#all it needs is some simple critical thinking and you’ll realise that he’s a fucking kid who’s dealing with a fuck ton of trauma????

[haunth0use]

The worst thing u can do is search up your fav on Twitter dot com. (Yes this is about Yukio)

[hunidlo]

Call of Fire

CHAPTER 4 - The Stranger

Rating: M

Word Count: 3.5K

Pairing: The Mandalorian x F!Reader

Warnings: slow burn fic, language, a lot of angst and tension between the main protagonists

Summary: You don’t like him. At all. Simultaneously, he manages to aggravate you with his silence and terrify you when he decides to speak occasionally. Yet, in hyperspace you have some time to get to know your mysterious chauffeur a little bit more.

Previous Chapter  //  Masterlist  //  Next Chapter

***

You wake up to see the Mandalorian kneeling beside you, holding your shoulders and shaking you. He’s surprisingly gentle.

You’re lying on the floor and the last thing you remember is getting to the cockpit of the Mandalorian’s ship and him telling you to buckle up after the strange ship attacked you.

“Um, what happened?” You touch the sore spot on your head—the consequence of how you knocked yourself out when the laser blast hit the ship and threw you against the wall. “Ouch!” You sit up with your back against the cockpit wall. There’s a small bump on your head—a brand new addition to your collection of bruises and wounds from the day before—and you can tell that the split lip the bandit gave you is now bleeding again.

“You didn’t listen to me … that’s what happened,” the pile of beskar beside you says. “If you had strapped in—”

“Okay, okay …” You wonder how many times he has criticized you for something in the course of the past two hours. Three times? Four times? And now he’s getting on your nerves again. “What happened with the ship that was shooting at us?” you ask, trying to deviate from the topic of you disobeying his order.

“No longer a problem … shot it down,” he announces matter-of-factly. “How’s your head?” he continues, leaving you no time to ask more questions such as Who were they? or Why did they shoot at us?

“It’s fine,” you say. It’s spinning and my face hurts but it could be worse, is what you mean.

You look around the cockpit. You have only a very hazy memory of the last time you were on a starship—it was fifteen years ago just before your parents left you with the villagers on an unknown planet. It’s quiet, you think. For some reason you expected the ship to be louder. Stripes of white light are flashing behind the viewport. The phenomenon looks familiar and makes you assume you’re probably in hyperspace, meaning far away from the only place you remember calling your home.

When you turn your attention back to the Mandalorian, he seems to be studying your bruised face, his helmet cocked to the side a little. He is quiet, gradually making you more antsy, the longer he keeps glaring at you without moving or saying anything.

Just when you think you should say something to end the silence, a gloved hand comes up and towards your cheek. Your instincts tell you to jerk your head backwards to avoid his touch, partially afraid of it causing more pain to your beaten face, and partially taken by surprise of the unexpected intimacy of his movement.  

Immediately, you realise that he most probably didn’t mean any harm. But it’s too late now … 

Seeing your reaction, he clenches his hand into a fist and lowers it again to rest it on his thigh, bowing his head down.

Before you can open your mouth and say something he stands up and strolls away towards the ladder to the cargo hold.

“Are you taking me to Hoth?” you quickly ask after him.

He does not respond to you, swiftly slides down the ladder, leaving you alone in the cockpit, still sitting on the floor.

You wonder whether he always deals with uncomfortable situations by silence and solitude, and you eventually come to a conclusion that he most likely does. Apparently, expressing what he thinks or wants to do with words doesn’t come naturally to him as it does to you, and you realise that he probably spends most of the time by himself and isn’t used to talking to other living beings very often.

You get to your wobbly feet and follow him down the ladder. 

You feel an immense need to rest now.

Shit, your backpack!

Where did you leave your backpack? Ah, yes … your hideout behind the crates.

You sit on one of the crates, take the bottle of water from your backpack and drink like you have spent the last two days on a desert planet. 

The Mandalorian is cleaning his blaster at the workbench acting like he hasn’t noticed you joining him in the cargo hold. He sure does a great job ignoring you when he wants to. 

“So …,” you interrupt the insufferable silence, “how long until we get there?” Despite trying hard to hide it, you are still a bit scared of him and are not sure what his intentions with you are right now so you tread lightly, testing the waters first with a simple question.

“A day ... “ the Mandalorian starts after a beat.

Oh, that’s shorter than you—

“... to Navarro,” he finishes.

Wait, what?

“Navarro?” your voice is more pitched than you originally intended. “We should be going to Hoth?”

All sorts of questions are now emerging in your head like Why is he taking you to Nevarro? And what the hell is Nevarro?

He doesn’t say anything for a while, so you continue but decide not to deviate from your initial request. “My parents are rich, you know?” you lie, trying to negotiate with him—motivate him to give you what you want. Mandalorians are mercenaries and bounty hunters, right? So he would definitely not refuse an opportunity to gain some credits, you assume. “I’m sure they will be more than generous if you delivered me to Hoth as soon as possible.”

“We don’t have enough fuel to get to Hoth,” he says dryly without looking at you.

Evidently, your tactics are not working.

“But, we have a deal—”

“No, we haven’t.”

Oh, come on! You’re losing your patience again. 

“I need to get to Hoth!” You stand up and give him one of your infamous frowns as if being stubborn has so far got you anywhere with this indomitable metal oaf.

“Hoth was a week away from your planet. I need to refuel first,” he’s indifferent to both your demand and the way you just raised your voice at him. “Plus, the ship needs fixing, one of the engines suffered damage.”

Maybe he’s not making it up after all.

“Fine …,” you sigh in defeat and roll your eyes. You’ll go to Nevarro with him, let him fix the ship and then you can continue to Hoth. It’s not like you are in a hurry, right? You waited fifteen years, surely you can wait a couple more days. “… Where do I sleep?”

He doesn’t reply with words, just lazily waves his hand around the cargo hold. Take your pick, is how you read it.

Is he joking? He must be joking.

“There’s only one bed.” You assume it’s his, and you’re sure as hell the hand gesture wasn’t an invitation to his bunk. “Where’s the other one?” You quickly scan the hull again and see nothing resembling a second bunk. 

“Does it look like an inn here to you?” Only now does he turn his visor to look at you.

No, it surely does not, a venomous comeback runs through your head but you know better than to utter it out loud so you just sigh.

So he wasn’t joking, he’s gonna let you sleep on the floor of his dirty fucking ship. How rude. 

On the other hand, well … he’s sort of right. You don’t want to admit it but if you’re being honest … What were you expecting? Bed and breakfast and a bedtime story? Deep down you know you should be grateful that he hasn’t kicked you out of his ship yet. He lets you stay and eventually might even take you to your parents—although you are not so sure about the last part. After all, you yelled at him, threatened him with his own gun, and broke into his ship. Twice.

Then again … you are not going to admit it so yeah … he’s rude and you don’t like him one bit. 

He’s obviously fed up with the conversation and is about to leave for the cockpit but you don’t feel like being finished yet—

“I’m dirty,” you blurt out. 

Shit, that didn’t sound right … 

He stops in his tracks, turning his visor to rest his look on your face again. It seems you have caught his attention. You can almost sense him raise his eyebrows and smirk as he cocks his head.

“I mean … I need to take a shower and wash my clothes.”

The silence that comes after almost everything you say to him is maddening.

After a moment—when he’s finally done scrutinizing what you said—he simply points his finger towards the ‘fresher at the end of the hull.

“And-um …,” you mumble, looking at your toes now, “I don’t have anything else to wear so …”—you already suspect what you’ll get for an answer before the question leaves your lips—“I was thinking you could lend me some clothes until mine get dry?”

…

“Asshole,” you mutter when he’s halfway up the ladder having no decency to reply to you before he turns and leaves. He probably hears you but decides to pretend he hasn't.

Later in the ‘fresher, you frown at yourself in the mirror. Fuck! Your face is a mess, and so is your hair and clothes. The bruise on your face is starting to change its colour from purple to repulsive yellow, and opening your mouth is a challenge on its own due to the sharp pain shooting to your jaw every time you try. When you're finished inspecting your numerous wounds, one by one you detangle the twigs from your hair, then take off your muddy clothes and wash them in the washbasin.

The shower is definitely the highlight of this day. For a moment, you just relax and enjoy hot water running down your tired limbs and washing away the events of the past couple of days. Even if you doubt the feeling will last. 

Okay, now … soap.

You cautiously sniff the content of the bottle that you’ve found on a shelf in the shower, just to be sure you have the right thing. From what you’ve seen, it could well be some oil for the Mandalorian’s armour or whatnot. To your surprise, it smells fresh, masculine, and a little bit like forest. 

“That grumpy bastard sure smells nice under all that beskar,” you smirk to yourself as you pour a decent amount of soap in your palm.

But when you get off the shower … oh, no … 

… there’s only one towel—his. You haven’t thought of that before.

Well, desperate times, desperate measures.

***

You decide to hang your wet clothes in the cargo hold, hoping they would get dry soon. 

A dull thud comes from behind you, making you jump scare and turn around.

The Mandalorian is standing motionless under the ladder to the cockpit, his visor boring into you.

“What?” You cross your arms on your chest perfectly aware that you are currently wearing just your underwear and his towel wrapped around you. “I told you I had no spare clothes.” 

He doesn’t seem to be bothered with your reproving tone though. His visor moves awkwardly slowly, following your silhouette from your feet up to your face where his look lingers for a beat. Then, without a word, he passes by you to get to the workbench. 

After a moment of searching in the boxes on the top shelves, he shoots his hand backwards, clutching a black long-sleeve shirt.

"Cover yourself," he commands with his back turned to you. He sounds almost angry.

"Gladly," you snarl back and snatch the shirt from his hand.

You turn away from him to put the shirt on. It’s not quite as long as you’d like but it’s better than nothing—and it smells just like his soap—so you’re not going to complain about it. 

When you turn back—still not decided whether or not to thank him—you find yourself facing the blackened visor of his helmet. He’s close. How did he get this close without you noticing? In his hands, the Mandalorian is carrying two neatly folded blankets, a pillow, and some sort of ointment—most probably intended for your face. He extends his hands just a little, and the simple gesture—being the first pure expression of kindness so far—stuns you. Maybe he isn’t as hard-hearted as you initially thought.

He tilts the chin of the helmet to the side as if thinking hard about something. 

“Do I smell … Did you use my soap?” By the tone of his voice you can tell that the brief moment of softness has just ended and he’s back to being his usual cold pissed self again.

“Well, I didn’t have time to pack mine, did I?” You allow your mouth to get loose. “I like it though,” you smirk when he turns the visor to pierce you with his look again. “... smells good.”

The silent faceless look is still so hard to read for you. 

The hand by his side twitches and for a split second you think he’s going to reach for your face again.

You don't know why but this time, you would let him.

He doesn’t though. Instead, he turns and walks away from you, across the hull to his bunk. 

“You have something in your hair,” he says matter-of-factly as he’s clambering into his bed, before the hatch shuts behind him.

You stand there dumbfounded for a second before you reach in your hair … 

“Nice,” you exhale, pulling out a twig with leaves from your wet hair.

***

Zullu is standing in front of you.

“You’re special,” the voice echoes to you through the void.

There’s a shadowy figure behind her.

“Zullu!” you cry out. “Watch out!”

Zullu falls to the ground—motionless.

The same figure is now standing behind you. They extend their hand and lay it on your shoulder and shake you vigorously.

“No!” You jolt awake and sit up breathing heavily, looking at the Mandalorian who is crouching beside your makeshift bed represented by several crates that you pushed together and put a blanket on them.

His hand is still on your shoulder while your hand is currently squeezing his arm to the point that it’s definitely hurting you more than him.

“You were screaming from sleep,” he says when he sees your confusion and you both let go of each other. “... Woke me up,” he informs.

Perhaps, you’re still too emotional from seeing your best friend die in front of you again to think rationally but his rather innocent announcement bewilders you.

“I’m sorry, my nightmare disturbed your slumber,” you snarl, words dripping with sarcasm.

You can’t help it, for some reason you just wish to elicit a reaction from him, other than the usual silence—the omnipresent, insufferable, deafening silence which he evidently enjoys so much but has been driving you crazy. From the moment you first saw him, you just have to keep guessing what he’s thinking and feeling—and you’re done with him being this fucking enigma for you all the time.

However, he’s apparently not willing to give you the response you want because he just wordlessly climbs up to the cockpit—the loudest sound in the quiet hull being the angry thuds his boots make on the ladder rungs.

You sit on your bed—head in your hands—frustrated with your own irracional behaviour. 

You should probably go and apologize to him, you think, realising your overreaction was bloody stupid. Then again, maybe it will be wiser to let him cool down a bit before you try to approach him.

***

You can’t sleep.

It’s been a good two hours since the Mandalorian left the cargo hold in the middle of the night and you have been unable to fall asleep again.

Should you go after him? … What should you say? … What is he doing up there, anyway? goes through your head making it impossible for you to rest.

You finally get up and clamber into the cockpit. You carefully approach the Mandalorian who is sitting in the pilot’s chair. 

When you’re close enough, you notice that he’s resting his helmet on his shoulder—he’s sleeping.

He looks so peaceful now with his hands folded on his chest, his legs outstretched and crossed under the control panel. You wonder whether his neck hurts when he wakes up after sleeping in such a position with his helmet on.

God!—you realise—you haven’t seen him without his helmet. Actually, you haven’t seen him taking off any part of his armour. Zullu’s grandmother used to talk about the Mandalorian armour, but never said anything about who they were under their impenetrable gleaming beskar shells. That realisation makes you wonder what he looks like under the helmet.

Against your better judgement, you hesitantly wave your hand in front of his visor to make sure he’s passed out, take a deep breath—mustering all your courage—and start gingerly lifting his helmet.

You are able to lift it by mere inches before a hand shoots up and catches your wrist, keeping a tight grip on you almost painfully. You immediately let go of the hem of the helmet.

“What are you doing?” His voice is quiet, tone dead serious. If he wasn’t irritated before, there is no doubt he’s mad at you now.

Fuck. Fuck! You have overstepped, you’re sure of it.

His next movement is swift and sudden. Before you can come up with a reply or do basically anything, he’s towering above you and cornering you against the control panel. He’s so close that you can feel each of his furious heavy breaths as his chest plate presses periodically against your torso with every inhale he makes.

You gulp thickly, not daring to move a muscle. You got the reaction you so desperately wanted from him and now you regret ever irking him.

“Don’t ever do that again!” His voice is impossibly low and threatening.

This time, it’s you who doesn’t speak.

He quickly let’s go of your hand and backs up a little when he feels your body slightly flinch under his deadly stare and sees the glimpse of fear in your eyes.

You use this opportunity to rush from him as fast as you can, leaving him where he stands in the cockpit.

You would be able to hear the Mandalorian sigh if you weren’t trying so hard to push back a whimper as you climb down the ladder to the hull.

***

You slump into your bed and stay there until morning. 

You hate him. You should have never come to his ship. Each wave of remorse about leaving your village is choking you until you seriously consider paying someone to fly you back as soon as you get to Nevarro.

But … you can’t go back. Apart from not having enough credits, there is nothing waiting for you there. You need to keep going—find your parents and figure out how you were able to kill that bandit with just your mind. You have to do it for yourself, and for Zullu.

Interrupting your train of thought, the Mandalorian appears in the hull. He’s quiet. He approaches you and slowly lays a tray with something that looks like processed food in front of you without saying anything or looking at you.

Is … is this his weird way of apologizing?

He sits down on one of the crates in the hull in front of you, pulling out his rifle to clean it.

It is an apology, you realise. And you feel like it’s your turn now.

“I’m … I’m sorry.” Your voice is thin and almost inaudible. “I’m sorry, I snapped at you, and I’m sorry if I … offended you.”

He doesn’t look at you, just nods almost imperceptibly. “And I’m sorry if I hurt your hand,” he says eventually.

“It’s okay,” you say and rub your wrist. He didn’t really hurt you but you think it’s quite considerate of him to mention it.

“So what’s up with the helmet?” you hesitantly ask. “Don’t you ever take it off?”

“No.” 

“Why not?”

“This is the way,” he says simply.

“I … apologize, I didn’t know.” You didn’t. How could you? You never met a Mandalorian, you only heard the stories and Zullu’s grandmother never mentioned that they don’t show their faces.

“It’s fine. Just don’t try to take … don’t do that again.” he says quietly but definitely, and you somehow know you are not supposed to ask anymore.

You silently nod to let him know you understood. 

You eventually eat the food he has given you and watch him quietly tinker with his rifle.  

You still don’t like him but feel that somehow this brief conversation cleared the air between the two of you meaning you are finally able to relax a bit in his presence.

Neither of you say anything for the rest of the way to Nevarro.

The silence—however—doesn’t feel as thick and suffocating as it did before.

***

Previous Chapter  //  Masterlist  //  Next Chapter

[adrenaline-roulette]

Jet Lag

So, in honour of my 22nd Birthday which was on April 30th. I decided to gift myself some cute Ben Hardy x Reader fluff. This was originally going to be Roger Taylor x Reader, but I was craving some Ben (I mean, who isn’t?)

@not-the-cleavers​  (Because girl, we all need a little bit of Ben in our lives right now)

Story is based off of the song, Jet Lag by Simple Plan.

Pairing: Ben Hardy x Reader (Female) with friend Joe Mazzello Warnings: Pretty much just pure fluff and cuteness, there is a bit of angst though but nothing major! Word count: 5953

Jet Lag

You collapse on your bed, sinking into the plush blankets, and massive pile of decorative pillows, it had been a long, and lonely week. It felt as if the standard five-day work week you had just endured, had been going on for at least a month. Though according to the red crosses on your calendar, it really was Friday the 1st, and not in fact Friday the 29th like it felt. The lonely part stemmed from the lack of company in your apartment over this past week, your boyfriend/ partner in crime, Ben Hardy was currently on a press tour with his castmates from 6 Underground, somewhere in Australia. While he had been away, your old school friend had come to stay while you had the house to yourself, but she had left for a business trip on Monday leaving you once again alone. You settle yourself more comfortably against your pillows, tilting your head back and to the side, keeping your eyes on your phone on your bedside table, just waiting for it to ring. Any minute now, you knew it would ring, and the anticipation of who would be calling had your heart racing.

The cool metal of Ben’s watch lay in your palm, and you clasped your fingers around the gold, circular face, rubbing your thumb gently against the glass. He hadn’t intentionally left his watch behind, but by the time either of you had realised that it was still in London, Ben was somewhere in Japan. Just as you go to glance down at the time, your phone buzzes to life, before vibrating along to your ringtone. It was a stupid song choice for a ringtone, though Ben had changed it for you just before he left, and you didn’t have the heart to change it. The song in question was that ridiculous, Doug Dimmadome – owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome remix that had been going around lately. Every time your phone rang, it nearly gave you a heart attack, as after each conversation on it, you attempted to erase the memory of your ringtone.

You dart your arm out quickly, grabbing your phone and swiping your finger along the screen to answer, a wide grin spreading over your lips, showing off all your teeth. “Hello…” You ask softly with a bated breath.

“Y/N? Hi luv.” Ben’s smooth voice sends chills down your spine, goose bumps appearing over your arms.

“What time is it where you are?”

“I’m in Sydney currently, and it is 9:15am. How about you?”

“6:15pm here, I just got home from work.”

“God, trying to figure out these time zones is making me crazy.”

“Hey, at least we’re doing better than at the beginning of the week. You were saying good morning, when it was midnight!”

“I just hate the thought of you alone. Five more days then I’ll be home.”

As if on cue, a floppy eared beagle pup leaps onto the bed with as much grace as if she were a hippo. Sniffing around your toes, before galloping up the mattress, and butting her nose against your knuckles, then phone. “I wouldn’t exactly say I’m alone. Frankie just joined me, I think she misses you too.”

You can hear Ben’s smile through the phone, and you grin softly yourself, scratching the fingers of your free hand against her head. “So tell me about Sydney, what’s it like there?”

Ben sighs deeply, likely a combination of still waking up, the desire for a smoke and coffee, and the desire to hold you. “It’s alright.  It’s really warm here, and the people are all nice. But it’s the same thing every day, we’re all a bit tired of it.” He pauses, and you can hear his bedsheets rustling as he gets into a more comfortable position. “Fuck, I don’t even wanna be in this town.” He grumbles.

“Sydney is a City…”

You know for a fact that he’s rolling his eyes on the other side of the world, you had known each other long enough to guess the other’s reactions without ever seeing them. “Oh yeah, thanks, go on and correct the guy running off five hours sleep!” He’s trying to sound stern, but there’s laughter peeking through his tired voice.

“Hey now, if I don’t correct you, then no one will!”

“I’m sure there’s at least one other person in the world who is game enough to pull me up on my mistakes.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk covering your lips as you watch Frankie toddle to Ben’s side of the bed. Circling three times, before curling into a ball. “Ben, you don’t exactly take constructive criticism well…”

Ben groans, and you’re half expecting him to argue, but it never comes. “Yeah, you’re right. Knowing my luck, I’d probably call Sydney a town in the interview, and never be invited back.”

“Nah, I’m sure they’d invite you back. It’d just be to make fun of you is all.” You shrug, grinning to yourself.

“Oi, be nice! You’re supposed to be supportive and caring.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re right. You know I love you.”

“Debatable.” Ben shuffles around again, and you can hear him stifle a yawn against his palm. “So what’s been going on in the world of you then?”

“Work, sleep, work. Nothing exciting really…. Actually, the most exciting thing to happen was on Monday last week.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“I was making dinner for me and Sophie while she was still here. I had just drained the spaghetti I had cooked, it was in the colander on the counter, and I turned around to finish the sauce. The next thing I know, there’s a massive thunk echoing through the apartment, I turned around, and Frankie has knocked down all the pasta, and is running off with spaghetti hanging out of her mouth!” You can barely contain your laughter, the memory of Frankie looking both guilty, yet extraordinarily proud of what she had just done seared into your brain. “She looked like one of those Ood’s from Doctor Who!”

Ben is howling on the other end of the line, the deep baritone of his laughter only causing you to laugh harder. “Yes! Good girl! Good Frankie! Dada loves you!” Frankie lifts her head, having heard her name being called from somewhere. You reach over and scratch her head again, making kissy faces at the cheeky beagle.

“You’re not supposed to encourage this sort of behaviour! You’re the reason why she still does this kind of thing. She thinks she can get away with it!”

“Of course she can get away with it! She deserves people food just as much as you do.”

“Ben! We had no more pasta! She took it all, and there was no more in the pantry to cook.” You whine, though you both know it’s all in jest. You could never truly be mad at Frankie. Despite the occasional theft of food, or shoes, she genuinely was a well-behaved pup.

“Aw come on, you know you’re not really mad at her.” You know for a fact that if Ben were here with you now, he would be pinning you with his best set of puppy dog eyes.

Your shoulders slump in defeat, there was no use in pretending to be mad, Ben would see through your lies instantly. “Okay fine, I’m not mad. But we did end up having to buy takeout for dinner, and that was not the plan!”

“Oh boohoo, you had to get tasty food delivered, what a tragedy.”

“Hold up! How come I have to be caring towards you, yet I don’t receive the same treatment?!”

“You raise a valid point. One which I do not care to argue.”

“Whimp.”

“That’s me! - Hold on a sec, I’m just putting you on speaker. I’ve gotta start getting ready sorry.”

You push yourself up into a sitting position, pressing your back into your pillows. “How long before you have to leave?”

Ben pauses for a few moments, likely to check his schedule for the day. “Um, first interview starts at half eight, last one is around seven-ish.”

“Shit, sounds like a long day, eh?”

Ben sighs, the soft sound causing your heart to ache. All you want is to wrap your arms around him, to make him feel comfortable, and at ease, but you can’t, not from the opposite side of the world.  “Yeah, but it’s been like this the whole time. So I suppose I’m kind of used to it by now.”

“Should I let you go now? To go and get ready and all that? I don’t want to make you late.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

“I know, neither do I. But- but you’ll be home soon! And you’ll be home for at least a couple of months, so we won’t have to say goodbye at all for that whole time!” You’re trying to reassure Ben just as much yourself. The beginnings of these phone calls were always amazing; however the endings were almost impossible.

“Next time I go on a press tour, you should just come with me. That way we get to experience the world together, and never have to say goodbye.”

This time, it’s your turn to sigh. A deep, prolonged sound which conveys just how tired of this particular conversation you are. “Ben, you know I can’t do that. I have a job, I can’t just up and leave. They need me.”

“You don’t need a job! I’ll always look after you! You know that right?”

You rub your hand against your forehead, smoothing the lines which had formed there as you frown. “Ben, I know you’d do everything you can to look after me. But remember, you haven’t always been in my life. I grew up needing to work to look after myself. And, I don’t actually have an issue with that way of life. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, you make more in one month than I do in six. But you have to look at this from my perspective, what if one day, we aren’t together anymore? What if that happens, and I’ve quit my job so I could travel with you for tours and for work. I’d be fucked….”

“A-are you saying you don’t think we’re going to last?”

You blink in surprise, eyes growing wide as you take in Ben’s words. “How is that what you’ve taken away from what I just said?”

“Well that’s what it sounded like to me!”

You can’t help but groan, this certainly wasn’t going the way you had planned. You were both too tired to be having this conversation, that much was obvious. “Look, let’s talk about this when you get home, okay? I’m not suggesting we end our relationship, far from it. I promise. Besides, having two incomes is probably a good thing for the time being.”

Ben’s silence is deafening, and for a moment or two, you almost think he may have hung up on you. “Okay, I’m happy to talk later. Do you, um, have any plans for the rest of the night?” He’s trying to sound normal, though you know his mind has jumped to the worst-case scenarios imaginable.

“Yeah actually, Joe said he was going to drop round for a bit. He’s been in town the last couple of days catching up with friends, then he’s heading off to see Gwil for a little while. But he said he’d swing by tonight. He claims it’s because he wants to make sure I’m doing alright without you, but I’m positive he is actually just looking for an excuse to see Frankie again!”

This earns you a laugh from Ben, a genuine laugh. You knew it would, but just hearing it allowed you to relax somewhat. Maybe he would forget about what you had said, and you would be able to start this conversation fresh, when both of you were more awake. “Maybe we should get him a carboard Frankie to go with Ben-Cardy?”

“No! That is probably the worst idea you have ever had!”

“What? No way! I think it’s brilliant!”

“Benjamin, Joe has only just stopped posting videos of Ben-Cardy. Do you really want all of that to start up again?”

“Hey, it was funny! Especially that one where I got to be in it too!”

“No, that was the weirdest one!”

“You’re only saying that because you walked in on us filming it.”

“Well obviously! Put yourself in my shoes. You’ve just finished a long day at work, you come home to hear giggling in your bedroom,  and your first thought is, fuck my boyfriend is cheating on me! But oh no, instead when you storm into the bedroom, you see said boyfriend in bed with his best friend, and a cardboard cut-out of himself!”

Yet another pause follows your outburst, before Ben begins chuckling. “Okay, yeah, I see what you mean. That probably would’ve been a little odd.”

A rattling of keys in the apartment door grabs your attention, and you peer down the corridor, keeping an eye out for who was coming in. You knew who it should be, but you could never be too sure. The door creaks open, and Joe pops his head in, grinning at you broadly. You had told him where the spare key was kept, so he could let himself in when he arrived, though you had assumed he may still knock to announce his arrival. “Hey babe, I should probably get going. Joe’ll be here soon, and you need to get ready. Like properly get ready, and actually eat something for breakfast. I know you’re back on the smokes…”

“How’d you know that?”

Joe walks further into the apartment, leaning against the bedroom door frame, a fond smile on his lips. “Ben, I know everything. I see all.”

There’s a smirk in his voice now, as if he’s challenging you. “Alright then Miss all seeing. What colour are the boxers I’m wearing right now?”

You bite your bottom lip gently, completely forgetting Joe’s presence for the time being. “You’re not wearing any.” Your voice is low and sultry, and you can hear Ben hiss out a sharp breath. “Have a good day babe, I’ll talk to you later.”

You swipe your thumb against the screen, ending the call before Ben has the chance to respond. “You’re early.” You smile, turning your attention to Joe now, who was intensely pretending to have not heard the ending to your conversation.

“Did you tell him?”

“And hello to you too Joseph.”

“Y/N, did you tell him?”

You sigh, pulling your legs up so you could sit cross-legged on the bed, facing your entire body towards your friend now. “I tried to, but it didn’t exactly go according to plan.”

“So did you or did you not tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him.” Your shoulders slump, and your chin drops as you scowl at the floor.

Joe steps further into the room, coming over to your side where he rests his palm over your shoulder. “You have to tell him, he needs to know.”

“I know that Joe. Don’t you think I know that?” You grumble, flopping your head back so you could look up at him.  “It’s just, every time I try to allude to it in one of our chats, it always gets twisted, and it becomes this big misunderstanding. I think telling him face to face would be best.”

“What do you mean, when you allude to it? Are you actually coming out with the words, or are you trying to skirt around the truth?”

“I mean, I’ll get there eventually. One way or another he’ll find out, I’m just having trouble saying it is all.”

“Y/N. If you don’t tell him, then I will.”

<<<--->>>

Just as Ben had promised, five days later you were waiting at the airport for him to arrive home. The plan had always been for you to be there when he arrived home, however Joe had also decided he wanted to wait for Ben too, as he still had another day before meeting up with Gwil. The two of you stood in the arrivals terminal, you with an A4 sheet of paper with ‘Hardy’ written in pink sharpie, and Joe beside you, with an A3 piece of paper which read ‘Ben Hard-On’.

“Could you stand over there somewhere? Like, as far away from me as possible please? I don’t want people to know that I associate with you.” You grumble, though you’re having an exceedingly difficult time not laughing at his stupidity.

“Hey, it was your idea to make signs!”

“Sign! One sign, as in singular!” You sigh, casting a glare at the grinning American.

Joe simply shrugs, knocking his elbow against your arm playfully. “Well think of it this way, he won’t be able to miss us. Not with a sign like this.” He grins, gesturing down to his crude sign with his chin.

“If anything, he may intentionally miss us after seeing that.”

Before Joe has the chance to reply, you let out a loud squeal, before darting off and leaving him far behind. You sprint forwards, pushing past the couple of people who had decided to stand directly in front of you, blocking your sign off from Ben’s view. “Ben!” You call, throwing yourself at him with as much force as possible.

Ben drops the black rucksack he had been clutching in his hand, allowing it to clunk to the ground. His arms wrap around you tightly, his fingers digging gently into your sides as he pulls you ever closer to him. “Fuck I’ve missed you.” He whispers against your ear, before nestling his nose against the crook of your neck, pressing tiny kisses to the exposed flesh there.

There are tears stinging the backs of your eyes, and you feel as if you’re about to sneeze as you hold the tears back. “I missed you too. So, so much.” You whimper, clutching your arms tighter around his torso. People moved around the two of you, pretending not to see the blatant display of affection, or just too tired to truly care. The flight Ben had just departed had flown from Singapore into London, and everyone who exited looked like zombies, your boyfriend included.

“Well shit, I hope you’ve got enough to go round.” Joe pipes up, standing just behind you and to the left, this way, when Ben looked up to see him, he was greeted with the charming sign he had made.

“I thought airports had rules as to who was allowed inside?” Ben smirked, slowly lowering his arms around you, so one arm now rested around your waist.

Joe simply shrugged, grinning like an idiot. “British airports are a lot more lenient with letting in riffraff like me.”

Shaking his head, Ben stepped forward just as Joe did, both wrapping each other in a one armed hug. “It’s good to see you mate.”

“You too Benny Boo.” Joe chuckled, earning an eye roll from the blonde, and a deep sigh from you.

Ben heads back to you, bending down to scoop up his bag, before swinging it over his broad shoulder. “Here, I have a beanie and sunnies for you.” You offer with a grin, holding the items out to him. The beanie was black, and hand knitted by the old woman who used to live in the apartment next to yours. While the sunglasses were the spare pair he always kept in your car. “Just in case you’re trying to keep a low profile.” You shrug lightly, shoving your hands into the front pockets of your jeans.

“Hey, actually Y/N raises an excellent point. You’re a big movie star now. Where are all the photographers?” Joe demands, his eyes scanning across the crowds of people in the arrivals terminal. Lo and behold, there was a serious lack of paparazzi. In fact, the closest thing which came to paparazzi, was the small huddle of teenaged girls who were gossiping amongst themselves, whilst attempting to take sneaky photos of Ben. One even went as far as holding her phone directly in front of her face, pretending to be taking a selfie, and it would’ve worked too, if it weren’t for her flash going off.

Ben smirks, lifting his brows at the girls as the three of you walk past them and towards the baggage carousel. “Well there’s two reasons actually.”

“Oh, and what would those be?” You enquire, keeping an eye out for the bags you know Ben had taken with him. Although you were positive there would likely be one or two extra, filled to the brim with gifts and souvenirs from each country.

“Well reason one, is that aside from you guys, no one else knew the actual date I would be arriving home.  In the last interview I did in Sydney, I said I would be flying out in a week. So there’s probably a heap of photographers around the lobby of my hotel asking where I am right this very moment.”

Joe turns and looks at Ben over his shoulder, brows creasing into a gentle frown. “You’re a cruel man Hardy.”

“I know, I try my best.”

You roll your eyes, nudging your arm against Ben’s lightly. “Alright, so what’s reason two then?”

At this, Ben’s face breaks out into a wide grin, as he looks between you and Joe. “I use a different name when travelling. One that’s less likely to have people catch on to it being me.”

Your eyebrows rise at this, this was the first time you’d heard of Ben going under a different alias when travelling. You had always assumed he used his own name… “What name do you use?”

“Probably something stupid, like Dinkleburg Flapjack.” Joe butts in, grinning childishly at his made-up name.

The carousel you were waiting at whirls to life, slowly chugging around as bags begin to appear along its tracks. One of Ben’s bags is one of the first to be spat out, and he walks backwards towards it, so he could answer your question. “I like to go by a name literally no one will ever now. Joe Mazzello is one of my favourites to use. Shockingly, no one’s ever heard of him?” And with that, Ben turns on his heel and darts over to grab his bag, as Joe stands stock still, his mouth opening and closing as if he were a fish out of water. As for you? Well, you’re struggling to contain your laughter, and doing a terrible job at it!

<<<--->>>

The three of you sat in comfortable silence as you drove out of the airport, you had requested everyone -namely Joe- be quiet while you attempted to find the exit to get you back on the freeway. You always hated driving around the airport, all of the exits looked the same to you, but you found it slightly easier when you had no other distractions at least. Both Ben and Joe had offered to drive, which although kind, you had declined. One, because Ben was dead tired, and you worried that he would fall asleep behind the wheel; and two, Joe had a habit of forgetting he wasn’t in the USA, and kept trying to drive on the wrong side of the road. All in all, you were the safest option when it came to driving, at least in this scenario.

Ben had his head resting against the passenger seat window, his eyes drifting closed periodically before he would snap them wide open again, as if trying to convince himself he wasn’t in fact about to fall asleep. “Are we dropping you off somewhere Joe, or did you want to come back to our place?” You glance up at the review mirror, catching Joe’s eye in the reflection.

You watch his reaction for a moment, before returning your attention to the road ahead. You knew what his answer would be, even before you had asked the question. He want’s you to talk to Ben, and he has no intention of actually being there when you do so. He just wants it to happen. “If you wouldn’t mind making a pit stop at that little café you showed me the other day, that would be great.”

You nod gently, flicking the indicator on as you make a left turn towards town. “Yeah sure. That’s no worries.”

“Shoot us through a message later on, and we’ll meet you up somewhere to grab dinner, yeah?” Ben grins, turning around and looking at Joe in the backseat.

“Of course, that sounds great!” Joe smiles, shooting Ben a cheesy thumbs up in order to prove his agreement with the idea.

<<<--->>>

After dropping Joe off, you make the short drive back to your apartment, still with Ben dozing off occasionally beside you. “Hey, what’s that?” He pipes up, squinting his eyes at the dashboard, his view obstructed by your hands on the steering wheel.

You cast your gaze down, searching for what had piqued Ben’s curiosity. “Oh, this?” You laugh softly, reaching one hand forward, and grabbing out the folded picture which had been jammed between the plastic dash covering. “I keep your picture in my car. I figure, if I can’t wake up next to you, then this is the next best thing.” You shrug lightly, embarrassment tinting your words.

Ben reaches forwards, taking the folded photo from you, rubbing his thumb over it gently before peeling it open so he could see both sides. From what you had visible; it was just an image of a bordering on tipsy Ben, his blonde curls tousled and unruly, and his ocean eyes shining brightly behind thick lashes. What had been hidden from view, was how on the other half of the photo, he had his arm wrapped around your waist, while your head was resting against his shoulder, an equal look of joy etched permanently upon your face. “Why’s it only me?”

You tilt your head slightly, looking down at the now flattened photo. “Because it’s a great picture of you, but not of me. Besides, I wake up to myself every day. It’s you who I’ve been missing.”  You shrug, pressing the button on the garage key, waiting of the automatic roller door to curl up, before driving into the underground carpark attached to your apartment complex.

“Well I for one, think that this is a beautiful photo. Of both of us.” Ben sighs, rubbing his index finger and thumb along the crease which had formed down the centre.

You pull the key from the ignition then unfasted your seatbelt, swivelling on your seat so you could face Ben properly now. He’s looking at you expectantly, eyes unblinking, and focused solely on you now. “Something’s up, isn’t it?” He sighs, a brief flicker of hurt flashing through his eyes.

You want to lie, to tell him that everything is fine, and that nothing had changed while he was away. Tell him that your lives weren’t about to head down a path neither of you had ever discussed. “Yes, but not in a bad way perse. Let’s get upstairs? You need to catch up on some sleep, and while you do that I’ll start getting you unpacked. We’ll talk when you’re feeling a bit more human, yeah?” You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes like usual.

You push open the car door, sliding out and stepping into the cool garage, the perpetually damp air clinging to your skin like a second layer. “Why are you avoiding having this conversation?” Ben groans, following you around to the back of the car, where you both begin to pull his bags out.

“And what conversation is that exactly Ben?”

You swing his rucksack over your shoulder, pulling a large rolling suitcase behind you. “I don’t know. Whatever conversation it is that we apparently need to have!” He’s exasperated, and honestly, so are you. The fact that he’s tired, and likely has no idea what time it actually right now either, doesn’t exactly help the situation.

“Look, yes there’s a couple of things I need to tell you, but it doesn’t have to be right this instant! It’s not some big dramatic thing, okay?”

Ben frowns, folding his arms across his chest, watching you with a stern gaze. “Well for something that isn’t dramatic, you’ve certainly been putting it off. We could’ve had this, chat, last week. But you decided you didn’t want to!”

“Ben, I am not going to fight with you. Not here, not now, not ever. I am happy to talk with you when you’ve calmed down a bit. But as for right now, I’m going to our apartment, and I’m going to make a pot of tea. I can make it for one or two people, the decision is yours.” You don’t await a reply, grabbing the handle of the suitcase, and wheeling it behind you towards the stairs that lead out of the garage.

For a few moments, you almost think Ben is going to stay and fume by the car, but soon enough you hear his heavy footsteps following you up the stairs, lugging his two other suitcases behind him. “Green or black?” His voice flows from behind you, he sounds nervous, almost as if he thinks he won’t be welcome into his own apartment.

“Black, if that’s alright? I just got a new tin of Russian caravan.” You smile over your shoulder, catching his eye and sending a wink his way.

A blush creeps up his cheeks,  one which you watch melt over his pale skin for the few moments it takes before you arrive at your apartment. You rustle around in your handbag for a few moments, before triumphantly retrieving your keys, shoving one into the main lock, and pushing the heavy wooden door open. Immediately, Frankie is bounding towards the door, barking happily at the sight of Ben. “Hey girl. Hey!” He grins, kneeling in the doorway, where Frankie stands on her hind legs, resting her front paws on Ben’s chest. “Oh I missed you so much! Did you look after Mama Y/N? Did you?” He’s speaking in his baby voice to the excitable beagle, and it’s honestly the gosh darned sweetest thing you have ever heard.

“Of course she did, she was an angel like always.” You call from the kitchen, smiling to yourself. It was the truth, aside from the odd hiccup or two -namely the spaghetti incident- Frankie had been on her best behaviour the entire time Ben was away.

“That’s my girl….” Ben’s voice is lower now, and you’re almost positive he’s bestowing belly rubs upon the spoiled pup.

Humming quietly, you busy yourself with brewing a pot of tea, taking far longer than strictly necessary to select which teapot to use. Reaching up to the top shelf in your pantry, you pull down the spherical BB-8 pot, blowing off the small amount of dust which had accumulated on its lid. As you pour the hot water over the loose tea, Ben heads into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his chin over your shoulder. “Hey – I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pick a fight with you before. I know it seems like it though.”

You replace the lid on the teapot, allowing the tea to steep for the necessary 3-5 minutes. “I didn’t mean to bite back. I think we’re both a bit on edge right now. It’s always like this when you’ve just come home, maybe next time we just need to try and remember that?” You half laugh, bringing one hand up, to stroke your fingers against Ben’s jaw. “If you’re ready now, we can talk?”

Ben lifts his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before standing up straight, using his hand on your waist to turn you to face him. “I’m ready when you are.” He whispers, crystalline eyes boring into yours.

A deep sigh slips from your lips, a frown creasing between your brows as you attempt to form your next words. “Remember on the phone the other night, and I said that me leaving my job wasn’t such a great idea?”

You know that he remembers, how could he not? But this time you genuinely were stalling. “There’s a reason for that. No, not just because the pessimist inside of me is warning that one day I may not have your income to rely on. But because, having two incomes could be a really good thing right now. In fact, it might be for the best.”

Ben has one hand still resting against your hip, while the other is dragging his fingers through his overgrown locks. “What do you mean? I- I don’t get it?”

“What if, it wasn’t just the two of us here Ben?”

“There’s three of us. You, me, and Frankie!”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, a soft smirk on your lips now. “Right, of course. Well what about four then? What if there were four of us?”

“Do you mean Joe? Is that why he came to the airport today? Is he living with us now? Because if he is, he can bloody well help with the rent!”

“Whoa! No, not that! Not at all!”  Your lower lip presses between your teeth, as you shuffle your feet along the tiled floor. “Ben, I mean a baby. I- I’m pregnant. And I figure, babies can be hella expensive, so maybe the two of us working will make things a little bit easier?” You’re rambling now, you know that. And poor Ben seems to still be trying to compute the news you’ve just dumped on him.

“Y/N, can we just rewind for a second?”

Your mouth slams shut, eyes wide as you nod at Ben. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you another way. Ben, I’m pregnant. I found out I think maybe, three days after you left.”

“Holy fuck. I mean, holy shit! No, I can’t swear in front of the baby. Oh my god? Is that okay? Or am I not allowed to blaspheme around the baby either?”

At this, you can’t help but laugh, stepping forwards and throwing your arms around Ben’s neck. “I’m only six weeks along. I don’t think you have to worry about thing’s like swearing yet.”

Ben freezes, locking eyes with you as he holds both hands around your waist, pulling you closer against him. “So you’re telling me. You’re pregnant, and the number one take away you have from that, is whether you should keep working or not?”  There’s humour in his voice, and his eyes are sparkling with joy.

“Yep. I guess so.” You shrug, allowing your laughter to flow freely now, uncaring if anyone else heard you.

Ben shakes his head, grinning like a mad man. “Fuck, I love you.” He whispers, leaning in towards you. Your lips lock together, melding into one like the perfect match they are. Teeth knock against teeth for a few moments as you work to find a comfortable pace and position, though your lips never part once. His hands cling to your waist, fingers pressing into your soft flesh, as if he were your anchor to reality, while your hands tangle in his hair, fingers curling and tugging at his blonde curls. Slowly, Ben pulls away, his eyes opening just barely so he could look down at you. “I’ll need to stop smoking. I promise I will.” He whispers.

You smile softly, tilting your head up so your nose bumps against his. “Now that, we can agree on.”

If you enjoy my writing, feel free to check out my MASTERLIST. I write for a somewhat varied number of fandoms. My askbox is ALWAYS open, and I love taking requests! It just may take me some time to write up your request, but I will always get to it!

[atalana]

Alright, I’ve just spent 17 hours absorbing the epilogue, and in true Dirk Strider fashion, I have Thoughts.

I had plenty of responses I’ve been considering to this, about two hours ago I was honestly thinking of just dropping in with a fuckin one liner like “So Dirk Three wrote the epilogue” (Dirk Three kinda did write the epilogue, and I’ll explain that too), but we’re on the fucking essay train now and no one’s getting off it any time soon so it’s time to dive into this fucker and get it all off my chest.

Under the cut you will find essays on Dirk, cherubs, ultimate selves, both major Dirk fics (Detective Pony and Theatre of Coolty), a bunch of story bullshit, and my severe love for all Homestuck characters

(But very little criticism of the epilogue, I am no longer about that life)

So the prologue is important here. It’s the main bit of accurate information we have, not tainted by an unreliable narrator. (Well, it is, but less so). The prologue tells us that, with the characters outside of canon, they are becoming their ultimate selves, particularly the characters most susceptible to such knowledge, like seers, or heart players.

Now Homestuck wrestles a lot with the idea of the ultimate self. It is, as defined by the text, the true thing a person is, an amalgamation of every possible version of themselves. It is not a viable human being, because that’s not how human beings work. It basically amounts to Hussie’s character rules, like, there are some ways that these characters will be always, some things they’re prone to, things they like, decisions they’re likely to make, but who the person is within that is subject to extreme change depending on circumstance. The four people who embody this narrative most clearly are Vriska, Terezi, Davepeta, and Dirk.

I’m still not 100% sure on why the ultimate selves outside of canon thing is, but my best guess would be this - within the story, there’s a definite timeline, right? Like, these are the things that are written down, this is what you can see, the word of god (loaded phrase, thanks Dirk), the things that you look at when trying to apply death of the author (even more loaded phrase, thanks Hussie, also thanks Calliope). There’s more than one timeline, sure, but that’s the point, everyone is who they are within that timeline, affected by what happened to make them who they became. Outside of canon is, well, outside of the story. They’re not affected by the story here, they’re just characters. This is a fanfiction site. And what does fanfic do best? It takes the characters, takes who they are, pulls them out of the story, and shoves them in wherever it likes, to become whoever it is they become. And thus who the character is exactly becomes murky and confusing if you’re trying to jam them all into one thing, and it all gives Rose Lalonde a headache. Ultimate selves.

Davepeta liked their ultimate self, it helped two kids who were otherwise struggling with unsatisfying ultimate selves to become a better whole.

Vriska took the proactive approach, by which I mean bullying her other selves into letting her become the ultimate Vriska, which was ultimately useless and gave her no ultimate self at all

Terezi saw her ultimate self, and is still processing what that means for her (but also Terezi is still in canon, so she’s immune to epilogue bullshit)

And Dirk, god, poor Dirk. Dirk was terrified of it. Because he could see his ultimate self and he knew that’s not the kind of person he wanted to become. (And this is where I start using the Theatre of Coolty numbers because there’s no other way to get through this, if you haven’t read/seen it you 100% should, but as a general note, Dirk One is the main Dirk we know, Dirk Two is Brain Ghost Dirk, Dirk Three is “Trickster Dirk” but actually revealed later to be Hussie, Dirk Four is Hal)

Because here’s the thing. Dirk’s ultimate self is him, but it’s also Hal. It’s also BGD. It’s also Bro. And Dirk One was never as bad as he thought he was, but he surrounded himself with copies of himself, so he knew how bad he could be, and tried everything he could to avoid it. We have actual canon confirmation on multiple occasions that Dirk would so much rather kill himself than become the kind of person capable of hurting his friends. Which only got worse after he met Dave and realised Bro existed, like, that just doubled his resolve to Never Be That Person.

(Hey, fun hypothetical, if you kill yourself to stop yourself becoming a bad person because you know it’s inevitable but you’re too good a person to want to go through with it, is it heroic or just? Because I would like to have a lengthy discussion with the god tier clock!)

God, there’s so much I can write on the subject of Dirk’s ultimate self. Because you can see every version of him inside there, there’s Bro in his possessiveness, Hal in his need to fuck with people for no real reason, BGD in his hyper critical nature (beyond what is normal for all Dirks), Dirk One in his desire to never let anyone hurt him again. (God, the “I’ll never let you break my heart again” line hurt so much, because like… I can feel Dirk One in that line, but it’s delivered by ultimate Dirk, and ultimate Dirk isn’t the kind of person who would have even been heartbroken by Jake’s actions. Dirk One poured his soul into that relationship and Jake responded by ignoring him, and like, this isn’t a dig on Jake, because that did make Dirk very intense and hard to deal with, but as Calliope so beautifully put, the children left alone are those who most despair at being ignored. And every version of Dirk was so very alone.)

When sending initial thoughts to my friend, I wrote “Ultidirk is Dirk One but without the compassion or empathy and with an apparently infinite supply of horse tranquilizers”. Which was mostly a joke, but does get down to the core of the problem. Dirk One and Ultidirk aren’t really that different, when it comes down to it. But there’s one crucial element that makes all the difference. Dirk One’s life philosophy is “This is a me problem, so I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you don’t have to deal with that problem, at any cost”. Ultidirk’s life philosophy is “This is a me problem, so I’m going to make it everyone else’s problem. And it turns out that without basic human empathy and morality holding him back, Ultidirk will just… fucking declare himself God, and use that alongside his powers of manipulation to just write a new story in which he is the villain. Very little changes in the scale of things.

(The other main difference is that Dirk One is scared to exist, whereas every other Dirk is scared to not exist, that’s the stuff, good callback, etc etc, that line fucking killed me, and also killed whatever remnant of Dirk One was still lurking inside Ultidirk and god I want to hug him)

(I also want to extract him from Ultidirk and bring him on an Ultidirk murdering quest bc he would be 100% down for that without a second’s hesitation but that’s a bit hard to do)

Now you may be wondering why I brought up Theatre of Coolty if I was only gonna refer to Dirk One as Dirk One and not touch on any of the others. Well, it’s true, saying Dirk Two and Dirk Four when I have simple three letter names for both of them is a bit ridiculous. But then we get to Dirk Three.

Now here’s the thing about Theatre of Coolty. Dirk One appears in Homestuck, as alpha Dirk, in Dirk’s usual shirt with the orange hat. Dirk Two appears in Homestuck, as brain ghost Dirk in god tier pyjamas. Dirk Four appears in Homestuck as Hal, and he wears a red hat because he’s Dirk in a different colour scheme, also because the sprite Hussie eventually made for him based on fanon had a red hat, all’s sorted there.

But Dirk Three? Trickster Dirk? Never appeared in Homestuck. They tried, but it was still Dirk One. Dirk is immune to cherubic influence (remember this point too, it’s important), because his concept of self is so present (and also because he’s depressed as fuck, but that doesn’t necessarily exclude you, it’s just the presence of both at once). And who does Dirk Three turn out to be? Well, they said it from the start, Theatre of Coolty is about the presence or absence of god, who definitely will show up at some point. Dirk Three is Hussie in a Dirk costume, Dirk Three is God, Dirk Three is The Author.

Dirk Three is Ultidirk. Congrats, all four Dirks have officially shown up in Homestuck, to whatever extent this counts as Homestuck, an extent which has been thoroughly documented by its own existence bc this is Homestuck (kinda) and you gotta lean into the bullshit or you’ll drown in it.

So yes, this was penned by Dirk Three. Who is also Lord English in two different metaphorical ways now (The trickster element, and also the fact that the epilogues insist on making Jane a second Condesce, which in this analogy puts Dave as himself and Dirk as, you guessed it, Cherub Master of All. Which is additionally insulting as fuck because Dirk grew up in that apocalypse and would never contribute to recreating it, if Jane ever was inclined to, which she isn’t, but you know).

And LE’s major force of opposition? Adult Calliope. (Also, like, Vriska, but symbolically it’s the other cherub.)

Which brings me to the main point of this essay, and that is that all of this? It’s a cherub fic. And we knew this, from the moment we were offered that choice. Meat or Candy? Well, neither of them are sustainable food sources for humans, not with the meat uncooked like that. They’re not satisfying endings for us either. But it’s all cherubs eat. (Well, that and special stardust, but that was Caliborn’s intermission. This is Calliope’s offering.)

Which again feeds back into the AO3 metaphor because from their introduction, Caliborn and Calliope have been fandom inserts, representing all of us, for better or worse. They read the story, come up with the theories, they write the fanfic.

And Calliope’s trying so hard. But she’s not human. She doesn’t get it, not on a way that connects with the characters, only with the text. Cherubs spend their lifetime alone. Cherubs only have black romance. Cherubs think trickster mode is an acceptable way to solve problems.

And, as Dirk pointed out back when he was still himself, everyone getting married and having a bunch of babies for no reason doesn’t solve shit.

Without a solid timeline, everyone became susceptible to becoming their ultimate selves. Ultidirk is a dick with the powers of actual capital g God, and none of the remorse of Dirk One, so he took control of the narrative. And so Calliope, the fanfic author, the one with the power to write a new story (with the exception of Dirk, as previously mentioned, he’s immune to cherub bullshit, and John and Terezi, who are still in canon), tried to help everyone realise their full potential.

But she made them selfish. She made them solitary. She doesn’t understand how humans work, so they became parodies of themselves. In meat, there’s a plot, but it’s insubstantial, because no one is truly themselves, facing a Dirk who lost himself years ago. In candy, it’s fluff with, again, no substance. It’s trickster mode calmed down. Everyone gets married and has babies, but it makes no sense, and everyone’s miserable.

And John Dirk and Terezi are the only ones who see it, because they’re the ones who haven’t been given to Calliope. But what’s the point, when they’ve lost their power over the story? What’s the point of gaining power if you’re not yourself anymore? (And one way or another, they all die in the end.)

The rest of them… Well, they do the things the narrative implied they would do, but usually in the worst possible way.

(Aradia and Sollux have been canon neutral since 2011 and they like it that way)

And now we go back to Detective Pony, like everyone and their mother have analysed already. Because yeah, these two things have so much in common, but also, some really crucial differences.

Both are stories in which Dirk takes control of the narrative, in which he is fought for control by another author figure, in which he considers his own role in the story, what he’s created, who’s got the authority (I still love that pun so much), and eventually forces the characters to come to the conclusion that he needs to be defeated, because at the end of the day Dirk is still hopelessly suicidal and like most problems the kids have, this is never addressed outside of ironic bullshit. (Not to him anyway, it’s kinda addressed in candy but I think if you’re talking about someone’s suicidal tendencies at their funeral it’s too fucking late).

But Detective Pony is ultimately a heavily veiled love letter to his friends. Detective Pony is Dirk exploring what he fears becoming, it’s him learning to let go, and eventually he relinquishes control of the book to the characters in it (as does Jeanne Betancourt).

Meat is Dirk’s notice of ownership over his friends. It’s him glorifying having become that thing he used to fear, it’s holding even tighter to everything he fears losing, and ultimately neither he nor Calliope trust the characters enough to pull back. They’re both obsessed with it, in both iterations, this battle between the two of them, even though it was never supposed to be about either of them.

But Detective Pony has an original story, with a timeline. It even has a second solid story for Dirk to come from, since Homestuck itself explicitly states when and why Dirk made it. When Detective Pony sits down to analyse which version of the text is better, it has that substance to fall back on. Jeanne Betancourt’s version is boring but kind. Dirk’s is interesting but cruel. And because the characters are all solid people, not their hazy ultimate selves, they have agency too, and can decide their own fate.

When Dirk analyses whose version is better in the epilogue, his whole reasoning is that neither is good. The characters rarely have any agency. Even the few moments, between Roxy’s void powers and Dave’s ability to stand up to Bro (which, by the way, so proud of him, how many people do you know who, in a situation where their childhood guardian and abuser literally became god and tried to thought influence them into doing something they kinda wanted to do already, would have the mental resilience to say “no, this isn’t me, stop that” and stand by that? Dave is the strongest goddamn character in this whole comic, holy shit), are only hints of who they were as real characters in the story. Dirk takes control, in one version, because he’s lost himself to Ultidirk, who’s overly concerned with how stories are supposed to be written, and tries to wrestle Homestuck into a shape he finds interesting. In the other, Dirk kills himself before he can hurt anyone. (And before anyone gets on my case about Dirk’s reasoning being he’s lost his purpose, his purpose was always protecting his friends.)

But Calliope’s not helping them either, just piling them full of romance and fluff and selfish parodies of themselves and thinking that’ll work out. Giving the villains “redemption” without ever actually letting them redeem themselves. Explaining all about their tragic backstories without doing anything with it. To bring back a very old quote, it’s like when Mario gets the star. He wins, but he’s denying himself many powerful moments of catharsis.

Just with less happiness, more death, and a bunch of weirdly political teen drama. And then when Calliope gets distracted by Ultidirk and gives up, everything unravels completely, but it also lets them live a life which does let some of the characters be happy, in a weird roundabout way. It’s dysfunctional as fuck, but these characters care so much for each other, not even being in a weird self melting fanon bubble could erase that completely. (And then things get buck fucking wild because this is still Homestuck we’re talking about)

(Though seriously, I could have done without the Jane is a fascist thing, she deserves better than that. Like what was the point of decrockertiering her if she was just gonna go right back to that? Also I love Dave but he barely has a leg to stand on in most of those political arguments anyway given how he completely destroyed LoHaC’s economy and once accused Karkat of communism for captchaloguing a chair. And while I’m complaining, Jake English is still not being allowed to consent to fucking anything.)

I’m not sure why this was written. I’m not sure why a lot of things in Homestuck were written, honestly. It’s certainly not a satisfying ending, but I don’t think it was supposed to be. It’s not disappointing either, and it’s definitely interesting, with all of Homestuck’s trademark humor.

When I first wrote this halfway through candy, I’d written the following as an ending:

“But if we’re going to triple kill the author, I think this is just ultimately validating everyone’s own interpretation of the ending. You can’t write everyone’s fanfic at once. You can’t be a cherub, or a god, we don’t write fic about people’s ultimate selves. What you can do is provide a timeline for them to exist in, and a better one, where they have a chance to be the people they have the potential to be. And just to be happy, in a way that feels real.”

But honestly, now? I think the point was just to fuck with us, and also do a fuckton of exposition about canon and the nature of reality

So fuck it, let’s end on a relevant Dirk quote

[pestopascal]

retribution spoilers. alt version of smth i wrote with how villainstep is revealed. 2.1k

It hurts. It fucking hurts and you’re barely holding your side together. Overestimated again, got too cocky. Fucking mob. Fucking knives.

You’re practically crawling up the stairs by the time you get to your apartment. Mind working overtime, trying to keep the curious thoughts away. Like hammers, shattering the questions. Probably too harsh for the neighbours, but you’re mad. Mad and hurt and bleeding out on your doorstep. 

Fuck’s sake. No getting the key in your door, the jiggle of the handle failing you as you slump down. You can work out how much blood you’ve lost easily, like it’s so simple for the practical side to take over. Numbers, that’s all it is. Close to critical. 

You’d tell that part of your brain to shut up and just bleed, but there’s a shadow in the hallway. “Logan?” 

“Whose askin’?” Slurred speech? Check. This was almost embarrassing.

Ortega is looking down at you. Hah, that’s a new one. But his face is all weird, like he might just cry. You missed it the first time, anyway. Better add this one to the history books.

He’s saying something. Like hospital, and hands not sure where to touch. You can only shake your head, no, no hospitals, don’t. Before you let go. You have to, after all. This body wasn’t doing much good just laying there.

“Don’t do anything.”

Evan isn’t as quick as you’d like, but you’re barely settled in the skin before you’re out the door. Taking the steps two at a time, you can hear Ortega’s voice, and how it carries. Whatever you managed to tell the neighbours seems to have held up, and you slap the phone out of his hand.

You know what he’s going to do. Let you continue to bleed, as he’s pinned you against the wall. It smells like ozone, and the mood whiplash was even doing your head in (and you can’t even read him). The look on his face says a lot. Recognises you. Not quite fitting all the pieces together, but you can see the way the puzzle shifts, turning, trying to get it right. 

“Let me go.” Evan’s voice doesn’t have the bite Logan’s does.

But Ortega’s is all bite, all bark. “No.” If anything, for good measure, he pushes you harder against the wall.

“I’ll die.”

And you don’t look at him. You look at Logan, at you, the slow shallow breaths. Getting close now. Good thing you’re a regene, because you’re sure the average human would’ve been dead before they got the building door open by now.

His fingers go slack. Lost a piece of the puzzle, but you’re able to pry him off in his confusion. “Get me up, I’ll get the door.”

No time to wait. Turning the key, you make a face at the blood (something to clean off later, fan-fucking-tastic), and hold the door open. Expectant. “Hurry up.”

Ortega is stuck. Staring. 

“Fuck’s sake, Ricardo. I’m going to die. Again.”

Emphasis seems to kick something in him into gear. Not that his mind seems to be with him, as his movement turns almost robotic. Barely inside the door, he’s carried you. Logan. Don’t get confused now. You grab the first aid kit, not thinking about it. No time for tarp. No time for whiskey.

“Move.”

He’s hovering. Mouthing. Questions that just aren’t loud enough, but you get the gist of it. You don’t want to, but well. It was bound to happen in some way. 

“Call Daniel.”

You’re cleaning and stitching and it’s rhythmic by this stage. Just another scar to add to the rest. Probably could do this in your sleep by this point, but Evan’s hands are remarkably clinical, whereas Logan’s, yours, are hard and flat and unsure. You hate stitching yourself in that body.

Ortega finally seems to snap to it. Not quite wanting to get to where he wants, because you turn then. Hold him with a glare that he recognised. “Call. Daniel.”

You’ll have to call Mortum, too. Reschedule that meeting for today. Stashed the goods nearby, but you knew you should’ve gone as Anima. Should’ve just put the mask on and got the job done quick and easy. Fucking cocky asshole.

So many things to think about, as you seal the wound. Pat some gauze and bandages over it. Like it was merely a little nick, nothing too serious. Pulse was weak but with some rest, your body would get there. Tank built, meant to last, no matter how beaten and bruised it got. 

Rocking back on your heels, you notice that Ortega has hung up. Or been hung up on. You can’t be too sure, because he’s trying to lean over you again. Trying to intimidate you.

“What?” you ask, flatly, because not today, Ricardo. Not now. 

“Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

A muscle in your cheek twitches. “Only if you ask nicely.”

Not the right thing to say, of course not, but you’re sitting between him and Logan. You’re the one holding the needles and just saved their, your, life. Perhaps he knew you could just as easily take it away.

(again)

With some great strain, Ortega mumbles out a: “Please.” Oh, no, not happy, not at all. 

A gamble. Ortega could reduce Evan to nothingness, before you even had time to jump. Not a fair fight, but Daniel was on his way. And he knew. Knew things that would make Ricardo sick. You shouldn’t be proud of yourself for that, for cutting him out of the picture. Ortega would understand, you know he would — even in his own way.

This was how it was going to be. “I got injured and needed a hand.”

“You’re not—” cuts himself off, a little noise of frustration leaving him. “That’s not you.”

“No? Are you sure about that?”

Daniel shouldn’t be too far. You can see the way Ortega frowns. He wasn’t always one for keeping his cool. Did seven years finally change that?

“Logan can’t do that.”

You feel your brows raised, amused. “Can’t I?”

“Stop talking like you’re her!”

Nope, you roll your eyes. He’s pulling the right threads. You know he is. And he just doesn’t want to admit it. “Thought you didn’t know where I live. Been following me, huh?”

Ortega doesn’t answer, and that was fine. You’re fine with just teasing out the answers. Letting him work it out. There’s a knock at the window, and you step over Logan like it’s nothing. Stronger breathing now, everything kicking in well and good. Safe for another day.

Daniel is pale when you let him in. Looking between you and Logan, you can see it on his face. Disapproval. No, you didn’t call him in. You didn’t need his help. Besides, having the Rangers’ golden boy being your backup would’ve made things worse. You can work with stab wounds, not bullet holes.

“I’ve stitched it up. I’ll live.”

It’s amusing, how Daniel seems to ignore Ortega. Hovers over you, checking for more damage. Not so subtly trying to cover your side. Oh, of course. You have to look at Ortega then. Had he not noticed? Incredible, for one whole moment, you had forgotten the tattoos. 

“What happened?”

“Got jumped. One guy got a good swipe in, but there probably isn’t much left of him now.” You do have some regrets about how you snapped at the pain. Literally biting at it, until the underling had been gripping his brain, screaming just as much as you had. “Whoops.”

“Logan…” a soft chide, but Daniel looks at Ortega. Then you. “Uh. Evan.” Embarrassment colours him. 

“You knew?”

Ortega is up, pissed off. “What the hell, Daniel?”

Holding his hands up, Daniel stands. “Hang on. It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“But you knew something?!”

“Leave him out of this, Ortega, Jesus.”

“You… shut up! Who are you? Evan? Someone else?” Oh, he was getting it now. Eyes flicking between the three of you. Not quite resting on Anima, but he knew something was there. Maybe he still thought you were connected to Hollow Ground (hah!).

“Logan. Technically.”

“She’s there.”

“No, I’m here.” You have to applaud yourself at maintaining your calm. Or was it Evan’s? Able to be so collected, even in the face of Ortega. Daniel had put himself between the two of you, subtly. Three of you, you should say, with how he had taken precautions to shield Logan’s body. 

Your body. Come on. Get it right.

“You’re not that kind of telepath. No one is.”

“Stop being so small minded, Ricardo.” God, since when was he so slow on the uptake. You’d seen his pinboard, with all the threads and photos. A habit you had even picked up from him, to get the bigger picture. And you had seen Evan’s photo in amongst it all, even when you’re sure you weren’t supposed to. 

This must’ve really been throwing him for a loop.

“You said you’re… surface level.” He trails, voice failing him. Bigger picture. Understanding. Threads linking.

“I lied, Jesus, what are you? Who are you?” You can’t help the laugh. “I had to.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Uh, yes, I did. Would you have believed me, at all? Ever? If I said that I can possess bodies?”

Daniel backs off, just a little. He noted the shift too. The way Ortega turns inwards, deflating. His fire wasn't being fanned anymore, and the immediate threat was passing. Looking at you, Daniel nods once, and picks Logan up. Whisking her away, into the bedroom, his feet never once touching the ground. 

From where you stand, you can see the way he sets you down, carefully, taking mind to assess the damage. That makes you smile, gently, until you see Ortega shift in your peripherals. 

“Tell me everything.”

Frowning, you can’t stop the way you snip out a “No.” Solid and whole. 

“Yes.”

You make a face. “No way.”

What was it about Evan that made you snappier? Unafraid. You know if you were Logan, you would be shrinking, trying to hide behind the mask. Calm and cavalier. Those feelings were not your friends right now, instead it was the way you ball your fists, wanting to knock Ortega’s head in. Not wanting to spell it out for him. It didn’t feel right in this body, anyway. Something about saying it out loud, made it sound fake, storybook, when Evan’s voice emphasised the Farm. The tank. 

Daniel had received the tidbits, in both ways. Where it felt easier, sometimes, as Evan. Realising it as a casual observer, like the weather over tea and biscuits. Most times it was Logan, in the quiet. Singular sentences. Stories told because of tender questions asked about one particular scar.

Ortega was the bull in the antique shop. Knocking around your perfect little landscape, opening all the doors. You wanted to clam up, kick him out. But it was far too late now. There was no touching his mind, not like this. 

Well, not like you had ever been able to, anyway. Whatever comfort the static had been was just plain irritating now. Evan just wanted to shut him down.

“I don’t understand.”

Daniel opens his mouth, to speak. Decides against it. Maybe you should’ve been in Logan, to read his mind. This was a turning point, surely. But you can’t make out what he was trying to say, from the way he raises his brows.

“I don’t understand, Evan, or Logan, or whatever the fuck your name is. What is this?!” Ortega’s voice pitches, and you wonder if you should’ve checked for insulation. No way to let the downstairs neighbours know that they might have Charge drop in on them.

“I don’t… I don’t get it.” At the drop in his voice, you feel your heart tug. Defeat. Was that really defeat?

“You do.” You’ve seen the threads. How it all ties together. You don’t want to say those words, so all you can do is nudge him. 

“Why?”

And that was the million dollar question wasn’t it? You don’t answer. Just kick aside the first aid kit, ignoring the way that the blood has completely ruined the rug, and reach for Daniel. He takes Evan by the hand carefully, understanding. But you hold Ortega’s gaze.

Until there’s the pull. The snap. Logan doesn’t want to wake up. Doesn’t want to breathe. She’s tired and sore and the stitches are fresh. But you call from the other room. A soft hiss of “Ricardo”, that gets the quick steps into the room. He’s looking, at you, back at Evan, at Daniel. Back at you.

Seeing, not believing. Oh well. Had to start somewhere. 

[kiruuuuu]

Sledge/Glaz oneshot in which Glaz’ dignity gets ambushed and beaten up in a dark alley. Who needs enemies when you can have Rook and Mute as friends? (Rating T/M, fluff/humour, ~1.8k) - for @magehir (because who else would want to see an innocent man suffer)

.

Lunch breaks are the best. Really, they’re Glaz’ favourite time of day, if he missed one he’d fall into a deep pit of depression, he loves them so much he’d like to track down the ancestors of the person who invented the lunch break and worship the ground they walk on. He wouldn’t mind not sleeping for a week if it meant that lunch breaks would be an hour longer, he’d give his arm and his leg and probably some other body parts as well and there’s no way he’s obsessing about this, absolutely not, he’s just really excited about lunch breaks, okay?

It has nothing to do with the fact that there are only few people in the kitchenette at this time, one of which happens to be British and tall and kind and who is he even kidding. It has everything to do with it. In fact, it’s literally the only reason he’s started coming here in the first place, normally he eats outside whenever possible or in the company of his fellow countrymen or his other friends and would’ve complained both ways had someone dragged him to the small kitchen and back. He prefers sunlight – however, Sledge’s presence counts as a viable substitute because while the sun manages to heat up his skin, make him relax and feel cosy and comfortable, Sledge does exactly the same thing exactly the same way: just by existing. And so, nowadays, he spends his lunch breaks here.

Since Sledge often has other matters to attend to, he’s rarely alone, is usually surrounded by other SAS operators from Hereford, some of Six’ underlings or members of Rainbow – he’s never really on break and so they don’t talk most of the time which suits Glaz just fine. He doesn’t need to converse with him to bask in his presence, to feel his knees weaken whenever his accent gets unintelligibly thick, to observe him out of the corner of his eye. Besides, Glaz has things to do as well, it’s not like his entire day revolves around Sledge, he has no trouble finding activities that have nothing to do -

“Oh, you’re drawing Seamus again?”, Rook might as well scream into the small room from behind Glaz’ shoulder. He didn’t hear him coming but wishes he did because said Scot glances over at them curiously right before going back to his discussion with Tachanka, undoubtedly having heard the blunt announcement. “Scoot over.” The Frenchman squeezes onto the bench next to him, closely followed by Mute who pushes in from the other side, effectively trapping Glaz between them. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Of course he does, but he’s busy right now”, Mute replies and indicates Sledge with his chin.

Glaz closes his sketchbook before the two can drop more detailed comments about his drawings and fights against the flush rising to his cheeks. Fights and fails. “Look”, he says levelly and doesn’t even know how to continue because anything he responds can and will be used against him. Ever since the other two found out about his hopeless infatuation, he hasn’t had a single quiet minute. He can only pray that Sledge doesn’t get wind of it which might mean the end of lunch breaks and staring at him secretly and, honestly, the end of Glaz. There’s no way he could ever recover if Sledge found out.

“Can I see?”, a voice asks politely and Glaz has the sudden urge to violently toss his sketchbook through the window and then pretend he has no idea what Sledge is talking about.

“Sure, here!” Rook readily snatches the book from Glaz’ hands and shoves it into Sledge’s. “Make sure to flip through it all.”

His fingers are itching to take it back immediately but that would only raise more suspicion, so he silently glares at Rook and attempts to murder him with his gaze alone. Without success. Meanwhile, Sledge is leafing through the pages with an absent-minded smile and Glaz befalls a sudden panic upon not remembering of which nature the other drawings are. Did he - “It’s really good. You draw me a lot”, Sledge points out and returns the book. It sounds friendly and unsuspecting but who would his friends be if they left it at that?

“He also drew you butt naked”, Mute announces helpfully, “but since he hasn’t actually seen you fully nude, he botched your dick size. Way too small.”

“Yeah, you should rectify that and show him.”

“Oh, of course, meet me after work”, Sledge addresses Glaz with a good-natured grin and a wink to which the other two burst out into laughter.

Glaz wants to evaporate into thin air. It’s painfully obvious that Sledge thinks they’re joking yet all the younglings are just as painfully aware that they’re not, that Glaz did try to draw him like that and Mute found it and really, it’s his own fault for hiding it in plain sight, meaning under a loose floorboard that can only be moved once his bed is pushed aside inside a box with a lock whose key Glaz keeps on his person at all times. How irresponsible of him.

“It’s probably the fact that he always draws during breaks and since he’s usually here, he draws what he sees”, Rook explains to Glaz’ instant suspicion. It’s a good excuse, lacking any euphemisms or second thoughts, so there has to be something -

“Yeah, why are you here all the time recently?”

He stares at Mute who meets his gaze with an irritating smirk. He’s basically forcing his hand. “Because I’ve developed a sudden craving for tea”, he grits out unwillingly, making Sledge spring into action.

“That’s right, I almost forgot!” The Scotsman turns away and picks up his argument with Tachanka again while he sets out to boil some filtered water and Glaz buries his head in his hands.

“I hate you both so fucking much”, he whispers to gleeful giggling.

“We brought you some presents, by the way.” They quickly reach into their pockets and begin stuffing Glaz’ with their contents, wrappers crinkling and he realises with growing horror what they are. “Hopefully, you’ll need ‘em someday.”

“Are you nuts?! You can’t – take them back, you Neanderthals!”

“But we have no use for them”, Rook protests and shoves them deeper into Glaz’ pockets, swatting his hands away, “they’re the biggest size, you’re the only one who realistically -”

“It’s all you need, I’ve discovered his lube stash but figured you might not wanna get frosted right away -”

“Oh my God, shut up”, Glaz hisses exasperatedly and probably would have thrown both of them off the bench hadn’t Sledge returned right then and set down two cups of tea on the table in front of them. He’s too mortified to even thank him, his ears burning and his mind conjuring up entirely inappropriate images that only exacerbate the whole situation.

“You don’t take sugar either, do you?”, Sledge asks Mute and is granted a sweet smile in return.

“No, but like Glaz, I take cream.”

A questioning glance to the Russian whose embarrassment is approaching critical levels. “I don’t – I’ll drink it like this. As always. Uh, thanks.” He can’t stand tea. Another bullet point on the very long list of things that, unfortunately, Rook and Mute know but Sledge doesn’t, and so they never miss an opportunity to remind him of his ‘newfound love’ of the swill. Additionally, Glaz made the mistake in the beginning to claim he drank it pure, like Sledge, in an entirely misguided attempt to impress him. It did work, to an extent, but he still curses himself for it because he’s had to drink a cup almost every day for the past few weeks now.

“Oh? I thought you loved cream”, Mute says innocently. “My mistake. Maybe you’ll start having it eventually.”

Glaz is starting to tip over into a murderous rage but is momentarily distracted by the fact that Rook wordlessly drops a few sugar cubes into his tea as soon as Sledge isn’t watching for which he is eternally grateful yet also deeply confused. “Why in the world do you have those?”

“Are you alright, boy?”, a booming voice is directed at him all of a sudden, making him jump. “You’re so red in the face, are you sick?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry, it’s just a bit warm -”

“It’s not warm at all, what are you talking about?” Tachanka is undeterred and ignores Glaz even though he repeatedly insists that he’s alright. “Nonsense, you’re never this red. Do you have a fever? Seamus, check whether my boy has a fever.”

But Sledge, the absolute angel, must’ve noticed something, probably a cry for help in Glaz’ eyes or just his general distress because he not only refuses but also compliments Tachanka out of the room, saving Glaz the indignity of a prolonged interrogation during which he’d either have to lie repeatedly or shoot himself in the face afterwards. He thinks he’s safe for exactly two and a half seconds, then a broad hand comes to rest on his forehead unexpectedly. The touch is gentle and the hazel eyes looking down at him soft and Glaz swoons. “Doesn’t feel like a fever”, Sledge murmurs, “if you feel fine, it’s probably nothing.”

While he walks back to the counter to clean and tidy, Glaz is still stunned by the fact that a simple gesture could incapacitate him like this, make him forget all about his surroundings and just wallow in his daydreams that are sweet and lovely and - “Oh, look at the time”, Mute mumbles next to him, “it’s time for your knickers to get wet.” And he knocks over his own cup of tea.

He does it so strategically that almost all of it sloshes over Glaz, soaks his t-shirt and trousers and yes, his underwear too. He’s lucky it’s not too hot anymore but he curses colourfully regardless, attempts to jump up but only hits his knees on the table until Rook takes pity on him and gets up so he can escape the dripping mess – and it only registers after Sledge’s words why Mute would do this.

“Are you alright? Did you burn yourself? Stand still.” He’s by Glaz’ side immediately, rubbing his trousers with a towel and Glaz is too shocked to react or shy away from the touch when it reaches his pockets, making them crinkle audibly. “Ah, you’d better empty your pockets, lad.”

And Glaz wants to perish.

[gimmesumsuga]

BTS Reaction - Make up sex

Seokjin

“Sweetheart… I’m sorry.”  

You feel Jin’s weight settle next to you on the bed, returning from wherever he stormed off to not ten minutes earlier.  Sorry or not, his apology doesn’t take back all the ruthless things his sharpened tongue have said, or act to ease the flow of tears running down your face.  He’s usually such a sweetie - such a goofball with his terrible jokes and cheesy smiles - so seeing him lose his temper like that… having him yell at you for the very first time… it’s shocked you to the core.  

He reaches out to touch your back, unable to hide the hurt he feels when you flinch away.  When he softly utters your name you can hear the regret lacing his voice, and despite all the pain you feel you can’t help but lift your face from your knees to look at him, this man you love so much.  

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and expression he wears is so guilt-ridden, so tormented, that you feel some of your own anger start to slip away.  

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper back, tilting your face into his hand when he reaches out to wipe your tears away.  Jin’s touch is so comforting, so soothing, that you don’t resist when he moves closer, cupping your face in both hands now.  The way he leans closer to you is cautious, his eyes flicking between yours for any sign that you’re going to run away, but much to his surprise you’re the one closes the gap between you.  You bring your lips to his in an eager kiss, your hands finding the front of his sweater and gripping it tightly to pull him closer.  

“I didn’t mean… what I said…” Jin mumbles between the meeting of your mouths, his fingers pushing back your hair and then grabbing at your back, pulling you into him as you start to tug at his clothes.  

“Jin… just shut up.”  His sweater coming off cuts short any reply what he might have had, your tongue slipping into his mouth ensuring he remains mute save the languid groan of pleasure he makes as you fall onto your back, pulling him with you to lie between your legs.  It doesn’t take long for the both of you to lose the rest of your clothes, and when Jin starts to touch you gently between your legs you only wait a few seconds, no more, before pushing his hand away and whispering against his lips that you're ready.  

He needs no more encouragement than to hear those needful words from your tongue to give into that most primal of urges.  He lines himself up with your achingly wet core and then slowly starts to push inside, his kisses never ceasing even as you gasp at the feeling of his thick length stretching you open beneath him.  The feeling of Jin beginning to move inside you, his hands worshipping every inch of  your body… there could be no better comfort that he could provide.  

He rests his face against the crook of your neck, peppering your skin with sweet, loving kisses as he maintains the slow, steady pace of his hips, dragging his cock back and forth inside you to stimulate all your deepest, darkest places.

“You're so beautiful… I love you so much.”

Yoongi

You hate it when he’s like this.  Arguments you can handle easily enough; blessed with a quick mind and wide vocabulary, verbal slanging matches are practically your forte - but this?  The cold shoulder, the sullen silences, the dean-pan expression and icy stare?  You have no idea what to do with this.  

It makes you feel nervous, chewing on your bottom lip and playing with a frayed thread on your shirt as you wait for Yoongi to explode; to shout, to scream, to throw things, anything.  Anything but just stand there on the other side of the room, arms folded, regarding you like you’re something nasty he just found on the bottom of his shoe.  You knew you were asking for trouble when you kept teasing him earlier, talking back and making fun with the rest of his friends.  The dark look settling Yoongi’s eyes should’ve been enough of an indicator for you to stop, but you’d liked making them laugh and you’d liked being centre of attention, so you’d carried on, unknowingly pushing him far beyond his limits of tolerance.

“What do you want from me, Yoongi?”  you sigh eventually, peeking out at him from under your lashes.  Silence.  “You want me to say sorry?”  He cocks his head to the side.  “Well I’m sorry, ok?”  Still he says nothing, and you end up losing your patience, letting out a loud groan of frustration and shoving your head into your hands.  

“I don’t want your ‘sorry’s’,” he drawls after a moment, voice soft and deadly, and you lift your face to look at him over the tips of your fingers, wide eyed.  He starts to walk toward you, letting his arms fall from his chest, rotating the ring on his index finger round and round.  “What I want… is for you to never disrespect me like that ever again.”  Yoongi stops short of the sofa, just a pace or two away, his eyes blazing as he glares down at you.  “I want you to not to be such a fucking brat.”  

You take a sharp intake of breath into your hands, equally shocked and confused by his savage tone and the heat you can feel unfurling deep in your belly in response to it.  

“I want you down on your fucking knees, showing me you can do as you’re told, for once.”  What?

Your hands fall from your face, sitting up just a little bit straighter as you try to figure out if Yoongi’s serious or not.  The steely look in his eyes and the obvious bulge in his sweats are enough to convince you of his intentions, and before you know it your body is moving down to sit on the hard wooden floor at his feet, your hands grabbing at the elasticated waist to tug them down.  

“Open your mouth,” Yoongi tells you sharply, grabbing the base of his hardened cock and pointing it towards your lips expectantly.  You do as you’re told, letting your jaw go slack as you look up at him from under your eyelashes, taking a breath when you feel him grab a hold of the back of your head.  He pulls you onto him, slipping the entire length of his cock into your mouth and down your throat in one fell swoop, and then holding you there with a grunt of satisfaction. When you start to caress the length of him with your tongue, your throat burning, you watch as pleasure softens the harshness of his features.  

Though Yoongi’s still rough as he starts to thrust in and out of your mouth, some of the anger seems to have faded from his eyes, a smirk forming across his face as you moan around him.  His other hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his cock slipping back and forth between your spit slickened lips.  

“Can’t talk back now, can you?

Hoseok

It’s been six months since yours and Jung Hoseok’s paths have crossed.  Six months since he walked out of your life, shouting and slamming doors, tired of having the same argument with you again and again.  You’d convinced yourself you were long over him, sure that if you ever saw him again you’d be able to look him square in the eyes and feel absolutely nothing.  

Oh, how very wrong you were.  He had to be here, tonight of all nights, when you’ve already fallen out with the people who’re supposed to love you most.  All you want is to drown your sorrows, but when you catch sight of Hobi from across the dance floor, his body moving fluidly to the music, you can’t deny the magnetic pull that draws you across the room.  He hasn’t seen you yet, too busy beaming his 1,000 watt smile at the petite girl grinding against his side, and even though it hurts you to watch, you can’t look away.  

Hobi always understood.  He was always the one to put you back together after mother had torn you apart with her sharp tongue and harsh criticisms, and you find yourself aching for that comfort from him now.  Thoughtlessly you approach until you’re only a few steps away, standing in the middle of the dance floor like some kind of motionless moron, gasping when his eyes pass over you and ready to sob in the split seconds between him looking away and then doing a double take.  You see his mouth form the syllables of your name, and though the music is far too loud the memory of his voice makes it almost so you can hear it anyway, a thrill running down your spine.

He steps away from the girl - she’s thankfully too drunk to mind - to stand directly in front of you, his eyes running all over you from top to toe, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.  

It’s only when he reaches out to touch your cheek, his eyebrows knotted in concern, that you realise you’re crying.  You pull away abruptly, shaking your head and roughly wiping your eyes, but the damage is already done.  That simple touch has been branded into your skin now, and all you can think about is having more and more and more.  Apparently, Hobi feels the same.  He grabs your hand and drags you away from the dance floor, towards the toilets, and when he finds the one marked as disabled he pushes you inside and then locks the door firmly behind him when he enters too, ignoring the shocked look on your face.  

For a few moments you both just stand there, absorbing every inch of each other, but right when you’re about to speak Hobi suddenly launches himself at you.  Your back slams into the countertop behind you as his mouth does the same, meeting yours in a hard, fervent kiss that smacks of desperation, and then suddenly his hands are hooking behind your thighs, lifting you onto it so he can stand between your legs.  Your hands are in his hair, pulling on it, trying to get him closer even though you know it’s not physically possible, his tongue fighting for dominance with yours.  

There’s someone banging on the toilet door - people must’ve seen the two of you run inside - but you couldn’t care less.  All you can focus on is Hobi’s fingertips grabbing  your thighs, hitching up to your skirt as you yank open his pants, craving the feel of him inside you after so long.  As quickly as you can pull his long cock free he’s sliding you off the counter and onto it, thrusting inside you barebacked as you wrap your legs around his hips, knowing instinctively that you’ll be wet enough to take it.  You always were.  

“Shit, I missed this pussy,” he grunts into you ear, bouncing you on his length.

“I missed you, god, I miss you.” 

Namjoon

Hitting the ‘send’ button with far more force than necessary you let out a scream of frustration, throwing your phone across the room and onto the sofa for a soft landing.  Yes, you’re pissed off, but you still don’t want a broken phone.  Namjoon wrecks enough of your stuff without trying, you won’t give him the satisfaction of being responsible for that too.  

You’re not replying again, no matter what he has to say for himself.  In fact, you’re not even going to read his response.  Deep down, you know you’re over-reacting - him not doing the dishes is hardly worth this amount of aggravation.  Truth be told, every time he does it you usually end up having to to the store to buy more to replace the ones he’s dropped and smashed on the floor, but that’s not the point.  The point is Namjoon always makes these promises about things he’s going to do to help out more around the house, and then something bigger and better and more important comes up, and you’re left to do all the grunt work.  Every time.  

You pointedly ignore the flashing light on your phone for the rest of the night, knowing that he won’t be home ‘till really late and still soothing too much to make up in the meantime.  It’s left abandoned on the sofa when you go to bed, too, only managing to fall asleep after you’ve helped yourself relax with a long, hot bath that helps to melt some of the stress away.   

It’s Namjoon climbing into bed next to you that wakes you up a few hours later, though you still pretend to be fast asleep until you feel him start to shuffle up against your back, his face pressed between your shoulder blades.  

“I’m still mad,” you murmur, your voice husky from sleep, and mad you might be, but you still can’t find it in your heart to pull away from him into the little bit of space left on your side of the bed.  

“I know,” he mumbles back, the words blowing hot across your back, shuddering involuntarily at the lingering kiss he presses there.  In the pause that follows Namjoon gingerly places his arms over your side, bracing himself for rejection but squeezing you tightly when it doesn’t come.  “Do you still love me?” He asks it so cutely, his voice sugary sweet, and despite all your earlier irritation you end up huffing a laugh at him, placing your hand on top of his where it rests on your stomach.  

“Of course I do, you dick.”  Namjoon laughs now too, kissing the slope of your shoulder as you twist your head round to be able to look at him.  

“Good.”  He plants another kiss and then another, working his way upward until he’s pressing kisses to your neck too, all the hairs on your body standing on end when he whispers, “Because I love you too.”  When you feel his hand start to slowly make its way southward you do little to stop it, more than happy to make up in the most pleasurable way possible, sighing softly when it slips under the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

It doesn’t take Namjoon to work you into a frenzy, rubbing gently at your clitoris and then running his fingers through your folds until they’re slick with warm arousal, all the while kissing your neck, loving the skin with his lips and his tongue.  He pushes your shorts down over your hips, separating your bodies for just a second to remove his boxers, and then he’s taking hold of your uppermost thigh and lifting it, supporting it as he positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.  

“Joonie,” you sigh softly, arching your back against him, feeling him smile against your neck before slowly sliding in from behind.  He groans when his long length is fully seated inside of you, feeling your warm walls clench around him in welcome.

“Babygirl, you feel so good.”

Jimin

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?”  Jimin yells, brandishing your phone out by his side, waving it around like a taunt.  

“He’s a friend Jimin, that’s it!” you shriek back, a hand in your hair as you pull at it in frustration.  Sure, those text messages from Baekyun might’be been a little flirtly, but you know he didn’t mean anything by them, not really.  Obviously, your boyfriend doesn’t see it that way.

“Oh yeah, it really looks like it.  Real friendly.”  A sneer twists Jimin’s usually soft, pliant mouth, your stomach twisting unpleasantly too when you see it.  

“Well maybe you shouldn’t go looking through my phone if you’re gonna have such a fucking problem with what you find.”  You see his fists clench at his sides, his eyes narrowing as he glares back at you from across the room, and it takes every bit of your willpower to force yourself not to look away, to stand strong and glare right back.  You know if your heart of hearts that you haven’t done anything wrong, so you’ll be damned if you let Jimin make you feel guilty.  Fuck that.  

Still, when he suddenly stalks towards you, throwing your phone to the side, you can’t help but flinch in anticipation of what he might do.  He grabs a hold of each of your upper arms, squeezing hard as his dark eyes flit back and forth between yours, and then all of a sudden he’s crashing his mouth to yours, rushing you backward until your back slams against the wall.  

“Jimin!” you muffle against his mouth, your eyes wide as his hands start to roam all over you, grabbing at your hip, groping your breast, fixing your bottom lip between his teeth and biting, hard.  “What’re you-”

“No one but me gets to touch you like this, you hear?” he growls into your mouth, already pulling up your skirt with one hand as the other flips open his belt.  His tongue pushes into your mouth as he shoves his jeans down to sit just below his shapely ass, pulling his erection free from his boxers to leak pre-cum onto your favourite top as touches you through your panties.  “You think Baekyun could get you this wet?  Shit, I barely have to touch you and you’re dripping for me.”   

“Jimin,” you groan helplessly, loving how rough and forceful he’s being even though his fingers hurt and you’ll be covered in bruises tomorrow.  Fighting or not, all you want is for him to take you, now, right here, wreck and ruin you in his name.  

He grabs one of your thighs and hitches it over his hip, bending at the knees and pulling your panties to the side to line his cock up with your entrance.  He thrusts up and into you savagely, splitting you open with his girthy length, and once he’s deep inside you he picks up your other leg so they’re both wrapped around his waist, supporting your weight with help from the wall you’re still pressed against.  

“Baekyun couldn’t fuck you the way I do,” Jimin grunts, snapping his hips back and forth as you cry out again and again, grabbing onto his shoulders, your head tilted forward, tears streaming from your eyes.  He’s fucking you so hard that his hip bones are digging into you with every thrust, sharp and painful, but you don’t care, you want it to hurt.  It only makes it feel better. 

“Say his name, I fucking dare you.”

Taehyung

You and Tae have never had a complicated relationship.  You'd gotten on instantly when you‘d first met working as a make up girl under BigHit’s paycheck, fast friends ever since.  You've got the same sense of humour and humble upbringings; even the same fashion sense 99% of the time.  He’s always invited you to the group's dance practices too, though you get the feeling that if Tae could’ve taken back tonight’s invitation without  having to give you a reason, he definitely would’ve done.    

He's been off with you ever since you stayed the night last weekend, replying only intermittently to your texts with short, clipped sentences that just aren't like him, and for the life of you you can't figure out what's wrong.  It'd been a normal night; you watched movies, ate crappy food, talked.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  You'd hoped seeing him in person might improve things but Tae’s been avoiding you all night, barely saying a word.  The only time he paid you any attention was when you'd been playing thumb wars with Jin, and then his stare had been intense that it was you who’d to look away first.  

Once practice is over you expect Tae to wait for you as he usually does, but when you straighten up from collecting your things off the floor you see his back already disappearing through the doorway.  You call his name, running after him, grabbing hold of his arm and forcing him to stop.  

“What the hell is going on with you lately?” you question, ignoring the awkward look you can see on Jimin’s face as he passes.  “Aren't you giving me a ride home?” Taehyung just stares blankly back at you.  

“Why don't you get Jin-hyung to take you?”  You raise your eyebrows at him, infuriated when he copies your gesture.   What’s that supposed to mean?  Huffing, you drag him back into the studio and lock the door behind you, determined not to leave until you've gotten this sorted out.  

“Why're you bringing Jin into this Tae?” He avoids your eyes, staring at his feet. “Is this about what I said the other night?”  It's the only possible thing you can think of; you'd asked whether you should ask Jin out on a date - he was sweet and funny and always made a lot of effort to speak to you, so why not?  It’s not like you’d been getting any other offers lately.  Still, Taehyung says nothing.  “Look, if you think it'd be too weird for me to date one of your friends you should just say so.”

“It's not just Jin!”  he suddenly snaps, his deep voice raised in volume, “I don't want you to date anyone at all!”  Your mouth hangs agape for a moment - Tae's never shouted at you before, not once.  

“Why not?  I know you're protective of me, but-”

“Because I want to date you, ok?!  It should be me, not Jin!” he blurts out, slinging his bag off of his shoulder to slide across the wooden floor and into the mirror.  You're at a total loss for words, struck mute by his confession. “And I know I'm too young for you and I'm immature and I've never… I've never told you any of this.”  Taehyung strides over with more decisiveness you've ever seen from him, grabbing hold of your hands in his.  “But I love you, I'm in love you with you.”  And then suddenly he’s kissing you with an intensity and a fierceness you never knew he was capable of, pressing his body against yours and squeezing your hands so tight it’s like he’s afraid to let go.  

“Tell me you feel the same, please, Noona, I need to hear you say you love me too,” Taehyung pleads, his forehead resting against yours when he pulls away, his eyes closed tight like he’s in pain.  

“Of course I do,” you whisper, taking his face in your hands and smoothing out the worry lines with your thumbs, finally letting yourself succumb to all the feelings you’ve been holding back for so long.  “Of course I love you.  I always have, Tae.”  The look of amazement and wonder on his face is so pure, so sweet that it almost makes you cry until he starts kissing you again, deeper and needier than before, more perfect than you ever dreamed it could be.

Before you know it he’s dragging you to the floor with him and you’re both pulling off your clothes, desperate for the intimacy you’ve both deprived yourselves of for so long.  You’re too caught up to even properly appreciate the sight of each other naked for the first time; just feeling, tasting, touching one another, wetter than you’ve ever been in your life when Taehyung finally finds his way inside.  He starts to move only when you’re gasping and begging him to do so, tilting your hips up to help him find and abuse your g-spot.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Noona,” he groans into your shoulder, his thick, hardened length throbbing inside you as he moves.  

“This is perfect… you’re so perfect.” 

Jungkook

Jungkook’s in one of his silly, playful moods tonight.  Usually it wouldn’t be a problem - you love the times where you get to play around and laugh together - but you’ve got a paper due tomorrow, one you’re already way behind on, so you really don’t appreciate the way he keeps poking and prodding you in an attempt to get a reaction, tickling and teasing you when you’ve already repeatedly asked him to quit it.  

When he goes so far as to start tapping the top of your laptop, flapping the screen down over and over and over again as you try to type, your frayed temper finally snaps.  You round on him, the stress you’re under making you respond far more angrily than you normally would, fingers clenching the keyboard so hard that it creaks.  

“WIll you just stop it?”  you yell, oblivious to the way Jungkook shrinks back into the sofa a little, startled by the ferocity of your voice.  “Can’t you just act your age, for once? Maknae or not you’re still supposed to be an adult, Jungkook, so maybe you should start thinking about growing the fuck up.”    He blinks at you once and then twice, expression completely blank and unspeaking as you glare back at him, almost daring him to give you an excuse to let rip once more.  He doesn’t utter a word though, not as he rises from the couch or as he leaves the room, shutting his bedroom door quietly behind him.

It doesn’t take you long to calm down.  As hot and quick as your temper is it always burns out fast too, and by the time it does you’re feeling truly awful about what just happened, guilt sitting heavy in your stomach when you think about the way you spoke to him.  It’s useless trying to work now - even without Jungkook here to bother you you still can’t concentrate - so you shut your laptop with a sigh and then ready yourself to go eat a slice of humble pie, approaching Jungkook’s closed door and knocking softly.  There’s no answer, but you don’t hear a ‘go away’ either, so you decide to forge ahead cautiously, opening the door and poking your head through the gap to look inside.  

Jungkook’s sat on the edge of his bed, his ps4 controller in hand, eyes fixed on the TV as his fingers move mechanically over the buttons.  He doesn’t acknowledge you as you approach, nor does he when you sit gingerly beside him, but when you try to place your hand on his knee he abruptly jerks it away from your reach.  You deserve that, you know you do, so you try not to take it to heart.

You lean forward to look at his face and when you do you’re devastated by what you see;  his cheeks are red and splotchy, and even though his eyes are dry now you can tell by how puffy they are that he’s been crying.  God, if you felt awful before, it’s nothing compared to how you feel now.  

“I’m so sorry…” you murmur, looking guiltily at the floor, “Kookie, I-”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, pausing his game to glare at you icily, “I’m not a baby.”  You flounder for a moment, wanting so desperately to touch him but frightened he’ll push you away again.  

“I know you’re not, Jungkook… I didn’t mean what I said, I was just… stressed out and angry and… I know that’s not an excuse.”  You’re rambling now, wanting to make it better but unable to find the right words to say under such an intense gaze.  “Let me make it up to you.”  This time when you reach out to touch him Jungkook lets you, albeit still reluctantly.  He lets you place one hand on his cheek as the other settles on his thigh.  He lets you kiss him too; softly, apologetically, and with all the feeling you can muster.  He’s slow to kiss you back, but when he does it's with a needfulness that makes you groan, his tongue slipping inside your mouth, delving deeply.  All his earlier upset from your harsh words has morphed into a will to dominate, a desire to show you just powerful he can be that has him grabbing onto you so hard that it starts to hurt.  

When you dig your fingernails into the meaty muscle of his thigh Jungkook abruptly pulls you onto his lap to straddle him, and suddenly you're all too aware of his erection pressing hot and heavy against your core, gasping when he shifts his hips underneath you.  He grabs onto your waist, grinding you down against him, smirking at the moan that leaves your lips.  

“Are you gonna tell me that that doesn’t feel like a man, huh?”  he growls, circling both of your hips to provide agonising friction against your clit, stimulating you through your clothes until they’re practically soaked through.  “I guess you won’t want me to fuck you then, will you, if I’m such a child… if I’m so immature?”  

“Please… Kook-Jungkookie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” you mewl, grabbing onto his shirt, your body trying to ride him even as he shoves you off of his lap.

“Take those off,” he orders and instantly you obey, stripping your lower half, your mouth practically watering as you watch him strip and then lie back flat on the bed, stroking his cock with his hair dangling into his lust-darkened eyes.  You crawl back onto the bed when he beckons you with his finger, sitting astride him with your core hovering above his cock, dripping into his lap with how aroused you are.  He rubs the tip of his cock through your folds, teasing you until neither of you can bare it any longer, finally grabbing onto your hips and pulling you down onto him hard, grunting as your ass slaps into his lap.  

“Come on baby, show me how sorry you are.” 

My oh my, those just got longer and longer didn’t they? 

[hellomissmabel]

A heart for Christmas

MASTERLIST

This is not your typical sugary sweet Christmas fic because not every Christmas is sugary sweet. So I wanted to show you a different side to Christmas, a good side we don’t often get to read about in fics. I hope you enjoy it <3 Have a merry Christmas, you lovely humans!

Pairing: Steve x reader

Warnings: hospital setting, mentions of car crash, death, cancer, out of body experience, angst but with a fluffy ending. Be prepared to cry a little.

Word count: 3k

Summary: Y/N is forced to spend Christmas Eve at the hospital and a handsome doctor named Steve Rogers meets the ghost of one of his patients, helping him to make a true Christmas miracle come true.

A/N: Written for @curvybihufflepuff <3

Friendly reminder to everyone participating in #annies2kbirthdaycelebration: your entries are due tomorrow! If you haven’t asked for an extension yet and you need one, just ask! I’m more than happy to give you an extension <3 I’ll be reading all fics once they have been submitted.

All Steve x reader fics can be found here

The ICU is the most quiet ward of the entire hospital, so you took it upon yourself to introduce some Christmas spirit and decorate the hallways. Warming up some of the staff for your initiative, you didn’t find it very difficult to convince some or the nurses to help you out. Wanda, Natasha and Sam offered you a helping hand and chimed in on the Christmas carols you were humming during your mission to dust every single corner in a festive mood.

As you’re stringing up the lights with Sam, Natasha is decorating the Christmas tree with Wanda. “Have you heard about Sharon and Steve?,” Sam mumbles as he glances over at the two nurses over his shoulder.

“What about them?,” you ask with a puzzled look. “You’re talking about nurse Sharon or patient Sharon?”

Sam’s voice drops another octave. “Nurse Sharon. I didn’t even know we had a patient named Sharon.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you quickly turn serious again when he leans in to whisper into your ear. “She’s Peggy’s niece.” The suggestive tone of his voice leads you to believe she isn’t just Peggy’s niece. “Apparently Steve and Sharon were.. ya know… doing the nasty when Tony walked in on them.”

“No way,” you gasps while struggling with the lights so much Sam has to wrap his arm around your waist to hold you steady just as Steve rounds the corner. The blond immediately stops in his tracks as he sees you tucked into Sam’s side, laughing heartily.

Clearing his throat, he announces his presence in the most awkward way. “Is it now common for the nurses and patients to decorate the hallways?”

Startled by Steve’s voice, your left foot slips off the ladder as you lose your balance. Sam’s eyes widen as his grip on you loosens and can’t hold you for much longer. Luckily Steve realises you’re going to fall before you actually do, rushing over to the ladder and catching  you with a soft thud when you land in his arms.

Baby blue eyes stare into yours, his chest heaving as adrenaline rushes through him. “Easy there, Y/N,” he chuckles with a soft smile, glad you’re okay. “I haven’t cleared you just yet.”

“Sorry, doc,” you smile warmly back at him, glad you didn’t end up in your hospital bed again. “Just trying to lift everyone’s spirit, that’s all.”

Setting you back onto your own two feet, Steve dust off his white coat. “Maybe you should go get some more rest, doll. Sam got it all covered.” Shooting Sam a dirty glance, the nurse hastily averts his eyes and continues. “I’ll escort you back to your room.”

“No, I can find my own way back,” you brush off his offer slightly more stern than you initially wanted to, bidding goodbye to Sam and the other nurses as you walk back to your hospital bed with Steve hot on your heels.

“It’s really nice of you, Y/N,” Steve eventually sighs after you’ve tucked yourself into bed, hiking up your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs, pouting a little at the blond doctor.

“It’s Christmas,” you mumble under your breath, disappointed you couldn’t finish what you started. “And a lot of people won’t be able to go home to celebrate with their family.”

Steve sits down on the bed next to you, the edge dipping slightly under his weight. He rests a hand on your shoulder, eyes locking with yours. “One more week, Y/N.”

One more week. That’s what he’s been telling you for the past 3 weeks. It was supposed to be a routine operation, but then complications arose and you almost died on his table. You get it that a full recovery is necessary before you can leave, but it’s Christmas Eve and you’d rather spend it with your brother than some stuck-up surgeon.

“And one more week after that. And another week after that…,” you answer annoyed and frustrated, breaking eye contact as tears well up in your eyes. “I just wanna go see my brother.”

Exhaling deeply, Steve senses this conversation has come to an end. “If it’s any consolation,” he says while leaving the room, leaning against the door frame, waiting for you to look up again. “I don’t have anyone waiting at home for me.”

Glancing at him from the corner of your eye, you see his head drop a little in sadness. “I’m sorry.” Those two, simple words draw a tiny laugh from his lips. “Well, since I’m stuck here anyway, why don’t you spend Christmas eve with me?”

He’s surprised by your suggestion, momentarily speechless. “I – I don’t think that’s appropriate,” he stutters timidly, a shy blush tinting his cheeks red.

“Fuck appropriate. My brother lives a thirteen-hour bus ride away, so it’s safe to say he’s not going to make it. Besides, he’s got a family, too. And if it makes you feel a bit more comfortable, you can bring Sharon too.”

A baffled, puzzled expression washes over Steve’s face. “Why would I bring Sharon?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t she your girlfriend or something?,” you shrug, getting a bit embarrassment you were so straightforward.

Steve’s clutches his side as he bursts into a fit of giggles. “Oh no, definitely not. She’s my ex’s niece!” Closing the door behind him again, he takes a seat in the chair opposite your hospital bed. “Did Sam feed you gossip again for dessert?”

Smiling sheepishly, you nod your head in confirmation. “Sharon has a boyfriend but it’s not me. He’s also one of the doctors but they’re trying to keep their relationship low profile. Tony almost caught them making out but I got there first and covered for him.”

“Damn,” you chuckle as you catch your lower lip between your teeth, “I feel so stupid now.”

“Don’t, doll,” Steve assures you with a wink. “And about Christmas Eve… I’ll see what I can do.” With a grateful grin, you thank doctor Steve before he exits your room, your heart skipping a beat.

Bucky awakes with no sense of pain or aching. He doesn’t seem to feel anything at all. Standing in the middle of an empty hallway, no sign of the Christmas lights he saw that pretty girl hang up together with the nurses, a soft glow guides him back towards his room where he was sleeping merely seconds ago. Doctor Rogers and one of the nurses, he believes her name is Maria, are giving him CPR. His body is lifeless, a flat line appearing on the screen of the heart monitor.

“What the fuck?” He rushes the words out and they catch the attention of the doctor, much to his disbelief. Steve’s eyes find Bucky’s and both men their mouths fall open just as a faint heartbeat is detected again.

Dismissing Maria and closing the curtains, Steve turns towards Bucky’s ghost. “What’s going on? How is this possible? Can you really see me?”

Steve calms down Bucky, whose eyes frantically scan his body still lying in the same hospital bed.  “Don’t freak out, okay. Let me explain.”

“Don’t freak out!,” Bucky barks so loudly that Steve has to cover up his ears. “DON’T FREAK OUT ARE YOU KIDDING ME THAT IS ME IN THAT BED AM I DEAD?”

“No, you’re not dead. But you were…” Steve points towards the heart monitor. “You were dead for almost a full minute, but we brought you back. Although…” The doctor doesn’t know how to break the news to the ghost of his patient that he doesn’t have long anymore. Eventually he settles for “You’re not quite out of harm’s. That’s why I can see you.”

Nervously carding his fingers through his chestnut hair, Bucky searches for an explanation. “So because I was dead, I am here as a ghost. But I’m not dead?”

“No, you’re not dead. You’re hanging on by a thread.”

“Well, thank you?,” Bucky says sarcastically. “But how come you can see me? Are you some kind of witch doctor or what?”

“You know, no one bothered me this much when I was dead”, the blonde surgeons murmurs as he throws his head back with a groan. Bucky’s by far the most annoying ghost he’s met so far.

“Look, Bucky, you were dead but you’re still in critical condition. That’s why you’re here, as a ghost. And you’ll be a ghost for as long as you need to… come to terms with your condition. And I can see you because I was once I your position. I got shot during a robbery and ended up in the hospital. I roamed these hallways for months as they kept me in an artificial coma. And when I woke up, I found out my wife Peggy had left me because she just couldn’t take it anymore.”

The brunet swallows thickly, the tension in the air almost palpable. “Okay,” he treads carefully, “Okay. So, you’ve been through this, too. Okay…. Okay. Great. No, not great, just.. Ugh… Where do we go from here, man?”

Steve checks Bucky’s pulse one last time, nodding to the ghost to follow him. “Walk with me.”

The blond does what he always does when a new ghost arrives, seeking guidance. He does what nobody did when he was in the same position. Showing Bucky around the ICU, informing him about all the different patients and why they are here. This practical approach helps ease the nerves – most of the time.

But Bucky knows how to read through the lines, and the more patients they go see the more the realisation seeps through that Bucky might be living his last moments. “Give it to me straight, doc,” he smiles sadly, attempting to hold Steve’s arm but going right through him. “How long do I have?”

“The truth is, Bucky, that you crawled through the eye of the needle. It’s a small miracle you’re still alive,” Steve sighs as he continues to tell Bucky how his condition is way worse than they initially thought. The cancer in his brain is very advanced and inoperable. He’s got maybe until New Year’s day.

“I see…,” Bucky mulls the words in his mouth.

“I’m sorry, pal. Is there anyone I can call for you?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. My sister died last year in a car crash ad our parents died when we were young.”

They stop at Y/N’s room and through the glass window they see her chest rise and fall as she’s in a fitful sleep. Steve decides to drop the subject as he notices Bucky’s grown morose, and lingers a little longer at Y/N’s room than he’s done with other patients.

“Who is she?,” Bucky eventually breaks the silence and asks him about her.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” He pretends to scan her chart before explaining to Bucky what brought her here. “Needs a new heart. Been on the transplant list for two years now. Collapsed at work about six weeks ago. She works at a cosmetics store.”

“How do you know she works at a cosmetics store?,” Bucky questions with a soft chuckle, the blood rushing to Steve’s cheeks.

“She told me,” Steve coughs uncomfortably, feeling caught in the act. “She can’t do anything too heavy or her heart will fail.”

Looking over Steve’s shoulder at her chart, he notices she’s pretty high up the transplant list. “There was a heart, a perfect match. But the family wouldn’t sign the papers and had him cremated. Such a waste of a perfectly good heart.”

“How long does she have?”

“Not too long. If she doesn’t get a heart soon, she won’t make it to her next birthday.”

Bucky wets his lips, a question burning on the tip of his tongue. “If I don’t make it, can I give her my heart?”

The surgeon doesn’t know how to answer at first, taken aback by Bucky’s inquiry. “If you’re a donor and a match, then yes, you can. But you’re not dead, buddy.”

Not dead yet, thinks Bucky as he clenches his hand over his heart. “I don’t have long, Steve. I can feel it,” the blue-eyed man pleads with his doctor. “You said so yourself. And I wanna help her. It’s my last chance to mean something, to do something good for someone.”

“I’lll run some tests to see if you’re a match, okay?,” Steve finally relents, paging the number of one of the nurses.

They’re almost back at Bucky’s room and Steve can notice how Bucky’s ghost is slowly fading, a sign that his soul is finding the peace it deserves. “Seriously though, what’s going on between you and Y/N?”

“She’s been in and out of the hospital for ten years, Bucky. I’ve known her since I was a resident here. She’s one of my first patients,” he replies earnestly, a sincere smile spreading to his eyes. “I – I like her. You can probably tell. But she isn’t interested in a relationship.”

“How do you know? How can you be so sure,” Bucky challenges. “Have you asked her out?”

“No,” Steve grimaces, recalling the last time he asked a girl out. She’s now his ex-wife. “I don’t need to. She’s always joking with the nurses about how she can’t lose her heart to a guy when she doesn’t have a proper one.”

“Maybe you’re the exception. Think about it, doc! You’re smitten,” Bucky’s ghost encourages the blond doctor.

No matter how eager Bucky is to draw Steve out, there a soft buzzing in his ears that makes it hard for him to concentrate. Steve quickly catches up to it and asks him what’s wrong. Bucky simply swings his head to the side, to where his body is resting on the bed. “I’m being pulled back,” he mumbles faintly, his ghost losing consciousness.

“Don’t fight it, Bucky. It’s time to go back.” Steve’s calm voice makes the transition back to his body a little more comfortable, now that Bucky begins to feel again. “You’re gonna wake up soon.”

“Remember,” he adds before his soul merges with his body, “Run the tests and if I’m a match, give my heart to your girl. Ask her out. Take her dancing.” Bucky’s voice is but a whisper, his face as pale as the sheets covering him. “If you don’t do it for yourself, then do it for me.” And with those final words, Bucky’s ghost is no longer, leaving Steve to his own devices.

“Hey, Y/N,” Steve greets the young woman, now sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Is the Christmas party still on?”

“Yeah,” she confirms with a toothy smile. “I’ve asked Sam and the other nurses to come say hi before they go home. I’ve also asked them to tell the nurses of the night shift to do the same when they arrive.”

Steve is intoxicated by her enthusiasm, handing her the antlers he bought at the gift shop and watches her fix them into her hair. “Say, Y/N, euhm… before we get to the festivities, I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment.”

“Sure, doc. What’s up?,” she chuckles joyously, admiring her antlers in the small mirror she fished out of her purse.

The blond tells Y/N about the man a couple doors down, a man named James Buchanan Barnes and how his heart is a perfect match. She listens intently to him explaining her that a little over an hour ago, he miraculously woke up from his coma. Steve was there to check his vitals and talk to him about the tests they ran and the possibility of him becoming an organ donor. He also told Bucky about Y/N again, leaving some details about their ghostly encounter aside since Bucky obviously didn’t remember any of it, as they all do.

“I’m getting a new heart?,” Y/N inhales sharply and releases a shuddering breath, embracing Steve in a rush of glee. “I’m getting a new heart!”

Her face is very close to Steve’s, their noses almost touching. He’s about to pull back when she leans her forehead to his, closing her eyes with a happy smile playing on her lips. “Thank you so much, Steve. Now I can finally give my heart to someone.”

With a chuckle, Steve brushes his lips over hers as he speaks, taking a chance just like Bucky told him to. “Can I be that someone, doll? Can I take you out?”

Still with her eyes closed, a girly giggle slips past her lips. “I thought you’d never ask, doc.” Pecking his lips shortly, they both get a taste of what it feels like to open up. “But on one condition. Take me to see James. I wanna say thank you. I wanna say goodbye.”

Steve picks up Y/N and carries her to a nearby wheelchair, bringing her to see the man that will ultimately save her life. His lazy eyes are dropping slowly as death’s nightly shadow beckons him to heaven, but he’s holding on just long enough for him to meet her.

“Hi, James,” Y/N smiles tenderly as Steve parks the wheelchair next to Bucky. She immediately reaches for his hand, cold to the touch, and envelopes it in her warmer hands.

He turns his head to look at the girl, a boyish grin appearing for the last time on his lips. “Hi, Y/N. I hope you can put this heart to some good use when I’m gone.”

By now she’s crying softly, in both happiness as well as sadness. “I promise I’ll take good care of it.”

“Promise you will take good care of Steve here too?,” Bucky chuckles warmly, winking at his doctor.

“I promise,” Y/N laughs through the tears. “Thank you so much, James. Thank you so much.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” Bucky coughs a little as his eyelids are getting heavy again. “Merry Christmas,” he exhales with is last breath, his hand squeezing Y/N’s before his spirit leaves his body.

“Merry Christmas, James.”

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes died at 11.59 p.m. on Christmas Eve 2017 from a long struggle against brain cancer. At 1 a.m. on Christmas day 2017, Y/N Y/L/N received her new heart. One year later, she is back in med school to pick up where she left, studying to become a doctor with the full support of her fiancé Dr. Steven Grant Rogers.

Five years later, Steve and Y/N welcome their baby boy, Bucky, in honour of the man that made it all possible.

Tag list: @melconnor2007 @learisa @mrshopkirk @dont-speak-just-read @buckyappreciationsociety @beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep @lovemarvelousfics @pleasantdreamqueen @petersunderroos @movingonto-betterthings @palaiasaurus64 @ssweet-empowerment @lovemarvelousfics @rrwilson66 @petersunderroos  @reniescarlett   @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @barnes-heaven  @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival  @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven  @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @a-little-hell-to-raise @knittingknerdy  @winterboobaer @viollettes @hymnofthevalkyrie  @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @howlingbarnes  @themcuhasruinedme @buchananbarnestrash @hollycornish   @delicatecapnerd @tomhollandzs  @aletheladyinred @xbergiex @promarvelfangirl @capbuckybuchanan @pegasusdragontiger @salty-holographic-stickers  @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @autijahnerd13s-blahg @sophiealiice @sarahmatthews7 @lumelgy @kudosia @daringtodreamawake @moonbeambucky @suz-123 @breezy1415

@always-an-evans-addict @thegreentgirl @yourtropegirl @4theluvofall @curvybihufflepuff @caplansteverogers  @amrita31199 @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @pineapplebooboo  @thefridgeismybestie @supernatural508 @supernaturaldean67  @cant-decide-at-this-moment @mehrmonga @specs15 @kanupps06 @imnotinsanehunny @sarahgracej @jasura @nerdyandproud9 @geeksareunique @jesspfly @badassbaker @whenallsaidanddone

@lame-lozer @marvelspnbaby @angelstaruniverse @crazybutconfidentaf

[historyrepeatsitself-phff]

Chapter Ninety-Two

A/N: I’m very sorry I missed the update on Wednesday, but honestly life is so hectic right now that I’m really struggling to write enough. So I promise I will always update on a Sunday, but if I also update on a Wednesday it’s a bonus. 

Anyway, that said, hope you enjoy 💖

It was a long few days, but after what felt like an eternity Harry was back and he was far more attentive than ever, trying to help out even more than usual with Grace and making it quite clear that he was grateful for everything Emmy does – she was starting to worry just what Benedict had told Harry, but after texting her brother she was told that he simply “had told Harry to do the decent thing as her husband”. Emmy didn’t know what that meant. 

And she had bigger things to worry about. Not only had Edward and Claire started looking through applications they had received for the post of Grace’s nanny – the thought of another woman spending lots of time with Grace was not a pleasant one for her – but she now was about to embark on her first solo visit abroad. 

“You’ll be fine,” Harry was saying the evening before. He and Emmy were sat at the kitchen table, him eating a curry, Emmy not-eating a curry, and Grace sat in her high chair, babbling away to herself and smiling whenever Harry gave her attention. 

“But what if I mess up?” Emmy wailed; she had no appetite, all she could think about was her two-day-long mini tour. 

“When do you ever mess up here?” Harry asked sceptically. 

“But here is not in another country!” she complained. “And you’re here.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “I’m flattered.”

“You know what I mean, you make me feel more comfortable,” she said, flicking a piece of rice at him in embarrassment. 

His smirk broadened, and she started to giggle, shaking her head at him to urge him not to tease her in the way she knew he was planning. 

“Honestly, Emmy,” he said, all joking aside now. “You’re going to be great. And you’re going to look even more amazing because everyone is kind of expecting you to do something wrong, since it’s so soon and you’re already going on your first solo trip abroad. Some people are sceptical, some people are apprehensive for you. But I know you’ll do fantastic.”

She looked at him somewhat dubiously. “You have a lot of faith in me for someone who’s never seen me actually do a solo tour abroad yet.”

“I just have a feeling, you know?” He was grinning.

“The real question is,” she said, and her tone had turned playful now. “Are you going to be okay here without me?”

He barked a laugh, then turned falsely timid. “Actually I don’t know what I’m going to do without you!”

“Please don’t forget to feed Grace.”

“You say that like she’s a dog!” he replied, outraged. “Do you really think I’d forget about my daughter?”

“No, but I’m reminding you just in case.”

He rolled his eyes at her as she giggled. “Nice to see you have just as much faith in me as I have in you.”

She continued to giggle, then sighed, dropping her gaze to her hardly-eaten curry. “I don’t think I’m going to eat this.”

“Can’t you try and eat a little more? You need sustenance for tomorrow.”

“I also need a good night’s sleep but somehow I doubt you’re going to let me have an early night, huh?” She smirked at him.

Harry looked innocent. “I mean, we can go to bed nice and early if you want to. Can’t guarantee you’ll get much sleep though.”

“I doubt I’d get much anyway,” she replied. “Might as well be awake and not thinking about the tour.”

He watched her for a few moments. “You are really nervous, aren’t you?”

“You only just realised, I haven’t stopped talking about how nervous I am all day.”

“Yes, but I thought that was just the usual nerves, you know? I don’t want you to lose any sleep over it,” he said gently, reaching for her hand and entwining their fingers. 

“Maybe if you tire me out I’ll sleep better,” she suggested, somewhat coyly, and he half-smiled. 

“I’ll do my best,” he replied cheekily, smirking. 

“Hello Uncle Harry!” 

Harry beamed down at George who instantly reached up for a hug, as William with Charlotte in his arms followed his son into the house. It was the following day, Emmy had left that morning after a very long, delicious night, and now William was over to see his brother. “Hey Georgie.”

“Where Grace?”

“Grace is just through here,” Harry said. “Hello Charlotte.”

“Heyyo Uncoo Hawwy,” Charlotte said, in her adorable lisp. 

“Grace!” George cried, running over to where his cousin was sat on the floor playing with some building blocks. Grace looked up at the sound of her name and broke into a smile, before returning her attention to her game. “Hello Grace! What are you doing?” George sat himself down on the carpet beside her and instantly took some blocks himself, starting to build a wall. 

“Me too! Me too!” Charlotte squealed, squirming in her father’s arms. William chuckled, setting her down on the floor – she quickly toddled over to where George was helping Grace build a house. Well, George was building a house and Grace was shaking the blocks and giggling whenever she threw them.

William sat down on the sofa as Harry sank into the single chair, and the two brothers shared a smile. “So how’re things?”

“Good, yeah,” Harry said, although he felt a little tense – this would be the perfect opportunity to do what Benedict had said and stand up for Emmy, but he really didn’t want to upset William. “It’s a bit weird without Emmy here.”

“Oh yeah, she left this morning? How was she?”

Harry felt sick for her as he thought back to how scared she’d been. “Pretty terrified.”

“Nah, she’s great, she’ll do fine,” William said, somewhat dismissively. 

Harry hesitated, then said, “You know, she does actually get nervous about it all.”

“I know, we all do.”

“No, I mean-” He looked at his brother, trying to figure out a way of saying it without it sounding accusatory. “She might seem pretty natural and relaxed, but she gets very terrified. And each time she gets something nice written about her, it really means the world to her.”

William smiled, before turning to watch the three children. George was now trying to show Grace how to stack bricks, and was getting confused each time Grace knocked his piles over. 

“I feel like you’re trying to tell me something,” William said eventually. 

“I’m just trying to tell you that Emmy is probably the most surprised by how well she’s doing,” Harry said. “It’s not her fault that she’s a natural at this life.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s not her fault she’s better at it than other people.”

William sighed, immediately catching on. “Somehow I knew you were getting at this.”

“Some of the stuff Kate says is unnecessary,” Harry said simply. 

“Has anyone ever tried putting themselves in Kate’s shoes? All the criticism she gets-”

“And when has she not been criticised? She never used to let it bother her before!”

“Most of it was unfounded back then,” William said. “Now it’s…it’s quite valid…and it’s quite personal…”

“You mean, she’s lazy and doesn’t do enough work, those criticisms?” Harry stated, somewhat rudely, not shying away from the word ‘lazy’. “Surely the answer is obvious – do more work.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” William replied harshly. “We have two children-”

“And we have one,” Harry shot. “That doesn’t stop Emmy from working her arse off.” He dropped his voice slightly as he swore, but none of the kids were paying attention, George was teaching Charlotte and Grace – who was not listening in the slightest – how to build stuff out of blocks.

“Well that’s great, supermum and all that, but Kate doesn’t want to leave the kids,” William snapped. “She knows how important it is to spend time with them-”

“Are you shitting me?” Harry hissed. “You think that Emmy and I don’t want to spend time with Grace? Newsflash, William! We do! We hardly ever do engagements together anymore so that Grace is always with one of us! We’re only looking at hiring a nanny now, because so many people are breathing down our necks for us to do it.”

William’s expression was stony. “I don’t know why we’re arguing about this-”

“We’re arguing about it because I don’t want your wife talking to my wife the way she has been,” Harry growled. “It’s rude and unnecessary and it’s making Emmy upset. And Emmy has enough to cope with.”

“And you think Kate hasn’t?” William retorted. “Kate is going through so much, at least Emmy is loved by everyone.” He sounded bitter at that.

“Emmy has so much shit thrown in her face, Wills, I can’t believe you’d even say that,” Harry said angrily. “She gets told off for everything, what she wears, what she does. Difference is, it’s coming from Granny, not from the press.”

“Kate gets that too! But Granny and Grandpa choose to just snidely comment on Kate’s mistakes, especially by bigging up Emmy. You can’t blame Kate for being resentful!”

“But it’s not Emmy’s fault that Kate’s like that, she can’t take it out on her!”

“She doesn’t do it consciously,” William shot. “It’s tough for her, especially now-”

“Why now? What’s your excuse for her right now? Different from her excuses for the last four months?” Harry said sceptically. 

William glared at him, then hesitated before saying, “Kate kind of wants another baby. But I don’t. Not yet.”

“Of course Kate wants another baby,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “George and Charlotte are growing up, she’s running out of excuses to do fuck-all-”

William had stood up before Harry could finish, and from the expression on his face, Harry suddenly thought William was going to hit him. But instead his brother crossed the room, scooped Charlotte into his arms and said, “George, it’s time to go now.”

“You’re just going to go?” Harry said, angry now. “We should talk this out, William-”

“You’ve said enough,” William said simply. “I’ll let myself out.”

And he swept his children from the room, George toddling along after him confusedly. The little boy waved somewhat sadly at Uncle Harry as he went, and Harry spared him a smile, before glaring at his brother’s disappearing form. He heard the front door close, before he looked over at Grace, who was still playing with her blocks, unaware. 

“What was that about, eh baby?” Harry asked, sinking back into the chair and sighing, running a hand over his beard. His plan had never been to fall out with his brother, but he somehow couldn’t imagine that having gone any other way. 

That evening, while Harry sat reliving everything he’d said to William, Emmy found herself arriving at the state dinner that had been thrown in her honour. Her first day in Denmark had been terrifying, but not as bad as she thought, for most of the day had been diplomatic. She’d met with the Crown Prince and Princess – Mary was lovely and Emmy knew that a friendship was growing there – and she’d had lunch with the Prime Minister, before visiting the National Museum of Denmark. Now – a banquet with politicians and the royals, and she felt incredibly nervous as she sat in her car beside Claire, careful not to move her head in case her tiara – loaned to her by the Queen – fell off. 

“How you feeling?” Claire asked her.

“Terrified,” Emmy admitted. “When am I not?”

Claire laughed lightly. “You’ll be fine, you look lovely.”

Emmy threw her a smile, but she had bigger issues – she was giving a speech to thank Denmark for its hospitality so far and to express her excitement for her second day of engagements. It would be one of only a handful of speeches she’d ever made, and it was her first abroad. The thought of standing up and speaking in front of so many people was setting her stomach in knots. 

It was all she could think about for the entire meal, as she was led into the banquet hall on the arm of Crown Prince Frederik, as she took her seat between him and his mother, Queen Margrethe. The meal was delicious, and she tried to savour it, but she found herself trying to force it down just so that she could get this speech out of the way.

Eventually, Margrethe rose to deliver her own speech, welcoming the Duchess, and Emmy tried to concentrate on her words, even though her own were swimming round her head. Then, finally, it was time for her to speech, and she stepped up to the podium, heart pounding in her chest. She also knew that there would be cameras on her, waiting to catch her every syllable, waiting to catch her every mistake. She took a deep breath, looking out over the hundreds of eyes looking up at her. 

“Good evening,” she said. “Firstly, thank you for such a delicious meal. Not only is it lovely to have been welcomed to Denmark with such open arms and friendly faces, but to have the opportunity to try some of your world-famous dishes has been truly exciting. This has been my first visit to Denmark, and your beautiful country has been everything I expected and more. I have spent my day in the company of some of the amazing people in this room who work tirelessly to make this country the world-famous destination that it is, and tomorrow I am excited to meet some of the people who are just as important in shaping Denmark – your citizens. 

“Today I have had the honour of discussing some of the world-changing work that happens here in Denmark with your Crown Princess, Mary. It is extraordinary to hear, not only about the research that goes on here and the diseases that you’re attempting to cure, but also to learn of all the charity work carried out by you all. As a nation, you are one of the happiest in the world and it is humbling to see how that is achieved.

“I visited the National Museum today and learnt all about your history, and how you as a country have produced some incredible people, whether it be in the areas of science, such as Niels Bohr, in literature, such as Hans Christian Andersen, or in music, such as Carl Nielsen. Your country is so rich in culture and my visit today has opened my eyes to how important Denmark has been in shaping the world that we know today.

“I am delighted that my first visit to Denmark has been one of learning, of discovering what am amazing and humble country this is, and even though my visit is not yet over, I cannot wait to return again soon. Next time, I hope to bring both my husband and my daughter so that they can experience this exquisite country with me and can also be introduced to the Danish people – and so that they can sample some of your delicious pastries. Thank you again for the lovely welcome.”

The Danish pastry part earned her some chuckles, and then she returned to her seat, delighted that it was over. Frederik gave her a warm smile, leaning over to tell her that she did great – he was very good at reading people, and he could tell that this small Duchess had been very nervous before her speech. He was glad that it had gone well for her – only the occasional stumble or stammer, but other than that it had been great.

Harry watched Emmy’s speech on the news that evening, as he fed Grace her bottle. Emmy looked stunning in her dress, so beautiful and elegant, and with her tiara she looked like a real princess – Harry honestly couldn’t deny that she could be something out of Disney, and he knew little girls everywhere would be so excited to see her looking like that. 

She delivered her speech so eloquently, aside from the tiny mistakes here and there, and he was so proud of her. He wanted to call her and congratulate her, but he knew that she would be too busy to speak and he himself needed a relatively early night – the following day, he and Grace were opening Borough Market, the market that was closed after the recent terror attack. And so he wanted a lot of sleep, especially if he was to look after Grace for the entire engagement. 

He made sure he text Emmy to tell her how proud of her she was, and his loving message was the first thing she saw when she woke up the following morning, only making her miss him that much more.

Emmy was in the middle of a walkabout outside one of the charities she was visiting when Harry and Grace arrived at Borough Market the following day. Harry straightened up out of the car and cast his eyes around, noticing how nobody cast him a second glance. He was glad – they hadn’t announced this visit to the public, mainly so that the only people he would meet would be people who worked at the market, people he wanted to talk to. He didn’t want huge crowds and lots of photographers – he didn’t want anything that could overwhelm Grace.

“Ah goo,” she said, as he started unbuckling her from her car seat. She cooed, patting his hands and kicking her legs excitedly, knowing it was time to get out. She’d been a little irritable that morning, and Harry guessed she was just missing Emmy, but as soon as he’d put some shoes on her she was excited. She really was a social little thing.

He scooped her into his arms, protecting her fluffy gold head with a hand, before turning to Edward, who smiled reassuringly.

“All good?” Edward said.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Harry said, sitting Grace on his hip and giving her a little bounce. She cooed happily.

He made his way over to the officials waiting, and he smiled at them. “Hello!”

“Your royal highness,” the head of the market, Graham, said, bowing his head. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Harry said cheerfully. “Say hello Grace.” He gently took her chubby hand and made her wave. She frowned, confused, at Graham, who chuckled. 

“Hello Grace,” Graham said. “Sir, it’s such a delight to have you here today.”

“It’s nice to be here, it’s such a sunny day,” Harry said, starting to follow Graham under the archway that preceded the market. “The Mrs. is in Denmark, so I thought I’d come for a nice day out. I saw some of the celebrations yesterday. Sadiq Khan was down here, wasn’t he?”

“He was, yes,” Graham said, leading the way. “It was a strange day. There was a lot of happiness, but it was also very bittersweet as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yeah, I saw the aftermath of the attack all over the news, it truly is horrific,” Harry said. “You’re all so brave coming back here, after everything.”

“It’s our lives,” Graham answered, shrugging. “Besides, we need to stand up to these people.”

“A thousand percent,” Harry agreed, shifting Grace in his arms as she looked around. The market was bustling, people doing their fruit and food shopping. Some of the stall-owners were already looking their way, and Harry threw a couple a warm smile. The atmosphere was not one of fear – it was one of strength, of camaraderie. Of defiance. And then, as people started to realise who Harry was, it was one of excitement. 

“Goo la mee,” Grace babbled, trying to reach for an apple at the nearest stall. The owner laughed affectionately.

“Hello little one,” she mused, waving. Grace turned her blue eyes to her, confused, and Harry chuckled lightly.

“Hey, who is it?” he murmured, kissing Grace’s ear. 

“She’s so much cuter in real life, your royal highness,” the lady said. “Is there any fruit you would like? My strawberries are a favourite round here.”

Harry laughed, his mind flickering back to all the strawberries Emmy had eaten while pregnant. He adjusted Grace and searched in his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll take some of them, my wife loves strawberries. What’s your name, sorry?”

“I’m Annie,” she replied, smiling and moving to get him a bag for some.

“Do you own this stall?”

“My father owns it,” she explained, packing away the strawberries. 

Grace was quiet as Harry asked Annie about the dreadful night over a week earlier, but eventually she grew bored. She turned in his arms and reached for his beard, patting it. The pictures later showed him maintaining his composure as his daughter stroked his face, wanting to play. 

“She’s very sweet,” Annie said, smiling at her. Harry looked down at Grace’s face, his heart lifting at the sight of her.

“She’s a very good baby,” Harry said. “She loves cuddles.”

“Aw,” Annie said, smiling. “Is Emmy not coming today?”

“No, Emmy’s in Denmark today,” he told her. “She’s got her first solo trip abroad, she was very nervous. That’s why I’m getting her some strawberries, to reward her when she gets home.”

Annie laughed lightly. “Thank you so much for coming today, sir!”

“Thank you so much for the strawberries, they’re delicious,” he replied, popping one in his mouth.

“Mah!” Grace said, pouting.

“Oh do you want one too?” Harry asked, biting off the top of another with the leaves on it and throwing that bit in the bin before gently holding the rest by Grace’s lips. He mushed it slightly so she would find it easier to eat. She hesitated, before opening her mouth and letting him put it on her tongue. Then she chewed once and swallowed. Strawberry juice ran down her chin.

“Oh dear,” he said, taking a tissue from Edward – who didn’t look amused – and mopping at her chops while she giggled with delight. “Did you like it, darling?”

“Ooh ga tee!” she cooed, her eyes on the boxes still on display.

“No, you can’t have another one, they’re for Mummy,” he said. “Thank you, Annie.”

“Thank you so much, sir.”

“Say bye bye, Grace,” Harry murmured to her, kissing the top of her fluffy golden head. “Bye bye.”

Grace stared at Annie as her father moved on to the next stall.

This one sold donuts, and Harry’s stomach grumbled at the sight of them all. He readjusted Grace in his arms, before smiling at the man behind the counter.

“I’m Harry, nice to meet you,” he said. “And this is Grace.”

“Your royal highnesses,” the man said nervously. “I’m Ian.”

“I like the look of all these donuts,” Harry said, trying to put him at ease. “Eh, Grace? Look at all these.” He bounced her gently, and she giggled. 

“Would you like to try one?” Ian asked. “These sugar ones are a personal favourite.”

Harry chuckled. “I’m not going to say no to a donut.”

Ian hastily grabbed him one, and he watched anxiously as Harry ate it – he was right, it was delicious, and Harry had to refrain from licking the sugar off his fingers so that he could let Grace have some.

She sucked it off happily, liking the sugar, and she cooed excitedly, her chubby hands splayed on her Daddy’s chest. She watched Ian, then she watched the next few stall-holders after that, her blue eyes wary. As they went round the market, hundreds of pictures were taken of Prince Harry and his adorable daughter, with her chubby cheeks and her happy giggle, and they shot all over the world on social media, with dozens of people freaking out on twitter over how cute Grace was.

Harry loved having her there with him, sat in his arms – he felt like he could keep her totally safe with her there, and she seemed so happy and curious. There were a few tears, at which point Harry quickly calmed her with Edward’s favourite pen, but then she was giggling again. 

The rest of the world loved that she was there too. It was obviously a surprise visit, and so everyone was delighted to see more pictures of the tiny princess. 

It even made headline news, and Harry was sat on the sofa, with Grace sat in his lap somewhat sleepily, when a picture of him and Grace came onto the screen.

“Now, Emmy may have been in Denmark but Prince Harry today visited Borough Market, the scene of the knife attack just under 10 days ago, but he brought along another tiny royal visitor. Princess Grace, who is nearly seven months old, accompanied her father to the market, meeting all the stall owners there and even sampling some of their products herself. Nicholas has more.”

The camera showed Harry and Grace arriving then, with Grace eating a strawberry and then having a little cry to the amusement of the onlookers, as Nicholas described the day and even spoke to some of the people there that they had met.

“He’s such a normal guy,” Ian was saying. “He was very very nice, and he liked the donuts too. He actually bought a small bag and said they were for his wife.”

“Grace was very sweet,” Annie then said. “She was adorable and you could tell that Harry just adored her.”

“Hey, Grace, did you hear that?” he murmured, stroking Grace’s hair with his fingertips. “You’re lovely, you are.”

Just as the recap of the headlines gave way to the weather, there was the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. Harry looked round immediately, and he broke into a smile as Emmy struggled into the hallway, carrying her suitcase. Claire followed, helping her with a dress bag. 

Harry gently placed Grace down in her cradle, before hurrying out to meet Emmy. She broke into a smile at the sight of him, and before she could say more than ‘hello’ he’d scooped her into his arms and was spinning her round, drawing delighted squeals from her.

“Hello baby,” he eventually said, once he’d placed her back down on the floor, his arms still around her.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, eyes shining. “How’d I do?”

“You were amazing,” he said, pulling her closer and kissing her deeply. “Amazing! Truly amazing!”

“You think?”

“You did fantastic!” he cried, beaming at her. “And your speech, you were brilliant.”

Claire smiled, hanging the dress bag on the back of a door. “See? I told you, Emmy.”

“You must’ve known,” Harry teased lightly, holding her close. He’d missed her incredibly, and all he wanted now was to have her in his arms, to kiss her endlessly. “And also…do you know how stunning you looked last night? That dress…” His blue eyes were dark with desire as he surveyed her.

Emmy felt a blush tainting her cheek, and she smiled, but she glanced round to check whether Claire was still there. Claire, taking the hint, smiled.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll be off!” she said, waving a hand dismissively as though they’d said something. “I’ll leave you two to it.” She winked, before letting herself out of house. Emmy watched her go with a smile, before turning back to Harry – as soon as she looked back at him, he was kissing her. Pushing her back towards the wall and devouring her lips. She giggled into him, hands clasping at the back of his neck.

“Harry,” she mumbled into him, gasping for breath as he pulled away. Then she laughed at him. “You’ve missed me, huh?”

“Can you not tell?” he asked, leaning down to kiss her again. She placed a hand against his mouth. 

“Yes, and I missed you too, but I also missed Grace and I’d kind of like to see her too…” She looked hopeful, trying to be innocent, and he took a deep breath before nodding. 

“She’s in her cradle in the lounge,” he said, swapping his hold on her for his hand in his and giving her a squeeze. 

Emmy danced ahead, pulling him after her before hurrying forward to see Grace. She was so happy to be home, to be with her little baby girl again, and she scooped her into her arms and cuddled her close, kissing her head again and again. 

Harry snaked his arms round her and pulled both his girls into a hug, relieved to have them both back with him again. 

[the-desolated-quill]

The Girl Who Died - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

I was pleased to see Jamie Mathieson’s name show up at the beginning. Mummy On The Orient Express was definitely my favourite episode of Series 8 and while Flatline had its flaws (a lot of flaws), it was still one of the most original and interesting episodes to have come out of Moffat flavoured Who recently. So I was excited to see what Mathieson had to offer this time whilst bracing myself for potential disappointment because sadly Moffat is co-writing this one.

Well... I didn’t hate The Girl Who Died. There are quite a few things to like, but there are also several things that really annoyed me, and unfortunately dragged the episode down quite a bit in my opinion.

The Doctor and Clara are captured by Vikings and are taken to a village, where a race of aliens called the Mire kidnap and liquify all the warriors for testosterone. Also the Doctor’s sonic sunglasses get broken. So far, so good. I really like the Mire. It’s a great design and a great idea. Aliens posing as the Norse Gods of mythology. That could be potentially interesting. I thought David Schofield did a decent job in the role of ‘Odin’ (although upon learning that Brian Blessed was originally supposed to play the role, it’s hard to fully appreciate his performance when you’re too busy wondering wistfully what could have been) and while the Mire aren’t exactly the scariest or most interesting villains to come out of New Who, they are a credible threat and do hold your interest for 45 minutes. One scene in particular I thought was genuinely tense was the bit with the walls pushing the Vikings into the abattoir. And I did like how they were eventually defeated and outwitted by the Doctor humiliating them and threatening to ruin their reputation with a You’ve Been Framed style gotcha!. That was a genuinely clever resolution I thought.

Unfortunately the rest of The Girl Who Died is a bit sub-par.

To be perfectly honest with you, I’ve always found Vikings to be dull at the best of times, but here it’s worse. They’re not just Vikings. They’re comedy Vikings. With big beards, lots of roaring and large horns on their helmets (which the real Vikings didn’t have by the way). At no point do these Vikings ever really come across as real people. We never get to know them or grow to care for them. We don’t even learn their names because this Doctor is too callous and lazy to actually remember them. They’re just one dimensional comic relief. They’re there specifically to be ridiculed, and thus it’s really hard to muster up the energy to actually care. Also it’s really hard to give a shit about their training and learning to fight when there’s literally no point to it. The Doctor’s right. They could just run away and hide. There’s no reason why they can’t. There wasn’t even any reason for Ashildr to declare war on the Mire in the first place other than they’re VIIIIIIKIIIINGS and they fight with HONOOOOOUUUURRR, which really isn’t good enough. And to cap it all off, the Doctor then decides to help them despite having said a few seconds ago that helping them could have damaging repercussions for the Earth in the future, turning humanity into a prime target for other warrior races. Presumably we’re just supposed to forget about that, along with the fact that these Vikings aren’t really innocent victims, but a bunch of bloodthirsty morons who don’t know how to quit while they’re ahead.

The only Viking that comes out of this with her dignity intact is Ashildr. Maisie Williams is the only actor who gives her character slightly more depth beyond the usual ‘grrr, I’m a Viking’ nonsense and the character seems likeable enough. Unfortunately, while not as bad as some of the women he’s written in the past, she does end up succumbing to the classic Moffat trope of being totally defined by some bullshit mystery. It would have been fine if she was just a simple woodcarver who becomes part of something greater than herself and realises her full potential thanks to the Doctor’s influence, but no. Moffat has to take it one step further and have her be ‘special’ and ‘different’ and ‘not like other Vikings’ while providing no evidence to actually back it up. After River Song, Amy and Clara, I really cannot be fucking bothered at this point to raise even so much as an inquisitive eyebrow in Ashildr’s general direction. Knowing Moffat, this whole Hybrid thing is bound to end up being something stupid.

Speaking of Moffat refusing to follow the rule of ‘show, don’t tell’, the Doctor suffers quite a bit in this story. For starters we’re back to whimsy humour again (seriously, what’s the point of giving us an all new darker Doctor if you’re not actually going to commit to it? I’m starting to wonder why Matt Smith even left in the first place) and also this is yet another episode that’s all about the Doctor. And just like before, there’s nothing remotely subtle about this one. It’s all about what the Doctor can and can’t do. What he will and won’t do. All laid out in front of us. Even Clara is reduced to basically just badgering the Doctor to think of a plan. At this point the show has become so inwardly focused that it’s actually starting to suck the life out of the rest of the franchise. The worst example of this is toward the end when Ashildr randomly drops dead (I still don’t get how that happened) and the Doctor suddenly has an epiphany about why he chose to regenerate into this particular face. To remind himself that he saves people.

Not exactly a startling revelation, is it? I’m sure we all suspected it. It’s a convenient explanation for where the Doctor’s numerous faces came from and once we remembered that Peter Capaldi was in The Fires Of Pompeii, it doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to connect the dots, does it? So why did Moffat feel the need to make a big thing out of it? Is his ego so fucking gargantuan that he honestly thinks this is some deep insight into the Doctor’s character that no mere mortal could possibly have picked up on? He’s basically been wasting our time for a series and a half, provoking fevered speculation about the significance of the Doctor’s face only to then conclude it by confirming something that we already bloody know. The Doctor saves people. Does he really?! Well I’d never have guessed that! Next you’ll be telling me he cares about his companions. OH HE DOES?! Oh thank you so much for pointing that out! And here’s me thinking all this time that the Doctor was intending to eat Clara! Silly me!

What’s even more hilarious (and by hilarious, I mean so tragic that you’ll want to sit in the corner of your room and cry at what a fucking shambles this show has turned into since Moffat got into the driving seat) is that by making this oh so deep and unexpected revelation about the significance of the Doctor’s face, the writers actually completely misinterpret the ending of The Fires Of Pompeii. The reason Ten saved Petus Capaldicus was because Donna didn’t want to see the whole of Pompeii get destroyed because of their actions and begged the Doctor to not be a heartless bastard and try to save at least one person. Here in The Girl Who Died, not a single person has died other than Ashildr. Yes it’s tragic, but on the whole a job well done. But the Doctor decides to save Ashildr anyway. Not because he feels guilty for her death, but because he wants to prove a point. The Girl Who Died has less in common with The Fires Of Pompeii and more in common with The Waters Of Mars where Ten was motivated by a selfish desire to make the laws of time and space his bitch. The difference is that in The Waters Of Mars, we’re supposed to be appalled by the Doctor’s attitude. In The Girl Who Died, we’re supposed to be happy and see the Doctor as a good man. Except we’re not. In fact I hated the Doctor at the end of this episode. He’s condemned a young woman to immortality not because he cares about her, but because he wants to feel good about saving someone. Even at the end when he has second thoughts about what he’s done, it’s less to do with Ashildr’s wellbeing and more about him making a cock-up in the timey wimey department. I’m sorry, but that is fucking terrible.

I suppose The Girl Who Died isn’t the worst thing ever. As I say, there are things to like and it does hold your attention for 45 minutes, but the tonal inconsistencies and the general bullshit we’ve sadly come to expect from the Moffat era by this point ultimately results in an episode that fails far more than it succeeds.

[sending-the-message]

My synesthetic Korean friend tried the elevator game [PART 1] by igottagat

Hi all, I’m Angus, and it’s my first time posting on Reddit. Hope I'm doing it right. I have a crazy story to tell and I feel nosleep is the best place for it.

This isn't actually something that happened to me. I have this friend over in Korea who I met through- of all things- the comments on an article on lifehacking. He’s called Kim Sijin and he’s got a pretty voracious mind as well as incredible English, plus he’s synesthetic which makes him...fun...to talk to. Do you know synaesthesia? No worries if you don’t.

I live in Shanghai and Sijin is a bit of a low-key Sinophile, so generally the idea is I share bizarre China stories in exchange for updates on his exploits in Seoul.

We like to keep our messages long and infrequent, and a little stilted. Kind of in the Victorian tradition, you know.

What’s coming below is amalgamation of several very emotional messages Sijin sent me following the loss of his closest friend, Han-Jae. I merged some messages and fixed up his typos. As you’ll see while reading, I kind of just took a backseat as he broke open his proverbial dam and unloaded. A wise choice, I think.

Sijin gave me full permission to share this story. By the end you will see why.

It's not a short tale, so I will follow this first post up with a Part 2 and so on.

Make of it all what you will.

SIJIN

I like to spy on people.

ANGUS

That’s new to me.

SIJIN

Yeah, I didn’t tell you? I peer through their webcams. Actually it’s not even about the people. It’s about the places. So many of these windows into the world exist, and it’s very easy to open them.

Modern webcams have IP addresses. That’s why they are called webcams. They are connected to the internet, which is a public, open network before you strap logins and paywalls onto it. Most webcams, however, are intended for private use, usually as CCTV. They only use the internet as a convenient networking mechanism. So, as they ought to, webcam manufacturers fit their network cameras with username and password logins, to keep out strangers. All well and good. But many of those manufacturers fit their cameras with default logins, and default passwords. This brings out a human flaw in the system, because when it comes to certain parts of their lives, even the most hardworking people are very lazy.

The branch manager of a budget hotel franchise. The security officer of a countryside engineering college. The granny in charge of a noodle shop for grannies. An uptight father who wants household ‘security’. All of these will usually not think or bother to alter the default username and password of their cameras. And so, someone like me- or you, Angus- can get in. The ‘hack’ involves dropping keywords into Google that turn up the camera control panels. Click the link, enter a default factory login, and presto, you have opened a gateway to another place on earth.

What you can see through the gateways is mostly very dull, but the scope of it all is incredible. All these portals puncturing the mundane. And the mundane is, I think, quite otherworldly. You realise quickly that most of the human world is made of empty spaces. Restaurants. Swimming pools. Offices. Lobbies. Cupboards. Car parks. Long, well lit hallways. While you are huddled with your friends, family, or co-workers on the bus, at home, or at the computer, you forget that all the other places where you spend your life are queer abandoned zones which turn pitch black at night, unless someone is there to switch on the lights.

The videos can only really hold your interest if you are watching life in motion. Anglican Church services in England. Family barbeques in France. City centres in Africa rammed with cars. Silent pet shops in rural America. Up close you see a lot of conversations but you don’t hear the words. Even my synaesthesia isn’t much help here.

ANGUS

Don’t you feel very detached when you’re watching? And then eventually, just, bored?

SIJIN

Yes, but. Sometimes no.

There was one vision early on that stuck with me. I saw a granny in Hokkaido, not so far across the sea, staring into a mirror with a bitter red frame and a shelf that was decorated with pictures and jewels. She was dressed for the cold and her hair was short and boyish. I was looking straight down on her. There was no obvious emotion on her face, but she seemed at peace. I wanted to know what she was thinking about. I wanted to know who she was and if she would sit there all day, and why there was a CCTV camera in her living room.

ANGUS

Shouldn’t that have been the point where you stopped?

SIJIN

Han-Jae said the same. Maybe because that last description is so intimate. ‘Intimate’ turns into ‘wrong’ so quickly, don’t you think? I spoke about that granny with affection she never asked for, nor even knew about. There’s something intuitively wrong about imposing your feelings onto strangers in such a way. Han-Jae pointed this out, quite rightly. I said yes, I would stop, but only after I saw something awful. Eventually, of course, I did.

Other friends and even family have said I pay too much heed to Han-Jae. They say I should take care not to appear to be involved in some kind of boy love thing with him. Well to them I’d say they only cry ‘boy love’ because they do not understand our friendship, because our friendship is not normal, or traditional. I’ve never claimed to be a normal Korean boy, nor do I ever wish to be. Han-Jae feels the same, though he would never say as much.

That’s one reason I like sharing all this with you. You’re outside this society. You don’t judge.

Han-Jae and I are both synaesthesiacs. (That’s the wrong word in English but I happen to like it.) We don’t fit. Actually, no. He has always fit. I am the real freak.

Even my synaesthesia runs counter to Korean thinking. Everything ‘good’ is to my eyes, red. Red for we Koreans is not exactly a death colour, but it means nothing good. For me, death is signified by the smell of copper, and red is everything beautiful. Like chocolate bars: dark chocolate bars are a solid block of rich crimson. Milk chocolate is lovely traffic light red. White chocolate is pastel red, like you’d find in a kindergarten. When I talk about the red things I see Han-Jae talks back at me using the name ‘Jinshi’, which is what my given name ‘Sijin’ sounds like when you render it in Chinese. Did I mention that before?

ANGUS

No. But that’s fascinating. Is that Jin like ‘gold’? 金?

SIJIN

Yeah, I think so. But I’m not a Chinese master. Most Koreans these days don’t know much about it.

Han-Jae went to the effort of converting the name because the Chinese have the same ideas about red, of course. They think red is good. I think red is good. So I must be Chinese. So I must be Chinese Jinshi, not Korean Sijin. Han-Jae’s sense of humour. Don’t let the formidable grades and the sharp mind fool you– deep down, he’s a pretty simple-minded guy.

ANGUS

Oh no, haha. I’d noticed that. 厉害.

SIJIN

What?

ANGUS

‘Awesome’. Just testing.

SIJIN

Oh. Anyway, I’m not done talking about myself.

Computer code doesn’t have a colour. But, most coding interfaces colour different tags, commands and formats in specific colours in order to help we programmers interpret the huge walls of text that code presents to us. This is kind of an artificial synaesthesia. As you can probably guess, I need no such aid. Every block of code I see is a separation of the spectrum. Dozens of shades burst out at me, and for each one there is a specific meaning that comes to me immediately. I never had to deliberately create this system or memorise how it works. The connection between each colour and each command is just as obvious to me as the fact that water is wet to you.

Now on to Han-Jae. You may find his ‘power’ a little less boring than mine.

Really, he is an asshole. His synaesthesia reflects the problems in his personality. If something is boring to him, or too easy, or just difficult in the sense of being beyond his skillset, then it will seem further away. To understand how his vision is organised, you really have to understand his own internal logic. I do. I am one of few.

Han-Jae tells me that his favourite movies have a lot of extra depth and tone. Shitty movies will look muddy and flat regardless of their original colour palette, so under his discerning gaze you really cannot polish a turd. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a good example. From a technical standpoint, it’s a movie with visual depth, a wide tonal range, and a painfully vibrant colour palette. But from a critical perspective, Han-Jae and I agree the movie is a fucking disaster. Therefore, to Han-Jae, the film’s visual frantic energy literally vanishes– he says it looks a ‘greasy sepia Western, recorded on rotten, wobbly film paper’.

If you play music to Han-Jae, the notes float past his face. If you feed him waffles and a BLT, he will see the heat, texture, and flavour of the food flash around the room. He has a calendar and abacus that he can generate any time he likes, and then use to outthink you using only his eyeballs. He once correctly measured the speed of a friend’s electric bicycle down to one decimal point just by watching it pass him by. He sees the colour of people’s emotions, flushed around their face, and he uses this to charm girls. What I am trying to say is that Han-Jae is a real bastard.

ANGUS

Hahahaha!

SIJIN

I don’t get many dates. Han-Jae does. Blah blah blah. You’ve heard all this moaning before.

So anyway my point is that with Han-Jae I do things beyond the usual juvenile playtime. You remember the time Han-Jae and I went looking for ‘ghosts’? I never quite said we were really looking for ‘holes’. Localised instances where the logic of the world- physics maybe- is no longer consistent. If you ever exploited a bug in a video game for fun or to cheat, you can grasp this. Think of any time you had déjà vu. You deeply, deeply felt you were reliving a moment you have not yet lived. In other words it is some form of time travel. Whether the form is true or simulated, and whether déjà vu occurs in the mind or somewhere else...these are beside the point. The point is that déjà vu breaks the rules of everyday existence.

Imagine the introducing the concept of saving to disk and digital rewriting to, say, an Imperial Japanese typist working in Seoul during the occupation period. In fact, imagine you told a medieval European typist that you could duplicate a hundred copies of his Bible in the blink of an eye. To each typist it would seem that you have broken some rule of the universe and opened up an exploit.

ANGUS

Hacking.

SIJIN

Of a kind.

Synaesthesia is arguably one such ‘hole’. Look at how easily Han-Jae and I breezed through the Korean education system. We process text, figures, and diagrams faster than normal people. We can read novels, music, and the emotions on an immediately deeper level than anyone bar the experts. We are incredibly well organised, and as such have extra time and energy to spend chasing after world-hacks.

Maybe you recall some of our attempts. The first thing we tried was to hack our own vision by instigating voluntary hallucinations. This proved a total failure. Next we tried the occult. As in, summoning demons. Remember that? Total failure again. Next we tried local legends. I never told you this part. It’s cool. There’s supposed to be a restless fox girl who swims underwater in a canal just a few kilometres from our residential district. There’s a rather convoluted backstory: it involves UN soldiers, a Communist cell, a nuclear waste barrel, and an old medicine man. You can imagine. It was a good excuse to explore the streets at least, and I liked getting a feel for the local history (Han-Jae didn’t– he’s smart as hell but there isn’t an intellectual bone in his body), but of course we saw no canal ghost.

Han-Jae and I talked pretty seriously about whether to give up or whether to press on. We decided, mostly thanks to my line of argument, that we would press ahead, but with a narrower focus. We had to hone in on real exploits. No more kids’ games. Together we once researched something really interesting: in a country called Scotland there is a place called the Electric Brae. It distorts perspective so that objects appear to roll uphill when left to rest. That sort of thing would be our target. Glitches that call the world’s fabric into question.

I warned that this might require travel, but Han-Jae believed quite firmly that if any country could provide, it would be South Korea. When I chided him for this warped version of patriotism he conceded that Japan might also be a candidate. I had to agree. It’s a pretty weird place. The strange thing is...Han-Jae was right. After a few wasted days of searching the Korean-language internet, we found something on a dead forum. I'll paste in an English translation. It is the instructions for something called The Elevator Game. Brace yourself...

[topicprinter]

There was a post in this sub earlier today that was basically saying that if you don't have the ability to Google answers to simple questions, that you probably don't have what it takes to make it as an entrepreneur.And for the most part, I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment.However, the short reply I started to write about that quickly turned into a rant about another topic I've been pondering lately, and so I decided to give it its own post.Content Marketing is Ruining Our Ability To Learn OnlineMalcolm Gladwell is well-known for his reference of the 10,000 Hour Rule - the principle that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill - but a few years ago I realised that there were a whole bunch of these 10,000 hour masters out there who'd written pretty detailed, yet distilled, advice on how to achieve mastery in their given art, and published it online. Sometimes even in the form of a "top 5" list, this knowledge was never more than a 20 second google search away, and literally gave you master-level insight.But then something happened. Other now-well-known authors started popping up telling people that they don't need to become a master in order to teach others, that with just a little bit of study and some self-confidence, you too can act as an authority on a topic. Thus, the "10 Hour Guru" was born, and Google quickly became flooded with top 5 tips from people who maybe weren't the most qualified to determine what those top 5 tips were.And I feel that this has been exacerbated in the last 18 months or so with the rise of content marketing, where everybody is writing quick little sharable pieces in the hope of catching attention, to the point where it's actually become really difficult to find quality learning material online.For example, if you were to go on Google right now and type in "how to launch a youtube channel" or similar topics ("Youtube tips", "Youtube strategy", etc.), you'll find pages like this:How to Start a Youtube Channel (Entrepreneur.com), which is literally a guide on how to follow the fucking setup steps for registering a Google account and creating a channel on Youtube. Super not helpful7 Ways to make your Youtube Channel Really Successful - which contains ever-helpful advice like "be positive" and "be unique and original"How to Launch And Grow a Youtube Channel in 14 days (Hootsuite). This one is actually slightly more helpful, and contains some links to topics you can read more on, but ultimately comes down to giving superficial advice like "post good videos" followed by "use Hootsuite" at the endAs well as a whole host of other people trying to sell you ebooks and online courses, or to sign you up to their e-mail drip marketing campaign (that will later try and sell you an ebook or online course)Can you imagine if recipes were shared online like that?A Content Marketer's Guide to Making an Apple PieStep 1: Have confidence in yourself - confidence is key to really nailing that apple pie!Step 2: Your pie must contain apples - An apple pie isn't an apple pie without apples (the Entrepreneur.com step)Step 3: Choose a crust that aligns with your ethos. Some people like butter, other people like to use shortening. There's no right answer, but we can't give you pros/cons or even an opinion!Step 4: Make sure the oven is the "right" temperature - too hot and you could burn your pie. Nobody likes burnt pie!Step 5: If you mess it up, you can always buy a pie! Walmart has a great range of pies that can ship to you in under an hour!PS: For more great tips on how to make pie, enter your e-mail address to get our free apple pie baking ebook!PPS: Don't forget to join our masterbaker piemaker course, 50% off if you subscribe in the next 22 seconds!Even the purportedly good content creators are creating very SEO-driven content, which means creating individually packaged pieces of content that answer frequently searched-for questions, but that don't actually give you a broader learning structure to put it all under. The example I would give here is Video Creators on YouTube, who actually seem to know their stuff, but damned if I can find a structure or starting place to any of it.What's more, this approach surely results in a ton of duplicated content (albeit repackaged slightly). Eg:How to Rank YouTube Videos for a Broader TopicThe Best Way to Rank Videos #1 in SearchThe #1 Best Thing You Can Do for your Video SEOThis playlist of 20 videos about SEO on YoutubeAnd as frustrating as I find it that they don't just have a single, comprehensive video about SEO on YouTube, I completely understand why they're doing it: Because that's how the game is won in 2017. The reason content marketing is what it is, is because people are rewarded for behaving this way... and essentially punished if they don't.Google rewards them by ranking their endless streams of content across their multitude of keywords. The numpties that upvote posts reward them. The people who fork over their e-mail addresses reward them (or worse yet, the people who pay for ebooks and courses reward them).This problem is systemic.So what's the solution?Honestly, I don't know that there is one - at least not one that I can see.I mean, these stand out to me:1. Encourage masters to create more content. The issue is that when they're at the peak of their game, they're out there doing, not teaching. This is why the 'teachers' in Entrepreneur Land are often criticized as making their money from teaching people how to make money. Not to mention that there's a bit of fear involved in "sharing the secret recipe", even though history will show us that having a perfect recipe and being able to bake a perfect pie are two completely different things).2. Discourage useless posts. Unfortunately, there are a shit ton of people who get super duper inspired when they read things like "be authentic" as a critical step in apple pie making. Heck, we see it in this sub all the time - people upvoting and writing how inspired they were when someone gives bad advice in useless posts in the sub - if we're lucky some people chip in with why that advice is bad and the author deletes their post. Even /u/garyvaynerchuk, who was previously well-known for freely giving in-depth strategic knowledge, has recently discussed that he's using motivational content as a gateway to access a larger fanbase.3. Better curation. I think this is one of the reasons that Product Hunt became so popular initially. It wasn't just a great way to see the latest apps/products being introduced to the market, it was also a curated list in the beginning, with a select number of people able to even submit projects in the first place. It's also why sites like Startup Stash have become so immensely popular. (Note that Startup Stash isn't just a list of the "top 5 apps" in multiple categories, it is an actual definitive list, according to /u/BRVM, of every app that will be useful to you in those categories.). Don't just subscribe to services that automatically populate your twitter/social feeds.4. Ask people who've done it before for advice. Welcome to the callback! Granted, I think the main reason that people post asking for advice on simple topics is that they are too lazy to take the time to research it themselves, but I also think it's sometimes hard to find a starting place. That's why I posted the other day in /r/newtubers looking for a good guide that breaks down youtube strategy.A Call To Action: Let's Create Better ContentIt's always good to end a post with a nice call to action, and I think at the end of the day what it really comes down to is that it is our responsibility as entrepreneurs to create better content, to help each other grow our businesses rather than trying to profit from each other all the time.If you're sitting out there, and you have knowledge of how to grow a pinterest account, how to grow a youtube account, a facebook account, how to copywrite, run a Kickstarter, etc., then create teachable content that goes beyond a sharable/rankable fluff piece, or even a single pillar article. Take a look at sites like how the landing page course used to be (before they threw an e-mail capture in front of it), and look at how you yourself can contribute to creating perennial, definitive content that others can learn from, that becomes the #1 piece of content anyone anywhere will recommend when people ask , "Does anyone know how to grow a youtube channel?".And I'm not excusing myself from this. I've already started to assemble the piece meal posts and comments I've made here for my experiments with @yahtzeedog and @fuddlemuckers and others into a single definitive guide to Instagram, and you can be sure I'll do it with YouTube once I figure that one out. If anyone wants to help build any of these, feel free to drop a comment/DM and let's get started.And the thing is... I think if we actually assemble this information, that it could potentially serve as the greatest content marketing of all.Thanks for listening to my rant :DPS: Here's my Grandma Ferguson's REAL Apple Pie Recipe. All the steps.

[songketalliance]

To Ken

“You don’t walk it off, you walk through it, eventually the pain subsides, it may take a long time, but it subsides.”

A contribution by Iddie Mo

Dear Ken,

Snow is amazing isn’t it? It’s amazing how something as simple as tiny bits of ice could be so much fun to play with, but also has the capability to cause avalanches. That’s a pretty good metaphor, ‘little things can have the biggest impact’.

I’m Iddie, by the way. It’s a nickname a classmate from college thought up. I think he was trying to rile us up but we made it our own. Now, I use it as a stage name. Sounds better than ‘Ken’ in my opinion; I don’t know why you thought that sounded cool? Nicknames people think up for themselves are never cool. Nicknames need to be BESTOWED upon you. Then again you’re ten years old, what do you know?

I remember people, time and time again, praising you on how smart you were. It was hard to keep up others expectations, and sure enough, your teen years are going to be filled with tons of disappointment. I wouldn’t tell you not to listen to harsh words. Words can break a person but sometimes it may be necessary to build yourself up, maybe even stronger. Instead, be aware that most unwarranted criticisms come from a place of insecurity. As you get older, you’ll understand that most people are just trying to get by—not one person knows all the answers and not all answers are the end-all-be-all.

Also, no, drinking loads of Pepsi does not make you lose weight. Your brother is full of shit.

You still feel anger, uncontrollable anger sometimes. You wondered what was wrong with you. It’s called depression, kid. It doesn’t just mean you’re ‘sad’, it is an actual mental illness that sucks, and ours is chronic, which means it’ll come back again and again, sometimes in the most unexpected, inopportune  moments and often translates itself in that typical You brand burst of anger. Your family will never understand it, and perhaps expecting them to be is asking too much. That is really unfair to them.

If you wake up during those days where your chest feels hollowed out, your body refusing, maybe even physically hurting, to move out of bed: Close your eyes, open them, count to ten, and just get up. Just get up. If you failed the first time, try again. Keep trying. Then brush your teeth, shower, make it warm. Make sure you’re doing something, keep yourself busy, little Ken, and take life one step at a time. No one is going to care about the crying little boy and society cares less for the crying man.

You don’t walk it off, you walk through it, eventually the pain subsides, it may take a long time, but it subsides.

You’re only ten, but I just realised that you already have a long history of being taken advantage of and unfortunately it will keep happening. The stakes will get higher and higher and people will let you down repeatedly. I may not have the best advice on how to handle this, we may never stop going through lessons in life. Perhaps that may be the best way to live it. In any case, we promised ourselves to at least try and put our faith in people.

It hurts, it really goddamn fucking hurts when kindness is not returned. At some point in our life, we thought that genuine kindness meant not expecting anything in return, but that really sounds like the rhetoric of a greedy ass bitch who wants to be served without reciprocating ever. I’m still going to help others if and when I feel like it, without expecting anything in return, as much as I hate most people, helping others does feel good. Let us be selfish that way. 

You’re going to start feeling growing pains, and you’re going to get really big. By the time you are thirteen, people are going to think you’re twenty-one. That being said, your voice is gonna break soon- you’re going to have your adult voice in a year. Yes, it’s weird and yes, people will make fun of it. Guess what though? Your voice is pretty awesome. It’s a shame that at seven, something happened that made you want to quit singing, because singing is one of the closest things to real magic in this world. Literally a bird landed on your head once while singing. Bitch, we a real life Disney princess!

What else can I say? Your lame ass is pretty cool, deal with the hand you’ve dealt and understand that others may not have the best cards either. Be cautious of who you share kindness to as even broken glass can look like diamonds. Don’t let little things stop you from achieving your dreams, you can collect tiny bits of ice and cause an avalanche or build a decent snow man. Guess what, little Ken? I made money voice acting in a commercial once, it was shown in movie theatres, it’s nothing too big, but considering that we’ve wanted to be a voice actor since we were four, I could confidently say that I had achieved a childhood dream before I turned 30, that is pure awesomeness. Thank you for being you and you’re welcome.

Oh, and don’t worry about your penis, you’re actually really good at sex. Sincerely, --Iddie/Ken

A contribution by Iddie Mo

DONATE TO SONGKET ALLIANCE

Interested in contributing to Songket Alliance? E-mail us at hi@songketalliance.com with your ideas or article.

Like Songket Alliance on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.

[vintagestyled-blog]

Last Thursday night I  re-watched Kevin Smith’s Chasing Amy,  and as expected it moved me as if I was watching it for the first time around. Chasing Amy is listed as a romantic comedy but it fits a few more boxes than just that. It’s drama, it’s romantic,  and it’s seriously funny…

  “Smith knows that at some level there’s nothing funny about being in love: It’s a dead serious business, in which your entire being is at risk.” aka movie critic Robert Ebert.

Or also : “Love is the province of the brave.” aka rockband  TV on the radio.

The movie is abundant with sharp, ironic and sexual dialogue. Kevin Smiths dialogues are the best in the field as the main characters explore their feelings and point of view on topics such as romance,  sex and friendship.

Holden (Ben Affleck) and Banky (Jason Lee) are two comic book artists living in New Jersey who are signing their cult novel “Bluntman and Chonic” ( featuring the adventures of Smiths characters Jay and Silent Bob). There Holden meets Alyssa ( Joey Lauren Adams), also a writer, and is immediately smitten by her. She invites him to a party. By this Holden offcourse assumes that she has mutual feelings for him. When Alysa sings a song at the party in a rather erotic way and kisses the girl she was singing it to Holdens world is chattered. Nevertheless, he likes her so much that he decides to give the whole friendship thing a try.

As his feelings grow deeper for her he can’t keep quit any longer :

“Why are we stopping? Because I can’t take this. Can’t take what? I love you. You love me? I love you. And not, not in a friendly way, although I think we’re great friends. And not in a misplaced affection, puppy-dog way, although I’m sure that’s what you’ll call it. I love you. Very, very simple, very truly. You are the epitome of everything I have ever looked for in another human being. And I know that you think of me as just a friend, and crossing that line is the furthest thing from an option you would ever consider. But I had to say it. I just, I can’t take this anymore. I can’t stand next to you without wanting to hold you. I can’t, I can’t look into your eyes without feeling that, that longing you only read about in trashy romance novels. I can’t talk to you without wanting to express my love for everything you are. And I know this will probably queer our friendship – no pun intended – but I had to say it, because I’ve never felt this way before, and I don’t care. I like who I am because of it. And if bringing this to light means we can’t hang out anymore, then that hurts me. But God, I just, I couldn’t allow another day to go by without just getting it out there, regardless of the outcome, which by the look on your face is to be the inevitable shoot-down. And, you know, I’ll accept that. But I know…I know that some part of you is hesitating for a moment, and if there is a moment of hesitation, then that means you feel something too. All I ask, please, is that you just, you just not dismiss that – and try to dwell in it for just ten seconds. Alyssa, there isn’t another soul on this fucking planet who has ever made me half the person I am when I’m with you, and I would risk this friendship for the chance to take it to the next plateau. Because it is there between you and me. You can’t deny that. Even if, you know, even if we never talk again after tonight, please know that I’m forever changed because of who you are and what you’ve meant to me, which – while I do appreciate it – I’d never need a painting of birds bought at a diner to remind me of.”

And, like it ought to be in EVERY ( ha ha)  romantic movie, she runs out of the car in the rain. He follows her. She decides that saying that he loves her is about the most selfish thing he did. He walks up to the car, she runs after him and guess what-  they kiss in a very, may I even say, smokingly hot, way. Alyssa explains how she felt when she made the decision to love people in a certain way, and the way she loves Holden…

Alyssa: You know, I didn’t just heed what I was taught, men and women should be together, it’s the natural way, that kind of thing. I’m not with you because of what family, society, life tried to instill in me from day one. The way the world is, how seldom it is that you meet that one person who just *gets* you – it’s so rare. My parents didn’t really have it. There were no examples set for me in the world of male-female relationships. And to cut oneself off from finding that person, to immediately halve your options by eliminating the possibility of finding that one person within your own gender, that just seemed stupid to me. So I didn’t. But then you came along. You, the one least likely. I mean, you were a guy.

Holden: Still am.

Alyssa: And while I was falling for you I put a ceiling on that, because you *were* a guy. Until I remembered why I opened the door to women in the first place: to not limit the likelihood of finding that one person who’d complement me so completely. So here we are. I was thorough when I looked for you. And I feel justified lying in your arms, ’cause I got here on my own terms, and I have no question there was some place I didn’t look. And for me that makes all the difference.

Holden: [pause] Well, can I at least tell people all you needed was some serious deep dicking?

  So they are now a couple, but then Banky, Holden’s best friend and roommate, might be secretly in love with Holden ( still following?)  He tells Holden how they called Allysa “finger cuffs” in high school and how a friend of him told him she had sex with two guys at the same time. Holden, who until then believed he was the only guy she had sex with ( according to his definition of it) begins to doubt himself. He confronts Allysa and they break up.

Then Silent Bob breaks his silence in the diner:

Silent Bob: So there’s me and Amy, and we’re all inseparable, right? Just big time in love. And then four months down the road, the idiot gear kicks in, and I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Which, as we all know, is a really dumb move. But you know how it is: you don’t wanna know, but you just have to, right? Stupid guy bullshit. So, anyway, she starts telling me about him… how they fell in love, and how they went out for a couple of years, and how they lived together, her mother likes me better, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah… and I’m okay. But then she drops the bomb on me, and the bomb is this: it seems that a couple of times, while they were going out, he brought some people to bed with them. Ménage à trois, I believe it’s called. Now this just blows my mind, right? I mean, I am not used to this sort of thing. I mean, I was raised Catholic, for God’s sake.

Jay: Saint Shithead.

[Silent Bob elbows him; Jay motions as if to start a fight]

Silent Bob: Do something.

[to Holden]

Silent Bob: So I’m totally weirded out by this, right? And then I just start blasting her. Like… I don’t know how to deal with what I’m feeling, so I figure the best way is by calling her a slut, right? And tell her she was used. I’m… I’m out for blood. I really wanna hurt this girl. I’m like, “What the fuck is your problem?”, right? And she’s just all calmly trying to tell me, like, it was that time and it was that place and she doesn’t think she should apologize because she doesn’t feel that she’s done anything wrong. I’m like, “Oh, really?” That’s when I look her straight in the eye, I tell her it’s over. I walk.

Jay: Fuckin’ A!

Silent Bob: No, idiot. It was a mistake. I didn’t hate her. I wasn’t disgusted with her. I was afraid. At that moment, I felt small, like… like I’d lacked experience, like I’d never be on her level, like I’d never be enough for her or something like that, you know what I’m saying? But, what I did not get, she didn’t care. She wasn’t looking for that guy anymore. She was… she was looking for me, for the Bob. But, uh, by the time I figure this all out, it was too late, man. She moved on, and all I had to show for it was some foolish pride, which then gave way to regret. She was the girl, I know that now. But I pushed her away. So, I’ve spent every day since then chasing Amy… so to speak.

[after a long silent pause]

Jay: Oh, enough of this fuckin’ melodrama!

[to Holden]

Jay: My advice, forget her, dude. There’s one bitch in the world, one with many faces.

[to Silent Bob]

Jay: Get up tons of fun.

[back to Holden]

Jay: We gotta book. We’re catching a bus to Chi-town.

Holden realises he was wrong all along.  Will it be too late, or not?

  And In the fashion department….Alyssa wears mostly see through tops, wide legged jeans, wide t-shirts with a print, big jeans jackets and flanel shirts. This style defined the nineties, it has made it’s comeback and is till relevant in 2018.

If you want to adapt Alyssa’s nineties style, I think it’s crucial to blend the key elements of that style with contemporary pieces. This style, my dear friends, can also to be found in the Netflix show LOVE, where the character Mickey blends nineties with ease. Or it could also just mean that you’ll have to re-watch Dawsons creek.

But first let me give you a quick reminder of what nineties fashion looks like:

Flared jeans

Chokers

Hoop earrings

Crop tops

Overalls

Scrunchies

90-ties shoes like Birckenstocks and Doc-Martens

If you were in to hiphop, this was generally marked by oversized saggy trousers and sweaters, combined with lots of ‘ fake’ gold and Kangol hats. Oh and Timberlands.

If you were in to grunge, you generally wore cut of shorts with ripped black panties underneath a crop top and a flannel shirt. And doc Martens. Or you could go for the classic ripped jeans or the slip dress.

I bet you know what I mean. Because, if you are here, you are somewhat into fashion. But just incase. I’ll show you the pretty pictures anyway 🙂

  Some cool facts about Chasing Amy:

In Japan, the screenplay of Chasing Amy was adapted into a novel by Kenichi Eguchi and published by Aoyama Publishing. The unique concept of the book is that it is roughly half-novel, half-manga, with Moyoko Anno providing the art for the comic book pages.[25] In an episode of SModcast, Smith revealed that while he was thrilled to have a manga based on his film, he was shocked when he read the novelization, as the characters’ sexual histories, which are just mentioned in conversation in the film, are depicted in the novel’s manga illustrations as very sexually graphic flashbacks. (Source Wikipedia) When Kevin Smith wrote the script he was dating Joey Lauren Adams and was inspired by her.

Chasing Amy is part of Kevins Askewniverse series. Each movie in this series crosses over with other films of the universe. Alyssa is name dropped in Smith’s Clerks and also appears in Mallrats. The key figures of this universe are the characters Jay and Silent Bob two drugdealers are extremely talented in not minding their own business.

Other funny quotes:

Holden: So, uh, what do you wanna do tonight?

Banky Edwards: I dunno. Get a pizza, watch “Degrassi Jr. High”.

Holden: You got a weird thing for Canadian melodrama.

Banky Edwards: I got a weird thing for girls who say, “Aboot.”

Banky Edwards: [to Alyssa] Since you like chicks, right, do you just look at yourself naked in the mirror all the time?

Jay: So why the long face, Horse? Banky on the rag?

Holden: I’m just, ahh, I’m just havin’ a little girl trouble.

Jay: Bitch pressin’ charges? I get that a lot.

    Love, Maureen

  Filmstyle ” Chasing Amy”- nineties revisited Last Thursday night I  re-watched Kevin Smith’s Chasing Amy,  and as expected it moved me as if I was watching it for the first time around.