#where the expressions and positions are Drawn instead of described

[unexpectedbrickattack]

giggling kicking my feet twirling my hair at the way you draw and write (!!!) peppino. he is so......

-babygirl, thats why its so fun and easy 😊

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

The sunlight tries in vain to pierce through the cloud covered sky as you make your way under the canopy of conifer trees. Winter will only last a few more weeks but for now you must trudge through the hardened snow on the forest ground.

You clutch your new book close to your chest, peeking again to see if the piece of paper you slipped between the pages hasn't somehow fallen out despite your tight grip. You look up from your graphite stained fingers to the stone cottage in the middle of an increasingly familiar meadow. Drawing in a breath, you adjust the bow and quiver slung over your shoulder and clamber through the pasture, watching smoke rise from the old chimney.

This time, you don't panic when you reach the door, you knock before the nerves can even seep in. He opens the door for you, eyebrows scrunched in confusion just like the first time. He looks ready for the weather outside, snow boots, axe in hand, he's even wearing his big fur coat. He clearly had other plans today but he still looks pleasantly surprised by your presence and gestures you inside.

You shake your head lightly at him, feet stuck to the stone veranda. He looks more worried than confused now as he looks down at the book in your hands, you try and not let all the determination you just had flutter away. Hands shaking more than you'd like, you slip the piece of paper out of the book and hand it to him unceremoniously. You can't will yourself to watch his reaction, it's weak but you can't seem to look away from the floor.

A shame really, because if you were watching, you'd see his face grow pink in real time as he reads in your terribly scrawled Orcish -

"Hunt with me?"

He has to read it ten times before he can believe it's real. He looks down at you and then back to the poorly drawn Orcish characters, mouth agape. He turns to the shelf next to the door and gently places the piece of paper there before turning to you. You fiddle with the book in your hands, biting your chapped lip. He rests his hand on your shoulder making you look him in the eye, when you do you're taken back by the look he gives you. It's an expression you can't describe, appreciative doesn't cut it but you wouldn't dare say affectionate.

He nods his head firmly.

Now you both sit amongst the brush, target birds nest only a few meters away. Your Orc friend sits quietly, leaning on a stump next to you, waiting for you to make the shot.

Little movements in the nest have you tensing up and pulling the string back. You wait patiently for the birdie to peak its head over the weaved twigs of the nest but you wait too long and before you know it the bird's wings flutter for takeoff. You panic and shoot the arrow before the bird can fly away but the arrow shoots just a bit too high, piercing the tree trunk as the bird takes flight in a rush of feathers.

An agitated sigh leaves you and you turn towards where the Orc roars out laughter. He quickly tries to muffle his laugh when he sees your pointed, deadpan expression. You point towards where your arrow is stuck in the bark of the tree and hold out your bow for him. He goes to decline the offer but you fix him with a challenging glare that says "If it's so easy then why don't you do it?" You shove the weapon in his hands and hand him an arrow as well, then take a seat on the stump.

He breathes in and positions himself on his knees, just like you were. You sit back and watch him fumble with the bow, failing to notch the arrow against the string for a while before finally aiming the thing. He makes the bow looks so small, it's like a thin stick in his hands instead of a deadly weapon. He pulls the string back and you worry for a moment that it might snap before he lets go and the arrow whizzes through the air and into the canopy of pine needles, never to be seen again.

You burst out in laughter, slapping your knee with a hand on your chest. He huffs and hands you back your bow, grabbing his axe from the stump. He aims it carefully and chucks it into the tree. It lands exactly where your arrow landed, splintering it into pieces. You're shocked to silence for a moment before letting out an impressed "Huh". He seems very proud of himself, giving you a cheeky bow, making you click your tongue and shake your head as he walks off to pull his axe from the tree.

He slumps beside you on the frosty dirt as you hastily page through your book. It's a shame you don't see how he leans his head on his hand and stares at you, not even trying to hide the admiration. When you find the word you were looking for you slap his arm hard with the book, he flinches back playfully. You point to the word "owe" in the book and look at him sternly.

He looks back with a blank stare.

You point to him accusingly, point to the Orcish word for "owe" and then point to yourself before getting an arrow out of your quill, pointing towards it and putting up two fingers.

You think he gets it, if his bashful face says anything. He rubs the back of his neck with an apologetic look. He stands up, axe in hand and nods to you with a look of determination.

Now the sun is gone as you walk alongside him, on route to your home, belly full, carrying a basket of fresh bread. You tried telling him you were only teasing, but he insisted on taking you back home and making you a meal. You were never one to turn away a meal, especially if it was his cooking. Hours went by as you sat in his living room, comparing translations in each other's books and trying, mostly in vain, to write in the others language. You didn't even notice the sun setting until you had to light a candle to see the scribbled mix of Human Common and Orcish on the white papers scattered across the table.

He offered to walk home with you and you, once again, didn't put up much of a fight. Maybe it's just the moonlight or the after-taste of his food but you can't stop stealing glances at the orc as he walks alongside you. His dark eyes reflect the warm light of the lantern so beautifully. Little flakes of snow decorate his hair, they look like stars amongst the inky black mane. You can feel his body heat more than you can feel the heat of the lantern, he's always so warm and it makes it very frustrating to be close to him. He looks over and catches you staring, you quickly avert your gaze to the snowy ground, embarrassment bubbling up again.

You come to a break in the trees and all your thoughts are slapped away. You stare fear-stricken at the massive lake in front of you. A deep chill crawls over you as it always does when you see it now, you meant to avoid it entirely, just like you've been doing since the incident but you must have been more distracted than you thought.

Frost nips at your nerves as you stare at the deceptively thin ice covering the lake and remember the cold, dark depths just beneath. Remembering how difficult it was just to breathe after being plunged into those waters, like spikes of ice piercing your lungs with every breath. You clutch your chest as your breathing quickens, ghosts of pain nudging closer.

Your sight is cut off from the lake by a dark brown furcoat. You look up at the worried face of your friend, eyebrows scrunched and frown deep. His pretty eyes are now filled with concern and it only makes the pain in your chest worse. You turn away from him, you can't look him in the eyes like this. This has happened before, when you wake up in your bed cold and crying. At least then you're alone, now you're outside, in the dark, with who is essentially your closest friend watching you break down.

If he didn't think you were weak before, he definitely does now. You let out a choked sob as your legs crumble beneath you. The orc falls with you, he lightly holds you closer, hands just brushing your shoulders. He clearly doesn't know what to do or what the boundaries are for something like this, and neither do you really.

He's right there. You can feel how damn warm he is, you just want to give in, why won't you let yourself give in? His gloved hands gently urge you to look up at him and you struggle against it but when you eventually meet his gaze, his expression punctures right through the cold panic. You expected to see pity but what you get instead is plain tender worry. He looks ready to help but he's waiting for instruction, like he'll do anything you ask him to, even in your state.

You wipe your cold, wet cheeks and push your head into his chest hard, clutching his waist under his coat in the tightest squeeze you can manage. He squeezes you back and you finally get to feel his warmth surround you again, just like that first night. His body surrounds you, like he's trying to protect you from the cold night air itself. The hug is just tight enough that it encourages you to breathe slower, you can hear and feel his heart beating in his chest and you press your face even closer to his chest to hear it better.

Eventually, your breathing and heart beat evens out with his, only letting out the occasional hiccup. Even then, he doesn't loosen his protective hold until you shift to stand up. He helps you up and you meet his gaze, his dirt coloured eyes hold something you can't place. His hand shifts up from your arm to your cheek to warm the puffy skin. You don't think when you take his hand in yours and hold it against your cheek, even through the leather of his glove you can feel his body heat.

You close your eyes and savour his touch for a minute before turning around and pulling on his arm. You hold onto his hand for the rest of the walk home, only letting go when you reach your front door. You both try and decipher the others gaze for longer than you should've until you wrap your arms around his shoulders in another embrace. He reciprocates, hands winding around your back, breathing into your shoulder. You whisper, "Be safe" into his ear and retreat from the hug, missing his warmth the second it leaves you. If he knows what it means, he doesn't show it.

You watch him leave from the front door, basket of bread in hand. When he turns to give you a little wave goodbye, you return it with a smile. You only step inside when he's out of site, lamp light disappearing amongst the trees.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 6

This Last of Meeting Places

Rating: M - please head the warnings; minors DNI

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 4.1k (I know, but trust me)

Warnings: use of alcohol as a coping mechanism; panic attack (described); blood and injury (including self-inflicted); threats of violence; medical emergency; heavy angst

Suggested Listening:

Summary: Cerra and Gregor go undercover at 79's.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings and "Do It Again," but all three fics can be read as stand-alones.

Start here | Previous chapter | Next chapter | Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list | Read on AO3

In this last of meeting places we grope together and avoid speech.

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

The roar of the crowd washed over Cerra as she entered 79’s. Deep, thumping music pounded in her ears, and neon lights flashed through a dizzying haze of smoke. The club was packed and dark, but she spotted Gregor in seconds, drawn to him like durasteel to a magnet. The tension eased out of her shoulders slightly; he had her back, and he would never let anything happen to her. He leaned casually against the bar, chatting with another clone, and he only acknowledged her with the barest flicker of a glance.

She threaded through the crowd, making her way slowly to the bar. Her head hurt. 79’s was one of the few places where clones were free to cut loose and have a good time, so it had naturally become Fives’s main destination during shore leaves. Cerra had loved the frenetic energy and gritty atmosphere, the electric buzz of sex and booze and spice and blasting music and bodies coming together on the dancefloor. Now it was nearly impossible for her to view the club as anything other than a punishment. 

Rex’s voice hissed in her ear. “Smile, Cerra. You’re supposed to look like you’re having a good time, not like you’re about to burn the place to the ground.”

She schooled her features into a pleasantly vacuous expression. Gregor angled toward her for Rex’s benefit, and his eyes lit with amusement at her sudden shift. She suppressed the urge to flip him the bird, and instead focused on the conversations swirling around her. Many of the clones were discussing Admiral Rampart’s sudden and shocking fall from grace and subsequent arrest. A few complained about forced retirements. In general, the mood was more somber than she would have expected from a nightclub, but plenty of clones were eager to forget their troubles, and the dancefloor thronged with the gyrating bodies of drunken troopers and civilians grinding on each other. 

She skirted around the perimeter and finally made it to the bar, realizing only as she arrived that there was a good chance that the bartenders would recognize her, if the staff hadn’t turned over in the past couple years. Her shoulders tensed as she searched covertly for familiar faces behind the bar, but for once, it seemed that luck was on her side: she didn’t recognize any of them, and none of them showed any sign that they knew her, either.

Gregor shifted to make space for her at the bar, and she slid into position behind him, brushing against him lightly for comfort. Beneath the rough wool of his uniform, he was warm and reassuringly solid, and he slipped a hand covertly behind him to give her a quick, encouraging pat. She ordered a double of Dodbri whiskey, tossing it back as soon as the bartender pushed it across the bartop to her. It was cheap and strong, and it burned like hell going down.

“Slow down, Cerra,” Rex said. She could hear the frown in his voice.

A clone squeezed in next to her, jostling obnoxiously into her personal space. Cerra’s heart lurched when she saw his face so close to her own. 

It’s not him, she told herself sternly, ignoring the way her stomach flip-flopped inside her.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grinned. “Can I buy you a photon fizzle?”

Cerra nearly grimaced at the idea of the sugary abomination of a cocktail. It was actually the perfect drink to sell her persona if she wanted to convince everyone in the club that she was just another party animal looking for a good time.

Showtime, she thought, batting her eyelashes at him in what she hoped was an alluring manner. It had been years since she’d flirted with anyone, but once upon a time, she’d been pretty good at it.

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all night,” she said in a husky tone. “What’s your name, trooper?”

She felt Gregor stiffen behind her. The clone’s eyes darkened. Shit, maybe she was laying it on a little too thick.

“I’m Stew,” the clone said. “Want to get out of here?”

“Amateur,” Rex jeered through the comm. 

Cerra traced a finger up Stew’s chest. “Pump the brakes, soldier. I haven’t even gotten a drink yet.”

“Ease up on the bedroom voice,” Rex said. “You won’t be able to do much surveillance if you’re hooking up inside a supply closet.”

Cerra gritted her teeth. Her standards were significantly higher than a supply closet, thank you very much. And she wasn’t likely to hook up with anyone in this bar, no matter how much her mind chanted Fives, Fives, Fives when she saw their faces. Another clone stumbled closer, clapping Stew on the shoulder.

“Don’t mind Stew, ma’am. All that time shooting heavy artillery has scrambled his brains. I’m Trapper, and my brain is fully intact.”

Cerra faked a sultry laugh as Stew shoved Trapper away. “So, you’re telling me Stew has a big gun?”

Behind her, Gregor choked on his drink. Trapper looked comically disappointed, and Stew preened.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stew said. “Biggest gun in the fleet. And I always hit my target.”

The bartender slid two photon fizzles across to them. Cerra braced herself for the saccharine onslaught.

“Here’s to heavy artillery,” she said, clinking her glass against Stew’s, “and a man who knows how to handle his weapon.”

Gregor snorted. Cerra took a sip and tried not to gag on the chewy, slimy orbs in the cocktail. The sweetness made her jaw cramp. Stew chugged his drink with a delighted smile.

“Want to dance?” he asked hopefully.

“Try to get him to take you back to his booth,” Rex said. “We need to get him talking about something other than the size of his blaster.”

“I think I’d rather sit and talk with you boys,” she said, casting a simmering look at Trapper, who rallied immediately. “Do you have a table?”

Trapper nodded enthusiastically and looped an arm over Cerra’s shoulders. “Right this way, beautiful. I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“That’s because Stew never asked before he propositioned me,” Cerra said with a touch of acerbity.

Trapper slapped Stew on the back of his head. “That’s no way to treat a lady, dickhead.”

“Ow!” Stew said, rubbing his head as he trailed behind them. “Watch your kriffing language, you degenerate.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cerra caught a flash of the iconic crimson and white armor of the Coruscant guard. Her heart began to race, and her palms felt damp and hot.  It’s not Fox. Fox is dead. It’s someone else. Fox is gone. He can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt anyone ever again.  She worked to control her breathing, wishing that her mouth didn’t suddenly feel so dry. Stew and Trapper were still squabbling, and she made herself focus on their conversation.

“Quit complaining and order that round of shots you owe us,” Trapper said, steering Cerra toward a corner booth with a good view of the dancefloor. Two troopers were already seated inside, and they both straightened up and watched with interest as Cerra approached with their brother.

“Stak, Razor, I’d like you to meet my friend, er—” Trapper stopped, realizing that he still didn’t know Cerra’s name.

“Kallie,” she lied, forcing a smile to cover her shakiness.

“Nice to meet you, Kallie,” Razor said. “Is this idiot bothering you?”

“Not at all,” Cerra said as she slid into the booth, positioning herself so she had a clear line of sight on Gregor. The Corrie must have left the club, because there was no sign of red armor in the crowd any longer.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a dump like this?” Stak asked.

“Has that line ever worked?” Razor asked his brother.

“No, but I’m an optimist,” Stak grinned.

Something about their names nagged at her memory. Had she met them before? If so, she hoped that her appearance had changed enough since she’d abruptly deserted the GAR that they wouldn’t recognize her. All four troopers were wearing their gray uniforms, so she couldn’t even identify their units from their armor paint. 

Not the 501st, she thought. Rex raised his boys better.

Trapper flopped down into the booth next to her, effectively pinning her between himself and Stak. Across the club, Gregor raised an eyebrow inquisitively. She could practically hear him ask, You good?

She sent him a covert thumbs-up under the guise of sipping her horrible cocktail. The three clones sharing the booth with her looked at her expectantly.

“At least it’s subtler than Stew,” she said with a hollow laugh. “He went straight for the kill.”

Trapper, Stak, and Razor all heckled Stew as he approached the table bearing a tray of shots. The beleaguered trooper gave her a wounded look. 

“I hear he has a huge blaster, though,” she added, taking pity on the gunner.

“It’s really more of a cannon, if I do say so myself,” Stew said with false modesty as he set the tray on the table and slid into the booth next to Razor. He passed out the shots, leaving one extra on the tray.

“Who’s the sixth shot for?” Cerra asked.

“The commander,” Razor said.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Gone,” Stak said grimly.

Cerra’s stomach dropped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Stupid. Should have known. Should have remembered. We always left a shot for Hardcase.

Stew gave her a reassuring smile, and then the clones raised their shots in a toast.

“To Commander Ponds,” Razor said, the others echoing him.

Cerra dropped the glass, which bounced off the table and rolled across the floor. Miraculously, it didn’t break, but it did splatter cheap rotgut all over everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“Shit! Sorry, so clumsy,” Cerra gasped, wiping herself with a napkin to cover her confusion.

Shit, shit, shit.

Across the bar, Gregor tensed, ready to spring into action if she needed him. Stak and Trapper mopped up the spilled booze while Stew retrieved the errant shot glass before somebody could step on it and break it.

“Sorry, boys,” Cerra said again, hating the way her voice trembled.

Rex’s voice hissed in her ear. “Tap the table twice if you need Gregor.”

“That’s all right,” Razor said. “Not the first time one of us couldn’t hold our liquor.”

Cerra shook her head in mock disapproval, making sure Gregor saw the motion. “That was a terrible pun, Razor.”

“It was,” he said with a twinkle. “Maybe you should… ‘pun’-ish me for it.”

Trapper, Stew, and Stak groaned simultaneously. Cerra relaxed a bit. Once she’d gotten over the shock of hearing Ponds’s name, she realized that she had never met Stak and Razor after all; their names had been familiar to her because Ponds had once told her about their heroic actions on Ryloth.

It had been at a family dinner—the dinner when Uncle Shoan had brought Ponds home to introduce him to the family. Cerra’s father had teased Shoan ruthlessly about undermining the chain of command. Shoan had retorted that her father would know all about it, as he’d been a colonel when he’d married Cerra’s mother, an enlisted mechanic. The night had devolved into good-natured bickering, and Ponds had jumped right in as though he’d known them all for years. Cerra had gone back to the Resolute afterwards feeling a warm glow of hope that someday Fives would receive the same welcome from her boisterous family, if she were ever brave enough to take the next step with him.

Cerra dug her nails into the skin of her thigh to bring herself back to the present. Ponds was gone, and Fives was gone, and there was no such thing as happily ever after. The best any of them could do was survive, and try to piece together whatever fragments of their shattered lives they could dig out of the rubble. 

The four clones at the table still hadn’t taken their shots, so Cerra lifted her photon fizzle and repeated their interrupted toast: “To Ponds.”

They all knocked back their shots, and Cerra chugged what remained of her drink.

“Cerra. Slow down,” Rex repeated, and maybe he had a point, because the club started to look a little wobbly. The syrupy cocktail must have been stronger than it tasted.

“Atta girl,” Trapper said approvingly, draping his arm across her shoulders.

“Best commander we ever had,” Razor said glumly. “Not like these natties.”

The other three clones made identical faces of disgust.

“Natties?” Cerra asked, feigning ignorance.

“Natural-born officers,” Trapper explained. “Not clones. No offense.”

“None taken,” Cerra said. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Treat us like cannon fodder,” Stak spat. “Most of them have never even seen combat, but they act like they’re better than us. Like we’re worthless.”

“Expendable,” Razor agreed.

“That’s horrible,” Cerra said sincerely. “After everything the clones have sacrificed, it’s unbelievable that the Empire is treating you like this.”

Stew leaned in, hunching his back to the rest of the club. “I’ve heard rumors about clones going AWOL,” he said in a low voice. The other three clones looked around nervously, watching for eavesdroppers. “Even high ranking officers.”

“How high?” Trapper asked darkly.

“At least one marshal commander,” Stew said.

Cerra stifled a gasp. In her earpiece, Rex whispered, “Cody?”

“I don’t believe it,” Stak declared. “If one of the highest-ranking clones in the army had gone AWOL, we’d have heard about it.”

“Would we?” Trapper asked. “Seems like the empire would want to keep that intel quiet if they hope to avoid mass desertions.”

“Why bother?” Razor asked. “They’re already replacing us with those useless TK troopers. What do they care if a few clones leave ahead of schedule?”

“Because they don’t want us to survive,” Stew said grimly. “If we all get wiped out on the battlefield, they won’t have to worry about us causing any problems down the road.”

Stak reeled back. “That’s—that’s—you shouldn’t be talking like that,” he said, shooting an anxious look at Cerra.

“Keep them talking,” Rex ordered.

She dropped a soothing hand onto Stak’s clenched fist, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “You should know that a lot of people are grateful for your service to the Republic.”

“Don’t you mean the Empire?” Razor asked, eyes narrowed.

Cerra shrugged. “Sure. Slip of the tongue.”

Four identical pairs of eyes peered suspiciously at her. Dank farrik. She was losing them. She took a gamble. 

“My—late husband was a clone,” she said. 

Stak sucked in a breath that was audible even over the thumping music. All four troopers gaped, visibly shocked. Marriage to a clone was very, very illegal.

“Cerra?” Rex asked uncertainly.

“We always said we were going to run away together,” she continued, ignoring her captain. “Find some nice, remote moon and start a new life. He had names picked out in case we had children.”

Her voice cracked. Damn. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was only telling them this to get them to trust her. So why did it feel like she’d ripped open her chest and exposed the remnants of her mangled heart?

“Kriff,” Razor cursed. “What happened?”

“He died,” she said, her words coming out in a broken whisper. “Trying to save his brothers. I would never dishonor his memory by betraying any of you.”

Stak turned his hand over to hold Cerra’s. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

Cerra looked around the table at the four troopers, whose faces now held no trace of suspicion—only pity. Something warm tickled her face, and she reached up to swipe it away. She stared down at the gleam of moisture on her fingertips. Stak was right. For the first time in two years, she was crying. 

Kriff.

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing against Trapper to force her way out of the booth. “I need to use the refresher.”

He moved, but not fast enough, and in her desperation, Cerra crawled over the top of him to escape. She stumbled blindly toward the refreshers, the strobing lights of the club blurring through her tears. Inside the refresher, she braced herself against the sink and took several deep, gulping breaths. She tilted her head up and caught sight of her devastated reflection.

“Fuck!” she screamed and punched the mirror. “Fuck! Fuck!”

The glass shattered with a satisfying crunch under her repeated strikes. Dimly, she heard raised voices outside the fresher door, and Rex shouting something in her earpiece, but she couldn’t make out any of it over her own guttural sobs. She sank to her knees on the grimy floor, and all of her grief and anguish poured out of her like the blood and tears that mingled together and dripped down onto the filthy tiles. 

The door burst open, and someone cursed violently, then scooped her up and carried her back out into the flashing, pulsating club. Bodies jostled against her, but the arms that held her were strong and steady as they pushed through the crowd. Abruptly, they exited the club. The music receded, and the cool night air washed over her.

“Cerra!” Gregor said. “Cerra, come on baby, tell me you’re all right.”

She heard a strange keening sound and was mortified to realize it was coming from her.

“Echo is inbound,” Rex said, his voice clipped and harsh.

“Negative,” Gregor snapped. “There’s no time. She’s injured. Have to bring her in on the bike.”

“Copy that,” Rex said. “Echo, return to base and help me prep the med station.”

“On my way, Captain,” Echo said.

“The speeder is right here, honey,” Gregor said in a soothing tone. “I’m going to get you home. Karking damn you, Rex.” He muttered the last bit.

“Hey!” A shout came from behind them. “What the kriff do you think you’re doing? Let go of her!”

She could hear footsteps running toward them. She took a gasping breath, trying to steady herself enough to tell Gregor that she was okay, that she could walk. But instead, she lost control and began to hyperventilate, wheezing helplessly.

Gregor whirled around to face their pursuers, clutching Cerra to himself.

“Piss off,” he growled fiercely. “She’s coming with me.”

His voice had no trace of his usual good humor, and she could hear the deadly commando that lurked beneath the easygoing surface.

“You’re not taking Kallie anywhere,” one of the voices barked. “There’s four of us and one of you.”

“I like those odds,” Gregor said. “Now piss. off.”

Cerra choked, clawing at her throat. Her hand was slippery with blood.

“Kriff,” Gregor whispered, crouching down and setting Cerra gently on the plastcrete. He leaned her against himself and rubbed between her shoulders. “Breathe, sweetheart. All the way out. Come on, love, all the way out, then count with me. One, two, three, four, five. Now breathe in. One, two, three, four, five.”

“W—what’s wrong with her?” a voice asked. “She’s bleeding! What happened to her?”

Gregor ignored the questions and kept coaching Cerra’s breath until she slowed into some semblance of a normal rhythm. Her entire body trembled, and she felt sweaty and cold at the same time.

“Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you.” The voice was hard and angry and very close.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” Gregor snarled.

“What do you mean, what did we do to her?” the voice asked. “We were just talking, then she went to the fresher, and the next thing we knew, you were kidnapping her!”

“I don’t think he was kidnapping her, Stew,” a second voice said.

“Can you stand, honey?” Gregor asked gently against Cerra’s ear, apparently having decided to ignore the other clones.

Cerra nodded weakly. “I think so.”

Gregor stood and pulled Cerra gently to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. Once he was certain she was not about to pass out, he guided her onto the speeder bike.

“Easy, love. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

One brave soul approached and asked, “Kallie, are you all right?”

Cerra looked up and saw Stak fixing her with a worried stare.

“I’m all right, Stak, I just—” Her vision swam.

“Kark, she’s losing a lot of blood. We don’t have time for this.” Gregor mounted the speeder bike, cradling Cerra in his arms, and they were in motion before Stak could object. Gregor piloted the bike expertly through the skylane, muttering a combination of reassurances and curses in Cerra’s ear. She must have blacked out at some point, because the trip seemed much shorter than it should have, and then he was carrying her again—easing her out of her coat—laying her gently on a cot—examining her hand.

“Medkit,” a voice said, and it sounded just like him.

“Fives?” she whispered brokenly, but there was no answer.

She felt the sting of antiseptic as Gregor cleaned the wounds, and her eyes flew open at the sensation. Echo was handing Gregor medical supplies, and Rex paced in the background.

Not Fives. It’s Echo. It’s not him.

“You have glass in your hand, sweetheart,” Gregor said. “It’s going to hurt when I pull it out.”

“I’ll be fine,” she croaked.

“I’m going to count you down from three, okay? Three, two—”

A searing pain shot through her hand, and then he pressed the wound firmly with a gauze pad.

“Who taught you to kriffing count?” she gasped, her eyes watering.

“She’s got her potty mouth back,” Gregor said with a tiny laugh. “She’ll be all right.”

He pulled out a few more shards, then stitched up the worst of her injuries and applied a generous coating of bacta before wrapping her hand in bandages. Cerra kept her eyes trained on the ceiling, knowing from experience that it would be a bad idea to watch him work. Finally, he finished up and draped a blanket over her. 

“All done, love.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead as she felt a pinch on her shoulder. She whipped her head to the side and saw him withdrawing a hypospray.

“What was that?” she demanded, and then the world went black.

Echo began to clean and sanitize the improvised med station, gathering up the blood-soaked gauze and swabbing away the trail of red droplets that had oozed from Cerra’s hand as Gregor had carried her through the shop. Gregor handed the empty hypospray to Echo for disposal, then checked Cerra’s vital signs as she succumbed to the sedative he’d administered. Once he was satisfied that she was stable, he tucked the blanket more securely around her and stood. Tension radiated from him, and Echo gave him a wide berth.

“What happened?” Rex demanded.

Gregor snapped. He shoved Rex against the wall and pinned him in place, his forearm locked against the captain’s throat. Echo dropped the biohazard containment bag and rushed to intervene.

“You know kriffing well what happened,” Gregor snarled. “You knew she wasn’t ready, and you sent her in anyway.”

“She wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t think she could handle it,” Rex gritted out.

“She will do anything you tell her to, and you know it,” Gregor said, slamming against Rex again.

Rex shoved him off. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Banthashit,” Gregor snapped. “I could have gone in alone.”

“And what good would that have done?” Rex demanded, a challenge clear in his voice. “Did you learn anything useful?”

“As a matter of fact, I did hear something interesting about the Balmorra system. I didn’t have a chance to find out more because I was busy watching Cerra’s back,” Gregor retorted.

“Oh, and you did a great job,” Rex taunted. “Guarded her so well she damn near bled out.”

Gregor laughed—a harsh, ugly sound that seemed out of place and wrong coming from him. His fist lashed out so fast that Echo almost didn’t see it happen. Rex stumbled backward, blood pooling in his mouth.

“Kark you, Rex. Stay the fuck away from her.”

Gregor strode away to stand guard next to Cerra’s makeshift cot. Rex started to follow, but Echo laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Rex shot him a questioning glance, and Echo jerked his head toward the landing platform. With one last look at Cerra’s unconscious form, Rex turned and followed Echo outside.

“What is it?” Rex asked.

Echo paced back and forth, anger and confusion buzzing just below the surface. “What the kriff, Rex? She and Fives were married? You didn’t think that was important enough to tell me?”

Rex didn’t meet his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I didn’t know.”

---

Next chapter

[sneakydraws]

ohhh you oughta' show me Face and/or Motion for the Teen Girls brother..

*cracks knuckles* all of them, huh? a tall order but i'm up for it! "makeup" is a separate category but i think it's relevant for face descriptions so i'll pepper it in

face: Describe your OC's face. What's their smile like? Are their orbs cerulean? What would someone notice first when looking at them?

ballerina girl - i imagine her with a wide, flat-ish face. probably low cheekbones? slightly freckled. the only makeup she wears is the "neutral" kind, concealer and foundation and blush and whatnot. maybe a gentle lipgloss. she has big beautiful dark eyes, but they're downturned a bit giving her a slightly gloomy expresion - maybe offputting in day to day life, but giving her a sublimely romantic air when performing... she doesn't smile much in public but her smile is very gentle, almost shy.

cigarette girl - she has an unhealthy, grayish complexion from not really taking care of herself, fairly pimply as well. very thin eyebrows, thin lips and face. lip fuzz. long, pointy (maybe a bit hooked?) nose. her eyes are always half-closed and she has a general air of apathy about her. i don't know that i've ever drawn her smiling lmao... the has that sloppy, day-old kind of makeup, heavy eyeshadow and dark lipstick, no foundation or anything.

witch girl - her hair is all over her eyes haha, don't know how feasible that would be irl but i think it's a fun design choice in cartoons. she's almost always smiling, to the point where it's a little unsettling. slightly bigger lower lip. double chin. one mole by her lips and another below her eye, just barely visible from under the fringe. very pale with a pinkish blush. her style is very cutesy and as far as makeup goes i could see her adding pink blush and stuff like stickers, drawn on shapes, glitter...

jock girl - very expressive, especially with her body posture/movement but also with her hands and face. puts on a slightly blase air but is passionate and easily annoyed. round face, accentuated by the short bangs. slight case of babyface, big black eyes with short lashes... you know what, she's not korean but the main girl character from squid game came to mind as someone with a similar face? though maybe it's less about the actual features and more about the vibe. anyway, she's usually got a furrowed brow, even when laughing! she's got a big, loud, slightly cackling laugh. maybe slightly crooked teeth... and not infrequently a bruise or bandaid somewhere on there.

ok motion should be a bit easier! i really like this one, i often think about how characters move

motion: How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?

class prez girl - VERY controlled. elegant and fluid - this is probably why her parents sent her to ballet classes in the first place, or how she convinced them to let her try. she had a sudden growth spurt in maybe her early teens and that left her with a lingering feeling of awkwardness about her height, but the ballet training was enough to get her out of her slouching habit anf give her perfect posture.

girlrot girl - slow, pleghmatic movement. if she sits down in a chair, she doesn't do anything to ease the fall and just slumps into it with all her momentum. slouches a lot, and if she's in one spot for a while she has a tendency to get lower and lower until she's sprawled on the ground.

bunny girl - very still a lot of the time! doesn't fidget much. when she does move it's with a slight bounce to her step. tends to keep her limbs close to her body, but not really in an awkward way

sk8r girl - rarely sits still. even if she's sitting in one spot for a while, she'll switch positions often. jerky and energetic movements and exaggerated poses

whew this was so fun!! i like having to write about these things instead of drawing them, it forces you to think through it and find very specific descriptors haha!

[campgender]

from “Female Fem(me)ininities: New Articulations in Queer Gender Identities and Subversion” by Melanie Maltry & Kristin Tucker

published in Femme/Butch: New Considerations of the Way We Want to Go (2002) ed. Michelle Gibson & Deborah Meem

While many read cross-gender performance as the primary means for subversion, Butler’s acuteness in describing the “sexual regulation of gender” requires a focus not merely on visual signification, but on the entire discursive situation of a given subject. And this allows for far more subversive interpretations of the femme gender.

[Quoting Butler:] “The idea that sexual practice has the power to destabilize gender emerged from my reading of Gayle Rubin’s The Traffic in Women … it sought to establish that normative sexuality fortifies normative gender. … Briefly, one is a woman, according to this framework, to the extent that one functions as one within a heterosexual frame and to call the frame into question is perhaps to lose something of one’s place in gender … I belabor this point because some queer theorists have drawn an analytic distinction between gender and sexuality, refusing causal or structural link between them. But, there is a sexual regulation of gender.” (xi)

When Butler cites a “causal and structural link” between sex, gender, and sexuality, she allows for theorizing methods of gender for the femme. Her assertion that “sexual practice has the power to destabilize gender” through the way in which gender and sexuality produce one another, locates the femme outside of the heterosexual construct. The femme, though sometimes appearing as a heterosexual woman, is really no “woman” at all. She is, instead, a body signifying queer acts from a queer space. Therefore the context for her sexuality and thus her gender expression is shifted entirely. Simple politics of visibility are insufficient in determining or establishing subversion. A shift from the politics of visibility to a focus on queer acts is fundamental in exploring a femme position of subversion in that such a shift gives specific attention to the position where the femme is discursively situated.

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.vi // The Fifth Criterion

Previous / AO3 / Masterlist / Next

A drainpipe by the window is clogged.

Conrad can watch as water spills in a semi-coalescent stream, can hear it splash into the puddles it must’ve formed in the grass outside. Aside from the sound of rain, and his own hoarse breaths occasionally rattling in his throat, everything is silent. Usually, rainfall makes him feel at ease; a sense of cleansing, a melancholic kind of peace. Same thing with showering. As if there’s a primordial magic in the steady flow of water that allows him to think, uninterrupted, unbothered.

Usually.

In this place, everything just feels off. Even the rain is corrupted.

Among a myriad of fresh bruises that span his upper body and thighs, watercolors spilled in clusters on a blank page, a series of tiny, red marks dot his skin, almost like freckles. They come in sets of twos, and up close, he can see that each pair is connected with a dark, hair-thin line. Periods for pause, he thinks, or bite marks from a strange animal. There beside his navel, there on the edge of his ribcage, there when he, against better judgement, twisted on the bed to look over his shoulder at the damage left across his back. He didn’t know stun guns left marks, but of course they would. Electricity is energy, it’s heat. These are burns from the prongs. Even still, he feels them under his clothes, a different kind of unease that’s triggered by the texture of the fabric, not by movement or pressure like the bruises are. Two different kinds of pain, both equally foreign. Even his hands are ruined, that’s the only way he can describe it. Just extending and retracting his fingers sends the backs of them alight.

He’s lying on his side, legs curled up as far as his agonizingly stiff body will allow, and he is listening to the weather. He could cry at the unfairness of it all, at the blurry memory made in a mold so different than anything he’s ever experienced before, something in him struggles to accept that it even happened. But when he breathes a little too deeply, it hurts. So that’s proof, isn’t it?

How do you approach something like this? Where is he supposed to start? What is he supposed to do?

There’s so many things he can’t wrap his head around, new questions he doesn’t know if he can even voice. They both act like this is the beginning of something much bigger, but already, he thinks he might be worn out. The past two days have been hell, and he’s done. The rain doesn’t bring him peace. It feels juvenile to repeat it so many times over in his head that he just wants to go home, but that’s all he finds himself doing. Home, home, home.

God, why did it have to be him?

There’s a knock at the door at some point, and Davin comes in. There’s no creak of the chair, so he doesn’t sit down. Evidently just stands there. And Conrad can sense he’s waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, but still doesn’t move. Feels a shred of pride in that, though he also knows a show of apathy is a cheap to fake when your back is turned. Conrad isn’t apathetic. He’s just dissociating.

After moments of silence, he sits up, slowly shifts on the bed to put his back against the cold wall, still careful not to look at Davin directly. Feels a shakiness to his core that isn’t just a result of his injuries, or even fear, he thinks. He can’t quite wrap his arms around his knees, so he settles for keeping his hands in his lap, duvet drawn over his legs. Between the wall and the bones of his spine, something in his neck gets pinched, but he doesn’t want to move once he has settled, instead opting to sit through the uncomfortable position, gaze fixed to a point on the wall behind Davin.

Nothing happens. Davin doesn’t speak. He just stands there, arms crossed. His hair is put up again, but Conrad still can’t see his expression in the periphery. Only knows it’s still.

So finally, Conrad bites his lip and meets his eyes.

Soon as he does, Davin offers something akin to a melancholic smile, absentmindedly tapping his arm. “You’re gonna get stir-crazy if you spend all your time in one room,” he says.

Conrad doesn’t answer. Just shifts his hand a bit, knowing it’ll make the handcuffs clink.

“Fair point,” Davin says with a low chuckle. “Tell you what. I’ll take off the cuffs, we go to the kitchen and get some food. No tricks, I promise. Just breakfast.”

When Davin steps closer, pulling a key from his pocket, the apathy in Conrad shifts from spectacle to real. He feels detached, all of a sudden, uncaring. Davin helped him down the stairs yesterday, he remembers that, he almost had to be carried. Davin made it clear his empathy was a show. Davin walked him through cleaning the blood off his face once again, and rubbed something soothing on his wrists, something that felt cool against his burning skin. Something that is long worn off by now.

“C’mon,” Davin says, gesturing for Conrad to give him his hand. “I’m not lying to you.”

Extending his arm, Conrad feels his eyes glaze over, and his gaze drift to nothing in particular. The sound of the lock clicking open is somewhat satisfying. Not because he feels free. It’s just a nice sound.

“You need a hand getting up?”

At that, Conrad grimaces and starts to move on his own. Unwrapping himself from the duvet, as cold air hits him, he finds himself once again grateful for having slept in his clothes. He can’t find it in himself to care how many days it’s been, or how dirty they are at this point. Bare feet touch down carefully on the hard floor, he pushes himself off the bed, and can’t quite repress making a small sound at the jab of pain in his thighs and back. That makes him irritated enough to clench his teeth, holding his breath as he slowly straightens up, just to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Although Davin doesn’t seem judgmental at all, not in thatway, Conrad still feels inclined to chastising himself for appearing so weak, even with the ordeal he’s been through. Most other people would handle this better, wouldn’t they?

As Davin leads him out, a knot forms in Conrad’s throat at the sight of the stairs in one end of the hallway. He tries not to think about it, tries not to think about anything as Davin leads him in the opposite direction towards the kitchen. There’s four doors in that hallway in total, and barring the room Conrad is being held in, only one other door is open. He peeks in as they pass, fearing he’ll see green eyes and straight white teeth grinning manically back at him, but it’s just a bathroom. Rather large, with black marble tiles and a counter to match, but still, just a bathroom.

Davin pulls up a seat by the dining table, and motions for Conrad to sit, which he slowly manages to. It’s easier to hunch over while sitting. Doesn’t look as unnatural, and his bruised body gets a chance to rest from having to move around. He fidgets with his hands under the table, watching silently as Davin rummages through the fridge and various cabinets, finding utensils and plates and breakfast items, walking to and from the table. Conrad can’t help but take it as a signal of sorts, that Davin feels comfortable enough to turn his back on him, even though he’s technically free to move around and the front door is within view. In his current state, Conrad isn’t entirely sure he could run, and even if he could, it wouldn’t be particularly fast. Opening the front door would slow him down. It’s probably locked; he can unlock it from the inside, but that would just slow him down, too. He wouldn’t make it. So is this another way to mess with him? Or is it benign?

“You drink coffee?” Davin asks, brushing his hair behind one ear to look over his shoulder.

Conrad nods, and Davin goes back to sifting through tins and packets of tea, glass containers that clink against each other. “Instant or filter?” he asks.

“Instant is fine,” Conrad mumbles, and has to immediately clear his throat. He doesn’t remember the last time he was hoarse like this.

The large windows in the kitchen make for an easy distraction, as a kettle’s gurgling joins the sound of rain to fill the awkward silence. Beyond the pine grove at the end of the backyard, way in the distance, Conrad thinks he can see the very top of other trees, skeletonized, like small cracks in the horizon. A deciduous forest, maybe. There’s no telling how far away it is, or how large it is, or what’s between here and there, but guessing is enough to occupy Conrad’s mind until Davin returns to the table, reaching across to place a mug of coffee in front of him before sitting down with his own.

Davin gestures at a jug of milk placed neatly within arm’s reach of Conrad. “There’s sugar, too, if you want.”

Conrad doesn’t reply, but he does reach for the milk. The jug is only half full, for which he’s grateful; even lifting half a gallon makes the pain in his shoulders flare up, and his hands are shaking. But he manages to pour in a splash without spilling.

Clearing his throat once more, he keeps his eyes fixed on the steam lazily rising from the mug between his hands, then decides it might be better if he actually looks at Davin, not to seem more aggressive, but to gauge his reaction. “Why do you pretend to be nice to me?” he asks.

Davin gives him a curious look, pausing to think. “Who says I’m pretending?” he says after a while.

Conrad grimaces. “You did. You said… I remember you said that.”

“I really didn’t.” Davin mutters it into his mug, takes a sip before he puts it down with a sigh. “Just because I could get away with treating you like shit doesn’t mean I’m inclined to.”

“But you won’t prevent it either.”

“Not always, no,” Davin says matter-of-factly.

Conrad doesn’t know how to respond to that, and while he’s hesitating, Davin uses his mug to gesture at the various food items he’s laid out.

“Eat something. You didn’t eat yesterday.”

Reluctantly, Conrad grabs the closest thing to him – a bag of whole grain toast – and opens it, pulling out two slices. Davin has laid out butter, as well as a wooden butter knife that never has been, and never will be, sharp enough to use as any kind of weapon. There aren’t even forks, Conrad realizes as he listlessly scans the table. Spoons, the butter knife… Maybe he could smash the plate and use a shard of it.

For what, exactly? What in the world could he do with a shard of porcelain that Davin couldn’t do eons more effectively with the knife Conrad knows he’s carrying?

The bruises on his hands look almost dark purple, and those areas hurt a lot every time he moves his fingers too quickly, or exerts too much force. But the butter hasn’t cooled down enough to be soft, yet, so he has to grit his teeth every time he dips the knife.

Eventually, after half-heartedly buttering the toast, Conrad finds himself coming to a stop, staring at the food as if from a distance. He blinks up at Davin, who’s now scrolling through his phone. “If it’s about money, there’s other ways to…”

“I’m aware,” Davin mutters absentmindedly. “Eat something, Conrad.”

“You could still… ransom me, or—”

Davin rubs the bridge of his nose, lets out a somewhat frustrated sigh as he breaks his attention from his phone. “And get what?” he asks, propping his chin up on his hand, elbow resting on the table, looking at Conrad almost earnestly. “How much do you think your dad could reasonably scrape together, hm? A hundred thousand? Less than that?” He snorts, shaking his head.

Conrad freezes halfway through scraping butter for his second piece of toast, and his hand goes lax. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“Dad. Why didn’t you just say ‘family’?”

This time, it’s Davin’s turn to grimace. “Morning fucken’ after,” he mutters, runs a hand through his hair to pull it back. “I suppose we’re past the point where it matters what you know or not,” he says, leaning forward. “Still. I’m not gonna pretend to have the patience for a hunger strike. I can talk to you about it, but I want you to eat in the meantime, alright?”

Conrad swallows, eyes the toast on his plate, and looks back to Davin. His hand is a little shaky as he picks the toast up and takes a bite. He can’t tell if his anxiety is playing tricks on his palette, or if it really does taste dull and empty, if it really is a little more chewy than what he’s used to.

Satisfied, Davin leans back. “You were reported missing last night. During the stream, ironically enough.” He absentmindedly spins the mug between his fingers, lets it trail circles on the table. “Patrick DeWitt did some interviews. I did some research.”

Letting the toast dump back onto porcelain, Conrad shakes his head. “Please don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t bring him into this. Please don’t.”

“Whether you like it or not, he’s already playing his part.”

Claws of panic start to rise in his chest. “No, no, you don’t know – you don’t know what it would do to him, if he thought, if he thought I was—…” He catches himself, takes as deep a breath as he can, feels himself fold over with pain, but he doesn’t care. Letting his forehead rest on the edge of the table, he hugs himself tight. “What do you mean by part?” he croaks, feels the sound of his voice dim under the table. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Eat.”

Conrad’s head snaps up, about to protest when he hesitates, seeing Davin’s calm, but somewhat stern demeanor.

He’s anticipating a refusal, isn’t he?

Letting out an involuntary whining kind of sound, Conrad lets a fist hit the table a little too hard for comfort before he picks up the toast, leg bouncing under the table. He has to force himself to take several deep breaths before he finally takes a bite. There’s nothing wrong with the food, he knows that, but it still strikes him as dry and unappealing. It takes him several hard swallows before his mouth is finally clear again.

He stares at Davin, almost as a way to dare him to not concede. But Davin gives him a nod of acknowledgement, shifting to sit more comfortably, more laid back, and he talks.

“All of this,” he begins slowly, “all of what we’re doing – I don’t intend to get pocket change in return.  I’m aiming for something bigger. If I wasn’t, that hood would’ve stayed over your head last night.”

At the mention of the hood, Conrad winces and starts to pick the crust off his toast and breaking it into little pieces. “Okay…” he prompts, mostly in the hopes that Davin will lead the conversation onto something else, something that isn’t last night.

And he does. But it doesn’t make Conrad feel better.

“Red rooms are rare to see outside of organized crime,” Davin tells him. “They’re used as… well, they’re used for a lot of different purposes. Propaganda, threats, blackmail. The money earned is an added bonus, but it’s usually not the main goal. The… victims, as it were – they’re usually not good people. Robbers, drug dealers, rapists, murderers, you name it. They’re subject to violence, sure, but they’re violent people themselves. Because of that, it’s rare to have any kind of public interest in these cases. Harsh as it sounds, the general consensus is that some people are not worth the time and effort to save. Not when resources are better spent elsewhere.” Davin taps the table. “Eat.”

Conrad reluctantly stuffs a few torn-apart pieces of toast in his mouth. Chews mechanically, slowly. “I’m not trying to go on a hunger strike,” he mutters at his plate. “I just… I don’t have an appetite right now. Or yesterday.”

“Either way, I’d rather not have to ask Renee to hold you down while I shove in a nasogastric tube. Wouldn’t be fun for anyone involved.” Davin pauses. “Except for Renee, probably.”

Grimacing, Conrad starts to pick apart more bite-sized pieces. “You don’t have to… do that.”

Davin smirks. “I’d very much appreciate it if I didn’t.”

Conrad sniffs. Some pieces, he squishes between his fingers, until the air pockets in the bread have collapsed, and all he’s left with is flat strips. “What were you going to say?”

As Davin looks at him thoughtfully, one hand is still thoughtfully spinning the mug in place. “You ever heard of the news criteria?” he says.

Conrad tries to remember anything like that coming up in Lit, but after a while, he has to admit to himself that he can’t think clearly enough to remember much of anything. His head is so muddled.

He just shakes his head.

“There’s variations depending on what theory you ascribe to,” Davin tells him. “Eight, ten, thirty, it doesn’t really matter. I’d boil it down to five. Topicality, importance, sensationalism, conflict, and identification. They’re elements of a news article, basic parts you need in order to make a story palatable to a mainstream audience, and any journalist worth their salt knows that very well. They’re constantly on the lookout for it, got real keen eyes on the potential for clicks. Which also means you can use those five things to get their attention.”

There’s a pause, and as the words sink in, Conrad starts to feel dizzy. “You want media attention…?”

Davin gives him a smile, only to look back down at his hands. “I have four out of five practically handed to me,” he continues, counting them on his fingers as he goes. “Topicality? It’s happening right now. For importance, well, it’s a bit wishy-washy to say this affects a lot more people than just you, but I suppose it does. Your family, your friends, your community. A hundred and fifty people volunteered to search your hometown today, that’s a hundred and fifty families directly affected. Someone with no reason to disappear suddenly does?” His voice drops. “Oh, that’s important, alright.

“Sensationalism will come when the authorities connect the dots between your disappearance and the emergence of the streams. Plenty of conflict to go from there, too. All that leaves us wanting is identification. The fifth criterion, the pathos. Something that resonates with people. When the guy in these streams gets a name, when he’s revealed to be entirely unaffiliated, and not just a victim of cartel politics or petty personal rivalries, suddenly, heads are going to turn. You’re a pretty average guy. You lead an average life, you have family and friends, average successes, and average failures. It could’ve been anyone. That’s all it takes. That’s all I need for the story to spread.”

“Wh… why do you want media attention?”

Davin catches his gaze, dark eyes unaffected. “Marketing,” he says simply.

Conrad can feel himself spiraling a little, moving without moving, falling while not falling. His thoughts are too scrambled for him to feel any sliver of comprehension. “You said… you said, before—you said…” The sentence starts with no clear goal in mind, so of course, it trails off, leaving him to stare at Davin with tears stinging his eyes.

The corner of Davin’s mouth tugs a little. “What did I say, Conrad?”

Doesn’t take too much creativity to interpret it as some kind of challenge, but to what end, Conrad has no idea. He sets his elbows on the table and lets his hands filter through his hair, ends up with his face pressed against his arms, as if he’s trying to protect himself from blows. “Can you just please let, let my dad know I’m not dead?” he asks, voice unsteady. “Just that–he doesn’t have to know–… Just tell him, tell him I’m not dead.”

“I’m creating a narrative,” he says. “I’d rather not kill the suspense just yet.”

“S… susp…” Tears sting his eyes, but the burning knot in his throat isn’t uncontrollable yet. “That was—that was torture,” he hisses. And he wants it so bad to sound unapologetic and accusatory, but the shakiness to his voice betrays how foreign even just the word feels in his mouth. And yet – there’s burn marks on his skin, and bruises that reach far beneath it, and his shoulders still hurt.

Davin’s eyes shift to something to his right, and Conrad doesn’t miss it. Turning his head sharply, he feels himself tense up at the sight of Renee leaning casually in the frame of the hallway, hands stuffed in the pockets of a pair of sweatpants.

Silhouettes of numerous blackwork tattoos span his upper arms, some trailing over one shoulder and down onto his chest, where a jagged, white scar also crosses over one collar bone. Through a vision blurred with tears, Conrad still picks up how disheveled he looks: hair a mess, pillow marks still tracing Lichtenstein-like marks on his cheek, dark circles under his eyes.

“Breakfast with the boys, huh?” he grins lazily.

“Timing,” Davin remarks.

Renee gives a half shrug. “I was listening in for a minute, actually,” he says, pushing himself off the wall. “You have a fucken’ weird take on hospitality, man.”

As Davin chuckles, Conrad hastily wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. It’s only once Renee saunters past the dining table, bare feet patting across the floor, that Conrad relaxes a little, although his focus never leaves the newcomer.

That’s why he notices, or is at least pretty sure he notices, that there’s something off about the way Renee moves. It’s like he isn’t fully awake yet, or perhaps like he’s underwater; slow, heavy steps, languid movements. His jacket lies discarded on the counter, and as he shrugs it over his shoulders, one hand fishes a pack of cigarettes out of one pocket. He opens the pack and lifts it to his mouth, drops his hand with a cigarette held loosely between his teeth, eyes scanning the backyard. If he’s bothered by the thought of going out into the still-pouring rain, it doesn’t show on his face. Almost absentmindedly, his gaze shifts to Conrad, wandering from his face and down, lingering slightly on the bruises on his hands.

Conrad forces himself to look away, to look down at his plate. “I’d like to go back to the bed,” he hoarsely tells Davin. “If that, if that’s okay with you.”

It comes out more harshly than Conrad intended, and he hears Renee’s snicker.

Davin shoots him a look, but he’s smiling softly when he turns back to Conrad. He looks understanding, to the point where Conrad has to remind himself that that’s the last thing he is. Still, when he gets up to lead him back to the guest room, Conrad can’t help but feel grateful as he, with some effort, gets up to follow.

He hasn’t taken two steps before Renee’s voice, ever so slightly slurred, pipes up from behind him. “Trouble standing up straight, Habibi?”

And although Conrad knew a comment might be coming, it still fills him with disgust, how brazenly Renee takes pleasure in seeing the product of his work. He just wants to be alone, to be out of sight – mostly from Renee, but really, it’s from both of them. He keeps his eyes fixed to the ground, decides to aim for a hasty exit rather than a graceful one, warmth prickling in his eyes.

Davin doesn’t forget the cuffs, doesn’t even pretend it’s something he has to remind himself of. Soon as Conrad has eased himself down to sitting on the bed, Davin beckons for his hand.

And Conrad gives it to him, because resisting now would be another battle lost in advance.

Once he’s alone, what grips him isn’t dissociative misery, but the tentative first rays of resolve – something, he hopes, that’s akin to what Howard has, something that can grow into something as strong as they are. It comes as a surprise, and he tries to visualize it as something he can reach out and grasp – and hold tight.

If there’s one thing about last night he knows with absolute certainty, it’s that he can’t go through something like that again. He can’t.

Not just that - he can’t let his dad and Howard play pawns in whatever game Davin has in mind. He can’t let their worry about him become a tool for his captors to use.

Somehow, before the next stream, Conrad has to get the hell out of this house.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[zaralla1]

Why the heck not! Let's do it *rubs my palms together excitedly*

1 - SAI and Krita. Krita was amazing, but SAI had me covered for my needs... and then, there came Clip paint, so I just swapped to that ^^' 2 - Hmm left or right are not particularly difficult, but a slight angle from above or below on a 3/4 leaves me with a good headache 3 - Monsters, monsters, monsters. I've had a monster fishing game as a kid whose designs embedded themselves in my brain and I just kept wanting to draw them over and over. It's quite ironic because I draw mostly humans now. 4 - Ughhh... name any new character- no matter how much I love them, I have to learn their proportions and special features in my style :'D 5 - I post most of it, I keep sketches or abandoned drafts. I also keep anything comic related, that's just how it has to be. 6 - Oooof! I always think I somehow loop back to villains from old cartoons. There's always an air to them that keeps reminding me of characters like Jack Spicer from Xiaolin Showdown or the Huntsman from the American Dragon! 7 - Very, very much love looking at street art and graffiti. There was even a thing where people used to spray-paint onto metal plates. 8 - There have been some for sure, not like I can remember it now xD But there are some recent abandoned projects I can tell you about as well ^^''' I wanted to make a visual novel about one of my OC's! 10 - Trench coats my friend. 11 - OOhhh!!! I hope you're sitting down because this will take a while! My music depends on the characters I'm drawing, it always helps with the process because I'm imagining them animated in my head and time flies while working! So, for characters like Dottore we have KMFDM, Combichrist or And one- for OC's like Frye I listen to electric swing, For the more brooding OC's I'll be listening to Eisbrecher, Rammstein or Dissection, for Zaro I use Satyricon (of course!), for Kar'niss there is Sylosis... for some OC's I use viking metal, and for some others I'm using Dungeon Synth! Oh, I also have a dozen and a few of "relaxing music playlists" from games like Hollowknight or Tunic :') Of course these are just some of the examples!

12 - Hips (Very fun to do and I feel like they anchor the entire character) and smiles (My favored expression and I tend to catch myself smiling when I draw them!) 13 - I feel awkward name dropping and there is not a particular person, but I generally like it when they have an easygoing or positive attitude 👍👍 14 - Anything that is very dynamic, something has to be going on. It would be easier to say which motiffs I don't like, and that is when characters just stand and look at the viewer. I feel like them- bored. 15 - My room, desk, nothing special here 16 - I don't know, hah! I've been told I'm good at dancing but I hate the attention it brings ^^''' 17 - Rarely, it distracts me too much. Or my fingers get sticky, and then my entire keyboard is grimy. Not good! 18 - Oooff! Not so many supplies, but I broke "art" instead. I had a pretty rough art journey, and tended to trash lots of my drawings because I didn't like how they looked. It's too bad, now I have nothing to compare my progress with. 19 - I don't really have favorite inanimate objects, I don't like drawing inanimate things! Can I say bowtie? XDD 20 - Maybe character posing? I love breaking my characters bones if it looks good 👍 21 - Oooohh!! I love darker stylized art that has a storybook feel to it! Or art that feels ethereal, I don't know how to describe it. The colors are very dim. I see a lot of Bloodborne and Final Fantasy OC art drawn in that way!

22 - None - but I SHOULD be doing them!!

23 - Of course. They impact my style greatly. Multiply and add glow being the top choices! 24 - Sometimes, but it's 3D models for the most part! 25 - Ahhh I really can't remember. I haven't had many of those, luckily✨ 26 - Let me think. I mostly draw "actions". My drawings are usually very straightforward, not a lot of hidden meaning there, if any. I also kind of like to let people make their own story, it's interesting to hear them. 27 - I wouldn't call them warmups, but my drawings tend to get better when I feel inspired to do them! I'll have some awesome brainrot and I'll sketch out 3-4 little doodles of them before jumping into the real thing! 28 - I like to participate in small community events. It's just nice. There is no pressure to produce anything particularly good, it's important that you have fun. 29 - Don't think there is such a thing. I love something because it inspires me XD 30 - Man. One of my recent segment drawings. I loved doing it, and busted my ass working on it, but nothing came off it. Whatever positive feelings I had when working on it, failed to transmit to the audience completely :')))

❤️Alright, that's that I guess! ❤️

Weirdly Specific Artist Ask Game

Didn't see a lot of artist ask games, wanted to make a silly one.

(I wrote this while sick out of my mind last year and it's been collecting dust in my drafts, I might as well let it run free) 1. Art programs you have but don't use

2. Is it easier to draw someone facing left or right (or forward even)

3. What ideas come from when you were little

4. Fav character/subject that's a bitch to draw

5. Estimate of how much of your art you post online vs. the art you keep for yourself

6. Anything that might inspire you subconsciously (i.e. this horse wasn't supposed to look like the Last Unicorn but I see it)

7. A medium of art you don't work in but appreciate

8. What's an old project idea that you've lost interest in

9. What are your file name conventions

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw

11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what

12. Easiest part of body to draw

13. A creator who you admire but whose work isn't your thing

14. Any favorite motifs

15. *Where* do you draw (don't drop your ip address this just means do you doodle at a park or smth)

16. Something you are good at but don't really have fun doing

17. Do you eat/drink when drawing? if so, what

18. An estimate of how much art supplies you've broken

19. Favorite inanimate objects to draw (food, nature, etc.)

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy

21. Art styles nothing like your own but you like anyways

22. What physical exercises do you do before drawing, if any

23. Do you use different layer modes

24. Do your references include stock images

25. Something your art has been compared to that you were NOT inspired by

26. What's a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended

27. Do you warm up before getting to the good stuff? If so, what is it you draw to warm up with

28. Any art events you have participated in the past (like zines)

29. Media you love, but doesn't inspire you artistically

30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated

[nextdayrecruitau]

9 Useful Tips For An Effective Cover Letter

In an increasingly competitive job market, the significance of a polished cover letter cannot be overstated. A cover letter serves as a personal introduction to potential employers, offering a glimpse into the professional persona of a white collar contract & labour hire beyond the confines of a resume. It's an opportunity to highlight achievements, express enthusiasm for the role, and demonstrate how one's skills and experiences align with the company's goals and culture. Crafting an effective cover letter can be the distinguishing factor that sets you apart from other candidates, making it an indispensable tool in your job search toolkit.

Understanding the art of cover letter writing is more than adhering to the basic principles of grammar and punctuation; it's about conveying your story in a way that resonates with the reader. It should reflect who you are as a professional and what you bring to the table, all while maintaining a tone and structure that's both engaging and respectful of the reader's time.

Here are some essential tips that can help elevate your cover letter from good to great, ensuring it makes a lasting impression on your prospective employer.

Customise for Each Application

Avoid the temptation of using a one-size-fits-all approach. Tailor your cover letter to each role you apply for, focusing on how your background, skills, and interests align with the job description and the company's mission. Research the company to understand its industry, challenges, and culture. This personalised approach demonstrates your genuine interest in the position and can make a significant difference in how your application is received.

Start With a Strong Opening

Your opening sentence should grab the reader's attention. Instead of the standard "I am writing to apply for," try something more dynamic that reflects your enthusiasm and specific reasons for wanting the role. For example, you might start with how a recent accomplishment of yours directly relates to the job or mention your admiration for a project the company recently completed.

Highlight Relevant Experiences and Skills

Use your cover letter to elaborate on the experiences and skills that make you the ideal candidate for the position. Don't just repeat what's on your resume. Instead, tell a story or describe challenges you've overcome, highlighting how these experiences have prepared you for this role. Be specific about your achievements, using quantifiable results where possible.

Show Enthusiasm for the Role

Employers want to know you're excited about the opportunity to work with them. Express your passion for the role and the company, and explain why you're drawn to them. This is your chance to convey your commitment and how you envision contributing to their team.

Use a Professional but Authentic Tone

While it's important to maintain professionalism, your cover letter should also reflect your personality. Write in a clear, concise manner, but don't be afraid to let your enthusiasm and genuine interest in the role shine through. Avoid overly formal language that might make the letter feel impersonal.

Address Potential Concerns

If there are gaps in your resume or other potential concerns, address them briefly in your cover letter. Provide a straightforward explanation, focusing on the positive aspects, such as skills or knowledge you gained during that time.

Include a Call to Action

End your cover letter by expressing your eagerness to discuss how you can contribute to the team and thank the reader for considering your application. Include a statement about looking forward to the opportunity to further discuss your qualifications in an interview.

Proofread and Edit

Before sending your cover letter, proofread it several times to ensure there are no spelling or grammatical errors. Consider having a friend or mentor review it as well. Errors in your cover letter can give the impression of carelessness, undermining the professionalism of your application.

Format Properly

Ensure your cover letter matches the format of your resume for a cohesive application package. Use a professional font, keep the length to one page, and follow any specific formatting instructions provided by the employer.

In crafting your cover letter, remember that you're not just summarising your resume; you're providing context and framing your experiences in a way that illustrates your fit for the role. It's about making a connection with the reader and giving them a reason to want to learn more about you.

A well-written cover letter can open doors, setting the stage for a successful interview. It's your first opportunity to make a strong, positive impression on a potential employer. By following these tips, you're not just applying; you're starting a conversation about why you're the best choice for the position.

[antimonarchy]

How to Create Image Descriptions

So I’ve been creating image descriptions on tumblr for about a month, and I wanted to share some helpful guides I’ve found on how to create them as well as my own tips that I’ve picked up. Video descriptions and transcripts are also necessary, but since I mostly focus on image descriptions that’s what this guide is about. This might get a bit long, so fair warning. 

What are image descriptions?

Image descriptions are a textual depiction of what is going on in an image, as shown with the image below. 

[Image ID: A picture of a person with short black hair working on a computer. They are sitting at a wooden table with a large blue pot of pink flowers in front of a grey brick wall. A guitar is propped up against the wall in the background, and there is a string of lights near the ceiling. /.End ID]

Why create image descriptions?

The primary reason for creating image descriptions is to allow people who are blind/have limited vision to experience visual content. Many people who are blind/have low vision use screenreaders, which read text out loud when it is clicked or hovered over with a mouse. A large amount of online content, such as pictures, graphics, or drawings, is visual and so possibly cannot be experienced by someone with vision problems. As a general rule of thumb, anything that can be dragged or dropped most probably requires a description. In addition, if someone has partial vision and attempts to zoom in on an image, sometimes it can become pixelated and impossible to understand. 

Some neurodivergent people might need a description to understand the tone of an image, such as the meaning of facial expressions of a person to understand what emotion the artist is trying to depict

Some people might not have high speed internet or have low computer memory, meaning that they turn off images in order to save space. This means that they as well might require descriptions of visual content

Are image descriptions the same as alt text?

no, alt text and image descriptions serve the same purpose, but they are different in how they are presented. Alt text, short for alternative text, is included in the html of an image and can be read by a screen reader. However, there are many reasons why many prefer image descriptions over alt text. 

There is a limit of 200 words in alt text on tumblr specifically (and not in other contexts, which makes this information only applicable here), which means that detailed images or graphics are unable to be described fully without possibly cutting out important information. 

People who require descriptions, but who do not use a screenreader, must right-click and search through the html of an image in order to find alt text, but with an image description they are saved that work. 

Who should create image descriptions?

Everyone who is able to should create image descriptions. A content creator is best able to communicate the message of their work through text, as they are the one who created it and thus understand its message the best. While of course it takes practice when starting out, over time image descriptions become second nature when posting visual content. Always check the notes of a tumblr post for an ID rather than reblogging without one. 

What should be included in image descriptions?

There is no simple answer to this question, there are a variety of resources and guides on how to create one, and you should not accept my advice as the ultimate authority, as I am by no means a professional, and only create descriptions in my spare time as part of the effort to make Tumblr more accessible. However, here is my information for those starting out. 

First, consider what type of visual content it is. Is it fanart of a tv show, a screenshot of a tweet, or an informational graphic meant to educate people on a particular issue? 

Then, consider what information is most important in the image. If the visual content is an image of a famous building, then in writing the description the focus should be on the building, rather than describing for instance the color of the sky, surrounding buildings, or the clothing of the people walking by, as they are not the information that is being presented. 

Perkins ELearning has an excellent list of things that should generally be included, which I will include here. In my experience, these are the most important elements to describe

The people and animals in an image

The background or setting of an image

Elements that relate to the context specifically, so if it was an image of a congested highway on a news website, the description would mention the packed cars

The colors of an image (don’t overdo it however, a simple ‘light blue’ will suffice, no need to say something like ‘a color blue that is similar to the color of a robin’s egg’ unless it is crucial to the viewer’s comprehension of an image)

Context for an image. For instance, imagine if someone had drawn a version of the Bernie Sanders ‘I am once again asking’ meme, with Eleanor Shellstrop from the Good Place saying “I am once again asking for there to be a Medium Place.” Rather than provide a description to the example such as:                                          [Image ID: A drawing of Eleanor Shellstrop saying “I am once again asking for there to be a Medium Place.” /.End ID] you would instead say                                                                                                [Image ID: A redraw of the Bernie Sanders ‘I am once again asking’ meme with Eleanor Shellstrop from The Good Place saying “I am once again asking for there to be a Medium Place. /.End ID]

If the image is of a social media post, include the username/handle of the creator as well as the reactions (likes/reblogs) if they are visible in the image, as they may be cut off by the original screenshotter. 

If it is a drawing or piece of art, always look for the artist’s signature when writing a description

How do I write an image description?

To start off, here is an example description written for a piece of art I made myself. 

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Suki from Avatar: The Last Airbender over a gold background.  She is shown from the shoulders up facing the viewer, and has a neutral expression. She is wearing metal armor over a light green tunic, and is wearing her Kyoshi Warriors facepaint and headdress. The artist’s signature ‘Astra’ is written in the lower right of the image. /.End ID]

In this description:

I made clear where the description begins and ends, so that someone with a screenreader is not confused. I usually use brackets ([ ]), write the words ‘Image ID’ (or video/gif/other) and finish with a slash, period, and the words End ID. (/.End ID)

I emphasized the type of image, in this case a digital drawing

I said the character’s name (obviously this may not be known if describing a photo or something you are not familiar with)

I described the background and the character’s clothing

I described her expression

I included the description of my signature.

This is my basic process for writing a description

I first say what the content is, such as a drawing, photo, or screenshot of a tweet.

I then use what is called Object-Action-Context for the most part, which UXDesign has a long article on https://uxdesign.cc/how-to-write-an-image-description-2f30d3bf5546. For example, [Image ID: A photo of a person standing in a crowd waving to someone out of view in front of a river. /.End ID] While obviously I would usually provide more information than that, Person = object, standing + waving to someone out of view = action, and ‘in a crowd’ = context. 

I describe the clothing that might be worn

I talk about the position that people in an image might be in, such as leaning against one another on a couch, or standing with their fingers intertwined

I talk about the expressions on their faces, if shown

I talk about their general appearance (if important to the description) such as hair color/length

As said before, I talk about the context of an image if necessary

If the background is a simple color, I usually include it in the first sentence of the description. However if it is more complicated, such as a river winding through a dense forest, I include that at the end of the description after describing the important elements. 

Typically if I am reblogging an image, I do not add on any commentary after creating an image description, as this allows others to reblog my description without my personal reaction. If I want to add on to an image, I usually reblog my description post. 

In general, it is best to remain objective when writing a description, meaning not including your opinion of the content. However especially in an informal setting, say for instance you were describing an adorable cow, I would see it as fine to say [Image ID: A small drawing of an adorable cow. /.End ID] because the emphasis is on the appearance. There isn’t a clearcut answer, and it really depends on the context. 

What are some tips for writing descriptions/common pitfalls?

If there is an element of an image like a line that represents an emotion, or a sound effect like ‘clang’ if something falls, include that in the description. For instance, [Image ID: ...beside the mug that has fallen on the floor, there are the words ‘sploosh’ indicating the sound of the water that has spilled out. /.End ID]

Put image descriptions first. Don’t hide them under readmores or any other text. If you have something with multiple images and you are the creator, place the description under each image in succession rather than all at the end. Readmores are ableist, as they require someone who has vision problems/one of the conditions described above to do more work to access the message of visual content. 

If you are mentioning the skin color and/or race of someone in an image, make sure you describe it for anyone else who might be in an image. Don’t just describe the race of someone who appears to not be white. This doesn’t mean that you have to describe race, such as if the character is one whose race is commonly known, just that if you do, make sure you do it for all characters/people in an image. 

In order to write IDs effectively, I’ve found it useful to download a screen reader. I use NVDA, which is entirely free and easy to use and can be downloaded here: https://www.nvaccess.org/download/. 

Insert + Q turns it off

While my guide has focused mostly on image descriptions, video descriptions are also necessary. However they are not my area of expertise, and differ slightly, so I would recommend anyone interested in them to check out this website https://www.washington.edu/accessibility/videos/

Transcripts, for those who are d/Deaf/Hard of Hearing, are also necessary for making content accessible, and might be required for content that also has a visual format, such as a Tiktok. I would recommend this website https://www.w3.org/WAI/media/av/transcripts/ for anyone interested in writing transcripts

What are some more resources I can check out?

Here are a series of websites that I have found while researching how to write descriptions

UX Design -  I mentioned UX Design earlier when talking about Object - Action - Context, this article is very useful and examines how to structure a description and provides very useful examples for beginners

Perkins E-Learning - This article is very useful in helping someone what to include in a description, such as clothing or background information, as well as providing some additional information on alt text if you are interested

Meloukhianet - This blog post by s. e. smith goes into detail on the elements of an image to emphasize depending on its context, using the example of a picture of their cat sunning himself. 

SOAP - This article by the Stanford Online Accessibility Program (SOAP) provides a large amount of information on the purpose of image descriptions and what content requires them

HubPages - This article by SOTD and Zera discusses the difference between sparse, lush, and overdone descriptions, which is the amount of information included, and if/when each should be used. 

I hope you found this information helpful, I encourage everyone to check out these websites, and my inbox is always open for questions!

[stillness-in-green]

No, Re-Destro Is Not Destro’s Literal Son

and

Yes, I Will Die On This Hill

I have a number of small, persistent quibbles with some of the widespread misapprehensions I see included in BNHA fanfic, quoted as fact in meta posts, even cited on the wiki. Quirk cancellation restraints, what the 20% quirklessness data point means in practice, when Kurogiri comes into existence relative to the time of the Shimura Family Massacre, things like that. My biggest one, though, is as the title suggests: the idea that Yotsubashi Rikiya is Yotsubashi Chikara’s son.

I don’t entirely know where this confusion comes from. As far as I can tell, the early scanlations didn’t get it wrong—one rendered the line in Chapter 218 about Destro having a child he didn’t know about as being children, plural, but otherwise, they were all accurate enough. It seems people just assumed that the child mentioned in 218 must be Re-Destro, who was, after all, right there on the panel. Even though the scanlations never said it, even though the official translation never said it, even though ample evidence in the manga disproves it, the idea still got around that Rikiya is Chikara’s son.

I have and will maintain that this is obviously wrong if you stop to think about it for even a moment, but unfortunately, most people don’t. The error can be found on less well-tended parts of the fandom wiki[1]; it’s in tumblr meta posts about the villains; it’s in fanfic.

And now, god help me, it is on the official anime website, too.

“Stillness-in-green, maybe you should consider that you might just be wro—”

I will face BONES and walk backwards into hell.

But if you want, you can come with me, and I’ll explain on the way. Hit the jump.

Dialogue + Narration

There are two places where the relationship between Chikara and Rikiya is explicitly addressed—the lead-in to the dinner scene in Chapter 218 and the fight between Clone!Shigaraki and RD in Chapter 232. If you include the Ultra Analysis databook, the number goes up to four: once each in Re-Destro and Destro Classic’s character blurbs.

Let’s take a look at each of those places, shall we?

The relevant Japanese text here is in the first narration box: 子ども, kodomo.

Kodomo is not gendered. It literally just means child. The key kanji is 子, ko. Like most kanji, it has a lot of potential readings, and you can add other kanji to it to modify it. Add 息 and you get musuko, son. Pronounce 子 as shi instead of ko, and you get a term that is frequently, though not exclusively, used to refer to boys. Add 女 to that reading and you get joshi, woman/girl. 子 is in a lot of words, many of them gendered! Used for kodomo as Hori does here, though, it does nothing to indicate a gender one way or the other.

Also too, it does nothing to indicate that Rikiya is the child in question; it simply states that there was such a child, somewhere in the world. Now, the natural assumption for anyone who knows how the graphic novel medium works and who understands basic literary analysis would be that the significant character we just met is, in fact, the child in question—except that everything else we learn about Destro and the original Meta Liberation Army here makes it entirely impossible.

I’ll do a full breakdown on why that is in the next section. In the meantime, here’s the next reference:

Here, we’re looking at the phrase the Viz translation renders as, “His blood runs through these veins.” The literal Japanese there is, Desutoro no matsuei chi o tsugu mono! In a literal translation, chi o tsugu mono means, “one who inherits the blood,” or, more loosely, “blood successor.” It’s matsuei—末裔—that’s the key word here.

Japanese has several words to express the concept of “descendant.” Matsuei is one word; the data book uses shison. So what’s the difference? Well, I’ll talk about shison in a moment, but I had an inkling of it just from looking at the kanji in matsuei—“end” and “descendant” respectively, leaving me with an impression of something like a final descendant or the terminus of the bloodline. Further research confirmed it: shison can refer to any lineal blood tie, but matsuei refers to a bloodline’s final inheritor, the person at the end of a long line of many, or even countless, generations. It’s the difference between being able to point to a grandparent and the kind of painstaking genealogical research that lets you[2] point to a famous royal from eight hundred years ago—matsuei is a word that very much assumes the existence of those countless generations.

So not only does Rikiya’s line there not imply that he’s Chikara’s son, but his specific word choice also tells us that he cannot be Chikara’s son. That’s, uh. Pretty conclusive, I would say.

Lastly, though, there’s also the data book. This is, perhaps, the actual closest you’re going to get to a manga equivalent of those character blurbs on the anime website, at least until such time as Hori deigns to give the MLA types character profile pages. (I live ever in hope.)

There are two relevant bits of text, one in Re-Destro’s entry, and the other in Destro Classic’s. The first describes how Re-Destro organizes the MLA as Desutoro no chi o tsugu mono: the same phrase he uses for himself in the manga, minus the matsuei. @codenamesazanka (the one who told me about the databook references among other citations, bless) rendered it as “Destro’s blood successor”; I have also seen it given as “the successor of Destro’s bloodline.” Note again, the lack of reference to a father/son bond.

Chikara’s entry uses that other descendant word I mentioned before, 子孫, shison. Notice that the term uses that ko kanji from kodomo before? As it does in joshi, 子 here reads shi. The other kanji, 孫, means grandchild. Thus, literally, grandchild-child—or, in the vernacular, simply descendant.

And then we have the anime website.

So, for comparison’s sake, the anime website uses 息子—the same combination of kanji that I said earlier gives you musuko, son. Heck, it even uses 父, chichi, for Destro—father. It’s as explicit as it’s possible to be, and I just don’t know why or how the anime website could fuck that up so bad when absolutely nothing in the manga describes the two Yotsubashis that way, and, indeed, one specific word choice actually rules out the possibility.

So, that’s all the manga says directly. It’s not the only evidence there is, though. In fact, the next piece makes it even more clear how colossally and impossibly wrong a father/son connection for Destro and his modern successor is.

Timeline

The long and short of this section is, “Since Harima Oji was Sako Atsuhiro’s great-great-grandfather, there is no possible way that Destro—who pre-dated Harima—can be Re-Destro’s father.” If you read that sentence and nodded your complete understanding and agreement, feel free to skip ahead to the last section. If you’d like the full explanation it takes to reach that sentence’s conclusion, though, read on.

So, aside from the word matsuei, the timeline is the most telling piece of evidence to my eye. I address it secondly rather than firstly because it’s less direct than the explicit narration; it relies on drawing conclusions based on things we’ve been told elsewhere rather than on the immediately relevant text. Oh, Mr. Compress’s relationship to Harima is explicit enough, but on what am I basing my claim that Destro predates him?

Regarding that, there’s no explicit year relative to My Hero Academia’s current events given for when Destro and the original Meta Liberation Army were active; the same is true for Harima Oji’s escapades. However, we are given some broad-strokes information, relative not to current events, but rather to the history of heroism as a legal institution in Japan.

We know that there was a widespread, lengthy period of chaos following the rise of quirks—called meta-abilities in those early years. At some point, however, people began to search for a way for meta-humans to live in peace with non-metas. The compromise that was reached was the foundation of professional heroism in Japan—while the use of meta-abilities would be legal in private settings, it was only by becoming licensed by the state as “heroes” that people could use their quirks in public.[3]

The legislation curtailing the use of meta-abilities—and the appropriation of a dead woman’s language to popularize a law establishing exactly the opposite of what she used that language to call for—is what catalyzed the rise of the original MLA. Thus, we can position Destro as being alive and active around the same time that heroism as a legal institution was being formed. Since we further know that he committed suicide in prison, we can assume that his child was conceived at some point prior to his capture. Ergo, Destro’s child, were they alive today, would be as old as Japanese professional heroism itself.

Next, consider Harima Oji, the Peerless Thief, a criminal who targeted the riches of “sham heroes.” We’re specifically told that he was active in the days in which the current system was settling into place—e.g. he only became active once the Hero System was established enough to have produced corrupt heroes. We’re told he preached reformation—he wasn’t just some pre-existing criminal who saw a shiny new target in heroes; he had specific grievances which he wanted addressed by the system, and which the system was not addressing.

The earliest Harima could possibly be active, then, is concurrent with Destro—Harima fighting against the corrupt people who had found their way into the new heroic institution, and Destro fighting against using the institution of heroism to oppress non-heroes. What I think is more likely, though, is that Harima came after Destro—Harima needed to have had time to realize what kinds of fakes had been drawn to this shiny new career path, maybe even to spend some time trying to change things the legal way.

I don’t suspect they were separated by very long—I would imagine Destro was easily within Harima’s living memory, and might well have influenced why he chose the path of protest that he did—but I do think they were separate.

Moving forward, then, Mr. Compress is four generations distant from his famous ancestor. Thus, even if you assume that Harima is of the same generation as Chikara, that’s what you’re looking at for Chikara’s child: someone who, were they alive today, would be old enough to be the great-grandparent of a thirty-two-year-old man.

Re-Destro’s probably a few years older than Mr. C, sure,[4] but that man doesn’t have Ujiko’s slow-aging quirk. Unless you want to start pulling theories about cryogenic stasis the story for some reason never saw fit to mention out of thin air, Re-Destro is in no way old enough to fit the bill.

This is backed up by one other piece of the timeline as well, and one more place we can look at language:

The small child at the center of the image is Rikiya, so young that he’s in schoolboy shorts for a meeting otherwise so formal that he’s been made to wear a tie. He’s, what, six to nine here, tops? And the adults speaking to him say that they’ve been in hiding for generations—代々, daidai, the kanji for generation followed by a kanji that just means, “See that kanji written right before me? Yeah, just read that one again.”

The original MLA was active for only a handful of years, and, per Chapter 218, they didn’t dissolve until Destro was captured. Thus, we can assume they have been in hiding since then, but not before then. With that in mind, this is another line that renders a father/son relationship impossible.

Remember, Chikara already had a child in the world circa his capture. If Rikiya were Chikara’s son, then Destro’s capture and his army’s subsequent dissolution could not have happened any farther back than nine months plus however old Rikiya was in this exact moment of his youth. Rikiya, who we see here as a child of less than ten.

Ten years in hiding doesn’t make one generation; it damn sure doesn’t make multiple ones.

Now, you could make theories about cryogenic statis that would explain this ludicrous discrepancy, sure. You could also theorize about e.g. artificial insemination,[5] or time stop quirks, or any number of other possibilities in the vast panoply the HeroAca world offers. The point is, though, that you don’t need to. There was, in the manga, no discrepancy that needed to be explained. It is only fanon misinterpretation and a glaring disinterest in the series’ villains from official sources that have presented this issue.

I’m praying that it’s all just a misunderstanding on the part of whoever maintains the website, and that the anime itself will render the relevant bits of dialogue correctly. Given the extreme cuts and alterations that My Villain Academia has been subjected to thus far, though, I’m sure you can appreciate my being concerned.

…So that’s the meat of it. The idea that Rikiya is Chikara’s son is wrong simply on the basis of what’s said in the text, and it’s doubly wrong on the basis of the timeline. There is, though, one other thing I think points towards Re-Destro being exactly the descendant he says he is, not a son playing down the connection out of humility or something. This one is a lot more headcanon-y, though, so I saved it for last.

MLA Social Dynamics

It’s quite simple. We have, in the MLA, a group of people that venerates Destro’s bloodline to an obviously unhealthy degree, putting up portraits of him wherever they can get away with it, tagging his successor with a “Re-” as if to invoke reincarnation or miraculous return, entirely willing to throw their lives away for what they think was his cause, and others’ lives if those others say anything too scathing about the words Destro wrote, quite as if they treat Destro’s memoir as some sort of holy writ.

They venerate Destro that much, and you’re trying to tell me that they wouldn’t just call a spade a spade and acknowledge RD as the son of their great leader? Come on.

Since long before I turned up the matsuei factoid in researching this piece, since long before Mr. Compress gave us such a helpful generational comparison, I’ve held the opinion that, given a group that holds their leaders in such high esteem, with such particular regard for bloodline, the only reason Rikiya does just call himself a descendant, rather than citing the specific term for what he is, is that the specific term is distant enough that it actually does sound more impressive to just say “descendant,” rather than something like, “great-great-great-grandson.” That kind of thing just begs the question, “What took you guys so long?” or, “You and how many other people, buddy?”

Mr. Compress may have the panache to carry off a line like that, but Rikiya’s a different story. If he had something so amazing up his sleeve as, “I am the son of the great Destro,” I have to think he’d just say it proudly, not fall back on the impressionistic vaguery of something like chi o tsugu mono. Even if I had no other evidence to work with, I’d think the same—all the evidence you need is right there in the character writing of who Rikiya and the MLA are and how they talk about the man whose dreams Re-Destro was raised to carry.

A closing note: I will allow that Rikiya is being overdramatic when he uses matsuei and its connotation of countless generations. There are a few other things we can use to trace the history of heroism—Ujiko’s age, and the 18-years-or-less periods that One For All was held by its pre-All Might bearers—and running those numbers leads me to believe that it is, in fact, entirely possible to count the number of generations between Rikiya and Chikara, and the number, while higher than one, is probably not all that high. Certainly matsuei is being more dramatic about it than is entirely warranted, hence the poetic flourish of the official translation’s, “His blood runs through these veins!” The theatricality only makes me fonder of him, however.

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

FOOTNOTES

[1] It was changed and reverted on Re-Destro’s page at least twice before it finally stuck in January of this year. Chikara’s page took until July to be corrected, and it’s still wrong on various other subpages.

[2] Or your kids, if you have those. Only the last generation in the bloodline is the matsuei, but that’s a moving goalpost as long as the bloodline is still propagating.

[3] This summary of events combines what we know from both My Hero Academia proper and the Vigilantes spin-off, which I recommend to anyone who’s at all interested in finer-grained worldbuilding on Hero Society Japan than the main series makes time for.

[4] I personally headcanon him as 42.

[5] To which point I would refer back to the word kodomo, and note that that word choice indicates that Destro had a child in the world. Not a sperm sample kept in a freezer somewhere, waiting for the right would-be mother: an actual child. Some quick research on my part says that the farthest that term stretches is in using it to refer to yet-unborn children, fetuses still in the womb. Seeing as Japan doesn’t even allow inmates conjugal visits in real life, much less in a setting where villains are so dehumanized that Tartarus is an acceptable punishment for them, the line about Destro “having a child out in the world” takes us right back to a date of conception no later than Destro’s final night of freedom.

[curlsofsagesmoke]

TMNT (2012) characters as dysfunctional family roles

here I go again analyzing a kids show that ended four years ago. anyway, I saw a tiktok by user doinbigthink where they gave a quick overview of the six kinds of dysfunctional family roles, and I immediately thought of tmnt bc it’s my current hyperfixation. so I spent almost an hour doing research and writing up this analysis, as one does.

as a preface: dysfunction in a family can be caused by anything from someone struggling with addiction to a parent being abusive or unavailable/neglectful to someone having narcissistic personality disorder (npd) etc. etc. Usually there is one person who is the root cause of this (very deep seated) dysfunction and the others in the family (often the kids) fall into these roles in order to cope.

Leo: The Hero

The Hero is often the oldest child. They cope with the dysfunction in the family by being high achievers or perfectionists, and they need a sense of control in order to feel safe within the family. They are seen as very well-adjusted, balanced, and high-functional and are often used as an example of how well the family as a whole is doing. They may allow this misconception to continue (whether consciously or unconsciously) in order to hide the family’s problems. They may be parentified as children (that is, forced to take on a parental role for their younger siblings) and usually feel a lot of pressure to solve the family’s issues. With Leo in particular, you see these two behaviors in the way he approaches leading his brothers as well as the way he obsessed over bringing Karai into the family for Splinter’s sake after discovering her true identity. As an adult, the Hero is often drawn toward romantic partners who are emotionally unavailable (again, see Leo’s crush on Karai) and tend to throw themselves into their work (Leo’s obsession with ninjutsu)

Leo: The Golden Child

The Golden Child is not a dysfunctional family role but instead describes a relationship that develops between a parent/guardian with npd and one of the children in the family. In these cases, the parent tends to favor the Golden Child because the Golden Child exhibits all the traits the parent loves in themselves. In Splinter and Leo’s case, these characteristics are their devotion to ninjutsu, their general temperaments, and their more spiritual/mystic natures. There are MANY examples of this favoritism in TMNT canon; for example, Splinter teaching Leo his reiki technique (the healing hands) in “the deadly venom” because everyone things Leo is the most capable of learning such an advanced technique (in the episode, Donnie says that he doesn’t think anyone else on the team could’ve done what Leo did, i.e. using the healing hands on himself and saving the others from karai). The parent has a volatile relationship with the Golden Child and often their love is conditional (that is, the parent will favor the Golden Child as long as the Golden Child continues to act like the parent). Because of this, the Golden Child often has trouble establishing an independent identity (see: Raph calling Leo “Splinter Jr.”, though I can’t remember if this happens in 2012 or just in the 2003 version). The Golden Child may also participate in the narcissistic parent’s abuse against the other children in order to protect themself (this is less explicit in canon, but I think that Leo’s leadership style fits this bill)

Raph: The Scapegoat

The Scapegoat is often the second child. As the name suggests, they are often blamed for things that go wrong in the family regardless of whether it was actually their fault or not. Scapegoats are often very aware of their position in the family and as a result they may feel rejected, isolated, and unlovable. I think a good example of Raph feeling like this is the fact that, early in the show, he only openly expresses his emotions to Spike. Scapegoats learn that negative attention is better than no attention (especially from a parent/guardian) and they often engage in high risk behaviors such as sex, drugs, etc. (in Raph’s case, his reckless fighting style and the way he seeks out fights, and this also explains his temper and overall angry demeanor). Because of this, they tend to get into a lot of trouble and are often singled out as the child who needs individual help (aka therapy) even though the root problems lie with the family as a unit. In cases where the parent has npd the Scapegoat is often pitted against the Golden Child. This is called splitting and it is another way to distract from the family’s deeper issues. I feel like I don’t need to explain the way that Leo and Raph are pitted against each other.

Donnie: The Lost Child

The Lost Child, as the name implies, often fades into the background. Usually this is on purpose in an effort to keep themself safe, as they might be scared to draw attention to themself or rock the boat, especially in an abusive household. They may often feel ignored or neglected and are often described as loners who have difficulty developing social skills or self-esteem. Like the Hero, the Lost Child is often used as an example of the family’s stability and success because they aren’t causing trouble. They tend to struggle when forming friendships/romantic relationships, and they are usually praised for not needing a lot of attention/being independent. Because of this, they feel safer when they’re by themselves. Although Donnie does cause trouble sometimes (see: all the times he’s blown some shit up in the lab, the Mutagen man thing, etc.), he’s not seen as the troublemaker. Raph (and Mikey, to a certain extent) definitely takes that title. Donnie is often alone in his lab---working, admittedly, but he still tends to isolate himself, and he is often seen as the most socially awkward of the brothers (see: his relationship with April). There’s also this very interesting exchange from the episode “Enemy of My Enemy” when they’re in the Shellraiser and Leo is about to take the stealth bike to help Karai:

Raph: Hey, the stealth bike’s my thing. Leo: Now your thing is sucking it up. Donnie: Hey! That’s my thing!

Mikey: The Mascot

The Mascot is often the youngest child. They use humor and goofiness to diffuse tension and distract the family from their issues, though when this works, they feel increased pressure to continue to step in when things become tense or volatile. The Mascot acts from a place of anxiety and trauma, and they may have bouts of depression. They also tend to feel as though they cannot express their negative emotions (because they often see themselves as responsible for their family’s happiness). They tend to bend over backwards for people with little regard for their own safety/comfort, and they are drawn to intense and dysfunctional relationships (whether romantic or platonic) where they will be called upon to diffuse tension. This can be seen in the way Mikey approached his friendships with both Bradford (pre-mutation) and Leatherhead. Mikey is also very rarely shown as being sad, angry, or depressed the way that the other three are, and it’s only in times of extreme emotional distress (like the season two finale) where he drops his humor. Even in the midst of tough battles or tough situations, Mikey tends to insert himself into the middle of the tension and is almost constantly cracking jokes or trying to keep things lighthearted. When he does show more negative emotions, it’s in (mostly) one of two ways. One, giving comfort or seeking comfort, usually from Raph (again see the season two finale, where he hugs Raph to calm him down after Splinter “dies” and seeks comfort from Raph in the Party Wagon as they’re driving away from the city). Two, acting combative with Donnie.

Note: Mikey and Donnie acting combative

This second one in particular is really interesting to me because both Donnie and Mikey exhibit a level of comfort/feeling safe with each other that they don’t display with the other two. Mikey only ever gets physical with Donnie (their little slap fight in “Turtle Temper” or attacking him at the end of “The Creeping Doom”), while Donnie only ever purposefully antagonizes Mikey to get a reaction (slapping him in “Turtle Temper”, which prompts the slap fight, or teasingly insulting him at the end of “The Creeping Doom”, which prompts Mikey to attack him). Mikey likes to get under Raph’s skin, but he never retaliates when Raph gets physical with him. Donnie does occasionally argue with Raph and Leo, but usually backs down after Raph threatens him with violence (see “New Girl in Town”), and with Leo it never escalates past a verbal fight (see the season two finale, “the fourfold trap”). Actually, it seems that in Mikey’s and Donnie’s relationship, they take on the roles that you usually see in Raph’s and Mikey’s relationship. Mikey antagonizes Raph and Raph retaliates; similarly, Donnie antagonizes Mikey and Mikey retaliates, but neither of them would act this way toward their other two brothers.

Splinter: The Root of the Dysfunction

I’ve made a lot of allusions by now to Splinter having npd, or at least some narcissistic tendencies. There are many times where he shows favoritism toward Leo or acts in a very stubborn or even self-absorbed manner. In the season one finale, for example, he refuses to help the turtles fight and only leaves the lair after april is kidnapped by the shredder. In “the pulverizer returns”, he makes the turtles switch weapons (for literally no good reason), they almost die in a fight and switch back, and as punishment, he takes their weapons away entirely; this isn’t addressed in the episode, but i do believe that if they’d had their weapons, they could’ve prevented timothy from being mutated in this episode. (Admittedly there are times when he apologizes, admits he’s wrong, and changes his mind, which is why I hesitate to say he exhibits fully narcissistic behaviors). There’s also the physical aspect of their relationship. He’s teaching the turtles ninjutsu, so you can expect a very physical relationship in the form of training, but there are times when he causes the turtles pain for the sake of pain as punishment (e.g. randori, which we see a few times, or when he goes for their pressure points, or when he trips mikey in the episode “monkey brains”, or when he stabs raph with his cane in the episode “turtle temper”, and these are just the examples i can think of off the top of my head). There has been discourse in the fandom about whether these characters (splinter and raph in particular) are abusive, and i don’t want to get into that. However, i think it’s undeniable that splinter raised his kids with the intent to turn them into child soldiers, and also i fully believe that this (plus his parenting style) is the root of the dysfunction in the hamato family.

[everythingthemoontouches]

💙Hi there! , First of all i want to tell you that i love your blog! And i love how your posts are so accurate!💙 If its okay with you could you please do me a favor by describing how others see me,my appearance or more specifically the vibe I radiate to others! It would mean alot to me if you you do that💙I'm a cancer sun,leo rising,Lilith sextile asc, Pluto trine asc, Uranus opposition asc, Moon opposition asc, mars sextile venus, mars opposition neptune, asteroid lilith conjunct mc and jupiter in the 1st house!💙

Hola!

Thank you that's really kind of you 💛💕

You know that quote that says Cinderella never asked for a prince. All she wanted was a night out and a dress. You kind of exude a similar vibe but with respect to leadership positions. 'I never asked to be Queen/King, but the people have spoken' kind of an energy. You would be equally happy to be by yourself, learning about the subconscious mind, higher realms and other esoteric science.

For more on Jupiter in LEO I'd recommend watching Astrofinesse.

For jupiter in the first there's KRS.

🌻As a Leo rising you come across as someone outgoing, with a playful energy but you're also somehow someone people would expect to see in a position of authority. You're drawn to people who stimulate you intellectually and love to exchange ideas.

😬If you have an Aquarius saturn you could be having some challenges in your relationships since December 2020 as saturn transits your 7th house. I'd suggest practicing discernment in this area as well as signing contracts with people until it passes( early 2023) ..

😇12th house sun could take on other people's energy. I feel like you need some time away, by yourself, preferably at the beach / pool/ shower to declutter, clear your head and replenish your sense of Self. You could be highly intuitive. If this resonates, I'd urge you to look up empath drain and how to protect yourself from energy vampires.

Ruler of the ascendant in the 12th :

spirituality could be a huge part of your life. For some people this could show a father (figure) who was convicted or worked in a prison / asylum. They could also have a really remote job. Since the sun is also your own personal identity, you could profit off these themes. Working in a mental health facility, overseas, in esoteric crafts.

🌛With your moon in the 7th house, you probably attract a lot of older women, (queen of swords) nurturing energies . Your mom could have a major influence on any business partnerships that you enter.

In relationships you could have a here today gone tomorrow kind of a presence. This is because as the moon waxes and wanes so does your attraction / attachment to specific people?

♒Aquarius moon : it could be really hard for you to express your feelings. So Instead of asking for a hug there could be a tendency to say something like ' ew imagine asking for one?' you leave a place better than you found it. If you watch hindi movies, 3 Idiots could be a movie you really resonate with. ( I pretty much spent the day looking up the lead actor, who has major aquarius placements and his films have always been disruptive with a really nice social message that left people talking for years after they were released. I tell you this because he shares 2 of your big 3 - aquarius and cancer.)

Going off on this tangent you could be a well respected teacher / writer / entertainer. Jupiter in LEO could help with this.

I do feel like you need a certain amount of inventiveness in your relationships. The people you're with are people who introduce you to new hobbies / ideas / technologies. You need to feel like you guys learn something new or create something that matters together. This is enhanced by uranus in the 7th house. You could come across really cold because you always give people the naked honest truth when asked. You do this from a place of love. I'm reminded of the Queen of Swords card in the rider Waite tarot. Not everyone has the maturity to take it. Or maybe they've just had a bad day. It is what it is. Perhaps try to not be so incisive if this is something you struggle with.

In the same vein, if I asked you to write down how you were feeling how long would it take for you to identify the right emotion. How honest are you with yourself?

Moon and Uranus being in the same house could show that stagnation could really hurt your mental health / happiness / satisfaction levels.

With a saturn ruled moon I feel like I need to remind you to not be so hard on yourself. Like. The world won't crumble to dust if you allow yourself to take care of you once in a while.there's only so much you can do.

All those coffee mugs will catch up. There's no such thing as extra hours in the day. A lack of sleep manifests as early signs of aging. No hate for the elderly but arthritis is not a fun ailment to have. Do you wanna be 60 with 80 year old nervous system problems? I rest my case.

Uranus and moon aspect your ascendant so you could have a slightly plump look?

Jupiter in the first house people usually have prominent thighs. I had a friend with this placement and when we were growing up she used to complain of chafed thighs a lot?

Mars sextile venus you could be your own type? The way you act and the way you want your future partners to express love could be quite similar which is good for healthy relationships.

There could be a tendency to spend impulsively.

With Mars sextiling venus you could be someone who earns more the more active their lifestyle is? Like, you may need to be an agile learner to keep money flowing in .

Jupiter in LEO in a woman's chart usually shows they'd have a financially well off spouse so money may not be a huge concern. He could be a sailor or earn via exports/ navy. It's hard to say without knowing where your Saturn is.

The image you project to the world could be a lot more outgoing than how you actually feel. You're more private than people think.

With a fire rising, water sun and air moon you could either be a really balanced person or just have a number of clashing ideas on who to be, what to do and achieve.

Descendant : The people that hate on you could attack your need to stand out /try to dim your time in the spotlight. Think aquarius themes of standing out to improve community clashing with Leo's need to stand out solely because it helps their ego. Like your confidence could trigger the part if them that felt judged negatively for expressing their individuality.

Do you feel like you thrive in chaos? I'm guessing you're atleast in your late 20s if not older, so you might have gotten better at dealing with people acting unexpectedly. Your mom could have been unpredictable. Really intelligent, but forgets to eat ..

🥤🦀As a cancer sun, you could be the friend your friends come to for advice. There could be a tendency to be a little too selfless. I think your aqua moon really serves as a shield to those who try to take advantage of your caring nature. Have you considered a career in psychic medium ship? Or any spiritual art/ past life regression / you get the drift..

Is there a family craft or hobby that you could monetize? Jupiter in LEO could signify ancestral gains.

Lilith and Pluto aspects to ascendant can make you come across really sexy / a bit unapproachable because people feel like you have some kind of power that places you above them?

Due to this, people with Pluto / Lilith aspects can feel some kind of hurt around people clearing up the path around them if that makes sense.

Jupiter opposite moon : there could be a clash between you want to do VS what you feel you should be doing.

Jupiter in the first house : you could have been born rich? Or people just perceive you that way. They also see you as someone wordly wise and lucky in general. You could know a lot about a wide variety of things. Specially on topics related to appearance, personal development, image consciousness etc. Since the ruler of the first is in the 12th I feel like some of your wisdom comes from a divine source. Like you're tapping into some kind of a collective reservoir of knowledge. In starseed terminology we would refer to this as downloads.

Jupiter rules the 8th house and 5th house.

So love, romance, games, early education may have been a bit of a breeze for you.

Jupiter is usually a bit of a celibate spiritual person. So, while it may make you really wise with respect to things like the occult / tarot / other 8th house themes, I'm not sure how it would impact your sex life with a spouse. Sex could be either a deeply spiritual experience for you or take on more neptunian traits. Addiction / alcoholism / drug use the works. Jupiter expands the themes of the house it rules so a word of caution there.

Travelling could bring you luck. Or even love.

Did I hear Mars opposite Neptune?

This could be a literal battlefield. You could feel like you need to work for love.if Neptune is unconditional love and Mars is your drive, then you could literally match to get to taht elusive unconditional sense of belonging /love / acceptance. But what are you marching towards really? A mirage? With this aspect I'd really be on the guard against addiction of any kind. Neptune is enticing, alluring, mocking Mars for its need to conquer. It could lend a really nice swagger to your walk. A runway model could benefit from thus placement. At uts best this aspect imbues you with creativity, inspiration, otherworldly imagination and the energy required to turn your abstract ideas of art into something tangible.

Here's a source for more on this placement. Sometimes I find that the comments really help me make sense of my own placements

Toodles

Before I sign off, I just have to say this :please try to restrict asks to 2-3 placements. You can send in multiple asks if you'd like, but answering them all in one ask can get a bit cluttered and I'd hate to miss out on something 😊

Hope this helped 💕as always, I'd really appreciate your feedback on this take on how these placements affect you.

[todourouki]

Good Girls, Bad Guys | Dabi

a one shot

SUMMARY: The one where no one can understand why you’re so interested in Dabi, but you just can’t seem to help yourself. Maybe it was how soft he was when no one else was around, or how gentle his touch was against your skin, or maybe even how clumsy he is on purpose just to see you— whatever it was, you couldn’t get enough of the scarred man.

PAIRING: Villain!Dabi & Sweetheart!Reader

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Explicit Language, Dabi purposely acts careless during missions so u can tend to his wounds because he’s an attention whore, Smut [18+]

Dabi was a complete mess.

He was a mess made of old silver staples, burnt purple skin adorning his lean and tall build, the same routined outfit that never seemed to alternate, unruly raven hair always managing to stay as distressed as the day before, and silky yet lewd words that slipped off his sinning lips as if it were his maiden tongue.

The only difference with his usual mess of an appearance today as he stood with arms crossed against his chest would be the large rip peaking through his black coat. Your eyes widened, rushing him into your living room and shutting the door behind him.

Your apartment was one that Dabi never seemed to get tired of. He had only really been in the living room, yet the cozy space always brought an odd sense of familiarity into his soul he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

He wasn’t sure if it was the plush and soft couches, pillows thrown against each cushion making it look just as soft and comfortable as they really were, or maybe it was the picture frames hanging around every wall with a candle on an invisible shelf not too far from the glass.

Either way, the steps he took in his plain black socks on to the carpet under the couches and coffee table brought him into a weird headspace one could only describe as happiness. It really did scare the shit out of him.

With a simple few set of steps, he swung his body down onto the cushions he always found himself sinking into at weird hours of the night like today. The only difference from the current night to others would be that it was an earlier hour, currently being only two in the morning as soft rain pattered against the windows adorning your cozy living area.

“Dabi..” Your soft words whispered into the silence of the room, hands gently hovering over the large cut in concern as you watched him throw you a rather forced smirk.

“Nothing worse than what I already got. Just patch me up like new, princess.” His words didn’t get the usual blush from your cheeks he always searched for after his usual flirtatious remarks filled the room.

All he was gifted with would be a look of sadness covering your usually content face. Without a word, you stood up and walked away towards what he assumed was your bathroom. All the man could do was furrow his eyebrows, the confused face remaining when you walked back into the couch and knelt down on the floor next to him.

“What’s wrong with you?” He bluntly asked, a once drawn eyebrow raising as you brushed the sleeve of his t-shirt off and eyed the dried up cut.

You continued to remain silent, only sighing as the alcohol pad in your hand made its way over to the open skin. Before the stinging sensation could reach his skin though, the opposing hand gripped onto your wrist and tugged it further away and just enough to make your eyes finally meet his.

The silence surrounded the room, Dabi staring at you in order to get you to speak. You were conflicted, of course you loved patching the man up almost every night and hearing about his wild adventures in words that made your eyes twinkle with excitement. Yet you were becoming exhausted of seeing him with a brand new scar eventually worse from the one than before.

“I just..” Your soft voice began, Dabi’s posture becoming subtly more relaxed the minute his favorite sound filled the room. “I get tired of seeing you get hurt all the time, you know?”

Your words made him smirk, the same infamous one he couldn’t seem to keep off his burnt lips. In one swift movement, he released your arm and pushed it back towards the large gapping wound that made your stomach turn.

“You worrying about me?” He questioned, the hand that once gripped your wrist now resting against your cheek as he stared at you mockingly.

It was hard to not get flustered around Dabi. He had such a way with words and always knew just how to get your ears to turn a hue of red you didn’t even know they were capable of becoming. You felt the heat flush to your cheeks and hoped the flattery you felt wasn’t too visible. Your face turned back to the large cut on his arm, ignoring his remark all together.

The minute the liquid reached his arm, a soft hiss you were used to slipped off his lips. You only weakened the grip on the cut, your bottom lip being tugged between your teeth in concentration.

“I have to get rid of the bacteria before I use my healing quirk— I’m sorry.” Your apology rang on deaf ears, and Dabi chose to ignore it in order to save your heart from thinking you hurt him.

He only nodded and placed his hand away from your cheek to behind his head in order to give his eye level some more precision on your face. You had a concentrated knit between your eyebrows, and he almost got worried you were forgetting to blink. This was an expression he was much too used to, yet every time he saw it gave him the same feelings he could never explain.

The silence in the room pained you both, the level of words usually slipping out of either of your lips being brought to an awkward zero. It was really uncomfortable, and you couldn’t deal with it anymore as you tossed the now bloodied up tissue somewhere on the ground.

Your hands replaced the tissue, a light reflecting across his arm and making a hiss leave his lips once again. You knew that the feeling of your healing quirk made him feel uncomfortable and he never really grew used to it yet. It shocked you though, because you’d think after being in this exact predicament probably over 100 times, he’d grown used to the prickling feeling.

“Where was this one from?” Your voice was still soft, trying to ease his mind off the pain in a way you knew was best for him.

Dabi loved the way you cared for him. The first time he met you was at the League of Villains hideout in a trashy old building he really hated. You walked in through that warp guy’s portal and the minute he saw you was the minute he believed in angels. It was like time stopped, and he really wasn’t a fan of finding people so attractive yet there you were.

You were announced to be the healer for the league. Shigaraki found you abandoned in some building destroyed in a fire you couldn’t remember, and finding refugee in the odd man was your only option to survival at that point. With that, you were granted as the only person with a full-blown apartment in the building in order to be available for their every need, and were granted immunity from being on actual missions.

That was good enough for you, though. You weren’t a violent person, and knowing most of their targets were children didn’t sit right with you. Despise that, you didn’t have the heart to quit and instead decided to spend the remainder of your days with the dysfunctional League. You had never felt genuinely needed the way the League needed you, and in some weird Stockholm syndrome way, you couldn’t shake the comfort you got from knowing they had to have you around to genuinely survive.

“If I tell you, you’d only worry more.” He smiled over at you, a rare sight blessing your wondering eyes and making you blush once more.

Dabi wasn’t a liar— that’s something that was well known amongst everyone in the league and even amongst you. So when he thought about what happened today, why he was sitting on your couch, and how he planned on hiding the truth from you, he had to mentally lecture himself for stretching the truth.

The real reason Dabi was getting patched up underneath your touch was because he chose to be.

He would never tell you, but the large and deathly gash on his arm was at first only a slight cut where a staple had fallen out. He chose to ignore it in the beginning and decided to check in with you about it after the weekend passed. Yet the minute he realized that meant he’d have to go several days without feeling your touch and hearing your voice made him change his mind completely.

With that, a tissue was wrapped into a ball and sitting in his lips and Dabi ended up watching himself remove a few staples from his arm and tug at the skin in a way that made him shiver. I literally tore myself open to see her, who the fuck does that?

Your hand had finished doing its job. Dabi could tell by the way the prickling ended, and he found his body getting pushed upwards and being replaced by the comfort of your chest against his back.

You positioned the both of you to where his body was leaning against your legs and chest in a way to make his arm in perfect reach for you. The stapler in your hand warned Dabi of what was to come, and he simply sat back against the comfort of your body heat with closed eyes.

“People that worry are people that care.” You whispered, the sound of the stapler pressing into his arm being the only other sound. Dabi’s face remained stoic as he drank in your words and let a loopy grin cover his bored expression.

“Are you saying that you care about me?” Dabi continued to tease, bright blue eyes now opening and staring into yours with flames threatening to shoot through his pupils.

You scoffed, finishing the last staple and replacing the metal object down with a bottle he recognized as the ointment you always forced him to wear after using his quirk. The cool of the cream made him sigh in content. The contrast of his burning skin to a cold burn-relieving cream brought pleasure into his body.

“I care about all of you— that’s why I do th-” “No, Y/N.” He interrupted, making you clam your mouth shut and listen to his words nervously. “I asked if you cared about me.”

You finished lathering the ointment on his skin, gently propping his body up against the backrest of the couch. He only slightly grimaced and tossed the bad arm on a side that didn’t interfere with his position. Your legs were now crossed underneath you.

“Of course I care about you, Dabi.” Your voice made a groan threaten to fall off his lips. There was nothing Dabi loved more than your voice, especially when you said his name. Whenever you spoke, he knew every one and everything didn’t matter if it wasn’t you and your vocal cords.

Dabi rolled his head to the side to make you face him. Even with a bad arm, he was able to now pick it up and peel his jacket off his body lazily.

“How much do you care about me?” The smirk playing weakly on his lips made you shiver, and just watching his expression brought butterflies to your stomach.

“A lot, that’s why I’m always ready to patch you up..” You mumbled, nervously looking down at your fingers and playing with the ring on your right index finger.

It wasn’t that you were shy— but the way Dabi’s eyes always followed yours brought a certain attraction you couldn’t stuff away. It was almost scary how much he made you squirm, even under something as simple as a gaze.

Sure, Dabi flirted with everyone. It didn’t take a genius to see that he flirted with you in a different way, though. His eyes always lingered longer on your frame when you entered the room, he spoke more words to you than he’s probably ever said in his life, and he always kept his endearing pet-names for you and only you.

“You wanna know something, doll?” He asked lowly, his face staring into yours intensely as you finally lifted your eyes to meet his and nodded your head.

Regardless of his appearance, regardless of his attitude, and regardless of the fact it’s Dabi, you knew that you were a goner from the start. You had a ridiculously annoying crush on him, and we’re pretty sure he could coerce you into doing just about anything. He probably knew that, too.

“I think I care about you more than anyone else here.” His words stitched onto your skin, the quietness seeming as if he feared anyone else would hear his words.

“You’re too good and innocent for this world.” He continued, a patchy hand stretching its way over towards your face and slowly rubbing at your cheeks.

You stood quiet, fearing that he’d stop his words all together and you wouldn’t be able to here the sincere tone he rarely spoke in. The only sound in the room one was able to hear was the pattering of water running down the window and your lit candles cracking amongst themselves. Your head leaned into his hand and let the warmth of his palm silk you in.

“That’s a problem though, baby.” Baby.. Your eyes widened at the new name, eyebrows furrowing and glancing over at him with a tilted head.

“What problem is there about that, Dabi?”

He chuckled, gliding his hand from your cheek to the back of your head as he grabbed a fistful of hair as soft as possible. He tugged your head closer towards his daringly. You breath began to shallow and you felt it, the excitement that always came with Dabi whenever he was around.

“You might be a bit too good for me.” He spoke as if he was trying not to scare you away. The timidness of words only brought you closer to him, finally feeling your chest collide with his arm as you were pressed against his side with your face dangerously close to his.

His blue eyes refused to leave yours, and the intensity of the situation made you nearly melt inside. It’s been a while since anyone ever said something like that to you, let alone a guy. A feeling jumpstarted your butterflies, and you ran your tongue against your bottom lip to hide the now dry sensation of your lips.

“I’m not too good for you, please don’t say that Dabi.” The way his name rolled off your tongue made him groan and grip your hair a little tighter.

You’d be lying if it didn’t feel good.

Your face was close enough to feel the heat run off his cheeks, and you knew that you wanted nothing more than to just collide your lips with his. The sexual tension he oozed was something you couldn’t handle, no matter how hard you clenched your thighs.

“You sure about that, princess?” You heard the dare in his voice and felt nothing but exhilaration run through your veins as if you were speeding down a highway on the opposite side of the road.

You weren’t sure when his hands reached your shorts-covered bottom, but you soon found yourself mumbling in surprise when your body was tossed (with literally one arm) across his figure in a straddling position. Your chest arched into his by the pressure he had on your ass, and a gulp slipped through your lips in embarrassment.

You refused to back down, though.

“I’m really sure, Dabi.”

You knew the effect you had on him when you mentioned his name, and he knew by the way he smirked up at you. His other arm was still limp on his side, but that didn’t stop his dominant and good arm from groping every inch of your lower half. You were trying your hardest to cover a moan, yet the minute he gripped a piece of your thigh close enough between the other, you couldn’t help but slam your lips against his.

Dabi tasted like what you would expect him to taste like. The saliva that trailed from his throat down yours had the taste of metal and mint chewing gum. The taste became something you grew familiar to within seconds of smacking your lips against his, and by the way his body gripped you closer to his, you could tell he enjoyed your taste just as well.

Dabi’s mind went empty at the way your tongue moved against his. He couldn’t believe that his pretty little girl could kiss him like this, letting out secret moans into his lips in a way that made sinning sound like a good idea. He also couldn’t believe how fast he got hard, the bulge pressing against his jeans in a way he just couldn’t work with.

You felt it, and your body began to nervously rock back and forth in a way to secretly relieve yourself. Before you started to press your body down harder, Dabi’s free hand slipped up to your hair again and pulled your head back with a tinge of softness. He was out of breath and flustered, and you were sure you looked just as distraught as him.

“Listen,” he panted, his hand letting go slightly of the grip and groaning at the way your lips swelled up in a coat of his own saliva, “if you start something, I won’t able to not finish it. I also won’t go slow.”

The words activated a switch in your head, eyes widening as you stood up from his lap. Before he could question your actions or even grow a bit disappointed at the idea of you not wanting to continue, his eyes nearly jolted out of his skull. Before him stood you, clad in a pair of plain white panties and your shorts thrown on the ground from where you had dropped them. If Dabi wasn’t already obsessed before, he knew he was nothing but smitten now.

You stood quiet and he followed suit as you took your place back into his lap. Without glancing at him, you fiddled with his belt and loosened the grip around his hips.

Dabi really wanted to stop you. He really fucking did. Yet watching you focus on nothing but trying to take his clothes off made him unable to move and speak. It was like he was brainwashed, and he nearly died the minute you sat up to push his pants down.

“I-I-Y/—” “Shh.”

Your fingers covered his mouth as you continued to stare down at his pants in focus. You knew he was trying to stop you, but you wanted to continue. You knew you wanted him to know that you were just as fond of him as he made it seem he was for you.

After struggling to shimmy his pants off his lanky legs with one arm since you were still trying to shut up him, you watched his body lie limp across your couch in nothing but a shirt and black briefs.

It was like heaven in front of your eyes.

You licked your lips, shyly taking a seat on top of him and removing your hand. Your fingers made their way over to his chest. You wanted to take his shirt off and feel the skin to skin contact, but you knew how Dabi was about that stuff. He’d never say it, but you knew he was insecure of the uneven portions of skin there.

He tilted your head up with a finger and brought your wide eyes to his. “What do you want to do, doll? It’s whatever you want.”

The words brought goosebumps up your spine. The way he said it just made you weak, each word slipping off his lips like the air you needed to breathe and you soon found yourself whimpering at the sentence you knew he set up for this exact reaction. You could tell by how smugly he watched you writhe under his words.

You thought about your next sentence carefully. His arm was injured, and you weren’t sure if he was as into this as you were. Sure, making out and dry-humping was cool for a while— but would he be okay with jumping straight into sex? Sure, most people go through an extensive amount of foreplay in order to get the mood going, but you didn’t really want to. His arm was hurt, and all you wanted to do was watch him squirm under you as you made him feel good.

“I want to ride you.” The sudden confidence of your voice made him stammer, eyes watching you as they twitched in excitement. He had never realized how much he’d wanted those words to slip off your pretty lips but he was beyond estatic to hear them he meant for him and only him.

He didn’t respond, only pressing you into his lips with the hand gripping your hair and taking your mouth by surprise. Your tongues moved in sync, and you could feel yourself only growing wetter and wetter from just the way he pounded his lips into yours.

Before you could stop yourself, you moved your fingers to the waistband of his briefs and pushed them back just enough to hear something heavy smack against his stomach. Yes, something heavy.

He gripped your hair again and this time with much more intensity, broke your lips apart and pushed your head away from his. From the quick glance you gave him, you could see his nearly throbbing dick rest against his lean stomach in a way that nearly teased you. His lips were wet and his eyes were clouded with desire.

“I want to watch your face when you sit down on my dick, Y/N.”

The assertiveness made you nod your head obediently. Instantly following his commands, you rested your body onto your knees and pushed your panties to the side. A soft hand gripped his dick, and the way he sucked his breath in at the contact made you smile smugly.

He didn’t realize though, since his eyes were now trained on your dripping heat inch closer towards his dick. He counted in his head, preparing himself to sink into the place he wanted to get into the most.

5. Your hands slowly swirled up and down his dick, pumping gently enough to prepare his body to take you up yet to also evoke a moan from his lips. And Dabi doesn’t moan.

4. Your eyes never left his the minute you had a good enough grip on him, and just that alone made some precum slip through his tip.

3. He thought you looked so pretty getting ready to sit down on his cock. ‘Imagine when she’s actually riding me, fuck.’

2. To prep yourself up a bit more, you lathered you’re wetness with a swipe of your thumb against his tip, the sensation making him suck in an incoherent curse.

1. This was your moment. Usually Dabi wanted to take control, and usually in his fantasies about you, it was you getting drilled into your own bed in a way that had you forgetting how to scream. This was different though. Dabi wanted to see what you were going to do.

Before he could even continue his thoughts, the feeling of a soft, extremely wet, and tight hole covered his penis agonizingly slow. With squinted eyes in pleasure, he watched as your face moved from that smug smile to a look of focus and surprise. Within just the first few inches, you already felt as if your insides were more full than possible.

Growing impatient yourself was something you knew would be a bad idea, but you couldn’t help it. So with that, you let go of all strain in your knees and in your hands and let your body drop fully into his embrace. Just like that, you imagined he was probably in your damn gut at this point.

“You’re so big.” You gasped, the vulgar words coming out of your lips making Dabi groan even more than he already was at the sudden contact.

You took a few more minutes to take him in as your vagina just refused to take all of him in. For a skinny guy like him, the weight he carried down there definitely made up for it and you weren’t complaining.

Before you knew it, you felt the need to continue. With that, you dragged your hands up to Dabi’s face and gripped the sides in yours. His lips met your lips, and you began to grind your body against his in order to control your pace for the time being.

You had to rip your lips off his as your slowly found yourself bouncing against him. The movements were so sudden, Dabi didn’t expect it and found his eyes slamming shut in pleasure as his free-hand gripped your ass cheek roughly.

“Fuck Y/N.” He moaned, making you feel only more determined than before.

His praises (which really only consisted of moans, groans, and the word fuck) egged you on, and before you knew it, you were bouncing your body up and down with such speed and intensity, Dabi couldn’t even say a word.

You were fucking him so good, he couldn’t even speak.

Dabi wasn’t sure if it was the way you slipped your body all the way up to his tip only to slam back down, or if it was the quick and loud moans that left your lips so richly, or if it was the trail of wetness coming down from your lower heaven pooling into his light pubic hairs. Whatever it was though, was causing him to see stars.

As thunder cracked in the background, all you could focus on was the sounds of your thighs and body slapping into Dabi’s in a perfect motion.

“D-Dabi—” you moaned loudly, the words falling off your lips quicker than you could handle, “I-You-You feel so— so fucking good.”

The word good dragged out longer than you liked, your screams being reduced to whimpers due to not wanting anyone else to hear you. Dabi watched you, groans coming out of his lips matching yours in a way that made you grow in intensity.

Your hips moved harder and faster, finally finding your own G-Spot and beginning to see stars in your trail of sight.

“You look- look so fucking pretty— taking my cock like this— baby.” The name only made you yelp, whimpering as your eyebrows furrowed and began to thrash your ass tight vagina in a quick notion of in, out, grind, out, grind, in, and over and over again.

There were many things you did to impress Dabi. Honestly, the way you breathe was something Dabi wanted to praise you with in itself. This, however, was beyond him.

Watching you throw yourself against his dick, eyes crossing and drool slipping across your still swollen lips, ass that he was gripping onto as if it would leave forever clapping against his skin, whimpers and cries coming out of your throat was something that Dabi now believed he wanted to be the only thing he ever saw again.

“Just like that doll, I want to see you cum-see you cum all over me.” He managed to get out, face scrunching as he felt his tip slam into a certain part of your pussy that damn near sent vibrations down his long length. He had never felt pussy this good before, and maybe it was just because he was attracted to you, but whatever it was— was driving him absolutely insane.

You felt your stomach tighten, a trail of curses coming out of both you and Dabi’s mouths in synch. You continued to bounce against him. Somehow, the position you were in where you were now on your feet only allowed you to ride him harder and faster than before. Dabi nearly passed the fuck out.

You, on the other hand, were definitely already gone. Watching his face scrunch up, staples clattering as his hair began to stick to his forehead and his lips rip your name and curses like they were the only words he knew— you couldn’t handle it. With that, the pressure in your stomach grew.

“Do-don’t worry about me baby—” he could feel your hole beginning to tighten up more and more, the sensation feeling as if you were milking his cock from the inside and dragging his cum up involuntarily.

“B-but I wanna cum with you.” You whined out, head thrown back in nothing but pure ecstasy.

He could see your tits bounce harshly against your shirt, yet for some reason, he couldn’t bring it upon himself to burn the stupid material off. For a flashing moment in time, he thought about how your eyes trailed against his covered chest.

“I know b-baby.” You said, snapping him from his stare at your chest and up to your now clearly red face. “I-I ke-kept it on so that we-we both have our shirts on.”

That itself, nearly brought Dabi over the fucking edge. The simple fact that you were so fucking considerate, enough to do some little shit like that drove him insane.

Without blinking, the limp hand once thrown on the couch was now gripping onto your body. You couldn’t say anything though, because his other hand gripped the couch and brought him to an angle to where he began to obliterate you.

With nothing but a gasp being able to come out of your locked jaw, your eyes rolled back at the way his drilled in and out of you in a nearly barbaric manner. His arm gripped around your waist in order to bring himself to more pleasure, and you found yourself bouncing up and down in order to counter him and bring more force into the slams.

“Holy fucking shit.” He yelled, his jaw tightening as he began to whimper.

You were fucking him back, your hands tugging at his raven hair roughly and your lips drooling at the sensation in a way that made you seem to be out of your headspace. Just like that, your stomach tightened up and warned you that you had about a second to let him know you were going to literally cream yourself.

You heard his staples more than usual, yet ignored the small noises in order to focus on the grip pressed against your body.

“Dabi I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.” You repeated, your voice hoarse and whined out from the way he fucked your brain into overdrive.

All that could be heard were your pleas of pleasure, Dabi’s hips slamming into your hips that slammed into his, the wet sounds of your pussy continuously being filled up to the brim by Dabi, and the couch beginning to squeak at the roughness.

Without catching a breath, Dabi’s hand roughly scratched its way up to your hair and tugged you to face him.

“Cum now.”

The order made your eyes roll back. You weren’t sure just how close you were, but just him commanding you to do it made you finally fall over the edge. The feeling of his dick shooting into you made you topple over onto his chest, cries leaving your lips as you orgasmed harder than you probably ever have before.

The sight you once had disappeared as you saw nothing but stars and darkness. The air once resting in your lungs cleared out, and nothing was able to leave your throat other than Dabi’s name over and over again as if it were your religion.

Dabi followed suit, finally resting underneath you and gasping for air from the orgasm he just came down from. His cock stood in you, still warm and twitching from the stimulation still being given from your tightness.

Nobody said anything, voices too tired, bodies too sticky and stuck together, and minds too empty to even be able to form a sentence. Your legs had given up on you, finally wrapped behind Dabi’s back as you clung onto him for your dear life.

“Baby.” Dabi called out softly, his raspy voice making you snap out of your fucked out trance. You looked at him, eyes barely being able to hold themselves open as your body wobbled against his.

“Let me clean you up, okay?” He softly asked, his hand gently pushing some hair still stuck to your cheeks behind your ears. You bit your lip and defiantly shook your head.

“Can we clean up tomorrow?” You asked shyly, hands rubbing up and down his chest as your voice pleaded for him to listen. “I just want to sleep with you for the rest of the night.”

The minute you looked at him with those wishful eyes and small pout, he found it really fucking hard to say no. He wasn’t really planning on staying, but now he wasn’t sure if he was ready to even think about leaving.

Agreeing with your plea to stay, he twisted his body enough to where he was finally lying down on the couch from one end to the other. He dragged your body with him, adjusting you to where your legs were tangled up and your head taking comfort on his shirt-clad chest.

With the way he just fucked your lights out, and the way he softly spoke to you and rubbed your back, you found it even harder to keep your eyes open. It was no surprise when Dabi somehow managed to turn the singular lamp on that was on the table next to him off only to find you slightly snoring on his chest.

So many times, he warned himself that when the day he got to go inside of your wet, sweet heaven came, he’d stay up and take advantage of being able to look at your fucked out expression some more.

But due to how good you rode his dick, how good you kissed him, and how good you felt weaves into his body, he couldn’t help but close his eyes and fall into the same slumber as you with his hands tightly wrapped around your frame and a small smile playing at his lips.

—

cue the song overdue by travis scott because this took me like a week to write for some reason 🥴 writers block aint no mf JOKE! Anyways, i hope you guys enjoyed! I did get an anon ask somewhat similar to it though so that kinda got me to finish. So anon, whoever you were that sent that one Dabi anon in about reader being a healer and such, thanks for saving the day 😔👍🏾 anyways YEA please don’t let this flop idk why y’all don’t like Dabi </3 smh no substance! Also this is hella unedited and guess what? Idc. If you see a typo though, please lmk.

don’t forget to like, reblog, comment, and follow me if u a real one

[morefandomscenarios]

Lost

Zoro does not get lost.

He doesn't understand why people keep telling him that he has no sense of direction. North, South, East, West. Up, down, right, left. Four directions to choose from. Eight if you're being obstinately picky. But still - it's so simple. Just pick a direction and go with your gut.

So no, he's not bad with directions. He doesn't get lost in places - he's not a kid. More often than not, if he looks lost, he's just... scoping for directions. That's right. As long as he reaches the right destination in the end, who cares how many detours he takes?

"Well, not if you were supposed to reach there at a certain time."

Zoro stops in the middle of his rant, a bashful look washing over his annoyed scowl.

"..... That was....... My bad...."

The previously skeptical look in your eyes morph into amusement.

"I was just teasing you!" You laughed for good measure and added lightheartedly, "It's fine, Zoro. I shouldn't have suggested we meet up at the town... We could've just started the date at the ship instead of the restaurant. Besides, that was a few days ago!"

The green haired swordsman scratches his cheek and leans back against the ship's railings.

"Anyway, yeah, I get what you're saying. I suppose since you completed your errand and returned to the ship before we actually departed, Nami didn't have to charge you extra... But you know how she is."

He sighs, "My tab keeps getting bigger."

You giggle, "You and me both."

Zoro isn't really mad at the navigator. You know that. He knows that. Both of you fully understand that even though Nami will sometimes threaten you with your ever-growing, kind-of-forced loans, she wouldn't actually extort you. Yes, she can get a little... obsessed, when it comes to money, but she treasures everyone in the crew just as much.

Truthfully, your boyfriend just wants to see you make those adorable expressions, and he doesn't have other topics of conversation to think of at the moment.

"Oh, that's right!" With a sparkle in your eyes and a fluid motion, you heave yourself up to the railing to sit upon it, your back facing the sea, as you prepare to animatedly describe the events that happened while he was out doing errands.

Zoro shifts the very second you change positions. He moves in front of you, one of his arms placing itself against the railing right beside your hip and the other circling behind you to plant onto your back firmly; a silent gesture of protectiveness that you've gotten used to by now.

He's silent as you ramble off about your day, the only inclinations that he's actually listening being the soft grunts or soft chuckles reserved for your ears only. You don't know it, but between your string of words, he's also exploring your eyes, watching the slight changes and the way they sparkle under the starry sky.

Times like these make him regret not having two functional eyes. He wonders if he would be able to see your eyes even clearer then; perhaps finding the hidden ways they change according to your emotions.

The way your eyes light up as you gush about your dreams and the things you care about. The tranquility in them as you hum while doing an activity you adore, as you sink into an invisible bubble where not even him can reach you, completely lost in your own little world. The fondness he sees in your eyes when you watch over the crew members doing their own thing across Sunny's deck, the ends of your lips tugging upwards when the more rambunctious bunch did something stupid again.

They're so expressive, so vivid and yet so complicated. Even if he has a detailed map drawn by the most skilled navigator to ever sail the Grand Line, he didn't think he would be able to traverse its maze.

But maybe he doesn't want to - maybe he secretly wants to explore it forever, without actually finding the way out.

Zoro does not get lost.

But maybe, just maybe, even though he'll never admit it outloud...

Maybe he wouldn't mind getting lost in your eyes.

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Ch. 124

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Novel Updates

Chapter 124: Long Sword

Once the insect swarm dispersed, Lin Qiushi's group left the dining room. The moment they stepped outside, however, they found that the flying insects had appeared in the hallway, batting their wings to form a faint black line in midair that led off to some unknown room.

This was likely what the string signified. Lin Qiushi had thought it would be more complicated than this, but somehow, Ruan Nanzhu's messing around had yielded them the correct answer. He glanced at Ruan Nanzhu and asked, "do we follow and see where it goes?"

"Sure." Ruan Nanzhu looked at the time and confirmed it was still early. "Let's go."

Then they headed off in the direction the insects were guiding them in, toward where all the rooms were.

Every five minutes, the positions of the rooms changed, and when that happened, the direction the insects pointed to also changed. Hovering in mid-air, they were all connected together in a single-file line. The three of them kept following the path of insects, but very quickly, they discovered something off—at one point, the insects broke off into two swarms. One pointed left, and one pointed right, in different directions.

"Why's this happening?" Gu Longming was utterly confounded when he saw the split insects. He grabbed a bug off-hand and trapped it in his palm. When he released it, it swiftly returned to its original position. "Why have these mosquitoes split up? Unless…"

He understood something. With a pained expression he peered at Lin Qiushi.

"Unless there are two monsters?"

That seemed to be the only answer, but Lin Qiushi didn't think the matter would be so simple. He asked, "we'll split up and see?"

Ruan Nanzhu thought for a bit.

"Okay, Gu Longming goes left with you, and I go right."

Lin Qiushi nodded, not arguing. He only reminded Ruan Nanzhu that if Ruan Nanzhu did find something strange, he shouldn't force anything; the objective this time was to gather information.

Hearing Lin Qiushi's earnest suggestion, Ruan Nanzhu couldn't help but smile.

"I knew it, our Linlin's all grown up. He worries about me now, how heartwarming."

Lin Qiushi: "…I'm very serious."

"Yes, I know you're serious." He came over and gave the corner of Lin Qiushi's mouth a casual peck. "I'll be careful. See you later."

Lin Qiushi waved a hand at him.

"See you later."

As they were conversing, the space around them changed again, and the directions they were heading altered once more. This time, the insects seemed to be guiding them toward the lowest-level deck.

Lin Qiushi and Gu Longming wasted no more time, jogging the rest of the way ahead, hoping to find the room the insects were guiding them to before everything changed again.

The two were quick, finding the room indicated by the insects in half the time. At this room, those bugs flew through the air and attached themselves in a dense layer all over the door. As soon as he was near, Lin Qiushi got a whiff of a strong, rotted fish stench.

It was truly too pungent—about as bad as how the room from last time smelled. It was too easy to anticipate that inside this room, they would find that giant fishman monster shut away.

At the room, Lin Qiushi didn't rush and try to enter. Instead he put his ear to the door and listened for any sounds inside. The room was quiet enough to seem like it held nothing alive, but Lin Qiushi still heard something odd: a faint breathing sound coming from the door…The breaths came from somewhere close to him, as if there was only the single door between him and whatever was inside.

Gu Longming, on the other hand, was looking through the window. He seemed to have spotted something in the inky black, face going slightly pale as he took a couple of steps back. He gestured toward the inside of the room at Lin Qiushi, nodding emphatically to say that there was something inside.

So Lin Qiushi got up and looked through the window too.

Through a crack in the curtains, he saw a pair of yellow eyes hidden in the dark. They were fish eyes, with perfectly circular pupils and the whites of the eyes giving off a bright golden glow. They were currently staring out the door with a none-too-friendly expression.

Those eyes slowly moved, like the thing had sensed there were people standing outside. Lin Qiushi saw it slowly open its mouth, filled densely with white teeth and a tongue softly glowing blue.

Hang on…yellow eyes? Lin Qiushi’s breathing froze. He felt that he'd caught onto something, swiftly pulling out his cell phone, turning on the flashlight, and tossing the beam of light in through the curtains.

As the light entered the room, Lin Qiushi could finally see the thing clearly. It was a creature difficult to describe—at least, Lin Qiushi had never seen its like.

It had a gigantic head of a fish and a fragile human body. Because the head was so big and heavy, the creature couldn't even stand straight; both the head and the thin, mismatched body could only sprawl on the floor. Most eye-catching was the long, sharp horn at the top of its head—it looked both piercing and deadly…and the first thing Lin Qiushi thought of was the long sword that killed the Minotaur from the myth.

The fishman's attention was caught by the light Lin Qiushi brought and a strange roar came out of its mouth. Gu Longming saw its strange appearance and couldn't help but rub at his arms, forcing a grin.

"The heck is that thing?"

"What we saw in the first room seems to be this fish-person," Lin Qiushi said. "Remember the yellow eyes from that room?"

Gu Longming nodded that he remembered.

At the mention of the yellow eyes, he finally realized. The eyes of the human-eating fish-monster were not yellow, but a discomforting shock of white. This kind of detail, however, easily blurred in shocking situations, and it was only due to Lin Qiushi's reminder that he could now faintly remember.

"So there are two monsters?" Gu Longming swallowed. "And so the purpose of this monster, could it be…"

His gaze fell on the needle-sharp horn at the top of that monster's head, and said the words Lin Qiushi was thinking.

"The long sword?"

Lin Qiushi: "We can suppose so."

At least so far, they had yet to find another appropriate, weapon-like item on the ship. The truth was, the moment he'd gotten a clear look at this fishman's apperance, Lin Qiushi had had the similar thought. Gu Longming had clearly drawn the same conclusions that he did.

The sound of the two talking seemed to have stimulated the monster inside. It began to crawl about a little violently, twisting about in a grotesque and scary manner.

Seeing its agitation, Lin Qiushi got a bad feeling. So he grabbed Gu Longming and backed up a few steps.

The moment they backed up, a long sharp spike appeared through the solid wood wall in front of them. The thing in the room had used the horn on its head to stab straight through the wall—two, three times, leaving a number of holes behind. Had they not backed away just now—and had gotten unfortunately stabbed—it was easy to see how painful it would've been.

But after Lin Qiushi confirmed the identity of the thing inside the room, time was up for another switch. The room before them disappeared, replaced with just another normal bedroom. The path of the insects changed as well, and the location of that fish swapped to the upper deck.

Gu Longming was disgusted by even the thought of this fish. He'd actually enjoyed eating fish before this door, but after marinading in fish stench for the past few days, he’d become reflexively nauseated at the thought of that taste. The unfortunate likelihood was that even after leaving this door, it would be a while still before he stopped being grossed out by fish.

Lin Qiushi: "Come on, let's go see where Zhu Meng is."

Gu Longming nodded.

The two left the bottom-level deck and headed up. They found Ruan Nanzhu standing on the top deck with his head poked out over the black seawater.

He turned around at the sound of their foot steps.

"What did you find?"

Lin Qiushi said, "I think we found the long sword."

Ruan Nanzhu's eyes gleamed: "You found it?"

Lin Qiushi nodded and gave him a quick rundown of the thing the saw. He emphasized the long horn they'd seen on that fishman monster's head and how it’d looked both sturdy and sharp, like it would make for a great offensive weapon.

As for Ruan Nanzhu, he said that in the room he found, he saw the giant fishman who'd eaten a person the night before.

"But how are we supposed to kill that fishman?" Gu Longming asked, squatting on the planks and dejectedly eating the candy that Lin Qiushi gave him. "I don't think that thing's any easier to deal with than the fish monster we saw before."

What they were most concerned about was not the width, but the depth of the wounding; once a wound got deep, it had a hard time healing, particularly on a ship that lacked medical supplies like this. It was obvious that once stabbed by that horn, even if you didn't die the day of, complications like tetanus, etc.  would kill you in the next few days.

Ruan Nanzhu listened to Gu Longming's worries and comforted him—by saying don't worry, if it really does come to that, we'll finish you off nice and clean.

Gu Longming: "…how about no. Thank you."

Lin Qiushi thought this was something of a paradox. They had to first kill the yellow-eyed fishman before they could kill the monster symbolized by the Minotaur, but that was where the problem lied—how were they supposed to kill the yellow-eyed fishman? Did they really have to just take their dinner knives and go head-to-head with that thing?

As the three were discussing what to do, they heard a sudden ruckus from the dining room, interspersed with shocked shouts and agonized screaming.

At this sound they knew instantly that something else had happened. Lin Qiushi traded a glance with Ruan Nanzhu and turned for the dining room. Before he even went inside, he could smell the thick scent of blood—Lin Qiushi looked down and found a pool of it on the floor planks. A wounded man was lying on the ground inside, covering a wound in his abdomen with his hands. The wound seemed very deep, lumping up and spilling forth bright red blood.

Gu Longming took a few steps forward.

"What happened? How did he get hurt?" He took off his jacket and, using it as bandaging, began treating the victim's wounds in well-trained motions. He was trying to stop the man's bleeding.

Seeing his actions however, Lin Qiushi formulated a guess about Gu Longming's job outside the doors.

"He discovered outside that the insects seemed to be leading in a certain direction, so we followed it." The person speaking was the man's companion—he'd been a bystander and witness to the entire process of how his friend got hurt. He continued shakily: "But when we got there, this long spike came out of the room and stabbed him right in the body."

Gu Longming frowned.

"It doesn't look good, the kidney looks like it's been perforated." There weren't any useful medical supplies at hand either, and considering the blood flow, this person was likely…

A girl nearby said: "I brought a hemostatic spray, can you use that?"

"Give it here," Gu Longming said. "I can only try—treat a dead horse like a live one, right?"[1]

He did his best to tourniquet the person's body to reduce the output of blood. Then, after using up a good half of the hemostatic spray, he managed to stop the ever-flowing bleeding.

"What was the thing that stabbed your friend?" Seeing the person stabilize, someone turned their attention onto the person who was still alive.

"It looked like a fish," the survivor answered. "I'm not sure…I only caught a glimpse before this happened."

"We'll go have a look too." The crowd was clearly interested in this fish, and so dispersed from the dining room.

Moments later, there were only a handful of people left inside.

"How does it look? Will my friend survive?" that person asked Gu Longming plaintively.

Gu Longming sighed, saying, "if he gets out early he might be saved, but…" This wasn't a place they could come to and go from at will.

So everybody quieted down. Gu Longming looked at the blood on his hands and said, "I'm gonna go wash my hands real quick." He got up and went to the bathroom.

The victim's breathing grew weaker and weaker, and even though Gu Longming did all he could, a few hours later, the man still died.

The entire dining room was filled with the thick stench of blood. It was also, coincidentally, time for supper; the Dead Fish Dinner Sets just happened to be placed on the tables, and the stench of the fish plus the smell of blood meant everyone had even less appetite. Nobody even wanted to go through the motions before taking off from the dining room.

Ruan Nanzhu, however, stayed where he was. Lin Qiushi didn't rush him either, because he knew that if Ruan Nanzhu was staying, then Ruan Nanzhu must have his reasons.

Due to the death of the person that afternoon, Gu Longming was a bit down. He poked at the noodles on the plate in front of him without much energy or appetite.

After most people left the dining room, Ruan Nanzhu pulled a few plastic bags out of his clothes.

"What are you planning to do?" Lin Qiushi startled.

Ruan Nanzhu: "I don't think the door would have us go head-to-head with that thing. There's too much of a difference in power."

Lin Qiushi: "So you want…" He watched as Ruan Nanzhu took all the dead fish from the dining table and stuffed his own pockets until they were bulging. "You want to feed the fish to that thing?"

"It was the aperitif that got the Minotaur drunk in the myth," Ruan Nanzhu said. "We pretty much know what the aperitif refers to now."

The eaten fish was fermented inside the belly, to be tasted once the stomach was split open; it was truly a kind of appetizer liquor.

So Ruan Nanzhu wanted to use the dead fish to lure the Minotaur to the yellow-eyed fish monster. They didn't know if it would work, but they had to give it a try.

This method, after all, was a lot more reliable than bringing a dining knife to a fish fight.

Ruan Nanzhu packed up all the dead fish and took them to go, following the path of the insects to once again find the room where the yellow-eyed fish monster resided.

There were already many more holes in the room; it had clearly used the sharp weapon on its head to make them.

Ruan Nanzhu gestured for Lin Qiushi and Gu Longming to stand further away as he tossed, with a single throw, the fish in his hand through a gap in the window.

The dead fish splattered all over the ground. That yellow-eyed fish monster pounced on them in excitement. It picked them up with its hands and began an aggressive gnawing; it ate quickly, and finished in short time the entire bag of fish that Ruan Nanzhu tossed in. It was a good thing they were prepared, quickly throwing in the other few bags of fish as well.

As it ate, Ruan Nanzhu stood watching from the side. Lin Qiushi was a big worried about him getting hurt though, since the blood from the last victim was still dripping in display on the window.

The yellow-eyed fishman finished all the fish, not leaving behind any heads, even. When it was full, it looked on, contented, before going to sleep on the ground just like that.

"Let's go," Ruan Nanzhu said to Lin Qiushi.

It was already a bit dark outside, and even though he really wanted to see what would happen here tonight, staying out was not a smart move.

So the three went and found another room they could rest in, and got in bed waiting for evening to arrive.

The last beam of light disappeared with the sun descending beneath the horizon. It was a moonless evening, with only the howling sea winds and the storm clouds like a piece of fabric hung up in the sky.

Lin Qiushi couldn't really sleep, staring idly out the window.

Ruan Nanzhu had first been in a different bed, but mid-sleep he'd somehow scooted over beside Lin Qiushi. So the two were now squeezed together.

They didn't speak, nor did they even look at each other. The way they simply knew each other was as if they'd already experienced hundreds and thousands of the exact scenario before them now.

They were both waiting—waiting on the answer to their experiment.

Around three in the morning, their waiting finally yielded results.

Lin Qiushi's ears caught something like the roar of a wild beast—and then the sounds of a violent battle. They were quite far from those sounds, and couldn't really make out what was happening, but the battle lasted for a very long time. It wasn't until the sun was almost up again that it gradually faded away.

"Who do you think won?" Ruan Nanzhu asked quietly.

"I don't know," Lin Qiushi said. "There's no difference either way."

Though things were mostly going as planned, something still happened that exceeded their expectations—not long after the sound of fighting stopped, there came the sound of human crying and screaming on the ship. When he heard this, Lin Qiushi jumped, crawling out of bed and going to the window. He wanted to see exactly what was happening outside, but the evening was too dark and he couldn't make out anything at all.

Luckily, Ruan Nanzhu's vision came into use at a key moment. He saw the fishman drag a struggling human onto the upper deck.

"How could this be?!" When Lin Qiushi heard Ruan Nanzhu's description, he couldn't believe it. "Nobody ate any fish inside the dining room today—"

Ruan Nanzhu's brow puckered. "You…remember the guy that Jian Qianyuan injured yesterday?"

Lin Qiushi: "…" He nodded.

Ruan Nanzhu: "I don't think he came to the dining room at all today."

Lin Qiushi's attention had been on the two monsters all day, and he hadn't noticed: "But isn't it a good thing that he didn't come to the dining room?"

Not coming to the dining room meant that he didn't eat the fish, so why would the monster target him?

Ruan Nanzhu only grimaced.

"It's not only the dining room that has fish."

Lin Qiushi: "…" He immediately remembered that filthy kitchen.

"There's plenty of fish to be had in the kitchen," Ruan Nanzhu said. "There's got to be a sacrifice."

Lin Qiushi sighed. He'd thought that there wouldn't need to be a sacrifice tonight, but now that he thought about it, he’d been naive. It wasn't kind inside the doors at all. The longer they stayed here, the worse the casualties would be.

That person's screams gradually faded, leaving behind only the silence of a long evening.

Before morning came, Lin Qiushi managed to get some sleep. But he didn't know whether it was due to a nightmare or if he didn't actually manage to sleep—he kept feeling that for the rest of the evening, that thing had kept circling the room they were in. He'd even smelled that nauseating stench of fish.

On day three, none of the three were in good spirits. They hadn't slept well for the past few nights, disturbed as they'd been with a number of things.

Conducting several days of christening meant the group was already numb to another body appearing on deck. They got rid of the body in well-trained motions and scrubbed the deck clean, returning to the day like nothing had happened at all.

Lin Qiushi's attention was not on the deck. He went off to the dining room early, hoping to find trace of the bugs. But disappointingly, the insects that had formed the string yesterday had disappeared.

"There's no rush." Ruan Nanzhu glanced at his watch. "It's still early."

"Mh," Lin Qiushi said in understanding.

Without the string, they couldn't find the two monsters, so they could only keep waiting.

At around eleven or so, the scenario that Lin Qiushi had been waiting on finally appeared—the NPC that became the insects yesterday showed up once more in the dining room. He wore the same clothes, had the same expression, and looked just like an NPC who kept resetting in a game.

They didn't need Ruan Nanzhu this time for someone to approach this NPC and pat him hard on the shoulder.

So the same thing that happened yesterday happened again. The insects swarmed then dispersed, disappearing from inside the dining room, and at the same time, two lines of insects formed outside, leading off in unknown directions.

Lin Qiushi, Ruan Nanzhu, and Gu Longming began following a string to find the place they were looking for. A few minutes later, they came upon the exterior of a room. Compared to yesterday, it looked very different, because it was readily apparent from the outside that last night, this room had been the site of a vicious battle. The wooden window slats were completely crushed, and the lock that hung on the door had also been torn violently off.

It seemed like the two monsters did have a fierce battle between them. Judging by the final incident from the night before, however, it seemed that the giant fishman had gotten the advantage.

[Ch. 123] | [Ch. 125]

[ephemerlskies]

of honey and cinnamon | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: fluff, one shot, slice of life au, enemies to lovers, musician!jungkook

⇢ word count: 14k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, mentions of terminal illness, mentions of death, themes of grief, slight plot twist, a surprising consumption of sugar, enough cheesiness to last you a lifetime

⇢ summary: what makes a three-day train ride back to your hometown anything but dull and dreadfully long? the answer, and your salvation from a boring trip home, was being stuck in the same cart as jeon jungkook for the entire ride there. unknown to you, he would turn this mundane trip into an unexpected adventure.

♪ playlist: dream a little dream of me - ella fitzgerald, departure - joe hisaishi, a journey (a dream of flight) - joe hisaishi, longing for mother's return - satoshi takebe, the sixth station - joe hisaishi, a town with an ocean view - joe hisaishi, you're in love - joe hisaishi, one summer's day - joe hisaishi ♪

a/n: this was honestly one of my favorite fics to write! ever! it was heavily inspired by studio ghibli movies hence the playlist because i recently binged a bunch of ghibli films (and i do not regret it) so, i tried to replicate the vibes from the movies i watched as best as i could!! :)) i hope you lovely readers enjoy!

They tell you love takes time. If you are patient and attentive enough, it courses through your body easier than your own blood and sinks itself in each vessel and bone and cell. Love will melt into your heart until that is all it knows. And in tales where lovers make grand gestures, like slaying the dragon and giving the moon and the stars and the sky along with the world underneath it and bestowing true love's kiss, it takes an entire story to get to the part where they are in love.

Love takes time, and in that time, there is a series of sometimes likely, and sometimes unlikely, events woven delicately within each minute that leads to the moment you know, you are in love. Traditionally, love makes itself known. It is loud and beautiful and anything but hidden within the ordinary moments used to fill in the gaps between the bigger moments. 

This story, your story, existed during the moments in between.

This train station had always emulated such an archaic ambiance. So much so that you believed you'd traveled back in time to when it was first built. Everything felt surreal, when you stepped on the train making a beeline to Cart 102, the floors felt like water; the surface tension clinging just strong enough to keep you afloat not without the occasional toss and turn. You swore it was just the rusted tracks that jostled you, but a part of you knew it was the water.

"Single rider?" The attendant stood at your cart's checkpoint, hand extended and waiting for your ticket.

"Yes, here." You handed him the paper, along with your baggage but kept the book for future entertainment and the pillow because you could tell the seats were no softer than wood.

"The train is fully occupied, so someone will be sharing your cart."

Perfect. If the world wants to do you a favor, just this once, then you hope that it sends you a quiet passenger. One that exchanges the customary 'hello' and 'goodbye' which is the extent of your interaction with them because you were tired in a way that sunk you into your zone of unsociability and on your way back home for the worst possible reason.

And the world did, in fact, do you a favor. It delivered Jungkook to Cart 102. But it just was not the favor you expected.

At first, you believed him to tick all your requirements for the ideal travel companion. Perfectly manicured company with a clear sense of boundaries. For one, he entered with a wall of silence that not only kept a greeting gated in but even the slightest acknowledgment that you were seated right across from him. It was so natural for him to ignore you that you had to glance down at your hand to check if you really were invisible.

He took his seat, stared out of the frost dusted window that reflected the sliding door that separated you and this man from the rest of the train and the world, and sighed. For a moment, he just stared and you thought it would get easier from here. But then he turned to you, and smiled.

"Hi, I'm Jungkook." It was a full smile, one that showed nearly every tooth, which reminded you of a rabbit. That paid enough respect for the previous shouldered entrance, and at first it was cute. Then, it made you feel guilty.

It was a smile you couldn't afford to return at the moment, so instead, you offered back a slightly upturned lip and a cordial nod.

"___." His hands looked strong like they had handled an array of heavy things and had the calluses to prove it. The way he sat made you feel a spark of something.

It was only a few seconds later when you realized that something was an unbridled annoyance. His legs were spread out, having you picturing the times he'd monopolize the space on a crowded bus. Jungkook was probably the type of man who was born with an entitlement that carried through to every part of his life, including the way he sat down on trains and pissed the living hell off of you.

"Like what you see?" Now you were pissed off for two reasons. The way he sat and the fact that you just got caught staring at him; his lap to be specific.

Soon, the two reasons doubled when your eyes returned to the smile on his face that didn't seem to have gone away. He was proud to catch you in the act, and most likely assumed your staring was due to an attraction so gripping that you couldn't help yourself but to stare at his crotch of all things.

"No, I was just..." Your words caught in your throat, because you weren't about to explain why his spread position on the seat had drawn an irritation from you thicker than the blood pulsing loudly through your body. You didn't want him to know you cared enough to be irritated in the first place, even if that meant letting him believe your staring was a form of unspoken flattery. "No."

"Okay, whatever you say, ___." It was the sarcasm this time, and the way he said your name that pissed you off. There was a seed inside you, ready to bury in your gut and grow just enough for you to rip his tongue from his mouth so he'd never have to say your name again.

"You'd think you didn't want to make the person you're about to spend three days on a train with angry, but maybe you're just that dumb." Insulting him gave you instant relief from the headache you knew was about to assume your forehead.

"Damn. Guess you're not the type to take a joke." Jungkook revealed his teeth one by one again, but you didn't describe it as a smile. A smile is something you thought to be beautiful, a physical expression of joy. No, what his face possessed was something sadistic. You were sure of it.

The way he carried himself and voiced his thoughts were more concentrated than arrogance. There was not a word in any language that could properly describe Jungkook. Nor was there a feeling that could render yours into something palpable. And the world had sealed you inside this cell marked Cart 102 with the person who was grainy and slick like quicksand, and just as deadly because you were sinking into him and every feeling he had provoked within the ten minutes you'd known him.

Jungkook was the first person you hated. Beyond every rude customer, every demanding boss, every high school bully, every cut tie, there was Jungkook who wore that heavy medallion of hatred around his neck like he was proud of it.

In all honesty, you thought he should wear it. He earned it. Everyone should know that you hated Jungkook and that it only took him a record-breaking ten minutes to attain the once unattained title.

You began to read your book, however 'read' didn't accurately describe what you were doing, which was staring blankly through the same words while collecting more reasons why you hated this man. It became an obsession of yours in a few short moments, because now you didn't just hate the way he sat and spoke and smiled. You hated how his breathing was somehow louder than the wheels grinding against the metal tracks or how whenever another train would pass by, he'd bring his face so close to the window you could see the warmth of his breath cling onto the glass and form a small, foggy patch.

You especially hated that you could quite literally feel his eyes on you, blistering your skin like the way a magnifying glass would redirect the sun's rays onto a target, which just so happened to be your face. Jungkook was unrelenting; as if he were trying to sear your skin with a permanent brand of his eyes.

Between the rhythmic flipping of the pages that you weren't reading, you were compelled to reprimand him for the staring. Maybe throwing his own words back into his face about 'liking what you see' would do your own vengeance justice. But that might indicate you were thinking of what he said to you this whole time.

"The weather looks so cold. It's practically raining." You moved only your eyes up from your book to study him.

He was looking out the window again, eyes chasing each speck of mist preluding the raindrops that were surely going to fall. It always rained at night.

"Looks like another thunderstorm." You packaged up the gasp that was about to burst from your chest.

For reasons you'd rather not share with a complete stranger you were hellbent on hating, you were terrified of thunder. Not lightning, but the loud crash that followed it. It was the last thing you wanted to experience while bottled up in a train with Jungkook.

"Excuse me." Your abrupt stance interrupted Jungkook's rain watching.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"None of your business." The slam of the sliding door echoed the anger you didn't express before as it snapped shut, fractionating the air you once shared with Jungkook.

You took a deep breath, the air outside felt cooler. The attendant was loyal to his assigned post, which was convenient for you.

"Sir, is there any way I can switch carts?"

"No, full train. And your ticket says Cart 102, so that's where you were meant to be." His eyes were sheltered by his hat, so there was no chance of pleading with your eyes if you couldn't even see his.

"Fine." It was a long shot, one that you didn't have the aim or trajectory for. You suppose he was right. Cart 102 was where you belonged for now. You just couldn't accept that Jungkook also belonged there with you.

Inside, the warm yellow light was beckoning you back in. Through the door, the brightness glimmered out until it was consumed by the dark hall where you stood. Jungkook was looking out of the window again with a rising and falling chest; you could hear his breathing even from behind the door or at least, you could imagine how it would sound.

"If we're going to share a cart, we could at least be friends." Jungkook's suggestion made him too human, too real for you to hate. You wanted to cling on to the idea that he was a horrible person, harboring more vices than the devil himself. But his voice was friendly sometimes, and his smile looked loving, occasionally, when he presented it to you.

"I don't see why we can't just be silent for the rest of the ride."

"Why are you going back home?" For a second, you were shocked enough to forget you were supposed to hate him. His gaze was calm and carried none of the worries yours had. You wondered, just for a second, about all the others who were on the receiving end of his gaze, and if they felt the way you felt when he looked at you. That look that distinguished him from anyone you had ever met.

You didn't want him to be right, because you didn't want the 'why' to be real. The tragedy, the only thing demanding enough to peel you away from your life away from home, should not have been the 'why' that put you on this train. But it was, and it made you angrier than he did.

"How do you know I'm going home?" You injected each word with a sharpness that you hoped would sting Jungkook.

"Well, are you going home?"

"Yes... are you?"

"No, just visiting." His eyes returned to the window, like a refrain in a poem. Always returning to look somewhere out into the beyond.

"Well, you should count yourself lucky." And you returned back to your refrain, pretending to read just so you wouldn't get caught staring at him and listing more reasons you hated Jungkook because that was easier than thinking of what was really bothering you.

"Lucky. Huh." You wanted to know what was so captivating on the other side of the window. What could have possibly supplied his eyes with something that was more interesting than the inside of this train? "Why are you going back home?"

"You already asked that."

"And you didn't answer me." Perhaps it was the stars, and he was tracking them in his mental inventory, examining until they were replicated along his memory the same way they were plotted across the sky. "Why are you going back home?"

"My mom. She's dying." Stars seemed to be a beautiful thing to keep your eyes occupied in a way your mind couldn't be, but you couldn't see past the thick fog and lack of light. "She's sick."

"I'm sorry to hear." His sincerity worked against all the animosity you'd cultivated for him.

How could he see the stars? You were going to ask, but you didn't want him to know what lied beyond the small beacon of light surrounding the train was lost to you, or rather you lost them. You wanted to hate him, so you didn't ask.

"I knew something bad must have happened to get someone like you to come home." That comment certainly suffocated any benefit of the doubt you were going to bestow upon him. Jungkook was arrogant and entitled, and in your most recent discovery, presumptuous and judgmental. Everything wrong with this world. No amount of dashing smiles and considerate questions could change that. You had to remember, you hated this man

"How dare you! How- How dare you assume something so rude!" The cloth of your pillowcase had almost worn through from how tight your fists were gripping them. You felt the fire burning through your nerves, soon about to combust and set Cart 102 ablaze. "I hate you."

It was two in the morning, or at least those were the numbers shining from your watch. The window offered the same pitch blackness that frustrated you, so you decided to give your legs some employment from sitting.

The hall of the train was nearly as dark as the outside; the overhead lights once drizzling down a soft glow were turned off. You wandered down the stretch of the medium but the further you walked, the thinner the walkway felt. Soon, the walls on either side of you were pressed against your shoulders so snugly, you had to turn your body to squeeze through.

"Having trouble?" You knew that voice; you hated that familiar inflections and conceit planted in each word he spoke.

"Can't you see I'm trying to walk?" Squinting proved to be obsolete while trying to see whatever destination was in the distance. "Why is everything so dark?"

"Because, you're not trying." If you could turn around, if these walls weren't beginning to smother your body to immobilization, then you would have run over to him and slapped the smile right off of his face. Because you were trying, you were trying to see this whole time but the dark had infested everywhere.

Unfortunately for you, the walls were connecting closer and closer, as if trying to move through you so they could reach each other and close altogether. But where would that leave you? When the gap was stitched shut, where would you be?

The walls were softer than you thought, but still forceful enough to steal all the air from your lungs leaving you a panicked mess lodged between these unkind walls. And the pressure wasn't enough to kill you, but it was just enough to leave you stuck and miserable.

"Jungkook, help me, I can't..."

Day One

Your dream was vivid enough to mislead you into thinking it was real. It wasn't until your eyes fluttered open, and consciousness spilled into your mind like a gentle breeze that you realized the nightmare was over. The window allowed a soft light into Cart 102, making you more thankful for the day than you had ever been in your entire life. You lifted your head from your pillow placed on the seat that you didn't recall placing there, and now that you think of it, you didn't remember falling asleep either.

You especially didn't remember covering yourself with this wool coat that smelled like the air after a bonfire had just finished browning marshmallows and dissolving wood.

"Someone's finally awake." Then it all came back to you. You wondered why everything felt so tranquil. It was a shame you couldn't enjoy the peace before the omen of annoyance, your special nickname for Jungkook, had returned.

"What time is it?" Your eyes were blinking away the sleep, and when that failed, your hands began to rub them until they were able to prop open fully.

"Eight-thirty. Here." He set down a Styrofoam cup of something hot enough for steam to escape through the open space of the lid. It smelled sweeter than coffee.

"What is it?" Your question came after you had already picked it up to furnish your hands with warmth and your nose with the delectable aroma leaking from this cup.

Jungkook’s smile was hidden behind his cup, already half empty, withholding an answer from you because he wanted to see if you would try it before you knew what it was.

"Don't worry, it's not poison." You figured it could be counted as retribution in the form of a nice pick-me-up for all the irritation he'd caused you, not to mention the fact that even in your dreams, he couldn't seem to leave you alone. No, Jungkook's presence was something that would slip through the realm of your sleep, the only place you thought you could escape him.

You sipped slowly, and the drink inside the cup made a quick and favorable acquaintance with your tongue. The contents were something you'd be able to identify separately, but when combined, they were delicious and elusive all at once.

"Wow, this is great!" The smile escaped faster than a spilled cup of water, and before you could clean the messy evidence of your gratitude, Jungkook returned the same smile, but his wasn't a spill; his smiles were never an accident, and you could almost resent him for it.

Almost.

"You like it, huh? Didn't take you to be a fan of sweet things." Both pairs of eyes were taken by the scenery just on the other side of the window decorated with streaks of the fallen dew drops.

His pride was untamed, and you assumed it was because Jungkook never took any action to dilute his own conceit. You liked to imagine how often Jungkook could arm himself with that smile, that laugh, which you were not too blind in your own despise to admit were both conventionally attractive assets of his, and everyone in a ten foot radius would fall into his hands. The world seemed to rest in his hands, and all he had to do was smile.

Not you, though. You were certain you had polished yourself with enough perspective so you wouldn’t be foolish enough to let something as shallow as a charming smile fracture your walls. Though, it was increasingly frustrating, verging on the point of catastrophe, how difficult it was to convince yourself of this and to ignore the image of his smile, sneaking its way to the forefront of your thoughts after brushing it off seconds before.

It was overcast, and the grey from the sky had permeated along the air below, yet it didn't puncture the vibrancy of the ever-extending grassy plains. They seemed to continue on forever, as if you walked out to the horizon it would take an eternity to find the end of the green landscape. The wind acted as music to which each blade of grass had been dancing an instinctive choreography.

And every so often, a patch of flowers would appear, perform its part, then disappear just as quickly.

For a moment, you wondered what Jungkook thought of the small bits of the world this window was displaying. Did he think it was just as beautiful as you did?

"It's honey, cinnamon, and milk. My mom used to make it for me when I was a kid." Though the view was timeless, you finally broke your gaze to look at Jungkook.

It was hard to imagine this man, the harbinger of almost every ounce of anger you have ever felt in your life, as a child who would drink milk with honey and cinnamon made by his mother. But then again Jungkook's face began to change, or at least the way you saw it morphed into something entirely different.

His bright eyes didn't look like they could be from this world. Not when they seemed to hold everything in his line of vision within them so warmly that it could spread magic over everything around him; like a fairy tale, but this magic rested in the two sockets of his eyes. Something so enigmatic made you want to snap at him just so he would look at you instead, and hold you in his eyes. As though to be held by his eyes would fix all your problems.

"Hm." You looked down at the cup, trying to savor each sip however ultimately failing since the honey melted in with the milk and perfectly heightened each flavor.

Without thinking, you wrapped the coffee-colored coat tighter around your body. It was blissful, sipping a cup of delight inside Cart 102, protected from the prickly wind of the winter while still being vended a view of its beauty. This train ride was almost perfect, if not for the (slightly less) bothersome burden that sat across from you.

"Looks good on you." He didn't have to specify he was referring to his jacket that was giving you comfort.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't-"

"Nah, keep it. You looked cold when you were asleep. You were shivering so much it basically sounded like you were begging for my jacket." Jungkook laughed softly.

Maybe two hours ago you would have been brimming with enough rage to rip his jacket off of you and throw it in his face because it sure sounded like he was pitying you or guilting you into a 'thank you' that you were too petty to relinquish. But now, in the morning that tamed you, stomach digesting a tasty drink given by none other than Jungkook, you let it slide.

Just this once, you thought.

"Well, that was very kind of you. And thank you for the drink, but I don't need some stranger doing me any favors."

"Wow, you sure are stubborn!" He laughed again, even though you had been nothing but uninviting of his advances, he just laughed.

"Am not." You muttered.

"Whatever you say." Just this once, you let him have the last word. Just this once.

One emptied cup of Jungkook's special later and you were energized enough to read, and hopefully retain the story rather than flipping mindlessly through the pages while you fueled your attention with rage.

Jungkook was busying himself, putting thought to paper. The quick ticks of his pencil against the wooden table was enough to earn him a passive-aggressive sigh from you, and you hoped he was perceptive enough to get the hint.

The ticks continued, even spaced out to a consistent pace as if he was beating a drum just to anger you. Your annoyance was once again brimming over, ready to spill into another display of it that consisted of a furrowed brow, a scowl, and a slew of incoherent retorts that had been brewing in your mind.

"Can't you write any quieter?" It hadn't measured up to all the clever insults you had loaded into your verbal weaponry, but it did the job to convey your frustration which obviously hadn't been communicated through your previous sigh.

"I'm not writing, actually! I'm trying to figure out the time signature for this piece. Three-six just isn't right." The pencil once tapping out a rhythm was now tucked between his teeth, and you could tell this was a habit of his from the various other tooth-shaped indents along the end of the pencil.

"Whatever, just... do it quietly."

"Quietly? This process is anything but quiet."

"Then try your very hardest."

"I'll try. Emphasis on try."

Though your eyes had reunited with your book, your curiosity pledged allegiance to what Jungkook was writing on his paper. It took an effortful battle between your urges and your restraint to finally ask him.

"What's a time signature?"

"Kind of like a rhythmic guide. For music. I'm a composer, and I'm hoping I can get this fellowship to work with professionals all around the world!" Jungkook's response came almost immediately after your question and his answer consisted of more information than you asked for, which meant this was something he was passionate about. Either that or he just loved talking about himself. It could have easily been both.

However, from the way his eyes held the world, they seemed to hold the music etched onto his paper the tightest. Like, if he were to let go then he would lose any and all purpose to hold on to anything else.

"You make music? Like songs on the radio and stuff?"

"No, not really. Songs for movies. I want to be a film composer."

"Oh. Is that why you're traveling? To study with a professional?" You surprised yourself more than him with that question.

"No... I, um. I wish that was the reason." Before asking him what his reason was, you stopped yourself from letting yet another question slip from your mouth.

Because you were supposed to hate him. Jungkook made everything difficult, even the notion of hating him was made to be a challenge. Asking him questions, learning about him, making the person in front of you turn into something with more dimensions than two was pointless when in a couple days, you'd leave this train and never see him again. Better to go back to hating him.

It wasn't as satisfying as before. Now that you've acquired some knowledge of who he was beyond an obnoxious seat hog and arrogance asshole, the reasons to hate him were beginning to be outweighed by all the other reasons to not hate him.

So far, you learned he was a musician. A passionate up and comer who gives strangers his jacket when they look cold, and shares a drink of milk and honey and cinnamon because it reminds him of his childhood. Someone who has made biting his pencil into a habit when he was working through a thought, who would often stare out windows and saw all the stars you couldn’t; someone who was quick to try to make friends with even the most emotionally withdrawn people.

Shortly after taking more time than planned on recounting all the things you learned about Jungkook, you felt indebted to him since he only knew two things about you. 

You were stubborn and you had a sick mom. Or at least, you believed these were the only parts of yourself he picked up on. The rest were things he’d observed with an attentive eye of which you had not noticed had been studying your mannerisms in the same way you studied his. 

When you left the cart abruptly after he mentioned the thunderstorm that was somehow delayed for tonight, he was correct to assume it was because you were afraid of the storm. Now, whether it was the thunder or lightning that rattled you so viciously you had to walk off your fear was yet to be discovered. Jungkook was confident he’d figure it out.

Or, how he watched you when you were sleeping in a way he wouldn’t describe as creepy since it was endearing to see you sleep. In fact, he was doing his best to ignore you, but your muffled groans had revealed to him you were the type to have the occasional nightmare. Again, the dream itself was something he was more than interested in discovering.

And your adorably executed performance of passive aggression didn’t evade him in the way you presumed it did. He heard the sigh and understood exactly what you were attempting to accomplish with that, but decided to act like your effort to shut him up wasn’t completely transparent. Mostly because he wanted you to ask him what he was doing. 

Jungkook wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but he enjoyed the way you spoke, even if it was drenched in a thick layer of annoyance. For now, he decidedly stuck with finding innocuous ways to fall back into a conversation with you, to slowly but surely learn all that he could in this three-day train ride. 

At half-past three, lunch had been served, consumed, and digested. Jungkook’s plate, however, was just short of being completely gone. Everything had been notably ravaged by him except for the pile of walnuts he picked out of his salad at the beginning of the meal.

“Not a fan of walnuts?” You convinced yourself this question came from a place that was starting to feel queasy from the silence that was more intoxicating than the small glass of complimentary wine you downed a little too quickly. 

“Allergic. Nothing too serious, though. My throat gets itchy and sometimes I get a rash on my skin.” You made a mental note that Jungkook was allergic to walnuts, which you stored in the part of your brain that harbored knowledge that was completely useless to you yet you still reserved space for it to be memorized.

“That sucks.” 

“Yeah, but it did come in handy when I was in class and didn’t want to be. I’d tell the teacher the cafeteria food had walnuts in it and I needed to go home and get my EpiPen before I died.” The list of things you knew about Jungkook continued to lengthen, and you couldn’t specify when it happened, but you began to enjoy every detail that made the list grow. 

You wouldn’t have guessed it would take a single day for you to wish it would never stop growing. But then again, you didn’t realize this at the time.

“And that worked? Sounds like you had your luck laid out for you from the beginning.” Jungkook smiled at this, the same bunny-toothed smile from yesterday, but it felt much different to you now, as if you were one smile away from forgetting your once insistent hatred of Jungkook. 

“Yeah, I guess so. What about you? What are your allergies?”

“Other than overly friendly weirdos on trains? Nothing.” It was the strangest reaction to feel proud, of all things, when you were rewarded by his laugh. It was softer than the wind rushing against the side of the train, however his laugh outperformed every other sound in the surrounding area until it was all your ears could focus on.

“Then it seems you’re the lucky one. No allergies. Free to eat whatever you want.” His eyes parceled between the sheet music in his hands and you. Though, it was difficult to pull them back down to his work since this was the first time he had your undivided attention that was not born from annoyance or repulsion to whatever he was doing. 

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m free to eat whatever. I have standards.”

“Really?” It was his not-so-discreet way of trying to capture all the pieces of you that he could, but from your slow intake of air, it seems as though you weren’t entirely finished with talking to him either.

“Cilantro. It’s absolutely disgusting. And mushrooms. I can’t stand mushrooms.”

“I love mushrooms.” Of course, you do, you thought. He didn’t have to say it, but he most likely loved cilantro as well. And you were most definitely right. 

“I suppose you love everything I hate?” Eye contact with Jungkook was more than you could handle ever since his mannerisms stopped annoying you and started intimidating you, so you found refuge in the scenery beyond the window. It never failed you during the day, but at night you would have to scavenge for something to stare at when Jungkook’s eyes were close to stealing your breath away. 

“I suppose you hate everything I love.” 

It took a careful eye to catch the subtle hints of emotion that even you were too distracted to notice. Jungkook’s eye was trained pretty well in observation of the hidden traces of even the most thoroughly subdued emotions. His eyes were so well versed in gathering the scarce evidence of emotions that it prompted him to ask his next question:

“What are you looking for?”

Now, your eyes were still averted by his, so you held on to the slowly fading daylight while you still could. But, sadly, the window was a distraction of sight, not sound, so you heard his question loud and clear and felt obligated to give him an answer. Even if your answer was pathetic.

“Just looking at the grass. It’s pretty.”

“I didn’t ask what you were looking at, I asked what you were looking for.” 

Determining what emotion you let slip through the quiver in your lip was a task Jungkook wasn’t well equipped for just yet. In all fairness, he had only known you for a short while and he still felt disappointed in himself for not being able to know what he made you feel with that question. 

“I don’t know.” You couldn’t help the stunned tone of your voice, but that was all that could fuel your words at the moment. “I guess… A distraction. It’s so beautiful out there.”

“Everything looks beautiful when you only have a small amount of time to admire it.” Whatever distraction you were looking for had certainly met your eyes and did its job since you had absolutely no clue he was staring right at you when he said that. That he was savoring the small amount of time he had to admire you.

Jungkook was right, which was a habit of his that he took unrestrained pride in; life was beautiful when you moved through it with such little time to spare. Though slamming your hand in a doorway was something you would sooner do than admitting he was right.

The fabric of time moved in a peculiar fashion when inside a train. You move so fast and yet, not at all, and it is as if there is a tear where the train moves through, and evades the grips of each minute that transports the future into the present and the present into the past. It felt this way the moment you stepped onto the train, so when you checked the time, it didn’t surprise you that it was already an hour before midnight. 

The daytime had slowly melted away, carefully, the way ice shrunk inside a glass of water until it combined with its surroundings, and the plains of grass could only exist in your memory right now. The blackness of night consumed everything beyond your window once again, though there was the occasional streetlamp that provided a glimpse of everything you couldn’t see as of now. 

What you couldn’t see was nowhere near as frightening as what you were about to hear. 

The first flash of lightning felt like a warning. It took a few seconds for the wretched boom of thunder to follow, which was the interval of time you foolishly hoped it would, just this once, fail to accompany that streak of light. That perhaps this train moved quick enough to outrun the storm.

“___? Are you okay?”

You didn’t notice your hands had immediately cupped your ears until Jungkook’s voice was filtered through as a jumble of indiscernible noises.

“Sorry, I just…” Steadying your breath was a toll that required an upfront payment of all your attention, so your previously muted voice and steady tone had gone out of the metaphorical window, along with the rest of your response.

“So it’s the thunder.” Jungkook said softly to himself. It didn’t matter since your hands were being utilized as makeshift earplugs. They seemed to deflect every sound except for the thunder that punctured through your barrier effortlessly. 

Before, Jungkook had this preconception of you. From the minute he stepped into Cart 102, he could tell you were the type to carry yourself steadily, the type that supplied their own assurance and isolated their emotions in the same way you isolated yourself. But here you were, hands clamped against your ears, eyes pressed shut and body shaking; this was a surplus of emotions you let seep through your walls. It was expressive enough for any dimwitted onlooker to know exactly what you were feeling: pure fear. 

And Jungkook had always been adept to telltale signs of what was buried beneath the obvious emotions. He could tell you wanted to be distracted. You needed help.

It was easier to stifle one sense if you stifled them all at once. If you didn’t want to see, you had to plug your ears and hold your breath. And in this case, to block out the sound, you had to shut your eyes and numb the rest of your body in the slim chance that the thunder wouldn’t penetrate through your poorly constructed firewall. 

Suddenly, you felt the space beside you sink lower which meant Jungkook had taken the liberty of invading your space at the worst possible time. It was difficult to focus on blocking out the sound when you could feel the side of his shoulder bump lightly against yours. 

“___.” You shifted towards him slowly, waiting for his explanation of why he was on your side of the cart. “Can I touch you?”

You were past your wit's end, spending the last bits of your sanity trying to calm yourself from the second crash of thunder that made your body lift from the seat for a solid two seconds. All you could do was nod, and hope he wasn’t a serial killer that was about to strangle you to death in a moment of vulnerability. 

He was working in your favor, just like when he wrapped you up in his coat and set that cup of milk in front of you, he moved in determination to comfort you. And if it weren’t for the dire circumstances, your pride would have refused the security of his arms that were carefully enveloping your body and eliminating the frigid space around you. You hadn’t realized how cold this train was until you were invited into Jungkook’s warmth. He had somehow silenced the storm, and all you had to do was let him. 

The third blast of thunder pushed you deeper in his embrace, and you wrapped your arms around him tightly like the lifejacket he was that kept you from slipping below the surface of the angry ocean currents. 

“If you couldn’t tell I-” Boom, “I hate thunder.” Your voice came out strained through the fear-induced filter lodged in your throat.

“No, actually, I couldn’t tell at all.” Nine out of ten of your thoughts were concentrated on the thunder, and that one exception was applied towards how annoyingly sarcastic Jungkook managed to be through thick and thin. It was impressive enough that he could subtract the fear even by a small fraction for you to laugh. 

“You’re so-” Boom, “You’re insufferable.”

His laugh was noticed through the gentle bounce of his chest that rocked your head more than the actual sound of it. Soon, a hand came to run through your hair and with each stroke, he somehow removed your terror layer by layer until you were afforded with indifference to the storm simply because you were lulled into a half-sleep and were now too exhausted to care about the thunder. 

“You’re okay. Everything is okay. You’re doing great. Breathe deep.” His chest smelled the same as his coat. A fire burning so brightly, sending the aromas of everything it consumed into the air.

Now your attention belonged to the warmth of his arms, and how he moved his hand through your hair with something deeper than kindness. It was selflessness because he too was scared and tired and in need of rest. Despite this, he used the last of his energy to ward off the threat of a second panic attack. 

“Thank you.” You whispered into his chest, and it seemed as though it permeated through his flesh and ribs and absorbed straight into his heart from the way he held you even tighter. 

The storm had settled, and the horrors of loud thunder were abandoned for quite some time now, but it felt too comfortable, too perfect for you to be anywhere else but here in his arms. So, what went unsaid was more than enough for him to retract any intention to return to his seat and instead hold you against his chest, where his heart would retain strength from being close to you. 

You couldn’t tell if you had already slipped into a dream when you heard him singing softly, or if the melody of Dream a Little Dream of Me was actually being crafted by his voice so beautifully and fell into perfect synchronization with the rhythmic beat of his heart. Either way, you were thankful to bear witness to a sound that reduced the idea of thunder down to something that could never hurt you again, and instead made seeing all the stars the heavens could offer possible even through the darkest nights. You felt a well of tears moisten your cheeks.

In his arms, with his voice, you could see the stars.

Back in the dimmed hallway of the train, you could make out the outline of a figure standing in the distance, waiting for you. Waiting, but about to run out of time. You saw her slowly disappear the way wind would rustle the dying leaves off a tree in autumn. Slowly her body was wilting, disappearing, and the wind only picked up speed. 

All you could think to do was run to her, your mother, the shell of a woman you had known and loved your whole life. Her frail body being stripped of flesh as easily as wind undresses a tree of its leaves until there is nothing but branch and bone.

The walls began to close again, and you knew you had to act faster. You had to push past the pressure of closing walls even if they were squeezing so tightly movement became impossible. All at once, the impossible became your burden to redesign into something possible, which was the only thing crushing your spirit more than these damn walls.

You were so close; you held your hand out and—

Day Two

Winter mornings always start the same. Your eyes began rediscovering sight before the rest of your senses flooded into function, then your stomach would get angry for digesting nothing but its own acid until you filled it. And just like yesterday, your pillow cushioned beneath your head on the seat and your body shielded from the rogue winter winds that snuck inside of your cart by the same bonfire scented coat.

“Rise and shine.” Jungkook said from behind the sheet music he was examining. He must have been stealing glances of you every five minutes or so to catch the moment you’d finally wake up.

“Time?” Part of you didn’t want to get up. Part of you, the more persuasive part, wanted to remain tucked under Jungkook’s coat and slip back into a light sleep. If it weren’t for the hot drink waiting for you on the table then you would have done just that.

“Nine. A little later than yesterday.” You sat up eventually, wrapping the coat around you, and for a moment life was comfortable on the train. So much so that you didn’t mind how your hair was in complete disarray. 

Jungkook enjoyed seeing you this way. When you had first woken up and didn’t wear the usual veil of detachment from the rest of the world. Your guard had surrendered to your sleep ridden body. He guessed very few people saw you like this, natural and raw and untouched by the pressure to be presentable, and counted himself lucky, just like you would say, to be one of those few.

“Thanks, again.” You said softly into the warm cup between sips. “How much?”

“No. It's okay.”

“But-”

“Seriously! Don’t mention it.” He was firm, but that didn’t stop the gentle smile that crept its way back onto his face. You didn’t know what to say other than the thanks you had already said, so you just kept drinking. It was still just as delicious, but today familiarity was peppered into the milk among the honey and cinnamon which gave it that much more reason to love it.

“You get up this early every day?” You asked, because you were at a loss for words but felt less comfortable without hearing his voice to accompany the brisk, quiet morning. 

“Usually I do. I like the morning. It feels like I have the world to myself before everyone else wakes up.” Charming. It was the last thing that came to mind when you would picture Jungkook. Now, however, it seemed to be the only characteristic that came to mind when you thought of him. 

Sitting in front of you, half mindedly scribbling notes onto the staff and half his attention expended on sharing the small ways he saw the world, he was just charming. As easily as he once drove a blunt edge of annoyance into your chest, he erased every bit of evidence that he could ever be anything but charming.

“Sorry to steal the morning from you. I gotta wake up sometime.” You felt entirely unpracticed in the realm of light, friendly conversations, and that was evident from the way you wanted to gag at your own response to his. What you thought was a tasteless, almost pathetic attempt at banter was, to Jungkook, another reason to enjoy the morning. 

“I’m glad it’s you that I have to share it with.” Jungkook certainly sat higher on the hierarchical scale of wit compared to you, but even that didn’t agitate you in the way it would have before. What was more shocking than that was the fact that you felt the muscles in your cheeks changing your flat lipped expression into a smile.

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Jungkook.” You responded that way only to save face. It was a habit of yours you didn’t realize you were doing until the words had already been deployed by your tongue.

“It seems to have gotten me a smile from you. Those are hard to come by.” You jerked your head quickly over to him, the same grin stained with smugness there to meet your surprised ‘o’ shaped mouth. 

He was right again. Your smiles have always been punctuated lately, but you were too busy paddling through every distraction available to even notice.

“Very funny.” Your voice was low enough for Jungkook to nearly miss it. Once the soft tone of your voice delivered to his ears, he looked away from his sheet music to mine through your face like a cavern, searching for the hidden bits of the treasure-like emotions strewn in along the subtle details. 

“What’s wrong?” It was a leap of faith, his question, a leap that sent him plummeting blindly into the depths of everything he craved to know about you. 

“That thing you said the other day.” Your expression was unreadable to the whole world. But inside the train, the whole world rested just on the other side of the window. There was no reason to come off as impassive, cold, or unconcerned, to care so much about trying not to care. “About going home.”

“Mhm?” You waited to see if he had anything to say, anything to stall what was about to escape from your lips. You knew it wouldn’t take long for your thoughts to go rogue, especially when he made you smile like that. 

“I’m angry.” He gave you a look that said ‘no shit’ without having to actually say it. It made you nervous, but still willing to go on. “You're right. I didn’t visit home ever until now. I thought I grew out of it. I thought I became someone too big to fit in a town so small and stuck in its way. But I was never too big, I don’t think I ever actually grew. Because when I got the call, after stupidly ignoring it a hundred times before, I felt like the same child. So scared of the idea of a world without their mother. So, yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry I could be arrogant and stupid enough to think I could live the rest of my life never looking back.”

Jungkook just watched you, with those eyes that held the world. His eyes were holding so much right now when they were looking at you. So much weight from a source he couldn’t define with his own intuition. So much weight, he couldn’t understand how you had been shouldering it on your own this whole time, if he couldn’t stand a few minutes holding it now. 

“Going back home.” You scoffed. “It's not about looking back. It was never about that. I think returning to something familiar is almost just as scary as fleeing somewhere new. All your past mistakes and demons that you have to face…”

“Demons. Is that any way to talk about your mother?” It was his way, unique to Jungkook alone, to litter in a bit of lighthearted teasing even when he was supposed to be serious. As if he couldn’t stand to let the air in Cart 102 become too damp with sadness, as if his heart wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

“I made a mistake. I spent too much time away, and now the last way I’ll see her is weak and sick. That’s my demon. My mom was just unfortunate enough to be the arbiter of it.” 

Jungkook wanted to tell you that if he could, he would take all your pain away and send it back into the universe to find someone else to harbor it. Someone who deserved to feel a loss so heavy, because he knew just by looking at you that you deserved none of it. But he held his overly romantic tongue for now in regards to easing you into him smoothly. Since he had come such a long way with you, making gentle strides to win your affection, it would be greedy of him to tarnish that by saying something as outrageous as that, even if that was truly how he felt.

“Come with me. I have an idea.” It would have been easy to refuse him, to swat his hand away and never speak to him again for the rest of the train ride. But what prevails after the wear and tear of expecting the worst and knowing the painful and permanent scars it will leave you is the trust of someone who turned scowls into smiles, who held his hand out to you and waited for you to take it kindly.

Those tales they tell about feeling sparks when you make contact with your soulmate were decidedly wrong. Wrong to you, because when you touched Jungkook’s hand, you felt those sparks nestling under your skin and learning its way through the rest of your body. Wrong, because Jungkook was no soulmate of yours, just an unlikely stranger you met on a train once. 

And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder, you couldn’t help but hope he too felt these sparks that supposedly meant nothing.

Jungkook pulled you into the hallway, which was brighter than the way it looked in your dreams. At the end of the walkway, there was no ghost resembling your mother, and the walls weren’t closing in, and instead of pushing through alone, you had Jungkook holding your hand tightly, and graciously guiding you down.

“This way.” He whispered, and you mimicked the stealth in his voice through the way you muffled the sound of your feet hitting the train floor, which felt less like water and more like sand with him; soft yet solid sand.

You arrived at an unattended area of the train. The only hint of what Jungkook was up to was that grin. That grin was too playful to be a grimace, and too mischievous to be a smile. That grin that you hadn’t noticed you were looking forward to seeing, the same one you could sense you would miss when the train arrived at its destination. That when he grinned, you finally found the courage to return it. Needing no conditions or second guesses, you were just you, somehow smiling on the train that was taking you to your sick mother. And it was all because of him and his stupid, lovely grin.

“What are you doing? Are we supposed to even be here?” 

“Shh, we’ll get caught.” He began to wriggle with the door handle until it opened. 

“So we’re not supposed to be here! Jungkook, let’s go before we get kicked off!” To silence you, he simply held his hand up. You pouted your lip but did as he commanded. 

Inside the door, there was a collection of all the food meant for purchasing. Your assumption was confirmed that Jungkook had no intention of paying for the bags of pretzels and packets of cookies he was stuffing into his pockets. Hands full with quite the assortment of foods, he looked to you and raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Come on, put these in your pockets! Hurry.” He held the food out towards you. There was no convincing him to put all the stolen goods back, and there was no convincing yourself to not go along with his sinfully sweet plan. 

The fast-paced walk back to Cart 102 was the most exhilarating thirty-five seconds of your life. Jungkook looked all too calm, like spontaneity fell into his hands naturally or like it was a birthright, belonging to his life from the beginning. Life with Jungkook, even if the short span of time he’d claimed part of yours was fleeting, was the most excited and fearless you had ever felt. 

Jungkook and you emptied the haul of food onto the table. For a second, they went untouched only for the two of you to admire your successfully pirated goods. Then, for the first time on the train you met eyes with Jungkook and laughed.

It was the sort of laugh that exercised muscles in your abdomen you weren’t aware that you had in the first place. The kind that began at the top of a hill, and with one push it was tumbling faster and faster, growing louder and wilder. 

Jungkook was laughing too, a sound which could qualify as the only competitor to surpass the beauty of his singing. And whatever music he was scribing onto the paper would have to be beyond masterful to sound anything close to as immaculate as his laugh.

“I can’t believe we just committed grand larceny.” The words came out of your throat between fits of laughter, eyes now with an abundance of happy tears.

“Woah there, “‘grand”’ is a stretch. I like to think of it as unlawful borrowing.” The rest of the afternoon was spent with celebratory feasting of your unlawfully borrowed goods. Your favorite was the packs of chocolate mints, and Jungkook had cleverly avoided eating them when he noticed how much you liked them. 

When dawn arrived, Cart 102 settled into a comfortable silence, now consisting of you reading your book tempered by a glance out of the window every few pages and Jungkook tapping his pencil against the wooden desk while marking up every blank space on his page. To anyone else, including the likes of you, the page was nothing but a jumble of incoherent scribbles. To Jungkook, it was his next masterpiece; the best idea he made tangible on paper and hopefully soon, audible when someone agreed to commission it.

“Done!” 

His remark startled you, being that there had been no warrant for him to exclaim his progress with the music he was working on. You chuckled softly, closing your book and looking back to Jungkook.

“Done with what?” 

“This song. I know this one will sell. I just know it! It’s perfect.” Jungkook’s passion was bursting past the seams of his body. “I just wish… I wish I had more time.”

“What does that mean?” Again, all he offered was the same grin, and that was all you needed in order to know he wouldn’t be dropping any more hints on the account of your curiosity. 

“It means this train ride is ending tomorrow, and I’ll have too much on my plate to work on anything else. So this right here,” He held up the paper with the same tact one would for a pile of pure gold, “Is my last chance to get my work out there for a while.”

For reasons born from an unidentifiable place, you felt like crying. Last chance. It sounded serious. Something you weren’t ready to know and something he wasn't ready to tell. So, instead of pestering the answer out of him, you let him have his secrets. You let him have all the secrets he had somehow gotten out of you. 

And somehow, you were okay with it. Just this once.

Jungkook said he was taking a quick nap. Quick must mean something entirely different where he was from since it lasted about three hours and counting. For someone who had nothing to do but sit on a train all day, he sure was tired. It would have concerned you had it not been for witnessing how much energy he exerted into writing his music, as if each tap of his pencil required the same amount of energy as running an entire mile.

You were looking out of the window, which looked like it had been coated with tar. The departing sun left no remnants of its light and the moon must have been situated on the opposite side of the train, so it was up to the stars to illuminate your view of the world. But, outside the train was dark. Dark, and almost pitch black.

The first few specks were thought to be a hallucination that bloomed from your own wishful thinking. But soon, there were more and more twinkling lights dusting the sky and that outshined any doubt you had before. The stars were so bright and glimmering clearer than you had ever seen. Only something so beautiful, something that ingrained itself into the grooves of your brain to keep forever, could elicit the gasp that came louder than expected.

“Woah.” It jolted Jungkook awake and you would have felt bad if he weren’t already supplied with three and a half hours of extra sleep. 

“What?” His voice was hoarse from being unused for such a long interval.

“The stars! I can see them! They’re so bright, Jungkook. So bright.” The tears began to form in part from the lack of blinking and in part from how happy you were to see the stars. The same stars your mother was probably looking at and the same ceiling of glitter that loomed protectively over you and Jungkook. They were more than just constellations tonight; they were a celestial map navigating you back home and an astronomical assurance that everything would be okay. Even if the worst happened, everything would be okay.

“They are. They’ve been bright for a while. It took you long enough to notice.” Your smile was not yours to control anymore. It was a small price to pay considering you had a world full of stars to last you a lifetime.

“I guess I haven’t been trying as hard to see them as I thought I was.”

And you turned to him, which was the only thing besides the starlit arena above you and Jungkook and the train you’d rather be looking at right now.

“I can’t wait to go home. I miss it so much.” It was the first time you said it out loud, as well as the first time you were able to admit that to yourself. 

“I’m glad you feel that way. You should feel that way.” 

“Thank you.”

There were a plethora of reasons that prompted that thank you. Far too many reasons that were decidedly unfit for just a single thank you. So, you concluded that the thank you was for Jungkook; for becoming a part of your life. For every decision he made on this train that rearranged your feelings towards him into something pleasant. Something that felt warm and safe.

Tonight, the last thing you saw before slipping away into sleep was all the stars that weren't at your disposal before. Every silvery diamond brandished along the expanding sky was so mesmerizing, you wished you could imprint them into the backs of your eyelids when they eventually lulled you into a calm slumber. That and the memory of Jungkook’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream of Me set on repeat in your head. 

This time, you weren't trapped in the confines of a dark train hallway. You were standing in the middle of a grassy field, laden with a diverse collection of wildflowers. The mellow green hues seemed to lift from the blades of grass, stretching into the air around you.

And your mother was there. She wasn’t being blown away by the wind. Just like the sturdy trunk of a tree, she stood with dignity and conviction at the top of the highest hill that provided a view of your hometown; it was the most beautiful you had ever seen her. 

“Mom!” The way you were running felt more like gliding, or flying even, because you moved through the wind without a bit of resistance. Your body was frictionless and unstoppable. And when you finally fell into your mother’s arms, it was the most freeing feeling in the world. 

“I’ve missed you so much. I thought you were going to leave me.” The blue sky that sealed you and your mom into the earth made a stunning partner for the fields of green underneath you. 

“I’m always with you, darling.”

It was difficult to decide whether the sound of her voice or the sentiment behind it made you cry, so you decided not to decide at all, and instead, you simply let yourself cry. Everything was so beautiful, but still not complete. 

“Mom, I feel like something’s missing.”

“There is.” She responded, but it wasn’t a question. Your mom was not your mom, just a figment herself cultivated by your own mind. She was one with you, and she knew exactly what was missing. 

“Where do I find it?” Her hands cupped your cheeks, just like she would when you were young and crying over a scraped knee.

“You know, love. You know.” 

The wind pulled a gentle melody from the spaces between the leaves. A melody you were quite familiar with and grew to love. It slowed, then everything was silent.

Day Three

Waking up came to you in a hurry, as if you shouldn’t spend another second living life through dreams because today was the last day on the train. The last day you’d spend with Jungkook, and possibly the last time you would ever see him.

It was uncharacteristic of you to feel this way. Disappointed at both yourself and your situation. You knew from the beginning that this was a temporary arrangement, and Jungkook was not a permanent fixture in your life. In fact, you used to be thankful for those circumstances because you hated Jungkook. 

But, of course, you went ahead and let him in. You let him buy you tasty drinks, hold you during thunderstorms, and offer you a coat, a smile, a laugh when everything felt cold. You let him ripple currents of fun into your life, but that would be giving yourself too much credit, you suppose.

Because it was never a matter of allowing him to do any of this. He did all of those things, and more, all by himself.

What was even more uncharacteristic of you was greeting the early morning before Jungkook. He was sound asleep, with skin being lightly freckled by the glints of sunlight shimmering through the gaps in the clouds. The morning sun was always docile, kindly shedding light in a way that wouldn’t pull sweat from your skin like it did in the afternoon.

You liked the sight of him sleeping, mostly because it was one of the few moments of the day when he was completely silent, and those were rare.

“Better take this opportunity.” You whispered to yourself before getting up, covering Jungkook with the coat, and heading to the concession stand you had raided with Jungkook yesterday. 

Wondering if the workers noticed the missing inventory, you idled by the counter before ordering but they all looked too tired to care to serve you let alone realize a quarter of the chocolate mint packs were taken.

“Hi, two warm milks with honey and cinnamon please.” The attendant seemed to appreciate how closely your voice was to a whisper. He sluggishly poured two steaming cups of milk and sleeved them before exchanging them for the money already placed onto the counter. 

“Honey and cinnamon are over at the self-serving station.” You followed to where his finger was aimed towards and nodded politely with the two cups in each hand.

You didn’t know why, but imagining Jungkook making this drink himself, instead of ordering it premade, ranked this act as something more motivated than customary kindness. Because getting these drinks wasn’t simply walking to a stand, purchasing, and walking back to Cart 102. There was now an erroneous step you hadn’t accounted for. The act of making milk with honey and cinnamon. 

As you scooped a spoonful of honey to mix into the creamy liquid, one of your mother’s many proverbs rang in your ears, as if she was standing right beside you saying it.

“When you make food for someone, it’s just another way to express that you love them!”

It froze you for a second. Recalling what she would say when you would throw together a meal for the pair of you when she was too tired to. She worked so hard as a single mother, so every shortcoming felt like a colossal failure, no matter how little it mattered to you. And she would always say that to you because ‘thank you’ just didn’t cut it.

This was the first thing you made for someone other than your mother and yourself. But, there’s no way it was because you loved him. 

Just this once, you thought. Just this once I’ll make food for someone that I don’t love.

You were relieved to greet a still sleeping Jungkook when you returned to your cart. The cart you studied closer, because you were about to leave it and wanted to retain all the details that you could before it became a memory you would only visit when you were feeling reminiscent.

The beige walls, the small table where you would read and Jungkook would compose, the stiff leather seats that you had surprisingly gotten used to, and the large window that gave you a glimpse of the blurry world waiting for you.

Jungkook’s groan snapped you out of your trance. Before he regained full cognizance, you placed the cup in front of him so you’d be able to boast that you had woken up before him and had the morning all to yourself for a moment. That now you were the one sharing the world with him.

“What’s this?” He said groggily. 

“You know.” You tried your best to mirror his smugness, the way he would sip his drink after sending a witty one-liner through the air like it was no big deal to him. 

Before you became lost in the person you changed into with Jungkook, a person that felt more like a fun costume to wear when you didn’t feel like being yourself anymore, the more neurotic and controlling part of you fell back through when you remembered that the measurements of the ingredients might have been off.

Maybe you had gotten the drink entirely wrong, so your deed would shrivel down to a failed act of kindness. Nothing at all your mother would consider a gesture of love. And that was more frightening than any blast of thunder.

“It's delicious.” Jungkook said out of nowhere, almost as though he knew he was interrupting your thoughts. Breaking them down into a powder thinner than flour, so he could blow all your worries away with one puff of air. He wasn’t lying either, it was delicious.

You spent a gracious amount of time and energy avoiding the book you were meant to finish during this train ride. Instead, your efforts were fully consumed by the last person you thought would ever be the center of your attention. At least, you thought if he were going to be the focus of it, then it would have been because you were mentally berating him for reasons that didn’t bother you much at all anymore; in fact, they started becoming admirable.

“If you could run faster than a train, where would you go?” He asked.

“Paris. Or Italy. I'd just have to figure out how to run on water.” You earned a good laugh from Jungkook with that comment. And finally, you felt like you were beginning to find your niche in conversations, and it relied heavily on sarcasm.

“I’d love to see the day when ___ walks on water.” 

“What about you? Where would you go?”

“I would make my legs take me straight to Carnegie Hall and force the organization to play one of my pieces.” Each word was formed by his tongue as if he had that response rehearsed a hundred times over. Jungkook knew exactly what he wanted, and given the chance, he would use any and every asset to get him there.

That alone was why you fell into something deeper than attraction. Why you began to take notice of things about him that weren’t of importance before. And why your intentions to observe how the world designed this man to be so stunningly unique was less cryptic than you’d hoped.

Maybe if you noticed how his white button-up was undone down to his sternum and tucked into the waistband of his slacks tastefully, then your heart would have taken a quicker pace long before now. If you noticed how his jet black hair was gentle and fluffy when it draped over his eyes, then you would have been frustrated with yourself sooner for not seizing the chance to introduce your fingers to its texture. And if you noticed how the ridges along his palm looked perfect to be held in, then you would have savored every second he held you the night of the storm. There was an astonishing number of details about Jungkook, about as many as the stars in the sky, that would have made you mountains more intimidated to even speak with him. 

One of the attendants left all your observations of Jungkook scattered when she peaked her head through to give the two of you an update on your arrival.

“Looks like we’ll be getting in earlier than expected!” In theory, that was a blessing. You’d get to finally deboard the train and be with your mother. Though, you’d be lying if some piece of you wanted this train to continue west until there was no more land to travel on; and if you could, you would redistribute each part of this train to assemble a boat, so you could sail Jungkook across the seven seas. “Our arrival will be in twenty minutes! I hope you both enjoyed your trip.”

And if Jungkook felt the same way, he didn’t show it through his polite smile and nod at the attendant. 

“We’ll be getting off soon.” He said to you, though you could tell it was his way of interrogating your thoughts on the matter.

“Time moved by so oddly on the train. I didn’t even notice it was already day three.” You paused and took one last glance out of the window. “Funny.”

"It's funny,” He began, and you settled into what you knew was about to be another piece of Jungkook's mind served in the form of his delicate words, “when you're inside a train you don't feel like you're moving. Even though you are, of course. You're moving faster than you would outside of a train. But we feel like we are still because we are moving with the train. When you're in a train, you are moving with time too, so it feels rushed and stagnant all at once. When you're not inside, time moves past you. It feels better to move with time, don’t you think? It feels like you could outrun it if you wanted to, or it feels like you will never run out of time at all. That you and time are equals. But soon, we'll have to get back onto the platform, and time will move past us again, and it’ll feel like we’re running out already."

“You’re right.” You finally admitted. “We’re running out of time.” 

We’re running out of time— together, you wanted to say. However, courage and boldness was a currency you weren’t rich in. Unspoken desires and lost hopes were all you had left to tender. 

“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I-” He hesitated as well, because when you looked at him with such wishful eyes, it made what he had to say entirely too real and all too scary. “I really liked being your travel buddy.” 

You could tell he was holding back too. That everything you wanted to say to him and everything he wanted to say to you wasn’t meant to be translated into words, that exchanging sentimental smiles was all you and he could afford. Instead, it was better to exist through the language of emotions, floating around the train, moving with time, and eventually, when you and Jungkook returned to the world, those emotions would remain with the train and travel beyond your destination. 

That’s why you let them go. Sometimes, a train is only meant to be a train. 

“Me too. Though, I have to admit I hated you at first.” 

“I know.” He grinned as you etched the most accurate memory of it in your brain as you could. 

His stance came unprecedented. The small radio tucked in his bag now sitting on the table, serenading an unfamiliar melody and overtaking the silent air inside Cart 102. Then, came his hand, extended to you just like he had yesterday. Only this time, you didn’t need to wonder what he wanted from you because you would give whatever he asked. 

You took his hand, or rather you gave him yours, and followed his gentle tug until it led you to his body, pressing away all the space once separating the two of you. Jungkook’s hand followed the curve of your waist until it landed at the small of your back while you instinctively rested yours on his shoulder. 

You and Jungkook swayed to the music until all those words about moving with time became real. The way he held you close had you immune to the passage of time. The soft brush of his breath against your cheek felt welcoming, and you would try your very best to remember the way existing felt when your skin was touching his. It was odd, dancing on a train with someone you didn’t know well enough to call a friend but weren’t estranged enough to call an acquaintance. Again, it felt like you were in between two walls, stuck, trying to out-think your way through a collapsing maze of judgement. 

Though, no matter how odd it was, it stopped neither you nor Jungkook from holding onto each other for the last few moments available. 

The train must have hit a rock, one you would like to thank because it knocked the two of you over until you had fallen into his lap, laughing so hard your bodies shook. You would have been uncomfortable in this compromising position if not for the sense of belonging fostered in the empty space in your chest while being in his arms.

Jungkook didn’t notice you were detangling your limbs from his until you were already gone, seated across from him in the same spot. 

Once, he learned in science class of this phenomenon called ‘afterimage’, which is when your eyes get so accustomed to staring at one particular thing that when you look away, the thing stained your vision in the form of a silhouette, like an echo of something your eyes grew so comfortable seeing that it stayed with you, even when you looked away.

And he knew, even when the view of you sitting across from him in this train wasn’t there anymore, he would carry that afterimage of you, always echoing in his vision like a beautiful melody he couldn’t get out of his head. Not that he wanted to let go anyway

It was sour, the cruelty of letting go. When the train began to brake, it felt like a lifetime of agony. A bitter, unforgiving slap in the face courtesy of the confines of reality, stealing you away from the shelter of a train; a place that made it so easy to be swept up in something as dazzling and impossible as magic. You were onto important things, you knew this, but it was nice to live, even if it were just for a bit, inside something as magical as Cart 102, where you could count on a generous supply of warm coats, milk with honey and cinnamon, and Jungkook.

“Well, our stop is here. Hey, how about we share a cab? Why not save some money, right?” You could only nod, because speaking would have led to tears, which would have led to a failed explanation of why you were crying.

Jungkook hailed the yellow vehicle over, the opening of his shirt widened just an inch too much to let your mind wander.

“You’re going to the hospital, right?” He asked.

“Yeah, the only one in town.” You said, knowing the driver wouldn’t need any more specifics than that. This town was so small there were a lot of singular facilities that made the layout equally difficult to be crammed into and easy to memorize. One library, one park, one church, and one hospital.

As Jungkook went to give the driver your destinations, you packed up the luggage into the trunk. Not too long after, you were side by side in the back of a cab. All you could bring yourself to do was gaze out of the window and watch all the familiar scenes of your hometown pass by, each landmark dousing you with a strong presence of nostalgia. 

No matter how sad parting ways with Jungkook was, it was good to be home.

The cab finally arrived at the hospital, and you got out not expecting the other person in the car to get out with you. Perhaps he was being polite and saying goodbye. You knew you would have done the same if his stop preceded yours.

The two of you stood in front of the entrance, gawking up at the tall building that was in desperate need of reconstruction. You turned your gaze over to Jungkook. 

“Where to now, Mr. Jeon?” You asked, since this town was small enough, and you were fluent in every secret hiding spot it had to offer, you might be able to visit him if that wouldn’t come off as too invasive.

“I'm here.” He responded just as ambiguously and ever so matter-of-factly as always. This time, you demanded to know more.

“What? What do you mean?”

“It took a long time to find a doctor that specializes in my condition.” Jungkook finally turned to you, his eyes crowded by tears. “My heart is weak, ___. I came here to get better, and hopefully, I do. I'm going to be a famous composer one day, and I’ll need a strong heart to get me to that point.” 

You felt angry at him again. For not telling you, because it felt less like keeping something from you and more like lying to you. For telling you, and making it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, that it wouldn’t break your heart into pieces weaker than his own.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It was the harsh snap he expected from you, but he was committed to keeping this a secret until he couldn’t because it was easier that way. 

“I didn’t want to admit it. I’m scared, ___. Really scared. If I don't get better…” 

“Well, you have to! Carnegie Hall is waiting for you and I didn’t waste my time getting to know you for nothing. So, you just go ahead and get better okay?” Your words were coated in anger but layered on top of something compassionate, sweet even. Sweeter than milk, honey, and cinnamon. 

“I’ll try.” He grinned again, knowing it would satisfy you for the time being. Grinning, like a goodbye gift. 

“You’re an idiot, Jungkook.” 

Before you could lose the last word, you gripped your luggage in one hand, the pillow in the other, and made your way into the hospital, leading to what you knew would be countless nights spent at the side of a hospital bed, eating foods you’d rather not eat, and watching daytime cable while taking care of your mother.

What you didn’t know was that a good portion of those nights would be spent with someone else. Someone who resided in the west wing of the hospital. 

Someone who would bring your hand to his heart, and ask you if it felt stronger, and you would always reply with ‘yes’, or ‘yes, you idiot’, even when you were terrified that one day your hand wouldn’t feel the tap of his heart against his chest. Someone who would sing to you in exchange for the times you would read to him. Someone who you would leave notes and small gifts for, his personal favorite being the packet of walnuts accompanied with a folded paper inscribed ‘for when you need to get out of class’. Someone who, when he would be having a particularly difficult night, you’d fall asleep holding hands with, and you’d wake him up with a warm cup of his signature beverage.

Someone you would inevitably begin to fall in love with. 

A month later, one of two people you loved dearly would walk out with you through those hospital doors. That person was Jungkook. And the melancholy of losing your mother to the battle between her and her cancer would also follow you, and stay with you almost as long as Jungkook had.

A year later, you would return, hand in hand with Jungkook. Every two months. It was the promise you sealed onto your mother's gravestone that you would always return every two months. Even if the weather dispatched the most terrifying thunderstorms, or your work piled a stack of paperwork high enough to reach the sky, you’d still return home.

You and Jungkook placed a bundle of wildflowers you picked on the way to her grave, sitting at the top of a grassy highland, at the base of the granite stone. She was overlooking the world, with a perfect view of you; it made you feel safe that she was watching over you, and she was watching over Jungkook and his slowly recovering heart. 

The weather was perfect. The sun blanketed everything beneath it with a generous warmth but didn't restrict the gentle breeze from tempering it. The leaves and grass moved with the wind, but your mother’s tombstone was strong and unmoving, losing no part of herself to the fluid motions of the spring air. 

“I kind of like it here.” He said softly, adorning the view of the hilltop with you. It was the morning, and it didn’t feel like he was sharing the world with you anymore. It felt like it was yours to begin with, and he was just lucky enough to be allowed a part of it. 

“Me too.” One hand was with Jungkook, and the other was with your mother.

“I think it would be a nice place to get married and raise our children. You know, after I become a world-renowned composer and all.” This would have shocked you if you had not been wishing to hear him confirm these dreams of yours for a while now. “Did that scare you? I didn’t mean to be too forward.”

“No, I think this would be the perfect place to live. Only if it's with you.” Because you knew, something was missing here without him. He made this hometown of yours finally complete in the wake of your mother’s passing. 

When you kissed him, he tasted like honey. And he would have told you that you tasted like cinnamon.

It could never scare you, because you were in love.

You were in a debt of gratitude that was deeper than the ocean. There was so much you wanted to say to him.

The town is milk. It is up to you and me, Jungkook, to provide the ingredients that will liven this town of milk into something sweeter, something survivable, something that will continue to sustain a force as powerful as love. Without the honey and cinnamon, all you have is milk. It seems we are the perfect blend of the two to make this bitter place palatable when it hits our tongues. This town needs us together in the same way milk needs honey and cinnamon. 

You didn’t say any of those words out loud. You didn’t need to. All you needed to say was:

“I love you.”

And all he needed to say was:

“I love you too.”