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zynart · 2 years ago

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“book lovers” don’t love anything about books and it’s weird (or, defending classic novels)

kevin durant is talking about basketball fans but you’ll understand exactly what he means in a much broader sense if you’re on the basketball side of twitter and immediately recognize the mindset he’s describing — that it’s a sentiment that isn’t really about basketball fans at all, but about how we engage with all sorts of things especially in the social media era. but this tweet is just table-setting. the important thing here is that the rest of this post, about many writers and english teachers and book bloggers and overall people who describe themselves as book-lovers on the internet, can be summed up as a caption to this screenshot that just says “same energy”.

same energy. many writers and supposed booklovers on the internet actively dislike and disparage most literature. and actively dislike and disparage the entire literary tradition of the novel, and the novel as a form, and all the tools or frames of engaging with art, and many of the writers or novels known for beautiful writing, and the books that made up the history and development of the medium and inspired so many more of its writers and inspired stylistic shifts, so much fundamental context for any kind of novel… i’m losing my thread here but the point is, many people who describe themselves as book-lovers, many of them authors themselves or english teachers, will proudly and vocally announce their dislike and hatred of so many classic novels. often what seems like almost all of them.

and will not just proudly say so, but won’t shut up about it. and will bring it up constantly among themselves. it’s not a one-off thing either, this comes up con-fucking-stantly in what feels like almost any conversation about literature. often fully unprompted. and will somehow pretend it's an original insight and that they're being bold and brave and controversial and starting a conversation for saying it, when it's all been discourse every two months for as long as an online commons has existed, and when we all know they got that take from endless cycles of online discourse, and when the reason they say it is because they know people will agree with them, because we've seen how that plays out a million times already, b e c a u s e so many other people who like to imagine themselves as brave bold original thinkers for having picked up that opinion in a previous online cycle themselves will respond enthusiastically through some kind of collective pretense that it's a new conversation.

that's part of it too, everyone involved in that discussion collectively performs some kind of amnesia where this is a take they're hearing for the very first time, and speaking a truth they've always thought but never felt like it was socially acceptable to say. because that way, you get to feel like an original critical thinker without having to do any critical thinking, or to feel like you have a superior understanding of a piece of media without having any media literacy. and you get to feel some self-flattery about your superior insight for having the originality and courage to believe what is now a pretty mainstream view — maybe not mainstream among literati, but absolutely mainstream in the online commons, enough that you know many people agree with you already because you've seen the same agreement and mutual self-congratulation play out in a million online cycles already.

(it feels very disingenuous. maybe it's not consciously and intentionally disingenuous, maybe it's just a lack of self-awareness, but it's like.. you know how we could say a great joke at a family function that we once read on the internet, and they wouldn't know and would just think you're just that witty for coming up wiht it? like that, except we're all on the same internet and we'd all read the same joke already but we all have to pretend we'd never heard it before so we don't break kayfabe, because that way you can convince yourself that nobody else had seen it before and they all thought you were witty. everyone just performs the exact same roles every time discourse about any given book happens every 2-6 months on the internet. next time, can we all at least not pretend like this isn't the 26th time we've seen this conversation and spare all the "FINALLY someone said it!" "someone needed to start this conversation!" schtick? is that too harsh?)

but anyway. the thing is, alright. if you think jane austen is boring. and that the great gatsby is overrated. and also that the bronte sisters' books were super problematic (bc heathcliff and rochester with mad wife in the attic are both kinda misogynistic). and also that hemingway is boring posturing. and catcher in the rye is overrated (because the abused kid processing his brother's death is "annoying"). and that shakespeare is too old english style to be worth reading.

and that only pretentious wannabes read tolstoy or dostoevsky. and as for ursula k le guin or isaac asimov or philip k dick, sci-fi is a boring genre. and that nabokov is weird and kinda suss, and kundera seems like he has an ego and philosophizes too much (will claim to have liked one hundred years of solitude tho bc that’s still seen as fashionable). and only pretentious hipsters read david foster wallace or pynchon or franzen. none of them seem to remember that edith wharton exists. some quote george eliot as another white man, or just don’t mention her at all.

and never even mention chinua achebe or toni morrison or james baldwin or arundhati roy. and — this is something i actually saw being said on twitter in conversations between english teachers, authors, and people who call themselves book bloggers — say "kazuo ishiguro is only read by white people who want to feel smart but is actually full of weird stuff" while including a screenshot from a haruki murakami novel. even though ishiguro and murakami write very different books in very different styles, one has lived in the uk his whole life and his best known books are all set in the uk while the other is a japanese pop writer, and they have very little in common aside from a kinda sparse prose style and being ethnically asian…

at that point, do you even like literature?

having a few or couple of those opinions is one thing, people’s tastes vary and i don’t expect everyone to love every supposed literary classic, i’ll admit to not enjoying ‘a separate peace’ at all — but so many writers online proudly announce pretty much all of this. and it’s usually not even with specific justification about the specific author or book, just broad strokes commentary. a lot of it seems to be half-remembered from bored high school years, books where they barely remember what even happened during them but retained their opinions on them with full unwavering confidence, a lot of the comments that sound like someone who’s only vaguely heard of the book and not even to the level of reading the wikipedia page to check, who misunderstood the main themes and seems to not have tried to critically engage with it at all.

honestly, i know most people online's clever opinions about books are just regurgitated from the internet. i’m pretty convinced this applies to 80% of all mentions of the catcher in the rye online, for example. fuck it, here’s the screenshot of the ishiguro/murakami incident i mentioned a couple paragraphs back:

how is this not, really, just the hardcore marvel-only fan types of the book world? people who aren’t happy with their movies basically being so dominant they’ve outcompeted every other kind of movie in cinemas and make a trillion dollars, but also demand they get the critical appraisal of the godfather, and that martin scorsese praises them without reservation as high art, and also that they should get the same kind of respect and cachet among film artsy types as people who love all the classics of cinema or whatever. it’s the exact same mindset.

in a way, i feel like a lot of how gen x-millennial-zoomers are about art is like a relatively harmless version of how maga boomers are about society, in the sense of.. having the smallest expectation made of you or the smallest amount of effort/inconvenience asked or anything that isn’t super familiar exactly the way things were unchallenging or anyone not praising you for all of it is some kind of horrific thing that shouldn’t be allowed. i think this is a pretty terrible cultural development, as those go. its some kind of social collective self-infantilizing, all propped up by a whole circle of mutual reflexive defensiveness at any criticism of this way of being. and it’s a bit stressful saying all this knowing that there’s a pretty good chance that if the shoe fits, the response is likely not going to be a careful consideration — i mean, why would this somewhat incoherent and sloppily edited rant by some random on the internet warrant a level of careful consideration that people are proud of denying f scott fitzgerald or toni morrison?

its normal to have to put in a little tiny bit of effort and accommodation to access great things, like good art or a functional society. it’s good, even. it’s part of what makes life beautiful. there’s so much beauty to be found in art that you have to sit with and dwell on and read criticism of and analyze to find more and more layers of beauty, to find complexity, to develop a personal relationship between yourself and the art that’s so much deeper than just superficial infatuation because it’s something you built. you cant be mad about that expectation and demand praise for not following it. it’s fine to enjoy art on a simple and escapist level, but that’s not all that art is meant to be. insisting that it’s all that art has to be, or that expecting art to also be more is somehow morally wrong or elitist, is just philistinism and i’m only being a little bit hyperbolic when i say the normalization of that understanding of art is detrimental to society.

art is also meant to be something where you understand and respect the amount of craft and learning and attention to detail and thought and transcendent talent goes into making beautiful things, and you want to engage with it to the level that it deserves, to peel through the layers. to see how you interpret and find meaning and emotion in it based on the person you are at that moment in time, the most salient experiences and thoughts as you encountered that piece of art, the setting, the memories, an understanding that you can look back on and see change as you yourself change. to create an emotional correspondence with a mind you’ve never met, one that might have died decades ago and that lived in a world unimaginably different from your own but shared so many familiar thoughts and feelings and hopes and fears.

that carried the torch of a beautiful tradition of the form — the novel from miguel de cervantes through flaubert and tolstoy into the novels of the lost generation, the development of internal life as an art form in a way that’s unique to the medium and that can’t be shown in a play or film, the transition from novels as storytelling similar to a play in its earliest days to novels coming into its own as a unique art form that allows the reader to truly inhabit someone else’s mind, to think their thoughts and feel their feelings, in a way you can’t get from anything else. not from visual mediums, where you can see the action but can’t inhabit the inner minds of characters, only infer it. not from short stories, which even at their most introspective and internally oriented still don’t give you enough time.

i'll quote milan kundera from the art of the novel here, about what i mean when i talk about the development and tradition of the novel, and what only the novel can do: "Since its very beginnings, the novel has always tried to escape the unilinear, to open rifts in the continuous narration of a story ... Through its own logic, the novel discovered the various dimensions of existence one by one: with Cervantes and his contemporaries, it inquires into the nature of adventure; with Richardson, it begins to examine "what happens inside," to unmask the secret life of the feelings; with Balzac, it discovers man's rootedness in history; with Flaubert, it explores the terra previously incognita of the everyday; with Tolstoy, it focuses on the intrusion of the irrational in human behavior and decisions. It probes time: the elusive past with Proust, the elusive present with Joyce. With Thomas Mann, it examines the role of the myths from the remote past that control our present actions. Et cetera ..."

[my note: interrupting kundera here to note that all that's just up to pre-war early 20th century. there's still novels by the lost generation shaped by world wars and the great depression attending gertrude stein's salons in paris, the influence of fitzgerald and hemingway as branches of prose style, william faulkner and southern gothic, stream-of-consciousness and feminism with virginia woolf, chinua achebe and jean rhys with postcolonial inversions of older classics, magical realism with gabriel garcia marquez and salman rushdie and the like, big self-referential playful intertextual postmodern novels like david foster wallace through the weirdness of the 1990s, to this day there's still evolutions in form like jennifer egan with 'a visit from the goon squad', which such a great book by the way but i digress.. all that came after what kundera described here! and so much more that i'm likely forgetting right now]

but anyway, continuing kundera: "The characters in my novels are my own unrealized possibilities. The novel is not the author’s confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become ... The novel has an extraordinary power of incorporation: whereas neither poetry nor philosophy can incorporate the novel, the novel can incorporate both poetry and philosophy without losing anything of its identity ... it can blend philosophy, narrative, and dream into one music ... it has [the ability to] marshall all intellectual means and all poetic forms to illuminate “what the novel alone can discover”: man’s being. ... I’ll never tire of repeating: The novel’s sole raison d’être is to say what only the novel can say."

i think that's very cool. i love thinking about what the novel can do and all the possibilities offered to me by its presence and what only the novel can do. when you’re reading a novel, the same little voice in your head that speaks out your own thoughts are speaking out someone else’s thoughts; the same body where you feel sadness or tension or excitement at events in your life, through the power of imagination, replicates those same feelings in you as you read someone else experience them. you get to understand situations and develop insights that you never could’ve if you’d only had your own experiences to rely on, because you could briefly borrow the direct experiences and emotional responses and realizations of others. having that lightbulb moment as you piece together some insight that the writer had laid out the breadcrumbs and guided you to discover. where things that wouldn’t have gotten through if you’d just been told it in bullet points become things you understand intimately because on some mini scale, in that brain-in-a-vat that’s your mind inside your skull inside your body, a book gave you the same experiential stimuli as being someone else and living a different life. that shit is fucking magical. learning about the journey, tracing that development, witnessing writers over the year gradually understand the full power and capabilities of the novel as a medium and experiment in finding ways to use the medium, is just fascinating to me.

reading classic novels to me is discovering a whole parallel history. not just events, not just ideas, but the way we think about stories. aren’t you interested in that? if you’re an english teacher, don’t your students deserve to experience that with your guidance? if you’re a writer, doesn’t taking your work seriously call for a more intimate knowledge of the clay you’re molding?

i think people give a lot of excuses for their reading choices where they can’t just admit it’s a simple choice with trade-offs, or a preference where what you value in the moment is just different. that’s fine. there’s no need to be ashamed of that and to try to make it out to be anything deeper than that. nobody has to act like a certain type of book is the only kind that’s sufficiently accessible or that has characters of a relevant age or certain background. i mean, there's just straight up books. all kinds of books, a whole wide world of them. i understand being unable to read out of attention span or language level or whatever, but if you can read and its just about needing the book to be unchallenging, there's many many books. relatively short books, readable books, even books with characters in their 20s.

and i would argue that even if there aren’t, its still valuable to read about people with different lives and experiences. marshall mcluhan has a point about how what we call narcissism is a misunderstanding of the actual myth of narcissus from which we get the word. i'll include the quote here first: "The Greek myth of Narcissus is directly concerned with a fact of human experience, as the word Narcissus indicates. It is from the Greek word narcosis, or numbness. The youth Narcissus mistook his own reflection in the water for another person. Now the point of this myth is the fact that men at once become fascinated by any extension of themselves in any material other than themselves... the wisdom of the Narcissus myth does not convey any idea that Narcissus fell in love with anything he regarded as himself. Obviously he would have had very different feelings about the image had he known it was [literally] himself. It is indicative of the bias of our intensely technological and, therefore, narcotic culture that we have long interpreted the Narcissus story to mean that he fell in love with himself, that he imagined the reflection to be Narcissus."

and i think this was really prescient about the state of a lot of modern online criticism and discussion of art. the organizing principle of how some "book lover" communities, whether on YA twitter or fandom tumblr or at your local library reading group, judge the value of media: by their "relatability", whether you can see yourself within the book and setting and characters being the ultimate arbiter of whether a piece of fiction is good or bad. i don't want to call it narcissistic per se, but it does mirror (pun intended...) the myth of narcissus, in that falling in love with a piece of fiction is about whether it's relatable, whether you can see yourself in it.

i'm going to head off a likely response here by emphasizing that this is different from the broader phrase of "feeling seen", which conflates "relatability" and "representation". i'm not here to quell the power of feeling seen, especially for people who have traditionally been surrounded by media where they haven't felt seen, but i think it'd be disingenuous to claim what mcluhan says here is referring to representation. representation is about seeing people *like* you, finding a sense of community in seeing someone who experiences the world in similar ways and would understand how you experience the world as a result. where the myth of narcissus would be applicable is about falling in love with media, even judging the objective value of media and whether it's good or bad as a work of art, based on how much you see yourself in it.

which i think kind of defeats the point of books, the reason why books and reading got this semi-mystical reputation in the first place. the concept of the empathy machine was coined, to my knowledge, by roger ebert referring to movies. art forms in general have the power to be empathy machines, compassion machines, tenderness machines, sympathy machines. empathy as feeling what it's actually like to be someone else, compassion as understanding that someone else also feels things you feel, tenderness as feeling seen and empathised with, sympathy as sorrow and commiseration because you see someone else, maybe the exact way you'd define them might be different but let's phrase them clumsily like this. the machine doesn't operate by itself, it needs you to plug directly into it, and the machine works differently based on your own nature and what you put into it and how you engage with it. most art has the capability to be empathy machines for someone empathetic willing to engage enough, but the barrier of entry is different

the magic of books is that they are a special kind of empathy machine that puts you directly inside the mind of another human being, almost like an other-selves simulator. other-interiority simulator, other-inner-self simulator, whatever you'd like to call it. which makes them uniquely powerful as an empathy machine, even compared to other types of art. how it feels to be someone else is the most unbreakable, most fundamental barrier in existence. it's the AT fields from evangelion and the argument for the human instrumentality project, the impenetrability of that barrier is the reason for wallfacers in the three-body problem, its how sufis and ascetics fall in love with god when nobody else but the omniscient can ever ever truly know what it's like to be you and feel what you feel

this can't be conveyed in the same way in mediums like movies or plays where the medium itself is from an external point of view and is viewed through this barrier of the mind, and is harder to convey in structured forms like poetry which may not be able to capture the endless variety of form and expression within our thoughts and feelings and experiences (or, going back to kundera, the freedom of form within the novel as enabling polyphony). i think the closest art forms in that sense may be music, which also has a relative freedom of form and the ability to express depths of feeling both individually and through the interaction of music with words and even the sequencing of tracks across an album, and video games, which may not directly put you in the mind of someone else the way books do and which may at first glance seem like they belong alongside movies in being seen through the AT field but where the difference is that in a video game your character makes *choices* and you feel how it feels to make those choices as an agent — even if you're not inhabiting someone else's thoughts, you're feeling how it feels to be someone who experienced and did certain things and made certain choices. but i think there's still plenty about books that is unique. the empathy machine has to be collaborative, your imagination is a necessary creative or generative aspect for it to be a novel and not just a report of events

"book lovers" often act like books have some kind of sacred and mystical power but don't seem to be able to justify this idea in how they engage with books as a whole, beyond this sense of books as an identity signifier or aesthetic or accessory. but books do have a certain sacred and mystical power — that they are invitations, almost portals, you could call them pensieves even, where someone gives you a window into another mind. (not necessarily their own mind — the mirror of books as an empathy machine is how even writing itself is an empathy machine of an activity that asks the writer to empathize up a creation — which is also partly why i think that to be a good writer you should also be a good reader).

in much of online, the idea that any book or piece of media that isn't personally relatable would naturally be boring and impossible to connect with is so widely accepted that it's never even really a point of dispute. i want to say it should be, and that we should start disputing it. because i think the magic of books and fiction in general is that it's a way for you to exercise your empathy muscles. the characters or settings don't have to be "relatable" for you to be able to relate to it: it's just about stretching your capacity for empathy a little bit, inhabiting someone different from you with a life different from yours, seeing the world through their eyes, and ultimately learning something about yourself, the world, and humanity as a result. i think it's important to make this argument forcefully and not let this narcotic view of art — that it's natural and expected for us to only be able to enjoy art that is relatable, that relatability is a merit and unrelatability is a flaw in itself — not become even more hegemonic.

but ultimately, prioritizing enjoyment or relatability is fine. there's no harm to the preference. life is short and exhausting, free time is limited, and what we do for leisure can just be about having a fun time, or about getting a guaranteed emotional hit from a genre or medium that you know will fill whatever you need emotionally from reading right now. it's fine to read romance because it's fun or sexy, or fanfic because it'll make you cry. even "narcotic" isn't an inherently bad thing to be: even in a very literal sense, we all accept that it's perfectly normal to unwind with a glass of wine or a joint. it’s fine to prioritize other things. but for people who make their whole brand being about books specifically, i think it deserves far more harsh criticism that so many are so wilfully against engaging with the majority of books. a lot of it is an echo chamber where everyone else in the same circles feels the same way, i guess, but society in general has given this obviously ridiculous state of affairs a free pass for so long.

maybe the internet just isn’t real life and i’m seeing an unrepresentative subset of people. but at least going from “book lover” twitter, which is a loose amalgam of authors and english teachers and people who run wordpress blogs with book reviews, it feels like a lot of it is a whole generation of people who got into writing through fanfic and exclusively read YA or fanfic and felt embarrassed about it being seen as dorky, so they made their whole identity and personality and mission to be about validating kids like their imagined younger selves, without ever really growing up in that aspect of their personalities, and without doing any further developing/exploration of their tastes.

you know what i really don’t understand coming from an author, or even an amateur writer? having zero interest in reading the classics, even just to see if there's anything worth learning from great prose stylists to improve your own craft. i mean, if you think there's nothing in classic novels worth learning from, not even like 5% of it to try find what details or specifics you might find from widely respected prose stylists or lauded writing, like that its not worth reading it even to find just a few points you can use to develop your own writing — let alone that whole thing about all that art has to teach us about the human experience, which is so much more than the ground covered by contemporary YA and fanfiction, and what value that could add to the actual lives of yourself or your students —

if you're blinkered enough to think that your subset of writing is all there is to take value from, and you're basically just doing the reverse of all your "people who respect the classics don’t bother to see that there is insight and value and quality to be found and learnt from within pop fiction like YA and fanfic!", and arrogant enough to believe that you don’t need any more than that —

clearly you don’t actually love writing, or language, in that case. and that’s the truth. none of it was ever about a love for literature or writing or language as much as it was about validating the child version of themselves by coddling it and saying it’s actually fine to feel superior about it. what’s missing is any process of validating what does bring them out further, for getting into writing/reading in the first place being a starting point for growing and branching out and discovering how much more there is to art, rather than using it as a reason to just double down and shut out anything else.

i may not be able to do some critical meta-analysis of all new literature but look, a generation of writers filling a whole genre not actually wanting to learn from all the lauded writers before them to improve their prose style or get ideas or insights isn’t going to be doing the best job they can. it’s a mindset that is actively damaging to the genres you claim to love, one that’s going to lead to stagnancy and decay, and one that disrespects an audience of voracious readers who want to get the best art they can. i don’t think this should be all that controversial. people might try to argue with me about whether old books are better than new books or whatever, but that’s not a point i’m interested in arguing — survival bias does mean that often only the very best from the past is what makes it through the decades to still be widely known to us, and i’m not qualified to compare the absolute very best of modern literature to that of the past and i’m not even sure that’s possible — but that’s not a point i’m interested in arguing.

thing is, it doesn’t matter which were better, what matters is that there’s definitely unquestionably indisputably a lot to be learned from books that have connected with millions across generations, and inspired movements and moved critics, and led literature lovers to their spark of love, and that passing up all of that is a cynical, nihilistically arrogant, aggressively anti-intellectual approach to art. if i tried to build a plane engine without ever really studying, i might wing something that gets you off the ground by watching some youtube videos, but it's likely not going to run a plane as well as something built by engineers who've spent years learning from the lessons of masters and geniuses before them honed through the mistakes of thousands before them.

and if i respected the craft, i’d bother learning. and when i pick up those textbooks, they’re going to be boring or hard if i never bother doing much study, or doing any complementary readings, or doing the exercises or discussions of the material, or even doing any close reading at all. i can’t slack on all of that and then say the textbooks or lectures are just impenetrable and too hard to bother with. that would be an asinine way to approach any other craft or skill. and i think authors and english teachers and people who love books should respect the art enough to take it seriously, and not just blow it off as “who needs to study or learn or read up on it? anyone can write, it’s just putting some words down!”. we shouldn’t be saying that. that’s for my parents to say

work with me here. at least try put aside your prejudices about some of those classics, or what you vaguely remember as your first impressions, and actually engage with them in good faith. reading commentary or discussions and critics' views on them, paying attention to spot the metaphors and turns of phrase and motifs and how the sentences are structured to make something sound beautiful or how something is set up to come together later. you don’t have to love it, but you can at least engage with it in good faith first, with an approach of respect and seriousness. it’s a fun way of socializing with like-minded people when you can make it an identity signifier thing, where you have an imagined view of classic novel lovers as aloof opponents making fun of you in class and you stake out an identity as being anti-that and pro-ya or fanfic, like a fanfic or YA protagonist who learns to embrace their differences and acknowledge their specialness against the world or whatever.

where it genuinely depresses me is to see it coming from english teachers. from anyone who influences what young people get to read, really, but especially coming from english teachers who take pride in denying their students the opportunity to learn many of the great novels that they could be learning, and that they could be finding beauty in and enjoying if you could bring that same passion and approach to teaching them instead of letting your dislike show. i understand that the way those english teachers may have initially been introduced to the classics in their high school years was probably not pedagogically ideal, but it's really not an excuse for an adult making a career out of it. at that point you have a responsibility to your students and sometimes that responsibility requires you to get over yourself and do right by your students. no copouts here. no avoiding responsibility. it's an understandable excuse for why any random adult might not be a fan of the classics. if that same random adult claims to be a book lover literature fan i may find them a bit of a fraud for it, but they aren't doing wrong by anyone. an author who does it should think their readers deserve better. an english teacher doing it is self-centered and malpractice.

if what you’re modeling for your students is that they should also feel comfortable or even empowered flippantly dismissing the books they’ve been told make up part of a great education, you’re not all that far removed from the people in school telling kids that books are lame and for nerds and that they should just watch a movie. it’s only different in degree, but it still communicates the exact same concept to students. what an english teacher is meant to do is to at least try inculcate a love of books in students, a sense of awe and respect for the power of the written word. that books are amazing and that there’s so many kinds of books out there that they should give a real chance to and that they’ll find some book they love and that it’ll open up whole new worlds. don’t you think that out of all your students, the book which makes some of your students fall in love with reading might be one of those great novels of history?

i’m not saying that assigning books that kids will find easier to read and engage with isn’t a perfectly fine approach to involving students, especially if other approaches aren’t getting them as involved. but anyone reading this essay in good faith already knows that thinking that’s what i’m criticizing is defensively propping up a strawman, because i’m not talking about the english teacher who clearly loves novels and goes with a book at the class’s overall level while still encouraging students to go seek out more and pointing them toward the wide world of great novels out there that they can try read and engage with in their own time if they want. i’m talking about this very common attitude and phenomenon of people disparaging most novels, this often being english teachers who discuss this mindset informing how they teach their students. who proudly tweet about how they shut down some kid’s curious question about the catcher in the rye or the great gatsby or the grapes of wrath with some soundbite from the internet detritus that’d do great for clout, telling their students something like “ugh, those books are so boring”. which i think is something that an english teacher should feel embarrassed to admit.

at that point, it’s not really about those kids’ education at all, its about the teacher themselves. or it’s not about their young readers, it’s about the author’s need for personal validation in their tastes and choices, and seeking that validation from people who are influenced by and take cues from them in the first place because that’s a way to receive uncritical validation without much pushback. it's just a kind of self-laudatory narcissism that claims to be supporting kids, when it’s really just about those teachers or authors themselves in some ways never having moved on from childhood. not saying they're immature or childish as a whole in their lives but in this specific aspect, it is absolutely an immature and childish approach that casts themselves and their students/readers as characters in a high school setting fanfiction or YA story. just people congratulating themselves for teaching their students that a lot of reading is lame and uncool and boring and elitist beyond an entertaining subset of it. which, to clarify, is something which i think should be considered malpractice for an english teacher.

that’s just doing the kids they're teaching (or writing for) a disservice. it’s basically making them just a prop in your exercise of validating your aggrieved younger self, while dismissing the possibility of actual real kids' intelligence or interest in expanding their tastes or intellectual curiosity — a perspective where you can look down on everyone else, including those other kids who want more from class, as somehow being snobby villains in your life story or in the life story of an imagined self-insert high school version of yourself that you're projecting on some poor kids you identify with in class. i think this is something people who do this to their students need to sit with and be introspective about, because personal psychodrama shouldn’t be taken out on students.

you can’t dismiss the classic novel or literary canon like that. that dismissal is either a bad-faith argument or an unserious and ignorant one. there is so much literature that has so much to say about actual cultural evolution from gender repression in victorian times (jane austen, bronte sisters) or the force of tradition in 19th century russia (tolstoy) to the world wars (elie wiesel, erich maria remarque) to the despair of the lost generation after the world wars (fitzgerald, hemingway) to 60s counterculture (hunter thompson, kerouac, ginsberg) to life through postcolonial revolutions (achebe, rushdie, camus) to socialist republics and revolutions (kundera) and latin american corporatist coups (gabriel garcia marquez) and indian caste conflict (arundhati roy) and postmodern disillusionment and absurdism (david foster wallace, delillo, pynchon, etc) and warnings of futures like theocratic conservatism or authoritarianism or classifications (atwood, orwell, huxley, ishiguro, philip k dick)…

and i do think calling the overall literary canon of classic novels "straight white male" (notably, a claim often made by straight white people) is often just a crutch to moralize their own personal dislike of something for aesthetic reasons. and i often find that just fundamentally dishonest, because its not like they're replacing hemingway with chinua achebe or james baldwin or allen ginsberg or ralph ellison or toni morrison or edith wharton or arundhati roy or gabriel garcia marquez or salman rushdie or kazuo ishiguro or ursula k le guin or margaret atwood, all of whom are either people of color or gay or women or some combination of the three. they're dumping all of those out too as distaste of classic novels and replacing it with diverse YA novels.

the real truth is that it’s not about straight white maleness at all. there’s plenty of novels universally considered ‘great novels’, ranked in lists of the great novels, available for teaching in schools, subject of plenty of critical praise, with huge legacies in the development of the medium and of culture as a whole. it’s not about that. its about genre and about the idea that literature should just be a rollicking read that is nice for the imagination and feels fun, and this continued idea that any art being challenging is bad.

and thing is, ironically enough, this is actually erasing the contributions of those famous and respected and influential non-white/straight/male literary figures, and the art that they created engaging with and in reaction to their circumstances, while doing so. because discarding the classic novel or literary fiction or whatever you want to call it, swapping out influential classic novels for ya, is just throwing out all of their work and their legacies. you can’t pretend that that recognizing diversity is your actual justification when you're throwing out the study of classic novels alongside their historical and cultural context, which includes a ton of the contributions of non-white/straight/male people.

and the charitable interpretation of that for me is that it’s just a bullshit excuse and lying to themselves. that a lot of it is just people working out their own personal insecurities about not being taken seriously, by digging in the trenches real pre-emptively and casting themselves in the role of righteous rebels overturning an establishment that propped up bad things while suppressing the good things they liked. none of this is to be dismissive of either the young adult genre or fanfiction, which i’m fully sympathetic to as genres that have put out a lot of great art that shouldn’t be summarily dismissed but often have been. but at this point, all of it begins to feels like a whole psychological mess that's making childhood resentments and aggrieved persecution complex about not having your tastes be universally praised no matter how mainstream or popular or successful they become.

[update to add above screenshot from a similar post i saw recently]

i compared it to maga boomers or marvel fans before. to paraphrase dril, i’m not going to “hand it to” maga boomers and have no reason to. but at least marvel fans who act like that have much less weird psychodrama going on, because most of them don’t go on to become filmmakers or film studies teachers themselves and aren’t producing art where they imagine themselves in the position of the superhero. they're just occasionally annoying fans, who don’t really have much negative impact beyond their dollars dictating what gets made. which i don’t really blame ppl for because its individual tastes driving their individual ticket purchases that adds up to a lot of money and makes it profitable. but your average marvel fan doesn’t themselves either teach or create content where they can perpetuate it within culture. and at least marvel fans just call themselves marvel fans, they don’t insist they're the true actual film fans while shitting on the godfather and proudly announcing how they won’t watch anything from before 2008. many “book lovers” and “literature fans” who actually hate pretty much most literature and great novels could do with that level of specificity, without trying to take on the mantle of being so in love with books and the english language and the written word. it’s not true. it’s denial. it’s a cope.

and that’s the charitable interpretation. because the alternative is just being too ignorant of the presence of all those writers and their contributions within the canon in the first place. in which case, why do people talk so confidently disparaging classic novels if they don’t actually know anything about them beyond recognizing maybe the great gatsby and moby dick, and don’t actually know enough to even know about all these non-straight/white/male writers of classic novels and their role in the evolution of the novel as a medium? it’s just a fully unjustified level of confidence in that situation. and neither one of ignorance about their subject or uninformed confidence, let alone both, paints a great picture of people who've supposedly made a career out of writing or literature or the english language.

i don’t love getting into neat little psychological explanations for things but then again, fuck it. all the “essays” on here are just ruminations on culture and whatever psychology it feels like is driving that culture, after all. it’s not like that’s out of the overall scope of what’s going on here so why not. the reason i hesitate here is because there’s a lot of reflexive thin-skinned defensiveness that seems to be part and parcel with this attitude, given that i think a lot of it is birthed in a sort of understandable insecurity anyway — and i don’t say insecurity as an insult, i think insecurity is a very understandable and pretty universal aspect of being human — but the rest of this is going to be pretty harsh. and maybe that harshness isn’t the right approach to persuade people who i’d hope would be persuaded, but i don’t know, honestly i think we’re long overdue to start being harsh about it and i’m going to give that a little nudge. at this point, my visceral reaction to seeing this is just thinking “grow up”, and that they've been indulged and welcomed and catered to enough already now.

that’s my screed. me to classic novels, the most dickish love letter in the world

update, now that people have discovered this post and are actually reading it: i don't mind any of this being shared or reprinted anywhere if it's with attribution. whatever gets people to read it to change the conversation works for me. i hope it reaches enough of an audience to make the right people mad, to be honest.

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other 'essays' on internet/pop culture stuff on my homepage. here's a selection:

· humanity is worth loving, humans are worth saving

· there are things we owe to each other

· i trained a neural net on 10,000 irony-poisoned tweets and it just gave me cringe?

· what makes someone good, bad, cancelled, or redeemed? i don't know either!

· please tell me if you have a definitive answer on what makes someone a bad person

· ok, fine, my social justice politics feel a bit like religion sometimes and that’s ok

· after the deluge (short story) (dispatch from an island state post climate apocalypse)

#literature #books #novels #english #teaching #fiction #literary fiction #writing #lit #booktok #booktwt #god every time there's discourse about #the catcher in the rye #catcher in the rye #holden caulfield #its always the same lazy as fuck take thats been brought up every week for the past 12 years #that people pretend is a bold brave thing to say when they got it from the internet and already know the internet will agree

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gamerwoo · 2 years ago

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[Tales from the Pack] Soonyoung: Imperfect (Part Six)

Characters: Soonyoung x female reader

Genre/warnings: werewolf au, fantasy, fluff!!!!

Word count: 2,553

Summary: Soonyoung has always been desperate to find his mate, often going out into town at night to fill the void of imprinting that he craves so much. Then suddenly, you (quite literally) appear in front of him. He’d always dreamed and fantasized about what having his mate would be like, but the reality is nothing like he expected.

a/n: things in bold are in english and whenever soonyoung says reader’s name it’s meant to be reader’s surname (these are going to be reoccurring authors notes lmao) BUT ALSO!!!! things in bold italics are writing english and things in regular italics are writing in korean :)

Previous | Next | Imperfect Masterlist

_____,

I know this is a lot for you to deal with. I understand it’s scary for you. Kyung talks about you a lot so I know you get anxious and nervous about a lot of things -- especially new things and new people -- so I’m hoping maybe this might help calm you down a little. All I want is for you to be comfortable, but I know I might come off a bit strong. I’m just so excited to have found you, but I’m trying my best so you don’t feel overwhelmed. I wanted to use this letter to tell you about my feelings, because I hope that explaining myself and my thoughts might help since we can’t communicate well. Kyung and Hansol are helping me write this, so I trust there won’t be any miscommunication this time.

(There won’t be. -Kyung)

You let out a soft chuckle at that.

When I first saw you tackling Kyung, I immediately fell in love. I know that might make you anxious to hear but I feel like I should be 100% honest with you. I know we didn’t even know each other -- maybe you’d seen me, but I had never seen you before -- but I just felt a feeling in my heart I’d never felt before. You don’t know how long I’d been waiting to find you, and my excitement has gotten the best of me in most cases.

I know what Joshua told you made you upset, but I want you to understand...I just wanted to find the one. I desperately wanted that connection; that endless and unconditional love. I’ve been alive for over 70 years and it gets lonely not having that one person to be by your side. I just wanted to pretend sometimes. I wanted to pretend someone cared and loved me that much. But I think it just made me feel more lonely in the end. So I kept trying. It became a vicious cycle. I know my pack looked down on me for it, and honestly, I felt dirty for it, too.

But then I saw you, and I’ve been way too eager with you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; you’re everything I’ve been searching for. I love how you’re so quiet and shy, but you’re still brave and tough. When you’re with Kyung, I see your personality come though, and I adore how your nose scrunches when you laugh and how you poke fun at her. I know maybe you think you seem scared and weak because of your anxieties, but I can see how fearless you are. I’ve seen it when you talk to Kyung. I’ve seen it in how you’re trying to adjust to a foreign place after moving countries. I’ve heard the stories from your pack. I hope someday you’ll be comfortable enough with me to show that side to me on your own.

I promise, _____, I will do my absolute best to pull back as much as you need me to. I know you’re scared and I can’t blame you. The language barrier alone makes things a little scary, but you hardly know me. Saying that, it makes it seem silly that I could say I love you, but we’re werewolves. Imprinting makes us say and do silly stuff, right? But I’ve got to say, you and Kyung are nothing like any werewolves I’ve ever met. You don’t want to just go with things because your instincts tell you to, and I find that...what’s a good word for it? I look up to you for that. I can’t find the right words, but I like that you don’t let your instincts tell you what to do or how to feel. I admire that about you.

I think I’ve been rambling, so I’ll wrap up this letter. _____, I will do my best to be less excitable and clingy. I will do whatever it takes to make you comfortable. I hope we can work through this language barrier and get to know each other better. I won’t give up.

-Soonyoung

You kept the letter in your hands, continuing to stare at it after reading. You weren’t really sure how you felt. You were still nervous, but it was also a little more...reassuring, almost? That wasn’t quiet the right word, but it felt better understanding Soonyoung’s perspective a little bit better. But also reading everything he liked about you and how he fell in love with you so quickly made you feel...shy. Your face felt warm and you felt like covering your face with your hands. You knew you felt strongly toward him, too, but you wouldn’t so readily admit you’re in love.

A thought suddenly popped into your head, almost intrusive, ‘He likes that about you, though.’

You wanted to groan and throw your face in your hands. Why did he have to be so sickeningly cute. You almost wanted to gag.

The door opened without a knock, but you knew who was coming in, anyway. The door swung open with a smirking Rika hanging onto the handle, giving you a knowing look as you continued to stare at the letter with a heated face.

“Sooooo...?” she asked.

You let out a sigh and dropped the letter in your lap, seeming almost defeated. But you looked at Rika and asked, “I have to write one back, right?”

She giggled, “You want some help?”

“Well...” you held your hands out, as if to ask, ‘who else is going to help me?’.”

“So I get to read the letter?” she asked excitedly as she closed the door.

You grimaced, “But don’t say anything about it.”

Rika skipped over to your bed and excitedly snatched the letter from your fingers as you shyly offered it to her, “Y’know, I can’t wait to see how you come out of your shell when this progresses.”

“No, calling her _____ is the equivalent of her calling you Kwon,” Hansol explained.

“Oh,” Soonyoung’s eyebrows furrowed. “I thought it was like a ‘second name’. Remember, Mason had one?”

“It’s her surname,” Kyung clarified. “I told you it was her surname.”

“I thought maybe it meant something different for her! I don’t know how her home country works.”

“When we get married, we sometimes take our spouse’s surname,” Kyung explained. “Typically, the woman takes the man’s surname. I think you should take hers since you like it so much.”

Soonyoung’s eyes widened, “Can I?!”

“Maybe don’t get him thinking about marriage already,” Hansol suggested.

Soonyoung was obviously eager to start English lessons, and despite his nerves about you reading his letter last night, he wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his progress. So the next morning, he was still having Kyung and Hansol help him while they sat at the kitchen table.

But suddenly, Soonyoung lifted his head, his pupils dilated. Then his head shot in a random direction.

“_____?” Hansol guessed.

Soonyoung nodded, “She’s nearby.”

Kyung shrugged with a small smile, “Maybe she wanted to see you after reading the letter.”

His eyes widened and he suddenly whined before laying his head down on the table, “What if she hated it?”

“What’re you whining about?” Jeonghan asked as he entered the kitchen.

“______’s coming,” Kyung explained.

“Ah, you think she hated the letter,” the older wolf nodded. “Well... Yeah, I’d probably hate it.”

Soonyoung’s head shot up and he looked at the older boy desperately, “Jeonghan!”

Jeonghan laughed and shrugged, “What? You’re not that good with words, Soonyoungie.”

“We helped,” Hansol pointed out.

“Oh yeah, the one who’s afraid to use romantic nicknames, and the one who hates expressing her feelings,” Jeonghan noted with a nod. “That’s sure to help.”

Kyung narrowed her eyes, “Have I told you I can’t stand you sometimes?”

Jeonghan smirked as he grabbed an apple from the counter, “Get in line.”

Finally, there was a knock at the door. Soonyoung’s eyes widened as his heartrate spiked, and Jeonghan laughed at him.

“I’ll get it,” he decided, taking a bite out of his apple and walking out of the room to the front door.

Jeonghan walked down the hall and opened the door. But instead of being greeted by Hanbin like he expected, his eyes trailed down from Hanbin’s face to see the short blonde girl smiling up at him.

“Hello, Jeonghan!” she chirped. “It’s been a while.”

“Oh, Rika,” he smiled politely. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“She insisted on coming,” Hanbin spoke up with a chuckle.

“Somebody has to help her,” Rika stated, clearly talking about you, but you had no idea. “Anyway, do you mind if we come in?”

“Of course not!” he told her as he stepped to the side and gestured for your small group to come in. “You’re all always welcome.”

Rika went in first, and then Hanbin gestured for you, Jimin, and Baekhan to enter next. You followed Rika inside, muttering a quiet, “H-hello,” to Jeonghan on your way.

Rika remembered her way through the house and went to the kitchen where she found Kyung, Hansol, and Soonyoung sitting at the large table. You kept your eyes on the floor, following her feet. But once you sensed Soonyoung’s presence, you couldn’t help but lift your head.

He immediately brightened when he saw you, showing off a toothy grin when your eyes landed on him. He waved at you, so you gave a small wave back with your free hand.

“Good morning!” Rika grinned.

“Hey, sunshine,” Kyung chuckled. “I forgot how much of a morning person you are.”

“Well, we’re here for a reason,” Rika said. Then she looked at you and gestured for you to go up to Soonyoung.

Soonyoung stood when you stepped toward him. You kept your eyes on the ground, but his were on you the whole time. You held the letter with both hands before stiffly shoving it toward him.

“Uh...” you hesitated for a moment as you tried to gather your thoughts that were jumbled with anxiety before you slowly said, “This is...for...you... Yeah.”

On the envelope, you wrote Soonyoung’s name in some poorly-written Korean -- but you tried your best.

“Thank you,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice as he took the envelope.

You immediately stepped back, and when Rika stayed silent, you nudged her with your elbow.

“Oh!” she spoke up. “Right, um, she wants you to know her Korean penmanship isn’t the best, but she tried.”

Soonyoung’s jaw dropped, but you didn’t see it. Your eyes were still on the floor.

“You wrote this yourself?” he asked, and Rika repeated it to you.

You looked up in time to see his shocked expression turn into impressed, and then a warm smile take over. He just told Kyung what he wanted to say and then she translated and wrote it for him. But you actually tried to write it yourself? To him, you had put in more effort than he had, and that warmed his heart.

You nodded sheepishly, feeling your face heat up. Like Soonyoung, you’d told Rika what you wanted to say and she wrote it down, but then you copied what she wrote. You definitely had issues distinguishing what things were actually supposed to look like so it kind of looked like a child wrote it -- actually, probably worse since Korean children still knew what they were doing -- but you tried.

Soonyoung didn’t even sit to open the letter. He opened it then and there and began silently reading, a smile permanently on his face the whole time.

Soonyoung,

Firstly, I’d like to apologize for how cold I’ve come across. I’ve always been a shy person, and my ability doesn’t help with that. Admittedly, I’ve seen you before you’ve seen me for that reason. I hid from you for a long time, but because I’d already seen you, I couldn’t stay away. I’m actually embarrassed to admit that, but you seem like you’d like to know that. I had no idea how to talk to you and I didn’t know what to do with the situation. It intimidated me, so I stayed hidden. But now that we know each other, I need to be brave and confront it.

Second, but most importantly, I want you to know that despite how eager you are, I don’t want you to change for me. We’re supposed to be made for each other, right? So you are perfect as you are. Honestly, I think it’s kind of cute how excited you get. But as long as you understand where I stand and where I’m coming from with my attitude, I think we can make it work. I think there should still be some boundaries, and I appreciate that you want to set those to make me more comfortable. My goal is to get to a point where I’m not anxious around you or nervous about being close. But, as you know, I’m not the type to let things happen just because my instincts tell me to. Still, I want to get to that point where I feel at ease.

And last, I promise to put in as much effort as you. Despite how I may come off, I do want to make this work. I don’t know if I can admit strong feelings yet, but I know my instincts make me feel certain ways regardless, and I can’t ignore them. I just get nervous around you. I’ve never felt butterflies like this or this warm feeling in my heart like this. It’s new, and new things are scary. But that doesn’t mean they’re always bad.

No matter what, don’t change anything about yourself. We’ll get there together.

-_____

When he was done, Soonyoung looked up at you, his grin looking like it must’ve made his face hurt. Your smile was shy at first, but from how wide his was, you couldn’t help but smile bigger and let out a small laugh.

“I could vomit,” Jeonghan muttered before taking another bite of his apple, and Baekhan, who could hear Soonyoung’s thoughts as he read the letter, nodded in agreement.

“_____,” Kyung spoke up, breaking the silent moment between you and Soonyoung, “you wanna stick around for some tutoring?”

“Ah,” Hansol spoke up, lightly hitting his mate in the arm, “let Soonyoung offer.”

Soonyoung whipped his head around to look at the younger wolf, and Hansol told him what to say. Then he looked at you with the same bright smile.

“Would you like to stay?” he asked.

And how could you say no?

You nodded, so Soonyoung pulled out the seat to the right of the one at the head of the table where he was sitting.

“Guess we should make breakfast,” Jeonghan decided. He gestured for Hanbin, Bakehan, and Jimin to follow as you sat down, and Rika pulled out the seat beside you. “Let’s find Mingyu -- he makes the best pancakes.”

“Alright,” Hansol sighed as he tried to find where they left off, “let’s get started.”

Soonyoung couldn’t help but smile to himself as Hansol picked back up on where he left off with teaching him, and Kyung asked Rika what you knew so far. Because, like your letter said, you really were getting there together.

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ufonaut · 2 years ago

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u can ignore this if u dont want discoursers @ing u but i just had to yell bc im losing it @the connor section of the pride thing. SO much worse than anything i couldve imaigened. imagine being sandra hawke and getting that letter from ur seemingly teenage son. "hi mom how are u btw ive decided i dont want to fuck anyone" like WHAT? cannot believe that actually got published an im seeing nothing but ppl positively freaking out abt it. ppl acting like its rep on par w actual gay characters. nutty

NO PLEASE LET'S TALK. IT WAS DISGRACEFUL. IT WAS RIDICULOUS.

the story completely ignores the fact that connor has been gaycoded since his very first appearance, it ignores his history with the men (eddie fyers, master jansen, his grandfather) who were father figures to him when ollie was pretending he doesn't exist/dead, it ignores the particulars of connor's relationship with his mother and the fact that they just don't share that kinda bond... but hey, that's been talked to death. by me. by other people, i'm sure. instead, i'll say we know the very act of making connor asexual is an act of homophobia but we should get into just how far that goes.

first and foremost:

at this rate, there's no beating the inherent infantilization of characters of colour allegations. and certainly not between connor being aged down and greatest hits such as "i want to tell someone about my awesome day and eat ice cream".

but the real showstopper here is these fantastic words being put over panels of a character created specifically for one of the single most recognisable out gay men in pop culture:

let me put it this way: there's no music meister in comics, he did not exist before neil patrick harris -- a gay man -- voiced him in the brave & the bold cartoon and even meister's origin frames him a certain way ("bullies used to pick on me because i sang in choir/but something very strange occurred when i kept singing higher," he sings in his debut episode). there's also no inherent sexual or romantic element to meister's gimmick, merely an ability to control people through music

and yet, in the press release from hell that preceded this story, the writer notably called music meister the 'perfect villain' for connor. why is that? what are we meant to understand here? arguably, someone along the lines of poison ivy would be more appropriate here (connor's lack of sexual attraction would save the day etc, you get the picture). in the pride special, meister doesn't have a single line of dialogue, there's not a single thing about him that makes him an especially necessary piece of the story or irreplaceable in any way... except for the fact that he's associated with a gay man by default, except for the fact that the narrative seems dedicated to showing gay people as capable of oppressing asexual people (whose silence is an 'aberration' and is 'ruining our chorus', right?).

not to mention, the absolutely insane phrasing of sex involving "sharing" your body with someone but that's a whole other conversation and all i've got to say on it for now is that it makes the author sound wildly christian lmao.

point being, homophobia won and everyone celebrating connor's story is undeniably a homophobe.

#connor hawke #green arrow #dc pride 2022 #oh yeah im going in #asks #anon

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latte-fairytaekwoon · 4 years ago

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𝑀𝑎𝑓𝑖𝑎! 𝐴𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑧: 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝐻𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝐴𝑛 𝐼𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑆/𝑂 (𝑅𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑)

Warning: This reaction contains NSFW content that might not be suitable for some. Read at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: In no way am I condoning, supporting, justifying or encouraging mafia activities or lifestyle. This is all fictional and not meant to represent real life scenarios.

❁𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓗𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓳𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓰

Hongjoong was very well aware of how innocent you were, yet he never teased you about it nor babied you like others would. And he especially never pressured you or even brought up anything remotely sexual. He knew you'd let him know when you were ready to take that step in the relationship.

When the moment did come, he was surprised by your actions. You came into the room and straddled his lap.

"Baby? What are you?-"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence as you began kissing him hungrily, your hips grinding down on him. He was shocked by your sudden boldness, but he wasn't complaining. He kissed you back, his hands roaming down to grip your ass, taking control of your movements. You may have initiated this, but no way was he going to let you be in charge.

When your hand tried to slip into his jeans, he stopped you and smirked.

"Hold on baby. There'll be plenty of time for that later. First.."

Without warning, he got you off him and sat you down on the bed, his hands swiftly pulling your pants and panties off from you. Feeling shy again, you closed your legs, making Hongjoong chuckle.

"Not so brave anymore, are you love?"

Taking hold of your ankles, he pushed your legs apart to take in the sight of you. He had waited so long for this moment and he couldn't believe it. He got down in front of you, loving the way your cheeks turned pink and looked at him, waiting to see what he had planned.

"Don't worry baby. Just relax and leave everything to me."

He sent you a wink before he buried his face in between your legs, unable to hold back anymore. You gave him the green light and he was going to go for it.

❁𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓢𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝔀𝓪

Seonghwa loved how pure and innocent you were. It was no secret he got turned on by the thought of one day ruining you and staining your innocence, with your consent of course.

He wanted to hear you beg him to fuck you, to claim you as his and only his. He wanted you to writhe and moan underneath his body. But to get that, he had to make you want it.

That's why he often did little things to make you frustrated: whether it was by working out in front of you shirtless, caressing your sides while you tried cooking, kissing your neck more and more, whispering in your ear, and even licking off crumbs of food that got on your lips.

"What?" He'd often act like he didn't know what he was doing when you looked at him with a surprised expression.

The final straw for you was when he came back from a meeting, dressed in a suit. God how you loved it when he wore a suit, it just made him more irresistible. And you had been frustrated since the morning when he came out of the shower in a towel and his wet hair made you picture dirty scenes in your head. Gathering your courage, you suddenly blurted out:

"Seonghwa please fuck me."

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow and your courage vanished, thinking maybe it wasn't the time to say that. But Seonghwa smiled, feeling accomplished of himself. He began unbuttoning his suit jacket, never taking his lust filled eyes from you as he commanded:

"Strip for me baby."

❁𝓙𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓾𝓷𝓱𝓸

Even though he was a fearsome mafia boss, Yunho had the utmost respect for you. He loved you, adored you so much. He showed you the side of him he himself had forgotten he owned: the soft, caring and puppy like personality he was capable of showing. But it was only reserved for you and only you.

He knew you were a virgin and for that reason never even thought of overstepping any boundaries that would make you uncomfortable. 5 months later and he was still asking for permission to hold your hand.

He was elated yet scared when you told him one day that you wanted him to be your first.

"A-are you sure love? This is a big decision. I don't want you to regret anything." He voiced his concerns for you.

But after assuring him you wanted this, he gave in. He took utmost care of you, making sure to pleasure you and prep you so it wouldn't be too uncomfortable for you. He wanted you to feel safe and loved during your first time. He also made sure to shower you with praises.

"You're doing so well love. You're so beautiful."

He kept a slow and steady pace, his lips constantly kissing yours or your forehead, his hands holding onto yours as he looked down on you with love and adoration. He felt your nails claw his back and your legs wrap around his waist, your clenching walls signaling to him that you were close.

"It's ok baby, just let it go. Cum for me."

Yunho swears there's no more beautiful scene than watching your face contort with pleasure as you moan and whimper underneath him. He came inside you just seconds after, unable to hold back anymore.

But finally you were his and he was yours forever.

❁𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓮𝓸𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓰

Yeosang lived for teasing you. He found it adorable how your cheeks would turn red every time he did or said anything mildly suggestive. Not one day went by when he didn't make you get flustered by his actions or words.

He especially loved making even the most innocent of situations turn suggestive and when you called him out on it, he'd feign innocence and instead would say you were the dirty minded one, making you get even more flustered and unable to say anything anymore.

You were in the process of baking a cherry pie one day. You wanted to make something special for yours and Yeosang's anniversary. Yeosang walked in and saw the current state of the kitchen.

"Babe. What's this?" He eyed you curiously.

"It's to make a pie." You explained as you began taking the stems off the cherries.

Yeosang chuckled as he caught you more than once popping a cherry into your mouth instead of the bowl.

"If you keep popping the cherries like that, there won't be enough for the actual pie you know."

You pouted a little.

"Can't help it. They're just so good."

Picking one up, you held it out for him to eat.

"Wanna try one?"

Yeosang couldn't pass away the opportunity. He leaned in and ate the cherry from your fingers, making sure to suck on the tip of one of them, making you widen your eyes just a bit. Clearing your throat, you asked:

"I take it you liked it?"

Yeosang hummed before responding:

"Sure.....but that's not the cherry I wanted to pop today."

He winked at you and left the room, leaving you stunned at his words.

❁𝓒𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓢𝓪𝓷

Every one often wondered how was it that the infamous Choi San was in an actual relationship, a serious one. And it was even more puzzling for his friends when they met you.

You were the complete opposite of San. You were such an innocent little thing, while San was known as the biggest Casanova in the mafia world. They often questioned his loyalty to you, which he proved time and time again that he was faithful to you and that he did love you. His friends were so happy to see him finally settle down, to actually love and be loved by someone.

Was it your innocence that attracted San? Partly yes. But San also knew you weren't all that innocent, at least not after you got involved with him. Everything about him is sinful, and he was bound to corrupt you sooner or later, which he loved doing.

He loved how you were currently trying to hold back your moans as he pounded into you from behind. You let your head hung low, unable to see the reflection in the mirror, blushing hard.

"Nuh uh sweetheart. Don't pretend to be shy now. You were practically begging me to fuck you when you came in dressed like that."

San grabbed a hold of your hair and made you look up at the mirror, watching as he smirked at you through hazy eyes.

"Don't deny it. Beneath that innocent face, we both know you're just my little cockslut."

❁𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓲

Your innocent and pure nature was exactly the reason why Mingi fell for you in the first place. He remembers that moment very clearly.

He was standing all alone in the rain, his heart feeling as dark as the black night. He was in really low spirits. He saw no point in life anymore. It seemed to him as if there was nothing left in this world that was good. He just saw bad everywhere. A long life of crime often makes you think that.

Suddenly he felt the rain above him stop. He looked up and saw an umbrella held over him. Turning around, he saw you. You were on your tip toes, holding the umbrella as high as you possibly could, which wasn't easy since Mingi was a giant.

His heart melted when you smiled at him and said:

"It's too cold and unsafe to be out like this. Do you want me to walk you home?"

He was used to having people fear him, yet here you were, not afraid of him nor looking at him like he was a monster. And even after spending time with him and finding out who he was, you didn't look at him in disgust or repulsion.

He couldn't help but fall for you then. He loved you and made it his mission to keep you safe and protected from the dark, cold world he was a part of.

He especially loves coming home to you. Wrapping his arms behind you, he inhales your scent as you stir the food in front of you.

"Mingi." You call out to him.

"Mmmmm?" He mumbles, already dozing off in your embrace.

"I need to get something." You tell him.

"Hold on. Just let me stay like this a few more seconds."

But you know it wouldn't last just a few seconds. Not when his hands began roaming around your body, not when the chaste kisses he pressed to your shoulders turned more heated and he bit down on the exposed skin.

Pressing a kiss to your ear, he whispered softly:

"Let me make love to you."

❁𝓙𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝓦𝓸𝓸𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰

Wooyoung didn't even want to attend the meeting with the other mafia boss. He knew he was a stubborn old man who never agreed to anything and always looked down at Wooyoung for being so young, though in reality he knew he just resented him for being successful at such a young age in the criminal world.

But he doesn't regret it. Not when you, the old geezer's daughter, came in for a brief moment to give dear old dad a message. Wooyoung's eyes lit up when he saw you. And you yourself were captivated by him. Having been so sheltered by an overprotective father, you rarely ever saw men your age, and especially not as handsome as Wooyoung. You were so innocent, so naive and having met Wooyoung, you wanted him to ruin you. And he was more than happy to seduce such an innocent little thing like you.

That's how your risky romance started. First with tiny notes that evolved into risky text messages, and the once stolen kisses in corners turned to love scenes in Wooyoung's bedroom.

"Look at you being such a dirty girl. What would your father say if he saw you like this?"

You threw your head back at Wooyoung's words, the thought of your father catching you both terrifying and thrilling you.

Wooyoung smirked as he felt you clench around him.

"Oh you like that don't you? Who would have thought the perfect angel was such a little whore?"

His hands gripped your waist as he thrusted his hips up at you, hitting a new angle that would have you coming in seconds.

"Go on baby, I want you to scream my name as you cum. I want everyone to know that only I can make you feel this good. That this little pussy is mine and I own it.....

I want your dad to know that I'm the one who corrupted you, my little angel."

❁𝓒𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓙𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝓸

When his friends said they wanted to go out and have fun, this wasn't what Jongho had in mind. Even though it was common for mafia bosses to go out once in a while, get wasted, have half naked women grind on their laps, and maybe take 1 or 2 home with them, it wasn't his cup of tea. He never enjoyed these types of things.

His eyes began to scan the area before they landed on you. You were just sitting there in one of the tables, looking completely out of place. You were dressed a lot more conservatively than what the environment asked for and judging by your untouched liquor, he could tell it was your first time in these types of places. The way you awkwardly looked over at your friends was an even bigger clue.

He couldn't help it when he let out a soft smile at you, amazed by your totally innocent and quiet aura. San and Wooyoung tried to snap him out of his trance, then looking over at you, they finally understand what was wrong with Jongho.

"Hey man, if you're into girls like that, you could have just said so. I'm sure it won't be so hard to get her into bed."

Jongho glared at San's suggestion.

"I'm not a fucking pervert that just thinks about getting his dick wet like you idiots." He scoffed.

Wooyoung snorted.

"So what? Are you going to go over there? Ask her for her number and take her on a date?" He teased the younger male.

They never expected him to, but he did. And not only did he get your number and a date, but he actually started a relationship with you...... and he eventually did get you into bed with him, but to him that's just the bonus in all this.

Gifs not mine, credit goes to their respective owners.

#ateez #ateez reactions #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez mafia au #mafia!ateez #mafia!au #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yunho #ateez yeosang #ateez san #ateez mingi #ateez wooyoung #ateez jongho #ateez smut

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hongism · 4 years ago

Text

the little things - c.san

↣ pairing: san x reader; poly ot8 x reader ↣ genre: sfw, fluff, slight angst, fantasy au, witch ateez au ↣ wc: 3.3k ↣ summary: one of your favorite things to do is look at the stars with san ↣ warnings: none !

“You’re out rather early.”

You don’t turn towards the source of the voice; just hearing him speak is enough of a clue for you to know exactly who it is. Although, even if he hadn’t spoken, you’re sure you would have known from the flutter of wings that resounded before his arrival.

“The stars are prettiest right before dawn breaks,” you sigh, hugging your arms a bit tighter around your knees. Your new companion moves forward and comes to a stop beside you. He doesn’t sit down quite yet; for a while, he merely stands at your side and stares up at the same sky hanging above your heads. The time is roughly four o’clock in the morning — a late night for you and an early morning for San — but your words hold true. The glimmering stars are tucked behind fluffy and luscious clouds that seem to herald coming rain, and they shine against a midnight blue background that seems infinitely deep.

San sinks down to sit beside you at last, tossing his legs over the lip of the stone wall you’re perched on, and he sways his legs in rhythm with an unknown melody. You squeeze your knees as you press your cheek to one of them, enough to have a clear view of San’s pretty side profile against a landscape of green pine trees and shining stars.

“I thought you were out here to look at the stars,” San whispers. He glances at you out the corner of his eye. There’s no malice in his speech, just a hint of teasing, and you can’t keep your lips from quirking into a smile.

“I’m looking at you instead.”

“I should be the one looking at you, little star.” San turns his chin to face you, and his dimples flash as he grins back through the hazy moonlit night. “Our precious star,” he murmurs before reaching a hand out to trace over your forehead, slipping down to your temple then to your cheek and dragging the pads of his fingers over your skin in an unknown pattern.

“Why are you up so early?”

“Waiting for Hongjoong,” San says through a sigh. His hand retracts as quickly as it made contact, and you can’t pretend to be oblivious as to why. Things are always… harsh for San when Hongjoong is gone. It’s much worse when it’s a job like Hongjoong’s current one where the witch has to be gone for weeks at a time. Then San becomes quite volatile and hard to deal with — it only makes sense when a familiar is separate from his master for so long. Seonghwa tries to do damage control every time, tries to use techniques that normally help his own familiar Yeosang calm down, but they never work for San. Hongjoong is the only person and thing that can quell the anxieties and worries and stress that flow through San’s veins in times like these. And seeing as they are a bonded pair, it makes the connection of sharing emotional states weaker. They can’t share emotions this far apart, and that weighs heavily on San’s shoulders after being so used to sharing his heart in such a way for so long. Even if Hongjoong has a tendency to cut San off from feeling the brunt of his negative emotions, there’s still a lingering knowledge that the other is right there, just within grasp.

Not now, however.

San has gone three long weeks without even a breath of a whisper from Hongjoong.

And tonight (this morning? Today? Whatever time it may be) the witch is supposed to return. San’s nerves must be getting to him if he’s out this early because usually he would curl up in Hongjoong’s bed and await the witch there, presenting himself like a neatly wrapped present for the other to unravel with warm kisses and soft touches.

San clenches his fingers blindly around the lip of the wall.

“Tell me a story?” You inquire out of the blue. Your eyes shift to look up at the sky again. San huffs out a weak laugh.

“What kind?”

“Hm, how you and Hongjoong met?”

A risky choice, maybe, but you know how near and dear that tale is to San’s heart, and how much comfort it brings him in simply thinking of it. So it is also a very wise choice on your behalf. San’s lips twitch into the shadow of a smile.

“You’ve heard it so many times already…”

“I’ll give you something in return,” you coo, reaching out to pinch the skin around San’s elbow. He yelps like a kicked dog and offers up a deep pout that has you ready to tease him further.

“Seven kisses.”

“Seven?” You echo. Confusion slips into your tone. You can’t recall any significance to the number seven, nor can you remember whether it’s supposed to have special meaning.

“One for each time I’ve told you this story,” San murmurs, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. You scowl at the faint sensation as a laugh nearly escapes you, but you manage to bite it back enough to smile again.

“I always forgot how good a crow’s memory is.”

“Ravens remember well too, little star.”

You poke your tongue out between your lips in his direction, and San merely laughs at your expression before shifting closer to you. He loops a hand around one of yours, pulling it away from the leg you have propped up on the rock wall, then he loops his fingers through yours.

“Several hundred winters ago, this land we live in now held very different values and laws. The people were cruel and brash, only using their fists and crude weapons to handle gathering food and protecting their women and children. No one imagined there was any other way of doing things — the people knew nothing of what gentle prowess magic could offer.” San glances over at you, drawing a laugh from your lips when he makes eye contact with you. You shake your head ever so slightly.

“I didn’t mean for you to give me the version that’s in books and legends…”

San dares to giggle at that, and a moment later, he’s shifting his position so that he can rest his head against your thigh and look up at the stars like that. You have to push your other leg down to accommodate the shift, and once San is comfortably staring up at the sky with you, he begins speaking again.

“I was alone. It wasn’t something new; I was used to it at that point. Ravens don’t have the longest lifespan, and I was still a young familiar at the time. I had no owner or master. My mother’s master left our nest after she passed, leaving me with two sisters who were sick and close to death. They were too ill to shift to their human forms, so I couldn’t bring them to an apothecary or village. Ravens are seen as bad omens after all; had I brought them to a town, they would have been killed on the spot. I spent some time going between our nest and the nearest village, stealing food and medicine where I could because I couldn’t afford it. I worked some too, little odd jobs here and there, but it was a lot of delivery work. Made it easy to steal thankfully. Then… well, one day, I got too bold and tried pickpocketing a high-ranking guardsman. He was some lieutenant or something like that, I don’t remember. Too many years have passed since then. But I got caught trying to lift some coin off him in a bar, and he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out to the streets. He was planning on killing me right then and there with no trial, but some short little witch came stalking up without a care in the world and knocked the guard on his ass. He was going on and on about how rude it is to grab random people off the street like that.”

“Of course he would,” you murmur, a bit of fondness slipping into your tone. “Don’t let him catch you calling him short though.”

“Eh, he’ll survive. In any case, when the guard tried explaining that I was trying to pickpocket him, this witch extended a hand to me and asked if I needed help. I naturally said no because I didn’t think I could trust him, then took off running. I went back to my nest in the hopes of finding my sisters and telling them to get out of the area, yet when I got there, they were already gone. It had been nearly two years since my mother passed, so they were well enough to do things on their own at that point, but they’d never up and left like that without warning. I couldn’t do anything but stay and wait for their return. We’d gathered some food and supplies, so I was able to live off of it for several months before needing to depart for more again. The entire time, not once did my sisters return. They just… disappeared into thin air. I waited every day, wondered when they would come back, and some nights I would stay awake all night flying around the area in search of them.”

“That part always breaks my heart,” you whisper. Stretching a hand down, you drag your fingers along the curve of San’s cheekbones then his jaws, torn away from the stars as you look at the familiar.

“Why? Had it not happened, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I know but…”

“But Hongjoong found me,” San continues through a smile. You huff but let him finish the story, pointedly ignoring the curling grin he sends your way. “After a few months, I started noticing magical residue near my nest. And sure enough, that little witch from before was setting up camp nearby. I did nothing at first, watched him from afar for a while, then I got brave enough to try to lift a few things from his camp. That turned out to be quite the mistake because he caught me within three seconds of setting foot into that camp. And yet… instead of threatening to kill me or harming me, the little witch simply asked if I was alone. ”Are you alone? Do you have anyone with you? A master? I feel your magical energy yet it doesn’t seem normal. You must be a familiar. Where is your master?“ When I said I had no master and was on my own, the little witch was… hm, I would say he was both confused and concerned. Said it was no good for a familiar to go without a master. Without one, I would die within a few years. He suggested that I hurry along with finding one, and I explained I had absolutely no one else in my life.”

“And after that?”

San hums to himself a bit, bringing his hands up above his head as he stares at the night sky. A delicate little smile graces his pretty lips and squeezes his dimples out, but he doesn’t speak any other words for quite some time. The next voice you hear doesn’t even belong to him.

“After that, I invited San to spend some time in my care and work an honest job for me before going on his way to finding a master.”

Hongjoong.

You twist your neck towards the source of the voice, finding the witch standing a little ways away from the wall you and San are currently seated on, and he grins through the moonlit night at you. San jolts upwards at the sound of his master. The smile that splits his lips is so broad and heartwarming that it feels too intimate to look at, even for you who shares in their love for one another. It’s different for them, and you know that, even if it’s just a different strain of the same love, it’s different nonetheless. San hops off the wall in one swift move, closing the distance between his and Hongjoong’s bodies within seconds.

“As it turns out, we were…we did quite well together. And thus, here we are,” Hongjoong says as he lets San press his nose into the curve of his neck. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. Had to make a few extra stops along the way to gather some supplies. How was he?” Hongjoong directs the words to you, watching with careful yet loving eyes as you pull yourself down from the wall as well and step closer to him and San. The familiar will be like this for a while; unmoving and unresponsive as he soaks in Hongjoong’s presence again and drowns himself in the sensation of having all those feelings doubled once more. Hongjoong will try to ease the burden as much as he can for both their sake, and you’ll do what you do best: taking care of both of them when it gets to be too overwhelming. While Seonghwa and Yeosang (who don’t go a long time without each other anyway) don’t have to deal with this type of ordeal, Hongjoong and San always do. Hongjoong thinks it has something to do with how frequent his trips are, or perhaps the lingering sensation of separation anxiety that San suffers from given his past. Either way, it makes their reunions that much more emotionally taxing and intense. Even you, who has not a drop of magical ability in your body, can feel the sheer power radiating off them both right in this moment.

“You came home at the right time. He was getting antsy,” you murmur back, reaching up to comb your fingers through the long hair at the base of San’s scalp.

“Next time I’ll leave you all with a bit more of a safety net.”

“Or you could come back sooner.”

Hongjoong nearly rolls his eyes, and you catch the way he stops himself just beforehand. The annoyance in his features is nothing serious, only something because he’s heard such words a hundred times over.

“No doubt you haven’t slept yet?” He inquires, trying his best to make his way to the door of the coven’s home. San proves to be quite the obstruction, as it seems, and Hongjoong has to hoist the slightly larger man up enough to loop his legs around the smaller’s waist. Hongjoong grunts from the added weight but manages to carry San the rest of the way with no other complaints. You trail along beside them, taking care of opening the door and grabbing Hongjoong’s satchel once inside.

“Welcome home, my sweet starlight. I see our star and bird found you before I could.” Seonghwa is the first to greet the three of you upon stepping inside. You only notice Yeosang’s sleek black cat form slinking around the hearth witch’s ankles when you’re helping Hongjoong out of his shoes.

“Mm, they were waiting outside,” Hongjoong mumbles into the chaste kiss Seonghwa delivers to his lips. Seonghwa also places a sweet kiss on the back of San’s head before Hongjoong steps around the taller man, continuing to carry San as he goes.

“Mingi fell asleep in your bed last night, so don’t be surprised if you find him there,” Seonghwa calls out over his shoulder. You stretch up to your tiptoes in front of him, half-expecting the kiss that he presses to your lips a few seconds later, but the sudden appearance of Yeosang’s human form popping up on your left is much less expected. You nearly jump out of your skin, and probably would have if not for Seonghwa placing a steadying hand on your hip.

“You haven’t slept either,” Yeosang comments, nose pushing hard against your cheek. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“No need to lecture. I’m going up with them, don’t worry.”

“I’ll come by after Jongho heads out for morning work.” Yeosang smiles a little before turning on his heel and heading back into the kitchen, no doubt where Jongho waits. Seonghwa huffs out a laugh but sends you on your way without any more conversation. You catch him slipping back into the kitchen as well just as you start climbing the stairs behind Hongjoong.

“Did San fall asleep already?” You ask after the man. You can barely see the familiar’s face from how hard he has it pressed into Hongjoong’s neck, but his eyes seem to have fallen shut at some point. He’s either basking in Hongjoong’s presence as much as he can or he’s entered a pleasant state of unconsciousness with Hongjoong’s warmth around him.

“Almost. He’s calming down some though. I’ll put him in bed with Mingi then take a bath. Care to join?”

“Such a temptress,” you snort to his back.

“I’m only joking, my dear. Keep San and Mingi company while I’m washing up for me instead? We can bathe together another day.”

“Of course darling,” you murmur, drawing a hand across his shoulders once the two of you reach his door. “Be quick though. Mingi will want some time to cuddle before he joins Jongho for yard work.”

As Seonghwa warned, Mingi is already curled up into a tight ball in the center of Hongjoong’s bed when you enter the room. It’s not hard to move his lanky limbs to the side to make room for San, and when Hongjoong eases the familiar down to the mattress, Mingi immediately takes to curling his body around the smaller man like it’s an act of pure instinct. San nuzzles into the touch, releasing a content little hum. You feel a hand brush the small of your back and jerk to look Hongjoong in the eye. Turns out, it was only a way to distract you because he captures your lips in a quick kiss that tastes a bit of honey and cinnamon. You have no time to savor the taste, however; Hongjoong pulls away just as quick and mumbles something about being quick to clean up. You bring a hand up to touch the spot where his lips just were. The smile that overtakes your face is one you can’t hold back, and now it’s your turn to be content and happy as you pull the sheets back to join Mingi and San under the covers. A large hand clamps down hard on your waist, tugging you flush against San’s chest.

“Where’s my kiss?” Mingi’s voice rises through the silence, thick and groggy from sleep. You reach around San to smack him as gently as possible on the arm.

“Go back to bed.”

“Joong home yet?”

“Mhm, he’ll be in bed in just a bit.”

“Good,” Mingi sighs. He settles back into the mattress, maintaining his hold on you around San’s body, and you twist just enough to lean over the sleeping familiar.

“Kiss,” you murmur, and Mingi rushes to meet you halfway with a cheeky grin. “Okay, now sleep. You don’t have long before you have to be up.”

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep wrapped up in that embrace, and even when Hongjoong does finally come to bed, he doesn’t stir you from sleep except for the barest sensation of lips against your forehead. You might hear him mutter some loving words to all three of you, perhaps lingering a little while longer on San because he knows the familiar needs that reassurance and comfort right now more than ever, but once he settles down and tucks your head against his chest, a wildly comfortable and deep sleep overcomes you.

#atzinc #kwritersworldnet #kdiarynet #ateez x reader #san x reader #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez fic #ateez imagine #ateez imagines #choi san x reader #san fluff #san angst #san imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez drabbles #ateez drabble #ateez scenario

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weelittleweasley · 4 years ago

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masquerade (part 3) (d.m.)

prompt: draco malfoy was your rival in slytherin house. both of you ambitious, bold, and daring. as one of the few pureblood slytherin families left, you promised yourself that you would continue your lineage, but not with scum like malfoy. instead, you would meet a suitor at the annual masquerade ball hosted by the malfoys each year. but what if your prospective suitor is someone you didn’t expect…

pairing: draco malfoy x fem! pureblood reader

warnings: language, 18+ sexual content, yelling and fighting, underage drinking, talks of nightmares, anxiety

word count: 6.7k

author note: if you would like to be added to the masquerade taglist, fill out this form please!

Pressed against the brick wall of the staircase, lips pressed to each other, frantically stealing kisses, jagged breathing as hands roam up and down your body, your fingers laced in his hair. His lip detach from yours to press hot kisses down your neck and jawline as you pant, trying to catch your breath, desperate for air. Your eyes are sealed shut as you relish in the feeling of his skin against yours.

You sigh as his lips reattach to yours, picking back where he left off. Draco’s hands trail up your sides and to your chest, groping your breasts outside of your shirt. You whine when he stops as you can feel his lips turn into a smirk. “I thought you hated me,” he mumbles against your lips.

He continues to kiss you down your jawline, leaving sloppy kiss. Your chest rises and falls heavily as you think to yourself. You wanted him. This felt so good, so right. But it went against everything you stood for. It went against everything you taught yourself when you first laid eyes on him. Draco was the enemy. The saboteur. Pretentious, evil, vile, loathsome, despicable. And yet, here you were, underneath him as he pressed heavy kisses against your delicate skin, leaving marks against your skin that claimed you as his.

For as long as you could remember, you hated Draco. If you told yourself months ago that this was the situation you found yourself in, you wouldn’t believe it. But you couldn’t deny that you loved every minute of it. Maybe you didn’t hate Draco? Maybe things were changing for the both of you? Was there more to him than just the side he let you see?

Breathlessly, you speak as he looks deep into your eyes, his pooled with lust, his hands firmly placed on your hips as he pressed his body close to yours. “I thought you found me intolerable,” you retort as he smirks.

The two of you just stand there, chests rising and falling heavily as you stare at each other. You don’t kiss again. You just look at each other like you did that night at the ball. His hands on your hips as yours rested on his chest. This was never supposed to happen. But you couldn’t change the past now. It was too late. What is done is done. There was no turning back. But the future was unclear. What did this mean for your rivalry? Was there one anymore?

As you stare into Draco’s eyes, you notice a shift. His eyes stop staring into yours with adoration. Something changes. He nervously gulps and his hands pull away from your body and he gently pushes your hands down from his chest. You’re confused by his sudden change in demeanor. “I’m sorry,” Draco tells you as he looks around, making sure that the coast was clear and no one saw what just happened. “This was a mistake.”

Your heart stops. “Sorry for what?” you ask, scoffing a little bit. You sure weren’t sorry for what just happened and you knew he wasn’t either.

Draco backs himself away from you and take a few steps down the stairs as you watch him in utter confusion. “It was heat of the moment,” he tells you as your smile fades. “There’s nothing between us, (Y/N). And there never will be,” he simply states as fact rather than a question. You look at him in disbelief and scoff, shaking your head. He sighs and turns towards you, a little annoyed. “You know nothing can happen between us. The ball was a fluke! What happened just then,” he points to the stairs where you had just kissed, “was a stupid mistake. We both got caught up and it was a slip on both our parts.”

You take a few steps down from the stairs and challenge him. “So you mean to tell me that you feel nothing towards me? Not ever?” you fold your arms across your chest in defense. There was no way he could stand there and deny everything that happened between you two. The progression of events and the things Draco were saying were not lining up. He was trying to protect himself at the expense of your integrity. Draco sighs and turns away from you, not bearing to look at you anymore. “Well, now that makes you something I never thought you were, Draco. A liar.”

Draco takes a step towards you, “You know it to be true, (Y/N). We are getting our feelings for each other confused after that night. We need to go our separate ways and go back to how things used to be. That’s what’s best for us.”

In pure fury now, without even registering it, you push his chest. “You do not get to decide what is best for me,” you point at him. “You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do and what I can and can’t feel.” Draco looks at you, almost apologetically, but wipes it off quickly to replace it with a disgruntled look. “But you know what,” you sigh. “Maybe you’re right.” Draco furrows his brows. “Better to keep someone as self-absorbed and righteous as you at an arm’s distance,” you speak, surrendering yourself to the reality of the situation. The illusion that you conjured up of you and Draco maybe being together after the history you’ve had was childish and foolish. “Best for us to do what we do best. Compete against each other,” you speak softly as he gulps. “Best of luck, Malfoy. It’s a race to the top now. More than ever.”

And with that, you push past him and back to the party. A part of you wishes that Draco called out for your name like they did in those romantic movies, but this wasn't a romantic movie. This was real for you. This was a horrifying truth that you had to get past and move on with. It was showtime now and you weren’t going to miss your shot.

Putting the stairwell incident behind you, you make your way back to the party and walk directly to the drinks table and pour yourself a cup full of fire whiskey, drinking it in a few goes, the sensation burning your throat, warming your chest, and making your stomach churn. You’d come to regret it in the morning, but now you needed something to distract you.

You watch as people still happily mind their own business, dancing and chatting away, smiles on everyone’s faces. You wished that you were carefree as that, but it wasn’t in your nature to let go so easily. Letting go was hard. Especially when it is linked to your past and how you were raised. You were taught letting go meant putting your guard down and that was a sign of weakness. You needed to protect yourself because if you didn’t, who else will?

Shaking your head, you push aside your thoughts. You have no motivation to go dance and pretend like nothing was wrong. But you didn’t want to be alone in your dormitory after what happened.

Walking over to Daphne who chats to a few people in the corner of the party, you place a hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” you quietly interject. “Would you mind getting some fresh air with me?” you ask her.

Daphne immediately notices the look in your eyes. “Absolutely,” she tells you as she excuses herself. The two of you link arms and walk out of the common room. “Be careful, prefects are monitoring the halls since it’s past curfew.”

You give her a smile, “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.” As a prefect yourself, other prefects weren’t going to question your motives. “Besides, if they give me shit for it, we can just cast an enchantment on them and poof, it’s like it never happened.”

Daphne shakes her head as you walk through the halls and eventually find yourself outside. The air is cold against your hot face, but it’s refreshing and revitalizing. You sigh as the wind blows against your cheeks as you across your arms for warmth. You remain quiet with just your thoughts, silently analyzing what just happened. It all happened so quickly, giving you little to no time to process any of what just happened.

Placing a hand on yours, Daphne gives you a sad smile. “Is everything alright?” she asks, genuinely concerned for you. If there was one thing she hated, it was seeing someone she loved in pain.

You turn to Daphne with tears in your eyes that threaten to fall out, but before they can, you wipe them away. “It won’t ever work between us. And I was silly for thinking it could,” you confess. You didn’t need to give context. Daph knew exactly what this was about. “I was right in the first place. It’s illogical. We’re oil and water. Fire and ice. When one of us prevails, the other gets hurt.”

“You weren’t silly for thinking that, (Y/N),” Daphne stands in front of you to look you in the eyes, focusing on you. “In fact, you were brave for trying. You know I love Draco, but that boy is a coward. You are quite the opposite,” she says as you let out a light chuckle. “Consider it a bullet dodged.”

Shaking your head, you sigh, “You’re right. Thank you.” She nods and squeezes your hands. “I just wanna stand here for a little while before going back in. Is that okay?”

Daphne smiles, “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

The two of you stand outside the castle, enjoying the cool winter breeze on your skin, the light of the moon illuminating your faces as Daphne rubs your back comfortingly. You rest your head on her shoulder as you exhale a shaky breath. Things just got a lot more complicated.

------------

Avoiding Draco was virtually impossible. The two of you had the same duties, same study schedule, same classes. So instead of trying to meander your way around seeing him, you approached the situation like you did for years. With vitriol and no compassion. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t make eye contact with him, you just pretended he didn’t exist. And him the same to you.

It made for awkward encounters that people definitely picked up on, but no one wanted to ask you the reason why and you didn’t want to explain the reason why.

Prefect duties with Draco became something you dreaded. Before any of this mess happened, the two of you would make a competition out of it. Who helped more first years? Who finished patrolling first? Who completed all tasks first? Who got the the prefect bathroom first? But now, you remained silent and minded your own business, but still snuck glances at each other, making sure that the other was still on task.

Tonight’s prefect duties were almost all complete. You had finished patrolling your hallways and rotated your shift with a Ravenclaw prefect. You loosened the Slytherin tie around your neck and let your hair down from the ponytail it was being held up in. Letting out a sigh of relief, you fluff your hair and rub your face. Today was exhausting and all you wanted to do was go into your room and go to bed.

You walked into the Slytherin common room, fully prepared to do so, but you stop in your tracks when you see a first year student sat on the couch, sniffing to themselves. “Hello,” you gently greet the student. “Why are you up at this hour? It’s quite late,” you slowly approach the small boy who looks up at you, tear stained cheeks and red eyes signifying he’s been crying for a while. “Can I sit down next to you?” you ask.

He nods gently and scoots over for you to sit next to him. Carefully, you sit next to him and give him a soft smile. “What’s your name?” you ask him.

“Phillip,” he gently replies, wiping his eyes on the cuffs of his pajamas.

You give him a friendly smile and extend a hand to him. “Hi Phillip, I’m (Y/N). I’m the Slytherin prefect,” you tell him, letting him know that you were here to help him. He could trust you. He gives you a small smile and shakes your hand delicately, still hesitant. “Would you like to talk about what is making you upset? Or would you prefer me to sit here and listen? Or we don’t have to talk at all,” you offer him options, letting him chose what will make him the most comfortable.

Phillip sniffles. “I had a bad dream. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nod your head, “We don’t have to talk about it. That’s alright.” Phillip nods his head and plays with the hem of his pajamas, kicking his feet back and forth. “Bad dreams happen sometimes. But that’s all they are. Dreams. It’s not real,” you tell him. “You know what makes me feel better?” you tell him as he looks up at you, wondering what you were going to say. “I think about all of the exciting things I’m going to do in the morning. Do you have any fun things planned?”

A small smile forms on the small boy’s face which is soon replaced with tiny giggles. “Professor McGonagall is taking us all to Hogsmeade tomorrow morning,” he beams.

You give him an excited gasp. “You see! That sounds like loads of fun!” He laughs at your excitement for him. “There’s going to be so much to do! You can buy sweets, browse shoppes, play with your friends in the snow! That’s going to be a lot of fun, Phillip. Man, I wish I was you!”

Phillip giggles, “I guess you’re right.”

“’Course I am!” you tease him as he smiles. “But in order to have the most fun you possibly can, you need to get a good night’s rest,” you tell him as he nods his head. “Do you think you’ll be able to do that, Phillip?”

He takes a deep breath in and sighs with a smile, “I think so.”

Giving him a smile, you speak, “Sounds like a plan.” You offer him a high five that he gladly accepts. “Alright, my friend, go run off and have the sweetest dreams,” you tell him.

Phillip springs to his feet and runs off to his dormitory with a smile. “Goodnight, (Y/N)!” he calls as he disappears up the stairs.

You smile to yourself, looking off in his direction. Your heart swells. You loved helping out others when you could. It made you feel like you were destined to do this.

“I didn't realize how good you were with kids,” a voice speaks.

Letting out a gentle squeal, you place a hand over your heart and turn around, surprised by the sudden voice. Your eyes land on Draco who stands before you, hands tucked into his pockets. He stood and looked at you with kind eyes. You just stared at him blankly, not giving into him this time. Not again. You couldn’t bare it. “You scared me,” you simply state as you rise from the couch, ready to leave.

Draco speaks as you walk in the opposite direction towards the girls’ dormitories, “You would make a great Healer.”

You stop in your tracks. He remembered? From that conversation you had in the gardens. You tell your heart to stop fluttering in your chest as you close your eyes. Now was not the time for flattery. You were exhausted and you needed to go back to sleep. Turning towards him, you look at him, “What are you trying to do?”

This was a genuine question. Was he trying to make amends? Nights before he told you to stick to doing what you both did best. Hating each other. And now he wanted to put that one pause? That’s not how things worked.

Draco sighed, “I’m just trying to have a conversation rather than ignoring each other. Merlin, (Y/N), before the ball even happened we would talk to each other during prefect duties.”

You laughed, “We didn’t talk, we argued.” Which was true. The two of you arguing or challenging each other during prefect duties, taking turns taking a stab at the other’s pride or ego. “You wanted the relationship we had before the ball and I’m trying to do that. You on the other hand are standing in my way, Malfoy. So get out of my way and move on.”

But neither of you move. Again, you just stand there completely enraged at him, and he just staring at you with guilt in his eyes. A sight you’ve never seen before, but you don’t show any sympathy for him. He did this. He did this to you. You couldn’t bother feeling sorry for him.

“I didn’t mean for things to end up like this,” he says quietly. You scoff. “Genuinely, I mean it.”

“You should have said that a long time ago, Malfoy. You’re seven years too late. The damage is done,” you spit at him. “The ball was stupid and us coming together over it was stupid. The ball was my chance to find someone who I could have a partnership with. We ruined it for each other and now we’ll have to wait another year until it rolls around again. And next year, I will be actively avoiding you.”

Draco opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He tries again, but this time is interrupted. The common room door opens and in the doorway stands Tracy Davis. “Draco, are we still meeting in the astronomy tower?” she asks with a stupid girlish grin on her face.

Draco looks at her and then back at you and then back at Tracy. He gulps. “I’ll be there soon, darling. Go on without me and I’ll meet you up there,” he smiles as she giggles and closes the door. “I have to go,” he looks at the floor, too embarrassed to look at you.

With a scoff, you speak, “You work quickly, Malfoy.” He looks up at you through his eyelashes, still embarrassed. “It’s fine. No need to wait up for me. If this date of yours goes well, maybe you won’t need to be in attendance to next year’s ball. Enjoy yourself,” you speak before walking up to the girl’s dormitory.

“(Y/N)!” he calls after you, like in those romantic movies you would watch with your mother, but you don’t turn around. You continue to walk away from him. And you don’t let yourself cry this time. Instead, you walk away faster.

--------------

Weeks have past since you and Draco last spoke in the common room. You had made it very clear to him that you had no intention of wanting to even talk to him, even if it was competitive banter like you used to. Things were different now and there was no going back to the way things once were. And you had to be okay with that.

You had spent more time surrounding yourself with your studies and your friends, maintaining your good grades and good standing with your friends. Daphne knew that this drastic change was affecting you and she tried her best to be as supportive as she possibly could. Pansy on the other hand, clueless to your situation, simply kept to herself about your change in behavior around Draco, focusing on you and your friendship, which you always thanked her for.

Like always, you found yourself in the library again, returning books that you were finished studying from and reading, walking through the stacks and returning them to their rightful shelves. As you walked through the library, you thought to yourself of your upcoming assignments. Potions exam coming up which you needed to receive an excellent grade on in order for your average to rise another point so you could surpass Draco in Potions. Defense Against the Dark Arts exam coming up which meant you needed to maintain your average, seeing that you and Draco had the same average. Divinations class you knew you had to participate more in in order to get in Trelawney’s good graces so you could gently ask her to bump up your previous exam grade two points to beat Draco’s average.

As you walked around returning your books, you can’t help but have your ears perk up when you hear a certain girlish giggle coming from the back of the library. You told yourself to ignore it, but when you heard the words, “Stop it, Draco, I’m trying to concentrate!” your curiosity got the best of you.

Not to draw attention to yourself, you slithered through the stacks quietly, pretending to put away books, when in reality, you peaked through the cracks of the stacks in order to catch a glimpse of what was going on at that back table.

You knew it was wrong of you to be eavesdropping on a conversation that wasn’t yours, but honestly, after everything Draco had put you through, you didn’t give a damn at this point.

Peaking through the stacks, you see Tracy Davis hovered over her notebook, scribbling away as Draco teasingly plucked the book from underneath her. She squealed with glee and clawed back for her notebook. “Give it back, Draco!” she whined at him with a smirk on her cherry red lips as you rolled your eyes. Her voice rippled through you like nails on a chalkboard. So shrill, so...annoying.

Draco held the notebook over his head like he once did with you that time in the stacks, making sure it was just out of her reach. “Make me, Davis,” he teased her as she giggled throwing her head back in exaggerated laughter.

“Oh, please,” you whispered to yourself as you hastily threw a book back in the stacks.

Their banter loudly continued on, making surrounding students roll their eyes and groan in frustration. This whole act that they were putting on was so childish. You knew that Draco was not like this around girls; this was simple an act. A facade. A ploy to make you jealous. And even though you hated to admit it, it was working.

With another shrill laugh, Tracy squealed, “Stop it, Draco!” as he tickled her sides.

You groaned, “That’s it.” Walking out of the stacks and right up to their table with confidence, you spoke, “Last time I checked, this was a library. People are working. This isn’t a place to squeal and giggle and have a tickle fight,” you say with disgust laced in every word. “So, pipe down or leave.”

Tracy’s cheeks flash bright red as she looks away from you and slowly turns back to her work. Draco on the other hand just stares at you, eyes raking you up and down, tongue pressed against his cheek. “Last time I checked you weren’t the librarian,” he hissed.

Your blood was boiling with fury as you snapped back at him, “Shouldn’t you be ass-kissing Professor Snape right now? Or is that appointment in another hour?” You could see the utter anger in Draco’s clenched jaw as you smirked in contentment. “That’s what I thought. So on behalf of the rest of the entire library, shut it.” You flash them both a sarcastic smile and walk away, rolling your eyes.

People watch you walk away in awe of your little fit of rage, but you don’t care. You just let the smirk on your face do all the talking as you walk through the library to the back towards the restricted area. You had a note from your professor to return the book you had took from there as you slid past the rope and through the stacks.

Your eyes scanned over the spines of the books as you looked to place the book you had borrowed in its proper place.

As you place the book back, you hear a voice speak, “Could you leave your fits of rage for somewhere private rather than doing them in front of the entirety of the Hogwarts library?”

A smile comes onto your lips as you turn your head to see Draco standing beside you, hands buried in his pockets and icy eyes freezing you. “You’re not supposed to be here without a note from a professor,” you simply state.

He scoffs, “Oh, fuck off. Since when have you followed any rules.”

“Since I got to this damned school. At least I know I can win fair and square without cheating my way through or without the help of my father,” you mimic him as he takes a daring step near you. “Since when have you cared about people seeing us argue? We’ve done it for seven years and just now you have a problem with it?” you spit at him as you walk away from him, deeper to the back of the restricted section.

Draco follows you deeper into the restricted section, walking and talking, “I would rather keep our conversations private from now on rather than making them public. Especially when I’m in front of a girl that I’m interested in.”

Your mouth goes dry when he says that. Tracy Davis and Draco Malfoy? Yeah, right. That would never work out. For starters, Tracy wasn’t even a pureblood, so if any relationship developed out of that, Lucius Malfoy would stop it from going any further. Not to mention, Tracy Davis was a stage nine clinger, something Draco couldn’t stand. For Merlin’s sake, when Pansy fancied Draco and she merely looked at him, he would get sick to his stomach.

Without looking at him, you speak plainly, “Poor Tracy. Stuck with a foul fool like you.”

You disappear behind a stack of books as Draco follows, grabbing your arm and spinning you around to face him. “Just because you’re jealous of Tracy doesn’t mean you have to take it out on either of us. Surely, you’re more mature than that or is that another thing I am mistaken of?” he sneers.

The adrenaline pumping through your veins was unlike anything else. You wanted to rip his head off. Draco’s words were cruel and hurtful and you were so close to hexing him and getting it over with. “For Merlin’s sake, can you just leave me be!” you pull at your roots. “You simply cannot just leave me the fuck alone ever! You can’t just let sleeping dogs lie. No. You have to have the last word, you have to be right, you have to always pour salt in the wound. And it’s always my wound. So how about this, Malfoy? I fucking hate you. I really do. Nothing excites me more than the thought of you never being in my life again after we leave this school. I can’t wait to live a life when I never have to look upon your fucking face again and feel the way I do about you!”

Draco stands there, arms across and a shit eating grin on his face. He was loving this meltdown that you were having. It was a performance for him. “Yeah? And how do you feel about me?” he eggs you on.

“I just told you! I fucking hate you,” you yell. “I hate that way you look at me with your blue eyes that stare into mine, I hate the way you smile after every nasty thing you say, I hate the way you touch me and pretend that nothing happened, I hate the way you simply brush me off and pretend like I mean nothing to you when I fucking know I do, Draco! I know I mean something to you, but you are just too pathetic to admit it!” you confess, your voice cracking.

You never meant for all of those words to come out of your mouth, but they just spilled out and couldn’t stop. You are breathing heavy as you feel a lump in your throat, but you don’t dare cry in front of him.

Draco on the other hand was just standing there, taking it all in. He didn’t realize how much you observed him. How you carefully analyzed his every move. How brilliant you were when you spoke. It was like poetry the way you talked, even if it was talking down to him. “What do you mean....that you mean something to me?” he asks for clarification.

With a deep inhalation, you take a step closer to him, with each step a warning. “I know that you are just too egotistical and prideful to admit that I mean something more to than just a school rival. Because you are scared to admit that you felt something at the ball. You are scared to admit that you wanted me at that stupid party. You are too scared to admit that even though we’re just eighteen you feel something for me. You are too scared to confess that you are falling in love with me like I am with you,” you reveal and as you say it your eyes widen and your mouth falls agape. Draco’s eyes widen and he stares at you in complete and utter shock.

A confession. A declaration of love. In the most warped sense of the phrase. But it was a declaration nonetheless.

You stutter, trying to find the right words to defend yourself, back peddling now. Mouth agape, “I-I-I didn’t mean that, um, I, uh,” you stutter. “I don’t know what I just said, I-I blurted out something I don’t know.”

Draco speaks, “You’re falling in love with me?” His eyes search yours, but you refuse to look at him. He gently grabs your face in his hands and forces your gaze up to his. His blue eyes melt under your fiery ones. “Do you truly mean that?”

You are panicking. What were you supposed to say? Tell a lie? Tell him that all of it meant nothing to you when on the contrary, what happened at the ball was everything you could have wanted? “Draco, I...” you trail off.

“I need to know, (Y/N),” he states, eyes digging into yours, prying the truth from you. “I need to know if you’re falling in love with me, now more than ever.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and your heart stops. “Do you love me, Draco?” you retort, hoping he would say something, anything. “Please.”

Without wasting another moment, Draco’s lips crash onto yours and you immediately kiss him back. His hands cup your face as your hands rest on his forearms, pulling him in closer. The kiss is gentle, but desperate and passionate. It wasn’t quite the answer you were looking for, but in a way it was better. His lips were warm and soft, tasting of peppermint as he pulled you close. Mumbling against his lips, you speak, “Draco, I-”

He shakes his head, “Don’t say another word.”

His lips find yours again, this time more desperate than the last. You wrap your arms around his neck as his slither around your waist. Your lips are pressed firmly against each others before his hands squeeze your bottom, making you gasp, allowing him to slide his tongue into your mouth. His tongue massages yours as you moan softly into his mouth, your fingers tangling themselves into his white blonde hair. His lips press hot kisses down your jawline and neck as you lean back, allowing your flesh to be exposed to his lips.

Frustratedly, he undoes the first few buttons of your shirt before groaning and ripping the last four buttons off. Too distracted to care, you chuckle at his eagerness. Draco stares at your chest, looking at how your breasts spill out of your bra. He places a kiss to either one of them before pushing your shirt off of you and onto the floor, your bra following shortly after.

Mimicking his previous actions, you peel Draco’s shirt off his body to reveal his surprisingly chiseled abdomen. Quidditch really worked wonders on him, huh? Your painted fingernails trace his torso as he smirks before he starts unbuckling his belt as you hastily peel off your underwear. The two of you understood that you didn’t have much time before someone would wonder where you two went or what you were doing. This needed to be quick.

Draco pulls you close to him as you breathily giggle, him smirking. “Jump,” he commands as you do so, him hoisting you up as you wrap your legs around his torso. He grabs a condom from his pants pocket as rips it open before pulling his boxers down and rolling the latex onto his hard member. “You’re going to have to be quiet for me, darling. Can you do that for me?” he huskily whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You nod your head eagerly. Draco presses you up against the bookcase as you hold onto his shoulders. “Good. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, looking you in your eyes deeply, making sure that you really wanted this.

You nod again, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my whole life,” you pant as he smiles. He lines himself up to your entrance, but before he can push himself in you grab his chin and force his gaze up to yours. “Before you do,” you tease. “I don’t want you calling me darling,” you demand as he furrows his brows. “You called her darling. I want a nickname that’s just for me and me only.”

Draco smirks and leans over into your ear. He hums, “Alright then. How’s princess?” he slowly pushes himself into you as you sigh in pleasure, digging your fingernails into his shoulder blades. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Slowly, Draco rocks in and out of you, letting you adjust to his size before picking up his speed. His hard cock rolling in and out of your wetness makes your eyes screw shut and lean your head against the bookcase. You were in complete euphoria as you feel him move in and out. You wanted to moan out his name in pleasure, but at risk of getting caught you bite down on your bottom lip and whimper. “Shit,” you whisper as Draco breathes heavily as he pumps in and out of you. “Fucking hell.”

Draco holds onto your hips tightly as he fucks you, hips rolling against yours as he fucks you against the bookcase. The books around you shake from his thrusting motions, but neither of you could care less. “Fuck, princess, you feel fucking incredible,” he breathes out as he presses kisses into your collarbones.

You hold onto his shoulders as he continues to rock in and out, his speed increasing with each thrust, driving you mad. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles into it, sending you over the edge. “Right there, baby,” you encourage him. He continues at that speed, rubbing your clit and fucking you. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Draco buries his face in your neck as you tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling gently. “You’re gonna make me come, princess,” he whispers in your ear as you whimper underneath him. “I want you to finish all over me.”

With a few more strokes, you feel a familiar sensation of a knot in the pit of your stomach and your walls tighten around his throbbing dick. “I’m close, Draco,” you whisper.

“Come, princess,” he nibbles on your delicate flesh. “Come all over my dick.”

And there you were, a writhing mess against the bookcase in the library, holding onto his shoulder for dear life as your head rolls back and mouth falls agape. Draco’s hand flies over your mouth to prevent moans from escaping your mouth, even though he wished he could hear you scream out his name in euphoria. He watches your eyes flutter close as you finish, the sight unlike anything he has ever seen before. Moments later, Draco finishes, still pumping in and out of you, riding out both of your highs as you let out muffled moans.

The two of you are panting, breathless messes as you come down from your climaxes. Draco gently puts you down, holding onto your waist as you try to stand, legs still shaking. He chuckles and pecks your lips gently. “Merlin, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes as you look up at him with a soft smile. “I don’t know how I didn’t recognize those eyes when I first saw you at the ball. You have the most captivating eyes.”

You peck his lips gently before the two of you quickly toss your clothes on again and fix your appearances to look somewhat normal, even though both of your faces were flushed.

The two of you stay in silence for a little while before you speak up. “You didn’t answer my question, Malfoy,” you nudge him as he fixes his tie. He furrows his brows, confused. “I asked you if you were falling in love with me.” Draco looks into your eyes and he breathes out an uncomfortable laugh before buckling his belt. You look at him, searching his face for an answer. “Draco...” you trail off, your worries starting to bubble in your chest. “Draco, I need to know if you do.”

You didn’t want to force him into saying yes, but Merlin, you need to know if you just had sex with a man that you confessed your love to but didn’t feel the same. Draco refuses to make eye contact with you as he runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it as anxiety pools in your stomach and chest. “I told you that I was falling in love with you...and you haven’t told me how you feel yet. All you did was have sex with me,” you speak. “Look at me.”

Draco looks at you with anxiety and guilt in his eyes as your heart sinks. “Please tell me the truth,” you say.

He sighs, “Was what we did not an answer?”

“You’re avoiding the question, Malfoy,” you speak now growing frustrated.

Draco notices the name change and he gulps. “(Y/N)...I don’t know.” You inhale a shaky breath. “I really don’t know.”

You are in disbelief. In shock, you start laughing a little bit, unable to fathom the series of events that just unfolded. “But you know enough to have sex with me, no if, ands, or buts.”

“It’s not like that-”

“No, it’s exactly like that,” you hold your place. Draco lets out a defeated sigh and looks at you sadly. “So, that’s it? You...you wanted to get a confession out of me, that’s it? You wanted me to admit my feelings, fuck me, and then leave me high and dry. This whole charade...this was a part of your grand plan, wasn’t it?” you start to work yourself up.

Draco shakes his head, “Not at all, (Y/N). It’s not like that at all.”

“Well, it seems like it, Draco!” you exclaim, tossing your hands in the air, surrendering. “This whole facade you put on. That’s all it was. A facade. It was a whole lie. And I’m a fool for thinking that it was real.” Draco’s face drops and he reaches out for you as you take a step back. “Well, you know what. You win, Draco. I accept defeat. You win. Congratulations, Draco Malfoy. You’ve beat me at your own game. I hope you’re happy,” you tell him.

“(Y/N), stop please.”

“This is the last time you get to hurt me, Malfoy. But now I see you for who you truly are. Your mask has finally come off and now I see you for the coward you truly are.”

Without staying any longer, you run out of the restricted section, abandoning everything. Tears pool in your eyes as you leave, walking out of the library. You don’t even given him the chance to call out your name. You didn’t want to know that there was hope for the two of you. You shook your head, shame on you for not knowing better. He won. Game over.

But this time, you had ripped off his mask and saw his true colors. The masquerade was over.

------

TAGLIST: @pxroxide-prinxcesss @kerie-prince @quadrupledeckertaco @labualill @jasmin3414 @anxietyspacetart-15 @andy-blur @alicemaryfairy @fivenightslaughter @harrysboo28 @babydol @brattypeony @dracoswhore007 @mendes-marvel @linmalfoy @sylvanslytherin @ama0310 @pettyluxury @cecile-sucks @bxbyvivi @muse-et-espirit @aylinolmez @jjeykayy @xoxohollands @itsbebeyyy @wontlastimokwiththat @suavenaya @quacksonsssandtea @lana-isabelle @abitofeverythinggg @renaissancebaby @calamislunafox @sophiaamariaa @smithdani @weaslebeemalfoy @goldenpeaxh @shaniajones @fa-me @imbadwithusernames @stillyoursfaithfully @thatguppienamedbae

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crackinwise · 4 years ago

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My pet AU is Kiyotaka and Mondo somehow out in the post-Tragedy Japan, surviving and saving people. Like either they didn't agree to stay locked in Hope's Peak for safety, or they survived the game and left with the others but didn't join Future Foundation. Major points up front, details divided into sections under the cut:

Mondo's objective would be to find his gang, and Taka's goal, besides finding his dad, would be repairing society while punishing those responsible for its destruction. But their direct task is keeping each other safe & helping victims along the way.

Mondo even stresses calling Taka "Ishimaru" instead of "bro" or his given name in front of others, so they might KNOW who's saving them. Taka caught on quick & is very grateful.

Taka would have kind of a breakdown reconciling who he is with what he has to do in a lawless world where every public moral is ignored. He keeps a small ledger of places they loot from, to compensate in the future.

At the start, Taka can only sleep burrowed against Mondo's chest or back, blocking out their damaged surroundings & pretending everything is as it was.

He cries in Mondo's arms one night after he couldn't avoid killing someone to save Mondo's life, and that's the tipping point. He thinks if he was better, stronger like his bro, he'd have noticed sooner & found a better option. Mondo is being so brave; he's Taka's rock and Taka wants to be as steady for him too. Their souls are already connected so obviously he just has to borrow more of Mondo's spirit, right?

That's how Ishida is created.

(In reality, Mondo just compartmentalizes and shoves down unhelpful feelings. You thought he needed therapy BEFORE all this, oh man-)

Ishida:

Taka ends up slipping into the Ishida facade for fight and flight; any time adrenaline kicks in and he feels he needs that boost. Sadly, that's most of their waking time. He guards Mondo and anyone they're saving like a fierce watchdog, and won't hesitate to bite.

He'll only come out of the role when he personally verifies it's safe and if Mondo can confirm it. Survivors are confused by the dual-sided Ishimaru switching right in front of them, but they're so grateful (and so much weird crap has happened) that it never phases them long.

Too many times, Ishida will go all day without a break. This means when their hideout for the night is absolutely safe, that it's okay to let go, Taka just collapses in exhaustion. But Mondo is there to catch him.

Mondo feels conflicted over the Ishida role because Taka is just a beast in it--it's very flattering and a little hot--but it also makes him worry more than before about Taka's health. He comforts Taka with a lot of praise and reassurances, and Taka sleeps lightly but otherwise fine.

Relationship: (slight mature warning)

When they touch, Taka swears he can feel the link between them flare to fuel them. Twin fires ignited. Mondo doesn't know about all that, but when their eyes meet it definitely makes him feel invincible, so, he can believe.

If they weren't already new boyfriends when The Tragedy hit, all this closeness makes sure of that soon after. Being together is their happiness and, for a while, their only link to pre-Tragedy lives. Vows not unlike marriage were exchanged one night. Where one goes, the other will follow. Anywhere. Always.

When they kiss, safe and alone, Mondo will ask what Taka wants; what he can handle that night. Sometimes it's just the kisses before passing out, sometimes it's more intimate touches to please them both after another hellish day.

Sometimes Taka will ask to be made love to, for obvious couple reasons, but also because Mondo inside him makes their tether feel stronger, more complete. Like going over the invisible line in bold marker. Taka believes any marks they can create with their mouths, any traces of themselves they can leave on or in each other, the easier they can find their bond and tap into it. (He had started a nervous habit of pressing in on lovebites to keep Ishida going when tired.)

Mondo tells him he doesn't need to find a poetic excuse for fetishes and Taka lovingly answers with a stomach punch.

Crazy Diamonds:

Mondo's gang members, the ones not dead or overcome with Despair, are slowly found and joined back up.

Any smaller and sturdier motorcycles are kept when found. If Mondo was able to keep his own in this version, it's a bit heavier than would be good for any off-roading--and much too loud for any stealth--but he refuses to part with it.

Every gang member respected Taka/Ishida the second they saw him fight beside their leader. Before Mondo says a word about him. They readily take orders from him in either form. The change in appearance was a surprise, but they're already used to some members wildly changing demeanor in or away from the gang, so it's easily accepted.

With the gang as backup to keep watch during downtime--after Ishida sized each one up and watched them for loyalty--the pair can feel a lot more relaxed. They joke about having a date in a blown-out restaurant they find, and they can finally enjoy a deep sleep.

When the group finds safehouses with more than one room, Mondo & Taka are given their privacy. Taka tries to insist everyone deserves a chance at privacy and they should rotate, but changing a gang's long-established hierarchy is a losing battle. And Mondo's not on his side because when they're alone he can be as sappy or touchy as he likes.

Legends:

Taka and Mondo save a lot of people over their journey and kinda become a legend that gets spread around and gives people Hope.

This area still needs work from me. Probably some research into Japanese myths and supernatural symbolism. A placeholder right now is something corny like "Two Men with burning eyes and thunderous voices will answer your cries for help. But if you're evil, the two will appear to you as One Demon and drag you down to the land of the dead."

There's also probably a need for costume changes since their color scheme is the same black & white of the Despair Remnants and monokumas killing people. Legend or not, it'd be easy for traumatized survivors to not know they're good guys at first.

Darker Moments: (blood, violence and vague attempted sexual assault)

After he killed a man to save Mondo, Taka luckily (he wouldn't use that word) doesn't have to again. Hurt? Yes. Beat unconscious? Yes. Maim? Yes, but some of the vile dregs of humanity are caught doing things that deserve worse--

--That deserve Mondo. Once when they were still traveling alone, a group of Remnants jumped them, managing to separate the two, and one knocked Taka out with a bad blow to the head. Mondo dispatched the others attacking him and got to Taka right as the Remnant was about to do something unforgivable.

Mondo snapped. He still doesn't remember what he did, he just remembers coming to in all the blood and dazedly picking Taka up to take him to a place he knew was safe.

Taka never finds out. He woke up a day later with a bandaged head and Mondo crying and kissing his hands. Mondo just told him he beat some and scared away the others.

Minor Details:

They try to always fight back-to-back and, to observers, seem to read each other's mind for where to move.

Taka/Ishida would use a sword or hand-to-hand. The pickaxe might just be a random pickaxe they find, if he uses it at all. Kinda hard to carry both a sword and a railroad pickaxe on your back, and I can't imagine it balances very well. (The size in official pics would be a 5lb head w/2-3lb handle.)

Mondo seems like he would use anything lying in debris to fight. Poles, pipes, chains. Aaaand maybe the knives he mentions in School Mode.

For any costume changes, Mondo would keep his jacket at least. A beacon for the Diamonds. Maybe a purple tank top, and different pants better for knife holsters. Unless the holster should wrap around his waist or hip instead?

Any changes to Taka's outfit would keep his armband. It's a reminder of his Talent and his goal to make Japan even better than before. Also wanna keep his boots or change to more rugged ones.

End Goal:

Obviously they'd end up in Towa, after the events of Ultra Despair Girls. They're reunited with Takaaki and Takemichi. Maybe they help set things right there a bit, or Makoto would get word to them about his plans vs Future Foundation's. Look at me, do I look like someone that knows how to end things?

There is no way you read all that. (I love you if you did.) But feel free to use all or any bits of it in your own works. Almost positive I'll never get to compose all this into a coherent fic format. I might update in short scenario posts under a 'Tragedy-survivor au' tag if I think of anything.

If you have a question or want something expanded upon, ask away.

#ishimondo #kiyotaka ishimaru #kiyondo ishida #mondo oowada #danganronpa #Tragedy-survivor au #i've only read like 2 fics that had this concept but it was ensemble so the boys weren't the focus which hurt me

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tianawarner · 3 years ago

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City Girl: Part 2

Could all of the idiots who told me to try and meet people at a dog park actually be right?

“I’m a software developer,” I say. “Satellite company.”

Ava faces me fully. “Seriously? That’s cool.”

People always say that, but the work is hardly thrilling, and I don’t click with any of my coworkers. “Mm, I don’t know. I write code, they pay me, I go home. It’s…”

“Controlled and predictable?”

I purse my lips. “Got me.”

We step back as a horde of dogs barrels through, Moose and the husky in the lead, Pretzel yapping at their haunches.

“So you think I should embrace more chaos in my life?” I say. Maybe my routine is my problem. Maybe friends and relationships come to you when you do bold and outgoing things—like when I met that super hot Australian girl while on a ski trip a couple of years ago. I was a different person on that trip, social, flirty, unrestrained. That bold side of me got a girl, at least for the night.

Ava laughs. “I think you should do whatever makes you happy, Meg.”

I smile, liking the sound of my name on their lips.

“Up until a couple of years ago, I wanted to be an astronaut,” Ava says.

It’s a miracle they’re still talking to me. Hasn’t my rambunctious dog and the lingering smell scared them off?

“What stopped you from going after that dream?” I say.

Ava searches my face, making me wonder what they’re thinking. Seeming to realize they’re staring, they shift their attention to the canine juggernaut racing around the park. I do too, wishing my face would stop burning up.

A few strides away, the guy who grumbled at me is using a branch to push the dead salmon into the ocean. I pretend to be interested in what he’s doing.

“I was… afraid,” Ava says. “It’s a lot of work, and even if I give it my all, there’s still a good chance I’d fail.”

“I get that,” I say. “Rejection sucks. I got rejected by eighteen companies before landing this job.”

“Eighteen?”

“Most of the positions I applied for were out of my league.”

“That’s… brave.”

I return their little smile. “Even if you don’t go into space, you could apply for a related job. It’s worth following your dreams. I say this as someone who’s dreamed of having a dog since I was four and my parents always said no.” I motion toward my smelly disaster, who is on his back while a Labrador bites his throat.

Yeah, he’s totally embarrassing me in front of the most attractive person I’ve ever met, but he’s also my source of joy every day, so I can forgive him.

“Thanks for saying that.” Ava searches my face, something unreadable passing behind their light brown eyes. “To be honest, when I told my parents I wanted to be an astronaut, they told me to pick something more realistic.”

I open my mouth, not sure how to respond.

Ava drops their gaze, flustered, and I hope they don’t regret confessing that to me.

“You could do it,” I say firmly. Even if their parents don’t believe in them, I do.

A few strides away, Moose hunches over, and I realize he’s taking a crap. He makes eye contact with me.

Okay, nope. Screw the people who told me a dog park is a good place to make friends. This is the most awkward way to meet someone on the entire planet.

I get a poop bag and transfer Moose’s gift to the trash can, silently cursing the entire world. Then I return to the ridiculously attractive person who just watched me pick up a mound of dog crap.

“This isn’t the way I envisioned meeting a cute person in L.A.,” I blurt, needing to get it out there. “I swear my life isn’t normally this chaotic.”

Ava opens their mouth in surprise before breaking into laughter. “Well, that’s dogs.”

Pretzel sniffs around calmly, ignoring any dog that tries to engage him. Why can’t Moose be chill like that?

“Meg.” Ava nudges me playfully and a spark shoots up my arm. “I assure you, you’ve got my interest.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Really? I do? My pulse accelerates, and I struggle to keep my cool.

We’re standing close enough that their sweet lavender scent draws me in again. Their gaze traces over me in a way that makes my insides tingle.

“You’re the first stranger I’ve talked to since moving two weeks ago,” I say. “It’s hard to make friends in this city.”

“I get that. I’ve lived here my whole life and still have that problem. You have to be bold, I think.” Ava looks down at Pretzel, who whines as if saying he’s ready to leave.

Bold. There’s that word again.

I can do that. I think.

Across the park, Moose trips over a rock and collides with a golden retriever. I pretend not to notice.

“Hey, I’m having a game night on Friday with a few people, if you’re up for some chaos,” Ava says in a rush, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a note of nervousness in their voice.

My heart skips. “Really? I’d love to come!”

They grin, shoulders dropping in relief. “What’s your number?”

Friends! I’ve done it!

And maybe… at some point… more than friends? I bite my lip and type my number in their phone, unable to believe that my ridiculous dog didn’t ruin my chance of meeting someone today.

Ava pockets their phone with a sheepish smile. “Cool. Well, I have to get going. Off to my non-exciting, non-astronaut job.”

“I guess I’ll go give Moose a bath,” I say, trying not to betray how disappointed I am that they’re leaving already.

“It was nice meeting you.” Ava stretches out a hand. “See you here tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Yes.” I meet their handshake, and as our hands grasp, a pleasant sensation ripples through me.

Their breath hitches, and they bite their lip. With the way their eyes are blazing, I may melt into a puddle right here. I imagine them pulling me in and kissing me passionately, which makes me awkwardly drop my gaze to my feet.

Ava lifts my hand and kisses the back of it, their lips sending a tingle up my arm.

As we let go, they flash a lopsided smile, and I forget how to breathe.

“How bold,” I say teasingly.

“Just want to make myself clear,” they say with a wink, making my heart flutter.

Pretzel has wandered down to the shoreline, where he and Moose are chasing seagulls. I’m pretty sure the birds are in on the game because they keep landing and casually taking off before the dogs can catch them.

It would be cute, except it’s stopping Ava from catching Pretzel.

I run forward to help, grabbing Moose in a weird rodeo move. I get mud all over my jeans, but it works, and I use my free hand to hold Pretzel by the collar.

As Ava clips on the leash, our hands brush for longer than necessary.

Damn, I really like them. The butterflies in my chest are going wild. Should I make my feelings clear too?

“Um, bye then,” I say.

Be bold.

And channeling Moose’s chaotic energy, throwing any sense of caution and predictability to the wind, seizing the boldness that made me move to L.A. in the first place… I lean in to kiss Ava’s cheek.

Without hesitating, Ava turns their head to meet my lips.

A spark of victory ignites in my chest as our lips touch.

The kiss is soft and gentle, and when we pull apart, Ava’s lips stretch into a wide smile.

I smile back. “Just wanted to make myself clear,” I say, breathless.

Ava laughs. They hold my gaze, a glimmer of excitement in their brown eyes, while Moose and Pretzel wag their tails at the birds in the water.

A light and fluffy one for you this week! I’m trying different heat levels so please let me know what you prefer to read. Next week’s story is an extra-spicy friends-to-enemies-to-lovers romp. ;) Get early access to it (and read it all at once instead of in pieces) at patreon.com/tianawarner

#sapphic #lesfic #f/f #short story #sapphic romance

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sou-ver-2-0 · 4 years ago

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Hi! I adore your fics and meta! I love how you are able to analyze the writing in YTTD thoughtfully and creatively, while still being entertaining and accessible. It's a real joy to read your posts. So, a question: why do you think Shin didn't immediately out Keiji as the ex-detective that he is? Shin should've known Keiji's true occupation from the get-go, having seen the percentage papers. It could be as simple as not wanting to draw attention to himself, but I wanted a second opinion.

Thank you so much!! You have no idea how happy this message made me. :’) I try very hard!!

There’s actually a fun twisty answer to your question: Shin can’t prove that Keiji is lying without telling everyone the truth about the Percentage Papers, and this is the last thing Shin wants to do! Shin doesn’t want anyone to know about his true, “weak” self. In order to out Keiji, he would also have to out himself, and Shin absolutely will not out himself. Shin feels certain that the minute he shows vulnerability, everyone will vote to kill him.

It’s not worth the risk to challenge Keiji on this issue! Like you said, Shin doesn’t want to draw attention to himself at the beginning of the Death Game. I’d like to add, he doesn’t want to start any fights.

Look at these men.

Keiji Shinogi

Height: 185.5 cm (6'1")

Weight: 81 kg (178.6 lbs.)

Survival rate: 9.5%

Shin Tsukimi

Height: 168 cm (5'6")

Weight: 49 kg (108 lbs.)

Survival rate: 0.0%

Seriously, look at these men.

Shin has a normally timid personality and he just started pretending to be someone he’s not. He’s not going on the offensive just yet. He’s just trying to make it through this round of introductions without completely making a fool of himself. (He then proceeds to get bullied by an elementary-school kid. But at least he told his First Big Lie of the story and got away with it!)

If I were Shin, I would be terrified of calling out Keiji on his lie! Like I keep saying on this blog, I think Keiji is scary! That informs my biases when I write about Keiji, but it also makes me feel empathy for Shin, who has every reason to be frightened of him.

I was also reminded of Nankidai’s description of Shin from the Chapter 1 recap.

“A self-described job-hopper. He was a timid-looking man who spoke with a smile… Though unbelievably weak for an adult man and seeming as if he disliked conflict, everything about him gives off a “darkness.” He was very shocked to be attacked by Nao and have the laptop clue stolen from him. In the Main Game, Sou lost trust and transformed, seemingly filled with malice and madness. The sight struck fear and hatred into the survivors.”

Those words I bolded show how difficult it would be for Shin Tsukimi to challenge Keiji! That’s what Shin’s normal personality is like!

After Shin “transforms” and is filled with “malice and madness,” then he’s finally brave enough to challenge “strong” people like Keiji. We see this especially in how Shin taunts Keiji with the laptop in Chapter 2-1. Shin has an ace up his sleeve in that he knows that Keiji is a liar, but it’s impossible for Shin to draw this ace without revealing his entire 0.0% loser’s hand.

With all that in mind, there’s nothing for Shin to do except wait with breathless anticipation for Keiji’s lies to come crumbling down, and pray that his own lies don’t crush him first.

#yttd #your turn to die #kimi ga shine #sou hiyori #keiji shinogi #your turn to die spoilers #shin tsukimi #sou and keiji #asks #meta #mine #This answer is a bit longer than it needed to be because I love you Anon :')#nankidai #official art

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omgkatsudonplease · 4 years ago

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[ficlet, bagginshield] feeling exceptional (bridgerton au)

The Great Smials Assembly is in Tuckborough, which means for Bilbo that it’s little more than a glorified family reunion. All of his various aunts and uncles push and pull at him when he arrives, wishing him good luck in his courtship with the King of Erebor. Gandalf, staying at the Great Smials on an invitation from Thain Fortinbras II, looks especially insufferable every time someone hopes to be invited to the Royal wedding.

“He hasn’t proposed yet,” Bilbo grumbles whenever it does.

“But surely he’s on the very verge of it!” gasps Aunt Donnamira, clutching at her chest. “Gandalf says he’s never seen two creatures on Eru’s green Arda look at each other with such devotion. If he doesn’t marry you, he’s a fool!”

Well, then, we are both fools, Bilbo does not say. King Thorin is a fool for letting such a fanciful Hobbit pretend to be his, and he is a fool for squandering this opportunity not to look for his true love.

Still, something strange burns at him, deep inside. He’s felt it all this while, over all of these weeks of lies and pretences slowly becoming wishes and truths. Thorin is nothing like the brusque Dwarf-king he had first met at the Party Field Dance, nothing like the cold statue barely making conversation with him at Gandalf’s surprise dinner. Bilbo has seen through the outermost layers of him —rather literally at one point, during the Brandywine River Promenade — and he has to admit, he likes what he sees.

And liking what he sees is the last thing he needs, because they had agreed to avoid just that. They had agreed not to fall in love.

“Bilbo!” He is jerked out of his thoughts by a familiar cheerful voice. His cousin Primula comes barreling at him with ungraceful fervour, pulling up short just as he braces himself for impact. He finds himself curtsied to first before being squished into one of her overenthusiastic hugs. Clearly the etiquette lessons were not taking root with her at all. “Bilbo, Bilbo, you’re here! And I’m here! I had to go to Fornost earlier in the month so I missed the Promenade but I’m here! And I got permission to attend this ball! And Mama is going to lower my hems soon so I can debut in a year or two!”

“Prim! Calm down!” exclaims Bilbo. The young Hobbit-lass bounces in reply, the ribbons in her hair shining with each toss of her thick, dark curls. “What was that about a trip to Fornost?”

“Mama and Papa took us to Fornost for the spas,” says Primula happily, holding him out at arm’s length to examine him more closely. “Now I’ve missed all the excitement. I heard you’re going to be a Dwarf Consort!”

“I’m not going to be a Dwarf Consort,” scoffs Bilbo, before quickly catching himself and tacking on a hasty, “yet. He hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, but I hope he does,” gushes Primula. “It would be so romantic!”

“You’re taking cues from Auntie Donnamira, I see,” says Bilbo, spinning her around in circles. “Are you sure you can behave yourself tonight?”

“It’s just dancing,” scoffs Primula. “I promise not to tread on Cousin Sigismond’s feet again. I promise.”

Bilbo snorts. “All right, Prim. And what’s this about your mother letting you debut soon? Aren’t you still in your tweens?”

“Yeah, but all of my sisters are gone and married,” replies Primula, pouting. “And if I enter society, I get to go to all the parties with you! It’s been no fun being cooped up in Brandy Hall being told to go to bed just before the party guests arrive, you know.”

Bilbo remembers a ball at Brandy Hall during one of his earlier seasons, catching Primula in her nightgown by the doorway into the ballroom. He’d taken her out into the gardens and told her stories until she got drowsy. She’s grown up faster than his beansprouts since then, her childhood roundness briefly interrupted by tweenhood gangliness. And now here she is in a lengthened evening-gown, her eyes bright and ribbons woven into her cloud of dark hair.

Bilbo feels immeasurably old beside her. With any luck, she’ll be declared the rose of the season the year she is presented to the Queen of Arnor, and, just like her sisters, she’ll be swept off her feet by some strapping Hobbit-lad and sent off to her happily ever after.

And Bilbo will remain here, forever picky, forever searching. Possibly even lamenting the events of this year, and what could have been.

The refreshments are laid out, the band is arrayed to the side, and the first couples begin to form a line for the first dance of the night. Bilbo looks at Primula fiddling excitedly with her dance card, and gestures to it with a grin.

“Do you mind so terribly if your favourite cousin had your first dance?” he asks.

“Bold of you to assume you’re my favourite cousin,” replies Primula, but she’s smiling nonetheless, extending her wrist out to him. He signs for the first dance, before taking her out to join the other dancers lining up on the floor.

The first dance is a reel in which the leading couple weaves their way through groups of three couples at a time. This means that Bilbo and Primula have a great deal of time standing still, waiting for their turn, and so Primula breaks the silence again with a devious grin.

“I heard Mr Gladden has finally left town,” she says. “Something about his grandmother’s failing health. He’s gone back to the Greenwood.”

Bilbo exhales. “Good for him,” he says. “I feel terrible for saying that, but I don’t think I will miss him one bit.”

“I’ve never met him, but lots of people said it was about time,” agrees Primula. “He must have been quite the stinker.”

“I would be the last person in Arda to judge someone for being odd,” muses Bilbo, “but besides being odd he was rude. No sense of boundaries.”

“If only other people would get the hint.” Primula tosses her head towards Miss Bracegirdle, who had just joined the line with Otho Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo scoffs.

“For someone who isn’t in society yet, you certainly know a lot about the people hounding me,” he remarks.

“Just because I’m not in society doesn’t mean I can’t read Lord Stormcrow,” replies Primula with a sly grin. “He’s had a lot to say about you two. Because of him, there’s now a betting pool between the Master, the Thain, and the Mayor for when King Thorin will propose!”

Bilbo feels like he��s been doused in cold water. “What a bunch of nosy busybodies,” he declares, just as the lead couple gets to them and they start to link arms and circle with them.

“Well, of all the Dwarves of Arda, I suppose a Dwarf-king isn’t a bad choice for the head of the Baggins family,” muses Primula once they meet up again and the lead couple has moved on down the line. “I never liked the Bracegirdle option, if you cared to know my thoughts on it. I mean, it is the respectable choice, but she’s clearly more interested in being Mistress of Bag End than your wife.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Whatever happened to little Prim?” he wonders. “The one who crashed the Brandybuck Ball in her nightgown and listened to my stories of butterflies and dumbledoors in the garden until she fell asleep?”

“Well, it’s because of your stories that I know you wouldn’t marry someone unless they made you perfectly and incandescently happy,” Primula points out.

“You make me perfectly and incandescently happy, too, and I have no plans to marry you,” Bilbo replies.

“That’s because you’re ancient Cousin Bilbo,” says Primula matter-of-factly, “and all I want for ancient Cousin Bilbo is someone who will make him smile his happy smile, not his brave one.”

Bilbo wants to chalk everything she’s saying up to simple tweenhood twitterpated nonsense, but the words fly out of his head the moment he catches a glimpse of familiar blue. The music hushes into an awed murmur, as dancers and other guests alike stop and turn to see Thorin’s arrival at the Assembly. Bilbo dimly feels Primula dropping his hands as she turns to see the Dwarf-king, her small gasp of delight echoing deep in his heart.

The first time Bilbo had read the Lay of Leithian, he had been struck by the verses depicting the meeting of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel. Deep within the woods of Doriath, the fateful meeting of those two had been a dance, a chase, a cry, a capitulation. As Bilbo read, he had wondered, dimly, if one day he would ever experience a captivation so thorough as what Beren had felt when he first watched Lúthien dancing in the forest grove.

Now, as he sees Thorin enter in his dark-blue tailcoat and white cravat, with the beads of the line of Durin shining starlike in his hair, Bilbo understands.

The reel quickly finishes after that, allowing Bilbo to turn to Primula. “I could make an introduction,” he offers.

Primula opens her mouth to accept, before catching sight of someone else in the crowd. “Oh, your cousin Drogo wants to see me,” she says, winking mischievously at him. “Some other time? Maybe when you two have come to an understanding?”

And with that, she scampers off into the crowd, leaving Bilbo alone in confronting the Dwarf-king he’s not actually supposed to be courting. Clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, Bilbo steps forward and pushes through the crowd of girls clamouring for Thorin to sign their dance cards.

“There you are.” Thorin’s wintry expression thaws the moment he sees Bilbo. “Have you come to rescue me?”

“Am I your excuse not to dance?” wonders Bilbo drily as he reaches Thorin’s side, forcibly squashing down the fluttering in his stomach. “I thought the goal of this was to improve your manners, not give you an out.”

“No, it was to improve my image,” replies Thorin, “and as you can see —” He gestures to the gaggle of Hobbit-lasses arguing with one another nearby, “it worked.”

Bilbo huffs in amusement. “Apparently it worked too well. There are wagers set up about when you’ll propose.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow at that, but does not say anything one way or the other. “Which two dances shall we have tonight?” he asks.

Every dance, Bilbo wants to say, but even a third dance might as well be a proposal in and of itself as far as the Shire is concerned. Instead, when the next Hobbit-lass comes up to the two of them for a dance, he merely checks her card and politely declines a spot, before turning to watch Thorin do the same.

“The Petty-skirt,” he suggests, “and the Springle-ring.”

Thorin’s eyes crinkle amusedly at him. “Promise you will not run from the Springle-ring?” he teases.

Bilbo chuckles. “I would never,” he replies, just as the music for the first figure of the Petty-skirt begins to play. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand to Thorin. “Let’s dance.”

And for the rest of that night, he takes no other partner. Lord Stormcrow will note upon it, of course, crowing in his next pamphlet that surely an understanding is on the horizon for the two of them.

In the meantime, Bilbo dances the night away in Thorin’s arms, and his mind is full of nothing but nightingales and the exquisite pain of being perfectly, incandescently happy.

#the hobbit #bagginshield #tolkien #lily's dabbles #bridgerton au #petty-skirt = cotillion #like how weller-spin = waltz #also consider ruby barker as prim brandybuck!!

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anemonenemerosa · 4 years ago

Text

The Spare - Chapter 12

Here we go! Thank you, @lumosinlove for the SW-verse!

Chapter 12

Out of precaution, Regulus decided to sneak into Malfoy Manor through the kitchen window. He scoffed at the thought that everyone always assumed he was a model son. Sure, he kept his head down, all appearances and he was once very eager to please his parents but that didn't mean he hadn't a rebellious streak.

Sirius often got caught trying to sneak out the house... through the back door... too obvious. Idiot. But he learned over time. Regulus, on the other hand, learned to pick locks and sneak out of windows quiet early on. It was much stealthier and more unsuspected from the obedient, quiet kid.

Around 16, Regulus did this very often, trying to live a little under the thumb of his parents and while pretending not to. Sirius was bold, brave and often getting shit for it. Regulus was collected and sneaky. His escapades went unnoticed. It was all about the right balance. He asked to go out often enough to be considered normal. His parents said no more often than not and Regulus just had to ask for events he was not really interested in. When they said no, he would obediently stay at home and just sneak out to the stuff he actually wanted to go to. Unsuspecting.

He went to several high school parties and concerts, albeit hating crowds, because that was what teenagers did right? What they enjoyed. Regulus did not enjoy the drinking, the stuffed rooms and the gross drunk make-out sessions. Maybe he was born as snarky old man, always been more of a Waldorf, in need for his Statler.

Once in his room, Regulus showered, changed and was just in time for Lucius to take him to practice.

The mood in locker the locker room was disgustingly cheerful. Several Death eaters were reciting their favourite slurs against Sirius and all the “faggots”, how they called queers, in general, accompanied by hollering, whistling and applause.

Regulus thought of Sirius, of Ben and Mateo, how kind and loving they treated him, and it took all his badly patched up self-control to keep his expression blank and polite. This is not right.

He did not return to the shire this evening. Instead, he spent a long time running in the neighbourhood of the Malfoys, trying to sort through the last days.

When he collapsed exhausted into bed this evening, he came to the conclusion that there was actually no way he could get through the mess in his very own… The psychologist-thing was meant as a joke at Thanksgiving, Black…

oOo

The next evening, he nervously rang the bell besides the name tag Hayes/Alves, not knowing whether someone is even at home but he was let into the building and a moment later he found himself unable to knock on the door to their flat. These people owed him noting, why would they even let him in again after he practically stormed out yesterday?

The door was yanked open anyway and a relieved looking Mateo pulled him inside. “There you are, we were worried!”

“What? Why?”

“You were rather upset when you bolted yesterday” Jo provided from the kitchen, a spoon in her mouth and an almost empty can of ice cream in her hands.

“Hey, there you are!” Ben chimed happily, stepping out of the bathroom in his pyjamas and towelling his hair.

“Are you guys mad?” Regulus blurted suddenly, “You don’t know me, I stormed out yesterday after all you have done like an ungrateful asshole and you are actually happy that I'm back?”

“Sure.” All three answered as one, baffling him completely.

“Why?” He was almost desperate, “You have absolutely no gain from me being here... I am just a rookie so no one will buy my secrets from you, I am rather rich but you have nothing to properly blackmail me so what do you want?!”

“Are you serious?” Jo asked after a short silence.

“No, that’s my Brother, I am Regulus.” he answered absentmindedly. Ben and Mateo snorted but Jo just looked puzzled.

Regulus looked back, similarly puzzled. “Sirius Black, the famous, freshly outed, Captain of the Gryffindor Lions?”

Still nothing but a furrowed brow... “NHL?”

'Yeah, yeah, heard of it but hold on, your full name is Regulus, like your real name? And your brother is, in fact, named Sirius, that’s not a fake, too?”

“That is your Question? And no, its Sirius Orion and Regulus Arcturus Black, actually.” Jo anything but shrieked, joining the other two hobbits already shaking with mirth by now.

“Ok, that’s - that’s just bad, I'm sorry” she wheezed after a few minutes.

“I always thought these were aliases… I see that I need to revaluate my bad-name categories.”

“Alors, I call you Josephine from now on?” Regulus was met with a surprisingly deathly glare that sent Ben and Mateo straight into another fit.

A grin started to tuck at the corner of Regulus’ lips but there were still pressing questions.

“Jo, you have no idea of the disaster that went on? You didn’t even check Twitter?”

“Nah, I don’t frequent social media. While I prefer to limit my direct interaction with other people, assholes accumulate there and throw all their bullshit around, guarded by the anonymity of the internet. I think a dentist appointment is less annoying.” The grin tucked again. This weird mixture of slang and hoity-toity wording was just gold.

“But you do watch ice hockey?” He was not sure why that was important for him. Maybe to find out, what she knew about him, maybe because to find out more about her.

“Sometimes yeah. For me you are Reg, the rather giant dude that slept on our couch, that prefers his tea bitter and gross and does not say thank you. The guy with the enjoyable dry humour and good taste in literature that luckily balances his abysmal taste in movies.”

At that Regulus laughed, too. He didn’t know, why exactly but he felt giddy with the idea that these were the first people who wouldn’t define him through hockey and his family. That although they knew of his profession, here was just Reg, not Regulus Arcturus Black, Son of Orion Black, number 72 of the Snakes. Maybe I can have this, after all.

Is this, what Sirius had with his team, with Remus? Another pang of guilt let the laughter die in his throat, his eyes welled up. Not again…please.

But there was no time to recompose himself. Quickly, he was shoved onto the couch, wrapped in the chicken-blanket and surrounded by these idiots caring for him for some reason he still did not understand.

For the third time, his walls broke. Where there even walls by now? Regulus felt rather leaking with emotions.

But of course, he could not keep it in around them and spilled all his life to the three of them, not in as much detail he told Mateo in the hospital but also not keeping his role of Sirius’ outing to himself. Once all was out, there was a tense silence... of course there was, he just told the gay couple in front of him that he forced his brother out to be tormented by a crowd of imbecile haters on the internet.

Regulus was sure, his little excursion into a happy family ended now. Just as he guessed on the first evening here but instead of scolding and disapproving, cold glares he found himself hugged by Ben, again. He gives good hugs; his brain supplied uselessly.

“It’s a shitty move to out someone Reg, there is nothing to sugar coat.” Ben sighed.

“But what they did with that information and how the people online reacted is not your fault.”

Regulus said nothing, just closed his eyes and buried deeper in the shoulder of Ben, who practically sat on his lap to reach the height for such an embrace.

“But your feelings were hurt, too at that time and a lot of people used you. Fuck your family. You know what, I’m your mom now!”

Regulus just continued crying silently into Ben’s Shoulder, Mateo’s hand rubbing slowly over his back, chuckling at Ben’s statement.

“Mother hen.”

This showed what he had suspected for a while now, proof that his parents were not just a little strict. That something in his childhood went horribly wrong and he has no idea what to do with that information except crying it out.

When he calmed down a bit, Ben and Mateo got up to make some tea and finish dinner while quietly talking in Portuguese. So, it was something he was not meant to understand. His stomach knotted uncomfortably.

“Reg?” Jo tried quietly, she had not reacted in any way so far. He had even forgotten that she was still perched on the carpet beside him and somehow, he dreaded what was to come next.

“Hm?”

“Earlier, at the door, as you said that you do not know of what use you are for us as we cannot even blackmail you... you were not joking?” He shook his head, new tears threating to well up. How were there still tears left and what happened to his composure again?

“You really expected us to just care for you as long as we could gain profit?” There was no accusation in her voice just sadness and concern. He shrugged his shoulders; did he think that? No, but this was the only form of interaction he knew, everything always came with a price, an expectation.

The next thing he felt was Jo not practically but literally perched on his lap, straddling his hips, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her cheek against his temple. He knew already that, opposite to her brother, Jo was not the touchy feely type with strangers.

He was not considered a stranger anymore, after a day?

“I don’t know if there is anything one could say to make it better, so I will just keep my mouth shut and hug you until you believe that we like you and care for you. Just like that. As long as it will take.” She wiggled a bit to demonstrate getting comfortable.

There was nothing sexual about the embrace although they were pressed together from shoulders to hips und she just wiggled in his lap. It was completely opposite to the girls that approached him at the parties he sneaked out to. These were eyeing him hungrily, like a trophy. Some of them (very drunk, to their defence) even told him how similar he looked to Sirius… and how sexy they found his brother. He shivered a bit at the memory and gladly went back to reality.

“You might die of old age while waiting.” Regulus lifted his head to check the effect of his attempt in humour on her face but she just tucked his head back, giving a soft huff.

“Nah. 'M convincing but probably need to excuse myself to the bathroom or the fridge in between”

He closed his eyes again, wrapped his arms around her waist and relished in the hug without questioning why this hug felt different, more intimate than Ben’s or Mateo’s.

After an undefinable amount of time, the men came back with plates of Vegetable Quesadillas and Guacamole.

“Comfort Food, my avozinha’s recipe.”, Mateo commented

Instead of answering his question for cutlery, Ben met his eyes, pointedly grabbed a Quesadilla, dipped it in the guacamole and shoved the whole thing in his mouth without breaking eye contact.

Reg snorted with laughter.

oOo

Of course, Ben spilled more than just a little on his shirt.

While Ben and Jo were cleaning the dishes and Ben, Mateo came over with a fresh cup of tea.

“Hey” Reg lifted his head. “I’m talking now as your fried -or co-mom, apparently- that just happens to also have studied medicine” he nodded for Mateo to continue.

“You went through a lot. Not just lately. And you struggle to cope.” Alors, the poker face seems to be gone…

“I do not say that you are weak, you are not! But you might want to consider the help of a therapist to sort through your feelings and your past. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign of knowing your boundaries and taking care of yourself. I do not want to talk you into this, you need to want that for therapy to help. So, take you time to think about that, if you need. You can always come to us to talk but no one here is a therapist so we can only help you so far. OK? We are not disposing you to a shrink. Our door is open for you but you might want to have different type of help.”

Reg sat the in silence after this speech, hand running through his hair and rubbing his neck.

He had thought about that, more and more serious since Thanksgiving but hearing it and having the confirmation that he was welcome here …a thought formed in his brain, shortly followed by his usual determination.

"I want this to stop. I want to get better." He looked at Mateo and was met with his signature genuine, warm smile.

"You have a team therapist, don't you? It might be the fastest way to an appointment."

Reg grimaced at the thought of Dr. Slughorn. Generally well-meaning but when in doubt always humouring Riddle.

"I wouldn't trust him with taking the trash out." Regs grimace it met with a raised eyebrow.

"Do you want me to help you find someone else?" Mateo asked carefully and after a relieved nod from Reg, continued. "OK. Good, this is really good. Now for the next part."

Reg furrowed his brows

"Ben and I talked, and we want to offer you to stay here for a while after All Star, out of the clutches of your family. Of course, you have to go to practice and stuff but maybe it would be healthier for you to feel less controlled, less suffocated by them. We would find something else for you to sleep on than the couch, of course." Mateo joked.

Reg blinked at the guy in front of him in disbelieve. Encore: What the hell? "You would do that? Let me stay?"

"Yep. We are your moms now, after all." Ben all but yelled over from the kitchen.

This isn't a fever-trip. This is a dream, and I hope that I will not wake up too soon.

This night, he spent in Jos bed.

"The couch is lumpy so we will share that bed. I'm not ruining my neck for you." Was her announcement before she marched off, Reg in tow.

He was led into the room, expecting a bedroom and was greeted with a little bureau.

"Erm..." Was all Reg could say.

"Well I only stay here during semester breaks so it's mor like a multi-purpose room." Jo seemed to miss the point entirely.

"But there is no bed?!"

She gave him an odd look and... folded a mattress out of the closet? "You've never seen a Murphy bed?"

"Obviously."

A little while later Reg squeezed himself beside Jo in the double bed. How does such a small person take up so much space?

“Won't it fold up in the night and swallow us whole?" The thought made him nervous, but he was greeted with the Hayes™ way of soothing. Bullying into feeling better.

“Not with your fat ass in here. Sleep or I send you back to the couch.”

They did not sleep for a long while.

Instead the talked a lot like on the first morning that felt like years ago although it has been just two days. In these days, his life was turned inside out, fortunately. He liked this version better.

The more they talked and bantered, the more Reg understood, that she really did not calculate her moves but just did what seemed the honest, right and fair choice… which is why she was horrible at the midnight chess match: Not thinking a few steps ahead and no intention of sacrificing figures or threatening enemy figures… irritating and endearing.

Also, she had quite a lot of very good burns but apologised every time afterwards. Hilarious... too nice for her devilish mind.

The next morning, he woke up around four, with Jo's back tucked against his side. He had slept about two hours, not able to sleep any longer anyway but he stayed in bed, secretly enjoying the feeling of a warm weight beside him.

Thoughts about his brother were still omnipresent in his mind but right now, other thinks demand his attention. Reg was pretty sure that he was falling for Jo.

He had had one or another crush in school but what he felt now was magnitudes stronger. Coming to think of it, his feelings about Ben and Mateo were also magnitudes stronger but... different. The idea of the girl he just met not being within an hour driving distance, once she returned to Boston, left a weight on his chest, accompanied by an unfamiliar longing.

But that was not the point... everything would be OK with that point. The point was, it's not the same as he heard all the other guys in school, in the locker room talk about girls… he didn't get off imagining her naked, or both of them having sex, he never thought that about anyone, actually, and was convinced the boys boasting about how they want to hit all these girls and how they got horny every time some girl with a too-short-to-be-comfortable skirt walk by, were just exaggerating… or were they not? Was there something he just didn't understand, hadn't experienced yet? It's not that he hadn't had sex before and it was nice enough, but he never quite understood why people would go absolutely nuts about this past-time exercise. It was basically wanking with extra steps.

Hell, Reg felt not even aroused by Jo's ass pressed to his thigh in her sleep but he was very sure that he wanted to hold her close, feel her skin under his hands, her body pressed to his, to kiss her and be definitely more than friends with her; And he had absolutely no idea how to explain this to her and still hope for a chance of dating her eventually... This was not what people were looking for in a partner, was it?

He groaned... was there nothing simple on this world for him?

But then again, Jo was different, that's why he liked her, she had this no-bullshit attitude that let her stomp on several feet regularly. She was the only person he knew that would most likely appreciate if he just spoke his mind about the situation and have a balanced, rational and decidedly calm discussion about their feelings. He silently laughed. The thought about such a conversation was ridiculous but fairly simple. Maybe this would be easier than he first thought. He was not sure on what terms they would end but the situation would be evaluated and free of misunderstandings at the end.

He would talk to her after All Star, after facing his brother and trying to... what?

oOo

Telling Lucius and Narcissa that he wanted to stay elsewhere for a few nights went smoother than expected. After a short call with his mother she agreed to give him a bit of freedom. After the outing, his parents seemed to be eager to keep Reg as the good son. So, Walburga was in kind of open for some little claims. Of course, she wanted to know where he was staying so he pretended to need alone-time after the shock of his brother's outing and booked a hotel room until All Star as cover. He was definitely not risking his Mother taking this very fragile attempt of escape away from him.

Reg quietly packed a bag with clothes to take with him directly from the airport after All Star and spent his waiting time at the airport on the phone with Mateo, looking for a therapist. He would meet Dr. Bones close to the Hospital, Mateo worked at, next Thursday.

The flight with Snape was horrible. Reg tried to keep his thought about Sirius at bay, not checking social media at all but Severus kept sneering about Queers in general and Sirius. He laid open all the information he could dig up out about Remus and even announced proudly, that he forwarded it all to the commentators of the red carpet

Oh… merde. C’est pourri! They are in for a shit-show.

But Reg would not have to opportunity to contact Sirius before that.

#the spare #lumosinlove sweater weather #mentions of forced outing #mentions of abuse

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