#why do i keep torturing myself by letting my brain get carried away with its little scenarios only setting me up for false hope 🥲 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

legguk · 3 years ago

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Hi!! So,

it's my ( literal ) first time writing fanfiction, so I'm pretty new at this stuff, but Lady Dimitrescu is all I was able to think about for weeks and I >needed< to do something about it.

( If you want some context, I wrote this thinking “what if Alcina survived?” - Alcina's pov )

———

The fall,

The end of everything you once loved

Ethan Winters.

You woke up... somehow, you woke up. The frigid air hitting your fresh wounds felt like a jolt send by reality, as if one says "you're still alive" -

- and oh how you were starting to hate that feeling.

Laying on the demolished floor of your castle, muscles twitching in pain, mouth open gasping for air... that's how you are, how you will remember yourself from now on. A defeated dragon, a crushed woman, a dead mother.

You should get up, you should let go of your carcass and crawl your way back into the warmth of your home, you should—

—you should be dead, actually. Resting on death's cold embrace along with your daughters.

Daughters.

God, your daughters.

The memories flood your mind with a painful, unbearable reminder; they're gone, dead, crystalized - gone. They're gone. Your lovely daughters, your pride and joy, the main reason you'd open up your eyes in the morning...

...Bela,

Cassandra,

Daniela....

Their names are long cold, not yet forgotten - no, never forgotten - but somewhere else, as they don't belong here anymore; not on your arms, tucking them to bed. Not on your hands, caressing their faces. Not on your lips, kissing their foreheads. Not on your tongue, as you say them.

A raspy scream leaves your throat, it sounds disturbing.

You sob, hot tears trailing down your cheeks and neck, small cries for help find their way into the wind, disappearing with less importance then when they materialized.

You cannot recall for how long you stayed at that very same position, perhaps some hours, perhaps a day, but you are certain that at some point you were overcame by tiredness and collapsed - probably the best to do for now.

xxx

And so, rises the moon and the stars watch upon your limp body, the night howling a merciful wind and singing a melodic song. Grunting, you push yourself up with your elbows, sitting up and facing the sky through the hole you've made on the roof... and the levels above...

A huge carcass sits besides you, it's wings bended on itself and it's big mouth open to whoever would like to have a peek; you probably changed back into your normal body while unconscious... Now that you can see it clearly, you notice the damage that man-thing did to you... by heavens, how were you still alive and...

Oh. The castle. You look forward, taking in the horizon - the stars look exclusively shiny tonight - you breath in, the dusty air causes you to chough a few times. Stretching your neck a bit to see your whole house, you tell yourself it looks.. fine, actually, ignoring the broken windows. The broken windows.

It's cold. You shiver harshly, panting as the air meets your bare back and rumbles through your lungs, making you hug yourself, - you're naked, you just realized - the winter in Romania is truly kind to no one.

Your legs tremble with just the thought of trying to stand on your feet. You don't rush to do it either, let the wintry breeze take in your wounds, make it sting, burn it, freeze it; freeze your body along.

“To die. To die is to live. To live without them, that's torture. To live without their presence, absent of their scents, to not hear them, nor see their faces again, that's worse than death; far, far worse. How could I ever walk into that damned house without the heavenly sounds of their laughs, the tapping of their feet as they walk free, the steadiness of their heartbeats, reminding me that my own still beats.

Beats for them. For them only.

And they're gone.

So who shall my heart beat for? Myself? No, that wouldn't do. I will rip it out from my chest if I must, sacrifice it to any god who may hear me, all so I could spend five more minutes with them. Then I'd die in peace and find them at my arms again at whatever comes after this poor life.

But I'm here.”

You still hold yourself as you stare at a castle's - broken - window, new warm tears hanging the same trail the old and now dry ones did, a silent cry.

Your intrusive thoughts were abruptly cut by a loud noise from the inside of the castle, making you jump up, gathering all your last strengths to stand and walk a few shaky steps closer to home. The more you walked, the louder the noises got; a little rustle became a bang, and your tiptoing became a sprint, you hold yourself as tight as you can, ignoring the bleeding, the cold air spiking your lungs, how insanely fast you heartbeat was. You need to get there, protect the last remnant of them you still have.

The gates felt heavy now, even for you, who would open them with one hand. Where is your strength now? The fearless dragon who'd do anything to protect her house? Perhaps she died on that fall, and now all there's left is a shadow of what you were one day.

With much pain, you open the big doors, leading to the comfort of your house; you don't get in, you throw yourself in. The warm atmosphere engulfed you like a summer kiss on a winter storm, all you needed to ground yourself to reality for now. Grabbing some sheets laying over an old counter, you wrap yourself in it – oh, that's gonna get soaked in blood, but that's not of your concern now – moving incredibly fast for someone as hurt as yourself, you follow the continuous sounds that could not mean something good. The main doors are open, the cellar is unlocked as well, that idiotic man-thing couldn't even close the doors once he finished slaughtering your home? Imbecile.

You stand at the library's door now, suddenly frozen; you know what happened in there... do you really want to get in? Are you truly ready to face it again? Maybe you should take a step back and walk away, it would be the most logical decision to take now.

But what is logic when the heart screams? What is the brain for once your emotions take the best of you? You can't walk away. Put some honor on your name. Save the last bit of your daughter that fate is still conceiving you. Your chest rises and falls completely out of coordination, your fists close around the fabric involving your body; get ready, you're going in; gather the last bit of courage you have inside yourself and blast these doors.

And so you do.

You bring those pieces of wood to the ground, the only barrier between you and the reality you couldn't accept; a guttural growl forms in your chest as you see a lycan approach your child's crystalized body; you're blind with ire, sorrow, protectorship - you name it - and it makes you shout at the top of your lungs as you dilacerate the filthy beasts you'd bat your eye at. A bloody trail of corpses marks your way through the castle grounds, your claws dripping with fresh sanguine fluid - which you can't tell if it's from the creatures or from yourself - the crimson path follows you all the way to the other wing of mansion like a spirit who must haunt you for eternity.

You scream like a feral animal, blood soaking the once white cloth around your form; the scream becomes a shriek, which descends to a yelp, ending as a furious cry. You can feel the anger leaving you, like the waters of a waterfall; explosive, big portions of water falling into a numb, deaden lake. Hopefully those waters will carry you with them, you shall fall and sink at a anesthetizing lagoon.

You kneel, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned; a loud sigh fills the deafening silence in the air, your mind is blank – better, your mind is red, scarlet red mixed with black, ire and grief. Slowly, your head lower itself so you're facing the floor.

The big Lady Dimitrescu,

kneeling on a pool of blood, defeated.

•

“Lady Dimitrescu!”

Who..? The voice was so far yet so close, you try your best to focus on the direction of the calls but your nerves just won't cooperate.

“Lady!”

Who would be calling for you? Is your mind playing tricks on you now? And since when you were laying on the floor? Too many questions for too little answers. You try to stand up, but a sharp pain on your side made you cry out and fall on your back, face knotted in pain – perhaps your adrenaline rush was keeping you from feeling what was really happening with your body, and now you feel like you're betraying yourself for that.

A small figure approaches you in a fast pace, causing you to unleash your claws one more time and snarl at the not-so-possible threat; you were hurt. Vulnerable. Letting someone close was the last thing you wanted now. The humanoid thing backs away a few steps with your aggressive reaction, hands on their chest, visibly afraid – even though your vision is quite blurry, you identify their expression: scared, desperate, sorrowful – they call out once more, almost shouting.

“Please, Lady Dimitrescu, let me help!”

Ah... Help... The now clearer feminine voice washes over you - a wave of compassion - as if hope has found its way to your house again. Well, it better go away again, or you'll drag it out yourself.

“Out.” was all that left your lips, your intense gaze locking with hers, a silent yet not so discrete warning; although you had only said one word, it was well understood by the woman, who stepped away, eyes still meeting yours, a dreadful cast hang on her face.

Still, she didn't left.

Is that girl testing her luck? It can only be. Once again you warn her: “Leave. I will not repeat myself.”

Her posture stiffens, after a moment of silence she looks at the door, truly wondering about leaving or not; her body turns around, her knuckles going white from how hard she was grabbing the fabric on her chest – she's conflicted. But why? Who is she, after all? – A long, defeated sigh leaves her, as if she knows there is no choice left.

“Allow me to help.” A failed effort on trying to sound confident; her voice is full of tears and her tone is oscillating – it makes you wonder if she has been crying – The human walks towards you, trying not to make any eye contact; you can't stand on your feet, you left hand is pressed on your injured side, the other is open and directing your now extended nails towards her.

Oh how funny it is, no?

The predator being cornered by the prey. The dragon being trapped by the rabbit. How ridiculous it is.

Her extremely shaky hands hang in front of her, trying to say she won't hurt you – oh if she only knew it's going to be the other way round. – One step closer.. Her lips and chin tremble; Another. Your claws grow bigger, eyes peering through her soul; another step, your eyebrows frown, her eyes are teary. The last step - your blood is boiling hot, your nerves on edge; you are still the predator. - a slicing sound and a half-scream saturate the air for a millisecond, just for silence to overfill it once more. Red splashes over the room again, on your face, on your chest, but mostly on the floor, where the girl was thrown at.

An agonizing scream leaves her throat - what a miracle, she remains alive - both of her hands cover her face, blood spilling all over her; what a sight, you would most definitely enjoy this very much on another situation. She cries out in despair, making you face the ceiling and close your eyes, a tired look on your face – you just want all this to end, you don't have any more patience for this. You want to crawl back into your bed and starve, you want to destroy this place, make it abandoned ruins of what one day was a home; you want to kill that damned sickening man-thing, kill this foolish girl for perturbing your grieving, and then yourself.

The woman captures your attention once again, she is kneeling, her body facing yours, her right hand presses her ripped face, the other makes its slow way up to you, although she is trembling, she manages to keep her hand steady enough to hand you a little green flask with a yellow-y label; You look closer, 'treatment disinfectant' it says... Oh you can only be joking. You feel like slaughtering the girl right this instant, but takes in a deep breath and holds the flask, her hand immediately falling along with her body. Is she dead? No, her slow yet consistent breathing exclaims that she is still alive – you honestly find it a bit offensive – You should, but you cannot bring yourself to finish the human; you should end her suffering, but now she caught your attention; and besides, she wants to help, doesn't she? then the price she'll pay is staying alive.

———

hahaaa I'm so nervous about posting this,,, ,

and yes! It is a alcina x maiden fic! I do plan it to be slow burn, and if some you liked it and read it till here, please like and/or reblog and I'll post chapter 2!

( posted on Ao3! Name: “The woman in your castle” )

( chapter 2 posted!! )

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #help idk what im doing

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twig---verginix · 2 years ago

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Hi <3 Are you excited about your spotify wrapped? Do you have a spare few hours and a deep desire to spend them thinking about song lyrics? Pick the most interesting lyric from each song and make yourself a handy dandy

~prompt list~

that will bring you lasting satisfaction without having to make a uquiz question that you imagine people will be annoyed by. I highly recommend it. I've been doing this for hours.

And I’ll forget about it when I wake up late and stupid, I tried to tell the Uber driver till he tried to hit it/I tried to tell myself because I've come this far along, carrying my zombie arm to the 15th-grade prom

We understand we've been given a new covenant, a real sharp one/and we spend our days and nights gaining new appreciation of its finer points

This was how Cyrus got sent to the school where they told him he'd never be famous/and this was why Jeff, in the letters he'd write to his friend, helped develop a plan to get even

I have two big hands and a heart pumping blood/and a 1967 Colt 45 with a busted safety catch

Break the lock on my own garden gate when I get home after dark/Sit looking up at the stars outside, like teeth in the mouth of a shark

We each have our guns drawn, but neither of us wants to shoot first/We could stay like this forever. We could stay like this and never leave

And you think that it gets better, just you wait until next week/You're keeping a dark secret (but you're talking in your sleep)

And I think of you when I put on your old clothes/We don't talk all that often, who ever does/But I'll visit you soon and sing you a tune/About finding a family somewhere in the ruin

Raskolnikov felt sick, but he couldn't say why/when he saw his face reflected in his victim's twinkling eye

When I tell you that I love you, don't test my love/Accept my love, don't test my love/'Cause maybe I don't love you all that much

She hopes I'm cursed forever to sleep on a twin size mattress/In somebody's attic or basement my whole life

You stayed up to see the sun/I couldn't wait that long

I'm gonna bribe the officials, I'm gonna kill all the judges/It's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage

Basically, the public never responded, you were so amazingly what nobody wanted/I held tight to every scrap that I took in, but it's like it all happened when nobody was looking!

Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall/Never should have called/ but my head's to the wall and I'm lonely

But if the shoe fits, then I won't try it on/You'll be walking out early, but the show must go on/No, I know that I'm wrong/but I love how you're on my side when I cross that line

And I park in an alley and I read through the postcards you continue to send/where, as indirectly as you can, you ask what I remember. I like these torture devices from my old best friend

Turn my headphones up real loud/I don't think I need them now 'cause you stop the noise

'Cause this is the part where I shut up and let you infest my brain/Wrap your arms around my cortex, dig you in and let you drain

Try to look a little older so I can go/down to the bar, there's someone waiting to take me home

I drove home in the California dusk/I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum/Pictured the look on my stepfather's face/Ready for the bad things to come

You must fix your heart/and you must build an altar where it swells/When the storm it gains and the sky it rains/Let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away

Maybe somewhere there's a someone waiting there with a smile/And maybe there'll be a place to stop and rest awhile/And maybe you weren't meant to be just a rolling stone/And there's a road to travel on that leads me back to home

I spent this year as a ghost and I'm not sure what I'm looking for/A voice on the phone that you rarely answer anymore

And I stood there like a businessman waiting for the train/and I got ready for the future to arrive.

I know how you feel, no secrets to reveal (nobody knows me at all)/Very late at night and in the morning light (nobody knows me at all)

I'm not Robert Frost, if I wrote a poem about the weather/ it would start in my car, digging out for an hour

They're gonna clean up your looks with all the lies in the books to make a citizen out of you/because they sleep with a gun and keep an eye on you, son, so they can watch all the things you do

Regrind the lens again, and again, and again, and again, but still the picture flips/Anyone here mentions Hotel California dies before the first line clears his lips

I can see you far away as you grow and change and I stay the same/but I, I'm just like you, I've got, got no name at all

Hey, space cadet, are you still floating around that rock that you spent/so much of your life trying to get away from? (and does it at least look different from up there?)

The nights are lovely, dark, and deep/but I'll appear when you're asleep/You'll wake up with a sudden hurt/mouth and nose all full of dirt

It feels like it takes forever. It's maybe five minutes on the screen/but the horns will swell and the strings will sound when that flipped quarter hits the ground

It reaches in and tears your flesh apart as ice cold hands rip into your heart/That's if you've still got one that's left inside that cave you call a chest

I found a letter that said, "I'm sorry that you were asleep when I wrote these words down."/You'd think I ought to be used to that by now

On your birthday, you woke up/The snow was on the ground/You opened books and peeked inside/They kissed you on your crown

You can't give me back what you've taken/but you can give me something that's almost as good

Maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee and never ever watch the ten o'clock news./Maybe you should kiss someone nice, or lick a rock, or both.

Can you hear me? Are you near me? Can we pretend to leave, and then we'll meet again/ when both our cars collide?

This dream isn't feeling sweet, we're reeling through the midnight streets/and I've never felt more alone, it feels so scary getting old

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow. I hope it bleeds all day long/Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises; we're pretty sure they're all wrong

I awoke to trees passing by at the speed of 65/Took a while to realize where I had spent the night

I won't explain or say I'm sorry/I'm unashamed, I'm gonna show my scars

I could lie and say to you that this would soon be over/I could lie and say I knew where we'd be waking up tomorrow

"June, July, August," she said/They stared at the summer about to fade away

Nothin' bout the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming til now/so you tie up your hair and you smile like it's no big deal

A voice like your father's tells you nothing good's for free/Well, that may be, but you're walking home to me

I said more photographs may come to light/I said I'm sorry, and I'm seeking help

You sing the words but don't know what it means/ to be a joke, and look, another line without a hook

And I start laughing like a child, and I mark their faces one by one/Transfiguration's gonna come for me at last and I will burn hotter than the sun

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shimmershae · 4 years ago

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The more I think about it, the more “Find Me” feels like an echo of “Ghosts.”

Allow me to explain. In probably the most rambling and incoherent way possible, lol. My earlier post on Twitter about Season 10 being an exercise in grief and longing really got me to thinking. Not just thinking. Ruminating.

Anywho.

Posting the rest of this beneath a cut because nobody asked for this (I swear I haven’t imbibed or ingested any illegal substances).

It doesn’t take long for Carol to be established as an unreliable narrator in “Ghosts.” At first it isn’t completely obvious because there’s just enough fact in the fiction that Carol’s triggered brain stirs up. Daryl’s there and he’s concerned about her. He’s supportive. Both things he’d been before, especially since Henry’s death, but there are just enough elements in those chemically and grief induced hallucinations of hers that make you go--oh wait a minute. Like she’s having a break from reality but she’s desperately grasping for that which grounds her and that’s Daryl.

Am I making any sense here? I feel like I’m not.

Let me approach this from another angle.

Following the airing of “Find Me” various people mentioned that Daryl, similarly to Carol in “Ghosts” wasn’t exactly the most reliable narrator. That things weren’t necessarily as they seemed. The word toxic was bandied about but other than Leah giving Daryl an ultimatum to choose her over his family and Daryl dwelling in deep, longstanding depression? There wasn’t much else overtly deserving of that moniker.

Argh. I’m still not explaining myself well. Let me just jump right in the deep end of probable delusion here. Sometimes it’s fun to splash around, lol.

Wouldn’t it be wild—sad AF but still wild—if Leah was already dead when Daryl met her?

Bear with me here.

Like Carol in “Ghosts” Daryl is obviously struggling. He’s grief-stricken. His brother is lost to him and after he betrayed him no less. His close friend is mired in her own grief--she’s just lost her mate, probably recently discovered she was carrying RJ, and it wasn’t too long before that they had all lost Carl. And that’s not even considering Carol, who’s allowed herself to be pulled away, lured by the tantalizing chance of doing things right this time. Of rearing a child capable of surviving in the harsh world they live in. Another thing to remember is Daryl is not that far removed from his torture at Negan’s hands. So he’s more fragile than he’d willingly admit to anyone.

He’s searching the woods for a man that isn’t there. Now he’s no more aware that Rick was taken than the rest of Team Family, but he’s unwilling to give up hope and so he searches and because Rick’s not there and hasn’t been since shortly after that bridge blew up, Daryl’s doomed to always come up empty. To always feel disappointment. To never have his grief assuaged because as long as there’s no body in the form of a Walker, there’s still hope. Or plausible denial. Take your pick.

He’s tireless in his search. He’s methodical. He plots out the places he’s already scoured on a hand-drawn map. A map that just so happens to get ruined by an awful storm and Daryl seems to reach his breaking point, screaming out into the roar of that storm. Walking through the barrage, the harsh rain and the violent lightning, unconcerned for his safety.

Dude has a bit of a mental break. He’s undeniably emotional.

It’s not long after that he stumbles upon Dog. Or, more aptly, Dog stumbles upon him.

That puppy immediately lightens Daryl’s heavy heart and helping it find its way home gives him purpose. He’s a tracker after all. He could have easily traced Dog’s steps back to that cabin.

Funny that Dog was always coming to him. That he was roaming free in woods that were full of hidden dangers.

I don’t know about the rest of ya’ll but that cabin looked abandoned when Daryl first discovered it. Maybe not long abandoned, but it didn’t look inhabited by the living. And that’s the weird thing. How did that Walker get into the cabin? Did Leah just leave the door wide open for it? Did she also leave the door wide open for Dog to escape? Why was he always such an unaccompanied furry minor?

The thoughts swirling around in my brain, lovelies. They’re going to force me to go back and watch that fucking episode again aren’t they?

My point is that Dog essentially leads Daryl to the cabin. The Walker’s inside and then he stumbles upon Leah, who bursts onto the scene like she wants to be Sarah Connor or something. Daryl ends up in restraints and Leah questions him and ultimately lets him go and WTF, lovelies. Who does that in the ZA? As a woman all alone in a cabin miles from anybody else, in the company of a man she doesn’t know from Adam? If ever there’s a time to have stranger danger...

Right from the start, this chick doesn’t really add up.

So Daryl leaves the cabin. He resumes his search for Rick and he seems to give very little thought to this Leah or the cabin. Until Dog finds him again.

Strange isn’t it that he keeps stumbling back in her path around the times that Carol visits, when she draws further and further from his reach and closer to the fairytale he thinks she’s living at the Kingdom?

Did Daryl ever go to that cabin without following Dog? I can’t remember. The episode was beautifully shot but ultimately too painful to rewatch for my Caryl loving heart.

Anywho.

When Daryl and Carol come upon that cabin in the woods, Daryl’s flashbacks begin. They’re hazy around the edges and not as clearly defined as the moments he spends with Carol. Speaking of the moments he spends with Carol, how coincidinky that so many of them echo his moments with Leah? Or do we have it all backwards? Hmm?

Things are so convoluted sometimes on this fucking show it leads one to question their sanity.

Let me ramble out a few wild thoughts for you lovelies again and you tell me if I’ve completely lost it, lol.

What if Dog was simply an orphaned, abandoned Dog that found Daryl in the woods?

What if Daryl followed the trail Dog had traveled in reverse and stumbled upon the cabin?

What if the cabin was abandoned because Leah was already dead? What if she’d taken her own life? What if Daryl saw the cross/grave outside and the picture inside and his grief-stricken brain conjured up a whole tragic story for this woman, this Walker roaming around inside this house, and she became his coping mechanism? You know. Kind of like Rick did Lori when he had his own break with reality. They’ve all suffered so much, lovelies. They’ve all got PTSD. It’s just manifesting in different ways.

I mean, all of this would fit the label of sad that NR and others have given this little tale. It would even fit toxic because Daryl let grief and loneliness swallow him for a while.

As Carol pulls farther away from him, Leah just keeps popping up more and more.

Daryl essentially loses himself in his own fairy tale only it’s a nightmare painted in soft colors and Leah asking him to choose is basically his own psyche saying to him “do you wanna live here in this fantasy land and numb your pain or do you want to relive the awful reality of Rick being lost and Carol slowly fading from your life day by day?” And at first he’s like, you can’t make me make that choice because Daryl doesn’t want to give up hope, no matter how futile it seems. But then Carol makes what she tells him might be her final visit for a while and anger leads Daryl right back to that fucking cabin and oblivion. Back to the solitude of his tortured thoughts.

That note, lovelies. It felt like by choosing Leah he was choosing a lifetime of being alone more than it did him choosing the hope of a new love. That “find me” for all the world felt like he was willing hope to find him again. Hope in the form of love in the form of Carol.

Listen. I never said this would make sense, lol.

When Daryl gets back to that cabin, Leah is gone. Her picture is gone.

Truly it felt like she’d never been there.

Even more so when you consider how run down the cabin looks in present day when Daryl and Carol seek shelter in it.

I can’t help it. Some small part of me? Well, it thinks that Daryl told Carol about Leah (whether she existed or not) as a way to both make her feel better than he wasn’t out there in those woods completely alone and to maybe move the needle a little bit on the nature of their own relationship. Both in the past and present day.

And while he and Carol are struggling through the ever-shifting nature of their feelings for each other, Daryl has climbed out of his own darkness and found hope again in Judith and RJ. In the family he’s embraced again. In the communities. And he’s angry and unsettled because he wants the same for Carol but she doesn’t seem to want that for herself.

He still wants her to find hope.

He still wants her to find him.

He still wants her to find love and peace.

Help me, lovelies. These two have broken me, lol. I promise. I’m stone cold sober. A little, okay a lot, tired.

Wouldn’t it be wild, though? If Leah really wasn’t what she seemed? If she were a figment of a broken, lonely man’s tortured imagination?

Undeniably sad AF but wild all the same.

#The Walking Dead #Shae's thinky thoughts #Caryl speculation #Caryl #Carol x Daryl #Carol Peletier #Daryl Dixon #things that make me smile and cry #and giggle and giggle #for reasons

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devinescribe · 4 years ago

Note

I’m working on something similar that 60/40 will leave my drafts somewhere between now and never

But… in my imagination, it probably happens kind of a lot. So, here we go

I am basing kind of off the soft niragi hours thing that I’ve managed to dump out of my brain. They’re both soft nerds inside, but are also feral weirdos.

Anyway, niragi and y/n just came back from an exhilarating game and have visa days to spare so they decide to get hammered and enjoy a few days off from almost certain death

Y/n goes off drinking, dancing, and carrying on, not meaning to leave niragi behind. She’s independent and he’s an adult so she figures it’s all good

But unbeknownst to her, he’s sulking, drunk, horny, watching her and feeling increasingly insecure and jealous

I know you’re uncomfortable with smut, so as light or heavy as you feel like, but

Sexy chaos ensues!

And maybe some cuddles, after care, and talking about feelings like evolved adults

Then a nice sleep

I hope you have fun with this! I always enjoy your writing and appreciate your support for my keyboard mashing xo

[No Doubt]

Niragi Suguru

THIS IS MY ONE OF MY FAVORITE PEOPLE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD AHHHH-

ok, I'm fine. And I'm just not confident in my smut writing skills. I can read it just fine. Writing it is just a bit harder. But there's slight smut

Warnings: Swearing, blood, jealousy, Niragi being insecure, slight smut

You laughed, giving Niragi a quick kiss. "That's some fucking power!" You shouted. He laughed, watching you be excited over the game. The only thing you weren't happy about was about your shoes getting blood on them. Other than that you were ok.

"Woo! We just fucking did that!" You shouted. He would never be able to get over how excited you got. "Yeah we did!" He laughed. You smiled, feeling the excitement running through you. "5 days added to our visa, that makes how many day babe?" You asked, grabbing your knife out of the guy you had stabbed. "If I remember correctly, 9 days," he answered. You nodded. "Can we take a few days off of games? Pleaseeee?" You begged. He nodded. He couldn't say no to you.

After getting situated back at the Beach, you two had decided to head down to one of the never ending parties. Music blasted from every which way. It was loud, but that was exactly what you needed right now.

Usually you stayed close by Niragi. Usually.

But today, you had gone off, chatting with people, drinking, partying, dancing.

He watched as you swayed your hips to the music, dancing in rythym to the beat. You were so cute. So perfect. It was almost too perfect how you fit perfectly in his arms every night. But, that was just you. Utter perfection.

He saw you talking to someone and scowled immediately at it. Why were they talking to you? Weren't they aware you were his? He had made sure everyone knew. Marking you up, giving you hickeys and the occasional bruise that everyone could see. He also wasn't shy with PDA. So why the hell would anyone talk to you, knowing full well you were his? He trusted you, he loved you, so he wasn't angry at you. In fact , he didn't know if he felt angry, sad, or rejected. He couldn't tell the difference between all three feelings.

So, in order to sort of forget about it, he decided to have a drink. And another. And another.

Now, Niragi, when drunk, isn't horrible. He's extremely quiet. But, that's only because he gets trapped in his thoughts.

'Does she even really like me? Or is she just scared I'll hurt her if she tries to leave?'

'I'm so worthless, all I do is hurt other people. I've probably hurt (Y/N) without realizing it.'

'She doesn't hate me does she? No, she doesn't... Maybe she does? I mean she was talking to that guy... no! I can't be jealous... I don't really have the right to be jealous, I talk to people.'

'I deserved the years of torture I was put through. I mean... maybe it was a payback for now that I didn't understand back then...'

He stood in a dark corner of the room, watching as bodies moved on the dance floor. He found you, smiling and having a good time. You looked so happy... So cute... And hot....

He shook his head, ridding himself of the thoughts he had.

'I should just pull her away from those guys. They know she's fucking mine. Maybe I'll just fuck her in front of them so they get the message. Why are they talking to her? I can see their intentions in their eyes.'

'Bitch, you're halfway blind you can't see shit. And I don't think (Y/N) would enjoy that very much.'

'Oh, that's great, I'm having multiple conversations in my head, somehow insulting myself in Chishiya's annoying ass voice. And I'm not blind, I can see perfectly- why am I defending myself against my conciousness? Holy fucking hell...'

You smiled, feeling the music. That's one of the things you liked here. No one really had bad music tastes.

Besides that, most people were really care free here. The only time they really needed to put effort in was at the games. Even then, a lot of them didn't, leaving them to an untimely demise. Sad, but it's what you get for drinking yourself to exhaustion.

You swayed to the beat, feeling the bass of the music in your bones. You missed the normalcy of parties.

People talked to you, actually being friendly since Niragi wasn't around you, but you didn't notice that. You were lost in your own world. And plus, whoever had a problem with Niragi, would definitely have a problem with you.

"So, no boyfriend tonight?" You heard someone ask. You turned to see a guy standing there with a smile. "Oh... um, my boyfriend is here... I just went off dancing," you said. ''He won't mind if I keep you company, will he?" He questioned. You thought for a minute. Niragi wouldn't mind, would he?

He would. And you knew it wasn't a good idea. So, to spare yourself an argument and the hurtful words of an insecure Niragi, you decided to decline the man's offer. Also, the man didn't seem to kind from how he approached you.

"Oh, no thank you. I'm alright," you said politely with a smile. His smile immediately fell, and a scowl took its place. "Why? Your boyfriend's not here, so gives a fuck?" He spat. You stared in shock. His hands grabbed at you, and you pushed him away. You looked around for Niragi, finding him standing in a corner. You sighed with relief, running to him through the mass amounts of people. Most drunk, so if you pushed them out of the way, you didn't really care. They'd probably think they tripped.

"Suguru!" You shouted over the music, hugging him. He looked down, and his mind broke out of the state of sadness. "What happened?" He asked, placing a kiss on your collarbone. "Nothing," you assured him, pulling him out of the room.

He knew what had happened, he was watching you the whole time. Although he couldn't hear what was being said, he could tell it was an uncomfortable situation for you.

That made him even more insecure. You didn't trust him enough to tell him what had happened.

You didn't mean for him to take it that way, but you also weren't aware he was feeling that way.

As soon as you two got to your room, he pushed you down on the bed. You squealed, holding onto him. He kissed down your neck, softly pushing your hands down. You giggled, making him look at you. You kissed his lips, feeling him slowly let go of your hands. You brought them up to his face, gently bringing him closer.

"What's going on with you? So sweet," you muttered against his lips. " 'M always like this," he whispered back, before kissing you again. "Alright if you insist darling," you whispered, kissing him back.

It seemed every time you would kiss back, he would pull away. It was so not like him.

"Mmm... Suguru, you gotta tell me what's up," you muttered. "I think you know what's up. But you'll find out soon," he teased with a smirk. You blushed at his words, and looked away. "Don't look away (N/N)," he said, his voice soft. "I won't..." you promised, sitting up. He backed up, sitting on the bed. You crawled into his lap, and placed your head in the crook of his neck. He could feel your hot breath on his skin, making goosebumps rise. You kissed up his neck, tracing his jaw with your fingers. "You know how to rile me up, you know that right?" He muttered, his hands squeezing your thighs. You laughed softly. "Of course I do. I need to know what makes you feel weak. 'Cause I love you," you said. He sighed, leaning back on the headboard. "I want more... a lot more. Suguru, can we...?" You asked, messing with your hair. "Yeah... definitely," he said, pulling you closer to him. His hands travelled up and down your body, desperate to map out every inch of your skin.

His hands found the back of your swimsuit, and tugged on it. "I want it off," he ordered. You nodded, quickly undoing the straps in the back. You took the top off, and watched his smirk grow in amusement. You started unbuttoning his shirt, and we're surprised at his hand stopping you. "That's not fair. We have to be even," you pouted. "Who said about being even?" He asked, letting your hands finish unbuttoning it. He shrugged it off his shoulders before taking it off completely. "Hands out," he stated. You did as he told you to do, and he slid his shirt over you. "My beautiful (Y/N)... only mine," he whispered, before kissing you. His hands got tangled in your hair and you grinded down on him. He hissed in pleasure, pulling away. "What do you think you're doing?" He asked. You smiled. "Wanna make you feel good. Something on your mind, but since you won't tell me, I guess I'll have to make you feel good," you explained. He laughed as you got off of him. "I don't think we even need to do anything before hand. I'm so needy, aren't I Suguru?" You teased, running your hand over your breasts covered by his shirt. "You are. But I like that," he said, crawling on top of you. He pulled off the bottoms of your swimsuit, leaving you completely vulnerable to him. "Even if you wanted to make me feel good, have to make you feel good first," he muttered, kissing from your lips, down your chest, over your stomach, and down to your inner thigh. He left a few marks on his journey down, making you wince in pain and pleasure. His kisses and markings felt hot. Like fire dragging across your skin, burning and branding you for him. It was a weird sensation for sure.

He looked up at you, making you smile. You softly grabbed the back of his head, pushing hum forward. "Please?" You whispered. "You don't have to ask you know. Just wanted to see your reaction," he stated.

You panted, your legs falling from his waist. All that partying and drinking had really made you tired. You wiped off the sweat from your forehead. You forgot Niragi's shirt was still on you, and you smiled. He slowly got besides you, kissing your neck again.

"Suguru, we- we're both tired, let's just sleep," you said, pushing him away softly.

A part of you did want to continue, another part was tired. On the other hand, there was something off about this. About him.

He just nodded, and left it at that, holding your body tightly close to his own.

Now you knew something was wrong. Niragi would never WILLINGLY admit he was tired after just once. It took way more convincing than that usually.

"Ok, what's up?" You asked, turning around to face him. "What do you mean? Nothing's up," he said back, hiding his face in your neck. "Oh yes there is. So what's wrong?" You repeated, playing with his hair. "Nothing," he muttered.

Everything was wrong. In his eyes anyway. He didn't think you would be to happy about him doubting you and your relationship.

"Suguru, it's ok to tell me what's wrong. You know I won't judge you," you whispered. "Everything. You just... you look so happy without me, and then every guy and girl seems to think that because I'm not around you, you must be up for grabs. No one talks to you with me around, and I wonder if you're lonely without friends. Then you wouldn't tell me what was going on with that guy, and I could tell it bothered you, but you wouldn't tell me. It made me think you didn't... that you didn't trust me," he answered honestly. It suddenly made sense. He was feeling insecure.

"You know... I really do love you. And the fact people fear you is a stupid reason not to talk to me. I really don't mind. As long as I have you, I'm ok. And most people here think 'no rules? Cool, I can do whatever the hell I want to anyone without consequences.' If anything like that is bothering you, please tell me... I will always be here to listen to you," you whispered. He finally un-hid his face, looking at you. "You mean that?" He asked, caressing your face. "Of course I do baby," you giggled, kissing his nose. He smiled, hugging your body closer to his.

"What did I do to deserve you (Y/N)?"

"You were just made for me. Deserving isn't the right word... Fate. Destiny. How about that?"

"I like that better... Love you (Y/N)... goodnight."

"Goodnight Suguru. I love you too."

That took way to fucking long. I've had the worst case of writers block I'm so sorry-

#alice in borderland #niragi #×reader #fluff #writer's block is a BITCH-#Holy mother of god ive been writing this at work #at my house.#my co workers read it over my shoulder #i was dying to get it done #but had no ideas until tonight #yay #also wattpad is being a little bitch right now and wont let me post this #:'(

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hbcsource · 4 years ago

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Helena Bonham Carter’s Interview with ‘The Sunday Times’ | 20 December 2020

“I have always found that clowns seemed sad,” Helena Bonham Carter tells me over a patchy Zoom call. “That’s why they have to paint their smile on.” She pauses thoughtfully. “I often dress in clown-like things — baggy trousers, braces, white face . . . I love a white face. I don’t know where that comes from. I like any mask, to be honest. Anything that stops me from being me.” Bonham Carter has been feeling the tears of a clown a lot this year. She has seen her industry struggle and worries for younger performers. She has been mourning one of her beloved friends — Nell Gifford, the founder of Giffords Circus — and she has just finished narrating Channel 4’s animated version of Clown, Quentin Blake’s wordless book about a toy who is determined to escape the dustbin he has been thrown into and to build a new life for his fellow binned playthings. “The clown has been discarded on Christmas night, rejected and forgotten, and the story is about how he’s found again and how, through being loved, he comes to life,” she says. “It’s very poetic and touching. The pathos of the clown.” In recording it she found herself thinking a lot about Nell, who died a year ago. They met years ago when Gifford’s traditional circus — vintage tents, old-school performances and artful storylines, written and directed by the mighty Cal McCrystal — was just making its reputation. “We had similar backgrounds,” Bonham Carter says. “Both of us had a parent who had a traumatic brain injury, and our response was similar — an instinct to create our own worlds. She ran off to the circus. And when my amazing father’s brain tumour operation went wrong, I found an agent to help me live as other people. Our lives went through similar things — children, divorce — and we helped each other jump on to the next step. When she died it was very sudden. She had cancer, but I thought she would defy everything.” The film of Quentin Blake’s book, published in 1995 and told entirely in pictures, is the first offering from Eagle Eye Drama, the production company launched by the team behind the TV drama brand Walter Presents. Walter Iuzzolino, its founder, recalls his route into showbiz began when, as a six-year-old in Italy, he watched the Disney Silly Symphony Santa’s Workshop on television. “It was a symphony of movement as the elves worked to create the toys and paint the sleigh,” he says. “It was a hand-drawn piece of 1930s modernist art. I asked my grandparents who did this, and they explained what a producer was. At that point I knew what I wanted to be.” The animation itself was Covid-induced. Eagle Eye had a drama ready to go into production when lockdown closed things down. Iuzzolino realised a replacement project could be created by animators working at home. The team had always loved Quentin Blake and was delighted to find the option on Clown was available. “With Quentin’s drawings being so beautiful, we immediately discarded the CGI PlayStation animation that’s everywhere today — and I hate it,” he says. “We went back to the roots of the craft. I wanted to create my own Silly Symphony. We found artists and animators in the UK, Italy and around the world, and had to produce 30,000 frames, working around the clock while recording the score one instrument at a time. “And then we met Helena — her voice is like the finest Belgian chocolate melted on a Viennese cake. At our first meeting she talked about Giulietta Masina, Mrs Fellini, in La Strada, and I knew she understood the tinge of nostalgia, sadness and melancholy about the clown.” Bonham Carter is flattered, but slightly unsure. “I’m narrating, although I think the cartoon might have been better without me,” she says modestly. “For the genuine children watching, it may help to have my voice guiding them through the story. It has no words as a book, so I’m not doing any characters. I am just the voice-of-God narrator.” She pauses and thinks that through approvingly. “Voice of God. I like that. I’ll try that on my children — ‘I am the voice of God today!’” She remembers the conversation about Masina. It was her husband’s film La Strada — about a brutish circus strongman, played by Anthony Quinn, and his little clown assistant, played by Masina — that began Bonham Carter’s loving relationship with clowns and circus. “I always found the mainstream Zippo-style circus too loud and brash and in-your-face, although I suppose I was always drawn to clowns,” she says. “Why else would I dress like them?” Does that mask thing work? Does it protect her? “Of course it doesn’t,” she says, sighing. “It’s more likely to reveal the internal you. I get excited about acting because it holds the promise that you could become someone else. Then you see yourself and go, ‘Dang, again I didn’t do it. Again I’m revealing myself.’” She bursts out laughing, a full throaty chuckle. “When will I get the message?” she says. She’s 54. “I’m always doing too much. Early on in my career I was told by a director I have an expressive face, and I’ve been trying to keep it in check ever since. And words! I use far too many words. Even my name has too many words in it. The bane of my flipping life. Can I have your autograph? Ugh. It has 18 letters. Brad Pitt only has eight.” And she chuckles again. Having fallen for Masina, she found herself drawn to the circus in the most unexpected ways. “I love the circus family that goes back for years — handing the skills down to the next generation,” she explains. “So the only showbiz thing I forced Billy and Nell, my children, to do was tap dance. It’s not circus, but it felt connected. I tortured the hell out of them by dragging them along every Saturday morning — it’s the only vicarious ambition I’m ever going to force on them.” Has she never considered clowning herself? “I can’t run away and join the circus, I have responsibilities,” she chides. “Nell and I did have serious chats about an act, but we never got around to details. At one point I was going to descend on a moon singing a song, possibly going commando.” She sniggers. “I think one day I will get into the ring somehow.” For the photoshoot she seems to have gone halfway towards the big top. Her look is based on Masina’s little clown — a bowler hat and big boots. “Doing the photoshoot was very cathartic, and I’m afraid I did rather take it to the limit . . .” Her laugh bubbles up again. “I’m a Covid-starved actress, I haven’t had a part for a year, so give me a costume and I will go for it. My children are 17 and 13, so they are no longer prepared to dance with me — photoshoots are my chance to dance by myself. I had the music on and was throwing myself around.” I have the same problem, I confess. My daughters used to dance with me in the kitchen, but now find the idea of Dad dancing a crippling embarrassment. She is outraged. “We don’t have to say goodbye to their childhood just because they have,” she exclaims. “Have you read The Velveteen Rabbit?” I have, I say, but I can’t these days. It breaks my ageing parental heart. “But think about what the story says,” she urges. “It’s like Clown. These toys are the classic result of children growing up. They are discarded, and it’s an emblem of age. The rabbit is losing its ears, but that’s because it’s been so loved. You and me, our faces can sag and our bits can fall off, but that’s because we are being loved.” I give a small gasp. She gives a determined nod. “You remember that this Christmas, Stephen. You hold on to your children’s childhood. Don’t let them take it away. Carry on dancing. Spread the word! Parents and teen-agers: carry on dancing!”

#helena bonham carter #quentin blake's clown #nell gifford #interviews #2020 #interviews: 2020 #the sunday times 2020

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clintbartonswife · 4 years ago

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i’d trade my life for yours

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier Summary: Jaskier will be loyal to Geralt until his last breath, this he swears. Notes: im sorry. descriptions of torture. mentions rape (not graphic in the slightest, more like an allusion, but tagged it just to be safe), major character death. This is the bad ending, for a nicer ending read the series below :) masterlist || nicer ending (p2)

Jaskier had always felt too much, falling a little bit in love with almost everyone he meets. The seamstress from Beauclair with the deepest green eyes he had ever seen, the knight from Kerack who had muscles the size of Jaskier’s head, the innkeeper and his wife from Rinde who had the warmest smiles he had ever seen.

All loves that he treasured, yet let go after a night or two, the heartache keeping him company until he found another gorgeous person to fall for.

When he finds Geralt at the ripe age of 18 it’s different, for once the bard doesn’t want to leave, a nagging feeling pulling him along the path by the Witcher’s side.

His love grows easily, from that of shallow appreciation of his honey golden eyes to a fierce want to protect his love from those that scorn him in every village they visit, a need to nurture the fragile relationship they were building.

It’s only Jaskier’s luck that the only person to ever intrigue him enough to stay seems to want him to leave, impenetrable walls built around his heart.

So, Jaskier writes songs of their travels, being respectful of Geralt’s boundaries whilst still trying to provide as much tender love and care as he could without scaring the Witcher, all the while falling deeper and deeper in love.

Everything starts to go wrong after the djiin.

He watches through the window as his heart breaks with every thrust of Geralt’s hips, the Witchers disinterest (which he had assumed was general Witchery distance) suddenly making more sense - he just didn’t like Jaskier.

Still the bard stayed, sewing his heart back together with every step he took beside the Witcher. His affectionate touches didn’t falter, not allowing his own personal hurt to affect his Geralt negatively. He still deserved as much softness as he could bring himself to provide - Melitele knows Yennefer wasn’t providing that.

Jaskier funnelled all of his creative energy in to his songs, more and more of them staying in his private notebook, too personal to be sung in front of Geralt, let alone the general public.

After each time they met with Yennefer, Jaskier was there to pick up the broken pieces the Witch left behind, baring the brunt of Geralt’s bad mood for a week after she had gone, heart chipping a little more each time as his hatred for the woman grows.

The last straw was the dragon hunt. The whistling winds whipping Jaskier’s hair in his eyes as Geralt’s words lashed out at him, vicious and hateful.

In the following two weeks, Jaskier drank to forget, falling back into old habits and into strangers beds with a new desperation.

The young farmer with hazel eyes - not as beautiful as Geralt’s. The miller’s daughter with blonde hair - not light enough.

The people begin to blend together, yet it doesn’t work. The heartbreak still radiates through his body, numbing him from any other emotion.

He’s too drunk to register that Cintra has fallen.

Too drunk to hear the rumours of the bounty on his head.

Too drunk to notice the Nilfgaardian soldiers entering the tavern.

Too drunk to defend himself against their arms that steal him away that night.

When he awakens the next morning, head throbbing with the familiar pain of a hangover, Jaskier is hit with a wave of nausea.

Turning his head to the side, he reaches for the bed-side table, blanching when he finds his arms restrained. It takes a few seconds to register that he’s in unfamiliar surroundings: the distinctly tavern smell (of weak ale and piss) gone, the slightly scratchy linens of the bed replaced with a hard wood surface.

Unrestrained panic swelled up in the bard’s chest, his instincts kicking in as he tried to mimic sleep.

‘Just breathe slowly, keep your eyes closed and stay calm’ repeated through his brain, sounding suspiciously like Geralt’s voice.

“-the bastard up yet?”

“He wasn’t the last time I checked, no sir”

“And no sign from the Witcher?”

“None sir”

Jaskier heard a scoff as the door opened, two sets of feet stopping at the side of the chair. Unnerving silence fell for a few seconds, before a heavy kick was given to his ribs, punching the air from his lungs in a loud exhale.

“Now listen here, bard” the bigger of the two men all-but-growled, looming over Jaskier as the singer blinked heavily to clear the daze that had settled over him, “We’re going to make this real simple. You tell us what we need to know, and maybe we wont kill you”

Scrunching his nose in disgust, Jaskier considered his options, “What is it that you want to know?”

Another scoff.

“Maybe he’s not so useless after all” the tall man sneered, exchanging an amused glance with the man stood in the corner, “Tell us where the Butcher of Blaviken is”

Self preservation was forgotten as the nickname stirred up anger deep inside Jaskier, the unfairness choking him, “I’m afraid I don’t know any butchers, not the biggest fan of hanging around long enough in towns long enough to befriend anyone in that profession I’m afraid”

That earnt him a sharp slap, the sting helping to ground him.

“Don’t try to be smart. Where is the Witcher - Geralt of Rivia?”

“Oh, I do know him” Jaskier answered, tone kept light and conversational, “Of course I haven’t seen him in months so I’m afraid I’m really of no use to you gentlemen”

Another slap.

“Now that must be a lie. Why would the Witcher leave his little whore behind?”

Now that one stung, the frown forming on Jaskier’s face before he could stop it.

“Aw, struck a chord with that, did I? He found someone else I assume - though Melitele knows how anyone can lay with a monster like -”

Rage finally overflowing, Jaskier spat in the man’s face, “How dare you call him a monster. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be”

A bitter chuckle, followed by a punch that left the bard tasting copper.

“I think you might actually be in love with that thing” he said, amused, “That just makes this all the more fun”

Jaskier held eye contact with the man, glowering as he slowly spat out the pooled blood onto the floor.

“Tell me where he is”

“No”

Two punches to his stomach, and a hard kick to his shin.

“My sister hurt me worse than that for stealing her brush when we were seven” Jaskier sneered.

“Where is he”

A backhand across the face, followed by three hard kicks to his ribs.

“Toss a coin to your-”

Another heavy kick to his stomach, winding him slightly as he keeled forward, a burning pain spreading over his chest.

“Oh valley of plenty” he wheezed, forcing his head back up to stare at his captor’s face.

The day carried on very much the same, Jaskier working through his repertoire of songs as he was beaten black and blue, the lyrics keeping him focused and alert.

The man in the corner just stood and watched, his silent presence looming over the beating.

“I must say” Jaskier eventually huffed, directing his words at the man in the corner, “Your indifference to this situation is highly annoying. Are you not enjoying the performance?”

His question was met with another heavy hit to his stomach, the skin there surely covered in a patchwork quilt of forming bruises.

“You bore me”

The voice was cold, cutting through the pain like a knife and replacing all feeling in his body with the need to flee, an innate wrongness surrounding the man.

He stepped forward into the light, pink eyes flashing at him, “I think it’s high time we shut you up”

The taller man grinned, a shark-like expression that just added to the bard’s discomfort, moving behind him to grab him by the sides of the head, tilting him so that his neck was bared to the room.

They’re going to slit my throat, Jaskier thought absently, half delirious with pain, this is it.

The slimy tendrils of magic prodding at his mind made Jaskier’s eyes widen in panic, struggling against the bonds in a fruitless effort to get away from the unsettling sensation.

No. No this was so much worse.

He could handle pain. He could handle taunting words and harsh treatment. The one thing Jaskier couldn’t handle was fucking mages.

“No - “ he gasped, voice distorted by the angle of his head, “please-”

Yellow eyes. Lips curled in to a snarl.

The mountain.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

No. No no no no no no no. Not this. Anything but this.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, its you, shoveling it?”

White hair. Curled fists.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands”

Wet eyes. Shattered heart. A wasted life.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

And it looped. Again, and again, and again,

“Ready to talk, bard?”

His eyes fluttered open, eyelids heavy, fighting to remain closed.

“Fuck. You” he hissed, words mangled through gritted teeth.

The mage smirked, fingers reaching for his temple again, “Very well. It seems like one hour wasn’t enough”

The last thought Jaskier had before being pulled back to the mountain was one of horror, that one hour had felt like an entire day.

When he came to once more, Geralt’s voice still ringing in his ears, Jaskier realised there was a new man in the otherwise empty room.

“Going to talk yet little birdy?” the man asked, voice far too light for the circumstances, his posture reminiscent of those that approached him in taverns with hopes of charming him into bed that night.

The realisation occurred to him as he noticed his hands were free, a rusty cot added to the corner of the room.

“No” he whispered, the horror palpable in his tone.

“Well that’s too bad” the man sneered, his too-rough hands dragging him out of the chair and towards the cot.

The irony was that in that moment Jaskier would’ve given anything to have been back on that mountain, Geralt blaming him for everything, rather than be faced with his current reality.

Of course, the mage wasn’t kind enough for that.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how many days had passed since his capture.

What he did know was this: his throat was too sore to speak, ruined from both abuse and lack of water; his body was so mottled that it looked like he had begun rotting, greenish-yellow marks covering almost every inch of his skin; his back shredded by the impromptu whipping session earlier that morning; and he wasn’t sure he could muster a smile, even if informed of the untimely and gruesome death of Valdo Marx.

But, no matter what they threw at him, he would not betray Geralt.

He had made this vow to himself during a quiet moment on (what he guessed was) the second day, that no matter what faced him - be it further torture, mutilation and eventually death - he would not speak a word of the little information he knew.

He may have ruined Geralt’s life, may have annoyed him with his incessant and unwelcome company, but one thing Jaskier could give him now was his undying loyalty, the one thing that no one could take away from him.

They wouldn’t take away his love.

So he breathed steadily as he looked as his hands, tied down firmly to the arms of the chair, taking in every detail of the calloused fingers that made him the famous bard that he was today.

“Last chance. Where is the Witcher”

Jaskier just grinned, the smile bloody and insincere.

“Fucking your mother I would imagine” he croaked, withholding the wince of pain from the strain on his throat, instead widening his grin at the look of anger on the man’s face.

With a growl, the man brought the hammer down heavily on Jaskier’s left ring finger, smiling sickeningly at the bard’s agonised scream.

“Where is he?”

Head fuzzy with pain, Jaskier scowled and spat his blood in the man’s eyes.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed around the small room, Jaskier’s scream ringing out as another two fingers were smashed.

The line of questioning continued until all of his fingers were unrecognisable, the bard humming ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ through tears as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

“What a shame” the captor said, fake sympathy swimming in his cold eyes, “Looks like you’re worth even less than you were when we found you. What worth is a bard if he cant play anymore?”

The man pretended to think, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Of course! A brothel worker!” He paused, tutting again and shaking his head, “No you cant even be that, we’ve made you far too ugly”

Jaskier tried to ignore his words, focusing on his rattling lungs instead, forcing them to inhale and exhale.

Unconsciousness crept forward, the pain finally overwhelming him, Jaskier falling into it’s open arms gladly.

“-cher isn’t coming for him. We’ve had the word out for two weeks and got nothing”

The words drifted in to Jaskier’s cell, the conversation prying him from sleep.

“So what do we do? The bard’s not talking”

“We were meant to give a destination by yesterday”

“So we make one up, blame the bard when it comes back empty”

“… That could work”

“Then I’m guessing we kill him afterwards?”

“Theres no reason to keep him”

“Well-”

“You’re not using army funds to feed just so he can be your personal whore, Cahir would skin you alive if he found out”

Jaskier huffed a laugh at that - the realisation that his worth had finally been reduced to what his father had called him all those decades ago, ‘a worthless whore’, ‘useless to polite society’.

The conversation carried on, though Jaskier’s mind drifted, thoughts racing yet head surprisingly clear. He shifted in his seat, only slightly to the left, wincing as the healing whip wounds on his back pulled open again, the stinging pain keeping him tethered to consciousness.

Not for the first time, he wondered where Geralt was. Safe, that he was sure of, hidden from the greedy eyes of the Nilfgaardian army if their unhappiness was anything to go off of.

Had he found Cirilla yet?

Was Roach okay?

Was he taking proper care of himself?

And - in even his lowest moments - he found himself wondering how Yennefer was.

If she was handling the break-up better than he did.

If she was safe, happy, looked after.

Or maybe, perhaps even back with Geralt. The three of them playing happy families while Jaskier rotted in a cell and waited for a hapless death.

Being on your deathbed gave you a lot of perspective, Jaskier had realised, and he found it hard to even hate Valdo on occasion (until he regained some energy from a piece of stale bread thrown at him and immediately felt disgusted that the thought had even crossed his mind).

As the fog in his brain seemed to seep into his dimming vision, his thoughts returned to Geralt’s eyes.

“Goodnight my love”

The news reached Geralt as they were passing a backwater town.

“The bard Jaskier - I swear it was! They dragged him out t’wards the Nilfgaard base”

“Tom stop jabbering, they would’a been shouting that from the rooftops if they got ‘im”

Coldness seeped into the Witcher’s bones as the words registered in his brain, his eyes flying to Yennefer. The sorceress was looking at him with pity in her eyes.

“I can try scrying-”

“Please”

Ciri watched in awe as Yennefer set up her equipment that night in their camp, bouncing with barely restrained curiosity at all the new instruments that the mage seemed to summon from nowhere.

The young princess’ enthusiasm calmed Geralt slightly, focusing on her youthful movements instead of the dread that settled over him at the thought of Jaskier’s current situation, guilt hitting him every few minutes as he replayed their last conversation.

‘If life could give me one blessing-’

“He’s in Neunreuth” Yennefer said, looking up with a solemn expression, “in a Nilfgaardian fortress”

“They were right” the Witcher breathed, utterly defeated.

“So we’re going to get him right?” Ciri asked, enthusiasm now dampened by the morose mood emanating from the two adults.

“Of course”

Yennefer quirked her eyebrow at his firm reply, before nodding in agreement, “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow”

Geralt knew the second he stepped out of the portal that something was wrong.

“He cant be here” he thought aloud, “It’s been abandoned”

Yennefer frowned, her expression telling him everything she refused to say out loud, “He’s here”

“No”

Striding forwards, the Witcher advanced on the old manor house, nose picking up on the scent of Jaskier’s blood the second he reached the front door.

“No!”

Strides turned in to a sprint as he chased the scent, denial still swirling through his brain as he got closer and closer to the muted wildflower scent.

“Jaskier”

The name fell from his lips as his knees gave out from under him, the sight of his bard’s limp body hanging from the chair punching all the breath from him. The smell of rusted blood was overwhelming, a pool in the corner dating back months.

Geralt sat there, disgusted by himself as he imagined how long Jaskier had waited for him to come and rescue him, how long he had stayed faithful to a monster.

He wasn't worth Jaskier’s life.

He wasn't aware he was crying until Yennefer laid a hand on his shoulder, “Geralt-”

“No” he hissed, struggling to his feet and moving over to the bard, “he cant be dead - he -”

Eyes wild, he turned around to face the sorceress, rising to his full height, “Fix him. I know you can - you did it last time”

“Geralt-”

Anger overtaking him, he pulled Jaskier’s limp body into his arms, unaware of how much his own hands were shaking.

“FIX HIM. YOU NEED TO FIX HIM NOW”

“Geralt stop”

“YOU NEED TO FIX HIM” he shouted, falling to his knees again, cradling the cold body in his arms as he sobbed, “Please fix him, Yen I need - I need you to fix him please”

The woman sighed, brushing a hand over Jaskier’s temple, looking for any sign of life.

“He’s gone"

Geralt’s cries could be heard in the next village over, lasting well into the night.

Not long after, tales of the White Wolf, Princess of Cintra and the Raven Sorceress were spread far and wide, the image of Cahir’s head on a stick engraved in the public’s minds.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

Painted Windows 6

Warnings: violence, trauma, allusions to abuse and noncon, isolation, torture, further tags to be added.

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You struggle to make sense of your captivity.

Note: Alright so we’re seeing things amp up and I hope you all enjoy it. I have up to part 8 planned out and then brainstorming the rest lol. I honestly don’t know what this series is. I always appreciate you and thanks for all your patience. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Day fourteen. Two weeks. Two whole weeks of the interminable routine. Wake up; if you slept at all, breakfast, lunch, dinner; sometimes alone, sometimes not. In between, you opened your notebook, or watched television, or walked around in circles until you were dizzy. Other times, you did nothing at all and wondered at the principles of time.

Bucky was no different. Mercurial, albeit amenable since his little victory. Since your acceptance; your surrender, had become obvious. You were quiet, not that you had been eager for conversation before, and listless. You hadn’t had a purpose in years, no hopes, no ambitions, but something about this place felt so final.

That day, the door finally budged after lunch. You watched it fall open and listened to the grunts that announced your visitor. Bucky dragged in a box almost as big as himself. He dropped it in between the bed and table. He turned and closed the door before he knelt beside the large package.

“You wanna help?” He asked as he tore open the box.

Several metal parts, a small screen, a seat, nuts, bolts, a screwdriver; everything you needed to piece together the stationary bike. You were stunned that he remembered. A passing comment about your inactivity; cramped legs and an impenetrable restlessness. You neared and stood on the other side of the box.

“If you want me to,” You answered.

“Are you busy?” He asked dryly.

“Never,” You dropped to your knees and helped him unwrap the contents.

You took the instructions and sat back on your heels. You search for Part A among the mess. You grabbed it and the other part listed in the first step and slid them over to Bucky.

“You need one of the flat-topped screws it says.” You read carefully.

He considered you above the thin booklet. “Alright.”

You carried on as such. You read out the steps and helped sort through the pieces and he screwed them together. Almost an hour before you finished. A silver exercise cycle was your prize. You couldn’t help but be excited.

“There,” He stood and gathered up the packaging. “It should keep you busy; fit.”

“Thank you,” You touched the handlebar and walked around it.

“Well, go on,” He neared the door. “I’ll be back for dinner.” He opened the door and glanced back at you. “I can order something. You like Chinese?”

“All the way out here?” You peeked over at the window.

“Yes, all the way out here,” He grumbled. “Might be a bit cold but that never killed anyone.”

“Sure,” You shrugged. “Chinese is fine.”

He left. That was what you hated. The acquiescence. It was so easy to treat his control as courtesy. This wasn’t truly to make you happy, only to appease you. To make your captivity easier for him; not for you. You huffed and climbed up on the bike. You adjusted the resistance and pedalled as you lost yourself in thought.

You went until you were out of breath and achy. You slipped down onto your feet and ambled over to bed as you yawned. It was the most exercise you’d had in… well, you were still trying to figure out that math.

You sprawled out and clicked on the television. Your latest addiction was a comedy about an office. It made you wonder where you’d be if you hadn’t ended up in the cell. Would you be at a desk wiling away the time staring at a computer? Or maybe you’d be a teacher or librarian. You liked animals; you could’ve been a vet.

You let yourself melt into the pillows and soon your eyes closed under their sudden weight. You fell asleep with the buzz of dialogue in your ears; the words vaguely familiar to your idle brain. Your snores rose too and mingled with the steady drone. You rolled over onto your side as you began to rouse and shadow passed through the slit of your eyelids.

Your eyes fluttered open through the haze of your unexpected nap. You looked at the table; a big white bag pulled taut over several cartons, beside it, a familiar set of pages laid open beneath a metal hand and you followed the arm to its owner. Your heart leaped and you sat up as Bucky pored over your journal. He didn’t seem to notice you as he was so wrapped up in the words. Your words. Private words. Secret thoughts.

You hurried across the bed and stormed over to him. You tried to wrench the book from beneath his hand but his grasp was stronger than yours. He merely looked over at you and ripped the notebook free. He held it away from you as he blocked you with his other arm.

“You can’t--” You slapped his arm. “How could you read that? It’s mine. You…. you…”

“You started writing,” He said plainly as he closed the book in his hand and set it down. “That’s good.”

“Why would you read it?” Your voice was brittle as you pushed away from him. “Why? It’s not for you.”

“Sit. The food’s going to get cold,” He gestured to the other chair.

You frowned and he cleared his throat. You dragged yourself to the chair and sat heavily. You stared at the notebook. He untied the plastic bag and began to unpack the cartons one at a time. You were livid and speechless. Worse, you were helpless. He would always win.

He rose and got two plates from the cupboard. He set them out and grabbed a carton.

“Rice?” He asked. You ignored him and crossed your arms. “Noodles?”

You reached out and slid a plate in front of you. “I can serve myself.” You snarled. “You might think I’m weak but I wouldn’t be alive if that was true.”

He chuckled and spooned out rice onto his own plate. “Sure,” He scoffed as he set it aside and grabbed the box of veggies.

You scowled and scooped out some noodles and waited for the veggies. You only took a little of the chicken and sat back with arms crossed. The food smelled great but you just couldn’t focus on the faint tickle in your stomach. You were angry. For the first time, you weren’t scared or sad or sickened, you were absolutely enraged.

He lowered himself into the other chair and started to eat. You watched him with a sneer. You recalled he said he knew what you felt because he had been kept once. It sure didn’t seem like it. It seemed like he was an expert at keeping others. His empathy was nothing more than manipulation. You dropped your arms and fiddled with your fork but didn’t use it.

“Why don’t you write about… before?” He swallowed.

“What?” You spat.

“You write about the cell, about what they did to you,” He shifted in his chair, “But not about what came before. Your home, family… your life?”

You looked away embarrassed. You twirled a load of noodles around your fork and shoved them in your mouth to avoid answering. You chewed as he watched. As you took another bite, he dropped his fork and grabbed the notebook. You froze and watched as he flipped it open.

‘The man who came most often was tall but skinny. Still, he was cruel and too strong for me. I remember the first time he visited. It hurt and every time after, it did as well. It wasn’t just sex though. He would take out this little folding knife and draw lines down my stomach as he used me. Or he would choke me until I passed out. One time, he held my head in the toilet and I thought I would drown.

But I dreamt of that knife. I still do. I thought of how to steal it from him so that I could use it myself. So that I could finish the job he always left half done.’

Bucky closed the book and reached across to place it beside your plate. You were stunned as you gulped down the noodles and stared into his eyes. They were as dark as that night he returned. Savage and resolute. You shivered and looked down at the notebook.

“Do you miss the man with the knife?” He asked.

You shook your head but couldn’t look at him. Your chest knotted and you let your fork fall against the plate. You twined your fingers in your lap and bit your lip.

“But you write about him?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You whispered.

“Why do you write about those men and not your family?”

“Because…” You croaked and meekly looked up across at him. “Because I can remember those men. I can’t…” Your voice trailed off and you lowered your chin again. “Please, I can’t--”

He was silent. You stewed in the tension as you fought to hold back the tears. You pressed a hand to your stomach as you hunched in the chair. There were scars still; you ignored them as you passed by the mirror before your showers. Your cheeks twitched as you resisted the sob caught in your throat.

You sensed movement and your eyes were drawn across to the other side of the table. You made sure not to move your head as you watched along the edge of your vision. You could see Bucky’s arms as it disappeared below the table. You could tell his hand was moving in his lap, slowly. His breaths rasped and he suddenly seemed to recall himself. His hand came up and gripped the edge of the table.

“You should eat.” He said.

“I’m not very hungry,” You lied.

He sighed and his fingers tapped on the table. “You know I can tell when you’re lying. I was trained to. It’s part of my job.” He grabbed his fork again and stabbed a piece of broccoli. “Among other things.”

You sat up at the foreboding in his words. You stared at him and he stared back. He chewed and nodded to your plate.

“Go on.” He jabbed his fork towards your plate. “Eat.”

Bucky didn’t leave after dinner as he usually did. You cleaned up to keep yourself busy and ignored him as you hit play on the television and balled yourself up against the pillows. He lingered at the table but rose as the second episode began. He kicked off his boots and climbed up next to you. He said nothing as he watched the screen. His arm touched yours but he only sat with you.

He slumped down and began to snore several episodes in and you glanced over at him startled. You crawled off the other side of the bed as you kept your eyes on him. He didn’t wake, didn’t move. You left the television on as you tiptoed around the bed. You went to the washroom and closed the door behind you. There was no clasp to lock it.

You went to the tub and pulled the curtain across the bar. You laid down across the porcelain with your arm beneath your head. It was cold like your cell. Your heart slowly petered out and the pounding retreated from your ears. You closed your eyes and you were back behind the concrete walls. Waiting.

But your mind wouldn’t stay behind the bars. It slipped past them and returned to the padded room. To the table where the metal armed man sat, hand in his lap as he bent over your scribbled memories. You bit down on the heel of your hand and tears leaked down your nose and temple.

You wept until you fell asleep. Until the memories turned to nightmares; though they were barely dissimilar. Only your visitor differed. The shadow at the bars; broad shoulders, rifle, shining arm, hair to his shoulders. He kicked in the door but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t shield yourself from the new monster creeping through the dark.

Bucky stood over you as he set aside the rifle. You followed the barrel’s nuzzle with your eyes longingly. Your small cot trembled as he climbed over you. You were naked against his bloody leather jacket. The zippers and buckles cut into your skin as his metal fingers wrapped around your throat. You peered up into his eyes; blue like the ocean and just as endless..

You were woke by the sound of the rings sliding across the bar above. You looked up as Bucky stood by the tub and stared down at you. You shielded your eyes from the bright bulbs above the sink. He knelt and tilted his head as you crossed your arms over your chest and drew your legs up.

“What are you doing in here?” He asked. You shrugged. “Come on.” He grumbled and grabbed your arm.

He pulled you until you stood. He forced you to step out of the tub and back into the bedroom. The sky outside had begun to lighten. He guided you to the bed and turned you to him. His hands rested on your shoulders and he pushed until you sat on the mattress. He frowned at your reluctance.

“Sleep,” He ordered as he drew away and bent to grab his boots. “I’ll be back at noon.”

You didn’t say anything as he crossed the room. You didn’t move even after he was gone. You just sat there on the edge of the bed. You closed your eyes and saw his again; the depths of terror. You quaked and balled your fists around the blankets. How long could he restrain the monster within? He was no different from your former wardens and this was no different from that frigid cell. It was all just as hopeless.

#Bucky Barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #au #series #captain america #mcu #marvel #Winter Soldier #painted windows

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sleep-i-ness · 4 years ago

Text

Therapy (Bucky Barnes x reader)

For @just-trying-to-survive-marvel‘s 500 writing challenge

Prompt: “I don’t need your help. You’ve already done enough”

A/N: Is it bad to say how much I hated writing the end of this? It’s not edited because I just finished it but I hope you enjoy (please leave feedback) <3

Bucky had adopted the habit of carrying around a small black moleskin notebook on his regular walks spent exploring the ins and outs of New York City. Having spent so much of his life in and out of the cryochambers, brainwashed and mindless, nothing made sense in this strange new world. Some days he forgot where he was, thinking he was back in the 1930s with small, fragile Steve, who he needed to look after. Others, nothing made sense anymore, fragments of half-coherent thoughts flitting through his mind as he stared blankly at the wall in his dimly lit room. Those days he didn’t get out of bed until Steve dragged him out, sighing as he saw the brooding confusion brewing in Bucky’s mind. The rest, which lay few and far in-between, yet had been more frequent of late, were the only days where the modern world made any sense and he grabbed those opportunities with both hands. This meant he often ended up returning to the Tower many hours into the early morning, eyes shining with the day’s results as he discovered New York and how it had changed.

Steve often worried about him; the horrors of the past still haunted Bucky, and he never lost the ghosts from the past that hid behind his eyes. On his good days, Steve felt the hope inside him rekindle. Maybe one day he could have his best friend back, not the soulless husk that wandered around aimlessly nor the one stuck firmly in the past. The way Bucky’s eyes sparkled as he recounted the tall tales of the crazy trouble he had got himself caught up in reminded Steve of Bucky’s boxing days back in the ‘30s, where he would be wrapped up in his stories of the ring, adding elaborations wherever he could to make his adventures seem more interesting. Nearly always, they ended up with him victoriously defeating his opponent after a long and arduous struggle. Bucky had enjoyed painting himself to be the hero in these situations. Steve couldn’t ignore the irony, considering the unspeakable horrors HYDRA had put him through and terrible crimes he had been forced to commit. On Bucky’s bad days, Steve felt despair curl into its familiar spot in his heart.

Some part of him couldn’t let go of the image he had in his mind of his best friend and this new version just didn’t live up to what he expected him to be. Steve knew that was messed up. Of course, Buck was different. Being a brainwashed assassin for 70 years would do that. But thanks to the help of their friends in Wakanda, he’d been assured that all the brainwashing had been removed. Therefore, he’d hoped that the Bucky he’d known would return. And that all would go back to how it had been; him and Buck together through everything.

When he hadn’t, Steve could barely bear to be around him. Bucky hated to admit it, but it hurt. Knowing that his best friend was constantly disappointed in who he was. Seeing the corny smile slip off his face and his brow furrow when he thought Bucky wasn’t looking. Hence, Bucky tried to stay out for as long as possible, roam as far away from the Tower before Steve’s helicopter parent instincts kicked in. It was almost ironic that little Steve, well, not so little anymore, was the one looking out for him.

It should have been the other way round.

Therapy had been a word that Steve had offered up one day, accompanied with a shy smile. The team had a great one and Steve had been sure that no one would mind if Bucky booked a slot with her, he’d assured firmly. And thus, Bucky had instantly agreed, if not only to keep that smile on Steve’s face for a bit longer. To offer him hope that maybe one day he’d become the man Steve so desperately wanted him to be. The beaming grin in response had made the decision worthwhile; he wasn’t sure if he’d seen Steve that happy since regaining some sort of control over his brain again. He just hoped that he’d achieve whatever high expectation Steve held for this session.

Which was why Bucky was here. Opposite you, wearing a thick sweater in the summer sun to cover up his arm and lessen any fears you may have in response to seeing him. He had to remind himself that although you were a therapist, you were still just a civilian. And the media had not been kind to him.

“So, Mr Barnes, would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?” Your question takes him by surprise, that much is obvious in the small movement of his eyebrows, although the rest of him stays perfectly composed. He didn’t know what to expect from therapy, maybe something a bit more Good Will Hunting-esque. Or simply some talking, a Eureka-like moment and all problems instantly solved.

“Um, coffee would be nice… thank you. Black, no sugar.” When you got up to make it, he was even more confused. Why wouldn’t you just have a pot ready? Surely it would detract from the time with the client to have to fiddle around with the pot and sorting out the coffee granules.

The silence as they both waited for the pot to boil was deafening and Bucky soon found himself looking around the tiny yellow room with its monochromatic knick-knacks. Everything in here was sleek, almost succinct in its manner of serving a purpose and nothing more. The plain blue and white clock on the wall was geometric and placed directly next to three perfectly straight wooden shelves, each one painted a cool white.

Once the pot had boiled, Bucky found himself holding a steaming mug with a soppy depiction of a cartoon duckling on it. I Love Ducks More Than Humans, it loudly proclaimed. It felt out of place in this impersonal room, filled with items of purpose not decoration.

“Mr Barnes-”

“Please, call me Bucky.” He interrupted instinctively, smiling to ease the rudeness of his outburst. “Mr Barnes was my father and Lord knows how long he’s been dead.”

“Bucky, would you mind telling me what brought you to therapy?” Your grin is easy and genuine, putting him at ease as he leans back into the couch.

What had brought him to therapy? Bucky wasn’t sure of the answer himself; he didn’t have much of a reason except trying to change himself for Steve. But that wasn’t the answer you would be looking for, and there was no need to add another potential problem to his already mile-long list, starting with daddy issues, skimming over the numerous previous job-related traumas and now ending at fear of not being enough for his best friend. “I suppose it was Steve. He was worried for me and suggested therapy, so I wanted to give it a try.”

“But what do you want to get out of therapy? Not what your friend wants, you personally.”

Bucky hesitated. He knew that opening up would be good, and something about the simplicity of the place made it feel a lot easier to tell the whole truth to someone. “I don’t feel like myself, or who I used to be anymore. I’ve changed but people don’t seem able to see that.”

“I understand. It must be really difficult to not feel understood, can you tell me more?” Your voice was sweet, coaxing him to say more. It made his skin crawl, he felt like he was back at HYDRA with one of their ‘therapists’ who would coerce him into revealing information he wasn’t supposed to know and then they would wipe him, the excruciating pain reminding him that he couldn’t trust a therapist.

But these sessions were meant to help him. And so, he went back the next week, nodding with a fixed smile when Steve asked him how they were going. ‘Great.’ And the grin that Stevie gave him made it all seem like a good idea. Even though he felt like a cornered animal in the sessions.

It wasn’t your fault. You were lovely as far as he was concerned, but the way you spoke to him to get him to open up made him want to dive out the nearest window just to escape. And all this simmering frustration came to a head when you asked him a pointedly blunt question, nothing like the previous ones that had all danced around the topic.

“Bucky, I can tell that you’d rather not be here and we’re not making any progress unless you talk to me. What did HYDRA do to make you so afraid of what I’m asking you?”

Bucky froze, resentment bubbling up as he tried to regulate the words that were threatening to spit themselves out of his mouth. To attack her for not knowing. How could you know? How could you not? It was all over his file, the torture he’d undergone, and you had the audacity to ask what made him ‘so afraid’.

“You know what,” Bucky grimaced, biting down hard on his tongue.

“Bucky, please. I’m here to help. Please don’t shut me out because I haven’t understood you yet.” Her eyes pleaded with him to just give it a shot and he shuddered. He’d seen that expression before. It had usually twisted into a smirk as he was dragged away for yet another excruciating memory wipe.

“Maybe I don’t want your help. Maybe I’ve just been forced to come here but it’s turning out to be useless.” He bit back, hand clenching around the porcelain mug.

Your mouth opened and closed without a sound, face pulling into an awkward smile as you tried to soothe his raised temper. The longer you kept eye contact, the further your face fell and you gulped, throat clenching harshly.

Crash. The mug was crushed between his fingers and the tension was broken. You exhaled shakily, brushing your clammy palms against your long skirt. Bucky could hear your pounding heartrate from where he sat, a good few yards away. It filled him with remorse, like a splash of water to the face. He refused to be that person anymore

“I’ll grab a dustpan.” You smiled weakly, quickly moving out of his line of vision. Bucky didn’t move an inch, eyes staring blankly at where you’d sat. A shuffling noise by his feet startled him as you crouched down, scooping the shards up. He should be the one doing that, he realised.

“I’m afraid that’s the end of our session. But I do hope that you’ll come back next week, even if it feels like we’re getting nowhere.”

Guilt gnawed at Bucky as he nodded stiffly, making his way out the door without a single word. He turned round to say something to you, but when confronted with your face, he found he was unable to.

And the next week he was back. He would compare it to a drug, his inability to quit it, but that would imply that he enjoyed or craved therapy. He liked the way Steve seemed hopeful, less cautious around him. He liked your company, in a way. But he couldn’t stand the endless questions.

He was early, sat on one of the short armchairs stationed around her office. The person before him was loud, talking angrily about not being able to deal with it anymore and how he just couldn’t look at somebody. Was therapy meant to be that aggressive sounding? Your mild-mannered voice was much fainter and Bucky physically had to stop himself from leaning in to eavesdrop.

The door slammed open only moments later, Steve storming out and you hurriedly following him. When his eyes fell upon Bucky, he deflated, feet stuttering to a halt.

“I can’t do this.” His voice cracked as he spun round to look at you, eyes wild and frantic. Bucky frowned. “Buck, I can barely look at you without feeling like a failure. I thought once you’d had the brainwashing removed, you’d be back to normal. But you’re still not and…”

Bucky’s heartbeat was deafening in his ears, blood roaring as he drowned out the rest of Steve’s excuses. His eyes focused in on your face, patronizingly, mockingly sympathetic and he clenched a fist subconsciously. Some sort of exclamation from Steve at the sight of it caused him to forcibly relax all muscles, relieving any underlying tension that might still be visible. It did nothing to quell the sickening sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, throat clenching as he tried to swallow an invisible block.

“I’m going to go.” Steve brushed past him, not even looking back once.

Did he feel any remorse? Bucky wondered, a bitter taste on his tongue. Any sadness? Guilt? Anything about telling Bucky that he couldn’t deal with this PTSD-riddled version? He never thought that Steve, who stood up to every bully and against anything and everything morally wrong, would turn his back on him just for not being the man he once was.

“Bucky?” Your tentative voice broke him out of his reverie, your vibrant yellow skirt cheerily mocking him.

“You did this.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. There was only one person who could have twisted Steve’s mind, who could have turned the one person that Bucky always thought would have his back against him.

“No.” You were defensive, suspiciously so, your posture stiff. You sighed, turning back to head into your office. “Will you come in?”

“I don’t need your help. You’ve already done enough. Aren’t you sick of destroying lives by twisting people’s emotions? Do you enjoy playing the saviour in order to create chaos?”

Your face fell at his words and Bucky felt a vindictive joy at the sight. He knew that it was unfair to enjoy seeing your cheery façade slipping, but he couldn’t help it. It was as if something deep inside him was egging on the cruel remarks on the tip of his tongue, begging him to cut deep with his words.

“Bucky, I won’t force you to come in, but my office is always a safe space for you to enter. Always.”

You turned with a forced smile, although it was more of a grimace, shoulders slumping as the door swung shut in Bucky’s face. He could hear a muffled sob through the door and a towering wave of icy guilt crashed down upon him, clearing the red haze.

He hadn’t meant to make you cry; it was just that… he wanted someone else to feel the same as he did.

He wanted someone else to get punished for Steve’s actions.

Bucky raised a metal fist, sleeve slipping down over his wrist as he hovered in front of the door. He wanted to offer some sort of apology, and comfort, because it clearly wasn’t your fault. Bucky had easily overlooked the months of awkward silences and faked smiles between him and Steve, but something had been wrong for a while.

It wasn’t your fault Steve was unable to let go of the past.

“Just give me a sec,” your voice quavered with a sniffle. A sharp burst of shame startled Bucky and he wheezed quietly, clutching at his left shoulder. The door tentatively swung open in front of him, your puffy face forcing a watery smile. “Oh. Bucky.”

“I’m sorry.”

His abrupt sentence startled you, a flicker of confusion flashing across your face. Bucky didn’t know whether he should feel worse about the fact that his apology was such a surprise to you, or just accept the fact that he’d been a complete and utter dick to you.

“It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have just blamed you because you were there. I’ve been nothing but an asshole to you and I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him owlishly.

What else did you want him to say? Bucky shifted onto his left foot, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Do you want-“ “I’m just-“

Bucky shared a hesitant chuckle with you as your sentences tripped over each other’s. He gestured for you to continue speaking, unable to help the small smile that crept onto his face.

“Do you want to come in?”

Now, sat on the little white couch, steaming mug of coffee in his hands, Bucky looked at your hopeful face. You had assured him that you hadn’t meant to push last week and that you would go at the pace he felt comfortable with. This session you were starting off with his childhood and then, slowly, over time, trying to work your way to the present. Together.

Maybe therapy wasn’t so bad.

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years ago

Note

Since houses with teeth is shelved what will be fostered 7. Also how is FD coming along, i miss the updates😢😢

I’m not sure! I think, honestly, that the “main series” side of Fostered is done (so it ends at 6 books). It’s unfortunate because HWT came at the wrong time in my writing journey. I was in my last year of high school when I finished book 6 of Fostered, which I ended prematurely because I was in “writing puberty” lol where my genre, and how I approached writing greatly changed. I managed to finish a majority of book 6 balancing the older parts of my tastes with the newer, but by the time I got to writing book 7, I just couldn’t balance out these tastes anymore without having a headache or overthinking everything. The problem is that Houses With Teeth is a literary fiction novel with a genre fiction past/cast, and to write it properly, I would essentially have to completely overhaul every single Fostered character, which I do not want to do. I’d have to change backstories, even names, and I want to keep these things the way they are. There isn’t a collective story for the Fostered “squad” anymore! It really died when the dystopian elements died in the series. This is why I prefer the spinoffs more because they’re more intimate character studies. I could see myself writing HWT as a novella or something that follows Reeve, because it would be nice to give her a proper goodbye, but I doubt I will do that. This is a really emotional topic for me tbh because it really panics me to think Fostered will eventually end, but I’ve realized lately the series could be done soon, or at least for the foreseeable future. I really want to start writing things outside of this series, namely other novels, and while I love this series very much, I do think I’ve relied on it in recent years as a crutch to handle my anxiety about writing/in general. I struggle with anxiety when writing any novel that isn’t Fostered, which is weird because I write tons of short stories outside of that universe, but when the work is longer, I just freeze up! I want to work on this, and to do that, I need to take a break from/finish the series, even though the thought of that is terrifying (I think that terror comes from the anxiety)!

As for Feeding Habits, I had to take a huge break from this book this semester, not out of choice, necessarily, but necessity. At the beginning of the term, I was having a hard time writing this book, honestly. I had to switch POVs because I was... miserable lol! But then I got so busy with the term that I couldn’t even write anyway! I’ve been writing it actually in the last few days, and it’s going okay! This book is kind of torture to write sometimes because I am actually incapable of not hating or disliking the writing??? Sometimes I’m not even actively trying but my brain is like no u hate this! Like today, I wrote a good chunk of it, was like this prose?? gross lol, but I’ve made it a policy not to let that mindset stop me from writing because it has done so in the past, and when I go back, the writing is fine, and it was all my shaky perception. This is the only project this happens for??? Don’t know why!

The reason there aren’t any updates for FH is because I haven’t finished the next chapter yet, haha, it’s been months haha university as a writing major hahahahhaa

But here are some recent excerpts if you’re interested!

I wrote this at the very beginning of term. Lonan hitchhikes in the car of Lydia, who’s just picked her children up from school:

They stopped fifteen minutes later at a hospital in Portland. The children were mostly excited about its in-house pizza parlour called Zekes, which blinked in neon red letters. Esther and Jensen barrelled toward the revolving door while Lonan fumbled for his seatbelt, and in the end it was Lydia who had to click the release for him. When the grey belt slinked across his chest, back into its holder, he stared at her for a moment—how her red curls haloed in the sun, how a blot of ink stained her index finger (a paralegal, she could’ve been, a teacher, an accountant) how she smiled, this stranger who trusted him, her face this wide, unsuspecting plane—and then he sobbed.

Not sure if I’ve shared this already? But this is Lonan seeing his ex-girlfriend Glenne for the first time in a while:

She was filling two plastic bottles at the motel’s water fountain when he pulled up. The image of her this suspension of ink-soaked particles. She could’ve been a photograph, bent over the metal box, one hand dialled around the fountain nob, the other guiding a bottle to the greedy blip of water. The sun had settled like a yolk in the sky, frescoed her cheeks in persimmon. This is the same image Lonan stared at as he fumbled into the parking lot, mesmerized, trying to distinguish pixel from skin cell.

Glenne was smaller than he’d remembered, something new about her. Maybe a slyness, or a decomposition, or both. She wore a bleached grey pair of cotton overalls and no shoes. Against the mahogany motel door her blonde hair sparked. A woman on fire as she noticed him, her hands jerking so suddenly, the bottle she was filling disengaged from the tap and the contents splashed to the floor.

(TW: gore) I wrote this in a writing sprints weeks ago where Lonan in this chapter’s fictive present is in this super disconnected space to the point where he *tries (doesn’t really get that far lol) to kill Harrison with a butter knife??

Slit or swan. The knife across his throat like a block of Jenga reslotting. Him in the fridge lightbulb’s reflection, staring at a sealed block of gouda. It would be so easy, his arterial spray like the rays of water splaying the motel’s walkway. Him unsure when the pigment of the cheese’s red wax begins to come from him. Slit or swan. The refrigerator’s hum like the drone of cars dicing the freeway just beyond the parking lot. Remember it. That noise like caribou running.

I also wrote this during that writing sprint and LOVE the radio commentator’s dialogue:

Across the room, Glenne leaned over the nightstand, fiddling with the clock radio. In bursts, what could be heard from the room was this: the microwave whirring, then a jab of 6 o’ clock news, the microwave beeping, then a blast of electropop, the microwave slamming, then a radio host saying Tell me why I should care about almonds, Eileen, literally, tell me why. The microwave beeped again, then finally, a lick of violins pulsed through the speakers.

Wrote this description either today or yesterday??? what is time (TW: body horror-ish)

So much of his face had dried violet after the crash that it was difficult to find a patch of untouched skin. His eye was still bloodshot from where Eliza had burst the ventricle, and a scattering of cuts, small, like grains of rice, constellated his temple. His hair beamed from his head in different lengths. He looked more bird than human and even then, worse than a bird.

^^ confirmation that lonan IS a bird

I also wrote this today! Lonan takes care of Glenne’s baby, Olivia and it is so PURE I cannot handle it! At one point in time, I had a separate Fostered spinoff called ALANNIS planned out where Lonan actually takes on a fatherly role of Olivia who would be older at that point (he’s in his late 20s, I think she was like 7 or 8??) and so it’s so fantastic to see this role come to fruition here since I never thought it would!

The grocery store was a fifteen-minute walk away. With Olivia clinging to his shoulder, Lonan was acutely aware that she could feel his heartbeat. Open valve. Close. Repeat. Hers pulsed right above his heart, a miniature drumming. The sky had bruised purple, misted with clouds.

just imagine my terrifying bird man carrying this lil munchkin it’s SO CUTE!!

working on this chapter right now, so hopefully I’ll finish it and update you soon! <3

#asks #fostered

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ufuckingpastry · 4 years ago

Text

Stalking Nightmares

AO3 Link

Summary: “Dream,” Sam started, pausing as Dream’s head turned towards him, the mask hiding all expression. “Four days ago, it was discovered you were not in your cell, nor were you anywhere in the prison. Six hours after the discovery, you were found back in your cell. Before this occurred, total lockdown was initiated and completed. At some point in those six hours, the ceiling to the main cell was broken open. The blocks were replaced, but the redstone was broken.” Sam leaned forward, his chin resting on interlaced fingers. “What I would like to discuss is how you escaped and who is responsible for aiding you.”

Warnings: Non-Graphic Torture, Interrogation

(This is a direct continuation of These Bonds We Keep)

Dream leaned back in the chair, his face lifted up to the blackstone ceiling. His mask covered the places his eyes drifted, the bored expression on his face. His hands were buried in his sweater's front pocket, lightly scratching at his fingertips. He was alone in the room, but he could hear voices outside the door. Sam and Puffy were talking. Puffy, the new guard for the prison, had taken him from his cell to this small room. She hadn’t said why, but he could guess. The table, the chair with its back against the wall, and the empty chair across from him. They were going to interrogate him, try to worm out whatever information they wanted. And Dream would give it to them, within reason. They wouldn’t believe him, because why would they? Not that it mattered.

Sam and Puffy entered the room, faces kept blank behind their armor of glimmering netherite. Puffy took her place at Sam’s right hand, her back to the wall. It would give her view of the whole room, with only a few blind spots on Dream’s side. His gaze flickered unseen to Sam who pulled back the chair and settled in it. He had a journal in his hand, a quill and ink ready to record information.

“Dream,” Sam started, pausing as Dream’s head turned towards him, the mask hiding all expression. “Four days ago, it was discovered you were not in your cell, nor were you anywhere in the prison. Six hours after the discovery, you were found back in your cell. Before this occurred, total lockdown was initiated and completed. Are you following?” Dream nodded, then tilted his head the other direction. The mask, ever smiling, tilted on its side with the movement. He made no other noise. Sam exhaled through his nose and opened his journal.

“At some point in those six hours, the ceiling to the main cell was broken open. The blocks were replaced, but the redstone was broken.” Sam leaned forward, his chin resting on interlaced fingers. “What I would like to discuss is how you escaped and who is responsible for aiding you.”

Dream leaned back in his chair. He knew the questions that were coming and he knew what he would say: the truth. What else could he say? He could lie. Sure, he could weave stories like cloth that would entwine and ensnare them, leave them lost and forgotten and wondering who was friend and who would be better off with a knife in the back.

But where was the fun in that?

“Dream,” Sam started, his gaze focused on the center of the mask. “At what point did you escape?”

“After you initiated the lockdown and left the cell block.”

“Was the lava held back or flowing?”

“Flowing.”

“Can you describe what was in your chest prior to lockdown?”

“Thirteen unused books, three books written in, and a stack of potatoes.”

“And after you escaped? That is, before you returned.”

“All those items, plus the mask and my clothes.”

Sam hummed and wrote down Dream’s answers. That followed what Sam had found and what he knew, but…

“How did you escape?”

“I swam up through the lava, dug my way out of the ceiling, and left.”

Sam exhaled as he finished writing. This was not adding up. It didn’t make sense.

“Do you have chests hidden in your cell?”

“You know I don’t, Sam. You built the place. How am I going to mine obsidian before the blocks heal, before you notice?” He asked, his annoyance breaking through his tone for the first time since the interrogation started.

“I assume the same way you dug your way out,” Sam replied calmly. Dream winced and looked away quickly. Sam added the reaction to his notes. An emotional Dream would slip up with whatever game he was playing here. Good to know. Dream turned back and let his head tilt back, putting the smile on its side.

“Any potions?”

“No.”

“Tools?”

“No.”

“Armor?”

“No.”

“Was the netherite wall still up?”

“Yes.”

“And you were behind it? Trapped in the cell?”

“Yes.”

“Still afflicted by mining fatigue?”

“It didn’t go away for another twenty minutes after I left, Sam,” Dream growled from behind the mask. Sam made another note. He sighed and leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“So, let me see if I am following you correctly. You swam through several stories of lava to the ceiling with no armor or fire resistance, nothing to protect you whatsoever. And you dug through four layers of blocks, two of which are obsidian, with no tools and with mining fatigue. And you escaped the prison in the 90 minutes it took me to complete all the lockdown checks and measures and get back to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dream.” The mask tilted up to show he was listening to Sam. “We’re not here to waste time.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said with a shrug.

“Dream!” Puffy snapped. Dream’s mask turned to her and tilted the other way. She ignored the obvious attempt at intimidation, taking a step forward. “Do you even realize how impossible everything you’ve said so far is? Tell us the truth.”

“Why?” He leaned forward. Sam could see the hint of a grin at the edges of the mask. “You won’t believe me.”

“Try us,” Puffy said at the same time Sam asked, “And why is that?” They glanced at each other, then back to Dream. He leaned back in his chair, stuffing his hands into his pocket, and shrugged. He then leveled the mask’s gaze at Sam.

“Because at no point today have I lied to you.”

“Bullshit,” Puffy hissed. Sam held out his hand to Puffy’s advance. He then looked back at her and stood up from his chair.

“Puffy, can I talk to you?” he asked. They left the room, left Dream and his mask smiling after them.

“Sam, you don’t believe him, do you?” Puffy asked once they were out in the hall, gesturing loudly with her hands. “None of that can be true! He’s lied to everyone, right? In L’Manberg, in, in- to Tommy! He manipulated Tommy and Tubbo! He manipulated me…” She squeezed her eyes, squeezed her fists. Sam wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, but he held back. He was still in Professional Mode and it caused a confliction in his head. He lifted his gaze to hers and startled when he saw how wet her eyes were. “There’s no way he’s not lying to us now, is there?”

“I—“ Sam pressed his lips together and tried to shift his brain to comfort. “No, I agree with you, Puffy. It’s. It’s impossible. But…” He trailed off, thinking.

“But?”

“It’s hard to tell if he’s lying or not. That mask he has on; it makes it impossible to tell if he’s lying. People, when they lie, have visible ticks, tells that shows that’s what they are doing. But there’s nothing!” He pressed his hands together in frustration, then worked on calming himself. It wouldn’t do them any favors if he showed his emotions now. He was too busy with that to notice Puffy had gone quiet until she spoke again.

“Then why don’t we make him take it off?”

“How do you mean?” He asked, looking up at her. The tears were gone. Instead, there was determination and… something he couldn’t read in her.

“If you can’t get a read on him because of the mask, tell him to take it off!” She laughed and. It was a painful noise, a laugh that spoke of anger built by frustration. “What’s he going to do about it? Refuse? We have the upper hand here!”

“I don’t want to risk killing him if there’s an altercation.”

“Then,” Puffy trailed off as she thought. The mix of emotions that crossed her face made him feel. Feel something. He didn’t have time to process those feelings before she said, “We withhold food from him, until he takes it off.”

“Puffy, that’s-that’s torture.”

“You already only feed him enough to keep him alive. Is that not already torture?”

Sam didn’t have an answer for her, at least not one that denied her accusation. But to purposely withhold food… that felt like a line that, once crossed, meant there was no going back. But they needed information from him. They needed it soon, otherwise their hands would be forced.

“I would bet my life that even he doesn’t want to die. He will have to eat at some point.” Puffy’s expression spoke of unbreakable determination, now that she decided her path. Sam felt he had little choice but to join her on this road.

“Alright,” he agreed. He checked the time and hummed. “It is almost lunch.”

“Are you suggesting we eat in front of him?”

“It might speed up the process?”

Puffy sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Even though she offered up the idea, she looked conflicted by the idea of carrying it out. She fisted her hands in her hair and pulled, breathing in softly. After a moment, she exhaled and dropped her hands.

“Alright. Let’s do this.”

Puffy and Sam returned to the cell. Dream perked up, pointedly watching Puffy as she took her place at Sam’s side, her back pressed up against the wall. Her expression remained blank. She became immovable as bedrock. Sam sat back down across from Dream, though he didn’t open his journal up. Before he could speak, Dream’s teasing voice cut through the silence.

“Did you have a good chat? I bet it was real nice, leaving me here to twiddle my thumbs to keep myself entertained. Glad to have you back so I can waste more of your time and laugh as you two run around in circles. Huh? Was it a nice chat?” Dream’s mask tilted side to side. Sam started to understand a little more about him from that interaction alone. A bored Dream made him more annoying to deal with, but… it might give them an in. Sam folded his hands.

“Dream. Take off your mask.”

The mood shift was immediate. Even if Sam couldn’t see Dream’s expression, he could imagine it. The teasing grin falling away as he drew himself up. The fixing of his gaze as the mask straightened and centered. The frown opening as he responded in blatant refusal.

“No.”

“No?” Sam echoed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Worth a shot,” he sighed, sitting back in his chair. “So, instead, I will offer you a choice. Take off your mask, or you can stay here. And we’ll stop providing you with food.”

“What?” Dream started, a laugh bubbling out of him. “Your fair choice is to let me starve?”

“I never said it would be fair. It seems like a simple enough choice to me, Dream. Do one small task, or starve.”

“You wouldn’t let me die.”

“Do you really want to test that?” Sam asked. Dream looked away, hesitating. He glanced towards Puffy at one point, but she didn’t look at him. His shoulders hunched and he shook his head. He turned his face back to Sam and Sam could feel the grin forming behind that mask.

“That’s pretty fucked up coming from you, Sam.”

“The situation’s been pretty fucked up long before this, Dream,” Sam replied, his tone dropping low. He allowed this small hint of his true feelings to show through, just this once. And then the waiting began. It lasted a lot longer than Sam anticipated. Several hours later, Dream still hadn’t given in. Sam and Puffy ate lunch together in front of him. It would have been nice, though it was hard to ignore Dream staring at them a few feet away. His stomach had growled a few times since then, until it figured out nothing was coming to satisfy it.

Dream soon learned that they intended to ignore him as well, pretend he wasn’t there and even leave him in the small room alone. One of them always stood outside the door as a guard. This room wasn’t as secure as the main cell and they could not risk Dream getting out. Sam’s intention was to bore Dream, deprive him of both food and entertainment until he caved. When he tried to talk to them, to poke and prod and tease, they refused to respond. When he turned to lashing out, they locked him alone in the room to finish his tantrum. It was growing close to three hours since they locked him in the small, dark room. Dream tried to keep himself busy. He talked to himself, to Puffy outside the door. He paced and fidgeted and knocked on the walls. However, the more he moved, the hungrier he got. Puffy told Sam at one point he sat in the middle of the room and just. Sat there with his mask tilting back and forth.

Sam, at some point, slept. It was Puffy’s recommendation. Sam had been awake for days with barely any sleep. He fixed the prison, fixed the redstone, checked, double checked, triple checked every entrance, exit, mechanism, door, passage, bed trap, everything, for any evidence for how Dream escaped. Puffy helped him pour over maps and notes and logs, then even the waivers, and they found nothing! During that time, Puffy brought him food and drink. She checked in on him, cared for him, ordered him to sleep in the guard lounge on the couch she dragged in one day while she stood watch over the main cell. He wanted to do something for her. For taking care of him when he would have run himself ragged. Maybe a nice dinner? He could take her back to his place, sit her next to Fran, as he cooked her something. Or they could cook together! Her lunch had been delicious, the little she shared with him today. She was a fantastic cook. Sam found himself dozing on the couch to the thought of what they could make together.

“Sam?” Puffy’s voice came over the communicator. Sam startled awake, hissing softly in his surprise. He almost missed the unsteady tone of her voice, almost. “—think he’s giving in now. Are you coming back?”

“Yes, I’ll. I’ll be there soon.

----

“Mama?”

Puffy straightened as Dream’s voice filtered through the door. It had been a very long time since she heard that word come from him. She focused her gaze on the wall in front of her and refused to look at Dream. His voice was soft, childlike. Like a child woken up in the middle of the night by a nightmare.

“Mama, does it hurt you to see your little Dreamling locked up? I can’t follow you around in here. Mama, I’ve missed you. You never came to visit me. And now you’re hurting me?”

“You hurt others. This is only fair.” Puffy forced her voice calm, steady.

“Mama? You think it’s fair to hurt your little duckling? I only wanted to play with them. I didn’t mean to break them.”

“You were going to kill Tubbo. You manipulated them, everyone. Me. This is what you deserve.” Even as she said it, she regretted it. She regretted being the reason Sam and her had done this to him. Torturing him just to get some information. It didn’t sit well with her and she knew she would never forgive herself for the idea.

“Do you want to kill me, Mama? You want to kill your little duckling?”

“Dream,” she said, her voice cracking on the name. She felt her heart breaking with every word he spoke, but she couldn’t fail now. She couldn’t break now. Even if it killed her to hurt him like this, they crossed the line a long time ago. She couldn’t break. “Take off the mask and this suffering will end.”

Dream’s voice faded. She could hear him lean up against the door, the thunk of the mask soft in the silence. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, just above a whisper. And it sounded like he was hurting.

“I don’t want to,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to see that.” His breath shuddered and she heard him move to press his back against the door and slide down to the floor. “I don’t want to taint your image of me, Mama. I want to be your little duckling forever.”

And Puffy… Puffy almost believed him. She knew what Sam meant when he said it was impossible to tell when he wasn’t manipulating them, but. Something in his voice now felt genuine. She closed her eyes and saw memories of him following her around, happy and delighted to be by her side. He helped her, took her hand, and played the part of her little duckling so well. The silence stretched until she heard him sigh. Her ears twitched, tracking his movement as he stood up from the floor. He walked back to the table, pulled back the chair, and settled into it. Then, soft as anything, she heard a thunk against the table.

Puffy risked a look inside the room. Dream sat at the table, his hands covering his eyes, and the mask face up on the table. She saw his shoulders shudder and heard a small sniffle in the silence. She held herself back, even with muscle in her body primed to dive in and hold his head to her chest and promise the world would be okay. She straightened and pressed her back to the wall, calming her breaking heart, before activating the communicator.

“Sam?”

----

Sam stepped back into the room, pausing at the entrance when he saw Dream’s mask face up on the table. It was the first time he had ever seen Dream’s bare face and, surprisingly, he found it unremarkable. Just another person, but one that had caused so much pain for so many people. He sighed and closed the door behind him. As he settled into the chair across from him, Dream turned his face towards Sam. The warden blinked, his focus narrowing on Dream’s eyes. His eyes were lime green, green like poison. A truly unnatural green. It threw him off and he could feel Puffy straighten behind him. He felt it too. There was a feeling of electricity in the air that was not there before. He pressed his back against the chair and breathed in deeply.

“Alright,” Sam said and offered Dream some food, as was agreed upon. “Perhaps now we can make some progress.” He waited for Dream to finish his meal. Then, the interrogation began again. Sam repeated the same questions as before and, like before, Dream repeated the same answers. Sam watched his face, categorized his expressions, focused on each twitch, each tick, each quirk of lips or brow, even the movement of his arms as he stimmed in his sweater pocket, and he came up empty. There was no new information to be had, no secrets revealed that were previously hidden alongside his face. Sam came to the conclusion with a huff that Dream was either a master liar—a master manipulator, or, by some truly impossible means, he was telling the truth.

Sam sat back in his chair, the frown on his face deepening. The questions were all answered, but none of them made any sense. Dream had leaned back, his head dropped backwards. The position did not look comfortable at all, but he felt too much frustration to be too concerned for the man’s posture. Sam pressed his lips together and… He noted that Dream was not stimming right now. He glanced down at his notes and tapped his fingers on the table. The only thing of real note was that Dream hadn’t started stimming until his mask was off. Sam assumed it was a nervous habit from feeling exposed. But.

There was something else too. Sam was. Seeing things. He didn’t know if Puffy was seeing them too. Ever since Dream took off his mask, she had gone on High Alert. Sam could see it out of the corner of his eye: her back straight, eyes forward, and her ears were twitching at every single sound that occurred in the small room. He realized suddenly that she was listening for a predator. Why? Dream was dangerous, but he was in a sweater and they both were in full enchanted netherite armor. They had the upper hand. They shouldn’t feel afraid.

But still his skin crawled. Still the eyes felt like they bore into his soul. And those eyes. At first, Sam thought it was a trick of the light, a small hallucination stemming from severe sleep deprivation. But it was still happening. The same thing was happening. Sam would look away from Dream to jot something down, and Dream’s eyes would flicker. But when Sam looked up again, they were back to normal. Or his mouth would open when he’d answer and, for the briefest second, Sam would see sharpened teeth filling his jaws. And then it was gone.

Sam’s gaze flickered up to Dream. He was shifting in his chair now, obviously growing restless as the silence stretched. Extreme measures seemed to help force him to open up. Sam didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to go this far, but he needed answers. The whole reason they were doing this interrogation was so that no more people needed to get hurt. He didn’t want to go this far, but Dream was forcing his hand.

“Dream,” he started, leaning forward. Dream turned to him, tilting his head as if he still had the mask on his face. Sam noted he was stimming again. “You know why we’re having this conversation, yes?”

“So that whatever happened can be prevented?” Dream said with a shrug.

“Yes, that too.” Sam saw Dream mouth ‘Too?’ and he felt a rush of vicious victory. He tried not to show it on his face. He was a professional. He reached for the books in his inventory and laid them out on the table in front of Dream. “You know what these are, yes?”

Dream glanced at Sam first before reaching for one. He glanced at the title and lifted an eyebrow. “These are the prison waivers. That you sign to be able to visit.”

“Yes.” Sam picked his next words very carefully. “Dream, who was the last person to visit you?”

“Technoblade.”

“Right. You wrote these waivers. You know what they say.”

Dream’s brow creased and his arms stilled in his sweater. Sam waited for the realization to hit, for the stakes they faced to become a reality. Sam saw his eyes flicker again when the realization finally hit.

“Fuck no,” he snarled, jerking forward. Puffy reached for her sword, her body tensed like tripwire.

“Dream. The reason we are having this conversation is because if we are unable to clear Technoblade’s name, if we are unable to show evidence that Technoblade did not help you escape, we are obligated to take his remaining lives.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growled and Sam saw it again. The teeth sharpened to bite. He purposefully ignored it, glad at least that they were now getting somewhere.

“He read and signed the waivers. He knew what he was signing away. We have to.” Sam leaned back. “Dream, I don’t want to do it. Puffy doesn’t want to do it. But we are obligated to do so. Unless, you tell us the truth. Unless you give us proof that Technoblade did not help you escape.”

Dream inhaled through his teeth, teeth that were blunt and white and human. He closed his eyes, and Sam found him to be the most expressive now. Now, that his eyes were hidden. He was thinking, discarding thoughts, caught like a mouse in a trap with only one way out. Two ways, but Sam prayed that they wouldn’t have to hunt an unkillable man down. After a long stretch of time, Dream opened his eyes. They looked brighter. Dream’s expression was tight, speaking of frustration.

“Fine,” he said, exhaling it like a sigh. “I will tell you the truth.” He glanced at Puffy, then flicked his gaze back to Sam’s. “But only you.”

“What?” Puffy cried out. “W-what do you mean only Sam?”

“You leave,” Dream clarified, his gaze flicking back to Puffy. Sam noted he held himself still, uncomfortable with the situation. “He stays.”

“Do you think you have a bargaining chip here? We’re in full armor and you’re—”

“Puffy,” Sam interrupted. “I don’t like the idea either, but please. Take a break. I will call you if I need you.” Puffy pressed her lips together, but sheathed her sword.

“Alright. If he makes one wrong move, you call me and I’ll be here.” She looked at Dream, pausing for a moment. Something passed between them, crossing both their expressions. Then she walked out. Sam turned back to Dream and opened a new page in his journal.

"I'm listening, Dream," he said. When he glanced up at the man's face, he saw that his eyes were closed again. Sam also noted Dream's hands were on the table, still as the air around them. Dream breathed in deeply. On the exhale, he opened his eyes and

And

Sam jerked back so hard the chair skidded across the floor. Dream watched him idly, but his eyes were not that of a human's. They looked veined, lines warping near the beaded vertical pupil. The pupils widened in the dim light, sitting there almost unblinking. Dream tilted his head at Sam and opened his mouth. Sam could see the teeth sharpening before him. His jaws opened and his tongue turned into the same lime green of his eyes, extending over his teeth where it forked at the end. His fingers curled over the table and Sam heard the screech of nails dragging across the table as he watched the fingers turn to claws. Dream opened his mouth to let out a growl and Sam watched a second set of jaws drop in.

“What the…?” Sam whispered. Dream tilted his head, rumbling a growl at him. He let out a sigh, then held up a hand.

“Give me a moment,” he said. He pushed back the chair and got up. “I promise this will make sense soon.” Dream removed his sweater, then started on the rest of his clothes, resolutely not blushing from the situation. It was awkward, but it needed to happen. He saw Sam open his mouth to continue to speak and he interrupted him, holding out a claw. “Look, if you want me to keep having clothes after this interrogation is over, just- just go with it. Just. Don’t.”

Sam settled back in his chair and watched. When Dream was done, he moved the chair back, but he didn’t sit back down in it. Out of whatever respect he still had for the man’s privacy, Sam focused on Dream’s face. However, this did mean that Dream’s face elongating was the first thing he saw as the transformation progressed. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the sight before him. Dream’s body expanded, growing larger until his back brushed the ceiling of the—admittedly small—room. He grew skin that looked at first like leather, then scales and Sam remembered… stories. Stories he had heard in the Badlands, stories of the place endermen lived in. Not the Nether. Not in that hell pit, even if they like the warped forests. No, somewhere further. Somewhere else. Among those stories, whispered around low burning fires and lanterns of caravans, was talk of a beast. Unrivaled by all, a creature known as a dragon.

Those stories came to Sam now, as he stared at the nightmare Dream had become, and he wondered if they held some spark of truth. A low rumble brought Sam’s attention back to Dream. His form towered over Sam and a tail whipped behind him. The mouth didn’t look like it could close comfortably and Sam, idly, wondered if he was doing that on purpose. While Sam’s outward appearance was surprisingly calm, inside he was caught in an unceasing panic attack. He inhaled through his nose, forcing himself to remain calm, and lifted his hand. Dream's head twitched at the movement and Sam stilled. When nothing happened, he moved again, slowly, to touch Dream's arm. The flesh there was firm and tough, scaled in places, but still flesh.

"So," he started, surprised by the level tone. It still took some doing to force out his words. “This helped you survive the lava?”

Dream rumbled in returned, shifting his weight to one hand, braced on the table. He lifted the other hand/claw and dropped it on Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s breath hitched and he focused on a scale on Dream’s chest, willing his anxiety to fall to more acceptable levels. The weight was heavier than he expected and it only grounded him in the situation. Another rumble dragged his attention back to Dream’s face. He tilted it again, as if he was still wearing the mask. Claws closed around his shoulder, pricking through the spaces in his armor. Another breath and he felt. Calmer. Probably.

Then Dream growled again and gestured with his head to the side, towards his claw. Sam squinted, frowning, but he glanced over to the claw. He saw nothing, not at first. But then movement out of the corner of his drew his gaze back to the arm and Sam did a double-take.

Netherite crept up the length of Dream's arm in slow curls. It seemed to devour the flesh and Sam followed its growth up to his shoulder, over his maw, and down to the tip of the lashing tail. When it was done, Dream fixed his gaze upon him once more, his jaws opening to reveal even his insides had changed to netherite.

"Ah," Sam forced out with a cough. He reached over and knocked his knuckles on Dream's arm. It sounded like netherite. "I see." Dream removed the weight from Sam's shoulders, setting the hand back down on the table. He likely couldn't speak in this form, but Sam was smart. He could form his conclusions from this, then clarify when he could speak again.

Netherite couldn't burn, so a body fully made of it wouldn't burn either. Perfect for swimming through lava. Also for breaking through the blocks fast, even if the claws weren't enchanted. He timed it in his head based on Dream's answers and. Yeah. He would've been out within an hour. But…

"None of the netherite blocks were broken in the wall in your cell. The redstone was working. So how did you get over that?" Mining the obsidian would take far too long.

Dream tapped a claw on the table, then, almost delicately, reached over to touch Sam's quill. Sam blinked as the tip of the claw changed, ink welling to the surface. Dream took the journal and opened it to an empty page, then drew a rough sketch of a clock. Sam stared at it, thinking through what this meant. Until, suddenly, it made sense.

"Gold. You turned into gold." Dream nodded and settled back. That made sense. Gold was malleable and wasn’t broken easily in its basic form. He wondered if it would ease the netherite transformation too, make it solid and durable like netherite ingots. Dream chirred, bringing Sam’s attention back to him. He had straightened and touched a hand to approximately where his ribcage would be. He felt around, pressing against the netherite/flesh until he winced. Sam heard the grinding of broken stone and winced in turn.

“Malleable enough to squeeze through, but too large to escape injury?” Sam guessed. Dream nodded. Sam hummed and opened his journal to add the note. “Are you able to turn into any material?” At Sam’s question, Dream agreed, but lifted his lip in a half snarl. “Yes, but why would you want to?” Dream nodded again and tapped the journal pages. Sam hummed again. “I can see why paper and leather would be useless. Glass too fragile as well. Grass?” He cracked a smile. The smile Dream returned was honestly a bit gruesome. “Too silly, for sure. Netherite is a good all-around material, assuming you have access to it. Fire resistant, knockback resistant, strong, durable, if a bit utilitarian.” He paused and frowned.

“You were gone for six hours. Where did you go?” Dream shook his head. “You could lie. I wouldn’t know.” Another no. “Hiding something, then. Why?” Dream gave him a pointed look. “Right. You can’t speak.” Sam inhaled through his nose to calm down. He pressed his lips together as he rearranged the question in his head. “Wherever you went, how did you escape notice? I haven’t heard anyone seeing you running around.” A harsh CRACK echoed through the room as Dream’s back opened and

Oh.

“You…” Sam dropped his head in his hands and groaned. “Of all the things I’ve seen today, why is you having wings the least surprising?” Dream made a noise like laughter and Sam lifted his head to glare tiredly at him. “Can you just turn back human so we can have a conversation now?” The nightmare form shrank, most of the non-human features going back to normal, save for the tongue, the teeth, and those eyes. Dream sighed and tapped clawed fingers on the table as he sat back down.

“Sam,” he said, his voice surprisingly hoarse. It sounded strange amongst the still very sharp teeth. “I don’t turn ‘back’ human. I turn ‘into a human’. Human is not the base. Not for me.”

“No?”

“That form you saw was closer to the base.”

“Closer?” Dream looked away at the question, hesitation on his face. Sam pressed the topic. “Why hide it? Why hide what you are?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dream said with a shake of his head.

“And why is that?”

Dream didn’t answer right away, but that was alright. They weren’t going anywhere and Sam could wait. Sam noted that he looked tired. Exhausted. Did transforming take a lot of energy? Sam slid across another loaf of bread towards Dream. He glanced at it, then swiped it and devoured it far too quickly. Sam had a brief image in his head of those teeth ripping through flesh and snapping bones. He blinked and refocused on Dream.

“Too many people know already. You see this?” Dream reached for the mask and offered it to him. “There’s enchantments on it, ones I made myself long ago. They help keep the human form stable. This,” he gestured to himself. “This form is more stable than the human form. But people don’t react well to the teeth.”

“There’s very few humans here, as I’ve seen,” Sam said. “I don’t think people would—"

“Tell me, Sam. The first time you saw me change, what did you think?” He spoke by baring his teeth, a faint growl rumbling in his chest. Sam pressed his lips together, then looked away.

“That you were a nightmare.”

“Exactly.”

A thought came unbidden to Sam right then. And once the thought became known in his head, he started to piece things together. And he understood now, at least in some part.

“And that’s why you call yourself ‘Dream’.”

----

Hooved footsteps crossed over the obsidian, the lava receding into the floor the only light illuminating Puffy. She stopped behind the netherite wall, hands on her hips as she gazed down at Dream. He lifted his gaze towards her and waited to hear why she came.

“Dream, take it off. I don’t,” she pressed her lips together and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it at the roots. “I don’t care if you think it will change how I see you. Trust me, that. That’s already happened.” She sighed and looked at him. “I want to see the real you, Dream.”

And Dream

Dream took off his mask for her. He unlatched it silently and set the mask aside. He let the change happen, keeping his gaze away from hers. He didn’t want to see her expression, her fear. He didn’t want to scare her away. At the end of his transformation, he risked a glance upwards. Puffy’s hand covered her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. He growled and turned away from her. She would hate him now. She would hate what she saw. This is why he didn’t want to show her. He wanted her to remember him as her little duckling. Pretend that everything that happened since was a nightmare to be forgotten in the morning.

“Dream,” she called. He didn’t turn back to her, so she called his name again. “My little Dreamling, come here. Come to Mama Puffy.”

Dream lifted his head, his chest aching with want. He crept over and rested his head on the netherite wall. It was cold under his flesh, but when her hands came around his head, her touch was warm. He hesitated, then leaned into it. She hugged his head and cooed at him.

“Dream, my little Dreamling. I promise that I will come and visit you more. Not as your guard. I know how they feel about you. How everyone feels about you. They don’t think you can be saved. They believe that you should rot here.” Her fingers tightened around him and he chirred softly. “You’ve done things that are unforgivable, Dream. Remember that.”

Dream remembered. He had a lot of time to himself to think and remember and… Some of the things, he did not regret. He would be honest to himself on that. But there were other things he did regret. He sorely regretted them. It was why he returned to the prison after leaving Technoblade with Philza. He could have left. Easily, even. But he felt in his soul that he belonged here, to pay reparations for the crimes he had committed. Puffy was moving away now and he whined. He didn’t want to be left alone, not yet, not again. But she wasn’t leaving. She beckoned for him to look at her. Past the tears in her eyes was that unshakeable determination.

“You are still worth saving. And I will do my damnedest to prove that. Will you help me?”

And Dream nodded. He had not lied to them yet and he had no plans to change that.

#dream smp #dream smp fic #dream #awesamdude #captain puffy #mystuff #this fic got stuck in my head and would not leave so you guys get to read it too #it ended up being more angsty than i originally planned #the price i pay #the price i pay to keep you safe

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mab1905 · 4 years ago

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Things I needed to get off my chest, referring to the last epsiode of Supernatural.

WARNING: EVERYTHING YOU’RE ABOUT TO READ IS A PERSONAL OPINION, IF THIS FACT GETS YOU HEATED THEN GET OFF MY PROPERTY.

WARNING: (PART TWO) I USE THE WORD QU**R — UNCENSORED — AS A GENERAL TERM FOR THE LGBTQ COMUNITY, I ALSO USE IT AS A PERSONAL SEXUAL IDENTITY. IF THIS WORD TRIGGERS YOU THEN KEEP SCROLLING PAST THIS POST.

We all knew how this was going to end. Whether you’ve watched forever or stopped years ago or have never seen it but know the jist because of all the shit that’s been going around tumblr; you knew how this was going to end. And it was never going to be explicitly queer, it just wasn’t. Somehow, despite knowing that, it still hurts like a motherfucker. I’m disturbed. I’m actually disturbed. I’m disturbed as a queer man, I’m disturbed as a fan of the show, as a fan of the writers, as a fan of Misha (who is all good in my books because we all knew he put his heart and soul into that fucking confession scene despite knowing the horseshit that was gonna follow). So let me break this down.

Part One: The episode, in of itself, kinda just sucked.

The begining I liked— I thought, okay, some reminiscent stuff, they said it would be like older episodes, they’re referencing shit, they got a dog, okay sure. This is sweet. J2 knocking it out of the park with all the brotherly banter. I laughed, it was nice. The introduction of the monster was scary, an elevated classic. Some good old dean and Sam torturing the monster, I’m digging it. Going to some rusty old building, suspense where you see the monster in the background, a good time, you know? But that death scene— w o w. Now, I actually like the idea of Dean dying suddenly with something seemingly so small and trivial, (great life ends with a whisper not a scream, right?), but it was TOO sudden. It came out of nowhere in a bad way. The whole fight, them finding the monster, the brief flashback to someone from a past epsiode we had all forgotten about, it just felt so rushed. Rushed to the point where, throughout the entire death, I was just waiting for Dean to smile and say “sike.” I literally couldn’t believe it, and not because I was sad; how it happened, how it was written, was so awkward that I couldn’t believe they actually had it happen. I actually didn’t believe it until Dean’s body was burning. That’s how in shock I was. And even though Jared and Jensen were acting their asses off and doing a great job of it, it didn’t effect me emotionally at all, cause it just felt so weird, like I couldn’t take it seriously. Then that feeling lasted throughout the rest of the epsiode. Every thing that happened after that felt forced and unnatural. Like I was watching the YouTube Original knockoff of my favorite HBO show. It didn’t even end with Dean and Sam in the Impala. Them looking at the lego pieces stuck in the air vent or putting in a cassette tape and letting a NOT COVER VERSION of Wayward Son play. Why the fuck were they on a bridge.

Part Two: Cas.

It would have been almost better, if they hadn’t said anything at all. If it was just Dean and Sam for the entire epsiode and that’s it. I could have gotten behind that. But the second they made some half assed comment about moving on and sacrifice, it was fucking over. Any respect I had for this show was thrown out the window because I knew he wouldn’t be mentioned again (and I was genuinly shocked when he was). I wasn’t expecting a kiss, or for them to hold hands, or even for Dean to reciprocate at all, but that? What they fucking did? Every single bit of character development, every scene, every amazing bit of acting, all of it to feel like it was essentially thrown away with “we gotta just move past it.” We all knew it was a queer bait, we knew it from the begining, and I had prepared myself to be disappointed from the moment I started watching this show, but that just made me angry. Really truly angry. And no it’s not just a fucking TV show. It’s the longest running sci-fi show to date, it was the spec of queer representation people latched onto during their childhoods a grew up with, it is what influenced the lives of hundreds of thousands of people— and for them to essentially take the queer character that so many people had associated with and looked up to and seen themselves in and trusted and used to keep them going, and just push them aside and say that’s okay? They actually looked at that, they looked at the two lines this character who carried the entire show on his back was mentioned in, and said that’s okay? Again, I prepared for it, but to see it done so damn shamelessly, so blantanly, was just a fucking punch to the gut. Like I never truly realized how little they cared until now. I’ve been abused and bullied on the basis of my sexuality before, and it really does feel similar, certainly not as bad, but similar, because it’s coming from the exact same place in their minds. Even if they don’t truly mean to be homophobic or hurtful, that part of their brains told them this was okay to do to the people who had followed them and sung their praises for years. Well guess what. You’re done. You can leave now, thanks, but no thanks.

Part Three: Paint a Rainbow On Your Impala

I told my friend this, who has been watching the show for longer than I have, and who owns two toy model impalas: “keep your impala and paint a rainbow on it and hang it on your wall because fuck those assholes we didn’t need them to make it gay we did it ourselves.” I will not be boycotting the show entirely, and neither should you. I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to watch another full episode after this. That was it. That was really just... too fucking much. So that’s it. But I’m not going to pretend I won’t look up my favorite scenes once and a while. I’m not going to stop loving Cas, I’m not going to stop loving Misha ‘cause it’s not his fault for what the writers did. I’m gonna write a better ending in my head and read a fanfic and read metas from a few years ago and maybe make a gay crack video— because that’s the part of this that made me really happy. The queer part. The unashamed, open, diverse, amazing and wild queerness of this fandom and the development of this character. The part that the community built despite knowing the bullshit the show was putting us through. We held up this dumbass show because we had made an entire queer subculture for it to stand on. And maybe the source material is bullshit, but that’s real. That’s so fucking real and that on its own brings in enough representation for anyone too feel accepted and seen and heard. Music is very important to me, almost unmatched by anything else actually. I use it as comfort, as communication, as esacpe, as focus. I have a playlist for everything, and I have never in my life deleted a single one of them. It may seem like a small thing, but trust me it’s just one of those habits that’s built into my code and is so important to me. I was on the verge of deleting my SPN playlist, even just looking at it reminded me of how disturbed and wronged I felt. It was just so shitty and it made me feel shitty and it made anything connected to it feel shitty. But I came to the decision, that this is my fucking playlist, and Cas is our queer character, and he’s going to have lunch with the Crystal Gems and She-Rah and Deet’s dads from The Dark Crystal, and we are going to celebrate our own queerness within this community, and we are going to play “Angel With a Shotgun” SO loud and paint rainbows on our impalas and write the most passive aggressive fix-it fics we can and revel in this fandom and I will never touch another epsiode because F U C K. T H E M.

#supernatural #last episode #spn 15x20 #castiel #dean #sam #misha collins #spn #gay #lgbtq #pride #fuck em all we made it gay #queer representation

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agustdomain · 5 years ago

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A Slideshow of Road Lines {1}

Synopsis: They say oil and water don’t mix. What about oil paint and engines? He’s an artist reaching toward his dream while the girl with an engine heart is too busy trying to get her hands on the wheel. Is there a way for them to hold onto each other?

Word Count: 6.1k words

Pairing: Chris x Reader (yes, that is what I call him. I apologize if you prefer calling him Chan or Bang Chan)

Genre: college!au, artist!Chris, angst

Warnings: Alcohol, Language. Further warnings in later chapters.

Author’s Note: I’ve never done what I’m about to do with this work, which is to have several chapters of a series. The chapters will be on the shorter side, which is also very unlike me. I truly adore how this story is going and I can’t wait to further explore this world. I won’t be following any posting schedules, but there should be regular updates. Without further ado, let’s see where this road takes us. ~ Angelo

!IMPORTANT NOTE! If any of you have read my Hold a Heart, Bear the Burden series, this takes on a similar format. However, this story is taking place in TWO DIFFERENT TIMES instead of two different povs. When you see these flowers ❁, the story is shifting from present to past. There will also be a Then next to the day in order to further indicate that. If you have any questions, let me know!

DAY 1

She is a butterfly, beautiful and catastrophic.

What were the last words he said to her? Ah, it’s all a blur now. How can she remember, when it’s been so long, she can’t recall his facial features anymore?

“Y/N. Come on. Talk to me.”

She swats her roommate’s hands away as she swats away her sanity. Ignoring Chuu’s look of exasperation, she continues the sway of her hips as her arms snake toward the ceiling. Dancing in the middle of their living room, putting on a show like she’s the only one there.

Except she isn’t alone. And there isn’t any music playing.

The night wasn’t supposed to unfold like this, mostly blaming it on her tsunami of thoughts. From the moment she’s heard the news, the tether to him tugged her and reminded her of its owner. It slithered up from her heart and around her neck, suffocating her.

It’s been two and half years. She thought enough time had passed. It’s evident that isn’t the case, because hearing his name tonight had caused rain to fall from the ceiling and the flood to rise in her lungs.

Even with all this time and distance between them, Chris still stains her brain like permanent ink...or poison. Poison is probably more accurate.

Isn’t drinking supposed to make her forget?

When she feels Chuu’s hand graze hers once more, she snaps like the bond between her and Chris had so long ago.

“This is bullshit!” Her scream stills the storm, but only for a moment.

It only captures a snapshot of a moment. Chuu’s eyebrows are locked in a frown, hands outstretched like that of a needy child. Who is the real child?

Her other roommate Minnie is fanning her hands down at their guests Y/N had forgotten about, as if she’s avoiding a fire from spreading. What are those guys’ names again? She groggily searches her muddled mind, only remembering Minnie’s excited smile as she introduced one of them as her boyfriend.

It doesn’t take a genius to know Y/N isn’t taking Chris’s return well.

“I’m… sorry,” The words are miles apart, so distant she’s unsure if they come from her. The tsunami strikes shore just as Chuu’s face settles into one of understanding. Glancing at Minnie’s scornful glare sobers Y/N up a little. Chuu chooses to ignore their other and judgmental roommate, hands patiently waiting for her.

“I’ll walk you guys out,” Minnie makes it a note to speak pointedly as she escorts the two young men Y/N can barely remember to the front door.

The imaginary music fades from her mind at the slam of the front door. When had she got down from the coffee table? The ceiling is spinning. Has it always been so cracked, so ugly? Raindrops are falling from it and splashing her cheeks.

“The ceiling is crying,” She tells Chuu.

Chuu, her saving grace, fills her vision. Patting down Y/N’s face with a tissue improves the state of her damp face. Not enough, it seems, the rain continuing its downpour.

“I’m here, Y/N. You’re not alone.”

“He left me, Chuu,” Sitting up, the waves crash into her so hard she slams back down onto the couch. The ceiling listens to her elegy without judgment. “Am I supposed to brush it off like- like- like we never knew each other? Like we didn’t love each other? That’s the hardest request anyone has ever given me. And of all people, he was the one to request that of me. No- No, I was the one to request it. He may have left, but I left him first.”

“Y/N-”

Y/N manages to sit up, leaning heavily on Chuu as she looks into her roommate’s startled gaze. “He was always destined for the beauty of the world. He convinced me there is more, that immortality lies beyond our understanding. He chose that over me. He told me he never would. But he did. And it’s my own fault.”

Y/N searches Chuu’s gaze, wondering if it makes any sense to her. It likely doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter.

What matters is she understands.

“Was I a mistake to him?”

Chuu doesn’t answer.

“Is he a mistake to me?”

Silence. The ceiling showers her with gentle rainfall.

“Not possible. He’s…” Her eyelids suddenly grow massively heavy, heavier than that backpack she used to carry around in middle school. “He’s my favorite chapter. He’s… he’s the pen.”

Just like that, the butterfly is gone.

DAY 2

Something is crying, her body is heavy as if she’s submerged in a pool, and there’s an ache in her neck begging for attention. Peeling her eyes open, her gaze slides over the boring ceiling before heading downward. After giving her brain a moment to kickstart, she realizes the crying is her phone blaring its ringtone.

Making a note to change the horrid sound later, she moves to grab it- well, she thinks she does until she realizes her right arm is completely void of any feeling. Picking it up with her left hand, she watches as its slack body falls back to her side. The phone going off again is enough to make her snap. Instead, she slowly sits up, the flimsy blanket covering her pooling around her stomach.

Ignoring the incessant knocking in her skull, she lazily fumbles for her phone as the needles start prickling throughout her right arm. Trying to speak is a feat, so instead she trudges to the kitchen for a glass of water as she accepts the call.

“Y/N! I’ve been outside the fucking door for twenty five minutes. I would’ve started banging on it if I was in the mood to deal with Minnie’s bullshit. I locked myself out again.”

Taking her time, Y/N slowly drinks a mouthful from her cup, pauses, then drinks some more.

“Y/N? I’m not playing around. I had a shitty night and-”

Swinging the front door open, she comes face to face with Yeji, the fourth roommate and permanent resident in her life.

“You look like-”

“Shit. I get it,” Y/N cuts her off, turning around and heading back to the kitchen. She listens as Yeji closes and locks the front door, kicking off her shoes and hanging up her keys. She isn’t surprised at the sound of her following. Y/N silently watches as her roommate watches her back, taking a seat at the dining table tucked in the corner.

Rubbing at her neck, Y/N’s eyes dance away, which so happens to direct her gaze to the refrigerator door.

“Did I wake you up?”

“It’s whatever,” Y/N looks down into her empty cup, needing more water. Shuffling over to their water cooler, she pours herself more, stopping when she senses Yeji behind her.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were… you know.” Y/N blinks at her words, realizing she’s trying to show she cares. Yeji looks away before holding up a finger, “I actually have the perfect hangover remedy.”

“Really? I thought you never drank.”

Yeji crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes. “And?”

Y/N walks past her with one hand up in surrender, taking Yeji’s previous spot at the table. “Just saying.”

Silence stretches between them as Yeji gets to work. Y/N doesn’t bother making small talk, sipping quietly at her water as she waits. Truthfully, she isn't sure what to make of this exchange.

Best friends or not, things have been off-key between them for a while now. Nothing happened between them, no falling out or argument. It was just… off these days.

The thought of last night hits her over the head like her hangover. The worst part of this ruthless torture is she remembered every single part of the night before. Isn’t drinking supposed to make her forget?

She hasn’t realized Yeji is sitting across from her until she slides a plate in front of her. Toast lathered with butter, two boiled eggs, and cut up strawberries. Her heart tugs, recognizing the breakfast from the many sleepovers growing up.

“Thank you.”

Yeji waves her off. As Y/N bites into an egg, she senses her friend is about to speak. Just as the difficulty of chewing the yolk kicks in, Yeji’s voice fills the void.

“I heard from Jin who’s back in town.”

It’s hard to swallow, and not only because hard boiled eggs are unnecessarily difficult to eat.

Y/N tries to play it off with looking unbothered, her heart rate picking up. What is her deal? Why is it so hard to breathe? Avoiding Yeji’s pointed stare, she only meets her gaze over the rim of her cup as she takes the opportunity to catch her breath.

“Did drinking last night have anything to do with that?”

Stabbing a strawberry a little too hard, she braces herself for impact before meeting Yeji’s gaze and deadpanning, “What do you think?”

Yeji is never one to beat around the bush. What is she playing at this morning? Is their friendship so off that she can’t be her usual upfront self?

They are dancing around each other at this point, Y/N trying to finish her food quickly as she keeps an eye on Yeji for any mind tricks. Her friend’s arms are crossed atop the table, chipped nail polish drawing attention to her impatient fingers tapping at her forearm.

“What do you want me to say, Yeji?” Y/N finally breaks, setting her fork down.

“What do you want to say?”

“Oh, quit bullshitting me. Everything you do is calculated. Even offering to make me breakfast wasn’t out of the kindness of your heart. The moment you saw me, you waited for the opportunity to bring him up!”

She’s gone and done it now, but it’s too late to backtrack. Yeji is in the midst of a look of disgust, and Y/N is too upset to care as the chair screeches as she stands. Her friend mirrors her, cutting off her escape right as she reaches the stairs. Of course they had to live in a townhouse. Even if they didn’t, there is never a clean escape when it came to the girl in front of her.

“I’m sorry you’re not exactly jumping for joy that Chris is back, but that doesn’t mean you take it out on me.”

Y/N forces a laugh out, hiding her fear at the realization that Yeji is bringing him up for a reason.

“Spare me the pity. Why did you bring him up?”

Yeji pauses. Nausea rises in Y/N’s stomach. Is Y/N being too much?

She’s the one to avoid Y/N’s gaze now, feigning confidence. “I-I knew you wouldn’t be okay. That’s all.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I’m not stupid, you know.”

Y/N mumbles beneath her breath, “I couldn’t tell,” and she wonders if Yeji chooses to ignore it.

“Hyunjin isn’t the only person you can count on to be there for you, you know. And if anyone has been there for you, it hasn’t been him. It’s been me.”

Wrong move. Not that Yeji is winning this chess match whatsoever. Mentioning Hyunjin is giving up her queen in the midst of their match. Check. Bringing up Hyunjin is sensitive, because usually she brings up her cousin out of spite.

“You know nothing,” Y/N’s voice quivers with anger, not even letting her open her mouth before she shoves past her and up the stairs.

“Y/N! Y/N, wait! Are you seriously going to walk away- we’re not done-”

Somehow, she manages to make it to her room on the third floor without vomiting or passing out. Slamming her door signals they are just that- done. Checkmate.

Throwing herself across the bed, she fights with all her energy to stop from crying. She’s being pathetic, after all. So what? Chris is back. And not just for some brief visit or to show his face to everyone else but her (like he did these past couple of years). He’s back for good- at least, that’s what Hyunjin’s texts implied.

Wiping her face with her sleeve, she pulls out her phone to check her notifications. As she scrolls through them, she ignores the sound of Minnie stomping down from the second floor to scream at Yeji about waking her up. She ignores Chuu’s knock at her door that follows shortly after, the one she saw coming.

She doesn’t even listen for when the yelling stops. Eventually, it just does.

Time passes as she lays there, turning her screen on and off. Holding off for as long as she could, it doesn’t take long at all for her to give in and open up her messages with Hyunjin.

Her eyes dance over his words over and over, the text that had set her off the night before. When he had first texted, she immediately knew he was acting strange.

She and Hyunjin had never said it aloud, because if they did Yeji would lose her mind, but the two of them are the closest out of the trio. Yeji already has a one up on Y/N considering she’s cousins with him. Blood relations meant they’re bound by destiny. When Y/N told him that, Hyunjin always argued that would mean Yeji had a one up on him because she met Y/N first.

They don’t have to say it aloud. They were in sync the moment they first met.

Which is why she knows him from head to toe, and knew how he started their conversation last night was off.

At first, he had called. Picking up the phone and picking up on his tone went hand and hand. He had tried so hard to keep his voice steady, she could feel that too. Hyunjin had always been the easiest to read between the three of them. When he had sensed her suspicion he had made some lame excuse about calling her back and then proceeded to continue their conversation over text.

Honey

I need to tell you something. Delivered at 8:54 PM

There’s but a few sentences a person can receive over text that gives them a heart attack. That sentence is one of them.

Y/N remembers how hard it was to stay calm as she texted him back as casually as she could, asking him what’s up.

Honey

I don’t know how else to put it so I’m just going to say it.

Chris is back now. Delivered at 8:57 PM

It had taken an hour long walk and a shower before she had responded to him with, That’s great.

She’s sure Hyunjin knows it isn’t great, not to her. Since then, she hasn't answered any of his texts or calls. There aren't many, but he was ignored enough to get the message.

What’s she supposed to say? Not just to Hyunjin, but to everyone? She can’t even articulate what she’s feeling to herself, let alone to her friends. The real question is, what did this mean? If he’s back, what does that mean to her?

“What does that have to do with me?” She confesses to her ceiling. Everything.

She laughs at the brutal honesty. The ceiling is right. It has everything to do with her. As Chris used to famously remind her, she was everything to him. And he, to her.

❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁ ❁

Day 1, Then

She was a historian, studious and scholarly. That’s what she tried to tell herself as she scrolled through endless online journals, looking for anything she could use in the essay that had her on the verge of crying.

A few months into university, and she thought it would eventually get easier. Of course, she had qualms about why she was a STEM major who was required to take a history course, but that didn’t stop her from working hard.

Just one more paragraph.

She stared at the winking cursor, every minute passed signifying a millenia going by. In the last month, there wasn’t a single assignment she was happy with, but she supposed it had to do. At least she was completing her work, after all.

For once, she decided to keep her phone on, making it impossibly easy for Yeji to pester her. So far, she was able to ignore it. After her phone buzzed for the eighth time, she picked it up without even checking the ID.

“Yes?”

“Did you really think I was going to let you off that easy?”

The thorn in her side since birth made way for the biting tone. That was the sweetest way she could describe Yeji.

“I held out hope. Guess I was wrong,” Y/N said distractedly, reading the last sentence she had typed out. Her eyes trailed up, frowning when it said last save was twenty minutes ago.

“You realize that you promised me you would ignore homework for one night. Just one. And you’re already breaking that promise.”

Y/N’s face scrunched up at Yeji’s tone. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? I told you I have a lot to do this week. I have two papers due by Sunday and an exam next Tuesday-”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re always busy, Y/N. That’s not new. But that doesn’t stop your movie nights with Hyunjin. Or when you spend time with Lu. You expect me to meet these douchebags on my own?” She had hissed the last part, but Hyunjin had always had perfect hearing. His scolding in the background was exactly what she expected, and it’s what she heard a moment later.

Ignoring Yeji’s whining, she cut in, “My roommate's name is Chuu, by the way-” she started typing distractedly as she added- “Put Jin on the phone.”

“Why? Just so he can convince you in one word while it’s super easy for you to reject me?”

“Yeji, sweetie,” Y/N skimmed over her paragraph before holding the phone in between her neck and shoulder blade, fingers racing across her keyboard, “Jealousy is not a good look on you.”

“Go for Hyunjin,” His muffled voice was masked likely by whatever snack he was shoving in his mouth. For as long as she knew him, he had never managed to break out of his snacker phase.

“Can you pretend that I’m considering going out even though I fully intend on staying in?”

“You should come out with us. I mean, I know school is important for us all, but I haven’t seen your face in years.”

Y/N deadpanned, “We had lunch together two days ago. You’re both being too dramatic for my taste.”

“You don’t have to come out. If it’s really urgent for you to hole yourself up in your room, that is.” Always the sweetest, she never had to worry about him understanding. “I don’t think it’ll kill you to come out for one night. There’s always a next time, of course-” Yeji arguing with his words made him snap before returning to his sweet self- “Anyways, I miss you too. A lot. We can’t be a trio when we’re missing the best one out of all of us.”

“I am right here, Hyun. Shouldn’t I be your favorite, ya know, since we’re blood related?” Yeji was closer to the phone now, Y/N too entertained by their banter to focus on her assignment any longer.

“That’s exactly why you aren’t,” He scoffed.

Y/N tuned out their arguments for a few moments, typing away. Ignoring the disappointment at her choice, she shook it off as she said, “I’ll catch you later, Honey. Okay?”

“Of course.”

~~~~

Swinging open her dorm door, a frown pulled at Y/N’s eyebrows at the sight of two very familiar faces in front of her. Hyunjin shuffled from one foot to the other, an apologetic smile awkwardly teetering on his lips. Y/N’s eyes slid over to Yeji, head high as she stood unashamed and proud. Narrowing her eyes at the woman, she pulled the door closer to her, no intention of inviting them inside.

That’s when Y/N noticed two unfamiliar faces behind her two best friends. The one nearest Hyunjin was a flower pre-bloom, hand fiddling with his sweater sleeve, round glasses sliding down his face. He was quite handsome, his facial features contrasting with his softer style.

The guy behind Yeji exuded confidence. Or cockiness. She didn’t know yet, but figured she’d find out eventually. Head tilted upward, stance commanding the wall he leaned up against to support him instead of the other way around. Eyes sharp as an eagle, watching her. Basically, the exact opposite of the other stranger.

“I tried to tell her.” Hyunjin blurted, pinning the blame.

Yeji spared a glare at her cousin before flashing her famous charming smile at Y/N. It didn’t work, an uncontrollable sigh slipping from Y/N’s lungs.

“Yeji, I told you that-”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s a Friday night. You can spend an hour or two with us.”

They fell into tension, a wave of frustration washing over Y/N. Yeji really knew how to get on her nerves.

Hyunjin’s gaze flickered between them, always on the forefront and ready to diffuse. “We’re going to play Mortal Kombat 11 at Jisung’s. I figured you might want to come.”

Tempting. Y/N softened at the sight of him, his face innocent and his intentions pure. She wondered how he and Yeji were blood related sometimes.

“I’m Jisung,” The confident/cocky one from behind Yeji chimed in, eagle eyes morphing into a boy next door. That might be an issue.

“Y/N.” She offered up a small smile, glancing back in her dorm room with longing. Refusing to look at Yeji, she studied Hyunjin- the only sane person in front of her, it seemed. Yeji was right about one thing: Hyunjin was her soft spot and always would be.

“Give me a few minutes to change. And then we can head out.”

“And the entourage gets bigger,” Jisung’s eyes flashed. Yeji rolled her eyes.

Casting them one glance, Y/N regretted her decision the moment she closed her door. No going back now.

~~~~

“Oh, come on! That was some bullshit.” Hyunjin called out, tossing the controller aside as Jisung whooped in victory.

“What did I say? Doesn’t matter who I go against. I can kick anyone’s ass if I’m using Scorpion.”

Y/N sipped at her soda, very amused by the debacle in front of her. Jisung and Changbin’s dorm wasn’t too spacious, only slightly bigger than hers, but it was filled with character. Changbin’s side of the room, she quickly learned, was the side of sanctuary. Organized, neat, and smelling of a citrus freshener.

Jisung’s side of the room was chaotic. Haphazard piles of clothes stuffed beneath the bed, discarded papers strewn about. At least it didn’t smell. The moment he had cleared the bed for them to sit down, Y/N had to elbow Yeji to prevent the distaste from growing any bigger on her friend’s face.

As the two guys continued on bickering for a few moments, Y/N watched as Changbin glanced over from his side of the room, irritation poking at his features. He was completely different from Jisung.

“Guys,” Changbin warned. It was enough to calm the argument, but only slightly.

“CB, who do you think is the best?” Jisung stumbled to his feet and headed straight for the guy in question. She didn’t know if Jisung was oblivious or he didn’t care for the look of anger on his roommate’s face. As the night dragged on, it seemed to be the latter.

“Don’t know.”

“It’s obviously Scorpion. Not to mention his fatalities are the most badass.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes and gave Y/N a look, as if to tell her, Get a load of him. Smiling at him, she watched as the tension left his shoulders. Sitting on the floor in front of her made it easy for her to reach down and ruffle his hair comfortingly.

“Don’t care, Jisung.”

Jisung animatedly threw his arms up in surrender, declaring, “I’m clearly the one with the best taste here.”

“Please,” Yeji uttered. It wasn’t unheard, Jisung’s eyes snapping to hers, lighting ablaze anywhere they touched. If it were anyone else, it would have been enough to make them back down. This was Yeji, though. If Jisung were a bonfire, Yeji was a volcano.

“You think you could do any better?”

“I didn’t say that. I just think you’re hilarious.”

Hyunjin, wide-eyed and wise to his cousin’s behavior could sense the random tension growing between the two of them. Moving to open his mouth, Jisung beat him to the punch.

“Why, because I know how to have fun? Unlike you, who’s been sitting on my bed with a pissy attitude all night.”

Even Changbin was tuned into the bullets that came out of nowhere. Y/N subtly rubbed at her temple in annoyance. Just then, she recalled a conversation she had with Yeji a while back about how she had ran into Hyunjin and some of his friends. That conversation was a whole hour complaint and rant about one guy in particular, who was “so full of himself that he left the room empty”.

Her brain put two and two together, realizing the Jisung she mentioned back then was the guy in front of her now.

“Subzero,” Changbin’s quiet voice sounded from his bed, his eyes never leaving his laptop as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

“What?” Jisung asked, face scrunching up.

“Subzero is clearly the superior MK fighter.”

The tension was snatched from the room like that, though Y/N had to subtly grab onto Yeji’s wrist to keep her from rekindling the fire. They shared a look for a moment as the boys broke out into another Mortal Kombat argument. For whatever reason Y/N couldn’t explicitly see, Yeji couldn’t stand Jisung.

Sure, he was a bit full of himself but she also noticed the phenomenon that Hyunjin grew into in the boys’ presence. He was incredible on his own, but with his friends, there was a newfound confidence that hardly existed before. It was refreshing, because all their lives Hyunjin had struggled with that. Yeji had a habit of disliking most people, always finding something to complain about.

Y/N sipped at her soda as she looked away, shaking her head at the drama Yeji was slowly creating. Her eyes trailed to Changbin once more, now donning a pair of headphones to block out the chaos. Slightly scoffing in amusement, she found herself wishing she were in his shoes.

All she knew was Yeji was annoying her, Jisung was really loud, and she had a mountain of homework due in two days that she barely even touched.

She tuned in then, just as Jisung was cursing to himself and shoving his phone into his hoodie.

“Come on, man, unpause it,” Hyunjin whined, “You’re stalling because I’m about to kill your ass.”

“Nah, that’s not it,” Jisung unpaused the screen and continued their fight on the tv, “This is just the third time Chris has cancelled on me.”

“Was Chris supposed to come chill with us?” Hyunjin asked, screaming in disbelief when Jisung landed his special move, taking the win for the second round.

“Yup. Haven’t seen him for like a week. He keeps on saying he spends all of his time in the art studios but if that were true, I wouldn’t see him with Felix all the time.” Jisung skillfully maneuvered his character, knowing all the special moves. Hyunjin was a bit more clumsy, clearly not as familiar with the game as the owner.

“Yeah, but we are coming up on midterms,” Hyunjin reasoned.

“I get it. It’s why I’m not on CB’s ass about staying up all hours of the night. What I don’t like is Chris always cancels at the last second.”

Yeji distracted her when her then as she showed her a funny video on her phone. They spent a moment scrolling through Yeji’s Instagram for a moment, chatting here and there. Jisung, turning off the game, grabbed her attention again, his face guarded as he accused Hyunjin without hesitation.

“You cheated.”

“How did I cheat?!”

“There’s no way Erron Black beat Scorpion! There’s no way you beat me!”

“Oh, here we go.”

Y/N shook her head, Yeji nudging her. “What’s up?”

“What do you think about this guy?” Yeji revealed her phone screen, a Tinder profile on display. Y/N tried to keep her face from scrunching up, finding his photo to be too cocky considering the lack of clothing.

“Swipe left. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“Come on! He’s not bad!”

“He doesn’t even have a bio.”

Yeji pouted for a moment, studying the photo for a moment before sighing and swiping left, “Fair point.”

“What do you think we should do for his birthday?”

Jisung’s loud voice made her tune into their chatter-again. She watched him in the midst of solving a Rubik’s cube he had produced out of nowhere.

Hyunjin leaned his head back on the bed, hair splaying out by her legs. Y/N subconsciously reached out and started playing with his hair. Hyunjin hummed in satisfaction before mumbling, “I don’t know, maybe the bowling rink? It’s only a couple blocks from campus.”

Jisung paused in his puzzle solving, eyes narrowing at Hyunjin. “Good ideas, please. That’s lame.”

Hyunjin looked back at Y/N upside down, disbelief clear as day. She flashed him a comforting smile.

“Whose birthday is it?” Y/N jumped in as an attempt to redirect Jisung’s fire.

“Our friend Chris. You would’ve met him tonight if he wasn’t such a flake.”

Yeji stood and stretched before treading over to the communal bathroom the boys shared with their suite-mates. They all watched her for a moment before continuing their conversation.

“Well,” Y/N looked at Hyunjin before asking, “What’s Chris like?”

“That’s a good question,” Jisung pumped his fist in celebration as he finished solving the Rubik’s cube, fumbling to stop the timer on his phone. He groaned when the time read 4:01, clearly not satisfied. “What is Chris like, Hyunjin?”

“He’s… he’s probably the best one out of all of us.”

If Y/N was expecting him to say anything, it definitely wasn’t that. For as long as she lived, Hyunjin was the best guy she had ever had the honor of meeting without a doubt. It surprised her further when Changbin cut in with a one-word agreement before returning to his school work. Jisung even agreed, albeit a little begrudgingly.

The three of them might believe that, but it was hard for anyone to surpass Hyunjin in her eyes.

Looking between the three boys, she asked, “Are you being serious?”

“What, you don’t believe us?” Jisung snapped.

“Dude, chill,” Hyunjin warned, before he smiled genuinely at Y/N and nodded. “Yeah, I’m being serious. He has this way about him. I don’t know, he just knows how to make everyone around him feel good. He’s thoughtful and includes everybody. He’s also super funny and goofy. Oh, and my favorite thing? He always puts Jisung in his place.”

“Shut up,” Jisung barked, “Why don’t you marry the guy since you love him so much?”

“Nope. That’s CB’s job.” Hyunjin laughed, Jisung nodding and agreeing with whatever inside joke they shared.

It warmed Y/N’s heart, to hear how much they adored this other friend she hadn’t met yet. Truth be told, it made her a little bit more curious about the guys before her. Maybe they caught her on a good day. If this were anyone else, one hangout would have sufficed.

It was clear that there was more beneath this cocky facade Jisung put on, and Changbin was a locked treasure chest. This Chris guy lingered in her mind, wondering how great he had to be for his friends to praise him as effortlessly as they did.

Shaking her head, she finished off her Dr. Pepper. She paused her train of that. That was weird. Why did any of that matter? It wasn’t like these were her friends. This was probably the last time she’d hang out with them.

Her eyes found Hyunjin who was in the middle of a laughing fit. His face and neck were blushing red, his pretty smile on full display. Her heart squeezed, and she realized it made her happy to see him branching out and meeting new people.

If anyone deserved to be seen and appreciated, it was Hyunjin. There was a reason she had nicknamed him Honey. He was sweet, warm, and magnetic.

That was the moment she realized these guys? They were pretty alright.

~~~~

Later that night, after the girls parted ways with Hyunjin, they headed inside their dorm building. Unfortunately he lived at the same dorm as his friends, which happened to be on the other side of campus. After he and Jisung walked them home- Yeji quietly complained about her unwanted guest the whole walk there-they quickly departed.

As they rode up the elevator, a silence fell over the two. Y/N sensed Yeji had something to say for two reasons: Yeji didn’t hit the button for her floor and she kept on sighing dramatically.

Having enough of her dramatics, Y/N turned to her at the same time Yeji did the same. “What’s up?”

“That was… worse than I expected.”

“How so?” Y/N narrowed her eyes.

As the elevator rose up to the ninth floor, so did Y/N’s irritation. She didn’t know if she had the patience to deal with Yeji’s irrational judgment tonight.

“Well, Jisung is unbearable.”

“Here we go.”

“What? I know you saw how he is. He’s so full-”

“-Of himself. What else, Yeji?”

Yeji gaped at her, the elevator doors sliding open. Y/N took the lead out the doors, heading down the hallway and toward her dorm. Yeji followed close behind, hissing, “What, do you like him or something? You don’t agree?”

“I’m not saying that. It’s just… you’re always like this. Every time we meet someone new, you find something not to like. Jisung isn’t perfect, I can see that already. But so aren’t you. And I’m not either. So who are we to disapprove of who Hyunjin decides to befriend?”

Yeji straightened her back, face going cold. “Actually, we are the exact people who should tell him who he should avoid. We’ve been by his side his whole life through thick and thin, and we know what’s good for him. Jisung is not it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Yeah, we matter to Hyunjin but he’s his own person. He can decide who he can be friends with. And why are you so dead set on hating Jisung? He hasn’t even done anything!”

Yeji shrugged a shoulder, just like a child with no comeback. “I don’t need a reason. It’s intuition.”

Y/N wanted to pull her hair out. Instead, she unlocked her dorm door. Before she shut the door, she looked at Yeji in the eye and said, “Well, good luck with telling Hyunjin that. I don’t agree with you, just remember that.”

It sucked having to close the door on her, but she knew that she wouldn’t let off until it escalated into a fight. She hated fighting with Yeji, so she knew the best choice was to walk away.

“Everything okay?”

Turning slowly, she offered a weak smile to her roommate. Trudging into the room, she took in Chuu’s usual night routine, matching pajama set and face mask, sat at her desk as she watched her most recent Netflix obsession.

“Yeah, everything’s cool. Just Yeji freaking out again.” Y/N threw herself across her bed, needing a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Sorry to hear that,” Chuu softly told her, seemingly distracted by whatever was happening on her laptop screen.

As she laid there, the conversation between her and Yeji played out again in her mind. She understood her concerns, she really did. Yeji wasn’t the only one who noticed some of Jisung’s… negative qualities. In terms of friendliness, she was more like Yeji than Hyunjin. She was wary of people just like she was, the only difference was she needed more of a reason to write someone off.

Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was something more that Y/N couldn’t see, but Yeji was being irrationally unfair. After more thought, her mind didn’t change. Yeji would have to express her dislike on her own.

She started dozing off to the quiet chatter of Chuu’s show and her thoughts of the boys she had just met.

Bonfire Jisung, treasure box Changbin, and the mystery Chris.

She could admit to herself now, when the world was quiet and she was vulnerable to her own mind, that she didn’t mind being around them, not at all.

As long as they made Hyunjin happy.

> Part Two <

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