#the three years of doing this has been ingrained in my bones

[wheatcak3]

i realized it's been a while since i drew him in this fit 😌💖

also this is officially my last scheduled Wednesday post!! From now on I'll be posting whenever! :3

I've been in a bit of an art slump lately and I think I want to take some time to work on improving 🥹

Thank you for the 3ish years of weekly/biweekly posts! I'll see y'all in the next post that will quite possibly still be on Wednesday out of habit 😂🫡

[myneurospicyspirit]

Capable of Shifting AND Worthy of Shifting

Growing up neurodivergent, especially undiagnosed or with poor support, can make someone feel like they're not enough.

I know it did for me.

I spent years working three times as hard to prove I was worth something. I masked who I was to try to appear as someone who was enough. I beat myself up when I failed because it's what I thought I deserved. I kept working because I never thought I was good enough.

My "strong work ethic" was actually a coping mechanism to battle chronic feelings of unworthiness. Even when I was naturally good at something, I didn't feel "worthy" of it until I had worked myself to the bone to be the best.

Long story short, the same thing happened with shifting.

I shifted fairly quickly (less than a month after discovering it), and even though it was only momentary shifts, I felt super proud of myself for doing it. However, then I learned that it took many others a long time and needing to practice more, learn more, etc. I started to believe that I had to put in more work to shift in order to be worthy of shifting... even though I had already shifted.

The Point:

Many of us know that we are capable of shifting - but we are unsure if we are worthy of shifting. We are unsure if we are allowed to shift.

It's been so ingrained in us that we have to work hard for things, jump through hoops, prove ourselves, that to believe that we're allowed to have a good thing just because is completely foreign.

So...:

Give yourself permission to shift. Give yourself permission to be good at shifting. Remind yourself that you don't have to prove anything to anyone in order to shift.

I think every school had a teacher that would do this trick: you'd have to use the bathroom and ask "can I go to the bathroom?" Their answer would be "I dont know - can you?" They would wait until you asked "may I go to the bathroom?" to give you permission.

So the affirmation "I can shift" will only get you so far if the answer is yes (and it is yes). It is telling you that you have the capability, but not giving you permission to use that capability. It's letting you know that you can do something, but not saying it in a way which necessarily makes you feel worthy of possessing that power and using it.

Here are some thoughts/affirmations/ideas to help with recognizing that you are allowed to shift and are worthy of shifting:

Affirmations: "I may shift" (instead of "I can shift"), "I give myself permission to shift", "I allow myself to shift", "I am worthy of shifting", "I am enough to shift", "I deem myself worthy of shifting", etc.

Remember that everyone's shifting journey is individual and not based on how much work someone has put in, how long they've been trying to shift, how fancy their script is, etc. You shift when your journey is for YOU and what you want!

Let shifting be enjoyable for you - you are worthy of an enjoyable journey.

Let shifting be yours - you are worthy of having your journey belong to you and nobody else.

On nights when you aren't trying to shift, recognize that you could shift if you wanted to. ("I am allowed to shift tonight, but I don't want to so I am not going to.")

Exercise giving yourself permission to be good at things. Are you super talented at something? What about your special interest? Take the chance to show off a little, even if it's just to yourself.

Exercise giving yourself permission to be good at things related to shifting. Are your scripts gorgeous? Share them (if you're comfortable)! Do you make the best DR playlists? Tell us all about it. Literally anything that you're good at that is related to shifting, give yourself lots of credit for! You deserve it ❤️

[purpleqilinwrites]

only to us.

a/n: i went to play genshin for the first time in a while to see what's new, and i just ended up spending three hours walking around liyue with my wife ganyu! (what's new is wriothesley and his nice butt. 10/10.)

fandom: genshin impact

character: ganyu

genre: general / fluff

info: established relationship (can be read as either platonic or romantic); reader is an adeptus who fought in the archon war; this takes place pre-canon timeline

warnings: might not be canon-compliant

synopsis: it was time for new wine and new customs.

word count: 0.9k

part of the "yearning has hold of me" series.

Ganyu

The war was over, and a flurry of long-overdue celebrations brightened up the harbour.

While the people were busy making merry and drinking with the adepti, Ganyu found you among the rocks that formed the Guyun Stone Forest. Perched on one of the highest peaks jutting out against the bright blue of the sky, nestled in the shrubbery and trees that had begun to find a home on the things that were once weapons, you were lying on your back with your eyes closed and face toward the clouds.

The war was over, and it was the first time in a multitude of years that Ganyu had the pleasure – or was it relief? – of finding you in your human form.

"The crowds wore on me," you said, as a means of greeting, your voice echoing in the quiet. You beckoned her over by patting the patch of grass to your right, eyes still closed.

With the urgency that her experience in the past years has ingrained in her bones, Ganyu found herself running for most of the little distance between the two of you. She ran until she came close enough to take up room beside you, settling onto the grass and marvelling when she remembered it had not been there when she saw the Guyun Stone Forest formed.

The war was over, and she felt the need to keep reminding herself.

You rolled onto your side to face her, eyes now open. Ganyu mimicked your actions, shuffling closer and resting her head on a folded arm.

Your eyes burned into her, golden and unblinking, and she thought she might need to remind you, too, that the war was over.

"Rex Lapis was asking for you," she said, instead. "He'd like to share some osmanthus wine with everyone who fought with him."

The grass tickled her cheek as she spoke. A mass of clouds floated aimlessly in the otherwise empty blue expanse above the two of you. She waited for a response, alternating between watching a Geo crystalfly flit about some distance behind your head and watching you.

You kept your eyes fixed on her the entire time.

If it had been anyone else, Ganyu would have floundered under what felt to her like scrutiny. There had always been an intensity about you. It was not foreign to her, having been born and raised among full-blooded adepti and knowing the word would apply easily, believably to any one of them.

Even so, your gaze did not unsettle her the way that the eyes of others would.

"The mortals do make the best osmanthus wine," you said, finally. There was a smile teasing at the corners of your lips, a darting out of the tongue across your bottom lip as you imagined a taste.

She should have brought one of the smaller vessels from the harbour to share with you. There were too many offerings of wine to count at the makeshift shrine to Rex Lapis and the adepti in the camp at the foot of Mount Tianheng. Peacetime was new, and so the two of you could form a new custom of drinking out of the same cup of hammered iron. Perhaps—

You reached over to her and brushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, and it brought her out of her thoughts and back to the present with you. Before you could pull your hand away, Ganyu curled her own around the bone of your wrist and put your hand to her cheek.

It was cool to her skin, like the waters of the river in the Guili Plains of her girlhood summers. Familiar and always welcome.

"I found you," she said, echoing the words she spoke to you first, from a time long ago.

The breeze was beginning to pick up speed, ruffling her hair and then yours as it passed. A few amber leaves twirled about you. Your hair fanned out behind you, the breeze having run its fingers through the length of it, longer than it had been in years but still shorter than you were inclined to keep it.

Ganyu would like it very much if you would leave your hair to grow, for her. Selfishly, because she imagined you would be extremely attractive with your hair long. A little less selfishly, because seeing you with a blade in hand to trim your hair as close to your scalp as you could manage was a habit you had cultivated in wartime.

The war was over, and you could afford to live looking forward now that it was behind you.

You hummed, cupping your hand along her jaw, and stroked the pad of your thumb along her chin in tune with a song she did not recognise. "I knew you would find me," you said. "I know you, Xiao Yu. You always do."

Ganyu closed her eyes to better focus on the sound of your voice, on the touch of your hand. It was a folk song you were humming, one of the many that were native to the tribe of sea-dwelling adepti you came from. She could not remember if it was a lullaby, or if it was a hunting song.

The breeze tapered off, and the grass that sat between your body and hers stilled in their frantic dance. Your humming became louder as it filled the air, and this space that crowned the Guyun Stone Forest belonged only to her and to you. This space, where she was more alive than alive has ever been.

It was surely a lullaby, with how her eyes seemed to weigh heavier as her attention to your song began to wane.

[girlcockholmes]

sorry im gonna send you another ask cos im Obsessed with you. now do star trek. um specially ds9 but also tng pls and thank you also i love you . And you can answer for tos too if you want 😋

KICKS MY LITTLE FEETS IN THE AIR FOREVERRRRR 🤭🤭🙈🙈🙈 YAAYAYY MUTUAL OBSESSIONNNN ❣️❣️❣️❣️ILYYYY

Favorite character: tos is spock tng is data ds9 is quark HEEHEEEE 🤭🤭🤭

Second favorite character: tos is jim tng is UHM. IMPOSSIBLE TO CHOOSE. BUT MY SWEET ANGEL WESLEY 🫶🏻��🏻🫶🏻 OR MY SILLY ANGEL WORF 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 and ds9 i loveeee jadzia… 💙💙💙

Least favorite character: tos i dont dislike anyone on the crew so probably mudd bc even tho i really love his eps hes a good villain hes also a misogynist </3 tng is pulaski like SORRYYY to all the thinkpiece bitches out there saying its not feminist to hate her bc shes basically the same as bones its like. 1. okay so shes kind of badly written bc they just tried to rip off bones and 2. her thing with data isnt the same as his with spock bc spock was bitchy right back but data just didnt get it. so she was just being straight up cruel to him all the time and nobody defended him. YEAH SHE GOT ME HEATED. and ds9 i got distracted by so many other tv shows shes been on hiatus for a bit but kai winn booooo we hate your ass 👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻

The character I’m most like: now. Uhm. literally fighting one million years with myself to determine kirk or spock and i never fully decided so we will leave it at they are two sides of the same coin and that coin is MEEEE ^_^. tng is hard to say bc i love them all but none of them ever grabbed me by the throat and shoved me into a mirror like so many other shows have done. i think either data geordi or picard (minus his leadership skills) would be the closest fit for me. and well as those who were here for biquark url know. 😏🤭

Favorite pairing: tos is obviously spirk 5ever and always like it changed the world. they are the fucking blueprint for everything they invented gay people. tng literally everything is so fun i think everyone has huge chemistry such interesting dynamics with each other. deanna and riker invented t4t bi4bi love but then geordi and data invented my lovely robot wife but then rikorf invented silly boy and autistic boy love and then qcard invented me and my wet crumpled paper bag weirdo boyfriend. HOW COULD I DECIDE… 💔💔 and ds9 quodo is everythang… i love you sillies ❤️

Least favorite pairing: this has less to do with tos and more the crimes of other trek series using tos characters but. spuhura i guess you had some moments but why did they do both your characters the disservice :(( and tos chapel and spock was so nice and hurting like i love her she crucified herself for the right to love a stoic alien (girl i get ittt) and snw fucking slaughtered her. literally feel sick thinking about how horribly they adapted her. evil and sick and twisted. anyways. tng i didnt love geordis weird hologirlfriend and also barclay stay your ass away from any woman on board. ds9 whaaaleeeee i dont really hate anything at the moment ^-^ i guess when i swing back around to it i may have more to say…. 🧐

Favorite moment: OHHHOHHHHOHHH. WELL. tos pretty much anything with spock he is my beautiful angel. but ill say the entirety of city on the edge of forever its so insanely good and has me vomiting up blood. oh also i love kevin riley when he goes crazy and is singing to the ship :•) tng oh god when data is on that planet with the little girl hes pen pals with. ingrained in my brain forever. but there are honestly so many moments i could name like i think they might be my favorite crew ever like i said the chemistry between each and every character is so fucking amazing. and also horny. i love you deanna and riker 🫶🏻 and ds9 frankly im obsessed with quark and the undercover girl ferengi bc hes so bisexual with her in drag well um. who said that

Rating out of 10: 10/10 fucking all around forever theyre my three beautiful weed smoking girlfriends. We Dont Have To Talk About The Movies.

[revui]

FOREVERLANDS HAS BEN SHAPIRO? he better be a villian but like a funny one

also who is transfemme puss in boots! i want her number

PFGHFD I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THIS WAS REFERRING TO FOR A SEC

"lesbian ben shapiro" is the nickname i use often to refer to one of the villains, whose actual name is molly sims. i modeled a couple of her manners of speech after Real Man ben shapiro and she is genuinely the funniest person in the whole story. she's an atrocious human being and has Dead Wife Syndrome. she has beef with a 14 year old while working the most prestigious research job in the world. she's always wearing a fucking hat. she's a silly little girl, a grown adult woman, a miserable old man, but most importantly she is MY SCRUNKLY

she's functionally the seraph's right hand man, and she becomes a major problem when the seraph temporarily steps out of the plot and leaves her in charge, where she proceeds to cause general mayhem and commit acts of unthinkable cruelty. she winds up getting banished to earth for the crime of being bad at her job

NOW ONTO OTHER FUNNY GIRL!!!!!

her name is veerabelle poppins, and she's the kind of character people would zero in on as "the dumb one" or "the useless gay" because she's easily distracted, has a poor memory, and isn't great at controlling her magic, but 1) she reads all the time and is therefore very book-learned, 2) she's noted as being one of three people who can consistently keep up every time colum starts talking, a feat that even colum himself can't achieve all the time, and 3) she's one of two characters in the entire main cast who can fight effectively without using magic. the only other character of that nature is skyler, who has no magic and the obvious advantage of two years of assassin training. veer had no formal training with a rapier and she could still kick skyler's ass in a sword fight because she's been practicing for so long that she basically has fencing in her bones.

and also she's obsessed with cats. the top of her staff is carved into a cat, she made her own tiny cat plush, she meows at people, she wears a homemade cat ear headband... she's so perfect.

she does have a slight problem with fighting, though, and it's that she thinks she should be fighting with her magic. even though she would be more effective with her rapier, she believes that she should be using her magic because it's the way everyone else does. and she's not usually the kind of person to do something just because others are—she tends to go her own way, forge her own path, all that stuff—but magic is such a deeply ingrained aspect of life in the foreverlands, and strong magic is held in extremely high regard, so she thinks it would be a waste to neglect it. she fears disappointment more than anything, terrified of a future where she lets everyone down when they need her, so she tries to be good at the same things as everyone else in the same way as everyone else, but it doesn't work.

it's sort of a parallel to how people in real life will be told one specific way that things are meant to be done, and even when they find a way that's easier for them to understand, they'll be told that it's wrong just because it's not the same as what everyone else is doing.

[lillianawayne99]

Finally getting around to this, I didn't have time to do it when I saw the original post so it's been sitting in my drafts (oops). I'm going to do the first paragraph.

Leaving the tags open so anyone who wants to can join.

If it has a link, it's published.

CastAway (JJK Fanfic Series)

I opened my eyes to find it appeared to be dawn outside, but the sun was in the west rather than the east. Did I really sleep until dusk? The hospital room I was in didn't look like the one I fell asleep in. I arrived back in New York City yesterday and was cleared by the doctors, but they held me overnight for observation. The room I fell asleep in, the room in New York, had pale blue walls, white sheets, and a white bed with railings on it. The room I woke in had cream colored walls, a wooden bed with the rails lowered, white sheets, and a beige blanket at my feet.

Fireborn (GOT/ASOIAF Fanfic Series)

I didn’t remember my homeland nor had I stepped foot on Westerosi soil. I was born on Dragonstone in the midst of a raging summer storm. The following years in exile comprised of my brother ingraining one objective into me. Retake our father’s throne and kill the usurpers.

The Awakening (High Fantasy Dark Romance Novel)

There was something solid and warm wrapped around my hand. How long had it been since I felt something? Decades? Centuries? It couldn’t have been millennia, could it?

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) (JJK Fanfic)

I didn’t need to squint through the dim lighting to recognize where I was. I had never been here before, yet the bones encasing my form and the pool of blood beneath my feet told me everything I needed.

Not Afraid Anymore (JJK Fanfic)

A deep, reverberating chuckle echoed through the room as I looked up at the King of Curses sitting atop his throne. Leaning forward with his head resting in one hand, a smirk danced across his lips as he beckoned me forward.

Dark Side (JJK Fanfic)

Yakuza Therapist!Getou whose client is a tad bit traumatized and uses violence to cope but wants to stop. She has night terrors and sometimes they get so bad she goes to an underground fighting ring with no rules where everything’s handled quietly.

A concert, a leather jacket, and a shy girl (Flash Fiction)

It didn’t take long for me to lose myself in the roar of the crowd. The bass of the music My heart raced with the pounding bass of the music. Drowned out by the speakers and voices surrounding me, my throat stung as I sang the lyrics as loud as I could

Untitled (a dream that I might turn into something)

This one was really weird. I was at this college summer camp type thing only it wasn’t at a traditional college and was 21+ only. There weren’t any classrooms, but it was set up like a school building with halls and adjoining rooms along the halls. There were restaurants, bars, bedrooms, and random queen sized beds in the halls.

Secrets of the Past (Modern Fantasy Romance Novel)

I stared out of the window, looking out at the sprawling city surrounding me while the sterile smell of a hospital filled my nostrils. After eight years and two months, I was finally home in New York City, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. When I first got back, I thought that maybe the city had changed, but the longer I was home, the more I realized it was me that had changed.

Agathokakological (Crossover Fanfic Series)

My mother’s arm brushed against mine as we stood near the entrance to the town hall. The room was silent as everyone processed the information. Most were relieved. Their name, the name of someone in their family, wasn’t called. Their daughter or sister wouldn’t be sent to the temple tomorrow.

Dark Deeds (High Fantasy Novel - currently abandoned)

The culmination of a three cycle long war was staring me in the face. One battle would determine the fate of my home, my people. My life would never be the same after today. You would think that Lasadh and Beatha would be attempting to sack the capital of my home rather than facing me on the field. Most wars were fought and won in a series of sackings, but this battle was my only hope.

Fire and Brimstone (AOT Fanfic)

I never bothered to consider what happened after you died. Well, technically that’s a lie. I never believed in any culture’s idea of what happened. Heaven, hell, reincarnation. There wasn’t enough proof for me to put my faith in any religion. Accounts of near death experiences weren’t trustworthy either.

Medicine Man (JJK Fanfic)

I could have been walking for hours for all I knew. My clothes were soaked, hair dripping down my face and back. Halfway, I’d already started to shiver, desperate enough to tuck my hands into my arms. The moon had barely risen since the last time I checked, but it was lower in the sky when I left Mahito’s.

Venom (KPOP Fanfic - please don't judge me, I never intended to post this)

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been tied to this stupidly uncomfortable chair. Based on how often I was brought food, it’d been a few weeks since I was kidnapped. Every so often they were nice enough to let me stretch my legs and take me to a different room. What happened in those rooms wasn’t so nice, but at least I wasn’t stuck in the same position.

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! © LillianaWayne - all rights reserved. Do not copy, modify, repost, or share on other platforms without my express, written permission.

First Lines Meme

@scifimagpie tagged me for this and I am leaving my own tag open, because I got a lot of you on the last few and maybe you need a break from that. >.>

Rules seem to be; Post the first lines of all your writing, finished or wip or whathaveyou.

It's unclear on how many lines...so I'm gunna wing it.

Which sounds fun, so let's go!

If it has a link, it's published

In the Marrow // Horror Short Story

It began with a crack. Not an especially loud crack, more of a creak really. The sort an old door makes when the house it inhabits has shrunk too tightly around it. An old, lazy creak just there in Hazel’s knees as she rose from her reading chair on an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon.

Can't You See Me? // Horror Short Story

Four weeks ago, I died. It was a rogue bit of insulation that did it. Well, that and the rafter it tripped me into…and the sharp, rusty nails. Mostly the nails. Certainly not my best moment but, as it turned out, not my last either. My last living moment, sure but I was still…there.

Don't Look // Horror Short Story

The apartment is cheap. Good area, rent controlled, a dream come true. Sure, it’s a bit drafty and the hinges creak and the pipes bang but that's normal for an old building. It's the smell that’s worrying. It’s only in the bedroom and it gets stronger near the hatch in the closet. The apartment is on the top floor and the landlady—a prune of a woman with eyes so orange they burn—says there isn’t attic space.

The Portrait // Horror Short Story

Miriam had never been fond of portraits. Whether painted or photographed, whether the subject was known or unknown; they made her uneasy. The sort of uneasy that landed one in hospitals for dangerous heart rates. It was the eyes. She believed that eyes were windows—intimate and revealing—and it was overwhelming to see so much of anyone, let alone without their permission.

Gravedust // Horror Novella or Novel (uncertain at the moment)

They say that, in my line of work, there are no accidents. That is true. There are eons of intent and planning. You have to make it look like an accident, however, or the critters start to get suspicious.

Weald and Wen // Dark Fantasy Novel

The Nothing screamed. Its hollow wail pierced the disquieting gray and cyan of the Darklands. Fyrni lands, Loahl's lands...and he heard it, loud and dreadful through the stillness and prayed to the Lady that the younglings did not.

Rite of the Dinfa // Dark Fantasy Novella

They packed us tight in the chill cave, with its bone white walls shining and wavering beneath the firelight, darkened by a single dancing shadow. Bare as we were, and huddled to braided, our flesh kept us heated more than the meager light of the smoking wood as the Cardinal leapt and spun—our Cardinal, as ourselves, could be whatever they wished but right then they were she.

Pale Blood // Urban Fantasy Novel

Delmas was on his way to the blood bank, on assignment to pick up a shipment, another in a long line of grunt work for his fellow fangs. They were all immortal—more or less—but the eldest of them kept their noses above the smog while their bodies languished in the slums. 

Mr. Friendly // Children's Book

This one is barely a thing yet but I am including it as motivation >.>

Tap Tap Tap There it was again. The soft tapping from somewhere in the room. Somewhere she couldn't see. Was it in the walls, in the floors? Father told her nothing was in the closet- he checked even, twice! Still the tapping came, softly, like little feet on hardwood. The kitty made that sound sometimes, when his nails were too long.

[vastiitas]

//this is... a very very long post- please be advised before opening that read more h a h

//looking at all my ooc posts on the tra.uma of w.ar that happened to the kid and?? There's so much to untangle bc, yknow, his respect for ana would be in how crafty and resourceful she is on top of her being a good shot resonating with how he was post-foster-system-now-a-runaway (lmao vs the kindred soul with gjdks hana bc they would have actually been asshole bffs if theyd been born in the same generation).

His time in the foster system causing him to distrust authority moreso than he already had been?? how this influences his distrust in his time in bw and how working through it to accept reyes (and potentially jack) as proper mentor figures was a genuine triumph and how it falling apart pressed open a sealed up scar and broke it open and poured in salt.

How he was always a bit of a shit-stirring troublemaker, an adrenaline-addicted hot-headed thrill seeker, and has always known violence, before doomsday happened, and the way said doomsday, after a period of reticence, raked all those qualities into these bristling burs.

How he's always been a good shot, but when j.udgment day happened, he'd FAILED; how his hands SHOOK against that handle unable to bear the desperation drumming a war beat with adrenaline (i don't think i've ever explicitly mentioned how he personally witnessed the death of his parents; that he held the key to their survival and missed and failed to save them; that there is no removing that self-blame for what happened because he had that shot). And how this spearheaded a three-pronged result of: 1) disowning his own name out of self-hatred and scorn and disgust (re: all of my blabberings on blood baptisms and burials), 2) resolving to never miss again 3) a deep-rooted instinct in protecting the weak because he REFUSES to see somebody in the same situation of vulnerability as he was put in

How, while concussed and head bearing an ugly open wound, as he watched his father be held at gunpoint by om.nics, the feeling of self-conflict arose-- how for the briefest second he thought maybe this is g.od giving the man his dues, how maybe this is what was meant to happen, (versus how he also knows that there are men and women and families running to hide in the chapel; praying for sanctuary, praying for peace, praying for safety; burning alive and screaming)

how this day is perhaps the closest thing he has ever felt to the visceral sense of g.od, in this act of violent apocalypse, being left so bare and raw.

how, in years into the future, putting away the mantel of je.sse mcc.ree was a self-apology (an acceptance of the fury that came with the grief) and how exhuming his name as cole cas.sidy was self-forgiveness.

(for everything that's happened to him, he's actually pretty stable and self-accepting these days. he can be honest to himself about the things that he did and the things that happened to him; it... doesn't burden him as much as it did when he was a younger man. he just Lives on the Razor's Edge of the Absolute Present, casually expecting death like an old friend for all the shit he stumbles into or instigates; there's an argument here that reyes took in a kid and formed him down a path that he cannot leave, but i argue that there's plenty of cassidy that would have gone down that path anyway and reyes-- reyes flipped the damn script from criminal to doing ""service""; i think he leveraged a crucial point because i don't think my depiction of cassidy would have ever been able to properly rehabilitate into a normie civilian life [granted that his sentence would have been life to super-max anyway] and i draw that from the fact that he got fired from that diner job even though i point at it and go 'haha funny.' in that sense, it's a vague j.ohnny l.awrence vibe, but also isn't. He's bound for trouble, it's deeply ingrained to his blood and bone, and the bastard thing about it is that he loves it and lives it no matter how much it also sometimes sucks.)

how these themes on killing-the-self enables him to begrudgingly forgive the false deaths of the people he trusted; because he knows self-death. how this doesn't soothe the disappointment that he's been left at the wayside, despite his bitter acceptance of it because he knows abandonment too. he does not hold it against them because even though it hurts, nothing will ever wound him in the way that that war did.

this doesn't even begin to touch?? the lil bit of chum i threw out earlier on his self-conflicts because LOYALTY is such a huge thing considering all of the canon implications that present itself with Deadlock and BW. my personal take is that deadlock fell apart on him over a mutual betrayal with end-game being that he was left to die and rot and him still there crushing the word loyalty between his hands desperately like a life-line; to this day, he will not give up Ashe or anyone else no matter how wary he is of her because he is Just as Sentimental (in the equivalent of how she still has that cute little [torn and put back together] picture she has on her bike) despite all of the little scars riddling the bridge between them. Deadlock disowned him. That said, everything's Very Complicated and he's Unfortunately a Very Self-Contradictory Man, so using Deadlock to rescue echo (who, at this point, he would have held a greater sense of doing right by), was perhaps a little act of vindictive self-satisfaction. i see their bickering in the the current ow dialogue as akin to sibling antagonism - but it sort of pains me to think that once upon a time they probably said this sort of shit to each other in genuine shoot-the-shit fashion.

[meowzfordayz]

omg T please write smth,,, something sweet,, anyone, preferably mitsuri and some other hashira of your choice getting an s/o thats a hopeless romantic??? s/o grew up reading so much foreign romance concepts its basically ingrained to their personality ... so sweet, polite and treats her like a princess!? do you get what i mean???? calls them one true love!?

no im not a hopeless romantic but the thought of our beloved characters being treated as such makes me happy for them

Hii. Ty for your request! ☺️ I originally intended to write your prompt as hcs or preferences... and then I got carried away and it turned into a Mitsuri one shot. 😅

Author’s Note: love deserves love deserves love. 💗

hopeless romantic

Kanroji Mitsuri x Reader

Word Count: ~1,700

CW: traumatic references

~faqs~

You’re giddy. It’s been days, weeks, months—okay, okay, really closer to weeks—since you last saw, touched, appreciated your beloved Mitsuri, and you miss her to your shivering core. But you just know, can feel it in your blooming bones, that she’s coming home today coming home alive, and whole… so how better to spend the morning than preparing? You’ve loved her for over two entire rotations of the world around the sun, and welcoming her home is your favorite pastime—romancing her—your not so secretive language. You keep a small, bound pocketbook detailing your various visions-brought-to-life, both as a tender keepsake and for future inspiration. Not to mention, you’re admittedly in a competition with yourself, constantly vowing to outdo whatever your previous ambition was.

—

Bathing has a special place in your heart with its sensual aromas of rose and jasmine. And the steam. You’re a perfectionist, knowing the exact temperature that makes Mitsuri melt into the bath as soon as her first toe dips it — the exact temperature that billows soothing hazes of steam, skin pink from the heat, yet never so hot that it’s uncomfortable or unbearable. And scrubbing. You’re a perfectionist when it comes to that too. Your collection of soaps and oils consist only of Mitsuri’s favorites (to be fair, they quickly became your favorites too): Lemongrass, Mikan, and plum blossom. Tracing hearts in the suds across her back, kissing her damp nape, marveling at the length and smoothness of her wet hair. Okay. You aren’t the best at scrubbing. But you’re the best at getting her to let go. She’s fallen asleep multiple times, slippery shoulder blades resting against your chest as you lay your forearms gently, securely, around her — sinking as low as possible without submerging her. As the water cools, you rub her biceps: to prevent goosebumps and to peacefully rouse her. She’s adorable, groggy, clingy, mumbling nonsensically as you tuck strands of hair behind her ears. Usually, you bathe until it’s cold. Until your fingers are shriveled, bodies mellowed, pulses thick as honey, safe as the calm shadows of dusk beckoning you inside.

“C’mon my beloved,” you whisper, erratic sloshing cutting loudly through the reverie as you stand up.

She’s tactile, trusting as you guide her out of the tub, wrapping her in one, two, sometimes three towels, leading her to the kitchen.

“Wait here, my beloved,” you peck both her cheeks—gosh forbid you ever leave them unevenly attended—as she settles comfortably onto the floor, “I’m going to drain the bath, and then make us dinner.”

—

Food. Food, food, food. You weren’t always a decent chef. It’s really only recently, in the past couple of years, that you’ve started considering yourself something beyond “cook”. Before Mitsuri, you were content with basic recipes: light broths, underdressed salads, rarely marinated meats, and the occasional trip to a local cafe or restaurant. Before Mitsuri, you got caught up in working, reading, cleaning, running errands—living itself, a distraction—rushing meals, surviving on snacks, barely peeking over the edge of satisfactory dining. And then? Mitsuri. Mitsuri with her beautiful, raw strength; her elegance and versatility; her flexibility and endurance. How could you support her, indulge her, cherish her, if you kept your humble approach to food? She never pressures you, of course. Never asks you to buy anything in particular, to cook anything in particular, to eat or drink anything in particular. But the universe in her eyes coaxes your appetite. Curiosity. Expertise. Hm. Well. Your expertise develops ~eventually. Initially, she helps you in the kitchen. Teaches you how to cook her basic favorites: pancakes and omurice. You experiment with different berries and sweet drizzlings for the pancakes — different fillings and savory sauces for the omurice. She doesn’t teach you, however, how to make her favorite desserts.

“I just buy them,” she shrugs cheerfully. She does have quite the salary at her disposal, after all.

You take her statement as a challenge. Not in malice, obviously, but in dedication. A challenge of your patience, your skill, your willingness to repeat and try and try and try. Dango and sakura mochi are tedious to perfect, and you are, to the very tips of your heaviest roots, a perfectionist. Or perhaps you’re simply head over heels for your beloved?

“For… for me?” she gasps at the platter as carried carefully, painstakingly, in your hands, “[y/n]-chan! You shouldn’t have!”

Her poorly concealed, delighted squeaks, convince you otherwise. Not that you could ever be convinced to love her less. As she bites into the first skewer of dango, eyes squeezing shut, you smile knowingly. You don’t tell her about the countless hours of rolling, shaping, wrapping (there’s sakura mochi on the platter too). Or the countless hours shopping, searching, bartering for the highest quality ingredients. Or the countless prior attempts, given to Obanai, Kyojuro—practically anyone—to receive feedback and to hide the evidence. Or the one time she caught you off guard, skipping into the kitchen, plucking one from the rough batch you’d just made.

“Mmm, these are delicious!”

You’d resisted the urge to screech, thankful she’d been too occupied munching to notice your hesitation.

“I, uh, bought them, yeah. They’re good.”

She’d giggled happily, leaning in flirtatiously, lips brushing your collarbone, “Feel free to buy some more!”

So you’d continued. Until they were perfect. Until your taste testers started offering to pay you for them—“They are so tasty! It is truly unfair of me to take advantage of your consistent generosity!”. Until you felt certain of their standard.

“Mitsuri,” you smile, almost timid.

She swallows hurriedly, eager to reply, “[y/n]-chan?”

“I made them.”

“YOU MADE THEM?!”

She surrounds you in an instant, crisp uniform and familiar curves embracing you fully and completely.

—

Fully and completely. She isn’t physically, tangibly, fully or completely, with you as often as you’d like. But you respect—are in awe of—her duties as the Love Hashira. You love her along with, not in spite of, her literal distance from you. As joyful, emotional, open as she is, you’re aware of the wisps… the ghosts. The ghost between her brows when she returns from an exceptionally grueling mission. The ghost sitting at the end of the path that leads to nowhere. The path of cruel, wayward confessions; self inflicted and carelessly flung; antiseptic bleeding to extinction; ceasing of motivation, denial, submission; just… a void without a void — a darkness without matter; a hole without a loop. The ghosts scare you. Mostly because when they surface, you feel as though only you can see them. Mitsuri is strong. So incomprehensibly tough. But she fractures in your arms, in your words, in your promises. As you lie in bed, impossibly close, still moving closer: lips on her forehead, on her jaw, on her sternum; hands anchoring her elbows, her hips, her thighs, the small of her back; legs tangled, intertwined, protective — as you wish, hope, pray, that the proximity of your soul might be enough to dissipate the ghosts. As you write her letters, unable to provide much else, your much improved scrawl (you didn’t have a compelling reason to write—before—Mitsuri) regaling her with oddities, humor, and balance from your day-to-day; with your worries, reflections, musings, desires; with your unique signatures and nicknames of love, affection, endearment. As your promises dance, sway, caress through her thoughts.

“I want you.” Your promise of interest, intrigue, intention.

“I need you.” Your promise of compassion, commitment, clarity.

“I love you.” Your promise of fulfillment, future, forever.

—

“[y/n]-chan, what on earth is all of this?”

Mitsuri is flustered. To be fair, she’s typically flustered. But this? This is an entirely new level — a height of flustration she didn’t know she could experience.

“Roses!” you grin proudly, “To welcome you home! I missed you my love.”

She nods faintly, wetting her lips subconsciously.

Roses is an understatement she smiles, “I missed you more.”

“Nuh uh!” you playfully flick her cheek.

As she takes in the extent of your welcome, she has to concede: not, that you missed her more, but that she is utterly overwhelmed and utterly at your mercy — which, she’s absolutely fine with. Does she keep track of your increasingly elaborate visions? Not as precisely as you with your small, bound pocketbook, but it’s hard to ignore your flourish, your feeling. Not that she could ever be convinced to ignore you.

The petals on the ground winding from the Love Estate’s gate to its front entrance had been her first clue. Raising bees definitely means maintaining diverse, plentiful gardens, but Petals don’t just sprinkle themselves like that! The lack of your presence had been her second clue. She’d doubted you were gone: she’s used to your uncanny sense — your Mitsuri Intuition. And she’s grateful for you. Grateful she never comes home to an empty house. Never comes home to another fear of, “Where are they?”. So your apparent disappearance would’ve been… concerning, if not for the petals. The dazzling array of flowers greeting her as she walked inside had been the giveaway. At that point, she’d known you were somewhere amidst the colorful, radiant, extravagant display, probably watching her — shyly, in contrast with your confident efforts, because What if she doesn’t like it? Akaibara (red roses), tsubaki (red camellias), brilliant Himawari (sunflowers), sumire (violets), ajisai (hydrangeas), Sakurasou (primroses), blue hanashobu (irises), and anzu (apricot tree blossoms) adorn the interior of the main hall. Truthfully, Mitsuri can’t quite tell how far they go Did they adorn the whole house? Also truthfully, she wouldn’t mind in the slightest if you did. How could I not like it?

“I love you!” she laughs, grabbing your wrists, spinning, spinning, spinning.

“I love you, my beloved,” you smile widely, weightlessly.

The spinning slows to a warm standstill, love as bright as the day you met.

“You spoil me,” Mitsuri scolds, not really scolding at all.

“I do not!” you huff, eyes glistening.

She’s home, she’s alive, she’s whole.

Mitsuri knows that look, those glances. Checking her skin, her clothes, the pace of her breathing.

“I’m alright, [y/n]-chan.”

She is. You can tell. Always. From the sheen of her fingernails to the soft, tired depth of her gaze. She’s alright. Alright enough to enjoy the meal you prepped earlier. Alright enough to listen to you gush about your lonely, busy weeks without her. Alright enough to share her own numbing, demanding weeks. To reach for your chin, delicate, sensitive, and murmur, tongue remembering the outline of your lips.

“Thank you, my heart.”

[missgeniality]

Opaline Moon (m)

“The Moon can never breathe, but it can take our breath away with the beauty of its cold, arid orb.” - Munia Khan

➺ Banner: @hobiandsprite​ 💕

➺ Pairing: Seokjin x Female Reader

➺ Trope: Friends to Lovers, Idol!AU

➺ Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff

➺ Rating: 18+

➺ Word Count: 11.2k

➺ Summary: You are ingrained to love Jin, right upto the blood that courses through your veins. Confessing, however, is a whole other game. So it’s a good thing you’re bad at keeping your hands to yourself, because happenstance can handle the rest. 

➺ Warnings: talks about dance floor fucking, making out in the bar bathroom, fingering, pussy slapping, passing out drunk, daydreams about thigh riding, reader masturbates, they make out A LOT, neck kissing, a hickey, nipple play, some biting, cum eating (kind of, you’ll see), blowjob, protected sex!, reader and jin are corny, the hurt is real but the sex is real-er

➺ Author’s Note: My lovely, lovely moots - @taegularities​, @kithtaehyung​ and @baepsaetan​, thank you so much for betaing this and hyping it up, your comments made this fic a hundred times better! As I mentioned on the teaser, this fic took a lot out of me, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing the angst and will write more whenever the story aligns! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing, and I hope this lovable Jin reaches your heart! (ngl, in usual fashion, I will come back and edit it again, so if you see a spelling mistake, your eyes are lying to you) Do let me know what you think, your asks and comments make my day!

This is the second part of my Dress Down series, find more at it’s masterlist!

ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Sweltering heat. Blaring traffic. Little to no sleep. Through all things wrong, one man’s thoughts wrapped around you like a cooling breeze, a shield to protect you from the vicissitudes of reality, to draw you back into all of him. Unfortunately, your reality may never see that day come to light.

Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin, the man who cooked you up a greasy break-up meal at three in the morning with not a sight of discomfort, putting your needs above all.

Kim Seokjin, whose puns make you roll your eyes heavenward, half awed at how he manages to pull one out of his collection at a moment's notice, and half irked by the untimely laugh it brings out of you.

Kim Seokjin, the man who will never be yours, and you have no one to blame but yourself. 

One could argue that the miscommunication that had caused this present condition was two-way. If you had stopped him, corrected him, let him know the truth… you wouldn’t have to resort to the extreme measures you’re currently entangled in. One would also say, you are trying to redeem your mistake by trying too hard. Surely, everyone and their mothers could see through your ruse. 

This is the fourth time you’re visiting Jin for his BE shoot - a shoot taking place two hours away from the city, disguised under various layers of secrecy to prevent any leakage of the album concept, or Jin in general. Of course, you had been made privy to such exclusive information, because you and Jin were ‘best friends’. 

Best. Friends.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Best friends. The term you coined for (and forced upon) the bond you had. The bond that was too close to sprouting into something new, something fresh, something that was filled with glimmering allure and dragged you in like quicksand. But also, it reeked of commitment, of shadows, of newness that you hadn’t felt in the longest time, and fear of already being far too deep in without even taking the first step. 

The loud thrum of some internet kid’s new hit pulses through the air of the club as bundles of couples occupy the dance floor, laughing and gyrating to a song that, in your opinion, most definitely does not suit gyrating. But with enough of the weekend happy hours intake combined with hormone-riddled minds, one could very well throw it back to a church choir. 

You weave through the drunken bodies, trying not to spill the precariously held three drinks in your hands, making your way to your inner circle, the only people to blame for dragging you to this slosh-fest.

“Y/N!” 

Somehow Hoseok’s voice can echo across the club, but you didn’t even need his addressal because Jin’s laughter is loud enough to navigate anyone to your table. Seeing you struggle with the glasses (and mostly the crowd, with some of them living their exhibitionist dreams), Hoseok gets up to assist you.

“I swear, if I see one more couple pretending to be dancing as they rub one off of each other’s thighs, the black market will have my eyes.”

“Oh yeah?” Jin’s breathy voice interjects your black-market dreams, still bursting in short laughs from whatever sent him rolling before your arrival. “Why don’t you go join them?”

“And whose thigh is she taking, yours?” Yeji snorts out, one hand holding her nebula blue drink, the other wrapped around Hoseok, urging him to come closer. Jin’s features scrunch into a cringe, and you’re thankful for the dim lighting because the disappointment in your features does not reach them.

“The only action these leather pants are getting is in the damned laundromat,” he points to his shiny trousers, “some jerk dropped his drink on it.”

“You could be the first person to give some chick an orgasm and a yeast infection.” Hoseok giddily adds, his fifth shot clearly making a mess of his brain cells. 

Jin claps and gets up to move away from the group. “Better than a pregnancy!” he yells, before zigzagging through the crowd, possibly to the restroom. He is on his third cocktail, and you’d think cocktails are lighter drinks. But in this bar, their taps just seem to flow with tequila, and it is very evident in the way Jin is currently walking.

His absence hits you harder than you think, but it might be the alcohol talking. Jin has always been the mood-maker of the group, the one who brings everyone together. Of late though, his magnetic persona has been an irritant in your life. Any outing you two take, any chance you have to come clean about the burgeoning crush you have on him, is effectively disrupted by one of his posse. And today, Hoseok and Yeji took that trophy. 

“Earth to Y/N. Has the cocktail finally broken you?”

You flutter your eyes in a manic fashion, to disperse the daydream you were indulging yourself in, and bring your attention back to the couple calling for you. Surprisingly, they have stood up, Yeji emptying the last of her neon drink. 

“What happened?”

“We are going to the club nearby, they have better stuff. And that’s code for ‘they actually add water to the drink and the surround sound doesn’t shatter your ear drum’.’” 

She isn’t wrong. The cocktails and music here are a 19-year-old frat party dream, not something the working class can digest. But you’re tired at this point, and don’t want to be smothered by someone else’s love life when your own is down the dumps.

“You guys carry on! I’ll tell Jin where you are and he’ll meet you there!”

You watch as Hoseok and Yeji lead each other to the exit, hands circling their partner’s waist. They giggle on and on, about nothing and everything, and it only hardens the emptiness you feel inside you. 

Why can’t you gather the balls to spit your feelings out? What could possibly go wrong? Yes, you may lose one of your closest friends, but is this friendship really worth the agony? The bitterness you feel when you see any couple enjoying themselves? The anger you harbor whenever Jin tells you about his dates? The heartache, when he hugs you and tells you that you’re the best thing that’s happened to him… as a friend? Is it? Your plastered brain tells you to not make any rash decisions, so you don’t, instead choosing to get up and search for your best friend. 

The corridor leading to the washrooms is dimly lit, throwing a merlot filter over your eyesight, making you squint in search of your friend. You being shitfaced does not help, and while relishing in your floating wooziness, you see Jin come out, and feelings you’ve held at bay for so long slither through your currently porous defenses. 

He has always been good-looking. He himself has said so a dozen times.

But wow.

His hair lays messily atop his beautiful face, unkempt, like a breeze of beauty swept across his mighty looks and displaced every strand, causing disarray, but even the disarray only frames his superior looks and adds to its potent charm. The black, patchy sweater hanging loose off his broad shoulders makes you feel things you shouldn’t feel as a friend. That stupid gut of yours is currently screaming, yelling for all hands on deck, trying to block all the feelings from gushing in and sending you into overdrive.

By the time you can gather yourself to stop from giving in to those dangerous thoughts, Jin has crossed the distance between you, coming close, too close. Chocolate-brown eyes peer into your soul, searching for whichever fantasy you chose to lose yourself in. His eyes flit down to notice your rumpled dress that has found its way a couple of inches above its designated spot. His gaze returns to yours, but not without a newfound hardness, an almost steely glaze over the kindness that you usually find in the chocolate pools, accentuated under the garnet lighting. 

“Hey, umm…” You beg for a reprieve, from your thoughts, from your filthy mind, from the way he is eyeing your cleavage, or just for the burning between your legs. You’re about to make some serious mistakes, you can feel it down to your bone.

You’re far too overdressed. 

You knew it when you were in the process of getting dressed, but right now, you feel it much more - you look like a shiny disco ball orbiting amidst the plethora of loose tees, leggings and flannels. Everything screams comfort, because the amount of work they’re putting into this begs for it. 

The strappy lace sundress you wear is extremely out of place, the halter-neck tie behind your neck fastened a little looser than necessary, giving your breasts the exposure they deserve, a nice valley view. Your dress skirt, adorned with pretty frills and dainty flowers, cut across your thigh to frame your petite hips. You are one floppy sun hat away from an extravagant Greek cruise - and in the moment you wish you had one to hide your face in shame. 

You’re just out here, trying to escape the zone. 

“Oh, would you look at the time, it’s tits out Tuesday already?”

Your eyes roll before Sanghoon even finishes his sentence, because you wouldn’t expect anything else from him. On the team of the set design, he is carrying a whole drapery worth of plush, mauve curtains, struggling with the slipping fabric. But apparently not struggling enough to stop him from getting his nose into your business, it seems.

“Literally not even a time you just mentioned. Can’t get one thing right.” You can’t stop yourself from stretching a hand out to feel the curtain fabric, the satiny sheets begging to be touched. Before you can though, Sanghoon moves away, not allowing you to shift the focus of the conversation.

“Don’t steer away from the facts. Your tits.”

“That’s the fact?”

“They’re out.” He bucks up, trying to point with the hand stuffed underneath all the cloth. “That’s the fact.”

“Ugh, can’t a girl dress up once in a while?” The pointed attention makes you uncomfortable, because everything he’s insinuating is true. With every passing staff member, you count a new shade of grey, interspersed with occasional blacks and greens, a stark contrast to your floral overtones. Amidst the thousand footsteps taken in your vicinity, only yours are pointed heels, echoing across the studio with every clack. But you’re a stubborn one, refusing to give in to his totally valid argument. “I just woke up early.”

“Girl.” Like light through frosted glass, he sees through your bullshit, but only partially. “You put an alarm to dress up? I have nightmares of the boss brandishing her whip and telling me to get into position, and even that doesn’t wake me up.” 

“Have you ever considered… not announcing your kinks to everyone and their sisters?”

“Ehh,” he simply shrugs, “nothing is new when you’ve serenaded your boss drunk in a karaoke bar and still managed to keep your job. Wait. Is that highlighter?”

“Stop staring into my tits!” You can’t believe you got caught, but also, who can you blame? After testing this outfit out from the crack of dawn, you decided your cleavage needed some extra help. Three YouTube tutorials and one TikTok lady - who make it look far easier than it is - down, the contouring brought out the swell of your breasts, and against the light fabric of your dress, it does look too good to be true.

Memories of that night in the bar come in billows and waves, of how enamored Jin was with the way your boobs looked at that time. Even under the dingy lighting, in the cramped space, under heavily inebriated scrutiny, you couldn’t miss the flicker of heat in his gaze every time it passed your chest. 

One thing led to another, and it was a cascade none of you could stop. The heat of attraction between you two does not help your wandering mind, and the fever drowns the knowledge that what you’re feeling is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, crossing some lines that can never be mended back again. With the proximity, his musky scent invades whatever defenses you were trying to patch, piercing through all your inhibitions and you pull him into you, claiming his lips to be yours. 

With his wobbly knees and your wobbly heels, you somehow find your way to the washroom - mostly he does, you give in halfway to wrap your legs around his lean waist, his sturdy legs balancing your weight on them as your back hits the wall, and his lips tear down your walls. 

“You look so fucking sexy today,” between bated breaths and indulgent sighs you confess, “just driving me nuts.” Letting your hands drag along his abdomen, feeling the ups and downs of his abs, you attempt to rid him of the sweater that’s been on your hit list all night. But to your dismay, your endeavor is blocked, when Jin gathers your wrists in his palm, turning you around to bend you over on the countertop, the smooth marble chill hitting your braless chest, perking your nipples under the cold. 

“And you?” Jin bends to give your earlobe a languid lick, progressing very slow, a complete contrast to the movement of his hips as he ruts against your ass, your already short dress bunching up with every move. “You think it’s smart to have your tits torment me like this?” Grabbing a handful from behind, he tests the weight of each fleshy mound, and by now you are certain your perked nubs can pierce his palm. 

His free hand, not yet torturing you, decides to get in on the action and disappears under the counter, swiftly crossing the bunched fabric of your dress, gaining easy access to your pussy. The cold touch of his pads sears against the heat of your core, finding your pleasure button and languidly fiddling with it, with no intention to cross you over the brink in sight. The only pleasure you can indulge in is the reflection of him abusing your nipples, pinching and tugging them down, whispering filthy words into your ear as he takes in your fucked out countenance. 

You feel lacking, weak hands balancing your dizzy self, finding purchase to keep you upright - but you’re both drunk on alcohol and hypnotized by his beauty to do much more than stare at his mirrored counterpart. “For fuck’s sake, kiss me.” 

How he understood your slurred words, you don’t know, but you are glad he did. In a moment you’ve been displaced, the hurried motion sending your neurons into a flurry. Once your back meets the hard marble, and your eyes have the privilege to see his, you pull him in closer, the force enough to hold you against the wall while your legs wrap around his lean waist. 

Originally not a fan of drunken misadventures, that side of yours is strangely mute to the going current onslaught. Well, you don’t have much breath left to say anything, because Jin is efficiently stealing it all, his teeth clashing with yours as you engage in the messiest kiss ever known to mankind (or at least, to you). He changes pace often, dragging his tongue leisurely against your lower lip, conveying tacit words, just to switch it up with a sharp bite and reel you in. 

One corner of your senses can feel his fingers messing around your cunt, and playing with the wetness your thong can barely contain. It makes you shudder, the damage that his fingers can cause solely circling around your hole. 

“Fuck me.” 

In your drunken stupor, you don’t know if the words leave you right, but you get confirmation when his long fingers finally penetrate your cunt, giving your walls something to clench on - although nothing could possibly compare to what you imagine you can get from his dick.

“God, you feel that grip,” he grunts, with two of his fingers in you, and Jin’s smile is the most sinister you’ve ever seen. “I think we should take this home,” is what his lips utter, but his fingers delve deeper, searching for the spot that crumbles you. The base of his palm grinds against your throbbing clit, and you are forced to bite down on this sweater, lest an embarrassingly loud moan escapes you and cues outsiders into your filthy doings. 

“Now,” you half-hiss, half-growl as you grab the cusp of his legs to feel his half-hard erection grow under the pressure of your hand. Your palm sliters up just to go down again, this time without the blockade of his pants, but you are stopped short of success when Jin’s fingers slip out of you to give you a sharp swat. 

“Stubborn, aren’t we? Can’t fucking wait,” he whispers into your ear, and as he envelops your lobe with his cushiony lips, he continues, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

No, no, no. 

Your brain rejects logic, chews and spits it out before any of the rationale seeps into you. You have wanted this for far too long. The need inside you for a meaningful relationship materializes in the form of recklessness, desperately looking for surface-level relief for the moment. A night of sewing sutures to your battle-worn heart, stitches that may come off at the slightest strain - but right now, that will do. 

“Please, Jin,” your tantalizing tone riles up his cock again, eagerly waiting for your next words, “can’t you feel me dripping? Come on, I can take you.”

“Fuck, hear that wetness.” He lets his palm slap against your sopping entrance, not stopping with one. With every slap, droplets of your arousal splash out, the insides of your thighs coated in the sticky sweetness, but your body is an endless reservoir producing plentiful more for Jin to play with. “Have you been sitting with this all this time?”

Two long fingers invade your channel again, leaving you with no response other than a gasp. They scissor incessantly, preparing you for what could be the railing of your lifetime. One curl inside and his fingertips hit the spot he was looking for, making you warp your body to take the pleasure coursing through your veins. His tongue seems to mimic the actions, looping around your earlobe as he sucks it inside, both ends of your body engulfed in all the attention he could provide. 

Your cunt is weeping against the assault of this man’s hands, tears of your cum flowing down your legs with every pump of his arm. You are getting there, the sweet swell of release inching closer and closer.

But something doesn’t feel right.

The tightness in your belly, that is to a point caused by Jin, is harboring other sensations that are not entirely pleasant. Maybe you’re anxious about the happenings. Maybe you haven’t had a good orgasm in a while and have just forgotten how this thing works.

Or maybe, the bar should have the water tap actually give out water.

Either your eyes close, or your brain does, but suddenly all you can see is darkness.

 Again, you are just trying to escape the zone.

“Step under those studio lights,” pointing at the too-bright stage lights being set up at the moment, Sanghoon continues, breaking your daydream, “I bet you could signal to aliens with the booby-reflection. Call them to Netflix and chill.”

“In about five seconds, my heel will be puncturing your eye. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” 

Sanghoon’s drivel was cut short, and so were your murder plans, with his entry. “Oh look, he’s on set. Gotta go!” 

It’s like the lights, earlier threatening to burn away your skin, dim down in reverence of the glow of his face. The twinkle of his eyes when they meet yours. The shine of his smile when he throws you one. The vibrance of his tone when he calls out your name. Everything he does now threatens to burn you whole and it’s a wonder you’re not scalding, but the singe hurts you deep inside.

“Y/N! How do I look?” It’s a bathrobe. Like satin, or silk. Fucking hell, your brain could explode with the adjectives coming up, a whole chunk of them very much inappropriate to utter out in the current scene. Your arms want to rise, engulf him into you, and you have to physically halt the muscles from doing anything stupid. Brain, quick! Say something snarky and spicy, as best friends do!

“What’s the theme, unicorn puke?” The safest way to deflect is to attack. So you do just that. “You look like you dressed out of Hannah Montana’s closet. Which if it's true, I really need to see it. There’s a top that I’ve been eyeing for decades!”

“Don’t say decades.” Jin’s eyes crinkle in humor. “Makes me feel so old. Your dress is pretty cool too!” 

Cool.

You find out how difficult life can be when you count every single minute of yours. So far, you have counted 4,310 minutes. That is two days, twenty-three hours, and fifty minutes. Ten more minutes and it will be three whole days since you and Jin spoke. 

Yet again, you can’t blame him. When you came to the next day, you were in your bed, clad in the same shimmering silver bodycon that you had donned last night. The same one that had been privy to the colorful deeds you had committed in what was a dreary, colorless setting. 

One ibuProfen and ginger ale, downed with some severe recollections of the previous night, and you had been ready to throw it all up again. 

I don’t want to hurt you.

Words couldn’t describe what you were going through, and numbers weren’t invented to count the endless thoughts racing in your brain. You don’t know what is more upsetting. The fact that you actually had a chance to open your heart and you totally let your pussy think instead? Or that he was the one coherent enough to stop you from getting too far, and you let your desperation get the best of you? Everything about that night was wrong. And all the wrongs lie on your side. 

I don’t want to hurt you.

In the moment, it was physical, he had to have meant that. But there was a tremor in his voice, you can remember clear as day, a slightly shaken side of him had emerged through the intoxication, and the words he had breathed were not shallow. There was a gravity to them, that you’d stupidly ignored in the heat of the moment.

And now, here you are. Counting up till the last minute, after which you can effectively call the friendship ruined. Stirring your tea mindlessly, you try to focus on the show on TV, the variety show comedy not striking the usual funny bones that they could 4,311 minutes ago. 

The programmed ding of your phone bursts your thought bubble, a sound you have missed the past 72 hours. The ring you dedicated to Jin, that always had you running to receive because anything he sends brightens your day. But unlike those happier times, this ring has your gut fall into a pit of despair, struggling to choose between dispersing the suspense or remaining blissfully unaware of the damage you caused.

Jin: Free tmrw? We could grab coffee Jin: And talk

Talk. How? You barely remember what went down, save for fleeting moments that you recollected with great difficulty. Your fingers type back, trying to mimic the nonchalance in his text, that is very much absent in your actual demeanor.

Y/N: Sure. Paik’s at 1? Jin: Yup. See ya

Three texts, zero laughs. Of course, you’re not expecting him to land his jokes in this situation, even someone as talented as he can’t flip this tension. You’re just going to have to wait for tomorrow, when he decides whether you have a place in his life or not. 

The painstakingly worn outfit, accessorizing the whole look, the straps of your heels digging into your toes, the specks of makeup dust lying stale on your collar bones, the shine faints at that word. Cool. A perfectly normal phrase for a normal friendship. You are left maimed, while he absent-mindedly tends to the rope of his robe, blissfully unaware of the cyclonic emotions churning inside you. All you can possibly do is gulp it down. 

He runs his hands through his hair, beautiful locks coming out of place, and from one corner of the set, a groan of anguish emerges. 

“Oppa! Don’t play with your hair and face.” A masked lady runs forward waving combs that look like artillery, “We just got done setting it!”

Some finger guns, a happy apology, and some silly jokes later, all the stylists merrily round up to undo his doing, and Jin signals to you to catch up later. And as he walks away, the strings tugging at your heart reappear, as they do every time you come to meet him.

You have a masochistic streak in you, putting yourself through this every day, when he had made it clear, that you two never stood a chance. 

As if things aren’t already difficult, he looks like a dream. 

Soft, snowy skin gleaming like it has personal lighting wherever it goes, you get flashes of the rarely witnessed sweat on his skin, from the ferocity of last night. He’s blowing away the foam of his cappuccino, and tiny bubbles float into the air before falling flat on the table, like an animated shine that follows him along. God has His favorites, and God makes sure all the lighting in the world is perfect for these favorites. 

In no hurry, you wait at the counter to get your latte. After receiving it though, you can’t linger any longer and drag yourself to the table of doom.

“Hey.”

If the rasp in your voice is evident, he doesn’t show any recognition on his face. But you’ve learned to never trust an acting major. 

“Hi. How are you doing?”

Inadvertently, a snicker escapes your lips. “Are you interviewing me for a job?” you joke, trying to disperse the heavy air, filled with unspoken words. “If so, at least know that I’m very expensive.”

The familiar windshield wiper laugh does not greet you. Dead silence does. The half-smirk he painfully gives you is heavy, and the furrowed brows haven’t an inkling of joy. It shoots daggers in your heart, to know that you are the reason for this jolly man’s despondency. 

“Listen, I don’t think we should skirt around the issue too much. It happened, these things happen. You think Hoseok and Yeji didn’t have sex before making it official?”

His matter-of-fact nature isn’t new to you. Jin has always been a very practical man. Regardless of his inane sense of humor, his logical point of view has always been flawless. 

But right now, at this very moment, logic isn’t what you are looking for. You are looking for answers, but as far withdrawn from logic as possible, to take the edge off of the tension-laden air that surrounds your table.

“Yeah, but even… unofficially… we aren’t a thing, right?” 

Your abrupt question takes Jin unaware, almond eyes widening, like a toddler caught in an act. 

“No, no! Of course not! I would never!” 

His confession slips out with an ease that hurts you, digs deep to carve out the part of you that dreamt of anything more. Your eyes fall to your knees to avoid his perceptive gaze, the sting clear as the sky on a summer day. 

You force a smile and continue. “Then there’s no issue. Anyway,” you gulp your coffee down, burning your throat, but it's a distraction from the burning inside, “I need to get to work. Anything else?”

He’s still searching you, for what, you can’t possibly fathom. From the looks of it, he should be happy with this homeostasis; he doesn’t even know what this means for you. To still stay suspended in limbo, not being able to move up or down, to continue having thorns digging into your beating soul as you watch him like nothing bothers your already frail feelings. Scene by scene, you can visualize the future, him distancing himself from you as he finds the one he calls his, with you left in the shadows. Your knees tremble in fear of the impending future.

Seeing you in a tizzy, he calls out, the voice too loud for the cafe and your mind’s prison cage. 

“We’re still best friends, right?” If you knew better, you’d say his expression is that of sadness, of regret. But your judgment is clouded with your own bothers, and you interpret it as a look of pity. Like a lovesick puppy, kicked to the streets, with nowhere to call home. 

“Yeah! Always.” You give it as much enthusiasm as you can muster. 

Best friends.

Ropes wind around your heart, tugging and causing the deep ache that sets in as you walk back into your dreary building. Each string pulls you into a different dimension where you could move on, where you could be okay with the setting you had just agreed to. Where you would keep up your end of the promise and truly remain friends with him.

But no matter how strong the tug, your heart never yields, never lets go of the castle of dreams you built, staying steadfast in its own misery, choosing to hope, choosing to live the life of unrequited love.

“And that’s a wrap! Good job everyone!”

Applause and hurrays echo across the set to bring you back to the present. The shoot has officially concluded, which means it's time for your most favorite and least favorite part of the day - Jin and you doing best friend things, like grabbing lunch, gossiping about obnoxious coworkers, threatening to disembowel each other (in Mortal Kombat, of course) and other friendly activities. 

Ever so respectful, Jin takes his time thanking every member of the set, regardless of whether they moved a cushion or held the reflector screen for hours. All the women gush over his beauty, reminding him of how, even amidst the glowing ornaments, his face was the brightest. His responses vary, from quiet little giggles, to complimenting the crew for making it happen, to straight up owning his charisma like a boss. That’s your man. 

Well, not quite. Not one bit.

After exhausting the handshakes and hugs to be received, Jin walks to you, hands pushing his robe back to give it a cape like effect. You’re just glad that the man’s child persona still stays with him, no matter the situation.  He guides you to his green room, cracking his bones on the way, (very sexily, might you add).

“Holding a pose for that long gives me cramps! You’d think dancing breaks my back, and you’d be wrong.”

You’re desperately avoiding looking at his fingers, and keep your eyes below them - shoot! His ceaseless stretching gives you a glimpse under his shirt - it is dragging your memories back to the last time you saw them, and you’d rather not. It is hurting you in more ways than one. 

Eye contact is your safest bet. Looking up, you give him a lopsided grin. “Your grandfatherly days are approaching, Jinnie.” 

“Hey!” 

The rest of the conversation was less speaking, more yelling and chasing after each other to the green room, Jin taking mock-offence at your jab at his age, and his fingers reaching out to flick your forehead in retort. In your noisy, messy fashion, you both finally enter the room, dim gold light bulbs and shiny mirrors meeting your huffing self. 

One hand on your knee, you hold on to Jin’s arm with your other, gasping for breath. 

“Your grandmotherly days are already here, Y/N,” he snorts, and earns a kick on the shin, but that doesn’t stop him from bursting into snickers.

“Wow, why does one man need 4 mirrors?” You gape at his current green room, mouth wide open. It looks better than your entire apartment, with the counter carrying top-of-the-line makeup products. Only the best for this man. “So you can admire yourself from 4 different angles?”

Jin has disappeared into one of the inner rooms, but you can hear him snort at your comment. “Come on, I’m not that conceited. When the whole crew shoots together, the extra mirrors help.” The last part of that sentence is muffled, and that cues you into an important fact. 

Jin is currently changing into something more comfortable.

A process that includes him getting naked.

Well maybe he doesn’t get fully naked, top on, top off, bottom on, bottom of-

Still. You’re sweating like a whore in church. 

And things only get tougher when he finally comes out. 

The ocean blue sweater he dons is tucked in. Who tucks in sweaters? Kim Seokjin. Why does he tuck sweaters? Oh, because he’s got an amazing waistline that he should most definitely show off, and the heat between your thighs becoming increasingly potent is a testament to that. You pretend to adjust your heels, giving the right expressions to show you’re in pain, but in actuality you are bringing your legs closer to get you some relief, just any relief. 

Ripped jeans too. You get a peek of the thighs you were denied access to the night of the fuckening. Ridged and beautiful, not a speck in sight to mar his perfection. You are glad the facial expressions for pain and pleasure are not far apart, because your thighs, albeit very lacking, are helping the imagery in your head. Just Jin, seated on one of these leather chairs, and you straddling his thigh, clit aching against the strands of the rips in his denim, the fabric soaking up the wetness, with every push forwa-

“Now that you mention it, I do look dashing.”

And there goes that dream. 

You pinch his cheeks in adoration, the vulgarity of your thoughts getting whitewashed by his silliness and blooming heart-shaped flowers in their stance. You feel your own pinch in you, wondering if this scene would be the same had you blurted your feelings out that day at the cafe.

It's times like these when you remind yourself why you choose to quieten that side. This dynamic cannot reincarnate in any other form. Any imbalance to this equilibrium could cause a serious case of best-friends-turn-awkward-acquaintances, and you don’t know if that’ll hurt you more than you currently do. You don’t plan on finding out.

But on God, he tests that resolution every single day.

Jin doesn’t even hint that he knows of the turmoil blasting behind your eyes. He nonchalantly fixes his hair, gives you a one-over as you are mentally undressing him, nonchalantly as well. Then he moves to grab his cologne, and two spurts disintegrates all the whitewashing and takes you back into the obscenities you were unfolding. 

“So I’ll just go over the shoot photos, and then we can leave! You’re cool waiting here?”

“Hmmn, yeah!” You don’t let your mouth run any longer, fearing what might slip out. 

He gives you a wide, innocent smile. “Great! See you in a bit.” Poor guy. If only he knew how debase plans you were conjuring just from the aroma of his cologne. 

It is musky, like cedar or pine, perfectly suiting him. It is the same scent you remember inhaling, face stuffed in his sweater when he was fingering you to the tenth circle of hell. As he walks away, the fragrance diminishes, save for the slightest hint of lingering. You search for the source, and find the culprit strewn across the sofa.

The outfit Jin wore for the shoot held remnants of the perfume, and when you bring the shirt close and take a long, deep whiff, you transport yourself to the land of your dreams. You relish the fever smell of his cologne, mixed with his own natural scent, deciding that this is what you wish to smell like every waking morning.

Your longing for him has crossed way beyond physical boundaries. You longed for his love, longed for his attention. Longed to be the one that brings the light to his face. From morning rays to the darkness of the night, you wanted to experience it all by his side. To be his lone star, shining bright beside the moon. 

Your hands are moving without your control, disrobing you of your thirst trap of a dress and putting on Jin’s shirt instead. One look at the mirror and you let out a silent groan - it fits you just right. Just enough to cover your ass cheeks, loose enough to let the air conditioning hit your heated pussy. While well-fitting shirts have never been the cornerstone of a successful relationship, your delusional mind takes whatever wins it gets.

Adding layers to your pipe dream, you don the robe that gave you a tough time throughout the shoot. When you press the tails of the robe to your cheek, the softness of the material is soothing. Soft, like Jin’s eyes, like his hugs, like his smile. Like him.

Leaning against the counter, you steady yourself, mind split in titillation. Your fingers find their own path, drawing circles on your breasts over his shirt, imagining Jin’s long fingers in place. While teasing your nipple to pointed peaks, you slip your other hand under your panties, trying very hard to mimic his digits, twiddling your clit between your fingers. Alas, the effect isn’t achievable, because Jin seems to know how to play you better than yourself. 

The scent is getting stronger, without any provoking, and it is doing wonders for your immersion. You let out a loud moan when your fingers press inside, and you’re just glad no one can witness this.

“Y-Y/N?”

Fuck.

You are pulled away from your dreamland that was so impenetrable that you didn’t hear Jin step into the room. All the blood gushing to your nether regions has made a U-turn to flood your brain to think of a plausible explanation for this position. Instead it makes you giddy, and when you try to stand you wobble in your heels, to be rescued by what you think is a very scandalized Jin. 

Time stands still when your eyes meet, and what you see are blown out pupils trembling, many questions fluttering between you two. Jin crosses a tenth of the distance between you, lips flutter as they try to make a decision - do they want to part and give way to the voice of question? The voice of reason? The voice that will break this hush, burst this bubble where he has the one chance to give in to his longing?

You bring your lips closer, and cause immense disquiet in his dome, the way of his heart gathering speed against rationale. Your eyes dance between matching his gaze and finding his lips, every fraction of an inch you cross sending tremors through you. You can feel the shockwaves traverse through your body, making a pitstop at your lips, tingling them awake. They move downwards, passing your heart, beating it wildly against its cage, and then to the pit of your stomach to tighten in anticipation; finally reaching the tip of your toes, where you stand right now, a nanoscopic distance between you. Each one of you is afraid to cross the bridge, unaware of the other’s desires. 

Finally, Jin acqueises and meets you on your side. 

Atomic explosions ring through your head, clearing out every single thought that is not about Jin’s lips on yours. The ropes that held your heart from beating to the tune of your want, they’ve loosened their knots to give you the leeway to love freely. As your lips exchange positions, his teeth lightly drag across your plush petal, and it brings back the most important part of that night that you couldn’t recollect - the one where his lips sang wordless songs of adoration against yours. Blind as a bat, you were.

You dig your fingers into his hair, not minding your residual arousal coating his locks, and you feel his hands doing the same to you. With your eyes closed, you feel a rough edge to his cushiony soft lips, but Jin fixes that mistake - one stray strand of hair trapped in the middle of your indulgence - he pulls it away to give you all of the kiss. The hand tucked in your tresses pushes in, silently demanding more access, and you’re nothing but ready to give it.  

His tongue sneaks in to play a game with yours - when you seek it, it goes into hiding, finding perfect pleasure in soft, sweet kisses, but when you stay, it comes back in, awakening your tongue to deepen again. Everything he is doing is too much and not enough in one go, and you whine into his mouth in desperation, seeking some well-earned relief after months of holding back.

Amidst the flurry of your lips, your back hits the vanity countertop, and Jin pushes away everything on top to make space for you, not caring what expensive item flies down the counter to accommodate your ass.

As if you’ve made up for the months of holding back, the softness of the kisses erodes, teeth coming into play more and more, reminiscent of the night that went by in a blur. He swallows every mewl you give in return, blissed out beyond repair, your neediness making his cock strain against the denim. 

His hand snakes down, spreading his fingers to get a hold of your back to push you towards him, covering any gap that dared to intervene. Now unworried about the shoot, your hands have effectively ruined his perfectly placed locks and messed them up to resemble the craze he let you spin in.

Before he can glide his tongue back in, you break the kiss, lest you lose yourself in it to the point where you forget to breathe. With attached foreheads, you take deep drags of air, letting the oxygen flow to your brain before you make some ill-advised, unclarified decisions.

“I- I was jus-”

“Shhh. Wait,” he breathes out, wanting to take a second and fully savor the moment. You nod in return, making his head move along with yours.

After sufficient air fills his lungs, Jin starts. “Y/N, we should stop.”

Last time this had happened, you had tried to force your way through his barrier, without giving his feelings a second of consideration. So this time, you don’t repeat your mistakes. “Tell me why.”

“Because, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m way deeper in this than you think.”

“Jin, I-”

“Let me finish.” He stops you before you can explain how much you reflect his emotions, possibly more. He doesn’t seem to want to listen now. “Let me finish, or else I’ll chicken out, for the millionth time.”

You’re dumbfounded. Millionth time? When was the first? Acting majors, by God. 

“I love you, Y/N.”

No, now you are dumbfounded. Your hands, holding his precious locks, drop down in shock, at sheer disbelief that all this time, he has been ready and waiting to return you the favor. Jin though, misinterprets it as a look of disdain. 

“I-I know I do, and I’m sorry that I do. I know you don’t feel the same way. You can hate me all you want, but this is the truth.”

“And yes,” he continues, refusing to halt for even half a second, afraid that the courage he mustered to confess would dissipate the moment he does, “I’m attracted to you, and I don’t know what went down here --” flicking his wrist to mention your (his) outfit, “--but I’m looking, okay? And I’m hard as fuck. But that’s not all there is to it.”

“I need all of you.” He takes an audible gulp, trying to stymy his emotions from overpowering him. “I want to take you out, I want to hold you hand, I want to bring you to all the places I love. I want to introduce you to people, not as my best friend, but so much more than that. It hurts me,” bringing his hand to his chest, he emphasizes the point of pain by clutching over his heart, “hurts to call you that because I’m lying through my fucking teeth.”

You break eye contact, because there are tears smarting your eyes at his heartfelt revelation. You can’t believe the idiot that you have been all this while. The man of your dreams stands in front of you, baring his soul, and you can’t even do him the decency of telling him what you felt yourself before jumping his bones.

And you love him, too. Maybe you haven’t said so, even to yourself, but you’ve known all this while.

You love him.

“If you are just looking for a fuck, or want any sort of a ‘benefits’ situation, we should stop. I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

“Jin, my God,” you half-sigh, half-laugh, feeling a burden lift off of you after months of pining.

“You don’t have to pacify me, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” Even in this moment, he is looking out for you. His lips are curved upward to show you that he’s okay, but his pupils are shaky and restless, not in sync with his smile. You hope your next words can fix that for him.

“Pacify you? Hate you?” You shoot him an incredulous look, one you will explain to him very soon. “You are a much better person than I am, Jinnie. For months now, I’ve loved you, but even at this point, I didn’t stop to tell you.” The guilt of letting your hormones cloud your judgement for the second time lays heavily on your conscience. “I’m sorry for not making this clear earlier, but let me now. I love you, Kim Seokjin. I have for way too long. I want you, I need you. You have me, in every possible way.”

It feels unparalleled to get that off your chest. The leaden weight of your emotions immediately disappears - or the fact that it's shared, makes it much, much lighter. But then you look at Jin, and he still seems to have not put two and two together. You patiently wait for him to process all the information. 

When he finally recoups, he yells, “What?!”

You let out a loud guffaw, the first one with no inhibitions in the longest time. “What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything that day at the cafe?!” 

“You said you’d never date me, asshole!” You punch his chest softly, before slipping your hands behind him and pulling him closer. “I might not look like it, but I have some dignity.”

“I said that?” Jin brings one hand to pinch his nose in annoyance. “What an idiot. I think I was just inverting everything to make sure I don’t accidentally slip up.”

You lift your head to meet his eyes again, letting him see the tears you were hiding. You find a couple in his eyes, too. But the smile on your face is genuine, and that is all that matters. “I was blind too, so don’t beat yourself up about it.” 

Flitting your eyes down to find the contour of his cock against his jeans, you ask him innocently, “How about we make up for lost time?”

“Fuck, yes, please.” And with that, your lips are engulfed again.

When you have all your guards down, the kiss tastes sweeter than before. Mere moments ago, while thoroughly enjoying the kiss, a sense of reticence had clouded your pleasure, holding you back from luxuriating in the headiness. A series of what-ifs had plagued your subconscious without your realization, but with all that cleared, you wholly submit to the kiss, emptying your mind until nothing but his name remains.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Jin gasps out, when you bite into his pillowy lower lip, “I thought you looked the prettiest in the dress earlier but,” after pulling away, he drinks your current attire in, “you look the most beautiful in this.”

You snicker. “Even more than World Wide Handsome?”

His eyes bore into yours, no hint of the joking lilt he always carries in them. 

“So much more.”

Your hands find their place amidst his shaggy hair again, and you lodge his face into your neck - a command Jin acquiesces to with great pleasure. After a long, wet lick to your collarbone, he lays feather-soft kisses on the trail he left, starting from your shoulder and working inward, until he brushes against the back of your ear. You grasp at his sweater, because his lips feel so good. Your breaths are short, sucking in every time he allows your skin the luxury of a soft peck.  Once he lays a kiss on your forehead, he brings his gaze down to one of the main reasons that causes his cock to stir.

“Fuck, look at your nipples under my shirt.”

Gazing down, you can see the two pointed peaks that caught Jin’s eyes. 

“That tends to happen when I’m thinking of you.” 

He twists a nipple over the shirt, hardening it further, and you throw your head back in the satisfying pain. “Yeah, I remember.”

You are unraveling every second, the ache swishing amongst the bliss his fingers are bringing in you. He’s switched over to drawing circles around your nipple, until he snaps and tugs your shirt up, finally revealing the palmfulls of flesh awaiting his hands. 

“Ah that night, I didn’t get to do this. Take this off.” But then, he makes you put on his robe again. You throw him a questioning look, to which he responds with a sheepish smile, “Just so, you know… you don’t feel cold… or something.”

“Just say you like me in your clothes and move on.”

“I love you in my clothes,” he admits in a heartbeat, his expression that of anguish, “can we move on?”

“God, gladly.”

Unexpectedly, he bites the side of your boob - not hard at all, but feeling his teeth against your skin sends your head reeling backward. Your involuntary response is to wrap your legs around his waist, grinding your core against him. His teeth continue to nip you lightly across the expanse of your breasts, the trail of saliva he leaves cooling parts of your flushed body. Finally, finally, he latches onto your left nipple and gives it a long, pleasurable suck.

“Ahh, Jin - you’re too - God damn it - you’re too good at this.” 

Without stopping the onslaught he is unleashing on your breasts, his fingers begin to move - but soon, they stop, hesitation rippling off of their tips. His pace falters, and his mind is fighting on the next course of action.

“Can I-”

“Finish what you started that night?” you complete for him, already prepared with your answer. “Yes, please.”

All forms of uncertainty shoot out of his touch, and he confidently trudges forward. Playing with the band of your panties, he gives you a well-intended chuckle, murmuring, “As far as I remember, I was so good you passed out.”

“Boy,” You groan, intended in jest, but his teeth slide against your jaw and it mostly comes out more wanton than jovial, “let me see you have tequila for dinner and remember much the next day.”

“Fair fair,” he gives in, shifting to buss the valley of your cleavage, feeling your heart thud against your ribs holding it in place. “Well today,” he starts without moving his face, his nimble fingers moving past the barrier of your underwear, pressing two fingertips directly on your clit, and hissing like it's him at the receiving end, “I’ll give you enough to remember.”

You pull his sweater off and chuck it away, not wanting to be reminded of any blockades that kept you apart, and your hands roam the expanse of his back remembering the touch of his skin from the night at the bar. His body isn’t new to you, but the circumstances make it feel different. 

Finally, his fingers find their way inside you. 

Yes, this. This was what was missing from your drunken tryst. With your heads in place, your ardor intensifies, and you move his lips back to yours needing to release your animalistic desire into his mouth. Pleasure surges through both of you as you threaten to swallow him whole.

You can feel him being more present, and considering the merciless finger-fucking you had earned that night, this is taking it to a whole other degree. 

The night at the bar, his fingers did their best to ravish you, but now, Jin is paying attention, close attention to the way you respond. Every muscle movement is recorded in him as you struggle to accommodate three of his lengthy digits. Leaning close, he gives your peaked nipple the lightest feather lick - the suddenness sends shockwaves through you as he continues to tweeze the other, talented pianist hands performing his musical piece on both ends of you.

His fingers pump into you with determination, finding new depths to explore that he missed out on, and with a curl of his pointer, you blank out, screaming in the orgasm that is washing over you. Every skincell of your body feels the quiver of lust spreading, your cunt squeezing for an eternity, milking the orgasm out to the extent that you can. 

When you look down, your metaphorical orgasmic flood manifestes as a deluge of your arousal leaking on the table. And when you look back up, you can see the salacious ideas making their rounds in Jin’s head as he looks at the inundation you released. 

Hurried hands still convulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, you undo his belt, followed by his jeans and finally - getting the pleasure you were heartlessly denied of - his cock is out, in all its glory, twitching as the cool air hits its naked skin. Jin’s plans don’t go hand in hand with yours though.

“Are we just - holy fucking shit - just, umm, leave that to waste?” he lustfully looks down to your leaking core, and someway, through your hold on his dick, he tries to steer you into his plans.

“I don’t know about that,” you cheekily reply. You have the right idea to satisfy both of you, and get down to the task.

With the flat of your palm, you swipe across the droplets of cum you released, gathering them to transfer them onto his thick length. Jin thrusts into your hand, the wetness jolting him into attention, and he places an arm on your shoulder to steady himself. 

“You’re going to taste yourself?” he asks as you continue your vacillating motion, twisting at the base of his head with the wetness you graciously provided yourself. You give him a nonchalant look, something he is trying to do to you as well. 

“Who said I’m gonna suck you off?”

His look changes, and the one you get in return is cocky, arrogant, downright rude if you were honest. You expected him to play on with your banter, but one raised eyebrow and the lazy smirk he gives, to what he probably thinks is a joke - Zeus could land on earth and not be able to stop you from gobbling his meat. 

Your mouth is filled with his dick even before your knees hit the ground. Jin staggers back, but your suction on his dick is funnily strong enough to pull him back before falling.  You switch positions, having him balance himself against the counter, all while you refuse to leave his cock out. His giggle of endearment has you pouting, but it swells your heart and makes you want to give more, more of anything and everything. With your renewed vigor, you push yourself in until his pubes tickle your nose, and his tip tickles your throat. 

“Your-”, “I-”, “uhh-” 

Every new sentence Jin starts crumbles to your actions. You furrow your brows both in concentration on your blowing skills and trying to decode what he is trying to say. 

Jin takes a large gulp, adamant on making this one a coherent sentence. “You know, I used to imagine this, and in my dreams I used to be very sexy and suave, talking my way throug-oof-” You run your tongue over the tip of his leaking dick, emphasizing the point he is coming to, “Now I can’t even complete sentences here.”

“You being you is super sexy in itself.” And you curve your tongue to match the arch of his cock, letting the incoming saliva pool on it before letting it run down his shaft, dripping down from his balls. Strings of his precum connect to your lips, and you swipe your tongue through them, relishing the salty goodness before going back in for more. 

“Y/N, shit, did you just moan?”

How couldn’t you? The fact that he is horny for you, so much so that rivulets of precum don’t stop drizzling down your throat, has you preening. You hum your assent in response, not willing to let go even for a moment, but Jin pulls you off before you can get a chokehold on the base of his cock again. 

“Never had a woman moan while sucking me off. It’s sexy as fuck,” Jin breathes into your lips as he dives in for a kiss.

Your chest is heaving, catching the breaths you lost when you were down. “Then why’d you stop me?”

“Are you kidding me? I was about to lose it right there.”

“Jinnie, come on,” you break the fragmentary kiss you were sharing, looking into his glassy eyes, “let me feel you come on my tongue.” To emphasize your conviction, you lick his lips, persuading him of the sinful deeds your tongue is capable of doing if he’d just let you.

“Oh man, stop. What’s worse than busting a nut in your mouth? Busting it while you’re kissing me. Making me feel like a teenager.” You erupt into a loud laugh, soon followed by Jin as well. It is so him to joke about this. 

“And babe,” all hints of embarrassment vanishing from his tone, “I’m only going to come inside you.”

“Fuck, fuck, yes. You got a condom on you?”

“Yeah, let me grab my wallet.” The instant he moves away, you feel naked, shivering from the comfort stolen away from you. But then you hear Jin grumble, “I hope I don’t have the bacon-flavored one.” And the absurdity of it all puts you at ease again.

“Ew, stop, even you can’t make that sexy. My lady boner is dying.”

He envelops you again, and you can feel the laughter echoing in his lungs before making it out to your ears. He brings your attention to the familiar rustle of foil wrapper. “Thankfully, we got chocolate.”

“Mmmh, gotta love chocolate.”

You take the condom out of his hands, and roll it onto his stiff length, flattered that he’s holding his erection for so long. 

“Okay, stick it in me!” And you smack your ass in readiness, and a very flabbergasted Jin breaks out chortling.

“Y/N, stop being my best friend for like, five minutes!” His brows are furrowed in pretense exasperation, but you can see his lips holding back a genuine smile through the grimace, just happy that your dynamics haven’t changed the slightest, even though everything else has shifted.

“Okay okay,” you try and suppress your own laughter, before continuing, “how do you want me, baby?”

“Bend over on the vanity. And keep your eyes on the mirror.” And as you move into position, his palms grab your ass and squeeze it hard, feeling your glutes push back against his grip, and he pushes you forward till you're on the tips of your toes. You watch him through the mirror, watch him admire the way your ass curves over the table edge, how your toes struggle to keep you up, and how the dimples of your back are deepened by the arch, peeking under the bunched up robe tails, just waiting for him.

“Jin.” Your hushed whisper puts him in action.

Pushing the head in is anguish and relief at the same time. His bulbous head stretches your entrance; even with your preparation, you feel it sting. The searing gets better and better with every inch slipping in, and when he finally lodges inside, you let out a heavy breath, still panting and keeping yourself from screaming bloody murder in pleasure. Jin bends forward to paint the back of your neck, sucking the flesh till the circular bruise comes to surface. 

“Can you- can you-fuck, no, wait-” Your brain is at war with itself, battling between adjusting to his girth and having him pump you into adjustment. 

You can feel Jin’s snicker from behind you, and he finally makes the decision for you. “I’ll wait, I have things to do here,” he says before playing around the patch of skin, spreading from the base of your hair to the expanse of your back, his teasing licks relaxing your walls and accommodating his girth. The pain is almost gone, expect for the lingering ache that only helps you.

“You can move now, babe.”

“Okay, okay.” Your words snap him out of the painter’s dream he was in, and he twitches inside you. Something about the ease at which you both have adopted nicknames for each other softens his heart and hardens his cock. 

Pulling out till only the head rests inside, Jin himself struggles against the third degree grip your pussy has on him. As he is thrusting inside again, your walls tense up, making it harder and harder for him to hold back. 

“Y/N, sweetie, relax. I got you.”

“Jin, I’m-” You have tears running down your eyes, the pleasure and unsurmountable happiness rolling out in fat hot drops. “Fuck me harder. I won’t last.”

“Shit. Okay, hold on then.”

To what? Is what you’re going to ask before Jin unleashes his carnality onto you. Your breasts, dripping in sweat and saliva, are plastered to the countertop, which in itself is jiggling to the beat of Jin’s thrusts. His dick is curving inside to hit you repeatedly, and you have to gather the satin fabric to wipe your eyes to keep your gaze fixed on him. 

He looks majestic. Forehead embellished with beads of sweat, his hair coiffed up, lips sanguine red after your vicious kisses - you swipe your tongue along your own lips to find them battered in response. His honey chest is heaving with every push, and a particular one hits you just right. 

You let out a guttural groan, and Jin takes note of it immediately. 

“Up,” he commands, and loops an arm under your belly to you pull you up and closer and now every thrust hits deeper into that spot he has found in you, your back connected to his chest as the two of you move in tandem; this is the most together you’ve ever felt with anyone. This moment is to be etched in your memories forever.

You scream into your fist to muffle the sounds, the edge of the table digging into your hip bone as you feel yourself getting closer to the brink. One swipe to the clit is all you have left to bring you to your release. 

And from some telepathic force, or from the clutch your pussy has on him, Jin beats you to it. His fingers come down and carefully find your swollen nub, pinching it between his fingers. If he thought you’d shown him your hardest clench, he was wrong, because right now your dam has broken, and the iron-clad grip you give his cock sends him reeling, too.

You are gushing on his dick, the rubber dripping with your wetness. Jin too releases into the condom in stuttered gasps, his thrusts becoming shorter and shallower as he comes down from his high. 

Petal-like kisses fall on your back as the two of you regain your breaths. The mirror that served you two well is covered in a fog of hot breath and perspiration, blearing your vision of yourself, but somehow, it sparkles with Jin’s reflection. His nobility-esque visuals use the haze as a valance for his appearance, framing them to make him look like you’re among the clouds. And in some way, you actually are.

“Ah, let me go.” You jiggle your shoulders back to make the man above you move. “Fuck, can you check if my spine is in place? I think you dislodged it.”

“Shut up and come hug me, I’ll squeeze it back in place.”

Now this is something you could get used to.

As he ties and throws away the used condom, you flip over to face him and fall back into his embrace, broad shoulders promising to protect you, making you feel safe in his care. Jin on the other hand is simply ecstatic to feel you on him, feeling your thumping heart beat for him, after months of pining and pondering whether anything would become of the seed of your tumultuous friendship. Now, it has blossomed to a garden of prospect and promise, every petal of every flower here reading a new opportunity to tell you how much he adores you, cherishes you, treasures you. How much he loves you.  An opportunity he doesn’t wait to use. 

“I love you.”

The pink tinge of your cheeks either comes from the sex, or from his comment, but either way, he is glad its from him. 

“I love you too, Jin. So, so very much.”

If your heart could leap out of your chest, it would do so, to find its way to his and fuse into one. But for now, your entwined bodies give you all you want. 

You hear Jin stifle a laugh, and pull back in question. He points to something odd on the countertop.

“What is that?”

The cream white surface of the table, that was maligned by your ignoble deeds, now sports two glistening, wheatish semi circles that look very similar to the sizes of one person who was splayed on top of it just moments ago. 

“Is that…” Jin is trying to contort his lips and halt the looming snicker, and he brings his eyes down to your chest (trying not to get hard again), “Did you have makeup on your chest?”

“Shut up.” All you can do is fall closer into his arms, hopefully masking the tint of embarrassment highlighting the apples of your cheeks. “I wanted to make them look extra good for you.”

He’s given up on holding back, the full-bellied laugh that resonated from him echoing across the room. But it dwindles down fast, coming to small chuckles of tenderness, and he slips his digits beneath your chin to have you meet his gaze.

“They always look good,” he whispers, his admittance setting your chest aflame, “trust me, I’d know.”

Taglist 💛:  @little7bitchh​, @afangirllikeme-blog​, @h34rt1lly, @marpotterhead​

Thank you so much for making it to the end! I hope you enjoyed the fic, my ask box is always open for your lovely opinions. To read more of my work, find my main masterlist here. :)

[iamanartichoke]

Another totally unprompted ask, on the assumption that you are definitely no longer in need of them… another thing I’m trying to work out about Loki characterisation in preparation for perpetrating fic torture on him is how suicidal the poor sod is most of the time. This is another thing I’ve seen referred to a lot but only in passing. Though obviously this is a pretty triggery topic, so ignore if you want.

I am always in need of totally unprompted asks, otherwise I just assume no one wants to talk to me lmao

So, hoo boy. I have been mulling over this for, apparently, three days now bc there's just ... there's a lot to unpack here. Putting under a cut for obviously triggery content and also for length bc fml.

In my opinion, the response to "how suicidal is Loki most of the time" is "very, but whether or not he wants to do anything about it varies from moment to moment" (see what I did there? I'll see myself out). In other words, I have always had a headcanon that Loki is consistently, passively suicidal. This is a headcanon that comes straight from TDW, bc I'm certain that Loki never had any intention of surviving their mission. And that could be a whole other post, really, but the point is that even though this is a TDW-centric headcanon, I have come to adopt it as applying to Loki in general as well, not just in those specific circumstances.

When I say passively suicidal, I mean that Loki is just sort of ambivalent about the value of his own life. He feels like he doesn't deserve to be alive, and feels like there's little point in being alive. Which - I don't mean to sound all gloom and doom, like, poor uwu emo Loki (and I kinda hate that I have to pause to disclaim that, no, I don't just have a fixation on Loki being depressed for funsies/the aesthetic/whatever); I think that this mindset stems from really complicated places that I'm not sure I can articulate, but I will try.

I view Loki as someone who suffers from a severe inferiority complex, and I feel like it stems from being abandoned as an infant. Loki's life started with a traumatic event and, even if he doesn't remember the event itself, the feelings he experienced stayed in his subconscious. Feelings of loss, of fear, of despair and abandonment, of suffering - these are all feelings that burrowed into his bones and lived there for his entire life, feelings that colored how Loki viewed himself as a person as well as how he compared to the people around him.

Keep in mind that Loki didn't know he was abandoned until the events of Thor 1, obviously. We don't really know how old Loki is, in human years, but I have always assumed that he and Thor were at least adults (not teenagers), maybe the equivalent of early twenties - and the reason I bring that up is because it means Loki made it all the way to adulthood carrying the weight of a trauma that he did not remember or even knew had happened, so to him, there was no real reason for how wrong he felt. There was no explanation for the feelings of loss, of neglect, of fear. So on top of struggling with those feelings, Loki was also burdened with the alienation that comes with wondering why one can't just be like everyone else, why one can't just "snap out" of depression, why one's sense of self-worth has always been lacking.

So imagine what it's like to grow up as Loki. He was traumatized as an infant. The trauma has been with him his entire life, along with the confusion/alienation of not understanding why he feels the way that he does, and then on top of that, his basic personality lends itself toward introspection and isolation, so he likely felt even further removed from Thor and from his peers. Loki's too smart for his own good, and he's got an enormous capacity to feel and I feel like this is a combination that works against him as much as it does for him, bc it probably means he spent a lot of time examining himself and identifying all of his perceived flaws - and then berating himself for said flaws.

People with depression are probably pretty familiar with the bully that lives in your head, the one who is always there to remind you that you're stupid, or ugly, or that nobody likes you, or that you have nothing of value to contribute to anyone, etc. Loki's no different; he's got that bully in his head, too. Add onto this the fact that his brother is literally perfect, that he feels his father doesn't love him (or love him as much), that his interests in things like magic are looked down on in his culture, and that he's a prince (meaning that along with the privilege comes pressure, and being in the public eye, knowing that everyone around him is comparing him to Thor as much as he compares himself to Thor, well.) and you have a total clusterfuck of a mindset, and Loki's been existing inside of that clusterfuck for nearly all of his life.

I always go back to the quote where, when filming I think the vault scene, Kenneth Branagh directs Tom by saying, "This is the moment where the thin steel rod holding your brain together snaps." And it's such a significant moment for Loki bc this is where it all crumbles for him, learning the truth, but I also fixate on the "thin steel rod" part of the quote bc that's not how one would describe a healthy, stable person's mind. The implication, to me, has always been that Loki wasn't that stable to start with due to his general upbringing, his internal struggles, and his personality, so of course the devastation of learning he's adopted, and Jotun, would send him over the edge. One doesn't go from zero to 60; one doesn't fall over the edge unless they were balancing fairly close to it in the first place. And to me, the "thin steel rod" basically equals the aforementioned clusterfuck of a mindset.

THE POINT IS. (Holy shit, I ramble.) This is the foundation on which I'm basing my headcanon that Loki neither values his life nor feels as if he even deserves to live it - bc his default mindset is one of inferiority, of loss, of pain. And I think that going from being a general unstable person pre-canon to being passively suicidal post-canon is a thing that happened because, somewhere between the vault in Thor 1 and the dungeons in TDW, Loki just stopped caring.

Life is exhausting for everyone, but even moreso when your mental load becomes more than you can carry. Loki is exhausted. His experience is that things just keep getting worse and worse for him - he's never been valued, he's always been found wanting. He discovers that he was literally thrown away as an infant, unwanted and left to die, and things haven't gotten much better for him since then. Everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. His plans spin out of control. He's unable to prove his worth and his value and when he is, in fact, rejected, he literally tries to kill himself (only to survive and end up in an even worse situation).

It all just continually goes downhill, and Loki is fucking exhausted. He's done. He has no hope that anything is ever going to change - he will never be valued or even seen, he's unable to connect to anyone, he has no family (aside from Thor, but their relationship is so fraught with pain). As far as he's concerned, his life has been nothing but a waste since he was born and if no one else values it, why should he?

So - passively suicidal. He places no value on his life, and doesn't shy away from situations that could cost him his life. It's possible that the only reason he's not actively suicidal is bc his previous attempt not only failed but led to such a horrible situation that he's probably too afraid to intentionally seek out death again. He doesn't want to fail and end up worse off for it.

And - not that you asked this in particular, but - my biggest disappointment in the series is that none of what I've just written is addressed in a satisfying way (to me). That is, we don't get any real explicit acknowledgement of the trauma of Loki's abandonment as a baby or how that affected his mental health growing up; we don't get to explore how devastated he was to learn of his adoption; we don't ever see him reconcile his ingrained belief that jotuns are monstrous savages with the fact that he is jotun. He says "I betrayed everyone I loved, but I'm different now" and we're supposed to infer what he means without Loki actually articulating why he feels that he's the only one who should be held responsible for all these things that had happened or what "I've changed" even means to him (aside from not betraying Sylvie).

I would have liked to see these things addressed for a lot of reasons, but one of those reasons is that I would want to see how Loki comes to terms with all of his issues and his pain enough that he stops being passively suicidal. We never get to see that; after TDW, the time that passes allows for Loki to kinda chill, resulting in the Ragnarok version, but if there was any real healing or recovering going on, it was happening off-screen, with the audience expected to just go with "yeah Loki was going through it for awhile but he's kinda better now."

Furthermore, much of what I've written here is based on prime Loki's development through TDW, but doesn't account for series Loki's split from that timeline nor the theme of "Lokis survive" that's so prevalent in the series. So I don't think the "passively suicidal" headcanon is really appropriate for series Loki but, at the same time, I'd like to have seen why. I'd like to have seen Loki learning to value his life, or where the "we survive" mindset comes from, since that's not really been a thing before now. (Out of universe, I suspect it comes from the context of Loki just not dying whenever he tries to, but since TDW and IW haven't happened, and Loki didn't intend to survive his fall from the bifrost, framing Loki as an innate survivor doesn't really make sense, but to be fair, I'm just being picky.)

So, yeah. I'm not saying Loki doesn't experience growth or development in the series, I'm just saying that his arc left much unsaid and, furthermore, framing his growth as "wanting a throne to not wanting a throne" without addressing that Loki doesn't actually want the power of the throne, he wants the value and self-worth he associates with the throne, is - well, again, unsatisfying. Not bad, but it leaves viewers like me wanting bc we're cognizant of how much more could have been done.

I ... am going to end this now. This is probably nonsensical and all over the place, so I'm very sorry, and I'm sure this is why I don't get meta-starter asks lmfao bc no one's out here trying to read my dissertation submission for a Ph.D in Loki, but well, sometimes it just be like that.

Thank you for the ask and the opportunity to ramble.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Bloom // H.P.

Summary: Healing doesn't happen overnight. It’s a process that can take months, if not, years to come to terms with. It’s been five years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Harry finally feels ready to confront feelings that have long been sat, growing unattended in the recesses of his mind and soul.

A/N: This was inspired by the made-up fic title that I did a few weeks ago. I got so stuck on this, I couldn't get any further, but inspiration somewhat struck and here we are. I know this is long, but I am so so proud of this, I would love some interaction with this. Take a chance, please.

Warnings: feelings of sadness, grief, worthlessness, more visits to graveyards, talks of death. This sounds dark, and parts are, but there is so much fluff and comfort and pining in this.

Word count: 9.4k

Harry’s Flat, London, England, October.

For the fourth night this week, sleep evades him. Deciding to surrender this particular battle, Harry sits up in bed and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

With clearer vision, he turns to the digital clock next to where he places his glasses. He hangs his head in his hands when he reads the time. not even two hours of sleep before he awoke; his mind unwilling to alleviate him long enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He supposes it could be a good thing, or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he throws the covers off his body and swings his legs out of bed. As he sits on the edge of his bed, Harry gives himself a moment.

He gives himself only a single moment to give into the tidal wave threatening to drown him. A single moment simply to feel everything before he packs it all away into corresponding drawers in his mind.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he plods into the living room and through to the kitchen. As he boils the kettle, he thinks of you and your ingrained belief that everything can be put to rights over a cup of tea.

Settling in the living room, he grabs the remotes for the television. Turning it on, he switches the volume to mute, not wanting loud noises, but rather the comfort of monotonous moving pictures. Harry cannot tell what the programme is; a muggle show dedicated to archaeology, he thinks, but he pays it little mind.

He runs a hand down his face; feeling the tiredness deep within his bones. The insomnia had started in the months after the end of the war; beginning with repetitive nightmares in which he would suffer through the deaths of his friends countless times before being awoken by the sounds of his own screams. From there, it shifted into a fear of sleep, a terror of closing his eyes and seeing Hermione’s or Ron’s lifeless bodies. He knows – he knows they are alive and well, but the fear remains.

He wonders how long he’ll continue to feel like this should do nothing; how long he will deal with the sleepless nights and the nightmares that greet him when he does close his eyes.

However, as he watches the soundless pictures play on the television, he cannot help but feel an urge to get better. To do better and to be better in all that he does. At the age of eighteen, he defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth in the last century. At the age of twenty three, five years later, he feels close to laughter that he has let his life come to this.

But no-one warned him of the aftermath of the war. No-one readied him for the feelings of guilt that twists his stomach; leaving him unable to eat. No-one explained to him just how long the nightmares would last; seeing the faces of those that fell at the battle of Hogwarts and before as he tries and tries to dream of happy things.

Harry’s bottom lip begins to wobble. The tears won’t fall. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since he had cried in earnest.

As Harry sits on his couch for the fourth night that week, he readies himself to start putting his life back together again.

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, October.

The Burrow had always, to Harry at least, been a place full of happy memories. The home of the Weasley family physically exuded warmth and happiness. To put it bluntly, it was Harry’s safe haven; the place he could go where he would find no judgement for his state of sleeplessness or lack of appetite. He would catch Molly watching him worriedly, but she knew not to press, and for that, he was thankful. To appease her worries, or at least to lessen them slightly, he visits the Weasley matriarch once a week.

Immediately, Harry is wrapped up in hug after hug. Molly keeping her hands on Harry’s cheeks as she moves his head side to side, getting a good look at him. She clamps her lips together to keep the frown from forming on her face; worry rises in her gut, but she does not voice it.

The food cooking on the stove has Harry’s mouth watering as he walks through the kitchen to the large table in the dining area. There, he finds your eyes. They remain on the door as he walks through, as if you knew it wouldn’t be long before he entered.

“Mate,” Ron greets; pushing a drink into Harry’s hand. Harry nods at Ron, taking a swig of his drink before smiling at Hermione.

He moves to sit next to you; wanting nothing more than to sit by your side so he can tell his plan of which he came up with by himself. All around him conversation continues as if he had never walked in in the first place. He supposes that’s bit big-headed of him to think, but as he looks around those he classes as his family, he comes to realisation that they’ve all started to move on.

It hits him then and there; just how terrified he is of being left behind.

“How have you been?” You ask; voice gentle and caring as you lean into him.

Harry smiles at you; spooning vegetables onto his plate but feeling no pangs of hunger. “You just saw me last week,” Harry reminds in humour; his attempt at avoiding the twinges of fear ravaging his gut.

You roll your eyes, “That means it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. So, how have you been?”

Harry hears the meaning in your words; he hears the undercurrent of worry in your voice, and it only adds to the pit growing in his stomach. After his decision the other night, it was as if all the realisations hit him at once and he came to see just how much of a bad friend he had been to you all. He’d had been so caught up in his self-loathing that he failed to see just how much you were struggling with it all; he hadn’t even noticed that Ron and Hermione had also sought out help too.

Harry nods; reaching for his knife and fork, “I’ve been okay.”

Even he can hear the lie in his voice, and it makes him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, you don’t address it. You simply nod; patting his hand twice before turning your attention to your own meal.

Cutlery scrapes on plates as happy conversation lightens the atmosphere. It isn’t mentioned, but it is there – the absence of Fred’s laughter and his smile, the pointed comments, and his love for his mother. It is there, and it only adds to the guilt pooling in Harry’s stomach and invading his bloodstream.

It’s as if you sense it; as if you sense Harry starting to spiral, his thoughts turning to that dark place that he so often finds himself in. It’s as if you know; changing the hand in which your fork sits to free up your other hand so you can take Harry’s under the table and squeeze. A silent reminder if there is any.

I’m here, you remind him, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

Harry squeezes back; unable to do or say anything else, meeting Arthur Weasley’s pained eyes from across the table, and beginning to wish that he had in fact done and said more.

At the age of eighteen years old, harry defeated the darkest wizard in a century. Yet, he had lost a friend he had classed as a brother, and now finds it hard to look Molly and Arthur in the eye.

There is a lapse in conversation and Harry slips his hand free of yours, needing to leave the room before the guilt he’s sitting in drowns him. He smiles apologetically at each Weasley, eyes lingering on the empty chair across from George and promptly leaves the room.

The night air is cold against Harry’s bare arms as he sits on one of the many benches littering the Weasley’s gardens. It’s so cold that his breath is coming out in white puffs, but he doesn’t feel the need to fetch his coat. In fact, he would rather feel the cold against his skin. It reminds him that he’s alive and that he’s breathing. It reminds him of those are who no longer living.

He stiffens at the sounds of footsteps behind him; his hand immediately reaching for his wand kept in his back pocket.

Harry relaxes somewhat when he realises it was you who followed him outside, and not Ron or Hermione. He doesn’t turn, but he smiles when he hears you swear quietly, having tripped on a rogue stone.

You sigh as you sit down on the bench next to him; rubbing at your sore knee.

“How are you not freezing?” You ask; rubbing at your clothed arms, not happy with the chill seeping through to your bones.

Harry releases a breath; it puffs white, “I don’t feel it.”

You raise an eyebrow; running a finger over his arm which is covered in goosebumps, “I beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he flashes a smile your way before returning his attention to the night sky and all that he can see of what the Weasley’s own. For a few minutes, no words are spoken between you both. Sinking into a silence that could only be described as comfortable; he doesn’t feel the constant need to reassure you that he’s okay. You check in on him every now and then, but no true pestering takes place.

Truthfully, Harry basks in your attention. He rather likes the fact that you do make a fuss of him when you check in on him because he’s sure that without you, he would be doing a lot worse than the nightmares and insomnia.

Breaking the silence, you broach the subject of Harry’s health, “Harry, can I give you the name and number of my therapist? I’ve made real progress since working with her, and I think you will too.”

Harry smiles at you; feeling grateful for your help but feeling like an awful friend for shaking his head and declining your offer. “I just… I don’t feel ready yet to speak to someone.”

You nod your head, “I get that, but Harry, it’s been five years since the end of the war, and you know how I worry.”

He nods, letting the conversation collapse into nothing in front of him. This is the time, he realises, to tell you his plans for getting better that don’t involve divulging his deepest and darkest secrets to a stranger, even if they are a trained professional.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Harry prompts, “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

“If I can help you, Harry, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone, not yet at least, but I do want to start moving on.”

“So what’s the favour?” You ask; your curiosity piqued with his mystery.

“I want to visit the places where things have happened, whether they’re good or bad. I want to go back, and I want to see them in a different light.”

“That,” You pause; thinking of your next words, “That sounds like a really good idea, Harry. Where do I come into it though?”

Harry smiles at you sheepishly; running a hand through his forever messy hair. “I want you to come with me,” He states as plain as day.

“What?”

“I’d like for you to come with me,” Harry amends, “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

“What about Ron or Hermione? I’m sure they would help.”

Harry shakes his head, “They’re both so busy, and they’re starting their lives together. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories for either of them if I can help it.”

You sigh, picking at an invisible thread on your sleeve, “How were you thinking of doing this? I have to work too, you know. Not everyone can inherit a fortune, Potter.”

Harry blinks, letting your words settle before a small smile breaks across his face, “You’d come with me?”

“Harry,” You start, “I don’t think there was any chance of me saying no to you. If I can help you in any way, I can. I’m always here for you.”

The familiar burn of tears starts at the back of his throat. Harry has to avert his eyes; glancing up at the night sky as he swallows past the lump in his throat. He should have known you would say yes; you’ve been by his side for everything since Third Year, but the small voice in the back of his mind had him doubting whether you would.

“Thank you,” He whispers eventually.

“So,” You begin, “Where too first?”

Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, November.

Upon the untimely death of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been passed down to Harry through Sirius’ will. Sirius had no children for the house to go to, but Harry was as good as.

Standing on a residential street in Islington, you watched as the house appeared as if from nowhere. Appearing amongst number eleven and number thirteen as if it had always been there; as if it was part of the furniture at this point.

Thick dust covers each and every surface. Simply opening the door sends a cloud of dust into your face; leaving you coughing and sneezing as Harry battles the enchantments placed upon the home after the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Turning your gaze to Harry, you could remember the last time you had stepped foot in the ancestral home of the house of Black. It hadn’t been long after Sirius’ death; Harry’s gut-wrenching screams still echoing in your ears as you had bundled him up in any blankets you could find and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He hadn’t spoken much; he hadn’t even cried. Instead, his face set in steely determination, his desperate need to avenger his godfather overriding any common sense. That night, instead of comforting him and drying his eyes, it had been argument after argument, trying to make Harry see sense.

It took hours; the both of you tired not only from the arguing but from the grief sitting on your shoulders. It took hours, but Harry eventually agreed with you, choosing to sit back and wait for the right moment instead of lunging headfirst into attack that would surely get him killed.

Memory after memory washes over you, dragging you into its grips. If the memories are this strong for you, it was not hard to imagine how it must be for Harry.

You focus your attention on him, watching him warily as he wanders further down the hallway, heading for the kitchen where you still expect to hear Sirius’ raucous laugh despite years having passed since his death.

“How are you feeling?” You ask; running a finger across the now clean surface of the kitchen table.

Harry releases a shuddering breath. “I thought,” He starts, “I thought by coming here it would help me come to terms with Sirius and what happened in the Department of Mysteries but being here simply makes me hate his family more.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry gestures to the large room. “He hated being here. He despised being locked up in the house that he left at sixteen, but he wanted to help the Order, so he stayed here and let it be used as the headquarters.”

“That… That is a very noble thing to do,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the man in front of you, taking in his tight fists and clenched jaw.  

Harry laughs without humour, “The noble house of Black.”

Silence lapses and the tension in the room only increases. Biting your lip, you can only think that this was the wrong thing to do, that this is only pushing Harry further away instead of helping him come to terms with the last years of his life.

“We can leave, Harry,” You remind him, “We can leave right now and do this another day, when you’re more ready.”

He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his funk but also steadfastly refusing to go. He’s made this far; he’ll see it through to the end. He throws you a smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes and your heart cracks a little.

Holding a hand out to you, Harry states, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

The room he enters is one he has told you about countless times; describing it with so much detail that as you enter the room behind him you feel as if you’ve already been inside.

It cannot be denied that the tapestry is nothing short of piece of art. It cannot be ignored that the depth of detail to the Black family tree is not breathtaking, but at the same time it is so utterly heartbreaking to see the scorch marks litter the walls. The consequence of turning against one’s own family, you think as you step further into the room, taking in its beauty but also its darkness.

“The noble house of Black,” Harry spits, gesturing to four walls, pointing at each scorch mark before settling on the one that once showed the portrait of his beloved godfather.

“He got out,” He states brokenly, “He left his blood family to live with his found family. He had a life ahead of him. He had my father, he had Remus. He had his family, and it was all taken away in one night. In one night, Sirius lost his best friend and then his freedom.

“And all I feel when I think about Sirius is anger. At how he was treated. He was good, (Y/N),” Harry states, his tone pleading, full of emotion, “He was good, and he was treated like shit. His real family didn’t care but his found family did and then he lost all of it.”

“He found you, Harry,” You remind him, “Sirius found you. You didn’t have half as long with him than what you should have, but he made sure to be involved in your life. After the Triwizard Tournament and you had come back with Cedric, Sirius would not leave your side in the hospital. I remember seeing him every morning and he would stay every night. He loved you, Harry – remember that.”

“And what did I do?” Harry laughs, “I got him killed. Some godson I am.”

“Harry, you are not to blame for Sirius’ death.”

He scoffs, disbelief and derision echoing off the walls. You stalk over the green eyed man, your determination growing with every step. You grab his face in both your hands, bringing his face to your level, “Listen to me, Potter. Are you listening?”

He nods, eyes wide and voice silent.

“Good,” You smirk before turning serious. “You are not to blame for Sirius’ death. He knew what was happening in the Department of Mysteries. He knew that there was a chance he was not going to come out of there alive and he still went in to find you, to protect you.”

“If I had paid more attention to what Voldemort showed me though… I could have figured out it was fake…”

You shake your head, “You were a sixteen year old boy, barely trained in occlumency and legilimency. You weren’t to know that what you had seen was fake. All you saw, Harry, was someone you care about being tortured. You acted on instinct.”

“Foolish instinct,” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Not foolish at all. More brave than foolish.”

Harry remains silent; letting your words sink into his skin, binding them to his bones. It isn’t going to be as simple as one speech and all is forgiven, it is going to take time to forgive himself for the death of his godfather. There is always going to be an element of himself that believes strongly that he was the cause of Sirius’ death; if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he had stopped to think things through, to go over exactly what Voldemort had shown him, Harry might have been able to delay Sirius’ death.

If, if, if.

If, if, if. He repeats that word; hindsight is a wonderful thing. If he had done this, if he had done that. Hindsight was going to be the death of him.

Harry focuses his attention back on you and the warmth of your hands on either side of his face. Gently, Harry places his hands on top of yours, “Can you let go of me now?”

You smile before pursing your lips, pretending to think through the answer. “I don’t know,” You ponder, “Are you going to continue to argue with me?”

“Probably,” Harry admits, “But I’m ready to go now.”

Harry lets his hands drop from yours, his eyes running over your face before stepping back. Your hands drop to your sides, clenching as if they wished to be touching him some more. His face feels cold now that you’ve let him go, as if all the warmth his body carried was in your hands.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Harry pauses, closing the door to the Black family tree behind him. He looks up and down the hallway; thinking of the memories he has cherished over the years. He had Sirius in his life for far shorted than he deserved, but he had Grimmauld Place to help him discover the man he idolised.

Meeting your stare, he nods. “I think I will eventually.”

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands, December.

It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit; it didn’t matter how long it had been since you roamed the corridors of the place you once considered your second home, seeing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry rise out of the Scottish Highlands would never be something you could get used to.

From your spot in Hogsmeade, you can just make out the turrets of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Slight unease spreads through your chest as you think back to the last time you had been at the school; still a student, hurling curses and jinxes at any Death Eater that happened by you.

Reflexively, you curl your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. You gasp slightly as the pain; your mind becoming clearer and your focus becoming sharper. Harry’s hand takes yours; unfurling your fingers and replacing them with him, tangling your hands together.

“(Y/N), are you okay?”

You take a deep breath; mentally working through the exercises given to you by your therapist,. Shakily, you smile at Harry, “I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes your hand. “I’ll always worry about you,” He says gently before continuing, “I’ll be okay though. I have you.”

You smile weakly; letting yourself be led through the well-worn path from Hogsmeade to the school. Small conversation is made; Harry bringing up happier memories of your education at the magical castle. The time when Ron received a Howler from his mother; the time when Hermione punched Draco Malfoy in the face.

Happier times now turned to memories; each one tinted with age.

Hogwarts soon looms in front of you both. Harry’s hand tightens on yours, fingers squeezing to the point of cutting off blood flow as he leads you into the grounds of the school.

It feels like coming home, but it also feels like facing your worst enemy. The Battle of Hogwarts had been hard on everyone who found themselves there; it had been hard for students and teachers. You would never forget the screams and the sound of breaking stone. It would be a long while until the sight of dead bodies could be scrubbed from your mind.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall greets from the stairs; voice warm and fond, “To what do we the pleasure of this visit with Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“I was hoping to walk the school and its grounds for a bit, Professor. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m trying to get better,” Harry states; sincerity ringing in his voice so much so that even McGonagall looked to be taken aback by his words.

She nods; finding her voice but needing to clear her throat first of all the emotion he had brought up, “Of course, Potter. Take as long as you need.”

Harry smiles at the beloved Professor gratefully, stretching out a hand towards you. You take it, resisting the urge to tangle your fingers together as Harry leads you to the Great Hall. “Where do you want to start?” You ask; eyes scanning the familiar walls, lingering on the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, sounding lost as his eyes dance around the repaired room.

“It’s strange for me too,” You whisper, voice loud in the cavernous hall.

“It was entirely destroyed,” Harry recalls, sweeping his gaze over the large wall of windows by the Ravenclaw table.

You hope up on the closest table, crossing your legs as you watch Harry work through it all in his mind. He hadn’t been in the hall too long, but even that was long enough to have to branded into your memories.

“The tables were pushed back against the wall,” He states, gesturing to both walls before sweeping his hands above the floor, “And bodies were laid out on the floor, resting on blankets and towels,” Harry turns towards the staff table, pointing to a flagstone just in front of it, “That was where Fred laid – Molly and George crying over his body,” Harry spins, his finger now pointing back in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, “Remus and Tonks rested there. Teddy, my Godson, now an orphan… like me.”

“So many lives lost,” He whispers brokenly; eyes lined with tears that won’t fall, no matter how sad or broken he feels.

You slip off the table, going to his side and clutching his hand. “We lost a lot that day,” You whisper, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel that same loss, Harry.”

“I was terrified of finding you laid out in the Great Hall,” Harry admits though not for his own good; he’s coming too close to admitting his feelings for you, but this is something he had never told a living soul, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to tell you.

“What?” You ask, all thoughts emptying out of your head as you focus on Harry entirely.

“I was terrified of finding you in the Great Hall. I was so scared that I even hesitated at the door, wondering whether to walk in or walk away. I have dealt with a lot, and will continue to deal with a lot, but if there is one thing I cannot cope with the idea of, it is you hurt or worse,” He takes a deep breath, “The Battle of Hogwarts brought that out of me.”

“I’m here, Harry,” You reassure, “I’m here and I’m whole.”

“I know that now, but then I didn’t and even thinking of it drives me close to madness.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying anything,” You laugh, “You know that Harry.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “I have you now, that’s something.”

Your heart skips a beat; thudding in your chest so loud you believe that it is entirely possible that Harry could hear it pounding away in your chest. You lean in, hiding your face in Harry’s shoulder – a rare moment of tenderness from both of you. Harry’s hand slips from yours to wrap around your waist, holding you to his body.

Hiding your smile in Harry’s shoulder, you murmur as loud as you dare, “You have me now, Harry. You have me forever.”

Neither of you make it further around the grounds of the castle; sticking to its interiors, wandering the corridors when students are firmly placed in classrooms, not wanting to be a distraction to their education.

Harry’s words continue to play through your mind; how he would not be able to cope if he lost you too. It makes this all more important for you, helping him come to terms with what he has experienced in such a short amount of time.

However, a small part of you rejoices in his admission, the words echoing in your head with a hint of hope. A hope that Harry may feel the same as you after all.

Hogwarts is left with a wave to McGonagall and a promise to write soon. Harry’s muscles relax the further he gets from the castle; the tension leeching away as he breathes in fresh air and Hogsmeade comes into view. He adored Hogwarts; it was his home, but he had to admit that it would be a while before he could face the whole castle without wanting to scream at the walls.

It’s a start however, Harry thinks as he grabs your hands and apparates the two of you back to his flat. It’s a start, he thinks, and now for the rest of it.

Little Hangleton, England, January.

Little Hangleton resides six miles from its paired village Great Hangleton. Little Hangleton was very much a village that was powered through gossip; the rumour mill only grew upon the deaths of the Riddle family. By the time an arrest had been made, the town had become judge, jury and executioner – sentencing poor Frank Bryce to a life of social exclusion even after being proven innocent.

Little Hangleton is made up of one main high street; five or six shops with a pub near the middle. It has a small village green where the local cricket team likes to practice every Saturday morning. It isn’t an extraordinary village; plain in comparison to other dwellings, but it’s history with the Riddle family would go down in wizarding lore until the end of days.

Harry continues to hold onto your hand long after you apparate into the village, landing in side street rather than in the high street as not to attract too much attention from the villagers. You refuse to be the first to let go; admitting to yourself that you rather like the way his hands fits in yours, how it feels like a steady anchor holding you in place.

Taking one look at the dark haired man next to you, you knew in your gut that this was going to be a hard day for him. Harry doesn’t talk about his nightmares often, but form what he has told you, this picturesque village features enough that you can see the tension line Harry’s jawline.

Nudging his shoulder, you smile softly, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s hand tightens on yours. He doesn’t reply verbally; nods his head and focuses on finding his destination. He can’t verbalise his gratefulness; he cannot put it into words just what this means to him because Harry is fairly certain there are no words to cover the scope of what he feels for you in this very moment.

He knew he was asking a lot of you to keep doing this; to visit these places and relive his darkest times with him. He knew it affected you more than you admitted, but he still was selfishly grateful you choose to come every time.

He thinks that he wouldn’t have been as half as productive with his feelings if it wasn’t for you. Harry’s feelings for you only having grown through these visits; he remains in awe of you, as he always has been, but now he can no longer deny himself the depth of his love for you. To deny himself that would be a grievous crime.

However, even Harry is aware that he is nowhere ready to confront the idea of a relationship. In the last few months, he has only been able to accept that Sirius’ death and your injuries at the Battle of Hogwarts were not his fault.

He has to keep working on himself; he has to keep healing so he can be worthy of a love like his parents had.

So for now, Harry is more than content to hold your hand with each apparition, to savour the way your hand fits in his perfectly and how each squeeze of your fingers sets his heart racing.

For now, Harry is happy to remain in the throes of puppy love, but still eager for the day when he can proclaim his love for you in the hopes that you feel the same.

Such thoughts are thrown out of his head when his eyes catch the sign for graveyard. His steps falter, before coming to a brief stop by the sign. Your free hand touches his arm and Harry turns to you, seeing the question reflected in your eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, voicing the unspoken question.

You nod, “Ready when you are.”

The graveyard looks just as it did all those years ago; dark and miserable.

You shiver as Harry pushes open the creaky metal gate. He holds the gate open for you out of politeness, but he does not return your smile of gratitude. Harry keeps his facial expression neutral as he turns to face the memories that still plague him all these years later.

His eyes run over the gravestones as he puts one wary foot in front of the other. You follow behind him timidly, footsteps slower as you too read over the names written in marble, granite, limestone.

It doesn’t take long to find the place. Harry’s feet take him there automatically despite the fact that the last time he was here, he had been apparated in and did not walk out.

The Reaper stands proudly among the gravestones; his scythe crossed against his body in readiness. Harry stills, coming to a stop in front of it. He tilts his face; staring into the faceless stone hood of the figure that had him trapped like prey all those years ago.

Harry doesn’t turn from the figure as he points directly behind him. “That is where he killed Cedric,” He states bluntly, hearing the thud the Hufflepuff’s body made as he landed lifeless at Harry’s side.

Your eyes leave Harry; body tensing as you make eye contact with the patch of grass that would be the last thing to touch Cedric’s body.

Harry finally turns; gaining control of the anger and upset that had been raging in his body since landing at the graveyard gates. He needs to approach this carefully; he needs to approach all of this carefully, so he doesn’t fall back into the dark pit he found himself in months ago.

Harry gestures to the centre of the small copse and then to the Reaper, “That is where I had to watch as Voldemort rose again.”

“Oh Harry…” You whisper, voice breaking as you say his name.

Harry’s eyes shutter closed, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. He had been fourteen years old; he had not had his first kiss and yet, he had to duel the darkest wizard to have been produced in a century.

“I thought I was going to die that night,” He confesses after a moment; opening his eyes to once again focus on the faceless depiction of Death himself. “I thought I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Resolve steels your nerves and once again, your feet find their way to Harry.

“You did make it out, Harry. You made it out alive.”

“Two of us went in, (Y/N).”

“It can’t be ignored,” You start, “Cedric’s death was an utter tragedy; completely unexpected and blindsided everyone in the school, but you cannot blame yourself for this, Harry. Cedric died at the hands of a madman – not you.”

“I could have done something!” He screams, finally losing all grip on his temper, “I should have done something. Instead, as Wormtail murdered Cedric, all I did was shout his name as if it was going to help. I did nothing, I as good as murdered him.”

Breath leaves your body in one fell swoop; you had never seen Harry like this. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration as he tries to get a hold on his temper, reigning it in. You remain silent as Harry works to control himself; you watch him pace the small copse, flattening the green grass under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Harry,” You sigh, “I am more than capable of handling you shouting at me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong though, and I just take everything out on you.”

You laugh, short and sweet, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever shouted at me, Potter.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I try not to make a habit of shouting at my friends,” Harry states, throwing you a look that states the obvious.

Wringing your hands together, you brace yourself for your next words. Meeting Harry’s stare, fixing your gaze on him, you politely demand, “Tell me more about that night, Harry.”

So he does.

It comes rushing out of him in a torrent; words flying so fast that his speech gets muddled up and he sometimes has to say his sentences again. For so long he has been holding this in; there are very few people who know what happened that night in this very graveyard and out of those, many are dead or imprisoned so Harry has been left to deal with the pain.

It feels like a confession. It feels as if he is seeking forgiveness from his crimes; seeking repentance from a priest of his choosing because he needs to get it out, he needs to know whether penance is possible for the sins committed that night.

Harry feels as if a weight is being lifted off his chest as he tells you about duelling Voldemort and the spell that had taken place beforehand. Harry seeks solace in your comforting gaze and reassuring smile as his voice breaks when he speaks of his parents, not having seen them in any physical form since that night with the Mirror of Erised.

Once he starts, he finds it hard to stop. He stutters over his feelings over Cedric’s death, pausing once in a while to let you interject a thought and for the first time since starting this exercise, since asking you to come along with him, Harry feels as if it is starting to work.

Eventually, his voice falls quiet as does his mind.

“How do you feel?” You ask; an expected question that accompanies each location visited.

Harry nods, “Better. Happy to have finally said what happened that night.”

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell you.”

“I trust you with my life,” He states honestly and plainly.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze to wander across the dark graveyard once more before finally turning to face Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods: more than happy to leave this place and never return. What happened in Little Hangleton will always remain a heartbreaking tragedy; a life cruelly taken before it even got the chance to begin. The village would always be stained with such misfortune, but now, Harry feels that part of his life come to a close.  

As Harry reaches for your hand, readying himself to apparate you back to your flat, his heart soars at the words you utter with conviction.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

--------

Landing back at his flat, Harry takes a seat on his couch and hangs in his head in his hands. He had dropped you off at your flat; needing to be alone to deal with the emotions that had been threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. Whilst Harry had accepted that he played no part in Cedric’s death, he still had to confront the magnitude of what had happened to himself.

It hits him all at once; the scale of what he had been through throughout his education. From the ages of eleven to eighteen, Harry hadn’t seen a school year through without injury or battle. It’s as he sits there that he realises the extent to which he was used by the headmaster he looked up to; used as a pawn to further the game of chess being played by Dumbledore and Voldemort.

The waves never cease; his parents, Sirius, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and Cedric.

No tears fall; he isn’t sure he has the capacity to cry anymore. Tears haven’t fallen since they fell out relief for the end of the war, but out of sadness for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks.

Sitting on his couch, shivers overtake his body. His teeth chattering as he reaches for the blanket kept across the back of his couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. Harry bites back the scream that is slowly crawling up his throat; he pushes it down as he fights for control of his mind.

Collecting his thoughts, Harry comes to a conclusion.

He needs to return to where it all began.

Godric’s Hollow, West Country, England, March.

Spring blooms real and true, and Harry feels ready enough to return to Godric’s Hollow. Harry could count on one hand how many times he has stepped foot in the village his parents once called home. He had been born in Godric’s Hollow; at the end of July to two loving parents who adored him just as much as they adored each other.

Out of respect for James and Lily Potter – murdered at the age of twenty-one – the house in which they lived had never been repaired. The thatched roof remains caved in; a large hole in the middle of it, letting the elements now batter the house.

It had been twenty-two years since Harry had stepped foot inside the house he was born in. It had been five years since he stood outside of it with Hermione; only beginning to feel the grief for the parents he never truly knew.

It was this that had plagued Harry from the moment he turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts. How does he grieve for those he never truly knew?

As crass as it is to say, Harry didn’t know his parents outside his need for food, comfort, and love. The memories of his mother and father are so clouded; he can no longer tell whether they are his own or whether he’s simply simulated a story told to him by family friends.

He was fifteen months old when they were murdered. He was fifteen months old and barely aware of his own shadow.

Whilst he hadn’t visited the house much – it being too painful to see the sight of his parent’s murder – he had visited their graves in the years that have passed.

With you in tow, Harry leads you down the worn, familiar path. He slows his pace every now and then; warning you of an upcoming dip that may make you lose your balance.

All too soon, however, you stand in front of the grave of James and Lily Potter.

Quietly, he asks, “How do I grieve my parents when I never knew them?”

Your heart breaks for him; unable to stop yourself, you wrap an arm around his waist offering any form of comfort you can. Shakily, you answer, “I guess you can mourn what could have been or you grieve the fact that they were so young. Either way, Harry, they’re never going to leave you.”

“I know that,” He whispers; gaze fixed on the grave of his parents, “All I know of them is what I’ve been told. I feel as if my memories have been tainted, and I know that they all mean well, but sometimes-”

He cuts himself off with a huff; kneeling down and drawing out his wand. Silently, Harry conjures a bouquet of Orchids, Chrysanthemums and Lilies and then bows his head in silent prayer, continuing to grieve the parents he would never know.

You place your hand on his shoulder, “Sometimes you what, Harry?”

He sighs, “Sometimes I wish they would stop. I was so young when they died – any memories I have of them are practically gone but sometimes I have these flashes. I have no idea whether they’re real or not, but I feel as if they are. Yet, when friends tell me stories of what it was like to go to school with them or to fight alongside them, it’s like they’re pushing they’re version of James and Lily Potter onto me. Does that make sense?”

Squeezing his shoulder, you answer, “It makes perfect sense. The James and Lily you knew is different from what Sirius knew or what McGonagall knew.”

“I just worry that the more stories I hear, the quicker I lose what I know of them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Harry.”

“You don’t?” He asks, shifting to his feet and facing you.

You shake your head, “I don’t. I think you’re going to remember your parents for the rest of your life; their morals and values make up yours, Harry. You might not think, but you are a lot more like them than you realise.”

Harry bows his head, feeling the familiar burn of tears at the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut, begging the feeling to go away. Quietly, almost ashamedly, Harry asks, “Do you think they would be proud of me?”

Then and there, your heart breaks, cleaving itself in two for the man standing before you. It’s the only dream of a child; to make their parents proud, but what about children who do not have parents – who grew up in a home that did not cherish them like it should have?

Silver lines your eyes; tears threatening to make an appearance as you reach for Harry’s hands, pulling him into a hug. Against his shoulder, you state with conviction, “They would be extremely proud of you, Harry. So proud of you it would shine out of them.”

Harry sniffles; ducking down somewhat to tuck his head against your neck, hiding his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. From the outside, it looks as if two lovers are embracing, unable to keep their hands off the other for too long. However, you know that Harry is trying his best to maintain his composure, to try and gets to grips with the emotions that follow never knowing the ones who were supposed to raise you.

Minutes pass and neither of you move; neither of you willing to be the one to break this moment, but for the day to progress, you need to step away from the only man you have ever loved.

Releasing Harry, you send what you hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, “Come on, Harry,” You prompt, “Show me the rest of Godric’s Hollow?”

Framing it as a question, you offer Harry the choice. He is in control of this moment; h can choose whether he shows you the rest of the wizarding village or whether the two of you apparate back to his flat and spend the rest of the day mooching about.

Harry smiles: it’s watery, but fixed as he nods, stepping around you to lead you out of the graveyard.

Hands brush every now and then as the both of you wander back to the high street. A simple brush of hands, a simple twitch of fingers and your heart would start to race, practically shouting for Harry to take your hand and tangle your fingers together.

“I think I’m going to live here,” Harry murmurs; eyes scanning the high street.

“Are you sure?” You ask; worried not only for the fact that you may miss him while you remain in London, but also for any potential setback this may cause him.

Harry nods; his eyes now focused on a small café straight across the road from where you stand. He gestures towards it with an open hand, “Let me explain over some food.”

The bell above the door tinkles as you follow Harry inside. He chooses a table on the left hand side of the shop; sitting at the seat that faces the window and the door. It’s with stark realisation that you come to see that he’s chosen this exact spot so he can have eyes on each entrance and exit point.

You sigh as you sit across from him; old habits die hard, you guess.

Menus are placed in front of you by a teenaged witch looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in Harry’s form; the menu in her hand shaking as she places it down before him.

You bite your lip to repress the ever-growing smile on your face as you watch the waitress grow flustered under Harry’s smile and green eyes. She walks away in a daze after having taken your drink orders – coffee for Harry, Yorkshire Tea for you.

You shake your head fondly at the young witches departing figure; noting how she bumps into numerous tables before making it safely to the kitchen. Harry follows your gaze, wanting to know what’s taken your attention from him, “What is it?”

You shift your gaze back to the wizard, “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Harry frowns; his hand reaching up to touch his forehead self-consciously. He had grown his hair longer in order to cover the scar that mars the centre of his forehead; his black hair now fell around his head in curls he didn’t know he had until you had found an old picture of his father. The glasses and the curls along with the smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts; he was the spit image of his father.

“Not your scar, Harry, nor your name. I meant how you look; you have to know you’re handsome.”

Blush paints Harry’s cheeks as your words settle. The last thing he expected from today was to be told he was attractive; least of all, from you. He’s never had the chance before; to act upon his feelings for you. He realised just what he felt for you at the end of Sixth Year, and then the war happened, and he absolutely refused to let anything happen to you. He couldn’t tell you his feelings for you should it put a target on your back, and if anything happened to you, he would never forgive himself.

He laughs, shaking his head, “You’re a flatterer.”

You hold your hands up in playful surrender, “Only speaking the truth. You’ll see it one day.”

“One day,” He promises; eyes earnest as they gaze into yours.

It’s too much; just like that, it’s too much and you have to avert your stare before you end up blurting your inner most thoughts and scaring him away for good. Clearing your throat, you wait for the teenage waitress to place your drinks in front of you before you change the subject, “Why do you want to move here?”

Harry shrugs, picking up his coffee and taking a long drink, thinking over his words. “I think,” He begins, “I want to be close to them, but I also want to start carving out my life properly and this place is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful and it’s beautiful. I think it’s one of those places that if I don’t move here now, I’ll still move later on.”

You nod, “I get that. It is gorgeous here.”

Harry hums, “I’d still be in London every week.”

“You’d commute?” You ask, puzzled in terms of train schedules.

Harry barks out a laugh that turns into silent shaking of his shoulders as the teenage waitress returns, her pad in hand as she waits for your food order. Harry continues to repress his laughter throughout his order. As the waitress walks away, you fix Harry with an unimpressed stare. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”

Harry smiles at you; as in, he really smiles at you. He beams as he whispers somewhat in awe, “I love you. You’re one of the smartest witches I know, and you still forget about the fact that we can apparate.”

You reel back in your chair, knees knocking into the table as the air leaves your body in a single breath. “What? What did you say first?��

Harry’s smile, if possible, grows as he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you.”

“Since when?” You demand, wondering how on earth he could discuss something as important as this as nonchalantly as one would discuss the weather.

“Sixth Year,” He confesses, blush beginning to paint his cheeks.

“That long?” You ask, voice hushed, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry finally frowns, finger tracing the lip of his coffee cup, “There was a war, and then I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

Of course he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confess his love for you, you admonish yourself. He had defeated the Dark lord and then had to cope with the survival guilt for years. It had only been in the last year that he finally let himself let go of the guilt surrounding the casualties of war.

“I love you too,” You admit, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves.

“You do?” Harry asks, about as breathless as you were when he confessed only moments ago.

“I do,” You confirm, smiling.

It isn’t much in the way of confessions, but the look on Harry’s face says it all. His green eyes remain bright and the smile wide on his face even as the waitress returns with your food. He looks as if no wrong could be done in that moment; the food could be the worst he has ever eaten but it wouldn’t matter.

You love him.

You love him as he loves you, and suddenly it all makes sense. His motivations through the war; not only wanting to rid the world of Voldemort but wanting to secure a safe future in which he can love you.

The food is eaten quickly; the both of you rushing to make it outside where you can talk more, and in private.

The bill is paid. The waitress wanders back to the till; stunned at the sight of Harry’s smile – and you couldn’t blame her.

Harry stands from his seat, reaching for his jacket and waiting patiently for you. Electricity thrums between you; holding promises of more to come, the headiness of it having you gripping the table tightly as you rise to your feet. One look at Harry’s face and you know he’s feeling it too.

Pausing outside the small café, you hold your hand out for Harry to take.

A soft breeze blows through Godric’s Hollow, disturbing your hair and the trees around you. Harry holds onto your hand tightly as the both of you begin to wander down the high street; the blossoms of the trees fluttering around you as they fall to the floor. Harry inhales deeply; the floral of the blossoms mixed with the sweetness of your perfume providing the perfect backdrop to his future.

Harry’s Flat, London, England, September.

Healing is a process. It is neither quick nor slow; it follows its own pace.

Through this process, Harry has realised that he is in fact getting better. He has his bad days; days where he seldom leaves his bedroom and refuses to stare at anything but the wall.

However, those days are becoming scarcer. Harry can sometimes go weeks before he has an episode that leaves him bedbound, and for that, he is proud of himself.

He doesn’t do it alone; he has you by his side through it all as you both prepare for the move to Godric’s Hollow. For both the good and the bad days.

********

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @probably-peeves @darlingdelacour @big-galaxy-chaos @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @stupxfy @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @starlightweasley @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lestersglitterglue @msmimimerton @obx-beach @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03 @bbeauttyybbx @breadqueen95 @acciotwinz @kashishwrites @slytherinsunrise @kylosleftbuttcheek @remmyswritings @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @ria-rests-here @superbturtlemakerathlete @inglourious-imagines @ithilwen-lionheart @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @ilovejjmaybank @theweasleysredhair @theonly1outof-a-billion @phuvioqhile @moatsnow @storyisnotover @missmulti @himooonlight​

[deathsofglitter]

Loving the Naegiri divorce arc

Three days after he had fallen to his death, he had rebirthed himself without a second thought curled into a ball in a feeble and desperate belief that he could survive this with the remnant of energy he had preserved in the adrenaline that pumped through him in the moments before his untimely demise-- in the split second between staring oblivion in the face-- and then in the second in which he had stared the face of the resurrected martyr into its synthetic eyes-- he had believed, for a moment, that he were not anywhere else but the beginning.

There was not a question in his starved and exhilarated mind as to if this were a worthy cause to have been cast into a desolate enclosure-- a red door delineating the space between salvation and the vague knowledge that his life is but an unwanted gift that has been bestowed by that who has watched him so tirelessly--

"You have saved my life timelessly, irreversibly, and continuously," He may argue, in the exhausted remnant of understanding left within his declining bones, "And who am I to forsake that which has led me to this truth-- I tear and reform myself in new places, I am exactly the age I have been for five thousand years, and I will not notice the ways in which this has been engineered-- the gift of luck was bestowed upon me an unspecified amount of time before this, Fortune has smiled upon me for the sake of evolution-- an evolution I have not stopped to ask if I have ever wanted, but oh, the killer rises above me, you-- behind them, in lavender abundance! Who am I to deny you! Who am I to have ever denied causality's hand in my transcendency, unwilling!--"

And not once does he consider this-- the situation so perfectly mastered by the woman with the artful eye-- unassuming and gentle as he is, he is stared down in a room of garish color and portraits of death! The idea that you have been implemented with-- that this is necessary, and correct-- that the thing that must be forsaken is life itself--

You could ask him to run away, again, again, and again, but his resolve has been manipulated-- his self has been turned towards the belief in hope as something acquired, not practiced--

--thus, you may hallucinate a reality in which you will rot for the rest of your life in the confines you have constructed by your own hand, but is nothing more than a reflection of a potential reality, this reality has been denied since the day you have met you-- you are a slave to the destiny that has been wrought-- because you are gentle, kind, and lucky enough!--

Is it scary to die for someone? Have you ever considered, in your short, average life what it would mean to ever die for someone in the world? Do you think it will be hurt when the metal bears down on your body? Do you think it will hurt when your brains and bones and blood and flesh spring forth from your body and splatter on the ground for the sake of a cause you will not live to see? Do you stop to consider that this is the right thing? Do you stop to consider that you are selfish and you do not want to die? Do you stop to consider that you are selfish and you do not want to die? Do you stop to consider that you are selfish and you do not want to die? Do you stop to consider that you are selfish and you do not want to die? Do you stop to consider that you are selfish and you do not want to die? Do you stop to consider that you are selfish and you do not want to die?

Do you believe you were here in the beginning, an eternity before, and the same horror enacted itself, the same bewitching seduction of belief ingrained in your soul, you have saved a massive and beautiful and glimmering from wandering into the school in the history before the terrible and unending present and it has returned in the guise of a woman who shall not flinch when you are the new and crowned recipient of true martyrdom-- Lazarus finds himself at the bottom of a garbage chute in the year 2013.

[itsmeevie01]

A Moment in Time

ok, so. a little disclaimer before we get into the good stuff. Cannon is in no way whatsoever being followed in this. honestly? im not even sure that i REMEBER cannon at this point. that said, cannon is non applicable. at. all. 

moving on. YES, i WILL finish B!DBWM stuff eventually. but uh...not today. i just mentally cant. it. will. come. when. my. brain. can. handle. the. world. that. i. had. tailored. for. it. 

ALSO this is going to be kinda sporatic, but the goal (not end all be all but) is to have this wrapped in a pretty little package and finished (at least on my end) by the end of february.

and now....onto the stuff you came here for!

---

Marinette was running late to school when she met him. She ran into the boy and stumbled back, flailing to catch herself before she fell. He looked down at her owlishly, before looking around. By the time he had returned his gaze to her, the teen had pulled herself back together. He smiled and nodded at her, before moving to go around. When Marinette had pulled herself together enough to call a short “sorry!”, He was already gone.

That was three weeks ago. Now, she was looking at a picture of their interaction, where it blared on the front page of the newspaper that Jagged had sent her. When Marinette had received the package, she had been confused. Jagged wasn’t supposed to send her another demo for a few weeks. They were still working on singles. When she had opened the box and found five different American publications with her on their front page, the teen designer had shrieked. With shaking hands, she picked up the top one and studied the headline.

HAS BRUCE WAYNE’S WARD FOUND PARISIAN LOVE?

The bold text was catching, sure, but Marinette was caught on WHO it was placing her with. Someone she had never met. The second one had a picture of her next to Jagged at an event, and a picture of the boy next to a blonde girl. The headline wasn’t much better than the first.

TIMELINE OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MDC AND THE HEIR TO WAYNE INERPRISES.

The teen snorted. She was starting to see the pattern. Putting the tabloid down the girl moved onto the next one. This one had, once again, a zoomed in picture of the five second interaction between her and a stranger. The title, however, was different than the first two.

ALL OF BRUCE WAYNE’S CHILDREN, AND THE INSIDE SCOOP ON HIS NEWEST DAUGHTER

She squinted, laughter bubbling up a little as she observed the piece of fiction. Whoever the Bruce Wayne was, Marinette hopped that he was able to combat this, because she had no intention of letting this fly.

Tim and Bruce were staring at the pile of papers in mild shock. When Jared had reached out to them in mild panic, they had been confused. His panic had been explained when the rocker had arrived carrying a stack of tabloid literature a foot thick. When he had thunk’d the stack down on Bruce’s desk, the businessman’s shock had been more than notable. When Tim had picked up the first few publications the initial look on his face was mirth, but it quickly morphed into shock, then panic. When he handed the top item to Bruce, the older man frowned. When the second pamphlet made its way to his hands, Bruce paused. His next move was to call the Wayne family lawyers. when he turned back to his old friend, all the faces in the room told the same grim tale of what was to come.

When Tim found out that it was Jared’s niece that he had accidentally run into in the brief moment in Paris, he wasn’t sure whether he should be more stressed by it, or if it was by pure luck. When Bruce’s friend went on to explain that the girl would probably already suing the reports and papers that had published the rumor, the young CEO was impressed. To have a lawyer on hand like that was…surprising, considering that she couldn’t be older than 18.

When he asked the rocker if he thought the girl would let anyone go after her, he laughed. Then, Jared Stone explained that the girl was known in Paris for squishing rumors with surprising efficiency.

That evening, Bruce invited his childhood friend home for dinner, and the star spent the evening telling stories of their capers as children, with Alfred grimacing in agreement with the stories. Partway through dinner, Jared’s phone went off. While the rest of the family tensed, glancing to Alfred, their guest frowned at his phone before rushing to answering. “Hey Little Rocker! How’s Pari- oh. So, Penny was more efficient then I thought she’d be. I- yes I figured that you may want to hear. Do- No! Marinette, what!” here, the man paused, his head cocked to the side, his eyes screwed up in thought. “No luv! Sue them within an inch of their lives! You more then have that right.” Here, the rocker paused before he laughed. “Tell that buzzing bee of yours that she’s a good friend. Alright, Miss Mari. I’ll ring you when I’m back on that side of the Atlantic.” He laughed again, “See you soon, Marinette.” The table stayed quiet, waiting for the man to give an indication on the status of the conversation. “Well, Brucie, expect to hear from my niece in the next few day, or at least, her team of lawyers.” the Wayne patriarch blinked before nodding in hidden surprise.

When the family was talking during patrol that evening, Tim grumbled. The 18-year-old was still taken aback that the press had even seen the momentary interaction almost a month ago. As his brothers listened in, many of them started to make fun of the teen. When Jason tuned in, he dropped in the middle of tale. At his confusion, Tim sighed and started over, again. While the family was laughing over his run-in with the press, the former Robin shook his head and silenced his family. He had a feeling he wouldn’t live this one down for a while.

Originally, Jason had found Tim’s predicament hilarious. Of course, the kid had to have the worst run-ins with the press. Then, he had picked up one of the many tabloids with the story. When he had seen the pictures, all mirth left the resurrected vigilante. The noirette that was looking up at him from the page? Yeah. He knew her. Better than anyone else, actually. With shaking hands, the young man paged to the story. What he found was…illuminating. So. She had been adopted. In France. In Paris. After forcing his lungs to draw breath, Jason pulled out his phone. He had arrangements to make.

The day after Jagged had sent her the gossip rags that were considered journalism, Marinette strode into school with a scowl so ingrained in in her features that anyone who didn’t know her would think the expression was permanent. When she stalked into the Lycée classroom, Chloé grinned at her from where she had settled in the front row. Marinette nodded at her friend as she slid in next to her. Lila came skipping in moments later, a cruel smile playing on her lips, before falling when she saw the bone quaking scowl resting on her nemesis’ face. “oh Marinette! Did something happen? Did…did you anger your parents? Did they find out about all those men?” the other girl huffed before turning to her. Lila froze as she was met with the iciest glare that she had seen in years.

“oh Lila. That’s so cute. It almost sounds like you still think that your little stories affect me at all. That’s…adorable.” The Italian girl shrunk under the younger girl’s stare. Suddenly, she understood why people had been warning her to leave the teen alone. this girl, she was brutal. “lucky for you, you’re not the one I’m after, this time. My lawyers have bigger fish to fry.” The newer addition to the classroom gulped, her throat suddenly very dry. It occurred to her that maybe Marinette had let her take control of the class. After all, if they turn that easily, why would she want them for friends. The smaller girl nodded as she watched the realization run over Lila’s face. Raising her eyebrows, the Eurasian girl motioned her classmate along, sending a cruel smile after her.

Chloé waited until the little liar was gone before giggling at her friend’s reaction to the girl who had become their daily annoyance. “I’m guessing you saw what’s been running in the American news? I thought it wouldn’t take long for you to respond. Are a plethora of lawsuits on the way?” Marinette giggled slightly as her severe demander giving way to the internal glee that was consuming the teen over the sheer chaos that was to come.

When Jason touched down in Paris, he tensed. The atmosphere in the city was less carefree than he remembered. There was an air that actually reminded him of Gotham. Tense. Waiting or the other shoe to drop. The expectation that your day was going to go wrong set from the moment one woke up. Pulling out his phone, the Gotamite looked up the address to the bakery that he had found when digging online. If today went the way he was hoping it would, the bakery would be his only stop for the day. Of course, he didn’t count on Gina.

When she called him over from where she was standing by her bike, Jason had to smile. The woman was part of the reason that he wasn’t still camping out in Gotham, waiting to kill a certain billionaire. Once the spry biker had latched onto his arm, the young man knew that his mission would have to wait just a bit. After all, he owed Gina almost everything he had.

[littlemisspascal]

Ezra’s Journal Entries #1-3

Fandom: Prospect / Pedro Pascal

Pairing: Ezra x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,269

Summary: You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

Warnings: angsty fluff, Ezra’s dealing with the aftermath of the Green, language, 1st person POV (Ezra), dialogue in italics because that’s just how I chose to do it, no beta so all mistakes are mine

Author Note: I know I said Death and Angel would come out next, but I got such a inspiration high and the words came out so quickly I just told myself screw it and decided to share what I have. If anyone thinks this is a series worth pursuing, let me know. If you don’t, well, just be gentle please 💖

Cross-posted on AO3

Entries #4-6

Look for additional notes at the bottom.

My name is Ezra. 

I have my mama to thank for that. Time has erased her face from my memory, but her voice is ingrained into the tissue of my brain the same way these words are inked on this parchment. She was a bonafide believer that the meaning of a child’s name influenced the course of their destiny. When I was no taller than the height of her waist I learned my own name’s denotation: help.

It’s just a tick too ironic, isn’t it? To be destined to help others when I can’t help my own self. I gave the Green far too little credit. It didn’t just pilfer my arm to satisfy its ravenousness, it greedily stole my sense of purpose too. 

Every night I thank the deities you didn’t accompany me there. If the Green had taken you...

I know how worried you are about me, little love of mine. When I look at you, I find you already looking back, a sweet smile gracing your lips even as concern burns in your eyes as an eternal flame. From day one you’ve always been looking at me, seeing every disgraced flaw and scar—even the invisible ones carved into the darkest edges of my soul. Kevva knows I’ve never been capable of concealing anything from you, but fuck if I don’t wish I could sometimes.

You’re asleep now as I write this, tucked against my side in the vacant space my arm once occupied, drooling on my shirt. I love you so much it hurts. A black hole in my chest perpetually aching to be filled by your presence. And as we venture once more into the starry sea, our ship gliding past the imaginary wings of Noctua, I find myself recalling a theory you once told me many cycles ago about humans being made in the womb with stardust infused in their bones, linking them to the universe. You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

And it’s undoubtedly selfish, but all I could think of in that tender moment beyond kissing you was how I didn’t want an eternity spent together with our cosmic bodies intertwined. 

I want longer.

Soon after we awoke and each consumed a slice of bush bread bought during our recent docking at Kamrea, you fiddled with the channels on the ship’s radio, hoping to hear news from your homeworld but cursing when you only heard static. Then, without an ounce of forewarning, music burst out with an almighty scream through the speakers at full volume, flooding the whole compartment with a woman’s warbling. It was the same crusted Vayok song that merc Inumon blared in my ears during my last night on the Green, every note an individual needle piercing my skull, impossible to ignore.

Reality deserted me, leaving me to sink to the depths of the abyss within my mind where all I could see was Cee’s pale, disturbed expression as she looked to me for guidance. I remembered how my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth as I tried my damnedest to negotiate our transport, thinking if I could just piece together the right sequence of words, if I could just get their lingering eyes off of her, then maybe, maybe we’d have a chance at salvation. 

The memories coalesced, overlapping and blurring and mixing out of order. Each one was drenched in spilt blood.

Then your pinky wrapped around mine. The touch was soft yet firm, the action childlike in its innocence. It was such a jarring contradiction to my mind’s violent narrative, my consciousness was hurtled back into the living quarters of our ship as a result. You didn’t say anything when you saw I returned to you. Instead, you swallowed down the questions lodged in your throat and led me by our entwined fingers back to our bed.

There’s a plant back home called a dandelion, you told me with my head resting in your lap, a far better comfort than any pillow could provide me. It’s the only plant in the galaxy you can see the sun, the moon and the stars when you look at it. That’s not why it’s my favorite though.

I asked how it had won your heart’s favor if not due to its resemblance to the celestial bodies, then immediately found myself mesmerized by the smile that lit up your face as you peered down at me. My chest cavity tightened as I was filled with the profound longing to be able to suspend time, if only so I could stretch this moment to match the length of our separation, if only so I could erase the old and replace it with the beautiful new.

Dandelions grant wishes, babe. Anything you wish for with your whole heart, it will be yours to have.

I told you I wouldn’t wish for anything—nothing else in the galaxy could compare to the prettiest, wisest soul I’d ever encountered in all my years traversing it. You saw right through that lie with the same confident ease you see through all my masks and diversions, but—for the second time in the span of an hour—you held your tongue.

This journal’s as good a place as any to admit the honest truth. So here it is: I wish with the entirety of my bloody, beating heart I could be the man you deserve, little love of mine. 

When you read, whether it be a book or the flight manual, you have the precious habit of mouthing the words. I don’t think you have the faintest notion you’re even doing it, which makes it all the more endearing to watch.

My brother had a similar habit, always nose deep in the yellowing pages of classic literature, except he had a proclivity to spoil the plot when he talked in his sleep. I remember there was one particular novel he returned to often, sometimes reading from beginning to end, other times seeking out specific segments he’d underlined in bold, black pen. It was a rather dreary tale about war and rivalry and the process of determining one’s own identity. I became so exasperated with my brother’s obsession I considered shredding it on more than one occasion, only to immediately hate myself for entertaining the thought.

It was only after his death—twelve whole cycles, in fact—that I summoned up the will to open the front cover. Seeing his name scribbled in the corner, cursive and neat and so utterly him, nearly had me tearing the book in half, overcome with a vicious rage I had never known prior nor have I encountered since. But by the almighty grace of Kevva I reigned it in, chaining it to the agony and fear imprisoned within the confines of my rib cage, and turned the page.

There was one segment underlined not once, but three times, nearly bleeding ink onto the page behind it. When I close my eyes, the words are tattooed on the backs of my eyelids, as haunting as they are comforting.

So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.

The author lived and died centuries before my brother’s inception, that is an inarguable fact. 

But I know those words were written for him all the same. 

Notes: 

There is an actual theory humans are made of stardust ✨

The Sater within Prospect mention the Currents as being responsible for bringing Ezra and Cee to them, so I imagine them as similar to the Fates/Moirai in Greek mythology.

Noctua is a real life, extinct constellation that is Latin for owl. I thought within this Prospect universe it could exist as a type of landmark or coordinate. Plus I love owls 🦉

Crusted is a term from Prospect Ezra uses. Equivalent of damn. I think there’s something funny about how they use creamy as a positive adjective and crusted as negative.

Vayok is the alien language Inumon speaks within the movie, so I decided to write the song she blares as being sung in the same language

Bush bread is referenced in a deleted scene by Ezra, but a google search revealed to me it’s also a real life type of bread too

In the same deleted scene Ezra references that he has a brother. I haven’t decided his name yet/if he will have one

The book and quote Ezra refers to in #3 is John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. One of the few required reading books I liked back in high school.

The quote about dandelions being the sun, moon and stars is based on the legend of how dandelions came into existence. I always thought it was beautiful.

Series Taglist: @insomniamamma

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan, @melobee, @randomness501, @absurdthirst, @captain-jebi, @artsymaddie, @happiestsparkleofall, @disgruntledspacedad, @gallowsjoker, @aerynwrites, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @chibi-yuki, @freeshavocadoooo, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @leilei-draws, @over300books, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @coaaster, @waywardmando, @thisshipwillsail316, @grogusmum, @asta-lily, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @tacticalsparkles​

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Soulmate September

Series Summary- a collection of one shots exploring different ships and au concepts. The list I created and am following can be found here.

Day Three: A Storm of Stars

 Summary: Soul tattoos don’t fill in until the other person knows without a doubt that their partner is the one, when everything they are become so ingrained in each other’s lives that their souls become entwined. For Virgil and Logan, this doesn’t happen until well after they’ve been married. When the moments do arrive however, they both know they could never be happier.

Warnings: none, If there are any please let me know!

Ships: Analogical (Virgil x Logan)

Prompt: Tattoo that becomes colorful once you meet soulmate

WC: 2645

AO3

Logan’s eyes snapped open as a loud crack of thunder shook the house, rain pelting against the roof and making the tiles creak. His popping joints added to the symphony as he stretched his way into a sitting position. Reaching over to the bedside drawer he fumbled a bit before finding the small remote and clicking on the web of fairy lights strung in the far corner, immediately bathing the room in a pleasant blue glow. He flipped his pillow over to the cool side and took a second to fluff the other pillow a bit, moving it over to be closer to his and smoothing the bedsheets. 

The motions were automatic after so many years of practice, going back to he and Virgil’s first sleepover when they were still guaranteed a juicebox and cookies after school. It had stormed then too, Logan waking up to find his bed crowded with a shaking Virgil and his trusty stuffed tiger, who though was quite courageous had realized she was no match for a storm and had convinced her charge to seek shelter with Logan instead. Smiling softly at the memory Logan settled down to wait. He knew as his husband had grown older he wasn’t afraid of storms anymore so much as his anxiety ran with endless possibilities of what they could do to them or the house- which Logan was often inclined to agree with but played his role of devil’s advocate for the sake of Virgil’s well-being.

Right as he was beginning to wonder if he should leave to go and collect Virgil, the floorboards in front of his door squeaked in protest. A moment later a figure bulky with sweatpants and a hoodie slouched into the room, quickly shutting the door behind him and practically diving into the bed and under the blankets. The bed springs creaked along with the roof tiles as they both fidgeted and fussed trying to get comfortable, Logan biting back a small laugh as Virgil nosed his way underneath his chin. His soft hair tickled Logan’s lips as he pressed a kiss to the top of his head and wrapped his arms around him. Finally they were still, Virgil’s breathing slowly matching his own as he made sure to take deep calming breaths.

The rain was already quieting, the storm moving on and leaving the two night owls to their bubble of peaceful warmth. Logan readjusted slightly as Virgil snuggled in further, hoodie sleeves riding up as he snaked his arms around his waist in an attempt to pull them closer. Logan did laugh at this, planting another kiss firmly on the other’s forehead.

“I think if you squeezed any tighter we’d fuse, stormcloud. How are we supposed to compose an email when our absence excuse would be cuddling too hard?”

“No such thing,’” Virgil mumbled. “I’ll cuddle you as hard as I want and they’re just gonna haftadealwibit.”

The last half of the sentence trailed off into near indecipherable gibberish but Logan understood well enough. “You are exceptionally adorable when you’re tired. As much as I hate that storms cause you anxiety, I'm glad that nothing else has changed.”

He grinned as the side of his neck where Virgil’s face was pressed against warmed and quietly congratulated himself through the disappointment that he couldn’t currently see Virgil’s crimson face. ‘Still got it’ he thought to himself as he wiggled a bit to try and find a comfortable spot where Virgil’s rather bony arms weren’t poking into his ribs, failing miserably until he managed a sigh. “I’m sorry stormcloud, I’m getting a bit of a cramp. Why don’t you lay on top of me instead; that’s comfortable for you as well isn’t it?”

Humming in confirmation, Virgil leaned back and let Logan flip onto his back. A moment later he let out a small groan of surprise as Virgil flopped solidly onto him, burrowing into his chest and holding Logan tight by his sides. Smiling, he brought the blankets up over them both and carefully tucked them in, bringing his arms out and resting them on Virgil’s shoulders to make sure it didn’t slide off. 

“Thank you for always doing this.” Logan scrunched his brow at the frustrated tone in Virgil’s voice. “And don’t you dare say ‘why wouldn’t I’ because you always ask and I always say it’s because I’m too old to be afraid of storms and then you logic your way around me because I’m too tired to argue. This is just something I always thought I’d grow out of.”

“Sometimes we grow out of fears, sometimes not. The ones that linger aren’t something you can help or should blame yourself for.” Getting no response other than a frustrated huff, Logan continued, beginning to hum and rub soothing circles on his back. “Whether the fear is rational or not- and whether or not the threat is real- I will always be here to protect and support you however you need. Seeing as I’m not exactly in the best shape for fighting crime or fending off rabid dogs, comforting you through a storm is something that I love that I’m able to do. And I will continue to love doing it because I love you and would rather you be here with me seeking comfort than by yourself too stubborn to ask for help.”

“Logan?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“You’re making it really hard to be edgy and self-deprecating right now.”

“Heaven forbid.”

Virgil snorted, knocking the top of his head gently into Logan’s chin until Logan sighed in mock exasperation, craning his neck to kiss him softly on the forehead so he’d settle back down. As he laid his head back down onto his chest a warm, tingling sensation spread from underneath Virgil’s cheek and covered his collar bone and part of his shoulder. Gasping he nudged the other up, poking more insistantly when the stubborn emo refused to disentangle himself. Ignoring Virgil’s confused look as he made to pull off his shirt he practically whipped it across the room and placed a hand to his soul mark, eyes shining as he took in the sight. 

His mark had always looked so odd to him, big blobs of shapes over his right shoulder and collar bone with jagged black scars streaking from them and down his chest. He could never even begin to picture what it could be, though a friend suggested once that it might be a warped forest of some sort, doubtful as his tone had been. Instead, his warm fingers traced over jagged streaks of lightning, such a bright purple they nearly glowed in the dark. The blobs above them had filled in with every shade of gray he had ever seen, broken occasionally by shadows of purple and blue where the lightning was. It was unexpectedly beautiful, his vision blurring with tears as he realized what this meant.

“I always knew.” He looked up as Virgil spoke in a hushed whisper. “I always- but you just felt so safe and you never...you always make me feel better about it and so safe and I guess-”

Logan opened his arms and Virgil gratefully dove back into them, catching his cheek with a kiss on the way down. They resettled quickly, the rain nothing more than a gentle patter against the roof letting them rest easy. Cracking an eye open, Logan strained to look down as Virgil laughed and held him tighter.

“Of all the things that keep me up at night, I’m so glad I was right about this.”

Logan smiled and hugged him closer in turn. “I agree.”

----- -----

Virgil sat up slowly, blanket falling from his shoulders and pooling around his waist as he struggled to cross his legs in the tangle. After a minute of failing miserably he huffed and flopped back, kicking both legs up as far as they would go while catching the blanket on the bottom of his feet and then kicking forward violently to dislodge them. Unfortunately the trick failed, landing more fabric between his legs and scrunching his pants uncomfortably in the process. Scissoring his legs just twisted everything around more and by the time he was halfway through attempting bicycles the situation was hopeless enough he considered just going back to sleep and dealing with it when he woke up. He had closed his eyes to do just that when he heard a muffled snort from the doorway, picking his head up to peer at Logan through squinted eyelids.

“Would you like some assistance?” Logan asked while making a half-hearted attempt to school his features.

Huffing, Virgil flopped his head back onto the pillows. “Clearly I have everything under control.”

“Falsehood. Your wiggling was very impressive but the blankets quite obviously won in the end. Was falling back to sleep after a ten hour nap and a failed battle the plan from the start?”

“No one likes a smartass Lo.”

“And yet your love for me persists.” Smiling lightly, Logan made his way to the side of the bed and climbed on, swinging his legs up and over Virgil’s stomach and plopped down gently with his hands splayed over his chest. Grunting out pseudo complaints Virgil reached up and took both of the hands in his own, giving each a kiss in turn before settling them back just below his collarbones. The sight of Logan blushing- bright enough to be visible even in the dim room- was one he would never grow tired of.

“Illogical as it may be.” He agreed. “Is that why you love your darling husband? I’m your most difficult logic puzzle that’s guaranteed to last a lifetime?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “No, that’s absurd. I love my husband because a pain in the ass though he may be- he’s a constant I find myself unable to live without.”

Feeling his own face heating up Virgil longed for his hoodie to hide in, especially once Logan’s expression turned smug from rendering him speechless. “Logan, it’s much too early for you to be this smooth.”

“Virgil, my love, it’s seven in the evening.”

Virgil blinked. “Wow. you weren’t kidding when you said ten hour nap.”

“I never kid. It’s important to be one hundo percent, one hundo percent of the time.”

“Who gave you that one?”

“Patton.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t trust the dad-friend for flashcards, starlight.’

Flushing slightly, Logan disentangled their fingers and rolled off the bed. “Duly noted. Now please get up, we have plans.”

“We do- ah!” Virgil found himself face down in his pillow, having flipped around with Logan’s rather aggressive flourish of snapping the blankets out from around his legs. Remembering that they had, in fact, had plans for the night, Virgil rolled out of bed as quickly as he could with apologies already hot on his tongue. “Logan I’m so sorry I thought that was tomorrow and I had stayed up late for stupid reasons and I hope we aren’t running late do I have time to change-”

“Virgil, breathe.” Logan cupped a hand to his cheek and gently ran a thumb under his eye. “I assure you we have plenty of time and I’m very glad you got the sleep you did. I would have liked you up earlier only to see your lovely face and to make sure your sleep schedule wasn’t ruined. But if you slept that long you must have needed it, and I certainly am not going to fault you for that.”

Closing his eyes, Virgil took a breath and held it for a second before breathing out slowly. Logan’s hand left his cheek and he caught himself leaning forward to chase the warmth, his resulting blush filling that void for the time being. 

“Do what you need and then come in the kitchen; I made fried noodles.”

More awake now than ever Virgil hurried to the bathroom. Logan’s cooking was the best he had ever had and he’d be damned if he was late for noodles.

-----

A cool breeze rustled through the thick grass and flipped over the corner of the blanket Logan and Virgil had set up an hour before. Sputtering, Virgil flipped it back from his face, spitting bits of dandelion fluff out of his mouth in the process while pointedly ignoring Logan’s snicker. He pushed his hoodie closer to the corner to prevent further mishap and snuggled closer to his husband for warmth, head resting comfortably on one arm with his other wrapped around Logan’s shoulders. 

Logan lay on his side with his head on his shoulder, the bottom of his cheek pressed into the still black soulmark that traced a shapeless blob from the top of his elbow to the nape of his neck. Soulmarks filled in based on the other soulmates feelings- when they truly felt like they had found the one. Of course that was a romantic conspiracy for the most part and to Virgil it seemed to go against the entire idea of fate. If you could choose your own, then what was the point of the marks? 

Choosing not to think about it for the time being, he continued staring up at the sky. The night was clear and this far out not much light pollution tainted their view of everything the night had to offer. Stars glittered for miles with barely there colorful space dust in between if you squinted. Logan had told him what it actually was once- something about it being high temperature nebula gas absorbing starlight- Logan had explained it much better in the past.

Logan always explained everything better.

“You’re quiet tonight.” Logan remarked.

“I’m sorry- just thinking.” 

“Mm, don’t be sorry.”

They laid in silence for a few more minutes before Virgil decided to speak up. “They always make me feel really small- stars I mean- and I know I am small compared to everything but all that just leads to...existential dread I guess. Seeing everything laid out, it’s beautiful, but it’s also a bit daunting.”

“Virgil, if you’re uncomfortable-”

“Lemme finish first before you do the sweet thing you do where you overanalyze everything for the sake of everyone else’s comfort.” Seeing Logan smile and roll his eyes he continued. “I always feel small looking at them, but it never matters because you make me feel big. Like I could take on the entire world even when the anxiety’s being a bitch.”

He felt Logan smile against his arm...and then it started to tingle. Tiny pinpricks raced up and down his arms from his shoulder to his neck and he quickly disentangled himself and started blindly slapping at his mark to get whatever bugs off that had decided to ruin the moment. Noticing Logan had his mouth covered with his eyes wide in shock staring at his arm he quickly looked down and gasped with his own.

His unsightly black blob of a soulmark, which he had long ago stopped trying to guess at the shape of, was now a glittering galaxy. Striking blue and dark purple swirled in intricate patterns behind stars that shined so brightly on his skin he would swear they had been plucked from the night sky and flicked onto him. The tingling finally stopped, the whole field seeming to hold its breath along with the both of them before Logan finally broke the silence with a hoarse whisper.

“In an entire universe I found you.” Snapping his head up, Virgil saw tears gathering in his husband’s eyes. “I was sure I already knew but- I’m so happy I found you.”

Laughing wetly Virgil dove forward, knocking them both over and half in the grass but neither could bring themselves to care. Under the stars, with Virgil himself wrapped in a galaxy, he had never been so happy to have an impossibly small space in Logan’s arms to call his own.

If you like this, please consider reblogging. Sharing a creators work helps more people see it.

[elsewhereuniversity]

We Need Backup

So… this is a tough one. 

My room-mates and I are in kind of a bind. We have this rental, see? It’s nice enough, for student digs - modern(ish) furniture, climate control, decent (not great, but decent) wifi connection. 

The only real downside is it’s kind of not exactly real. Or not always real. Something about N-phase space and the quantum uncertainty principle, idk.

There’s an overgrown path in one of those school gardens the horticulture club set up a few years back - you know, with all the willow trees and roses? It’s made of weird amber-ish stones laid out in pentagons.

If you follow it the right way,  it goes to a little valley on the border (so far as we can tell) of Summer territory. The grass is green, the air is warm, the ring of oaks and maples growing around the rim are always in rich, vivid color; it’s full of thick wildflowers that line the slope, and our house is right at the bottom. 

 If you follow it the wrong way, though, you wind up stuck in either the 3rd back-up spare props room or a life-sized mural on the wall of the Art building’s atrium. And most people follow it the wrong way. 

So, as you might imagine, we don’t get a lot of visitors. Like I said, we rent, and the 4 of us - including me - have never even seen our landlord. There’s a powder-blue ceramic bowl on the mail table: it’s due 3 gold drachmas on the 11th of every month, which always disappear by sunrise. It’s a little odd, yeah. We *do* certainly have questions. But, overall, we like to think we’re lucky. 

See, none of us can live in a dorm. Believe me, we’ve tried. Euclid’s closing in on a Phd in Irrational Geometry and Applied Mathemagics, so zher homework assignments keep warping the fabric of reality; rearranging furniture, tearing holes in the walls, and adding extra space where it really shouldn’t be. Molybdos was the only survivor of a questing party gone very, very wrong. She has wicked PTSD, which manifests itself mostly in violent screaming and semi-corporeal night terrors. Silphium’s sick; I’m not sure what’s wrong with him, quite frankly, but being in the dorm rooms made it worse. The medicine that helps him can’t be brewed Ironside; there’s a good chance he’ll never be able to leave. 

Me? I had a stalker issue. Someone in a few of my classes heard about a particular family heirloom I’m quite loathe to part with, and they got interested. Very interested. Dangerously interested. 

But that’s not the point. The point is, we’re really not used to company. 

So , as you might imagine, it was somewhat of a shock to wake up one morning and find a Gentry man on our living room couch. 

Unconscious. 

Oh, Archivist, he’s in bad shape. There are thick ropes of scars around his neck and wrists. 

We had to scrub a while to get rid of all the ingrained filth - there was lots of it, dirt and dried gore and other crap - but it turns out his skin is pale. Not normal Fair Folk pale, either; the kind you get from spending too long underground. 

He’s got a blade of a nose, eyes a pure gold color, and bright red hair that seems to smoke if you look at it too long. Three fingers on his left hand are fused together by what look like old, pink scars, and his right arm is tattooed with all these crazy woad designs. You can tell that he used to be powerfully built; the guy’s almost seven feet tall, and his clothes (or what’s left of them) hung from his body. 

Well, we cut the damn things off. Then we did our best to clean him up. There were 12 open wounds that needed stitches, and lots of raw areas oozing this pale, watery gold stuff. Not to mention all the aforementioned filth. 

Anyway, long story short: something must’ve gone wrong. He’s been here for 3 days , gripped by delirium, caught in the throes of a hellish fever. He keeps moaning and thrashing around, raving in some kind of language none of us speak. 

Meanwhile, the wifi’s shot. Our phone lines put out nothing but a ‘drone’ noise, like huge clouds of flies in the speaker. Once everyone got home again the next day, the house won’t let us leave. it seems kind of…protective? I guess? The windows won’t open, and none of the doorknobs turn anymore. 

Euclid’s busy with zher chalk, drawing out bizarre patterns on the walls that zhe claims are wards. Silph’s working overtime trying to keep our ‘guest’ alive, and Moly…

Moly hasn’t slept. She’s… erratic. She keeps pacing around, staring out the windows, and clinging to her kukri while she mutters about how ‘they’re coming.’ 

Meanwhile, there’s a bad wind on the rise. The view outside grows darker every hour. Things have taken to lurking about; black and twisted, they hide in the wild grass and wait beneath the trees. Every time someone looks, there’s more of them: biding their time, in no kind of rush at all. They’ve got us where they want us, and they damn well know it. 

Since I can fly sometimes (thanks to that heirloom I mentioned) the others sent me for help. Thankfully, my other form is just smart enough to fit up the chimney flue. It was a tight, painful squeeze, and I lost a few feathers, but I made it. 

I’m sorry, Archivist, I didn’t know where else to go. Hopefully the goshawk rapping at your window didn’t freak you out too much.

 Do you know who our 'guest’ is? Is there someone - anyone - who can take him to safety? Are any Knights available - and, if so, can they please come drive off the intruders before my friends all get killed? I’d be more than happy to guide anyone who needs assistance.

In return, I brought a charm Euclid made. It was zher semester project junior year, and we thought you might have some use for it: 

A crystal lense etched with a Pythagoras tree. Perfect, of course. Those bronze rims around the edge are how you set the thing: they move independently, see? The biggest, outer one is for years, the middle for months, and the tiny inner one for days. Pick a date, work them around so the little notches all line up, then wave your hand over the clear part. It will show 13 minutes of an event you were involved in. 

Please hurry.

-Hamaliel

___

Congratulations: the heir apparent of the Autumn Court is dying on your futon, most likely from some manner of assassination attempt. You can officially consider yourself Embroiled In Intrigue. 

I will reach out to the Knights, but delicately - a good number of them would view your guest as not much better than whatever is coming for him. But there are always a handful more oriented towards protecting the helpless - any helpless - than they are towards eradicating the things that lurk in the dark woods.

I will also try to send word to a handful of Autumn changelings. If you are lucky they will pass on the news of their lost and found prince to someone powerful enough to come to his aid, and do so in time for it to change anything.

In the meantime, for the good it does: a dull knife of iron with a hilt of scorched bone, which will in your time of need become blindingly bright and razor-sharp. A caltrop tipped with iron, and in the same vein, small tangles of rusty nails, twisted into the shape of apples: guard your windows and doorways and hearth. You are not the only creature that can fly.