#we’re playing with ambiguity in this house

[teenytinyjimin]

i miss you, i’m sorry (j. jungkook)

nothing happened in the way i wanted

every corner of this house is haunted

and i know you said that we’re not talking

but i miss you, i’m sorry.

summary: the first time seeing each other after the breakup is always the hardest. but seeing each other when you're still in love? an absolute nightmare

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 2k

tags: angst, smoker!jk, brokenhearted!jk, equally as brokenhearted!reader, why did they even break up in the first place?, featuring reader’s bestfriend!jimin, also jimin is sexually ambiguous let's keep it that way please

warnings: none, alcohol/nic use but nothing too intense, kinda sad but it's a happy ending i promise

author’s note: idk why i keep making my fic names and stuff inspired by songs, i guess it just helps me beat writers block.

also i wrote this in second person, lmk if you guys prefer that over third. i personally find third person fics easier to write, but i'm sure second person is easier to read for some of you. enjoy my angels!

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

Bars weren't really your thing.

If you were going to be honest, they were miles better than nightclubs, but still not your thing. It was something about the air that just rubbed you the wrong way. Perhaps it was all the creepy old men that turned you off of them, or just the fact that there's not much to do besides sit, drink, sit some more, maybe play some pool and... sit.

Jimin, on the other hand, loved bars. He loved being able to sit there, look pretty, and watch as absolutely anyone and everyone flocked over to him to start a conversation. It admittedly fueled his ego, and he loved the feeling of being the center of attention. However, he didn't love being at bars alone. Being so drop-dead gorgeous meant that about twenty times the amount of creeps bothered him than the average bar patron. Many of them figured that a pretty boy like him was sitting there waiting to be swooped up by a sugar daddy. Let's get one thing straight – that wasn't him. He had plenty of money. He just wanted to have a little conversation, give a little kiss here and there maybe, and dip at the end of the night with his bar companion by his side.

Unfortunately for you, that bar companion was usually you. It was certainly a compliment for Jimin to want to bring you along with him instead of any of his other gazillions of friends and other social connections, but it was quite exhausting for you to be in a bar pretty much every day of every weekend. He liked the attention, but you didn't. If it were an empty room with nothing but you and a bottle of rum, you'd have a blast. But what bar in Itaewon was going to be like that?

Alas, here you were, sat at the end of a bar with your friend sitting next to you. Something about the light in the building made him look extra beautiful tonight, his skin shimmering like the most precious of diamonds and his eyes deep and full of allure. At the moment he was making small talk with a lady on the other side of him, one who was definitely at least twenty years his senior but didn't look a day past thirty. Sighing, you drop your head down to look at your drink, a half-full martini glass that held a rather disappointing cosmopolitan (you weren't a vodka fan anyway, it wasn't the bartender's fault).

You wanted to be home. That was the only place you ever wanted to be these days. At home, cuddling your darling kitty in bed, and sleeping your days away. Maybe a year ago you would have loved being out and about, but now it feels more like a burden than a fun activity. And you know that Jimin doesn't mean any harm in doing what he does, but seeing him talk with so many people over the course of the night and being so happy is almost a bit gut-wrenching for you because you can't be as happy as him.

You began to feel the blood rush to your ears and your face get warm. Something was wrong, you could sense it. Everyone has those gut instincts when something isn't quite right, and this wasn't just an instinct, it was like a neon sign. A neon sign that read DANGER. Perhaps it was just you feeling rather anxious and overwhelmed, but either way you were craving the comfort of your home.

"Hey, 'Minnie, can we-" Just as you turned to Jimin to softly ask him if you could go home or at the very least switch bars, you felt a presence behind you. It wasn't just an I'm here to order a drink presence, but rather an I'm here for you one. Realizing that Jimin wasn't even listening anyway, you froze, waiting to see what would happen. And that's when you heard a familiar voice that you thought you'd never hear again.

"Hey."

You didn't want to turn around. You tried to stay as still as a statuette for as long as possible, however the more you thought about the man behind you the more you felt the urge to turn around and take a bite of the forbidden fruit. Taking a deep breath, you slowly turned until you were face-to-face with your ex, Jungkook.

"Want to talk outside?" Not yet looking at him directly, you hesitantly nodded before quickly looking back to Jimin and then standing up. You left your purse there, figuring that your friend would grab it if he changed locations, and began trailing after the tall tattooed figure that navigated his way toward the door.

As the two of you stepped out into the cool autumn air, you crossed your arms and leaned against the building. Your heart was between your ears at this point, buzzing at what felt like 200 beats a minute. It was stupid for you to have even left Jimin's side, you thought, because now you were alone with your ex of all people and God knows what this boy has up his sleeve.

"You look good," Jungkook said gently as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and placed one between his lips. "And I know what you're going to say, you're so full of it Kook, but I mean it."

"Since when have you started smoking?" You asked, ignoring his previous two statements and gesturing toward the pack in his hand. He shrugged. "Couple weeks after I last saw you maybe? Not a big deal."

"You know that stuff's bad for you."

"I don't think sitting here third-wheeling with Jimin and his beau of the night is any better."

"You don't know Jimin, don't act like you do," You said, completely taken aback and offended by the words coming out of his mouth. "And I'm having a good time, thank you very much."

"Doesn't seem like it. Weren't you about to ask him if you guys could leave?"

"I was having- What?- Is there a reason you asked to talk to me out here?" You were struggling to form a complete sentence. This man always knew how to leave you speechless, but now it was just irritating. You watched as Jungkook leaned back onto the building with you and shook his head, giving you a toothy grin before lighting the cigarette in his mouth. "Nah. Just figured you'd have more fun out here talking to me and getting a break from it all."

"You know he's waiting for me, right? I should go back inside." You stand back up straight and begin walking back into the bar, however you feel a warm hand wrap gently around your wrist and tug you back. "Hey hey hey," Jungkook called. "He'll survive a few minutes without you. Just chill with me. I'm not asking you for anything, just a second of your time."

You turned to face your ex-lover, your eyes finally meeting his for the first time that night. Even after all this time of being apart, those beautiful doe eyes still yearned for you, and yours for him. With a shaky sigh, you brush his hand away and return to where you were standing. "Exes don't hang out like this, Jungkook."

"Woah, you're pulling out the full government name on me now?" The boy teased, puffing a cloud of smoke from his mouth. "Should I be offended?"

"I'm setting boundaries," You crossed your arms and kicked at the ground beneath you. "Nicknames are for friends or more than friends, which we aren't."

"We aren't strangers either though."

"That doesn't matter. Not friends."

"Alright, fine," Giving up, Jungkook looked down at his hand and flexed it awkwardly. "Just trying to be friendly."

"Friendly?!" You said frantically, finally having enough of his antics. "You don't need to be friendly. We broke up and that's the end of it. Exes aren't friends. They go their separate ways and when they see each other again – if they see each other – they ignore each other. I don't get why you're doing this psychological warfare bullshit on me."

"Exes can be friends," He breathed out in protest. "Can you even tell me why we broke up in the first place?"

You remained silent. The truth was that you didn't know why you broke up either. It had been almost a year since the whole ordeal went down, and you were still confused more than anything else, even more than you were hurt. All you can remember is that you guys went through some bullshit ‘mutual breakup’ that apparently neither of you wanted in the first place. The only reason you even agreed to it is because somewhere within you, you felt like perhaps you weren’t deserving of such a wonderful relationship. And the only reason Jungkook agreed to it is because he thought that it’s what you wanted.

"No, seriously. What went wrong? What did I do? I just want some closure..." His voice became increasingly softer as he kept speaking, which only meant one thing. You stared at the ground intensely, refusing to look up and see his teary eyes.

You felt his hand gently wrap around yours and tug on it as a plea for your attention. Jungkook was your weakness, the only person you'd willingly do anything for, and he really loved to take advantage of that without even realizing he was.

You peered up at him hesitantly, worried that you'd find yourself in tears the second you saw the ones pouring from his eyes. Sure enough, when the eye contact began, you were driving yourself forward into his strong arms and dampening his shirt with your tears.

Jungkook's embrace felt the same as it did the last time you felt it. It was still so warm, so inviting, so loving. Never once did you feel unsafe in his arms and this moment was not an exception. As you sobbed into his shirt you felt his hand move from around your waist to the top of your head, stroking your hair gently.

The two of you stood there for what seemed like hours, simply letting all emotion out while enjoying the company of one another. While Jungkook has been exceptionally transparent in expressing the fact that he's heartbroken about the situation between the two of you, it's safe to say that you feel equally as devastated. This man was once the love of your life and the only one you ever needed, but now everything about him except for his embrace feels foreign. This was someone you once saw yourself building a life with, but now it's shattering to think that he has a life after you.

You pulled away after a while, refusing to make eye contact as you wiped the tears from your eyes. This all felt entirely pointless. It was obvious that nothing went wrong in the relationship yet here you were, no longer in one. You couldn't begin to imagine what Jungkook had been going through since you guys broke up considering the fact that for you, your entire world turned upside down.

"I'm sorry," You managed to choke out before you felt Jungkook's hand gently guide your face up to look at his. You watched him stare at you for a moment, taking in your features, before his lips began to curl into a soft smile. "Mmm. Yeah. You're way too pretty to let slip through my fingers."

Feeling your face turn hot as a blush crept to your cheeks, you let out a soft giggle before you were cut off by a familiar pair of lips meeting yours.

"JUNGKOOK?" You heard a voice call out. The two of you pulled apart, eyes wide. Shit. You forgot about Jimin.

[fumifooms]

Chilchuck, family & alcoholism

Collection of thoughts and speculation on Chil’s upbringing, his dynamic with his family and how alcoholism ties into it all. If you want the groundwork info on Chil’s background I recommend my masterpost on his family, here beyond a summary of the facts it’s really just me speculating from the crumbs we get of his parents and siblings, how it’s all affected him and in turn affected his own wife and kids etc etc.

There’s nothing more I’d like on mother’s day than to speculate about Chilchuck’s maladaptive attachment style. I’m fascinated by how distant everyone is and how much he’s been devoted to them all despite having been so absent. Intergenerational trauma get over here

Actually it’ll be easier if I make a rundown here too, it’s just stuff I reiterate from my masterpost tho.

Tiny table of contents: 1- rundown: family facts 2- rundown: alcoholism 3- dad 4- parenting 5- daughters 6- wife

^ Every time his dad gets mentioned. His mom never gets mentioned. His siblings I think are only ever mentioned in this extra, and then there are more ambiguous relatives cameos.

We know is hometown isn’t Kahka Brud, but we’re not sure wether he moved there upon getting his own house (presumably around when he got married at 13), or if it’s only after his wife when he rented out his place to relatives then rented the place in Kahka Brud.

If he rented it out to relatives, maybe that meant it was in his hometown? Especially if he and his siblings are "almost strangers" so presumably he doesn’t really keep in touch with his family. And I mean, he hasn’t seen his wife or daughter in 4 years so you can imagine how he’s like with his more distant family…

Additionally half-foots and Chil are very coded to be from an impoverished opressed working class people. So that’s the context.

I’ll say that I mentioned intergenerational trauma at the beginning, and I def think the distrust of elves is part of that, but here I want to focus on the interpersonal effects rather.

Copy pasting my masterpost thoughts overall: Chilchuck is hinted to have had a rather dysfunctional family himself (alcoholic father, distant siblings, etc). So he doesn’t really have the best model on how to raise someone and such. I imagine it was a sort of neglectful home situation, where the kids are encouraged to be independent. If they didn’t have to work or help around much, then a free range parenting sort of thing.

We do see how the family has full and warm feasts, where someone cleans his mouth with a rag, so it’s not like he didn’t have caring people or had a tragic childhood though! I don’t remember if it’s explicitely stated but he’s heavily implied to having grown up poor, as most half-foots, and I just think it’s the hardened hardworking family type of childhood where just like he does with others, they instilled somewhat harsh life lessons in him, which in turn encourages him to indulge in the simple pleasures of life like alcohol and sex, or at least women’s beauty and crass jokes. We do see he seems more optimistic when he’s younger in flashbacks, so a bunch of his harsh view on the world is still likely learned and earned rather than taught.

I still think he inherited many flawed views from how his father acted, like his attitude about excessive drinking not being a big deal, it being worth it. That work hard play hard, enjoy life die young mentality he has, shown mostly in the “alcohol” section of his Adventurer’s Bible profile, could very well be partly a result of the general poverty half-foot communities are that he grew in as well, like how he doesn’t hope for things to be as best as they could be and contends with good enough.  As far as I remember, his mother is never mentioned, but I doubt it implies she was out of the picture. She was probably a regular sort of mother that took care of the home and was still around when his father died, not unlike how Chil’s wife was implied to be a housewife. It looks like there’s a good age gap between one sibling to the next, that could be interesting to speculate about too. Mostly though I think it’s big family because it’s just sorta what happens when you regularly have sex and you don’t have contraception, being poor often makes family planning harder for various reasons and leads to more children.

Alcoholism context rundown:

Good Chilchuck analysis baseline here. Alcohol seems to be his main stress reliever/coping mechanism, especially for how emotionally constipated he is, and his job is being stressed about his party’s safety. Then he also mentions as a changeling that having his senses dulled feels relaxing to him, further confirming alcohol, as a drug that dulls senses, is something that he likes for the intoxication aspect and feels it’s relaxing. Alcohol also acts as a hunger suppressant, so it for sure has played a role in his dieting and unhealthy eating/diet habits, especially since he shows the instinct to drink to soothe hunger, all of that about how going hungry for 3 days used to feel manageable. Chil dieting info compiled here.

Chilchuck is at his most effortlessly cheerful when drunk or drinking. Compilation of every time he was drunk here.

And to be clear, a cheerful drunk is still a drunk. He literally will drink anytime he gets the opportunity to even if he’s aware overdrinking leads to health problems and death. Like canonically. He does NOT see how drinking should be a problem and does not seek to show restraint with it.

Dad of the dad

Marcille and Chilchuck having a talk on how losing a dad be like "You lost your dad young too…? I know how it is, it must have hit you hard…" "No not really tbh. Do you want lasagna or chicken for dinner?" <- either genuinely doesn’t feel much about his dad’s death or has 10 layers of repression, idk which is worse

I think Chil not making a big deal out of his dad’s death, not having worries in following into his footsteps that way in the least, is super interesting.

As a buddy @saccharineomens puts it: " I kinda imagine chilchuck and his dad didn't have a bad relationship, but in general chilchuck is so blase about drinking (he sees it as a delightful time, a wonderful thing! he wouldn't mind dying doing something he loved!) that he's not very upset about his dad's passing? like "yeah, he died, but i was already an adult, he was an adult, he made his choices, i make my choices, it's cool" " And I’ll nitpick that we don’t know how old he was when his dad died, I always assumed it was pretty early since Chil left home when he got married, and like I’ve gone into he doesn’t seem to be the keep in touch type. It’s on the table though, and he could have learned about it through letter if nothing else and that contributes to the "meh" reaction.

And that is very Chilchuck, the whole "we made our choices, it is how it is, he died doing something he loved", and you can totally believe that that’s the crux of it, but I do think the nonchalance hints at the family overall being distant and not only the siblings, that there’s dysfunctional shenanigans going on in there more than just… Healthy coping and having moved on.

I wonder when Chil first drank… And I wonder how he came to realize he liked alcohol a lot. His father probably gave him sips… Or he stole them

No because, with how disaffected he is about his father and siblings I could definitely see him having started to kind of numb himself/dissociate with the help of alcohol in that home environment that felt so… Either devoid of feelings or too messy to get attached. I can totally see his family being one that encourages dealing with feelings by bottling them up.

Because too… We saw him have a family/community feast of some sort presumably when he was a kid, in that chapter cover, so it’s not like there’s no warmth or sense of family at all, but then like… What went wrong? If as I theorize that girl with short black hair in that panel is his future wife, since she’s his childhood friend and all, what if his family/home life was always kind of cold and distant, even when gathered and cheery or despite those occasions? So then it’s like, at the family gatherings, she’s the most important person there to him, the one he actually connects to the most, the warmest presence he has…….. Someone he jokes around with that feels on the same speed as him, that doesn’t have the same connotations as everyone else present, a bit of a haven, someone different, a breath of fresh hair and a regained sense of childhood… Spitballing of course of course

I feel like they had a pretty big family and they were poor and such so there were always chores to be done etc, so their household might have operated like a mini busiess of sorts where everyone’s too busy, always has this and that to do and the mother asks them to go do tasks. I used to think it might be more of a neglect situation, where the kids are expected to provide for themselves and so cook their own meals and whatnot, both parents distant, but I don’t think so with the feast illustration. Chil at the beginning of canon used to see eating as a practical thing more than anything, you have to eat to live but don’t eat much or your weight will make your job more dangerous, might as well skip meals and have beer instead, etc etc. So the thought that he doesn’t know how to cook all that well despite this speculated background where he cooked for himself and keeps cooking minimalistic, since he does tell Senshi he taught him about cooking, is fair, but still… There could definitely be a situation where his older siblings were pushed into a parental role too, where they helped with the food and raising the younger siblings etc etc. As mentioned, the age gap between siblings may play into the dynamic as well. But on this front I have less ideas…

So yes my general take on Chil’s family is that everyone was too busy to emotionally connect as much as is normal, the parenting leaving things to be desired with alcoholism and emotional neglect.

Fathering

And I think that’s especially interesting considering he hasn’t been keeping in touch with his daughters either. It’s "they’re independent now" and that’s kinda it. His daughters haven’t sent him letters or visited him or tried to make him talk to their mom again. It does feel like with his own parents and siblings to me, where people are almost strangers, where relationships grow apart and everyone shrugs and goes ‘that’s how things are’. Is it that everyone including all his daughters gave up on trying to keep in touch, or is it that they all went "well divorced or not he’s absent, this is our normal tbh", and which is worse?

So yes, I think his relationship with his daughters is probably similar to his relationship with his parents, sort of hands off. Chil's dad was probably not a good dad but probably not quite a bad dad. A definitive He Was There, to quote another friend heh

Imo the thing with Chil is that he was pretty absent bc of work travels to dungeon dive, right. He’s working hard to provide for his family but in the process he’s not spending much time with them, slowly making a gap grow between him and them as they drift apart and change as people. He’s a career dad who never realized spending time with his family was more important and threw his pager into the ocean— But also here’s the thing!! You want to say being his family is more important, but money is arguably more important! They’re poor, they don’t have the privilege of free time as much. Sure he’s not there, but he is providing for them what they need to keep living and growing healthily. Similarly, you want to say Chil should stop doing harsh dieting for weight management, but, he has a point, maybe starving is still preferable than dying in traps. Of course the ideal would be to change jobs, but again, life is a struggle and that’s not always an option.

^ Truly the classic "if you don’t listen to me, your parent, a cryptid is gonna kidnap you!" international experience………

He is so so so the "What? My way of parenting is kinda bad? But my father raised me like that, and look how great I turned out!" <- emotionally dysfunctional…….. "Pshhh what do you mean having an alcoholic parent negatively affects you? My father was an alcoholic too and look at me"  🤡

All of it was behavior normalized to him. And listen, I’m saying this but not as like, shirking of his part in it. This isn’t a teen or young adult, he’s middle aged, he’s become the one giving and not receiving the generational trauma. He’s chosen to never think deeper on the topic.

And like, he himself is so indifferent to his father and what their relationship was like, of course he wouldn’t notice if a parenting choice wasn’t great for his daughters. He doesn’t have a relationship with his dad, he’s not (at least not consciously) traumatized by him, so from his perspective it’s mission success! He got raised decent enough 👍⭐️ Except he doesn’t realize that like, not particularly caring if he died is sign of a problem between them in itself… And this even as he remains somewhat of an important figure in his life, especially since that’s who he sees on the other side of the life river in the ghost chapter. It’s implicitly the biggest instance of loss through death Chilchuck has in his life I think.

But despite it all he obviously does love his family a lot, right. So I do believe that like, while he has imperfect standards when it comes to parenting he still tries to be better than his dad was, that even if it’s necessary that he has a lot of long work travels, he spends time with them. And there’s sort of this dissonance that he’s both "it doesn’t matter wether i’m here or not, they’ll live, they’re tough girls. Oh they didn’t like my scolding earlier? It’s just how kids are" dismissive and "I love them so much and I want them to have a good life. I want to do my best by them" devoted and so so caring. And like that’s why he works so damn hard, he does it for them, but also that’s why the girls grew up with an absentee father and aughhhh AUGHHHH the unsolvable dilemma of it all Chilchuck in Dunmeshi truly represents like, the harshness of reality & the world and how sometimes things will just suck no matter what, and then of course balancing that with Marcille in their shared arc where she tacks on "And despite that there is beauty everywhere even in the small and menial things, despite that your flawed relationships and dreams are still worth fighting for" ie giving reconciling with his wife a shot, etc.

All that said I think the very strict "you’re gonna grow up to have a stable job by god, young miss" attitude, those strong work ethics he highly values and focuses on and no doubt tried to instill in is own kids, is something he somewhat inherited from his own upbringing and parents.

In my masterpost bit on his parenting, I said I don’t think he’d do any kind of corporeal punishment, but. I do wonder about spanking aftee all. It can be so so easy to rationalize it… Sigh

Daughter pov

Again, my general interpretations for the daughters are written in my masterpost. I think Patti knows her father the least and is the one least worried about jobs and stability and least settled down as a result. Flertom is the more social one who I imagine tended to be the one worried about her parents’ couple and their emotions the most. And Meijack… Ohh Meijack.

When your father tried his best to provide for you but he worked all the time and even when he was home he was either tired or stressed and he’s always liked to get drunk to relax and cheer up. When you know he values work ethics and respectability so you grew up to be capable and quiet. And when he says you’re like him you’re sort of puzzled, does he really know you so little, or does he know himself so little? But you like the feeling of your father ruffling your hair so you accept it and still you stand next to your mother just as quiet and just as stoic during family gatherings. He leaves again and again and when your mother leaves him nothing changes, really. You wonder if it’s more telling that you know him better than he seems to himself or that you don’t know him as much as you wish you did, or that you don’t think about him all that much these days. Out of sight out of mind

Thinking of those posts about how kids never forget and during the "draw your family!" things at school, some of the kids draw their working parents seperate from the rest of them...

Absent father and when he’s at home you get the crumbs of him that you get and you’re grateful for it and that’s that <333

She doesn’t know how much he loves them bc he hasn’t showed them in a long time </3

The horror of drunk Chil in my fics is often about what in this state he can’t do rather than what he could do, how someone who’s as proud of his skills and work ethics as he is has truly changed, not comprehending how he could become so sloppy or how he could allow himself to get like this, marred the values he preaches above all else. It’s in the way that he fumbles with doorknobs, that he could never lockpick a door if you were to lock it, and it both being your salvation and bringing you extreme distress at the thought of it all. His footsteps usually featherlight now sound heavy as stone, like a troll’s.

You know the thing that gets me so bad with alcoholism angst is when people describe the drunk person as a stranger. Often making a metaphor that they’re monsters, have some monster they shapeshift into uncontrollably once in a while, as a way to split the unreconciliable halves of the person sober and drunk in your vision of them……. It gets me soooo bad Little Puckpatti growing up on tales of trolls kidnapping disobedient kids and replacing them with doubles so no one even knows they’re gone… Coming face to face with a drunk Chilchuck that roams the halls of the house with heavy steps in the night, because she wanted to go drink a glass of water, too thirsty to sleep………..

And this is where I reveal that I wrote a fic about just that!! Trolls that thump and tiptoe through the night Mei @ Chil, You made me of stone and still every day you wear me down and chip away at me bit by bit

In the end notes I describe my takes and interpretations: With Mei I tried to give the sense of a kid who sacrifices some parts of childhood to feel closer to her parent, like not playing games to spend more time with him no matter how empty, or wanting to be worthy in his eyes. With Fler, since she was the one in canon to take in their mother and write Chil a letter explaining the situation, I feel like she’s always been the one most involved and aware of the problems in their family. The one most there to emotionally support or to understand what the vibes in a room meant. Puckpatti I think knows her father the least, since with time I think Chilchuck was more and more away from work and more and more cynical like the flashbacks of younger him dungeon diving. I think because of her not minding unstable odd jobs that she’s the most passive, that she’s the most go with the flow. I do also love when Mei is the one most aware of her parents’ flaws and most critical as the eldest, but not in this fic. Meijack grows up to never touch a drop of alcohol, what people joke is the one difference between her and her father. Flertom drinks, too much sometimes, but she considers drinking should be a social activity rather than a habit. Puckpatti only drinks on special occasions when she has the chance.

They already don’t have that much time together because of his work, I wonder how big of a percentage the amount of memories the daughters have of him are when he’s not himself truly… How they kinda reconcile it all. It’s their normal. 

And the thing that’s gutting too, is that Chil always looks so so much more open, relaxed, cheerful and happier when drunk than he usually is. He doesn't know how to get his defenses down without alcohol

"you're all that's good"

Because we do see how he truly used to not be so closed off and bitter. But distrust and fearing for betrayals from both coworkers and then his wife aka the person who’s supposed to be closest to him (he doesn’t even have close family besides his daughters. Does he even have close friends) turned him into what he is now. He was so cheerful!! Happy and trusting and optimistic.

He leaves and she left

God there’s the whole ‘wife leaving him’ trauma too is the thing… It had to have fucked him up so bad like no wonder he got paranoid and decided not to open up to ANYONE like. He never saw it coming is the scariest thing. He didn’t expect her to just up and leave. He didn’t see the warning signs. He won’t know if it’s coming this time either.

….. But then also, why he didn’t reach out to her (besides hurt) was because it was a petty silence treatment, like "oh she left without saying a word? Fine well I won’t reach out to her either" <- man who is so not fine and collected about it. It’s been FOUR YEARSSSSSSS I wonder if he always was like… "This week she’s gonna send a letter. … Ok fine, this month she’s gonna crack. … Within the year she’ll come crawling back." and it’s a bit why it was allowed to go on for this long unchecked like… Why he still considers her his wife even though functionally she’s more of an ex by that point after 4 years.

I can never stop thinking about him and his wife they’re fucking crazyyy. Him not reaching out to her started as a silent treatment from frustration. She never reached out to him either, she just up and left, didn’t even leave or send one last letter she’s just gone and has left this all behind, the house and everything in it. It’s been 4 years but he still considers her his wife and considers themselves only "estranged", "due to circumstances we haven’t seen each other in years". His face in the panel he said this is interesting too, trying to be casual but defensive and exasperated, already dreading the judgement and questions. He moved out of his house to rent a place in Kahka Brud instead. How much of him not reaching out was avoidance… Guilt, frustration, sadness, confusion, just procrastinating and dread and fear of a rejection more concrete, or something else… Maybe realizing he doesn’t miss her as much as he should, not enough to chase after her or try to get her back, just resigning himself to it… Is he a bad husband, is he a bad person? Should they reconcile?

Not seeing it coming… It’s half trust, that this person who’s so dear to you could never just up and leave and hurt you like that, half entitlement, thinking that she would never think of leaving, and third it’s blinding himself to the warning signs, not wanting to believe or acknowledge them. Because like, there WERE some, he said she "suddenly fell into a bad mood on the way back [from the outing]" and I don’t think he’s too dumb to be aware that something was off, he literally just dismissed it and then went surprised pikachu face when it turned out things were indeed off.

Part of it is definitely, how do you even react if your wife walks out on you without warning. If it happened to me I think that I wouldn’t reach out for a while either, wait for them to reach out to me first, give them space. As I put it in one of my marchil wips, "I respect your right to be rid of me too much to try and shackle you to me if you want to leave". Inaction is easier than admitting he’s scared to check and find out that the worst case scenario is true. It’s been years and he still hasn’t worked it out why she left. Do you think that’s on purpose. That he doesnt want to know for sure. It’s so so so scary to try and do anything about it

He said he didn’t reach out right away when she left because he was petty and wanted to give her the silence treatment back. Ok but is it that he blames her for their marriage falling apart or does he blame himself and he’s just misdirecting the conflicted feelings? Did he not reach out because a part of him was too scared to know why she left or if she would refuse to come back? Did he just think that she’d come back on her own, and things would get fixed while still staying unsaid and unconfronted like they always have, the first month, then the next and the next, until it was a year in and it sunk in that oh, maybe she wasn’t coming back?

He seems genuine here when he says that he was angry about it and gave her the silent treatment, but it is an habit of his to lie to make himself look worse instead of showing vulnerability, so who knows.

He is so so scared of being affected by relationships. Same thing with his compulsive habit to disguise his worry for anger. It’s why he doesn’t want people to have expectations of him, "I’m a coward I’m selfish", because then they can’t be disappointed, they can’t be surprised if he bites, they can’t leave when you lose what they’ve been staying for.

He has avoidant tendencies too. Every time there’s an interpersonal issue he just accepts it’s out of his control immediately. He’s passive when it comes to relationship problems, just like with coworkers, relationships are a ticking time bomb to him, and he just wants to be left out of it and come out unscathed. It comes back to his pessimism. He doesn’t think that like, things could be better. According to him life is tough and cruel, you accept your lot in life and make the best out of it and that’s it. If people are scummy you don’t whine about how unfair it is, you close yourself off and work to not be taken advantage of again and adapt. So then with his wife, when Marcille is like "Have you tried… Talking?" it’s such a crazy idea that it might work at all, that he could have the power to fix things… And that’s why it’s such a big deal when he goes "Alright I’ll try… I don’t know if it’ll go as well as in the stories, but I’ll try". That CRUMB of allowing himself to be hopeful is so huge

Honestly for the longest time I misread this bit, I thought she left in the night like how Marcille framed it, but no she left after he left for work. She left after he left again.

The way it’s told, it really sounds like Chilchuck just came home from work, stayed probably a couple of days in which they went to that outing together, then left for work again right away/soon after and it’s like. Was that outing the most special thing you guys did together. You came home from like a month of work, you had one outing where she ended up having a bad time, y’all didn’t talk about it further and then you left for another couple of weeks. Are you kidding me

Your married life is waiting for your husband to come home, spending mediocre time together, being shut down when you voice discontentment, and things being left unaddressed before he leaves again.

She left when he was gone for work, but did she leave the day of, or did she flip flop on it and took a while before working up the strength to leave? Was she waiting to see if he’d say anything before leaving and when he didn’t that was the last straw?

Chilchuck trying to prove a point that half-foots can make it out there, trying to rely more on himself because that’s the only person he can trust. His wife feeling like he's leaving her behind (because he does. over and over and over and over.) This guy just keeps throwing himself into work because he thinks it's what's best for everyone. Hey sir neglecting emotional needs can be kinda detrimental to everyone involved, I think you might wanna know that ^ quotes courtesy of @soappox

And to come back to alcoholism for a bit, alcoholism is alcoholism, and someone asked why I thought that a Chilchuck with depression would drink and cope through alcohol, since drinking seems to be something cheerful to him. It does puzzle me a bit but it’s worth going over, so… I don’t think him using drinking as a coping mechanism is far fetched at all. Cheerful drunks that are alcoholic still can absolutely use alcohol in ways like that. If something makes you happier, or even just more numb which translates to you feeling more free etc etc, then I definitely think it tracks that he’d keep drinking. Like personally I do think he’d drink a lot after his wife left him, and in rough patches like that. Depression -> not wanting to have to think, the days are blurring together and you either don’t want to be conscious or you want to feel something etc etc -> drinking for the alcohol. Alcoholics tend to be, well, dependent on alcohol. If something bad happens etc they’re usually more likely to go harder on it rather than stop. We can debate on when and why Chilchuck first started to drink but it’s straight up his favorite food now and it’s deeply ingrained in his life, in his favorite outings and activities and priorities and moods and meals. A CHEERFUL DRUNK IS STILL A DRUNK!!! They drink to get happy not drink because they are happy, though obviously the two can have overlap.

Chil represses sooo much. His solution to interpersonal conflict and feelings is just don’t think about it and dull your feelings & senses to everything ✨ I love him. I need to kill him with hammers Like the other day I was thinking about an AU where he might have ran away from his neglectful home or something, but then I remembered he deals with everything including his family by dulling his feelings and senses to things 🫠 He wouldn’t leave

I’d say he doesn’t look troubled by loss through death, moreso loss through mistakes. His nightmare is his daughters dying yes, but moreso them being killed, there’s an axe in the wall etc, it’s about having failed to protect them.

If he can’t fuck something up or if he’s already fucked it up there’s this pacifying sense that he can’t have the rug pulled from under him, because that’s what having connections is, having a wife isn’t an insurance it’s a rug waiting to be pulled. And his brand is sort of Flawed Mr Mistakes Man so he’s kinda been having to cope lol. I do think he throws himself into workaholism, because it’s sort of the only way to live he knows, making yourself capable and useful and spending his days working like that, less time to think, too tired to think. Senses dulled, senses that are usually too sharp, cutting with clarity that he prefers ignoring and avoiding. Work is something he doesn’t have to feel through, something that gives him pride and self-esteem, something through all the danger and life or death risk feels safer, emotionally. No one taught him how to deal with things another way, it’s always been suck it up and work.

Conclusion

Stop smoking we love you and we don’t want you to die

No drinking will not externalize your feelings no it won’t vent them out well please Chilchuck ple-ea-ease…….

</3 They should invent an alcoholism that doesn’t make you dysfunctional and hard to be around

^ Drunk, by The Living Tombstone

I’ve been thinking about enneagrams and Chil is 6w7 highkey. Becomes 3 when stressed, a little 8 but it’s more that he wants security so much that he becomes paranoid rather than having the core of an 8 y’know. I haven’t dug into it for quotes yet but this paper goes hard if you’re curious.

Dropping my relevant Spotify playlists here bc why not: Chilchuck & his wife, marchil angst

[lilliesofinspirationvalley]

Cunning Hares Headcanons

First of many posts sharing my personal interpretations on ZZZ characters and their dynamics!

Nicole Demara - 27-28, Mexican/Indian, trans woman, sapphic

Anby Demara - 19, Filipino, demigirl (enby Anby rights), aroace spectrum, definitely has autism.

Billy Kid - 27-28 (at least with physical/mental age… there’s a very reasonable chance he’s been active for a long or short period of time), Argentenian (idc if he’s a robot, he’s latino in my heart), bisexual, inherently got some genderqueerness by being a robot but primarily male/masc, and sentience gave him adhd /hj

Nekomata (Nekomiya Mana) - 15, Black/Japanese, sapphic, potentially has adhd and/or autism (she hasn’t really looked into it much)

Billy doesn’t like rock music (that much anymore) because it was all the Sons of Calydon played on the road. All the time. So he (understandably) needs a break from it.

While we’re on the subject, I’m so curious about classical music putting him to sleep. Does he mean standard “lullaby songs” like Clair de Lune or Sugarplum Fairy? Or would this guy conk out to a Dies Irae? Classical/orchestral music has. A very very wide range.

This is technically more related to Sons of Calydon, and we can’t really say who he does/doesn’t know in the gang yet (Caeser for sure, most likely Piper— Burnice and Lighter are kinda up in the air, but they probably know our silly android man too… and I’m betting Lucy is the newest member? There’s a chance they could know each other— like she joined and he left a little after). But!!! He was often sent out to get booze for the gang because everyone mistakes Piper for a high schooler. Even with a proper ID.

So far the only instance of Billy’s guns “talking” a la Liz and Patty Thompson is from his combat promo video and that’s it… I really really hope we get more elaboration on that at some point. But for now! He totally named them: Annie (the more demure personality) and Jane (the less enthused one)

Unless canon reveals something that makes this completely go out the window… Nicole used to be a defense attorney. Because a briefcase as a weapon is a very lawyer coded trait, you need to have a pretty solid understanding of laws to run a business— especially more legally ambiguous ones like an odd job agency, and y’know. Law school debt.

It’s a big part of why she involves herself in representing Canvas Street against Vision as well!! Though she’s not an attorney again by a long shot— for one, she’s on the prosecuting side against Vision, and she lost her attorney license years before starting Gentle House. But the point still stands that Elle Woods, Mia Fey, and Phoenix Wright walked so Nicole Demara could run

Most humanoid/half(?) thirens are born with animal ears and tails— but there are several genetic exceptions to this standard. Nekomata, for example, has cat ears… and cat feet. Without her special boots and mechanical tails to keep her balanced, it’s incredibly difficult for her to even stand up. In other words, she’s a disabled icon.

Understandably, it takes her a long time to feel comfortable/safe enough in places to keep bare feet. Fortunately (or unfortunately, if you’re an embarrassed little teenage thiren), all of the Cunning Hares can pick up Nekomata and carry her around no problem! They’re more than happy to do this (and/or just get stuff for her) if she doesn’t have her boots on at home.

Nekomata gets very snuggly and affectionate when she’s asleep. She likes to lay with all her teammates at different times, but the most frequent victim is Billy. I mean c’mon, he’s a walking heater.

Billy: We had a bonding moment! I cradled you in my arms!

Nekomata: Nope!!! Don’t remember!!! Didn’t happen!!

Anby occasionally gets ptsd nightmares from her days in the defense force. It used to be a lot more severe when she just joined Nicole… and by force of habit, Anby sneaks into her room the most. Billy and Nekomata catch her drinking tea in the middle of the night sometimes though, and promptly set up a pillow fort on the couch for everyone to hang out in so Anby doesn’t feel so alone.

Nicole: What are you guys doing making so much noise????

Billy: Shut your mouth and get in the pillow fort, Boss.

Nekomata has a collection of fidget items. It’s got every thing from puzzle cubes to random pieces of string. Honestly I could see her picking up crochet, kumihimo (cord weaving), and/or other textile hobbies to keep her hands busy.

The other three have all tried the flashlight thing™️ with her. It works a little too well (Like “Duke do you want the ball?��� too well— she just flies across the room).

Anby, much like her interest in movies, has a very wide range of music she likes. It’s anybody’s guess as to what she’s listening to at a given time.

Nicole: Wow, Anby’s really focused right now… I wonder what she’s listening to?

Anby’s headphones: 🎶 Life is like a hurricaaaane here in! Duckberg! 🎶

Nicole has so much rabbit themed stuff. Plushies, little figures, definitely some scarves and hats, etc. Most of them are gifts from people she’s known in the past, along with the other CH of course.

Nicole and Nekomata would play Animal Crossing together, Billy would freaking love the Kirby series, and I think Anby would really enjoy Miitopia/Tomodachi Life

Billy’s definitely the most proficient gamer of the team. Fighting games, racing games, what have you… he’s won most matches, sometimes without even meaning to. Nicole and Nekomata argue he’s “cheating” because he’s literally got a computer for a brain… and if Billy responds with something akin to “git gud,” his ass is getting tackled.

We know from when Billy appears at the arcade after you played a little, he supposedly has moments where he’s “cursed” and doesn’t play as well with the CH— I don’t know if performance anxiety has anything to do with it (he’s really not the type)— but given Nicole’s association with divination, Nekomata’s inherent connection to yokai and Japanese supernatural, and the CH’s luck motif in general… it’s very funny to think that they “manifest” periods where they can beat him at games. I think if Billy found out, he’d be a little miffed they were trying to nerf him but… honestly it’s really funny and he’s a good sport. They’ll probably stop once he actually knows, though. Anby has literally no part in this, she just finds it entertaining /hj

Anby has to try a burger from literally every restaurant she goes to if it serves them. Practically a connoisseur at this point, though it’s rare for her to find a burger she doesn’t like (unless it’s like. Raw meat or something).

Forgive me for the Soul Eater coming out again, but I’m so fascinated by Nekomata’s socks saying tsubaki on them. And the flower buttons and stuff in her design in general. The flower in general representing devotion. Red camellias (tsubaki in Japanese) represent being in love, or perishing with grace. Yellow represent longing. White represent waiting. “A flower without fragrance. When the petals fall, it is silent and tragic.” There’s so much we can unpack about all of this with our catgirl.

Anby and Billy do it the most, but they all have silly quips of quoting different movie/tv show/internet media lines. They all kinda learn about different stuff through this osmosis.

Nekomata was the most hesitant to warm up to Billy because he reminds her a lot of Miguel Silver. I know we don’t have much about Silver in canon, but… Very competent and can be genuinely threatening, but also a lot more emotional and sentimental than most people would probably expect. I was surprised and kinda endeared when Silver was introduced sobbing and all dramatic as he spoke lmao.

I don’t think she fears a fallout like RFG happening again (at least, it’s not a major anxiety). The fact the CH committed to helping Canvas Street without a second thought is enough proof to her that they’re really not the types to be morally corrupted and all that. But… running into someone who reminds you of a past relationship— but who’s like. Better morals or more well-adjusted or whatever. That feels. So weird. It makes Nekomata think about what could’ve been. Why did her adoptive father become such a hypocrite— how is a robot more sincere about values than he was?

She definitely warms up to Billy a lot more by Ch 3/Ballet Twins stuff. I think it’d be sweet if she talked about her grief with him— Nicole and Anby too, tbh. Even if she separated herself once things weren’t sitting right with her (which takes so much internal strength), Silver was still her dad. She probably found out about his fate in the news broadcast at the very beginning of the game…

Yeah that's definitely also another reason why she clings to Billy the most in her sleep too. She misses her papa,,, and you tend to go towards the familiar and all that.

Anby keeps a small journal of letters to Soldier 11 (or Eleven, as I like to call her). Movie reviews/analysis, reports on commissions, snippets of her domestic life with the others… it acts more like a diary than actual letters she’ll send out. But Anby truly wishes she can share all of the joy and freedom she’s found with Eleven someday. Both in all the stories and helping her experience it too,

I’m a firm believer Anby and Eleven are twins— Burnice definitely has a connection to them too given her own little pack thing… but she also has more blondish hair and looks/acts a little older than them??? So probably not exact triplets or maybe not even biological sisters. But some sort of Huey, Dewey, and Louie grouping would be hilarious

I feel like Nicole is. Very into astrology, horoscopes, tarot cards... online quizzes. We know from one of Anton's trust events that she dabbles in fortune telling for quick cash, but honestly I feel like the others gotta hold her back from doing that more often because it drives them nuts. She's tried to get them in on it but... they're not very good at it. Anby's descriptions are just movie tropes, Nekomata gets distracted by the cards and other trinkets used, and Billy can't keep all the symbolism straight for the life of him.

Nekomata clearly has some education, likely from the RFG/potentially her orphanage... but given she's a street kid, even now (more lowkey) with the CH, it might be a minute until she gets into high school. I don't know if she'd even be that interested in school... probably curious to try it but she'd get so bored so fast lmao. Regardless, Nicole and the others would probably want to help her enroll.

Nekomata when socializing and learning stuff in class: Ok yeah! I can get used to this! Nekomata when she has to do homework: WTF THIS SUCKS

But she more or less gets straight As like the smart lil kitty she is. She asks the others for help/overview fairly often, though.

“Billyyyyyy” 

“I’m not an generative AI, I can’t do your homework for you. Besides that’ll get you into loads of trouble for. Several reasons.” 

“I’m not asking that!! You know more about Outer Ring than I do— can you check if my research for this project is accurate so far?” 

“… Oh yeah, sure!”

Anby is usually the first person to be ready to leave, while Nicole is… the last. You can tell these two are sisters because they always bicker about it /lhj. (Note to myself to make an animatic of these two to this very fun song)

While the CH all share a tv and gotta chart out times for it, they also have group movie nights! Usually they’ll watch really bad movies they can all laugh at and make fun of together. This is where a good chunk of their inside jokes come from. 

Nicole loves to give Anby and Nekomata manicures! She would give them to Billy too, but whatever polish she tries will come off immediately. Anby and Nekomata tend to have theirs chip off fairly quickly too rip

Nekomata moved into Anby’s room when she joined the CH— they’re the youngest and Anby had the most space. While the two had a lot of tension in Ch 1, and some of that can still carry over sometimes, they’re actually pretty good roommates! 

Her whole scene with Billy in the prologue was her attempt at humor to cope with stress (plus finding Billy probably relieved her a lot)… but she struggles with knowing appropriate times. Given Anby has also joked about becoming a monster and tried to nom Billy’s hand (“Rawwwwr”), I don’t think this is too out there lol.

[homestuckreplay]

Harlequin Anger vs Jester Ennui - Color as John Egbert’s Emotions

Week 2 Retrospective

John Egbert is the silliest little guy, but we’re starting to see hints of what he’s feeling beneath the surface. Looking at the themes of the comic so far, my current theory is that the colorful elements in the comic are the things that make John feel strong emotions - both good and bad - while the monochrome elements represent what makes John feel bored and frustrated.

Analysis below the cut - about 2,200 words.

‘A familiar note is produced. It's the one Desolation plays to keep its instrument in tune.’ (p.82)

Desolation has two, related meanings - one is loneliness, grief, and lack of companionship, while the other is ruin, emptiness and destruction. The first meaning is John’s current mental state, while the second is the suburb he lives in. The majority of what’s surrounding John is entirely monochrome, and so is John himself. We also learn from the narration on p.82 that ‘something feels missing from [John’s] life’ and that he has a sense ‘not of mirth, but of lack’. I think he spends a lot of time going through the motions - poking at things in his room without settling to anything, wandering up and down the stairs when his dad is occupied - but his life is the same day in and day out, and he struggles to inject any excitement into his life, or even any anger at the situation he’s trapped in. 

I think it’s extremely notable that almost everything relating to John’s family is monochrome. In addition to the house as a whole, the portraits of his dad and nanna are monochrome, as are the gifts and cakes from his dad, the car outside, and most importantly the piano. I don’t think John hates his father, but I think he struggles to connect with him or feel close to him. Ignoring page 72’s peanut ambiguity, the worst we hear about Dad is that he will ‘monopolize hours of [John’s] time’ (p.30) and ‘can be a real cornball’ (p.49), which is a big contrast to him calling Betty Crocker his ‘arch nemesis’ (p.48). 

Therefore, John’s dad is an inconvenience, not a threat. John might know intellectually that his dad loves him - ‘the old man really came through this time’ (p.19), as well as the kind fatherly notes left on John’s birthday presents (p.12, p.55) - but I think he can’t make the leap to actually caring about his dad in return or enjoying his company.

John is a gifted piano player, and gives us a ‘haunting piano refrain’ (p.77). Him being a musician ties back into the act title - ‘the note desolation plays’ uses the language of music, something so often filled with emotion, to describe a lack of it. Given that, of course the piano is monochrome. Perhaps John even sees the piano as the source of his problems, or at least representative of them. 

I noted at the time that it was strange John hadn’t listed piano among his interests when it’s clearly something he’s spent a lot of time on, and now I think it’s something that was taught to him as a kid by either his dad or nanna. He’s good at it, but he’s so disconnected from family life that it no longer brings him any joy, it’s just a hangover from his childhood. ‘Haunting’ makes me think it was his nanna who taught him - now every time John plays, he’s haunted by her memory (or even her literal ghost). Possibly her death is what made John disconnect from the hobby, especially with ‘desolation’ relating to grief.

On page 4, we get our first glimpse of the outside. The blue sky shot through with the brown tree is the largest splash of color in John’s room. The promise of the outside world is extremely colorful, and we know John wants to go there - the window reflected in John’s glasses on page 28 as he grins excitedly is a clear visual indication of that. Yet when we finally see it, the outside isn’t all color - the grass, sky, trees and flowers all are, but the man made aspects such as the driveway, tire swing, and other houses in the neighborhood are gray and dull.

Page 82 gives us the dramatic moment of John removing his clever disguise and gazing up at the sky. It’s the first time we see the sun and the uninterrupted expanse, and it’s framed like it’s significant for John, too. I don’t think it’s literally his first time stepping outside (you can’t tell me his dad didn’t push him on that tire swing as a kid) but I think it’s the moment he realizes that leaving his literal house doesn’t mean he’s not stuck - the neighborhood is just more of the same, and whatever restrictions John’s working within mean he can’t go any further than this. A front yard is legally part of a house, and the reality of the outside doesn’t excite him as much as the idea of it.

And then there’s the clowns. The one aspect of his dad that really gets John going; the harlequin portraits in the hallway and living room that Dad brought back from clown con are bright, obnoxious, and impossible to ignore. Interestingly, the ones in the study are black and white - perhaps John is okay with the clown pictures in the study, because that’s explicitly his dad’s space, but he doesn’t like the ones in the main area, because they make him feel like the house is fully his dad’s, not a shared space they could decorate together. 

This is pure speculation, but I don’t think John has ever moved house. I get the impression that he grew up in this house, which is his dad’s now and was perhaps originally his nanna’s, and has never known a world outside of this specific neighborhood. Because John’s been there since he was born, it’s never crossed his dad’s mind that John might want to, say, put his Little Monsters poster in the living room - hence why that gift was left in John’s bedroom, while the harlequin doll is allowed to be downstairs. 

Speaking of John’s room, it’s definitely not an oasis of color within the house. In our first shot of the room, we see six splashes of color, including the outside and John’s shirt - comparable to the living room (six including John’s shirt and hat) and study (five including the outside and John’s hat). A full three of the colorful elements in John’s room are related to Sburb, which in both the visuals and text is the thing John’s by far the most excited about right now, but I’ll circle back around to this. 

John’s magic chest, magician’s hat, blood capsules, and copies of Colonel Sassacre’s and Wise Guy are all colorful too, but other prank elements - fake arms, beaglepuss, handcuffs, sword, smoke pellets) are all monochrome. This one’s tough, but my best guess is that John feels conflicted about his interest in pranks because it’s so similar to his dad’s interest, and perhaps even that the monochrome items are things John’s dad bought for him for past birthdays and holidays, while the colorful ones are things John got for himself. 

John’s shirt is also worth mentioning here. John’s ambivalence with the house extends to himself, and kids often don’t have a lot of control over their appearance. He probably doesn’t choose his own clothes or glasses or haircut, and he definitely can’t go out and get a tattoo of Slimer or anything like that, so it’s very telling that wearing a shirt with a favorite movie on it is the one way John can actually connect to himself. 

That said, all the movie posters in his room are monochrome, which I’ll again circle back to. One exception is the close up of the Problem Sleuth poster (p.11), which is mostly monochrome, but has four kernels of colorful candy corn. I love this detail so much. It’s a fun reference to Hussie’s previous work and suggests that the candy corn gags in Problem Sleuth are John’s favorite part, which feels right for him. I wonder if John will use candy corn for a prank at some point in reference to this game he likes. I also noticed that the menu bar at the top of the web page also contains four kernels of candy corn - is this just because Problem Sleuth is Hussie’s most notable work, or could it be a clue for Homestuck too?

The most colorful and complex elements of the comic so far are the screens. We see John’s computer, which as a physical object is monochrome but which lights up to a brightly colored world of chums, flashing programs, desktop icons and stunning feats of graphic design, including things John loves (Slimer) and things that make him boil with rage (coding). We also get to see a very green tinted TV commercial in the living room, and a full color clip of Con Air linked from page 20. 

All this makes me wonder if John’s list of interests is chronological. First on his list (p.4) is ‘really terrible movies’, and many of his favorite titles are from the 1980s and 90s, meaning he probably grew up with them. I think he still loves watching and discussing them, but - given that movies are a fairly passive medium - just the reminder of them on his wall isn’t enough to take him out of his own head anymore. He then got into programming, the paranormal, magic, and video games in sequence, meaning that the final two are his most active interests right now, and the ones to which the most time and color are devoted. In this way, the casual end to the list ‘You also like to play GAMES sometimes’ reads like intentionally downplaying something that’s actually really important, the sarcasm of ‘sometimes’ revealed later when we learn that John has ‘put countless manhours into this assortment of quality titles’ (p.31).

Unlike the movie posters, most of the games on John’s CD rack are in color, and unlike movies, games can offer an interactive, immersive experience. Games are enticing to John right now because they’re the best escape from a monotonous, suburban life that John has access to. He’s played his current collection time and time again (to the point that Bard Quest and Problem Sleuth have lost their color), and that’s why he’s so desperate for Sburb to arrive, and why the colorful reminders of Sburb are all over his room.

I think there’s a very real question of whether Sburb will live up to John’s expectations. At only one letter away from Suburb, it’s a clear reminder that video games don’t actually take John away from the life he’s stuck in, they’re a cosmetic alteration at best - and if the themes of the game are too close to John’s real life problems, he won’t find that escapism. So while I’d love to see a version of this comic where John finally starts playing Sburb and the whole screen immediately explodes into color, I’m not sure it’ll be that easy.

Finally, there’s the meta elements of the story. The captchalogue card overlay and strife specibus are pink and green respectively, and other elements that pop up (indication of whether or not we’ve got John’s name right, the cake turning blue when selected, the blinking green telling us we can put the poster on the wall, etc) are colorful too. The hammer that John allocates to his strife specibus is monochrome, however, which fits really well with John allocating it on TG’s instructions and not knowing that the allocation is permanent. If he’d known, he would have chosen something he felt more strongly about.

Interestingly, the narrative text is black. I still don’t think we’re directly getting John’s perspective, I think that’s been filtered through a specific narrator who has a voice very different to John’s (based on John’s Pesterchum messages), but I don’t think John has any awareness of this. In contrast, he’s all too aware of his captchalogue deck and the artificial, needlessly complex limitations it imposes, and he visually reacts to us getting his name right or wrong. 

If John were to somehow become aware of the narrative text, and have strong feelings about the way he’s being portrayed (or the fact that he’s being written about at all), perhaps it would change color? After all, when John talks to his friends, each of them has a defined color, perhaps relating to the different relationships he has with each friend, and different emotions arising from that. John doesn’t seem to always like his friends - he gets frustrated at the notifications, and spends his whole conversation with TT already trying to leave - but he still replies and actively engages with them, a massive contrast to how he is with his dad. 

‘His riddle is Absence itself.’ (p.82)

To conclude, I do find it interesting that the brightest colors in the comic are the things that are most natural (grass, flowers) and the things that are most artificial (screens, the abstract concept of the inventory) while everything in the middle is black and white. This fits with the idea of color being about both extremes at once, and the idea that John wants a chance to explore both the real and virtual worlds. 

The meta function of color is to make certain visual elements stand out to the audience and tell us they’re worth paying attention to. From a purely functional perspective, it makes sense that the things most important to John would also be highlighted to us. But given the theme of lack and emptiness, the absence of color is just as important. And as the comic is already playing so much with the meta, I think that’s the most helpful starting point for analysis. 

[the-boney-rolls]

The Great Covid Beatles Binge, Day 2: Give My Regards to Broad Street

Hoo boy, here we go!

OK so we open with a stern/bored looking Paul stuck in traffic in the rain and it looks like he's spacing out... hey, Paul, are you starting to daydream? Paul? Is this whole movie about to be a dream, Paul? Oh god

This silly little car! The computer, the carpet, the pool ball gear shift. It's giving the 80's car version of the Beatles house in Help! It's also giving hyper-masculine in a way that is, I'm sorry, not convincing.

This plot is already deeply inscrutable. Something about some missing tapes, a reformed criminal that Paul knows somehow and trusts for some reason, and some ominous business men. Something bad will happen at midnight if the tapes aren't found. OK!

Ringo looks so cool and hot! That vest over that sick as hell dragon shirt. Yes. This scene is genuinely funny, too -- Ringo spends the entirety of "Here, There and Everywhere" and "Yesterday" searching through his mountains of drum equipment looking for brushes, only to find them too late. Apparently, the reason for this scene is that Ringo just didn't want to re-record old Beatles songs!

And now we have Paul, Ringo, George Martin and Geoff Emerick all together in a scene! Makes me think about how George Harrison apparently was a little miffed Paul didn't just call him to ask for filmmaking advice since it was something he had experience with. What could have been!

“Wanderlust” is such a great song, actually, damn.

“I’m not a bad boy, really. I’m just — er, manipulated” John??

Now this is more like it! Surprise Linda in drag, hell yes!

I don't know why this scene is happening? It's a rehearsal for... something? But I'll take it. I love "Ballroom Dancing" and I love vaudeville Paul.

I'm starting to feel like Paul's grandpa in AHDN, "so far, I've been in a train and a room, and a car and a room, and a room and a room." Did Paul's experience on that set define what a movie is to him? "Ah yes, a movie must include lots of transportation from one location to another and then some musical scenes." But dear, it worked because there were jokes! And all four of you to play off each other.

I.......... what

This is Silly Love Songs, of all things!

Again, I don't know why this scene is happening in the context of the movie. Is it another rehearsal for something? A music video? Television special? Who knows, Yoko! But OK here we go, I sure am having fun! Linda is extremely into it. That slap bass kills. There's a Michael Jackson impersonator for some reason? Sure! It makes no sense but I love this man and his bizarre beautiful mind.

So now we're doing band rehearsal in some kind of barn? Or abandoned warehouse? Or something? All of the plot of this movie seems to happen in dialog in cars en route to some ambiguous musical engagement.

“Do you think we can get some heat in here or are we practicing to be Canadians?” God bless you, Ringo.

“Should we try Not Such a Bad Boy” “Do we have to?” “Yeah” Bossy Paul bosses around a Beatle, we love to see it.

Is this song about him or John? 

The French horn player coming in late to record "For No One," inexplicably in a bright red motorcycle helmet, so late that he’s preparing up until right before the solo starts. Reminds me of that story of Ringo recording Hey Jude. But it also feels very symbolic of something. There are so many odd inscrutable details in this movie, it could almost be Lynchian in someone else's hands.

“We’re running, and running out of time too” It feels meaningful but I don't know how.

Hello Mr. Darcy! Wow, can I have an entire movie that’s just this Victorian dream sequence? Can we go back in time and do a Beatles movie period piece, please??

The strings in this which are inspired by but are not quite "Eleanor Rigby" are lovely. Apparently this whole sequence is called "Eleanor's Dream," which implies that Paul is Eleanor. Make of that what you will, I suppose.

I like that Linda is a pants-wearing photographer in this period scene. Linda's gotta Linda.

This strikes me as very Evil Beatles. Again, make of that what you will.

Barbara and Linda are acting the HELL out of this going over the waterfall scene damn.

I don't know, I could screen grab this entire segment, it's amazing, it's insane.

But I can't gloss over Paul being horny for Ghost Horse Girl Linda. Incredible.

"That’s it you’re finished. What are you gonna do now?" Well ok at least this one is pretty obviously a reference to the critical reception of his career after the Beatles and again after John.

"Uncle Jim" Ok so I guess this is supposed to be his dad, but what is the point of this scene? And why the monkey? The further I get into this film the more I feel like I am looking deep into this man's psyche but through the murkiest of windows. I'm here for the weird dream symbolism, Paul, but if you're gonna go that route, again go full Lynch and get even weirder.

Just the straight up original recording of "Band on the Run" feels out of place with all these re-records. I wonder why that choice.

His car license plate is "PM 1" That's right, baby, you're number 1.

Another little cute but inconsequential day dream (presumably within the dream that is this entire movie). He looks like Roy Orbison here.

Oh ok Harry was just locked in a cupboard this whole time. So the whole "plot" was pointless. Cool cool cool.

Paul and Harry being giddy and laughing together is cute though, and it makes me wish that that relationship was fleshed out more. Who are they to each other, exactly??

Yup it was all a dream. Love it, love that for us. Thanks, Paul.

OK so this was definitely barely a movie. There could have been something here, but I'll go back to what I said above -- I wish he'd gone weirder with the whole thing! And I wish Paul himself had been weirder. The character Paul is kind of a dud, just plodding along from place to place and only coming alive when he performs. It's like that Hawaiian shirt is supposed to be a stand in for characterization. But worth it for the music video scenes and for getting a tiny glimpse into Paul's psyche.

[wobster109]

Finally played Alhaitham’s story quest. I was waiting for a quiet night to really focus on it. And, good grief, man.

I’m always the first to say “no ship is canon in Genshin”, and that whether it’s official has nothing to do with whether people can or should like it. And the second part of that is still true.

I was sure it would all be barely-there subtext and ambiguous wording that you can read into if you try. But no, Alhaitham is incredibly blatant! He wraps up the investigation and suddenly he’s all smiley and playful. Genuinely shocked by how much he smiles. Gives a big, dramatic speech - “I’m not like you Siraj!” Very next scene we’re walking into his house, where it’s all golden and there’s his pretty roommate haloed in golden light, and Kaveh fusses at him about furniture and dust, and it’s all so damn domestic. And Alhaitham is smiling in every scene.

The implication being that the reason he’s not like Siraj is that he has this home and this person to go back to. And he’s really, really happy.

Ugh get a room, you insufferable scribe! (affectionate)

[snowyslytherinowl]

Perfect Prefect - Part 1

PAIRING: George Weasley x Reader or George Weasley x OC

SUMMARY: You’re Miss Moore of Ravenclaw, a sixth-year prefect and one of the house’s best and brightest. You don’t know who to go to the Yule Ball with, but luckily for you, George has secretly had a crush on you for a while and charms you into being his date. But there’s one slight problem that’s holding you back from sharing the news of your budding romance: your best friend and Fred Weasley are far from friends.

This work can be read either as George Weasley x OC or a reader-insert since the main character’s physical characteristics and first name remain ambiguous. I usually only publish the first part of a work when I finish the entire story or have most of it worked out, but I’m tired of having this sit in my WIP folder (and maybe it’ll motivate me to stop playing Supermarket Simulator and start writing LMAO). I’m not entirely sure when the second part will be released since I’m kinda struggling with it; nonetheless, I hope you enjoy!

*GIF isn't mine; credit to @jamilelucato

We all hold our breaths as the door creaks open and Sinclair even dips her head under the water. If it’s a boy opening the door, we’d most likely scream. If it’s Professor McGonagall, it’s guaranteed we’d be reprimanded for allowing Edwards into the Prefects’ Bathroom since she technically isn’t allowed in here. 

Pritchard and Lloyd emerge from the other side of the door and we all let out a breath. Sinclair pops up from underneath the water and she sighs. “We thought you two weren’t joining us today!” 

“Sorry we’re late! Professor Sprout held us back to tell her two favorite Hufflepuffs a little secret,” Lloyd says slyly. Pritchard stands behind her, making a poor attempt to suppress a smile. 

“Wait, what are you talking about?” I ask them. Professor Sprout frequently tells Lloyd and Pritchard information that only the staff are supposed to know and swears them to secrecy. Of course, their seal of secrecy doesn’t extend to us. 

“Whenever the Triwizard Tournament takes place, the school that hosts the event also hosts the Yule Ball! It’s a dance that takes place during Christmas!” Pritchard squeals. 

When the two of them join us in the bath, they divulge everything they know about the Yule Ball. Hogwarts hasn’t hosted a Yule Ball for over a century, so we’re all dying to know what the Great Hall will look like, who will be performing, and which teachers will get on the dance floor. Even Sinclair has to laugh when we imagine Professors Snape and McGonagall dancing together. Our conversation then steers to who we want to go to the ball with.

“When the Yule Ball is publicly announced, I think I’m going to ask Matthew.” Ainsworth’s cheeks blush as she says his name and it becomes my turn to smile. She’s fancied him since the beginning of the year when they partnered up in Transfiguration. She mentions him at least once during our daily debriefings in the Prefects’ Bathroom. 

“Now that is the true embodiment of the Gryffindor spirit. I second that.” Sinclair nods in approval and also grins when she notices Ainsworth blushing. 

Ainsworth smirks and swims over to sit next to Sinclair. Sinclair awkwardly scoots over as Ainsworth nudges her and rests her head on her shoulder. “Are you telling us that you also plan to ask a boy?” she asks with a sing-song voice.

“No. I meant that if you like a boy, you should ask him out. What’s the point of sitting around and waiting for a boy to make the first move when a girl is just as capable of taking the initiative?” Sinclair says with conviction.

“So does that mean you’ll take the initiative to ask Fred yourself?” Ainsworth asks with a poke to Sinclair’s shoulder. She typically gives murderous looks when someone displeases her, but this look to Ainsworth would rip her to shreds and feed her soul to the dementors. She snatches her towel and stomps out of the bath. 

“Don’t joke about that! There is no one low enough for that empty-minded, snarky tosser! All of us deserve someone better than him!” Sinclair wraps her towel around her body and heads to one of the bathroom stalls to change out of her bathing suit, ignoring the laughter that follows her. She has a vendetta against Fred Weasley, and just Fred. He bothers her in every class they have together and pairs up with her just to get on her nerves. Since she became a prefect, Fred has plotted endless pranks against her and always escapes from the scene of the crime before she can report him. Every day, we have to hear her rage about him or her plans to best him. 

Ainsworth turns to the rest of us and blows bubbles into the air. “So, Moore, who do you have in mind?”

Everyone turns to look at me and I shrug in response. “I don’t know.” That’s the truth. I don’t have a boyfriend or a crush. I’ve been too caught up in my prefect duties and my classes to even think about romance. 

“There really is no one you fancy?” Edwards asks, giving me a suspicious look. “I don’t believe that.”

“Look, the selection here isn’t prime.” There’s a long list of abominable boys that I can think of: Zacharias Smith since all he does is complain, Oscar May because he only talks about himself, and at least a dozen Slytherins with pure-blood ideals. “Even a lot of the cute ones act like they’re still first-years.”

“Spot on, Moore,” Sinclair comments as she emerges from the stall. She’s fully changed, but her wet hair walls around her face. She folds her towel and throws her bag around her shoulders. 

“Where are you going?” Ainsworth asks, shocked. “We’ve still got a quarter of an hour left!”

“Professor Snape wants to talk to me about something and I will not be late,” Sinclair says with a sigh. She points at Ainsworth before leaving the room. “Don’t forget that we have prefect duties tonight!”

Edwards and Pritchard spend the rest of our daily debriefing talking about guys they think are attractive. After I change and dry my hair, I head to the library to finish Flitwick’s essay on the limitations of portkeys. Sentence after sentence is written and page after page is flipped and I’m so caught up in my essay that I don’t notice that someone joins me at the end of the table. 

A pop and a slam bring me back to the library. I look over to see one of the Weasley twins pressing something down on the table with the palm of his hand. Whatever he’s holding down is wiggling furiously and desperately attempting to escape. Since nothing explodes or disfigures his face, I return to reading and try not to get distracted. 

Not a minute goes by when the sound of hopping and a scraping chair rips my attention from my work yet again. I almost jump out of my seat when I see a miniature frog jumping to the ceiling and landing on the table. Although it doesn’t move forward significantly each time it jumps and lands, it progressively inches closer to me. The last thing I want is for my work to be destroyed, so I cast a charm that knocks it back down to the table and disables its movement. 

Weasley approaches me and I hold out my hand so he can retrieve his frog. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes with a nervous laugh. 

“It’s fine. Are you trying to sell these?” Ainsworth has told us about Fred and George’s plans for a prank shop. I always see them huddled together in the hallways, probably developing devious new products. 

“Yeah. You see, I had this brilliant idea all worked out, but it hasn’t been going as I planned. Tap the frog with your wand and boom! It hops all around and chaos ensues! But no, they jump too high and get squashed by the ceiling.” 

“Can I take a look at it?” He nods and I turn the tiny frog in my hands. They look so realistic that I almost didn’t notice that they’re painted frogs that croak “ribbit.” “What charms are you using for this?”

“A Jumping Jinx.” When I shake my head, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

I summon a book off a nearby shelf about locomotion charms, from flying and gliding to running and twirling. After turning to the page about the Jumping Jinx, I beckon Weasley over. He sits in the chair next to me and leans towards me so we both can see the opened page. I gulp before reciting an excerpt, “‘The Jumping Jinx is a clever way to curse those you want to imbue with frog-like qualities. Beware of using this jinx on inanimate objects, however, since it can cause the object to hop around erratically and turn laughter into screams.’ Quite dramatic, but there you go.” 

Weasley turns to me and grins. I blush and look back down at the book. “I had no idea. So what do you suggest?” 

I check the index for the sections on inanimate objects and turn to page 179. “The sounds coming from your frog sound fine, so do whatever you’re already doing. These two, that’s what you should use for the jumping.” I point at the 360 Charm and the Height Hex. “Do you have a spare frog you haven’t charmed yet?” 

Weasley digs through his pocket to find one and places it on the table. “Watch what I do. You’ll charm the frog to make sounds later since I’d rather not get us kicked out,” I say. He scooches his seat even closer to me and focuses attentively on my hands. I take a deep breath to calm myself before beginning. 

I tap the frog with my wand twice and utter “progressio height.” “This will only jump to one foot. Every time you tap it with your wand, it will jump one foot higher until it reaches ten feet. Then it’ll reset back to one foot. Just put that in the instructions and any kid can change the height.” Then, I swish my wand in a figure-eight motion. “The 360 Charm will make the frog change directions randomly so it’ll give Filch a hard time getting his hands on one.” 

Both of us laugh and Weasley proclaims, “You’re bloody brilliant! I’d definitely hire you for my shop if we even had a place to set up shop.” 

I blush at his compliment. “You’re one of the Weasley twins, aren’t you?”

“George. The better looking one, that is.” I giggle and internally breathe a sigh of relief. Although Sinclair thinks that George is pesky, she ignores him for the most part. All her hatred is directed at his twin, and I’d rather not deal with the drama of fraternizing with Fred. “Moore, isn’t it? A Ravenclaw with both brains and beauty.”

I blush an even deeper crimson and bite my lower lip as I nod. George stuffs his frogs in his pocket and stands to leave the library. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around.”

“Bye.” I wave at him and my eyes follow his back as he leaves the library. 

XXX

Over the next few days, two of my friends find dates. We were all in the courtyard when Pritchard was asked by a Durmstrang boy, who bowed to her twice and kissed her hand! We weren’t there to see Ainsworth ask Matthew since she cornered him outside the greenhouse to pop the question. Though whenever I pass by the two of them cuddling up, I’m unable to hide my grin.  

I sat at the same table in the library after dinner for two days in a row, eagerly waiting for George. I felt silly for shooting my head up whenever someone walked nearby, and even more the fool for when he didn’t show up. Now on the third day, when I mistook another ginger boy for George, I internally chide myself for thinking he was being anything more than friendly. 

“Hey, you think you can lend a hand on some constipation magic?”

I look up from my numerical charts to see no one other than George Weasley smiling and holding a jar full of chewy candies. I laugh at his question and reply, “Not too much, honestly.”

“That’s fine. I’m here to talk to you, anyway.” He doesn’t give me much time to think about what he said since he sits directly next to me again and unscrews the lid of the jar. “These are meant to give you a case of constipation. Instead, they’re making you diarrhea your trousers in the middle of the corridors.”

“I’ll make sure not to eat one.” I squeeze a candy between my fingers, which oozes a gooey filling and sticks to my thumb and pointer fingers. “I don’t know, you should make the outer coating hard? I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but maybe if the candy is hard then your poo will be hard?”

“How about that?” We comb through books on potions for bodily fluids and I learn more about those potions than I ever wanted to know. Dozens of pages cover graphic ways to clear boils, and an entire section is devoted to making snot gush out of a nose like a raging waterfall. Gross. Eventually, George finds a page on potions for solid and liquid bodily fluids. 

“You were right!” he exclaims and pushes the book toward me. It’s some law about making potions for food that will either help or hurt your bowel movement.  

I encouragingly smile at him, but still say, “You should’ve looked for this yourself. I can’t believe you convinced me to read about all these gross potions.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at me and slicks back his hair, just like those cheesy characters on Muggle television shows.  “What can I say? I’m irresistible.” 

The library is about to close, so we head out before Madam Pince kicks us out. George offers to walk me to Ravenclaw Tower and along the way, we brainstorm ideas for sweets that are magically compatible with U-No-Poo. Popular sweets sold at Honeydukes also give us an idea of marketable candies, so we agree that chocolate with a hard outer shell will sell the best. 

When we reach the top of the spiral staircase, George asks me, “Aren’t you going to say your password? Or would you rather stick around for some extra quality time with me?”

Smiling shyly, I explain, “You have to answer a riddle to get in.” 

I knock the bronze knocker, which asks, “I never leave your body, but I’m easily lost and given away. What am I?”

I curse the knocker, who likely proposed this riddle since George is standing next to me. I lean in and whisper “heart” so only the knocker can hear it. The door swings open.

“What was the answer?” George asks, looking quite cute with his brows furrowed and a jar held against his chest. 

I push the thought aside and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

George smiles. “You bet.”

XXX

Throughout the next week, George and I meet either at the library or the Black Lake. Most of the time, we discuss ideas he and Fred have for the joke shop; other times, we speak about our other hobbies, friends, and funny stories. He tells me the stories that Fred told him about Sinclair and each time, there are always little details that don’t line up with the stories I’ve heard.

December weather is freezing, so a warmth charm helps when I’m sitting under a beech tree near the Black Lake. As I wait for George, I take a piece of dark blue fabric out of my bag and use my wand to sprinkle on twinkling stars and colorful rotating planets. Thin lines connecting the stars form constellations across the fabric, resembling the paintings of the night sky in my grandmum’s house. 

Someone shouts my first name and I look up to see George waving at me from afar. Resting the fabric on my lap, I wave back and pat the ground next to me. He plops down so close to me that our shoulders nearly touch. 

“You made that? It’s gorgeous!” George runs a hand through the fabric and traces his finger over the constellations. 

“Thanks,” I reply, blushing. Even after spending almost every day with him, I still blush around him, especially since he doesn’t seem to believe in personal space. 

“Do you have more with you?” 

I pull out three more sheets of fabric, all different designs. The one on top shows Hogwarts Castle on a sunny day with puffy clouds lazily floating past. George smiles at the fabric showing my red Scottish Fold, Peanut, napping on our favorite couch in the Ravenclaw Common Room. But George’s favorite fabric is one of Rubik’s Cube repeatedly solving and shuffling itself on a plain white background. 

“What is that thing?” George wonders, staring at the little cube in awe. 

I laugh at his amazement and tell him that it’s a Muggle Rubik’s Cube. My family owns at least four. My cousin and I used to compete over which one of us could solve it faster and it was always me, but I’m pretty sure that’s because he let me win. 

“I can imagine the look on my dad’s face if he got his hands on one of those,” George remarks and hands the fabrics back to me. 

George has told me about his father’s love for everything Muggle and I can’t help but smile at how cute that is. It reminds me of George’s fascination with jokes and pranks. “I’ll show him one if I meet him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about these before? The fabrics.”

I shrug and watch a group of first-year Ravenclaws making a snowman right at the edge of the lake. “I don’t know. It’s just something I do in the meantime. The girls do it too. Sinclair makes jewelry, Ainsworth paints, Edwards makes bags, and I sew designs on random pieces of fabric. Sometimes I add designs to Edwards’s bags. And if I have enough fabrics that all match a theme, I make a quilt.”

George huffs a laugh and I raise my eyebrows at him. “You lot are quite peculiar. I don’t get it. Why do you call each other by your last names?”

“Sinclair thought that calling each other by our last names was more ‘business-like’ and ‘appropriate for talented students worthy of future greatness.’” We both chuckle before I continue, “I think that’s only half the reason. Pritchard hates her first name, so she prefers to be called by her last name anyway. Sinclair didn’t want her to feel singled out.”

“She seems to be the ringleader of your bunch.”

“Definitely, but only because she’s so protective of us.” I nod at George’s bag and poke a hand inside the smaller pouch. “Enough about me. What are we working on today? Something to make your skin turn orange?”

“Do I need an excuse to talk to my favorite girl?” He moves impossibly closer to me and our faces are so close that my mind jumps to him kissing me. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he did. “You’re always helping me. Last night, it occurred to me I never do anything for you.”

“I’m not here because I expect anything in return,” I answer honestly. 

“You should’ve been sorted into Hufflepuff because of how kind you are.” George nudges me on my shoulder and I look down and bite my lower lip. “But I was thinking we could make a deal.”

A deal? Is he proposing that I get a cut for perfecting his products if his dream of opening a joke shop comes true? “Like what?”

“You continue to work on the joke products with me and in return, Fred and I don’t play pranks in front of you or your prefect friends. That way, there’s no need to report us. Seriously, why would a prefect participate in this pranking business?”

“Send me to Azkaban for liking problem-solving.” I playfully smack George’s arm and he rubs his hands in faux pain. “That’s hardly a deal, anyway.”

“Fine, you’ve got a point. How about this? Fred and I don’t play pranks in front of you and your friends, even Sinclair. For added benefit, the two of us go to the Yule Ball together. I’d say it’s a mutually beneficial transaction.” A hopeful sparkle appears in George’s eye. In the corner of my vision, I see George’s hands gripping his knees in nervousness. 

Before I can give him more time to feel anxious, I kiss George’s cheek and reply, “I’d love to go to the ball with you.”

George beams at me and my face mirrors his smile. “Fantastic! Now how about we head back inside? It’s getting chilly out here.” His body heat has been providing some warmth, but a slight breeze has me sticking my hands in the pockets of my coat. 

“Sure.” George stands first and offers a hand to help me up. Instead of letting go after I balance myself, I lean into him and hold his hand as we walk back to the warmth of Hogwarts Castle. 

XXX

Cold air fills the corridors of Hogwarts, forcing me to rub my hands together and cast a warmth charm. I press the tip of my wand onto my stiff fingers, finally regaining feeling in them. 

“Are you all right?” Sinclair asks. She grabs my hand and squeezes it, feeling how my hand is only beginning to warm. 

“Yeah, don’t worry. I just wish we didn’t have rounds tonight. It’s freezing,” I say. Ainsworth, Sinclair, Pritchard, and I prefer to complete our rounds together. Sticking together prevents us from getting bored, all while providing extra protection in case anything dangerous is lurking in these halls. With Harry Potter inside these castle walls, something may pop out and try to eat us. 

“If you say so. We can always stop by the kitchens and sit by the fire.” We turn the corner and hear water drop onto the stone floor. 

I don’t want her to worry about me, so I change the topic. “Are you excited for the Yule Ball?”

“I suppose. It’s something different than being home for Christmas,” she replies. After a moment’s pause, she turns to me. “Is this about Yule Ball dates?”

“Maybe.” Something moves at the end of the corridor, but I relax when I realize it’s only a mouse.

“Wait, don’t tell me you already have a date?” she asks and smirks at me. 

“No, not yet,” I lie. “I do have someone in mind, though, and I want your opinion.” I wouldn’t ditch George even if Sinclair attempts to dissuade me from going with him. On the other hand, I want to at least gauge her true opinion of him and avoid a future fight. 

“Listen, I know that you’ll ask me if I approve of him. However, I don’t want you to feel tense over or think that I’ll get upset by your choice of men. I won’t stop you from going with him regardless of whether I like him or not. That’s only as long you aren’t going with Fred Weasley, of course.”

“Ok, so what if I told you I’m interested in someone like him?” 

Sinclair furrows her brow and chews on the inside of her mouth. “What do you mean? Like McLaggen, Smith, or Malfoy? Aren’t the latter two too young for you?” 

Why does she associate McLaggen, Smith, and Malfoy with Fred? “Um, no.”

“Then who do you mean?” Sinclair asks, her features mirroring an even deeper sense of confusion. 

“Honestly, it’s-” 

I’m cut off by the Head Boy, who waves at the two of us. His voice booms from the foot of the stairs as he calls, “Hey, Sinclair! Come down here! Crehan threw up his dinner.” 

“Coming!” Sinclair shouts back. She turns to me and says, “Let’s discuss boy business tomorrow, okay?” Before I can reply, she runs down the stairs and starts walking with the Head Boy.

XXX

“I hate working in groups of four,” Sinclair sighs as the Charms class divides itself into quartets. Our friends at the next table naturally pair together, leaving the two of us with the awkward task of finding two other partners. 

I clutch the textbook to my chest as Sinclair and I walk around the classroom, asking people to work with us. Unfortunately for us, everyone already has partners in mind. Sinclair stands on her tippy-toes, attempting to look through the hubbub of the moving classroom. Her efforts aren’t necessary, though, because Fred and George stand taller than anyone else in the class and they conveniently look partnerless as well. George waves me over when we lock eyes, so I turn to Sinclair to say, “Come on, I found us partners.”

“Are you kidding me?” she groans when she sees who I’m dragging her to. “Is there no one else to work with?”

“Not unless you want to work with your slimy housemates. Warrington and Pucey are also partnerless.”

Sinclair completely ignores Fred when we reach the twins’ corner of the room and looks only at George. “Good morning, Weasley. How are you? I’m glad we could find one competent partner.” 

“And who am I?” Fred scoffs at her. He rolls his eyes and sits at the nearby table to avoid standing next to her for too long.

Sinclair slides into the seat across from him before setting a scrutinizing gaze at him and replying, “Gum on the bottom of my shoes.” She will only make eye contact with him if he’s sitting down since she refuses to “look up to him.” 

“They’re insufferable,” George leans down to whisper into my ear. I smack him on the shoulder as I sit next to Sinclair. 

“Come on, try your hardest to keep up with me,” Fred teases her and opens up his textbook. Sinclair glares at him and mutters “as if” under her breath.

George glances at his brother and Sinclair, who are now debating who will complete the assignment the fastest. George leans across the table to tell me, “I’ve been waiting to work with you for the longest time.”

“Really? How long?” 

He scrunches his face as he pauses to think for a moment. “I’d say at least two months.”

I blush and look at the board to the side of him. Rowena, if I keep this up, I’ll be known as Blush. The textbook page for the Anti-Alohamora Charm is written on the board, so I flip to it with the flick of my wand. “Then why didn’t you start talking to me two months ago? You act like you never get a bout of shyness.”

“Around pretty girls like you I do,” he replies and winks. He cranes his head to look at the board behind him and returns with another one of his smiles. “I bet you already know this one.”

“Yup. Now let’s get started as these two have another row. I’m sure the two of us can manage it on our own.” I stand up to grab a set of four locks for each group member, but Sinclair and Fred are too busy arguing to notice that I’ve placed locks in the center of the table. 

George grabs the blue lock and turns to me expectantly. “Show me how it’s done, beautiful.” He doesn’t pay a lick of attention to what I’m doing to my lock; instead, he’s staring at me with a goofy grin. My cheeks burn as I remember that his brother and my best friend are sitting right next to us.  

I cast the final spell to ensure that the lock doesn’t open with physical force. I then use my hand to turn George’s head to gaze at the table. “Step one: pay attention to the lock,” I joke, and an adorable pink hue colors his cheeks. 

“Step two: place the hand that isn’t your wand hand over the lock. That’ll make sure that the lock recognizes your touch when you attempt to open it.” George ignores my directions again, so I put my hand over his and lead us both to the blue lock. “Now you’re just being cheeky.”

He leans across the table and whispers in my ear, “I do prefer learning spells with a hands-on approach.” His breath tickles my ear, so I pull back with a shiver and a laugh. 

“That’s convenient considering today’s assignment. As you complete this spell, you have to focus and will for it to work.” I stand behind him and press my chest to his back. My breath hitches as I take his wand hand and trace the movements he’s supposed to make with my hand. “Now, swish your wand in a figure-eight motion twice, then swish it clockwise. Each time, say ‘contra alohomora.’”

I let go of George so he can attempt the spell on his own. His hand movements are precise and finally, the firm click of the lock is heard. “Alohomora,” I say while pointing at the blue lock with my wand, but it doesn’t open. “You did fantastic!”

“What can I say? Clearly, I’m quite talented.” He flashes me a cheeky grin.

“You really are, George.” I cup his cheek with my hand and return his smile. Rowena, I’m so excited to be his date for the Yule Ball. 

“Before you distract me again, there is one more thing I should teach you. Only you can open the lock by touching it or casting ‘alohomora,’ but you can allow other people to open it too. You just have to place their hand on the lock and say ‘amicos alohomora.’”

George intertwines his fingers with mine and moves my hand to the blue lock. “Let’s give it a shot with you.”

I pry my fingers from his. “Actually, it has to be someone else since I’m the one testing your spells.”

“Alrighty then.” George turns to Fred and Sinclair, who have been going at it this entire time. Fred is mocking her for something that happened in Defence Against the Dark Arts, which riles her up since her marks are her greatest pride. Fred doesn’t seem to care or notice that George presses his hand to the blue lock and grants him permission to open the lock. 

Professor Flitwick stops by our table and inspects George’s blue lock and my purple lock. “Wonderful job you two! Ten points each to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.” His eyes then wander over to Fred and Sinclair and he points at their locks. “Have you two been participating in the work your partners have completed? Ah, Miss Sinclair, excellent work on the Anti-Alohamora Charm. Next time, Mister Weasley, please assist your partners and pay more attention to the task at hand.”

Satisfaction is written all over Sinclair’s face as Professor Flitwick stops at the next table. “You should seriously consider listening to Professor Flitwick’s advice.”

“Please! You were distracting me!” Fred retorts. “How did you manage to pull off the spell in the middle of our row?” 

“Back at it again, I see,” I remark to George. 

George rolls his eyes. “It’ll be like this until we graduate. I just hope they don’t have a row during the ball.”

“And if they do, I won’t get involved. Rowena knows how passionate Sinclair can get.” Last year, Fred set up an intricate trap that dumped brown goo under the passerby, which just so happened to activate only if Sinclair walked under it. I had to hold her by her robes to prevent her from sprinting away and jinxing the life out of Fred.

“Can’t blame her half the time with the pranks my brother gets up to. I’d also try to chop off his head if I was her.” George laughs and shakes his head. He crouches down and begins to doodle something in his textbook. When I bend forward to see what he’s drawing, he pulls his textbook closer to him and wags his finger. “No peeking, now. Don’t spoil the surprise for yourself.”

“I bet you’re either drawing me or Peanut,” I joke.

George throws his head back and groans. “How do you manage to always be one step ahead of me?” 

“Clearly, I’m quite talented,” I tease, echoing the same thing he said minutes before. 

He scribbles his quill, scrunches his brow, and then presents the sketch of Peanut to me. I laugh as I trace a hand over Peanut’s exaggerated long whiskers and chunky red body. “She looks goofy and fat, but adorable as ever.”

“No need to call her hefty, now. Let the cat enjoy her treats in peace,” George teases. Every time Peanut sees George, she jumps onto his lap and rubs herself all over him. She likes him so much that she gives him a dirty cat glare if he even stands up to go to the lavatory. 

I’m laughing at his joke when I realize that Sinclair is silent and gawking at George and me. Once she notices me looking, she tilts her head in George’s direction. No words need to be spoken for me to understand what she’s trying to ask. 

Fred sighs and slaps his green lock. He looks up from his textbook and then at Sinclair. But when he notices the expression on her face, he smirks and looks over at George and me. “What secret have I been left out of? Care to tell me something, Georgie?”

“Freddie, may I proudly present my Yule Ball date? This is Miss Moore of Ravenclaw,” George proclaims and waves his hands with great pomp and circumstance. 

I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed by George’s comments. Fred extends a hand for me to shake as though we haven’t known each other for years. Regardless, I take his hand and shake it. Fred smiles at me and then slaps George’s arm. “I knew you’d find a pretty date, Georgie.”

Sinclair watches the exchange in silence, her face neutral other than raised eyebrows. But even if she tries to keep a poker face, I know her head is probably spinning at the new revelation. 

Rowena, I do not look forward to whatever she has to say once class ends.

[mimbotomy]

I am high on weed and NyQuil and yet am still awake because a bad cough and a fever and for some reason decided it was a good idea to read the AC Odyssey Novelization! Here are some random things that stuck out that I think you should know:

Kassandra’s hears Nikolaos’ lessons in her head throughout the book.

She also loves Phoibe so much but tries so hard to pretend she doesn’t because her mother told her that love is weakness when she was a kid.

Kassandra finds Ikaros as a hatchling taking shelter among the bones at the bottom of Mount Taygetos.

It’s mostly from Kassandra’s POV but there’s some other brief POVs too. The Cult POVs seem to exist pretty much make sure that the reader knows they’re like super fucking evil and Stentor’s few POVs are mostly to bitch about Kassandra.

In one of his less bitchy POVs it’s revealed that a Spartan soldier in Megaris tried to grab Kassandra and kiss her and she either full on broke or just badly bruised his jaw

Building off that sorta, the only person Kassandra even kisses is Alkibiades at the symposium, and mostly to get information.

Nikolaos’ fate is left ambiguous for a long time.

Someone mocks Barnabas’ storytelling in line to see the Oracle and Herodotos later sets the guards on him to provide a distraction so Kassandra can sneak back and talk with the Oracle more.

The Cultists are way less protective of their identities in Delphi and way more obvious with their plans to get rid of Deimos. Also, Kassandra kills a lot of them on accident.

Aspasia keeps Kassandra from drinking poisoned wine, courtesy of Hermippos, at the symposium and helps her escape Athens

Chrysis is killed by her own biological son, the priest Dolpos who helped Myrrine, in revenge for both taking his tongue and killing countless children over the years.

Kassandra and Brasidas’ super badass warehouse fight doesn’t happen. Instead they are discovered by the Monger and taken captive and rescued by two heterae prisoners after the Monger burns Kassandra’s legs with an iron poker.

Phoibe dies playing hide and seek with Kassandra as they escort Perikles to see the Parthenon one last time and Kassandra first realizes something is wrong because she can’t hear Phoibe’s giggles anymore 😭

The first time Kassandra cries after that night on Taygetos is when Phoibe dies.

Aspasia only fully decides to leave the cult after Perikles’ death.

Pausanias’ super secret cult nickname is the Red Eyed Lion and he is uncovered because of a wine stained map or letter or something and a ring seal of a lion and some other super circumstantial evidence.

When they return to Sparta, Barnabas and the crew somehow temporarily sink the Adrestia in a cove to keep from being spotted by Spartan scouts.

The Kos and Arkadia storylines don’t happen at all and the Olympics happen after Kassandra and Myrrine already got their house.

At one point, Kassandra refers to her new family as Myrrine, Barnabas, Herotodos, and Brasidas, which made my shipper heart happy. Then in that same paragraph she refers to Herodotos and Brasidas as something like proud uncles, so we’re pretending that doesn’t exist

Kassandra is imprisoned in Athens for months and like in the game, is “rescued” by Barnabas and Sokrates. Barnabas still has his shovel but Sokrates has a broom instead of a pitchfork.

Also, there’s a small subplot about the woman Barnabas has a fling with on Naxos and her husband who Herodotos met that visited Thera. He’s being tortured by the Cult when Kassandra is imprisoned in Athens and is brutally murdered when he refuses to tell them anything.

Kleon was 100% planing to kill Deimos at Amphipolis.

Brasidas basically dies telling Kassandra how happy he is to see her what the fuck???

A lot of the confrontation on Taygetos is the same as the good ending of the game, where Deimos tells Kassandra that he’s done terrible things. But he also tells her that he can’t change no matter how much he wants to while preparing to throw a knife at Myrrine so she kills him.

Nikolaos and Stentor watch Alexios’ funeral at a distance until Kassandra and Myrrine invite them to join them for dinner.

Kassandra doesn’t fight the Minotaur and Co. but is just given the staff by Pythagoras, who talks to her after his death through the pyramid.

Aspasia’s fate is somewhat left ambiguous in the end because Kassandra’s focused too much on the vision from the pyramid.

Overall, it read a little bit like a weird fanfic! I saw glimpses of the characters we love from the game but since the author cut out such big pieces of the plot and every side quest - which makes sense since it was a very short book - we didn’t get to see too much of them either. Except for Kassandra, who is a lot more no nonsense than I imagine her as. There’s no flirting or and very little joking, but I really liked her resourcefulness and unique fighting style. And her love for Phoibe and her family that shines like a beacon throughout the entire book, from the very beginner where her mother tells her it is unspartan to love. Of course, our lovely Kassandra is a lover and a fighter and that does not change no matter what ❤️

Hope this list helps some of my fellow lovely wonderful odyssey fic writers I love you all so much you beautiful souls 😘😘😘

[pondslime]

what have I done (to deserve this)

bo sinclair x afab!reader

rating: explicit

word count: 4k

Bo POV. It’s the day before Valentine’s. Bo goes shopping at a bargain outlet. In true romcom fashion, you’re there too. 

Chance encounter meet-cute. Except it’s with the worst man this side of Baton Rouge. Sucks! But you get to make out with him! Hope that’s worth the incoming pain and misery, bestie!

Crossposted on AO3 here. 

Very self-indulgent and GOOFY. A heaping dose of humor and general dumbassery. Big warning for Bo being Bo. We’re in his head and he is, as always, so stupid. Reader does not have a car for porn reasons. That’s it. She’s a public transportation whore for roadhead purposes. She’s also kind of annoying. And a bratty bimbo. 

The title of this fic comes from the song “What Have I Done to Deserve This” by Pet Shop Boys. It’s just a jazzy lil 80′s track that I could 100% picture playing in a bargain outlet over shitty speakers. Bo’s on his Gen X shit.

I just wanted to write about Bo encountering a chick who immediately wanted to hoover him down. Ambiguous ending with some unsettling implications.

This fic is a birthday gift for @raccoonspooky​! 🦝💝👻 MWAH!!! I LUV U!!! HAPPY BDAY!!!! HAPPY BIRF!!! DAY!!!! HERE’S STUPID!!!! 4 U!!!

The bargain outlet stretches out in front of him, large yellow signs hanging from the warehouse ceiling. Sales down every aisle, 25% off on all kitchenware. Music blares out of loudspeakers, spitting out a song that Bo hasn’t heard since high school.

He’s thinking of his mother again.

Packed into the family car, bumping down the road to the department store. Just the two of them. Mama would tell him that it was because he couldn’t be left alone, that he wasn’t trusted like Vincent was—up at the big old house, drawing his pictures and staying out of the way.

Time seemed to drag on days like that, plodding along ungainly as Trudy slowly perused shelves. It always felt like he would be stuck there indefinitely, rotting away in front of the floral baking sets and printed potholders. When people congregated around the racks, Bo would reach up and grab her hand. Surrounded with onlookers, she’d let him hold onto it.

Sometimes they’d pass by the toy aisles, but she never gave them more than a passing glance. These trips weren’t for him, after all. Despite that, he looked forward to them with an odd giddiness.

Bo couldn’t be alone, but Vincent couldn’t get this.

Vincent didn’t get to watch himself reflected in the shining glass of the displays that their mother stopped at, tutting over bottles of perfume. He didn’t get to see the chrome and glossy mirrors, the array of beautiful women with long nails behind the counter tops. It wasn’t for him.

Bo would return home smug, carrying Mama’s bags. He always made sure to catch his brother’s eye.

Look. Pay attention. This is mine, it’s all mine. It isn’t yours.

He got in trouble one day. He couldn’t remember for what. Whatever it was, she got angry, and the trips stopped.

That department store had long since been razed. There weren’t a lot of things that stayed the same. Tradition was lost and paved over, turned into this.

Picking up a basket, he makes his way to the back of the store.

The hardware section is pitiful. It always is.

Tools are strewn everywhere, each one emblazoned with illegible clearance stickers. They never have the shit that he needs here. He sifts through the pile of haphazardly stacked tools, pulling a wrench out. It’s a twelve-inch, decent weight. He wraps his hand around it and knocks it against his palm. It’ll do.

On his way out of the aisle, he snatches up two rolls of duct tape and a pack of braided nylon rope.

There are some things you can never have too much of.

He cuts through the clothing department.

A store display looms overhead, announcing another sale. A woman pouts out of the ad, the heaving curve of her breasts spilling out of black lace. He feels something under his foot. Bending down, he plucks a bra off the ground. There’s a boot print across the front, dirt smeared across the polka dots.

“Good afternoon, shoppers!” A voice crackles over the intercom. “Two-for-one deals comin’ in hot this holiday season—”

Trudy would hate this place, with its messily stacked piles of clothes and the incessant beeping of the registers. That’s part of the reason he’s here.

“Um. Excuse me.”

“Huh?” He blinks, jerking his head up.

“Sorry, I just…” You look at him quizzically, your lips pursed. You’re holding a bra that looks identical to the one in his hands, sans dirt. “Need to get…uh. Behind you.”

“Yeah, of course.” He shuffles to the side. “Go on.”

He flicks through the rack, shoving the ruined bra unceremoniously to the back.

“You buying a bra?”

“Yeah.” He says absently. “For my sister.”

“…You’re buying your sister a bra?”

He turns to look at you. Wrenched away from the padded curve of the bras, he finally has a chance to assess you. Cute.

“Sister-in-law.” He amends.

Your brow scrunches in confusion and you nod slowly, fidgeting with the bra in your hands.

“I’m just messin’ with you.” He smiles.

“Okay.” You huff out a perplexed laugh.

He’s rummaging through the detergent when he sees you again.

“We just keep running into each other.” You remark.

“Seems like it.” Gesturing at the duct tape and utility gloves in his basket, he flashes you a smile. “Gotta get some stuff for work.”  

“You a plumber?”

“Uh, no.” He’s unable to hide the flicker of indignation that twitches his lip up into a sneer. “Mechanic.”

Your lips curves into an open-mouthed O and he glances down at your left hand. Finding your ring finger conspicuously bare, he files that away for later. It’s not like he gives a shit, but less collateral is less collateral.

“I run a station not far from here.”

“That’s cool.” You pick up a lint roller. “Well, nice to meet you.”

Bo finds you in the Valentine’s aisle. Or you find him. He can’t really tell.

“Are you followin’ me ‘round here, girl?” He shoots you a bemused smile. “You gonna tell me your name, stalkin’ me like this?”

“Maybe. What’s yours?”

“Bo.”

“You buying that for your sister-in-law too?” You nod towards the box of conversation hearts he’s holding. “Can’t imagine your brother likes that much.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. We share everythin’.”

“Oh yeah?” You grab a box of chocolates off the shelf, placing it in your cart. “Seems messy.”

“She’s a lucky girl.”

“That depends.” You quip. “What’s your brother look like?”

He angles toward you, resting his hand on the shelf.

“We’re twins.”

Your eyebrows raise.

Couple months ago, he had one downstairs that kind of looked like you. Same hair color. He has a lock of it in one of the gas station drawers. Her ID’s in there too, but he doesn’t remember her name. He couldn’t place it at first, but that’s who you remind him of. Another version of you, maybe. You’ve got the prettier mouth, though.

“Surprised this one didn’t sell.” You pluck a card off the wire rack. A goose peers off of the paper, surrounded by hot pink lettering.

VALENTINE, WON’T YOU LET ME GET A GANDER…

You flip the card open. With a sigh, you hold it up so he can read it.

…AT THEM HONKERS.

“That’s a good one.” He nods appreciatively.

The food court is tucked into the corner of the store, a collection of neon signs and scuffed tables. The whole area smells gray, strings of cheap cheese and the lemony reek of industrial cleaner.

As he appraises the menu, he notices you at the drink fountain. When you turn, your eyes go wide.

“This isn’t what it looks like.” You exclaim.

“Huh.” He sighs. “Darlin’, you keep this up and I’ll have to call the cops.”

You open your mouth once, close it.

“You hungry?” He gestures toward the menu.

“You’re not from ‘round here, are ya’?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Hmm.” He murmurs out his acknowledgment. “You should stick ‘round for a bit. Nothin’ like Mardi Gras in Baton Rouge. Family vacation?”

“No, it’s just me.”

He hides his laugh around a forced cough. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he clears his throat.

“Sorry. Cigarettes.” He smiles at you. “I’m thinkin’ ‘bout quittin’.”

You chew idly at your slice of pizza, your eyes drifting over his face. He arches a brow.

“You like what ya’ see?”

“I’m not sure.” Your lips twist into a smile. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

You have a lot of damn nerve.

“You do this a lot?” He fixes you with a pointed look.

“What? Go shopping?” There’s something so hopelessly dumb about your expression. You’re blank and brainless, an assortment of curves and painted-on prettiness in front of him.

He imagines paddles whacking the careening Ping Pong ball of your thoughts across your brain. A thought misses the paddle, ricocheting off the side of the board. Game over. Fiddle with some buttons, start over. Another one comes to take its place, bopping uselessly in your skull.

He’s met enough of your type that it shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow it always does. Someone this stupid shouldn’t be allowed to wander too far. And yet, here you are, all by yourself. Just you and your flimsy hold on rational thinking, wandering around his state.

If he hadn’t have met you here, lord knows what trouble you would’ve gotten into. You’d probably have wandered out into the bayou. Blinking all pretty, getting stuck in the muck. Wrenching open a gator’s mouth and stepping into it just because you were curious how many teeth it had.

He’d pay good money to watch that.

“Don’tchu act all shy ‘bout this. You know what I’m askin’.” He tears the straw wrapper into tiny pieces, his gaze trailing down your neck and onto your breasts. “Ya’ make a habit of goin’ ‘round and propositionin’ men in stores?”

You choke out a laugh, your eyes going wide.

“I’m not propositioning you!”

“Whatchu doin’ eatin’ my pizza, then?”

“What am I…doing…” Your eyes twinkle with barely contained glee. You muffle a laugh around another bite of pizza. “…Eating…your pizza?”

“Yeah.” He leans back in the chair. “Ya’ seem pretty happy to be sittin’ right there. Eatin’ my pizza.”

“You’re very cute.” You wipe your mouth off with a napkin, staring pointedly at his hands.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Grabbing a slice of pizza, he takes a bite.

It’s awful. Grimacing, he manages to swallow it down. Glancing down at it in disgust, he lets it fall limply back into the box. It takes him a moment before he remembers to readjust his face into one of tranquility, winking over at you.

“You know what.” You deliberate for a second, your eyes darting to his lips. “I think I am propositioning you.”

“There’s a theater next to my shop.” He smirks. “You wanna catch a movie?”

“I don’t wanna interrupt your work.”

“I got all the time in the world, honey.” He winks. “Truck’s outside.”

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” You rest your chin against your palm.

“Not yet.” He shakes his head. “Hardly know ya’ yet. That’d be jumpin’ the gun.”

“Alright. Fuck it.” You grin. “Let’s go.”

Standing in line at the register, he reaches into your cart and snatches out the box of chocolates.

“Hey!” You put your hands on your hips. “What are you…”

“Ya’ think I’m gonna make a girl buy her own chocolate? What I look like to you?”

You move to say something, your eyes glittering.

“If ya’ say plumber—” He gives you with a sharp look, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll tan your hide.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” You stage-whisper, loading up the belt with items.

“Goddamnit, girl. Let’s get you outta this fuckin’ store.”

Pulling down a side road, he parks the truck.

“Hand me that, would ya’, baby?”

Rustling in the bag, he pulls out the box of chocolates. Ripping the plastic off, he tugs the lid open. He takes a bite of one. Cheap, shitty chocolate. Puts it back in its slot. Picks up another one and takes another bite. Caramel, but it’s still—

“You wanna give me my chocolate back?” You tap on his arm.

“Sorry, darlin’. I bought it. It’s mine.” He smirks at you. “Maybe if ya’ ask all pretty, I’ll give ya’ one.”

Your mouth falls open in shock and you let out a frustrated huff.

“That’s not fair!” You exclaim. “You lied.”

“Lyin’? Nah. Just omittin’ some details, sugar. It’s how we do it down here in Louisi—”

You clamor into his lap, making a grab at the chocolate. Popping one in your mouth, you bug your eyes out at him.

“Bad girl.” He tosses the box onto the dashboard. Reaching up, he grabs your chin, pulling you closer.

You taste like chocolate when he kisses you, his hand slipping down your jaw to tighten around your neck. You hum happily into his mouth, your hands on his shoulders. He can feel your breath under his fingers, the pulsing hammer of your heartbeat against his palm.

You’re always so close to death, to all that red and heat underneath, and you don’t even notice. He could press down a little more, constrict your airflow. Make it hurt. You need that, don’t you? You don’t have any fuckin’ structure. Leave you with your throat burning, your eyes swollen with tears. Make you thank him for that.

“I don’t really do this.” You murmur against his lips.

“Whatchu doin’ right now, then?”

You laugh, a breathless little noise. He reaches back and gathers your hair together at the back of your head. When he tugs your head back, you gasp.

“How bad ya’ want it?”

“I—” Discomfort flashes over your face. “Wait, um. Hold on. This is really awkward, but—”

You readjust yourself in his lap and he drops his hand, watching as you reach under your shirt. Biting down on your bottom lip, the strap of your bra slips down your shoulder. Working it through the sleeves of your shirt, you blow out a huff of relief. Stretching your arms to extricate the loops, you tug it free, tossing it onto the floor of his truck.

You turn back to him with a bashful smile.

“Movin’ fast, girl.” 

"The wire's been digging into me all day.” You shake your head, glancing over your shoulder at your discarded bra. “I needed to get a new one, but—I got kinda distracted."

"And whose fault is that?"

You look at him curiously, as if his question is strange. You lean forward and flick at the brim of his cap, smiling.

"Well, yours, technically."

“Don’t see how that tracks.” He leans back onto the headrest. 

“You distracted me.” Your voice goes high-pitched and melodic, a sing-song lilt that makes his hand tighten into a fist at his side. 

He exhales, snorting out a laugh. 

“You know what?” 

“What?” You tilt your head, raising your brows.

“I changed my mind. I’m killin’ ya’.”

You blow a raspberry at him, rolling your eyes. 

“Not yet, c’mon.” You whine, dropping kisses down the bridge of his nose. “It’s like you said. We haven’t even gotten to know each other yet!”

“You’re tryin’ my fuckin’ patience, girl.” 

“Good.”

You’re a bratty fuckin’ thing. Untrained, not an ounce of discipline in you. You rock your hips against him, wetting your bottom lip. Tart and wild, a stubbornness coasting under your skin.  He wonders how long you’ll be able to hold onto all that sass. What he’ll have to do to make sure you lose it. He can’t wait to see you cry—you’ll taste sweeter then, curled up inside yourself.

What kind of fuckin’ coincidence. 

“Look at’chu.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“What’d you say? Take a picture, it’ll last longer?”

“Oh, don’tchu worry, baby. I will.” He grins. “Gotta get you all warmed up first, though.” 

Slipping his hand between your legs, he rubs at you through your jeans.

“You’re not fucking me in your truck.” With a giggle, you still his hand, tugging it back onto your hip.

“You gonna try to stop me?”

“Um, yeah.” A shriek of laughter spills out of your mouth and the movement rocks your body against his lap. “Anybody could see us!”

“Ya’ gonna tell me that’s what you’re worried about?” He squints at you, squashing down the glare that threatens to darken his features. Not yet. “After grindin’ on my lap like that?”

“Look, I’ve got a better idea.” Shimmying off his lap and onto the passenger seat, you grin at him. “When’s the movie?”

“The movie?” It takes a moment before the realization hits him. Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he clears his throat. “Oh, uh—an hour.”

“And how far away is it?”

“Uh, twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Well. I don’t wanna miss it.” You tilt your head, raising a brow. “What if there’s a line?”

“There ain’t gonna be a line.” He says definitively, a wave of exhaustion settling over him. 

“You don’t know that.” You laugh. “Anyway. I think…you should drive us there. Now. So we have time.”

He’s barely started the truck back up when he feels your hands at his belt, undoing the loop.

“The fuck you doin’?”

“Trust me.” You unzip his fly, pulling him out of his boxers.

You could be sweet if you wanted. All sugar. It’s easier that way, but you won’t want it easy. You’ll make him fight you for it.

You work your hand over his cock with a sigh of contentment. Your thumb teases over the slit, rubbing precum over the head of his cock. He feels a spike of irritation at you for wasting even an ounce of his spunk on your hands. As if to apologize, you bow your head, running your tongue up the underside of his cock. You’ll have to do better than that. Licking up the sensitive skin of his frenulum, you tease your mouth around him, letting him twitch against your tongue.

“Ya’ gonna suck it or not?” He snaps, keeping his eyes locked on the road. He doesn’t need to look down to know that you’re smiling.

“Don’t be grumpy.” Your voice floats up from his lap. “I’m just taking my time. You’re just so pretty.”

Pretty? Anger rushes through him. Calling him that—thinking you can, thinking that there wouldn’t be any consequences. Who raised you? For all your pathetic staring, you haven’t even seen what’s in front of you. 

The lack of respect is sickening, making his balls feel heavy and tight. He needs to be down your throat, if only to shut you up. Give you something else to focus on. Every moment you’re near him, you’re signing yourself away. Doubling back, going over the contract in bubbly cursive.

You’re entirely unaware of how many marks you’re tallying up. Every swirl of your tongue sinks you deeper in debt. He wonders if you’d laugh if you knew just how many apologies you’re setting yourself up for.

With a hum, you take him into your mouth, swallowing your lips around his cock.

“Take it deep. Don’t you stop.”

A noise erupts from your mouth, but it’s garbled around his cock. He can’t tell, but he could have sworn that was a laugh.

He stops the truck abruptly, the movement thrusting him deeper into your mouth. You gag around him, a disgustingly wet noise at the back of your throat. With a wet pop, you pull your mouth off of his cock. The sudden loss of sensation draws a frustrated growl from his lips.

“Be careful.” Your lips are back on him. Mouthing kisses down his length, your nose bumps against his skin. “Don’t crash the car.”

“I’ve been drivin’ this truck for longer than—” You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and the sentence falters in his mouth.

He pictures you standing in the theater lobby. Confusion in your eyes, a slackness to your jaw. It’s odd and you’ll know it, right away. But you won’t do anything about it. You’ll second guess yourself. You think you’re so smart, don’t you? With that sweet little twist of your lips, batting your eyelashes at him, resting your hands on his shoulders. He wonders how long it’ll take for the confusion to lift. The realization settling over you, chilling you to the core.

You’ll look back at him and you’ll know.

A lifetime of mistakes all falling into place, your scream lost under the palm of his hand.

You should be fucked there. That’s how it should go.

He can’t wait. Not for anything, ever. Mama was always saying that. And with the wet clasp of your mouth around his cock, patience isn’t manageable. How could it be? You’ve taken up all of it, trapped it in your smile. He doesn’t have any more to give.

You bob your head up and down, resting your hands on his thigh. 

“Good girl.” He mutters. You moan and he clenches his jaw, tightening his hold in your hair. “Just like that, c’mon.”

You raise your head off his cock again and murmur out his name, and his grip on the steering wheel turns his knuckles white.

You better be enjoying saying it. Let it live in that slutty mouth of yours for a while. It’ll be off limits soon.

There’ll be other things to call him. Later. He can see several of them in his head, stacked fifty feet high in neon. He probably won’t even have to tell you which one he wants, you’ll come up with it on your own. It’ll bubble up in your little head and you’ll drool it out helplessly, stuffed full with cock. Makeup smeared down your cheeks, caked under your eyes. He’d like to see you when you’re trying to fold into yourself. When you’re trying desperately to be anything but pretty for him.

He’s ready to take the shiny veneer of this personality off. It’s slipping now, he can feel it. 

“Ain’tchu glad you met me?” He grunts out, his breaths coming out shallow.

You’re going to hate him soon enough, and he’ll be able to remind you that you didn’t before. That you can’t fool him into believing you don’t love his cock down your throat, that you don’t want his hands on you—he knows better, and you do too.

You moan your agreement against his cock. Glad, you’re fuckin’ glad. You’d better be.

He bucks up into your mouth when he cums, smacking his hand down on the steering wheel. You’re choking around him, making desperate little huffs through your nose. For your credit, you keep him in your mouth, tightening your lips around the base. He eases his foot off the accelerator, wetting his lips. 

The truck slows to a crawl as he pants, leaning into the steering wheel. He shudders when he feels your lips tug off his cock, swirling your tongue around the oversensitive head.

“We there yet?” You cough a bit, carefully tucking him back into his boxers.

“Christ, girl.” He whistles through his teeth, glancing over at you. “Actin’ like I didn’t just fuck ya’ throat.”

“You didn’t fuck me. I fucked you. And no one saw.” Wiping your mouth off with the back of your hand, you giggle.

“Little cocksucker.”

“You loved it.” You chirp smugly, winking at him. It takes everything in his resolve not to grab you by your hair and slam your forehead into the dashboard. He can’t get blood in his truck again. Shit’s unprofessional. And he’s nothing if not a stickler for appearances. There’s a way to do these things, and you’ve forced him to rewrite his script halfway through the scene. He’s almost impressed with your lack of morals.

He can only imagine how wet you must be, soaking through your jeans. With the way you were moaning around his cock, your pussy must be aching for it.

He should lay a fuckin’ towel down. Protect the goddamn seats—he can’t get your blood on the upholstery, and you know that. 

Tryin’ to leave your mark some other way, ain’tcha?

“Is this it?” You ask brightly, peering out the window.

“Yup.” He parks, turning to you. “Think you can do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Just gotta check on somethin’ with the truck. You wanna run into the shop and put this on the counter?” He grabs the chocolate box off the dashboard and stuffs it into the plastic bag. “Wouldn’t want it meltin’.”

“Sure.”

You hop out of the truck, looking at him expectantly.

“Go on, pretty thing. I’ll be right behind ya’.” 

As you push the door of his shop open, he stuffs your bra in the glove compartment. It’s cute. You won’t be needing it.

[greatmuldini]

The Iron Harp

We’re all in prison together, Johnny, one way or the other.

Act 1

Outwardly, Joseph O'Conor's play is a simple tale of love and loss in times of war: set in rural Ireland in early April of 1920, the action takes place on the property of an English industrialist whose mansion has been taken over by a contingent of IRA volunteers. Their leader is Michael O'Riordan, a gifted poet-musician in civilian life and conveniently the peace-time manager of the Englishman's estate. Michael has recently been wounded in action; now blind as a result he is no longer on active duty but still responsible for an English prisoner of war. Being a man of his word, Captain John Tregarthen has made no attempt to escape, earning Michael's trust and eventually his friendship. He also earns the friendship and love of Michael’s cousin Molly Kinsella, with whom he spends long days roaming the extensive grounds of his idyllic prison. Dreaming of a future life together, the lovers are oblivious to the feelings of their “best friend” – who ends up sacrificing his love for Molly in what he hopes will be a lasting gesture of selflessness only to find that Fate intervenes, with devastating consequences for them all.

Completing the quartet of characters is the dark and “indistinct” figure of IRA commander Sean Kelly, a dark and "indistinct" figure who emerges from the shadows to immediately assert his authority not only in military matters but - crucially, and disturbingly - in those of the heart as well. Specifically, it is the heart of Michael O’Riordan that Kelly claims to know better than O’Riordan himself. As a flesh-and-blood character Kelly is difficult to pin down: cold and calculating by his own admission, he expresses admiration for Michael's hot-blooded fighting spirit. Michael's own startled response to Kelly entering "like Nemesis himself" is ambiguous at best, and even his description of Kelly as a “good friend” comes on the back of a warning to Johnny that "he won't like you."

When Kelly tells Michael that he has never been wrong and does not know what it means to feel regret, the sense of foreboding is inescapable, yet Michael never seems to give in to the negativity emanating from his old wartime comrade who admonishes him to see his friends “as they really are” and not as “you want to see them.” Ironically, Michael refuses to see an enemy in John Tregarthen, but he is equally stubborn in applying the same criteria of honour, loyalty, and friendship to Sean Kelly, who seems troubled by this flaw in Michael’s character: "you love people too much."

Michael's emotional warmth stands in stark contrast to Kelly's impersonation of infallibility - which Michael seems to accept as a token of his friend's unassailable integrity. He continues to defer to Kelly's judgment when a messenger arrives with bad news from the front: three IRA fighters have been killed in skirmishes with British forces, and reprisals must be carried out. Twisting the metaphorical knife in the very real emotional wound, Kelly as the commanding officer nominates blind Michael to be the impartial instrument of God's justice. Forced to select three victims for execution, Michael all but collapses when one of the chosen names is that of Captain John Tregarthen.

Act 2

After he has persuaded Johnny to flee the country and reunite with Molly back in England, Michael is left alone to guard the now empty house. Blind and unable to defend himself, Michael is powerless against two marauding Black & Tans who break into the property and proceed to taunt and abuse the solitary occupant. It does not take them long to realize their victim is an IRA member rather than a civilian enjoying certain protections. Further violence is prevented only by the surprise return of Captain Tregarthen, armed and in uniform, who holds the attacker at gunpoint until Kelly and his entourage arrive to take the men away. Where any other human being would have expressed relief or gratitude at the discovery that the life of his friend has been saved, Kelly’s reaction is characteristically impassive, betraying, if anything, a degree of irritation at the unforeseen complication that has shown the condemned prisoner – the enemy – to be capable of compassion and self-sacrifice in saving the life of his friend. Human qualities that Kelly explicitly claims not to possess. As if to prove the point, he responds with the formal announcement of Tregarthen’s impending execution.

The order is to be carried out within three days, enough time for Kelly to travel to headquarters - and return with a firing squad. But first he must interrogate the captured Tans. While Kelly is thus occupied, Molly manages to convince the love of her life to take her with him. Johnny only agrees to the plan on the promise that Michael will convince Kelly to rescind the execution. If Johnny and Molly can make their way to Belfast on the early morning goods train, and from there to England, all will be well. Michael knows how to distract the guards, and Molly can bribe the train driver to let Johnny jump aboard. Three loud whistles will give the all-clear. With hopes of future happiness rekindled, Molly and Johnny each rush off to their respective tasks, and Michael is left alone with three empty glasses that he cannot see – a detail that does not escape Kelly’s notice as he re-joins Michael to formally accept his plea for clemency. Which he says he will duly submit to "the general," but in his estimation the chances of success are slim. "For God's sake, don't build up hope," he tells Michael before agonizing – to himself – over how to soften the blow for Michael: by bringing the execution forward and keeping it secret, he is certain he can spare Michael the pain and the guilt of having to witness the event.

Act 3

In the pre-dawn hours of the following day, Michael and Johnny are wide awake and waiting for the sentries to change and the train to whistle. Thinking the house empty and their enemies far away, they pass the time in a dreamlike state of high anxiety, reciting heroic poems and melancholy songs in whispering voices, so as not to miss the stroke of six to mark the end of their nightmare and the beginning of a new life – only to see Kelly standing in the door, with orders for Johnny to be executed at dawn, 24 hours earlier than they were told originally. Michael's world is falling apart, he pleads with Kelly, he begs him to show mercy, but an almost equally distressed Kelly reminds him that "I have never promised you hope." Johnny declines the comfort of a priest or minister and is led away to meet his fate offstage while, also offstage, Molly will be waiting in vain for the love of her life to board a train that will never arrive.

Left on stage for their final confrontation are Michael and his Nemesis, both knowing full well that nothing they can do or say will change what Kelly might term the preordained outcome of their efforts. To Michael's accusation of "trickery" (by which he means Kelly's surprise return before the agreed time), Kelly offers no subterfuge, no defence, and no evasion. Instead, he says, Michael’s agony is self-inflicted: it was, in fact, his own stubborn insistence on hoping against hope that has now led to anguish and pain. The only way for Michael to end all suffering, Kelly explains, is to give up hope. Unless he manages to see past the private pain of the moment and becomes a distant observer, Michael will forever be "tortured by hope."

Here Kelly is borrowing from the Conte Cruel tradition made famous by Edgar Allan Poe but named after a collection of short stories by the French symbolist writer Auguste Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. A useful definition of the genre is that it concerns "any story whose conclusion exploits the cruel aspects of the irony of fate." Not only does Kelly borrow the concept, and the title from Villiers' tale, The Torture of Hope, he even recounts the plot to underline his point:a hapless victim of the Inquisition escapes his prison cell only to stumble into the arms of the Chief Inquisitor. The lesson for Michael is that, like the victim, he keeps on hoping for release only to suffer defeat over and over again. There are no similarities, however, between himself and the sadistic Inquisitor, Kelly says: his mission is to ease Michael'ssuffering, not to prolong it.

We are given no reason to doubt Kelly’s sincerity, but neither can we reconcile the apparent contradiction between his declared intention and putting Michael’s best friend before a firing squad. If Kelly wants to end all suffering, as he says, surely, a good start would be to save Captain Tregarthen’s life? It is the argument that Michael himself is trying to make, by reminding Kelly of his god-like powers. Michael’s understanding of those powers differs fundamentally from Kelly’s own. Michael’s life-affirming principle of hope and Kelly’s seductive all-consuming fatalism are the two opposing philosophies that take centre stage in the final scene – while John Tregarthen dies a largely symbolic death offstage.

Johnny’s death is symbolic in that it is not the tragedy at the heart of the play. Michael O’Riordon is the conventional male protagonist whose existential crisis we are witnessing; Michael is unable to prevent the execution of his best friend; and to make that very point, his best friend must die. Michael’s blindness contributes to this failure in the course of the play but read as a metaphor it turns Michael into “one of us.” His blindness leaves him vulnerable to attack and it echoes our own sense of powerlessness in the face of an overwhelmingly hostile universe. The reverse, however, is also true: being blind, and being a poet, puts Michael in the illustrious company of the Blind Bard, an archetype of Western literature since at least the (mythical) time of Homer: the blind singer/seer whose “inner vision” surpasses that of sighted humanity. His Irish equivalent – and explicit model for Michael - is the (dwarf) Harper of Finn, whose iron-stringed instrument has the power to move its audience to tears. Michael O’Riordon is both vulnerable and endowed with the superpower of emotional insight – fundamentally human qualities that Kelly admires in Michael, and which he admits he does not possess.

Kelly is an abstract concept in human form; even while he is evidently the cause of human suffering, in his denial he appears to be channelling the sadistic Inquisitor. The apparent contradiction is of our own making, though: Kelly is Cruel Fate personified. He represents that which we like to imagine as the source of all our woes - the betrayals, the injustices, the disappointments which inevitably end in what we define as tragedy and what to the rest of the universe, that hostile universe, is of no consequence whatsoever. If we substitute “hostile” with “indifferent,” then Kelly becomes the antithesis to Michael’s humanity – his indifference is as inhuman as the infinite, indifferent universe. Conversely, Michael is not concerned with an infinite universe; his frame of reference is on a human scale, and very finite. When Kelly challenges Michael to take his place and adopt his abstract, God-like perspective on life, death, and the universe, Michael does reject the responsibility – but also the indifference required for the position. If the promise of a pain-free existence did not convince Michael to abandon hope, Kelly's failure to shame him into admitting defeat is a testament, at the very least, to human perseverance: we will forever be prolonging the agony to delay the inevitable. (1/4)

[thewertsearch]

Objective: Survive.

I didn’t even see the Aradiabots at first. They literally look like bugs next to the Horrorterror King - who I’m not even going to bother scaling. He looks big enough to be visible from Prospit.

FAA: m0bilizing 0urselves in such numbers w0uld be required t0 neutralize the kings psychic attacks FAA: it w0uld take 0ur c0mbined c0ncentrati0n t0 dampen the abilities he inherited fr0m glbg0lyb

I’m interested in how, exactly, Gl’bgolyb was prototyped. She wouldn’t fit in Feferi’s house, so she’d have had to deliberately reach in and poke the kernel with a tentacle, or something. 

Did she want to be prototyped? We still have no idea what the Horrorterrors want - or even if what they want is comprehensible. 

FAA: with0ut the cumulative eff0rt 0f 0ur d00med reserves FAA: with0ut the heightened mental and physical endurance 0f 0ur r0b0tic vessels FAA: with0ut the untimely demise we all shared bef0re this began FAA: vict0ry w0uld n0t be p0ssible

Heightened physical endurance was a given, but it sounds like Aradia’s robotic body also got a psionics buff. No wonder she got the drop on Vriska.

I’m not sure how telekinesis could dampen the King’s psionics, though. Maybe, instead, it was her necromancy that kept her party members alive. 

They’re all assembled - even Gamzee, who probably doesn’t know what’s happening. I bet he’s just wondering why that thing in the crown looks a bit like his goatdad. 

I’m not going to talk about the frog. Yet. 

FAA: i d0nt kn0w if it was just bad luck FAA: 0r an extensi0n 0f the curse Karkat insists he br0ught 0n us

Even our most informed Player is stumped by Karkat’s virus. 

I think its influence on the session is meant to be ambiguous - and even if it is real, Karkat isn’t to blame for the session’s difficulty. Sgrub was always going to find some way to challenge the trolls, and the virus was just one of its many possible vectors of influence...

FAA: that lead t0 the incidental and unf0rtuit0us pr0t0typing 0f Feferi's p0werful lusus FAA: with0ut which the battle w0uld have p0sed little challenge

...that, plus the Horrorterror Underlings. 

I’m starting to wonder if it’s even possible to hack, exploit, or speedrun Sburb. It’ll foresee anything you try to do, and throw it back in your face before you’ve even conceived of it. 

I’d obviously still try to break it, though. This is me we’re talking about. 

FAA: i think FAA: it was m0re likely just an0ther inevitability FAA: a pr0duct 0f c0llusi0n between the disparate f0rces at play FAA: a bargain struck between what Skaia kn0ws already and what the g0ds demand up fr0nt FAA: t0gether they 0rchestrate trials sufficient t0 ensure FAA: that in 0verc0ming them we w0uld be pr0ven w0rthy

Skaia and the Gods - I assume she means the Horrorterrors - are colluding. They’re working together, to test your worthiness for the Ultimate Reward.

This implies that Skaia is conscious - but that’s not much of a surprise. This game is full of conscious beings - Consorts, Carapacians, and the like - and Skaia is essentially a god of creativity. Of course it would be conscious. 

It also seems to confirm that the Horrorterrors are not, in fact, a real part of the game. Skaia wouldn’t have to collude and bargain with them if they were game constructs. 

Speaking of which, that line about their bargain is incredibly loaded - but I’m struggling to interpret it. It sounds like Skaia knows some of what’s going to happen in the future, but not all of it - and the Horrorterrors desire this knowledge. Indeed, they demand it. Maybe the bargain, as presented by Skaia, is something like this: 

“Preserve the sessions, advise the Players, and help me orchestrate challenges to prove their worth. In return, I will grant you some of my clairvoyance, which may be whispered to the dreamers of Derse.”

That’s pretty much a shot in the dark, though. I don’t know anything about this bargain, and I’m just guessing. It’s all very vague, and I guess it will remain so...

FAA: 0f inheriting the ultimate reward

...until someone spills the god damn beans!

[greenlikethesea]

deeply curious about King Eddie??? if this is eddie as a drag king, i will launch myself out of a rocket at the hare moon loool

omg no that's not what it's about but wouldn't that be an amazing idea, sparkly???

king eddie is this idea that @sparklyslug and i came up with to explore a world in which tropes were reversed. eddie is actually the popular jock who's dating the head cheerleader, chrissy cunningham -- but here's the trick: they're both gay and bearding for each other until they get to college. meanwhile, steve never really got popular on account of his mother divorcing his father and moving them to a much smaller house next door to the hendersons. steve's an a/v nerd who never dated nancy and discovered he was bisexual because he sent away for star trek zines and they had some, uh, enlightening material in them. steve and eddie meet at skull rock one day and a friendship -- and maybe a romance? -- develop.

here's a little snippet for you, Chrissy trying to thwart Steve's affections for Eddie:

“Do you like Eddie?” Chrissy asks. It’s an ambiguous enough question, designed to intrigue. She knows how to play this game.

Steve nods. “Yeah, he’s really cool. Uh, we’re into a lot of the same books and movies. I couldn’t believe it when he threw out that Star Trek reference –”

“Not that kind of like,” Chrissy says. Play coy, Christine. You’re good at this. You didn’t get your social standing by being so goddamn obvious like Harrington over here. “Of course you like him as a friend. I mean, like a crush.”

“No,” Steve says, too quickly, too definitely. Gotcha. 

Chrissy knows that Steve used to have a crush on her. Not in the way that every guy at Hawkins High has wanted a piece of her, no. In that puppy dog way, that innocent, sweet manner of liking someone that only happens when you’re still a virgin. She was “dating” Eddie by the time he came into her periphery, taking photos for the school newspaper with Jonathan Byers at every game. That was safe. She could coolly reject him then, because duh, she had a boyfriend, and she wouldn’t be seen with the head of the A/V club. Social suicide. But this is…different. She and Eddie have their Chicago trips, their flings, but Eddie’s never liked anyone long enough to jeopardize their relationship. And Steve never liked Chrissy as much as he definitely likes Eddie.

They’re so close, both going to the same college. She’s so close to leaving this town behind and being who she really wants to be. And she can’t let Steve ruin that for her, someone who probably hasn’t even had his first kiss. 

Fuck. This sucks. But it has to be done.   

“I won’t tell anyone if you do,” Chrissy says, widening her eyes, batting her eyelashes a little. “I promise. 

Steve looks away, then looks back at her, lips pursed in uncertainty. “Promise?”

Chrissy knows her smile looks serene, has spent hours perfecting it in bathroom mirrors. “You can trust me.”

--

and here's a little snippet that my dear sparkly wrote, because I love it so much:

“Can’t deduce for my own species my ass, Henderson,” Steve crows (quietly, since the hawk could be around anywhere). 

“Oh yeah?” A voice sounds from above him, and Steve whirls around, startled. “And what deductions are those, Holmes?”

For a second, Steve is pretty sure he’s flat-out seeing things. He’s a science guy, is all about facts and proofs, has found them engaging and soothing from the second he accidentally found his way into Mr. Clarks A/V Club the first day of sixth grade. But he’s automatically reaching for the fantastical right now, because what else could explain this figure, stretched out regal and comfortable on the top of Skull Rock like he’s lounging on a thrown, the setting sun throwing golden light through his dark curls and the depths of his famous brown eyes, draped in gold from his perfect skin to his letterman’s jacket? 

What else could explain Eddie Munson, King of Hawkins High, regarding Steve with open curiosity and humor? Right now, when Steve is fairly sure he hadn’t caught Eddie’s notice more than five times in the entire time they’ve been classmates?

“Holmes, or–” Eddie cocks his head to the side, hair sending off more golden sparks. “Harrington. Right?”

So much for not being noticed by the guy. Steve, to his horror, feels himself blush. 

[bluewhale52]

Little Black Book: The Endgame

Summary: There are a few names in your Little Black Book, and these six hold a special place in your heart.  Until Kim Namjoon entered your life, and you realised the endgame was near.

Pairing: Namjoon x female OC, a cameo by Seokjin, and Yoongi, some indirect cameo ofJungkook, Hoseok, Joon’s sister, Joon’s mom, OC mom… it’s a lot okay I know

Rating: Explicit. NO MINORS ALLOWED!

Genre: non idol au, strangers to lovers, established relationship

WC: 8.2k 

Warning: swearing, explicit sex acts, oral (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex (protected and unprotected), mirror sex, multiple orgasms, Joon's big dick and BDE, Joon's sexy body, talk of threesome, some jealousy, Joon is a little possessive, daddy Joon, some angst A/N: FINALLY THE END IS HERE! Thank you to sexy YTC Run BTS Namjoon for giving me the inspiration and the drive to complete this chapter. Everything here is unbetaed, as I was just too eager to get it done and published, so sincere apologies in advance. Also, segments of the story are not chronological, so... sorry also if you get confused. But I like being ambiguous even if that confuses my readers. Sorry. Lastly, ENJOY! Series Masterlist: Little Black Book

You walked back into the large hall, where your firm’s annual office party was being held. You felt a bit weird, you had never done anything this daring in public before. Well, not since Hoseok fucked you against a tree in a backyard during a house party years ago. But you could not deny your boyfriend’s request, not when the glint in his dragon eyes and the little smirk in his mouth (enough to produce that damned dimple on his cheek) promised you a delicious reward.

So here you were, coming back from a quick trip to the restroom, with your thong bunched up tightly in your fist.

And there he was in all his glory- black turtleneck that showed off his chest, slim-fit black pants that made his legs look even longer, and those fucking glasses that made him look so innocent but you knew, oh you knew, how naughty he could be. 

Namjoon noticed you approaching so he opened his arm, and you slithered right to his side, sliding your thong into his pants back pocket. His dimples deepened at your movement, and anyone watching would think he was just smitten with you, but you were well aware of what lay beneath- the urge to give you the kind of pounding that would put you on cloud nine for days and days. You clenched yourself hard, hoping with all hopes that nothing was leaking out to betray your secret state of undress. God, you were such a horny mess.

“You both are so in love it’s making me sick.”

You turned to your boss, raising an eyebrow at his snide remark. “Jealous much?” 

Seokjin snorted at your retort, but to your surprise, did not say anything back. Keeping his eyes on you, he downed his champagne, and you saw his ears getting redder, from alcohol perhaps, or really, jealousy? Namjoon chuckled into your hair, while his hand glided down from your waist to the small of your back, then lower still to the top of your ass. He let out a hum, no doubt pleased he no longer felt the outline of your thong under your skirt. His touch was intoxicating, but you still watched Seokjin like a hawk.

Min Yoongi, who was standing next to your boss, cleared his throat. “You know you don’t have to keep playing my album, right? I think it’s been looped three times now.”

Seokjin slapped his back playfully. “Ah, you are one of our biggest clients! We have to support you!” You saw Yoongi hiding a small smile behind his drink. How typical, he always liked fishing for compliments despite his nonchalant demeanor. 

“We’re basically using your music to brag.” You snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Why do you think our shareholders AND their kids are here?”

Seokjin clicked a finger gun at you. “She’s smart, this one, that’s why she’s my protege.” Seokjin motioned for another drink. You counted five from the start of the night, this would be his sixth. He was drinking too fast and too much; it was quite unlike him. “Do you know she’s the one who brought Yoongi in?” The question was directed at Namjoon and your boyfriend dully nodded. “Told me her friend was looking for a law firm to represent him. The whole office nearly lost it when agustd himself walked in. Some couldn’t believe they were looking at agustd in the flesh, some couldn’t believe YOU were actually friends with him!”

Seokjin’s signature laughter boomed in the hall, causing some people to turn to look at your little group. Namjoon and Yoongi laughed along politely, but you continued to feel uneasy over Seokjin’s behavior.  “You know, you never told us how you two became friends,” he eyed you and Yoongi. 

“Ah,” you paused, looking at the rapper. His face remained expressionless, yet you knew he was giving you the rein to control the story, especially with your boyfriend present.

“We actually met at a bar, and he thought I was… a prostitute.”

Seokjin nearly spat out his drink. Namjoon squeezed your waist a little too tightly. Yoongi suddenly found a very interesting spot on the floor.

“You know my old boss,” you reminded Seokjin, “he liked to take his clients to those kinds of places, and I always had to tag along to pay their bills and get taxis for everyone, all that shit.”

Seokjin scoffed. “Yeah, he was a creep. The best thing I did after moving here from New York was transfer you to my team.”

Namjoon squeezed your waist again, his fingers dug deeper into your flesh.

“So, yeah, that’s how I first met Yoongi. Told him I wasn’t what he thought I was, gave him my card instead.” Then he made you cum with his tongue in the bar’s restroom. Twice. 

“After that night, we met up a few times when he needed help with some legal issues about plagiarism, libel, and stuff like that. ” And you sucked his dick in his studio. Sometimes he bent you over his recording equipment to eat you out too.

“I’m just glad he trusts me- us,” you corrected yourself quickly, “enough to represent him now.” You trusted him enough to make a sex tape with him. You still had a copy of it.  As he did. 

Yoongi nodded. “Wouldn’t have anyone else.” 

Your boss stared at you pointedly. What was wrong with him? You felt like he knew something and was trying to pry it out of you here of all places. He knew you had a few fuck buddies, apart from himself, before Namjoon came into the picture, but you never shared names. Did Seokjin suspect you had been sleeping with Yoongi? Was he trying to get it out in the open to make Namjoon jealous? But why? There was nothing in it for him, unless he was just being petty, unless… could it be possible? That he was jealous over you going steady with Namjoon and thus depriving him off his weekly fuck session with you? He could not possibly be that childish… but then again, Seokjin could be unpredictable. Especially with six glasses of champagne in his system. 

“All right,” your boss sighed and put his arms around Yoongi, “I think it’s time to show you off to our shareholders. Those lovebirds look like they have better things to do anyway. Right?” He winked then directed the music producer to another part of the hall.

Your brows furrowed, you were still nowhere near clarity over his odd behavior. You had no time to analyze that further however, for Namjoon’s hand started traveling down to cup your ass. 

“Joon! People can see!” You smacked his chest.

“Let them see. I want everyone to know I own this ass.” He pulled you around till you were flushed to his front. You shivered when you felt he was already hard. “You wear this skirt to work everyday, baby?”

You hugged him back, arms tight around his waist. He smelled so good, so manly, you just could not get enough of him, especially with his erection poking at your abdomen. “Not everyday, just when I need to feel good and powerful.”

“Hmm, is that so? I think you just like it when your boss and clients ogle you.”

You stepped back to look at him, your cheeks burning uncontrollably. You definitely felt called out. “Who? Them?” 

His face still looked friendly and amiable, but you sensed his energy had taken a more intense turn. “I’ve seen how they look at you, especially at this ass.” He squeezed again, much harder this time, making no effort to hide what he was doing. His touch burned through your skirt onto your skin, and you wish you could stop the flow of arousal leaking onto your inner thighs.

“Fuck, Joon,” you whimpered. “They’re not… I… shit, let’s just go home now.”

He chuckled. “Okay, baby. I’ll wipe you down in the taxi if you get too wet.” He patted his back pocket, where your thong was. 

He wiped you down that night, all right. He made you cum over and over with his fingers so he could wipe your creamy cum off of his fingers with your thong, and once he was satisfied, he sucked on the soaked material till you begged him to fuck you. And like a good boyfriend he was, he gave you what you asked, and more, until you lay spent, unable to move, your body oversensitized but somehow your mind still ended up wondering what was going on with Seokjin.

~~~

Your chopsticks clattered noisily on the table, interrupting the conversation between Namjoon and his little sister in the busy restaurant.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, recovering quickly and gripping the chopsticks a little tighter. “Did you say you’re going on a date with Jungkook this Friday?”

Namjoon’s sister nodded. “Yeah, he asked me to go to the arcade with him. Which is a bit unusual,” she smiled shyly, her dimples prominent on her cheeks, “but I like that idea. It’ll be more fun and casual, right?” Your boyfriend nodded, humming in pleasure, from both food and his sister’s excitement. 

“I didn’t know you know Jungkook.” 

“Friday will be their first meeting, I set them up. She’s been complaining about all the shitty boys in her uni. Thought Jungkook would make a good match with her.”

Namjoon slurped his noodles. Namjoon’s sister was sweet and kind, and as smart as her big brother. But with Jungkook? You simply could not see it. 

“Ah, I see,” you forced a smile. “I didn’t know you were setting them up.”

Namjoon glanced at you. “Oh, was I supposed to?”

“Well, it’d be nice to know before you planned all that. He’s my friend.”

“He’s my friend too.”

You poked at your dumpling a little too aggressively. “Well Namjoon, I’ve been friends with him longer than you have, so yes, you should’ve told me!”

“I didn’t think that mattered. I spend as much time with him as you do, if not more.”

“I introduced you to him, it mattered.” You muttered, fully aware how childish you were sounding. 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re overreacting.” 

Your boyfriend’s off-handed comment set you off, enough to push your food away before standing up. “I’m going to the restroom.” You grabbed your bag and coat, and instead of the toilet, you headed to the exit. You heard Namjoon curse, and his sister worriedly asking him if everything was all right.

Once you stepped out, cold air immediately assaulted your senses, giving you a sudden clarity, and with it, came guilt. You could not understand why you reacted the way you did. No, you had to stop lying to yourself- you knew exactly why. Jungkook asked you out to an arcade a long time ago, and why you turned him down. You simply hated the fact that someone else actually said yes, even when that someone was your own boyfriend’s sweet little sister. 

You sighed when you felt a rush of warm air from the restaurant’s door behind you, signaling that Namjoon had come out to see you. He was right, you overreacted, but damned if you were going to apologize. You stood by your opinion, however rashed and illogical, that you should have been involved in the plan from the beginning.

“What the hell was that?” Namjoon finally asked when the silence stretched a little too long.

You took a deep breath; you were a little calmer, but you still tried to answer him carefully. “Jungkook is my friend. One of my closest friends. I’m just upset you set him up with your sister without talking about it with me first.”

Your boyfriend tilted his head, observing you. “I honestly didn’t think it would upset you this much. Actually, I thought you’d be happy for both of them.”

“I’m protective of him, okay?” You snapped. “He’s been through so much shit with people he thought he could trust, so I just wanted to make-”

“And you think my sister isn’t trustworthy enough?” Namjoon cut you off, the ice in his voice biting. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“But it’s implied, very clearly.”

You refused to give him any response, not when you could not even comprehend the jumbled emotions you were feeling. You folded your arms defiantly and faced away from your boyfriend.

“What’s Jungkook to you, really?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. You kept your back to Namjoon. “A friend.”

“Just a friend?”

“A client, who became a really good friend. Okay?”

Namjoon’s eyes were boring through your back. “I told you, I don’t like being lied to.” Despite his level and calm voice, you still felt the anger brimming underneath.

“And I told you, Jungkook was a client, who became a really good friend.” You finally turned to look at your boyfriend, your eyes set on his, staring back at him sternly. However his lack of response continued to feed the uneasiness in you. Your heart beat faster, every logical instinct in you screamed for you to look away, but you could not. You had to stare him down for him to believe your words.

“Okay,” he reached out to cup your cheek. Despite the gentle gesture, you still held your breath. “Let’s go back inside, she’s worried.”

Embarrassment filled you, and your flight instinct kicked in. “You go,Joon. Finish your dinner with your sister. I’ll call her later to apologize.”

“Where are you going?” 

“Home.” You turned away, avoiding your boyfriend’s questioning look. You flagged down a taxi “Are you coming back to my place?”

His jaws clenched, he was clearly unhappy but he still opened the taxi door for you, ever the gentleman. “I’m not going to yours tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The finality in his tone was followed by a slam of the door. You watched him go back into the restaurant, long strides leading him away from you without even a glance back. You exhaled shakily, angry and disappointed at yourself. You decided you did not want to be alone, you did not want to go home if he was not going to be there later. So you gave the taxi driver Hoseok’s address, instead of yours.

~~~

You came home to Namjoon’s place earlier than planned, to the sound of the shower running. Namjoon must have just gotten home too, you thought, and you plopped down on his bed, debating whether to join him or wait for him to finish.

Before you could make a decision, you noticed his notebook- the one where he wrote down all his musings and short poems- open on his side of the bed. You never looked through the book, only reading what he wanted to show you. Curiosity got the better of you, though, so you took a peek.

If I could be under your skin

Closer than we’ve ever been

Wanna lock you up in my sight

But you run away like fish

You stared at his scribbles. Were these lines about you? Was that how he felt about you? Your chest thumped, your mind reeled back to the conversation you had with Hoseok earlier that night.

“Marriage and kids, Hoseok, that’s what he wants.”

“Then tell him that’s not what you want.”

“What if I lose him?”

“Then you lose him. Isn’t it better than living in a lie? Pretending to want something you actually don’t?”

Your heart constricted. Did Namjoon know, was that the reason he wrote these down? 

“I know it’s hard, babe. I can see how Namjoon makes you happy, but his golden dick aside, you’re not built for the long run. You and I are the same, we’re too selfish, we’re better off on our own.”

Was that true what Hoseok said? You had been free, yes, before Namjoon, doing things on your own terms and satisfying your urges on your own schedule. But being with Namjoon was good too. He was kind, he challenged you intellectually, he gave you attention the way none of your previous fuck buddies ever did once sex was over. That was not a bad thing, was it? And you knew you gave a lot to Namjoon too. The museums, the parks, the poetry reading and discussion- you gave him your time for all that. Were you supposed to give more? 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when the bathroom door opened. You immediately move to stand up, away from the notebook, pretending you just got home then instead of a few minutes earlier.

“You’re home,” your boyfriend greeted you in surprise. “Thought you’d party longer with Hoseok tonight.”

You stared wide eyed at Namjoon- bare chest, towel slung low on his hips. He ruffled his wet hair with his hands, biceps flexing naturally. 

“Can’t keep up with his energy anymore, besides why would I waste my time there when this is waiting for me at home?” You made your way to the bathroom, brushing your hand across his abs as you walked past him. You surprised yourself at how calm you sounded.

He followed you, chuckling at your teasing. He leaned on the bathroom door as you started removing your makeup at the sink. You raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you going to put any clothes on?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Am I distracting you?”

“You’re going to catch a cold.” You scolded, but he just folded his arms across his broad chest. “How was your night with Yoongi?”

“It was good, he’s turning me into a whiskey drinker.” He moved to stand behind you, you could see from his reflection how his eyes were roaming up and down your body. The reaction in you was instantaneous. You pressed your legs together to dam the growing arousal. “He invited me to write some lyrics with him.”

“Really? Joon! That’s amazing!” You straightened up and attempted to turn to hug him, but his arms stopped you, keeping your back to him. You watched his reflection intently; the way a rumble escaped his throat when he pulled the zipper of your dress down, the way he bit his lower lip as he pushed the garment off your shoulders, the way he purred as the material fell around your ankles, leaving you in your lacy bra and thong, and your trusted thigh high stockings.

“Kim Namjoon, poet and lyricist,” you shuddered as his large hands ghosted over your bare skin. “Fuck, that’s so hot, Joon.”

He smirked. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that. Was planning to celebrate with you tomorrow,” he paused to trail kisses from your shoulder to your neck. “didn’t want to tire you out tonight, but it looks like you’re ready for our own private party, aren’t you baby?” His hand slithered under your thong, and your eyes fluttered shut as he ran a single digit between your folds, enticing more wetness to seep out.

“Open your eyes, baby. Watch yourself while I finger you open.”

His thick, long finger pushed its way into your hole, his palm flushed against your throbbing sex, keeping you in place. You exhaled shakily, as you forced your eyes open, and your mind immediately short circuited at what you saw. His large hand bulged underneath your little thong, stretching the material as he finger fucked you. 

“That’s it, baby,” another digit joined in, “keep watching, look at how much you enjoy my fingers.”

Eyes transfixed on your own reflection, you clenched harder around his pumping fingers. Your face was bare of makeup and pasty, eyes red from the party and the alcohol, but all your senses were lit up on fire and he continued to stroke it to burn hotter and brighter. You mewled when a third finger joined into your hole, and you gripped his wrist, half in protest, half in encouragement. You felt stretched, but not yet full. 

Namjoon wrapped his free hand around your waist and pulled you up, his hard chest plastered against your back. “Breathe, baby, relax,” he soothed you, “you know I gotta stretch you out, your little pussy’s too tight for my cock.”

You whimpered at his words. For a poet, he had such a dirty mouth. And he knew how much you liked it.

“Can you take one more, hmm?” The hand on your middle traveled up to latch on your breast. “Or do you think you’re ready for me?”

You grinded on his crotch as a response, both mouth and cunt salivating at the hardness nestled on your back. 

“You want it now, don’t you?” He pulled his fingers out and you panted, eyes still locked with his, although a lot more glazed with lust and unbridled desires. He tugged his towel loose, letting it fall to the floor. He moved his hand from your breast to the space between your shoulder blades, pushing your body down and forward. With your ass sticking out, he spanked the flesh a few times before pulling your thong roughly off you.

“Why do you even wear this pathetic thing,” he tutted, tossing your underwear to the floor. He then cupped your asscheeks to open you up, to have your pulsating center opened and exposed to his eyes. “New house rule, baby. You’re only allowed to wear these stockings here, nothing else. Gotta keep you ready for my cock at all times.” 

He slapped his length on your sopping pussy a few times, eliciting cries out of your mouth. He truly could turn you into a sopping mess with such little effort. Desperate, you pushed yourself back at him, your eyes and body begging for him as your mind melted in horniness, unable to form any sentences to tell him what you wanted.

Namjoon understood immediately- he was tuned in to you like that, having learned how your body responded to his stimuli. He lined himself to your dripping entrance and started pushing in deeper and deeper. 

You gave up trying to keep your eyes open. “Ah, daddy…”

“That’s right, baby,” he bottomed out. “Who’s your daddy?”

“You… you…” 

He pulled out slowly then pushed himself back in even more excruciatingly slow. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

If I could be under your skin…

“Namjoon,” you breathed out, “Kim Namjoon. Oh!”

He slammed in, spearing you into delirium in one movement. “Fuck, baby,” he puffed, “wish you could see how hot you are right now. Shit. You got your phone in here?”

You tightened at what he was hinting at. 

“You want that, baby? We should record ourselves, huh? You’d love this, your puffy lips around my cock, fuck!” His pace quickened. The slapping sounds of your skin and his grew deafening. “And these thigh highs? Fucking hell!”

He faltered once, and you knew he was losing the iron grip control he normally displayed during sex. You raised yourself up, grasping the back of his neck, anchoring yourself. In return, he wrapped you tighter to his chest, his large hands clutching your breasts, as if they were a lifeline for his sanity.

Closer than we’ve ever been…

Your eyes locked onto the bodies in the mirror, watching the pornographic scene. Molded to his body, he continued pounding you from behind, bouncing you on his cock. You slid a hand down to your clit, thrumming the bud frantically to chase your orgasm.

“Keep your eyes open, baby, watch us, watch us cum together.” His shaky voice was desperate, needy.

Wanna lock you up in my sight…

You kept on attacking your clit, feeling the heat rising and rising till it finally exploded, your eyes instinctively closing as your body froze in ecstasy, cunt clamping down on his cock. A growl penetrated your haze, he released his seed deep into you as his muscly arms nearly crushed your body.

But you ran away like fish…

Tears running down your face, you breathlessly clung to him, not willing to let him go just yet.

~~~

The kitchen was quiet except for the sounds of dishes clattering and your hissing at Namjoon to be careful.

“God knows where Seokjin bought all these from. Our combined salary isn't enough to cover any damages.” You passed another plate to your boyfriend, glaring at him as a warning to be more careful.

“It’s just a plate.” He took the plate and dried it with a dishtowel, before putting it ever so slowly on the counter. You rolled your eyes at his exaggeration.

“Yes, and again, that plate probably costs more than your precious art books. Why the hell does Seokjin not have a dishwasher in here?”

Namjoon scoffed, and continued taking the washed dishes from you to dry them. It was utterly domestic, you thought, especially since you and your boyfriend used the kitchen only to make coffee and the occasional ramyeon. Sharing living space with him was surprisingly easy, for you had your own corners of organized chaos- his tower of books by the sofa, your piles of documents by your side of the bed, his shoes taking half of the space by the entryway, your own thrown into a rack nearby. He had his own mess, you had yours; he left yours alone and you did not touch his. It was a perfect co-existence.

So doing something as simple as washing dishes- even in your boss’ kitchen- felt somewhat special. Namjoon seemed to feel the same; he was humming and throwing you little smiles, but it turned out he had something else in mind.

“Remember what you asked me a few days ago?”

“You have to be more specific. I asked a lot of things from you.” 

He lowered his voice. “I’m referring to the threesome.”

You dropped the metal ladle you were rinsing into the sink, the clanging noise echoed loudly through the kitchen, and beyond. “Don’t break anything!” Seokjin shouted from the living room. You glared at your boyfriend. Namjoon held back a giggle, and you both stayed quiet until Seokjin and Jungkook’s laughter filled the apartment again.

“They’re busy gaming, they won’t hear us.” Namjoon took the ladle and dried it dutifully. You moved on to wash the chopsticks. 

“If I remember correctly, you dismissed my question that night,” you shot him an accusatory look. “Why are you suddenly asking now?”

He took the rinsed chopsticks from you and wiped them down before half-throwing them onto the drying rack. You winced; your gentle giant had already forgotten the warning you gave him earlier.

“I’ve kind of been thinking about it.”

“Oh?” You reached for the silver spoons in the sink, scrubbing it to the rhythm of your increasing heartbeat.

“I’ve thought,” his voice went lower into a whisper, like the kind he used to whisper his dirty talk into your ear, “if we were to do it, it’d have to be with someone we’re both comfortable with, right?”

With your eyes still glued on the spoons, you nodded.

“So, I kind of went through the list of our mutual friends, for someone we might invite to our bed.”

You rinsed the spoons, the warm water from the tap only made you feel more feverish. Was this what domesticity was about? Talking about sexual fantasies and kinks while doing the most mundane household chore? 

“And?” You stole a glance at your boyfriend. 

“What do you think of Seokjin?”

Upon hearing the name, you paused and turned slowly to face your boyfriend. Was he serious? Was he really considering having your very handsome, very hot boss involved in a sexual act with the two of you? 

“He’s handsome, and I think he’d be fun. But yeah, that’d put you in an awkward situation, right?” Namjoon murmured, taking your silence as a sign of disapproval. “I thought of Jungkook too, but he probably would get too competitive, and I’m not going to go head to head with someone who hates losing.”

You were flabbergasted. You did not expect your boyfriend to have this deep of an analysis to a question you had asked when drunk.

“Hoseok, maybe?” Your boyfriend continued, scratching his chin. You were losing your mind. Namjoon’s expression was serious, deep in thought, and he kept talking, getting the thoughts out of his brilliant brain to weigh all the pros and cons. It was so logical and systematic, the way he was picking out which of your friend’s cock he would allow you to have, as if he was deciding which bicycle to buy. “But it’s tricky because you used to date, right? What if during the threesome sparks flew again between you two and I got kicked out.”

“We did not date. We tried, and failed spectacularly.” You found your voice to protest. Hoseok would not be too bad of a choice. He was fun  and adventurous, his physique was different from Namjoon’s, and you had to admit the two of them painted a very tantalizing picture in your mind. Moreover, your boyfriend and your best friend both had a very similar tendency to take charge. You liked the idea indeed.

“Nah, I’m not taking my chances. Are you done with those?” He pointed at the spoons in your hands. You had been rinsing them under the running water. He took them from you to wipe them down, before throwing them onto the drying rack. You winced again at the sound, and in your heightened state, a whiny gasp escaped.

The sound did not go unnoticed. A corner of his mouth went up as he wiped his hands dry. He then turned to you, taking your hands into his. He started wiping your fingers one by one. The air had shifted, tension coiling around you both.

“That leaves us with Yoongi,” you dared to say. Namjoon’s jaw clenched. 

“Or the jazz singer,” dragon eyes bored into yours. “There must be a reason you introduced me to him.”

Heart pounding, you attempted to put on a coy smile, although inside you were panicking. It was hitting a little too close to a memory you did not want to resurrect. “He’s a good singer and I just thought you’d enjoy listening to his stuff.”

He bit his lower lip and your knees nearly buckled. It was not fair how easily your body reacted to him; you were like a Pavlovian bitch in heat. “He’s drop dead gorgeous too. You have a thing for musicians, don’t you?”

You knew he was baiting you so you had to judge if giving him a little more glimpse of your past would favor you or anger him. Instinctively, you wanted to provoke him a little; a jealous Namjoon was a dominant Namjoon, and you were addicted to that side of him.

“I have a thing,” you placed your hands on his chest, enjoying the hard muscles there, “for a poet who can make me swoon and drench my panties in a single stanza.”

The rumble in his chest signaled his contentment to your words. “And does this poet satisfy you?”

Your hands snaked around his neck. “In more ways than one,” you purred, stroking his ego further.

“Good,” he gripped your chin. He did not need to say more, you understood from the sharp gaze of his eyes and the pressure on your skin that the conversation was over. A mixture of disappointment and arousal brimmed over you in the form of a sigh, and he descended on your mouth. You resigned to his eager lips and tongue, and raised yourself on your toes to clutch onto him tighter, to show him- and yourself- that he was more than enough for you, that you needed no one else but him.

The kiss turned feverish quickly, and you fought the urge to climb and wrap your legs around him. He sensed your desperate need, his hands cupped your ass roughly but before he could lift you up, a voice interrupted your impromptu hot and heavy makeout session.

“Do not soil my kitchen, please.” Seokjin walked past you to get a new bottle of sikhye. Despite his warning words, his eyes ogled your ass covered in Namjoon’s large hands. “Go fuck like rabbits at your own place, not here.” 

You bit back a squeal when Namjoon squeezed your ass cheek a little too harshly. You looked up at him and noticed his sharp jawline twitched once, then twice. A gush of arousal flooded your panties instantly, and you knew what lay ahead when you got back home.

~~~

“Um, I don’t think this is my table.”

You looked up from your book to find a towering figure of a man, dressed casually in a matching yellow sweatshirt and sweatpants, looking down at you with a confused expression on his face.

“This is the table Mrs. Shin has reserved, sir,” the restaurant hostess explained politely, though a little patronizing.

“Yet that is not my mother,” the man pointed at you.

“I was supposed to meet MY mother for lunch; this table is under her name, isn’t it?” You questioned the hostess, the same person who had led you to this very table just a few minutes earlier.

“Ah, yes, the table was reserved under two names,” she checked her slim tablet and read out the names, “for two people.”

You looked at the man, both of you sporting a bewildered yet determined look at the mix-up. You would not give up the table you were already at for this man and his mother, no matter how intimidating he looked in yellow. And tall. And big. And handsome.

The hostess interrupted your staredown. “My apologies, there is a recent note left on the reservation. Mrs Shin wrote that,” she looked at you, her customer service smile in full force, “her son and her friend’s daughter will be taking the table instead.”

“Huh?” The man looked even more lost. You fished out your phone to call and question your mother.

The hostess raised her eyebrows, her fake smile still intact. “This is your table, sir.”

“But, my mo-”

“She set you up. Your mothers set you up.”

Your thumb paused over the green call button. “What do you mean by that?”

“This is a blind date,” the woman sounded exasperated. “That man is your blind date. And she’s your blind date, sir.”

She pulled the chair across from you for the man, as if to emphasize her point, as well as a signal that her part in whatever plan your mother had cooked up was done. The man eyed you carefully; he still looked confused, you thought, but there was a splash of curiosity in his almond eyes.

You thanked the hostess, and shook your head as she bounded away, free at last. 

“My mom did mention she met an old high school friend a couple of weeks ago,” the man sighed with a soft laugh. “I’m betting my life savings your mom mentioned something similar to you too?”

You nodded, your mother had indeed. “Yup. Now that she’s retired, she seems to be always up to no good.”

The man chuckled, and your eyes widened at the deep dimples appearing on his cheeks. “Well, so what now?”

Did his voice just go lower? “We can throw this back at them,” you leaned forward, and he mimicked your movement. You swallowed. He was very handsome indeed, but there was something else that made him very attractive… you couldn’t put a finger to it.

“What have you got in mind?”

Sex appeal. That was it. This man was oozing with sex appeal. “We could tell them we left the moment we found out their plan, but,” you licked your lips, “at least the sex was phenomenal.”

Cocking his head, he stared you down. You had done this before, with more formidable opponents, across a conference room or in a courtroom, but you had never felt this exposed; his eyes continued boring through yours, making your cheeks burn uncontrollably.

He shifted in his seat to lean in more, to get even closer to you, clasping his hands on the table. You glanced down- dear god, his hands were big, and you knew what they said about big hands. 

“I like that plan, but you see, I have a little problem with that,” his voice was low and gravely, and you felt like you were running out of air to breathe. “I don’t lie to my mother. So the sex… it’d better be phenomenal.”

You bit your lower lip, preventing a moan from escaping. Fucking hell, where had this man been all your life?

“Deal.” You packed your things and stood up. He followed suit. The hostess looked at you quizzically as you left, and you did not hear what the man said to her to make her gasp audibly. The low rumble of laughter followed you out and into a taxi. After a quick discussion, it was surmised that his place was much closer, and you both stayed quiet during the short drive. You did not trust yourself to say anything, not even to ask for his name, for you were sure the only thing that would come out of your mouth was loud, appreciative hums over how long his legs were, how big his thighs looked under the sweatpants, how long his fingers were gripping his kneecap, and how HOT he felt sitting next to you. In short, you were a horny mess, and you did not need the taxi driver to witness the lack of impropriety you were willing to commit for the man next to you.

On arrival, he ushered you out and with his palm firm on the small of your back, he led you up to his door. He stepped in front of you to key in his code, it again hit you how BIG he was. You realized he was not much taller than Seokjin and Taehyung, but why was he so big? 

The door opened with a beep and he stepped in, you hot on his heels. Right after you both removed your shoes, he turned to you, literally sandwiching you between the door and his wall of a chest. 

“You sure about this?”

You looked up at him, at his dark dragon eyes, at his jaws clenching. “Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

He leaned down towards you and you raised yourself on your toes to meet him halfway. The kiss started soft, safe, the bravado from the restaurant seemed to dissipate, taken over by the curiosity of new touch, new taste, new sensation. You tilted your head to let him in more, for his tongue to slither in, to lick into your mouth, and when you moaned against his mouth, he lifted you up so effortlessly, giving relief to your calves. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist (god, what a tree to climb this man was), and his large hands cupped your ass, keeping you secure in his hold. You felt him moving, and you opened your eyes when he broke the kiss to explore your neck. He was walking to his bedroom, you presumed, andyou saw flashes of leafy green and wood undertones in his apartment. Combined with the bright yellow color he had on, your mind wondered briefly who he really was.

He lay you down on his bed, his hands left your ass to hastily undress you- impatience kicking in, clothes strewn about to the floor, until you were lying under him, skin rubbing against skin as your mouths met again to swallow each other’s moans. His hand roamed to graze against your hard nipple, then down between your legs, an appreciative hum vibrated in his chest at the wetness found there.

His face appeared in your vision as he raised himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. His eyes widened a little when your face scrunched a little, a reaction to his thick finger finding his way deep into your hole. He shuffled to spread your legs with his, all the while still pinning you down with his large body, leaving you little room to move. 

You gripped his biceps when a second finger went in, moaning helplessly at the intrusion. His eyes never left you- they were watching you like a hawk for every pleasure and displeasure, observing you carefully to know when and how far he could go.

A hitched breath from you lifted a corner of his mouth up, and he moved his fingers faster. You held on to him more tightly, your manicured nails digging into his skin, determined to leave their marks. You could hear how wet you were, his fingers juicing more and more liquid out of you, and then you felt it. A brush against that promising spot inside you that made you gasp and tighten, and you knew from the look in his eyes that he got you. Hook, line and sinker.

He shifted again, to spread your legs wider and to grip your hair, to ensure that you were looking at him and him only, his fingers not losing an ounce of momentum. He coaxed you higher and higher, and you held your eyes open as much as you could, not daring to break his eye contact.

“You’re getting close, aren’t you,” his low voice loud amidst the squelching sounds from down below, “I can feel it.”

You could not find the words to answer him, so your hands left his biceps for his shoulders, holding on to them for dear life.

“Come on baby, cum on my fingers, gotta get you as wet as possible for daddy’s big cock.”

That did it. You immediately careened into your climax, pussy clamping down yet his fingers still moved, even faster. You nearly cried when he pulled out so suddenly, leaving you so agonizingly empty, but a wet swipe of tongue made your back arched precariously high, and you lost control of what was happening when his mouth worked you to… prolong your orgasm? Or was this a back to back orgasm? Fuck, you did not care, you just wanted more and more and more.

You whimpered, your body oversensitized in the best of ways, and he finally left your quivering pussy. You felt him leave the bed altogether, and you wanted to protest, but no words came out other than wordless sounds begging him to come back. The bed dipped so you lifted your head, only to find him rolling a condom down his cock, and fuck, what a cock! If you thought Taehyung was big, this was another definition altogether.

He lined himself up and looked at you for a green light. You nodded, bracing yourself for what to come. He entered slowly- so painfully slow- and you understood he did not want to hurt you, but your cunt was aching so much, you just wanted him to split you open with his big dick and make you see stars for days. And so you did what you never, ever did with anyone else.

“Daddy,” you breathed out the honorific, “just fuck me hard please.”

His whole body froze. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m so fucking horny,” you held his gaze and repeated your request, “ just fuck me hard as hard as you can. Please.”

You heard a growl- he growled, dear god!- before you felt the full girth and length of his cock ramming into you. You cried as he fucked you like you had asked him to, hard and fast, making his bed creak, the sound competing against the slapping of your skins and the wails from your mouth. He lifted your legs, resting them on his sweaty chest as he pounded you, then he slowed down when he felt you closing in to your climax. You sobbed in pure neediness, but he pulled out and flipped you over, and in one smooth motion, he was back inside again, fucking you into the mattress. His large hand was on your neck to hold you down, the other kneading and smacking your ass. 

“No marks, no marks,” you panted in a moment of clarity. You let go enough to call him daddy, but not enough for him to leave marks on you.

He complied immediately, leaning down to pin your body as he continued to pound you. His hands searched for yours, to link his fingers with yours as his hips started to stutter. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned to your neck. You clenched. “Come with me, baby, come- fuck!”

The final climax took you out, you blinked away the post-orgasm haze as he removed himself from you, freeing you from his body weight. You could not move, except to gingerly turn your head to look at him, lying next to you on his back, his chest rising up and down.

“That was amazing.”

“Amazing is not phenomenal,” you managed to say, voice hoarse. Your throat was so parched. “You’d still be lying to your mom.”

He chuckled. “Give me five minutes. Then we can try again.”

“Sounds good,” you agreed. “I’m _______, by the way.”

“I’m Namjoon.” His arm reached over to shake your lifeless one. “Nice to meet you. Do you like poetry?”

You called your mother later that night, annoyed at first at her attempt to set you up, but ended up telling her you would be meeting Namjoon again, maybe for a museum date in a week or so. No, not this coming week, you were swamped with work (and a threesome appointment but she definitely did not need to know that) and yes, he was very nice, and yes, she picked a winner, and no, let us not be too hasty, you would like to take it slow, though in your mind you already knew you wanted to see him again, and again, to have him fuck the living daylights out of you with his golden dick. But of course, you said nothing of the sort to your mother.

~~~

TONIGHT

You look at your phone again. 11:58pm.

Namjoon said he would be back soon, and that was an hour ago. You aren’t worried, you know he’s at Yoongi’s studio. The two of them have gotten along like houses on fire, musically and otherwise, and you should feel happy, right? Your investment banker turned published poet boyfriend is now writing song lyrics with and for the hottest music producer in the country. That’s hot, that’s fucking sexy.

But still, you feel annoyed. You love that your friends get along with Namjoon, but lately it seems Namjoon prefers spending time with them more than with you. Granted you nearly killed his bonsai after he entrusted you to look after it during his family vacation in Japan. And that you complained non stop during a 15-minute bicycle ride along the river. And that you nag him over the mess he left in the bathroom. And that he dislikes how you kick him awake when he starts snoring.

And when petty bickering makes its way into full-blown arguments.

And when you face away from each other when you go to bed.

And when you keep refusing his invitation to spend the big holidays with his family. Which now includes Jungkook.

And when you evade any question about the future.

‘Let’s just see how we go’ is banned from your vocabulary, unless for the moments when you feel especially petty to pick a fight with him.

You sigh. You might as well go to sleep now; even if he comes home in the next five seconds, what are you going to do? The sex is still good, but you’re far from in the mood for it. You sigh again while making yourself comfortable under the blanket, willing yourself to fall asleep.

Only sleep continues to evade you. Too many thoughts are running through your head, and one in particular is shouting louder than the rest. You block it out. Shut up. Sleep.

And still, you lie awake. Till the door beeps, signaling your boyfriend returning home. You keep your body unmoving, eyes vacant, staring at the window, away from your bedroom door. You hear him come in, and there is a hint of alcohol in the air now. Your heart sinks. He wasn’t just working with Yoongi, he was also drinking with Yoongi. The realization gives an ominous feeling. 

You hold your breath when the bed dips. So he decides to get in bed even without changing. Great. Then you feel his breath on your neck.

“Baby? You awake?”

An instinct to stay quiet and continue lying like a dead fish crosses your mind, but your heart aches, and you know tonight might just be the night. 

You rollover to find yourself face to face with him. His hair is longer now, messy, ruffled no doubt by the winter winds outside because he forgot to wear his beanie again. You reach out to tuck an errand strand behind his ear. He smiles gently. 

You continue staring at each other, so many words to be said yet none is said at all. It feels like he knows as well as you do, the chapter is ending and another is starting. You both have avoided this conversation far too long, stringing each other along with the amazing sex and soul shaking orgasms. You take a deep breath, and he does too. It is time.

“I think we should break up.”

A/N: dont hate me for the ending please 😅 I just can't see any other way for the series to end, esp after the Jimin chapter. Come shout at me if you're upset. Or you can reblog so more readers can see how much I hate happy endings ☺️ Thank you for reading! Series Masterlist: Little Black Book

Published 06022023 Crossposted to my ao3

[quietwings-fics]

could have been anyone, anyone

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: CNTW Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Nickifer Additional Tags: Experimental Style, Horror, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, i vibed this into existence. behold., Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, Episode: s05e01 Sympathy for the Devil (Supernatural) Wordcount: 417 Summary:

Let’s write a horror story. You and me.

Let’s write a horror story. You and me.

You need all the ingredients first. Something to shatter. Something that bleeds. A house to haunt when the deed is done. It’s lovely, by the way. I like what you did with the place. It’s a perfect place to raise a family. Breathe it in, the peaceful prologue. Check the stove for a leak. Something’s making the air smell foul.

Let’s create a monster, the kind that happens to other people. Let’s call it a home invasion. An assault. A violation.

We’re picking petals now, one, He loves me, two, He loves me not.

Every good horror story needs victims.

Here, you can have the starring role. The final girl. The one who walks out when the curtain starts to fall. Cut to credits.

Too short? Far too short. You can play it over in your head again and again during the funeral, but time doesn’t seem to pass. Rewind. What did you do wrong? Besides existing in the first fifteen minutes of the movie. That was unavoidable. Rewind. Did you tell your wife you loved her? Your son? Those are the kind of beautiful, grieving thoughts people are going to expect to hear, one last regret. They’re not going to want to hear that you promised to get her something sweet at the store before you got home, and that you forgot.

I’m not really supposed to say this, but I am sorry. It had to happen.

You had to be free for your next great role, after all. Not starring anymore, I’m afraid. Understudies are important, too, especially when the main performer doesn’t appreciate his part. We need you for the play to go on. The orchestra is waiting. The violin sting echoes through the empty halls. We are starting again.

Let’s write a horror story. Just you this time. It’s out of my hands.

You have the ingredients. Someone shattered. A crib that bleeds. A house, haunted.

The monster is created for you. She lives in a preacher’s condemnation and the bible that ends up on the shelf in every home. She watches you move from room to room to room. She tastes your grief. She scares you. She puts you on your knees. She is intrigued. She is enamored. She has a question to ask.

Three, She loves me.

Wake up, Nick. There is someone inside your home.

She is an angel.

And this is a horror story.

And every good horror story needs victims.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[scaly-freaks]

God I actually hate how racist the hotd fandom is I just got into a fight with a girl who said black (and desi) characters ‘shouldn’t ever exist, realistically’ in the show and theyre obviously doing it for diversity points

Thank god for your fics, Anya chalotra fan casts and steven

After i saw the scene of Dany lifted on a crowd of nameless and faceless brown bodies, I kind of wished they didn’t exist on either show tbh. We’re just decorations to these people, fighting for the scraps left over after the white characters get the meat of the production. Though I suppose the fun thing about HOTD is that the whole show is so bad, everyone’s character is suffering, white or poc. No one gets to shine and everyone’s dealing with a horrendous script (equality!)

On a separate note, I’m glad there aren’t desi characters in HOTD. I’d rather not see their talent squandered on this incredibly stupid fandom and this dud of a script. No offence but I think we deserve better than a Dorne George couldn’t be bothered to properly flesh out as a culture beyond poor caricatures and stereotypes. And then the ones playing servants to lily white nobles and validating their every decision because what other position would an ethnically ambiguous brown person be allowed to hold in this universe. The old man couldn’t stop talking about Arianna Martell’s seductive ways and “brown nipples” in the books and I’m supposed to be grateful for any role they toss to a desi person? Fuck outta here.

I’m desi and I could write a better script in my sleep, so why would I want desi actors struggling with scripts catered to white folk and shoddily at that? 🤷🏻‍♀️ Keep us out of it.

The dunderhead who said they were doing it for diversity points is correct. They’re probably even correct about us not existing in that world realistically. Because we are usually an afterthought for a white creator when they put something together. They have to work out where to fit us and that usually comes at the expense of treating us like supporting characters to whiteness. The Velaryons are a noble house in their own right on this show and yet they’re playing supporting characters to the Targaryens (the only none white Targs, Baela and Rhaena, are fighting for lines). It’s a mess all around and I don’t want this representation unless I, or someone who looks like me, is in control of it. Fuck the scraps.

P.S. Amara for the win ✨

[hibewriter]

Christmas Miracle

Masterlist   Read it on AO3

Shadow & Bone | Darklina | 3K | E 

Tags: Incest | Car Sex | Public Sex | ambiguous age | infidelity

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her job. 

Well, what high-schooler likes spending evenings in the Little Palace mall watching other people relax and unwind while they worked in a dying department store? But it was alright. Normally, she could get to the mall by three, work until ten, and catch the last bus from the mall to the suburbs, where she could walk the ten minutes to the house in relative peace. Normally. But normal did not include the clusterfuck that was the holiday season. 

Now her normal involved…him. 

Well, that’s not fair. Her normal before involved him. At home. Steadfastly ignoring each other in the halls of Os Alta High, going separate ways once the bell struck two fifteen. Aleksander would drive, taking the car that they were supposed to share to spend time with his girlfriend. Though she couldn’t be that upset sometimes. Solitude with oneself was a gift in the Morozov household. With Baghra working from home, their father constantly hovering the second he entered the door ( I just want to make sure you’re settling okay, milya don’t fret ), Aleksander was typically the only one who left her alone. 

But the holiday season meant a lot at the Royal Sunny department store. It meant longer hours, an increase in customers, but most importantly, it meant a larger paycheck. Not that she needed it. But she liked creating the store display. She liked the ribbons and the wreaths, the ornaments with little suns in them that she hung from the ceiling (probably breaking several safety regulations by standing on her tiptoes on a ladder, but it wasn’t her fault she barely hit five feet tall this year.) 

The only downside was the eleven o’clock shift end. When the bus had stopped running, and the parking lots were empty. Her managers lived so far from her side of town that she didn’t even want to ask for a ride, the only recourse staring her right in the face. The only car underneath the streetlamp directly in front of the employee entrance, a black Mustang. It was more expensive than any high schooler had any right to own, older than both of them. Yet it shined under the light as if Aleksander had taken a wax to it just that morning. 

She sighed, marching to the car, wrapping her coat tightly around her as she did. November nights in Os Alta were colder than in California, part of her wished that their father had insisted they’d stayed in California for high school. Not that it mattered. She merely clung to herself as she wrenched the door open, slipping in ungracefully with a plop. Immediately she pressed her hands to the vents where pushing out blessed heat. Aleksander didn’t even look up from his phone. 

“You’re late,” he huffed, typing furiously on his phone. 

“By like, five minutes. It takes time to get out of the store, asshole.” 

“Well maybe don’t ask for a ride in the middle of the night on a Friday.”

“We’re supposed to share it’s not my fault you’re such a dick you absolutely need to hog the car to go fuck Luda every fifteen minutes.” 

He rolled his eyes, finally putting his phone down to look at her. His eyes glanced at her hands, then her face. 

“You need gloves.” 

He put the car in drive, pulling out of the space. She huffed, slipping further into the seat. There was no need to dignify him with a response. It was easier to look out the window, watching as street lamps passed while his soft rock played over the radio. It only took about five minutes to realize he wasn’t heading in the direction of their house. 

“Where are we going?” She asked, glancing over at him. His eyes remained fixed on the road, though she could tell his jaw was clenching, even through the patchwork he called a beard. 

“I need to check on something, then we’ll go home.” 

Her eyebrows furrowed as he pulled into an unsuspecting neighborhood, cookie-cutter McMansions with various decorations lining them. It wasn’t unlike their own neighborhood, probably full of upper management types with stay-at-home spouses, one point five children, and perhaps a family dog or cat. Boring, and predictable. Why wasn’t she in her own bed again? 

“Aleksander, what –”

“Fuck.” 

She startled at his sudden curse, looking over to where her brother was looking. Another McMansion, similarly lit to the houses they’d been passing this whole time. The only distinction was the pink Jeep Wrangler. She’d seen it nearly fifty times this year, mainly the source of arguments as to why she couldn’t have the car when Luda had her own . She huffed throwing her head back against the headrest of her seat. 

“Aleksander please tell me you did not keep me out here so late just so you could go fuck your –”

“ Saints , do you ever shut the fuck up.” 

Her head snapped to look at his, affronted at his attitude. He’s the one who dragged her out here to go to his girlfriend’s house, and he was getting mad at her for asking a simple question. How dare he. But something in his face gave her pause. The tensing of his muscles, the steel in his eyes as he stared, no, glared , at the house in front of them. Or was it even the house? She followed his line of sight, past the driveway back to the street, just a few feet away from the driveway, lights off and parked, as if it belonged there. A lime green Dodge Charger. A pretty distinct car, one that those transfer students drove. Toyla Yul-Bataar. 

Suddenly comprehension dawned on her, as she looked from the car to the house it was parked in front of. None of the rooms in the front were lit, but that didn’t really matter did it? It was late on Friday night, and one boy was over at a girl’s house parked not inconspicuously. 

“She’s cheating on you,” she muttered, more to herself than him, but she knew he heard her. 

“Yeah.” 

He huffed, finally loosening his grip on the steering wheel. She looked back at him as he sank into the seat, watching as the anger faded to something different. Something sadder. And suddenly she was the one angry. How dare Luda. 

“Well,” she huffed, looking back to the house. “FUCK her! She’s a bitch.” 

“Linka –”

“No! How fucking dare she?! What is wrong with her?!” She stewed. If it were possible she was sure there’d be steam coming out of her ears. “You’re my brother and even I can see that you’re better than her. And she has the fucking nerve to be such a –”

“Alina.” 

"What?" She snapped, looking back at him. Immediately she softened, looking at her brother’s face. 

“I deserve it,” he muttered after a moment. She rolled her eyes, exhaling a huff. 

“Aleksander nobody deserves to be cheated on.” 

“I do,” he said. He was sitting up now, as if he were going to put the car in drive again. “Just drop it, Lina, I’ll get through it.” 

She looked at him incredulously, her eyes wide as she tried to figure out how he could be so calm . So she leaned over, grasping his arm and preventing him from moving the car into gear. Chin on his shoulder she felt like when they were kids, and he’d let her take a nap on his shoulder. But they weren't kids anymore and this was real. 

"Aleksander," she hated how her voice sounded. Like she was begging, but for what she didn't know. "Nothing you could have done justifies –"

"I was thinking about you." His breath seemed to come out in a rush. Her eyebrows furrowed as she took him in, trying to understand what he meant. 

"I mean you're my brother so like, of course, you're gonna think about me from time to –"

" No, Linka," he huffed, exasperated. "Not like that." 

Silence. Nothing but the soft hum of the radio filled the car as she sat there, staring at him. 

"I couldn't…fuck. And then I thought about you . And then…" He couldn't look at her. He could barely do anything but stare out the window, his cheeks suddenly aflame as he tried to convey what was the problem. And her grip on him slackened as she understood just what he was saying to her.

"And you…because of me?" 

If possible his cheeks would’ve burned a deeper shade of red. His eyes closed, pressed tightly together as if to imagine a time when he wasn’t in this car and he wasn’t talking about this with his sister. A time when he didn’t fantasize about his sister to get off.  His small nod as he swallowed his shame, the embarrassment. She should feel disgusted. Should storm away, convinced her brother was a freak. She should tell their mom, get her brother help and figure out how to move forward. 

But instead, she could only look at his face. The curve of his lips as he frowned, eyes clenched. She could feel his fist against her thigh, also clenched, strained against his own desires. There were a lot of things she should do right now. Instead, she leaned forward. 

His lips were soft against her own. She expected them to be rough, maybe chapped, but his lips felt like velvet. Velvet against her lips when his brain catches on to what's happening. Soft and insistent when he begins to kiss her back, lips parting against hers. He tasted like chocolate, bitter and sweet at the same time. 

Was that his hand on her thigh? Did she imagine the touch urging her to climb into his lap?  She didn't know, lips parted as she brought her hands to grasp at the hairs of his neck. A soft moan escaped as his lips moved to her jaw, working slowly down her neck. 

"Wh–fuck. What d-did you think about?" She whispered, tugging at the hair. Like silk, it flowed through her fingers. She barely held back a whine as he pulled back. 

"This," muttered through parted lips. She bit her lip as his hands moved, first slipping her coat off her arms, then hesitant at the edges of her work shirt.  "You." 

He seemed to be at war with himself. The object of his desire was finally sitting in his lap, and he almost seemed restrained.  But his decision came swiftly as if any thought otherwise was a passing fancy. 

"I thought of you, out of this ," he muttered. Fingers slipped under her shirt, sending a shiver down her spine. Little work as it was removed, tossed into the seat she had abandoned. Hands immediately cupped her breast through cotton fabric. 

She bit her lip, hips shifting in his lap as he seemed transfixed on her chest. A small gasp as she felt the growing hardness in his pants, shifting closer so it was right underneath her. She heard rather than felt the snap of her bra, suddenly cold as her last defense of top was ripped from her body. 

"Sasha," she whimpered, guiding his face to look into her eyes. "What else?" 

She could've sworn he nearly growled, stealing a kiss so quickly she thought she dreamed it. His fingers were on her thighs, quickly finding their way up her skirt, to the apex of her center. The thin barrier of her tights did little to hide her arousal, creeping out of her cunt like a dripping faucet since he admitted it was her . 

"This," he muttered against her lips. A rough yank, maybe two or three, and she felt her tights rip at the seams. She didn't have time to react, his fingers in the hole of his making, seeking the gusset of her panties with practiced expertise. "You and all your glory on display for me, just like a gift." 

She couldn't hold the whimper that came once his fingers made contact with her slit. The skilled way he found her clit within seconds, forcing a cry from her lips as he played with her. Her hands dropped as she leaned forward, capturing his lips as a thick finger pushed its way inside of her. 

“Tell me to stop, Linka,” his voice was rough. She would’ve. She should’ve . He was her brother, blood of her blood held in the same womb as her. They shouldn’t, they couldn’t. But words were lost when he slipped in a second finger. 

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he murmured, lips suddenly pressed to her jaw. God help her, she was. More than she thought she could as she clenched around the fingers moving within her. Suddenly she was fully lost in the sensation that was Aleksander’s fingers in her. A thought she never entertained for more than a second, and she wanted more. 

She wanted everything he could give her.

It was the sound of her own slick that caused her to squeeze her eyes shut. He was going slowly, but even his tortuous movements wrung the loudest of sounds from her cunt. All while his breath panted in her ear, groans of how good she was being. How much he knew she could be the perfect little sister. So it really wasn’t her fault when she came. It wasn’t her fault when the words slipped from her mouth, more of a cry than anything else. 

“I need you inside me.” Her moan felt foreign – like someone else was making the sound as they shifted.  Her hips slotted over his, mouth parted as he fumbled to shove his sweats down. A moment, two, and suddenly she was full. The irresistible stretch as he notched his cock into her, letting gravity do the work of slowly sinking her onto him. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, eyes slamming shut for just a moment as she falls. She’s gone, burying her face in her brother’s shoulders as she begins to rock. He rolls his hips, matching her as they begin to move in tandem. She gets lost in the rhythmic push and pulls, the grip of his hands as he begins to move her faster. His eyes open now, huffs in her ear as each drag elicits another whine from her lips. 

“Don’t ever stop,” she pants, further sinking down. She swears his fingers are meeting in her back, his thumbs nearly touching her front. He bites her ear, as if affronted she’d suggest he would ever stop this. 

She nearly loses it when his hand comes lower, thumb ghosting over her clit, not quite the stimulation she needs but just so close . 

“Please, Aleks,” she begs, thighs clamping as her hips rock against his furiously. His thumb presses, right where she needs it. “There, there, right there, please.” 

“It’s okay, Linka,” he groans, teasing her. Her clit was now just an instrument for him to play, thumb swiping back and forth until she was shaking in his arms. She nearly cries, desperate as he pumps her full from below, spearing her and tearing her apart. “Let go for me, Linka. Wanted you so bad. Wanted you for years.” 

He was muttering nonsense now. His cock was a weapon inside her, just a slight tilt of her hips and he was pressing into the perfect spot. His free hand rose, cupping her face and pulling her tear-stained eyes to meet his. There were no other words to describe it, just raw . His eyes were an endless black pool that wanted her, and only her. 

Her orgasm crashed in waves, hurling her over the metaphorical cliff as she held on to him for dear life. And he just watches her, take his cock with her mouth parted, a silent scream unable to come out. She wants to close her eyes, but she doesn’t want to miss that crazed look that comes. Not when he returned his hands to her hips, moving her faster and faster as he neared his own completion. 

Her brother. 

Her lover. 

His hands held her hips to his as he empties himself into her. Breathless and boneless as she falls forward, clutching him like the only liferaft after being sent adrift to sea. And she was. Adrift. Her body floated as she began to trace pointless shapes into his shirt collar, waiting for the feeling to sink in. The panic. The clarity. The rising concern of what did they just do?

But it didn’t come. Not as he softened inside her. Not as she felt their combined fluids leak onto his lap. Not as she listened to his heartbeat slow. Just their breathing and the feeling of being finally sated. Well fucked, quiet as the radio continued its soft rock melody. 

She startled at his sudden huff of laughter, finally leaning back to look at him. He was looking out the windshield, seemingly distracted by something outside. She barely turned her neck, slightly craning to see what was so funny. And then she saw it. White powder, fell from the sky, betraying the heat of the idling car. The first snowfall. 

“It’s like a Christmas miracle,” he muttered, thumb absentmindedly rubbing into her back. A distracted massage as she clung to her brother. At this she smiled, leaning forward to kiss her brother’s neck. Then his jaw. And suddenly his lips were on hers again, and all her worries disappeared. Neither of them noticed the buzzing of his phone, his hands on her hips as he held her close. Just how right it felt. Before, reluctantly, they pulled away.

“It’s a little early for Christmas,” she muttered. But he still shook his head, kissing her forehead. 

“It’s Christmas wherever you are,” he claimed. At this she laughed, slapping his shoulder. 

“That was cheesy.” 

“And? You loved it.”

“I love you.” 

For a second she feared it’d be too much. Feared he’d draw away, though it wasn’t like she hadn’t told her brother she loved him before. It was, definitely, the first time she’d ever tell him with his not-so-soft cock inside of her though. So she paused, the smile nearly dropping from her face before he kissed her, soft and unhurried. 

“I love you, too,” he whispered, lips hovering above hers. “Let’s go home.”