#ALSO i know that knitting needles are blunt but i think that makes it even more slay

[tmaandsp]

what if jon killed jonah with a knitting needle

[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[ficforce]

Handle With Care

Shinmon Benimaru x F!Reader

SFW

No set timeline

Established relationship

The weather was particularly hot and on days like this, the Town was quieter during the afternoon. People were content to stay in the shade to drink and talk, even the children were willing to wait for the sun to move a little in the sky to cool things down before they played again. Y/N hummed softly to herself as she continued to knit a new blanket for the Guardhouse’s supply. It was an unfortunate fact that sometimes people’s homes got destroyed when someone turned Infernal but the Hikeshi always did their best to provide for their people.

She looked up when a shadow crossed over her and smiled at the man stood in her light, a bored-looking expression on his face, “You’re in my light, Benimaru.” She pat the space beside her on the raised walkway of her friend’s home and the Captain dropped down beside her, “I was going to come home as soon as I finished this blanket, my friend came back early so I wasn’t stuck babysitting all day.” Y/N watched as Benimaru picked up the corner of the blanket to take a closer look at her handy work, “Were you passing by or looking for me?”

“Looking.” Benimaru next picked up one of her needles and gave a small grunt as he accidentally dropped it onto the ground where it seemed to simply vanish, “…Shit. Sorry, Y/N.” He knew she hated when he messed with her tools, he glanced at her face and her soft sigh felt as bad as being told off, “I’ll make sure to pick some new ones up.”

Shaking her head, she finished off the row and put everything down on her lap, “It’s okay, they were getting a little blunt for needlework.” Benimaru watched her reach to the side and hold up her flask, the outside was cracked and the handle broken, “Could you get me a new one of these?”

He blinked at it in silence; wasn’t that one only a few weeks old?

Then he realised that she probably hadn’t had enough to drink, he’d watched her prepare the tea the previous night so that it would be perfect for icing but it seemed her effort had gone to waste.

“Sure,” it was then his crimson gaze caught sight of the tea stain on her favourite yukata, “Did you drop it all over yourself?”

“I was drinking it and then someone walked into me… it was just an accident.” She didn’t dare tell him that the guy who walked into her called her a klutz and gave her a shove - it wasn’t worth the man being beaten to a pulp over a flask and her clothing.

“Tch, they could have offered to replace it for you” He sat up straighter, “Who was it?” he knew Y/N was too kind to make a fuss; she was always letting things like this slide even when it wasn’t her fault. Benimaru wished she would get mad sometimes, she wasn’t weak in the slightest and nor was she shy. She was just too damn nice.

It meant that, sometimes, she was taken advantage of.

He had hoped that maybe it would stop once they became an official couple but it was just the same. “Benimaru, It’s okay, it was just an accident.” She reached over to stroke his cheek and he huffed, “Did you fix the bar you broke last night? I went and apologised for the mess this morning, the owner was still sweeping up glass.”

“Y/N?!” The man she has walked into rushed to help her up and began apologising for knocking her down, explaining that he had been wrestling with two of the other guys there. “We were just messing - you okay?”

“It wouldn’t have happened if that guy hadn’t have touched you…” She should have been firmer in telling the drunk to get lost but she had asked so nicely the man laughed and grabbed her again. “You’re too forgiving, Y/N. If I didn’t know you could handle it I would worry all the time.” Benimaru leaned over and pressed a kiss to her cheek, “I’ll get you a new flask whilst I’m out with Konro. The Twins found something suspicious so we’re gonna check it out.”

Once the hottest part of the day was over, Asakusa bloomed back into life and Y/N headed to the butcher to pick up something a little special - the Hikeshi had been working flat out and she figured they deserved a little something. Not all of the Hikeshi lived in the guardhouse; some of them had their own homes and families. They only stayed on the nightshifts, if there was a party or if Benimaru had totalled their house. Most of the time everyone liked to meet in the evening and share a meal; this often included wives, girlfriends and children. Dinner was often loud and fun but it meant the kitchen was always busy during the day.

Removing her shoes at the genkan and stepping up into the main room Y/N walked straight into another body. She let out a surprised yelp and fell backwards onto the floor.

The other laughed, “Not if he’s gotta refer to that cripple, Konro. If you can’t fight then just die, ya know!”

Smiling at the three grown men who looked like scolded kids, she shook her head, “It was an accident, don’t worry about it, okay?” Her elbow throbbed a little but it wasn’t worth mentioning, “I’m going to get changed then help out with dinner. You three make sure you don’t hurt each other.”

“Y/N, you’re too nice! Waka woulda kicked our asses.”

“You can have a free hit, we’re men, we can take it!”

Y/N waved them off, “You’ll have to do far worse than knock me down to get a reaction, boys.” It wasn’t that she wasn’t annoyed or that she didn’t want to knock their heads together - she just didn’t like to lose her temper over small things. Maybe she was too forgiving and maybe she was a bit of a doormat but she had people who liked or loved her to get mad on her behalf.

Placing the shopping down at the doorway of her shared room with Benimaru, Y/N removed her yukata and tossed it into the laundry basket before pulling out a fresh one from the drawers. She liked the colour of this one; she also liked that the twins had picked it especially for her to do chores in. It wasn’t like she had to help out around the Guardhouse but she liked doing it… she couldn’t slack just because her lover was the Captain.

Grabbing the shopping on her way toward the kitchen she hummed quietly to herself, grabbing the sliding door to enter she paused when she heard her name from the other side.

“Do you think she’ll notice?”

Another male voice scoffed at that, “Even if she does she’ll not do anything, she’s such a wet blanket - why’s Shinmon even with her?”

“Maybe she’s just a really good lay?” It was only two voices, surprising as the kitchen should have been busier but she recognised the voices as two of the new recruits. They didn’t know her… they had no right to be talking about her this way.

She had heard it before, people made fun of her, they tried to take advantage of her too but she could usually ignore it. Once she got in there she knew they’d be too cowardly to say it to her face.

“She suits him, Shinmon is pretty pathetic - sure he’s strong but he’s not cut out to lead.”

Y/N’s hands were shaking as anger coiled low in her belly, her usual calm demeanour cracking as they mocked the people she loved most. They could say what they wanted about her but that was her family and she couldn’t just ignore that. “Well, the poison I picked up should be enough to see the Lieutenant and kids off. Just gotta hope if weakens Shinmon enough for us to handle him - then we get the old gang back together and take the town. Fucking Hikeshi think they run the place.”

Her eyes widened as she heard their plan, her mind going blank as she dropped the bag she had been carrying and slid open the door to the kitchen.

x - -

Hinata and Hikage both sneezed at the same time and Hikage complained loudly, “Someone’s talking about us!” Hinata nodded and then they both let out a surprised squeal as the ground shook slightly. Running to Konro, they each grabbed his pant leg and looked up at the smoke rising in the distance.

“An Infernal?” Konro looked at Benimaru whilst placing his hands on the girls, “…The alarm isn’t sounding though.” They were already on their way back from investigating what they had thought was a White Clad hideout but turned out to be a secret club for a bunch of kids playing ‘gangs’.

“Not an infernal.” Benimaru answered and squinted at the sky, “There’s a lot of heat and I didn’t hear any explosions…”

“Y/N!” Konro yelled as he got through the crowd and started shouting orders to have everyone moved back, “You’re gonna hurt someone! The fire is already spreading out of control!” She didn’t seem to be able to hear him and he knew she’d never forgive herself for causing this much destruction, “We’ll fix it, Y/N, just stop!”

Benimaru and Konro seemed to realise at the same moment what was happening and Benimaru called up one of his matoi, “What set her off?”

From above it was easier to see that a large crowd had formed outside the Guardhouse, smoke billowed off the burning blue flag that hung by the entrance and he could see part of the wall of the Guardhouse was blown out into the street.

There were a few Hikeshi trying to stamp out the sea of blue flames before they jumped from house to house and in the middle was Y/N.

Benimaru hopped off the matoi once he was close enough to the ground, standing between her and two cowering men, “Y/N.” He hadn’t seen her like this before, he had heard she could get angry but he had never once witnessed it; the bottom of her yukata was burning from the intensity of her ability and her eyes blazed. The way her face contorted in rage was so different from her usual calm expression, all of her anger was on the men behind him, “Whatever they did I’ll handle it - you need to cool down before you get hurt!”

Her ability had one of the highest temperatures on record, she had burnt him on occasion and Benimaru knew that she could burn out fast, he could see her chest heaving already as her oxygen ran low. “Y/N!”

Benimaru approached her after getting a few of his guys to grab the two battered men Y/N wanted to cremate, he reached for her shoulder and just before he could touch her he felt a sharp pain in his stomach and stumbled back a few feet.

She sent two tendrils of flame towards the men behind Konro, they skirted past Benimaru and Konro to catch the clothing of her targets. They screamed in fear as their clothing burnt and the heat started to break through their resistance, the Hikeshi holding them let go immediately. Her hand raised to deliver the finishing blow - she’d lost her senses. All she wanted was for the two men to vanish, to stop existing so that they could never hurt her family again.

“Enough!” Strong arms wrapped around her, Benimaru’s clothing began to smoke within seconds - her yukata was turning to scraps the longer she used her ability, “Stop,” he said into her ear, “This isn’t you, this isn’t my sweet girl - you gotta stop.” He didn’t want to knock her out but he also didn’t want her getting tephrosis.

He was hugging her too tightly for her to finish her attack and instead she increased the heat around her to force him to let go; the buildings on fire nearby lit up more violently than before. “Let me go! They were going to kill you! They were going to poison your food! They didn’t care that they’d kill Konro and the girls too!”

“And you’re gonna burn down the town to punish two cowards.” He felt her stiffen and then her body relaxed against him, the air around her began to cool rapidly and the fires on the buildings began to shrink. “We’re safe, you kept us safe but this is enough.”

“B-Beni…” The man didn’t say anything as she hid her face in his neck and clutched at his coat, “I’m sorry, I… I just- I can’t lose-!”

“I know,” He murmured. Earlier he had wished she would get angry more often but not like this. Not to the point of destroying property and losing her mind, “It’s done… leave the destroying to me from now on.”

“I’m sorry…” She whispered, “I thought I was better than this.” Y/N really thought she had a handle on her anger; it had been years since she had reacted like this. She had lost her family as a child, her mother had infernalised and killed her father before she could be put to rest. Y/N had been angry afterwards, hating that people could burst into flames, hating that the Hikeshi couldn’t get there in time to save what she had left; when her ability came in she could hardly control it and caused fires whenever she got angry. It had taken nearly killing another family to make her stop and change.

To start forgiving people and letting things slide. “D-did I hurt anyone?”

“No one important.” Benimaru picked her up into his arms and turned his head to catch Konro’s gaze, “They were gonna poison us, I’ll leave them to you, Konro.” The Lieutenant nodded and Benimaru headed inside to look after Y/N.

The twins ran after the couple to help, grabbing Benimaru’s clothing whilst occasionally glancing back, Asakusa didn’t treat traitors well and the hearing how they planned to use poison didn’t go down particularly well. “Konro looks real mad.” Hinata giggled.

“They shouldn’t have made Y/N angry first.”

[the-resurrection-3d]

hey mootie craziest ask ever but do u have any General writing tips bc on god. i have ideas i iust Cannot sequence them or put them on Technological paper im at a loss here

Oh for sure! This post ended up being rather long, but I wanted to be thorough -- feel free to let me know if I need to re-clarify something.

Anyway!

Usually, I have to write myself into the good writing -- by which I mean I begin a session with essentially artist's warm-ups, such as scribbling out a few words about the images that are coming to me, or starting my first sentence with some throwaway introductory phrase like "Thinking about..." and then describing the thing in whatever barebones form comes out -- "and then X, and then Y," and so on. It's not pretty writing by any means, but once I have those creative energies flowing, eventually I'll start to naturally slip in more description, more emotion, even dialogue. The "real" opening of the story is usually not the opening you first write -- Anne Lamott in her book Bird by Bird, for instance, mentions that, in her drafts for her three-page food reviews, her real opening usually was on page two of the first draft. I've had essays published where I had to literally revise every single sentence that was not a quotation from somebody else. By the end of last semester, I was struggling so badly to finish some first drafts of my final papers that I legitimately could barely finish my sentences. I'd write down half a thought, hit the enter key, and start a different thought entirely.

Which leads me into my main point, which is getting a draft done by any means necessary. To be as blunt as possible: you can't edit shit you didn't write. To quote the dancer Martha Graham:

"There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open."

So I have first drafts littered with Wikipedia summary-tier scene descriptions, huge quotes from other writers, half-baked ideas, completely context-less dialogue, and even abrupt swaps between first, third, and second person, because nothing else matters but simply getting it done. This is not to say I never edit as I write, but you have to give yourself the leeway to write bullshit. (For longer projects, @bettsfic in her most recent newsletter discusses writing out a "gauge" to figure out the project's writing style before committing to it, saying that:

in knitting, a gauge is a square you knit before you begin a project to make sure you’ll end up with the dimensions you intended. that way, a sweater you meant for a grown-ass adult doesn’t become a baby sweater by accident. a gauge makes sure you’re using the right yarn and the right needles so you don’t have to unravel the whole thing and start over.

Thus, she says she writes and rewrites the first chapter however many times it takes to find a perspective and "voice" that works so she won't have to, say, change an entire novel from past to present tense-- I dunno how long your ideas would be, but this could be helpful, too.)

Since you mentioned sequencing, I'll admit I also struggle with that a lot, so I find writing out of order pretty necessary. Once you actually have more story material out in front of you, though, thematic threads become more apparent and sequences can start to suggest themselves. Tying themes to specific reoccurring actions and symbols can also suggest organization, both on the more global story level and the more microscopic sentence-by-sentence level. The 5+1 fanfic form is a great example of this.

John McPhee goes way more in-depth with this thematic organization idea here, though he's talking specifically about narrative nonfiction. Peter Elbow also discusses in "Collage: Your Cheating Art" that, if you have a fragmentary draft of an essay, you can always essentially use it to reverse-engineer a more "professional" outline. Again, not fiction strictly, but I use the same principle a lot (alongside Kurt Vonnegut's suggestion to start my short stories as close to the ending as I possibly can, lollll).

If you have a general sense of what plot/genre you'd like to write, you can also try what I've seen Brandon Sanderson call scaffolding, wherein you look at the basic plot beats and structure of a novel in your genre and essentially use it as the traced deviantART anime base on which to design your new OC. You don't have to be completely beholden to that plot structure, of course, but this can be a great way to cheat-start making an outline or first draft.

I tend go back and forth between collage and scaffolding since I'm a mess, lol. After the draft is done (or even just 80-90% done, because sometimes I know I'm not finished, but I won't know exactly what to finish until I'm into the revision process), I find it particularly helpful to print out my drafts and physically cut them up and rearrange them into lines and piles, so I can test the flow of certain sequences more easily than on a screen.

I was flipping through my copy of Bird by Bird while I was writing this, and I think I'll end this (very ramblingly) post with a small but encouraging quote from it:

I hope that helps! It's 2:47 am right now, lol, so I apologize if this is at all messy or a little scattered.

[lustbile-archive]

[4:45PM]

smut

“Did it hurt?”

“A grown adult woman shoved a needle completely through my flesh,” the blank face you wear matches your monotonous tone, but there’s no way for him to miss the teasing glint in your eyes.

“Oh,” Ten shakes his head at your words, his hand hesitates as it reaches to pet at the swell of your chest, his eyes glossy and dazed, “So like obviously yes.”

“Hm, no,” a teasing grin breaks your face, “actually wasn’t that bad,” you hum, shrugging.

His head snaps up, his eyebrows knitting together, “I hate you,” there’s no thought behind his words but there’s no bite to his tone in the slightest.

“You have multiple piercings in your ears!” you laugh at his blunt response, entertained but not at all surprised, “It’s the same thing, why do you bother asking?”

“It’s absolutely not the same thing dude, it’s your nipple,” his tone pitches and he speaks faster, a weird enunciation on the word nipple, not at all matching the gentle way he pets at your skin. You stiffen when the tips of his fingers finally reach to brush against the ball of the jewelry.

“Don’t dude me,” you argue back while wrapping your fingers around his wrist, slowly pushing his fingers closer to the sensitive skin, hoping he won’t notice in his dramatics, “you’re my boyfriend and also playing with said nipple.”

“Oh fuck,” his wrist jerks in your hand to pull away, but you tighten your grip to stop him from pulling too far, “I didn’t notice, sorry.”

“It’s fine. You weren’t doing enough for it to hurt. They haven’t really hurt in a while now that I think about it. I guess it’s good to know that you like them.”

His eyes gloss over again once his gaze falls back onto your chest, the boyish look of fascination of his face entertaining to watch from where you sit, leaning back against your headboard.

“I do,” his tone falls hushed, a little too dreamy for the current situation, “I like them a lot,” his eyes finally lock back with yours, a devious yet loving look dancing in his eyes, “They’re so pretty baby.”

“Heeey,” you draw out, your hand knocking against his forehead when he leans to mouth at the skin protecting your sternum, “Stop.”

“Stop why?’’ he whines crawling closer to wrap his arms around you and pressing his face into your neck, his lips and tongue returning to your skin, “you gave me a new toy, let me play with it.”

If you were asked, you would say the way you roll your eyes was in irritation, and definitely not due to the way his mouth pressed tightly against your pulse, “you know I’m not the best with timing,” he stiffens against you and hums in confusion, “I don’t know if I really gauged the healing time right. I don’t want you to put your mouth or hands all over them and get them infected or something.”

“Ah,’’ he nods, making no attempt at pulling away from your neck, “I understand,” his fingers reach to brush against your skin again, his greedy fingers itching to play with the glittering metal, “I understand, but I’m still upset.”

“Shut up,” you kick at his thighs, before tangling the limbs together and reaching to push your fingers into his hair, “I think they’ll be fine, but I want to be sure. I’m going to see my piercer in a few days to change the jewelry and I’ll see what she has to say.”

“Okay!” his shuffles around and pulls you down to lay flat on the bed, as he presses his body even tighter against you, “I can wait. I think,” he huffs loudly and digs his fingers into the skin of your ribs, “god I want to play with your nipples.”

“Ten,” you say jokingly disappointed.

“Sorry.”

There’s another beat of silence, the room so quiet you can almost hear the gears turning in his brain.

“Why did you wait to tell me?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” you laugh at the way his cheek squished against your chest when he looked up at you, “but like I said, I wasn’t the best at timing.”

“Hmm,” he falls back into thinking, his breath puffing against your neck, “That’s why you wouldn’t take your top off when we were facetiming.”

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

You let the dead weight of your body fall onto your bed, making the blankets puff up around you and Ten look up from the book in his hands unamused. Your eyes slide shut, and a grin pulls at your lips as playful irritation radiates from him.

“You’re lucky my piercer and I are good friends,” your hand grasps around, until it hits his calf. Your finger wraps around his leg tightly as you use it to pull yourself further up the bed, your face lovingly nuzzling into the fabric of his sweatpants that cover the bend of his knee.

“Why is that?” he asks with a poor attempt to suppress his building excitement at the mention of a piercer.

“Cause if not, it would have been really weird to ask if it was okay to let my boyfriend put his gross mouth on my nipples.”

You barely have time to register the flash of movement that comes from him sitting up on his knees to dart across the bed. His hands grab the first parts of your body they hit, making you squeal when his fingers dig into your skin to pull you to the center of the bed. He throws a leg over you, straddling your hips, and his hands press into the mattress by your head.

“I can put my mouth on them,” it is in no form a question, his eyes determined and wild, the intensity impossible to miss as they bore into yours with your foreheads pressing tightly together.

“I didn’t say that yet,”

“Shut up,” his hand dips to press at the skin above your waistband that had been left exposed by your movements, “you wouldn’t have missed the chance about making some weird comment about your nips being off limits until further notice if she had said no.”

“Hmm,” you shamelessly nod at his accusation, “you’re right but Ten?” he hums against you when he bends further to press his mouth against the shell of your ear, “Can I voice a weird request?”

“Hmm baby,” there’s an evilness to his voice and an eagerness to his fingers that makes you shiver, “you’re letting me play with your pretty new piercings, you can ask anything.”

“Can you,” you hesitate, partially from embarrassment, partially from the way his breath hits your ear, “can you maybe brush your teeth first.”

A confused, high pitched noise breaks the atmosphere even further than it already was from your less than sexy question.

“Listen I know it sounds weird bu-”

“No you’re paranoid I get it,” he sits up, pulling away from you to get up and leave for the bathroom, “whatever gets my mouth on you faster,” he mutters to himself, the serious tone making you laugh.

The room feels colder with him gone, the muffled sound of the bathroom sink being turned on and off the only indication that Ten is still there. Your anticipation grows as you lay there squirming on the bed, your fingers picking at a thread that is lifted from your shirt. Even though him brushing his teeth was in your best interest, the delay was making you impatient.

With a huff you sit up, grabbing the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head. You throw it on the floor, and quickly follow it with your shorts. You sit back on your hands, breath slightly quicker from the rapid way you undressed, and there’s only a beat of silence before impatience eats at you again.

You cringe at the sound of ten spitting, your shoulders dart higher towards your ears, every sound amplified by your boredom. You tilt your head, letting it roll over your shoulders until you’re looking down, the way your nipples and the bars set into them press against the thin fabric of your bralette. Other than cleaning, you had yet to apply any pressure onto the sensitive skin, but especially anything sexual, as you felt the best way to experience the new feeling for the first time would be from the hands of your boyfriend, but you can’t help the curiosity that builds and feeds off of your impatience.

You had just reached to gently circle the area when you heard a quiet gasp from the doorway, your hand not moving an inch from where it was petting at your skin.

“Oh okay,” he tears his eyes away from you to look down at himself, a quiet ‘fuck’ not going unheard. He spares another glance at you before he begins pulling at his own clothes. He walks closer as he tugs on the elastic of his sweats, slightly tripping before they join your clothes in a heap on the floor. He climbs onto the bed, pushing you to lie down, and pressing his body against your side, your bare skin tingling against his.

His fingers dig into your jaw, turning your face towards him, “hello,” he whispers before pressing a kiss onto your chin making you smile, “you gonna let me touch you now?”

You twitch at his teasing tone, rolling your eyes, “now that your gross mouth is clean, yes.”

“The only one with a dirty mouth is you,” he doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he leans over and presses his mouth against your, his tongue quickly dipping into your mouth. He groans into your mouth as his fingers move to tug at your hair at the scalp, making you mimic his sounds.

After a moment of deep pulls against your mouth, he tugs hard, titling your head back and pulling you away from his lips, the whine you let out making him grin as he moves to bite at your jaw. There is nothing gentle about his teeth as they dig into your skin, his hand slowly moving from your hair to hold the side of your neck, his thumb pressing harshly into your jugular.

His mouth moves quickly down, licking and sucking at your neck, his finger in sync and falling at the same pace. The feeling of his heated mouth hitting your collar bone makes you gasp, and your legs fall apart. Your hand reaches down to grab his wrist when the tips of his fingers dance across your ribcage tickling you.

“Ten,” your voice is hollow and hushed when you find the strength to speak, his deep hum rattling your bones in response, “Please.”

“I’ve been patient for so long, you can be patient for a few minutes,” his scolding contrasts the way he begins to pet at your lower stomach, his fingers dipping under the elastic of your underwear as he creates patterns on your skin. His teeth grab harshly at the strap of your bralette as he pulls down, slowly exposing your chest to the air in the room. You feel your nipples pebble at the new sensation and your anticipation.

Ten lifts away at your skin to look down at the newly exposed skin, a boyish grin on his face as he looks at the new decorations, “they’re so cute.”

“Hm do you think so.”

“Yeah,” he dips down to nudge the peak with the tip of his nose making you grin, before looking up at you again, “you didn’t tell me you were getting heart shaped jewelry. They’re absolutely adorable.”

“I wanted them to be special,” you shrug, smiling when his eyes follow the way your chest moves.

“Very special,” he sounds like he’s entered his dream land as he speaks, his tone hushed and warm. His eyes hold just as much warmth when they lock with yours once again, his eyes burrowing into your soul where his tongue rolls out to drag against the skin. You keen at the wetness of his saliva dripping against your skin, the flat of his tongue covering enough surface area to make it feel like your mind is getting foggy.

You swear into the dampened air when he pulls the bud into the cavern of his mouth, slowly sucking and pulling at the nerves. A gentle nipping of his teeth causing arousal to shoot into your core and a small amount of paranoia run up your spine.

“Careful with the teeth,” you pant as your hips roll up towards his hand.

He hesitantly pulls away, but not straying far, “I take care of you, don’t worry. I’d never hurt you unless you asked for it.”

A smart response dies in the back of your throat when his mouth makes a quick return to your skin and his greedy fingers push under the fabric of your thin underwear. The tips of his middle and ring finger making impatient work dip into where your arousal spills from you, a groan ripping through his throat at the feeling of how much his mouth and fingers had affected you.

His fingers dip shallowly into you, collecting the slickness, before pulling up to spread it over your clit. You whimper at the combination of the feeling of slow deep circles being rubbed harshly against you and the hypersensitivity that comes from his teeth gently tugging at the metal in your skin.

He pulls away from skin, his mouth making a lewd popping noise when he separates. Your eyes roll deeply back when he simultaneously begins blowing cool air onto the dampened skin and buries his fingers deep inside you as the heel of his hand takes over stimulating your sensitive clit. You’re only vaguely aware of the way his hips begin to rock against your hip as his tongue drags against the swell of your breast, his nose again digging against the jewelry.

The pace of his fingers is rapid, pushing hard and deep into you. The way his fingers push against your walls and move to dig into the spot that sets your nerves on fire makes you yelp, the pressure on your clit almost too much for your thundering heartbeat.

Ten presses his weight on his elbow as his unoccupied hand wiggles under your back to wrap around your torso. His mouth returns to wrap around your chest as his other hand slips in the space between your ribcage and your arm to grab at the fabric covering the other side of your chest. He pulls until the entirety of your chest is exposed to his desperate hands. He blindly reaches to pinch your nipple between his index finger and thumb, slowly rolling the peak in a rough grip.

“Oh my god,” you whine and thrash beneath him, bumping your bare legs against where his hips were rutting against you. He groans into your skin when you reach across your torso, trapping his arm tightly against your ribs, to press the flat of your hand onto where he bulges in his underwear. You’re a tangle of limbs and desperate thrusting as you both inch closer and closer to the edge.

He pulls away one last time to painfully bite at the skin of your sternum before he growls against you, “come for me.”

With his demand hanging in the air, he returns to lapping at your nipple, his wrist snapping aggressively against you. The noises falling from your mouths mixes with the lewd wet noises coming from your chest and the heat between your thighs making you feel drowsy and high as your orgasm rips at your skin.

The noises that fall from you have no end as you clench around his relentless fingers. Sparks of electricity bats at your clit and your chest thrusts up further into his mouth as you come hard around him.

A devilish laugh vibrates your chest and mixes with deep groans and whines as he thrusts into your open hand. His fingers dig deeper as his shoulders roll forward as he hits his end, the feeling of his come, warm and damp, spreads across your hand through the thin fabric.

For moments, your all but shaking limbs as your rock against each other as you both come strongly around one another. Little sparks of aftershocks bite at you as you whimper into each other’s skin, his damp mouth leaving streaks of saliva across your skin from where his orgasm broke the stronghold he had on your skin.

He pulls his cramping fingers from your underwear as he pulls himself to tuck himself into your shoulder, your hand falling away from his crotch and landing on top of his where it lies on your stomach. His breath is hot as he pants against your neck.

There’s a deep quiet that rings throughout the room, your shallow breathing being the only noises that fill the empty air. Your mind slowly collects back together as you turn to curl against his form.

“Baby,” his voice is strained and raspy, his hand falling from your side and reaching to grip the back of your neck. You can only hum in response as your body slowly melts into the mattress, “I love your new piercings.”

“Hmm thank you,” your tone doing nothing to indicate an interest in holding a conversation

“Oh, and like, I love you too.”

[joonsdiary]

worth fighting for (04)

pairing: jungkook x female reader genre/warning: fluff, angst / royalty au, historical au / tw: poor attempts at humour (as usual) mentions of blood/wounds, a little bit of action, even more pining—would this be considered slowburn now? hm... unless? word count: 7,574

summary: fresh out of the perils of war, jungkook didn’t think that his task as the newly appointed general would be to look after you.

                                                                          FOUR.

Suffocating tension hangs in the air like a thick fog and Jungkook mentally curses the chambermaid for her feebleness, revealing something she should not have. He knows the situation is dire and stakes are high, therefore it’s quite easy to have a slip of the tongue. But she still should have known better.

He regards the three men with compelling confidence, hoping they do not see right through his façade. One of the men leans forward and murmurs something to the other. The eldest of them throttle closer to him and Jungkook straightens his back and pulls on his horse’s rein to guide him closer towards the stranger.

“Your Majesty?” Finally comes the bandit’s hoarse voice, eyes flickering at the carriage behind Jungkook with interest.

Jungkook tries not to make it obvious he’s reaching for the sword strapped around his waist as he shrugs at the man with feigned disinterest. He did not want to incite a fight that he knows will put you in danger. Yet his hand couldn’t help but hover subtly over the handle of his trusted weapon.

“Shouldn’t we all treat our wives like royalty they deserve to be?” Jungkook states slowly, making sure to get his point across despite feeling squeamish over his choice of words. In his mind, it sounded way more chivalrous than when he’d uttered them. Hearing it echo out of his mouth feels silly and inept.

Apparently, it sounds as ridiculous to the strangers as it did to Jungkook because they look at each other with brows knitted in confusion. The two younger men snicker to themselves, meanwhile, the one Jungkook’s talking to merely rolls his eyes.

“We aren’t too far from the palace, so it may be an actual royalty riding in that carriage.” He mocks, and Jungkook doesn’t miss the deep scar running on the right side of his cheek. He deduces he could be the leader since the other two listen intently and nod along to his statement.

“The question is…” the leader trails off, eyeing Jungkook with a newfound interest. “Why would a member of the royal family ride along on this particular path, and with seemingly just one palace guard? That is what you are, no?”

The bandit regards Jungkook, but he doesn’t flinch, fighting hard not to give anything away. He made sure to pick clothes that didn’t stand out too well, for all intents and purposes. Therefore, he donned garments usually worn by merchants — light sapphire outer coat with navy blue pants — yet they’ve managed to figure him out, much to Jungkook’s dismay

Jungkook is slightly appalled that they’d assess him as a mere palace guard—no offence to his dear friend Mingyu — he did not come all this way to be belittled in spite of his accomplishments. Then something in Jungkook’s mind clicks. And if one listens closely enough, they’ll hear rusty gears slowly churning, the crevices of his mind being put to good use. If they don’t know I’m a general, then that must mean…

“I’m sure you’re all very fine gentlemen.” He begins once more, a pretence of calmness intertwining between the cadence in his voice despite his stomach twisting into several knots. “So, I would appreciate it if you’d let us pass through—”

“Does this man think we’re idiots, San?” The man with a scar on his cheek cuts Jungkook off, an apparent smirk forming on his lips. He glances at the young boy beside him, who Jungkook believes is not old enough to be running around with men who are up to no good.

“I think he does, m’lord,” the young boy nods and by this time Jungkook’s grip is firm around the handle of his sword.

“Lord…?” Jungkook’s brow furrowed in confusion, eyeing the man with the scar. “May I ask whose bannermen you all are?”

It’s possible for them to not know the great families of Sejo if they are truly outsiders. He is sure they’re not his family’s bannermen, of course, as he prides himself in being well-informed when it comes to putting faces into names. So, that rules his family out; he doubts his father will do something as scandalous as to send people to possibly assassinate the princess – he sees no reason for him to do so.

The Kim family, on the other hand, rarely let their men wander without carrying a banner that showed their sigil. He’s sure the Knight of the Flowers – as he recalls you’ve oh-so-fondly referred to the current head of the Kim family – has a lot on his plate after inheriting his father’s title.

Surely it can’t be your own family. The king will let his general know if he planned on having his men follow him. But it didn’t make sense because they came from the opposite direction; he doubts they’re the royalty’s bannermen.

Perhaps it’s the Yoon’s; their recent seclusion and the fact that they barely provided aid and garrison during the previous war makes Jungkook think they could be behind this mess. The Yi’s of Naath, despite being a recently assimilated part of Sejo, will not dare defy the crown and send men after the royal princess whether they knew of the king’s plans or not.

“Aren’t you a little too curious for a mere merchant – or so you claim? Your clothes may conceal your true identity but the weapons you carry betray your theatrics.” The man smirks in a way that contorts his scar, making him seem more intimidating. “Surely, you are aware mercenaries can’t be bannermen.”

Hearing him admit he’s a mercenary alarm Jungkook because it means they didn’t run into these three men by accident. Someone possibly paid them to be here. He combs his brain, attempting to name those who know about the plan and comes up with a very concise list. Since the king wanted the meeting of the two royalty to be kept a secret, there aren’t many who know about the situation and are powerful enough to hire mercenaries.

Jungkook glances at Jimin, who nods towards him with a look of acknowledgement; he’s ready.

He may not know Jimin personally, having formally met him days before they had to depart the castle, but he’s heard from you that Jimin also fought during the war. He was in General Kim’s garrison, so Jungkook doesn’t doubt Jimin’s ability to brandish a sword if it has to come down to that situation.

“I’m cutting to the chase because this is getting extremely tedious, especially for an old man like me.” Scarface — Jungkook thinks the name has a nice ring to it — declares, and as soon as he does, the two young men on either side unsheathe their sword. Jungkook couldn’t help but snort because it seems like a disgrace to classify their needle-of-a-blade amongst those that were forged from the mightiest Sejon steel. But perhaps now is not the right time to be comparing who crafts better weapons.

“We want whoever you’re carrying inside that carriage,” Jungkook is surprised when San speaks up, his meek voice not suiting his wicked intentions.

He inhales slowly before sighing. He puffs his cheeks out in an attempt to look annoyed and confused, hoping to still put up the air of pretence. “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I have no patience to stick around. As I said, my wife has to see a physician right away.”

Jungkook recognizes the futility of repeating himself over and over to the men who pose a threat to your safety. But if he stalls further, it could help him figure out who’s behind all of this. He’s learned that impatient people tend to reveal their intentions when they don’t get their way. Or perhaps he just likes how the word my wife rolls seamlessly off the tip of his tongue. The thought of domesticated life with you is enough for the muscles in his cheeks to twitch, pulling his lips into an undeniable grin.

He can’t decide between the two, but he prefers the latter.

“I guess we’ll just have to take her by force,” the man with a scarred cheek sneers before nodding towards Jungkook.

He didn’t have time to assess what’s about to come. But he hears one of the horses neighing loudly before he notices San is racing towards him, his blade pointed out. Jungkook unsheathes his sword just in time to unhand San without injuring him. He loses balance before falling off his horse completely.

The second young man, who’s also around San’s age, comes up at Jungkook much stealthier, catching him completely off guard. The blunt end of the sword scratches the nape of his neck ever so slightly which startles Jungkook, causing him to slash the young man’s torso. The younger recoils back and relinquishes his sword.

Jungkook scoffs as he slips off his horse before walking towards scar-face confidently.

“You consider yourself mercenaries?” He mocks and Scarface’s jaw tightens in response. From the corner of his eye, he observes the two of them scramble to their feet to gather their weapons and Jungkook shakes his head, chuckling in disbelief. He’s been in enough spars and had plenty of experience to know the two are novices, and quite frankly awkward.

To put it simply, he knows they don’t have an inkling on how to properly brandish a damn sword and at least pretend like they know what they are doing.

In a few swift moves, both young men were down on their knees once more, much to Jungkook’s dismay. It brings him no pleasure to trample over enemies—especially those younger than him. He knows what it’s like to witness such cruelty at such a young age.  

“Stay down, kid,” he murmurs to San before patting him once on his shoulder. The younger man grunts menacingly and moves away from his touch.

“You’re not just a mere palace guard, are you?” Scarface says slowly as if he’s still deliberating the certainty of his claim. Jungkook holds his hands up and shrugs. He knows better than to give anything away to the person attempting to kill him.

The mercenary pulls out his longsword and throws it down the ground.

“I think it’s only fair if we fight with our fists. The winner gets the package while the loser receives the privilege of dying.”

“None of this is fair,” Jungkook sneers and eyes the mercenary, who merely shrugs. “And don’t you dare refer to my —”

“Your wife, yes, my apologies, m’lord,” the mercenary mocks and mimes a half-bow. Jungkook sighs defeatedly, placing his sword down near the hooves of his horse.

Not too far away, Jimin is busy ensuring the two young men won’t run away.

Jungkook gets into a sparring stance, his hands clenched into fists and his knees slightly bent. The mercenary mimics his movements and it irks Jungkook to no end, feeling as if he is being parroted for the sake of exaggeration.

He’s in a defensive position, his hands slightly obscuring his face for protection. The mercenary’s right arm flinches so Jungkook’s instinct tells him to dodge left but when he does, he is met with the man’s uppercut which strikes him square in the jaw.

He stumbles back from the sheer force of the blow, but he’s more taken aback by his lack of awareness; in hindsight, he should have seen that one coming. He hears a small gasp from behind him but doesn’t turn to see who it could have been, admittedly terrified that doing so could put him at an even more disadvantage.

Scarface chuckles and Jungkook fights the urge to tackle him down. Focus, Jungkook.

Jungkook notices that the mercenary is off-balance every time he shifts between his feet, seemingly nursing an injured part of his right leg. A possible sign of weakness doesn’t surprise him, and he does his best to maintain the same composure as to not reveal his motives. Beads of sweat roll down the nape of his neck as he waits for a sliver of opening; it doesn’t help that he towers over Jungkook and seems much heavier than him now that he sees him up close.

Scarface loses footing and Jungkook takes the chance to swipe his leg with his right foot before jabbing him square in the stomach. The latter groans, recoiling with his back hunched.

“Why don’t you tell me who you really are, and what you’re doing here?” Jungkook seethes. The mercenary merely chuckles before looking at him, eyes gleaming with amusement despite his disadvantaged state.

“My apologies. The name’s Pyo,” his familiarity and friendliness irk Jungkook. “And I thought I had made my intentions clear over and over, and over again.”

The grin on Pyo’s face morphs into a menacing scowl. That is the only thing Jungkook remembers seeing before feeling a benign coldness creeping from his torso to his chest. It’s only seconds after that he realizes the pooling liquid of blood seeping throughout his thin tunic that he notices a small blade wedged somewhere in his midriff.

Well, that can’t be good.

“General!”

Jungkook hears Jimin’s voice laced with panic, sounding far-reaching and muffled despite only being a few steps away. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him, but he makes the effort to stand his ground, refusing to let the scum mercenary think he’s won.

Jimin rushes to catch Jungkook’s teetering body before he hits the ground. It’s clear the mercenary is not threatened by Jimin’s presence at all when he makes no effort to stop him.

“You’re a general? And all this time you made me think of you as a mere palace guard,” Pyo says, fingers skimming over the scar on his cheek thoughtfully before shrugging. “Anyway, they’ll be glad to know I stole the princess from the protection of the general, himself. Perhaps I’ll get double the amount I’m owed.”

Jungkook’s head shoots up at the mention of you. With Jimin propping him up, there is almost nothing stopping Pyo from taking you. Jimin seems to notice this as well and mutters an apology to Jungkook before letting him go and grabbing the nearly forgotten sword on the ground.

Pyo scoffs, unimpressed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a princess to save.”

Before Pyo could turn away from him and Jimin, Jungkook hears the faint whistle of an arrow slicing through the air. He hears a loud grunt and before he could blink up to see what has happened, the mercenary falls on his side with a resounding thud. He watches in confusion as blood sputters out of Pyo’s neck where the arrow has lodged itself deeply into. Truly a gruesome sight that makes his stomach clench, but he can’t bring himself to look away. His head spins frantically, and he could practically taste bile crawling its way up to his throat.

Only when he hears another snapping of the bow that he wakes from his stupor. He doesn’t see where the arrow lands in particular – somewhere in his back perhaps?

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Where in the heavens did that come from in the first place?

“Your Highness!”

Jimin practically squeals beside him, before sprinting away from Jungkook. He looks up to see you dangerously out in the open. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Yet he couldn’t help as his jaw slackens in awe as you lower the weapon slowly, your eyes locked onto his. Neither you nor he wavers until you collapse on the ground, the crossbow slipping from your grasp. Jimin is quick to react and grasps your shoulders firmly as he kneels beside you.

Jungkook hisses and breathes in through his gritted teeth — it’s just a knife to the torso; I’ve experienced worse.

Miyoung rushes out of the carriage to help Jimin prop you up, knees wobbling and all.

“I’m fine, it’s just…I was nervous about —” you pause, eyeing Jungkook before mustering a foolish grin. “That was the first time I stretched my legs in hours. I’m fine.”

“How did you even manage to obtain a weapon?” Jimin admonishes you in the slightest, though it’s apparent that he’s only worried you could have gotten hurt in the process. You reply with a sheepish smile, but Jungkook is unsure because everybody is moving and spinning in all directions and wait…why the hell are there two princesses?

“I might or might not have gone through your belongings behind the carriage.”

“I tried stopping her from going out but —”

“I hate to break your little chat but…a little help would be nice.”

Jungkook manages to string a few words, attempting to stand up but failing miserably. He ends up landing on his knees before he sees you running up to him, with a dumb worried look painted across your face. Your brows are furrowed together in concentration, cheeks tinted from the heat and mouth agape as if you’re a fish out of water. Your hair is completely dishevelled and out of place, strands swinging wildly in the air.

For the first time in a while, Jungkook allows himself to laugh unprompted; a kind of giggle that bubbles up from the depths of his stomach and blossoms its way up to his chest. His shoulders shake uncontrollably as you place his arms around your shoulder in an attempt to help him up. Jimin rushes to follow you and does the same on his left side.

“I think he’s starting to become delirious. Might be loss of blood.” Jimin mumbles as he grunts before hoisting Jungkook up to his feet, bearing most of his weight so you don’t have to.

Not really, Jungkook thinks to himself. Or maybe he mumbled it out loud — he isn’t certain at this point. It’s just that…her face was so damn hilarious. Running up to me with that expression and all.

“I have ointments and bandages that my mother asked me to pack.”

You rush out of Jungkook’s grasp and Jimin grunts, bearing all of Jungkook’s weight in one swift movement. Miyoung is conflicted and is unsure whether to follow you or to help Jimin out but in the end, you rush back out while carrying the supplies wrapped neatly in white cloth.

“We should probably set him down somewhere,” Jimin announces rather obviously.

“Inside the carriage is an ideal place,” you murmur, and Jungkook nods in a daze. Jimin glances behind him before wrapping Jungkook’s arm around you.

“Here, you take him inside. I’m going to deal with those two out here.”

Jungkook sways in your direction and he has enough decency not to lean all his weight on you. Miyoung holds the door open and Jungkook climbs weakly inside, letting his body fall back into the cushion. There is a brief sense of relief Jungkook feels now he’s certain of yours as well as everyone else’s safety. He slowly sinks within the comfort of the soft chair, allowing himself to focus on something other than the throbbing pain in his waist.

The next few seconds feel like a whirlwind of blurred scenarios, but he remembers being asked to bite down on a thickly rolled cloth. Jungkook finds it odd at first, but he knows it’s not the right time to question the motives of those that are trying to help him.

He attempts to comprehend the need for the bunched-up cloth in his mouth when—

“Augh,” his eyes widened as he groaned, hands clutching the nearest object which happened to your arm.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but at least the worst part is done.” You whisper soothingly before lowering the arrow beside you. Jungkook visibly relaxes as his eyes slowly close but you gently tap him on his cheek to prevent him from doing so. “Probably best if you stay awake.”

Jungkook grunts in response but follows your instructions, making sure to keep his eyes open, even if it’s just halfway. He removes the cloth from his mouth and watches as you quickly disrobe him of his bloody tunic. He’s tempted to say something, his lower lip edging between his teeth.

He ignores the odd looks that Miyoung keeps giving him and focuses on you instead. It’s hard for him to miss the bright red tint of your cheeks as you continue to tend to his wounds. He’s inclined to crack a joke and poke fun at your embarrassed state, but he thinks it’s probably best to keep his mouth shut this time around. You are dressing his injury, after all, and if he acts up god knows how you’ll choose to retaliate.

You unknowingly place a hand on his bare chest as you shift around to apply ointment directly at his wound. He clears his throat as his cheeks heat up from the contact and turns his head away from you, only to be met by Miyoung’s knowing grin.

“Are you feeling feverish, General? Your face is looking as bright as an apple,” she teases, and he makes the briefest eye contact with you before looking elsewhere once again.

“If that’s the case, that’s not good. The wound might be infected.”

The concern laced with your voice makes Jungkook’s chest constrict as if the airways to his lungs had been blocked completely. Is this particular feeling a side effect of the injury as well? He, too, is starting to believe he’s becoming delirious despite knowing the injuries he’s suffered are not dire enough to put him in that state.

“How do you know so much about this, anyway?” Jungkook murmurs, referring to your seemingly vast knowledge of wound treatments and infections.

“I trained with a physician a while back, shortly before the war started. I thought it would be valuable in case my father permitted me to help, even just something small like tending wounds. I was not allowed, of course,” your forehead creases either in concentration or annoyance. Possibly both.

You press a folded linen gently on top of his wound and Jungkook moans in discomfort. He stirs to move his body to a different position, but you press the hand you have on his chest. You quietly instruct Miyoung to wrap gauze over the linen before too much blood seeps into the cloth.

“Well, aren’t I lucky you decided to come along on this exciting journey with me?”

He couldn’t help it. He has to crack a joke, or else he will burst from overheating, courtesy of his rapidly beating heart.

“I’m delighted you’re aware you’d be completely helpless without me,” you grin up at him as Miyoung finishes tying up the bandage around his torso.

“Done! You’re good as new, General Jeon,” Miyoung sighs in relief, and Jungkook grins up at her.

“Stay here and rest. I’ll go and ask Jimin if he brought a mortar and pestle with him so I can prepare medicine for you to drink,” you instruct Jungkook as he struggles to put his tunic back on. He winces in pain as he extends his arm out. “Maybe you shouldn’t move around too much yet.”

“How am I supposed to get dressed, then?” Jungkook whines as he cautiously peeks at you from the corner of his eyes, hoping you’d take the bait.

“Here, give it to me,” you roll your eyes and take Jungkook’s clothes from his grasp.

“Why don’t I go ask Jimin if he has the supplies, instead?” Miyoung takes the medicine from you and grins at Jungkook. She leans in towards you to whisper something Jungkook couldn’t hear and watches with curiosity as your forehead creases, features forming into a scowl. Miyoung hops out of the carriage before you can say anything else.

“What?” you eye him with suspicion.

“What, what? You’re just going to sit there and leave me in this state of undress?” he mimes over his chest and you grumble, motioning for him to come closer.

“You’re full of it sometimes, you know?” you roll your eyes at his theatrics. But it does nothing to deter Jungkook’s foolish attempts at enlightening the mood. You frown and he immediately leans towards you, head bowing forward as a signal for you to continue.

Alright, I get it. I’ll behave.

Jungkook murmurs a small thanks as soon as his head pops out of the collars of his tunic. The crimson hue on your cheeks is unmistakable, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flit from his eyes down to his lips. He catches his lower lip between his teeth for good measure to see how you’d react. He isn’t disappointed in the way you turn your head completely to look at the windows, pretending as if you hadn’t been staring in the first place.

Jungkook blinks.

Is he being delirious, or did he just think you’d wanted to kiss him? Or did he want it to happen?

Probably just the loss of blood. It has to be. He continues to dress in silence, carefully pulling each arm through individual sleeves.

“Maybe I should’ve left you to bleed out and just escaped with Jimin and Miyoung.”

Jungkook chuckles and winces as soon as he does, the pain of his wound is somehow becoming more unbearable every fleeting second.

“You’d want that, wouldn’t you? You’re probably itching to have some alone time with Jimin.”

Jungkook swears to the gods he saw your eyes twinkle for the briefest moment before you break out into a beaming grin as if you’re agreeing with what he’s said. Your response is not at all what he expects, so his brows knit in confusion.

“That’s the first time you addressed him by his first name.”

“Was it that big of a deal?” Jungkook doesn’t mean to sound completely like a pompous prick, but was it that big of a deal? He quickly concludes that the answer to his previous question (which was more of an attempt to torment you, really) is yes, and decides to switch the topic.

“I mean it though. Thank you.”

“I can’t have you dying on me, General Jeon. You still have to deliver me to the Northerners in one piece, right?”

Jungkook is taken aback by the ambivalent tone of your voice accompanied by the solemn smile on your face. In an instant, he’s pulled back to the reality you’re faced with along with the true weight of what this trip entails. His eyes search for any hint of regret in yours; one that will make him turn this whole expedition around if you so much give him the tiniest hesitation.

But all he finds is silent determination, and he has no choice but to respect that. He wants to sympathize with you and the situation you’re under, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to undermine the sacrifice you’ve made. He knows that’s the price you’re willing to offer for the sake of peace.

I hope it’s worth it.

“I hope so, too,” you sigh deeply and Jungkook’s eyes widen. He’s certain he didn’t state the phrase out loud.

“Your Highness, I didn’t mean it like I was opposing the king’s decision—”

“Hey, you two! Get back here!” Jimin’s roaring voice cuts Jungkook off, and you quickly turn away from him to see what the commotion is about. He attempts to follow, but you stop him before he could get up.

“Stay. That’s an order,” you instruct sternly.

Jungkook doesn’t have the time to respond as you rush out of the carriage. He pokes his head out of the window just in time to see Jimin chasing the two captives who’re now apparently fleeing.

“Jimin, stop! Just let them go!” You scream out, and it’s enough to make Jimin halt his tracks. He whips his head around to look at you quizzically before turning back to the other two who are now too far to track down. “It’s not worth the trouble. Plus, they were merely children.”

“How noble of you.” Jungkook shakes his head disapprovingly, though he is out of earshot for you to hear what he’s said.

“Let’s just hope they don’t come back,” he says much louder this time.

You turn your attention to him and shrug. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t allow them to hurt you again.”

Miyoung approaches Jungkook and hands him the liquid concoction and encourages him to drink it.

“Her Highness: One. General Jeon: Zero.”

Jungkook turns to your smug figure and mimics your posture.

“Oh, it’s so on.”

*  *  *

Night falls quicker than you’ve anticipated it to. But after a long day full of surprises you welcome the calming breeze that blankets the dark surrounding. Your companions on this trip think otherwise as Miyoung urges Jimin to start the fire, grumbling about regretting not bringing a thicker tunic along.

“I have some spare shirts,” Jungkook announces, having come out of the tent he just finished setting up. Miyoung beams at him expectantly, rubbing her shoulders as if to explicitly show how uncomfortable she is with her thin clothing. “You can never go wrong with too much white tunic, as they say. So, I have a lot —”

“I do too!” Jimin stands abruptly from where he sits and holds up a finger at us, signalling for us to wait as he jogs towards the carriage. He leaves the dry twigs he’s collected earlier to presumably look for his spare articles of clothing. You roll your eyes as you make your way towards the middle of the camp and attempt to take a crack at starting a fire — something Jimin’s been patiently trying even before the sun has set, but unfortunately failing to cause even a tiny spark.

You grab some wood chipping and dried leaves, setting them carefully on top of several twigs. Inhaling sharply, as if to prepare yourself mentally for what you’re about to attempt, you wedge a twig between your palms before rubbing them in a quick motion.

“Your Highness, I don’t think it’s safe for you to do that,” Miyoung rushes to your side but you pay her no mind.

“Since when has she ever listened to any of our warnings? I’d say leave her be,” you hear Jungkook explain somewhere behind you. “She’s been asking for something to do. But honestly, how could we order her around —?”

“Ha!” You exclaim, which startles Miyoung. Your eyes widen in awe as you stare at the tender flicker of the small fire in front of you. “It’s the first time I’ve made one!”

The embers flicker out of existence just as rapidly as they began; it’s as if they weren’t there, to begin with. You slump your shoulders and pout. Jungkook doesn’t serve your cause as he doubles back in laughter as hints of smoke rising.

“It can’t be worse than Jimin’s attempt though, right?” You pout and Miyoung consoles you with a soft pat on your shoulder.

“You’re supposed to feed it more dried leaves and branches as soon as you see that small spark,” Jungkook explains as he grabs the stick from your hands. He mimics the actions you did earlier, only this time he follows his advice and stacks several branches to sustain the fire.

Not long after, the blaze grows bigger and Jimin returns with his promised garments.

“Should we really be stopping to rest near the place where we were ambushed?” Jimin questions warily as he sits beside Miyoung, across from where you and Jungkook are. Both of you watch as she successfully weaves her arms near the heat of the fire.

“We should be fine. The two of us will just have to take turns keeping watch throughout the night,” Jungkook muses, tucking loose strands of his hair behind his ear. “Worse scenario would be the kid comes back with more mercenaries. Highly doubt it will happen soon, though.”

“What do you mean?” your forehead creases with worry, forgetting for a moment the prisoner who was able to flee your capture. Granted it was the fact they were mere children that made you pardon and not pursue them, but you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t dread their potential return. All four of you — but more so Jungkook — barely escaped unscathed, so you’d rather avoid trouble as much as you can.

“I’ve been thinking about something Jimin pointed out earlier — they’re dressed too warmly. I did notice Pyo was wearing a thick animal hide sewn into his tunic,” Jungkook trails off, lost in thought. You attempt to put the pieces together, unsure of what Jungkook means.

“It is a little unusual. Especially this time of the year; we don’t get enough cold weather to warrant wearing clothing with thick animal hides like that.”

“Precisely, Your Grace.” He extends his arms out and leans back, groaning as he puts his hand over his wound. “This was a calculated attack.”

“You think someone planned this?” Jimin asks with a worried expression evident on his face.

“It would seem that way. Especially because only a handful of people are aware of this. I’m unsure if the Mins kept their side of the bargain. Assuming they did, I’m certain only important people know of your arrival.” Jungkook elaborates and you agree with him.

“I’m not one to speculate, and wouldn’t normally run my mouth like this in front of other people but… you don’t think they were responsible for this, do you?”

You gulp and look at Jungkook who is bearing the same distraught expression as you. No one speaks for a while, and the crackling sound of the log burning is the only thing that fills the quietness in the air. Accusing a royalty of committing possible abduction is a hefty allegation, so no one dares to follow your statement.

“Based on what little evidence we have, that’s not entirely out of the conversation. It’s not hard to determine why they would do this—it could be some sort of payback for losing the war.” Jungkook warns in a hushed tone, causing everyone to feel a little bit on edge. “I should add that we cannot be hasty in our conclusion. We may be mistaken about our accusations.”

He is right, yet it’s strenuous to eradicate the roots of doubt once it’s planted in your consciousness.

You begin questioning everyone’s safety, as well as the decision not to bring as many guards as possible. It’s not because you doubt Jungkook’s ability. But even he’s not invincible, evident by the current gash on his torso. Which reminds you of the event prior.

You killed a man.

It had been a long day for you and everybody else, so you hadn’t given it much thought. But as soon as your nerves settle and weariness sinks in, the reality is becoming clearer to you.

Jimin had kindly disposed of the body once you told him not to worry about the young men who’d escaped, stating he is ‘used to that kind of thing’. He gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and you didn’t question him further.

“What’s wrong? You look spooked.” Jungkook says softly beside you.

Your head dips and you swallow the taste of bile on your tongue.  

“I still can’t wrap my mind around how I…” you pause, unsure of what to say next. Cold sweat forms on your back and your hands tremble at the image of the man lying on the ground, blood pooling around him. It hadn’t been your intention to end his life. But when he hurt Jungkook and declared his plans, you threw better judgement out of the window. “I’ve never had to witness somebody die in that manner…by my hands...”

The air grows tense at your words, and silence ensues. Your eyes stay glued to the fire, aware of the intense gaze Jungkook is pinning on you.

“It’s my fault,” your head whips up in surprise to meet Jimin’s sombre expression. “Had I acted quicker, perhaps General Jeon wouldn’t get hurt, and you wouldn’t have had to make that decision.”

“No! No…” you shake your head defiantly. “If I’d stay put like I was supposed to —”

“You’d have been taken from me,” Jungkook’s voice is stern but quiet. Before you have the time to process his words, he continues. “Or worse. If something were to happen to you, I swear —”

Jungkook pauses, eyes filled with unrest and trepidation despite the tone of anger in his voice. Your heart swells, and comfort blooms in your chest despite the cloud of fatigue that looms.

“I’m sorry you had to witness what you did, and I’m sure you did not intend to end his life. But I hope you don’t admonish yourself for wanting to save your own life.”  

Jungkook’s voice is soft, almost lulling you to slumber. His hands reach for yours, strong grip offering warmth and comfort. The sincerity in his voice causes your heart to perform somersaults, and his proximity didn’t help. You will yourself to pluck your gaze away from him, fearing you might implode from the intensity of his gaze.

“I apologize for souring the mood,” you grin sheepishly toward Jimin and Miyoung as you retract your hand from Jungkook’s touch. He doesn’t concede, and your cheeks flare.

“Don’t apologize, Your Grace. I forget you’re not used to that kind of environment. It puts a lot into perspective.” Jimin offers a friendly smile, and it puts you at ease. “I didn’t know you were a skilled archer, though.”

His tone is light, eyes looking at you with wonder. You silently thank him for steering the conversation elsewhere. You shrug, grinning.

“Beginner’s luck, I suppose.”

“Modesty suits you well.” Jungkook mumbles, his tone teasing. “Bravery even more so.”

You squirm, not used to the attention he is giving you. It’s even worse than it had been in the carriage hours ago. You could excuse his flirting for the lack of blood pulsing through his veins. Is this even considering flirting? For all you know, it’s nothing but a mere complement. Your head swims in confusion.

“I should probably get some rest. My head feels like it’s being pummelled with a rock.”

You lean away from Jungkook as you stand, and he finally releases your hand. Miyoung begins to do the same but you shake your head, wanting to be alone with your thoughts even just for a while.

*  *  *

Outside, the three are quiet after your departure. The fragility that you’ve put on display has Jungkook on edge, rocking the boat of confidence he has about the trip. Despite his faith in his skill and the tenacity you’ve shown, having to face the uncertainty of possibly being ill-prepared doesn’t sit well with him. There’s no one to blame on today’s outcome but him, and it pains him to see you bear the brunt of his shortcomings.

Jungkook knows you’re capable of defending yourself, but the outcome of ending a life is something he didn’t think you’d be affected simply because he’s desensitized it.

Jungkook thinks back to his brother’s face and the listless look in his eyes, blood gushing out of his mouth.

There is too much red. Everywhere. The noise that surrounds him blurs into one cacophonous scream of agony and pain. His heart shatters into a million pieces as he cradles Hoseok’s cold, lifeless body.

Perhaps he’d been foolish to delude himself into thinking that he’s great — that the damn recognition and honour in the form of a medallion proves nothing. Not when he couldn’t save the one person who mattered to him more than his own life. It should’ve been me, instead of Hoseok.

Jungkook shakes his head and pushes the thoughts away. There’s no room to feel weak when three lives are counting on him. His nails dig into his palms as he clenches his jaw.

Pull yourself together, Jeon.

No one speaks for a while, and it gives him time to sort his feelings out. And by sorting, he means concealing and burying. He throws fresh lumber into the fire and stares at the burning log as the image of his brother’s demise is swallowed in the blaze.

Miyoung begins the conversation around the gossip of the palace, trying to guide the conversation away from today’s experience. Jungkook appreciates her sentiment.

Although it’s short-lived when the topic eventually lands on him.

“So, those rumours were true then?” Jimin grins in good nature. Any air of uneasiness between them has somehow dissipated, much to Jungkook’s surprise. “About your supposed ‘unrequited love’ for Lady Siyeon.”

“Word travels fast in the palace.” He chooses not to answer Jimin’s question, hoping it’s enough to divert him from the topic.

Jimin shrugs nonchalantly.

“It’s no surprise. Now tell me, philanderer.” Jimin’s eyes turn into smaller crescent shapes as his smile grows wider. “How exactly do you have so many women pining for you, yet you choose one that’s specifically not allowed by the rule of land to have a partner?”

“Philanderer’s a bit…” Jungkook murmurs and scoffs, taking slight offence to the scandalous nickname. He isn’t one to sleep around so carelessly.

“I’ve heard of court ladies being allowed by the king to leave, though. So, they’re not bound to the throne by the rule of the land,” Miyoung points out. Jungkook smiles sheepishly at her statement.

“I suppose I have a knack for being smitten to people who can’t reciprocate my feelings for them.”

Jimin winces after hearing Jungkook’s words. “Sounds like you need a good glass of ale, my friend.”

Jungkook laughs and nods in agreement, although he knows they can’t drink because they have to stay awake to keep watch as the evening rolls through. He is about to say something when your call for Miyoung cuts through the air.

“General Jeon. Jimin.” She bows to both men before hurriedly strutting over to your tent.

There is a short pause before Jimin turns to Jungkook once more.

“You say you have a ‘knack for being smitten to people’. That means it’s not the first time you’ve experienced this.”

“Nothing ever goes over your head, no? Also, you’re invested in this.”

Jimin raises both his hands before shrugging. “It fosters good conversation.”

“Recalling the memories of my rejection is your idea of a pleasant conversation?”

“What can I say? I love a good gossip.” Jimin admits, which prompts Jungkook to shake his head with a small smile tugging the corners of his lips.

He can’t resist sharing his thoughts, however. He’s never really had anyone to confide in terms of having feelings for someone. After all, when you’re entrusted to be a commanding officer in the middle of a war, mundane notions of sentiments come last among the lists of priorities.

“I was explicitly rejected by Lady Siyeon, yes,” Jungkook begins, before exhaling. “That felt nice to let out. Also just letting you know that I’m too damn sober for this type of discussion.”

Jimin chuckles and motions for him to continue.

“The previous one — well, that was a long time ago. I was too young to recall specific events, but I remember wanting to see her every chance I get. Times spent with her were scarce because she’s practically attached to my older brother at all times.”

Jungkook’s voice lowers every sentence. He’s terrified that if he speaks any louder, the imaginary barrier he’s built around him and Jimin will somehow crumble.

“I was taken by the way she carries herself. Despite her social upbringing, she always managed to treat everyone with the same attitude. Which I thought for an eight-year-old was quite impressive. She isn’t the type to look down on anyone, but at the same time, she doesn’t just let anyone step all over her. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

“Years pass, and I see her less often because my father made sure to start training me for combat earlier than he did Hoseok. So, I never saw much of her. Eventually, the feelings waned, until they were gone completely.”

I think.

Jungkook didn’t want to add the last phrase. Even inside his head, the sentence sounded doubtful and unconfident — two words he doesn’t like associating himself with.

“She liked Hoseok instead?” Jimin’s mumbles glumly.

“I never knew. In those years I never mustered the courage to go up and make a conversation with her.” Jimin’s mouth is agape, eyes wide with shock, but Jungkook continues. “Although she constantly had that look of admiration in her eyes every time, they were together.”

“I didn’t think there was going to be a day when I’d associate the words ‘General Jeon’ with ‘timid’.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. I was practically unapproachable; the complete opposite of my brother.”

Jimin shakes his head as he grins, still in disbelief.

“Why don’t you ask her now, then?”

Jungkook fights the urge to laugh, struggling to keep himself composed.

“Ah, well, she’s somewhere unreachable, I suppose,” he grins ruefully as he shakes his head, collecting his thoughts. “Moreover, that was a long time ago. Perhaps in the next lifetime.”

“Perhaps…” Jimin trails off.

Jungkook chucks another log to feed the fire, which roars back into life.

— prev ; next ; series masterlist

[femmeharringrove]

we belong - chapter one

tag squad!! - @a-magey​ @harringrovetrashh​ @lostnoise​ @greyspilot​ - if you’d like to be added to the list hmu!!

     Steve Harrington is arguably the strangest beta in Hawkins. Everybody agrees on this one fact. In a town comprised mostly of betas, it’s easy to notice when one is different, and Steve’s behavior has him sticking out like a sore thumb. He’s got plenty of normal beta characteristics, sure. He’s an excellent peacemaker, a level-headed thinker most of the time. But he’s incredibly fiery when he wants to be, aggressively protective, like an alpha hovering over his pack. He’s also adopted six older pups out of the blue, and the rest of Hawkins has watched in utter confusion as he’s marched about town herding his kids along like an omega watching over his litter.

     Billy Hargrove isn’t sure what to make of it.

( read on ao3 )

     And it’s not like he usually spends his time thinking about the brunette’s habits, not outside of the night the other started swinging fists in an attempt to protect Max and her dipshit friends from his rage, but he’s had plenty of time to think lately. He’s had nothing but time in this stupid hospital, with its stupid walls and stupid sterile smell. Once he gets out, he’s determined to never step foot in this place again. Max has been visiting every day, according to the nurses, and her company makes it bearable at best. She actually spent the first three nights sleeping in the waiting room with Harrington of all people.

     Harrington, who, according to Max herself, was admitted into the hospital the night of the mall incident too. Billy just barely remembers seeing the beta there that night; his face littered with bruises and oddly bloody. Max didn’t know what exactly happened, Steve and Dustin won’t tell anyone about it, but from what she gathered the Soviet Union was involved. Billy doesn’t think about that too much – he’s more interested in the way Steve’s been at the hospital every single day with Max, as long as he’s been conscious to see it.

     The nurses say Steve’s been with her ever since he was discharged, coming in every day and comforting her whenever she gets upset. He’s seen the beta do it too, the way he opens his arms up the moment Max’s lip begins to wobble and holds her close until she’s calmed, petting her hair and murmuring in her ear something he can never hear.

     Sometimes he brings little Byers with him, and the kid’s nice. Billy likes him. The first time the pup came to visit, he sat right next to the scowling alpha and told him that he got it, he’d been there before, and if he ever wanted to talk about it he’d listen. At the time, Billy snapped about not needin’ to talk to some pup about any damn thing, but that didn’t deter the kid, and now the blonde was thinking he just may take the kid up on the offer. Every time Will comes, he sits by Billy for a few minutes and makes easy conversation before retreating to Harrington and plastering himself to the beta’s side so Max can be close to Billy, piping up to add to the conversation every now and again.

     Other times, instead of Byers, Steve brings the Henderson kid. This one’s loud and pushy, but it’s clear to Billy that this is Harrington’s pup. Steve looks at the curly-haired bastard with all the fond pride of a pleased parent, even when he’s trying to scold the pup. And the kid’s smart, he knows Steve would be hard pressed to actually get mad at him, but it seems he doesn’t really want to make the beta mad anyway – the bond between them goes both ways, that much is clear. They make an odd pair; Harrington’s on the quiet side, more reserved than the pup. Henderson can’t seem to stay quiet longer than two minutes, and he likes saying whatever comes to mind, almost painfully blunt in his mannerisms. Billy has to admire that a little bit, even if it irks him at times.

     Harrington brings the others too, sometimes, but for the most part it’s Max, Dustin, and Will. El will occasionally tag along, quiet and observant, her large eyes filled with kind understanding every time she looked at him, and Sinclair came by once to keep Max company. The kid’s still wary of him, and the alpha can’t really blame him, not in the slightest. Billy supposes he owes the kid an apology. He’s not good at those, but he’ll spit one out sooner or later. He owes a lot of people apologies – Max, all of her little friends, even Steve. Steve’s promises to be the hardest, because the guy’s got this obnoxious habit of being unbearably kind even when Billy’s a dick. Every day he’s come into this hospital he’s offered a gentle smile, a kind greeting, and brings him books to help ward off boredom when he’s on his own. Last week, the beta brought a bag full of yarn and sat there for a good half hour showing him how to crochet and knit. Billy, of course, bitched about it the whole time, because what alpha willingly learned that shit anyway?

     And, hey, if he now has a scarf in the works hiding in that stupid bag, who’s going to say anything about it?

     The answer is Neil, he knows. Neil would kick his ass if he saw the way Billy’s fingers nimbly dance with those needles, regardless of whether his son is sitting in a hospital bed or not. But the nice thing, if it can be called nice, is that Neil Hargrove hasn’t shown his face once in the hospital. Max told him that he came the night Billy was admitted, stayed until the blonde got out of the barrage of surgeries he’d underwent, and promptly left. And yeah, it’s sucky, but Billy supposes it’s for the best. Neil can drain a room of warmth faster than anything, and Billy’s uncomfortable already. And if he came and found Steve sitting there, the chances of being called a fucking fairy were higher than he’d like them to be, as well as the chances of getting the shit beat out of him. Sure, he supposes he can just tell Harrington to go, but the thing is the beta’s good at making the cold hospital room feel a smidge warmer. Billy isn’t sure he wants to willingly force that warmth out for anyone, let alone his father.

     Which is why Billy’s mad at him. It’d be easy if Steve was cruel to him, but the doe-eyed brunette is surprisingly soft. He’s got his edges, his eyes flash with a certain element of danger every now and again, but he’s overwhelmingly made of soft lines and gentle corners. And Billy isn’t sure how to respond to that most of the time. Today, however, crossing his arms as he stares at the beta and his redhead sister, he knows just the answer to give to Steve’s kindness.

     “Absolutely the fuck not.” Max’s sharp blue eyes are wide as she glares at Billy, unimpressed with the alpha’s stony expression.

     “Why not?” she demands. “Bill, you know you can’t come back home, it’s not a good idea for your recovery. Steve’s house is huge, you could avoid him all you wanted!” Her eyes flicker towards the man next to her, features softening for a brief moment. “No offense, Steve.” Steve smiles faintly in reply, hands raising up slightly.

     “None taken.” Billy rolls his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line.

     “Look, I’m not going to live with your stupid babysitter, Maxine.” His voice is a nasty growl, mean and sharp and fully intended to stop this conversation, but Max isn’t that easy to put off.

     “Can you stop being so stubborn?” she growls right back, arms crossing over her chest and teeth baring in a snarl almost identical to his. “I’m just trying to keep an eye on you, you dumbass, because I don’t want you to end up getting worse, and we both know you’re not gonna be able to recover all the way at home!” She’s so goddamn fiery, Billy gripes internally. She’s learned that from him, however, so he hardly has a right to say anything. If he has to put money on it, he’s almost completely convinced this kid’s going to be an alpha. Neil isn’t going to like that, and the idea sends a flash of worry through the blonde for a fraction of a moment.

     “And, what, you think I’ll do better with him?” His head jabs sharply towards the other man. “I’ll try my luck in my own damn house, thanks.”

     “Billy, please!” Max’s lighter blue eyes clash with his ocean hues, her face pinched and far too serious for any fourteen-year-old. “Look, I get it. You and Steve aren’t friends or whatever, but he said he’d let you stay – not live there, you don’t have to move in forever.” Max’s reasoning isn’t half bad, Billy has to admit. Her hands grasp at one another as she presses on, words tumbling over each other in their haste to escape her lips. “It’s just for a little while, just until you finish recovering, then you can come home. Just think about it!”

     “And you think my absence won’t be noticed?” he interrogates. Because Neil certainly isn’t going to react well to something like this. If the man finds out he’s staying with another boy, it’s going to lead to trouble for him and for Harrington. Max waves her hand frantically.

     “We’ll just tell him you’re still in the hospital! He won’t check, you and I both know that.” And she’s right, he does know it. Neil hasn’t so much as called, the chances of him deciding to do so anytime soon are slim to none. His sister’s eyes are staring at him wide and hopeful, and Billy’s too tired to fight her on the matter any further.

     “Don’t you and your stupid friends spend, like, all your time at his house?” he asks, shoulders dropping slightly. Max sees the move for what it is and grins broadly.

     “Well, yeah, but we won’t bother you! Promise.” Her promise isn’t worth shit, they both know it, and judging from Harrington’s knowing look, so does he. Billy’s icy eyes settle on the man.

     “You’re awful quiet over there,” he grumbles. Steve’s shoulders rise and fall in a loose shrug.

     “I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I didn’t want to,” he replies. “It’s like Max said, we aren’t friends or anything, but she’s convinced you’ll get better faster at my place. If it means that much to her, then I’m game.” Billy’s eyes narrow as they consider Steve. Brown eyes blink back at him, wide and surprisingly kind all things considered. He really hates that. He hates that Max is so worried. He hates most of all that this is his best bet in all truthfulness. A heavy sigh escapes him, turning into a defeated groan as it draws out.

     “This is only until I think I’m better,” he relents, scowling at Steve’s relieved look and Max’s elated bounce. “I don’t give a shit what the two of you think, when I think I’m done, I’m done. And don’t think we –“ A hand shoots out to point at Steve warningly. “ – are gonna get chummy or something. I’m only doing this to get her to shut up.” The beta’s shoulders relax as he leans into his seat. Max, standing beside Harrington, grins broadly.

     “And I promise, I won’t say anything about it,” she relents. “You can come home as soon as you’re better again.” She moves closer to him, wraps her smaller hand around his, and squeezes, a hesitant smile on her face. This is another new thing about their relationship, the ease with which Max shows her affection now. Billy supposes that’s what happens when you almost die. And he likes it, really. Even if he’s been shit at showing it over the years, he does care for Max. He’s protected her from Neil for a long time, and she’s patched him up more times than he’s willing to count. Their dynamic has always been a strained one. But the way Billy’s seen it, his dad’s a bad alpha, and he’s always needed to step up and take that position for the pup.

He’s not sure he’s ever been particularly good at it, but he’s trying, you know?

     And so it’s settled that day. Billy’s going to move in with his high school rival, and he can’t make sense of it for the life of him.

     The thing is, Steve’s not really used to the idea of having a pack. Richard Harrington needed an heir for his company, and Antonella Bianchi-Harrington thought a baby would solve her marriage problems; that was the only reason they’d had a pup. Both had planned on a quiet, strong alpha son, but Steve destroyed that concept the moment he was born; of all the dynamics, only omegas could be spotted at birth due to their genitalia, and when Richard saw what his son was he nearly abandoned him in that hospital. Antonella’s maternal instincts demanded they keep him however, and so he was brought home; that was where her mothering ended, essentially. Growing up, Steve didn’t know that was the cause for his parents’ distaste for him. He knew they despised omegas, but he hardly knew what an omega was, and certainly didn’t know he was a part of that group. All he knew was that his father always looked at him with disgust, that his mother avoided him like the plague, that they never talked about dynamics except when Richard felt like sneering about omegas and boasting about alphas.

     Neither of them were home when a thirteen-year-old Steve woke up drenched in sweat, his leaking slick soaking the mattress, his abdomen cramping and his mind panicked and hazy. He suffered three days in that state, cried and curled up in bed trying to comfort himself. On the fourth day, he made his way to Melvad’s to purchase scent blockers, and that’s how he’s lived life up to this point. That day he presented was the day it clicked, the day he’d realized why his parents despised him.

     And the thing was, he couldn’t blame them, still can’t blame them. Male omegas are a rarity, and many people think of them as abominations. Those who ended up with women are seen as unmanly, and those who end up with men are called names Steve wouldn’t dare repeat in his own head, let alone out loud. Steve knew that before he presented, and he knows it now, so he’s kept his presentation a secret. As far as Hawkins is concerned, he’s just a beta, and he’s not planning on telling anyone otherwise anytime soon.

     But he’s got the kids now.

It was a matter of instinct; Dustin needed help, and so he helped. Max feared Billy’s rage in the Byers’ home, so he fought the alpha. Mike wanted a listening ear to rant about Nancy too, so he began letting the kid come over. He never meant to adopt the gaggle of older pups, but here he is, constantly scenting them and making sure they’re safe and comfortable. Will likes to joke that Steve’s become their pack omega. He’s not entirely wrong, but Steve’s not going to tell him that.

     And it’s the first time he’s been allowed to be himself, really. With the kids, Steve can just be an omega, he can worry over them and fuss and feed them copious amounts of baked ziti. Steve can let them curl up on his chest and groom their hairlines and listen to their troubles. He can mother them about and spoil them to his heart’s content. He’s allowed to give in to his instinctive need to nurture and care for and protect, and he’s beyond grateful because he can’t do this for other people.

     He especially can’t do it for Billy fucking Hargrove, if he wants to keep some sense of dignity. And that’s going to be easier said than done. He sits in his Beamer and watches silently as Max guides the familiar blonde out of the hospital doors. He looks good, Steve decides. He’s got a little limp, looks a little stiff, but he’s moving on his own mostly, and judging from the faint noise Steve hears and the annoyed, faraway look on Max’s face, his talkative attitude hasn’t taken a hit. The omega takes a deep breath and prepares himself as the passenger door is yanked open by Max.

     “ – Which is why I’m half-tempted to write to one of those big-time newspapers and tell them all about this shit,” Billy is ranting. Max looks ready to stab someone.

     “Can you shut up and get in the car, please?” she growls. The elder of the two alphas obeys without much of a fuss, easing himself into the passenger seat while Max deposits herself in the back.

     “Hey, what did those fuckers do with my Camaro?” Billy questions, his sharp eyes landing on Steve with an accusatory look. “You totaled my baby, Harrington, you might owe me a new fucking car.”

     “I’m not buying anyone a car,” Steve replies, throwing his car in reverse and backing out of the parking lot. The Camaro is sitting in Hopper’s driveway at the moment, Steve asked the chief to help him fix it after the mall incident, after learning that the other boy was still alive. The keys are sitting in a dish in his kitchen right now. But Steve’s not handing that thing over until he’s sure the blonde is capable of driving without keeling over and dying on the side of the road. Billy makes a face at him, narrowing his eyes.

     “Well, you at least owe me a pack of smokes, amigo,” he drawls, that stupid smug look creeping over his freckled features. Steve makes an indignant sound.

     “Are you fucking insane, Hargrove?” he spats. “You’ve been in how many lung surgeries and you want to smoke? Absolutely fucking not.”

     “Aw, you’re no fun,” the alpha groans, slouching in his seat and reaching out to lazily flick the radio to life. Steve’s eyes drift off the road long enough to glare at the other boy.

     “Stop complaining and put your damn seatbelt on.” Billy growls, but obeys again, switching the station to some garish rock music and turning it up loudly. Steve’s head is beginning to throb.

     “Hey Steve,” Max pipes up, “can we stop by McDonald’s?” He notes with interest the way Billy perks up at the mention of the restaurant. It’s been months since the guy’s eaten anything outside of the hospital’s shitty cuisine, he supposes greasy fast food sounds as good as a five-course meal in his grandmother's Venetian home right now.

     “Yeah, yeah, alright.” Billy’s master plan must be to drive Harrington crazy, because he begins chanting various menu items like a child as Steve zips down the road.

     To Billy’s credit, if that’s his plan then it’s working. Steve’s considering driving into the next tree he sees.

     He dishes out a stupid amount of money at McDonald’s; Billy demands four burgers, a hefty order of fries, and a huge milkshake. Max settles for one burger, and Steve orders chicken nuggets for himself, much to Billy’s amusement. He teases Steve most of the way home. The brunette throws a nugget at him at some point and Max laughs so hard she chokes on her root beer. Billy is blissfully silent after that, though he grins triumphantly as he chomps on the thrown piece of chicken.

     In a stunning turn of events, today is meant to be a kid-free day. Steve drops Max off at the Byers residence on the way home and cruises on into Loch Nora. Billy’s silence comes to an end with a low whistle. “Damn, pretty boy, I forgot you live in Rich People Central,” he muses. “I’m gonna get so bored around here, everyone knows rich people are stuck up as all hell.” Steve doesn’t feel like dignifying that with a reply, his hands flexing around the steering wheel instead. By the time they pull into the driveway of the Harrington family’s ridiculously large house, Billy’s openly staring at him, and the omega finds himself on edge. He slows to a stop in his long driveway, turns off the engine, and turns to meet that blue-eyed stare, his eyebrows arched upwards. Billy’s eyes are completely unreadable, he hates it.

     “Do you want a picture, Hargrove?” he deadpans. The alpha skips over the question and instead offers his own.

     “Shitbird says you’re here alone most of the time, that true?” Steve’s hackles go up faster than anything, his arms crossing over his chest as he glares openly at the boy across from him.

     “Why the fuck do you care?”

     “Never said I did, Harrington.” Billy holds his hands up in a placating gesture, before settling back in his seat. “Just wanna make sure I don’t wander into the kitchen one morning with my dick out and find Misses Harrington trying to enjoy her coffee or something.” Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes, getting a cheeky grin in response.

     “If I have to wake up and see your dick in the morning when I’m drinking coffee I’m kicking you out, Steve announces, getting out of the car. He hears Billy follow him up to the door, and once the two get in the shorter boy whistles again.

     “Your house feels like a fucking museum, Harrington, you really live in here?” Steve makes a beeline for the kitchen.

     “Yes, I do. And you do too, for the time being.” The brunette yanks the fridge open and grabs a bottle of soda off the shelf. “I let Max bring some clothes and shit over the other day, it’s all in the guest room down the hall on the right.” Steve pauses to give the boy a pointed look. “Do not go into the room on the left, nobody goes in there.”

     “Ooh, sounds ominous. What’s in there, all the Harrington family secrets? Family skeletons? Real skeletons?” Billy’s eyebrows waggle obnoxiously, and Steve rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.

     “No, it’s my dad’s office. Nobody goes in there but him. And it’s where the good booze is, and I don’t need you drinking me dry.” Steve already did that a little over a month ago, nearly got alcohol poisoning during a bad night. hopper found him passed out by the pool and took the omega to Indianapolis to buy replacements; he doesn't think the chief will be too keen about helping out again so soon. To his surprise, Billy doesn’t offer any sort of reply, oddly silent behind him. Steve turns around, another soda bottle in hand to offer to the alpha, and finds him staring at the counter. At the dish on the counter. At the keys in the dish on the counter. The omega moves closer and swipes them up, depositing the metal in his back pocket. “You can’t drive yet, don’t even think about it.”

     “You have my car?” Blue eyes look around as if the Camaro might appear right there in the kitchen. Steve shakes his head, then nods, then shakes again.

     “It’s not here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

     “It was fucked to hell, why do you have the keys?” Billy’s face is completely serious now, his body leaning towards Steve’s intently. The taller boy frowns deeply and takes a step back, his eyes shifting away.

     “I, uh, well. Hopper and I fixed it up. Figured you might want it back. We had to repaint it, I don’t think the color’s exactly right, but it’s working now.” Billy’s eyes stare a little longer.

     “Why’d you put me in the room downstairs?” Steve frowns again, brows furrowing in confusion.

     “You’ve still got stitches in, and Max says the doctors said you shouldn’t go up and down stairs.” Large brown eyes blink at the alpha, who seems to be thinking hard about something, before Billy’s face twists into a sneer.

     “What’s your game, Harrington? Why are you doing this?” Steve hasn’t been this confused since high school math.

     “You needed a place to go, and I’ve got space,” he replies slowly. “It means a lot to Max, and if it matters to her it matters to me. Just wanted to be helpful.” Blue eyes narrow and he stares at Steve for a long time. The omega shifts on his feet awkwardly before finally holding out the unopened soda bottle. “You thirsty?”

     It’s meant to diffuse the odd tension, and it works. Billy blinks, looks between Steve’s face and the soda bottle before he shakes his head and takes the offered drink, all smug charm and general obnoxious snarkiness again.

     “Alright, alright. Gimmie the grand tour, pretty boy. I wanna see as much of the Harrington Mansion Museum as I can.” Steve isn’t quite sure what just happened, but he obliges easily and begins making his way down the hall, shaking his head in wonder. Maybe he sould have thought a little harder about letting his old rival stay in his house; this is already beginning to feel like the beginning of a very chaotic nightmare.

[whatsortofschoolisthis]

Name: Wednesday Anne Drew

Gender: Female

Age: 16

Birth Date: July 1st 1973

Species: (Human, Lycanthrope, Metamorphmagus, Vampire, ect): Human

Blood Status: (Pureblood, Half-Blood, Muggleborn): Pureblood

Sexuality: Straight

Alignment: Neutral Good

Ethnicity: Irish-American

Nationality: English, 

Residence: Lives in North Devon on the left side of Rubin and her cousins, the Tuttle’s live on the right. Formerly from a small town in Appalachia West Virgina.

Myer Briggs Personality Type: INTP - The Thinker.

THE MAGE

1st Wand: Beech, 11 inches, bendy, and a unicorn hair core

The true match for a beech wand will be, if young, wise beyond his or her years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant. Such wizards and witches, having obtained a beech wand without having been suitably matched (yet coveting this most desirable, richly hued and highly prized wand wood), have often presented themselves at the homes of learned wandmakers such as myself, demanding to know the reason for their handsome wand’s lack of power. When properly matched, the beech wand is capable of a subtlety and artistry rarely seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation.

Unicorn hair generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations and blockages. Wands with unicorn cores are generally the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. They are the most faithful of all wands, and usually remain strongly attached to their first owner, irrespective of whether he or she was an accomplished witch or wizard.Minor disadvantages of unicorn hair are that they do not make the most powerful wands (although the wand wood may compensate) and that they are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may ‘die’ and need replacing.

2nd Wand: Cherry Wood, 12 inches, slight flexibility, and a Thestral hair core

Considered highly prestigious in Turkey, Iran, Uzbekistan, Russia, and Japan, cherry is an extraordinarily powerful wand wood and demands, to summize from Ollivander, “owners with the highest self-control and mental strength.” Though Ollivander specifies this for dragon heartstring wands, such qualities are recommended for any cherry wand owner, lest they desire for their wand to run the show.

These witches and wizards believe in fate or destiny, and so they believe things happen for a reason. There is acceptance that they don’t have complete control over what happens to them, but that they also have control over their own actions. They may be hyper-responsible as a result and may even blame themselves for events unrelated to themselves.

They try to live like every day as their last– they do not want any regrets to follow them like ghosts. In doing so, they can be honest to the point of bluntness and will try everything they can. They also try to see the beauty in everything, and believe immortality is more of a curse than a gift. As cliche as it may be– transience, to them, is what makes life on earth beautiful and worth it.

These people will fight on a day to day basis for what they believe in, which is one of the reasons for this wand’s reputation of choosing warriors. So, despite their acceptance of fate, they are a stubborn folk and refuse to yield.

With the belief of thestrals as omens and bad luck, that the wand maker and the owner must have seen someone die and embrace death as a concept, as well as the tricky nature of this core make thestral tail hair a rare core to have. Many times when a person is matched with such a core, especially in pure blood families, they will have the person try another thousand wands, just to avoid the image associated with it. However, when such a pairing is allowed to happen that witch or wizard will never find a more faithful companion. This core has potent magic, and is among the most intelligent and sentient of wand cores. Owners are social, gentle with others’ feelings, and love to have philosophic conversations late into the night. They may appear morbid to friends, and have a fascination with death. These people often have a superior sense of direction, and rarely become lost or lose their possessions. Curiously, most of the small group of known thestral hair core owners have neutral resting faces, leading other to think they are perpetually either melancholic, cranky, or tired.

Animagus: Scarlett Tanager.

Misc Magical Abilities: (Legilimen, Seer, Parselmouth, Obscurial, ect): None.

Boggart Form: A dark indistinguishable shape with red eyes and shape teeth, what a ‘haint’ might look like in Wednesday’s eyes.

Riddikulus Form: The creature turns into a dapper 1920s man dancing aggressively around

Amortentia: (What do they smell like?): Spruce forests, Cherries, and clean mountain air.

Amortentia: (What do they smell?): Exploding snap smoke, Fudge, and Pine (Jae Kim)

Patronus: American Beaver

Patronus Memory: Eating wild strawberries in her grandmother’s tree.

Mirror of Erised: A simple house with a one eared crup and a calico cat.

Specialized/Favourite Spells:

Reparo- She often breaks her glasses.

Ferula and Episkey- Spends a lot of time outdoors and gets hurt a lot. 

Depulso- Will throw her enemies away with great force.

APPEARANCE

Faceclaim:  

(I have no idea who this is)

Voiceclaim: Kate Micucci

Game Appearance: 

Height: 5 ft 6

Weight: 140 pounds

Physique: Thin and Wiry.

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Brick Red

Skin Tone: Light

Body Modifications: Gets a tattoo of a lobelia flower on her wrist in her fifth year.

Scarring: Miraculously, only gets one from her encounter with a manticore

Inventory: (what do they carry on them?): a picture of her baby sister Rose, her wand, an exploding snap deck, knitting needles, a handmade book of ‘Granny Magic’ spells, a bookbinding kit, and a few galleons

Fashion: Usually wears Skirt/Sweaters, a bracelet her mum got her, and her tortoiseshell glasses. Every once in a while decides to wear something wild, usually on holidays.

ALLEGIANCES

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Affiliations/Organizations: Circle of Khanna, her family, and sometimes Hogwarts.

Professions:

- Magical Bookbinder at Florish and Blotts.

- Becomes a magical anthropologist and writes books/lectures about different magical traditions/systems, especially those in America. Also writes about the existence of Muggle Ghosts, usually known as shades or haints.

HOGWARTS INFORMATION

Class Proficiencies:  Ghoul Studies, Magical Theory, and History of Magic

Astronomy: E

Charms: O

DADA: O

Flying: A

Herbology: O

History of Magic: O

Potions: A

Transfiguration: E

Electives:

Ghoul Studies: O.

Divination: E

Magical Theory: O

Quidditch: Ravenclaw Keeper.

Extra Curricular: Sphinx Club, Frog Choir, and Ghoul Club.

Favourite Professors: 

Professor Flitwick: Trusts him with everything and tells him everything. Sees him (and Hagrid) as father figures.

Professor Sinistra- There’s really no particular reason why, she just likes her.

Professor Sprout- Reminds her of her Gran.

Least Favourite Professors:

Professor Snape- Whatever his damage is, Wednesday wishes he wouldn’t make it HER problem.

Relationships:

Brother: Jericho Jacob Drew AKA Jerry. Teams up with Danny during his initial search for the vaults and goes missing alongside him.

Misc Siblings: Her baby sister Rose age 4. Her cousins are the Ames children and Kit is also technically related. Maternal grandmother is Hannah Edelwood, she lives with the family and dies when Wednesday is 25.

Father: James Yaxley.

Stepfather: Noal Drew. She’s very fond of him and calls him Da. He’s originally from Dingle.

Mother: Ilse Drew (Nee Edelwood and Yaxley, First cousin to Saorise)

Love Interest:

Jae Kim: It’s a weird thing but they just decide they like each other and make it work.

Best Friends:

- Ben Copper

- Talbott Winger

- Tulip Kasarau.

- Tonks.

- Badeea Ali

- Charlie Weasley.

- Bill Weasley.

Rival:

- Merula Snyde

Enemy:

- Rakepick

- R

- Death Eaters.

Dormmates: (Who’s in your MC’s dorm with them?):

Tulip.

Badeea Ali.

Pets: Her calico Kneazle named Patches, Gray cat named Cranklin and a rat named Minnie. Has a toad that Jae gave her, his name is Robin. She and her mother share a Barn Owl named Specter. He is a terrible creature and despises children/teenagers.

Closest Canon Friends: Yes.

Closest MC Friends: None Yet

PERSONALITY:

- Very responsible but can be silly when she wants to be.

- Stubborn.

- Slightly morbid.

- Open Minded and welcoming to new ideas.

- Blunt, sometimes to the point where it hurts.

- Enjoys embarrassing her cousins, especially Hecate.

- A fighter, rarely gives up, but will accept whatever happens to her in spite of this.

MISC

- Witnessed her father’s death after an accidental shooting.

- Practices a mix of English magic and ‘Granny Magic’ from the Appalachian Mountains.

- Close to Sean, especially since they’re in the same house.

- Second Cousin to the Ames’s and a technical third to Kit.

- Has been living in England since she was eight. Has an American accent out of spite.

- Learned to bookbind from her stepfather, who binds books for both muggle and magic book collectors.

[kyber-kisses]

Applaud the Two Idiots

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: the reader and dean being high af, cursing

Summary: When Dean and the reader are captured on a witch hunt and put under a spell, it’s up to Sam and Cas to try and fix it.

A/n: I totally based this whole fic off of that scene in Stranger Things 3 where Steve and Robin are higher than kites, so please enjoy this masterpiece. Also this gif added ten years to my life so thank you to whoever made it.

Slipping quietly into the hunting cabin, you followed the broad shouldered silhouette of one Dean Winchester, the two of you brandishing pistols filled with witch killing bullets.

You and the brothers had been working this witch case for two weeks and every time you thought you had finally caught up to her, she was two more steps ahead. And truthfully It was beginning to drive the three of you up the walls.

So when you and Dean caught wind of something for the first time in days you both dropped everything, failing to update Sam who had been out on a dinner run. You and the older Winchester had enough faith in yourselves to believe you could finish it alone.

At the time you didn’t realize how wrong you would be.

The only source of light in the cabin seeped underneath the door to the basement, making you and Dean share a quick look of annoyance.

It was always the fucking basement. Well that- or the attic.

Dean slowly raised a finger to his lips, signaling for you to keep quiet. His free hand going to slowly turn the doorknob. Light spilled out further into the darkened room, lighting up your faces as Dean slowly began his decent down the stairs. You following close behind him as the two of you raised your weapons, eyes searching for the witch.

Too busy scanning what was in front of you, you failed to notice the figure behind you. But luckily Deans sixth sense kicked in and he whipped around to warn you.

You knew it was too little too late though as you felt the harsh force of a blunt object slam into your head, immediately rendering you unconscious. The last thing you saw being the look on Deans face as you crumpled on the stairs.

*. *. *. *.

As you slowly stirred back into reality , you let out a light groan, the throbbing in your head making you squeeze your eyes shut.

It felt like you had been hit by a truck.

You attempted to roll your head, trying to loosen your muscles but quickly stopped short by the constricting feeling around your body.

“What the hell?” You breathed, looking down at the ropes that were wound snugly around your torso and ankles, successfully binding you to the chair you sat in. Your arms tightly bonded to your sides.

“Y/n? Thank god, I didn’t know if you were alive or not.” A sudden voice exclaimed, making you whip your head around again. You felt the slight shift of someone behind you and realized that Dean was back to back with you, your ropes constricting him as well.

“Dean? Of course I’m alive you idiot. What the hell happened?”

“Well, that dumb witch got the jump on us. She knocked you out and then came after me.” Dean struggled, attempting to pull on the ropes.

“Are you telling me you got knocked out by one tiny witch?” You mused, trying to turn to look at him but failing.

“Well I’m sorry if my first priority was making sure you were okay. And plus- you got knocked out too- so your one to talk.” He fired back, struggling on the rooms even more.

“Dean! Would you please stop? Every time you move the rope just digs into my skin more!” You yelled, making him cease his actions.

“Sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, you could see that the witch was no where in sight, and even better the table across the room from the two of you was covered in random items-including a knife that looked sharp enough to cut through your binds.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Hmm-“ he hummed back, rolling his head back to try and look at you. You nodded your head towards the table, a grin on your face.

“You see that table over there? On the left?” You questioned, feeling Dean shift his head again. “ You other left moron.” You sighed, rolling your eyes. A second later he nodded in response.

“You see that knife? I think if we move together at the same time, we can make it over there.-“you started, “and I could kick the table and get it into your lap.”

—“ and I could cut the binds.” He finished, catching on to your idea with a light breath. “Wait- she just left a knife sitting around here?” He questioned.

“What an idiot.” The two of you breathed out in unison, readying yourselves to move.

“Okay on the count of three we’re gonna hop. One...two...three!” With one swift move, you and the green eyed hunter shifted a good foot closer to the table. The two of you letting out a relieved laugh at the success. This might actually work.

“Okay! Let’s go again!” Dean exhaled, shifting in his restraints again. You counted again- and just like before the two of you moved a little closer.

“Holy shit- this is gonna work!” You laughed, finding it hard to though, due to the tightness of the rope. Together you and Dean counted down once more, propelling yourselves sideways again.

And then everything went wrong.

You had put to much force into the last hop, which resulted in you and Dean toppling sideways, hitting the cement floor with a light yell.

For the second time that night your head caught the worst of it. You could hear Dean letting out a groan as well as you breathed in a big gulp of air. So your plan backfired— and now you were gonna die at the hands of a witch.

It was in that moment you realized how completely insane your life was. It was bat shit crazy.

And maybe it was the two hours of sleep you were running on or the lack of food in your system, but the giggles bubbling out of your throat cake out of nowhere, almost sounding like sobs.

“Shh-Y/n it’s okay. It’s okay. Please don’t cry.” Dean tried to comfort you, also attempting to pick his head up off the ground with little success. His gesture only making you laugh harder. “Wait- are you- are you laughing?” He questioned, eyebrows knitting. Together in confusion.

You tried to take a breath, which made you giggle even more. “ I’m gonna die in an old musty basement at the hands of a witch. “ you snorted, “With Dean Winchester. It’s just too trippy man.” You laughed.

You didn’t know it but Deans face was a mixture of confusion and amusement. It was actually pretty funny, he wasn’t gonna lie.

The sound of footsteps thundering down the steps of the basement rendered you both silent. The Witch stepping into view with a scowl on her dirt covered face.

“You two were trying to escape? I see you failed miserably.” She chuckled, coming forth to pull your bodies back up. “Now let’s see if you can tell me where the other Winchester is hiding?” She smirked, stepping over to the table and picking up a massive syringe.

Your eyes widened. No,no,no you did not do needles. Especially massive ones like that. Panic settled in, making you rapidly push and pull against your restraints in a failed attempt to get away. Deans mind quickly catching up and reminding him of your fear of needles.

Dean glared at the witch as she stalked forward with the syringe. “ Don’t you even dare touch her you bitch!” He growled, pushing against the ropes.

“Ooh, not very friendly I see.” The witch tilted her head, a wild look in her eyes. “If you had been nicer I might just have let her go second—“ she didn’t even finish before she stepped up next to you and jammed the needle into your neck.

You let out a shriek as you felt the syringe inject whatever concoction she had whipped up directly into your bloodstream. The last thing you heard before passing out again was the sound of Deans muffled yells as the witch did the same to him.

*. *. *. *.

“Dean, you okay?” Sighing, you let your head fall back against his own. God, you were tired, even with the amount of sleep you had gotten from being knocked out not once, but twice.

“To be honest I don’t really feel anything.” He yawned,closing his eyes. “Do you?”

Hearing his yawn, had you yawning too. Stupid contagious yawning. “I feel fine- which is never a good sign when it comes to these sorts of things.” You admitted.

“Yeah-“ Dean paused, a light laugh bubbling o. Of his chest. “ I kinda feel good actually.” You had no idea why, but you chuckled along with him. A tingling feeling flowing through your whole body. In a way, it kind of felt like when your feet are asleep, except this was everywhere.

“Idiot. She messed up the spell.” You giggled, you heard Dean snort behind you as he tried to inhale more air.

“Yeah she did. She totally messed it up.”

You had no clue as to why you were laughing, neither did Dean, but one thing was for sure: you had never felt so care free, and to be honest, it was nice.

“The idiot messed it up!” You cackled again, head falling back once more. The bang of a door had the two of you falling silent. Eyes watching the witch walk back into the room, a smug grin on her face.

“There is definitely something wrong with us.” You whispered, trying to push the next wave of laughter down.

The witch stalked towards you, grabbing your face .” Just tell me where the other Winchester is.” She asked, a wild smile plastered on her face.

“Who?” You giggled, your mind too fuzzy to understand anything. You could hear Deans laughter behind you, which only made you laugh harder.

The back of a hand came down hard across your cheek, making you stop short. Hearing the sound of the crack made Dean whip his head around. “Hey! I know Sam! He’s my brother.” He exclaimed, trying to pull the witch away from you.

It worked because she gave you one more look before walking around to face the jade eyed hunter. “I know, your Dean Winchester.” She stated. “ care to tell me where little Sammy is?”

Dean let out another set of light, bubbly laughter. “Yeah, he’s uh- back at the motel.” The words came flying out of his mouth.

Your mind was trying hard to fight against whatever was going on with you as you turned violently. “Dean- Dean shut up.” He couldn’t give away where Sam was. That would be bad in more ways than one.

Luckily the universe was on your side because the sound of splintering wood echoed down the basement stairs as someone kicked down the door. All three heads spun as Sam rushed into view. Without hesitation he was aiming the barrel of his gun and your capturer and firing.

The witches body hitting the ground before you could even exhale.

And then the giggles came back.

Sam rushed down the remaining stairs, kneeling down to help untie the both of you. Dean chuckled again, looking down at Sam “hey Sammy! I was just talking about you!”

Shooting his brother a confused look, Sam set to work untying the constricting rope. “Hey, Cas!” Sam's voice echoed, “I found them!”

There was a faint response before a familiar angel came down the stairs. “Heyyyy Cassie!” You drawled, head falling back as Sam pulled the last of the ropes away. “Dean, the pretty angel is here!” You giggled.

Sam and Cas turned to look at each other, birth musky confused and concerned. “Are they alright?”

“What are you talking about? We are fantastic!” Dean snorted, pushing himself out of the chair and turning to look at you. His eyes widened, slightly taken back, “WOW! You are really pretty!”

Normally you would have blushed at something like that, especially when it was coming from the mouth of Dean Winchester, but you were too out of it to even react properly. So you winked back at him instead. “Look who’s talkin.”

Sam watched with an even more confused expression as a blush crept across his brothers face. “Okay! Cas can you get y/n to the car? I have Dean.” Cas nodded, walking over to you. And before you could say anything, he was picking you up and carrying you up the stairs towards the impala.

A few minutes later, you and Dean were jammed in the back seat, watching as Sam and Cas slid into the front seats. “You have any idea what is wrong with them?” Sam questioned, hoping to get an answer from the Angel.

“All I know is that it was some sort of truth spell.” Cas whispered, both pairs of eyes panning back to you and Dean. Deans eyes quickly zoned in on a bag of chips sitting untouched in the front seat,making him lean forward to snatch them up.

“Yes! I’m starving!” He grinned, ripping open the bag. Your eyes widened as you watched him shove chip after chip into his mouth.

“Give that here! I want some!” Pulling the bag from his hand and taking some for yourself, ignoring the looks of the other people in the car.

“Please tell me there’s a way to fix this.” Sam sighed, not taking his eyes off you, Cas doing the same.

“I think we have to wait for it to wear off.”

*. *. *. *.

Over the next few hours Sam and Cas watched as you and Dean were overcome with fit after fit of laughter, even falling to the floor of the motel at one point, tears streaming down your face.

You two were completely and utterly out of it.

It was around hour 4 that it started to wear off, you and Dean flopped over the edge of one of the beds, heads hanging over the edge as you took in a deep breath.

“So that was wild. . .” You paused, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened. It had easily been some of the craziest hours of your existence.

“Yeahhhh. . .” The words leaving Deans mouth slowly, presumably thinking the same as you.

Your eyebrows drew together as you thought back to earlier. “Did you really call me pretty?” You smirked, turning to look over at Dean. You could see the gears in his head turning as he went back to the memory.

“Yeah. I totally did.” The realization noticeable in his voice. He was blushing again- and it was adorable.

“Awww Dean. Do you have a crush on me?” You teased, lightly giggling. Dean gave you a side eye, face marked with slight embarrassment.

“Maybe.”

“So it took a witch making us trip balls to have you tell me that?” You didn’t let him respond though before you were leaning over and placing a kiss on his freckled cheek. “If so, I’m okay with that.”

[aroworlds]

Those With More, Part One

When Mara Hill's magic results in her brother's impossible, wondrous transition, of course Suki wants to know how she did it! What if Sirenne's magic workers can help others find euphoria? What if this magic can heal Suki's hands—or at least lessen her pain? But Mara, distrustful of priests after their failure in protecting Esher, won't share her power.

A senior priest must bear responsibility, but Suki suspects her problems lie deeper than lack of oversight, and her reluctance to discuss her aromanticism with a woman who needs support only proves it. Would she have preserved Mara's faith and Esher's health if she hadn't first avoided revealing herself to her aromantic kin? If she'd faced their expectations that she shoulder their pain and grief as well as her own?

Suki has lived her life by the Sojourner's second precept, but how does she serve when she doesn't have more to give—and never will?

Contains: A disabled, non-partnering allo-aro woman struggling with the expectations of her young, fledgling aromantic community; an autistic, aromantic priest reconsidering their expectations of their community's leader; and an allo-aro woman in need of support as she struggles with her non-partnering, aro-ace brother's illness. 

Content Advisory: Please expect many references to or depictions of aro antagonism, allo-aro antagonism, amatonormativity, familial abuse, mental illness, suicidal ideation, death, gender dysphoria, chronic pain, ableism and ageism. This piece contains non-detailed, non-specific reference to a character's past suicide attempts. 

Length: 4, 409 words (part one of two). 

Note: This is the last story in my Suki mini-series, but it refers to characters introduced in The Sorcerous Compendium of Postmortem Query and is best read following the stand-alone story What Makes Us Human. You can find links to all on my pinned post or on this Tumblr master post.

Non-romantic love, to Suki, serves a similar role as the Sojourner or any other god: a fine concept in theory, but while she respects others’ need for a guiding framework, she can only nod vaguely at love’s existence.

***

They talk in a west-facing corner of the inner gardens, the sun edging towards the valley’s cradling ridgelines. Suki sits with careful stillness, resting her bony wrists and fingers in her lap. Her companion, Mara Hill, twirls a lock of dark hair around her finger with the ease of a woman unaware of her movements’ toll. Few people reach the ends of their lives untouched by disability, but Suki still aches to watch others take their youthful ability for granted … even if Mara’s restless fidgeting suggests anxiety as much as mind-type.

Suki was an artist once, albeit not the kind of craftswoman draped in the world’s renown. She built wonder from bare ingredients. She made the needed and the practical from scraps of thread and fabric. She took her hands’ ability to knead and shape for granted, revelling in others’ appreciation, until the pain built to a degree even she couldn’t deny. Given the option, she’ll always sit in her garden with her knitting needles or workbasket, making.

She can’t reconcile herself to hours spent halting her fingers and wrists in too-often-futile hope of preserving later use.

“Must I explain, one trans woman to another, why we want this?” Suki works to ease her voice, to sound possessed of patience and released of jealousy. “We … dabble, in spells and medicines, parlour tricks to lessen anguish, but this … it can be freedom. When wrought correctly.”

Now, Suki sees little sense in seeking such a transition: she’s had time to forge an accord with her body and gender. If said accord holds a touch of the defiant, rebellion nonetheless sheltered her through aching moments of feeling her body less hers than a chafing suit she’ll endure for this life. Gender, though, only began the war of Suki’s selfhood separating from her own blood and breath, and it long ago won second place on her list of impossible wishes.

What if Mara’s magic can do more than change a body’s sexual characteristics?

What if it can ease Suki’s hands, heal her knees, return to her the gift of unthinking movement?

Mara shifts her hands to twist the untied lace dangling from her bodice. She’s a handsome woman: tall and long-limbed, her cheekbones sharp enough to slice hard cheese. Full lips, wide skirts and a waist-length sable braid soften the flat planes of her face, shoulders and hips. Suki can’t call Mara beautiful, but she may have used the word “ethereal” if Mara didn’t also bare her haphazard humanity: hair falling out of its pins, scores of grass stains marking her petticoats, a waistcoat absent any matching buttons, a dress ten years out of style knotted up to bare clashing stockings and scuffed boots. Life with Mara, Suki suspects, is no small amount interesting, but one needn’t fear from her airs or pretentiousness.

This conversation, regardless, comes none the easier.

“I know you understand,” Suki says, attempting a beseeching gentleness. “How can’t you?”

“It’s a secret.” Mara stares at Suki with a distressingly direct gaze, as though hoping to emphasise her sincerity through eye contact. “Handed down from witch to witch. I’ve sworn oaths to the living and the dead. I can’t. And I won’t.”

Mara Hill is also a terrible liar.

“You insist this isn’t sorcery. It’s witchcraft—a type of magic that can be taught! Why, then, can’t you teach us? Can’t you imagine what we could do, if we could study and understand it?”

Just as Suki regrets such desperation-fuelled bluntness, flashes of brown, red and grey show through the eucalypts and fern-encrusted rockery dividing the outer garden from an interior courtyard. Only two other people in Sirenne stand tall enough to be seen over said wall of rocks, and neither looks towards her. Moll, their face set in their accustomed expressionlessness and their iron-grey hair scraped back in a braid, walks close by their companion: a man with Mara’s cheekbones, his gaze distant and his face cavernous. While health warms her sienna skin, even when moistened by anxiety and dappled sunshine, his sallow complexion provokes no kind adjectives.

Esher Hill is the gaunt, walking embodiment of the nightmare Sirenne’s priests struggle to dispel when discussing medicines and spells—a man who appears drugged and ensorcelled into a puppet-like lifelessness, a state absent all vitality.

His sister caused, provoked or necessitated most of it.

Most.

Like too many guests, Mara brought her brother to the monastery when absent solutions in her home village’s offerings of lay priests, physicians, magic workers and well-meaning family members—a last, desperate resort. Esher wasn’t happy or healthy, but he had muscle and energy enough that Suki decided his taciturnity somewhat intentional. He stopped to pet Sirenne’s horses; he allowed their cats to settle on his lap. He scowled when faced with chattering acolytes. He reacted.

Mara’s power stripped his bones of flesh and tissue in the quest to craft him an almost-cis body. New organs, somehow, grew; others withered and sloughed away like an unused cocoon. Such impossibility should be a miracle, but can one fairly call a tempest that devoured his body and hammered his mind miraculous?

What if, though, this transition becomes a goal identified and worked towards with desire, preparation and consent? What if a patient understands what lies ahead? Can one then cope with magic’s trauma, a difficult moment endured in travelling a chosen road? Or what if they narrow the scope to one change, one part of the body?

Will she then see a butterfly, bloodied but eager to take flight?

Will she then be able to live her last years still wielding her pastry brushes and knitting needles?

“It’s dangerous!” Mara follows Suki’s gaze towards the rockery, her lips pressed together in pale, thin lines. “Can’t you see that? Shouldn’t you?” Her husky voice sharpens like a blade on a grindstone. “And what makes you think I should trust you with it? Or would?”

Suki bites her lip while counting backwards from ten. Her tongue runs to tart even when voicing second and third thoughts, and she fears she offers little sympathy when she finds something worth speaking: “But less dangerous in better circumstances? If he knew, was prepared, agreed, expected…”

If a witch doesn’t work her magic behind the priests’ backs, but that’s less Mara’s fault than Sirenne’s.

The question remains: if a witch fears dysphoria's ache the cause of her brother’s depression, why didn’t she offer this magical transition weeks or months earlier? Why didn’t she gain Esher’s prior agreement and approval? Why did Mara bother to take him to a monastery? That she wrought this after Sirenne’s failures dashes Suki’s hopes: Mara’s supposed witchcraft is sorcery, unpredictable and unreachable. Nothing more than a panicked, desperate deal made with demons, a grave power Sirenne can’t replicate ... even should a priest be fortunate enough to make the same bargain with the same brace of demons.

If demons routinely offered such vast power, how many trans people wouldn’t sell their soul for a body suiting their nature?

“Prepare? After you made me—” Mara’s voice cracks like thick, shadowed frost under morning’s first footstep. “If there were anywhere else, if I thought … we wouldn’t be here!”

Suki shifts in her chair, her hands and feet aching as though a purple-black bruise engulfs her joints. Is it a wild, ridiculous joke that her body throbs as if beaten while showing no wound to draw sympathy? Why must a black eye or nasty scrape provoke sorrow while injuries or illnesses unable to heal garner, at best, a mute acceptance? Why do people following the Sojourner’s path lack comprehension in the second precept’s broadness? Why must a priest spend her day asking questions lacking comforting answers?

Because Amadi’s ideal became her god: question.

Mara’s desperation, too, deserves an answer.

“We failed,” Suki says, her own throat roughening. “We failed to serve Esher’s needs. A man who has too long had those needs unmet, and believes he has failed in even wishing his needs met, reacted to this lack in despair. There’s nothing irrational in that.” She wants to smile, because she can’t not know the rationality behind such a conclusion, but Mara won’t understand. She doesn’t know about Mama Lewis. “We went over our changes with you, for we can’t allow this to again happen. I ask you sincerely: are we now doing something inadequate? Are you unhappy with Moll or Thanh’s service? Within the limits of our resources and ability, what aren’t we doing that you think we should? How can we better help Esher? Help you?”

Suki didn’t assign Esher’s first priest. She didn’t speak or condone the words that gave him reason to lose the last shred of a trust abraded by too many authoritative people. She didn’t know why he needed consideration in the priest given to guide him; the unasked question wasn’t hers to speak. Ignorance, nonetheless, rings like an intimate, personal failure.

Not a failure Sirenne’s priests share as a collective whole.

A failure, terrible and tragic, in Suki.

Could she have tried harder to serve as an aromantic priest?

Mara purses her lips, her green skirt clenched in tight-knuckled hands. “He’s … always been. A little. But only in the last few years was he so distant, and I don’t think … he wasn’t bad like this until after the Thinning and Benjamin.”

Suki takes Mara’s non-answer as indication that, at least for the moment, she has no objection—and perhaps that’s a victory, but what good is winning when the war shouldn’t be fought? Suki sighs, shaking her head, as Moll and Esher move past the gap in the trees, vanishing behind canopy and granite outcrops. Only her garden, in its art-defying muddle of ferns, trees, mushrooms and bright-coloured orchids, remains—and while, ordinarily, such clashing shades appeal to her, today those greens and reds feel another mockery, a symbol and privilege undeserved.

Even when Moll gave her the opportunity to address her neglect, she took retreat in her brusque manner and authority, confident that a conscientious priest wouldn’t examine the shallowness of her answer. She offered reassurance, solved a problem, revealed herself in the most cursory of ways and fled with fears and feelings still buried within her aching bones.

Question.

If she considers god her ideal and Amadi’s ideal her god, why didn’t she?

“Benjamin is your partner, yes?” Suki shifts her left ankle, thinking even a circumlocutory attempt to build rapport better than another futile attempt at questioning. “May I ask what happened at the Thinning? You needn’t answer.”

Mara’s body softens, although she doesn’t ease her grip on the skirt. “Have you had … family, friends, come visiting? After they … pass?”

For all that belief in the Sojourner’s path embodies the human struggle to conceptualise, negotiate and accept death, hir followers still deal in euphemisms. Family come visiting. Bad like this. Suki, in the outspoken rebelliousness of a would-be priest, spent a year into her novitiate chanting “death, death, death” at her mirror before bed, just to prove that death isn’t a black-cloaked reaper summoned upon saying hir name.

Such boldness failed her, of course, when Mama Polly passed.

“There’s always spirits flickering about, but few speak.” Suki barks a hoarse laugh. “A man who desired me and told me that he’d never have broken his neck if I’d first wed him. Both my mothers. Mama Lewis talks too much.”

Such events aren’t for Suki as unusual an occurrence as they are for the non-necromantic laity, but the conversations between the returning dead and the priest who offered guidance on their paths through the life now history aren’t for outsiders. There’s always a few, often those who died in the last year and haven’t yet had their connections to this world stretch thin, who come back to speak rather than observe. Sometimes those spirits come burdened with regret and recrimination; sometimes they express gratitude or relief. Death, drawing closer with every breath, grants the living a night a year where one must look into hir shadow and fearlessly accept, even celebrate, hir company.

She’s none too fond of Mama Lewis’s bitter postmortem moaning, but a salt circle and poker at least puts paid to that nonsense.

Respecting the sacred covenant of life and death doesn’t mean tolerating abuse.

“Really?” Mara blinks, shaking her head. “She came to me, with other dead relatives and villagers—my Aunt Rosie. I think she knew I needed to talk to her. She told me that I don’t have to romantically love a girl to want or love a girl, and they told me all the ways they didn’t love, which made me feel that … I could talk to the woman I wanted. So I did.” A sweet warmth softens and curves her lips, but the speed with which Mara flattens them suggests she isn’t easy with smiling in current circumstances. “And we’re together, now. But Esh … he doesn’t want anyone, and that should be fine, but maybe … it wasn’t good for him to see me and Ben happy.”

She leans forwards, coughing, before wiping her palm on her skirt.

Suki clenches her hands, fighting to ease her expression before Mara catches her face. It rankles, to say the least, when someone happy in an intimate partnership—however non-romantic!—suggests that those without must be broken in their loneliness. How can she ignore the reflections of Mama Lewis, one shape of expected love or partnership replacing another in the same unyielding structures and assumptions? Mama Lewis cut and hewed the shape of Suki’s illnesses, not another’s possession of something she doesn’t want!

Non-romantic love, to Suki, serves a similar role as the Sojourner or any other god: a fine concept in theory, but while she respects others’ need for a guiding framework, she can only nod vaguely at love’s existence.

Anger, though, doesn’t explain the terror stiffening her body.

“Or after seeing you find a less-conventional form of the coupled happily-ever-after,” she says in a voice perilously close to “glacial”, “your kin and village increased their expectations that he should find the same?”

Mara stares, her lips parted as if in surprise or hurt. “I … Uncle Sascha would say that, I guess. So would the Fisher sisters.” She sighs, frowning. “I don’t know. Just that he got worse after Benjamin … right when I thought he’d get better, because Aunt Rosie said that we’re … real, human. Just a less-known ordinary. Even if we didn’t know the specific word before Moll said it.”

“Only your brother knows why,” Suki says in the mild, self-evident comment a guiding priest says to people having difficulty observing—or permitting themselves to observe—the truth before them. The mild, self-evident comment a priest, who doesn’t fear the direction of this conversation, may say to a guided guest. “So why bother yourself with if I didn’t non-romantically pair up with a girl, maybe he wouldn’t have tried to kill himself drivel? Can you go back in time to not pair up? No! Nor should you halt your life just in case it may be the reason!”

Mara’s half-raised eyebrows suggest that she doesn’t agree.

“Girl, the world tells you in so many ways that you shouldn’t non-romantically partner. After all that repetition, you’re inclined to find excuses to obey that! Keeping my brother from attempting suicide feels more reasonable to you than most puerile objections, but is this reasonable? Are you helping him by thinking this? Or are you obliging everyone who thinks you shouldn’t exist by undermining your partnership with misplaced guilt?”

She refrains from mentioning the insult in anyone’s assuming that depression must be provoked by the existence of someone else’s intimate partnership, as though such relationships are so fundamental one must sicken in witnessing another’s contentment! She refrains, unable to think of anything that doesn’t sound like an observation based in betraying knowledge. Shouldn’t they focus less, anyway, on Mara’s limited understanding of non-partnering people and more on the real issue at hand: her trying to craft another impossible?

Even if it means making herself the cause, Mara seems set on wishing together a world possessed of perfect assurance that her brother won’t again attempt suicide.

Sorcery is by far an easier art, but that’s no comforting truth.

Mara glances at Suki’s belt, as if in need of reassurance that she talks to a senior priest. “Are you, uh … well...”

“Am I what, girl? Don’t cluck!”

Mara swallows, stumbling over the word likely strange to her voice. “Aro … aromantic? Because you sound like…”

Aromantic.

A word in a book, discovered by accident.

A word feared, weighted down by her obligation and pain.

A word unsaid, a man nearly dying of its absence.

“Aromantic and allosexual. I like men for bedding. I don’t like partnerships.” Suki speaks with the casualness that shaped her words when speaking to a distressed priest in a vegetable garden, words said now as if they’ll make up for their silent past. Words said devoid of her terror. “I have enough of one with myself.”

She waits, wondering if Mara will subject her to the young, abled trick of past tense, as though sexuality must be Suki’s history and not her present or future. Something accessible only to the hale and young, presuming her sense of another’s sexual attractiveness withers along with her body? Or will Mara grimace, disgusted by the notion of an elderly, disabled woman whose sexuality hasn’t “decently” become distant memory?

She waits for the accusation: why didn’t you say this before?

“So you understand … why it’s … hard, to live unknowing who you are and what you want, what the words are?” Mara’s brow furrows, her hesitant speech giving way to a spurting rush of feeling: “That’s what Aunt Rosie gave us that night, but it came so late. I lived for so long not knowing, without a word, without knowing it an option! That it had a name! And that hurts, even now I have what I didn’t know I wanted or could want. For so long, I didn’t know! Maybe … that’s it, for Esh, the hurting? Or part of it? How can’t it be…?”

How old is she? Twenty-five? Thirty at most? One needn’t own precision in telling another’s age to know that Mara’s adulthood, outside of accident or illness, stands years distant from death’s shadow. Suki draws a sharp breath, fighting to swallow the tart, quill-bristled question clogging her throat: And when do you think I found the word, girl?

Amadi gifted her the other-shape-of-normal permissiveness, but ey died unknowing of the word describing them both.

Ey died, leaving her alone in a world where she feels outdated and unwanted, where everyone sharing in the known power of the word aromantic can’t comprehend her pain but expects her to, immediately and easily, carry theirs.

Mara needs her pain acknowledged, to have someone confirm that possession of a happy non-romantic partnership can’t and shouldn’t erase ignorance’s lingering hurts. Someone who acknowledges that such bruises are long in the fading but one can still build a life worth living. Someone who reflects understanding and the vital, powerful sense of aromantic siblinghood. Someone who can give what she needs and deserves.

Why must Suki provide it? Why not Moll? Why not anyone else?

“Yes.” She swallows, shifting her throbbing hands, fighting to keep the growl from claiming her voice. Another failure! “We all feel the … betrayal, the years lost to ignorance. Why didn’t I know? You’ll have times of hurting, of struggling, of wondering what could have been if your family knew, your friends, your neighbours. When something isn’t yet recognised or accepted, despite being extant and common … pain, for those of us ahead of that coming, isn’t optional. You aren’t alone in that.”

Suki isn’t gentle. Increased social permissiveness towards the crotchety manner discouraged in children and younger adults stands as one of age’s rare benefits. Mama Polly joked that Suki was set to be a grandmother while still a maiden, but Mama Lewis—curse her long-dead soul—didn’t laugh. Even after half a century gone, Suki can still recite her clipped lectures, delivered in the hope that decreased acidity and increased sweetness will help her daughter find the happiness packaged in a loving, romantic partnership.

Mama Lewis’s shade, returning for her once-yearly lecture, still hopes that her now-elderly daughter will soften enough to allow love into her heart.

It should amuse Suki that such gentleness is now demanded whenever she dares reveal herself as aromantic.

Mara nods, her lips pressed together, her jaw tight, her glistening eyes angled towards her lap.

“It could be part of your brother’s feelings. It could be something else. But this second-guessing of his motivations doesn’t help you or him!” Suki changes the subject for Mara’s sake: for a woman fighting to keep from breaking down before a near-stranger. “Where does this get you but exhaustion? You’re only going to chase your guesses around and around until you’re a dog barking at a rat behind a grate—only to finally spot a different rat gnawing on his brain, realise you’ve been barking at this one for no reason, and there’s actually a score of invisible rats feasting on his poor, bloody brain. Does this help you see those invisible rats? Does this barking help your health, girl?”

She absolutely, assuredly isn’t changing the subject because Suki fears the explosion of her own anger and hurt while discussing aromanticism.

Question. How can she?

Mara’s eyes meet Suki’s face in the bulging stare had by someone imagining rodents chewing on grey matter. “R—rats?”

“Chewing brain rats. You want pretty metaphors for a bloody illness? Don’t talk to a priest, then. Pretty metaphors leave people telling themselves depression isn’t illness, just something that can be shouted, shamed or pressured into abeyance. I don’t hold for that.” Suki sighs and attempts to ease Mara’s shock, hating her bluntness’ sharp, gleaming edges. Is she trying to hurt Mara, wounds delivered in return for those unintentionally given? “I know you want to help your brother. You’ll do more for him by asking what he needs, and listening to what he tells you even if it’s ‘nothing’, instead of chasing every rat in the hope they’re the ones eating him. There’s too many rats, girl! When he’s able to cope with your asking, ask. Leave handling the rats to us—because that’s what we’ll teach him.”

If only they’d thought to ensure Mara realised this before she attempted to bludgeon the rat labelled “dysphoria”, but who imagined a village witch owning such power or ability?

Mara nods: perhaps accepting such advice, perhaps planning to avoid future commentary on what she thinks provoked her brother’s attempt. Her silence is, though, more honest than immediate agreement. Better that than false approval or out-of-hand rejection, especially when she hasn’t agreed to a guiding relationship between priest and guest. Especially when Suki has already stepped further over that line than is wise for a priest struggling with herself! Anyway, hasn’t she gleaned enough to make a solid guess—that Mara sold her soul to purchase Esher’s transition? What more need they discuss?

She isn’t a powerful witch keeping her magic a solemn, oath-bound secret.

She’s a frightened sister doing everything she can to hold her brother into life.

Is that another rat set to gnaw on Esher’s brain? Is that, as much as distrust or fear of priestly reaction to sorcery, reason for her denial? Does she seek to keep this secret from Esher and the priests involved in his care to avoid making yet another rat? Does Moll realise this?

Is Mara all that different from Suki herself?

“I’m sorry that I can’t help you.” Mara stands and bows in the abrupt, jerking movements of a woman looking to leave before the conversation leads them anywhere uncomfortable—and Suki feels unreasonably relieved. “Thank you for your advice—and wisdom.” She hesitates, leaving Suki certain that “wisdom” is nothing more than politeness. “I’m glad, I suppose, there’s more people like us here. Maybe … maybe that will help Esh, if things go better.”

“If you think a priest’s guidance may be useful for your own sake,” she says, falling back on well-worn script in the surety that her own words are far too confronting, “please know that our service extends to all. And I hope, one day, aromantics are so ordinary there’s no need to comment.”

Mild, facile, trite.

Her hands throb, and Suki fights to unclench them.

Mara’s face shutters. “You’ve more than enough work with Esh.”

She bows again and, in a frenetic, long-paced stride best described as “hurrying”, heads down the garden path towards the guest quarters.

Trust.

Can she blame Mara for not trusting her when Suki has none to give?

She sighs and stares at her orchids, at the stone rising behind the tangle of shrub and ivy, at the blue-tinged mushrooms threatening to take over the lawn, at the green grass beneath her chair and the cloudless sky overhead. She stares at the rocks and leaves of her sanctuary, thinking about Mara, thinking about Mamas Lewis and Polly, thinking about the conversation with Moll in the vegetable garden, thinking about words unsaid and feelings concealed … but as the sun ebbs lower, she finds no course of action but the obvious.

Question.

Why has she, for so long, chosen avoidance over service? Why has she refused to face her pain, even while knowing the impact her absence has on others? If she preaches the sacred power in guiding another to a better road, why does she refuse another’s gift of the same? Will she leave this world as Mara is now? Or will she trust her own kin, her own ideals—the only god worth her wholehearted belief?

“Aziz!” Suki waves a hand at the acolyte reading on the lawn just out of non-shouting earshot. “Tell Moll that I’d like them to attend me here at their earliest convenience. Please have the kitchen arrange sweets for both of us and my afternoon tea.” She pauses, considering, as Aziz scrambles upright and straightens hir brown robe. “My shawl. And ask Thanh for an additional dose of my pain medicine. Thank you.”

Question.

If Moll is good enough for Esher Hill, they ought to be good enough for Suki of Sirenne.

[princegabriel]

@shadowkat2000 requested Definitely Just a Cold for Buddy. Thank you for the prompt and also for your patience! To the last couple of people still waiting on these, they’re coming! And whether or not you’ve already requested something, I am still taking requests. @badthingshappenbingo

To Your Health

by princegabriel/ FaintlyMacabre

Rated G

Characters: Buddy Aurinko, Peter Nureyev, Vespa Ilkay, Jet Siquliak, Juno Steel

CW: lack of self-care, oblique mention of needles/IVs

-

Buddy pretended to drink from the champagne flute she’d taken off a waiter an hour ago. There was nothing wrong with it, presumably; the waitstaff were running around with a hundred just like it for any guest who might be feeling a little dry. It was just this awful persistent cold that made the thought of drinking remarkably unappealing. Besides, it was no good getting dehydrated and making herself feel worse.

“She’s moving toward the service hallway,” Ransom murmured in her ear. When she didn’t immediately give him an order, he dropped the casual couple act a bit and really looked at her. “Captain? Are you all right?”

She felt terrible. “Fine,” she said. “Sounds like that’s our cue. Take a drink with you.” He reached for her still full glass, but she pulled it away, trying to make the movement look playful. “Better get a fresh one, dear, no sense in giving you what I’ve got.” Ransom grimaced, nodded, and started after their mark.

-

For once, as she slipped an earring onto the handle of the fire alarm, Buddy wished for one of those boring, perfect crimes she’d normally roll her eyes at. This still had room to go smoothly, of course— she walked away without breaking stride, spooling out fishing line as she went— but she could really do without loud noises just now. She ran out of line just as she opened the bathroom door and gave it a sharp tug after the alarm started blaring to dislodge the earring and knock it to the floor. She threw the line in the trash and slunk into a stall to wait for the building to clear out, trying to ignore the pounding emanating through her head.

-

“Keys, Ransom.”

Ransom looked unsure. “Captain, if you don’t mind my saying—”

“I’ll only mind if this takes any longer.”

“You look terrible. I think I should drive.”

Buddy raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, I asked for blunt.” She gestured at the driver’s door and made her way to the passenger side. Truth be told, she should have suggested it herself. Her headache had only gotten worse; she felt pressure all over her face, even the left side, where she’d assumed the nerves had died years ago. Not to mention it felt like something round with both fur and scales had taken up residence in her throat.

At least she got into the car before she passed out.

-

She woke up to shouting, which was undesirable but not unfamiliar.

“I don’t know, I came back as fast as I could!” More than one set of footsteps echoed through the hold. She wanted to tell Ransom to pipe down, but speaking felt like a lot of effort.

“Buddy! Oh god, Bud.” For that voice, she opened her eyes.

“Vespa,” she managed to get out with some difficulty.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart, just stay there.” And that was mildly alarming— Vespa hardly ever used endearments. She didn’t need to; the love she felt for Buddy was apparent whenever she said her name. “Sikuliaq?”

“Of course.” Being lifted fully off the ground by another person was a strange feeling, as an adult. Buddy would almost have felt like laughing, except for everything else. She drifted off again before they even left the hold.

-

Buddy didn’t particularly want to open her eyes. She could tell from the smell and the sounds that she was in the medbay, and she remembered everything: the cold that was more than a cold, barely making it through the job, passing out in the car. The pain was dulled somewhat now, but she could still feel it lying in wait at the edges. When she opened her eyes, she would have to know, and she would have to deal. And she would. But she was so very tired and another few moments of darkness and less-than-blissful ignorance didn’t seem like too much to ask.

She blinked and squinted under the fluorescents. They looked like they’d been dimmed a bit, for which she was thankful. Past the IV stand by her side, she saw Juno dozing in a chair, succumbing to gravity little by little until he nearly hit his chin on the counter.

He snapped awake with a little yelp. “I wasn’t sleeping!” he said.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Buddy!” Juno jumped up and started toward her before he stopped himself. “You’re awake! I’m gonna go get Vespa— she wanted to stay but you were out for kind of a while so we made her agree to sleep or at least eat something and rest but she still wouldn’t go until the Big Guy talked to her so now I think he’s teaching her to knit or something and yeah, I should just get her and she can tell you about it. How, um, how are you feeling?”

“I won’t tell Vespa you fell asleep,” Buddy said, amused despite her current condition.

“Oh, thank god,” Juno sighed. “But, you know, I wasn’t fishing for that. I really do want to know.”

Buddy thought about it. “I’ll let you know how I’m feeling when I know what’s wrong with me.”

“That’s fair,” Juno said, heading to the door. “I’m glad you’re awake now.”

-

“Buddy!” Vespa looked like she wanted to throw her arms around her but was restraining herself. “How are you feeling?”

“Would it be rude to say impatient?” Buddy said. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?”

“It looks like a cold—”

“A cold shouldn’t have taken me so completely out of commission—”

“—layered on top of lack of sleep, dehydration, and the lingering effects of radiation poisoning.” Vespa put her hands on her hips and looked at Buddy pointedly. “Oh, yeah, and impatience.”

“That’s all?”

“Bud, you’re working yourself into the ground!” Vespa sat on the side of her cot. “You’re the first one up in the morning and some nights I have to talk you into coming to bed. Throw that in with your diet—”

“The supplements work perfectly well.”

“They don’t work perfectly well, just better than anything else,” Vespa said. “I don’t want to have to try to convince you to take care of yourself. I will, but I don’t want to.”

“I’ve been putting an awful strain on you, haven’t I, darling?” Buddy said, a rush of guilt washing over her.

“You’ve been straining yourself!” Vespa growled. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! You’re so worried about the work, and us, and you don’t spare enough time or thought or energy to take care of yourself. We’re not young anymore, Bud, you can’t just work eighteen-hour days and collapse and do it all again the next day. Come on, I just got you back.”

Buddy’s organic eye stung. “Low blow, don’t you think?”

Vespa shook her head. “You’re right, this isn’t about me. So I’ll tell you, as your doctor, you better start taking care of yourself.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Buddy said, and Vespa looked like she was going to scream. “I’m not being funny, I mean it. Thank you.”

“Of course, Bud.” Vespa took her hand and glanced down at the IV running into her arm. “Now that you’re awake, you can actually drink something. Sikuliaq was brewing up some tea for you, I can go get it.”

“Would you just send him a message, love?” Buddy said. “It feels like a long time since we just sat together.”

Vespa’s smile took her breath away for a second. “Yeah, it does. I can do that.”

“And I can try to be better at taking care of myself,” Buddy said. “Not that I’m not enjoying having you taking care of me.” Actually, sitting here in the medbay with Vespa, Buddy felt better than she had in weeks.

[hunnybadgerv]

painterofhorizons replied to your post “Top five hobbies or skills you'd like to try learning?”

These are wonderful things to want to get into! I hope someday you can do some of them. :) Also: you did some russian? Hella cool! I had russian in school for like... 7 years or something, and I can still read it, though understanding what I read... :P I really want to get back into it though. Got me some russian/german books to try. I can shoot you some of the most important german words that you

dont have in english! I dont know how you survive without them tbh. Also big YES for watercolor, and dont worry about drawing first, you can have tonns of fun with them even if you didnt take drawing lessons first, I promise. (Also yes I feel you on #4, me too, buddy, me too.)

I adored Russian, but I’ll be blunt. With no ability to keep up with it, once I got out of classes it all just faded. I can read it and sometimes I can pick up on some of the verbal things, but I do not think in Russian anymore.

And yes, I love the fact that German has amazing words that English just cannot touch. I used to see words like that fly across my dash all the time, but I don’t think that those blogs are still producing content. 

@theoriginalladya sent me needles and yarn to practice with and they are both still sitting on the corner of my desk. Though every month or so I get a burr and pull it out again and work on it. I just don’t practice the way I should if I intend to improve. 

Though I know that for the foreseeable future my needlecrafting is going to focus on cross stitch and embroidery. I am doing holiday stockings for my son in law, my mom, brother, and middle minion. I’ve got a few other things that I found. I’m going to make me a Jane Austen ornament. I got some Ribbon embroidery sets, and a large piece for my youngest daughter. So, I may not fall back into the knitting practice for quite a bit. But that is okay. 

[franklyshipping]

Day 13 ~ Christmas 2019 Ego Fanfics

WOWIE DAY NUMBER THRITEEN LET'S GO MY FRIENDS LET'S KEEP THIS FIC TRAIN CHUGGIN LET'S DO THIS!

TAGGING: @marvin-lee-magician @marvinleemagician and @marvin--the-magnificent

So…I know that opening all your presents on Christmas day is always so wonderful and amazing and thrilling…but I think we all have that curiosity. Whenever we see presents laid out under the tree on the lead up to the 25th, even from just looking at them we all try to figure out in advance what we’ll be getting this year. We just can’t help ourselves! Sometimes we just look, and sometimes we pick up the gifts and shake them until someone drags us away kicking and screaming, that’s just how it is. One thing it also is though, is a mega scoop. Every ego had the curiosity, but no-one more than the young Reporter Jim. He was looking for the scoop of the season with sensational spoilers, and he was convinced that finding out the contents of everyone’s presents was the best way to go about it.

How would he do this you ask? Well, he’d set up a stake-out point (a mini blanket fort behind a couch) with a view of the main Christmas tree, wait for someone to deposit a bunch of gifts, and then interview them for all the juicy details. That was the plan anyway. Jim had gotten a tad side-tracked, but I mean you couldn’t blame him; if you were to see a cute little glob in his own Christmas jumper, I figure you’d get side-tracked from whatever task you were doing too.

‘The Demon Hunter Jims knitted it for you? How intriguing! Did they use itty-bitty knitting needles?’

Jim asked curiously, to which Gooper replied with a soft shrugging motion and a little gurgle; Jim hummed.

‘I’m sure I shall find out at a later time from them-oh! Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any information on those there wrapped gifts would you? I’m trying to get all the hot gift gossip!’

Jim received another little shrug and a gurgle, although Gooper had been partaking in many a transferring of gifts from people to different places, he knew nothing of the contents. Jim sighed softly, but nevertheless smiled at the little glob and stroked him gently.

‘Ahh no matter, I shall soon come across the intel! Thank you though dear Gooper, your company and interview etiquette is impeccable as always!’

Gooper let out a proud, happy gurgle and gave Jim’s fingers a little hug before shuffling away from Jim’s hiding spot and going about his globular business. Jim humphed softly as he settled back in his hiding spot and refocused his keen gaze on the Christmas tree, wondering how long he’d have to wait before he could spot or acquire any fresh leads. He didn’t have to wait long though, because not even a minute later….in came Marvin the Magnificent, or Magic Jim as he was known by the Jims. Jim gasped silently as he watched the magician bring in an armful of gifts, and arrange them neatly under the tree.

‘Perfect…’

Marvin sighed happily to himself as he finished his arrangement and stood up straight, doing a little stretch, and then turning to leave the room the way he came. I can tell you right now though, that Marvin wasn’t going to be leaving so quickly….Jim wasn’t one to give up a scoop. So he, very literally, jumped out of his hiding spot, brandished his microphone, and landed perfectly in front of the magician as he exclaimed.

‘WHAT CAN YOU TELL ME ABOUT THOSE GIFTS YOU JUST PUT DOWN?!’

Marvin let out a, totally brave and masculine, shriek as he jumped about two feet in the air, his eyes wide at the sudden Jim Appearance. Once he realised that it was merely A Jim and not a threat, he clutched his chest and let out an embarrassed laugh.

‘Blohoody hehell, wahay to nearly give me a heart ahattack Jim!’

Jim then found himself feeling a tad embarrassed, realising that he had perhaps made his entrance a tad too dramatic, especially since he wasn’t usually so brash. He smiled bashfully as he replied.

‘S-Sorry Magic Jim, I-I just really need this scoop!’

Marvin laughed fondly, the stammers revealing to him that it was Reporter Jim, one of the youngest Jims, that he was talking to. Then the magician furrowed his eyebrows curiously.

‘What scoop?’

At his interest, Jim started to fidget with excitement…before going on a good old Jimmy ramble.

‘The scoop of presents of course! The secrecy and mystery that shrouds gift giving at Christmas is simply UNPARALLELLED, so I have made it my task to uncover the identity of every single gift in the ego household! And, Magic Jim, since I have just seen you deposit quite a lot of gifts I simply must interview you for intel!’

Marvin chuckled softly at the young reporter, finding his excitement and rare confidence seriously cute and adorable. However…Marvin didn’t know the contents of the gifts he’d put under the tree, he’d merely been doing a favour for some fellow egos by putting them there. However, Marvin didn’t have the heart to disappoint the young Jim by telling him he didn’t know anything, so the magician decided to play coy.

‘Oh but I couldn’t possibly divulge that information Jim! Christmas gift-giving is shrouded in secrecy for a reason, the secrecy is part of Christmas itself!’

Marvin inspected his nails as he mused with a playful smile, and resisted the urge to aww at Jim’s sudden excited squeak at thinking Marvin had information. The reporter was BEYOND excited, and he was certainly not going to let any coyness get in the way of the scoop of the year!

‘Oh please Magic Jim, pleeease? I won’t tell anyone what they’re getting, I swear on the clan of Jim!’

Marvin repressed a fond laugh upon seeing how Jim was practically pouting up at him like a sweet little kid, hut the magician held firm. He folded his arms with a playful smirk and glimmering eyes.

‘Sorry Jim, these lips are sealed.’

Marvin loved playing with Jim like this, he loved the meek Jim in general because he was just a complete and utter sweetheart; plus, in his rare moments of being passionate and excitable, he was almost unbearably cute. Meanwhile, Jim was pouting with furrowed eyebrows at Marvin’s teasing. He was resolute on getting whatever information the magician had, so he was brainstorming, trying to figure out how he could get what he wanted…then…an idea came to him. It was an excellent idea, but Jim was nervous to try it out. He’d never done it to anybody else by himself before.

‘W-Well….what if I persuade you a-and make you tell me?’

Jim cleared his throat, standing up a little straighter. Marvin couldn’t help but grin curiously at what sounded like a playful threat from Jim.

‘Oh? And how exactly are you gonna do that?’

Jim pursed his lips when Marvin teasily…and he narrowed his eyes at the magician. He was going to put his nervousness aside. He was going to get the intel from Magic Jim…even if it meant tickle torturing it out of him. He put his microphone down, took a step towards Marvin, and smiled as he spoke softly.

‘Magic Jim….are you ticklish?’

Marvin’s eyes widened at the question, making Jim giggle excitedly.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

Jim eagerly pounced on the bemused, flustered magician, pinning him to the floor as Marvin burst out into babbles. Whatever he’d been expecting from the meek Jim, it certainly hadn’t been this….and now Marvin was worried. If he’d known that this was going to happen then he wouldn’t have fibbed.

‘N-No wait I-I-I don’t know anything! H-Honestly! I-I-I was just p-playing-AH! J-Jihihim!’

Marvin’s eyes got wider and wider with every second as he clung to the hope of Jim believing him….but alas….he did not. Jim merely giggled down at the magician, and started gently scratching at the sides of his neck as he teased.

‘Do you really think I’m going to fall for that? I’m not gonna stop until you tell me everything!’

Marvin’s cheeks went a hot pink as he tried to push at Jim’s hands, flustered at how he’d basically brought this entire thing on himself.

‘Ihihi swehear Ihi dohon’t knohow ahanything! Ihi swehehear!’

Jim rolled his eyes fondly, finding Marvin very adorable since he thought he was willingly playing along with it all. He made swift work of Marvin’s flapping hands, pinning them under his knees before returning to running his blunt nails up and down Marvin’s neck evilly.

‘Come on now Magic Jim, I know you Septic Jims like to try and be tough, but I’m only gonna tickle you more if you keep fibbing!’

Marvin whimpered and giggled adorably, shaking and tossing his head about as he tried to scrunch up his sensitive neck; of course, this only resulted in his hair going all over his face as he tried to plead the truth.

‘Ihihihi’m nahat fihihibbing! Plehehease! I-Ihihi’m reheally tihicklish!’

Jim couldn’t help but giggle and gasp sarcastically.

‘Woah, really?’

Jim’s sarcasm made Marvin blush harder and splutter with cute embarrassment.

‘Shuhuhut uhup!’

Jim grinned and cocked his head down at him, looking cheeky and boyish as he decided to let his tickly fingers slowly drift down to Marvin’s ribcage. Now he understood why his brothers tickled him so much all the time, this was SO much fun!

‘Now, now Magic Jim….you know how we Jims pride ourselves on manners….’

Jim teased as he traced over all of Marvin’s ribs, making the magician whine and squirm as goose-bumps rose all over his skin.

‘W-Wahait I-I dihihidn’t mean ihit! Plehehease Jihim no mohore!’

Jim giggled and raised his eyebrows down at Marvin.

‘Are you going to tell me what I want to know?’

Marvin whined even more, throwing his head back with a flustered smile in place.

‘I-Ihihi cahahan’t!’

Jim grinned an evil grin, but kept his voice evilly innocent as he dug into Marvin’s ribcage mercilessly.

‘Are you sure about that Magic Jim? Are you reeeally sure?’

Marvin’s whole body seemed to jolt as he burst into wide-eyed cackles, his whole form thrashing about with his adorable ticklishness as he gazed up at Jim desperately.

‘AHAHA JIHIHIM NAHAHA! STAHAHAPPIHIT!!’

‘Tell me what you know! Or I’m gonna tickle and tickle right up till Christmas Day! Don’t think I won’t!’

Jim teased, and his inner innocence somehow just made the entire thing even more flustering for poor Marvin; Jim was so sweet, and yet so torturous, and it was flustery as fuck! He was snorting and wailing in embarrassment through his mirth as he realised that Jim was probably the teasiest tickler he’d ever met….and he was shook.

‘NAHAHA JIHIHIHIM YOHOU MEHEHEANIE!!’

Marvin cried, and Jim giggled fondly down at him, the magician looked so precious. His face was screwed up with his mirth and his eyes were closed, plus his hair was mussed up entirely and starting to stick to his forehead. Jim decided that now would be the perfect time to rub the gaps in-between the magician’s ribs as he cooed.

‘You’ve only brought this on yourself Magic Jim! If only you’d talked earlier, then you might have been spared this torture….but no, you had to be a defiant little Septic didn’t you?’

Marvin wailed and arched his back at the tickling as Jim continued to tease, the latter feeling absolutely thrilled at the whole thing.

‘I know you think I’m the meekest of the Jims…but all Jims share a power and a passion, so you know I mean it when I say I’m not gonna give in….’

To put it simply, Marvin had never felt so flustered in the entirety of his life, and he rubbed shoulders everyday with Antisepticeye for goodness sake! The magician ended up letting out a shriek as Jim targeted his bottommost ribs, it was just torture.

‘PLEHEHEEEEASE! IHIHIT TIHIHICKLES SOHO BAHAHAD!!’

Jim hummed at his cries, and decided to relinquish the rib-tickling, he was a very nice guy after all and didn’t want to totally overwhelm the magician. He was passionate tickle torturer for sure, but not a heartless one, which Marvin was certainly thankful for as he took a few moments to catch his breath. Once he had done so though…Jim was quick to start drifting his fingers over Marvin’s tummy; he smiled as he whispered softly.

‘You know what I want…’

Marvin was a mess of trembles and sweet little gasps by this point, poor guy.

‘I-Ihi cahan’t gihive it toho yohou…’

Jim pouted softly down at Marvin, keeping up the softer tickling as he replied.

‘But why?’

Marvin had to take a few moments to get his voice under control amidst his giggles, but he managed it as he looked up at Jim.

‘Ihihi fihibbed! Ihi nehever knew ahanythihing from the stahart! Ihi swehear!’

Jim furrowed his eyebrows down at the magician….his eyes were so wide and watery and…honest. Could it be that Marvin was actually telling the truth? Jim’s tickling started to really slow down now as he became encompassed by his thoughts.

‘But….Magic Jim I don’t understand, why fib in the first place?’

Marvin was still giggling, but at seeing Jim starting to believe him, it spurred him to speak.

‘Y-Yohou lohooked soho happy when yohou thought Ihi knehew somethihing, I-I d-dihidn’t wahant to ruin thahat…’

Jim’s eyes widened as his jaw very nearly dropped. He stopped the tickling and slid off of Marvin, shocked and almost tearing up as the realisation hit him hard. Marvin had been being so sweet to him, and all this time he’d just been tickle torturing the absolute hell out of him!

‘O-Oh my…M-Magic Jim I-…I-I didn’t realise! I-I’m s-so sorry!’

Jim was on the verge of starting to feel awful about what he’d done…but Marvin’s chuckle and grin stopped that from happening. The magician sat up and ran a hand through his long locks, giggling fondly at Jim as he replied.

‘Duhude don’t even worry about it, Ihi shouldn’t have fibbed in the first place so I kinda deserved all that…’

Jim relaxed and giggled a tad at Marvin’s words, since that was kinda true. Then though, he found himself blushing when Marvin nudged him and playfully teased.

‘You’re a mean little tickler by the way! Where d’ya learn to be that evil, huh?’

Marvin grinned as he sneakily poked Jim’s arms and sides, making the meek man squeak and giggle bashfully, half-curling up as he replied in the most adorable fashion.

‘I-Ihi have aha lot ohof mehean brothehers!’

Marvin let out an amused sigh of realisation as he stopped the playful poking, chuckling gently.

‘Ahhhh figures, siblings can be evil little shits.’

Jim giggled at that, but then the magician fixed him with a curious look.

‘Oh, by the way, why do you wanna know what everyone’s gifts are anyway?’

Jim blinked at the sudden question, before developing a bashful blush and rubbing the back of his neck as he mumbled.

‘O-Oh…well….I-I wanted to make this little catalogue thing for everyone on Christmas Day, for everyone to look at after they’ve opened all their presents. With pictures and descriptions of everyone’s gifts and who they were from and why they chose specific gifts for specific people, like a gift album I guess…’

…Marvin’s heart just absolutely melted.

‘….that is the sweetest idea I’ve ever heard.’

Jim lit up with a cute, bright smile…hearing someone talk about his idea like that made him feel so happy.

‘R-Really?’

Marvin eagerly nodded, an excited grin in place.

‘Hell yeah! Say, would a magical assistant be of any use to you?’

Jim gasped and squealed at the prospect of Marvin wanting to help him, and dove in to hug him as he babbled giddily.

‘Oh my goodness Magic Jim I’d love that so much thank you you’re so sweet and generous and an amazing Jim thank you thank you! I-I have a scope-out den come on come with me come with me!’

Marvin giggled, and was feeling excited beyond belief as he was led into Jim’s secret den of scoping and snooping, and they soon became an intel finding team…and god help you if you tried to keep your secrets from them.

WOOO HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS NEXT FIC LEMME KNOW IF YA DID WOOOO LUV YOUS XX

[leonajasmin-writeblr]

OC Interview Tag

Thank you @westywrites for the tag! I feel like I underrate Sebastian even though he’s one of my favourite characters at the same time(????) so I’m going to interview him! Along with his sister Miriam because I want to work on making them having different voices.

Rules: Pick a character from your WIP and have them answer these fifteen questions, then tag people.

1. What is your full name?

Sebastian Phineas Alexander Schwarz. Phineas, obviously, is after my dad. Alexander is after Alex, who my parents babysat when they were teenagers. Schwarz is also after my dad because that’s his surname. And then my mother liked Sebastian so that was her contribution.

Miriam Elena Arnette. Miriam is a more formal homage to my mother’s middle name (Mirabelle), Elena is after my paternal grandmother and Arnette is my mother’s surname.

2. What does your full name mean?

Sebastian was an early Christian martyr who was both tied to a tree and shot with arrows as well as being clubbed to death- hence why I’m unholy as heck to prevent that happening to me. Alexander means ‘defending men’ and as the future leader of Phinea, I guess I have to defend my people (not just men though). Phineas means ‘oracle’, which suits my dad better. Schwarz is German for black.

Miriam means ‘wished for’, which is ironic since my father disowned me. Elena means ‘bright, shining light’ even though, I can assure you, I’m the opposite of that. Arnette was just made up by the author and is too uncommon to find any information on (whoopsie).

3. What are your nicknames/other names?

Both of us don’t really go by nicknames but mine is Seb or Sebi whereas Miriam’s list of hated nicknames include Marnie and Mirry.

4. What’s your gender?

I’m male and Miriam is female.

5. What’s your sexuality?

Gayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy with a boyf

Bisexual. My first two partners were female but now I’m ‘experimenting with’ the opposite sex.

6. Where are you from?

Mindeya, the Phinean capital. Born and bred.

Natli, Vanska’s capital. I wasn’t born there though.

7. How old are you?

We’re both fifteen. We’re not twins though; our parents decided to do the nooky not too long after I was born and Miriam was slightly premature on top of that. 

Sebastian’s birthday is early September and I was born mid-August the following year.

8. What is your magic form/what species are you?

We’re both humans but have abilities. I’m a Guarder.

I’m a Time-Turner. 

9. What does your human form look like?

I’m short like mother and thin like dad. Curly, messy brown hair which is almost the same colour as my skin. And I have light green eyes.

On the other hand, I have dad’s height and mother’s slightly thick and curvy build. My hair is also curly but darker, closer to black. I’m slightly paler than Seb but it’s still obvious I’m mixed. I have amber eyes and a prosthetic left arm.

10. What’s your aesthetic?

Even though Vanska is the steampunk empire, I still wear some of their gear, including some goggles and an old jacket Miriam grew out of. I skateboard and dabble with some things which my dad thinks are illegal so I guess a thrifty steampunk vibe.

Whatever you associate with cold. It’s my personality and how I always feel. I wear a (vegan) leather jacket but that’s seen as the norm in Vanska for those of us who don’t want our ribs broken by corsets. And books. I love reading.

11. Who’s your best friend?

Best friends are for weenies. I’ve got lots of friends but nobody I’d class as ‘best’.

My childhood best friend was Roman and at school it’s Cyrus. Now the two are together, it’s made it a lot more difficult.

12. Would you ever get a piercing/tattoo?

I’ve got a few piercings but don’t wear my studs that often. I have commitment issues so getting a tattoo is probably a bad idea.

I have absolutely no interest in either.

13. When are you happiest?

When I’m left alone and have some sort of (non-academic) challenge to solve. Tinkering, how to land a jump on my skateboard, how to escape the house without being caught by any of my dad’s workers...all fun.

When I get to be a grandmother. In bed, alone, with a cup of tea and a book or some knitting needles.

14. What’s your biggest secret?

How much illegal crap that I have in my bedroom cupboard. I keep my room a mess so my no one attempts to clean the place.

My family have been keeping secrets from me, but I’ve hidden the fact I’ve known what they are for a long time.

15. What was your first impression of [each other]?

Miriam was in her unstable stage when we first met. Dad and Uncle Dimitri wanted me to get to know her so we’d purposely get paired into group projects. She was annoying and bossy but boy, did she naturally take to leadership. When needed, she could take control of our group projects with the Vanskan virtue of being harsh but fair. So Sebastian was really annoyed by her, but Secondary Master Schwarz was annoyed at how she could naturally do everything he was nagged about.

I’d been told to get on with the Secondary Master of Phinea before I left school, but wow, was he annoying. We’re both blunt and can get on people’s nerves when we don’t consider what we’re saying but the main difference between us was Sebastian is lazy as hell. He was that annoying person who committed just enough in our group projects that he wouldn’t be failed. But he followed me the lunch after the project and I realised he was still like that, but just less caricatured.

If y’all want to take part, then I’m going to tag @mortalitazi, @vampire-sharks and @dearotpstopdyingpls!

[thenarcolepticone]

The Problem We All Live With

By TheNarcolepticOne

Day 3: Festival ( @aphfallfandomweek )

(AO3)

Summary: It’s almost the end of the Summer semester into the Fall, and every time Ivan minds his own business, there’s always someone to ruin his quiet hours and relaxation time. Always. Hogwarts!AU. RusAme. 

Pairings: RusAme

Warnings: None

A/N: So since I’ve gotten my life back together after about a whole year of financial planning, I’ve finally just decided to post this fic that is LONG OVERDUE by literally 365 days. I know it’s been a while since I’ve even written anything really for anyone but I only just hope that you’ll forgive me, @trueshun , for being so late to the exchange for the @rusame-secret-santa-2017. I had a lot of money problems during the first half of this year, and I only hope that posting this can be my apology to you for such an incredibly long wait. I want this to be a kick off a start to the fall by being able to finally get everything I’ve owed to others done, starting with you. 

##

Hogwarts around the semester break usually indicated a significantly reduced amount of students and faculty; a perfect time, in Ivan’s opinion. The count had only become noticeable only a week before the end of the semester and Ivan had honestly preferred the rest of the silence that followed that trend instead of having to deal with idle chatter.

He was not a talkative guy, and he was thankful for the fact that his somewhat foreboding appearance made him a less than likely target for most conversation starters. It stemmed from the fact that in between being the awkward Russian exchange student and English as his second language, he’s also a bit on the shy side. Socially, might he add. But academically? Ivan figured he could make Arthur Kirkland shut his annoyingly ‘smart aleck’ sounding voice and make him sit his ass down with a 10 minute lecture on runes. Ivan was very forward when it came to defending his knowledge on what he studies, given the chance and motivation. (Ivan liked to think toleration of the stupid population as ‘conserving mental energy’)

“What the heck are you doing?”

The stray voice caught Ivan entirely off guard, and he overshot the stitch he had planned, with the needle going straight into his thumb in a single motion.

Ivan cursed loudly, immediately pulling the sharp object out of his thumb and putting the wound right into his mouth to try and prevent it from dripping onto his clothes. It was a stupid mistake, of course, and not that being pricked by a needle was the worst thing to happen in the middle of knitting.

But what sets the icing on the cake for today is the gaze Ivan meets: the illustrious Alfred F. Jones of Slytherin peering down at him from halfway down the stairs and not at all really caring too much about the suddenness of his entrance.

Ivan seethed privately when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching him. Ivan doesn’t look up again when he looks down, hoping perhaps he could instead just scare Alfred off with pure, obvious irritation. He takes the thumb out of his mouth, wiping it absently on his robes before going back to continuing the rest of what he started. It’s only about the length of an arm and a half, but Ivan had planned to finish the rest of the yarn by the end of the year. It’s supposed to be winter, but there’s still leaves present all over the ground. A new scarf was in order.

“I’m talkin’ to you, buddy.”

Well, that plan quickly didn’t work. Alfred sat next to him without much mind to anything else around him other than what Ivan was holding. He seemed to just keep his gaze on Ivan, with that aura of his that reeked of extreme obnoxiousness.

How Alfred managed to appear alone the way he is, without his posse, is a sight that is rare to catch and unnatural to witness. Ivan sighed.

“What do you want, Jones? I would rather not have to deal with any tricks you plan to pull.”

Alfred immediately put his hands up, as if he was trying to show that he had nothing up his sleeves.

“Hey man, listen. I’m not here to play any tricks, okay? M’just dyin’ to start a conversation with literally anyone here.” Alfred crossed his arms. “Place is empty. And the only person other than that loopy cat dude is you.”

Ivan raises an eyebrow. Hercules was not a bad person to talk to, in Ivan’s opinion anyway. Ivan was a lot worse with conversations.

“I will take that as a compliment? But even still, I would not rather be the speaking partner of someone who sees me as a convenience.”

“Ouch,” Alfred winced. “Given, that’s kinda half true. But can’t it kill for you to open up once and awhile?”

The two were different. At least, in Ivan’s eyes. For instance, it was entirely normal to catch Ivan alone in the corridors or working by himself in the library or sitting in the Grand Hall eating his meals. But Alfred is his opposite in every aspect; Alfred was welcoming and approachable with a grand smile on his face that was infectious. Meanwhile, Ivan was timid and reserved. Alfred was the Slytherin house Seeker while Ivan was well known for his exceptional grades in all of his classes (particularly in herbology).

If the two of them were ever caught together in any context, it would bring to mind the infamous first year rumor, where in which, it was discussed that Ivan being placed in Hufflepuff and Alfred being placed in Slytherin was the result of a botched prediction from the Sorting Hat.

Ivan came off as brooding often times, which was a Slytherin trait, but it didn’t quite mean that he was always with the intention of wanting to intimidate everyone (though, Ivan admitted, this did come in handy on multiple occasions). And Alfred being the charismatic people’s spokesman wasn’t characteristic of someone who would fit under the stereotypical ‘Slytherin’ student. But the two were similar in that way, Ivan supposed. Outcasts of their own houses.

Alfred’s voice nudged him out of his thoughts.

“So. I asked what you were doing. Looks like you’re making something.”

Ivan gave a big sigh. He finally relented to this conversation.

“A scarf. My old one is falling apart.”

“Huh,” Alfred looked at the yarn. “You’re knitting it?”

“Yes. You are also sitting on the string.”

“Oh sorry.”

Alfred stood up briefly to correct himself, just as Ivan took the opportunity to just continue working on his scarf. He’s started the yellow again after finishing the black. And Alfred just seems to be engrossed into the movements of the needles, quietly watching as he adjusted his glasses. Another rare moment that Ivan counts.

“This is kinda long wait for just making one scarf,” says Alfred after a while, still watching. Ivan didn’t not stop. And Alfred didn’t shut up either.

“Magic is faster. I don’t really see why you’d want to continue working on it with the way you’re doing it. I can get why a muggle would need to be able to knit like this, but you’re a wizard.”

Ivan stopped and met Alfred’s wide, sky blue gaze. It’s not a phrase meant to insult, it seemed. But Ivan turned to see his expression now; it was a phrase meant to stem out of Alfred’s own genuine curiosity. Tactless. But honest.

Ivan exhaled slowly. “I am a half-blood. And just because I am half does not mean that I necessarily do this because my mother is a muggle.”

“... then why do you do it then?” Alfred pressed. He scooted closer. “If that’s not the reason?”

Ivan feels like he’s being choked by the questions. They’re ignorant ones. And Ivan doesn’t know if he wants to hold in the rest of his colorful vocabulary or just continue on with this passive stigma. He felt his heart pound, and his frown deepen. Ivan opened his mouth to try and speak before immediately stopping.

Then again, Ivan realized. Another valid reason for this lack of knowledge might come from parents who could be pure-blood conformists. Not that Ivan like assumptions. But Ivan didn’t believe that Alfred could have bad intentions for asking, despite being that blunt with his comment.

“It is...well,” Ivan cleared his throat, trying to think of the best way to formulate it. “Magic is faster. But sometimes, when you complete tasks very quickly, you do not see the… true magic behind it.”

Alfred snorted. “It’s not magic though.”

“No. Not that kind of ‘magic’,” Ivan explained, glancing back at his work. “I mean, the magic of work. When you feel the calluses on your fingers. The strain of having to make sure everything is perfect from beginning to end for a week. And the feeling of… completion when you finish. I do not think your wand can make you feel the same way.”

Alfred furrowed his brows. “I still don’t get it.”

“I would not expect you to. You are not the kind of person with patience.”

“True that. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t wanna get it.”

To this, Ivan to looked at him. Alfred only shrugged

“So why are you still here during the semester break? Because if you are trying to sympathize with me, it is not working.”

“Nah,” Alfred laughed. “I don’t got time for that. I’m only here because my parents don’t normally have the free time. We don’t hang on my sem breaks, and not even in the summer. They’re always workin’ hard. The ‘don’t come home for the holidays’ kinda.”

“Oh,” Ivan frowns. “I am sorry.”

“Hey, just cause I got time for your sympathy doesn’t mean that I’m taking it.” Alfred huffed as he rolls his eyes. “Why are you here? Family afraid of you or somethin’?”

Ivan feels his heart clench at that, and he almost drops the half completed scarf as he glares at Alfred. Alfred winced when he sees Ivan’s expression.

“Too far?”

“You should leave.”

“Well, I mean I would but,”

“You should leave.”

“Iv,” Alfred insisted again. Ivan is fed up at this point, but he has no energy to continue asking Alfred. Ivan instead begins to pack his things, regretting that he should have just stayed in the Hufflepuff common room instead of the library.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Alfred said hastily, standing up with Ivan. “I-I didn’t mean to be like that. I’m an idiot sometimes. But I’m just really...I’m just curious.” God, Ivan wasn’t sure if Alfred’s tone was genuine or that he had mastered the art of vocal genuineness. “You’re always by yourself when you’re not around your sisters. I’m just…well.”

“Your point?” Ivan snapped.

“Don’t you get lonely?” Alfred prodded. “You know? I… I’m not sure how you could be okay with that, I mean. You’re just always by yourself. And even when people try to talk to you, you don’t want to be around them. I just don’t get it.”

Ivan raises an eyebrow. “That’s two things you do not get.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean. I just wanna be friends is all. You’re pretty cool, according to Toris. I wanted to see that myself.”

Compliments were the last thing he expected from Alfred. But Ivan just exhaled loudly through his nose instead.

“Hogsmeade has a mini festival today,” Alfred said, trying to convince him. Which wasn’t working really, but Ivan couldn’t help but now become curious himself.

“And why bring me?”

“Dunno,” Alfred said with a grin. “Maybe it’s because you’re running out of yarn.”

Ivan looked back at his stash. And in fact, Alfred was right. He hated Alfred being right.

“Fine then,” Ivan sighed. “I’ll come with you. But you owe me for making me prick my finger.”

“Okay, yeah. Maybe I spooked you enough,” He offered a hand to him, smiling again. “But I mean. I just want to spend some time at least. I wanna know more about the guy who was supposed to be a future Slytherin.”

Ivan smiled wryly at that. “And I would like to know more about the Hufflepuff reject.”

“Okay, rude.” Alfred laughed. “But whatever. I’ll meet you at 4:00pm in the Grand Hall.”

And as Alfred headed for the stairs (he noticed the boy skipping childishly like he had asked his crush out on a date), Ivan thought to himself to start buying more yarn in green.

[genericpseudonyms]

this is what makes us girls

‘Tell me something nice.’

My head is in the crook of her shoulder and we are sprawled out on the couch. My dog lies between her legs because she likes to feel cornered in. Some mindless TV show is blaring but I can’t focus on anything on screen. The only thing I can think about is the same negative feedback loop my brain has been circling for the past forty-eight hours.

‘Ugh, this again?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m spiraling. Tell me something nice.’

‘You have good hair,’ she says in a deadpan. ‘And it’s attached to a very smart head. Though, it’s not being terribly smart at the moment.’

I wave my hand. ‘Keep going.’

‘You’re killing me.’

‘I’m sad. I’m killing myself.’

She gives me a look.

‘Bad joke?’

‘Bad joke,’ she agrees.

‘Well, keep going then.’

‘You’re smart.’

‘You said that already.’

She sucks in her breath through her teeth. ‘You’re pretty. Very pretty. Too pretty for all those losers that keep pining after you.’

‘All zero of them. And I’m not pretty.’

‘You leave a trail of bitter nerd hearts behind you. You’re just too oblivious to notice. And yes, you are.’

I grab her hand and she drops her knitting needle. Cupping her hand in mine, I use it to stroke my own hair, like I am her puppet master. I have to. She'll never do this on her own. ‘See, this is how you comfort someone who’s feeling shitty. I am not someone people pine after. I’m the third unwanted leg of the love triangle. Always have been, always will be.’

‘Oh my god,’ she says. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s rolling her eyes. ‘That is not how love triangles work. And just because you’re blinder than a bat, doesn’t make what I say untrue. What’s his face,’ she snaps her fingers, trying to remember, ‘you know, that guy.’

‘Ah yes. That guy. So descriptive. So helpful. ’

‘The guy at Em’s wedding.’

‘Will? The weirdo who wouldn’t hug Em on her own wedding day? The one I yelled for fifteen minutes for being a giant dick to you both? The one who ran up to you to say that I was scary as fuck? That guy?’

‘Yeah. Him. He pined after you.’

My eyes roll so hard they almost fall out of my head. ‘Yay.’

‘You’re a bright, sparkly unicorn. You just have to find another bright, sparkly unicorn.’

‘I don’t want to be a unicorn.’

‘Psh. Please. Everyone wants to be a unicorn.’

‘Well, I don’t. Voldemort’s just gonna suck my blood. It’s not a good time.’

‘Then what do you want?’

I pause. This is the question everyone keeps asking me and I have no answer that sticks. ‘I just want to...meeehhhh.’

‘Use your words. Articulate what you’re feeling.’

‘I don’t wanna.’

‘You’re so fucking annoying.’

‘I’m just...lonely is all. And confused.’

‘About?’

‘Everything.’

‘Everything?’ If I look up, I’ll see her giving me an arched brow and a look that screams Bitch Please, I Do Not Have Time For Your Pity Party.

‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about anything or anyone anymore. It feels like my memories and gut instincts are all wrong. I don’t know how to trust if someone’s actually telling me the truth, if they’re lying, or they think they’re telling the truth but actually lying to themselves, or something else entirely.’

‘Well yeah,” she says. ‘You can only accept what people tell you is true. You’ll drive yourself crazy otherwise.’

‘Do you think I’m overreacting? Isn’t this how immigrant families are?’ I bite my lip. ‘What if I’m just being oversensitive?’

She frees her hand from my grasp so she can go back to knitting, though I’m not making it easy. Our arms are all entwined and I know she’s being exceedingly patient with me. ‘No. This is normal when people lie to you your whole life. Tiger Moms and whatever are a thing but...they still support their kids. They don’t do what they did. Yeah the love is conditional but it’s not...They don’t leave you locked in a basement with no food.’ She pauses. ‘It’s a miracle you’re not shitty like your cousins. You’re doing real good.’

That calms me down a bit. Either that, or the sleeping pill is finally kicking in. ‘You love me.’

‘Not this again.’

‘Hey,’ I say, pretending to be miffed. ‘You shouldn’t only say it when I’m sobbing on your shoulder after a nervous breakdown. You can’t deny it. I heard you say it.’

‘Of course I love you,’ she says, making no eye contact. ‘I’m just not effusive like Em is. I don’t do mushy feeling things. That’s what Em is for.’

‘Em is in St. Louis and you know doctor hours are crazy. You’re what I got.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, patting me on the back. ‘Sucks for you.’

It’s not so bad, really. But I’m not going to tell her that. I’ll be thirty soon, and my life is absolutely nothing like what I thought it would be ten years ago. I’m not married—and I’m pretty sure I never will be. I don’t have kids, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get the chance to. But I am a writer. A real bonafide, paid writer, and that’s something I never thought I’d manage. I’m also moping on the couch with my roommate and best friend of 15 years. And soon she’ll be leaving me for her own apartment.

‘I’m sad you’re leaving,’ I say. ‘Like, I’m glad for you. I’m not trying to be selfish. I totally meant it when I helped with your application. Like, I was so happy to help with your appeal and I’m not saying—‘

‘Shhhhh,’ she replies. ‘I know. You royally screwed yourself over to help me out. Only an idiot does that.’

‘Hey!’

‘What are you gonna do when I move out?’

‘Well, M is moving in.’

‘Yeah but he’s rarely gonna be around. He’ll check up on you but you know his hours.’

‘I’ll be fine. I’m always okay.’

She gives me a stern look. We both know I’m absolute shit at taking care of myself. As soon as she moves out, I will go back to eating maybe once a day, if that, and staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning writing. I will probably drink a few too many cups of coffee and refuse to tell people when I’m doing poorly. The dog will be fine though. I’ve always been better at taking care of others.

‘You survive. That’s different from being okay.’

‘I’ll be fiiiine. I made it seven years overseas, didn’t I?’

Lips pursed, she goes back to knitting. ‘You better be. I don’t wanna make new friends. I’m too old for that shit.’

‘When we’re seventy, let’s get a beach house and live together again,’ I say. ‘We’ll either be divorced or our spouses will be dead. Our children, if we have any, won’t need us. We can be old and crotchety together. I’ll yell at the kids to get off my holographic lawn. Do beach houses have lawns?’

‘That’s always been the plan. Beach houses can have lawns if they’re holographic.’

‘This would all be easier if you were a lesbian,’ I gripe. ‘We’re already that old sexless married couple that constantly bickers and shops at sales.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t fulfill you in that way. Plus, even if I were a lesbian, you know we wouldn’t work out.’

It’s true. We wouldn’t. We’d be at each other’s throats in a half-second. She’s blunt. I’m overly sensitive. She’s a woman of few words. I blabber and blather because I don’t know when to shut up or go home. She’s private. I don’t give a rat’s ass who knows my dirty laundry—well, most of my dirty laundry. We’re oil and water, but as friends, it somehow it works. I understand her, and she understands me. It’s that simple.

‘But you’ve thought of it,’ I say.

‘Ugh, no.’

I smile. She totally has.

‘I’ll ask M if he’s still in love with you.’

‘Oh god.’ She stops knitting and scrunches up her face. ‘Oh god please no. It’s been fourteen years.’

‘Why do you think I’m okay with his straight ass moving in here? He can’t fall in love with me if he’s too busy pining after you. For fourteen years. See, that’s what pining looks like. Holy fuck we’re old.’

‘Oh please. You’re just happy he’s gonna teach you how to properly twirl a lightsaber. The two of you are just gonna be waving your glow sticks in the driveway like dorks.’

‘Duh. Live-in Jedi master. How cool is that?’

‘Better?’

I think for a second. I have not wanted to metaphorically stick my head in an oven ala Sylvia Plath for a solid twenty minutes. (She has also hid our copy of The Bell Jar from me.) I am not crying hysterically and have not cried hysterically in a long time. If I have my way, nothing will ever make me cry that hard again except for puppies dying in movies.  

‘Better.’

‘Good, cuz you can drink this Ensure. You’ve only had two today.’

‘Oh my fucking god, please just end me. I can’t. I would rather lick your feet than drink another one of these. I would rather lick the dog’s feet. I ate lunch and dinner today. Two meals. I’m up to two. Do you know how much this shit tastes like ass? Chalky, chalky ass. It says chocolate, but it’s ass. No, please. Don’t make me. Oh god, no. Why. For fuck’s sake why.’

‘Cuz Em said you gotta have 3 a day. Cuz your ‘lunch’ and ‘dinner’ were like, one regular person meal. Do you want scurvy?’

‘I’m not a pirate. I can’t get scurvy.’

‘Don’t sass me. Drink it.’ She twists open the cap and hands me the bottle. I’m trapped now. She knows I hate wasting food.

‘Ughhhhhhhhh.’

‘The sooner you get back to eating, the sooner you don’t have to drink these. Speaking of which, I ordered you another case.’

‘Another case??? I’m back on food. I don’t need another case.’

‘I don’t need you getting cocky and then starving to death when I leave.’

‘I’m not gonna starve. There’s GrubHub and Seamless. And like, bread. I can eat toast.’

‘My god woman.’ She thwaps me upside the head. ‘Toast is not a meal. Toast is bread. Bread is nothing. Your grocery bill is gonna like, shrink to nothing.’

‘So not true. I eat. When like, I’m not depressed. I ate a whole burrito and burger the other day cuz I was pissed. Anger requires calories.’

‘Oh please. You have two modes. Eat everything in sight in like, two seconds, because you’re convinced you’ll never eat again. Or like, you pick at your food like some skinny ballerina.’

‘Well, you know why.’

‘Yeah, I know why. Still.’

I glance down at the Ensure bottle. She won’t budge until it’s empty and I know it’s good for me. Grimacing, I chug until it’s all gone. It’s better that way.

‘God, are you happy now?’

‘Yup.’

It occurs to me that this is the first time in my life someone has taken care of me when I’m like this. Usually, I spend weeks alone in my room, crying silently until I fall asleep. I end up fighting with parents or exes about why can’t I just be happy? Why can’t I just turn off this part of my brain and power through?

‘I’m gonna miss you when you leave,’ I say.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she replies. ‘I’ll be a train ride away. And it won’t be that godawful ride when you were living in bumblefuck nowhere in Flushing.’

‘Still.’

‘Yeah.’

We sit in silence and watch the TV. She’s not leaving tomorrow. Or even the day after that. There’s still some time left.

‘Are you ever gonna give me my arm back?’ she gives me a look and I flash her my cheekiest smile.

‘When you’re gone, there’s no way I can curl up with M like this.’

‘...Fine.’