but it makes you smile a little. 

“Warm me up?” 

His chest is still quivering with unspoken sobs, but he nods. “Always,” he tells you. “I’m always going to be here.” It doesn’t take long to pry him out of his clothes, takes even less time for him to sink into you. It feels just like it did when you were alive, only magnified; you can feel him hot and warm inside you, can feel the beat of his heart in the firm muscle under your hands. His moans are quiet and hoarse but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

He keeps one hand on your waist and the other on your neck, holding you close enough that he can kiss whenever he wants. “You’re beautiful,” He whispers. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” You just press another kiss to his chapped lips and let him dig his fingers in hard enough that it would bruise if it could. When he’s close to his peak, he stops thrusting, just sits inside you as he grinds your hips down to his, and presses his forehead against yours. 

“I love you,” He tells you, lightning casting his shadow across the wall for a brief moment. “I love you, I do, I wish-”

“I know,” you tell him before he can continue. “I know, Namjoon, I know, and I do, too. I love you, too.” He comes a few seconds later, the warm seed soaking into his sheets because it has nowhere to go. His warmth disappears from under your hands and his arms fall to his lap when the only thing holding them up is gone. All you can hear is your quiet sobs mixed with his and the rain against the window, and for the first time since you came back, you really, truly, wish you had died. There’s no point in being a ghost when you can still feel your heart breaking in your chest. 

“Casper, are you ever scared?” 

It’s the middle of the afternoon. Namjoon is sprawled across the couch wrapped in blankets while Lucifer plays in the background and you doodle aimlessly on your board. You don’t need it as often now; you’ve gotten better at focusing your energy into being heard, though being corporeal still eludes you. You don’t know how you did it that night, but you’re grateful for it. 

“Of what?” You ask, looking towards him. He’s not looking at you or watching the show, just staring at the ceiling. He focuses at your words, lifts himself up into a sitting position. A shiver runs through him when his legs move through you, and you settle a weightless hand against his knee out of habit. 

“I don’t know,” He replies. “Just...whatever comes next. If there’s something that comes next. Being forgotten. Being stuck here forever.” 

You aren’t stupid; you know why he’s asking. The question lingers in the air, colors all of your conversations now, but the truth is that neither of you has the strength to ask it and neither of you knows the answer. 

“Sometimes,” You tell him. “Sometimes I wonder what Jihyo is doing, if she ever had a baby like she wanted to. I wonder if my parents are still alive, and what they say if they visit my grave, what they tell me now that I can’t respond to them.” 

Namjoon nods like he’s already thought of that, and he probably has. 

“Most of the time I try not to focus on it, though. It’s not helpful, it only upsets me, and I don’t…” You trail off, unsure of how to word your thoughts. “I don’t know what might happen if I only focus on the negative. I don’t know anything about what’s true about ghosts and what isn’t beyond that I exist now, and I can’t risk becoming something bad. So I try not to focus on it. It’s easier when you’re here.”

He grins and blows a kiss in your general direction, and you pretend not to notice the blood on his cracked lips. He’s quiet for the rest of the episode of half of another. 

“Have you ever seen a light?” 

“What?” He doesn’t seem to hear you, and you repeat your question on your board for him. 

“A light,” He echoes. “Like, the light.Y’know, the light at the end of the tunnel, ‘don’t go into the light,’ that thing.” 

You hesitate at that. You knew what he meant, what he actually wants to know here. He’s easier to read now than he was in the beginning. 

You watch him as he watches the space where you sit, curled up beside him on his couch. He can’t see you, of course, but he can see where the board rests in your hands. His gaze is heavier than it was when he first moved in; his cheeks are hollower, skin more gaunt with a grey tint that’s only made worse by the constant rain. The sun is just starting to break through the clouds, a brief reprieve after weeks of the dreary stone-colored clouds. It casts shadows along the walls, reflects off something in the window across the alley, and backlights Namjoon beautifully, casts a halo of light around the brittle brown hair you love. 

Once, you tell him. Just once.

“Why didn’t you go to it?” 

There are so many things you could tell him, so many different ways to answer such a simple question, but you find yourself lingering on the one thing you know is the ultimate truth. 

Because I love you.

September comes with even more rain and a bittersweet atmosphere. Jeongguk spends his birthday at Namjoon’s apartment and then comes back a little over a week later, surrounded by the other guys and carrying enough food to last a few months. You stay curled on the bed, one of the only safe places for you to not mess with anyone or anything. Your board is tucked into the blankets, ready to be used but hidden from view just in case. You watch as Namjoon sits on the couch, tucked between Taehyung and Yoongi with both of them leaning into him as much as possible, Yoongi’s hands wrapped in one of his and Tae’s head on his shoulder. 

The other’s aren’t far, leaning against the back of the couch and on beanbags they’d brought with them, all laughing as Hoseok does his best to act out whatever he’d been given in charades. He’s not bad at it - you’ve guessed the last few he’s done - but he is utterly ridiculous in his mannerisms. You know why; it’s the same reason everyone kept smiling when Namjoon refused all of the food he was offered, why Seokjin would crack a terrible joke whenever it got too quiet for too long, why everyone is resolutely ignoring the growing pile of tissues on the table. 

It keeps a smile on Namjoon’s face, though, and a laugh in his eyes, and you can’t ever be anything but grateful for that. 

Hoseok stumbles, nearly falling and whirling his arms to catch himself before eventually falling anyway. You laugh along with the others, grinning at the way Hobi pouts and rubs at his hip. You’re focused on the way Joon laughs, the way it lights up his face and brightens the entire room, which is why you see it first. 

The tickle at the back of his throat quickly becomes a cough, wet and wheezing and enough to make him throw the blankets from his lap and stumble to the bathroom. 

You’re there before he is, helping him slide the door closed and locking it behind him as he bends over the toilet again. The six of them are quiet in the main room, speaking in hushed whispers that neither you nor Namjoon wants to hear. You turn the knob on the sink, wetting a towel while you drown out the sound of voices, and letting a hand run over Namjoon’s back. 

“I’m okay,” he mutters. You ignore the way his voice shakes, the way his lips are redder than before, the way this happens more often than before. Instead, you just press the damp rag to his neck and watch his eyes close in relief. When he stands and flushes the evidence away, you already have his toothbrush ready and waiting, and you stay as close to him as you can until he takes a deep breath. 

“I’m okay,” He repeats. “I’m okay. It’s my birthday, and I’m okay.” 

He goes back out with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice, teasing Hoseok about the way he fell and reenacting it, even. When he settles on the couch, he urges the others to continue the game. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before Jimin declares that he’s next and pulls something from the bowl on the table. 

You know you aren’t the only one that notices the way Namjoon’s eyes linger on the six men around him, but you are the only one that notices the way they also linger on his steamer trunk, the shelf with his books, the TV, the record player, the scrapbook of his life that they all worked on and Taehyung pieced together over the months, the plants on the wall that he had cared for. He looks around his apartment as if he’s looking at it for the last time. 

As if he’s already planning who’s going to get what. 

He finally asks the question you both have been thinking about, nearly two months later. His breathing comes in ragged pants, his lips stay chapped, and he keeps several blankets around him at all times to try to hide the shaking of his body. Your soft sobs echo through the apartment constantly; while you reheat the tea he doesn’t drink for the millionth time, while you quietly water and prune the plants he’s saved from death the way you wish you could save him, while you sit curled around him as he sleeps, soothing his coughs with quiet whispers. 

Night has just begun to fall, the rain of the day turning into a soft drizzle, and you stare at him blankly, unsure how to process what you’ve just heard. 

“Do you think I’ll come back?” He asks again, slightly louder. As if you hadn’t heard his shaky voice the first time. It’s not the question that floors you. You’ve been expecting this for weeks, months even. You’ve wondered it yourself as you prepare tea and ignore the sounds of him vomiting blood in the bathroom, as he disappears to the hospital and returns with a worse prognosis than before, as you’ve adjusted to the idea that you are dead and he is dying and you cannot do anything to help him. 

You never would have expected the hope that his words carry though. 

“Why does it sound like you want to?” You ask. Your voice is clear in the air and you’re glad for it, because this isn’t something you want to talk about through your board. 

“Because I do?” His response is delayed and sounds more like a question than a real answer. 

“Why?!” You demand. 

“Are you serious, Casper?” His brow is furrowed as he sits up and lets the blankets fall away to sit haphazardly off the couch. 

“Are you? Joon, why would you want to come back?”

“You’re seriously asking me that question? Why would I not? I’ve got so much I still want to do, I never thought I’d get the chance to after I got the diagnosis and now I might be able to. Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“Because it doesn’t work like that! You don’t get to just wander the world and fuck around, Joon, you’re dead.”

“Yeah, but you can still read and write and everything. I’d have all the time in the world to read the books I want to read, watch the shows I want to watch, write the music and stories and lyrics that I want to write.”

“Yeah, so long as it all stays in this apartment!” The light in the room flickers slightly with the force of your irritation. “You can’t do anything that isn’t in this room, Namjoon, you can’t use any of the electronics, you can’t read a book unless it’s here, you can’t write music unless it’s on actual paper, you can’t do anything.” 

“Yeah, and I could make that work. Why are you so upset about this? I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy? You think I’d be happy that you’d be stuck in these four walls forever, too? Why would that make me happy?” Namjoon stands, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. 

“Because I’d be with you! We’d be together, forever! Do you not want to be with me?”

“Of course I want to be with you, Joon, but not at the cost of you being stuck here. I don’t want that for anyone, certainly not the man I love.”

“And what if that’s what I want? What if I want to spend the rest of time with you? I’m already spending the rest of my life with you, I’m in love with you, I don’t want to leave you.”

“And I don’t want you to go, but Joon, why would I want you stuck here, too? This isn’t something fun. This isn’t anything that I enjoy.”

“Oh, so you regret it all then?”

“I didn’t say that, I just don’t want you to be stuck in a shitty studio apartment for who knows how long when you can’t fucking do half of the things you love! You wouldn’t go on walks, Namjoon, you wouldn’t go with Guk and Jimin to the movies, you wouldn’t get visits from Hobi, you wouldn’t get to shop with Taehyung or Jin, you wouldn’t get to drag Yoongi away from his thesis or celebrate with them when he finishes it! It’s not like being alive, Namjoon, you’d be dead and alone and in hell!”

“Whatever,” He mutters, shoving his arms into his coat. “Why can’t you understand for one fucking second that it wouldn’t be like that with you? I’d rather be stuck here forever than have to die in some shitty apartment and not even be able to touch the person I love.”

“Why can’t you understand that it’s still death? You’d be dead, Joon, your friends would go to your funeral and disappear from your life, and you’d be stuck staring out that window at that shitty alley for the rest of time. You don’t get it, you don’t how terrible it is to be stuck here and watch life pass you by.”

“Then why the fuck are you still here?” He asks. The door slams behind him before you can answer him, and your scream shakes everything in the room. You just barely catch one of the plants in the kitchen, a brown-potted one with ‘Shooky’ scrawled in Yoongi’s familiar handwriting, before it crashes to the ground. You return it to its place gently and huff another frustrated groan. 

You wish you could explain it better, but you know he wouldn’t get it even if you could. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be trapped between four walls and unable to do anything without massive amounts of effort. And he won’t, not unless he experiences it himself. 

You’ve already watched him wither away. You’ve watched him become thin and sallow and a shadow of the Namjoon who first moved in, and you don’t know what you would do if he came back. You wouldn’t be alone anymore, of course, and you’d have him here with you, but at what cost? Namjoon was built for cherry blossoms and sunshine and the riverside. He would hate being trapped here even more than you do.

Still, you could have been more understanding of his view. You can admit that even being stuck in a shitty apartment wasn’t so terrible when you had Namjoon there to make you laugh or watch TV or read to you. It may even get better if he turned into a ghost; maybe you could hold his hands in yours, could feel him wrap his arms around you, could press kisses to his skin again. 

You move to the window and stand there waiting. It’s not good for him to be out, even if the rain had stopped a few days ago and the forecasters promised it was the end of the downpours. He was still weak, you’d be surprised he even went anywhere to begin with but you know he likes to walk to calm himself down. 

You worry for what feels like hours. You can’t focus on anything, not the way the sun starts to set, not the sound of cars passing or the neighbor leaving. You’ve worked yourself into knots by the time you hear his whistle echo up through the streets, nearly lost in the sound of some argument in the alley below you. You catch a brief view of his coat and smile when you see that he’s got some half-dead plant tucked under an arm. There’s the briefest glimpse of what looks like a Ca scrawled onto it, and your heart jumps in your throat.

You make your way to the stove, turning the heat up slightly too high so that it’ll be ready when he comes in. The arguing outside gets louder but you pay it no mind, pulling the honey out and setting it next to his favorite mug. You’re reaching for the tea when you hear something else. It definitely sounds like Namjoon’s voice, but it’s not in the hall or at the door like usual. It’s raised, like he’s yelling at someone, like it was just a while ago when he was fighting with you. A crash startles you and before you can even reach the window to see what’s going on, there’s a deafening bang. 

You slam your fist against the window, watch the red mix with dirt, and the kettle isn't that only thing that screams. 

“I think that’s the last of it,” Jeongguk says. His voice is scratchy and quiet, but it’s deafening in the silence of the apartment. 

“Yeah,” Hoseok replies. His eyes are rimmed with red and his hands shake as he slides the last mug into a box. “Thanks for the help, Guk. I don’t, um.” He sniffles. “I don’t think I could’ve done it myself, y’know?” 

“I know,” Jeongguk agrees. They’re quiet again, adjusting the things they’ve boxed and avoiding finishing what they’re doing. 

“Oh, can you get that?” You don’t have to look to know what Hoseok is talking about. Jeongguk grunts an affirmation and makes his way over. It’s a strange feeling, having someone pass through you again for the first time since. His hands fly into the air as he tries to lift, clearly not having expected it to weigh anything. 

His reflection in the window frowns, and he tries again, tugging on the pot. 

“I can’t get it,” He says. “Do you think he glued these things down or something?” 

“No,” Hoseok replies as he wanders over as well. “He used to pick them up to re-pot them, remember? And the others came up with no problem.” 

“Well it’s stuck or something, you try.”

Hobi takes Jeongguk’s place and pulls hard at the plot, but your grip doesn’t waver. He huffs and disappears. When he returns, he’s got a butter knife in one hand that he does his best to slip under the pot. He tries hard to pry it up, so hard that you almost want to give in. You don’t though. 

The knife clatters to the floor with as much force as Hoseok can put behind it, a curse following quickly behind it. 

“Fuck it,” Hoseok says. His voice is shaky and you know he’s near tears again. “Just fuck it.” 

“But that was-”

“You can try if you want, Guk, but I just-” He chokes back a sob, shaking his head and moving to pick up the boxes he’d set down. “I just can’t, okay?” He disappears out the door in a hurry, and you wish you could follow after him. 

Jeongguk looks down at the small plant, with its painted periwinkle pot and soft leaves. He runs a quivering finger over the leaf and sniffles. He doesn’t try to lift it again, just stands and lets his tear soak into the soil.

“I wish you could come back to us,” He whispers. “We thought...we expected more time. It’s not...it’s not really fair, y’know? So if you can hear me, if you can come back to us, please do. Please.” 

He turns and leaves, the apartment door slamming behind him like the lid of a casket. Your grip on Mang loosens now that you know no one’s going to try to take it. You’d watched them pack everything else up; you’d let them take the steamer trunk full of records, the shelf full of books and movies, the collection of mugs, the soft blankets, the ratty couch, the rest of the plants he’d cared for so tenderly. 

Piece by piece they had packed Namjoon up and walked him out of the apartment, but this was the one piece they couldn’t have. This was his favorite and none of them knew how to care for it like you did, and you had to. You owed it to him. He deserved to come back to at least one familiar thing, never mind that you woke up not even a day later and it’s now been weeks. If there was one thing you wanted him to see when he got back, it was his favorite of his plants. 

The sun glares into your eyes from where it shines down on the city. It reflects off something in the window from across the alley, would be blinding if you actually had eyes. You pay it no mind, focused instead on the remains of the broken brown pot down in the alley, the way you’ve pieced them together in your head a thousand times just to trace the word Casper with your eyes. You can almost hear his voice saying it, even now.

You whip around, eyes darting through the empty space of the apartment as your hands tighten around Mang.

All that rests there is empty space, mocking in its loneliness. You remember when he moved in, remember how it felt to test the boundaries of the apartment and wish you were free. The want is still there, to leave and never think of it again, never think of him. You know better, though. You could never escape the memory of him, the way he laughed and smiled and spoke. You could never abandon Mang. Not when he said he’d always come back to you. 

You turn back to the window, cursing the sunlight with every other breath. It fades, slowly, into the black of night, before returning again, and again, and again. Days pass, each one feeling like years. Hoseok doesn’t appear to show the apartment, no one comes to collect the small periwinkle pot between your palms, and the ghost of his laugh echoes around you. 

The sun blinds you again. You don’t even know how long it’s been, just that you’ve yet to move. Light glints off whatever hangs in the window across the alley. That's when you see it, a vague reflection in the weathered glass of a dimple and a grin, and warmth surrounds you.

“I told you I’d always come back, Casper.”

[uselessmonsterboy]

Heres a prompt, if you want, mido has his first snowball fight!! And its all good!! Its all fluffy!! Aizawa just keeps waiting for the shoe to drop but it never comes bc this is fluffy!!

Lit so i dont all too often write pure fluff and actually have been told i have a knack for turning pure fluff prompts into fluff/stuff so here is my attempt i swear i tried

-

It wasn't often that snow actually accumulated in the city. Not with how far south it was. It was the weekend and the dorm was collectively bundled in their best clothes they had. He heard talk about a cross class snow war. He wasn't entirely sure what the specifics of the war were or when they planned to do it but he had seen the different classes gearing up and his class was no group to turn down a challenge, friendly or otherwise. 

He did have his concerns, of course, about how much of this would end with sick kids and such. He also saw the ones who decided to sit out in favor of relaxing in the warmth of the dorm itself. Tsuyu was not a surprise and was apparently planning on making a meal with Kouda for the rest of the class who was participating. Aizawa would be sitting out too if not for the fact that he intended to make sure things don't get too out of hand. He heard one of the stipulations was that there was no quirk use allowed (this time was whispered excitedly between some of the students) and so he didn't think it would get too rowdy per se. He saw Midoriya sitting curled on the couch, swathed in blankets and watching T.V. quitely, a comfortable air around him as the documentary ran muted, subtitles playing across the bottom of the screen. 

That was one of his other worries. He was confident Midoriya was capable and fine to handle himself by now, he just also knew he had shifted the night prior and it was… it was not a short one. Midoriya had paced restlessly in the suite the school had built on the top floor specifically for the times he had to shift. He had rattled and warbled almost the entire time, muttering in a wordless tongue, as he waited out the shift. Aizawa had spent the time with him as it was a point where Midoriya had already been anxious all day and so he had intended to offer some form of comfort if needed. 

All day so far, though, Midoriya had been entirely nonverbal. Something that only really occurs as of late when he is incredibly stressed and Aizawa, having already talked to both Yagi and Yamada about it, had no idea why. 

He sighs as he follows the class out of the dorm and leaves the three inside. It would have to be talked about later. 

The war was in full swing within minutes. He had to commend the stealth of the other classes, they had nearly ambushed his students if not for Shoji's watch. The zone was apparently decided to be the length of the path between the different dorms and the stretch of trees next to it.. A corridor of raining snowballs was the result. It was an interesting layout that forged a sort of no-man's land in the middle that was a nearly unmarred expanse of snow. He was off and out of the way of any stray shots or collateral from heavier fire. He could see Kan on the other side of the territory watching the students on his half. His occasional shout of advice or criticism barely carrying through the noise of students calling and commanding each other. 

He heard steps in the snow behind him and turned to see Midoriya walking up to him, bundled in proper clothing for the weather now that he had them as well as still dragging a throw blanket over his shoulders. It was carefully kept off the ground. He raised a brow in question but got just a shrug in response, which was fair. 

Midoriya stopped just next to Aizawa and watched the brawl going on with a lazy interest at best. He couldn't help but wonder if the kid ever even had the chance to participate in a snowball fight with how his life has played out. It was probably not something you just stumbled into when as busy as Midoriya had definitely been his whole life just trying to keep alive and functioning. He went back to watching the tide slowly turn in the favor of 1-B. The other class had all of their students in the brawl and with as fervently as they had been working to try and one up 1-A all year it is not really surprising that the lack of three students was playing into their favor. 

He glanced back down to Midoriya just in time to see the boy flinch and lift the blanket just in time to block the snowball that smashed against the blanket where it now covered his face. He whipped his attention back to the war, ready to reprimand the clear attack on someone who wasn't actually in the fight. 

Yet, the words died in his throat as he heard the quiet huffed laughter coming from Midoriya. A quick once over showed a small smile on his face as he shook off the snow on the blanket. He took a moment to tie it around his shoulders like a cloak, glanced at Aizawa, and jogged over to where Uraraka, Kirishima, and Mina were quickly forming snowballs and tossing their ammo to the students on the front line of attack. 

Aizawa didn't know why that made him both relieved and even more anxious to a small degree. He watched even more sharply than before. Midoriya never spoke a word and his actions were almost reserved but still just as efficient at forming snowballs as the other three. At some point Kirishima and Uraraka tagged out of the ammo building ring, swapping with Shinsou and Sero who were sufficiently powdered in snow. Shinsou had an arm tucked in his sleeve and was building snowballs as best as he could with his 'lost arm' from the fight.

This continued for well over two hours until the teams had wilted in numbers to only three or four kids on either side. Kan had actually been the one to call it the draw that it would not have remained as when he saw one of his students sneeze and another rubbing their arms aggressively to try and warm up. The disappointed cries from both classes were loud enough that Aizawa found himself hiding a smile in his gear. They would have to find resolution on the Quirk day.

He stood aside as his class loudly clamored and debated how to improve their tactics for the next round on their way back to the front doors. It took a few moments to spot Midoriya who was sitting on the roots of one of the larger trees, neatly wrapped in his blanket. It was a wonder that his friends hadn't stayed with him so Aizawa walked over himself.

"Everything alright?" He crouched down next to him.

"Mm." Midoriya yawned and rubbed at his eyes with the blanket. "Thinkin'."

Ah, so words are back. At least a little.

"About anything specific?" 

Midoriya seemed to consider the question a moment before nodding.

"Last time. Uhm…. Last time it snowed like this I slept under a tree like this. Built a small shelter and stuff." He frowned at his own words, looking up at the tree like it would hold some form of information for him. "It's different."

"How so?" Aizawa knew these times of talking about the specifics of Midoriya's history were entirely on the kid's terms and not all that common. He had quickly learned to leave his questions open because those seemed to work best with him.

"I'm happy now. Warm." Midoriya blinked a few times, wind having stirred up some of the unpacked snowfall in his direction, before making eye contact with him. "Do you think Yagi-san has that nice tea still?" 

"I'm sure that he probably has an entire cabinet full of the stuff at this point." Aizawa glanced back to see no students still lingering before he ruffled Midoriya's hair to knock off the snow that had collected there. "We can go check."

He stood and waited as Midoriya stretched a moment before he stood up as well. He gestured for Midoriya to take the lead, they would wander at whichever speed he wanted on their way to the teachers' dormitory. At this point he was pretty sure that Midoriya could walk the path with his eyes closed but Aizawa was more comfortable himself to have the kid where he could keep an eye on him. It was good, he thought, that Midoriya was at the point where he felt deserving enough to verbally confirm he felt happy. It was progress.

[yhs-okami]

Deathcup by mom jeans ?

A/N: This one was hard bc I couldn't understand the lyrics that well (bc I'm hoh), but I got a sad kinda vibe from it, so that's what you're gonna get bro kdjdndjsnsnd

The light pitter-patter of rain on the roof of the school soothes Grian's frazzled nerves a little. It had been nearly two decades since he had step foot into this place and he had almost hoped it would stay that way, but, of course, Meri had gotten into another fight with Dom and J's kid and Ellen was at work so he was the one that needed to come pick her up.

Okami and Rowan give him small, tired smiles as they pass Grian's daughter off with only a week's suspension this time. Absentmindedly, Grian notices how his former teachers looked so much worse for wear, grey hairs overbearing and wrinkles gathering where they weren't before. They make small talk for a couple minutes, Grian asking about Silly and Necra's well-being and Okami asking in return about his and Ellen's relationship and Sam's therapy.

Slowly, Rowan hobbles over from the empty student desk he had been sat in top of and claps Grian on the shoulder firmly, nearly causing the young man to fall over from the force. It seemed, even in his old age, Rowan was still tens times as strong as Grian would ever be.

"You know, kid, you never did say goodbye..." Rowan says gruffly, his booming voice now but a distant memory.

Grian draws his brows together.

"No, I said goodbye when I graduated. I would have never forgot because you two were the closest I had to actual parents." He says in confusion.

Okami sighs softly and shakes her head adjusting her glasses softly.

"No, dear, he doesn't mean us..." She murmurs, her voice just as soft and sweet as the day she started teaching their class.

Grian pauses to think before it hits him like a bag of bricks and he looks down sadly, tugging at a loose string on the sleeve of his sweater.

"Is... Is he still down there?" He asks softly, feeling a little embarrassed and ashamed.

Okami nods and Grian sighs.

"I'll only be down there a few minutes..." He mumbles, despite everyone knowing he's lying.

If he finally goes to say goodbye, everyone knows he'll finally break down and probably be there for a couple hours.

With a confused huff, Meri follows after her father, down the first flight of stairs and into the lunch room. Off to the back of the room, there was an iron gate closed over a doorway in the wall that she had never noticed before, but Grian goes right up to it and pushes it open with no problem. He walks over, the rain misting over his skin and clothes and the humidity frying his hair, but he pays no mind to it as he spots the small row of gravestones.

Teacher Gareth, a man he never met, but had heard great things about.

Salex Brown, a girl he had heard so many things about, hearing she was so kind and so pretty and so amazing.

And...

And Taurtis.

Grian tears up as he sighs, moving to sit cross legged on the grass in front of the stone as he runs his hands over the text engraved into it.

Taurtis Tanaka.

1999-2015

A brave and loving soul.

Grian bites his lip to try to stifle a small sob that threatens to escape. Taurtis died that night on Halloween while trying drive the bus and, for so so many years, Grian never wanted to accept that. He didn't want to say goodbye because he knew, when he inevitably had to, he would never be the same again.

Slowly, Grian looks over at his daughter, who looks wide-eyed, surprised to see her strong and happy father so emotionally vulnerable.

"Meri... I think I'll be a while. Go on home if you want to, I trust you." He says, his voice cracking as he tries to pull himself together.

The teal haired teenager nods and turns on her heel, already reaching for her phone, likely to call Ellen or Uncle Sammy to have them make sure Grian is okay. Grian doesn't notice though as he looks back at his friend's gravestone.

"Hey, dude... Long time no see..."

Send a song for some vibe writing?

[fandomregina]

An au where Douxie becomes Merlins apprentice at a younger age.

 Ah, I adore this prompt! Especially with the drawings made by @tenyai​ (X, X), Younger!Douxie lives rent-free in my brain and he is a-door-a-ble. Since we don't exactly know the age that Hisirdoux started apprenticing under Merlin (I guess around his pre-teens bc of his voice, but I’m not sure) I want to say for the younger version he’s about 9/10 (Given his parents kicked him out sooner/died sooner, so I believe that he would have very little sense of time, so very little idea of how old he actually is). I hope you enjoy! 

~+~+

“He is but a boy, Arthur!” Merlin scolds. “Evil is not innate, it is taught, just as goodness is.” Arthur stands from his throne.

“So you ask me to spare the child? He uses sorcery-”

“As do I!” Merlin interrupts, slamming the end of his staff onto the ground, making the stone glow a bright green. “As does Morgana!” Merlin shifts his eyes to the woman, her face empty but anger grows behind her eyes as she looks at Arthur. “How do you think your people would act knowing you executed a child.” Merlin spits. Arthur sighs, sitting back down. Leaning heavily against the chair, he rubs between his eyes. “The child has about the same capacity of reading and writing as he does evil; none.” Merlin stares Arthur down. The king eventually sighs, waving. 

The doors to the throne room swing open and a young boy is dragged in with a black cat in tow. As he is tossed on the ground next to Merlin, the cat walks in front of the boy, softly meowing and pressing his head against the boy’s leg. “If you are so concerned with this boy's life,” Arthur grumbles. “Then you will take him under your care and teach him good magic.” Arthur looks down at the boy, glaring. “You will teach him to be useful or else he will be put to use my way-in the ground.” He growls. The boy sits on his knees, averting his eyes from Arthur. Merlin bows. 

“As you wish, your Majesty.” Grabbing the boy by the back of his collar, Merlin practically picks him up and drags him out of the throne room, his cat following behind the two. 

As the doors slam behind them, making the boy flinch in Merlin’s grasp, Merlin lets go of his collar, wiping his hand on his armor. “Follow me, child,” Merlin says, not even glancing at him. He hears the boy stumble behind him as he regains his footing, following behind the Wizard. “From now on, you will be working in my workshop and running errands for me. In between, I will teach you how to properly use your magic. In return, you will stay here in the castle and not go anywhere else or do anything else without my prior knowledge, do you understand me?” Merlin finally looks back at the boy, who had grabbed his cat and was now holding him. The boy nods. Merlin rolls his eyes. “With your words, please.” 

“Yes, sir.” The boy mumbles. Merlin sighs. 

“What is your name, if you have one,” Merlin asks as they ascend the stairs to his tower. 

“Hisirdoux Casperan.” The boy says quietly. Merlin huffs. The boy wasn’t mumbling anymore, but they would still have to work on it, he assumes. 

“And your familiar’s?” 

“Archie.” 

“How old are you?” 

“I think about ten?” The boy says, unsure. 

“Well, are you or are you not ten?” Merlin chides. 

“I’m pretty sure, yeah.” Merlin sighs, rolling his eyes at the boy’s unknowingness of his own age. 

Opening the door to his workshop, Merlin steps to the side to allow the two to enter. The boy, Hisirdoux, enters with wide eyes while his familiar looks bored. 

“You two will be staying down the hall, across from my room. It is off-limits to you both unless there is an emergency.” Walking over to his work table, he drags his forefinger across the surface of it, picking up excess powder. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he looks at it, unimpressed. “I will show you the ropes for the first week or two. If you wish to live, you must prove that you are useful.” Merlin looks at the boy as he pales slightly. Archie rubs up against his leg to try and comfort him. “I’m sure you’ve had a rather stressful past two days, so I will show you to your room so you can rest.” Hisirdoux nods and with a flick of the wrist, Merlin picks up multiple books and reshelves them. “Have you been educated at all?” Hisirdoux shakes his head.

“I never was enrolled in school. My parents were farmers.” Hisirdoux looks down at his feet. “We only lived on what we could sell.” Merlin groans. Hearing this, Hisirdoux’s head shoots up, nearly as white as a sheet. “B-but while I was working and cleaning in houses, I would listen to the homeschooling some of the mothers gave.” Hisirdoux opens his mouth again to speak, but no sound comes out. 

“Well, spit it out!” Merlin scolds.

“I never got to hear much.” The tips of Hisirdoux’s ears turn pink. “When they figured out that I was listening, well…”  He clenches his jaw shut and rolls his eyes. Opening his mouth to tell the boy to finish his sentence, another voice spoke up, interrupting him before he could begin. 

“They would beat him.” Archie scowls. As the familiar glares at Merlin, the Wizard gets a slight shiver up his spine. “They told him that the servants serve the rich. They were there to labor, not learn.” Trying his best to push down the rage, he turns back to the boy. 

“How much do you know?” 

“Not a lot. Just some pronunciation and some letters. It’s not like I could really ever practice my writing.” Hisirdoux trails off and Merlin sighs. 

“We’ll work it out in the morning. For now, I’ll show you to your room so you can settle.” Merlin waves and walks towards the door. “I’m sure I can ask Morgana to give you some lessons.” Walking down the hallway, he doesn’t turn around when he talks to Archi. “I assume you translate for him, Archie?” Opening the door to the room, Merlin lifts his hand to clear some boxes and clean, the old storage room finally being put to use for something. 

“Yes, I do. And I have been trying my best to teach him. However, my writing isn’t what it used to be.” 

“More familiar with your ancient Draconic, then?” Merlin looks over at the familiar for his reaction but all he gets is a huff of annoyance. 

“My Draconic.” Archie clarifies. “Ancient Draconic wasn’t my best subject.” Shifting into his dragon form, Archie flies towards the small rectangular cutout in the wall where the two would be sleeping. Landing, he circles a few times before laying down. “It isn’t the most comfortable, Douxie, but we’ve slept on worse.” Merlin looks over at the boy, realizing that he was waiting for Archie to lay down before he did. The boy walks over and lays down on the cement and uses Archie as a pillow. 

“I’ll see if I can find a pillow or two and some blankets for the two of you,” Merlin says as he turns and walks out of the room, closing the door with a flick of his wrist. 

When he comes back with multiple blankets, Morgana and the servants saying that the young boy could use the thicker blankets as something to lay on and the thinner ones as covers, and a couple of pillows, Merlin quietly opens the door when he re-enters. Looking at his new apprentice and his familiar, Merlin’s lip quirks upward slightly before he shakes his head. Sighing, he uses his magic to lift Hisirdoux and Archie off of the cement to place blankets under the two. Slowly putting them back down, he places the pillows at Hisirdoux’s feet, the boy still using Archie as a pillow. “A better life begins for you, young one.” He whispers, watching the boy breathe evenly before leaving the room again. 

[luccislegs]

alsjlskzjs, I loved the Law/maleso/Luffy, you wrote it amazingly! Can I ask for a continuation, maybe with a little interatcing with the crew and their ghosts, but as a little time passes, Male reader finds himself accidentally using the ghosts powers or skills? like, they are at dinner one night, and sneezes fire. Or after getting startled, they silnce the whole ship for like 3 hours? or like, hes talking to Robin and can read the Ponglyps for a few mineuts (Robons mom) and they freak out?

sorry this took me so long! i really had to take and do this in chunks bc my brain would fry trying to figure out all the little details for everyone. i don’t think sanji has anyone important to him in his past, so he isn’t here. also the first four are the longest bc they play an actual part in some things, and also theirs have the most obvious powers and drawbacks. i hope i did this enough justice to warrant the wait lol

Over the course of the few months you were on the sunny, more ghosts began to show up, like they were drawn to you. Some spirits, like ace and rosinante, sought you out before you ever met whoever was keeping them tethered. Others, like Olvia and Tom, seemed to sense when you met their loved ones, and then sought you out.

Or that was what you guessed anyway, since they didn’t seem to have an answer for it either.

Regardless, there were now half a dozen ghosts following you around, and new symptoms had shown up on top of that.

Safe to say, you were losing your mind.

luffy:

You were just cuddled up with Luffy on the couch in the aquarium, his head in your lap as you chatted back and forth about the next island.

The urge hit you out of the blue, and you turned your head to the side to avoid sneezing all over Luffy.

That went right out the window as a huge column of flames shot out of your nose when you sneezed, lighting the curtains beside you on fire.

You immediately jumped up, knocking Luffy onto the floor as you panicked, smothering the flames with the other half of the curtains. 

Luffy, helpful dolt that he is, laid on the floor upside down staring at you in awe before jumping to his feet and picking you up in a hug

“That is so cool, ___. I didn’t know you could do that! You looked just like a dragon!”

To be fair, you didn’t know you could do that either. Over Luffy’s shoulder, you sent ace a murderous glare, to which he happily responded with a shoulder shrug, a smirk, and laughter.

You never actually got a chance to figure out what the hell had happened because, mid-hug, you fell asleep right in Luffy’s arms.

law:

A few days after the incident with Luffy, something else happened. You were beginning to think you needed to screen the ghosts before you agreed to help them from now on.

You were hanging out quietly in the boy’s room with Law, who was busy reading over a medical text from chopper, and Rosi, who was lounging on the other end of the couch smoking a transparent cigarette (which, by the way, was pretty funny when he managed to light himself on fire, freaked out, then realized he couldn’t actually burn) when Franky came bursting into the room with Usopp hot on his heels.

You weren’t even sure how it happened, it was like reflex. Rosi jumped and floated up to the ceiling, you jumped off the couch and hit the floor, and then all of a sudden everything was dead quiet.

You could clearly see Franky and Usopp yelling about…something, but you couldn’t hear anything.

Law, on the other hand, was looking at you with curiosity, like he knew exactly what was going on.

“Er, Law…?” you asked, and you heard yourself perfectly fine, but he didn’t react.

Rosi floated down behind you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin when he spoke. “I think you may have just silenced the ship. Seems you can use my calm calm powers, ___.”

You sighed. “Yeah I was afraid of that. how do I fix it?”

But Rosi only shrugged before floating over to law. “Come over here and see if he can hear you.”

You didn’t understand how moving closer would help, but did as told. 

Or tried to. You tripped over the floor mat and tumbled, smacking your head off the floor and blacking out before you could get there.

robin:

Your next stop was to see Robin, and you found her in the library, looking over a charcoal shading of some strange symbols. She looked up as you entered and smiled.

“Well hello, ___. What can I do for you?” she asked. She always had a knack for telling when someone was actively looking for her and when you just happened upon her.

“Well…I have a problem. and I think you might be the most able to help,” you said, sitting beside her.

You glanced over the sketches in her hands absentmindedly, and a word popped into your head.

“Those are Poneglyphs, right?” you asked, pointing to them.

Robin froze, then nodded slowly. “How did you know that?” she asked, staring at you with a guarded expression. She had never mentioned them to you before, or in your presence, and she was pretty sure that no one else would have a reason to.

“Uh, that’s sort of why I’m here,” you answered, pointing over your shoulder to the– to her, empty– space where Nico Olvia floated. “I think I may be spouting some of the spirits powers out. It just started. I almost burned the library down a few days ago, then just earlier I muted everyone like Cora used to do.”

Robin looked stricken at the mention of her mother for a moment, as she always did, before it turned thoughtful. “I’ve never heard of that being possible. Although Blackbeard stole devil fruit powers, he can use them freely. You can only use them momentarily, right?”

You nodded, looking back down at the papers. Some of the words you could understand, but most of them just looked like gibberish. Slowly, more came into focus, as if your brain was automatically learning another language. 

Before you could really start to piece the words together though, everything seemed to explode into agony. You couldn’t breathe, as if your lungs wouldn’t expand. The edges of your vision turned black, and you collapsed.

Robin’s voice sounded very far away, and there was Chopper’s alongside hers. As you came to, you could start to make out what they were saying.

“…he just blacked out? What was he doing before then?” Chopper was asking.

“We were just talking about the new powers he developed, and he was looking at the pictures of Poneglyphs, and then he was on the floor gasping.”

“Look, he’s waking up.” That was Law’s voice, and he sounded very concerned.

You opened your eyes just a crack, testing whether that was a good idea. Your head felt like it was splitting open, and Law helped you to sit up slowly. 

“What happened?” he asked, and you shrugged.

“I don’t know. I was talking with Robin and then suddenly everything hurt, like I’d been beaten, and I couldn’t breathe anymore,” you said, looking around at everyone. It was just you, Robin, Chopper, and Law in the room, and they all looked like you felt.

Robin’s gasp broke the silence, like a lightbulb had turned on. “It sounds like you were experiencing what my mother did before she…I wonder if you aren’t taking their powers but also some of their personality too,” she said, looking at you curiously. “What happened after you used Ace’s and Cora-san’s?”

Law broke in before you could answer. “He fell asleep in luffy’s arms after lighting the libary on fire, and tripped and knocked himself out after silencing our room. Which is exactly what they used to do.”

You nodded in agreement, but Robin still looked perturbed. “It seems like you experience more than just their quirks, but their deaths too. That can’t be good. I’ll do some research and see if there’s anything about your powers, but you need to be careful too.”

zoro:

This new development was slightly detrimental to your health. You couldn’t figure out a rhyme or reason to how your new powers worked, or when they would, but you were keen to find out. 

The safest way, you figured, was to try practicing with a sword and seeing if you couldn’t channel some of Kuina’s swordsmanship at will.

It didn’t work. At all.

You couldn’t seem to find any trigger for making it work, swinging the sword as you normally would have. Zoro seemed disappointed as well, having hoped to have a decent match against someone besides Law for once. It didn’t matter that you explained to him you could only use it for a few seconds.

Only when Franky, who was working on something on the mast, accidentally lost his grip on a drawing knife he was using and sent it flying towards you did those “instincts” kick in. Your vision went a little blurry, as if you were seeing things through water, and you lifted the sword and swung with more grace than you ever had, knocking it aside before it could reach you.

Zoro clapped in impressed surprise. “I guess you need to be in danger to use it,” he said, watching you stumble and fall to your knees. “Are you alright?”

“No, I uh,” you struggled to think through the screaming pain that was lancing through your back. It wasn’t nearly as excruciating as Olvia’s death, but your head was still swimming from it. “Can I ask how Kuina died?”

Zoro paused, looking like he swallowed a lemon. “She fell down the stairs.” He sounded bitter, so you nodded and moved on.

“I think I’m experiencing some of the things the others did in their lives, deaths included. Earlier, I could read Poneglyphs, but right after I went through Olvia’s death. This is…a little scary,” you admit, just as Luffy and Law came onto the deck. 

Franky had gone to fetch them when you collapsed, and they pulled you gently to your feet. 

“Are you alright, _____?” Luffy asked, just as Law asked, “what the hell is going on?”

Explaining it all over again, you sighed tiredly. “I just want to go lay down now, if you don’t mind.”

nami:

Nothing happened for a few days after that. At every turn, though, you were expecting an outburst followed by some type of mayhem. Practicing with Zoro a little more revealed that only when something dangerous you weren’t expecting happened did you channel Kuina’s excellent swordsmanship. Needless to say, Zoro was disappointed.

Nami’s first experience happened when you were helping her trim her tangerine trees. It was one of the only pleasant experiences you had, because for some reason– maybe you were just relaxed enough that it was flowing– Bell-mere’s knowledge of tangerines was flowing freely. 

For nearly an hour, you and Nami chatted about the best ways to take care of the trees. You could see Bell-mere floating aimlessly through the trees, and knew she was listening but never once did she input anything to the conversation. 

The only negative side-effect you experienced was an overwhelming craving for cigarettes.

Franky:

Franky’s was another pleasant experience, since you were able to channel Tom’s knowledge of shipbuilding. It didn’t last as long as Bell-mere’s, but it came much more frequently than Rosi’s or Ace’s. 

You were beginning to suspect that the physical aspects took a different type of catalyst compared to the knowledge. Unfortunately, you were unable to physically put any of Tom’s knowledge into effect, but Franky enjoyed talking with you while he was working.

chopper:

Chopper’s was another unpleasant one.

Channeling Hiriluk’s medical knowledge was a struggle at best, because even though you knew what was going on, you didn’t really understand, and it gave you a headache. 

Combine that with the fact that you spent almost 30 minutes doubled over from unbearable stomach cramps– which you found out was most likely what Hiriluk experienced before he died from eating a deadly mushroom– and his knowledge really wasn’t worth the experience.

Chopper couldn’t even really enjoy chatting with you about it because you were just so miserable, but the catalyst for Hiriluk’s knowledge was pretty much just entering the medical bay, so you suffered quite a bit from that one.

[sara-scribbles]

If youre taking requests can we have fbyleth being in love with Hubert but he cant return her feelings bc of his duties to Edelgard but he does love her and byleth develops hanahaki? Maybe end with angst and whether she lives or dies is up to you :)

Daffodil Heart

Hubert/F!Byleth

Note: I had to look this up, but it’s an interesting concept. Since you asked for angst, I tried to make it as angsty as possible. I think living is far worse than death sometimes.

This takes place post-time skip, and after everything is over. May contain some spoilers for Crimson Flower route.

———

Her heart was beating faster than usual. Her palms felt a bit too warm. For the first time in her life, Byleth could understand how others felt when nervous. Of course she had felt nervous before, but she had never experienced the symptoms that came with the feeling. A part of her liked the feeling of her heart thumping quicker. It told her she was alive. She was normal. She wasn’t truly a demon like her title said.

Waiting near the ruined Goddess Tower, she wondered if Hubert would show up. He had been busy ever since the end of the war. Edelgard wanted to eliminate those who slither in the dark as soon as possible. But she also wanted to start her reforms. It was a balancing act that she needed to juggle carefully. 

Byleth tried to help as best as she could. However Hubert seemed to take on most tasks as he was the Emperor’s right hand. When she had left the letter on his desk, she had almost taken it back. However, she decided she needed to face him. After everything she had gone through - teaching at Garreg Mach, nearly dying in a black abyss, fighting in a war, and taking on the Immaculate One - this should be a simple task. Or at least that was what she told herself. Matters of the heart were still a foreign concept for her. She was still learning.

Finally she saw him coming toward her. His mostly black ensemble was hard to miss. Clenching her hands and taking a deep breath, Byleth readied herself. Facing him she felt her heart give a few more quick thumps.

“I hope you have called me out here for a good reason,” he said, piercing eyes studying her.

Byleth swallowed the lump in her throat. “This may not seem important to you, however it is important to me.” He nodded, his full attention on her. “I have been figuring out my feelings ever since…ever since the end of the war. I’ve realized that I feel even more than I used to. And, I’ve been told that it is best to share my feelings.”

He was frowning, most likely unsure where she was going with her words. She continued, “I…I love you, Hubert. I don’t know when I started loving you, but I know I do.” A fond smile formed on her lips. “I wish, if possible, to spend my life with you.”

The dark haired man was silent. His face showed no emotions, but he would not meet her gaze. Something acidic burned in the back of her throat as he finally answered. “I cannot return your feelings. I’m sorry.” He met her gaze then; his eyes were distant and cold. “My life belongs to Her Majesty. I am her servant, and cannot be anymore to anyone else.”

It felt like the blood in her veins had frozen over. Her heart, which had been beating rapidly, felt heavy and painful. She wanted to hide and run at the same time. Swallowing, she nodded. “I understand. Thank you for hearing me out,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

She left before he could say more. As her feet took her to her room, everything went by in a blur. There was a roaring sound in her ears that drowned out every other noise. Closing the door to her room, she slowly slid down the wood until she was sitting on the floor. Staring blankly at her hands, she wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like.

Her chest felt like it was being constricted. She found it hard to breathe every time she took a breath. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed so tight it felt painful. Clutching her chest, she tried to stabilize her breathing, but her throat felt like it had closed.

No.

There was something actually stuck in her throat. Byleth coughed as she tried to clear it. It felt painful the way it was stuck in her windpipe. Pounding her chest, she finally managed to pull up whatever was stuck in her throat. Covering her mouth, she spat the object out. In her hand was a slightly crumpled flower. Brows drawing together, she couldn’t fathom where it had come from.

It was a bright yellow. The flower had six petals and a slight trumpet shape in the middle. Byleth stood up and tossed the flower in the trash. However another coughing fit started and another flower laid in her hand. She frowned as worried bubbled up.

The flower was partially covered in blood

———

A few weeks had passed and Hubert hadn’t seen Byleth. He tried not to think too much about the reason why. However in the few quiet moments he had, he would replay the scene at the Goddess Tower in his mind. Over and over, he tried to recreate it. He tried to think of ways it could have ended differently. Ways that it didn’t end with Byleth leaving with that expression on her face. Yet every time it ended the same.

He shook his head. There was not much he could do. After all he had pledged his life to Emperor Edelgard and her cause. Distracting himself with unnecessary things would only hinder his abilities. Even if he felt the same way, he could not allow himself to accept. Maybe after everything was settled he could…

Hubert pulled himself out of that train of thought. Even after those who slither in the dark were eliminated, Emperor Edelgard would need him to spread her reforms. It was for Byleth’s best interest to find someone else. He would not be able to give her the love she deserved. Not when his duties outweighed his personal life.

As he stalked through the church, he wondered how someone like her could fall in love with him. It was no secret that many saw him as a rat who only served the Emperor. He didn’t care what they called him. His hands were sullied by the many things he had done. Still, how could someone so bright and loved by many fall for him? Hearing her confess her feelings had made his heart burst with joy. For a brief second, Hubert had forgotten about his duties. In those seconds he had imagined his life with Byleth, and it was beautiful. However reality quickly pulled him back.

Arriving at the meeting room, he took his usual seat next to the Emperor. Despite trying not to, his eyes went over to the empty chair at the opposite head of the table. “Will the professor not be joining us again?” Edelgard inquired.

“I do not know, your majesty. I have not seen her for the past few days.” The words felt bitter in his mouth.

She drummed her fingers on the table. “Is she sick?” He could hear the worry in her voice,

“Not that I am aware. Though Manuela would know.” His sharp gaze met the older woman.

The former opera singer sighed and glanced around. “As far as I know, she’s as fit as a fiddle. She hasn’t come to me in a while.”

At least he felt some relief knowing she wasn’t sick. “Perhaps the professor is just busy with other things. I’ll be sure to find out, Emperor Edelgard.”

“Please do-” The door opened with a squeak, and the object of their discussion walked in. Hubert felt his stomach drop as he finally laid eyes on her. Her skin was a sickly pale, almost gray. Her eyes were dull and she barely gave anyone a glance. Her usually vibrant hair hung limply as if all life had been drained. What was worse was the way her eyes had sunken into her face. Dark circles made them even more noticeable. There was no light in her eyes. It felt like looking at the eyes of a dead fish.

“I apologize for-” she coughed in a handkerchief “-missing the last few meetings. I’ve been under the weather.” She took her seat and quickly hid the tissue in her coat pocket.

“My teacher….you do not look well. Perhaps you should rest, and Manuela can prepare a tonic for you,” Edelgard suggested. The Emperor’s brows were creased in worry. Everyone was staring at her in shock. Except Linhardt, who was napping.

Byleth waved her off. “I’m fine. Let’s start this meeting.”

Hesitant, Edelgard started the debriefing. Throughout, Byleth would have coughs that seemed to shake her whole body. Hubert found himself watching her rather than listening to the meeting. By the end, he had taken little notes, but his concern had increased greatly.

Once everyone was dismissed, Byleth quickly left. Hubert followed after her. “Byleth.” She waited for him as another cough wracked her body. “I think you should go see Manuela.”

She looked at him tiredly. “I will. Is there something else you need?”

There was a lot he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. “No. Just get better. For your sake and her majesty’s.”

Nodding, she continued on her way. He watched as she was joined by Linhart. The usually sleepy looking man was waving his hands around. Byleth merely nodded before following him. He wanted to ask where she and Lindhardt were going, but he had no right to pry into her business. He had no right to feel any way about who she talked with.

Yet he took a step forward as if to go after her, but stopped himself. He felt something under his foot. Stepping back, he had trampled over a bloody flower. Despite being completely covered in blood, he could discern that it was a daffodil. Where on earth it had come from was beyond him. He sighed before turning back to the meeting room. The Emperor had wanted to discuss something with him after the meeting. Ever dutiful, Hubert was ready to hear what she had to say, and if necessary, execute her orders.

———

“It seems that the illness has progressed rather quickly. I’d say that it’s in the third stage based on the amount of flowers you’ve been coughing up.” Linhardt scribbled on his notes. “The few papers we’ve found on your disease say that progression varies from person to person. Tell me, has anything else changed?”

Byleth stared at the flickering flame of the lamp on the table. “I’ve found it harder to breathe. Doing simple training exercises wind me. I also can’t sleep with the amount of coughing I do.”

“Well that’s not a good sign. If you reach the final stage, you’ll die. Have you thought about what I told you last time?” He eyed the diagram of the lungs that was covered in roots and flowers. It had been hastily drawn by whoever had left the notes.

“Yes. I…I think I’ll do the removal. Dying is…it’s not an option I want if there is a way to live.” She knew her father would have scolded her for taking so long to decide. She had spent long nights deciding. The side-effect to the surgery was of little consequence in the long run. Or so she hoped.

Linhardt studied her. “Are you sure? You do know the consequence.”

She nodded. “Yes.” Perhaps gaining her emotions hadn’t been such a good thing. Because of them she had gotten a rare disease. It would be her of all people to contract such a thing. The coughing and spitting up flowers drained her so much. She could barely remember a night of restful sleep. In her current state she was no use to anyone.

“Alright, I’ll let Hanneman and Manuela know. We’ll do the surgery tomorrow.” Closing his book, Linhardt seemed to drift off in thought. “This will be quite interesting to observe.”

Closing her eyes, she felt…relieved. Relieved that once the disease was removed, she could go back to how she was before. And perhaps relieved that she would never feel heartbreak again. For someone who had faced down many foes in battle, she was a coward when it came to her feelings.

Hacking up more flowers on her way to her room, she let them fall on the ground. A bloody trail of flowers stained the grass as a morbid decoration.

———

Once again he was at the Goddess Tower, However, this time he had been the one to ask for a meeting. He adjusted his gloves once more. Seeing Byleth coming to him, he attempted to calm his nerves. If they were from fear or something else, he wasn’t sure. However he was sure on one thing. And that was that he needed to tell Byleth how he really felt.

Up close he could see that she was in better health. She seemed to be over whatever had ailed her a while ago. He was thankful for that. 

“Is there something wrong?” she asked. She was giving him one of her blank stares. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of those stares in a long time.

“Nothing is wrong. I wanted…I wanted to discuss you and me.” He coughed. “To think, I had rehearsed a long preamble. Now, when it matters, it’s all vanished from memory as suddenly as the morning dew. To the point, then. I…I love you. I have for a while. However I thought that my obligation to Her Majesty came before my own happiness. But it seems I cannot hide how I feel about you from her, and she has given me her blessing.”

He watched her for a reaction. Yet, she merely blinked and tilted her head to the side. “I see…”

His ears burned. “I…I realize that last time I hurt you. That was not my intention. I executed everything wrong then. If you will still have me, Byleth, I will show you my love for the rest of our days.”

She stared at him for a moment longer before shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Hubert. I cannot return your feelings anymore. I do not love you.” She said it plainly and simply as if discussing the weather. 

He felt a sharp pain in his chest. “I…I understand. I’m sorry I took so long to tell you the truth. Honestly,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “I deserve this more than anything else.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” she asked, not at all bothered. 

“No. Thank you for hearing me out.” He almost laughed at how this scene echoed a month ago. Except their roles were reversed. Byleth nodded before leaving.

Perhaps he deserved to be alone. After all he had a chance to have a happy life, and he let it go.

———

The Tin Woman

“After a fierce battle, Byleth and Edelgard finally brought the tyranny of a godlike being to an end. Though wounded in the conflict and stripped of divine power, Byleth continued to fight alongside the emperor to bring true peace. After everything was said and done, she left to go traveling. Many who met her commented on how she seemed to be missing something. What it was no one could figure it out.”

The Lone Heart

“Hubert fulfilled his promise to confront those who slither in the dark head-on. Even after peace had reigned, and Edelgard’s wishes were brought to fruition, he continued to serve her. It was said he never found love. There were rare moments where pain surfaced in his eyes when he saw a certain someone. Even on his deathbed, it was said he seemed to hold a deep regret.”

[peachdoxie]

I didn’t get around to posting last week’s liveblog of Rhythm of War, so I’m going to post both chapters 14 and 15 here. Let’s get to it!

Some of the Fused on Braize slumbered...

SLUMBERED?

Timbre pulsed a warning inside her, and Venli forcibly resisted those instincts. It was not easy. Perhaps as a Surgebinder, she should have been naturally selfless. Naturally noble. Like Eshonai. 

Ah, identity/Identity stuff. Fun.

fannahn-im, the Altered Ones

Cool, another type of Fused.

In that light, these tombs were a flagrant, wasteful act—the ultimate price for this show was paid not by the Nine, but by the poor singers they had killed to give them bodies.

Something something Marxism and the labor of the proletariat

She was both the very crust of the unimportant and the very dregs of the important.

I like this line.

Avendla was their name for Alethkar; Venli’s powers instantly knew the meaning of the word. Land of the Second Advance. Her abilities stopped there, however, and she couldn’t answer the more interesting question. Why was it called that?

Yeah, why DO they call Alethkar “Land of the Second Advance”? Hmm...

“You think I could be defeated by a common human?” the Pursuer demanded. “This Windrunner must be of the Fourth Ideal—something I was led to believe had not yet happened. Perhaps our reconnaissance teams have lost their edge, during the long time spent between Returns.”

HAHA GET FUCKED YOU GOT REKT BY KALADIN “ONLY SWORN THE THIRD IDEAL” STORMBLESSED

Each new wave of attacks had involved what was called a Return, when the Fused would descend to Roshar.

Yeah uh anyone else suspicious of the word “Return” bc that’s really similar to the Returned in Warbreaker.

None of them realize she’s trying to protect that Windrunner, Venli thought. Maybe she doesn’t realize it herself.

Leshwi has officially joined the Kaladin Protection Squad.

“There are few among them of the Fourth Ideal—perhaps only one individual—and they do not have full access to the tower, now that the Sibling is dead.”

Okay, first: who’s the one who might have sworn the Fourth Ideal? Is she referring to Kaladin or someone else??? No one we’ve seen has sworn the Fourth Ideal...

ALSO. S I B L I N G L O R E.

“You have nearly perfected the suppression fabrials,” Raboniel said. “Do not forget, it is technology I discovered from the tower itself thousands of years ago. I have a plan to use it in a more dramatic way. As the Sibling is essentially a deadeye, I should be able to turn the tower’s defenses against its owners.”

The Sibling is “essentially a deadeye.” But not an actual deadeye. But just a moment ago she said that the Sibling is dead. WHAT THE FUCK. GIVE ME LORE.

“We will need to lure the Elsecaller and the Bondsmith away. Their oaths may be advanced enough to push through the suppression, much as the Unmade have done at the tower in the past.”

First. What the fuck. Second, what the fuck???

“During the last Return, she developed a disease intended to kill all humans on the planet. Near the end, it was discovered that the disease would likely kill many singers as well. She released it anyway…only to find, to all of our fortunes, that it did not work as expected. Fewer than one in ten humans were killed, and one in a hundred singers.”

That’s a yikes but also how have we not heard of this illness yet?

“If you forget why you are fighting, then victory itself becomes the goal.”

Something something Journey before destination

“In addition, this endeavor will give me the opportunity to test some… theories I have developed while slumbering these last millennia.”

SLUMBERING

“Last time, her recklessness nearly cost us everything.”

GIVE. ME. THE. LORE.

***

Kaladin announced that Sigzil—with whom he’d conferred earlier in the day—would take over daily administration of the Windrunners, overseeing things like supplies and recruitment.

I am not surprised that Sigzil is now in charge.

“I know you are, sir. But I have no interest in taking ‘what I can get.’ And I don’t think you should force a spren into a bond. It will make for a bad precedent, sir.” He hummed a different rhythm. “You all name me a squire, but I can’t draw Stormlight like the rest. There’s a wedge between me and the Stormfather, I think. Strange. I expected prejudice from humans, but not from him… Anyway, I will wait for a spren who will bond me for who I am—and the honor I represent.”

Literally not at all surprised that Rlain is turning Yunfah down. I expected as much. That still means Yunfah is without a bond. Also, I wonder if Rlain will bond with a spren that’s not an honorspren. Rlain for Nightwatcher Bondsmith 2k20

Or maybe, another part of him thought, you could do what you promised him—and listen for once.

Yeah, Kaladin, you should listen to Rlain. Take a lesson from Lift in that.

“But you couldn’t give up the sword,” Kaladin said.

“Oh, I gave it up. I let go. Best mistake I ever made.”

Lmao I’m betting Zahel is referring to one veeeery specific sword.

100% not surprised that Zahel is doing stuff with cloth. That’s like Awakening 101.

Honestly this scene with Kaladin fighting Zahel in the clotheslines is wonderful. It’s cinematic, actually.

“I’m not confident anyone knows the answers. I figure I’ll let the people who care argue about it, and I’ll keep my head down and focus on my life right now.”

Agnostic Kaladin. I didn’t know I could love this man more but I do.

“I don’t have to believe,” the voice drifted back. “I know gods exist. I simply hate them.”

Lmao since on Nalthis he was considered a god.

“You want to know what I am? Well, I’m a lot of things. Tired, mostly.”

God what a mood

“That’s because Wit is an asshole.”

BEST FUCKING MOMENT OF RHYTHM OF WAR SO FAR

“Happened to your friend too. Up in the prison? The one with… that sword.”

Well, that answers two questions. One, what happened to Szeth after Oathbringer? Two, does Zahel know Szeth has Nightblood? Also, it seems that Szeth still has possession of Nightblood. Wonder how he managed to do that.

“She’s what I now call a Type One Invested entity. I decided that had to be the proper way to refer to them. Power that came alive on its own.”

“Type Two Invested entity. Dead man walking.”

Interesting. It seems based on Vasher’s BioChromatic entity scale, but not the same.

Kaladin frowned, trying to figure out why Zahel was telling him this.

Good question. Why IS Zahel telling him this?

“The longer one of us exists, the more like a spren we become. Consumed by a singular purpose, our minds bound and chained by our Intent. We’re spren masquerading as men. That’s why she takes our memories. She knows we aren’t the actual people who died, but something else given a corpse to inhabit…”

Sure, Zahel. Just drop us some fucking lore right here. We kinda already knew it but to have it laid out here is something else. But it’s still interesting, especially with the part about capital-I Intent, and Endowment taking memories.

***

Anyway, that’s chapters 14 and 15! Some interesting stuff going on, including what will probably be one of my favorite scenes in Rhythm of War.

[armybratjames]

• James Murphy  • Rudy Pankow  • 22  • Kingscrest Knight  • works at Buck’s Cinema  • heterosexual/heteromantic  •  Birthday: August 10 •

tw: parental death, alcohol abuse, abuse

Then:

Until he was thirteen, the most James ever heard from his father was the occasional post card, and his yearly Christmas visits. Jim grew up near Newry in Ireland, in County Armagh with his mum. He understood that his father had to travel a lot for work, as he was an American soldier, but in the still moments that he was alone, James couldn’t help feel the abandonment. He threw himself into sports to avoid the silence; any time of day he could be found playing footie with his friends, sparring with sticks as swords, or playing rugby on the school pitch. But at thirteen, his mum fell sick, and the two of them moved to Kauai where his father was stationed. There was a whole other sense of loss at that, leaving behind his home and friends, and James took up surfing. He became a regular beach bum, and spent most of his days by the shore. He lived and would die for his friends, which often got him in trouble at home, and with local authority. 

One night, while at a party, James got the phone call that his mom had gone into the hospital. By the time he found a friend that was sober enough to drive him there, it was too late. He arrived at the waiting room to find his father crumpled forward in a chair. James was seventeen at the time. He and his dad brought Brigid’s ashes back to Ireland so she could be buried in the family plot, and while he was there, James decided that he wanted to stay. He told his father after the wake, but Rodney wouldn’t have it. It was during this argument that his father informed him that he’d been stationed in Colorado, and that he’d have to start all over again. Determined to stay with his aunt in Armagh, Jamie packed his rucksack with the few outfits he had brought, and headed out to leave. This was the first time his dad struck him, and would be far from the last. 

When he first arrived in Kingscrest, James was determined to hate it. He kept mostly to himself, rejecting any attempts at friendship from his peers. He wasn’t planning on being there long anyway, why get close to anyone?; he’d leave in a year and never look back. 

It wasn’t until his gym teacher heard of his surfing past, and encouraged James to take up snowboarding that changed things. When Murphy fell in love with that, and revealed that he actually quite missed sports in general, his gym teacher suggested he try out for one of the school teams. After forming friendships with his teammates, and found an outlet for his pent up anger and angst, the grand ideas of leaving town after he turned eighteen all but melted away. 

Now:

James still lives at home despite his father’s explosive temper. Ever since his dad retired, every night that Jamie is at home tends to end up in a fist fight with a drunken version of his father. Generally, instead of being home while his dad is conscious, James spends most of his time in the town and with friends. He doesn’t really understand the whole rivalry between the Knights and the Swans, other than the mild annoyance they can cause when his team wants to use the rink, and is usually good natured around them, other than the occasional teasing. 

Headcanons:

his accent gets heavier when he’s flirting with a girl he fancies

does long stand up comedy from memory

won’t really fight for himself, but if anyone messes with his friends, he’s the first one to throw a punch

likes to sit around in West Vale and speculate to himself about the tourists walking by 

wants very badly to move out of his house, but worries his dad will drink himself to death if he does

will do anything anyone says if they dare him to

never makes his bed/room is a mess of clothes, sports equipment, and comics

terrible at math, and always, always uses a calculator when checking people out at the cinema

doesn’t talk about home life, or about how his mother died. very reserved in that sense; doesn’t open up about anything too much

pushes feelings down and deflects, often throwing himself into snowboarding or hockey practice to block out thoughts

jumps before looking type

thinks he’s an amazing cook, but basically only knows how to make pasta and grill burger

can drink anyone under the table (he told me to add that but idk if that’s true or if he’s just trying to show off)

more to come...

Personality:

+ kind, dedicated, humorous, creative

- careless, hot tempered, self deprecating

ooc:

hi! i’m mary and i don’t know what i’m doing 92% of the time!! 

‘fun’ facts:

i have a lot of family in ireland and basically put that into james’ character bc i miss them and want to go back nearly every day

i have a mustachioed cat that i probably could not live without

tumblr roleplaying is where i met my very best friend in the world and will fight anyone that says online friendships aren’t real

all of my characters share my birthday which is super cool of them bc i have a terrible memory

i know next to nil about hockey but tg for google, right?

peter pan is my favorite story although he is not my favorite character (is he really anyone’s?)

i’m a christian and i gotta tell ya: canon jesus is better than fanon jesus

i love hiking, disney movie maratons, wine, drawing, and hoodies

i nanny for a family with six kids, so i can be a bit scatterbrained pls don’t hate me for it

i almost added three separate bullet points: one for movies, one for shows, and one for musical artists that i like but this is all extra enough 

[freevoidman]

Okay I’m reading through Porg’s update so some of y’all can save your braincells and here are some great highlights (under a readmore bc i couldn’t help but tear into a few things she suggested):

Flat out ignoring that Vergil had changed by the end of the game as a result of V and Urizen’s separate experiences.

In trying to make V and Urizen their own character, she throws out the idea of Vergil being manipulated by the Qliphoth/Urizen (??? somehow??? even though the tree is implied to be non-sentient i believe???), with V being a Devil hunter looking through the remains of Mallet Island (which was completely blown up, turned to rubble, and then swallowed by the sea, so... that can’t happen), finding the cane which makes him youthful and not sick but... having the cane makes it so he can only kill demons through the cane??? for some reason??? And he needs the Qliphoth fruit to heal himself and free him from the curse???

How did she make V’s backstory even more confusing and complicated how the fuck did she do that

Almost immediately after bringing up the cane, she instead changes it to be one of the rings he’s wearing because she wants her “precious V” to use weapons other than the cane, which makes all the prior paragraphs about the cane’s curse and only using it pointless. She’s the one writing this fic, why can’t she edit her own work so it’s more cohesive?

Despite saying that V should be a Devil Hunter, she doesn’t explain why someone who is supposed to be killing demons would form a pact with at least three to fight demons. Her rewrite dismisses Visions of V, and she even states later that the manga is a waste of time as it won’t ever be translated into English (which 1) is not a limiting factor to reading it as many people have translated it already and 2) doesn’t dismiss it’s value at building up V’s character, who she supposedly likes the best).

Also, for someone who complains about DMC5 being a rehash of DMC3, she’s sure doing her best to change it to a rehash of DMC1 (Vergil being controlled by an outside force, bringing back Mallet Island, bringing back Mundus [the cane is supposed to be tied to Mundus]).

V apparently can’t be human because she wants to give him a devil trigger, despite having 3 familiars and his own strength. Okay I guess?

Also it’s really fucking sick how she describes V changing, because it’s apparently V fusing with Nightmare? Devil May Cry has never been one for body horror but she straight up says she was inspired by “The Thing (1982), The Fly (1986), Bloodborne, and Resident Evil 7″ for the transformation imagery and I wanted to nope the fuck out of there real quick.

Her segments of actual fiction writing and dialogue are really bad it’s almost like a parody Youtube skit.

She switches between prose and script writing randomly, it’s really odd. She does it primarily with Dante i’ve noticed? Here’s an example I wrote of what she does:

“Hey, don’t stress out about it will you?” Says John following a few steps behind VINCENT: Don’t get your panties in a twist

And that just happens... randomly? Like, there’s no indication why she’s doing that it just happens.

She straight up writes notes in her fic about the controls for character actions in-game what the hell--

She also shamelessly puts in a link to artwork that clearly isn’t her’s (and I highly doubt she got permission to post about) to try and show what V’s Devil Trigger would look like. I couldn’t find it because I don’t know how pixiv works, but that’s just a shitty move, especially with how she treats artists on tumblr when they draw art of Vergil.

EDIT: Porg has now straight up copy-pasted the art into her fic without the artist’s permission which is, we all know, fucking theft. While it is good artistry, is just a weird mashup of Vergil’s and Dante’s. It’s not all that unique and I don’t understand why she had to reference a bunch of body horror shit when all the Devil Triggers in game are essentially just a large flash of light and a seamless transition between forms??? It’s good art, I’m not trying to bash the artist, but... Porg, you could’ve been a little more original here rather than just ripping off another artist’s designs...

Everyone in her fic acts super casually to seeing Vergil alive in the Qliphoth and it’s like... honey, no.

Vergil acts WILDLY out of character holy fuck. Like, I know I should have expected that but this is NOT how Vergil would act in the slightest. She’s pretty much writing an OC.

Building off of this: EVERYONE acts OOC and... it’s not exactly cringey, but it is perfect proof that Porg doesn’t know what she’s doing and hasn’t properly analyzed the characters.

Dante acts weirdly... detached? There’s no sign of him acting like his normal goofball-y self, and he’s much more serious than normal. He actually acts more like cannon Vergil than himself, actually. (He also knows CPR apparently? Which... is a skill he would really never bother learning, so...)

Nero doesn’t act nearly as emotional, and acts calmly for some reason. You can’t feel any of his emotions behind his dialogue, only through the adverbs added to the tags)

V is too informative. He knows way too much about random shit that... no one should rightfully know. I’ll mention it more later, but... V doesn’t act like himself and I don’t really know how to explain it.

Vergil is essentially her OC. Seriously--he’s not as brooding or snarky, he’s far too open and apologetic, there’s practically no sense of rivalry between him and Dante. Weirdly, he acts more like canon V than fic!V does, despite the fact that Porg wants to establish V and Vergil and separate characters. His actions also make no sense when put alongside his canon personality. We aren’t reading anything about Vergil, we’re reading about Porg’s weirdly idealized version of him.

I’m going to make a break in the post here because I feel like this is the part that needs the most attention:

Porg goes OUT OF HER WAY to dedicate a GIANT portion of this chapter to her own OC: Nero’s mom. There are several long paragraphs of establishing the relationship between her OC and Vergil, talking about leaving Fortuna, how they were ‘happy’ and then saying that after a hurricane (inspired by hurricane hugo, you’ll see later) she got separated from Vergil, never reconnected with him, GAVE BIRTH, died from a demon attack with Nero staying near her corpse, and then Nero was found by humans and taken off the mainland to be taken to an orphanage on Fortuna. She wanted a massive amount of time to be taken out of the fun parts of playing Devil May Cry to establish a relationship that would never come back and essentially turn into a 15 minute soap opera inserted into a game about having fun killing demons.

Alright back to the noted highlights.

Porg confirms in her fic that the universe of Devil May Cry happens in the US, and that Fortuna is an island along the southeast coast and I want to fucking rip my eyeballs out at this point.

The ONLY REASON why she is doing this is because she lives in Florida. I know she does, and she just wants to imply that this is all happening near her home turf. How anyone who lives in Florida thinks an island like Fortuna can exist is beyond me though, because playing through 4, most of the buildings are inspired by Italian designs, and no one in the states would build an entire island with italian designs. I’ve been to Florida multiple times--there’s no buildings there even REMOTELY designed to match Fortuna.

EDIT: I have been informed that Porg actually lives in Pennsylvania, not Florida, which makes both more and less sense. Why Florida? Why not a hidden island up on the east coast? Why does this have to be taking place in the states at all Porg???

Yeah, let’s take Nero off the MAINLAND OF FLORIDA after a DEVASTATING HURRICANE and send him to an orphanage on an ISLAND which would’ve been hit the hardest by ANY hurricane. TOTAL SENSE. 

She tries to make her own timeline for the series using actual real world dates and events and it’s terrible (she references Hurricane Hugo in 1989, and confidently states that 3 took place in 1990, despite all evidence for the actual dates of events being fan theory established through circumstantial evidence).

There’s so much horror movie inspiration here--not cheap horror, but really twisted shit that... doesn’t fit with Devil May Cry’s tone at all? In the slightest? She references Jacob’s Ladder, plus all the other body horror media I wrote above.

Straight up just tears Vergil’s arm off which sure, I guess we gotta make THAT a parallel between Nero and Vergil. They can have a father son moment over being physically maimed.

In the scene immediately before this, Urizen picks up Vergil by the head and roots around Vergil’s memories (somehow???) to show him all the ‘bad moments’ in his life to traumatize him. She describes it as the audience getting flashes of him falling to hell, charging Mundus, being Nelo Angelo, etc. 

This causes Vergil to cry and beg for Urizen to stop. Then Urizen rips off his arm. So. Yeah. Another point for the OOC!Vergil/OC-taking-Vergil’s-place board.

Also this point ALONE made me realize that Porg does not know how much time, effort, and money needs to be put into making assets. Like, the entire fic she was stressing that everything be done in 5′s HD Graphics--including the ruins of Mallet Island, so I have to assume she’d want these little snippets in HD too, which would be a massive money hole creating these assets for one scene that lasts maybe ten seconds total.

I know I stated it in one of my earlier posts, but most of what she’s writing would fit better with a sequel for the reboot series, not DMC5. It would make her OOC writing of Vergil make sense, all the horror movie inspiration and body horror shit would fit better there, especially all the crappy dialogue too.

She somehow made Griffon even MORE annoying than in cannon.

BTW if I had to listen to poetry while fighting the final boss of a video game, I’d sooner turn my PS4 off. Not that poetry isn’t cool and all, but it cheapens the final fight and distracts you. It wouldn’t work.

EDIT: I realized this point made no sense without context, sorry. Porg made the Book of Urizen (the poetry book by William Blake referenced multiple times by V) either weirdly prophetic or made it out like Blake had inner knowledge of demon powers or... something along those lines, and V magically has the knowledge that reciting poetry from the book about Urizen will... harm him? Weaken him? Open a gate to hell (she mentions a portal appearing near him)? It’s very unclear, but she essentially rewrites Urizen as the final boss, and makes it three stages (V [Griffon recites some verses, which is what the first point was about], Vergil and Dante [this is where Vergil gets his arm ripped off btw], and then Nero) with all three of them reading poetry from the book to deal the “final blow” to Urizen. I’d much rather have Vergil be the final boss than have to go through a three-stage boss fight while every character I play as recites poetry to kill the boss.

She mentions Dante using Sin DT against Urizen but I’m pretty sure with her fuckery of the game’s events Dante can’t GET Sin DT? Because there’s no fight between Nero and Urizen where he’d intervene?

COMPLETELY IGNORES VERGIL’S DEVELOPMENT OF WANTING TO TRAVEL WITH HIS BROTHER THROUGH HELL TO ELIMINATE THE QLIPHOTH FUCK OFF.

Also she changed the lore of the Qliphoth so that it sprouts semi-naturally around every 500 or so years? So... shouldn’t leaving the Qliphoth roots be fine now? Since it’s natural?

Nico acts like growing back arms is totally normal

Wrote an INCREDIBLY shoe-horned in moment in the van with Dante filling Trish and Lady in about finding Vergil and everything that happened where, once again, Trish and Lady act almost completely nonplussed that Vergil is alive after 20+ years in hell, with about 9 of those ten years being trapped under Mundus’ control and corrupted by the Demon King

Seriously why is no one surprised in this fic that Vergil survived? Dante has a brief moment before finding him, but everyone finds out and accepts it like flipping a switch (once again--ESPECIALLY DANTE, which is NOT how the grieving process works)

Porg states that the ending is trash because the twins are fighting in hell, but completely ignores that most of Dante and Vergil’s lives have been built on conflict and they like fighting demons, especially Dante. Both of them were happy and doing what they love.

She also completely ignores through this entire thing that Dante was really fucking depressed in the novels leading up to 5 but hey I don’t even know if she can read.

I can vaguely agree that Trish and Lady were sidelined and they should’ve had a bigger role. However, I can’t fault the directors for not doing this, because they were already developing three playable characters with their own unique fighting styles. She writes all this shit about the story, writes notes about controls and mission layouts, but forgets that it takes a lot more than pressing a single button to code a game.

She just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Seriously, none of these things are cohesive or edited properly, and despite her saying she wanted better for Vergil, or Nero, or Dante, or V, she writes all of them incredibly out of character and doing illogical actions. I just... I don’t get it.

The best part is--I can’t even tell her about these things, or give constructive criticism. She moderates the comments on her fic and isn’t afraid to delete anything she doesn’t agree with or can’t make a ‘passionate rant’ about.

[generallynerdy]

Magic (Merlin X Arthur!Reader)

Spoilers for the end of Merlin if you haven’t seen it!!!

Summary: With the modern world of 2019 in shambles, Merlin is starting to wonder if Arthur will ever return. But then the warlock meets your magical eyes from the other side of a cafe window and realises that he already has.

Requested by @pearlll09: Okay this one might be tricky. Spoilers if anyone hasn’t seen the show. So at the end, Merlin is all by himself walking past the lake. Being a sorcerer, he doesn’t have to look old, (but if you’d rather keep him old that’s okay too), and maybe reader is in a cafe Merlin goes to and something draws him towards reader. My two ideas for that are reader has a book of Arthurian Legend out, or reader is Arthur reincarnated - but you could go any way you want with it, I trust you :)

Key: (Y/N) - your name Warnings: big depresso merlin for a bit, mentions of war, bUT ITS MOSTLY FLUFF, can you feel the gay bc i can, reincarnation? is that a warning? never written it before so yeah probably Word Count: 1,603

Note: how about both??? Im in love with this ‘arthur reincarnated’ thing its the greatest concept ive ever gotten the end hands down

    Merlin never got used to the modern day he lived in. Things were changing ever constantly, from back in Arthur’s time to 2019. Every day was a struggle, each one feeling more difficult than the last. Merlin couldn’t find his place in the world anymore, not after Arthur was long gone.

    So, he wandered.

    From shore to shore, from building to building, Merlin never stopped wandering. He stayed as close as he could to Arthur’s resting place. He never left the city, but he imagined what it would be like if he did.

    He only had one place that he felt connected to the world he’d separated himself from for so long.

    It was a little cafe down the highway that passed the Lake of Avalon. It was a quiet place without many visitors, but they made the best damn coffee Merlin had ever tasted. Given, he hadn’t had a lot of coffee, but their coffee was still amazing.

    He was a regular at this cafe, but today he was running slightly late.

    Merlin approached the building sluggishly.

    It wasn’t that he was in a bad mood, but more of that he was preoccupied with this thoughts.

    The world was a mess. Between countless wars and natural disasters, it was in shambles. This world was a world like any other, but it was in pieces, in fragments. It couldn’t put itself together without effort, but it was an effort no one was putting forth. If any time was ideal for a saviour to appear, it was now. So where was Arthur?

    Still disguised as an old man, Merlin could not help feeling that his attitude reflected his appearance. He had waited so long, forever, it seemed, yet Arthur still remained dead. The world needed him-- Merlin needed him, now more than ever.

Hundreds of years had passed and he found himself wanting his prince more than he had in a long time. Things seemed utterly hopeless, pointless. Was Arthur ever going to come back?

Passing the cafe’s back windows to skirt around the building and enter through the front, Merlin froze. At the edge of his vision, he saw something of interest and turned to look inside.

A single person was sitting at a table, all by themselves. It was you.

You’d retreated into a booth in the corner of the cafe and pulled out a book from a shoulder bag, placing it on the table to read. Its pages splayed out on the surface, Merlin had to really squint to see what the title was and, when he did, he felt his breath leave him.

    Arthur & His Knights.

    God, fate was cruel that day, he couldn’t help thinking.

    But then he saw your face. Your eyebrows were furrowed in pure concentration and you bit your lip, leaning over the table and almost into the book. You were so deep in your tales of myth and legend that you barely noticed the old man staring at you in awe on the other side of the window.

    The thing that really clicked for Merlin was your eyes. Oh, how they sparkled-- bright with a knowledge beyond your years, a spark to light a crackling flame, an ember that would last lifetimes and, in fact, already had. Arthur.

    The moment Merlin thought the name, a shockwave of realisation hit him. Starting at his heart and bursting out across his entire body like a ripple turned into a wave, a flash of gold covered him. In a spectacle of blinding glory that you somehow missed, he was changed from old to new, ancient to young. He was himself again. But he hadn’t chosen it. It was forced upon him.

    He looked down at his hands and felt his face before looking back at you inside that cafe. Your very presence, and his realisation of who you are, had quite literally thrown him back through time.

    With that, he threw himself into the fray.

    Merlin entered the crowded cafe and made a beeline for you, feeling his heart beating erratically as he did.

    “Sorry, uh,” He started, clearing his throat. He hardly remembered what his voice used to sound like. “Can I sit here? All the other seats are taken.”

    When you looked up at him, he swore he nearly died right then and there. He knew those eyes. He knew you. But would you ever believe him about it? How could you? After all, it was entirely mad. You’d be right to think he was crazy. Maybe he was. But something about that little lightshow from before told him that he wasn’t.

    “Oh, sure,” you said cheerily, motioning for the seat opposite you. “I’m (Y/N).”

    “(Y/N),” he repeated, trying to keep the tone of wonder out of his voice. He sat down, placing his things on the booth beside him. “Arthurian Legend, huh?”

    You nodded almost shyly. “Yeah, my favourite. I’ve got a bit of an addiction.”

    “Well, it’s not unjustified,” he laughed. “Knights and castles and dragons-- who wouldn’t want that?”

    “I’m a little more interested in the magic,” you admitted.

    Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

    You pushed back your hair and glanced away before looking back. “It’s kind of amazing. A fix-it for everything, the ability to change the world as we know it. Don’t understand why people back then thought it was a bad thing.”

    At your words, Merlin found himself almost speechless. But he regained his composure and opened his mouth again, a little smile decorating his expression.

    “That’s a very poetic way of putting it,” he agreed. “But don’t you think it might be dangerous?”

    You shook your head instantly. “In the hands of the wrong people, maybe, but that’s how everything is. Give a man a knife and it’s up to him what he does with it. Doesn’t mean you should take away all the knives. Then we’d have to find other ways to cut things.”

    “Wow,” he muttered.

    “Sorry,” you said, face suddenly red. “It sounds a bit silly, doesn’t it?”

    Merlin grinned, “No, no, it’s not. I’ve just never heard anyone talk about it like that. It’s brilliant.”

    “You think so?”

    “Definitely,” he nodded. There was a slight pause, but he inhaled sharply. “Do you think it’s real?”

    You tilted your head at him. “You mean magic?” When he nodded, he saw you bite your lip. “I feel ridiculous saying it, but--”

    “Don’t,” Merlin said, attempting to encourage you. “Honestly, I won’t judge you for anything.”

    He was shocked when you continued, actually believing his words. He wasn’t exactly the most comforting person or encouraging. People usually sighed at him when he tried to give pep-talks. But you were instantly safe in his presence.

You talked about magic, whether you thought it was real or not, with a complete stranger. Well, he wasn’t a stranger, but you didn’t know that. All you knew was that you trusted him, this odd man, who you had completely forgotten to ask the name of.

“I think it might be,” you admitted with a deep breath. “I’ve felt surrounded by magic my whole life. The kind of stuff that’s happened to me...you would never believe.”

“Try me.”

Merlin smiled at you with a sparkle in his eye, one that shook you to you very soul. It was as if you knew him, but you could’ve sworn he was a stranger. You didn’t even know his name. But something about the man was familiar.

    That was where it began.

    You spoke to him for what felt like hours. You told him of all these odd things you’d seen when you were a child, things you swore had to be magic. You even told him about the old woman who approached you when you were little and called you ‘Arthur,’ which you had never told anyone before.

    When you checked the time again, you realised it had been a few hours. “Oh, I’m sorry. The time got away from me.”

    “That’s alright,” he said, waving you off. “I’m quite enjoying this.”

    You smiled timidly, but then you realised something. “You know, you never told me your name.”

    “That’s my bad. It’s Merlin.”

    “No,” you scoffed, but he shrugged, telling you he was completely serious. “You’re bullshitting me.”

    He grinned. “I’m not.” He leaned forward against his elbows. “And you know what?”

    “What…?” You asked suspiciously.

    “(Y/N), I know you’re a brilliant person,” he said, almost changing the subject. “Just from these few hours with you. So, believe me when I tell you; I’m not crazy.”

    You laughed a little. “I’m getting the sneaking suspicion you’re about to tell me something that sounds crazy.”

    “Maybe just a little.”

    “Alright,” you said, deciding to trust him. “Go on, then.”

    Merlin took a deep breath. “Magic is real. I believe it’s real, I know it’s real. And I know it sounds ridiculous--”

    Suddenly, you interrupted him. “I just went off for more than an hour about why I think it’s real and you think it sounds ridiculous?”

    “You’re easier to convince than I thought,” he chuckled.

    “Well,” you teased, “I’m full of surprises.”

    He gave a silly little smile, a smile that filled you with joy. “I know magic is real, (Y/N). And I can prove it.”

    All of a sudden, he held out a pale hand to you, raised upward in an offer of companionship. You eyed him curiously, but his smile never faltered. Something behind those eyes knew you, you thought. Something behind those eyes was magical. But there was something about you that was, too.

    “Will you let me?”

Merlin Tags: @pearlll09

Masterlist

[jungnoir]

are you accepting requests? if you are, please write fluff for jaemin or jisung from nct!! idc what but i noticed they don’t have anything and i love them uwu thanks

friends to lovers!jaemin and jisung

a/n: I’m not accepting requests but… I’m also bored and stuck on everything else so here’s this tiny thing

⎡JAEMIN⎦

the annoying spicy best friend and boy next door until senior year

you guys lived right next to each other so of course you always hung out!! despite going to the same school and spending the whole day together already, you spend even more time with each other when you get home

you’d beg your parents to allow you both to play in the front yard and kick balls around or play hide and seek in jaemin’s huge backyard until dinner time and even sometimes past that

as you both got older, you’d get to hang out later, so you’d both chill in jaemin’s hammock in the late evening because you both were small enough to fit and tell each other funny or scary stories while the bugs left bites littered over your arms and legs (not that you really cared until you went home and couldn’t stop scratching)

you never thought of jaemin in a different way, though everyone else thought you did

play fights were commonplace between you two so whenever you’d get particularly rough with each other ur friends would be like “lol there go the lovebirds

and it was gross

it was…

gross

?

it was gross up until high school when your hormones kicked in and hey. jaemin is kinda gross. you still remember when he used to plant boogers on your locker handle or tackle you in sweaty arms if he lost to you in a game of kiddy basketball

but now jaemin doesn’t look like scrawny, stinky little jaemin anymore

no, now he can pick you up off the ground with two arms around your waist and laugh in your ear about how you should be more aware of your surroundings

now when he ruffles your hair he follows up with gently patting down the stray hairs, both hands smoothing down from the crown of your hair to the tops of your ears to the curve of your neck

now when he gives you those dark, mischievous eyes and asks “can I stay over tonight?” you can’t say you don’t shiver

you remember a time when you both were so young and so close that your parents would give you baths together for pete’s sake

and now you can’t even stand in your bedroom, ten feet away from each other, and look each other in the eye

he sits on your bed, slouched and flipping through channels on your tv

but when he sees you enter in just a pair of shorts and a giant shirt (his, though it’s been years since he’d last seen it)… he doesn’t quite remember what he was so focused on doing a few seconds ago

“…did you find a movie?” you ask softly, padding over to the other side of your bed as he immediately sits up and draws his long limbs to his sides

“oh! uh… no dice. maybe we should just rewatch something you have here?”

you shrug, point to the popcorn he’s got on your nightstand, and allow yourself a silent heave of air when he’s not looking your way anymore

he retrieves a movie you two have watched so many times before that you can recite the words together and not miss a beat

so it. it feels different tonight. somehow

there’s just a bowl of popcorn separating your hands from finding the other’s and this odd tension in the air that was birthed the minute you walked into your room after telling jaemin you were just gonna “change into something movie night-worthy”

you two don’t end up throwing yourselves over each other like usual, being deliberately annoying and clingy just to make the other person laugh

the movie is about halfway through when jaemin suddenly moves the popcorn to the floor and rolls onto his side, resting his head on his fist as he stares at you

“what?” you ask, v aware of the warmth he’s giving off now that there’s no barrier between you

“nothing”

“it’s gotta be something if you’re just staring at me for no reason” you drag your knees up to your chest to somehow make yourself smaller under his gaze, even to bury your cheeks between your knees so that you could make sure he didn’t see the little twitch in your lip, the want to laugh nervously or spout out some ridiculousness to get him to stop looking at you building up in your tummy

“can’t I just look at you for no reason?” he scoots a little closer, maybe attempting to look funny to you as he says this but,,, he’s doing a really bad job of it

because he doesn’t look funny. if anything, he looks kind of… what is the word?

you bite your lip, “sorry, gotta pay to look”

“what’s your preferred currency, honey?”

oh my GOD shut up jaemin

you push at his chest, trying to ignore how your hand annoyingly remembers the mold of it even after you’d touched him

“silence” you joke, watching as he licks his lips and sits up so that he’s level with you

he reaches forward and cups your chin, glancing between your eyes and your lips

he isn’t even subtle about it

your mouth parts unconsciously, a sudden understanding to this tension you’ve both been feeling hitting you hard

jaemin resists the urge to run his thumb over your bottom lip when it gets released from you teeth, if only to spend this next moment looking at your face

and he’s not even surprised that you can feel it too

“you’ll have to be specific, there’s all kinds of silence”

you don’t know what this is

no, scratch that, you know exactly what it is, but you don’t know if you want to admit it to yourself yet

maybe you could get away with that for now

neither of you would hold it against the other if you just. tried it out once, right?

and so you lean in that much closer, breaths mingling unavoidably now

“getting specific enough for you?”

of course not

⎡JISUNG⎦

idk why i’m so obsessed with this visual of gamer!jisung but hear me out

gamer!jisung, best friends with your best friends aka the other dreamies, but probably the only one you can never get close to

besides the fact he’s a certified bully to the boys, you’re the only one that he isn’t… silly with

like he’ll have renjun in a headlock and then make eye contact with you and the mood immediately dies

you’ve asked each of the boys what the problem might be

are u scary? are u not his type of person to hang around? was he still put off by that time you body slammed mark into a wall?

ok you didn’t actually body slam him but he swears he felt his feet leave the ground for a moment

not your fault he has the weight of a singular macaroni noodle

jisung always talks to you respectfully and if he can, talks to you through the others

it wasn’t… fun… having jisung treat you this way

he was always your favorite not that you have favorites *ahem* forgive me, donghyuck *ahem* so it was v :///// u know

you really wanted him to be able to treat you like he treated the other boys!! because you’d gladly treat him the way you treat the others if only you had the CHANCE

or at least you’d like to know why he didn’t so you could have some kind of closure

jisung happens to run a gaming club at school, and with permission, the “club” (which mainly consisted of all of you) would stay behind after classes and play together in one of the abandoned classrooms

you always had to play against the others bc jisung never wanted to give anyone (you) the floor to challenge him

so one day, you just decide that you’ll sit in and observe jisung play against donghyuck in overwatch

and donghyuck is obliterating jisung

you’ve never seen donghyuck this good, getting excited enough to run over to donghyuck’s side and cheer him on

you place your hand on donghyuck’s shoulder

and jisung looks away from the screen for just one second to see it

right then, donghyuck destroys jisung with a victorious yell

of course, you’re both caught up in the excitement of the moment so the first person he hugs is you

and this is pretty normal for you guys; between wrestling around and being affectionate, it was never weird to receive a hug from anyone except jisung

then you hear a controller clatter to the floor and by the time you’ve peeled away from donghyuck at the loud sound, you see jisung storming out of the classroom

the other boys looked shocked, some even looking between each other, unsure what to do

you notice chenle about to offer to go after him when you stop him, “i’ll go calm him down… he’s probably just upset about the match, you know how he gets”

chenle nods for you to go, gnawing lightly on his bottom lip

you find jisung sitting on the stairs outside the school exit, his head resting in his hands as the evening grows later

the sun nearly blinds you as you move to sit next to him, mulling over what to say

after all, you two weren’t that close in the first place. surely you were the last person he wanted to see right now

without looking up, jisung begins grumbling, “I know, okay? you don’t have to lecture me about it”

you blink

you weren’t planning to lecture him at all!

“I know that it’s stupid to get upset but the game was getting to me and-”

you’re about to cut him off, tell him it’s okay, that it’s just a game and some people get upset about those things but that you all knew it wasn’t that deep

“-you know how much I’m crushing on (y/n)… when I saw them cheering for hyuck, I just lost all focus. it’s pathetic. I wish I could just man up and tell them instead of avoiding them all the time”

oh

jisung… didn’t know it was you

he sounds so distraught too, like he was upset he let himself get angry, upset he let you see him show emotion

you place a hand on jisung’s shoulder and instantly he tenses. you think it’s because he wasn’t expecting a touch but it’s because he knows this hand doesn’t belong to the others

so it had to be…

“it’s not pathetic. if anything is pathetic, it’s that it’s taken donghyuck this long to finally win against you in a game, and even then, you were distracted so it technically doesn’t count”

jisung raises his head and his eyes look rimmed red, frustrated

but his expression is gentle when he sees the caring look on your face

“…hyuck would kill you if he heard that” he mumbles, looking down at his hands

you just giggle and bump his shoulder with yours, “ah, I know. but he also knows you’re my favorite so…”

jisung looks back up at you in shock. “f-favorite?”

you hum, moving your hand from his shoulder to the one furthest from you, wrapping an arm around him so that he has to lean into you. he’s never been so close but it’s. nice. your shampoo smells. nice 

“you don’t think it’s weird? what I said?” jisung looks a little mortified when he remembers that he’d just confessed to you, albeit unknowingly, and you were acting like everything was ok

you look back over to him and shake your head, “not at all… I hope this means you’ll stop avoiding me, though”

jisung doesn’t know how to feel at first; he had always assumed that telling you about his crush would either result in you returning his feelings or cutting off all contact with him

but instead, you don’t do either. you just watch the sunset with him, holding onto him

he also sees that you’re just as wonderful as he thought you’d be. you haven’t told him that you return his feelings but he doesn’t feel terrible at all. if anything, he feels ten times lighter after realizing he never had to hide from you in the first place

he checks to see that you’ll let him before wrapping his arm around your waist and offering you a sheepish smile, “sounds good to me”

besides, he may think you don’t return his feelings, but it’s just a matter of time until he realizes the truth about that too

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Truth Pt. 9

Truth Master List

Request:

What’s up sug! sorry you’re struggling right now but I’ve come to help you If you could bring this to light for me I’d absolutely love for YOU TO DO JT So basically Bucky X Enhanced reader who are fuckin enemies. Hate each other to every last fiber of their beings bc Bucky is rude and she calls him out on it. AnywHs, they get drunk, truth or dare (go crZy baby) and LOTS LF dirty talk if u wanna do smut but if u don’t then buck taking care of her while she’s drunk cause she admitted her feelings

Pairing: Bucky X Reader (Enhanced)

Summary: Since The Avengers gave you a home the only blight has been Bucky Barnes, a ghost from your past that you can’t seem to shake. It makes you hate him. The feeling, it seems, is mutual. But… a simple game reveals that maybe things aren’t quite so simple. (Post Winter Soldier AU)

Warnings: NOTHING BUT FEELS FLUFFY FEELS

A/N: Like the warning says. We are cozy and soft with these two this week. Hope you’re enjoying it. 

Tags are open!

@midnightdream83 @mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415  @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @handplucked  @buckysstar @sam-jae @marauder–harder @for-the-love-of-the-fandom   @meg-asaur @jewelofwinter @fairislesheets @animegirlgeeky @lydklein1 @katecolleen @siriuslycloudy2 @zannemes @catvader1o1

The sun is setting when your eyes open. Bucky lies on his stomach next to you, breathing steadily. You don’t want to wake him but you can’t help yourself. Gently you trace the arch of one of his dark brows.

Thankfully he doesn’t wake. For a few minutes you just kind of stare at him in awe, a feeling of warmth growing in your belly. You can’t quite name it, this certain breed of peace and comfort but… you like it.

Suddenly, you’re pulled from your gawking when you realize you just how thirsty you are. Slowly, you slide out of the bed. Slipping back into the boxers and hoodie, you sneak out of the room.

You down a bottle of water in about 30 seconds and crack open another, sipping it slowly. Looking around the kitchen you note the little pieces of personalization scattered around. A pithy dishtowel on the oven, the mismatched collection of dishes in the cabinets, some silly magnets on the fridge. It’s endearing and makes your place look stoic and sterile by comparison.  

To the left of the kitchen is a little office and you wander in. A plush rug covers the stained concrete floor. The wall across from the door is pure windows with a view of the city. Reds and oranges blaze brightly over Manhattan and while there’s a similar view from your own place, it’s still breathtaking. A desk sits up against the window with one of those big comfy desk chairs pushed up to it with a blanket draped over the back. This place oozes warmth and comfort. Very Bucky.  

The wall to the right is stuffed floor to ceiling with books. Damn near every best seller in the last century is here along with poetry, history, prose, fiction, and non. Some look new, some well worn and you wonder if he got them used. There’s even a scented candle tucked into one shelf. Leather and tobacco, it actually smells incredible.

Across from the bookcase the wall is covered in photos. After a second you realize… these are his photos. A slightly younger version of Bucky smiles that stunning smile with his arm draped across the shoulders of a smaller boy… of… Steve. You stare for a minute trying to find your 6’ 2” friend in the features of this slight person. He’s there, in the thoughtful eyes and crooked smile.

Your eyes wander to the left. Bucky stands with three young girls, all in Sunday best attire, smiling posed smiles. They have the same thick dark hair and you wonder if they’re related. A woman with a vibrant smile, so much like his, standing in a kitchen. Your lips pull up at a photo of Bucky with three men, all in some kind of military garb, cigarettes in their mouths smiling; WWII you suspect.

A little farther down your heart constricts. Bucky, in full Service Uniform, posed for his photo, smiling. He looks so much like the man sleeping in the other room and yet… different. That’s when you notice the shadow box filled with damn near every military honor that can be granted to a fallen soldier and the flag. It’s folded in that recognizable triangle, the little plaque with his name, James Buchanan Barnes, rank, date of birth and… death.

“Steve thinks it’s morbid to keep it,” his voice cuts through the silence like a knife and you jump, a touch of power pulsing under your skin.

“Jesus,” you gasp laughing a little.

“Sorry,” he’s holding up his hands, a little grin playing at the edges of his lips.

“No,” you shake your head, “I’m sorry, I kind of invaded your space.” Bucky takes a few steps forward hands resting on your hips pulling you to him. His expression is soft, still sleepy.

“You’re not invading,” his eyes search yours, “I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”

His words nearly suck the breath from your lungs. For two people who lived a normal life this likely would have been a passing thing but for two who had spent decades of their lives in the clutches of Hydra… these words speak volumes.

Your right-hand curls around the back of his neck and you pull him to you. The kiss is soft, not hungry or desperate. When you break away he buries his nose in your hair for a second before taking a deep breath.

“Did you get enough sleep?”

He snorts a little laugh, pulling away a touch, “Never.” Metal fingers caress the side of your face, “I noticed you were gone, just wanted to make sure you were ok.” Worry flashes in his eyes and you melt a little.

“I’m great,” you hold up the water bottle still in your left hand, “just parched.”

Turning back to the wall leaning into him you can’t help but wonder, “How did you get all these?”

His arms wrap tight around your torso, pressing you flat against him, “After Steve and I… well… died so to speak, our personal effects went to my family. Steve didn’t have anyone left.” You can relate.

“My youngest sister,” he points to the picture of him with the girls, “Jo. She has a son who’s still alive, Eric. He inherited it all and when they found Steve, S.H.I.E.L.D. contacted him.”

Your eyes scan the wall, taking in all these pieces of him. A past and a family you’ll never know or really understand. “You still have family…”

“In a way, yeah.” His right fingers tangle with your own, “It’s… strange.”

“But, Bucky,” you turn to face him, “that’s amazing. I mean… I’d be happy to still have…” Anyone, but you don’t say it.

His eyes study the photos behind you, his mouth a hard line, “It doesn’t feel like mine.” When his eyes meet yours, they’re stormy, “Not anymore.” He takes a shaky breath, “But I feel lucky that they kept this stuff for me and Steve’s sake. Eric even gave me some albums.”

He pulls away and walks to the book case. One by one he takes four old photo albums from the bottom shelf and sets them on the desk. They’re all clearly from different eras.

“This is one my Ma,” his voice cracks as he opens the oldest one. You set your bottle down and wrap an arm around his waist.

“You don’t have to show me,” your eyes look up at him, cheek pressed to his left shoulder.

“I want to,” his smile is melancholy but there’s light in his eyes when he looks at you.

Clearing his throat he flips to the first page, “My Ma had one of these for each of us kids. She kept everything.” There’s clippings, notes, drawings, a few photos. Some things are carefully paced while others are held in with rusted paperclips. You notice it’s not just Bucky here but Steve too.

“Your mom must’ve liked Steve,” you laugh.

“Like he was her own,” Bucky nods pointing to a photo of her beaming with Steve in Captain America garb. You reach out and flip closer to the front. A gangly boy with shaggy dark hair and a megawatt smile holds a woman’s hand. It’s adorable.

“Is this you?”

“Mhm,” he plucks it from the worn corner pieces that hold it to the page. “James, 1924, so I was about 7 here.”

“May I?” You reach for it and he hands you the old square photo. He’s there in that smile, the way the nose scrunches. “You were so cute, James,” playfully you pinch his cheek.

Bucky pulls back laughing, “Oh god, please don’t call me James,” he groans snatching the picture from you.

“Who started calling you, Bucky?”

He shrugs, “My parents always called me, Bucky.”

You look back to the wall, to the photo of the woman in the kitchen, “So, is this your mom?”

“Yeah, in ’55 I think.” So after she lost him.

“You look like her.”

The look on his face is so tender, “Really? I think I look like my Pa actually.” He flips through the album and points to a picture of a teenaged him and a hard looking man. The man’s beard is full, tiny tufts of grey by the chin like Bucky’s. Other than that though you don’t see it.

“Nah,” you look up at him, touching the soft laugh lines by his eyes. “You’ve got a face for smiling, like hers.”

[Bucky]

There’s no way for you to know what those words mean to him. He can’t say he agrees. His Ma was the kindest person he ever knew… He can’t see that in himself. It’s a nice sentiment though.

“I sit in here a lot… looking at everything.” He sighs heavily, “Still trying to get it all… all of me, back.”

It had only been a little over a year. The team’s medical staff was shocked at what he managed to recover given the time he had been with Hydra. He felt like most of it was back but there were still little things he’d suddenly remember, or a story Steve would tell him and he’d realize that there were still parts of him missing.

Your brows knit, “Yeah, I get that…” You turn back to the wall of his memories. He sees the tension in your shoulders, the way you try to stand straighter, hold you head higher, anything to steel yourself against whatever it is you’re feeling.

Worry settles like a stone in his gut. He doesn’t know much about your past before Hydra. All he really knew when they were about to go after you was that you, like him, hadn’t been a willing participant and that according to Fury your father was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He reaches out and gently takes your left hand in his right, he can feel a slight tremor passing through you. Your eyes lock onto his and he smiles.

“Who’re these guys,” you point to the picture of him with the Howlers.

“The Howling Commandos,” a touch of sadness squeezes his heart. “Mine and Steve’s unit in the war.”

“Tell me about them.”

A little laugh trips over his lips and he looks at you questioningly. “You really want to hear war stories from an old man?”

The smile you give him takes his breath away, “I really do.”

-

A few hours later the two of you have built a nest in the small office. Couch cushions, pillows, every blanket in the place all culminating into a soft warm pile up against the wall. It’s not that the apartment is overly large but there’s something about being in this small space that seems to comfort both of you.

There’s a stack of pizza boxes, you’ve both torn through two large pies already with little signs of slowing down. Photos and other bits of memorabilia are scattered all around like pieces of a puzzle. Bucky brought his record player in along with his boxes of records.

He’s surprised how much he’s enjoyed talking about his past. Telling you these stories is different than reminiscing with Steve or the forced shared moments with his therapist. He want’s to give you these parts of him. You can’t help but be endlessly amused about stories of Steve before the serum, when he was just a scrappy punk with more bark than bite. And the picture he paints of Brooklyn and New York in the early 19th century fascinate you.

Glen Miller is playing right now, the sound of the brass sending him back almost a century. He loved to dance to this music once. You’re nibbling a slice kneeling in front of one of the boxes of records. You bob along to the music as you flip through to select the next one. A small noise comes from you as your hand freezes over a battered orange album cover.

“Sinatra got big after my time but damn if he doesn’t have a great set of pipes.” You don’t respond, just stare. Faint tendrils of light swirl under your skin, the air in the room getting a touch cooler.

“Doll?” He leans over resting his right hand gently on your shoulder. Your mouth is open just a touch and tears glitter in your eyes. “Hey,” he plucks the slice from your hand, laying it inside the open box.

You snap back shaking your head, “Sorry. I, uh…” You slide Sinatra’s Songs For Swingin’ Lovers out of the box, holding it in both trembling hands. “This… this was my Dad’s favorite. Well one of them. He loved Sinatra…” A tear slides down your cheek, Bucky brushes it away. “I… I would groan every time he put it on but… secretly I loved it too.” A few more tears sneak out but you briskly wipe them away sniffing hard.

“Let’s put it on,” he says softly. You bite your bottom lip hard, not making eye contact and nod. He takes the record from you and stands up walking the short distance to the desk to change the record.

The first song, You Make Me Feel So Young, seems strangely poignant. You were younger than him, hell he was old enough to be your father. But neither of you looked close to your true age. You looked it, sure. Inside though… As Frank croons the first line he turns to you, your chin resting on your knees, staring out into space.

Bucky heads back to your nest. He sits with his back against the wall, holding his arms open, “Come here.” You look back and crawl over, settling between his legs, pulling a blanket from the pile wrapping the two of you in warmth. The feeling of you pressed against him, in his arms, is damn near too good.

After a few songs, you lean your head back onto his left shoulder, looking up at him, “Do you like to dance?”

“I used to,” his eyes wander to where your hands connect, “I loved dancing.” Suddenly you’re up and out of his arms.

“Dance with me,” you’re holding out a hand smiling bright.

“Seriously?” He looks around the crowded space, “In here?”

“Yeah,” you move by the door, “there’s enough room. Come on.” You wave him over. Laughing he shakes his head and follows your orders.

You take his hands, “Wait, not this one.” The opening notes of I’ve Got You Under My Skin start. “Now.” Effortlessly you two fall into a tight foxtrot, giggling as you bump into things or stumble over the steps a bit.

Near the end, Bucky spins you, unintentionally, straight toward the blanket nest. You lose your footing and both of you tumble down, laughing.

“Color me surprised,” he leans up on his left elbow looking down at you, laying on your back giggling.

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t expect you to know that dance.”

“I will have you know I am an excellent dancer,” you laugh mirroring his position.

“Yeah falling down demonstrated that perfectly,” he teases.

“Hey!” You toss a small pillow at his face, “I wouldn’t have fallen if my partner didn’t spin me toward disaster.” He laughs.

You shake your head, “I swear I can almost hear my Mom scolding my form,” your accent turns softly germanic, “‘Well liebling if you were paying attention to your feet…’”

“Was your Mom German?”

“Austrian,” you sigh and fall to your back, “and I was going to be her perfect little All American Girl. Dancing, sports, music, academics, I had to be the best. Always.” You turn your head to him, “So, any dance you throw my way. I guarantee I can kill it.”

“Maybe I’ll put that to the test.” He does like the idea of dancing, dancing like he used to, with you.

You spend the rest of the evening listening to music. He tells you more stories from his life, even remembering details he had forgotten. Eventually, you drift off in his arms, snuggled in the little blanket nest.

For a moment he thinks of carrying you to the bed but it’s comfortable and warm here. He feels… safe he realizes. Happy even. Instead, he buries his nose in your hair and follows you into sleep.