#obviously he has problems with other emotions lmao

[alexwilltellyouthings]

Rant (Thought About Edwin Payne Too Much Again):

Edwin may be the best one out of the main four in regards to dealing with his own anger. Isn't that something?

I mean, Crystal is constantly angry and letting it out in ways that hurt others or even herself. Niko gets angry at love and herself and thinks changing her whole personality is the answer instead of facing what she did wrong. Charles, well, duh.

But Edwin. We see him get worked up on episode one until he breaks down, says everything he needs about how the cases matter to him, and accepts the comfort that comes afterwards. From then on I think we don't see him get mad for a good while.

He gets annoyed of course, all the time, but that's just him. Anger, though? I can only remember the second instance being with the Cat King in the forest, shoving the bracelet in his face. Which he was brilliant to do, had every right to, stood up for himself and left.

He takes the anger when it comes, does something about it and lets it go. Something no one else seems to have learned how to do.

In conclusion: Edwin Payne, somehow the emotional role model of this fucked up little group

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

Edit because apparently I need to make this clear; my stories are extremely slow paced. This is STATED in the author’s INTRO I EXPLICITLY mention you must READ before delving into any of my works. I am tired of messages complaining about the pacing. You are warned beforehand. You chose to read this knowing it’s going to be slow as hell. Nobody is holding you hostage. If you’re bored, you can leave. I seriously don’t care. I am writing my stories because I crave this type of storytelling where everything is narrated in detail and nothing is glossed over. My readers know that and they choose to stay because they want the same thing. 80% of stories out there are fast-paced. I am catering to the people who want this type of organic development. If that’s not your thing, that’s absolutely fine. But you don’t get to complain and whine about something when there’s 100 fanfics out there you can read instead. You don’t get to come for me or my writing—lest of all my readers. I said what I said.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier. 

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable). 

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating. 

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances. 

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there. 

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink. 

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy. 

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction. 

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding. 

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers. 

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline. 

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising. 

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon. 

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance. 

It's been... nice. 

Quiet. 

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker. 

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment? 

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans. 

With Jungkook, of all people. 

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless. 

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment. 

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality. 

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence. 

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps. 

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two. 

But now? 

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing. 

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all). 

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it. 

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.” 

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And… 

You don’t look at him. 

You refuse to look at him. 

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again. 

Softer this time. 

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away. 

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

 Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

 Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

 "Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜  𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

goal: 550 notes

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[harukyuu2]

hello hello could I request for an Ivantill x Gn!reader (poly) who’s like so drop-dead gorgeous but like they’re sensitive when people try manipulate them and then Reader has to sing against Luka and Both Till and Ivan are lwk worried for reader

So when the round starts reader seems to keep moving away from Luka’s presence appearing very uncomfortable but Luka just keeps following them and getting into their personal space like grabbing their waist and moving closer to them, now making reader more distraught and feel worried. Then there’s this one specific moment where Luka started to imitate Till/Ivan keeping reader in a daze and Luka seeing this starts to manipulate reader by holding the sides of their face closer as if taunting reader but luckily reader was able to snap out of this and moved away and started to sing again.

Till and Ivan very obviously saw this and feel concerned for reader and the round ended up being in a tie so reader survived and Ivantill go rush to comfort reader who’s still kinda shaken

Ivan and Till are basically happy reader survived lmao

THIS IS KINDA LONG IM SORRY

HII ANOONNN no worries!! i loved the request and the fact that its long gives me a good idea for the scenario, anywayss hope you like it <3

Our little crybaby !! - IvanTill x Reader

!! - Fluff, some angst moments, comfort, neutral reader, three parts of the story!! before, into, and after the round <3 - the after of the round could be a little cringy...IM SORRY, reader is really sensitive

two hours before the round...

"I-im alright..!" - You said with a twitching smile while your voice breaked, telling a whole different story to the two guys in front of you "No, youre not..." - Till murmurs with a sigh while Ivan tries to reassure you by caressing your arms The two guys you loved the most were in front of you, trying to help you overcome this. It was gonna be a harsh round since your opponent was Luka, the ruler of the stage. Even if you had a beautiful voice and face— making lots of aliens like you, those two understanded very well how sensitive you can be, a very big problem against Luka, who knows very well how to manipulate the emotions of his opponents while being subtle. You kept trying to reassure them over and over, saying you'd come back and things would go back to your usual cuddle sessions and those relaxing moments together. But when the guards grabbed your arm to get you ready for the round, the last thing you saw was a hint of concern on their faces. Now, you're not even sure if you or they ever believed your own words... Make your bets for the round, aliens!! The start of the music was slow, enough time for Luka and you to wave at the public and grab your microphones, even if you tried keeping your distance from the blonde guy— the way he smiled to you, so gently and terrifying at the same time, made you know that he was up to something already, the paranoia starting to eat you alive slowly as the rhythm of the song went in.

Already feeling a little shaken by that, you tried to calm yourself with a deep breath before opening the song with your voice, giving your all already for the start to keep the eyes of the aliens on you But Luka is quick one when it comes to stealing glances, already set on invading your personal space. Instead of using his microphone to sing his first line, he pushes you against his chest, wrapping an arm around your waist to trap you, while his other hand intertwines with yours, bringing your microphone to his lips.

Starting to get a little busy and focused on trying to survive against the man in front of you, the audience started to blur from your eyes. Not noticing the two persons watching all this scene, Till and Ivan— who are not only concerned for you, but also hating the man on your side While Ivan kept a neutral expression, the way he pressed his hands together said otherwise—he wasnt neutral about it. While Till? was a lot more expressive of his disgust for Luka, remember his guitar named Freddie? he regrets destroying it against the floor. It should had been Luka's head in this moment The round keeps going, no matter how many times you tried to escape from Luka's hands, he always gets a way to lean closer to you without losing points. You leave a shaky breath, feeling overwhelmed but still trying your best to keep your voice at the best it can give. You couldnt keep eye contact with him, not when he was murdering you with his eyes— yet he always made your gazes encounter, waiting for you to fold into him, to embrace your death sooner or later The ocean of lightsticks in front of you shone almost identically in both your colors, making it hard to tell them apart—and Luka didnt like that. He could tell you were sensitive. Your eyes were already glossy from just a few light touches on your arms, keeping you from singing. He guided your movements by gripping your waist, stealing small flinches from you, and the lack of distance made you visibly nervous—it was all too easy. The only challenge for him was that your vocals and beauty could easily rival his. But if he managed to make you fold… then you werent gonna be a worthy opponent. The bridge of the song was coming, a part where the public had to sing more than you two if they were hyped— and so they did. Luka took advantage of this moment to once again, come closer to you. But his gentle smile, that gentle smile that still showed some fiery stuborness remembered you of no one else than Ivan. You leaved a shaky breath trying to lean back, but Luka is quick— quick to pass an arm around you, almost ghosting the small of your back but still giving you the sensation he was there. Just like Till usually hugs you since he is still kinda embarassed of physical affection

Luka was imitating them so well that your breath got caught in your throat, your chest tightening as your vision blurred. Was it even worth trying to keep fighting? Luka was clearly winning against you—what a worthless human you were to your guardian. His hand traveled up your neck, forcing you to look up, giving your throat a slight squeeze before making you face the lightsticks you had been ignoring. The color that represented you was slowly fading into Luka’s one...

Still on a daze thinking you should just let Luka win because it wasnt worth fighting against a ruler of the stage, a little conmotion taked you out of it. Seeing the capsules where the other participants were watching, you noticed Till just punching the thing trying to call your attention, the desperation in his face was very noticeable— he was really concerned on how the round was going. Turning your gaze slightly, you also saw Ivan—he seemed calmer, or at least pretended to be. But the lack of a smile and his sharp, unwavering stare at the stage told you clearly that he wasnt liking what he was seeing. Those two were so worried about you, they couldnt lose you— they craved for you to continue fighting, to come again at their arms once this is over

Luka noticed where your empty gaze had drifted and quickly turned you to face him, cupping your face close to his. You could feel his breath as he sang so gently, almost as if he wasnt threatening you with his eyes. But it was too late for that—he had already hurt you too much. Your chest ached, your vision was still blurry, and sweat clung to your back, yet, because of them, you pushed him away again.

In the final minutes of the song, your light returned—stealing the spotlight from Luka. The audience erupted, the aliens hyping you up as you blinded anyone who dared look at you directly. A fleeting sense of relief settled in Till and Ivan, but it didnt last long. The song wasnt over yet, and you still had to recover the points you had lost

Luka wasnt going down, though. He kept singing by your side, his expression more serious now that his plan hadnt worked as expected. Still, he found amusement in your desperation—you were running out of time to regain points.

But you refused to give in. You raised your voice, stealing moments from him. The hologram displaying the scores began to glitch as the numbers between you two kept shifting nonstop. Sweat trickled down your forehead, yet surrendering wasnt an option—you had promised you were fine, hadn't you?

The song closed with a high note where you managed to surpass Luka in, he looked at you with widen eyes. Catching your breath, Luka just stayed in silence— the song ended and the only sound was the cheers of the Aliens, but neither of you two were shooted yet. Looking afraid at the score while the public screamed, you see the result: Its a tie. After The Round...

Sitting alone in a dark room, you were waiting for your guardian to come for you. Still catching your breath, you could feel the sweat sticking to your skin, making you uncomfortable. Hugging your knees, you couldnt breathe through your nose—the panic from the round still lingered, making your heart race. Your eyes were a little glossy from the small tears threatening to fall. You had survived, but that lingering fear Luka had left in you wasnt going away. Your mind was blank, the only thing you felt was a white noise that you arent sure if its because your ears possibly got hurted from the loud sounds in the stage. Your attention traveled to the door being opened letting some light enter the dark room, it wasnt your alien but instead those two. In other circumstances you would had smiled, but all you could do is hug your knees tighter while averting your gaze from them—moments ago you were about to just let yourself die without fighting even if you had two persons that cared lots for you outside of the stage. Did you deserve a praise for winning? You had to apologize? you had to plead them for forgiveness? you werent sure. But they didnt ask you for nothing of that, how could them? It was stupid from you to think that. Instead, they sitted each one on your side and leaved you securely in the middle of them. The first one to make an action as always, was Ivan— who decided to move a strand of your hair that was sticked by the sweat of your forehead behind your ear. "You feeling good..?" - Ivan asked looking at you, at the clear shake of your head that you gived him he leaved a small laugh - "Yeah, I supossed it." You looked at him curiously. He was giving you such a gentle smile that it left you a little confused about what he was thinking. Ivan had always been unpredictable, but that was part of what attracted you to him. Still, you couldnt help but raise an eyebrow when he suddenly looked at you playfully, before saying simple yet confusing words "Now, now Till! youre taking pretty long from what we planned..." - You blinked confused until you realized he wasnt looking at you— but instead at the huffing guy at you side. Receiving a quick kiss on the cheek, you turned to see Till— even in the darkness of the room, you could notice the redness in his face and how he averted his gaze embarassed "See! it was easy" - Ivan says playfully while seeing you two be embarassed of simple actions, Till huffs again looking at Ivan "Shut up for a moment!" - Till returned his gaze to you after that, hesitating for a moment before cupping your cheeks and slowly stroking them even if he was pretty nervous of doing those interactions still. He wanted to reassure you, to bring you back to reality after all the pressure you probably felt on the stage "You were great back there, you can rest for now...I'll do my best to hold you." - Till whispered like a sweet melody pressing his forehead against yours, reassuring you that he was there for you You felt Ivan hugging you from behind while Till continued to caress your cheeks, pressing his forehead against yours. It felt warm—it felt right. The knot in your throat, which had been there for a while, finally snapped. It had been threatening to make you sick, but instead, it came out in tears. It didnt matter—you werent ashamed of crying with them. After all, even if you were gorgeous and your voice could almost rival Luka’s vocals, you were still a crybaby. Their crybaby, the one they’d reassure anytime it was needed.

[zukosdualdao]

so, this post was originally born from a post i saw a couple of months ago that was deriding people for criticizing katara’s main role in lok being a healer when that was never all she wanted to do but liking the scene where she heals zuko in sozin's comet. at the time i thought about responding directly and decided against it, but i have since scanned through transcripts of every instance (i could find; it's possible i could be missing something) of katara healing someone in the show and how they respond. (you know, like a normal and well-adjusted individual. lmao.)

anyway, aside from katara explicitly stating that she doesn’t only want to be a healer, another aspect of why people don’t like that this is how her story goes in lok is because of the way healing is treated in the atla narrative.

Katara: Aang, you're burned! Let me help you. [Katara heals the burn on Aang's arm.] Aang: Wow, that's good water. Sokka: When did you learn that? Katara: I guess I always knew. Sokka: [Sarcastically.] Oh ... Well then thanks for all the first aid over the years. Like when I fell into the greaseberry bramble. [Angrily.] Or that time I had two fishhooks in my thumb!

this comes, of course, after aang accidentally burns katara and she learns she can heal through her waterbending by healing her own hands. then (after comforting aang despite being the one who got hurt, not that i'm bitter), she heals aang after he gets burned in his fight with zhao. and like... there's not so much as a cursory thanks in this scene.

to be clear, because i can already hear some responses in my head and i am making a preemptive strike: i'm not saying that when other characters don't thank katara for her healing, they're like, the worst people ever for not doing so or there aren't other ways at different times where they show their appreciation. what i am saying is that it feels like this sets up a long pattern of katara's healing specifically being taken for granted, and it makes me especially uncomfortable when i see her healing as a sort of metaphorical parallel to the emotional labor often expected of her in the show, especially because this and being The Avatar's Girlfriend/Wife is more or less what she's relegated to in post-canon.

also, i have to note sokka's line here. i don't want to come down on him too hard for this, because it's obviously being written humorously (and does genuinely make me laugh, for what it's worth, if just for the inherent ridiculous nature of two fishhooks), but his sarcastically saying thanks for all the help over the years when katara says she always knew (which is supposed to be her saying it just somehow instinctively came to her) does feel like another mark in this pattern. but i also really read this as sokka trying to lighten the mood after a Difficult (TM) day, so i cut both him and the writers some slack for it.

Meanwhile, back at the Outer Wall, Katara attempts to heal a member of the Terra Team. General Sung: What's wrong with him? He doesn't look injured. Katara: His chi is blocked. [Stops healing.] Who did this to you?

i find it interesting that katara has sort of naturally fallen into a token team healer role, to the degree that we don't even see them ask for her help or her agree to it; it's just automatically assumed that she will. and i mean, on the one hand, it's fairly standard to have an Assumed Healer in a fantasy action setting like this, where people will get hurt in combat and therefore the narrative needs someone whose job is to help them. the problem for me is that the show kicked up such a fuss about how women shouldn't just be allowed to be healers, and yet it's still the role no one but katara ever fills. aang is also a waterbender! why couldn't she have taught him healing, too? i genuinely think it would have added a lot to the story, but katara is The Girl (TM), so healing is what she (and only she) does, what's expected of her, and again, with very rare thanks for it.

Katara stares open-mouthed at Jet, her hands hovering near her mouth in shock. Snapping out of it, she withdraws water from her water skin, with which she covers her hands, and it begins to glow as she kneels down next to him. Cut to a shot from over her shoulder, with Jet glancing at her while she rubs her hands over his chest in an attempt to heal him. After rubbing his chest three times, the glow fades, the water stains Jet's clothing, and Katara looks back over her shoulder toward the rest of the group. Katara: This isn't good. Smellerbee: You guys go and find Appa. We'll take care of Jet. Katara: We're not going to leave you. Longshot: There's no time. Just go. We'll take care of him. He's our leader. They stare at Longshot in surprise. Jet: Don't worry, Katara. I'll be fine. [Smiles a little.]

Cut to a closer shot of Katara placing Aang's body on Appa. Katara opens the vial around her neck and uses water healing on Aang's wounded back. The rest of Team Avatar, Kuei, and Bosco all look sadly and in anticipation. The glowing from the spirit water stops, and Katara starts crying, assuming that it was not enough to save Aang. Aang's tattoos glow for a second and Aang groans. Katara, overcome with joy that Aang is alive, looks at him, who smiles a little, and she holds him closer.

writing about these together because i have less to say about them. i'm definitely not going to fault jet for not thanking katara when she tries to heal him as he literally lay dying, or aang for not having the mind to do so after she brings him back. but i am still going to fault the narrative for putting her in a position where healing is just inherently expected from her and yet very rarely allowing her to feel the emotional toll of that or to feel constricted by it. and when she does struggle against the weight of it (not necessarily of being a healer, but of being expected to be kind and good and uncomplicated with no room for other aspects of her identity, which are very tangled up in why she is The Healer) in episodes like the runaway or in the southern raiders, she just... does not receive a lot of support from the people she should be most able to rely on.

Katara: Maybe we should go upstairs. [Helping Aang up.] You need a healing session. Back in Aang's room on the ship. Katara bends some water onto the scar left by Azula's lightning attack. Katara: Tell me where the pain feels most intense. Aang: Mmm, a little higher. Uhhh! Aang briefly flashes back to the battle at Old Ba Sing Se where he rose into the Avatar State, then back to reality. Aang: Wow, you're definitely in the right area there.

not much to say here, it's just another instance where it would have been so easy to slip one thank you in, and the writers just... do not. the reason i think it bothers me so much with aang specifically is because katara is supposed to be both aang's physical healer and his emotional crutch in a way that she's not written as being for, say, toph or sokka. he's sometimes shown appreciation for her emotional support, but he still comes to rely on and expect it in ways that do not always feel healthy, and knowing that, it bothers me that he shows even less appreciation for her healing, because it's just what katara is there for.

A figure resembling the Painted Lady glides over the water on a carpet of fog and enters the village. She steps into a hut where several people are sleeping on the floor, and bends over each of them in turn, healing them with a blue glow. Her last patient is the mother of the little boy seen earlier, her son sleeping at her side. He wakes as the Painted Lady turns to go and silently follows her out the door. Little boy: Thank you, Painted Lady.

this is a genuinely sweet scene in which katara does receive appreciation and genuine thanks for her healing, but i think it's also worth noting that katara is not being recognized as herself here. still, i am genuinely very glad that it's included in the episode because (again, unless i am missing something) it is the first time katara gets thanked for her healing.

The scene cuts to show Appa landing on the edge of the battlefield. Sokka and Katara help Hakoda onto the ground, and Katara starts trying to heal him. Katara: How does that feel, Dad? Hakoda: Ah, a little, better. I need, to get back to the troops. [Attempts to stand but is too weak to.] Ahh! Katara: You're hurt, badly. You can't fight anymore. Hakoda: Everyone's counting on me to lead this mission Katara, I won't let them down. [Attempts to stand again but can't.] Ahh! Sokka: Can't you heal him any faster?

they're in a high intensity situation, and sokka is Stressed because hakoda is supposed to lead the mission, so i, like, Get It, but "can't you heal him any faster?" does strike me as another moment in which katara's healing is being taken for granted. i think it's something that would bother me a lot less if this was an isolated incident in the writing, but *gestures vaguely at whole post*.

Sokka: [Brightening.] Dad! [Rising and approaching the two.] You're on your feet again. Hakoda: [Sitting down; somewhat weakly.] Thanks to your sister.

that being said, in the next hakoda and katara scene, there is this very sweet moment, where hakoda might not be thanking katara directly but is showing a lot of appreciation and admiration for her skill in healing (and though she's not in the dialogue i included, she's around to hear it, which makes me happy.)

Katara: It's gonna take a while for your feet to get better. [Stops healing.] I wish I could have worked on them sooner. Toph: Yeah, me too.

once again, i'm not gonna fault toph for wishing katara could have healed her feet sooner, because she's been in pain all night, but the writers could have very easily (as they could have in any of these scenes!) chosen to include a perfunctory 'thanks' here, and they just didn't. i know this is getting repetitive, but i swear it's because it's largely more me being mad at the writers than the characters, lmao.

there are also a couple of scenes in which katara doesn't heal anyone, but her healing gets brought up by aang.

Aang: He doesn't look sick. You okay, buddy? [Appa groans and Aang pulls out Appa's purple tongue.] His tongue is purple! That can't be good. Katara, can you heal him?

to be fair, aang asks here, and it's not like aang gets defensive or angry when katara says appa needs medicine (and also to be fair, appa's not even actually sick, lmao, katara's being slightly trickstery), but it's another instance where katara is automatically positioned as the person who is and should be responsible for healing.

Aang: [Chuckles.] Well, not over over. I mean there's always Katara and a little Spirit Water action, [Turns to Katara.] am I right? Katara: Actually, I used it all up after Azula shot you. Aang: [Disappointed.] Oh.

i actually don't mind this so much as a writing moment, as i think it's a lot more intentional wrt aang not always conceptualizing the reality of the violence he’s facing. still, it’s another instance of katara’s ability to heal and care for him being taken for granted, and i find it especially notable it’s in of the last significant moments they share together (the other being an argument as katara urges him not to run away from the reality of their situation with ozai) before they spend the rest of the finale separate until they’re kissing without a word at the end.

and then there is the zutara healing scene, where katara heals zuko after he interferes and takes azula’s lightning to the chest when she’s aiming for katara.

Cut to Katara as she rolls Zuko on to his back and begins healing him. Zuko opens his eyes, feeling the pain lessen, and smiles weakly at Katara, who smiles back as she sheds a tear.

Zuko: Thank you, Katara.

Katara: I think I'm the one who should be thanking you.

it seems fair to me to say that one of the reasons the motifs of healing in the zutara are dynamic are so appreciated by their fans is because of how it contrasts to a lot of moments where the work katara does with her healing is under-appreciated. for one thing, it happens as part of a mutual exchange—katara heals zuko after he gets hurt saving her. (this also somewhat calls back to their scenes together in the crystal caves in the tcod, where she offers to heal his scar after they are trapped together and zuko extends her empathy.) it’s based in reciprocity. it’s also, as shown here, one of the few moments of explicit, heartfelt appreciation and thanks given for katara’s healing.

[ellouchi]

Girl can we get Jimmy/Curly d!ck hcs and like…. Jacking off habits??!!! 🤷‍♀️☺️🫀

I will try anonie but know for the fact that I'm a super virgin and I've avoided real proper porn for years because I was scared LMAO. I have approximate understanding of what's going on down there but I love imagining meat beating hcs~

Warnings: nsfw obviously, gn reader, slight homophobia in Jimmy's part, Jimmy's part in general, mild dubious consent (you know where)

Side notes: there can be mistakes here and there I'm too tired to fix them~

Curly

— I would imagine his dick is really a sight to behold — it's truly a beautiful cock and our man could easily become a pornstar if he wanted to. When people who have seen him naked point this out, Curly bashfully downplays himself, but on the inside he feels proud and a bit excited by the thought lol. When he was younger he really entertained the idea, but as the years went by, the man considered himself to be too old for people's tastes (false he would roll in dough).

— It's bigger than average, slightly redder than Curly's skin, long and upright yet proportionally girthy. Curly doesn't trim but shaves when he returns back to Earth from hauls and right before starting a new haul. Yes, his pubic hair is also blond and it curls. Turns him on when you run your hand though it or tug at it lightly.

— Curly never had big sex drive so he didn't need to seek out sexual partners or masturbate much. With years it only decreased, he can go a whole week without touching himself, but otherwise it's a meager one-two times thing a week. Fortunately you can fix this problem if you have lots of sex regularly: this will cause Curly to masturbate up to four times a week especially without you around to "help" him out.

— usually masturbates in the shower. It all goes back when Curly was in highschool/college: after a training session or match he occasionally would masturbate in the common showers when he was alone. The guy just needed to relax his body and get rid of excess energy and emotions, besides it was hard to have any real privacy in the dorms anyways, so might as well — that's the explanations he would turn around in his head to excuse jerking off in semi-public space lmao. Curly actually almost got caught several times so he had to stop, but the habit of masturbating in the shower solidified itself already and it carried on to his work at Pony Express.

— I've read somewhere that Curly doesn't imagine anyone while he gets himself off and I agree. When he was young he would look up some models of adult magazines or pornstars. But after many years away from people, pretty much isolated in space, the man lost the ability to even conjure a sexy lady in his mind to jerk off too.... Curly closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of his own hand pleasing him and that's that.

— this changes with you: if Curly falls for you, now he subconsciously imagines you somewhere there, behind him with your head on his shoulder, slowly stroking him with your hand. The amount of guilt he feels dependents on the stage of your relationship. If you two are just coworkers, Curly reprimands himself mentally for being so filthy either before or after the act. Anyways now the captain can't jerk off without imagining you doing things to him. He tries to combat this by trying to befriend you, but this backfires when Curly catches feeling. Now he has to jerk off more than he usually does....

— he's quiet and stealthy kind. Not because the man is ashamed of masturbation, but because he has an image to keep and he doesn't want to make others uncomfortable. With that said, breathes and sighs heavily during the act, if Curly imagines you or you're actually there jerking him off, he may let out a few whimpers, and at least once slips out your name in a whisper.

— Curly likes to take things slow so it reflects on how he cums. He never stains his shirts with his own semen, everything just leaks down his dick and on his hand so he easily cleans himself and carries on with his day. Cums a lot and the cum is as thick as cream, which is a bit annoying to him to clean up~

Jimmy

— definitely an average dick haver. And I say this as a Jimmy fucker. Jimmy is not exactly all too happy about it but neither is he complaining...it could be worse. It's a shade or a few darker than his skin, not remarkable enough for people to go "wow" or "ew". Fortunately, Jimmy's dick gets a bit bigger when erect, it also curves and looks like a dog's snoot if you get what I mean.

— Jimmy is a hairy guy ok, this goes double for his tummy, crotch and legs. What do you say? Shaving...? What, do you think he's gay? Jimmy never shaves, the man grooms himself only when the pubic gets too long or feels gross to the touch when he masturbates. It's truly a great shame because Jim has a mole on the inner side of his thigh, right next to where his cock is, but it's hidden beneath thick dark hair.

— jacks off more than average man, however not enough for it to be a problem. Honestly he prefers sex to masturbation, but it's not always available for different reasons. Jimmy is not all that sex obsessed, but when the stress gets to him, it's his only option to release the pent up energy. His go to spot is his room/quarters. You'd think he would crank it anywhere and everywhere and you'd be wrong since Jimmy cares about what others think of him. The man just wants some privacy and gets incredibly irked when someone is disturbing him by knocking or calling out to him. Let the man jerk off in peace!!

— I can write a whole book about what Jimmy masturbates to. I think his tastes are not overly kinky like monster fucking or some extreme fetishes, but he can't be classified as vanilla. Sadism, brat taming, cnc, semi or fully public sex are his usual picks. Jimmy only needs the guy to be mostly silent and preferably not show his face too much otherwise it'll spoil the mood. Our man watches professionally recorded porn as well as amateurs, his dick doesn't discriminate. If you've managed to pique his attention, this would gradually resurface in his choice for porn. Actors looking vaguely like you, or having similar body, or voice.... Seeing someone looking just like you doing filthy stuff sends shivers down Jimmy's spine. Whenever he sees the real you, his mind immediately goes to the sex scenes he has seen "you" perform.

— Jimmy chases his high first, he spends little time for build-up so he cums pretty quickly. His focus is on the porn he is watching since his imagination is lacking believe it or not, just like his patience. Jim would heavily benefit from edging and orgasm denial but you must manhandle him first, he wouldn't consciously agree to this lol.

— groaner to a fault. Cusses too when he feels particularly agitated. Since Jimmy's pace is usually fast and uneven this creates those lewd wet noises. He does keep it at bay, not when he knows that you're around, because then he becomes louder just so you could hear and maybe join his jerk off session. Same goes for the other way around: if he hears or catches you getting yourself off, his hand dives for his own cock. Yup, Jimmy's definitely into mutual or "mutual" masturbation.

— Jimmy gets involuntarily messy. He tends to overheat when he masturbates, so he sweats a lot. This fact and his natural body odour can knock you off your feet if you're into that. Jim has to cover his dick, unless he is naked, because his cum really does shot out high and it's a hustle to constantly change and clean his clothes. Unlike Curly, he doesn't cum too much but his cum is stickier.

[silent-sanctum]

"Jotaro Kujo is Weak at His Core"

As a writer and avid character psycho-analyzer, I find this concept fascinating because I wholeheartedly agree with what OP has quoted from a "What opinion would get the community to do this? *Insert Johnny getting torn apart*" post.

Before I begin, I know some people will see this, misread it, and immediately say "lmao did we watch the same show? He's strong, badass, and can kick anyone's ass. Like do you know Star Platinum bro?". Trust me, I've seen the replies to this post and they said this same exact thing.

And I'm here to say that to said people, if you truly are not the illiterates I'd like to term you as, you'd take the time to realize that when we say "he's weak", we're not referring to his physical prowess because we know he's one of the strongest characters in the show.

If you don't like to, then you're just proving the accuracy of the last sentence: "You can't stand seeing your edgy badass image of Jotaro as vulnerable."

Pushing that aside, I'd like to expand on OP's opinion/headcanon with some depth to it and explain how exactly he's "weak" outside of being a skilled and strategic fighter.

I've learned that to be holistically healthy, one needs to develop and maintain all optimal functions of oneself: Physical, Emotional, Social, and Mental.

Obviously, Jotaro excels in the physical category. He's conventionally attractive, taller than the average male population, well-defined with a muscled build, fit as hell, street and book smart, and highly in tune with his environment making him adaptable in any circumstance.

He's "strong" in that aspect we all know at a superficial level.

However, we start to see the core problem once we strip this good-hearted man of his physical appeal:

Emotional? He believes he doesn't need to express them to others because why should he. He refuses to process them and instead keeps them behind a locked wall of stoicism and aloofness.

Social? Can't communicate to save his life. He's reclusive and doesn't know how to socialize outside of work. Guarded and skeptical around others. Too much of a workaholic to bother making new acquaintances (if he even knows how) outside of familial connections.

Mental? At 17, he went on a death crusade over Asia and the Middle East, almost died numerous times, and most likely lived with unresolved PTSD that carried over into adulthood, and further deteriorated his already poor social and emotional skills.

What do we have then? If we look past that powerful exterior of a man, we have inappropriate emotional expression, poor socialization, and constant fatigue of dealing with bullshit that relates to his trauma.

And this is what we mean by his "core": His mindset. His inner machinations. The soft spot his enemies would need to target in order to defeat or kill him, strategy-wise.

I. Emotional

We pretty much already know how this man handles emotions. And this may come off as "irrelevant" to the dudebros and the meme riders who believe "haha feelings are for pussies, I advocate for edgy autistic Florida man who don't give a fuck, elopes with dolphins, and berates women".

But believe it or not, he has them, just like any other human being on the planet. I said it once and I'll say it again: Not everyone will wear their heart on their sleeves. Some will convey emotions publicly with no issue, while others would prefer to keep to themselves.

But how does this contribute to him being "weak" at his core?

Essentially, it's similar to how someone with depression may behave (not everyone, some of them). One may appear friendly, sunny, and bubbly to everyone around them, not knowing they're actually suffering from a void that eats them up from the inside when alone.

For his case, it may look like he doesn't care about what happens to him and everyone around him, considering his nonchalant and aloof behavior, but beneath that cold exterior, he cares way too much for his family, friends, and allies. He feels too much to the point where once his allies are endangered, he would sacrifice his well-being without a second thought.

And that's an issue to him.

To him, emotions make him vulnerable and in his circumstance where enemies are actively hunting him down trying to find his weak spots, his emotions should be kept behind doors because he doesn't know how to regulate it on the outside so it's either total stoicism or lashing out.

I found someone saying this line about him that fits him so well: "He's a good person who doesn't know how to be a good person."

This is a man who means well and truly wants to help out of the goodness of his heart, but because of his inability to convey his emotions properly and is unable to pick up emotional cues, it can lead to shit tons of misunderstandings due to inappropriate tone & expression, and that can change how someone views him in the long run, thus leading to unintended deterioration of personal relationships (which contribute to the social aspect of his weakness).

I found a visual representation of what I just said above. Just to give context: The show is about a married couple who struggles to keep their relationship afloat, having to navigate through family politics, work & life balance, and miscommunications so they could find why they loved each other in the first place.

The emotionally-reserved character here with the poor communication skills is the girl. She's a CEO who just received a call, came out from work, and meets with her husband, asking him to accompany her to a doctor's appointment.

Observe how she thinks she views herself VS how others actually view her as.

Other's POV: Demanding, brash, and insensitive Her POV: Anxious, hesitant, and confused

Now remember what Araki had written about Jotaro? "He doesn't believe he must reveal his emotions to others because he thinks everyone can figure him out, leading him to be a victim of misunderstandings. Others think him to be cold-hearted, rebellious, and insensitive."

II. Social

With emotions as our base foundation to poor communication skills, this leads us to his weak socialization aspect.

In a recent quote reblog about how he was raised as a child may have contributed to his tough persona, I mentioned something about his need of "Security".

Growing up, it was mostly just him and his sweet pacifist mother Holly. Joseph couldn't have visited often (he hates Japan) and his dad is a busy musician with a packed schedule on tour. As a kid up to early adolescence, he was coddled by his mother and raised as a good student. Everything was going great for him.

[In popular headcanon] Once he passed puberty, the change to his Part 3 MC era began. People began picking fights with him and bullying him, and he began to see the world as a threat to his safety. Knowing his mother, he wouldn't rely on her to defend him against these dangers. She was too kind, too friendly, too loving for her to deal with the harsh life he now has to deal with.

So he had to be the stronger one for both of them. He already had the physical attributes for it, so why not use it to his advantage?

He got on the popular delinquent trend back in 80's Japan, integrated a couple of cool masculine-esque personalities as his own from his favorite Western and Crime media, and is then able to project this menacing aura everyone should be afraid of, to ward potential threats away from him and his mother.

But Mijin, how does this make him weak? What does this have to do with his need for security?

Think about it: The poor guy's already introverted, doesn't feel comfortable with his emotions that he can't express properly, and now he has to be skeptical with people around him because he realized how shitty society can be, which leads to intimidation that wards off not only potential foes but potential friends as well, making it look like he's anti-social.

On the outside, people are likely to think that he likes being this way when in reality, he seeks a reliable support system on which he can lean onto. Everyone with a sound mind wants that subconsciously because we are social creatures. It's part of our nature.

He's constantly fearful of his surroundings, growing even more vigilant as he ages, but he doesn't look afraid because he chooses to put on a brave face to challenge said fears instead of acknowledging he's scared. I read somewhere in an ask that's not mine that in the manga, some panels actually depict Jotaro shaking/trembling in a mix of fear and adrenaline during some of his fights.

He wants to be around people who he can trust. People who he can lower his defenses with. People who are capable of protecting him just as he is capable of protecting them. People who can face his intimidating aura and challenge it to stand on equal grounds with him or to remind him of his place when he goes too far with certain things. Hence, why he seems comfortable being with the Crusaders.

For once, he wants to feel safe.

To not feel like he has to be this strong pillar of hope that everyone depends on.

To be someone being protected, instead of the other way around where he was always the strong protector. He wants a life of normalcy where he can just be a marine biologist and a professor with a loving family he can come home to.

But that can't happen. The inner circle of friends he counted on is either dead or far away, leaving him even more fearful of the world around him. This results in even more guarded skepticism, always watchful of who's an enemy Stand user and what their Stand could do. Because of his cautious nature, this leads to minimized socialization with others.

With little to no solid support system he can count on, he has no one he feels completely secure with because he believes danger will always come to hurt and/or kill those near him. He doesn't want to burden others with the issues & responsibilities of dealing with Stand users. He wants them to live the normal life he could no longer have.

He doesn't trust in the capabilities of his loved ones when it comes to defending themselves against the amount of potential threats and dangers he has faced, and yet he cares about them dearly. So, he commits to what seems to be the most practical solution in his mind: Self-Isolation.

To be a distant beacon where danger is attracted to and away from those dear to him.

(As we see in the beginning of Part 3 where he willingly locks himself in jail as soon as he sees himself as the threat, and in Part 6 where he stays away from his family once he realizes his enemies were targeting him).

"Your family is your weakness."

All this leads him to become what Araki always envisioned him to be: A lone hero.

III. Mental

Now onto the last part, this part of the essay will focus more on the popular headcanon the community has made about him: "Jotaro has PTSD."

Considering what he's been through at only 17, it would be no surprise that he'd acquired major trauma after those 50 days. Think about it- he gets injured more times than he can count, almost dies numerous times, sees his grandfather get "killed" in front of him, and all this combined with the constant reminder that his mother's life is also on a time limit. A failure to kill DIO meant a failure to save Holly.

The amount of pressure and risk he had to endure for her (and there will still be people who adamantly believe that he hated Holly because he said "bitch" to her twice in the first two episodes).

Now, remember when I said about him having this mentality of over-independence when dealing with stressors? It was still manageable during Stardust Crusaders, but because of what had transpired in Cairo, that mindset carries on to the rest of his adulthood, more so if we consider that he most likely didn't get any therapy or treatment for his trauma.

It might be normal for a teenager to hold onto this stubborn notion of "I can do this by myself" and be casual about it, but with trauma now involved, that notion warps into a persisting belief of "by doing this myself, no one else will get hurt" (i.e. refusing help, doing solo fieldwork, self-isolation).

But Mijin, you keep saying "mentality" this, "mindset" that. What are you talking about?

There's an old Tumblr post I found that talks specifically about this in great detail, but to put it shortly: Jotaro has always wanted to do things by himself because he believes that not only will the task be done with, there would be no one else involved with it, making it better for him to cope mentally if ever shit hits the fan (tying back to poor emotional expression and insecurity in bonds).

If any injuries were to be inflicted, he would be the one to receive them, and he alone, because who knows how he'll react and/or cope when his allies are harmed instead of him over and over again? (refer to the trauma of Jotaro surviving Cairo while the majority of the team that went with him died a.k.a "survivor's guilt")

(Also, refer to how he had exhibited great distress when Jolyne was about to be struck by a rain of knives that Pucci sent)

This might also be the reason why he's more self-sacrificial as an adult: Will be the bait during the rat episode instead of Josuke, takes the brunt of Sheer Heart Attack's explosion to spare Koichi, dives straight onto a path of bullets to save Jolyne, etc.

The only possible solution so he could snap out of that belief he holds on to is that strong, reliable support system he internally needs. People who can help him without sustaining fatal injuries in the process [social]. People who he can approach to release any pent-up frustrations and inner conflicts [emotional].

If he had found those people, then he might have been able to deal and/or cope with his trauma better instead of letting it linger and change his outlook in life [mental].

But we all know how his life went in canon. One moment he's a kid playing ball with his mother, then in his last, he dies by having his head bisected by a time-altering Stand.

Jotaro is a person with a gold heart and a rough exterior. Someone who wants to help and protect his loved ones from the unpredictability of the world the best that he can. But even then, his best wasn't enough. His fear was masked with an air of strength and capability, perhaps as compensation for everything else he lacked:

Adequate processing of emotions.

Stable connection with familial, platonic, and romantic bonds.

A sound mindset that stems from effective coping for his PTSD.

We could only hope in headcanon land that he had a better chance at life in the Ireneverse where he finally could develop his inner core better and get that long-deserved break he had always wanted.

[onceonafullmoon]

Mirror

Rin x GN!Reader

Comfort Angst, experiences of anxiety attacks, Reader and Rin are both kind of obsessive lmao, some threats of violence but nothing happens, established relationship and also merry christmas though this fic has nothing to do with that!!

“Speak for yourself. I’m perfectly logical.” He eventually retorts. You actually laugh at that, though it definitely sounds weak and shaky even to your own ears. “…stupid.” You say with a fond smile. “At least I can be honest with myself.”

It’s a sunny day as you watch your boyfriend on the field, his figure distant as you sit in the stands, watching him practice. The birds are chirping, a few fluffy clouds decorate the sky and the temperature is mild if not a bit warm… it’s a beautiful day. 

And you’re pissed off.

Not at him, almost never at him despite his oftentimes abrasive and harsh demeanor. But then again, you’ve always been exceptionally lenient when it comes to Rin.

No, the reason you’re pissed off isn’t because of Rin, rather it’s because of your own issues, your own stewing jealousy when a particularly pretty girl happened to confess her feelings to your handsome boyfriend in the form of a note in his locker.

Obviously, he rejected her, in that blunt way of his, but even then you couldn’t help but notice how he took the time to make sure he rejected her in person, still respecting her feelings despite the fact that he didn’t return them.

And it really shouldn’t bother you… but you’ve always been, unhinged, to say the least.

It’s hard to explain exactly, but, when it comes to the people in your life, when it comes to hobbies you have, anything that you’re passionate about, you tend to get absorbed in those things in a rather unhealthy way.

Like that time you dropped all your plans to cheer up your best friend when she was only mildly upset, or that time you watched a series and then made it your entire personality for a month straight… you’ve always been a tad obsessive.

And when it comes to you, it feels more juvenile to feel this way. 

It’s hard to explain, but you’ve always been more emotionally honest than Rin, and for that reason you feel like you come off as more needy. 

Or maybe that means you’re more emotionally mature.

Or not.

You don’t know, you hate going in circles like this, pacing around in your own mind. Sometimes you wonder if you were more like Rin and ignored your feelings it would be less annoying. But you suppose that self awareness is one of your strengths.

Although, you have to admit, self awareness is also a curse when you have to deal with your own negative emotions rather than having a philosophical discussion, which brings you back to your conflicting feelings.

You don’t like being jealous, no one does, but you feel especially icky about the types of thoughts it brings. You don’t like the fact that your first thought towards this girl was so negative, you don’t like the fact that you feel like a worse person because of that and you don’t like the fact that a very primal part of you wants to march over onto that field and kiss your boyfriend senseless for no reason other than to see his swollen lips afterwards.

Normally, you’d have no problem talking about your feelings with Rin, as emotionally closed off and brash as he is, but something about this makes you feel like you want to stick your head into a hole in the ground, much like an ostrich. Or, to put it plainly, you’re a mess and you’re losing your mind trying not to implode with all your emotions.

Imploding can wait though, you’ll dissect this when you get home, right now you’ll throw on a smile and talk to your boyfriend who you are most certainly not creating scenarios of sneaking off with this pretty girl with her stupid pretty smile and her dumbass cute hairstyle–

Right.

No imploding.

You sigh and shake your head, looking back at the field, watching as Rin begins to wrap up his practice and take that as your cue to make your way over to him after you hop off of your seat in the risers. 

As you near him you can make out his features more distinctly, the sharp curve of his jaw, the length of his under lashes, the pretty teal of his eyes… he’s stupidly handsome as always, and it makes you feel even more ticked off, though you do your best to suppress those thoughts.

“Hey, you.” You say with a smile, picking up his water bottle from the bench and tossing it his way as if practiced, and he catches it with ease, popping the cap off to take a drink, his eyes meeting yours.

To this day, you can’t tell if you hate making eye contact with him or if you adore it.

“...Hey.” He answers after swallowing, his gaze darting across your form.

You’re not entirely sure what he’s searching for, but you hope he doesn’t notice anything different in your demeanor. 

“I’d say you did good out there but I’d be lying if I implied I knew what I was looking for.” You say, in your usual slightly self-deprecating demeanor.

He scoffs, his eyes rolling slightly. “You don’t need to know anything, it’s me.”

Cocky bastard.

“That’s annoyingly cool of you to say.” You say with a small laugh. “I need to learn some one liners like that from you.”

“I wouldn’t bother trying.” He retorts, pushing his hair back in a move that nearly makes you choke on your saliva from how annoyingly good he looks before speaking again. “...how was your day?”

“Fine.” You answer almost too quickly, before pausing to elaborate.

“Just a regular day I mean, nothing extraordinary happened, unless you count the amount of times that I watched someone trip over that crack on the sidewalk.”

Rin furrows his brow. “What crack?”

“You haven’t seen it? It’s like right outside the window in homeroom, like right by the tree.”

“...is that what you’ve been paying attention to? Not the goddamn teacher?”

“Only sometimes! Besides, I’ve seen like five people almost eat shit, it’s entertaining in it’s own right.”

“You’re hopeless, this is the reason–”

You sigh. “Look, my grades are fine, I’m fine, let’s just move on instead of turning this into another stupid “see this is why you should focus more” speeches.”

He tilts his head at you, squinting like you’ve grown two heads, and you feel both annoyed and weirdly vulnerable under his analytical gaze. 

“What?” You ask, almost defensively.

“You…” He says with a small frown. “What’s wrong with you?”

You laugh, though it sounds more like a scoff, and this time it’s more out of a sense of disbelief. “Wow, okay, rude. Do you want my therapist’s notes or something, jackass?”

Immediately after the words leave your mouth you feel yourself regretting them. They’re juvenile, stupid and childish and you can feel your face grow warm. 

Great, you can’t even pretend right, what good are you?

His eyes narrow. “Maybe I do, maybe that’ll help me understand why you’re acting like–”

“Like a bitch?” You interrupt.

Oh gods. What are you doing? What is this?

He blinks at you, as if taken aback by your suggestion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

You close your mouth, feeling everything bubble up again inside you, the jealousy, the insecurities, the annoyance, the embarrassment, all of it is swirling inside you and suddenly it just feels like you’re choking on the weight of all of it, like it’s stuck in your throat.

It’s silent for a while, his hard gaze boring into you while you stand there, feeling like a complete idiot, chewing on your tongue while you try to find the will to speak. 

He sighs then, breaking the silence between the two of you before speaking again. “...talk to me.”

And you do. You do want to talk to him, whether it’s to brush him off, or to open up, anything would be fine, you just want to speak. But you can’t. 

There are too many thoughts, too many things piling up, but you just need to speak, just speak, speak–

He furrows his brow at the continued silence. “...if you have a problem, tell me, but if you’re just going to be childish and give me the silent treatment then this conversation is over.”

Childish? You’re not childish, you just can’t talk, it’s not your fault– 

Is it?

Is it your fault? 

Gods who are you kidding, of course it’s your fault, you can’t even fucking talk how pathetic is that? No wonder he’s looking at other girls you can barely even hold a goddamn conversation, not to mention, she’s so pretty and you’re not– maybe if you could just write some words down– but fucking hell you’re so childish, he’s right, you’re not ready for a relationship– all you have to do is say something– he must fucking hate you–

It’s only when you have to take a breath that you remember where you are, and Rin is staring at you with a look you haven’t seen before. 

Shocked maybe? 

But you don’t think you’ve done anything shocking, until you feel a warm tear roll down your face.

Ah shoot. You’re actually a moron, you’re crying. In front of him.

Come on, raise your hand, wipe away your tears, you’re fine. 

Move your fucking hand.

Move.

Just do something. Don’t just stand there.

You take a breath, wiping away your tears with your hand.

Good. Now speak.

“...” You part your lips shakily to speak. “I–”

A sob escapes your lips and you slap your hand over your mouth and turn away from him, letting the tears just stream down your face.

“Shit.” Rin says softly from behind you, and you distantly think that if you were watching from an outsider's perspective that this would be hilarious.

Okay, stop, calm down, breathe. You’re fine.

You let out another muffled sob as your breathing runs ragged.

Okay, no, you’re not fine.

“(Name).” Rin says, in a tone so soft you’re almost taken by surprise, and you can feel his presence behind you, closer than before.

He places his hand on your shoulder and gently turns you back to face him, and you notice through watery eyes that his water bottle is back on the bench. You’re not sure why you notice that, but you think it's because you can’t stand to make eye contact right now.

“Listen to me.” He murmurs, his voice soft yet firm. “Breathe slowly, in and out, okay?”

Right. You can do that. In and out.

It takes a few breaths, but eventually you manage to get to the point where your breathing is less rapid, and it’s then that you muster the courage to look him in the eyes again.

It’s a small relief to you that you don’t see any judgment in his eyes, just concern.

“...what’s wrong (Name)?”

It takes you a bit to respond, but you’re finally able to speak after you pull your hand from your mouth, looking at his water bottle again.

“...I’m… ashamed.” You say quietly, and the admission feels like you’re being stabbed in the gut.

“Ashamed?” Rin asks, furrowing his brow again. “Why are you ashamed?”

You don’t even want to begin to explain yourself, but you figure you might as well just get it over with. 

“... that girl, she confessed to you. I was jealous– I am jealous, and I feel stupid, because it’s embarrassing and I feel immature.”

He looks at you for a moment, really looks at you and then scoffs. 

“You’re…” He pauses and then looks at you, seemingly thinking better of his words before speaking again with a sigh. “...you’re too harsh on yourself.”

You simply shake your head. “No, it’s dumb, and I was mean to you and I was mean to that girl in my head and I shouldn’t have–”

“Then what about me?” He asks sharply.

“What?” You respond, looking back at him again, confusion taking over.

“I–” He starts before huffing out a breath, his cheeks turning pink as he looks away. “You think I’m any better? At least you have the decency to be ashamed.”

You blink, the quiet settling around you.

Well, thinking on it now, it’s not like you’re the only one who’s like that, you’re no stranger to how Rin methodically practices his skills everyday, the way his eyes narrow into a glare when he sees his brother on screen, how he scoffs at your best friend when she hugs you in greeting… he’s just as bad as you, isn’t he?

Obsessive.

Jealous.

“…we’re so silly, aren’t we?” You ask, breaking the silence between the two of you. “So intense all the time, so needlessly absorbed, too emotional… You’re everything I despise about myself, but I don’t hate you. Aren’t we so strange?”

Rin looks at you finally, a complicated look on his face, flickering through emotions.

“Speak for yourself. I’m perfectly logical.” He eventually retorts.

You actually laugh at that, though it definitely sounds weak and shaky even to your own ears.

“…stupid.” You say with a fond smile. “At least I can be honest with myself.”

You look at him for a moment.

“I like to think I’m good with words, at least when I’m not crying, but there’s so much I want to tell you that I can’t say in the way I want to… what on earth can I say to you?”

Rin looks at you, eyes boring into yours, but you can’t seem to find yourself to be intimidated this time. “Dumbass, you don’t need to say anything.”

You look at him, at his stupidly sweet soul that he tries to hide with harsh words, and let out a soft huff, uncharacteristically frustrated.

“…sometimes I want to hurt you, because you make me feel so much. I could rip you apart.”

Rin’s eyes widen, as if surprised by your words, and briefly you fear that you might have overstepped, before his eyes harden into a steely gaze.

“Idiot… you think you’re the only one who feels that way?”

You blink at his words, not expecting his response, much less how surprisingly honest it is. 

It’s… This is new.

You expect him to recoil from your words, from your emotions, from you. You expect him to leave. But his response, his understanding, it makes you so… emotional.

You take in a shaky breath, tearing up again.

His reaction to that is instantaneous, his eyes widening in shock, a flicker of regret in his gaze. A beat of silence lapses between you two before he speaks, his tone regretful.

“(Name)… I didn’t mean—”

“No.” You say immediately, though your voice is still shaky as you blink harshly.

“Don’t apologize. And don’t take it back.” You speak, your voice cracking. “I’m not scared. You get me, I get you… we’re a mess, but I’ll never find someone like you, and I don’t want to.”

You take a breath to steady yourself, before speaking again. 

“I’m gonna say something, and you don’t have to say it back.” You say, before speaking again, your voice soft but firm. “...I love you.”

You’re not sure what possessed you to say it, those words that have been lurking in you for so long, and you for a moment, seeing his startled face, you wonder if you might have scared him off, if you were moving too fast, or maybe–

“Dumbass.” He says with a soft scoff before cupping your face and pulling you into a kiss.

It’s always so tongue heavy with Rin, and you’ve had to coax him in the past to appreciate a sweet, chaste kiss every once in a while, but you find this time you don’t mind this time as he desperately presses his lips against yours.

It’s his own way of saying it back to you.

[bluelizard100]

Here’s a WIP I had sitting in my notes app for forever that I finally got around to finishing

Study abroad reader x Soap (my beloved) !!!

Warnings: kidnapping, non-con, bondage with a belt, post TBI Soap, very little editing, obsessive & unstable Soap, poorly written Scottish accent lmao

4.1k word count

Studying abroad seemed like the best opportunity you ever could’ve gotten. You were ecstatic, packed up and ready to fly over to Scotland, knowing there was a room at the university of Edinburgh waiting for you. 

It all seemed so perfect. You got to travel without having to worry about missing your studies, and this was a wonderful opportunity to meet new people and make connections.

Just as you had wanted, everything was perfect. It would’ve stayed perfect if you hadn’t met Johnny.

“John MacTavish, but a bonnie thing like you can call me Johnny,” he’d said to you.

He was a flirt, and to you it was harmless, temporary fun. The two of you grew close fast. You ate lunch with him, hung out with him during your breaks, and you even spent the night at his place a couple times. You’d spend evenings texting or calling, unloading your stresses onto him while he cracked jokes to make you feel better.

He never talked much about his own problems with work— you understood, though. How much can he really talk about his problems with the military? He was special forces, after all— SAS. He never even told you how he got the gnarly scar on his temple. He talked about his team sometimes, but rarely ever a few words. He always just seemed happier to listen to you.

It was a wonderful thing, your friendship with him. There was an obvious connection between you two, an unspoken chemistry. You entertained the idea of something more with him, but you never brought it up; how could you? You had to leave eventually, so what was the point? What if he didn’t feel the same way, and you were just reading too far into things? He seemed like the type to flirt with his friends. If you went for it and asked him out, and he said no, you’d ruin the entire friendship. He probably wasn’t interested— you’re just a friend to him. Right?

After an entire year in Scotland, it was finally time to pack up and fly back home. You didn’t want to leave, but you missed home. It’d been a whole 365 days since you had seen your friends and family back home, and you longed to sleep in your own bed again.

When you told Johnny it was time for you to go back home, his eyes flashed with a dark intensity. You should’ve acknowledged the subtle shift, should’ve known something was wrong. You shouldn’t have ignored the unease building in your gut, but you didn’t.

He’s probably just pushing down his emotions. He’s a soldier; I bet he’s not even allowed to have feelings. You rationalized your disquiet away as you shoved haphazardly folded clothes into a stuffed suitcase.

It was the night before your flight that he finally showed you how he felt. You don’t remember much other than a prick to your neck, and then darkness.

—

You wake up in what you think is Johnny’s sitting room, sat on the couch with your wrists tied behind your back and your ankles bound together. Your head is pounding, your eyes burn, and your mouth and throat are dry. It’s too painful to think. Your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth, desiccated by whatever concoction was injected into your veins.

It takes you a moment to realize that you are, in fact, in Johnny’s sitting room, and not some random person’s house. It’s both relieving and terrifying to wake up in your friend’s home; you know where you are, you know you’re with someone who’s supposed to be safe… but you’re tied up and you were very obviously drugged.

Thoughts race through your head. Why am I here? And where is Johnny? What did he give me? Is Johnny okay? Did a terrorist capture him? Am I being used as a hostage?

Your thoughts spiral out of control with each scenario you came up with. Each new hypothetical has your blood pressure spiking and your heart fluttering. Just before you can open your mouth to scream, you hear footsteps.

Johnny emerges from the kitchen, stepping through the doorway lightly and almost calmly. You melt with relief, so glad to see that he’s okay that you don’t even notice his lack of panic.

“Johnny!” You nearly weep. He walks towards the couch, giving you a warm, loving smile. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kneels down in front of you and wipes a tear from your cheek.

“Oh, baby, ye dinnae need tae cry,” he coos.

You squirm on the couch, tugging against the ropes that keep you immobile. “J-Johnny,” you stammer, “you gotta untie me.”

His expression darkens, the warmth fading away.

You’re still panicked, though. You haven’t realized yet that there isn’t any danger except for the man in front of you.

“Johnny, we have to hurry.”

The danger in Johnny’s expression fizzles, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“Before they come back,” you sniffle. “The men who took me— they’re terrorists, right? We have to leave!”

Again, Johnny smiled at you. Poor thing. So naive.

“No terrorist, baby. We’re safe, aye?”

You break down again, crying with relief. Johnny sits himself on the couch and pulls you up into his lap, gingerly untying your wrists and ankles.

“Just you an’ me. It’s okay, ye dinnae need to cry.”

You babble into his neck, blaming your tears on whatever drugs you were given. He only shushes you, rocking you gently in his arms.

You cry for what feels like an eternity, but Johnny holds you tight. To you, he’s comforting you, offering himself as an anchor to your out of control emotions.

To him, he’s holding you tight so you can’t run away. He’s the anchor that’s going to keep you here, with him.

Where you belong.

—

You wake again, this time in Johnny’s room. In his bed. Wrapped in his arms.

He’s already awake, staring at you with unnerving intensity. It disappears as soon as he catches your eye, replaced with another one of his warm smiles.

It takes a moment for you to remember what happened, and even then, your brain decides to focus on your flight.

“Holy fuck!”

You spring out of Johnny’s bed so quickly that you stumble, the too-sudden postural change making your vision spot. Johnny hurries after you, wrapping an arm around your waist when you wobble.

Then his grip tightens. You’re being dragged back to the bed.

“Johnny,” you gasp, “I gotta- I gotta go. I missed my flight!” He pushes you back into the bed, grumbling when you slap at his arms.

“I need to go now!” You shout. You’ll have people waiting for you, school expecting you. You have to at least call.

You don’t get a chance to explain any of it. Johnny pushes you down onto your back and clamps his big hand over your mouth.

“Stop fuckin’ moving,” he demands, frustration turning his tone rough and mean. He stares into your wide eyes, his face inches from yours. You freeze out of pure shock, and when Johnny’s sure you’ll listen, he pulls his hand from your mouth.

“There we go,” he hums. “You’ve got nowhere ta be, baby. Ah took care o’ everythin’ for ya.”

The fuck does that mean?

“You… what? No, Johnny, I have to—“

You’re cut off again by him clamping his hand over your mouth.

“I said nae. Yer’ stayin’ here.”

You push at his shoulders, trying to get him off you, but he collects both your wrists in his free hand and pins them to your chest.

“I cannae let ye leave.” Johnny’s voice is thick with emotion, so intense that it scares you. You’ve never heard him like this. He’s always so lighthearted and unserious, turning everything into a joke. Now here he is, so genuine that his voice is unsteady.

“I need ya. I need ye here with me, by my side. They dinnae need ye; I do. They don’t deserve ye. They— they abandoned you, let ye come to a strange country all by yerself. Who fuckin’ knows what could’ve happened if I hadnae found ye so early on?”

He’s rambling, almost like he’s speaking to you and to himself. Like he’s trying to rationalize this, forcing it to make rational sense to you and ease his own guilt.

“I’d never leave ye. I’d never let ye get yerself in danger like they did. I’ll protect ye, keep ye safe and sound right here wi’ me.”

Johnny grew more and more distraught as he rambled, spilling his delusions while you tried to keep your tears at bay.

Finally, it all clicks.

Johnny— your friend Johnny, who was warm and kind and funny, had kidnapped you.

He drugged you, tied you up, and dragged you back to his house. He made you miss your flight back home. And now, apparently he’s holding you hostage.

Amidst his breakdown, Johnny notices the tears welling up in your eyes. “No, baby, no, no tears,” he coos, uncovering your mouth to cup your cheek instead. “It’s okay. Ah ken it’s a lot of feelings right now— love is a lot tae feel.”

For a moment you just stare at him. You just have to stare. Dumbfounded.

He thinks these tears are because I love him? He think I’m, what, overwhelmed with joy?

“…Johnny,” you say, voice shaky yet full of conviction, “you need to let me go.”

You watch Johnny’s face fall, see tears turn his eyes glassy. You almost feel bad.

Then he snarls, his expression turning vicious.

“Fuck no,” he growls, slamming your wrists above your head. He presses down until his nose presses against yours, until the breath he exhales is the breath you take in.

“I already said I’m not fuckin’ losing ye. I’ll no’ let ye go back to another—“

His voice cracks, and you feel hot tears drip onto your cheeks.

“…another man. I’m cannae let ye go back home. I cannae let some other lad sweep ye off yer feet and take ye from me, while I’m an entire fuckin’ country away from ye, helpless tae stop it.”

He takes a ragged breath and buries his face into your neck. “You’re mine. I said willnae lose ye.”

You don’t get a chance to even utter a response before Johnny snaps again, pressing you down harder against his mattress.

“If ye don’t want tae stay, I’ll make ye,” he snarls.

His free hand goes to his belt, and your cry of protest does nothing to deter him.

“I’ll show ye,” he mutters. “I’ll show ye how good I’ll be to ya.”

While you thrash and scream underneath him, Johnny loops his belt around your wrists and secures them to the headboard.

“Johnny stop! Stop it! Fucking let me go!”

Your shouting again does nothing. Johnny’s in some crazed state, not hearing anything— and if he is hearing it, it’s not affecting him.

Fabric tears, the sound drowned out by your screaming. Cool air hits your belly, and Johnny stuffs a ripped half of your shirt into your mouth.

He undresses you wordlessly, tearing the rest of your shirt off and then your bra. Your pants don’t get torn— simply yanked off your legs, your panties dragged along with them.

When you’re fully naked, tears streaming down your cheeks, is when Johnny finally stops. He pauses, sucks in a full breath, and stares.

God, he fucking stares. If you could, you’d curl in on yourself, hide from his burning gaze.

When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle. It almost startles you, the contrast between his earlier snarling and his current loving rumbling making your hair stand on end.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. “My sweet, beautiful wee bride.”

A shocked cry escapes you, the sound muffled by the scrap of shirt he shoved between your lips.

“Shh shh shh,” Johnny shushes you gently. “No cryin’ now. No more cryin’.”

His hands, rough with callouses, roam over your body. He starts at your hips, sliding up over your waist, feeling each individual rib, tracing the sides of your breasts, up your chest, gentle at your neck, until he finally cups your face in both hands.

“I’ll be the best husband ye could ever ask for, bonnie.”

You whimper, shake your head no, and he frowns.

“No?” He asks incredulously. “I ken what the problem is. Ye cannae turn that big brain o’ yers off. Are ye thinking too much again, baby?”

He uses his hold on your face to nod your head yes.

“Aw, I ken, baby. Ye’re always so nervous’, lettin’ that anxiety ruin everything.”

Johnny presses his lips to your forehead before he descends, making his way down your body. When he settles between your thighs, wrapping his arms around them to keep you still, he meets your teary eyes with his own intense, piercing blue stare.

“Let yer husband make it all better.”

He licks a long stripe up your cunt, from slit to clit, eliciting a sharp squeal that stays trapped behind your gag.

He’s gentle about it, laving his tongue against you in slow, gentle strokes. He’s making out with your pussy, kissing at your clit and sucking on your lips while you wail into your gag.

He pushes his tongue inside you, tasting you with an appreciative groan that vibrates around your pussy. You squeal again, and you swear he puffs out an amused breath through his nose.

Johnny alternates between those gentle licks and experimental plunges until your breath turns shallow. Your body succumbs, giving in to the desire you’ve harbored for so long even while your mind screams that this is wrong.

Against all your inner turmoil, your efforts to control your body’s responses fail. Your hips twitch and a tiny moan sounds from your lips, nearly imperceptible with the cloth muffling your voice.

But Johnny caught it.

And the air shifts.

He pauses, and you look down to see him staring up at you with a devious, excited glint in his eyes.

“There we go,” he growls, satisfaction spilling from his tone. “All warmed up.”

Your brow furrows with confusion, but Johnny answers your wordless question so quickly it gives you whiplash.

In what feels like a mere second, Johnny reaches up and rips the cloth from your mouth and returns to his spot between your thighs, latching onto your clit and sucking hard.

Intense, overwhelming pleasure shoots through your belly like electricity, ripping a startled scream from you.

He latched on tight, refusing to let go even as you buck your hips and cry out into the room, begging for a break.

Johnny releases your clit with a pop and looks up at you with a proud grin. “Told ye, baby, I’m gonna make it better— gonna take care of those racin’ thoughts. I’ll make sure ye cannae think about anythin’ at all.”

It should be a threat, but he said it so sweetly; It was like a loving promise.

Johnny dips back down, only this time he starts flicking his tongue over your poor clit, tormenting your swollen nub.

Again you cry out, unable to keep quiet. Johnny’s attacking your most sensitive spot, tormenting you with your own body. While you squirm and cry, your hips buck and roll in time with his tongue, searching for more.

Your efforts are rewarded with a satisfied grunt from Johnny, and he doubled his own. You didn’t think it was possible, but he proves you wrong— his tongue moves faster, harder, and he tightens his grip on your thighs to keep you from wiggling too much.

Your wails turn to moans, each sound that leaves you more desperate than the last. Tantalizing warmth floods your belly, along with a pressure that keeps building and building.

Each sound Johnny forces from you is taken as encouragement. Although your logical mind hates every aspect of this, you know that if he stopped now you wouldn’t be able to keep from begging. You’re too close for him to stop; the want has reached the tipping point to a primal need. Luckily for you, Johnny wants to deliver.

If you were paying more attention (read: if you were capable of paying attention), you’d have noticed that Johnny was losing himself, too. He’s rutting his hips against the mattress like an animal, matching the beastly way he devours your cunt.

Your abdomen tightens and your thighs fight to squeeze shut, cueing the band in your core to snap.

In a panic, still conscious enough to realize that you’re about to come on your friend-turned-kidnapper’s tongue, you glance down between your thighs.

Johnny had looked up at your face as soon as he felt your thighs squeeze. When you met his eyes, glazed over with need, that torturous band snapped.

Head thrown back in a strangled moan, molten pleasure rolling through your body like magma forcing its way to the surface, your body surrendering itself to Johnny.

Johnny refused to let up, lapping at your entrance to get every last taste of your release. You feared he wasn’t going to stop, uttering a breathless “please” with the last of your energy. Your plea was like music, the sweetest melody he’d ever heard, and he finally pulled away.

You let your head flop back against your pillow, muscles finally going lax. Johnny crawled back up your body, caging you in with his arms, elbows propped on either side of your head.

“There ye are,” he hums, looking down at you with nothing short of adoration. “Not thinkin’ so much now, huh?”

You don’t answer— can’t answer, really— but Johnny doesn’t mind. He smiles and cups your cheek again. Then, he’s leaning down and kissing you. Kissing you for the first time.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this before; what it would be like if you took the chance and told Johnny you had feelings for him.

You’d thought about how it would feel to kiss him. Would he be gentle, play it safe for the first time? Or would he be rough and passionate? Would his lips be soft, or would you have to tease him into using chapstick?

Every scenario you’d come up with had been domestic. Nothing like what you’re experiencing now, trapped underneath him with your wrists secured to the headboard. The taste of your own arousal lingering on his lips.

Johnny is gentle as he kisses you. He takes his time, savoring the feel of your lips against his, the way you go slack and just accept it.

Accept his affections.

Accept him.

He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away and strokes his thumb over your cheek.

“The sweetest bride I could ever ask for,” he whispers.

Bride. The title has you squirming again, tugging against the belt at your wrists and using your legs to try and buck him off.

“Och—“ he huffs, pressing his hips down against yours. “Quit that.”

You stiffen. His hard-on presses down against you through his pants, which shouldn’t be surprising, but actually feeling it is enough to make you go still.

He grins at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Now he looks like the Johnny you know. The Johnny you befriended. His expression is incongruous— he shouldn’t be looking so playful right now, so unserious. But here he is, looking like this is all some practical joke.

The worst part? It makes you feel better.

His playfulness is familiar. It offers you the comfort that you so desperately need right now, acting as a subtle reassurance that— despite all of this— everything’s going to be okay.

“That’s a good girl,” Johnny murmurs, giving you a little peck on the lips.

“You’re thinkin’ again, though. Gotta do something about that before ye work yerself up again.”

He pulls his shirt off, throwing it down to the floor. His pants and boxers follow. He doesn’t take his time undressing, stripping himself down just as quickly as he did you.

Your breath hitches when you catch sight of his hard cock. It looks almost painful, ruddy at and around the tip and leaking.

He wraps his big hand around it and strokes it a few times, pumping up and down his length with a groan.

“Gonna make it official, baby,” he groans, lining himself up with your cunt. “Gonna make ye my wife.”

With that, he pushes in, groaning again as your warmth envelops him. He moves slowly, again savoring the feel of your bodies joining.

Your earlier orgasm prepped you enough to take the edge off, but the stretch of his cock was still enough to burn.

A whine sounds from your throat and your eyes squeeze shut, an instinctive reaction to the sudden burst of pain.

Johnny coos, but he doesn’t stop. “Poor thing. Ah ken it’s big, but Ah also ken ye can take it.”

He keeps pushing in, in, in, until he finally bottoms out and his hips meet yours. Johnny finally pauses, then, giving you a moment to get used to him.

You’re so full, stuffed so tight with him that he’s almost all you can think about.

Johnny practically trembles, his restraint hair-thin. “Ye feel so good, so warm,” he rasps, dipping down to nip at your neck. “My wife. Mine. Gonna treat ye right, better than anyone else ever could.”

He reaches up and, to your surprise, unbuckles the belt and frees your wrists.

“C’mon, baby, touch me. I know ye want to.”

You don’t move, your arms just laying above your head where he’d let them flop. Johnny sighs and grabs ahold of your thighs, hiking them up and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Stop thinkin’,” he huffs, grabbing your wrists next. He brings them up to his shoulders, holding them there until you finally touch, grasping his firm muscles.

“Good girl.”

You get another quick kiss before Johnny starts to move, and you feel your belly muscles flutter. That weird rippling sensation, like butterflies but better, and a moan catches you by surprise.

Just like before, Johnny takes it as encouragement. He moves a bit faster, changes the angle of his hips until you squeal. He growls like an animal, feral for your pleasure.

His big hands cup your tits, squeezing and kneading before he switches to rolling his thumbs over your pebbled nipples.

“Such a good girl,” he growls, getting lost in you for the second time tonight. “So perfect. M’ sweet wee baby, my bonnie wife.”

He zeroes in on that spot, the spot that makes you squeal, and targets it over and over. It’s too much, worse than when he went down on you. The sensitivity from then spills over to now, heightening everything he makes you feel.

The wiry hair at his pelvis tickles to your clit each time he fucks into you.

Too much.

He nails that perfect spot deep inside you over and over.

Too much.

His pinches and teases your sensitive nipples until they’re puffy.

Too fucking much.

Your jaw goes slack and sounds leave you freely, moaning and wailing without restraint.

You dig your fingernails into Johnny’s back, clawing him up like a scratching post, and he fucking loves it.

He fucks you faster, harder, twists your nipples almost meanly and bites down on your neck.

That bit of pain sends you hurtling over the edge, coming so hard it feels like the air is punched from your lungs.

Your pussy clamps tight around Johnny, gripping him tight like you never want him to leave. His hips stutter and he curses, nearing his own end.

“Oh- fuck-!”

He slams into you one last time before spilling his hot load deep inside you, filling you up.

He collapses on top of you, squishing you with his weight just long enough to catch his breath before shifting to let you breathe better.

The two of you lay quiet for a moment, too busy panting to try and speak.

Johnny gets his breath back first, propping himself back up on his elbows. He pulls out slowly, hissing when your cunt squeezes him again.

He looks down at you, spent and sleepy, and smiles again.

“Got yer head nice an’ empty now,” he says, his voice full of mirth.

Johnny slips out of the room, returning with some ice water and a damp washcloth.

He cleans you up, gives you sips of the cold water, and then crawls into bed with you.

“See?” He murmurs, his own voice turning rough with sleepiness.

“Ye belong with me.”

[callsign-rogueone]

part of the family - d.a.

Dain Aetos x marked!reader The marked ones have been your only family since your parents were executed — until now. [request] words: 3.7k 🏷: IRON FLAME SPOILERS. she/her afab reader in an established (but secret) relationship with Dain, descriptions of fainting and loss of vision, talk of contraceptives, periods, and pregnancy, you love Dain but he still has his problems (you’ll see), featuring bestie Bodhi (who is the captain of this ship lmao) and older (foster) bro Garrick. went totally overboard on this one but like. girl dad dain 🥺🥰

You slip into the meeting quietly, pressing yourself against the wall -- most assembly gatherings are open to any who wish to attend, but you’d rather them not know you’re here. 

Xaden stands before the elders, in the thick of an argument that is very obviously about Dain.

“He’s clearly here as a spy. Why else would he side with us?”

You can’t hold back your response. “Because I showed him everything. Resson, Liam, the wyvern, the fliers, the dagger drops… all of it.”

So much for staying incognito. All heads turn to you, different emotions on their faces. Xaden looks as if you’ve stabbed him. Two of the elders look like they want to kill you where you stand. You can’t quite read the look on Brennan’s face. 

“I say we confine her with him,” one says, eyeing you with contempt. “She is clearly a danger to the movement, if she was willing to take such a risk.”

You step forward to address them properly. “It was a calculated risk,” you say carefully. “Of all the marked Tyrrish, I am the one he trusts most. And I was prepared to kill him, had he not changed his mind about us.”

“Does he know that?” Xaden asks.

“No,” you answer, ashamed. You still don’t know if you could have gone through with it — could have lifted the dagger you’d held behind your back while he watched the last year’s events through your eyes and struck true, stopped the heart of the man you love.

Acid rises in your throat at the thought. You swallow it back down, continuing. “He may have hurt us in the past, but he was not raised as we were. A hundred others we brought with us can attest to the history that he was taught, the side of the story he was led to believe until I showed him otherwise.”

The assembly is silent.

You lower your head, unable to look at them. “Lock me up if you wish, kill me if you must. All I ask is that you spare his life.”

Brennan is the first to soften — he knows Dain, regarded him as a younger brother for years. That and the fact that you’re willing to die for the boy is evidence enough for him. “Very well. He may join the rest of us and keep his position as wingleader.”

Nobody dares to disagree with him.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You bow to them, taking your leave.

It’s easy enough to swipe a plate of food from the kitchens, carrying it up to the room Dain has been locked in all weekend. The guard posted outside sees the mark on your arm, letting you enter without question. 

At least two people in this fortress still trust you.

Dain’s head snaps up when the door opens, visibly relaxing as he sees it’s you.

You set the plate aside, moving to embrace him for the first time in days.

“Hi, my love,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around you.

“Hi,” you sniff, eyes watering.

You had told the assembly that you were prepared to kill him, but now that you’re in his arms, you know that you could never do anything to hurt him, no matter what he had decided.

Your tears are falling steadily now — you’ve cried nearly every day these last few weeks, constantly overwhelmed with emotion. You climb into his lap, needing him close. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he soothes, resting his hand on the side of your neck and stroking his thumb over your pulse. This is the closest he’ll come to touching your face since the night he discovered his signet — save for the other day, when you’d taken his hand in yours and pressed it to your cheek, showing him everything.

You’d cracked open your heart for him, spread it onto the table and let him see it all, and he had stood and watched, seen the other side of the story. It had hurt him then, to realize that you’d hidden all of this from him for almost two years, but the warm saltwater dripping onto his hand had snapped him out of it quickly.

He wants to dry your tears again now, to brush them away with a gentle sweep of his finger, but he won’t cross that line with you again. He can’t.

“I love you,” he says softly.

“I love you too,” you answer, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand.

He shushes you softly, holding you closer. There’s a moment of calm quiet, the two of you just breathing each other in.

“I told them,” you say in a cracked whisper, unable to keep it from him any longer. “I told the assembly that I showed you everything.”

His eyes widen. “Why did you…?”

“I couldn’t stand silent while they talked about you that way. I convinced them that you are truly our ally, that it wasn’t your fault that you were taught only one side of the story.”

He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, your noses brushing. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” you reply. “For doing the right thing. I don’t think I could have bared to leave without you.”

He smiles softly. “I would follow you anywhere, my love.”

-------------------------------------------------------

You are so sick of this hike, and you aren’t even halfway done. For team-building, the leadership had said. Yeah, right. You feel like you’ve been herding a pack of wild animals all morning.

“If we press on for twenty minutes, there’s another flat section,” Bodhi explains, showing you the map that Brennan had given you.

You can’t hear the rest of his explanation through the ringing in your ears, the map blurring at the edges. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision, but it’s no use — the tiny black spots won’t go away.

“Hey,” Bodhi prods, waving a hand, “are you hearing me?”

“Give me a minute,” you pant, reaching out to touch the wall of rock behind you. Your legs feel too heavy, your upper body too light — your heart is racing, but the beats feel too shallow. 

Something is wrong.

“You should sit,” he and your dragon offer at once.

You shift your left leg, moving to lower yourself to the ground, and the black spots grow until you can’t see anything. You lose the last of your balance, crumpling into the dirt.

Bodhi stops your head from hitting the rocks just in time.

-------------------------------------------------------

You don’t remember how you got here, nor much of the physical exam; don’t know if it took five minutes or an hour, but the healer is incredibly gentle with you; speaking softly, giving you water to drink and medicine to take, encouraging you to rest.

You shut your eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to sleep, not when the rest of your friends are still out climbing that mountain, crossing a trail littered with death traps. 

“They’re doing just fine,” Cosa soothes. “They’ll be back faster if you sleep.”

You feel much better when you wake up. 

The sun is starting to set. You must have been out for hours.

The healer comes back a few minutes later with Dain in tow. You reach for him instantly, relieved to see him in one piece. He stands at the side of the bed, wrapping an arm around you and letting you lean into his side.

“It could be a circulation issue, but since it hasn’t happened before, I’d say it was likely just dehydration and overexertion,” the healer explains.

That’s probably it. You were too busy making sure your section was moving quickly enough, that they were avoiding the traps and staying out of trouble. You’d spent your two rest breaks preventing the riders and fliers from coming to blows, having to physically restrain one of the first-years. Your jaw still aches from where you’d taken an elbow to the face in the process.

“There’s another thing,” she says, hesitating as she looks between you and Dain, appearing to debate if she can say this in front of him -- whatever it is, it clearly isn’t good.

Dain takes your hand in his, intertwining your fingers and looking up at her, waiting.

You nod in permission.

She overcomes her nerves, spitting it out. “You’re… expecting.”

The air in the room stills completely as you take in the information, the soft tick of the clock on the wall the only indication that time hasn’t frozen solid.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” she says quietly, darting out of the room and shutting the door behind her.

You still haven’t moved. You’ve forgotten how to speak.

“Breathe, love,” Dain soothes, rubbing your back. The warmth of his hand brings you out of your stunned haze.

You take in a lungful of air, letting it out slowly.

There’s no denying it, no pleading innocence or wondering how this could have possibly happened — it makes total sense, even through your dull headache and the fog still clouding your mind.

You’ve spent two nights a week in his bed for the last year and a half, and you haven’t had one cup of contraceptive tea since you arrived at Riorson house, or in the month before that either — you’d been out in the field every weekend for your third-year classes.

You’d missed a period or two, but you had chalked it up to the stress of your responsibilities as a section leader and the final straws that had led half the quadrant to desert with you. It would definitely not have been the first time that Basgiath had messed with your cycle; hardly any of the girls in your year got their period until after Threshing.

“Talk to me,” Dain coaxes quietly, looking at you with softness in his eyes.

“Why are you not freaking out right now?” You ask after a moment.

He manages a soft laugh. “I am, but I know you are too, and I’m more worried about you right now.”

You blow out a breath. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do this. None of our friends have kids. My parents are dead, and yours…”

“Have probably already disowned me for being here,” he finishes for you, shrugging, but you can tell it hurts.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, guilt tugging at you. Had he stayed behind, he would have been able to keep them, he’d still have the thing you’ve desired most for six years now.

But then you’d be completely alone in raising this child.

The thought sends a sharp spike of fear into your chest. You’ve already lost so many friends in your two years at Basgiath, and you’re headed straight for a war, fighting against dark magic that none of you really understand. What if Dain doesn’t make it through?

“We’ll figure it out,” he reassures you, “together.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Dain doesn’t leave your side all night, keeping one hand on you whenever he can. He treats you like a princess, going so far as to kneel down to lace your boots for you in the morning, despite your quiet insistence that you could do it yourself.

You’re prepared to resume your usual routine; strict professionalism by day, gentle words and soft touches after dark, but he takes your hand, walking down the hall with you to the mess for breakfast.

You get shocked looks from a few of your classmates, but it’s nice being able to be seen with him for once instead of keeping the two of you a secret. Not that you’d be able to for very much longer, anyway — two is quickly going to become three.

It takes all of five minutes for your friends to spot you.

“I called it!” Bodhi exclaims, elbowing Imogen.

“I already knew,” Imogen says, unamused.

You’re deathly still, heart racing. 

Dain rests a hand on your lower back as he speaks. “Knew what?”

“About you two hooking up. Do you have any idea how many times you idiots have shown up to morning formation with your shoes untied, wearing each other’s knives?”

You laugh at her bluntness — you thought you’d been slick, always arriving to class five minutes apart and from different directions, avoiding eye contact at all costs… evidently not.

“You two look good together,” Bodhi decides. “It’s weird, but it’s cute.”

You sigh in relief. Bodhi is the one that you knew you could count on to be nice about this; the one you’ve wanted to tell about you and Dain for months now.

Dain blinks. “Why are you guys being so chill right now?”

“Do you not want me to be chill?” Imogen challenges, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I just… I was expecting the shovel talk. You know, the whole “I’ve got a sword and a shovel and I know how to use both” thing?”

“Oh, that’s Garrick’s job,” she supplies, almost too cheerfully. “And I think he’ll be a little more detailed than that.”

Dain pales, realizing that your foster brother likely won’t be as calm about this as your friends — and that there’s another very important thing that you’ll have to tell him, too.

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be there to hold him back.”

Imogen nearly gags at the sight, but straightens her face quickly enough. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” 

“Me too,” you respond, smiling for the first time this week.

Maybe this won’t go as terribly as you’d thought.

-------------------------------------------------------

Word travels fast in the rider’s quadrant.

Garrick approaches you in the main hall that afternoon.

You begin the speech you’d rehearsed in your head all morning. “I need to talk to you about something. I-”

He raises a hand, and you fall silent. “Bo already told me, and he made sure I was unarmed for this conversation.”

You let out a sigh of relief — he’s missing his two longswords and the array of daggers he normally keeps strapped to his body. 

If you survive the next seven months, you’ll name Bodhi the kid’s godfather for this act alone.

You still place yourself in front of Dain as subtly as you can as Garrick starts a speech of his own. 

“You’re an adult, and you can make your own decisions. It’s not my place to tell you what to do off the battlefield. Even if I did, I know you wouldn’t hear it. You’ve always been your own person; it’s one of the things I admire about you.” 

You’re actually touched.

“Do you love him?” He asks, looking over at the wingleader, who has remained uncharacteristically silent, probably too terrified to speak. 

“I do,” you answer, smiling softly. “I have for two years now.”

Garrick believes you. 

It’s clear that the words pain him, but he says them anyway; “Welcome to the family, Aetos.”

Dain extends a hand to shake. “Thank you.”

Garrick takes it, gripping it hard enough to hurt as he tugs him forward, clapping his other hand onto the younger man’s shoulder. “Know that if you ever do anything to hurt her, you’ll be answering to me and me alone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dain says, and the Lieutenant knows that he means it. 

Garrick leaves before you can work up the courage to tell him the other news.

-------------------------------------------------------

Dozens of riders pass by, ready to head to the flight field and assume their positions — but Dain keeps you locked in place.

“You really expect me to stand idle while you and all of our friends fight for their lives? I should be out there with them!” You huff. You’re ready to fight, fully dressed and heavily armed, and you couldn’t give a damn what he thinks.

“Absolutely not,” Dain says. “I won’t let you risk it.”

You bristle. “That isn’t your call, and you know it!”

“What are you two bickering about at this hour?” Garrick asks, one eyebrow raised.

You cross your arms over your chest, looking at your brother like a child tattling to their schoolteacher. “Please explain to the wingleader that we’re at war, and that he can’t just bench me whenever he feels like it. I’m a grown woman, and I can decide what is and isn’t safe for myself.”

“But it isn’t just you we’re talking about here,” Dain says quietly, genuine hurt in his voice.

You’re silent. Dain has a point — you don’t want to admit it, but he has a point. 

Garrick doesn’t follow. “What is he going on about?”

Dain looks at you, standing his ground. “If you won’t tell him, I will.”

Your heart drops. Is he really going to force your hand here?

You have to tell Garrick eventually — you can’t keep this a secret much longer. You decide to rip the bandage off, turning to face your foster brother, though you can’t seem to raise your voice above a whisper as you speak. “Please don’t freak out, but…”

His eyes drop to the hand you have placed over your stomach, a nervous habit you’ve developed in the last week, and he puts it together before you can say the words aloud, lunging toward Dain — he’s going to kill him.

You jump between them, wrapping your arms around Garrick tightly and planting your feet to the floor, pushing him back.

He relaxes at your touch, unfolding the fist that was aimed for Dain’s jaw and resting his hand flat on your back; he could never hurt you, especially not now.

“Please don’t be mad at him,” you say into his shoulder, your eyes still squeezed shut. “This is as much my fault as it is his. We’re both adults, we knew that this could happen, but we acted anyway, and now we’re facing the consequences, together.”

Dain nods in agreement behind you. “I have every intention of marrying your sister and spending the rest of my life with her after this is over.”

You turn back to look at him, stunned. 

He's never told you that before. You’d never discussed life beyond graduation — had lost too many of your friends over the years to make any promises about the future, and there was never any guarantee that you’d be stationed together after graduating, either.

“If she’ll have me, that is,” he adds, nervous.

You nod, letting go of Garrick and moving to hug Dain, hiding your face in his neck.

“Are you… crying?” Garrick asks.

“Of course I’m crying,” you sniff. “It’s the hormones.”

Dain laughs, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love you, and I’m sorry for overreacting. If you want to fight with us, I won’t stop you.”

“Love you too,” you say quietly.

“Holy shit,” Bodhi breathes from across the room. “I’m gonna be an uncle?”

Oh, gods.

“Congratulations,” he grins at you before running off. “Hey guys! Guess what?”

Three seconds pass, and then there’s a loud “What the fuck?” from down the hall — that can only be Imogen. 

You laugh through your tears as the ruckus continues, the rest of the marked ones reacting to the news one by one.

“At least we won’t have to tell everyone ourselves,” Dain jokes, still holding you. “Bodhi will have informed the entire army by noon.”

Garrick shakes his head, laughing too, but he sobers up quickly enough. “The circumstances may be shitty, but this kid is going to have two dozen aunts and uncles who will protect them with their life.”

“And a riot of dragons,” Cosa adds. “We will care for your young like one of ours.”

Dain is right -- you’ll figure this out together; all of you.

-------------------------------------------------------

“A perfect baby girl,” the older of the two healers tells you, smiling warmly.

You sigh in relief, resting back against the pillows and loosening your grip on Dain’s hand. 

He presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead, murmuring soft praises; how strong you are, how amazing you were…

“Hi, pretty girl,” the healer coos down at her. “Let’s meet mom and dad, hm?” 

It finally sets in for both of you, that you two are mom and dad now — you’re parents.

She slowly transfers the babe into your arms. You’ve never held anything this carefully in your life; afraid to move or breathe, utterly silent.

A tiny hand wiggles free from the blanket, fingers grasping at the air.

“She’s so little,” Dain whispers in awe, extending a finger. She’s quick to wrap her hand around it, latching on to him.

He looks like he’s going to cry.

“She’s not marked,” you breathe.

You’re the first of the marked ones to have a child of your own, and while you knew it was probably irrational, your biggest worry over the last six months — aside from the venin and wyvern or anything terrible happening to you or your friends — was that you would somehow pass down your relic to her, that she would live her whole life with others instantly assuming the worst of her.

“She’s free to be whatever she wants to be,” Dain says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “She won’t be forced into conscription like we were.”

You still haven’t decided on a name -- until now.

“Saoirse Álainn,” you say softly. “It means beautiful freedom, in the old language.”

“Saoirse Álainn,” he repeats, still gazing down at her. “I like that.”

She’s beautiful indeed — the best of both of you; the gentle warmth of her father’s skin and a dusting of his dark brown hair, your eyes and nose.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, “for showing me that what I’d been taught was wrong, and giving me the greatest gift I could ever ask for.”

You can’t help but melt into him, the exhaustion finally starting to overtake you. It’s been a long night — you’d woken up around two in the morning and realized what was happening, quickly rousing Dain, who carried you down here. It’s almost noon now, soft June sun filtering through the drapes.

“I got her. You should sleep.”

He takes Saorise from you gently, careful to support her head like the healers had taught you as he cradles her in his arms. 

The tiny girl makes a soft sound of complaint at the movement, but quickly relaxes, content to fall asleep against his chest. 

“Get some rest, my girls,” he whispers. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

[zooterscooter]

the people have spoken :) 7am ramble under cut tee hee

thoughts came to me while making this piece !! made coherent by a day of writing and rewriting my ideas

not entirely sure how to start this and i really hope it’s cohesive LMAO i’m really sorry if this is borderline unreadable i can’t tell

but anyway. i’ve been seeing a lot of art and thoughts about click clack and what he has under his literal and metaphorical mask and i want to throw my hat in the ring as well

firstly i think it’s a pretty clear take on masking who you are, right. as an editor you’re always cutting things out and making things better and more consumable for others to enjoy. but it makes me wonder where the story editing ends and where the self editing starts and continues ? in canon, he’s cutting out the romance from “oh partner mine!” because he can’t stand to face his own feelings for thespius, but that makes me question how much more “editing” he does on himself and his life ? even beyond his love life, his relationship with thespius ?

i think that he’s scared, obviously. along with being scared of love, i think there’s a real high possibility that he’s scared of the responsibility of being a god, even years after being one. see- he might think he has to be perfect for his followers and always have this perfect persona for them to follow, putting himself on a pedestal. being the best at what he does, making himself out to be something great- always talking about how amazing and handsome he is- but beneath that i think there’s a bunch of insecurity. it’s like.. man cmon there’s no way you’re actually like this..

i think he might choose to not deal with it- “i have issues but i also have people to watch over so idrgaf about that rn” style. even before the whole canon thing with the letters happened i think there was a high possibility that he still carried a lot of his insecurities and kept emotions from being mortal, not finding any time (or maybe any reason) to pick apart these things and grow from it.

he might think that he, as a god, cannot POSSIBLY be struggling with anything. gods aren’t supposed to feel things like that. gods don’t have to deal with things like identity issues and human emotions. something must me wrong with him and he can’t tell anyone or else they’ll think he’s unfit to be in his position. maybe thinking that if he shows even the slightest hint of not being what he pretends to be, he’ll be outed and shunned, or the . ggg equivalent of that. yknow.

but yknow going back to the original point- how much more can he do this, put on a front, repress everything that doesn’t fit this image of himself he’s created for others (that he’s now starting to believe he has to be), change who he is- how long can he continue on with this all before it gets to be too much to handle ? too much to keep track of ? what would his breaking point have been, if it weren’t for the canon events ?

who is he really, and does he even know himself ? sure, he can control what others see with both the literal and metaphorical mask, but what’s he like with all that taken away ? there’s of course a little bit of either in the other, but i feel like the lines blur so much that it’s hard for him to pick apart what is what.

i do think after the events in game, he would probably work through his. problems. with the help of thespius, the other gods etc etc. he was vulnerable enough to finally accept his feelings for thespius, so i think he might eventually get comfortable enough with it all to go through the more sinister things, especially after the whole “communication with loved ones is good and healthy actually” message of the game. recovery is sweeter with the company of those who care,,

another, less heavy idea i had about the mask was that maybe he wears it as a way to hide himself away from the spotlight partially. being an editor always meant being behind the scenes, right. so maybe he uses it as a way to have some familiarity, some anonymity. or perhaps- as a friend offered while reading this over- as a thing to hide behind looks wise. maybe be was just self conscious of his god form but then the mask is what made his brand or something and he just kept it on for those reasons.

however i had that thought a month ago and now have some other ideas. maybe that started OUT as his plan, just to use it as a way to keep his public and private life separate, or as a crutch for his self consciousness- but then he realized that with the mask he could be whatever he wanted to be, whenever he wanted. and then it went downhill from there, turning into a long and emotional wreck that would haunt him for years and years and years and years-

as a closing note !! i also think this could be taken as a transgender thing, as well as an autism thing, perhaps even both, and quite possibly all three. idk stay tuned if people like this insight i might work with it more.

but yeah anyways !! i had a lot of fun thinking about this and its has been sitting in my head for a week or so… i finally got around to making that art, which kickstarted people’s interest in this, which was nice. i’ll definitely be making more art for this all and PLEASE let me know your insight on this if you have any,,, im all ears

also obligatory “this is just what i think it’s most definitely not anywhere near canon pls be nice 💔” bc im an anxious man about to go to bed

[punkeropercyjackson]

I really resent the idea Hobie isn't traumatized or has no mental health problems/emotional issues because he's so clearly an allegory for the adultification of black kids(and therefore actually one)like how Gwen is obviously an allegory for trans girls(and therefore actually one).The most you'll get out of Atsv fans on it is 'he grew up too fast' but they never go in depth into how much it must've hurt him and who hurt him.Society as a whole,no duh,but in the comics,he's implied to be an orphan and the only incarnations we have of his parents are his dad abandoning him as a baby and his mom turning abusive over it.That's what adultification,objectively,is-Child abuse.Hobie's not 'practically an adult',he is mentally and physically a minor and he was robbed of the right to be one nonstop,systematically.He had to fight for his right to exist,he has to fight for others right to exist and he dosen't really get to rest and just feel like a real kid all that often.Plus,realistically,Hobie isn't looked on positively in his world and that would do damage to anybody's self-eestem as a highly profilic public figure but especially to a black child and while he's the coolest ever the whole time,i can't buy he's always known that and i'll bet he was told the opposite by other kids growing up and how socially awkward he is sometimes makes me think his number of friends wasn't all that high and a common experience amongst alt/punk black kids is isolation and bullying from other children for being 'weird' and there's the confirmation he used to be homeless before his houseboat so the orphan status seems to be carried over to this take on him too

I know he wasn't onscreen for as long as Gwen so i don't fault people for not recognizing this and focusing moreso on her explicit traumatic experiences,moreover since it tends to involve him comforting her and i'm a sucker for troubled kid solidarity and romance,most of all since this one is canonically t4t and possibly transmasc4transfem specifically and even punk4punk too instead of them 'he was a punk,she did ballet' poserpills

Still,lack of screentime never stopped anyone for making up tons of tragic aus for Pavitr and even The Spot and erasing Jefferson and Rio to do with them Miles too as if Miles G dosen't exist and pulled it off infinitely better than any fanon alternative universe Miles i've ever encountered.This is going to get some people tweaking too but this is also exactly why i hate No.irpunk and even the platonic concept of Hobie instantly respecting Noir.Hobie has much more street cred than Noir and way heavier trauma and Noir isn't even punk-He's an antifa but punk is a culture,not just an ideology and i find it an unearned superiority complex N/H shippers will disregard Hobie's actual romantic chemistry with Gwen based on her loving him for who he is and giving somebody to bond over mutual interests with and heal his inner child in the process to say he should be a freedom fighter and nothing more,as if he's not a 17 year old black boy and Noir very,VERY likely a middle aged white man who's culture(not punk)(judaism)is against pedophillic relathionships as a religious rule.There's no evidence for Hobie being an adult but there's plenty borderline text saying he's an adultified black teenager and i wish it was spoken on instead of performative 'lmao fuck captalism' jokes as you buy official Atsv merch and stereotyped sexualization over a character who never got to grow up,not as a 'real kid' nor enough to be in the proper headspace to explore his sexuality as openly as a normal teen

[cowboylikeyouu]

why does everybody hate mcu clint so much??? i’ve read his comics but i still love jeremy renner’s portrayal of him and stuff :(

like i can understand being disappointed in some ways about how the character was changed for the movies, but i can’t understood all the hate for him

for me, personally, it's not that mcu clint is a bad character per se, it's really just the fact that he doesn't feel like clint barton. give him any other name and he's a fine character, but compare him to comic clint and they're in NO WAY the same person.

on one hand you have that responsible, serious husband and well adjusted father of three, who cracks a joke here and there but takes everything pretty serious most of the time, who has his life under control, while everyone else on the team is a mess. he doesn't have that much of a personality, no weird habits or (dis)likes, he really fades in comparison to other team members like tony, who's lines are always on point and who gets a back story and everything.

on the other hand there's this 6'3" disaster of a human being, who lives for coffee, dogs, tv shows and nothing else, is obsessed with purple for no reason at all, grew up in a circus after he escaped his abusive dad, can't take anything seriously and cracks the funniest joke all the fucking time, even makes fun of captain america on a regular basis (at least in the early avengers comics), runs away from himself and responsibility, fucks up nearly all of his relationships because he really sucks at emotions, but then forms those really precious bonds with people like kate, and who's just kind of an asshole really, but simultaneously a fucking ray of sunshine. plus he's deaf and we always love some representation. oh, and mcu clint is like the straightest guy ever, and then there's comic clint who is just so easy to headcanon as this bisexual disaster, and we all know how much fandom loves a queer coded character.

so, the mcu basically took away every fun part of the awesome character that is clint barton and it SUCKS. i really don't hate movie clint as his own character, i just hate hate HATE the fact that he's supposed to be THE clint barton because he IS NOT, and he'll never be. i'm sorry, but jeremy renner just can't pull it off, i'll never understand how they saw bigger-than-steve, blond-mess, purple-loving, coffee-addict comic clint and where like: "oh yeah, let's cast 5' 9" jeremy renner and give his character a huge, healthy family, and no mental health problems, that's just perfect😍"

it's just so sad to be aware of the awesomeness of comic clint and then watch the movies because you're constantly thinking "oh what could've been..." if they did comic accurate movie clint, he'd definitely be a fan-favourite and we'd have tons of edits, and ships, and merchandise, but NO, most mcu fans just forget about him or don't find him special or entertaining (bc his mcu version really really isn't) and he gets left out of all the casual merchandise you can find in random shops (i literally have an album on my phone that's dedicated to photos i took of cheap avengers merchandise with the "o6" avengers sans clint lmao)

you're obviously allowed to love movie clint and jeremy's portrayal, that's great!!! i was an mcu fan way before i even knew just how different comic clint was, and i loved mcu clint so much back then! but after reading the comics and thousands of fanfiction, i'm just really really angry that there isn't a good live action on screen representation of my all time favourite fictional character, and i think many people feel the same :(

okay, i think i'm done lmao.

anyways, shout out to avengers assemble clint, my one true love <3 the mcu should take notes.

[acupofteaintheafternoon]

Hiii!! I heard you write for Limbus Company!

I’m not sure you write for side characters, but I wanna request a Vergilius x sinner!reader where Vergilius doesn’t want to admit to himself he’s in love, but it’s clear to the others that he’s a lot kinder/softer to the reader

Vergilius x reader, having a hard time to express his emotions

where the fuck are the limbus company banners, i'm asking for a friend, also his name is so hard to spell. and also i'm sorry if he is ooc

made these headcannons too long i swear

The hell is going on that bus? There’s no sane sinner in that bus (maybe except Ishmael and Heathcliff)

And then we have someone like Vergilius. Complicated ass man. (just like Edgeworth)

I do not know him on a personal level but this is what I can say. When he is in love he’s obvious about it, as much to his dismay

You’re a sinner , that’s all that you have to know. But this man is so obvious even you realise how in love he is with you.

You could be the most oblivious person on earth but you could still realize that ''yeah he does love me''

He is strict as fuck with others, stricter than that one teacher that everybody hates. But with you? He is kinder.

He doesn't accompany you in missions yet he has a soft spot for you. He is concerned about your safety

As much as Dante can bring the sinners back, he is still concerned about you and your own safety. What if Dante cannot bring you back? What if you get lost? What if Dante dies and you die too? His thoughts are spiraling 

Expect this man to be a little bit more talkative with you and asking you about your missions. 

Faust does that for him but with you? He asks you first. And he likes seeing you talk about how the mission itself

If you’re a yapper (like me) then he will actually pay attention to what you have to say (unlike he does with Don Quixote)

He is miserable , that’s true (and looks like smoked Roland from Library of Ruina lmao) but your presence in that hellhole of a bus makes everything better for him

Charon sees you as a mother figure but says nothing about Vergilius and how he’s acting towards you. You have to discover it yourself in the end

Even if he doesn’t accompany you all in dogshit he will still be there waiting for you to come back

This man DOES NOT SMILE AT ALL. He forgot the basics of smiling. But that frowned mouth of his might make a tiny bit of a smile when you’re there.

Now to the juicy part, how does he deal with his emotions?

Simple, be in denial. That’s all.

He will try to distance himself from you but it is almost impossible, given the fact that you’re with him 24/7

Even the others in the bus saw that he is a lot kinder and softer with you

Rodion keeps on telling you in her way that Vergilius loves you

Heathcliff is even worse. He doesn’t bring it up to you but brings it up to others, in his way of talking obviously. 

The only sinners that actually cared to tell you are Rodion and maybe Ryoshu (my beloved). The rest are like ‘’go realise it yourself’’

This man is not a loser as much to everyone’s disappointment. He does not blush, he does not stutter, he does not become awkward and he responds in the most serious way possible. He will call your antics stupid while he thinks that they’re cute or some shit.

Love is like a new word for him. What does it mean? What language is it? Does the language even exist? Is it in the english dictionary? How do you spell it?

Yeah…Good luck dealing with Vergilius’s confession (if he is even going to confess, that’s the problem)

Also, good luck going through his pavement of approximately 828 emotional walls built around him. Thank you for your sacrifice

[verdantlights]

SON OF ARES

INZO

INFO:

He/him/It/its, AMAB

Human

6'4" and 210lbs

Owner is Scistrae

Brand is across his chest above his heart

TRIVIA:

He is the youngest sibling to Vant's family of Tov, Wren, and Cato. And he lucked out with the best genes /silly

Is aware it and Cato are brothers. Doesn't know about Wren and Tov..................yet.

Has an odd relationship with Demi (read: situgaytionship)

Autistic

It has the same owner as Toki. No it does not know about Toki, but Scistrae loves Inzo a lot more than Toki.

He is a fucking UNIT. and he makes sure everyone fucking knows this because he FIGHTS.

The Crashout™ of Season 41.

Always collared and has been locked up Till Style on multiple occasions.

He fights due to immense anger issues caused by severe emotional regulation (autm,,...autmim...)

He finds fighting to be a good outlet and loves it more than anything, honestly. He's the type of guy to have fun and laugh while throwing punches. Like fighting is a game.

Demi is it's favorite opponent. its very homoerotic

Actually pretty chill outside of it's temper. It may get worked up easily and have very low patience, but people around it have learned to just... not rile him up. Which is actually really easy to do.

So he's just a guy more often than not.

He is a jersey type beat. just. full stop. he is the jersey beat period.

Fighting is a dance form to him.

Types of fighting include whatever the fuck he got from reading books. More often than not, it's martial arts. This is because martial arts are written down a lot more than something like boxing. so theres no specific art he's a master of, its just a mix of a bunch of things hes read about

A massive fucking math nerd. He loves math and numbers. Finds itself counting a lot and solving problems in his head almost as a form of stimming.

That was the other thing, fighting is like stimming to him LMAO. i mean it has to be if its what helps him regulate his anger.

It has vitiligo, obviously, but it's genetically modified to be more randomized instead of in usual spots (hands, around the eyes, around the mouth, etc etc.) and is also a combination of both scalp and skin vitiligo. I don't remember the names of the specifics, but I know that they are separate and it's very rare to be born with both. But..... Inzo has both.

Idk man he's so pretty i love it so much im so proud of it.ahhagagdhf

OTHER:

gaybyoy.

his genetics in general are pretty rare considering his eyes are a lightish green.

inzo being siblings with tov, wren, and cato was completely like. vant offhandedly mentioned that because of the vitiligo and autism, inzo could totally be a part of the family and im like hell fucking yeah.

cryinrg this is so funny to me

im gonna be so honest i kept forgetting to do this so im so sorry that it looks like ass. im focused on a lot of different things at once,,, euueueue

Demi belongs to @lulling-riot / @/alien-til-i-stage gay gay homosexual gay

Tov, Wren, and Cato belong to @ivanttakethis hi vant ily vant

@apple8ees @chevalperd @bluemoonscape @rockwgooglyeyes @apriciticreveries @junebluues @awaggaa @messengers-of-the-gods @friedclownshrimp @starry-skiez @yunoftheclouds

my brain is hurting too much i mightve forgotten to tag someone,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

also me when i lie

[theladyofbloodshed]

https://www.tumblr.com/theladyofbloodshed/773948820583333888/of-all-the-things-feyre-did-and-was-never-held?source=share

I think that at some point we just have to accept that not everything can be twisted into making the character that we don't like into a horrible person. And this is just one of those times.

This particular take of yours is very obviously born of your own bias and dislike for Feyre not to mention, astonishingly hypocritical considering you call Jurian seducing an innocent woman who loved him and gave him all the information about his enemy just to then kill her in one of the cruelest ways possible all because she was a Fae, him "sacrificing himself" for his people. Like... Make it make sense. If Jurian can cut his lover into little pieces while slowly torturing her, despite her doing everything he wanted then why can't Feyre kill a wolf that a) she wasn't entirely sure was actually a living creature like humans and fae b) was clearly a threat to her own family and all the humans living in nearby villages considering how entire human populations got reduced into bloody ribbons just weeks ago before her hunt?

Trying to paint Andras into this poor innocent, unsuspecting target of the very evil Feyre just doesn't work because not only is he a completely non-character, with nothing to make the audience feel emotionally invested in him, and who exists to serve as a mere plot device to move the story forward, but he's also a supernatural being whose race has oppressed humans for centuries and is still continuing to do so by crossing into their lands (that violate the treaty they'd signed) and Andras was doing exactly that. He enters human lands willingly, with the sole purpose of terrifying humans enough that one of them kills him just so his high lord can take her away to his lands and then make her solve their problem. A problem that was literally just a result of Fae being so racists that they use the word human as a slur to insult each other. If I were to see Andras as a proper character I would think him (and even Tamlin), horribly selfish for preying on human fear and hatred that was completely understandable and born out of the centuries of oppression humans were subjected to by the Fae.

Feyre has made many bad decisions. Many. Remember when she set the Lady of Autumn on fire during an emotional outburst a meeting where there were meant to be sanctions against any violence, but sweet baby high lady never faced any consequences? Or when she stole from Tarquin after pretending to be his friend and flirting? Or when she locked her sister up in a house?

Jurian (a mortal) killed a fae who was ENSLAVING his people and slaughtering them lmao and he gets a lot of heat for that decision from the characters with all of them believing he was insane, including Mor who once considered him a friend. It is entirely different to the situation with Andras, but also Jurian did suffer for that, for 500 years.

Andras is a tragic character because he was doomed from the start. He willingly went to die for the high lord that he loved to try and break the curse on his people. He isn’t fleshed out properly or touched on again really by Tamlin and Lucien because SJM isn’t a good writer. The untapped potential to have a family waiting for their son to return home was wasted. There could have been a mother in the spring court who had no body to bury because he was skinned who could have crossed paths with Feyre and provided amazing drama and yet nope.

Feyre killed him in cold blood which was what the curse required – but she did know he was a faerie. She acknowledges that his size is too large so suspects he is a faerie.

Andras lets her shoot him in the eye then again with an ash arrow. He doesn’t run. He stands there and lets it happen because he knows she will be the mortal to save them. To me, that is tragic and Feyre never acknowledging his death or feeling remorseful either shows SJM is not a good writer OR Feyre has no empathy. It’s swept under the rug so sweet baby Feyre remains innocent.

Nowhere does it say the faerie killed in cold blood must also be skinned for fur. Me saying that Feyre killing him was bad isn’t me trying to twist a narrative.

Feyre is not remorseful about it at all and if sjm wanted to write a nuanced character then she’d at least have Feyre reflect on Andras or the faeries she killed utm with regret.

I'm sorry but you can't claim the spring court fae are racist and terrorising mortals when Tamlin has lost the bulk of his sentries to deaths at the hands by mortals and the only one who was terrorising a mortal in book one was Rhys to his own damn mate lmao

and at the end of the day

it's not real

i can dislike feyre

[faerise-fae]

Not really a marauders character but: Tom Riddle #20!

YAPPING WARNING ABOUT ASPD TOM RIDDLE AGAIN

Ok so sorry for taking so long to do this, but my brain crashes every time i try to think about something that isn't obvious or just fucking boring. BUT I REALLY WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YALL SO GIVE ME YOUR THOUGHTS

The hill I'll die on is that he is an ASPD baddie, tho I bet he would prefer thinking about himself as sociopath, as edgy teens do. It doesn't mean I think he is totally emotionless, i think he is very emotional. Just not empathetic? This man is purely driven by his emotions from the start. Be it fear of death, resentment, and hatred towards Dumbledore or just general anger directed at the stupidity of the wizarding nation. In ASPD it's just that the intensity of expression of those emotions is different. He can look totally put together and like an oasis of peace, but inside planning whatever insanities only he can think of.

Because the thing is, anger issues are not rare in ASPD. ASPD is associated with impulsiveness and violent or risky behaviours, which can result in lashing out in anger. It's just that when you don't have many emotions to begin with, controlling the stronger ones can be difficult.

People have very different headcanons about him in that matter, i see a lot of totally stoic, calculating tom riddle who doesn't have absolutely any emotions and stuff like this, but I really can't see it. My man is a dramatic, cruel, entitled and IMPULSIVE edgelord BUT:

HOT TAKE #1:

Canon Tom Riddle headcanonned himself as fanon Tom Riddle.

He might have thought of himself as emotionless, but he just didn't acknowledge it. Growing up in an unstable environment, he hadn't learned how to stabilize himself.

Because ASPD is partialy caused by genetics, yes. But a very big factor in developing it is childhood and home life. We can agree his was very unstable, he has probably witnessed violence and definitely experienced emotional neglect. ASPD is all about lack of security. Its defence mechanism. That means:

My man just doesn't know how to cope, LMAO. When it was too much even for him to stuff into the back of his brain, he just lashed out. Acting on impulses was his relief from it. Adrenaline from it also helped to mute his feelings.

But at the same time, he just didn't think of himself as unreasonable. "It was never his fault, he was just provoked!" He also didn't feel guilty about causing harm to others because he didn't have any empathetic feelings towards anyone. How can you feel bad about idk, cursing someone if you don't see them as an individual with feelings of their own. Because how could he think about their feelings when he didn't have much of his own to compare and to even comprehend what they feel beside some very shallow understanding. AND BY THAT I DONT MEAN HE DIDNT KNOW HE WAS HURTING PEOPLE AROUND HIM HE WASNT A POOR LITTLE MEOW MEOW. HE KNEW, HE JUST DIDNT GET IT SO HE DIDNT CARE. But he obviously knew. So no empathy but more like an educated guess. Masking king. He learnt how emotions worked for other people and used it whenever he saw fit. Pure manipulation.

Because again neglectful caregiving = problems with attachment to people and forming relationships. In the end it's all about him in that aspect. His feelings are always about himself and making himself feel comfortable and stable. He was fond of his friends till they were useful and till he felt good with having them around. He took pride* in gaining their respect and loyalty. He was using them to stroke his ego basically. And was using them in general. For stuff and things.

*HOT TAKE #2:

And here i have my latest hot take: his similarity with Harry in that matter. Harry is a gryffindor with some slytherin traits. And imo Tom, with him being the most slytherin to ever slytherin, his crazy pride and impulsivity is so gryffindor.

So there's that beside how we can all agree he was a liar and manipulator.