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jackrrabbit · 4 years

Note

If I may I just want Overhaul to do me on his desk during a meeting showing the precepts his personal slut

Yubitsume /// Overhaul x f!reader (18+)

Yubitsume: a Japanese ritual primarily performed by the yakuza to atone for offenses to another; a way to be punished or to show sincere apology and remorse.

This story takes place before Chisaki becomes the leader of the Shie Hassaikai and before he puts the big boss in a coma. ngl this was fun to write 😎

Tags/warnings: exhibitionism, coercion (dubcon-ish?), mild humiliation, yakuza members be perving, reader’s quirk makes it impossible for her skin to be cut (it’s relevant I promise), references to violence, some light possessiveness at the end there

You’re softer than you look.

Chisaki’s never really touched you before, so he had no way of knowing until now. Maybe it’s a subconscious association with your quirk, which prevents anything from breaking your skin, but he didn’t think you’d be so yielding. Every bit of you that he can touch is tender and unresisting under his grasp. He almost wants to take off his latex gloves so he can grip your hips and feel how smooth you are against his bare skin.

Ah…but this isn’t for his sake. It’s for yours. Your punishment, your atonement. He’s supposed to be teaching you a lesson, not feeling good. The irresistible heat of your cunt hugging over his cock is just a perk.

“Watch closely, men,” the Boss’s voice rings out across the long, narrow table, cutting across the wet sounds of Chisaki’s flesh slapping against yours. His thrusts slow and then stop with his cock buried deep inside you, giving the Boss a chance to speak over the two of you.

When the room is silent save for the sounds of your breath mixing with Chisaki’s, the Boss speaks again. “This is what happens to those who betray the interests of the Shie Hassaikai. Keep going, Chisaki.”

It’s not like he needs to tell them to watch, Chisaki thinks as he picks up the pace again. Every man in the room is staring intently at the coupling as Chisaki fucks you over the desk. You’re bent forward with your ass sticking out toward him, one trembling leg holding you up while the other is folded up on the wooden surface, angling your pussy into a perfect position for him to thrust into. You’re barely holding your face off the desk with your elbows propped up, and every time Chisaki pushes his cock back into you, you rock forward and the desk creaks under your combined weight.

It’s hardly the solemn atmosphere that’s usually considered necessary for this kind of punishment. The men watching are doing so with lascivious interest, some laughing, some making comments under their breath to each other, and some just staring. He can hardly blame them. The view from the front must be incredible—your tits bouncing, your hands holding onto the edge of the desk for dear life…

What does your face look like right now? Chisaki can’t see when he’s fucking you from the back, but he wishes he could. Are you ducking to hide your lewd expression from the men you’ve worked alongside since you joined the Shie Hassaikai? Are you biting your lip to hold back the sound of your moaning, trying to salvage the little bit of dignity you have left? From the muted noises of your voice (the little uh—uh—uh’s you can’t quite keep from slipping out), he thinks it’s pretty likely.

But if it’s between seeing you and being inside you, Chisaki knows he’s getting the better deal. Fuck, it’s like your throbbing cunt just keeps sucking him in deeper and deeper. What with the heat of your body and the slickness lubing him up in between your pussy lips, it’s getting difficult to hold back his own grunts of pleasure. His thrusts are getting less controlled and sloppier every time he pumps into you.

The men are watching…they’re watching you, Chisaki has to remind himself in order to stop the urge to lean lower over the desk and rut you for all he’s worth, observers be damned. How much deeper can you take it? Probably a little more than this, right?

His next thrust has him bumping up against your cervix, forcing a kittenish whine out of you. A couple of the voyeurs laugh. One wolf whistles. Chisaki’s noticed that the hairs on the back of your neck raise up when the men get loud, and right now your skin is pebbled with goosebumps.

“Don’t let her hide from her shame, Chisaki. Hold her up so we can see.”

Chisaki hesitates, then curls his fingers over your upper arm and drags your torso up off the desk to display your naked chest to the boss and the rest of the Shie Hassaikai. Your head lolls forward and then rolls back onto his shoulder, your damp back flush against the fabric of his shirt.

The position is a little more awkward, and he has to tilt his hips to the side a little to push back into you. On the other hand, it seems like he’s hitting your g-spot at a better angle judging by the way your pussy is twitching around his length.

“Ch…Chisaki,” you whimper, only to wince and snap your eyes shut when the name earns a suggestive whoop from one of the men watching you.

“Aw baby, you gonna beg him?” Rappa asks, voice a mocking growl. You flinch and Chisaki can feel how tense you are. The muscles in your arms go rigid as you try to jerk out of his grip.

Another thrust has you squeaking out a high-pitched moan. “Fuck yeah, make ‘er scream,” someone calls out, but Chisaki ignores it in favor of rocking deeper into you, careful to slide his thick cockhead against your g-spot. This time you’re barely able to keep your voice down, but you can’t conceal the muscles in your pussy pulsating over him.

It feels good, doesn’t it? he wants to ask you, but he knows he can’t. It’s not supposed to feel good for you. You’re supposed to be…reflecting on your mistake or something. When he’s balls deep in your pussy, it’s hard to keep track of what kind of atonement this is supposed to be.

“I see you’re once again capable of speech, (Y/N),” the Boss says, silencing the other Shie Hassaikai members. This time, however, Chisaki can’t bring himself to stop fucking you long enough to let his benefactor speak uninterrupted. The Boss doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he continues— “Enlighten us as to why we’re watching Chisaki bed you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chisaki can see your chin tip forward so you’re looking hesitantly at the Boss. Your face is so red, but you manage to form words despite your embarrassment. “P-P-Punishment… Instead of y-yubitsume, I’m being—being punished…”

Yubitsume. The yakuza ritual of cutting off one’s own pinky finger at the first knuckle to make recompense for an insult or injury committed against the organization, a mutilation that not only increases difficulty of combat and manual labor but also brands the afflicted with a public stigma. By tradition, yubitsume is the appropriate penalty for the crime you perpetrated, but your quirk makes it impossible. No blade can pierce your skin.

This—getting fucked by Chisaki while the Shie Hassaikai watches—was suggested as a substitute method of apology. There were other alternatives, other ways to exact retribution on your body (you may not bleed, but you can certainly bruise…and break). This method was almost a kindness, or at least that’s how the Boss had explained it to you until you reluctantly agreed.

Still, as the men who used to see you as a fellow (an equal, even) now jeer at you and call for Chisaki to fuck that little slut harder, he has to wonder whether this is really the kinder option.

“And what are you being punished for?” the Boss asks.

“I-I did something wrong—uhn!” You snatch a betrayed glance at Chisaki as his arm snakes around so he can grope at your breast and pinch your nipple between two fingers. “I—! Brought p-police, to the Shie Hassaikai…”

Chisaki knows better than the rest of them how minor your crime was. The transgression had nothing to do with them, and it would have happily gone unpunished had you not been caught by the authorities. The yakuza might care little about petty lawbreaking, but your real offense had been attracting the attention of the cops. They’d been lucky to get away without a thorough inspection. Now you’re paying the price for your carelessness.

“Good. As all of you know, I have no wish to treat (Y/N) too harshly. Chisaki…finish her off.”

There it is. This may be your atonement, but Chisaki’s aware that he’s being punished as well. He’s the one who brought you to the organization, and so your wrongdoing is partially his responsibility. The Boss knows how much Chisaki would usually hate this…having to touch someone’s bare flesh so intimately and so publicly. He’s getting hives just thinking about being in this position with someone else.

But it’s not someone else. It’s you. You with your untouchable skin, so clean and soft. You with your tight, hot pussy swallowing every inch of his cock so nicely. For the first time since he can remember, he half-wishes he were wearing less clothing just so he could feel you…and every second he’s inside you he regrets putting on a condom more.

And now he’s got the Boss’s blessing to make you cum on his cock. Chisaki’s hand drops from your breast down to your pussy and his index finger swirls around your clit. You gasp and cry out (much to the appreciation of the men watching), and Chisaki has to bite down on a growl of his own as your innards clamp down on him.

You’re probably close to cumming already. No, no, you’re definitely close. Even with no direct stimulation to your clit until now, Chisaki’s been fucking you for ages. All that friction over your g-spot has taken you right up to your edge, and it’s not going to take much more to push you over.

You’re already pulsing around him intermittently in rhythm with the pads of his fingers teasing your clit. The pressure of your pussy fluttering around every ridge and vein on his cock is excruciating, so fucking good that he can barely remember that the two of you are being watched. The other gang members are getting louder in their bawdy commentary of the pornographic scene playing out in front of them, but Chisaki tunes it out in favor of focusing on the way your shallow breaths meet the tempo of his thrusts.

With you draped over his chest, he barely has to adjust his position to push his masked face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder so he can nuzzle up and lick you through the stiff fabric. You shudder—ugh, do that again, he thinks—and your hips writhe weakly, trying to increase the stimulation of his hand on your clit. You’re about to cum, and so is Chisaki, but he carefully steers his hips to control both your reactions and his. When he pulls out of you he’s slow, tender, making sure you feel empty without him, but when he pushes back in he does it in a quick snap that stretches you out paired with a rough dab at your clit.

You’re coming apart in front of him, not even bothering to be quiet anymore. “Chisaki…Chisaki, I—I’m cumming!” you cry out, trying not to pay attention to all of the Shie Hassaikai egging you on and telling you what a good little whore you are. Your orgasm has your pussy sucking down on Chisaki’s cock, even tighter than before, like your body is instinctively trying to milk the cum out of him.

Goddamnit… Yeah, he’s not going to last for another minute with you clamping down on him like that. As soon as Chisaki’s sure you’re cumming so hard you’re barely coherent, he drops you gracelessly back down onto the desk so he can grab up your hips and fuck his last few pumps into you as savagely as possible. His fingers dig into your ass deeply enough that he’d be drawing blood if not for your quirk, and when the heat building in his cock spills over he holds you perfectly still despite your attempts to squirm away from him so that you feel him jerk and cum between your throbbing walls.

“(Y/N)…good, good girl,” he pants out as he gives a couple more shallow thrusts for good measure. Well, huh. That’s the first thing he’s said since he started fucking you.

When it’s too uncomfortable to stay inside for a second longer, Chisaki pulls out and tugs the filthy condom off, ties it, and drops it in the trash. He needs a shower…and something to wipe off on, but at the moment neither are available to him so he has to tuck himself back into his pants without cleaning up. Disgusting. Even though it’s just his own cum dirtying him, his skin is still crawling at the thought of it.

“Good work, Chisaki,” says the Boss, rising to his feet to leave. “You can clean up after her.”

Emboldened past their usual limits by what they just witnessed, the other men guffaw and taunt you as they follow the Boss out. Setsuno reaches out to slap your ass as he exits, but Chisaki stops him with a hand on his wrist. His hold isn’t painful, but the threat is clear.

If you touch her, you’re going to lose more than a pinky.

“R-Relax, Chisaki,” Setsuno stammers. “Hands off. I get it.”

Chisaki almost corrects him, almost tells Setsuno to call him by the right name—Overhaul. But the Boss isn’t quite out of earshot yet, and it wouldn’t do for him to hear. So he just lets Setsuno go. The rest of the men give the two of you a wide berth as they file out, although your pert little ass still gets a few lecherous glances as they leave.

And then it’s just you and him. You roll over onto your back and sit up on the desk. “…Chisaki? You don’t have to clean up, I’ll do it.”

How docile of you. You really are apologetic. To be honest, Chisaki should still be angry—you almost caused a lot of trouble for the Shie Hassaikai, and what with the plans he has in mind, getting the authorities to look a little closer at them could ruin everything. He shouldn’t be keeping a risk like you around, especially considering the Boss doesn’t usually let him play with you the way he’d like to.

But the Boss isn’t going to be the one making decisions for much longer. And until he’s out of the picture, Chisaki can’t wait for you to slip up again.

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heathers-wig · 3 years

Text

come & find me - heathney hanahaki au part one

synopsis:

“Who’re the flowers for?” Eva interjects.

The question dances around in Heather’s head and leaks out of the others’ imploring glances, but Heather finds herself faltering as she struggles to answer.

“I don’t…” Heather frowns, thinking of the flowers welling up in her lungs that she’s sure will snuff out her life. Her frown melts into a scowl when she thinks of whoever her enamored was, and how they doubled as her soon-to-be inevitable murderer, along with how she didn’t even get the privilege to know their identity. “I don’t know.”

❁

Or: Heather contracts the Hanahaki Disease. Other than the fact that she’s quite literally slowly but surely dying due to flowers rooted to her lungs, she has a problem; she doesn’t know who exactly her unrequited love is for, or how to prevent the disease from worsening. Can she figure out who her “beloved” is and snuff out the floral illness before it claims her for once and for all?

pairings: heathney (heather x courtney), BG gweoff (gwen x geoff), BG izva (izzy x eva)

word count: 15,226

warnings: suicidal thoughts implications + descriptions of coughing/vomiting

A/N: there are two endings, happy and sad! feel free to choose which you deem as the true ending :) thank you for reading!

READ IT ON AO3 HERE!

i. daffodils & gardenias; unrequited and secret love

It starts with a petal. Well, if Heather were to be honest, it had started far beyond the first initial petal, but all the pieces fell into place when the very first petal fluttered from her lips.

Her science teacher was going on and on about the instructions for their next lab — something about carefully dissecting a pufferfish that had long since died, but Heather paid no mind to it.

Instead, she observes.

One of her favorite things to do was observe those around her. It was like dissecting them, similar to how her science teacher was now demonstrating on one of the pufferfish, and their internal thoughts and behaviors. Who they unconsciously drifted to, who they repelled and fought with — or, to be more precise, where the weak links in her class were located. With this frequent and diligent studying, she knew exactly how to break certain students and their allegedly tight-knit friend groups.

Take Bridgette, Geoff, and Alejandro, for instance; all Heather had done was slightly insinuate to the gullible, blonde girl that Alejandro liked her, and she was putty in her hands. Of course, Heather noticed Bridgette stare and stare at Alejandro nearly around the clock, but Geoff, Bridgette's actual boyfriend, hadn’t. She did him a favor, really — all it took was her to mastermind him walking in on Bridgette and Alejandro during a Halloween party, and Heather was satisfied.

Currently, Geoff and Bridgette were sitting awkwardly and stiffly next to one another — a huge mistake on their parts, in Heather’s opinion, to choose to sit next to one another after only beginning to date during the summer, but Heather had never had the patience for high school romances. Bridgette had tried to slide apology notes to Geoff’s direction, but for once, his eyes were glued to the board and the notes went unnoticed.

Heather noticed them, though, and she had to stifle a laugh.

The rest of the class is more or less the same. Some were pointedly looking away from the experiment their teacher was performing, and some were sketching in their notebooks, like Gwen.

There had to be three people genuinely paying attention — Geoff, for obvious reasons, Beth, because she currently had a B in the course and thought it was the end of her small-minded world, and Courtney, because she was, well, Courtney.

It’s when Heather’s eyes stay on Courtney’s head of hair that didn’t have a single strand out of place that it happens.

A scratch in the back of her throat digs into her, but Heather swallows it down instead of clearing her throat. If she did it too loudly over something so mediocre and unimportant, her classmates would just assume she was trying to stir something seeing as how it was the end of the last period of the day and, while Heather loved the occasional entertainment at the spite of her peers, she wasn’t in the mood that day.

And so, Heather waits and makes stray sketches in her notebook — repeatedly writing her name in cursive, drawing hideous illustrations of her peers, anything to pass the time until the bell rings. When the bell finally sounded off, punctuating the end of the day, students unceremoniously gathered their lump of notebooks and textbooks and scoop them in their arms, leaving the classroom in a cluttered, chatty, and hurried mess.

The first one out the door is Geoff, followed by Bridgette on his heels, Heather notes, but she can’t bring herself to follow and eavesdrop and what would possibly be one of the most interesting breakups Wawanakwa High had seen since Courtney and Duncan’s infamous split. She’d probably overhear the details of the split from somebody else, anyway.

The devil seemed to have spawned at the initial thought, as a prickly voice accompanied with a light tap on Heather’s shoulder made with the eraser end of a pencil is what tears Heather’s eyes away from the door. She has half the mind to berate whoever it was for pestering her at the end of the day, but falters when her eyes meet the other’s.

Courtney’s narrowed dark brown eyes are unamused. When Heather rises from her seat, Courtney tilts her head up to meet her gaze — Heather was taller than Courtney, even with the pair of wedges the brunette had on that day.

“I expect you were paying attention,” Courtney’s tone is sickeningly sweet and mocking, the specific one she uses around people she thinks are below her in terms of intelligence, or just in general. She has seen Courtney use it around the young kids she tutors, Duncan, jocks, Heather herself, and practically any student in their school who has managed to sour her mood, which was mostly everyone. “We are partnered for the lab, after all —”

“We are?” Heather questions dryly. She had expected Courtney to pick up on her sarcasm — Courtney had made it her job to scribble Lab with Courtney on every available space in her planner on the days leading up to the experiment, after all — but judging by the brunette’s eyes narrowing further, she either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

“Yes,” She hisses through clenched teeth, before frowning. “Whatever, I actually paid attention —”

“And I thank you for your service,” Heather remarks just as dryly as before, sauntering out the door.

“Wha — hey, where are you going?”

Heather snorted softly. “Come and find me,” she chastised sardonically. She had figured the answer to be obvious, but Courtney never failed to surprise her in one way or another.

Courtney scoffs and follows her, falling into place next to Heather. She fixed the headband on her head that matched her clothes as she rolled her eyes so far back Heather couldn’t help but wonder if they saw the back of her head.

“Haha, very funny,” The brunette doesn’t laugh, which makes Heather crack a smile in satisfaction. Winning with Courtney was always exhilarating and thrilling. “See you tomorrow, Heather,”

Heather hummed, waving a lazy and half-hearted hand over her shoulder, already bolting in the direction of the student parking lot. “See you,”

When Heather is finally in the solitude of her sleek, black car — her parents wasted no expense when it came to spoiling her, despite neither being the affectionate or loving type — the thing building up in the back of her throat is finally released into the palm of her hand, and all Heather can do is stare at it.

She’s coughed up bile and phlegm before, and she’s heard of blood being coughed up as well, but the tiny, dainty and crumpled thing laying in her hands was unheard of and felt unreal as it rested in her palms. She was suddenly aware of how dry her hands were as she felt the thinness of the soaked object, given that it had been resting in her throat.

Rifling it in her hands, Heather scoffs when she realizes just how ridiculous it was to believe she had just coughed up a flower in the school parking lot. However, she blinks harshly and firmly, and when she opens her eyes, the yellow petal is still there.

A foreign feeling of confusion and uneasiness settles over her like a blanket, but she instead scoffs once more and crumpled the petal, wrapping a tissue around it to keep it from dirtying her leather seats, and rolls out of the parking lot, avoiding any acknowledgment of the flower petal she’s convinced she imagined coughing up.

(On the ride home, she coughs up two more additional petals, too — one white and curved to perfection, looking much too angelic and innocent for having just been lodged up in her throat just moments prior, and the other the same shade of yellow as the first. Heather ignores both, and tosses them out the window to sink further in denial, similar to how she felt her stomach sink as she watched the petals flutter aimlessly to the ground, destined to be run over or stepped on.)

❀

That night, after finishing both her math homework and leftovers for dinner, Heather switched off the lights and settled into her bed before impulsively flicking open her laptop. It was for school purposes, her parents insisted, and was to never be used at night when she should be asleep, but quite frankly, Heather hadn’t cared much for her parents’ opinion of her considering their clear distaste for her.

Her fingers mindlessly fly across the keyboard, the same feeling of dread from when she was stunned upon the initial discovery of the petals resurfacing.

why am i coughing up weird shit

Healthline - Signs of Lung Illness

If any of the following symptoms apply to you, be sure to contact your health agent and schedule an appointment to discuss your symptoms and possible diagnosis. If you experience a burning, aching, or squeezing sensation in your chest, illnesses such as Lung Cancer, Pleuritis, etc. may be at play.

why am i coughing up petals and how do i stop it

Derrit - r/AskDerrit, in an old manga I read today, the Hanahaki disease was a plotline. Is it real? I can’t find any research indicating an answer.

BlaineleysBitch: no. the entire premise of the disease doesn’t even make sense. it’s not real.

Mr.CocoNutty: tbfh i haven’t heard anything about it? i’m sure if it were real there would be some coverage abt it considering how unbelievable it sounds

KittyKat16: yea, i don’t think it’s real, but it would be really cool if it was!!

what’s the hanahaki disease

Wikiresource - List of fictional diseases

Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease where the victim of unrequited or one-sided love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing impossible if left untreated. The flowers in particular symbolize the specific love and relationship the patient has for the enamored, as told through flower language. Hanahaki can be cured through the confession of the victim's feelings. The response of the enamored is unimportant. The victim may also develop Hanahaki Disease if they believe the love to be one-sided but once the enamored returns the feelings, they will be cured.

how to get rid of hanahaki disease without having to confess shit

Making sure to groan inaudibly — her parents were under the impression she was asleep, after all — Heather pressed her finger down on the backspace key with a familiar scowl on her face, her finger remaining in place atop the key long after the words had been removed. The feeling of resentment and annoyance was familiar, but the overwhelming confusion and petals she felt building up in her throat were not.

Sighing, Heather rubbed her eyes gently yet urgently. Mindlessly, she resorted back to her idle habit: observing.

Assuming she had the disease that was supposed to be fictional, somebody had swooped Heather off of her heeled feet without her even realizing it. That had to be impossible, as Heather wasn’t dense enough to not realize something as obvious as feelings for another. After all, she read people and their infatuation with others as easily as one read magazines — who was to say she couldn’t do the same for herself?

Recalling the wiki page, Heather sighed as she began to re-type. The article had said that the flowers she had coughed up symbolized her love for whoever her crush was in flower language, and seeing as how it was her only lead on whoever her supposed enamored was, Heather wanted to crack down who it was exactly and quickly exterminate any and all contact with them to execute any possible feelings.

how do you identify a flower

PlantCapture - What Flower Is This? How to Instantly Identify Flowers

If you already have a photo of a flower saved on your phone, you can also instantly identify it by uploading the photo to PlantCapture. Once you've instantly identified a flower, PlantCapture stores it in your library. You can easily go back to see how many flowers you've identified.

Heather whipped out her phone with another sigh as she begrudgingly began downloading the app. Watching the small icon load, she scowled even deeper. Even the smallest inconvenience in the entire situation was enough to dampen her mood even further, despite the fact her own alleged feelings brought this on herself.

Remembering she had tossed out her only petals, Heather just barely resisted another groan before a familiar scratchiness formed at the back of her throat. Being sure to cough quietly, Heather slipped the petal out of her mouth as she winced at the taste of copper rolling down her tongue. The article hadn’t mentioned anything about blood, Heather bitterly notes, before shaking her head at her own stupidity. Of course there wasn’t a full list of symptoms for a disease that was believed to be fictional.

Switching flash on, Heather got the results of her flowers instantaneously as promised: the yellow and white flowers she had been hacking up all day were daffodils and gardenias, respectively.

Heather’s fingers flew to her keyboard once more automatically. With bated breath, she hoped that the results would be specific enough that she could put an end to the investigation that night and stomp out whatever ties she had with her “enamored”.

But, as noted from Heather’s luck that day, things rarely went her way.

what do daffodils mean

FlowerDictionary - Flower Meanings: Flowers A-K

Daffodil symbolizes regard and chivalry. It is indicative of rebirth, new beginnings and eternal life. It also symbolizes unrequited love.

what do gardenias mean

Flower Dictionary - Flower Meanings: Flowers A-K

The gardenia is a flower that symbolizes purity and gentleness. However, this symbolism often depends on the color of the gardenia. ... Another symbol of the gardenia is secret love between two people and also joy.

Upon quickly searching them up, the results did little to ease the dread pooling in her. The test was definitely correct, as it seemed, but was entirely unhelpful when it came to figuring out the identity of whoever it was that Heather had unknowingly developed an unreturned love for.

Slamming her laptop closed — a bit too loud for her liking, but beats pass and she doesn’t hear the annoying patter of her mother’s footsteps reach her room, so she assumes she’s in the clear — Heather grunts one final time, unceremoniously moving her laptop back on her desk. Raising the petal to her line of vision, Heather has to squint to make out some of the details. This one was white, identifiable even in the dark. It was a bit crumpled from having been clutched so tightly, and still wet from her own coppery blood.

A gardenia, Heather recalls with another scowl that was deeper and more ferocious than the last were. Meant to symbolize a “secret love”... so much for a clue.

She wonders, her last coherent thought before succumbing to sleep, how big of a secret her love must be for it to have left Heather herself in the dark on who her loved one was.

At the thought, Heather wrapped her blankets tighter around herself, lulling herself to an uneasy sleep of blood, thorns, beautiful but deadly flowers, and a figure in the distance who looks so comforting and familiar whose name is on the tip of Heather’s tongue, but can’t be reached.

❀

ii. amaryllises & white chrysanthemums; pride & loyalty

Despite Heather’s praying to a God she didn’t believe in, the flowers didn’t disappear overnight. Instead, they bloomed rapidly in her lungs, and at times when she felt the familiar tickle in the back of her throat, flowers in full-bloom were coughed up.

They would be beautiful, if not for her own blood staining them, a grim reminder of what would become of her if she did not find a fix, and soon.

Still, Heather was nothing if not quick on her feet. She managed to keep her illness under the wraps — of course, her second in command was Lindsay, so it wasn’t difficult to conceal her bloody bundles of flowers as just “feeling under the weather”; any other person would be suspicious of the foreign scratchiness and hoarseness her voice now had, the way she would breathe shakily as if her lungs were rattling and about to give out, or the way she barely restrained the flowers from being coughed up after a gym class, but since it’s Lindsay, Heather can get away with her lie.

When Lindsay sweetly wishes for her to feel better, even dropping off a bowl of badly homemade chicken noodle soup, Heather couldn’t help but scoff as she shook her head at the feeling of guilt lingering in the back of her head, and the feeling of bloody flowers in the back of her throat.

❀

With every fistful of the flowers beginning to stain her clothes, Heather took responsibility for her own laundry, for the first time in her life. Her parents put on a spectacle of overexaggerated joy and relief when she announced it, saying that, oh, thank goodness their darling was beginning to take responsibility instead of pooching off of them; Heather had just forcefully smiled and nodded, as she always did now, and excused herself to hurriedly put in the first load.

Her clothes were stained red in her own blood. Some petals began to stick onto her clothes, as well, and the last thing Heather wanted was the intrusion of her parents and their nosiness as she deciphered just who she was coughing flowers for.

Interestingly, the flowers she was now coughing up were different. Amaryllises and chrysanthemums, as she had identified — the red flower was the former of the two and symbolized pride. The white chrysanthemums, wide with many intricate petals, symbolized loyalty and the truth. Thankfully, they were more of a clue than the daffodils and gardenias with their meanings of unrequited and secret love.

That still didn’t mean that Heather had any clue of who they were for, though — she just knew that they had to be high-maintenance, and part of her refused to believe she would unconsciously fall for someone who had to be so pretentious, but seeing as how the thought sent her into another bout of coughing sloppily disguised, it had to have been the truth.

Heather was beginning to hate the sensation that arose when she felt a coughing spur coming on. She hated how she could feel a crumpled lump form in the back of her throat, squirming its way up her throat and nearly out her mouth. It feels hot, sticky, and suffocating, and when the flowers come up, Heather hates them too, and especially whoever her beloved is. However, the disease doesn’t cease even just a little, and so Heather finds herself heaving, coughing, and puking chrysanthemums and amaryllises in the middle of the night as she ponders on who it is she’s supposed to be loving.

Still, she manages to keep herself from hacking during class in front of her peers, and that’s all that matters to her, even when the flowers she chokes on splinter into her like thorns in her side.

❀

It’s here that Heather messes up. Well, to be fair, she messed up as soon as she began feeling things for whoever it was that had captured her sight unknowingly, in Heather’s opinion, but that was irrefutable and couldn’t be helped.

This, however, could have been helped.

Like many things, it started at school. Like the first petal that had been coughed up weeks ago, it started during science class, when she felt the feeling of hot bile, blood, and petals rising in her throat as Courtney bent over their lab report. She didn’t notice Heather’s discomfort, as her eyes were fixed on the report, her brows scrunched together in concentration.

At least, that’s what Heather thought, until Courtney suddenly looked up from the report and eyed her curiously. “Are you feeling alright?”

Heather barely contained her surprise at the sudden inquiry. The only person to ask that was Lindsay, not even her own parents, let alone her (unofficial) rival and (official) lab partner.

Upon seeing her confusion — had she done that bad at a job of hiding it? — Courtney sighed and looked back to their work. “To be honest, you’re quieter than normal and you look kind of sick — you look like you’re going to pass out at any time now.”

“Thanks,” Heather mutters coarsely, finding her voice. Despite her calm exterior, she could feel her heart racing, and the flowers itching their way up her throat.

Courtney squawked indignantly. “Hey! I’m just being honest!”

“Mhmm,” Heather hums absentmindedly as she rises from her seat. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

She barely hears Courtney’s grumpy and hesitant “Fine,” before stalking out the room, grabbing a hall pass on her way out. As soon as the door swung shut behind her, out of sight from her peers, Heather dashed as quickly as she could to the solitude of the nearest bathroom. She slams the stall door closest to her open noisily, thankful there was nobody around, and heaves into the toilet as the blood and flowers bloom from her mouth.

They hurt more than the daffodils and gardenias, now that they’re coming out as full flowers accompanied with a few stray petals rather than just petals, but Heather shoves the thought to the side in favor of pulling her hair away from her face. The toilet bowl is filled with a hideous mixture of blood and petals, and Heather feels like a decaying corpse as the energy leaves her, crumbling to the ground as she heaved from the aftermath of the coughing fit.

Picking petals from her backmost molars, Heather spits once more, the remaining drops of blood falling into the sink. Her chin is wet and sticky with her own blood, and she’s sure her teeth are stained red as well; Heather half-heartedly debates asking her parents to pick her up as she flushes the toilet, whisking away most of the evidence excluding the blood dribbling down her chin from her mouth and a few stray petals, before deciding she’d rather vomit flowers rooted to her lungs for the rest of the day than be with her family.

As she rinsed water from the sink in her mouth, Heather nearly spits it out in surprise when she notices a bathroom stall crack open from the mirror. Then she actually spits the stained water from her mouth, whirling around to threaten whoever it was to secrecy. When her eyes meet a head of blue hair, she falters slightly, and that’s all it takes for the other to take control.

“You too?” Is all Gwen asks, having recovered from her initial surprise. She doesn’t look grossed out by the blood, and instead joins Heather by the sinks.

Narrowing her eyes, Heather recoils to what she knows best around Gwen: defense. “Excuse me?”

Gwen laughs, sardonically and self-deprecatingly, with a hint of amusement. It’s the most Heather’s seen her laugh to her since, well, ever. Then, still in astonishment, Heather felt herself stagger back and her eyes widened when pale pink roses, white carnations, and yellow coreopsis flowers fell from Gwen’s blue-lipsticked lips, gracefully fluttering to the tiled floor.

Suddenly, Heather understands, but Gwen still unnecessarily elaborates. “The flowers. You too?”

Heather only hesitates for a split second before sighing and staring down at the sink bowl. “Yeah,”

“Didn’t expect it from you of all people,” Gwen chuckled humorlessly. “Didn’t think the Queen Bee Heather knew what emotion was, let alone be stuck in unrequited love,” she mocked bitterly. She turns to Heather, gaze softening. “So, who is it?”

Heather blinked. “What do you mean?”

Gwen snorted and gestured to the petals and trail of blood on the tiled floor. “The flowers, honors student,”

Ignoring the sarcastic remark, Heather paused before admitting, “I don’t know,”

Gwen grunted disbelievingly. “Come on, I know you don’t like or trust me, but really, who am I going to tell?”

“Hey, I’m actually being honest here!” Heather snapped, glaring at the goth. Of course, I’m told I’m lying when I’m actually being honest… she thinks with a scoff as her scowl returns.

“Whatever, have you tried…” Gwen trails off, frowning as her brows scrunch together. “I don’t know, I just knew who mine was for—”

“Who?” Heather asks curiously, having not picked up on Gwen displaying any of the usual symptoms of a horrid teenage crush. No staring, attention-seeking, stuttering, or blushing — it was the same behavior for everyone with Gwen.

The goth hesitates only for a split moment before sighing and giving one name: “Geoff,”

Heather hums, unsure what to say. Gwen narrows her eyes, seeming to just remember who she was talking to.

“Seeing as how we’re one and the same right now, if I catch you telling anyone, I will spread the news of your diagnosis, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Weird Goth Girl, your secret is safe with me,” Heather promises, the corners of her lips twitching up at the use of the old nickname. “Just help me clean up all this before someone walks in,”

Gwen nods once, before bending over the sink and coughing a few more flowers and petals in the sink, blood spilling from her mouth. Awkwardly, Heather pats her back, unsure what to do, before realizing she should probably hold her hair back.

“Thanks,” Gwen murmurs, her voice even more hoarse and tired than normal. Heather just gives her a nod before crouching down to pick up the flowers trailing the ground; Gwen hurries to grab a mop from the back closet to clean the blood.

It’s when Heather comes across the petals of the pale pink roses, white carnations, and yellow coreopsis flowers that a pang of empathy spurs in her. She turns to Gwen.

“Those type of roses specifically mean joy, the white carnations mean purity and loveliness, and the yellow coreopsis means cheerfulness.”

Gwen looks up from her work and blinks, taken aback, before smiling slowly and softly. “That fits him,”

Wordlessly, the two set off to finish the cleanup of their shared death sentence in the form of flowers and blood, when the bathroom door flies open once more. Both Heather and Gwen look up, eyes wide in surprise. Before either can communicate, a thunderous voice and a ticked-off Eva enter the area.

“Get back to class, we have to clean up —” she gets cut off from her own demand, faltering at the sight of Heather and Gwen bent over the floor, cleaning blood, flowers, and bloody flowers. Her eyes flit back to the duo who are too frozen and flabbergasted to speak. “What happened?”

Heather opens her mouth to bullshit her way into an explanation as she always did when Eva’s eyes suddenly narrow dangerously, intercepting the unsaid lie. She spits out one last order before turning on her heel, leaving the bathroom.

“Meet me in the library after school. Come alone, and hurry up and get back to class so no one else walks in on you.”

After her departure, all Heather and Gwen could do was stare at one another, wide-eyed and depleted of the fluttery itchiness of their lungs and throats, for once, before resolving to hurriedly finish garnering the crumpled flowers and washing the blood down the sink.

Heather goes back to class for the remaining minutes of the day, her mind elsewhere even as Courtney berates her for the long bathroom break. Her mind drifts to Gwen’s sardonic laugh, the goth's utter defeat after finishing hacking, and the way her eyes are avoiding Geoff’s direction, instead fixated on a pink charm bracelet Heather had noticed her fiddling with on multiple occasions before.

The image of Gwen choking on her own blood and petals momentarily and the sound of her warbled snort had been seared in Heather’s memory, and all she could do was wonder. Wonder if, in due time, her own condition would mirror Gwen’s when she inevitably lost to the disease that was slowly but surely suffocating her.

❀

When Eva had instructed her and Gwen to meet with her alone, Heather had assumed that that applied to Eva as well.

What she had not expected, however, was for her and Gwen to be seated with Eva and two of the most arbitrary (personality-wise, that was) redheads Heather ever had the pleasure (?) of meeting.

She scowled. With herself, Gwen, Eva, Izzy, and Harold, they had practically formed their own little Losers Club. Brilliant.

Harold awkwardly coughed, having declared himself the unofficial leader.

Gwen scoffed, leaning back into her seat. She leaned her chair, balancing it on two legs at a dangerous angle. “What is this, Hanahaki Club?” Gwen mockingly questioned, mirroring Heather’s thoughts.

Harold guiltily smiles. “Well, no. See, Eva here —” Eva glared at the boy, scowling. Harold faltered for the fifth time that meeting, gulping — “had Hanahaki awhile ago. Last year, I think. She confessed to Izzy, and the rest is history.”

Izzy nodded enthusiastically. She grabbed Eva’s hand, making the latter blush furiously at the unprompted gesture. “Yup! Our getting together was actually like this one Romanian film —”

“Anyway,” Harold interrupted. “I noticed Eva’s symptoms and helped her, which we intend to do with you two. Now,” he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, casting a pensive look to Heather and Gwen, who exchanged glances. “Which one of you has Hanahaki?”

Before Heather can think to lie and save her own skin, Gwen answers truthfully. “Both of us,”

“Gwen!” Heather hissed. The mentioned shrugs.

“What, you think you’ll be able to resist coughing up flowers during this?” At Gwen’s words, Heather felt her face twist as she felt an itching in her throat. Satisfied, Gwen nods and turns to the others. “Thought so.”

“I’m going to be honest,” Eva begins. Her tone is softer than before, but just as commanding. “Hanahaki… it’s hell. But just ease your suffering by confessing. I didn’t want to risk my life when a few words could save it.”

At Eva’s words, Heather can’t help but feel a surge of jealousy at her words, her sureness. At how she and Gwen just knew who their flowers were for, and how Eva had the mind and courage to confess.

If she did know who the amaryllises and chrysanthemums that were rooted in her lungs were for, would Heather confess? She wasn’t sure, and she hated the uncertainty.

“Yeah, but, he just broke up with his girlfriend,” Gwen murmured, tracing a finger on the table as she spoke in a low voice. She seemed fascinated with the intricate design of the wood, now, refusing to meet the eyes of her peers that were softened with sympathy. “And… he just sees me as a friend. ‘One of the guys', you know?”

A beat passes before Harold frowns, a hand on his chin like some wannabe Sherlock, Heather notes, face expectedly contorted in pensiveness. “Is it Geoff?”

“Bingo,” Gwen says dryly.

Izzy turns to Heather, the hyperactivity from before dulled as she looks serious for what had to be one of the few times in her life. “And you?”

“What about me?” Heather sighs, though she knows that they know she knows what’s being insinuated.

“Who’re the flowers for?” Eva interjects.

The question dances around in Heather’s head and leaks out of the others’ imploring glances, but Heather finds herself faltering as she struggles to answer.

“You don’t know?” Eva echoes. Her face is not contorted in anger, like Heather assumed it would, but rather thoughtfulness. Neither is her voice thunderous or disbelieving — Eva seemed to seriously be contemplating the likelihood of it. She turns to Harold. “Is that even possible?”

The redhead looks just as lost in thought as Eva. He shrugs. “Maybe…” He shifts his attention back to Heather, who is beginning to feel as if she were being prodded at, dissected, and inspected by her peers. “Have you tried thinking about it?”

“Excuse me?” Heather asks, taken aback. Her scowl diminished momentarily in her surprise, before it fell back into place, more intense than before. “What do you think I’ve been doing? Analyzing the flowers and flower language like I’ve gone insane —”

“I mean,” Harold interrupts, “have you tried… I dunno, fantasizing about the people in your life? Like, placing yourself in your ideal date with them to see if the flowers spur in your throat? It worked in this one manga —”

Heather droned out the rest of his rant, frowning to herself. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“Anyway,” Eva cut Harold off with a silencing glare. The boy in question audibly gulps, shifting in his seat and indiscreetly glancing away to the opposite direction. “What do your flowers mean?” She looked to Gwen and Heather.

“The first round were marigolds,” Gwen admits carefully. “They mean jealousy. The second had mistletoe and yellow tulips — they mean affection and longing, and the tulips meant good friendship, or something like that. Now, I have pale pink roses, which mean joy, white carnations, which mean purity and loveliness, and yellow coreopsis flowers, which mean cheerfulness.”

“My first flowers were daffodils and gardenias.” Heather found no reason to lie now. “They mean unrequited and secret love. Way to spell it out,” she chuckled dryly, and humorlessly, and pretending to not notice the varying amounts of sympathy from the group. Her throat stings. “The ones I have now — amaryllises and chrysanthemums — mean pride and loyalty.”

Eva raises her eyebrows. “High-maintenance? Wouldn’t have expected that from you,”

Heather grunted. “Shut up,” Her throat hurt too much for a better rebuttal.

“You know, it’s probably Courtney,” Izzy hums half-jokingly with a grin. Gwen barely stifles a laugh.

Feeling her face flush and a lump form in her throat, Heather opens her mouth to argue, but is silenced when Harold shoots her a look.

“So, to recap,” Harold draws their attention back in, “The flowers represent who you love and/or your dynamic with them. Heather, try finding some privacy and think of your ideal date with people you know who are prideful and loyal, okay? We’ll meet up here on Monday. Hopefully you’ll have figured it out by then.”

“Fine,” Heather agrees, clumsily gathering her things. Her throat is burning, along with her chest and she’s sure her eyes are stinging, and she desperately wants to cough, but not now, and certainly not here with this audience. “See you Monday, Hanahaki Club,” she mutters sarcastically.

Half-hearted laughs register in Heather’s ears, but she’s already out of the library and dashing to the second nearest bathroom, not wanting to be walked in on. Her focus had been shifted from her illness momentarily, but now that it had been remembered, it was all it took for her to cough up the familiar flowers to the bathroom floor, unleashing a familiar strangled and warbled choking noise, accompanied by foreign tears.

❀

At night, when Heather’s parents and siblings are fast asleep, Heather lies wide awake in bed, tossing and turning. Whoever her beloved was was causing her to be unable to sleep at night, and when she was awake, she would cough on petals and blood, and she just craved to sleep.

Part of her wondered if it was possible for her to choke on the flowers in her sleep, before concluding that it didn’t matter. She was going to die, anyway.

Her mind wanders back to the secret meeting in the library, and of Harold’s advice. She had never wanted to date any of her classmates, but seeing as how she had the disease, it was a waste of time groveling in defeat. Instead, she shuts her eyes, and thinks of her fantasy.

Intimacy is what comes to mind first. She doesn’t like intimacy with her family or friends, but maybe she’s a sucker for looking into someone’s eyes and holding hands and telling someone I love you and meaning it. It doesn’t make her a sap; it just means that her needs are impossible to fulfill.

Eyes still shut, the image of her perfect date materializes in Heather’s head. Limbs entangled around one another as she and her mysterious person cuddled on a couch while watching an arbitrary film. Sharing a cup of hot chocolate and blankets as the chilling air from outdoors was kept out from inside by the heater. Talking animatedly about their interests and such over the movie, gazing into one another’s eyes; no judgment was to be found in either. It was peaceful and isolated, and perfect to Heather. Her parents never showed affection, and couples in high school never lasted — that type of love wasn’t real, but Heather allowed herself to fantasize, still, for the sake of finding who her enamored was.

Thinking it was best to start with the girls Heather was acquainted with that fit the bill, Heather sighs before imagining the ambiguous person as her classmates.

Leshawna. She’s the most faithful person Heather knows of, and she’s certainly proud. The flowers remain still and unmoving in her lungs, and so, she decides to move on.

Gwen. Unsurprisingly, the flowers don’t itch. The goth was more of someone Heather could respect, anyway.

Eva. Still, no reaction. Part of her is grateful, as she didn’t want to face the wrath of Izzy ever.

Dakota. One of the least likely, but it was possible, Heather supposed. They had some things in common, after all.

Court—

Her dark brown eyes were the only thing that had materialized in her mind when the flowers came out roughly and swiftly. Her blood is hot and thick in her throat as she tries in a daze to not suffocate on it, but still, she chokes on it. She can feel tears springing in her eyes and the sweat piling on her back and under her armpits; she can feel her chest burning in indescribable pain that was unlike any of the other coughing fits. It’s worse than anything she’s ever endured which is, granted, not quite the resume, but nevertheless, Heather feels as if her body is tearing and ripping itself apart while simultaneously hastily stitching itself back together by the amount of pain unleashed from her floral disease.

She scrambles to the sink of the bathroom attached to her bedroom, retching into the basin. The blood and flowers look like an artful arrangement, though Heather barely registers its appearance through both the pain and the unwavering amount of hatred coursing through her at the thought of Courtney unknowingly inflicting this upon her. Somewhere, she’s sleeping peacefully, while Heather is choking on her own blood and the flowers rooted to her lungs from just the mere thought of Courtney’s eyes.

Finally, mercifully, after a few minutes, the coughing fit ceases, but all that’s left is Heather’s heavy heaves as she attempts to retain her breath. Her vision flickers as black dances across her vision, and all she can smell is an overwhelming smell of metal and cleaning supplies. Her sink looks like the delicately painted masterpiece of an artistic sacrificial seance scene with all the blood and flowers. With a sigh, Heather strips of her bloodstained clothes, tossing them in her hamper to wash in the morning. After changing into a new acceptable and clean pair that Heather is sure will be ruined in a few hours, she brings out the cleaning supplies from under her sink and begins to clean at a feverish pace in a dazed state.

Ah, Heather thinks bitterly with a crazed and forced smile on her face, scrubbing extra hard on the sink as the thought flits in her mind, I get it now.

❀

“It’s Courtney,” Heather admitted to the group with a scowl present on her face. None had to ask her to elaborate, and none mention her scowl or her cough at the name. Heather’s scowl deepens further when she notices Gwen and Harold sighing in unison, sliding money to Izzy and Eva, who gladly accept them, with defeated sighs. “Wha —! Did you guys seriously bet on this? I’m literally dying over here!”

The words silence the group before Gwen snorts, and with that, the rest join her and laugh. Heather has half the mind to tell them that they’re in a library, but realizes she sounds freakishly like Courtney. Plus, for once, Gwen is choking on her laughter rather than flowers, so Heather allows it just for once with her own small smile and laugh.

“You know,” Harold manages to choke out, eyebrows raised in either surprise or amusement, “I didn’t take Courtney as your type.”

“Me neither,” Heather mutters. “Who did you think my type was?”

He shrugs. “Alejandro was my main suspect. I thought Justin was Eva’s crush, at first, to be honest.”

The laughter dies down momentarily as the group stares at Harold in confusion. Gwen, cracking another smile, mutters, “Harold, they’re lesbians,” before collapsing in another fit of laughter.

This time, Heather joins in more easily, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. The flowers momentarily disappear, along with Courtney and thoughts of her love.

❀

END OF PART ONE

#total drama #td heather #td courtney #td gwen #td eva #td izzy #td harold #heathney #gweoff #izva #evzy #my writing #heathney hanahaki au #hanahaki #part 1/3

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Note

I'm increasingly on the "Jon did absolutely nothing wrong" train and I appreciate your posts because he's Good!!

thank you!! i think it's easy for people to judge jon harshly or to view his actions throughout the podcast in a more critical light than is warranted for two main reasons:

1) the other characters provide a precedent for this belief, based on the way that they treat jon, and so it's easy to latch onto what the other characters are saying as the actual truth when, in reality, every character has their biases. some of the things they criticize jon for are warranted (though often not to the level it's taken to; for example, basira's reaction to jon taking live statements as 'i will put you down' has always seemed quite extreme to me, esp. when you consider how she didn't treat daisy and melanie in the same way)*. some are not, imo. and taking a critical approach to analyzing the way characters interact with each other is important in a podcast where almost everybody is morally gray and nobody is really wholly 'good' or 'bad'

2) jon is the narrator and protagonist, and we spend the most time with him and observe a lot of his innermost thoughts and feelings. and jon is definitely a bit of an unreliable narrator. while i haven't taken any of the things he's said or done as truly 'bad' or 'wrong' (with the meaning of those words taken loosely and at each person's individual interpretation), it's really based on people's ideas of morality, 'good' vs. 'bad,' and general opinions on whether or not they like certain character traits in a person. objectively, i think jon falls solidly on the 'good' side of things, because though he's not perfect, he cares about others and, when he makes mistakes, he often works afterward to make amends and be better about his actions.

when i talk about jon not being held to ridiculously high standards, i mainly mean that i feel at times like people expect jon to be perfect. maybe it's because he's the protagonist; maybe it's because the other characters expect roughly the same thing from him. but jon's a person, and people aren't perfect. people make mistakes, and people aren't always fair or reasonable, and people can (and do!) hurt other people when they don't mean to. it's what you do after you make these mistakes that matters. and jon more often than not actively tries to be better and fix relationships with people.

i'm certainly not trying to say that jon is always right and is perfect because, like i said, he's a person (and tbh, a very well-written character in that he has flaws). but at the end of the day, i think that he is a deeply empathetic, caring person who puts others' well-being over his own to a fault and is a bit awkward but tries to connect with others and is, in fact, smart and capable and does as well as he can given that he's purposefully kept in the dark and manipulated for literally the entire podcast.

*please don't come at me and tell me that melanie and/or daisy's situations are different than jon's. that's not the point of this. the point isn't to compare two character's actions and label one as 'worse' or 'better' or to say 'well melanie should have been treated badly as well.' it's to highlight that jon is given little to no slack for a position (as the Archivist) that a) he was manipulated into and didn't really choose, b) he has little control over save for not taking live statements, which he stops doing when asked [despite how ill it makes him], and c) is not, in fact, actively killing people in.

[i will also point out that the others characters' antagonism toward jon began in season three, before he started taking live statements or made his 'choice' to come back as the Archivist. he couldn't control accidentally knowing things. he couldn't really control the compulsion, but he made a conscious effort not to ask his coworkers questions and to apologize if he accidentally compelled them. he really had no control in his trajectory towards becoming the Archivist, and everyone treated him like he was choosing to become a monster (or, you know, like he was actually doing anything truly monstrous) when he wasn't.]

#ask #anon #very sorry for going off i just felt like my post maybe needed a bit more clarification #a lot of this too comes down to the reduction of characters to one or two key traits and people tend to use 'impulsive'#or 'makes bad decisions' for jon #when like... that's such a one-sided and frankly unfair way to view his character #(and tbh a disservice to the fantastically complex protagonist that jonny's given us)#who *taps q&a* was given a sympathy arc #(not that q&a's are canon or word of god but it is a significant insight into how jonny viewed jon's character arc)#anyway #discourse

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centrally-unplanned · 4 years

Text

During the Neon Genesis Evangelion rewatch I decided pick an aspect of the show to focus on as I watched, and I chose Misato; namely, how her arc connects to Eva’s wider themes. Evangelion has a lot going on and I don’t think it can be boiled down to one thematic concept, but if I were to try: real fulfillment for people can only come from being of value to and connecting with other people, but as an individual that process is inherently painful and impossible to truly achieve - What Do? Shinji embodies this in a very interiorized (and therefore very universally applicable) way, withdrawing from others and neglecting his potential to act out of fear of the pain and consequences. Yet one of the really interesting things about Eva is how the other characters reflect a different aspect of this same struggle, and so all combine into a grander narrative.

Misato does this as well - but in a way that doesn't jump out as much. Misato is very much the driver of the plot, making proactive choices around the conspiracy, the war, etc, and these actions can often overshadow her inner struggles. Thus, singling her out for focus - and from that process I feel she showcases a really unique take on the show’s themes.

Reflections on Misato’s Thematic Reflection

The other three main characters (Shinji, Asuka, Rei - sorry Ritsuko fans!) being all kids, tend to struggle with issues very close to home, but Misato is the adult in the room and so has adult concerns, namely the big picture struggle for humanity. These concerns are her duty though, not her passion - Misato is riddled with “base” desires that are emotionally and physically hyper-indulgent. Her relationship with Kaji is a constant temptation to escape from those duties and instead whittle away endless time in emotional intimacy - and also fuck like rabbits. There is a great showcase scene in End of Evangelion of this, where in their youth Misato and Kaji literally spent a week straight in their apartment doing nothing else:

----For Misato, fans symbolize sex, which I love is a sentence I can say----

Note by the way that they could have communicated that they were cloistered off banging it out in a myriad of ways, but they chose to highlight the outside obligations Misato was neglecting to do the job, because ~*themes*~. But of course such states cannot last, and Kaji himself has his own duties, very similarly to Misato, ones that he will not truly neglect for her sake.

This arc is further reflected in her relationship with Shinji, who she adopts in the opening episodes as a sort of surrogate child. While the contradictions here are less evident at first, as the show progresses it becomes clear that this family is, to quote Ritsuko, “playing house”, a pantomime of adulthood over the reality. Furthermore, her desire to mother Shinji - a desire she holds strongly for reasons I’ll note soon - starts running up against her need to command Shinji as his superior officer, commands that increasingly hurt him but are for his (and humanity’s) own good. In both of these cases, Misato is torn between those outer responsibilities and inner desires, and has to walk a tightrope of balancing them.

Like so many in the the oh-so-Freudian Evangelion, Misato’s conflicts stem from her relationship with her father; a cold, neglectful man who was absent for much of her life growing up, but who was devoting his time to NERV (the core organization in the show) fighting for humanity in his own way and also sacrificed himself to save Misato’s life when she was a teen. She loathes him and idolizes him simultaneously for this duality, which expresses itself as an outer shell of heroic professionalism masking the inner vulnerability and desire for the intimacy she lacked growing up, alongside a deep shame of that desire:

This shame is important, since I wager it would tempting to think that the conclusion of Misato’s arc is “always prioritize the big picture”, as that embodies her final moment: convincing and even *sexually manipulating* Shinji into piloting the Eva for the greater good. Its a powerful scene, and also a callback to the very first episode - where she stares on in horror as Gendo (her boss & Shinji’s absentee father) equally orders Shinji to “pilot the Eva” despite the terrible toll it would inflict on him. She judged it harshly then, but now is reprising that role under even more terrible stakes. I could see one concluding that Misato’s arc culminates in her embracing a Gendo-ian ruthlessness.

But it doesn’t, because A: Gendo is a selfish, cowardly piece of shit, not at all concerned with the greater good, and B: when Misato’s effort to Be The Adult are partially motivated by a desire to cover up for her shame in her damned sex drive, that *can’t* be fully aspirational! She was only able to get through to Shinji because of the emotional connection they shared, which stemmed from her desire to “play house”, a choice that itself stemmed from her desire to be *nothing like* her cold, absent father and not make the mistakes he made (told you we’d get there). And they *were* mistakes, despite her father’s intentions. If Evangelion has an answer to its question of “how to solve the pain of being part of society” (It does not, I am radically simplifying right now), it’s that you can’t solve it, to wipe that pain away (AKA Human Instrumentality) would be a mistake, and instead you have to accept the pain and contradictions as the key to how you evolve as a person. Misato changes over the course of the show, but never in a way to resolve these contradictions - she only evolves to cope with them.

And then she dies, but hey, its Shinji’s story in the end. Sometimes you gotta get Fridge’d for the greater good.

------

A final, sort-of side note to take this a little beyond Misato’s arc, “evolution” is critical to how Misato serves as a reflection of the theme for other characters. A huge crux of Shinji’s arc is his relationship with Asuka, namely his burgeoning romantic desire for her that he is incapable of acting on due to ~arc stuff. For Shinji, if he made a move on Asuka and got down with her it would be huge progress for him! Sex is a critical component of connecting with others after all, and it would mark his ability to open himself up to those connections. But what is progress for Shinji, the teen, is regression for Misato, the adult, as her sexual chemistry with Kaji can tip into excess - for her connecting with one person is in fact a form of withdraw from her wider responsibilities. What is the healthy choice for you constantly evolves as you yourself evolve, and its really fascinating that Evangelion simultaneously uses sexual intimacy for opposed meanings via different characters. The scene I posted above, where Shinji is judging a shame-filled Misato for the sex she is having, is one where both of their weaknesses are on full, simultaneous display - very hard for one scene to pull off.

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(A final-final meta-note: I rarely write about themes in shows because I feel like everything I am saying is super-obvious; there is only so subtle a tv show can be. If you are going to do like cross-comparisons between shows or wider social trends that’s worth it, but just the show in isolation I fear it’s too basic. Would be curious if anyone who does stumble on this essay has that reaction of “yeah anyone who saw the show would know this”.)

#effortpost #neon genesis evangelion #essay

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halfblood-fiend · 4 years

Text

Star Trek Bingo 2020: Vertical Prompt 5

FUCK OR DIE

Show: Enterprise

Words: 5,940

Rating: Mature

Warning(s): explicit sexual content

The Ex in Extra-Terrestrial

Mestral had known that this outcome was inevitable. His biological needs would always catch up with him, he had only hoped that it wouldn't come to this, to her. It's been three years since he last saw Maggie, now she was his only hope if he wanted to stay alive. He only wished she would not judge him too harshly.

Read it on AO3.

He had known that this day was going to come eventually. It was as inevitable as the rising and setting of the single sun on this world that he had called his home for three years. A part of him—highly illogical though it was—had hoped it would never come at all. Perhaps, he would get inexplicably lucky (strange how that word had worked its way into his vernacular through his prolonged Human exposure) and his biology would not be so predictable.

But Mestral could feel the thunder in his bones and the crawling across his skin. Where everything on this planet was once cool to discomfort, now it was all burning hot. The pon farr was upon him.

Mestral did his best to take care of his problem himself. He had undergone meticulous planning on how to best approach this particular and unfortunate biological inevitability. He purchased a sequestered cabin far away from any human towns, stocked up on all the food and comforts he could think he needed, and he had planned to hole himself up and meditate for as long as it took to break the rampant fever. He would turn his intent inward, he could destroy his cabin if he wished, but he was optimistic it would not come to that.

However carefully he planned, a single loose thread nagged at the back of his mind. What if he could not do it alone after all?

On his travels, he had met a great many interesting and kind person. Some were even extremely aesthetically pleasing. None, however, had come close to the same importance as the woman from Carbon Creek, Maggie. No matter how pleasing the company or how fantastic for his work a new human was, Maggie was often in Mestral’s thoughts. Was she well? How was her son, Jack? Was he excelling in college? He had often wished to see her, to give in to a weakness that nagged in his mind, and, more often, in his heart. Always, logic dictated to him that to revisit Carbon Creek was never a viable option.

But if all his best laid plans regarding his Pon Farr failed… if he was forced to take a Human mate… Maggie was always Mestral’s first and only thought.

Promising himself it was better “to be safe rather than sorry�� Mestral settled himself in a cabin in the woods of Pennsylvania, near where he and his crew had first crashed. He was careful to avoid Carbon Creek, choosing to drive further to get his necessities rather than visit the town where he could very well be recognized. Then, he settled in to wait.

It was very nearly two Earth weeks before he broke.

Mestral agonized by his telephone, but the meditation and the thrashing had done little against the onslaught of millions of years of evolution. He was backed into a corner and forced to make a final and irreversible decision.

He wished he didn’t have to do this to her.

Mestral dialed the long since memorized number and held his breath. After a few rings he felt a distinct sense of relief when he heard her voice on the other side of the line, slightly curious.

“Hello?”

He wasn’t certain she would answer at the late hour, but he was eternally grateful. “Hello. Maggie. This is… it’s Mestral. I—” How could he even begin? Where could he start?

“Mestral.” His name fell flat in her voice, and he withered inside, just a little. “You know you have some nerve calling here after all this time.”

“I-I know,” he replied quickly. He had calculated for this, but hearing the hurt in her voice made it worse. Foolishly, he had hoped, it would be as though no time had passed. But of course, humans with their short and emotional lives, would not let such pain as he had caused live down easily. Mestral closed his eyes and pressed the receiver to his ear desperately, like the lifeline it was. “Margaret, there is nothing I can say—”

“You’re damn right!”

“—only offer my sincerest apologies for the hurt I have caused you. I… I would not have bothered you again if…if it wasn’t imperative. If…” If I wasn’t dying. Mestral squeezed his eyes shut and felt the fingers in his pocket curl into a fist. What could he do? How could he explain?

How would she react?

“Mestral…?” Maggie asked softly. The change in her tone was encouraging, but Mestral wondered if it would be enough.

“Margaret, I need your help. You…you’re the only person I can trust. Can…can we meet?”

Maggie was quiet for several heartbeats, then, “Yeah… Yeah, we can, Mestral. Where—”

“At your tavern. After closing. Please…It will be a strange request, but I ask that you do not tell anyone of my coming.”

“You’re scaring me, Mestral,” she said in a hushed whisper. “But if you’re in a bind, I’ll help if I can. It’s the decent thing to do, no matter what you did to me.”

“Thank you.”

The lights inside the tavern were still bright, but Mestral had watched the last patron exit ten minutes ago. He stayed back in an alleyway across the street, just in case some late caller had a change of mind. The last thing he wanted to risk was for anyone else to see him here again. Part of him very much doubted that any Human, by their vaguely careless natures, would notice how he had remained virtually unchanged in the last three years. The rest of him was too compromised by the plak tow to believe he was thinking clearly. He was taking enough risks as it was, being here at all. No need to “tempt fate,” as it were.

At one am sharp, his fedora pulled low over his forehead and the collar of his heavy wool trench coat pulled up against the chill, Mestral pulled on the handle to Maggie’s tavern.

The air was warm and the sharp smell of Human alcohol reached his nose. For a moment, the idea to get Maggie so intoxicated she might forget everything crossed his fever-addled mind. And was immediately dismissed. Mestral refused to hurt her ever again. He was here to prostrate before her and entrust her with the greatest secret he had and hopefully, hopefully, she would accept him as her mate.

Otherwise, he was about to make the largest mistake of his life. And perhaps the last one, if Maggie was unwilling to help him. Between revealing his true heritage or dying, it was quite obvious which was the preferred.

Maggie sat waiting for him at a small table near the center of the room. She looked up when he entered, and tired blue eyes glanced at the clock behind the bar. A small smile crossed her face, though Mestral couldn’t quite tell if it was sad or exhausted. Perhaps both.

“You were always a punctual one, weren’t you?” she asked, softly laughing to herself. “Not sure why I’m really surprised.”

Mestral nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. Even if his senses were not as acute as his female counterparts’, the Plak Tow made what he did have nearly unbearable. Maggie smelled sweet. He could nearly taste her on his tongue from here. He had not quite anticipated the heady roll of memories that assaulted him the moment he was back in this place. Too easily he remembered sitting at the bar with her, smelling her perfume as she walked by him to deliver drinks, the way her lips felt on his when he had kissed her goodbye all those nights ago.

He could barely remember why it had been logical at the time to have left her at all.

Maggie regarded him for three heartbeats and then scoffed to herself. She turned her face away from him, her hand coming to her mouth. “I’m a damn idiot, Mestral,” she said bitterly. She sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob and this confused him. He remained helplessly by the door, waiting for her to continue. “I thought I could stay mad at you. I told myself to just hear what you had to say and then send you on your way, but seeing you…” When she turned back to him, she was misty-eyed, but made no comment on her mental state. “It’s good to see you,” she said so quietly, Mestral was certain no Human could have heard it. “Sit down, will you?”

“Maggie, I—” How many times had Mestral gone over what exactly he would say. So many ways he had planned how to broach the subject, but she was right. Seeing her sitting there, so close and yet so undoubtably far before him… “It is good to see you too,” he replied. He moved deliberately, all too aware of the storm that brewed inside him. How easy it would be to destroy the back of the chair, to throw the furniture rather than sit in it. This world was not made for him, but selfish as he was, he sought to make himself a home here. He forced himself into everything.

Mestral closed his eyes and attempted to gather his thoughts.

“Believe me, Maggie, that I had not really wanted to leave you. It was for—”

She shook her head violently and pressed her mouth together. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare, Mestral. Just…” She sighed. “Your coat. You must be burning up.”

“I am fine.” No, too harsh. “I appreciate your concern,” he added with more control. He was burning up, but coat or no, it would hardly matter. When he opened his eyes again, he sought her gaze. She put her hands out on the table between them, her intent clear. He stared at her fingers and gulped.

After a moment, she understood that he would not touch her, and Mestral hated the way her hands curled back into her body, the way the edges of her mouth set. “What is it that you need, Mestral? You sounded desperate on the telephone.”

Where to begin?

“If it’s money, I can do what I can, but you know what it was like here in the bar for me—”

“No, Maggie. I did not seek you out for monetary means. Nothing so…plain.”

She bit her lip and made no motion to speak.

“I… I would have a favor to ask you. And… it would be no simple task. In fact… it is almost unthinkable for me to request it of you, but I sincerely have no other choice. You must know that I have exhausted all other means.”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows and Mestral had to look away. The edges of the plak tow were making this painful. Such a monumental task not to shout his need at her without a care for her understanding. But he must hold firm. He must know a bond with him could be something she desired. She had seemed to desire it once, but three years was a lot of time for a Human and Mestral could make no assumptions.

“Just tell me, Mestral,” she said gently.

“I…will admit I do not know how to explain. There is no way to make my confession without it sounding…”

“Try me.” Again, she put her hand out, and again, he wished that he could allow himself to take it.

He drew his eyes away from her palm and focused on the chipped edge of the well-worn table.

“What do you know about Roswell?”

Maggie uttered a quick surprised bark of a laugh. “What?” she asked, incredulousness in her voice. “You mean…? What are you asking? About aliens?” She leaned away from him and crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “Did you show back up on my doorstep just to tell me about cookey conspiracy theories? And to think I thought you were going to ask me something serious—”

“I assure you, Margaret, I am completely serious.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a heartbeat and sighed. “Sure. Roswell. Supposedly there were extraterrestrials that came to Earth to conquer us—or something—UFO’s and all that, but they were just stories. The guys here tell them when they get too drunk. Hell, Jack will tell me about them once in a while—subscribes to some trashy alien fan magazine that fills his head with drivel. All these tall tales and there hasn’t been any proof. So just what does this have to do with you?”

Everything. Mestral looked up at her disbelieving face and considered his words carefully. “Roswell and a few of the other isolated incidents were not founded entirely in fiction, Maggie. Some of them are true.”

She shook her head at him. “You came all this way, crawled out of God only knows where…just to talk to me about aliens… To think I thought you were different once—”

“I need your help!” Mestral cried over her. He balled his fists in his lap, and squeezed his eyes shut. “It is essential that you have a full understanding of me before I ever ask you for my favor. Roswell was real. The extraterrestrial race that landed there was one my people know as the Ferengi. And they are not the only other alien race out there. There are hundreds of thousands more across millions of galaxies. Space, the universe… is so incalculably vast, Margaret… You could not have truly believed that I, nor you, were ever alone in it.”

Such a logical argument, but her mouth remained a firm line. “So, there are aliens out there, according to you. Which is crazy—but fine. Say I buy that. Get to the part about you.”

Mestral stared at her hopelessly. This was neither going as smoothly nor as well as he had hoped. There was nothing gentle about his delivery, nothing light about what he had to say, and every moment longer he spent languishing was another moment he could feel his control slipping from him.

In all the fantasies about what he might say to Maggie, it had never been this way. Never shouted and never spoken so plainly. He had hoped for a kinder understanding. He had hoped for open arms, for the open heart that he had remembered her to have possessed. Rather foolishly, he now realized, as he stared despairingly at the years-dulled lacquer of the table top.

“I… I am one of them,” Mestral said softly. He peeked beneath his lashes to gauge her reaction, but there was nothing to gauge. With nothing else to do, he pressed on. “My colleagues and I. We were not from this world, nor any one nearby. We came here to-to study Humankind. Our races are so similar, yours and mine, and—We crashed. Outside of Carbon Creek. We stayed there for some time, but we were starving. And—”

”What?”

“We did not think we would ever be rescued, but then our distress beacon was found. T’Mir and Stron—they both returned to our planet with the rest of our people, but I—I elected to stay here on Earth—”

“You’re a—”

“I am an…” Mestral licked his lips. His heart beat frantically in his side. There was hardly any going back now. He’d come this far. And yet he considered reaching out and catching her neck in a nerve pinch and hoping that she would awake believing all of this to be some kind of dream.

But if he did such, he would die.

Maggie leapt from the table and took several shaky steps back. Mestral forced himself to remain seated. He put his hands up and hoped.

“You’re trying to tell me you’re some kind of a-a-a—a MARTIAN?”

He blinked. “A Vulcan.”

“A what?!”

“I am a Vulcan. Not a Martian. There are no such things as Martians.”

Maggie pressed a hand to her head and then pressed the other to her face too. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“No,” he replied quietly, staring at her intently as though if he took his eyes off her for a moment, she might disappear. “I am Vulcan. You asked me once why I always wore a hat when last I was here. This is why.”

She peeked through her fingers and watched as Mestral reached up with trembling hands and removed his fedora from his head.

He had relaxed on the Surakian look that nearly all his people adopted. It was easier to cut his longer hair himself, as visiting a Human barber was out of the question. There were certain advantages to keeping his hair longer as well. He could hide the tips of his ears the way Stron had done in his time here, but with the benefit of fewer people calling him “Moe.” Now, he revealed himself to Maggie, tucking his black hair behind his pointed ears and reflexively smoothing the front away from his forehead, as he had seen so many Human males do.

There was no fighting the nerves that swallowed him now as he stared up at Maggie, who’s face he could see, even behind her fingers, was crumpling in confusion and despair. She uttered a small squeak and waivered on her feet. Mestral half-rose, ready to catch her, should that be what she required, but she stepped further away from him. He froze. It occurred to him quite clearly that any movement he made now would mean the end of him. The end of this…whatever he had hoped it would be.

Lowering her hands, Maggie stared at him as if he was a different person. Her face was still stricken and pale, her mouth parted slightly but she wasn’t screaming or running. Mestral supposed he had to hope that counted for something.

“Your…” she said in a hushed voice. She took a step toward him and Mestral willed himself to be perfectly still, electing even to hold his breath lest he scare her away.

Her eyes jumped back and forth from his face, taking furtive glances at his ears as though she could offend him if she stared.

Please understand, he thought desperately. Please.

She came close to him. She raised a hand in front of her face. Mestral stared at her fingers. “M-may I…?”

Mestral clamped his jaw tightly. It was necessary. It had to be done. Control yourself! He gave Maggie a tight nod.

Slowly, her fingertips brushed the hair at his temple, and he closed his eyes, the muscles in his stomach going taut. Her skin blazed on his as Maggie touched him, tracing the shell of his ear and sending ripples of agonizing pleasure unwittingly throughout his body. Every nerve screamed at him. They shouted for their release, for the desire to grab her like some barbarian and find his end with her. Enough! they cried. To hell with patience! But Mestral was better than his base instincts. He had to believe he was.

He couldn’t tell how long or short a time the torture was. His skin sang long after hers had left him. Her smell filled his nostrils as he fought miserably for control of himself through a haze.

“—beautiful.”

He met her gaze again and was shocked to find her blue eyes on his face, looking over him wonderingly. “I always thought there was something strange about you, Mestral. It’s a little…validating to find out I was right.”

The tenderness in her face made him breathless. Mestral hardly dared to hope that perhaps this plan would work out after all.

“So…you’re an alien. And now you need…what? Asylum?” She smiled slightly. “I don’t know how much help I can be if you have a spaceship and everything.”

“I do not,” Mestral said hoarsely. “I committed to staying on Earth, and I was left with nothing. T’Mir and Stron took the wreckage of our ship, lest Humanity find it.”

Maggie nodded. “Okay. Makes as much sense as anything else, I guess. So…”

“My favor is not something to be asked about lightly. But as I have no way to return to Vulcan, and no hope of… There are certain…” Certain what? How could he possibly say it?

“Mestral,” she breathed, laying a hand on his chest. Perhaps mistakenly where she believed his heart could be. “If you are the only alien here… Are you…lonely?”

He looked down at her. Not quite the truth, but close enough. Perhaps if that was as close as an understanding as they could come to…

No. No, this was not enough. Mestral didn’t come all the way here and risk his exposure just to ease loneliness. And Maggie deserved to know everything, not be unwittingly tricked into bonding with him.

“I am…” He licked his lips. He could nearly taste her. “I am in need of… My kind, we must…take mates every seven years. I believed I could fight my nature but…”

Maggie’s eyes widened again.

“It was never my wish to leave you. But without my kinsmen, my anonymity here in Carbon Creek was limited, and I wished to travel to see more of your world. But when I felt the Pon Farr upon me—”

Maggie mouthed the unfamiliar words as he spoke.

“—my thoughts were only of you. There is no one else on this entire planet that I could possibly trust—”

“You…you came back just to have sex with me.”

Mestral shook his head. “No! Maggie, no. I-I came back to take—to ask you to be my mate. I can think of no other—”

She pushed him away with the hand on his chest, and though she could never hope to move him, Mestral stumbled back at her request. When she spoke, her voice shook with rage. “This was your request. Your favor??”

“Please understand—”

“Even men from other planets are all the same!!”

“No, Maggie—”

“You know, I guess I do owe you my thanks, Mestral. Thank you, at least for being so goddamn honest! If my ex-husband had been so upfront it would have saved me a lot of heartache!”

“Maggie, please!”

“You should go, Mestral! I am not some-some slut to-to-to—”

“Please, Maggie, I will die!”

Mestral squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. He staggered to the table and sagged his weight onto it. So much effort. It had taken so much effort to keep collected, but now his blood was pounding in his veins. His body threatened to shake itself apart, to rend his skin like tissue paper. He whimpered and then his legs gave beneath him and he collapsed onto the floor.

He hadn’t wanted to mention that final detail. It felt too much like pressuring. But as he saw his chance slipping away, he couldn’t keep the truth to himself anymore. His mind was hardly his own any longer. Maggie was truly his last and only hope.

“Mestral!” Maggie called from somewhere far off. Her voice seemed to carry sluggish and leaden as though through a dense fog.

“I would not have come, if it was not such a dire situation,” he wheezed, not entirely sure she could hear him. Perhaps the plak tow had driven him entirely mad and he was speaking to no one. “I wanted to protect you from anyone who could discover what I was. I wanted to… I—”

“Mestral…”

“I have a great admiration for you, Maggie. I…I owe you so much…”

He felt a pressure against his face and heat blossomed from his lips. The same heat that he had wistfully recalled over the previous three years.

Reality snapped into focus.

He was sprawled on the floor, his head in Maggie’s lap, and her lips; yes, her lips were pressed to his and he relished in the feel of her, the smell of her, the promise that lingered in the way her hands cradled his face. The blazing in his body screamed anew.

She broke their kiss and smoothed his hair away from his face, shaking her head. “I hate… I hate how I can’t let you go. I don’t know if what you’re saying is true or if you’re just… It doesn’t matter. I was so in love with you. I hate how I’m still in love with you…”

Mestral blinked up at her and raised a hand to touch her cheek. The feel of her skin sent a shock through him but he grit his teeth against the desire that uncurled in his chest. “Maggie…”

“Just…tell me what I need to do. T-To help you, I mean.”

He outstretched his fingers and Maggie followed suit. When all her fingertips touched his, he shuddered. He could hear her breath catch, feel her heart pick up its pace. The gnawing in his blood grew nearly to its boiling point.

“Parted from me…and never parted,” he murmured.

“Never and always touching and touched,” Maggie replied. Her eyes widened. “How—”

“We are becoming connected,” he breathed. “You can feel me as…as I feel you.”

She wanted to ask what that meant, and Mestral wanted very badly to tell her, but as his entire body shuddered violently, he could see he was out of time.

Mestral gulped. “I…we will only go as fast or as slow as you…”

Maggie smiled down at him. “I’m not a blushing virgin, Mestral. I know how this works. I was married once before, you know.”

Not like this, he thought, but he knew better than to say it.

He wanted so badly to kiss her. To reach out and drag her onto him, but he resisted. If he could do one thing right…if he could treat her the way she should have been treated all along…

Maggie licked her lips and looked at him resolutely. “Maybe that would be good for a… f-for a Vulcan woman but…” Her other hand smoothed over his hair and she stroked Mestral’s cheek with her thumb. He trembled under her touch and if he wasn’t already too weak to stand, he would have needed to use every ounce of his will to hold himself in place. “B-but I’m not a-a Vulcan woman, Mestral. I’m Human… and…and I just want to help you. Before it’s too late.”

Mestral realized she had heard his thoughts. It was happening so quickly with the fever. He nodded.

Gulping, Maggie leaned forward again and pressed her lips to his and this time she eased her tongue into his mouth. She pulled her fingers away from his and stroked down his arm. Her own fingers shaking, she trailed them across his chest and down his abdomen. She hesitated at the waistband of his pants and then attempted to undo his belt with one hand.

“Maggie,” he said hoarsely between her kisses. Something tight and desperate like fear knotted itself up around his heart.

“I know that it’s probably…strange. But a penis is a penis, right? You can show me what you like later.” Freed of the belt and the button, Maggie’s hand plunged beneath his pants and when she grazed his length, he convulsed, his hips bucking and a strangled cry escaping his lips. She squeezed lightly and bright light exploded behind his eyes. Every inch of his skin was on fire. “Is… is it pretty much the same for…Vulcans?”

She thumbed across the double ridges of his head, catching the dorsal nerve as she went and Mestral’s back arched.

“I’ll just go ahead and take that as a yes,” she said breathlessly.

When she withdrew her hand, Mestral made a most undignified sound, but he understood when her hands flew to the hem of her dress and she started pulling off her undergarments. He tried to lift himself up to sitting but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. She eased her legs out from under his head and lowered him completely to the floor, bending to kiss him again. Briefly. Then she straddled his hips and settled on top of him with a little shake of her own.

He groaned and gripped her thighs with his hands.

She was so fragile. He would have to be careful. But he didn’t know if he had that much control left in him.

Maggie bit her lip. Through her bare skin, Mestral could feel her trepidation. He wished he could give her more words of comfort—or any words at all for that matter, but he could not form anything comprehensible through the blood fever’s highest pitch. The only thing that he seemed to know was the ache that sprung from every part of him. All of him desperate for the relief that the press of Maggie’s body promised.

Fumbling fingers attempted to pull down his pants. Mestral obliged her by lifting his hips easily, even with her on top of him. She gave a little gasp, but she stabilized herself on his chest. His hands wandered up her thighs, revealing more pale skin to his hungry gaze. If he had any energy of his own…

Reaching around behind her back, Maggie groped for Mestral’s member. Her fingers running along the downy hair there sent him into frantic pants. He shook with anticipation for—there! She gripped his base and sent shudders and stars running though his body.

Her eyes were fixed on him. Determined. Resolute. He would have never known she was nervous if it wasn’t for her skin pressed to his.

Maggie rocked backwards and he felt his tip against something slick and hot. Tossing his head back, he keened through grit teeth and fought against the instinct to drive himself into her.

He couldn’t! He wouldn’t hurt her!

But all at once, Mestral was seized with pleasure as Maggie did her own driving. She was wet. And hot; so so blessedly warm. Like he never imagined. From far away he was dimly aware that Maggie had moaned, a lovely sound that melted him. Or it would have if he wasn’t already blistering.

She eased herself up and down, sliding over him, her hands planted firmly on his chest, his fingers digging into her flesh. Steadily, she rode him faster and he was blinded by colors so bright they all blended into white behind his eyes.

A meld. He needed a—

Mestral’s body convulsed and the tight strings that had wound in his stomach unfurled and snapped. He came in a high string of groans that would have been unacceptable for his Vulcan bondmate to hear. His new Human one, however, grinned with satisfaction and bent forward to press her lips over his cheeks, his nose.

It was like breaking a shackle that he hadn’t known he was wearing. Like coming up for air. His head cleared in an instant.

Mestral knew he was nowhere near finished, that there was still far more to this mating experience, but he could feel the strength returning to his limbs and a modicum of willpower returning to his mind.

He would no longer be a passive participant. Maggie deserved better. And he would make it up to her.

Grabbing his Human by her waist, Mestral rolled them over until he was poised on top of her. He watched the emotions play across Maggie’s face—shock, pleasure, delight—and he reveled in them.

He hitched the fabric of her dress up to her middle and noted how she gleefully undid the buttons at her neckline and freed her breasts for him. He heard her plea in his mind and bent to kiss her flesh the way she wanted, his tongue tasting her sweet skin. As his lips closed around her pert pink nipple, he thrust into her, and her cry of pleasure radiated down his spine with his own.

“Maggie,” he sighed as his hips found a rhythm with hers. “Maggie…”

She uncurled for him. He heard so much of her. Everything she said and all the more that she thought. She was open to him. Maggie was all his.

She came around him in a shuddering and delightfully human orgasm. The way her walls tightened and convulsed made him hiss and break through another of his own—another tie of Pon Farr snapped on the tavern floor.

His head felt clearer than it had in weeks.

“God, Mestral. God.”

The Vulcan cradled the woman to his chest and nuzzled his face into her neck. He breathed the scent of them both in and shivered.

“I still need you, Maggie,” he whispered.

She nodded, in a numb sort of way. He could feel through her skin that her mind was still fuzzy and reeling, but she was interested.

‘I’ll do whatever you want if you keep fucking me like that.’

Mestral blushed at her thoughts, but he was grateful the feeling was mutual. His fever was only somewhat lessened, and he was unsure if Maggie’s stamina could match his own. Who knew how much more he would need from her until his biological drive was sated?

“Bedroom?” Maggie panted as she attempted to wiggle her hips into his. “It’s been way too long. I don’t want to stop if you don’t.”

Mestral groaned and nodded into her neck. “I do not.” She whimpered as he eased himself out of her and got to his feet with her in his arms. Maggie told him the way without her having to utter a word.

‘Is he still gonna be here in the morning?’

He looked down at her. She watched him with glowing admiration, but there was sadness deep in her eyes. Sadness that he put there, he knew, but that he swore to himself to undo.

Mestral contemplated the ramifications of their actions here tonight while he climbed the stairs. Something big had changed for both of them, even if Maggie didn’t know the full extent of it yet. Whether she ultimately chose to keep him around when she found out, it didn’t matter just now. So far as Mestral was concerned, Maggie was his bondmate now, and he would do everything for her that that might entail here on Earth.

Anything. He would do anything she asked.

He lay her on her bed with care and she smiled up at him. She peeled off her dress and cast it aside and watched as Mestral shed his own coat and shirt and crawled on top of her.

Maggie’s fingertips traced the line of his jaw and along the shell of his ear. She lightly pinched the tip between her finger and her thumb and Mestral shivered. She grinned up at him. With her brown hair curled out over the pillow beneath her, she was a marvelous creature to behold.

‘Please, God. Let him stay this time…’

Mestral bent slowly and captured her lips in his. The soft movement of her, the pressure between them built and made his blood simmer again. His need pent in his body, winding up once more.

He broke the kiss and let his hand smooth up her arm until he clasped her hand in his own. “I will stay for as long as you want me,” he whispered against her lips.

“You really mean that?”

“Yes. I absolutely do. I am loathe to make the same mistake twice. I have not stopped thinking of you since we met, and I will not leave your side again unless you ask me to.”

She kissed him again. There was a certain finality to it that made Mestral warm.

“I’d have to be crazy to do something like that.”

#Star Trek #Star Trek: Enterprise #Ent #Mestral #Mestral x Maggie #IT"S FUCK OR DIE NIGHT #it's a lemon y'all #Fiend writes #Star Trek Bingo

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invisibleanonymousmonsters · 5 years

Text

Follow In His Footsteps

lo and beholdRequest: @flowerchildqueenlovely : I think I would want you to write about jimmy. Like how he is handling being a hero at shield. Is jimmy and Sam together? Is Frankie on the team too? How is he coming to turn with him being a descendent of Captain America or Steve Rogers.

Pairing: Dad!Bucky & Jimmy

Words Count: 1,378

----

One-Shot from the My Eyes Universe.

Spoiler filled (and confusing) if you haven’t read the series.

My Eyes - Masterlist

His eyes stared at the screen. He was wearing glasses – not that he needed them to see. That super-soldier in his genes made damn sure that his vision stayed 20/20. It’d probably stay that way until the day he died.

No, these were those blue-light glasses that everyone insisted on buying these days. Apparently, they were better for people’s eyes, especially when they were staring at a computer screen all day.

Sam had insisted on buying both of them a pair.

And she was the only reason he was wearing them now. Jimmy didn’t have the heart to tell her that he probably wouldn’t need them. But she always told him how cute he looked in glasses. And the smile she had on her face every time she caught him in them was reason enough for Jimmy to keep putting them on.

Jimmy felt a part of warms arms wrap around his shoulders. It was a little concerning that he didn’t sense her approaching. But her energy had only ever comforted him, maybe that was why she could sneak up on him and no one else could.

He felt her press a kiss to his temple as he gripped her forearm lovingly. Her skin was hot from just getting out of her cocoon of blankets.

“Did I wake you up?” Jimmy asked with concern.

Sam chuckled breathily as she kept her arms around him. “Yeah, could you keep your computer staring down a bit. I can hear you from the other side of the apartment.”

Jimmy let out a breath of laughter. “I’m editing some photos.” Then he pulled her around and into his lap, wrapping his arms around her now. “What do you think?” He asked as he shuffled through some recent photos he’d taken.

“They’re great, Jimmy.” Then she pointed at one in particular, “That one’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?” He answered with a smirk. “Not this one?” He asked, settling on a photo of her. She had been redecorating her office: paint smeared on her cheek, wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that both belonged to Jimmy.

“Eww. Definitely not that one,” Sam cringed.

“Hey, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Jimmy attacked her face and neck with kisses, even gave her a playful bite.

Sam giggled and pretended to try and push him away. “Come on. Come back to bed. I need my human boiler next to me.” She tried to seal the deal with a quick kiss to his lips.

“I’ll be there in a second. Just want to finish up these photos.”

Sam narrowed her eyes a little. “Photos, huh? This doesn’t have anything to do with the mission you got back from today?”

Jimmy ignored her.

Sam caressed his cheek.

He bit his lip, trying to stop the trembling as her question brought forward all the thoughts he was trying to fight.

“It was two kids, Sam. Maybe they were siblings – fuck, I still don’t even know. I was so close to them. The last thing they saw was me reaching out to them before the floor collapsed.”

He shakily took off his glasses and then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I…I just keep thinking how he would’ve saved them. He was better than me. I’ll never save as many people as he did.”

Sam’s heart broke from what she was hearing. Her eyes filled with tears, but this wasn’t her loss to mourn. She had to be strong for him.

Jimmy buried his head into her chest and Sam welcomed it, running her fingers through his hair in comfort.

“James,” she only used his full name when she was about to say something important. “Your father was a martyr. The very idea of him is god-like. People remember an exaggeration of him.” Then she pulled his face up so he was forced to look into her eyes. “He made mistakes, just like everyone else.”

Sam sighed. “It’s not fair to your dad to remember him as a perfect person, and it’s especially not fair to you.”

Jimmy nodded slowly, letting her words wash over him. Sam always knew what to say. The scarier thing was that there was always sincerity and truth behind her words. She never said things just to say them.

Sam stroked Jimmy’s beard, one of the few differences between him and his dad. That and his tattoos.

“Maybe you should call Bucky, James.” She suggested gently.

He sighed, “I don’t want to worry him.”

She smirked. “Spoiler alert: that man always worries about you. I think you should call him.”

“OK,” He finally agreed.

“Wanna try to go to bed now?”

But Jimmy’s only answer was gripping her tightly and raising them both from the desk chair, carrying her in his arms back to their bedroom.

———————————————

It only takes a single ring before his deep voice is heard.

“Well, look who remembered how to use a phone again…” Bucky teased.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I’ve been bad about it,” Jimmy rolled his eyes, but knew that his father-figure had a point.

“Your mom misses you, kid.” Bucky’s tone was more serious now.

“I’m sorry. Really.” Jimmy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve just been…really busy.”

Bucky’s back straightened at the sound of Jimmy’s voice. “Everything OK?”

“I’m fine. Sam’s fine. We’re all fine,” Jimmy quickly answered.

Bucky was silent for a second. “What’s going on, Jimmy?”

“Sam….she…uh…she thought maybe it would be good for me to call you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just waited for him to continue.

“My last mission…” Jimmy stopped, not really sure how to even go about telling Bucky what was going on or how he was feeling. “I couldn’t save them, Bucky.” His voice shook as he finally said it.

Bucky was silent.

“I just keep thinking about him. How he would’ve done better. Everyone wants me to be like him – if not better. And I just-I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough, Bucky. Maybe I shouldn’t have this shield.”

Bucky didn’t need Jimmy to explain who ‘him’ was – he immediately knew this was about Steve.

“Jimmy,” Bucky sighed as he rubbed his face and tried to gather his thoughts. “Jesus, sometimes it scares the shit out of me how much you’re like him. You never got to meet him and yet you still remind me so much of him.”

Jimmy’s stomach clenched at that. It was all people seemed to tell him. And it wasn’t just the media and Captain America fans. It was the people who knew and loved Steve Rogers.

“Steve wasn’t perfect. He lost people too, Jimmy. And he beat himself up about it just like you’re doing now. I don’t want to mess with the image you have of your father…but he was a flawed person just like you and me. Hell, just like everyone.”

Jimmy’s eyes swelled with tears. “I never even knew him, so why does it feel like I’m always trying to make him proud?”

Bucky’s heart hurt at Jimmy’s confession.

“Steve would’ve been the proudest dad in the world, Jimmy. And none of it would have anything to do with you taking over the mantle of Captain America.”

Bucky exhaled and shook his head. “He wouldn’t want you to try to live up to his legacy, Jimmy…because he knew that he couldn’t even do that. Yeah, he was the first Captain America. But without the shield, without the stupid uniforms… we all knew he was just Steve Rogers. He was just another man.”

A single tear escaped and slid down Jimmy’s face. He wiped it away roughly, scratching his skin in the process.

“Steve was stubborn. Didn’t know when to run way from a fight. He had trouble seeing the gray areas in issues. Sometimes he held people to too high of standards. Then he judged ‘em too harshly when they didn’t meet them.” Bucky paused his listing and took a breath. “Your father is the best man I’ve ever known, but that doesn’t mean he was perfect.”

Jimmy nodded, even though Bucky couldn’t see it.

“You talk to your mom about this?” Bucky asked carefully.

“No,” Jimmy answered quickly. “You know how much she worries about me. I didn’t want to freak her out.”

“Well, if anyone knows what Steve was like after a mission went wrong, it’s her. She might be better to talk to than me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you called.”

“Me too,” he admitted.

There was a beat and the tension disappeared.

“You treating that girl of yours right?” His voice suddenly got stern and father-like.

Jimmy laughed. “I think you and I both know if I wasn’t, she’d let me know and dump my sorry ass.”

Bucky chuckled, knowing Jimmy was right.

“How’s Frankie?” Jimmy asked about his teenage sister. It seemed like yesterday he was chasing a toddler around the house and now she was becoming a young woman.

“I swear, Jimmy...Teenage girls are a different species,” Bucky groaned.

Jimmy just laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“Sometimes she scares the hell outta me. Doesn’t help that she’s smarter than me in almost every way.” He exhaled. “But she’s good.”

Jimmy hummed. It was more of a courtesy to ask. His sister and him texted every single day.

“And mom?”

“Like I said, she misses the hell outta you. Do me a favor? Call her a bit more. I think it’s starting to get to her that she sees you more on the news than she sees you in person.”

“I know. I’m real sorry.” Jimmy sighed. “If it makes a difference, I miss the three of you like crazy.”

“I know you’re busy saving the world, punk. But you gotta have a life too, you know. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Sam walked in then, carrying two giant bags from the grocery store.

“Is that Bucky?” She asked with a questioning look.

Jimmy nodded.

“Hi, Bucky!” She called out, making Jimmy smile.

Bucky chuckled on the line. “I’ll let you go. Give Sam a hug from me.”

“Will do.”

“And Jimmy? I just want to make sure you know that you can call me about this stuff, OK? You’re not going to freak me out. If anyone understands what you’re going through, it’s your family.” He hesitated. “We’re with you till the end of the line.”

Jimmy hummed in understanding.

“I know, Buck. Love you.”

“Love you too, kid. Stay safe. Be careful.”

“I’ll try my best.”

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

A/N: So, I haven’t written a drabble or one-shot for My Eyes in ages. I was feeling uninspired and looked through asks and requests that have been sitting in my inbox, collecting dust. Lo and behold, I finally felt like I could write something.

If you haven’t already and want to emerge yourself in My Eyes ask, checking out the My Eyes Asks tag.

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nightmaresorpromises · 4 years

Note

🍄✨💐

OKAY THIS GOT REALLY LONG BC I FEEL THE NEED TO EXPLAIN MYSELF SO LIKE IM SORRY LMFAO. Also pls no one yell at me I’m just saying how I feel and what I think, I recognize that everyone will have different views/opinions/experiences and that I can only speak based on my own. I am not a doctor

🍄: do you support self diagnosis?

This is kind of a difficult question, I know most people hate the self diagnosis stuff, but personally I think their are certain mental health issues that you can become aware of without a medical diagnosis.

That being said, many mental health issues and disorders are incredibly complex and I think those DO need a medical diagnosis, especially since from what I understand a lot of disorders can mimic and or cause symptoms of other ones.

So for me personally, my eating disorder, anxiety, and depression (which I honestly don’t call that I just say I’m depressed bc I’m not medically diagnosed?) are all self diagnosed, but I’ve seen myself develop my eating disorder and was willing to die for it, I frequently have anxiety attacks to the point I feel like I’m going to faint and I can’t breathe, I’m terrified to order my own food sometimes because of the social interaction, and I’m borderline suicidal and struggle with self harm as a result. So like? I feel, I don’t want to say justified because that sounds kind of wrong, but I feel okay in going “I have these issues, and this is what I struggle with”

but I don’t think I’d ever self diagnose with something complex like bi polar disorder, borderline personality disorder etc, because those are much harder in my eyes to determine, or understand without a medical diagnosis. (Obviously that’s just my opinion and example as someone who A.) doesn’t have the option to get medically diagnosed regarding my mental health issues and B.) who has never struggled with any of those disorders or known anyone who does.)

So like? I’m definitely not pro “identify with whatever mental health issue you have a symptom of!” But I also think to an extent individuals who struggle with their mental health can have enough sense to go okay, this is my life, this isn’t healthy or normal, I’m struggle with these things so maybe I’m dealing with anxiety, or whatever else.

But I understand the frustration around self diagnosis because you obviously have ignorant people going “omg lol I can’t focus on this thing I totally have adhd or add” or “lol I got so angry out of nowhere! Clearly I’m bi-polar” and like... I won’t even get into that. *facepalms*

💐: do you believe in recovery?

This is hard for me. I guess yes and no.

Yes because sure there are things you can overcome, and recover from like addiction, and eating disorders, and there are things you can treat like depression and other mental illnesses,

But no because (pessimistic bitch over here sorry) at the end of the day you’ll still struggle with those things. So you can get better at coping, you can get treatment, but even for me personally now that I’m no longer restricting my food unhealthy, and I’m not terrified of food, I still get ED thoughts, I still get triggered. Like the mental health issue is always going to be in the background of your mind and you’re still going to have to deal with it, even if the strain isn’t as harsh because you’ve gotten better and developed a healthier way to handle it.

So I guess that depends on your definition of recovery. Of course I believe in getting better, and not having your issues hit you as harshly even if they still lurk in your mind.

But, part of me despises the fact that a lot of those issues are still gonna lurk. (I guess I don’t believe in being “totally cured!” Or whatever ? Idk)

But that’s just my take on it, everyone’s different and everyone’s issues are different. And obviously getting better through treatment and developing better coping mechanisms and whatever else can greatly help you and ease your struggles. So it gets easier, and I guess that’s what recovery is supposed to be about. Getting better even if you aren’t “cured”

✨: do you have any advice to others (especially young people) about how to recover?

Oh god. Okay so like, as someone who hit rock bottom at like 15 emotionally I think one of the biggest things is you have to want to recover.

And to a lot of people that sounds obvious but it got to a point where I, and a lot of my friends who struggled with their mental health stopped wanting to get better.

If you’re going to recover, you need to want it. Not necessarily be ready, because you might never feel “ready” it’s a huge jump, but you have to WANT it. Or else no help or advice will ever reach you, and you won’t give an honest try to do whatever it is you need personally to recover.

2.) you have to be willing to change in whatever ways are possible and necessary, because obviously there are things such as living situations that you might not be able to change giving your situation. But the things you can change like how you respond to situations, who and what you surround yourself with (social media, toxic friends, toxic online communities etc) you have to be willing to cut those out.

And obviously, that’s easier said then done, especially when you may already feel alone and like cutting them off will only add to that lonliness, but guys, you have to do it. And I know it’ll be hard at first but getting rid of those toxic relationships will lift a weight off of your shoulders and I promise you will make new friends. Shit like that happens when you least expect it and it’s annoying and weird and dumb. But cut out that toxic shit in your life.

Overall change though, if you don’t like the way you treat people take a step back and go “okay why do I react this way? Why do I treat people this way?” And don’t beat yourself up about it, don’t attack yourself seek to understand it, and that will enable you to then go, “okay how I respond isn’t fair, how can I change that?” And that goes for how you treat yourself too. If you can change those negative thoughts, behaviors and treatment to both yourself and others it will help your mental state a lot.

3.) patience and understanding I guess? I’m sure there’s a lot of feeling like you might be a horrible person out there, a lot of anger and pent up frustration with yourself and the world because of all the shit you’ve had to deal with and like, those feelings are justified, but you should also be patient with yourself and understand that people do stupid, cruel, fucked up shit. We make mistakes, we treat people kinda poorly, but don’t destroy yourself over it.

Understand or seek to understand why x y z is happening and use that to do what you can to change the situation, even if it’s scary or hard. You can regret actions, but regretting them forever won’t help you grow or get better it’ll only make you sink ya know? So like, accept how you’re feeling, but don’t succumb to it, and work to change the negative behaviors or energies that surround you.

Oh my god okay 4, and like SUPER FUCKING IMPORTANT. DO NOT COMPARE YOURSELF TO ANYONE. Stop IT. NO ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Where you are is based on your own path, and you’re on your clock not anyone else’s. Everyone has so many different experiences it’s impossible and not fair to sit and judge yourself based on someone else’s capabilities.

Because we all have different experiences while you may be struggling to learn how to respond or handle social situations, which might be something others know how to do, those same people might be struggle to process grief and loss, which maybe you experienced already and learned how to handle.

(Idk if that makes sense,) but basically like, you’re where you need to be in life and you’re learning what you need to learn when you need to learn it. We aren’t all on the same track. Some of us are learning things our friends learned at sixteen, some of us are working towards things 35 year olds haven’t gotten to yet. Everyone is different and because of that we are going to have different experiences. Different bodies, different personalities, different struggles

And that’s OKAY that’s how we’re supposed to be

(Thanks for coming to my I just woke up and chugged coffee ted talk. Obviously take everything I say with some salt, those are just my opinions and views and I understand that they won’t be helpful or apply to everyone and their situation. I’m just trying to explain how I see or feel about things given my life. Obv I’m not a doctor or anything I’m just a college student no one come for me thank you I’m sorry have a nice day)

#I’m so sorry #asked and answered #ted talk extreme #ted talk #I wrote an essay #I wrote a theisis #I’m the bitch who likes when the papers are 5 pages #because I’ll accidentally go over to 6-7 #because I talk too much #mental health #random thoughts #opinions #anon

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avaquet · 5 years

Text

“Don’t like don’t read”

Feels...vague

“If this fic contains something that squicks you, personally, out, don’t read.”

Still a little vague but better

“If this fic contains something that squicks you, personally, out, don’t read. If this fic contains content that is problematic, especially to a whole group of people, I.E. the -isms, and romanticizes it, don’t ignore it. That fic is actively doing harm.”

Yes. That’s better.

“But, Avaquet, stories need problems to be a story! I have to make my story problematic!”

Yes, problems are fine. Conflict is fine. The issue arises when you as the author begin to romanticize problematic themes or statements in your works.

Here is a big difference and two examples:

A: “Character A walked down the streets of City. Various people reacted differently to Character A. Some clutched their purses and looked scared. Others snarled at Character A and snubbed their noses. Character A scoffed right back at them, questioned why they were so judgmental and shook their head.”

Here we see a problem, A is being judged harshly. Is the problem romanticized? No. It’s not.

B: “Character B walked down the street and met up with Character C. Character C had been the bully of Character B for a long time, but C had realized their mistakes and that they actually loved B! They kissed in the alleyway and B forgave C of all their heinous actions!”

This is...problematic. It romanticizes bullying in this case. Which yes people can discern fiction from reality but, stories stay with us. How many of us refer to our favorite stories? Be it for romantic ideas or why one would be afraid of something because of a horror film? It does effect us. Look at the effect Jaws had on the public, a famous example on how fiction did effect reality. People killed sharks way more often. There became a massive fear. Hell, the rollercoaster scene in Final Destination gave a fear of rollercoasters to a ton of people even though about 90% of that scene was all CGI because they couldn’t even come close to recreating it.

Look, it’s okay to have problems in stories, it’s how they’re driven. It’s okay to not have a good ending and let the “problem” win. What’s bad is when the problem is romanticized or celebrated. Sexism, racism, abuse, bullying, etc. (inaccuracate BDSM and Kink practices I’m looking at you 50 Shades, which is another story that impacted reality) Treat these with respect. Get a sensitivity reader if you must. But if you’re going to let the problem win, show why that’s bad. If you want a redemption arc, understand that simply acknowledging that the character did wrong is only the first step and also understand that at the end of that redemption arc, there’s still probably going to be people that don’t like said character.

I’m all for having fun and doing what you want, but sometimes your safe space is a harmful place for others. Our actions impact those around us and sometimes across the globe without even direct contact at times. We’re not in a vacuum.

“What’s a squick?”

Something that you don’t particularly like. Makes you cringe. Makes you go eugh. Squicks are personal usually. My squicks include baby fics, so I don’t read those cause I know I won’t like it.

But y’all, racism, sexism, ableism, etc. those aren’t squicks. That’s problematic.

#rant #hegh #fandom critical #squick #fanfiction

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daywillcomeagain · 5 years

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I don’t understand the idea of finarfin choose peace? There is no peace to be had with Morgoth, he made that clear. Either he was gonna die or you were gonna be enslaved by him, if more people had followed finarfin’s lead it would have meant leaving men, dwarves, other elves to rot: I don’t think that’s peace I think that’s the same weak justification the Valar use to justify their gross inaction when it comes to beleriand and middle earth.

Oh man I have SO MANY FEELINGS. okay. (clears throat)

(sorry for taking this as an ARGUMENTATIVE ESSAY PROMPT i just. the feelings.)

So…. Finarfin has no way of knowing this. As far as he knew, that might be true, but it might also be true that all the elves and dwarves of Middle-Earth were already dead and Men wouldn’t exist for thousands of years–in which case the clearly right thing to do is “stay and build up strength until you can actually defeat Morgoth instead of just slowing him down”. They don’t know. None of the Noldor know! And it’s made pretty clear that the Noldor who do go to Middle-Earth are, by and large, not doing it from a motivation of “wanting to help Men” (the rousing speech that helps convince them to leave Valinor includes “No other race shall oust us!”, it’s remarked that both Fingon and Galadriel want to see the world and have a kingdom of their own, there’s the obvious motive of revenge and taking back what was stolen, etc.). The concern for the dwarves, other elves, and Men all comes later. I love reading and writing stories where that is a primary concern of the Noldor leaving Valinor, to be clear, but I just want to be clear that they are–not really on anyone’s minds, quite yet.

It’s also really relevant to me that the Valar disapproved and refused to help from the beginning. Finarfin wanted to help, he wanted to come, he wanted to join and do good.

And then he saw what people do for the sake of action and a worthy cause. He watched his neighbors fighting his family, his wife on one side and his brother on the other. None of them were Morgoth. He saw people say “let’s leave Valinor and fight Morgoth” and he said “yes, count me in”; he saw them stab innocents, and then he said “…wait, no, maybe not that, maybe let’s go with Plan B.” I understand and have argued on behalf of the Noldor, including Feanor, for making choices that were reasonable given their circumstances, but– “massacres are never okay actually, I am not going to follow people who claim they want to fight Morgoth but in fact have done nothing but kill civilians” is not a weak justification, IMO! It is a valid stance that makes a lot of sense! That is also a reasonable choice given the circumstances!

And… Finarfin didn’t choose inaction. He fought in the War of Wrath. Finarfin chose waiting. Finarfin chose to repair the peace of Valinor–alone, because he had a Telerin wife and his children left for Beleriand–rather than lead his people to what he knew would be their deaths. Repairing a community, comforting the grieving–this is not inaction. Fighting and war is not the only action that counts. You might argue that he shouldn’t be focusing on minor problems when there were bigger ones to hand, but that’s a fully general argument for never caring about any problems that aren’t the Worst Problem In The World. If my sibling were to massacre my town ~for a good cause~ and I were to build a memorial instead of volunteering for a charity that promotes the relevant cause, it would be a douche move to be like “oh but that’s the same weak justification that the government uses to not promote [good cause]!”

I think that it’s fair to say that the Valar had an obligation to help; Manwe positioned himself as King of all of Arda, and that comes with an obligation to all of Arda. They do have information, and they have reason to believe that they would be able to win or at least give a good fight (they did it before!). I don’t feel that anyone else, ever, has an obligation to go to war. (Similarly, I can be like “x government should go to war with y government” without supporting a draft; I feel like the Valar are more analogous to a government in this situation than an individual, and that if they do not want to do the things that being-the-government obligates them to do then they should step down.) Nobody ever has an obligation to do things that will almost certainly kill them for the sake of other people. It can be a brave thing and a beautiful thing to do voluntarily, but it should never, ever be the bare minimum Requirement To Be A Good Person. That’s something I feel very strongly about; I made a post about that here. He’s not King at this point; he’s a prince, and not even the Crown Prince. For most of his life, he’s expected to be–let me count this–fifteenth in line for the throne, in a land where nobody dies (this can be brought down to ‘fourth in line’, depending on who you count, but it’s still pretty far from ‘next in line’). He’s told, flat-out, in a prophecy from Mandos, that if he goes he and all of his people will die. His job, unlike the Valar’s, is not “protect everyone, promote good things in full generality”–it’s “protect my people and do what my conscience calls me to do”. He does that.

Also: the Valar have a lot more power than Finarfin in this situation, given that they can do things like “sink all of Beleriand” when they decide to help, whereas if he were to go help, he would’ve done–what? Held a territory, protected some elves, and almost certainly died. In the Bragollach? In the Nirnaeth? Before then, on the Ice, in the battle of the Lammoth, in the Aglareb, in the Fall of Nargothrond? It’s impossible to say–honestly, it’s hard to tell if those later battles would even have existed in the same form if Finarfin had come to Beleriand, politics in Beleriand were very fragile–but I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t have single-handedly defeated Morgoth. (Though he could single-handedly unite the Noldor of Valinor and work out peace with the Teleri, such that the elves of Valinor are ready to come and help when the Valar decide to help defeat Morgoth. Comparative advantage is a thing!)

I also feel that it’s relevant that Finarfin has just had, like, five traumatic experiences in a row. His father dies; he joins a rebellion; he watches his family, I repeat, massacre his neighbors; his wife and children leave him. I judge decision-making under those circumstances significantly less harshly than I judge “a panel with much less intense personal connection debates for a while and comes to a conclusion”. People make mistakes in intense circumstances! I love characters who make mistakes like that! (gestures wildly at feanor & sons, at turin, at half the characters in this book)! “Finarfin made a mistake” is something I think is absolutely a valid argument, though I don’t personally agree. But I don’t think his choice reflects badly on him, or that it was selfish/cowardly/callous; I think that he made a hard choice in a painful situation, and that he was trying his hardest to do the right thing, and that there are lots of basically good and reasonable people who would do the same thing. (I am willing to defend this as a possible interpretation for every single character in the silmarillion except for outright villains such as Morgoth, incidentally.)

#oh boy oh boy sorry guys #long post #Anonymous #abrabêl has opinions

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feel199x · 5 years

Text

don’t trust the b— in apartment 23!

best friend!minho, e2f2l!au, enemy!chan, college!au

masterlist

♫ summary: what the f is up kyle, no what the f is UP kyle, step the f UP

♫ warnings: brief description of blood, swearing, but overall very light-hearted, bit of a slow burn

♫ a/n: i thought this way funny adjajsdj hope u enjoy! this is basically an idiot plot asdhajdj

♫ song rec: babyface - wsjn, be my baby - sf9, feel - triple h, she is - ovan & shaun

Music is a universal language, that is a fact. There is nothing in this world that can reach the depth and emotion- and universally so- like music. It didn’t matter what language it was- if there were even any words, all that mattered was how you felt. 100 people could listen to one song, and each of those people could describe it differently. Really, was there anything more human than art? The bow pressed down on the violin hard, emitting a deep, vibrating sound that echoed in the auditorium.

Calloused fingers danced upon the violin string, playing by muscle memory and the late night repetition and frustrations. The floorboards underneath creaked as weight pressed on and off into the wood. There were watching, peering, judging eyes on the figure in the middle of the stage. Sweat started to bead, and breath built up in your lungs- clawing at the caverns, begging to be let out. Cheek pressed against the hot pad of the violin, an imprint was starting to form. Heartbeat started to thump, drum- veins coursing loud.

They were older, faces wrinkled and creased. Eyes prying and sharp, eager to note any mistake. They were here to take apart, tune out, absolve of any hope. They leaned with anticipation, fingers almost forgetting the pen to mark mistakes. Their paper was starch white, stark and blank, the creamy notes left blank.

The auditorium, however, was mostly empty. None but ghosts watching over the balcony. A show for everyone, and no one. Large and grand, but utterly unfilled. The seat and rows stacked upon each other, each and every placement made for a glimpse at the stage. All of it remained deep in the shadows, obscured by darkness. But rest assured, it was all there.

The attention was focused on the stage, as always. Bright lights consuming and enveloping the center figure. The high rise of the stage meant- that even for just this once- the experienced would be looking up instead of down at others. The bow’s horse hairs began to loosen, falling at the sides and onto the floor. All of this falling unknown to the shut eyes of the player.

It was a private twilight zone of sorts. In the middle of light and dark, the line between consciousness and reality, a middle ground- a tipping point of fear and knowledge. The chinrest of the violin began to stick to skin and the hot leather becoming moist. Every movement intensely followed with anticipation and an eagerness that should not have fallen unbeknownst.

If it had been any other task, any other subject, it would have not turned out this way. If it had been any subject, then surely failure would have found its way. But it hadn’t. Or, at the very least, not yet. It was ridiculous, this piece, really there was no point to it other than to show off technical abilities. It was extravagant and obnoxious- but in all the best ways. Blood began to drip onto the strings and onto the waist of the violin, slipping off the body and onto the once pale floor.

The finger pad’s skin had split again, abused by the harsh strings and fast-paced, not to mention the abusive nature of the frequent practices. Even through the thin band-aid, the pace had proved too much for the delicate fingers. And maybe, that should’ve been a sign for one to yield, but it hadn’t. It didn’t.

The end was near, in sight. Finally, the light shone at the end of the tunnel. The bright lights of the stage finally coming into view.

You dropped the arm holding the bow, bleeding fingers still pressed upon the neck of the violin. Finally, you breathed. Panting, hyperventilating, you looked down at your judges. The applause was much louder than the music, and your subsequent smile much brighter than the lights that had shone harshly on you. Hair stuck to your face, and with your chest heaving, you bowed again and again.

“Truly, the best rendition of twenty-four caprices I’ve ever heard. Really, there’s no competition. You’ll receive a call, but there’s really no question about it is there? You’ve earned a spot in this university.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.”

You bowed again and left the stage. The next hopeful student walked past you and into the lights just like you had. Hopefully, you’d never have to experience that again. Your attention turned to your bleeding fingers and you grimaced, looking at the heavy sight with mixed emotions. A grim trophy for your achievements. You unwrapped your cute bandaid and pulled another one out of your bag. It was still bleeding, making the yellow bandaid and happy bears tinted red. Pondering the unfortunate circumstance of the little bear, you sat staring at your poor fingers.

“Man, what happened to your fingers?”

You looked up, snapped out of thought and turned to the inquiring voice. He didn’t look at you, staring with frowning eyebrows at the poor outcome of your fingers. He looked back up you expectantly, and nervously, you unwrapped another band-aid. “Ah, I was playing a sort of hard piece.”

“Sort of? Looks like you put your fingers went through hell.”

“Anything to get into this school, I guess.”

He began to tap his fingers on the armrest, watching as you wrapped your next finger in a new bandaid. “How was it? The judges, I mean.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I think it’s best if you tune them out completely.”

“So wise.” he sighed, sulking in his chair, “After hearing you play, I’m not sure singing trot is going to be good enough.”

You tucked your violin back into the case gently and secured the latches. “You’re amazing. You made it this far. Just sing your heart out, and I’m sure you’ll get in. Best of luck.”

“See you soon! Take care of your fingers.”

“Will do, thanks.”

You slumped on your couch, your violin case resting on the floor beside you. You held up your arms up to the ceiling and stared at your fingers again as they dangled up above you. Your wrists ached as you rolled them, attempting to somehow soothe the sharp pain. There was really no way around it, it came with the hobby. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t complain about it. Sighing, you picked up your aging body and heaved yourself towards making dinner.

There it was again. That rotten baseline was going to kill you, it really was. You groaned into the pillow you had shoved over your face and kicked your legs up in the air. One of these days you were going to fight your neighbor, you really were.

You sulked in your bed for a few minutes, pondering the fatality of your existence. You had planned on sleeping in the entire day, monument to the inglorious creature you were. But your plans had been follied by that damned baseline. Unfortunately, you knew you were no better. You had to practice your violin piece, and that meant repeating and starting over again, and again, and well. You just weren’t in any place to complain, now were you? In your defenses though, you had been planning to get those fancy violins where you could plug in headphones. You crossed your arms, pouting as the bass shook your furniture. You could still be upset though, but only in your head.

You got up to drink a glass of water, maybe you could finish that Netflix series you had been meaning to get to. If you were woken up, might as well stay awake. It was unlikely you’d be able to fall back asleep anyway. You settled onto your trembling couch, regretting the decision to come out of your bedroom. It wasn’t that the music was bad- in fact, it was good. Really good. But for the love of all good things in this world, did it really need to be this loud?

The next morning, you picked up your violin again. It wasn’t the best decision, but you couldn’t allow yourself to go rusty. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to expand the number of songs you could play. Your abused fingers pressed against the strings at a fast pace as you tried your best to play as fast as you could read the notes. It was no twenty-four caprices, but it wasn’t twinkle twinkle little star either. You could feel the blood soak the small pads of cotton in your bandaid, but you didn’t stop. You were so close, you couldn’t stop before you reached the climax of the song. The song reached its end, and you bowed to the imaginary audience, stepping off one of your dining chairs. Giving yourself a mental pat on the back, you exhaled.

Then, as you started looking for another pack of band-aids, the music started up again. Your soap dispenser almost fell off the edge of the sink. You resigned your search for the disappearing band-aids and opted to take a walk. As you stepped out of your apartment, you stuck your tongue out at your neighbor’s door. Could’ve you politely asked them to turn it down? Sure. But were you going to? No, absolutely not. But you could be passive aggressive and that seemed like the best option.

“Minho!” you shouted, “Minho!” A boy came out from the back, glaring at you. He crossed his arms and looked at you impatiently. He ignored you for a few moments, talking to a coworker before turning to you. “I told you not to visit me at work.”

You huffed, tapping your foot. Noticing, he sighed and stretched out your cheeks. “What’s wrong now? I told you I was going to come over after my shift.”

“You said that this apartment complex was nice and, and full of cool people!” He kept pinching your cheeks, amused at your outburst. “Yes, I did say that.” You groaned swatting and tapping as his hands so he would release the hostage of your cheeks. He let go finally, an amused look still plastered across his face. “Well, my neighbors aren’t! They’re not cool, like at all.”

“Have you even talked to them yet?”

You pursed your lips. No, you hadn’t. You knew that he knew that, but you weren’t about to admit it. “It doesn’t matter!” you whined, “I wanna move out.”

“You can’t. You signed a lease.”

“You suck.”

“You’re so loving, really. I’ve never met someone as kind as you.” You pouted, sitting on the wood floor. He messed up your hair and sat down next to you. “I know how nervous it makes you, okay? I promise I’ll come by more.” He grabbed your hand, staring at the wrapped fingers. “I just miss you, Minho. Are you coming with me to orientation?” He pulled out bear covered band-aids from his pocket and delicately took off the dirty band-aid from your pointer finger. “I promised you I would, nerd. What did I tell you about pacing yourself? Did you try playing twenty-four caprices again?”

You looked away, choosing to look at the group of dancers stretching and conversing amongst themselves. You felt a fist hit the top of your head, and you whipped your head to look at the assaulter. “Moron,” he murmured, as he finished wrapping the last finger, “I’ll yell at you about it later. I have to get back to class.”

“I’m sorry for keeping you, I’ll make a really good dinner tonight.”

“And Ice Cream.”

“Fine. But only because I owe you.”

You swayed your arms as you walked, thinking about nothing in particular. It was nice out, the air breezy as summer transitioned into fall. As nervous as it made you, the thought of starting at a new school was sort of refreshing. You could sharpen your skills and make new friends, you were determined to have a good freshman year. It was past noon now, the sun leaving a warmth on your face as it shone. You decided to take the long route and go through the park walkway, you had time to kill after all. You crouched down in front of a squirrel, trying to coax it into coming near you with an acorn you had found nearby. You would’ve succeeded in it too, if not for the blaring music that came from somewhere deep in the park. Frightened, the squirrel had run off and climbed the tree in closest proximity. You resigned, placing your arms on your knees, and stayed in that crouched position for a few moments. Curious about the music that had scared your almost friend away, you followed the sound of the music until it got louder. People were beginning to crowd around a small stage. It looked like you had missed the intro, but you caught a glimpse of a poster with the group name on it: 3racha. The music made your heart pound against your chest, and people were yelling along with the lyrics of the rap.

The beat sounded almost familiar, but you couldn’t place your finger on it. On the stage, there were three boys. Men? They looked quite young. There was a scary looking guy to the left, dark hair and rapping quickly. How did he breathe, did he even have lungs? To the right there was another boy, rapping just as aggressively and having the audience rap along key parts with him. In the center was a curly haired boy. Almost to an embarrassing degree, you were captivated by him. You didn’t know what it was about him, maybe just something about his aura, his presence. Whatever it was, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. For a moment then, you thought he had made eye contact with you from the crowd and smiled. This would’ve sent chills down your spine if you hadn’t suddenly remembered what you had left your apartment to do. You made a silent ‘o’ shape with your mouth and stuck your finger in the air, waving it as you mentally scolded yourself for getting distracted. You struggled your way through the crowd and eventually made your way to the convenience store.

It was already the afternoon, the light of the sun dimming and the sky becoming deeper in color. Losing track of time was very clearly something you were very good at. On the bright side, you had stolen a lot of the park’s flowers and now had enough to put in a vase in your apartment. Was it the noblest thing you’d done? No. Did you regret it? Also no. You put the flowers delicately in your shopping basket and looked for the cute bandaids you had bought a week ago.

“Do you need help with anything?”

The voice interrupted your train of thought and made you jump, dropping the small box of band-aids. You recongized him, he was the same guy who had checked out your band-aids previously. “Those aren’t very effective at stopping blood and healing the cut.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I like them ‘cause they’re cute.”

“I noticed. Actually, we got a new stock of them. I haven’t put them on the shelves, but I could get one for you if you want?”

You smiled, and took a peek at his nametag. “That’d be super cool, Seungmin!”

He motioned for you to follow him after he made sure that there was no one else currently in the store. “You come here a lot for band-aids, you know that? Are you a superhero or something?”

“Oh, nothing that cool. I was playing a hard piece on the violin.”

“You go to the Performing Arts University then?”

“Hopefully! I haven’t received the call yet.”

“Well, you beat the shit out of your fingers, so they should.”

He handed you the box with the indeed, new design much cuter than the last. “Do you got ther too?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Oh, that’s so cool! What do you play?”

“Piano, and I sing. Still surprised I got in, fair warning: take care of your fingers, they’re gonna go through hell.” He looked down at your fingers again, “Again.”

Your phone began to ring, and you fumbled to answer. “It’s the school!” Seungmin paused as he checked out your ice cream to yell at you to answer the phone, “Put it on speaker.”

“_____?”

“Yes, that’s you- I mean me! That’s me.”

“We judged your performance earlier, just as we said, your performance of twenty-four caprices was extraordinary. Congratulations, you’re in!”

“Thank you! Thanks so much.”

“See you soon.”

Seungmin smiled at you, finishing checking out your items and gave you a smile. “I’ll see you around. Let’s play together some time.” He gave you his number and off you went, doing a happy little dance as you walked back to your apartment.

You prepared dinner just as you promised, and admittedly, went a little overboard. Just as you finished setting the table, the bell rang and you let the boys up.

“___!” the two boys squished you between their bodies, almost suffocating you.

“I can’t believe we missed you,” Hyunjin complained, “I haven’t seen you in like, months!”

“He saw you five days ago.”

“Which is basically years!”

Minho scoffed, sitting on the counter as he watched the two boys shower you in attention. “You guys are only kissing ass ‘cause ____ cooked.”

You wrapped your arms over the boys’ shoulder and stuck your tongue out at Minho. “You’re just jealous ‘cause they like me more than you.”

“They do not!”

“Yeah, we do.”

It was a lively scene. The dancers arguing about which transition would be best in their new choreography and you sat listening idly to their conversation. You didn’t mind just listening, it was entertaining to watch them loudly argue about things. The conversation, unbeknownst to you, had turned to the subject of your life.

“So, ____?”

“Huh?”

You turned to look at Felix, who was looking at you expectantly. Minho hit your head again, “He asked you how the audition went.” You glared at Minho, rubbing your head to soothe the pain. “It went good, I think. They liked it.”

“They better have,” Minho said darkly, “I’ll fight them if they don’t accept you. Look at your fingers!”

“Well, you don’t have to. I got in.”

They all started yelling congratulations at you, squeezing you in their arms and telling you how proud they were. They sat back down in their seats, and the air of congratulations quickly dissipated. All the gazes at the table fell upon your hand, which was mid-air and feeding a spoonful of pasta into your mouth. You cleared your throat awkwardly, waiting for the coming assault of words

“You said you were going to take care of yourself! We wouldn’t have let you move out if-!” Hyunjin cut himself off, slouching in his chair and pouting to himself. “I guess we’re just gonna have to stay here, huh? Keep a watch over you.”

“Like hell, you will, Felix.” Minho shot a look over to the Aussie boy, who only gave him a playful smile. “I’m okay, I’m an adult now. I can take care of myself. You guys can’t even cook.”

“You have rilakkuma on your band-aid.”

“I’m an adult who likes cute things!”

Minho clicked his tongue and shook his head, “You’re like a baby deer- a fawn? Trying to walk on wood.”

“I am not!”

“You are.”

They left after watching another superhero movie, warning you to take care of yourself or else subject yourself to their wrath. Then the first day came along.

Minho held your hand as he led you to your first class. You hadn’t asked him too, he just kinda grabbed your hand. He squeezed it tight once and then flicked your forehead. You groaned and pouted, rubbing your poor forehead. “You’ll be alright?”

“Of course, I’m not a little kid.”

“You sure act like one.”

You opened your mouth to complain but snapped it shut, turning on your heels to walk into the lecture hall. He pulled you by your collar back and you glared at him as he looked back at you. “I didn’t dismiss you.”

“You suck, Minho. Let me go!”

“You didn’t hug goodbye. Can’t let you go ‘til you give me a hug.”

You gave him a tight, but short squeeze and tried to let go but Minho kept you tight in his embrace, “Minho, let go,” you whined, trying to wiggle out, “You’re embarrassing me, you old man!”

“Just for that, I’m gonna stay like this until it’s time for you to actually go in.”

“Ugh, Minho, you’re crushing me!”

“Alright,” he let go, pinching tour cheeks hard, “Don’t give your phone number to any guys- they’re all trash. And make sure to talk to your teacher after the lecture if you have any questions. If anyone’s mean to you, I’ll deal them. I’m only a call away if you feel panicky, and I’ll be here when class ends, okay?”

“Let go,” you whined, swatting his hands, “I got it. Love you, Minho.”

“I love you,” he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, “I love you, Minho. I’ll see you later, bye!”

“Have fun, kid.”

You stepped inside the lecture hall, looking at all the empty seats. Immediately, you were overwhelmed by the sheer number of them, thinking about how many people would be there. Thankfully, there was someone you recognized. The boy from the audition was in the first row, and you quickly made your way to the seat beside him.

“Hey, you’re the violin player! How are your fingers?”

“They’re alright! And look at you, I bet your trot is amazing!”

Your conversation was cut short as the professor came in, and orientation started without skipping another beat. All you did was go over the syllabus, and then the professor let his assistant take over. Woojin, the assistant, explained the Welcoming Showcase, an event optional for freshmen, but mandatory for every year after. Essentially, it was just that- a showcase of talents. This sparked an excited discussion and nervous questions to which Woojin was fully prepared to answer. You turned to Jeongin, “Do you wanna work together?”

“Hell yeah, we’re a power duo.”

You and Jeongin exchanged numbers as the rest of the class packed up and set up a time to meet up and go over what you wanted to do. Minho was outside just like he said he would be, and he listened to you ramble about the showcase and all the ideas you had. Hyunjin and Felix met both of you at a local diner and argued over fries over which superhero was the most powerful.

Once you got home, you texted Jeongin asking if he minded if you asked someone else to join. Seungmin joined both of you in the music room, and all of you went over everyone’s ideas for the performance. Together, the three of you created music you were very proud of. You got frustrated frequently, messing up certain parts. Even though everyone had their bad days, you could depend on each other.

As the Welcoming Showcase grew closer and closer, you started to panic. There was nothing wrong, per say, but you couldn’t help but feel there was something missing in the song. It was great, wonderful even- a collaboration piece that was sure to wow everyone. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Your alarm went off and you frowned. You didn’t want to go, you had this awful feeling that came from the pit of your something. You were sure that something was going to go wrong. Unfortunately for you, Minho existed. And this meant you couldn’t back out of anything. You felt a wave of dread when you heard him come in. He pulled at your ankles, yelling at you to get up.

“You have to go.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“You promised you would.”

“I’m a liar.”

“I will not hesitate to carry you there. It’s going to be fun. Also, need I remind you, you promised all of us you would go?”

“Can you carry me anyways?”

He crossed his arms, nodding. “I’m waiting for you in the living room. I’ll bring you there naked if you’re not out in five minutes.”

“Gross.”

“It’s your choice.”

Just as he promised, he compromised and carried you to the car, but that didn’t mean he did it nicely. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, which meant your face was helplessly flopping against his back.

“Put me down, Minho!”

“I’m just doing what you asked me to.”

“I hate you.”

You were sweating like it was the peak of summer, was it really in fact that hot? No, but your body thought otherwise. Backstage was full of all sorts of performers, some dancing, others hosting last minute rehearsals. The classical players were going first, which meant that you and Jeongin would be starting off the crowd. As you continued to observe everyone else, specifically how lively all of their pieces seemed to be.

You watched Minho and his friends do last minute corrections to their dance. The growing feeling that your piece just wouldn’t cut it wouldn’t leave. You furrowed your eyebrows, mentally going through a list of things you could do to turn this around. You moved towards your group members, determined with your new found plan.

“Jeongin.”

“Do you think you can change your tempo for the song?”

“I mean sure, but-”

“I’ll be right back!”

You yourself weren’t even sure how you were going to pull this off. You wanted to go to the bathroom to calm down, but in your rush, you crashed into someone.

“I’m so sorry!”

The papers scattered all over the floor, and you scrambled to pick them all up. “I’m so sorry,” you repeated, “My mind’s just going a million miles an hour and-! Are you okay?” You finally looked up, nervous to see a fuming performer about to go off at you. But instead, your eyes fell upon the center boy from the park.

“Hey, didn’t you-?”

“Perform in the park? Yes, I did.”

“You saw me?”

“Yeah, I did. I also saw you leave after making eye contact with me.”

You stood up quickly, face hot and flush. “It’s not like that! Your music was cool, I just forgot that I had something I needed to do.” He smiled at you, with dimples and all and laughed. “It’s alright, I just wondered if I’d ever see you again, and why you left.”

“Ah,” you held up your hand, “Band-aids.”

“_____!”

You turned around, Seungmin quickly walking towards you. “That’s me. I should get going.” You started to walk off when the mystery boy called your name. “My papers. And I’m Chan by the way.

“Oh! Sorry,” you added, “Chan.”

“I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

You ran off, meeting a not-so-pleased Seungmin. “Are you sure you can pull this off?”

“I’m confident.”

He flicked your forehead, “If anyone else pulled this stunt, I would’ve fought them. But you owe me, got it?”

“I love you, Minnie!”

“Shut the hell your mouth, we’re up in two.”

Jeongin pulled the collar of his shirt and played with his hair while Seungmin tapped his fingers against his leg as if he were playing the piano.

“I’ll start off. Just follow my lead, okay?”

You walked onto the stage, an awaiting crowd looking to devour you. You turned and faced the eager college students watching you with intent eyes. Seungmin pushed in the chair to his piano and Jeongin stood by your side. You rested your cheek against the pad and breathed.

The music that vibrated off the strings was different than the one that had played during rehearsals. It was much more the likeness of a rap beat that the original classical piece. Fingers played the string fast, changing their positions faster than the naked eye could keep up with. The piano joined in soon, chasing the tail of the violin’s notes, keeping up with it well. The voice intercepted soon after, loud and melodic- seemingly rehearsed, perfected. The audience began to clap along with the rhythm, pleased with the nature of the song. The skin of fingers began to split again, blood coating the unforgiving strings. The bow moved rapidly, horse hairs becoming loose again, unable to handle the hardship of the playing.

The keys of the piano seamlessly changed the key of the song, pronouncing its place in the song. The violin joined, notes intertwining to create an otherworldly, ethereal sound- the voice only accentuating those traits. Together, the trio worked to excite and provide a memorable start to the music festival. The singer held the high note for a while, the violin dragging out the last note while the keys on the piano held its breath for a few moments.

The music came back down harder as if had been holding back, impatient for the song to come to its climax. The bow was nearly destroyed at this point, horse hairs strung all over the place. Cheek firmly planted in the hot, sticking leather, hearts beating so fast it was almost as if they hadn’t been beating at all. The joints of the piano player were beginning to hurt, the outstretching and upbeat tune proving difficult, but not too much- just enough of a challenge. It’s true when they say music is a language in itself, the trio clearly fluent in it. No words were spoken, no queues, only an instinct that had no roots to trace back to.

The audience could sense it, feel the music in their bones, coursing through their blood. The sun was warm, a golden light illuminating the trio in a warm light. The sleek black piano was brightened, brought out from obscurity and into the limelight. The shape of the piano traced by the glow, it’s own player with his bangs wet, glued to his face. It was a wonder really, how any of them did it, how they pulled it off without even a thought of making a mistake.

You could breathe finally, relax even if just for a moment. The applause was comforting, even if the grade you received was less than pleasant, at least you had a memory that made it worth it.

You spoke to Jeongin and Seungmin and then suddenly remembered your quest to find a bathroom.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t get lost, ___.”

“I won’t!”

You did.

It turns out since the amphitheater was outside, the only bathrooms were in the campus buildings. And campus, although in walking distance, was not particularly close. Unfortunately for you, it was also nowhere near the buildings you were familiar with. But easy enough, you could just enter any building and search around until you found a bathroom right? Wrong. You were on the complete opposite of the campus, and actually where the dormitory buildings were. The stares you received for looking utterly lost and peeking in the glass doors were well deserved. It took the kindness of a senior student to grace you with the knowledge of accurate directions. It would’ve been convenient if you had a map, or if your phone had battery. But you were not that lucky.

But, against all odds, you made it back the amphitheater. Two and a half hours later and no, you don’t know how you took so long. All you knew was that none of your friends were around.

“You’re still here?”

You turned to face the voice, desperate for a familiar voice and on the brink of tears. “Chan?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he laughed, “Do you need a ride or something?”

“You’re my knight in shining armor, Chan. I got a ride with Minho, but he left. I got lost looking for the bathroom.”

“I get it. It took me a while to be able to navigate the campus. The maps are confusing.”

“Right? Or maybe I’m just hopeless, but still!”

“You and me both. You ready to go?”

You nodded, making small talk with the boy as he led you to his car. You offered to help him carry some of the equipment he was carrying, but he refused, claiming that it would help him buff his arms.

You couldn’t for the life of you understand why he would need to buff his arms anymore, but hey, you weren’t complaining- it was a sight to see, the eighth wonder of the world.

You gave him vague directions, mostly pointing which way to go. Minho usually offered to take you to campus, and you took the bus everywhere else. So, in your defense, you never really needed to give directions.

“Oh, I go this way too! Guess we live pretty close.”

Finally, the both of you realized that you could just type in your address in the GPS on his phone. But Chan grew more and more quiet as he neared your apartment complex. “Uh, you live here?”

“Yeah,” you chirped, “I moved here a couple of months ago for school. Well, a bit before that too.”

“I live in this complex too, do you mind if I park in my usual space.”

“Not at all, go ahead.”

You almost forget Chan was along your side but quickly reminded as you entered the same elevator and went to click the same floor. “You said you play the violin, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah!” you pointed at your case, “Sure do.”

“Can you keep it down next time?”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you connected the dots and you gasped, “You’re the one overdoing the bass!”

“Only after you kept playing that awful piece.”

“Twenty four caprices is not awful! It’s hard! That’s how I got into the school, and it basically murdered my fingers you butt!”

“Butt? How old are you?”

“Old enough to know you’re a butt!”

“You didn’t have to practice here though, especially if you’re going to keep replaying the same piece. Did you even hear us banging on your wall? No, ‘cause your awful playing was basically bass boosted!”

The elevator door opened and you stormed out, and it would’ve been amazing and dramatic too if you hadn’t dropped your keys.

“Look like you dropped something.”

“Shut up!”

He chuckled to himself before opening the door smoothly and disappearing behind it. You closed your door- loudly- and then you heard that rotten bass start over again.

“So, that’s what you were complaining about, huh?”

You turned to the figure who spoke, and even though you couldn’t make out was he was saying, you could tell he wasn’t too pleased. Minho and the boys were sitting on the couch, watching an action movie. You plopped yourself in the middle of them, sulking and sinking into the couch.

“My phone died, Minho.”

His fist hit your head, “I always tell you to bring a charger, but you never listen.”

“What?”

“I said, I always tell you-”

“I’m sorry, Minho. I’ll set a reminder on my phone next time.”

He sighed. Pausing the movie, he banged on the wall several times. “Has no one else complained about the music?” He got off the couch and tapped his foot a few times before impatiently striding for the door.

“Minho, don’t!”

“Why not?”

He looked down at you, waiting for a genuinely good reason as to why he couldn’t snap at your spiteful neighbor. “Oh, um, ‘cause it’s mean?” “You’re the same person who calls me ‘mean-ho’, lest I remind you.”

“We have the moral high ground here! No threatening has to be done! We could file a noise complaint, and karma will get to him eventually.”

“You can have the moral high ground. He’s gonna wish it was just karma that got to him.”

He let go of your hold on his wrist and stepped out your apartment door. “Well,” Felix yelled, “I want to see how this go down.” He sprung off the couch and Hyunjin followed, curious and amused. “I want to see how bad Minho is gonna crush his spirit.”

Like the three stooges, your heads stacked on top of one another as you watched Minho angrily knock the door. When no one came to answer, Minho started kicking the door leaving you wondering if the door would break. Finally, someone came to the door. It was the dark-haired boy, who you had thought was scary. He had swung the door open and came face to face with a very, very peeved off Minho.

“Turn down the fucking music. I’ve had enough.”

“Will do, sorry about-”

“Changbin, who’s at the door?”

Changbin looked at Minho and back at presumably Chan, who had now joined Minho and Changbin at the door. “Sorry, do you need something?”

Minho scoffed, “Shut down the music, Bang Chan.”

“You are aware this is a designated apartment complex for musicians, right?”

“Doesn’t mean rules and basic courtesy don’t apply, asshole. Turn down the music or I’m calling the landlord, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Chill, man. I’ll turn it down. Do you even live here?”

“I live downstairs.”

“What’s your apartment number?”

“Oh, dear Chan, do you plan on paying me a midnight visit?”

“Fuck off, dude,” he laughed, “Alright man, I’m sorry about the noise. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Just keep it down.”

You watched as he shut the door and listened to how the music significantly quieted. The three of you stumbled as Minho opened the door and gave a heavy sigh. “Dumb, dumber, and dumbest,” he shook his head as he pointed at all three of you. Then, he smirked, a proud look on his face as he crossed his arms. “You’re welcome, by the way. One day you’re gonna have to learn how to confront people yourself, you know.”

You sat on the couch with him, resting your head on his lap and poking his cheeks, “Why should I when I have you?” Felix lifted your legs and sat with them on top of his thighs and Hyunjin grabbed you a blanket. “You’re spoiled rotten, you know that?” Minho complained, “Absolutely spoiled. I don’t know why I deal with you.”

You cupped your face and blinked, “It’s my charm.”

“Ugh,” he groaned, flicking your forehead, “So gross.”

You found yourself on your bed the next morning and you were hit with a sudden pang of guilt. Maybe he was just joking, but you were worried that he’d get sick of you- and so would all the other boys. Your window curtains closed but the sunlight still illuminated the room through the holes in the lace. You brought your knees up to your chest and rested your head upon them. Your fingers played with the white sheets that swamped your legs. You closed your eyes, just feeling the warmth of the sun on your face. It was odd to have that this time of year. Even though it must be cold, a shining sun- one not obscured by upset, gray clouds.

You stretched out your legs and wiggled your toes, flopping back down on the bed. You laid in the starfish position for a few minutes, contemplating the ethics of living a life outside of your bedroom. Coming to the conclusion, that you could not, indeed, do everything from the comfort of your bed you hauled yourself off of it.

It would’ve made for a peaceful morning too, if not for that darned baseline. It had caught you in the middle of pouring juice in a cup, spilling it all over the floor- and most importantly, your feet. One of these days, you promised yourself, one of these days you were going to give him a piece of your mind. In the meantime, though, you were going to stop by Minho’s dance studio and thank him and the boys for just being generally great human beings. More specifically, you wanted to show Minho the ridiculous banners you had made to wave at his next performance. The music was still blaring as you stepped onto the elevator. And you glared at Chan’s apartment door before the closing doors pulled you down to the ground floor.

Figuring Minho would be in the middle of class, you decided to take the long way again and pop into the park. There was nothing much to see, really, the trees sad and bare and the grass turning brown. The good thing about it was the leaves, specifically the crunch and exhilaration you felt as you stepped on the crispy leaves. You jumped around like a wandering child, making a game out of jumping and crushing the poor leaves. Despite the shining sun, the sky began to look dark and the sun grew timid. There was a harsh wind out, cold and mercilessly slapping your bare face. You spent some time trying to coax a cat to come let you pet it, and when it did you probably made it wish you hadn’t. You scooped it up and placed it in your lap, spoiling it with careful and gentle touches. It purred, much to your surprise and leaned into your touch and nudged your hand with its head. You would’ve completely forgotten what you set out to do if the cat hadn’t started pawing at the banner you intended on showing Minho.

“I have to go, Milky. Can I call you that?”

The milk tea fur colored cat purred in response. “I’ll see you around milky, okay?” You picked him up and placed him on the ground, expecting that he would saunter off and find another willing passerby to give him the pets he seemingly deserved. Instead of that, he followed you, keeping up with your pace as you tried to find the original path out of the park. You turned around multiple times, scolding the stubborn cat to not befriend complete strangers. Idiot cat that he was, all he did was meow loudly in response, pawing at your leg and begging to be picked up. You were no monster, though. You obliged, carrying the cat and scratching his head.

“Minho…”

“What did you do?”

“Is your class gone?”

“Yeah, you know what time I teach. We’re just messing around.”

“Before you yell at me,” you held up Milky, his body dangling and he gave an inglorious meow, “meet my friend Milky!”

Minho closed his eyes and held the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “So this is why you weren’t answering my calls?”

“Huh? Oh, my phone must be on silent.” You put Milky down and searched through your bag for your phone. You looked up at Minho and gave him a sheepish smile. “You’re kidding. You’re kidding, right?” he flicked your head, “I even put it to charge when I left.”

You waved him off and waved a plastic bag in his face. “I got you ice cream and look,” you pulled out the obnoxious banner, “I ordered it for your performance at the dance festival! Isn’t it neat? I’m your own cheerleader.”

He picked up Milky, who gave him a stern look but resigned into his embrace as he took the ice cream. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I know! Isn’t it amazing? I’m pretty much your number one fan.”

“Several people would disagree with you.”

“Who else is getting your face on a banner and is ready to wave it around?” You frowned and let the banner drop. “Do you really not like it?”

“I’m just teasing,” he flicked your forehead again, “Maybe some of my admirers can compete to one-up you. I’d like to see it.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I just wanted to thank you for dealing with chan and because so cool and amazing and awesome and-”

“I’m your friend, dumba-”

You covered milky’s ears, “Don’t curse in front of him!”

“He’s a cat.”

“And a baby!”

“He’s fat, look at him.”

“No!”

“Look at how smug he is. I love it. He and I are one.”

“He’s leagues better than you.”

Minho swayed Milky, his legs and tails dangled miserably. “He’s a bastard and I adore him. He is my bastard son. I love him.”

“Minho, no!”

Milky meowed indignantly, “My inglorious bastard, a beautiful testimony to my tribulations.”

“God, you’re so weird, Minho!”

He laughed at you, and sat down on the floor, scratching Milky’s chin. You scooted near him and rested your head on his shoulder. “How do you even know Chan?”

“We had a collaboration for an assignment. He’s cool.”

“You’re friends?”

“Guess you could say that.”

You didn’t ask any more questions, figuring you had all the information you needed. You talked about nothing in particular, just enjoying each other’s presence for the most part. He took the liberty to show you what he had planned on performing for the dance showcase, and you never failed to be impressed. You held up his banner, yelling out his name obnoxiously to the beat of the music. Even Milky seemed content, watching as Minho danced. Hyunjin and Felix taught you some of the moves, while Minho stood by offering commentary in his own voice, and a made up one for Milky.

The showcase came and went, and school continued without anything noteworthy really happening. Your finals came and went, at the expense of your fingertips, but they went all the same.

You heard a knock at your door and grimaced, you were in no position to be looked upon by the outside world. Destressing after finals meant letting go, and letting go meant letting go completely. It was no use pretending you weren’t home either, the music could probably be heard by anyone who passed by. It wasn’t your fault that you and Milky were the best dancers out here, okay? You both needed a place to practice, and no one deserved to be graced by your impromptu dancing. In your time wondering if you could just pretend that you had not, in fact, heard the knock, the assailant knocked more urgently.

“I know you’re in there, ___.”

You crossed your arm and gave Milky a look. Blissfully ignorant, he looked back up at you with a woefully blank meow. You opened the door with your most neutral look. “My music isn’t loud.”

“Debatable. Anyway, I’m here because my cat hasn’t been around for a few days and I wanted to ask you if you could keep a look out for him.”

“Oh. Okay. What does he look like?”

“He’s white and-.”

As if on cue, Milky sauntered over to the door, curling his tail around your ankle. “And that’s my cat.”

“No, Milky is a stray.”

“His name is Tom and-.”

“Tom?”

“Milky isn’t any better!”

“It’s way better.”

“Give me my cat back.”

“Have you asked Milky what he wants?”

Chan snorted, crossing his arms. “Fine. We’ll both call him from either side and whoever he walks to is his rightful owner, fair?”

“Yes,” you clapped, “More than fair.”

Really, you should have expected this outcome. You had placed Milky- er, Tom? In the middle of the hallway, you and Chan at the opposite ends, calling him to walk over to either side. The thing was, he circled around himself and laid down on the spot. After a few minutes of trying to coax him, both of you realized there was no use.

“I guess we should co-parent then. I promise I’ll do good by both of you.”

“He’s my cat, ____.”

“Well, he chose both of us so, now he’s our cat. You’ll get him tomorrow, goodbye!”

“What- wait!”

You closed your apartment door before he could protest to anything.

Both you and Chan worked around each other’s schedule, trying to take care of the cat the best you could. It was kept mostly professional, swapping the cat every other day. College had been kicking your ass, but at the very least you had your cat to keep insanity at bay.

An urgent knock came at your door, and you knew it could only be one person. “Milky’s sick. He hasn’t been eating, so I’m going to bring him to the vet. Do you want to come?”

“Oh! He’s not sick. One second.”

You went into his apartment, waving at his roommates who were arguing with each other over a video game you didn’t recognize. Milky was poised on the arm of the couch, front row seats, reveling at the reality show unfolding itself in front of him. You scooped him up and placed him in front of his bowl. He sat patiently, waiting as you kneeled across him and tuned your violin.

“What are you doing?”

“Tuning my violin.”

“I can see that, but why?”

“No one likes to be lonely, why should that be any different for animals? Love exists within all living things and beyond. Plus, I found out he really likes violin.”

You started to play a soft tune for the cat, who obliged to eating his meal. You had realized it about a week ago when Milky came around for his meal whenever you practicing on the violin. Furthermore, he only seemed to eat when you were- or at the very least, within his company. It made sense to you, after all, weren’t meals more special when you shared them with somebody else? You finished the last piece of the song as Milky’s ears twitched and he stretched his body to lay down on the nearby bed.

“You’re not wearing any band-aids.”

“Oh, yeah. I imagine it’s not very pleasant to have someone’s band-aid littered hand pet you. Plus, healed fingers make for a better playing experience.” you scratched the top of Milky’s head, “Isn’t that right, Milky? Don’t I give better pats now?”

You looked up at Chan and gave him a bright smile, then lifted yourself off your knees and straightened yourself up. “I guess I’ll get going now. Knock if you need anything.”

He stared at you for a few moments, a small smile peeking through.

“Is there something on my face?”

He blinked a couple of times and gave you a dimpled smile. “No, but you got it. I’ll knock if I need anything.”

The next couple of days went regularly, but most notably, no more baselines shook up your house. There was nothing notable that happened, except maybe that you finally beat Minho in mortal kombat. He contributed it to a fluke, but you knew better. You knew. And you would hold it over his head for an eternity.

You, Hyunjin, and Felix went out for boba during the week, and you, Jeongin, and Seungmin played around in the music room on campus every day before lectures started. College was stressful, but it was made bearable with the people around you. Even Chan had softened up a bit, coming over without an excuse and sticking around for lunch and dinner, and watched bad movies that you could make fun of. Milky seemed very pleased with the outcome, planting himself in the middle of you two and being spoiled with double the number of pets. You found yourself looking more and more forward to Chan’s company, listening for his knocks every time you were home.

After not seeing him for a few days, you grew worried. So, you knocked at his door. To your surprise, the door creaked open. Normally, you wouldn’t have stepped in, but you were worried about the boy. “Chan?”

You were met with an extremely tired looking boy. His eyes were bloodshot, the bags under his eyes full of rocks. “____,” he croaked, “How are you? Is it my day with Milky?”

“Chan,” your voice softened, “you should go to bed.”

“Can’t.” he laughed bitterly, “I got a deadline.”

You moved between him and his laptop, your figure blocking his view. “____.”

“Chan.”

He placed his hands on your hips, “Move please, I have to finish this.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling it get hot at his gesture. “You can finish it later, you’re going to collapse.”

He resigned, leaning back into his chair and looked up at you. “Will you leave if I tell you I will.”

“No, ‘cause I don’t trust you. So we’re gonna sleep together.”

He choked, coughing and clearing his throat. “Are you serious?”

“Dead.”

You crawled onto his bed and patted the space beside you. “C’mon,” you urged, “You chicken?”

He snorted, laying down by your side. “How old are you, ____?”

“It got you into bed, didn’t it?”

“You got me there.”

Your bodies laid stiffly next to each other, the bed not quite big enough to hold the both of you in the position you were in. You turned to your side, facing him and found that he was fast asleep. His eyes were closed, his face soft and content. Granted, it was a little weird to be staring at him the way you were, but he looked so beautiful. His curly hair was sticking up everywhere, cheek squished against the pillow. Your eyes were growing heavy, and you fell asleep quickly.

You felt a hand around your shoulder, and your face was pressed against his chest. You could feel his heart beat gently against his chest, lulling you back to sleep. His fingers were tracing shapes on your arm. Realizing your position, you jolted up. To your surprise, Chan was fast asleep. You rubbed your eyes, embarrassed by your reaction at the dream. You were careful as you crawled around his body and off the bed. Luckily for you, neither of the boys were up and about, making for a clean break.

Things proceeded between the both of you as if nothing happened. You swore that each time you touched it seemed to linger, but you chalked it up to your longing imagination. You thought about the scene constantly, rambling about it to Milky who had no choice but to listen to your grievances. The days went on though, and so you decided that you had in fact dreamt about his touch.

You and Milky were having another impromptu dance party in the living room, (today was the best of the early 2000s), when a knock came out the door. It was different, softer and more hesitant. You were met with a slightly nervous Chan, who looked almost surprised when you open the door.

“Hey, is something wrong?”

“No.”

There was a bit of awkward silence and Chan scratched the back of his neck, looking up to avoid your gaze. “Um,” he coughed a bit, clearing his throat, “I was free today, and I was wondering if you wanted to go out.”

“Sure! I’ll be right out.”

“On a date,” he added quickly, “I mean on a date. A casual one. A walk in the park. Literally.”

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Seriously?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Chan relaxed and threw a thumbs up, “Cool, cool. Cool, cool, cool. I’ll see you in an hour.”

It was not, in fact, cool.

You closed the door, and low, closed mouth scream came out. You were panicking, and a lot. Milky was no help either, he had no opinion to offer for any of your outfits. By the time you decided on what to wear, your bedroom looked like the aftermath of a retail store’s black friday. You were scrambling to find your shoes when the dreaded knock came at your door. You struggled to catch your breath as you opened the door, and you hoped for the life of you Chan couldn’t hear you fighting for your life.

It didn’t help that he looked so good either. Well, he looked good in anything, but still, this was an attack to your well being. The top buttons to his black shirt were unbuttoned, revealing his chain and a bit of his chest. How were you expected to make it to the elevator?

“You ready to go?”

No!

“Yep. All set.”

You made light conversation and Chan discussed his current projects- an album he was working on with his roommates. He never failed to impress you. It didn’t matter what he talked about, he always seemed so knowledgeable. The air was cool, the sun getting ready to set. You played nervously with your fingers, listening intently to what he was talking about.

The park was getting ready to bloom, all the snow had already been melted and the various colors of springs were getting ready to be in play. You started to relax more, and let go of your hands, leaving them dangling by your sides.

His hand brushed lightly against yours, fingers feathering against yours. He leaned into your cheek, lips softly against it, “Can I hold your hand?”

“Ah,” you jumped, shivering at the near touch and grew the space between the two of you, but stuck out your hand, “yes, please.”

“Are you gonna look at your date?”

“No,” you mumbled, using your free hand to rub the heat out of your cheeks, “I can’t.”

In a swift movement, he pulled you towards him. Encasing both your hands in his, he made you face him and brought his face close. You shut your eyes closed, unaware of what was going to happen. You felt him inhale, leaning closer to your face. He brought his thumb over your lip, going over it lightly. And then he started laughing.

Confused, you opened your eyes and gave him a puzzled look.

“I’m sorry,” he said between breaths, ‘I had to. It’s so easy to tease you.”

“You’re so mean,” you whined, “I thought you were-!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused at your antics. “Thought I was going to what?”

You flailed your arms desperately and huffed, “I don’t-! I don’t know.” You started to walk off quickly, storming off. Then, you realized, that for many reasons this wasn’t helping your case. You turned around slowly, looking for Chan. He stood in the same place, hands in his pockets with a dimpled smile growing on his face. He caught up with you quickly, taking your hand more confidently. “I’ll buy you ice cream to make up for it, yeah?”

“Matcha green tea.”

“Okay, I’ll buy you matcha green tea ice cream.”

You sat at a nearby bench as you waited for him to buy the peace-making gift. The scene played out in your head again and again. “Ah,” you murmured to yourself, “I shouldn’t be this flustered.” Your hands massaged your cheeks, unable to forget the gentle, flittering touch of his fingers.

He came out dancing, waving around the ice creams in the air. You wanted to hate him, you really did- for Milky’s sake. But he wasn’t so bad after all. Watching him dance like he was your uncle at family reunions while people stared at him was amusing. After his freestyle dad dance, he sat next to you on the bench, knee pressed against yours.

“Why did you ask me out on a date?”

“Because I like you. And,” he sighed, “I was being immature.”

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and lightly traced your shoulder. “Let me take you on a good honest date, please?” he smiled at you shyly, “It’s okay if you don’t want to, no hard feelings.”

“No, I want to!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“But, are you sure you’re sure?”

“Yes, I want to go on a date with you Chan!”

“Okay, but are you sure you’re sure that you’re sure?”

“Yes, Chan!”

“I’m sorry, you’re just too cute.”

You huffed, letting go of his hand to open your ice cream and take a bite. “When you finish your ice cream, let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Yep.”

You looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t offer any explanation. Instead, he offered you a cute smile and opened his ice cream. When you finished, he took your hand confidently and lead you back to the complex to get in his car.

A carnival.

The sky had become dark, speeding past the sunset, impatient for the moon to take place of the sun. A million and one lights were on and flashing, fighting for your attention. You didn’t even know there was a carnival in town. He held your hand tightly, paying for tickets and dragging you to all the rides.

By the time you got to the Ferris wheel, you and Chan were carrying an absurd amount of stuffed animals. For some reason, Chan was determined to get you as many stuffed animals as you and him could carry and then some. He took them back to the car, waddling off and promising to come back. You held your place in line, and he joined you soon after.

“Are you having fun?”

“I could have fun with you anywhere.”

He looked taken aback for a moment and took a bit for the phrase to digest. He let it sit in the air for a while, and in the meanwhile, the Ferris wheel turned slowly until both of you were on the very top. It overlooked the entire carnival, the people looking like ants instead of humans. You could see all the games you and Chan had played and observed all the rides you hadn’t got on.

“Thank you for coming with me.” He held your face with one hand, and you leaned into his touch. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” It was going to happen, you were so sure. He was going to kiss you. Finally, finally, kiss you and for real this time. He leaned in, and you shut your eyes, ready to let it happen. And then you felt him lean back.

“Oh, c’mon Chan!”

He smirked. “What? What’s wrong?”

“You know exactly what!”

“I don’t. Please enlighten me.”

“You were going to,” you gestured desperately, “you know!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Kiss me! You were going to kiss me.”

“You can kiss me.”

You shut your mouth, short-circuiting. You crossed your arms and thought over his words. It was all you could think about, even on the ride back home. Chan didn’t mind the silence, he was very clearly amused about the effect he had on you.

You arrived at your apartment door shortly after, and he grabbed both your hands. “Thank you for coming out with me, I had a really good time.”

It was now or never. You cupped his face like he had done with you and gave him a quick kiss and then ran into your apartment. Was it the most romantic? Maybe not, but you had done it.

“So, I’m guessing you had a good time too?”

“Yes!” you shouted from inside your apartment, “Now go away!”

Every date was better than the last, how that could be, you didn’t know. All you knew was that the butterflies in your stomach never rested, even after the second, eight, and sixteenth kiss. Minho teased you about it frequently over the mandatory phone calls after every date. He wasn’t too keen on you dating but figured that he could always beat up Chan if anything went wrong. And Minho’s threshold of things going wrong was very, very low.

“You mean it was raining and he didn’t pick you up?”

“He was a state away, Minho.”

“And he’ll stay there if he knows what’s good for him.”

Minho came over more frequently, claiming that it was because he liked his cat more than you- and of course, to bring over his newly adopted cats for play dates. Not that you minded, of course, both of you had been so busy and it was nice to spend time together. Not to mention, a newfound love for people watching dictated most of the time you spent together. You would head over to cafes and observe people, trying to figure out their stories and what was going on with them. It was one of those days when Chan knocked urgently on your door. You and Minho were on your balcony, watching the people below and arguing whether they were arguing with a parent or significant other.

Minho was the one to open the door, meaning he had pushed you on the couch so he could get there first.

“State your business, peasant.”

“Good to see you, Minho. Can I borrow ____ for a while?”

“Nah.”

You stood by the door and failed to nudge Minho away. “Hey, Chan.”

“Babe, I need you and your violin for something. It’s important.”

“We’re in the middle of something very important. Actually- come in Chan. Settle it for us.”

Chan shot you a look and you shrugged. He sighed and stepped in. The three of you leaned over the balcony, listening into the conversation.

“Who do you think they’re talking to?”

Chan leaned back over the balcony, trying to listen to their conversation for any eye-opening clues. “Mom. Definitely their mom.”

Minho turned to you, smirking. “You may leave now, let me relish in my superior detective skills.” You shook your head, but left anyway, grabbing your violin.

“Let me know how their argument ends!”

“You don’t deserve to be graced with that knowledge.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you closed the door behind you. “So, what did you need me for?”

“I’m working on this track,” he explained, “But there’s something missing. I think it’s you playing.” Your heart skipped a beat. Chan had never asked you to help out with his music before, you could feel yourself smile so big it hurt your cheeks. He led you into his room, a makeshift recording studio. He played the track for you, and you understood what he was talking about. It wasn’t bad, necessarily, but it sounded only half full in a sense. Like it was waiting for the last piece for it to be complete. You stood behind the microphone, replaying the track in your head.

“Whenever you’re ready, okay? No pressure. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

You closed your eyes and shook your head. You started to play, not knowing where it was going to end or even what your next note would be. There was no hesitation or pause in the way you played, even if your head didn’t know what to do, your fingers did. It was different than what you were used to playing, reminiscent of your improvisation back at the Welcoming Showcase. You don’t know where it came from, but you were grateful for it- even if you weren’t sure exactly what it was.

You dropped your bow, opening your eyes and looked at Chan inquisitively. He nodded, his eyes heavy on you. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. ____, you’re a genius. Do you think you could do that at the Farewell Showcase?”

The Farewell Showcase was the end of year performance, and just like the Welcoming Showcase, all of the art departments showed off the culmination of their lessons. Both technical and creative skill were displayed for everyone to see. Even with the weeks you had practiced in advance, fingers once again becoming the expense for the bill of your playing, you were nervous.

“I don’t know about this, Chan.”

“Hey, babe,” he cupped your face, “It’s gonna be brilliant, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you cupped his face, “ ‘cause you’re brilliant.”

He snorted, squishing your cheeks and planting a kiss on your lips. “So, corny.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty good.”

Jisung came over and clapped your hands, “You’re up.”

Chan held your hand and gave it a tight squeeze. You expected him to let go before the both of you stepped on stage, but he held it well onto the stage. You stood at the opposite side of Chan and he smiled at you before you adjusted your face onto the leather pad.

The stage was different, the audience more eager. Intentful, perceiving, waiting for something that was worth their time. A pin could’ve been dropped, and it’s clattering would be heard for miles on end. There were no fluorescent light to blind, but instead an indifferent sun. The stage was not wood, it did not creak under steps, not the kind of floor feet could sink into. This stage was different, undoubtedly. The first note was low, almost growling at the crowd. It was dragged out, long, tensing the air. Everyone in the audience collectively held their breath, expectant. And then it started, before anyone could exhale. The playing was a lot more than practice, and the product of nothing but emotion. Feral. That’s the best way to describe the music that echoed. Just like the stage, it was different, unaccustomed. It was made to defy, not exceed expectations. Even the player was elsewhere, something else. Not here, or there- instead, in a little world far off from what anybody knows. Memory was not at all what motivated fingers to manipulate the strings the way they do. It was exhilaration, euphoria.

On the other side of the stage, words became something more. More depth than definition. For a moment, maybe even minutes- everyone, even the ones on the stage- could relate. Find common ground. It became a dance, the way they moved around each other on the stage. It was no longer a performance, it had become something much more intimate. It was a confession.

A smile was exchanged, a knowing look. Telepathy, but not quite. The boy had become almost erratic, the onlookers on the tips of their toes, awaiting the next word, the next verse with an insatiable hunger. But they knew not to bite the hand that feeds them. The air was electric, all but lightning being spewed out of his mouth and speaking from the fingers of the violin player.

The ending was only a start, the moment the bow dropped, the second the voice quieted- it was ignition for the applause that roared.

You were panting, a huge smile displayed on your face. It was rewarding in a way that you’ve never felt before. Hearing hundreds of people clapping for a performance that you didn’t know you could give.

“Before we leave the stage, I just wanted to say one thing,” Chan took a deep breath and turned to you, a dimpled smile shining on his face, “____. I am deeply, disgustingly, one hundred percent drowning in love for you.”

Your face immediately flushed, hands running to cover your flustered face but Chan caught them. He cupped your face again, rubbing your cheeks softly with his thumbs. “You don’t have to say anything right now, but can I kiss you?”

“I guess I love you too,” you smiled sheepishly, “And yes, always.”

Chan’s boxes were in your living room, still untouched even days after he claimed he had moved in. Instead of unpacking, he was here, assaulting your face with kisses, squishing you with his body on the couch. You had received a callback from the city symphony, congratulating you for your new position as first chair. Chan found that rewarding you with kisses was much more important than unpacking his belongings.“It’s not a big deal, Chan. Get off!”

“It is,” he said between kisses, “It is very much a big deal. My baby has first chair.”

“Yes,” you kissed him back, “And you’re going on a world tour!”

You were glad he was the b— in apartment twenty-three.

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