#every time i have an ambiguous pain on my right side i think its somehow my time for appendicitis. like jury duty.

[witchblade]

something hurts but i don't know what 🤔

[smallblip]

Don’t drink the kool-aid

Levihan | rated for mentions of sex

It’s on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/29942904

“Levi... Think of a number between one and ten-“

Hanji says, her breathing is a little ragged, but she’s looking at him excitedly, like there’s something shiny that he has to offer and she’s taking the bait, biting down. Whatever it is, he knows she isn’t going to let go. But he wishes she would-

“Really Hanji? You wanna fucking do this now?” Levi says, he looks down to where their bodies are connected. She laughs and wriggles above him, “just answer the question!”

Levi regrets letting her take control of the situation. Regrets letting her flip them over so she’s on top, promising to ride him until he’s spent and her thighs are burning.

Because right now she’s really not delivering on that promise.

Levi nods, letting her know he’s playing her little game.

She wraps an arm around her chest, another hand coming to stroke her chin. Levi sighs. He shifts uncomfortably under her.

“Seven!” She announces, like whatever shiny incentive there is is within grasp.

“No. Four...” Levi replies, watching as Hanji slumps against his chest. He can’t see her face from where it’s buried against his neck, but he knows she’s pouting.

“Idiot...”

This is how you love in this world. First you toss out the word love. You tell it to its face that Commander Erwin Smith says “love is the ultimate cult of men... A sect... A dirty ploy by the whatever god is up there to make us all vulnerable..." Erwin spits the last word in disgust. "Is that what you want? To be sheeple?”

They are having one too many drinks at the pub and Hanji is laughing her head off at whatever subconscious train of thought streams out of Erwin’s mouth. Love isn't the only thing that can render a man vulnerable. She thinks alcohol is far more practical, and yet, Erwin doesn't seem to have any complaints about it.

Levi shoots Hanji a look, a little tired, yet a little amused despite his frowning- want me to knock him out?

She shakes her head- no, this is fun!

Erwin catches them making eyes at one another and he points from Levi to Hanji, then back to Levi again. “Don’t you dare fall in love... Both of you... You’re too good for that...” Erwin says before taking another swig of whisky. Except it’s a little late in the night and Levi has already swapped it for water. Hanji wonders how long it would take for him to notice.

But it’s a little late and the alcohol settles as a blush on the bridge of Hanji’s nose, and Levi is staring at her now, a little too tender for comfort.

Hanji averts her gaze, this is far too much to deal with now. So she turns her attention back to Erwin instead, chuckling, she says “you must be fun at parties...”

Erwin wakes up the next morning with a colossal headache. “What did I say last night?” He groans at a meeting that’s really just everyone staring at one another with bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing out of the ordinary...” Hanji says, chipper through her hangover. But Erwin catches her and Levi sniggering to one another later. He wonders what the joke is.

But that’s how you talk about love in this world- you don’t. Instead, you replace it with the feeling of bandages wrapped taut over torn skin and broken bones.

“Gentle, Levi... These bones cannot take more breaking... I did the math...” Hanji is wincing and already she’s withdrawing from his touch. He chides her. If she stays still this would all go by much more painlessly. "Stay still or I’ll break your legs too..." he says, but the menace disappears behind deep concentration.

“Thank you...” she says when he’s testing the integrity of her bandages, and his heart misses a beat.

Strange how broken bones can heal themselves in time. But the dull throbbing in his heart and the wrenching in his gut don’t go away. Maybe it just means nothing’s broken. Maybe this is the feeling of life itself. Of the universe telling him hey... You're not done for yet... You've still got a lot of living to do...

After all, this is how you love in this world. First you look romance in the eye and tell it to take a walk. Tell it that it has no business in these parts of town.

Some days Levi is bestowed with the blessing of self-awareness, enough to know he has the romantic capacity of a child with a playground crush.

He kicks her under the table during a meeting, you idiot I told you this was a bad idea, he glares her down, hoping she would somehow read his mind. And somehow, whether by some sort of hallowed bond between them or sheer dumb luck, she does.

She narrows her eyes at him-

watch me.

He pulls her back by her cape, "don’t go charging into danger you idiot!" And he wants to let the sentence run on, you have to be safe, to live a long life, prove the gods wrong, but he doesn’t. Instead he purses his lips and his hand drops from her cape to her arm.

She narrows her eyes, lips pursed. Hanji has always had a rebellious streak and an untamable spirit, and it shows in the way she juts her chin out at him-

watch me.

So Levi learns to love in other ways.

He squeezes her hand before battle, like a silent prayer for deliverance. And she squeezes back, fingers lacing with his, eyes bright with determination- a promise to make it back home.

He drapes his cape around her when she falls asleep at her desk, fingers tracing the lines between her brows, and she relaxes. She dreams of fresh laundry and a small, clean cottage that smells like him. And she learns that love can be kind.

Love is tender, love is kind, love is Hanji’s fingers circling his wrist, her hand on his cheek, her arm around his shoulder. Love is her touches that ghost his forehead, down his nose- little gossamer touches; like butterflies. Like she’s trying to remember every detail before it’s too late. But it’s still early and they still have relatively long lives to lead. Whatever it is “long” means in this world.

“This is easy...” she says, ambiguous.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” she says again, pressing a kiss to his cheek when they’re sitting in the trees, recovering from battle.

And Levi thinks it’s funny how things turned out. Neat freak, disciplined soldier, fussy little runt from the underground, trailing after a person with a penchant for the macabre and little capacity for decorum. Like two opposite poles of a magnet, pulled together by forces unknown.

He remembers joining the Corps and meeting Hanji Zoë, and thinking he doesn’t want anything to do with her. But somehow along the way she has crawled under his skin, sinking into the chambers of his heart, made a home out of him.

They’re lined up on their horses behind the gates, and Erwin is saying something about freedom, about the cause, about fighting and spirit and bravery. Hanji turns to him in the middle of it all, and Levi braces himself. What's it going to be this time? A joke about sheeple? A comment about the flowers beyond the walls?

“Levi, think of a number between one and ten!” She says, and his instinctive reaction is to roll his eyes. But he nods anyway, crease between his brows relaxing when he watches her smile.

“Five!”

“Three...”

“No way!” She kicks herself. She had been so sure she’d get it right. After all, in the years that have gone by they learn to trust one another, lean on one another. She translates his words with clarity and he tells her how she’s really feeling past her burying herself in work. No matter. The gates are opening and Levi watches her eyes light up in wonder. She looks at him one last time before they ride beyond the gates, and Levi knows what that look means-

this is my favourite part.

He smiles back at her-

mine too.

And Levi thinks he had spoken too soon about not wanting anything to do with Hanji Zoë. Because now he looks for her in the battlefield, he needs to know she’s alright. And every single goddamn time, he finds her looking for him too. And it hits him like a brick, because this is how you love in this world. Levi stares love down from across the room, pocket knife drawn by his side, he tells it to go fuck itself. But the thing about love- it has always had a rebellious streak, and an untamable spirit. It makes its way under your skin and builds a little home for itself nestled within arteries, heartstrings, and skin upon skin upon skin-

First, comes the tentative touches. Like a deer peeking past the trees in the forest. Hanji laughs too much, and it makes his heart beat out of his chest, but it also throws him off. “Stop laughing!” He snarls, but that only makes her laugh harder.

“Don’t look so scared Levi...” she says.

Levi scoffs. He wants to tell her he isn’t scared. But there’s never a point in lying to Hanji. The fact that they’re so transparent to one another proves inconvenient at junctures like these. He tries to think of something else- anything else. But it shows on his face, and she’s giggling again.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. He’s too old for this degree of imprecision. It shouldn’t be difficult at all- first you undress your partner, then yourself, and then everything will fall into place.

Now they’re both stark naked, and Levi can see the goosebumps rising on her skin. He knows he’s supposed to do more than stare at her face. But-

Her hand finds his and she presses their palms together, fingers intertwined, we’re okay. You ready?

And that’s how they love in this world. That’s their signal- palm against palm, fingers laced, a little squeeze- ready? Go! There’s no turning back now.

Sometimes it’s the feeling of fingers digging so deep they bruise, of hair-pulling, of teeth scraping against flesh- a reminder that affection and pain are lovers.

In these times, kisses taste like blood. It’s unclear whose blood it is- only that they all taste the same at the end of the day- like rust and iron and the earth. And Levi doesn’t want to dwell on the details lest it distracts from the way her hands slide under his shirt, the way she guides them to the bed. He wants to comment on how the sheets are ruined beyond salvation, but Hanji doesn’t let him. Oh well. It’s nothing a little soap and a hot iron can’t solve.

Her hands seek his out, and she places them on her neck. I want it harder, every time, that means I want it harder. And Levi gives.

Next comes a reckoning that's something short of divine.

“When are we going to admit we love each other and move on?” Levi asks after, hands stilling on Hanji’s sides, just below her chest.

Don’t stop... she guides his fingers to stroke her skin again, and he does, tracing each bump and raise, each a testimony to survival, feeling the rise and fall of her ribs.

“That would be too easy now wouldn’t it?” She grins sleepily at him.

And love is anything but easy in this world, so why should it make an exception for them?

“My mother once told me to really reel a man in, you gotta slip through his fingers, let him give chase a little...” Hanji chuckles, eyebrows wagging.

Levi scoffs.

“An old geezer at the pub once told me if you know how to give a woman an orgasm, she’s yours forever...” And Levi almost regrets saying this. He doesn’t know why he says most of anything he says. But the words come easy, sloppily when he’s with Hanji. And Hanji never seems to mind, armed with a repository of equally horrific things to say.

“I mean... He’s not wrong...” she shrugs, and Levi thinks maybe this is as good a declaration of love as he’s going to get. He wonders if he’d be alright with this if they weren’t poking a stick at death all the time. Then again, he has fallen in love with a person born with a stick in her hands. So maybe it comes as a package deal.

Levi scowls at her and pinches her nose, “disgusting...”

But she does slip through his fingers a little, returning to him an eye short, a new title gained, and a fog in her lungs that makes it hard to breathe. Levi feels a dull ache in his heart that doesn't go away. This time he's certain that something's broken.

He kicks a chair towards her and sits her down, "you have to rest you idiot. You barely eat, you haven’t slept."

She narrows her eyes at him, “there’s no time, Levi... There are things I have to do...”

Already she’s getting up, but Levi grabs her arm and glowers at her wordlessly, one day you’re going to drop dead and we’ll all have a dead fucking commander on top of every other fucking inconvenience we’ve been dealt.

And Hanji shoots him a look. The one that says watch me do everything you told me not to do. But her expression softens when she sees the anxiety in his eyes. Because she recognises the look on his face- she had worn the same concern when she had found him after Isabelle and Farlan passed. The same look every time they return from beyond the walls. And she regrets pushing him away. She hates it with every fibre of her being. So she squeezes his hand before she leaves, I’ll be alright...

He squeezes back.

And that’s how you love in this world. You take whatever instinct there is to keep your lover from danger, to drag her kicking and screaming from the frontlines. To tell her to stop being petulant and sit this one out. Instead, all Levi manages is a- “don’t you dare go running off playing hero again Hanji! You hear me? Don’t you fucking dare,” when they’re alone again in her quarters, two naked bodies lying by candlelight.

And she grins at him, the nerve, the audacity. She actually grins at him.

“Hey Levi, think of a number between one and ten...” she says, and he really doesn’t want her to change the topic. He wants her to promise him. To swear on everything good that’s left in this world that she’ll be safe. But it’s also too late to pretend he isn’t going to play along.

“Ten?” She guesses.

“Five...” he smiles.

Hanji smiles back, “still got it!”

And he kisses her like it's the first time. He always kisses her like it's the first time. Soft, lingering, like a drizzle in the middle of Summer, like raindrops clinging to skin. She smiles at him when they pull apart-

this is my favourite part.

He smiles back at her-

mine too.

↭

And Hanji thinks it's truly ridiculous. It's a scandal really. Erwin was right. This is mind-control of the highest and most elegant order. Whatever this feeling is, it has possessed her to build an alter from stick and stone and stitches over torn skin.

A little commune for two in the forest.

Levi’s hand is in hers, but she faces away from him. She doesn’t want to see him like this. Not when it manifests an ache in her heart that she doesn't quite know how to nurse. How will they recover from this?

“When are we going to admit we love each other and move on?” Hanji asks absentmindedly. She thinks it’s alright to bend the rules of this world a little. It's okay to talk about love, to give a name to the horror that plagues them. Because whatever conspiracy this whole love business is pedaling, she thinks it’s pretty goddamn convincing, and they might as well admit it.

But they’ve gone so long without having to use words, and Levi doesn’t want to jinx it-

“That would be too easy now wouldn’t it?”

And this is how you love in this world, romance comes in unexpected forms. It's been so long since they've been alone like this. And Hanji dreams of fresh laundry and a small, clean cottage that smells like him. She hopes to god Levi sees it too- and he does. He sees it every time he looks at her. But he settles for the next best option. He takes whatever words left unsaid and hoards them into a stockpile of recurring motifs that are proxy for affection-

"Four eyes... I'm thinking of a number between one and ten..." Levi manages through the pain, and he knows it's all worth it because he gets to watch that smile spread across her face.

"Two?" She says, only a little above a whisper.

"One... You're getting closer..." He says, like a prophecy, because immediately, she closes the gap between them and presses a kiss to his forehead, then to the corner of his lips. She lays down next to him and he musters all the strength in the world to push a stray strand of hair from her face. Like the lifting of a veil-

this is my favourite part.

She smiles back at him-

mine too.

↭

Wall Maria has been breached. The day is breaking and soon everything will spiral out of hand. But for now, it’s still dusk and the sun has barely made its way past the horizon. There’s something so rare and sacred about this moment that it feels surreal.

Levi can’t remember the first part of the conversation. They must have been talking about something stupid. They always are. But the next part falls into place so beautifully that it has to be premeditated somehow. Maybe Erwin was right. This is all some sort of grand scheme, a cult of wonder.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with me, four eyes...”

“What a ridiculous notion...” Hanji replies with a scoff and a little chuckle. Because this is how you love in this world. You look love in the face and think, oh god no, really? Of all the people in this world, him? But love is tender, love is kind, love is Levi holding onto the belt around her waist as she tip-toes across a short ledge so she doesn’t fall.

“Me? In love with you?” She continues, throwing her head back to laugh. Her arms are out, she’s getting pretty good at keeping balance. But Levi’s hand is still there regardless.

Levi clicks his tongue, “idiot...”

It’s good that they don’t speak of love. After all, this is as far as love goes in this world- the swell in Levi’s chest and all the words left unsaid, translated into a curated repertoire of looks and touches. A hand on the small of her back means I’ve got you.

And god is it inconvenient to love in a world like theirs. It’ll inevitably end in heartbreak, and Levi doesn’t enjoy being a cliché in a tragedy. He hears Erwin’s voice echoing in his head, “don’t fall in love... Just don’t...”

But he looks at Hanji, his lips curve into a smile when she looks back at him grinning. It’s just a moment, but Levi recognises the look, and Hanji sees it too in the glint of his eyes.

Her hand in his says we’re in this together, a squeeze says it’ll all be alright. And a look of determination tells the rest of the world to take a walk.

In this world, they tell you not to fall in love. It's a recipe for disaster. Like cyanide in a Styrofoam cup.

But Hanji kisses him, and she looks at him like he has something shiny to offer, like he’s slipping it into her pockets. There’s a look in her eyes and Levi knows exactly what it means-

watch me.

[maevelin]

what is your opinion on how the IC treated nesta in general, but more specifically acofas?

Oh boy...you just had to go there lol

Negative rant ahead. So you’ve been warned.

Truth is I’ve tried so hard to get what happened in acofas out of my mind  and view certain things I used to like even out of context so to be able to still enjoy them but it didn’t work. If anything getting some emotional distance from this universe dampened my excitement for any future project from this franchise and writer. Granted I never considered SJM to be a good writer but at least she was able to work through some interesting characters and dynamics. Acofas negated that too.

And honestly I am so done with the whole thing and it even left me with a bitter aftertaste when it comes to Nessian in particular because the foundations set in that book (if one can call it that) are really something I detest. The insight we got into Cassian’s mind made me so angry and I noped out completely.

As for how the IC in general treated Nesta?

I had some time to think about that and I think the problem is that the previous books and ACOFAS more so have set up an environment where Feyre and the Inner Circle are the moral axis of the universe we are in. If they are objectively right or wrong does not matter because they are right no matter what. It is very unsettling for me to have to get into a book that exists on that foundation. 

At the beginning the characters in question, Feyre, Rhysand and so on were treading more realistic lines between right and wrong. Some of those lines were blurred. They were morally grey characters too given what the situation demanded from them and that was the allure of their dynamic as characters and as relationships but as we got more books with them they became more and more bland and their perspective was limited to the trope of the perfect shiny hero and they became dogmatic when it came to that. They knew what was the best for everyone. They could do no wrong even when they did. There were no repercussions to their mistakes. They are not to be called out for their behavior because their behavior is always correct (even when it is not and not just concerning Nesta but on many fronts).

We are at a point where their moral code is by default what creates what is right and wrong and the narrative acknowledges that directly and indirectly. So the readers are meant to accept that what Feyre does is morally right and doesn’t get to criticize her actions and the actions of the Inner Circle that many times can be morally ambiguous -at best- but are not acknowledged as such.

I would appreciate it much more if the author allowed the characters (all characters, Nesta included because I am not here to pretend that Nesta is not a hot mess of an abusive asshole too) to be subjected more to objective criticism without the narrative pandering to their moral high ground. 

Thing is that situations where you have to face someone’s trauma can be difficult, messy, ugly even. There is no perfect recipe. It doesn’t mean that your way or helping is always right just because you love your family or your loved one. It doesn’t mean that because you have had your own trauma you know how to deal with someone else’s. You can do more damage many times or you can’t reach someone that is struggling and when someone is in pain many times can’t open up or accept their problem or any help regarding their issues and this can create a very dysfunctional situation from all sides concerned. Toxic even. 

But here from the start the reader is to accept a fundamental truth. Feyre and the Inner Circle are right and they know what they are doing. Their motives, their actions, their responses are pristine and they are on a pedestal so where does that leave Nesta or even a reader that doesn’t accept that reality because their critical thinking gets in the way? 

And where does a character that is not as ‘perfect’ stand? Nowhere. It distorts the picture. Because until that character gets in line with that perfection they can’t be part of it. It gets ostracized even if is in simple things as not being drawn inside a painting.

And what I find even more problematic (especially in the end of ACOFAS) is that this feels very much like a parallel of how Tamlin treated Feyre but most readers ignore that because the former books established that Feyre and the IC are the established moral stance one should admire and anyone opposing that is on the wrong. In reality the moment the writer stopped viewing certain characters under an amoral light and forced them to be the ‘good heroes’ instead of the amoral characters that should have been everything became distorted. The parallels between those characters that are deemed to be doing things wrong and those that are supposedly doing things right are blatantly obvious and the only reason as to why the good guys have the holier than thou attitude and are on the right its because the writer “says so” and that’s not something I can abide with if I use critical thinking. 

Yes these books are not meant to be taken seriously and are light entertainment at best but I feel there are limits to that especially since given the direction the author choose to take the characters towards does not personally entertain me anymore.

I am not in favor of taking an unapologetic character and making them less than what they are only to fit them into a romance and way to work into a faux morality code.

Feyre wants to protect Nesta. She is for an intervention. Tamlin acted the same. In the same way Feyre gets to decide how Elain should give Lucien a chance or how Lucien’s attachment with Jurian and Vassa is silly or how Nesta should heal Tamlin also decided how Feyre should work through her trauma, how she should not use her powers, how she should exist in his court because...he knew better, because he loved her, because he wanted to protect her. And he did love her and he did want to protect her and he had his reasons and all that didn’t make him any less abusive. Tamlin was basically ordering or manipulating Feyre into acting in the way he believed was best for her and their life together. Does that sound familiar or what? Including how Tamlin was providing everything financially for Feyre and her sisters too and that was also taken as a given. 

And I am not here to say that Feyre doesn’t love her sisters or doesn’t want the best for them. I am here to point out the hypocrisy when it comes to how one should defend another person’s free will and choice. The only reason Feyre was able to escape that suffocating environment was because Rhysand gave her a way out. No one is there to do that for Nesta. If anyone did that for her would she stay? Of course not.  Would she follow Cassian to the camp if she had other alternatives? Nope. Surely Nesta is at the lowest of lows and her behavior triggered such reactions because she surely did something bad for even Amren to be set against her that way in the end of ACOFAS but that doesn’t change how the power imbalance is shocking. How Elain had no say to what happens to Nesta because Feyre is in charge. But once more where Tamlin was wrong Feyre is right. Where Tamlin was abusive Feyre is not. Feyre’s trauma was not as destructive as Nesta’s so of course this excuses everything. Not to mention that Tamlin was going through his own trauma too. Not to mention that every despicable thing Tamlin did as a High Lord was no less despicable than what Rhysand did but we saw how the narrative in the end treated Tamlin even after the way he repented in ACOWAR. 

But Tamlin is the bad guy who treated Feyre badly so even if objectively he can be as terrible as the characters we are meant to support are and can be we are still not meant to judge him the same as we are meant to judge the ‘heroes’ because different standards are set. The same treatment goes for Nesta, Lucien and so on. And I am not here to defend Tamlin or every wrong thing Nesta or any other character did. But the scales here are not balanced at all so I feel that for certain characters their mistakes weigh more than those of others. It also depends if someone’s trauma is more ‘comfortably accepted’ than others. It is like you can be depressed and damaged and traumatized but only as long as it fits a certain aesthetic kind of thing and that is triggering me in ways I am not comfortable with.

And you can see the insidious writing too. Nesta’s PTSD is used against her. 

Characters like Feyre are getting praised for overcoming their trauma and for their heroism and get all those monikers of glory but Nesta for example and even Elain that beheaded the King and ended the war are left into obscurity. Nesta was ready to sacrifice herself to give Feyre a fighting chance and was there to shield Cassian and die along his side but you know okay sure. Feyre is the defender of the rainbow and I don’t know what else title she has these days but when other characters do similar fits of heroism they are sidelined and those acts are quickly forgotten as if they never happened. That is a narrative issue because it chooses to highlight certain moments and ignore others.

People know Nesta as ‘Cassian’s’ for crying out loud and escape her house in fear because of him. Cassian that somehow glorifies the mate bond and the age gap even to legitimate worries Rhysand poses because if he didn’t then all of the sudden he would have to acknowledge how problematic is his attitude towards Nesta and their general dynamic. But hey she looks hot despite her weight loss and what Rhysand and Feyre have, suicide pacts and whatnot, is so pure so why bother with being decent towards a girl that as he sees is traumatized, has been violated and is stuck in a world and species she does not want. He admitted that he had been through the same emotional trauma in his past and it took him time to heal but hey Nesta is a bitch for not conforming to the way he and the IC believe is best for her to act, behave and heal.

Is Nesta right all the time? Hell no. She is an abusive asshole. She spends money she has not worked for and earned. She is all messed up and does not know which way is up and lashes out towards every direction.

But in the same way Feyre did the same with Tamlin’s fortune and Rhysand’s but at least she was grateful and in a relationship with them so I guess it was okay?

And keep in mind that what Nesta is doing is deplorable (taking Rhysand’s money, having a past of not treating Feyre right, not wanting to be with Cassian etc) but when Elain is basically doing the same but Elain is ...Elain. So it is okay. She is not as troublesome I guess and can hide silently in the sidelines so the same mistakes have different gravity and consequences.  Again that’s how the narrative is set. It favors certain characters while condemns others because by default it accepts in its core how Feyre and the Inner Circle is the moral axis so the other characters are satellites around that orbit and if they diverge from that then they get crashed until they are taught to gravitate correctly.

I could keep going but I feel like this game is rigged from the start when it comes to Nesta and I am finding it pointless really. The fact that the narrative pushes her trauma in a certain direction so not only to develop Nesta as a character but also pander to certain characters and a certain mentality regarding certain characters. I don’t feel comfortable reading something like that.

If the concern of the author was to push Nesta into an environment where the primary concern would be Cassian, their romance and the acknowledgment of the Inner Circle I am sure there are many more ways to work with that than taking a character’s PTSD and manipulating in a way as to make it less important for their individual narrative and more or less a stepping stool for getting the character to a place that wouldn’t otherwise go and especially more so if they were in their right frame of mind. 

And I am not going to even get to other issues like how I am sure how tone deaf the author is still going to be when it comes to PoC cultures (Illyrians) vs White Savior Trope (Nesta entering that culture as a Queen without a crown that will go through the blood rite and into a warring misogynistic tribe where she will give the solution in the end but you know...’yay feminism’...and then adding salt into injury you will have Rhysand, Azriel and Cassian that have been in charge for half a millennia and could have solved certain issues if they truly wanted given their position and power but now that someone else will do it for them they will still get the credit...but you know...dreamers change the world and all that...but only when it is convenient I guess...).

[octania]

Obi Akitaru x Reader ( NSFW, 18+)

Word count: 1.9 k

Warings: NSFW, SMUT, doctor x patient

Short description: Obi Akitaru is a handsome young ophthalmologist (eye doctor) who has a specific way of checking your eye sight....

______________________________________________________

-The private eye clinic smelled almost nothing as a hospital of any kind, except it was cleaned to the point not even a grain of dust was visible. The smell was fresh but not like those intense odors of detergent, this was almost like breathing a clean air in the middle of the forest. The usually filled up rooms with people were now replaced by a few patients sitting comfortably in white leather chairs, looking calm and carefree like they were at home by their fireplace and not in a place people come because they have health problems. That environment calmed you, and knowing you are going to be treated by the most famous doctor was only a bonus. You didn’t have a face to put to the name, you only knew about his reputation and long list of famous and satisfied customers. 

You were surprised when a young tall man with kind caramel eyes and muscular figure approached you, addressing you by your last name with respect and asking you to follow him to the examining room. You were confused, surely he was too young to have such a resume and so many years of experience. Before you could rethink it, he was opening the door for you as a real gentlemen, closing them behind you and starting to shed some light on your previous confusion.

 “My name is doctor Akitaru, I will be starting the examination and then the chief doctor will take over.”- the lines around his eyes wrinkled as he smiled, exposing those perfectly white teeth. At this point, you were charmed, feeling your face burning up and thanking the God you wore a medical mask on your face at the moment to cover up those treacherous colors of your cheeks.

You nodded, as his deep voice continued. “Please take a seat there, and let us see what is bothering you.” – you took a seat in a big  leather chair that had a few medical machines placed in front of it. He sat on a small chair on wheels , moving closer to you. Your nostrils were filled with a pleasant smell of something minty, a light perfume he wore. You tried not to inhale deeply, despite the fact you wanted to do so desperately, it smelled divine even under the mask you wore, making it almost intoxicating. 

“So, tell me, what seems to be bothering those pretty eyes?”- it took you a few moments to reply, considering the fact you were stunned by his comment. You tried to brushed it off, surely this was something he says often to make people feel comfy, giving a harmless compliment to ease their worries, but he got you almost stuttering because of it. Managing to somehow to explain your condition, your gaze was glued to your hands that were playing with the edge of your skirt the whole time. When you were finished, a squeaking sound snapped you from your thoughts, lifting your gaze, only to find him even closer to you now as he pushed his chair towards you, staring at your eyes.

 “I understand.”- he said, reaching with his hand towards your face. You could not oversee his strong biceps under his white shirt, every twitching muscle visible even on the slightest movement. He touched your eyelid carefully, so soft you thought his fingers were made of cotton.

 “Look in my direction please.” he said, enchanting you with his warm hazel eyes.  You obeyed, shyly looking at him. He stared only for a brief second, before slightly moving away, turning to the table behind him and reaching for a small plastic bottle.

 “I will put a few drop of this in your eyes to dilate the pupils so I can examine you further.” –he stood up, leaning towards you, his wide torso overshadowing you, almost taking your breath away, then he continued.

“We can remove the mask, it is just required in the lobby.”- his fingers brushed on your earlobe, getting the strings of the mask off without waiting for your approval, exposing your face to him. Setting his eyes on your face made the corner of his lips curl. A smirk. You gave your best not to bite your lip.

Damn he was perfect. The realization hit you hard, forcing you to bow your head instinctively, but not for long. A tender touch under your chin and the pressure of lifting your head made a slight gasp escape your lips.  “I can’t help those beautiful eyes if you hide them from me.”- you could swore the tip of his finger lightly brushed your skin before he removed it, leaving you speechless. Pushing your eyelid up carefully, he squeezed the plastic bottle, releasing a few drops in your eyes. The liquid was cold and there was too much of it, making you blink, as it traveled to the corner of your eye, down your cheek and all the way to your chin, slipping off and landing right on your cleavage.  You jerked under the wet feeling on your chest, sensing the hot wave of embarrassment flowing through you.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, I should not have blinked!”- you said still holding your eyes shut, wiping your cheek, hoping the other places where the drop traveled went unnoticed.

A feeling of a foreign thing brushing on your skin made you froze. “No, it is my fault miss, I apologize. Sometimes I let out to much and it spills all over.”- he wiped the wet path on your deep cleavage with a tissue while shamelessly saying these ambiguous words in a husky voice. He took his time while sinking his fingers through the tissue in your doughy flesh. You clenched your hands around your skirt, realizing that your face and chest was not the only thing that got wet.

You thought you were safe when he sat back on the little chair, placing the one of the machines in front of you. He told you how to place your head in it and follow the red dot that was inside. Obeying his instructions, you stared in the red dot without blinking, just to hear his voice again.“Move a bit closer,miss.”-without a word, you slid your ass down to the end of the chair, when you accidentally touched his knee. Your heart skips a bit as you pulled back, murmuring apologies.A firm grip on your thigh shut you up, as he pulled you back. His hand resting on your leg, as your heart was pounding like a war drum.

“No..still not good. Closer. “- this time he came closer, pushing his knees between yours, making you spread your legs. You whined under his unexpected move, but he did not intend to stop.

“Miss please, keep following the dot.”- you did not know what to do or what to think. Confused, you kept staring at the blinking thing trying to push your skirt down as it lifted due to his legs being between yours.  Your attempts only made it worse. Obi took your hand in his , intertwining your fingers and locking them.

“No moving, it interferes with the reading.” – he kept you in place by pressing your hand on your thigh. You could not concentrate, blinking nervously at the machine. You heard a deep sigh from the other side, as his broad shoulders arouse behind the machine, moving it away with one hand.

 “I guess we will have to examine your sight in another way.”- his released your hand, but did not move his away. “We will check how good do you see in a short distance. Do you see my hand clearly now?”- you swallowed, nodding as you just peaked at the hand and then looked away. “Ok..and now?”- pushing his hand along your skin, diving deeper between your inner thighs. Your gasped, jumping a little in your seat. “How about now?”- he whispered, staring you down. Peaking back down, you barely managed to murmur a “yes”, when he kept going, not stopping until his index finger bumped into your moist panties. You cried out, legs shivering while he pushed your skirt up with his free hand.

He pressed his digit on the wet fabric along your slit. “Follow the movement.”- you did not even notice that his lips were now inches away from your yaw. A whiney sounds escaping your mouth only encouraged him to continue, placing another finger just below your clit. He traveled up and down, pushing the fabric between your folds. The sensation of his touch made you grab onto his shoulders, watching helplessly how he toyed with you. His checking was quickly done on that part, as his finger slipped under your panties, pushing them on the side.

“Look very closely now.”- he placed a tender kiss on the corner of your lips while two of his fingers started to disappear inside you. Barely holding in a scream, your eyes watered. The sound of your wet pussy being softly fingered filled the room. He pushed them to the last knuckle, only to pull back out and repeat the process again.

“Do you see clearly what I am doing to you?”- his question on made you whimper, but he had no intention of stopping or letting you leave him without the answer. He curled the fingers slightly, caressing your velvety walls even more by that action. His hand now glistering with your juices, while his thumb find its way to your clit, pressing the pearl filled with nerves. You cried out, sinking your nails into his flesh.

“That’s ok, good girl. Just keep watching.”- the sped up the pace, pumping his fingers deep into your core.  Suddenly, he ducked down, sticking out his tongue and replacing the thumb, tenderly licking your clit in long strikes. The feeling made you fall back on the chair, arching your back every time he licked again.

You closed your eyes, only to be forced to open them again when a slight feeling of pain stoke you. He bit your clit lightly, whispering around it. Even the tone of his voice sent the vibration around the sensitive bud.

“Eyes on me beautiful.” – after his order, his lips squeezed around your clit, as he added the third finger in you. He mercilessly shoved them as deep as your tight pussy allowed, making you almost scream his name, but he was ready for that. He saw you were close, lifting himself up, crashing his lips on yours, drinking up every sound you made, shushing you by making your tongue dance with his. “It is not over….look down as I make you cum.”- he said between kisses. You barely managed to gaze upon your used cunt as your orgasm started to kick in. He did not stop fingering you until you fell back, but he caught you with ease, holding you around your waist. He kissed your forehead, tracing the lines of your face with his nose until it met yours, glaring at you.

“This test went well..”- he placed one more kiss on your lips. “But further testing will be in order. And I would very much like to do it in the privacy on my home.”- pulling your closer, you could feel his hardened member pressing on you hip. “I will be expecting you tonight, miss.”

[earmuffstar]

glazed eyes, empty hearts

ao3 link!! Summary: Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand. OR: Remus has ways of keeping himself from full lucidity. Janus has some things to say about it. Genre: canonverse angst Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders (platonic dukeceit/demus/intruceit) Words: 1589 Additional Tags/Warnings: Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mentions of Dismemberment, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing

Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand.

He’d have to clamp his right arm down—since his left arm was stronger—and on a table, probably, for the best angle. He’d use an electric saw, to keep himself from stopping halfway through from the pain. Maybe he’d even get away with it, too: right here on the living room table in the middle of Family Game Night, or whatever the Lights were doing, he wasn't paying attention. The others normally didn’t question what Remus did, whether a product of not wanting to look too closely or because they just didn’t care, he didn’t know. It came in handy at times like this—ha, handy, he should tell that to Pappy Patouille.

“Handy!” Remus screeched. The conversation stuttered like tripping over a stone, tumbling to the pavement, skittering off a cliff and ending up squished in half by a train on criss-crossed railway tracks before resuming its pace as normal.

Remus went back to pondering his drink, now half-empty. He kind of hoped it was alcohol, although even the more potent stuff didn’t do much for him anymore. Maybe bleach, then. He took a gulp. Snapped his fingers and malathion filled the rest of the concoction to the top. Downed the glass. It didn’t taste half bad—he almost wished it tasted worse—but it made his head spin and his thoughts appropriately fuzzy, which was all he needed.

Remus stood up, bracing himself against the armrest as the room wavered, legs quivering inappropriately under his weight. The room continued their conversation—he couldn’t make out the words, not like he wanted to, he was sure it was about Disney or some other unimportant shit—as he sunk out.

The corner of Thomas’ mind which embodied Dark Creativity, forbidden thoughts, the macabre, badness, demented reason, remained perpetually in disrepair. Remus tripped over shards of glass—broken Bud Light’s?—needles, plastic orange bottles, and crashed to his knees somewhere wet, cheek brushing against bones and plywood as his eyelids drooped shut.

~~~

Remus shifted as he came to: alive, in his room, with a mind far too alert and lucid. Had he messed up with whatever he’d drunk last night—accidentally used orange juice or some shit instead of malathion? Remus growled in frustration. The easiest methods of forced mental incoherence—starvation, lack of sleep, the like—always took the longest time to take effect. If he’d paid attention last night, he would have been able to perpetuate the misery longer without this unfortunate break. He’d have to resort to more drastic measures for instant relief.

At least the blackout was nice. He normally didn’t get such an easy reprieve. When nightmares didn’t torment his sleep, the knowledge of coherence and well-restedness it offered did.

Dark Imagination always exhaled cold, stinking of rot and filth, miasma and decay. His thoughts always amplified in his domain, spinning and twisting in a way that felt good—or rather, felt terrible, which was good. Remus sank his foot into the muck, his realm unnaturally still. His creations normally drew into hiding when he came here like this—they didn’t like to see him do this. Welp. Too bad for them.

Here was a total blank slate. He could do anything. Remus’ claws itched.

It sucked how much it hurt, was the thing. The pain was delicious, and he soaked it up, reveled in it like cloth soaking blood, he needed it—but it still hurt, at the very beginning, the moment when knife hit flesh. The physical pain always hurt like hell, but the greater the pain at the beginning the longer it would keep hurting, and if at least some part of him was hurting he didn’t have to hurt a different part again to balance out the hurt in his brain.

Remus heard the footsteps only after rivulets of blood ran down his fingers.

“Remus?” The voice came soft, low, with a hint of a hiss curling the edge of their words. Remus’ blood ran cold, drip, drip, dripping onto the ground, and he grinned a false smile as he turned around—pointless, Janus always saw through him, Janus was the one person who wouldn’t brush off his antics as his simply unfortunate nature.

“Hey, welcome, Janny-Jan! Just messing around, you know me.” Remus was still far too coherent for this, brain just as awake as it had been when he’d woken up feeling nothing unnatural in his system despite the pain. Remus summoned a bottle of arsenic, aiming to chug it, when his fingers grasped empty air. Janus held the bottle away from him with one of his extra hands.

“Give it back, Jan.”

“Remus, this isn’t healthy.”

Remus cackled. The notion of “healthy” deserved that much. “Does it look like I care? Give it back.”

Janus sighed, looking resigned, and Remus knew what was going to happen before it did. That didn’t mean he didn’t struggle as six arms wrapped around him, yanking him from his domain into Janus’ room. Janus deposited him on a bed, holding him down by his arms and ignoring Remus’ pleas with practiced care.

Gloved hands met his own, stopping him every time he tried to scratch his arms, eyes, limbs. Already Remus could feel the effects of Janus’ room sink into his body, denials becoming truths as they healed his wounds, and Remus detested the comfort even as he gave in to it. Janus sat down next to him as the fight bled out of him, its absence hurting somehow more than blood and guts spilling from his wounds.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Janus said quietly, no more to Remus than to the air, but he shrugged anyway. He’d tried for far too long to rationalize his actions, formulate some sort of reasoning, some story, some grand reason why. Eventually he stopped trying, because no amount of reasoning ever stopped him. He would either do something or he wouldn’t, and that was how it worked—whatever thought that had led him to that action could have been fleeting, could have been in response to the opposite inclination, could have been anything. He’d long since given up on trying to understand his mind.

Janus should stop worrying. It wasn’t like anything would kill him, anyway.

“Well!” Remus struggled to sit up. “This has been fun, but—”

“Remus, you can’t—”

“I’m perfectly fine now, so—”

“You’re not —”

“I can’t say it’s been lovely but I should be going, got places to be—”

Janus looked about to explode, or cry, and personally Remus thought the former would be much cooler, wondered how flesh would become explosive, charred, twisted, dead. “We have to talk about this, Remus! I can’t— I can’t let you continue like this.”

Something furious and burning licked through his spine. Remus went still—still like the night, still like corpses buried six feet under the winter chill, still like death. Janus’ expression quickly smoothed over, but Remus was pleased to read fear in the pinch of his brow. “What I do,” Remus hissed, “is not up to you. I am not your charity project, and I understand perfectly well what I’m doing. You don’t get to take this away from me.”

“Remus, you—” Janus’ breath hitched. Remus didn’t— couldn’t turn to look at his face. “You can’t possibly think this is a long-term solution to your problems! ‘Oh yes, continually hurting myself will make my life better, it won’t have any lasting effects on anyone at all—’”

“I don’t want to think !” Remus screamed. He would have glared at the yellow-clad side had exhaustion not burrowed into his bones. Or maybe that was just the blood loss, or the aftereffects of the alcohol. “I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want to feel normal, or healthy, I just want to— to be numb, to be—”

He’d grown too used to incoherence to be able to deal with reality without it. The fact that the poisons gave him an excuse for being a fuck up, and that he’d have no shield, no scapegoat, no backup if he was still a fuck-up while being fully coherent. He didn’t particularly want to stop, not anymore, not for all the effort it’d take with too little payoff—but Remus knew better than to talk about his self-destructive tendencies to Self-Preservation.

Remus turned his back on Janus, though he felt his gaze tracing his spine. He wondered how long Janus was going to sit here with him—Janus knew better than to leave Remus unattended in his room.

Janus stood up abruptly, drawing Remus’ eye. He grabbed Remus by the arm again, and, to Remus' surprise, he felt the vertigo-like falling sensation of sinking back into his own room. Janus released his grip, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking, and suddenly Remus found arms around folded him in an embrace. “We will be talking about this again,” Janus murmured, before both him and his touch disappeared as quick as it had come. Silence resounded in his wake, and Remus realized he’d been given what he’d asked for—his freedom.

Remus summoned another bottle of arsenic and drained it, relishing the way it instantly weakened his limbs, confused his thoughts. He sunk back onto his bed of corpses and plywood, gaze falling limp over his realm, wind rustling over eyes that saw no sights and ears that heard no sound.

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight prologue (part 3)

Levelling up and last stands

Graendal to Galad, and now Galad to Padan Fain. It’s like alignment whiplash.

The sky was black. A tempest. He liked that, though he hated the one who caused it.

This is great because there’s just a hint of ambiguity to who that actually may be. Rand? Or the Dark One? And when you have to ask, even for a second…well, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it.

Hatred. It was the proof that he still lived, the one emotion left.

Well, that’s one more than Rand at any rate.

(Pre-Dragonmount, I mean).

Padan Fain exists to chew scenery and you know what buddy? Chew away. Live your dreams.

Did his hatred cause that storm? It must be so. Yes.

Sorry Fain; pretty sure Rand has first claim on I am the storm. He just carries it better, you see. It’s a good look on him and we don’t mess with that.

I typo-ed that as ‘it’s a god look on him’ and really… either way.

When you accepted madness into yourself – embraced it and drank it in as if it were sunlight or water or the air itself – it became another part of you.

I’m mostly amused by how similar this sounds to the wording of Egwene thinking of how the Aiel handle pain. In this case I don’t think it’s particularly intentional or meaningful or anything, but it amuses me.

Another part of you. Like a hand or an eye.

Not sure those are the best examples, given Rand and also very likely at some point Mat, but sure.

He was finally free.

Has something changed? Oh, wait. Is this the first we’ve seen of him since saidin was cleansed? And Shadar Logoth destroyed? I think it is, in which case… interesting. Particularly interesting since it doesn’t seem to have affected the dagger’s power – Fain’s still obsessed with his precious, at any rate – and last we heard Rand’s wound(s) hadn’t healed. But Shadar Logoth was destroyed, and its power seemingly with it, more or less, and so now Fain or Mordeth or Smeagol or whoever he is these days is free, in a manner of speaking. That’ll end well for everyone involved, I’m sure.

Oh he killed a worm. And he’s in the Blight so that’s a Worm. Im…pressive?

Mist had begun to trail him, creeping up from the ground. Was that mist his madness, or was it his hatred? It was so familiar. It twisted around his ankles and liked at his heels.

Like a yellow fog, that rubs its back upon the window panes, a yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes, licks its tongue into the corners of the evening…

No? Or perhaps like, say, Mashadar? I mean, maybe it’s nothing, but if it’s not nothing, that’s… concerning. Were more things freed than Fain, in the ruination of Shadar Logoth? Open to give the world hope but did it also release some element of despair?

The mist struck.

And unless we’ve transported into one of Sanderson’s original works, that means I’m right and the cleansing of saidin did indeed have some… unintended consequences. Which is fitting, in a grander sense of balance, but still kind of… well, sad.

So Fain has levelled up again, it would seem, which is the outcome absolutely no one needed.

That said, he played enough of a part early on, and enough has been made of him from time to time afterwards, that it would be kind of weird to leave him out of the ending. Personally I wouldn’t particularly mind; watching him chew scenery is fun enough from time to time but the rest of the time I sort of tend to forget about him, and I’m not particularly invested in anything to do with him, and the slightly more critical side of me wonders if he was ever truly necessary as a character… but at this point in a series, once you have a character like that, dropping them now would feel untidy. It would feel like an oversight, or like lazy plotting.

Which is hard, when everything about him suggests that his entire purpose is to be a wildcard character. He doesn’t have a clear fated role to play in all of this, unless it’s something to do with his link to the dagger and, via that, to Mat somehow.

Instead, he’s a powerful entity on a third side in a two-sided war. Yes, there are far more factions than that within each of those sides, and so much of the point of the last several books has been that lack of unity, and the tragedy but perhaps inevitability of fighting against those who should be your allies, of losing sight of the larger conflict in favour of the smaller and more immediate ones, and of trying to forge some kind of alliance despite that, and the ways in which that can succeed or fail.

But Fain is less a part of that and more a completely outside element. Not, in a way, unlike Aridhol itself was, as it became Shadar Logoth. A darkness and an evil that came from a form of the Light and its hatred of the Shadow and, over time, twisted. And therefore was an evil that was not truly of the Shadow, but was no longer an ally of the Light. Instead it was its own poison.

That’s kind of what Fain is. Which certainly has potential, as a story element, but I am curious to see how that’s played, and how well it’s played, given the sheer volume of characters we’re dealing with, and the size of this conflict, and the many other themes already at play. Can his role, whatever it is, end up feeling satisfying? I guess we’ll read and find out on that one.

Anyway, that was a bit of a tangent, but the point of it was: yes, he’s levelled up, because I think he has to in order to have a hope of having his part in the ending being interesting or satisfying.

Red below, black above. Red and black, red and black, so much red and black.

See, the thing is, I know for a fact that Brandon Sanderson is a fan of Les Miserables, so I am fully justified in humming ‘red, the blood of angry men; black, the dark of ages past….’

Also, Moridin would approve. Of the colour scheme, if nothing else.

And also of the chaos. Some say the world will end in (bale)fire, some say in ice, and Padan Fain says fuck it why not evil killer mist. Less poetic but sure.

(Let’s play a little game called: over the course of the liveblog, how much of an English Literature syllabus do we think I’ve referenced? …on second thought let’s not play that game)

Oh, the Trollocs didn’t die, they just got a Mashadar Makeover and now they’re competing for Malkier’s Blight’s Next Top Abomination.

He left the Myrddraal. It would not rise, as rumours said they did. His touch now brought instant death to one of its kind. Pity. He had a few nails he might have otherwise put to good use.

Perhaps he should get some gloves. But if he did, he couldn’t cut his hand. What a problem.

The thing is, while the style here is very Sanderson, for a character like Fain it actually works pretty well. Which is mainly, I think, because I have long suspected Sanderson has a soft spot for writing characters who are utterly batshit and having the time of their lives with it. Pass the scenery, and the salt. Yum.

Like an old friend. A dear, beloved old friend that you were going to stab through the eye, open up at the gut and consume by handfuls while drinking his blood. That was the proper way to treat friends.

Sure, it lacks the undertone of beautiful horror, and the poetry of Machin Shin whispering about braiding flayed skin, which is in a way a shame. But it conveys the essential message and character, and at least for me, this works well as an example of Sanderson’s approach of not trying to imitate style because that could go so badly, but instead emulating the feel of the story itself. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but here, at least for me, it does.

It's ironic in a way that it’s a similar thing to what he’s done with Mat, but it has the opposite effect. With Mat – I’ve written about this elsewhere, but tl;dr is that I think he read Mat as funny and so tried to write Mat as funny, using his own methods rather than Jordan’s because imitating style exactly is a lost cause, but something very essential was lost in the translation (like the fact that Mat himself isn’t really humorous; it more comes from the contrast of his thoughts with his actions, and his character against the world around him, but I digress again). So he went for ‘convey the same idea through my own methods rather than trying to imitate Jordan’s’ – consciously or subconsciously – and it backfired. But with Fain, he’s taken the same approach – ‘convey a scenery-chewing wildcard who has lost every mind he’s possessed, which is several’ – and this time the same-idea-different-style still gets that across in a way that feels true to character.

Obviously mileage can and will vary on whether or not this works, but for me it’s just an interesting study in how a certain approach or method can succeed or fail depending on exactly how and where it’s applied, and what the cause of that success or failure may be – why it works in one place but not another, and what went right or wrong.

It is, I think, something of a writing exercise if you want to turn it into one. A bit like reverse-engineering an outline from a book you’ve read (I do this often; I realised at some point that I was doing it and then I made a point of doing it deliberately, and it’s super interesting, and for me at least it’s helped me think more deliberately about the structure of a story, and how that can be leveraged for different effects). But thinking about the specifics of what does or doesn’t work for you about the authorship switch – a particular character, or a scene, or the pacing, or the handling of a certain theme, or anything else – and then digging into the specifics of why it works, or doesn’t.

That, for me, has been more interesting than just picking out the differences. Sure, I’ll nitpick, but I prefer not to focus on it, because ‘this is different’ feels… kind of pointless. Of course it’s different. Figuring out exactly what is different, or why it’s different is interesting sometimes. But also figuring out where and how that difference matters or doesn’t is more what I’m trying to get at here. Because some of the differences, I don’t mind. Some, I do. And trying to understand why I mind some and not others has been helpful at least for me in, again, understanding all of those elements of a story or piece of writing better, and thinking about how they could be used or changed or recombined.

But then, I’m the kind of person who likes to take things apart to figure out how they work. And also to overthink every goddamn text I consume.

Still, it’s a fun one if you’re in the market for writing exercises to try whilst in quarantine.

*

Malenarin Rai. Bold of you to introduce a new POV character in the penultimate book of a series that already has dozens if not hundreds, but that’s WoT for you.

Also it’s a prologue so the rules are different.

Heeth Tower is a weird name. Heeth. But then, I don’t think Sanderson has ever been quite as good with names as Jordan was. And that’s the sort of change I’m not going to get too worked up over. (Also, it was Jordan who gave us Mountains of Dhoom, so I rest my case).

The whistling wind rattled the wooden shutter.

It’s not time for the wind yet; we’re still in the prologue! Wait your turn, wind; chapter one should be here any day now.

Using a Trolloc horn as a paperweight is pretty badass, Malenarin, but Furyk Karede and his human skull wineglass might offer some competition.

I don’t think we’ve spent much – any, depending on where exactly the scene in TPoD’s prologue takes place – time in Kandor outside of New Spring. I guess we’ve got to finish filling in the map now; we’ve only got one book left!

Malenarin’s son is turning fourteen soon, so he might just be lucky enough to get Tarmon Gai’don as a birthday party.

He smiled, setting the Trolloc horn on the note, in case that shutter broke open again. He’d slain the Trolloc who had borne that horn himself. Then he walked over to the side of his office and opened his battered oak trunk. Among the other effects inside was a cloth-wrapped sword, the brown scabbard kept well oiled and maintained, but faded with time.

Typing it out, it’s not even that similar, but reading this my first thought was of Tam al’Thor, pulling out his old trunk and his old sword at the beginning of The Eye of the World, before giving it to Rand as he sets off on his coming-of-age story.

To have a duty was to have pride – just as to bear a burden was to gain strength.

In moderation, though. *Looks pointedly at Rand al’Thor*

I still don’t understand how turning their backs on the Blight to go find the Dragon Reborn to tell him to pay attention to the Blight is a good idea for the Borderland rulers. I must be missing something here and I hope it is eventually revealed to me, because otherwise that is terrible strategy on so many counts.

The only way to go to the fourth level was to climb a narrow, collapsible ramp on the outside of the tower

What could possibly go wrong? I mean, last time we were in Kandor a kid was thrown off a balcony, so…

[Jargen] wore a cord looped around the shoulder of his brown uniform; it bore a knot for each Trolloc he’d killed. There had to be approaching fifty knots in the thing by now.

That’s cute, Rand says, flicking dust off his shoulder Luke-Skywalker-in-The-Last-Jedi style, and flicking some Arrows of Fire off with it to torch another thousand or so Trollocs without breaking a sweat.

But okay, yes, for an ordinary non-protagonist non-Lan in a random guard tower in Kandor, I suppose that qualifies as pretty badass.

The beacons have been lit! Gondor Rena Tower calls for aid!

Pretty sure that’s your cue, Lan.

Or not; Malenarin seems to think it’s his cue to confirm the SOS and start preparing the tower for… bad things, probably.

Seriously, wind, wait your turn.

Of course his son is next on the list of messenger boys to be sent out. Well, it’s a better fate than being thrown off a balcony at least. Maybe.

‘No, we need to send several messengers. Double up. Just in case the towers fall.’

Do you have any uncrowned infant kings you want to send as well? Just checking.

Malenarin let himself feel a hint of relief that his son was one of those riding to safety. There was no dishonour in that; the messages needed to be delivered, and Keemlin was next on the roster.

There is a kind of parallel here – less a parallel, perhaps, than an echo – to Lan. A son sent to safety as a Borderland hold prepares to fall, the sense of a last stand. Because in the Borderlands perhaps that is not so unusual a story, in its way. The Wheel of Time turns.

It was time for Tarmon Gai’don. And looking out into the storm, Malenarin thought he could see to the very edge of time itself. An edge that was not so far distant.

Maybe you should have a dream-chat with Moridin, Malenarin. Maybe it’s just the air in the Blight: gives you nihilist thoughts.

Oh oops, his son wasn’t one of the messengers to go. Because he decided to be all noble and let another boy go in his place, whose mother had already lost four sons. That’s sweet, kid, and it’ll probably get you killed.

Tian, Sanderson? Named after another ill-fated messenger boy in your own works, perhaps?

‘Run down to my office,’ Malenarin said. ‘There is a sword in my oaken trunk. Fetch it for me.’

Aw. Because his son has proven himself a man, three whole days early. Because we’re approaching the end now, and it’s time for everyone to take their last steps into their roles, become who they must be to face that end – whether they’re a protagonist or just some poor doomed kid in a tower in the Blight.

It's something these kinds of snapshot one-off scenes are good for: to show the scope of the story, that it touches everyone, no matter that they’ve never even met Rand or any of the others. And to give this sense of those final steps happening in snapshots like this across the land. The sense of an entire world taking a last deep breath. And so we pause for brief close-ups on the faces of some of the extras stepping onto the battlefield, to illustrate that.

Keemlin’s swearing his version of the ‘kill the bad things until we die or they do’ that every Borderland (and Aiel) nation seems to have, each with its own slight semantic variations.

‘Rise as a man, my son!’

This is no place, or time, for children. Ergo, he can no longer be a child, by simple virtue of being here. Which makes this a rather bittersweet moment; Malenarin’s proud of his son but there’s also this sense that far too many children are having to grow up far too fast in these last moments (and others will never grow up at all – in today’s theme of referencing poetry I like, go check out The Lads in their Hundreds).

They yelled defiance of the Shadow. For a moment, their voices rang louder than the thunder.

I don’t have a lot to say about this except that it’s a lovely image.

Together they turned to face the oncoming Shadow.

Nice knowing you.

Draghkar overhead and Trollocs oncoming, and they’re just a lonely tower waiting to die. I do love a doomed last stand, even if it’s characters I’ve never met before and likely will never see again.

Malenarin was a man of the Borderlands, same as his father, same as his son beside him. They knew their task. You held until you were relieved.

THAT’S YOUR CUE, LAN.

Next (ToM ch 1) Previous (ToM prologue pt.2)

[patrickstargang]

The Firelord’s Promise (Kyoshi fic)

Chapter 1: Nomad’s Land

Chapter 2: A Bureaucrat’s Word

Chapter 3: Throw Away Your Honor, Rally In The Streets

Chapter 4: Unfortunate Truths

Chapter 5: A Change For The Better

Chapter 6: The Roles We’re Given

Chapter 7: To Save A Life

Final Chapter: I’ll Always Be With You

The hut which Motome and his family lived in wasn’t a sign of wealth or prosperity, but it was still home. The wind that came with nighttime lightly shook the wooden structure, sometimes swaying it side to side. Sometimes he thought the whole hut would collapse in on itself, but even during the worst storms, it was somehow able to stand. It was all he had, nothing more than the wood to build it and a spot to make a fire.

His family was small, just his wife Kuni and his nine-year-old daughter Song. They had fallen on hard times with sizable debt and the failing harvests, leading him to desperate measures for his family’s well being. He was called upon by Fire Nation chancellors to take the place of someone who was up for execution, mainly due to his resemblance to the accused. His family would be relinquished of their debts, giving them the possibility of a better life. From where he stood, there wouldn’t be another chance to help them, so he took it. He couldn’t bear telling them, not just for the tears it would bring but also the push back against the idea. Kuni would never approve of it, which is why he never told her. He thought it was best for everyone.

But a series of strange events kept Motome from reaching that goal and relieving his family. He had to pretend to be a man named Yun, which he didn’t quite understand other than being told it was for “the good of the country”. Then he was miraculously saved by the Avatar, even if he didn’t want to be saved at first. After that, he spent a few days in the cells near the royal palace, waiting for an execution that never came. After a while he thought life was pulling a sick joke on him, playing out his anticipation for death like a musical note that just keeps rising. With the days that passed, he noticed the rain coming over Caldera. It gave him brief comfort, as it means that the crops might finally grow again and their family would have a moment to prosper. It was too bad that he wasn’t there to see it.

Then, all of a sudden, he was freed. The guards said that his debts had been eschewed and he was free to go home as long as he never mentioned these events to anyone. Motome didn’t know what to think or feel after walking out of the prison gates, all he could do was make the trek back home. For some reason, he could deal with the idea of facing death (at least he thought so), but the idea of facing his family after leaving them without a word was somehow much worse.

When he returned, he was greeted with angry yelling and copious tears. Kuni had searched the town for a month trying to find him, only coming to dead ends at every corner. She was about to give up before he miraculously returned. He tried to brush off his disappearance as being gone for a fishing job, but Kuni was persistent and was able to get the truth out of him pretty easily. It was hard to understand for Motome, there was still a lot that was left ambiguous. For example, who was Yun? Why was he on trial for execution and why was it an issue that could impact the clans? Why was he being used as a decoy? More than anything, why did the Avatar try to save him? Why was he freed?

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The smell of warm rice filled the hut with a sense of serenity. To Motome, it was an aroma that was dearly missed during his time in prison. He sat by the fire, taking in the scent as he weaved a wicker basket. Song sat by him, watching the bubbles start to rise from the heated pot. But from the other side of the room, Motome heard Kuni call out to him.

“Motome, there's someone here to see you….”

There was a bit of hesitation in her voice, and Motome was confused as to who would want to visit this close to night time. He put down the basket and made his way over. A twinge of fear came over him as he slowly began to notice how tall the person at the door was. At first, he panicked, thinking that it might be a Fire Nation soldier finding out about his broken promise to not discuss his time in prison. But some of that fear subsided when he saw the person’s face.

“I apologize for my intrusion,” said Kyoshi while bowing. “But by any chance, are you Motome?”

Motome nodded without saying anything. He was not expecting the Avatar to cross his path twice in his life. It would have been an honor if the circumstances weren’t so strange.

“Y-Yes, I am.”

Kyoshi raised her head back up to examine him. The Fire Nation had already pulled a great deal of deception over her, so she needed to make sure he really was the same person as before. But most of her reference was how close to Yun he appeared. And like last time, he might as well have been a doppelganger if it weren’t for his gold-colored eyes. It was like being able to see him again.

Kyoshi could feel a deep pain in her chest, but she did her best to push it off to the side. It wasn’t important now, she found what she was looking for and that's all that mattered.

“I apologize it took me this long to find you, I was told that you lived around here and the travel took longer than I expected. I just needed to make sure you were still alive.”

At that moment, Motome realized why he was released that day. After the Avatar tried to save him, she must have pulled some strings to get his freedom and his debts erased. He was a bit surprised it took him this long to come to that realization.

“Again, I apologize for my intrusion. I’ll be on my way.” Kyoshi started walking back to town before she heard a voice behind her.

“Wait!”

She turned back around to Motome. He seemed like he was trying to find the right words, caught in a web of conflicting thoughts.

“You don’t have to leave so soon. Come inside, we just started making dinner.”

Kyoshi was slightly taken aback by the offer. She remembered Motome mentioning his family were living in poverty and struggling for food so she felt slightly guilty, like she was taking from the needy.

“It’s fine, really. Besides I don’t want to bother your family.”

“Oh come now, you're not bothering anyone,” Kuni interjected quite assertively. “Come inside, we’re almost done with the rice.”

Kuni didn’t exactly know what Kyoshi’s relation to Motome was, but she knew who the tall girl was. “It would be an honor to make a home-cooked meal for the Avatar,” she quipped.

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The food reminded her of the noodles Rangi gave her back at North Chung-Ling. Technically it wasn’t as fancy as anything she saw at the royal palace, but it still tasted like a lot of love was put into it. For a second, she was so distracted by how good the food was that she forgot what her original intention with showing up was.

She looked up from her bowl, noticing Kuni’s satisfied smirk knowing the Avatar was thoroughly enjoying her culinary work. She also noticed a stare from Song. She had finished her meal early and was examining the Avatar from across the room. Eventually, she crawled over to Kyoshi’s side to study her up close.

The young girl lightly tugged at Kyoshi’s green kimono. “Your clothes are cool! I wish I got to dress like this.”

Kyoshi chuckled a genuine chuckle. It was one thing to get the admiration of the people, but to hear a young girl say your “cool” was a special feeling. When she was younger, she was only the target for ridicule among others of her own age so it was something she mostly missed out on.

Song continued to look over Kyoshi’s appearance until something else caught her eye. She pulled out one of Kyoshi’s fans from the cloth around her waist. “What’s this?” She looked at it closely before she opened it.

Fright was across Kyoshi’s face as she realized what the girl found. She took it back as quickly as she could. This surprised Song, but also the other members of her family. Kyoshi could sense the unease she must have caused by her reaction.

“Song, don’t bother Kyoshi please,” said Kuni.

Kyoshi looked at Song while holding the open fan. She gave the young girl a stern but concerned look, channeling a tiny bit of her Avatar authority.

“This is not a toy to play with, its a very dangerous weapon. Do you understand?”

Song nodded her head sadly, looking like she was about to get a lecture. Kyoshi sighed before she put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. She quickly put away the fan.

“No child should ever have to wield one of these,” Kyoshi said with bitterness in her voice.

Motome could sense the uncomfortable silence in the room, so he decided to break the silence.

“Avatar Kyoshi, I haven’t gotten the chance to say this but……..I’m truly in your debt. If there’s ever anything I could do to repay you, I’m at your service.”

Montome bowed from his spot. There was a great sense of honor behind the action, not the facade that the other nobles had manufactured about honor. This was a true, deeply rooted honor for another person’s bravery.

Kuni did the same. “And I’m grateful for you bringing back my husband. I don’t know what I would have done if he never came back.”

Motome raised from his bow to face his wife. He let out a light chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “Oh Kuni, you would have done fine without me. I mean with the harvest coming back you’d probably have saved a lot of-”

“I’m not talking about money Motome! I’m talking about you! Do you think I would have cared if we get a few more copper pieces each week? Do you think I wouldn’t care that I never got to see you again? That your daughter never got to see you again?”

Motome looked down at the ground. Something about the response surprised him. “Your right. I know saying ‘I’m sorry’ won’t make it go away but I truly am.”

Kuni’s serious look slowly subsided as she sighed. “You can really be a dunce sometimes,” she said while smiling. “I’m still mad at you, but I’m just glad your home.”

Kuni hugged Montome tightly, which he in return hugged her. Song came to the back and hugged both of them yelling “group hug”. Kuni held Montome’s hand in the embrace.

“You know you're worth more to than just a few coins to me. Just because you think you have to kill yourself in order to provide for us doesn’t mean you should. I know we’ll get by, but I’d rather be getting by with you.”

They didn’t have to say anything after that, they just held onto their embrace. Kyoshi watched from the sidelines, observing probably her first instance of a real family. She was kind of jealous of Song. Even living in poverty, she had the love of a caring family. But she also realized that her actions, to save Motome, saved this girl from a life of growing up without a father. Kyoshi had spent her life without someone she could see as a mother figure, but she did have Kelsang as a father. The thoughts of the family and friends she lost came back to her, but there was still that feeling of relief.

The feeling knowing that she actually saved someone.

She also saw something else in this family. The advice Motome’s wife was giving him reminded her of Rangi. The kind of advice that should have been obvious but meant more than they realized. It was almost like she could hear her voice in the room. But she also took great sympathy on Motome, she knew too well what it felt like to go down a road you couldn’t turn back from, only to realize it was never necessary in the first place. For a day where her ego could have grown with all the attention she was getting, it was humbling to relate with someone who was by all accounts an average person.

Kyoshi bowed slightly. “You don’t need to repay me, your hospitality has been more than enough.”

Kuni interjected again. “Nonsense! Not to pry but I don’t think a bowl of soup and rice is enough to say ‘thank you for saving my loved one from possible death.’”

Kyoshi couldn’t argue with that. She just felt that she’d already been given enough. “It's fine, really. I’ve lived off of less anyways.”

Motome took note of that curious bit of information. It was probably impolite of him to try to get more into the Avatar’s personal history, but this piqued his interest. He leaned in after Kyoshi spoke. “What do you mean by that?”

Kyoshi didn’t even realize that she opened herself up to her life story with that comment. It must have been the change of scenario that allowed her to open up without realizing it. While she was talking to Zoryu only a couple of minutes ago, she felt more comfortable talking about this with welcoming strangers.

Kuni scoffed at Motome’s question. “Honey, please you shouldn’t ask qu-”

“No, it's fine,” Kyoshi interjected.

Now both of them leaned in, realizing they were getting to speak with the Avatar in a somewhat informal way. Kyoshi exhaled before she recounted her tale.

“Before I was the Avatar, or before I knew I was the Avatar, I lived on the streets. I was abandoned by my parents. For a good while I had to learn to live with what I had, but it was still hard trying to live on your own as a kid. Later on, I discovered I was the Avatar from someone who took me in. So much happened after that, most of it bad. I tried to help a lot of people, but mostly let them down. But now I’ve got a better bearing on who I am as the Avatar, which is what brought me here. Finding you.”

The room was left quiet. No one knew how to respond for a good while. Motome examined Kyoshi, remembering that he caught her at a somewhat vulnerable moment when they first met. Now he had great sympathy for the Avatar. He looked at her.

“Funny isn’t it. How easily life can deal you a bad hand.”

Kyoshi looked at him as well. She saw a face that expressed the same weariness that she had felt for so long. Someone who was trying to come to terms with their own limits. But also, she saw a face that reminded her of a friend. It reminded her of someone she lost.

Montome’s face suddenly changed to worry. “Oh I-I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

Kyoshi was confused by his reaction. She didn’t realize she was crying. The embarrassment from her realization didn’t help, crying in front of strangers would not have been considered proper Avatar behavior. Neither would using her kimono as a handkerchief. She tried to speak, her voice was shaky.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated trying to keep her composure. It was hard, especially when she would see his face again. “It's just…….you look so much like him”

Motome started to make the connections in his head. He only knew about Yun from what the chancellors told him, what they wanted him to imitate. But he never knew who he truly was. But he could tell from Kyoshi’s expression that he used to be a good friend.

“Is he……”

He didn’t want to say it, but Kyoshi understood what he was asking. She nodded, trying to contain the sadness. Motome didn’t avert his eyes.

Kyoshi’s voice was still shaky. “I did it, I needed to know he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.” There wasn’t any reconciliation in the way that she spoke, just a great sense of loss.

Motome didn’t know how to comfort her at first, he knew nothing of her situation. But he still tried anyway. “W…..What was he like?”

It wasn’t a question that Kyoshi would have expected, but it did relieve some of her sadness. It was nice to find someone who didn’t just take pity on her, it was someone who wanted to know more than just sad parts. For the first time since he had disappeared, someone wanted to know who Yun really was.

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Dusk had shifted into the night as the lights of the capital began to illuminate in the distance. Kyoshi crouched as she exited the low front door of the hut. Motome, Kuni and Song all followed behind her. The wind was starting to blow softly across the grassy plains.

“Remember, you're always welcome in this house,” said Kuni. “Feel free to stop by to say hello whenever you like.”

Kyoshi smiled. It was another new experience for her, receiving kindness from total strangers and being invited to visit again. She didn’t know how to properly process it, sometimes she didn’t know what to do with unconditional kindness, even now. One thing that she did know was that she would be visiting again, possibly very soon.

“Thank you, thank you both.” Then she crouched down to speak with Song. “And you won’t play with any more dangerous fans now will you?”

Song huffed and stood straight, she nodded like a student taking commanders from a teacher. Her mouth was quivering a little bit. “No ma'am!”

“Good then,” she ruffled her hair slightly before standing back up.

Kyoshi waved to the family before she started walking, heading back into town. But a few seconds into her walk, she heard something strange. The sound of footsteps on the grass. They were going quickly. Someone was running towards her. It was so sudden. Something in the back of her mind fired, she started to panic. She felt danger, but she couldn’t identify it.

She turned around quickly, ready to face whatever threat it might be. Then she suddenly felt her waist tighten. She looked around at first and couldn’t find anyone. Then she looked down.

Song was hugging Kyoshi very tightly. She was hugging about as tight as she could. Kyoshi was confused, both by the intention of the embrace and the internal feeling she was getting. Song only hugged tighter with each second. The young girl tried speaking, only to be stopped by the occasional sniffle. Kyoshi realized she was crying. She tried to comfort her with a little pat on the head, unsure of what to do. With time, she finally spoke.

“Thank you,” she said through a shaky voice. “For saving my papa.”

Through the girls crying, Kyoshi felt a freeing relief. Relief that this girl would not have to go through what she lived through as a child. Because of Kyoshi, she would get to have a childhood. Knowing this, it somehow made the past few weeks of torment worth it, to know she was able to save at least one life, do something that was more than make up for her own shortcomings. She saved Rangi, and she saved this girl’s father. It took everything Kyoshi had not to cry, she wanted to stay strong for Song.

With her voice also shaky, Kyoshi kept repeating “It’s okay, it’s okay” as the young girl began to calm down. Once her crying ended, Song made her way back to her parents. Kyoshi waved to the young girl before continuing her trek back.

So many thoughts were swimming through her mind. What am I going to tell Rangi when I get back? Is this what being the Avatar is all about? Why do I feel really…..good all of a sudden? Why do I suddenly want kids?

But then one thought crept into her mind, one that stood dormant for most of her visit but finally showed itself after she left. She felt a longing for someone she had lost, thinking of Yun when she looking at Motome. But there was another person she was missing. Someone that meant the world to her, someone that gave her comfort in bad times, someone who was there to support her in her finest hours.

She missed her father. Not her real father, but her true father.

[darthspideys]

little white lies

poe dameron x reader 

send me a concept if you want me to write it 

Life is made of choices. For those who think the moral ambiguities of the world are simply black and white, it would seem that every choice we make is on us and us alone. But things aren’t that simple, it may seem that we have a choice but factors are working against us.

By that logic, you didn’t choose to spy for the first order. You were on the run from some criminals you owed money to, and with nowhere left to turn the First Order found you and gave you a simple choice. Join them or they would turn you over to the Hutts, a simple choice they called it but to you, it wasn’t a choice at all. One gave you the chance to live, and the other subjected you to a life of torture and hard labor.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you came to like it. Came to like being a part of something, feeling like you were indispensable like no one could throw you to the side because they needed you. It became clear soon that the first order did need you, even if they wouldn’t outwardly admit it. You’d been suspicious but it was confirmed when they came to you with your first assignment as an intelligence agent for them: infiltrate the resistance and report back to them with useful information.

Turns out, doing that had been easier than you thought. You went back to being you for a time, the person before you’d joined the first order and when you’d come to join the resistance they’d welcomed you with open arms. Adjusting to the chaotic nature of the base as opposed to the clean walls and clear rules of the first order was more difficult than you thought.

Then you met Poe Dameron. You would never say it out loud, but you never thought of him as a mark or a means to an end or just another source of information which for you was incredibly rare. You’d always seen him as a person, and a good one at that. Even though you thought that the Resistance was a terrorist organization, that would destroy the galaxy and leave millions destitute you couldn’t help but think that Poe Dameron was the one exception.

You were anxious every time you were with him, not because you thought that he was close to figuring you out, but because you felt yourself falling for him, day by day little by little. Without the First Order breathing down your neck face to face, it was easy to slip into being someone else. Someone who didn’t have deadlines or the threat of death hanging over your head, someone who was in a fight with people that she cared about, and was falling in love for the first time.

“I can never tell what you're thinking,” He said to you, one night when he convinced you to get a drink with him instead of going to sleep.

“Good,” You replied, with a confused look. “I don’t need you in my head all the time.”

“What I mean is-” He cleared his throat and looked a little awkward, “I’m kind of in love with you, and a little drunk.”

You laughed, “Would you still be in love with me if you weren’t drunk?”

“Yes.”

“Just making sure your decision making isn’t too inhibited,” And you kissed him.

You spent a lot of time afterward thinking about it. About how many things that one kiss had started, the decision you’d made right at the moment, and all the ones that came after that. Over the years, you’d become good at rationalizing everything you did, every hurt that you knew would come from your actions, but this one was something that you couldn’t explain away. Why would you let him love you if you knew that it would hurt him in the end?

That’s how you knew that you were truly a selfish person, that you could never truly be good because you hurt the person you loved most. And you hurt him every day after that kiss because you never told him that you were working for the very people he swore to destroy and you would one day lead to the destruction of everything he held dear. You listened to him talk for hours about what he was going to do when the war was over when the galaxy was finally free of the First Order, and you never said a word.

Until the day that the first order made true on its promise to destroy every last bit of resistance in the galaxy. You’d transmitted them the coordinates of the base weeks before, before Poe before everything, before you’d become unsure of where you wanted to be. You’d done it so casually that you’d forgotten about it, until the day they came in droves, seemingly out of nowhere and you remembered every horrible thing you’d ever done in their name and everything that they would make you do when they finally had you in their clutches again.

The base is chaos. Transports are trying to leave, fighters, and trying to take off, but the destroyer perched above the planet is shooting down everything that tries to leave and the ships full of stormtroopers are preparing to land. It’s truly hopeless, you think, but you know that there are people including Poe who will fight until their last breath to protect whatever hope the galaxy has left. The first order doesn’t want them dead, that much you know, they’ll leave as many as they can and take them to be executed publicly to be made an example of, or leave them to the supreme leader to do what he wants with.

You find Poe, running towards his X wing just as another explosion rips through the air. There’s a bolt heading right for it, and panic overcomes you. You shout his name at the top of your lungs and luckily he stops to turn to you, the X Wing explodes behind him, and the force of the blast sends him to his knees. You run over and help him up.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his eyes filled with worry.

“Yeah-” You say quickly, and out of the corner of your eye you see the stormtroopers make their way towards the airfield, ready to finish the job. Your eyes begin to water and you put your hands on his cheeks gently, “I love you. Whatever happens, I love you, okay? I love you more than I have ever loved anything, truly.”

It’s a goodbye of sorts, and although he can’t truly understand what it’s for he takes you in his arms and holds you close for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he loves you too, you’ve always known. You want to make it up to him, all of the pain you’ve caused, all of the things you’ve done because you're so grateful to him for loving you even if he didn’t know everything about you.

Somehow, you pull away and you turn towards the stormtroopers, who’ve now cleared a path for General Hux to make this way to the front. You walk over slowly, unsure of yourself and as soon as he sees you he smiles in that cat-like way he always does that sends your stomach churning.

“Agent (L/N),” He says, in the slow pronounced way he always does, “Nice to see you again. I guess we have you to thank for all this.”

Before you can reply, Poe is at your heels and pushes you to the side holding his blaster in the direction of Hux which of course causes all the stormtroopers who can see to aim their weapons at him. You step in front of him with your arms raised, trying to keep them from shooting him without thinking which is something some of the weaker troopers tend to do. You grab hold of Poe’s hand, and gently take the blaster from it, then throw it on the ground.

“Call them off, Hux.”

He gives an indigent look that asks why you are telling him what to do, but then it turns into another sickening smile as he realizes what this means. “You like him don’t you? You’ve come to like some of this resistance scum? I thought you were better than this, I was told you were the best in your class.”

“He could be useful to your ends, Hux, use the half of brain you have,” You say, not completely lying but your main goal is to make sure they don’t kill Poe.

“Don’t speak to your superiors that way,” He says through gritted teeth.

“What is he talking about?” Poe says, from behind you, and your heart sinks. Somehow you’d forgotten that he could hear all of this, and you're going to have to tell him the truth.

“You don’t know do you?” Hux says to him, “She has been working for us the entire time, scum, she’s the one who led us here.”

You don’t look back at Poe for a minute, because you don't know how he’s going to look at you now that he knows, but then he says “Is that true?” IN the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him, and you turn to look him in the eye.

He looks crushed. It destroys you to see him look at you like that, because you can see the betrayal in his eyes and you can feel the heartbreak all over. “It’s true, all of it.”

[poor-sickies]

I WANT TO HELP YOU FIGHT YOUR ARTBLOCK!! Maybe an exhausted character who develops a headache and low fever. They're in denial because of not wanting/being able to miss something impirtant. At first the others are oblivious, but then they all get concerned and don't know what to do. I'm thinking VLD mainly because I'm a sucker for langst hehe. But any fandom is good! Just know that the stuff you reblog and do is an inspiration for me and keeps me motivated to write and sketch! Good luck~☆

Ohh thank you so much! Your message made me really happy, I’m glad to know you like my stuff and take motivation out of it!

I’m not quite sure if I managed to go in the direction you requested, and my writing sure is very rusty, but I hope you like it!

*

Lance is almost surprised at himself for how well he’s dealing with this - “well” being a very ambiguous word here.

See, after Shiro’s last lecture about being careful with their health (when just about the whole team had been guilty of downplaying their illness after a strange encounter with an alien toxin), they had all sworn to admit if they weren’t feeling well right away.

But their training with Shiro and Allura really was picking up the pace lately, and the last thing he wants right now is to fall behind.

After his shower yesterday afternoon, after a very intense session with the gladiator, Lance finally realized why he had been feeling off the whole day. His body ached, badly, his limbs heavy and his skin sensitive. He had an headache too, right behind his eyes.

He had the rest of the day off though, so there was no point in worrying everyone right? He was probably just tired.

He goes to bed earlier, despite Hunk’s suspicious glances, and tells himself he’ll sleep it off.

He doesn’t.

Lance doesn’t sleep badly, exactly, but as soon as he tries to get out of bed, a wave of dizziness hits him, and the body aches come back full force.

He stays unmoving for a minute, until the room stops spinning He feels around his neck and forehead with the palm his hand. He’s not super feverish, but he’s definitely warm. Not a good sign.

Nevertheless, he drags his feet all the way to the kitchen for breakfast.

He’s still in his pajamas, and almost slips on the kitchen floor when his fluffy socks slide on the floor.

He manages to grab the back of the chair, ungraciously, and steadies himself, before sitting down. With a sigh, he immediately curls up on himself and lays his head in his arms on top of the table. It’s not the most comfortable thing, but feels so much better than sitting up straight, without all the dizziness that comes with it.

“Bad night, huh?”

It’s Hunk’s voice coming from his left, and sure enough, looking up a little, he can see his breakfast being placed in front of him, and his friend sitting in the chair on his side. “That training exercise yesterday killed me,” Hunk complains lightly, stopping to take a sip of his juice, “I could have slept for ten more hours.”

“Y-Yeah,” Lance chuckles, “same.”

“You’ll feel better after eating something,” Hunk smiles as he pats his shoulder.

Doubt it, Lance thinks, but he attempts a bite anyway. It doesn’t taste like much, but that might be because his nose is clogged up.

Pidge eventually arrives as well, and has her breakfast with them, engaging in conversation with Hunk about some modifications to the Yellow Lion.

The sounds around Lance get mixed and warped, and for a moment he thinks he’s asleep and dreaming. His back shoots up with pain every time he moves, so he tries to stay still.

Shiro and Keith walk in together, after one of their usual sessions at the training room, early in the morning, before breakfast, and seriously, on a usual day Lance wouldn’t understand how they do it, but especially today, Lance just doesn’t get it. The two of them get started on their breakfast, chatting about the gladiator levels.

His headache is a little worse, se he curls up again and lays his head on the table.

“Lance? You okay,,,?” Lance looks up, and Shiro is staring at him intently, spork still in his hand, stopped mid air.

“Hm,” He grunts quietly, “just feeling a little off.”

“Yeah, no,” Hunk’s hand somehow makes its way to his forehead, under his bangs, “you’re sick.”

“Do you think it’s a toxin from one of the planets we were in?” Keith frowns.

“I really hope not,” Shiro considers. After their recent scare, a toxin is the last thing they need.

“Any symptoms out of the usual Earth illnesses?” Hunk asks.

“No, honestly,” Lance answers. “I’m just tired. And my body hurts.”

The four of them exchange worried glances between themselves.

“That sounds like it could be a lot of different things.”

“Either way, he’s probably not up for training today.”

Lance is taken to his room, and ends up with Hunk keeping him company.

“You don’t have to stay,” Lance says, “it’s not like I’m gonna get up and do stuff. I don’t even think I could do that if I wanted to.”

The blankets are tucked in around him, with a couple extra ones on top. It’s comfortable, and at least stops the chills. If he stays really still, his body doesn’t even hurt that much. It’s his head that’s bothering him the most, really, but he can almost close his eyes and sort of ignore it. Almost.

“Nah, man. Just making sure you’re doing okay. We don’t really know what’s going on with you after all. We’re just being careful in case what you have is something worse than the flu.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s really just the flu,” Lance sighs, with his eyes already closed.

“Eh, well… I sure hope so.”

*

Accepting these prompts for small drabbles like this for VLD and BNHA!

[stolethekey]

there can’t be songs for every soldier, can’t be solace every time you cry

read on ao3

They give her a funeral.

It’s quick, it’s quiet, and it’s not nearly what she deserves, but of the five of them, not a single person seems able to string together more than a couple sentences about what Natasha meant to them. Everyone starts, stumbling through a few choked-up words, then fades into a despairing silence with a shake of their heads.

Steve thinks, somehow, that this is more fitting anyway. She’d always been content to let silence do the talking—she might’ve liked that their love and pain hung in the air around them, unburdened by clumsy turns of phrase and awkward word choices that could never quite capture what a person could feel.

The real emotional eruption comes after, when the silent tears are interrupted by Tony’s quiet question.

“Do we know if she had family?”

Two little gravestones by a chain-linked fence.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, his voice low. “Us.”

Thor grunts, and Steve knows exactly what is coming before it does—he has experienced the all-too-familiar spiral of denial Thor is about to embark on too many times. He doesn’t move as the god in front of him spouts theories he knows are impossible, making plans Steve knows will never work. He doesn’t flinch as Clint starts yelling about floating red things, and as his voice gets louder and angrier the pit inside of him seems to eat away at more and more of his chest.

If it was the other way around, and it was down to me to save your life—would you trust me to do it?

“It was supposed to be me,” Clint says, his voice suddenly much smaller. “She sacrificed her life for that goddamn stone. She bid her life on it.”

Steve lowers his head, eyes closed in an effort to stem the tears streaming down his face. Bruce gives a terrible, heartbreaking roar, and as Steve looks up to watch the bench go flying over the lake he feels a flare of white-hot anger at the sight of the sheer stillness of the water.

How dare the earth look this good when she is not here to see it? How dare—

“We have to make it worth it,” Bruce says, and as Steve stands to meet his eyes he feels an aching determination start to form in his stomach.

Where else am I gonna get a view like this?

“We will.”

---

Clint finds him after they’ve all shuffled inside, a slightly sheepish look on his face.

“When we—when this is all over, and we put the stones back,” he mumbles, fingers jammed inside his pockets, “I—um, I don’t think I can—I just can’t go back there—"

“I understand,” Steve says softly, a sense of resolve settling in his gut. “I’ll do it. I want to—I want to talk to her, say a real goodbye.”

Clint looks up, the pain in his face a direct replica of the one currently tearing its way through Steve’s heart. “She loved you, you know.”

The grief writhing in Steve’s stomach like a monstrous parasite starts thrashing even harder, and even though Clint’s eyes are kind Steve finds it inordinately difficult to meet them. “She loved all of us.”

“Yeah, but you, especially—you helped her, a lot. She told me what she told you, what you did for her. You were there for her, all those years, when I—when I wasn’t.”

Steve gives him a sad, knowing smile and shakes his head. “Don’t beat yourself up for that.”

“If I had just—we could’ve had more time—“

“You didn’t know,” Steve says resolutely. “None of us did. Trust me, if I had, things would be different right now.”

 ---

Vormir is freezing.

It’s the first time he has been truly alone since the Quantum realm, and as he climbs, the icy ground crunching beneath his boots, Steve feels a dull hollow start to expand inside of him. It is achingly painful and he ignores it, even as it becomes harder and harder to disregard—he does not want to be alone with it, does not want to confront the dark abyss that has appeared where Natasha once was.

She had climbed this mountain, too; she might have even taken this path. His feet could be landing where hers did, minutes earlier.

They’d climbed a similar one, on Earth, back before the snap, before the world seemed so irreparably full of despair, and she’d joked about going rock climbing sometime, to see which of them could scale a wall faster. They had never gone—and now he would never know—

He thinks he might be hallucinating, because every now and then he thinks he can see her, shivering but still excited, cracking jokes and smiles with her old friend, completely unaware of the terrible bargain awaiting her at the top.

The cliff comes slowly into view, the top surrounded by swirling clouds and what looks like smoke, and as he stares at the sky Steve sends a brief prayer of thanks to his past self for leaving the soul stone for the end. Ice and snow coat every inch of the ground, and the temperature seems to drop with every step he takes.

The suitcase in his hand seems to grow heavier as he approaches the top, and his grief is briefly replaced by unease as a black, shadowy figure begins to form in front of him.  

“Steven Rogers”, the figure says, his voice sending a burst of adrenaline through Steve’s veins, “Son of—“

“You,” Steve snarls, fingers curling into a fist.

“Me,” Red Skull says calmly, floating forward so that his face, as grotesque as ever, is brought into the dim light of the sky.  “Welcome—”

“I killed you.”

“You thought you killed me, just as you thought you killed HYDRA. But I am not dead; instead, I have been assigned to a fate far less desirable—”

“Save it,” Steve says roughly, ignoring the pounding in his chest. “Where is she?”

“I’m afraid you are too late,” the Skull says softly. “Your friends have already gone.”

The double meaning of the word is not lost on him.

“I know,” he says, trying to ignore the fresh grief that has just jolted through his body. “I’m from the future. I’m here to return the stone. And to take her back. A soul for a soul, right? That was the deal.”

“There is nothing that can be done. Surely Barton told you? It is irreversible.”

And he knows, he knows, he has known since Clint’s knees buckled in front of his eyes, but there is something in him that keeps him fighting even though he knows it is futile.

“Then take me. Take me instead—”

“It will not. What’s done is done. You may keep the stone—”

“I don’t want the stone, I want her."

The man that was once Johann Schmidt merely looks at him, an almost detached look on his face. “Is this love, Captain Rogers?”

Steve laughs, a bitter, hollow sound that rings through the nothingness around them. “Love. Nothing more than an empty, meaningless word when you’re too late.”

“But you knew you were going to be too late,” Red Skull says quietly. “And you came anyway.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, voice cracking slightly. “I wanted to make things right, as much as I can. She spent her whole life thinking she was alone. I’m not gonna let her die that way, too.”

There is a moment of silence before Red Skull speaks. “For what it’s worth,” he almost murmurs, “She did not die alone. Her friend—Barton—”

“I know,” Steve mutters, ignoring the pang in his heart as Clint’s grief-stricken face swims into his mind. “But I wanted to be here too. I couldn’t—if she’s really gone— ”

“What an honorable thing to do.”

“Listen,” Steve snarls, frustration seeping into his voice. “She was my anchor to this life, my guide through the labyrinth of moral ambiguity that is the present. I owe her this, at least.”

“The man out of time,” Red Skull says softly. “Yet somehow always cursed with too much.”

“You did that,” Steve spits, his nails digging deeper and deeper into his palm. “I lost everything because of you. Everything. She showed me there was a purpose. That there’s a reason to keep fighting. She gave me back my life. The least I can do is try and do the same for her.”

“There is nothing you can do,” Red Skull says simply, seemingly unaware of Steve’s mounting anger. “The stone—”

Something snaps. “I—DON’T—CARE—ABOUT—THE—STONE!” he roars, slamming the case onto the ground. The latch breaks open, and the orange gleam of light that beams into the air sends another jolt of fury through Steve’s body.

“Take the stone,” he snarls, both hands clenched tightly at his sides. “Take it, and keep it for the next sick person who wants it for some revolting, demented purpose—I never want to see it again.”

He stops, breathing heavily, and Red Skull holds his gaze steadily, a calm and indifferent look on his face.

Steve’s voice is cold and eerily calm when he speaks again. “I want her body.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“It’s down there. I can get it—“

“No,” he says softly, a strange glittering in his eyes. “You may talk to it, pay your respects. But you cannot take it. It must stay here, as a reminder of the sacrifice made for the stone.”

“Fine,” Steve growls, as another surge of anger washes over him. “I’m going.”

“It’s a long way down.”

“I’ll walk.”

The trek down the mountain is more painful, somehow, than the one up it. The cold silence, broken occasionally by a sharp gust of wind, becomes more unbearable with every step. He climbs downward, jaw clenched against the wind, and wonders briefly where the Skull lives when he isn’t greeting people on the way to their deaths.

The trek down the mountain seems endless, but as Steve’s feet hit solid ground and he sees the body crumpled at the foot of the cliff, it seems to come to an end much too quickly.

He approaches the body as if in slow motion, hardly daring to breathe, and as he catches a sight of achingly familiar red hair a sob starts to make its way out of his chest.

His knees buckle as he reaches her side and sees her face. Her eyes are closed—he wonders if she’d done that on purpose—and her expression is so calm that if he didn’t know better he’d think she was simply pretending to sleep, ready to leap up and scare him at any moment.

Natasha, once so strong and full of life, is lying limp and broken in front of him, and despite himself he feels a wave of futile denial crash through his body.

See you in a minute, she’d said, her eyes dancing with excitement, so giddy that she’d hardly been able to stand still in her suit.

See you in a minute, she’d said, her face full of the first glimpse of genuine happiness he’d seen from her in over five years. She’d been so joyful, so relieved to have gotten her family back, so excited to be saving the world with them again.

See you in a minute, she’d said, and then she’d gone—

He wonders what her last words were.

“Hey,” he murmurs, taking her cold, limp hand. Something hot starts to prickle behind his eyes. “For the record, when I told you to get a life, this was not what I meant.”

“I just—we just wanted to tell you: we did it. We won. Because of you.”

She doesn’t respond, and the silence gets more unbearable every second, so he starts talking. He tells her about the funeral, about the way Bruce threw a bench into the sky, and then he keeps going—his voice breaks every few sentences, but he tells her about Bruce’s snap, about the final, big, battle, about everyone coming back just in the nick of time, like they always do—

He falters slightly when he gets to Tony.

“I never—I didn’t realize until after—I never really apologized to him. We just kind of moved on. I guess I thought, if we actually won, we’d have the rest of our lives to fix things.”

His eyes shut, ever so briefly.

“I keep thinking about that, too. How I never say things until none of it means anything anymore. How little words mean when you’re too late.”

He sighs, trailing a finger along her cold, stiff palm. “Grief and regret. They’re like old enemies to me, now. I’m no stranger to them. But it still hurts, every single time.”

“I suppose, objectively, that the cost we pay is nothing compared to what we get. But I look at the world we saved, the world we brought back, and I just—I don’t know if I have a place in it, anymore. It feels different without you.”

Ice crystals are starting to form on her hair, and Steve runs a hand down a few strands, wiping them clean as much as he can.

“For you, it hasn’t been that long since you—since you fell. But for me, it’s been days, and I really—I just really, really miss you. You worked so hard to make me see that I belonged in that world, but—I don’t know, Nat, I think I always just belonged with you.”

“So I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I wish you were here to tell me.”

Her skin looks so pale in the shadow of the cliff.

“Anyway, I know you can’t hear me. And if you could, you’d probably chew me out for walking a million miles in the snow just to talk to someone who can’t respond. But I guess I just—I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Her hand is freezing and unmoving in his, and his voice, hoarse and full of tears, fades away as his eyes rove over her pale, lifeless face. He lets the silence sit with them for what feels like hours, only moving when he feels his body start to go numb from the cold.

He buries her, there in the cold, his fingers scraping at the icy dirt in a sort of numb desperation. He finds a sharp rock to use as a spade and starts digging. The wind, unforgivingly harsh, bites at his skin as he works, but he hardly feels it at all—he digs with a kind of cold fury, deeper and deeper into the cold, hard earth. He funnels his grief into work, just as he always has; he welcomes the sharp, physical pain of the cuts that form on his hands and lets it wash over the ache in his heart.

In that way, he thinks, they have always been similar.

In this world, time is of no consequence, and he is completely unaware of the amount of it that passes. He sinks deeper and deeper into the hole, fingers raw but always working, and when it finally seems deep enough he looks up to find that the sky looks exactly the same.

He lifts his companion, his guiding light, as gently as possible and lowers her into the grave, arranging her limbs so that she appears to be sleeping. As he straightens up, he remembers Tony’s funeral—the beauty of the lake and the sky, and the rows and rows of people, of families, all there to pay their respects.

And here she lies, in a rough, hand-dug hole in the ground on a completely foreign planet.

He covers her in the earth, eyes never leaving her body, and after she is completely obscured from view he reaches into his pocket.

The makeshift gravestone expands in his hand, whirring softly, and he leans over to tuck it into the earth near her head. He doesn’t understand the technology, but Bruce had said that it would find roots in the ground, that it would work its way into the planet and stay there. A semblance of permanence, an eternal monument for the one who had given everything for the chance to make the world right again.

He glances at the stone, which is still buzzing steadily, and runs a final hand along the dirt beside it.

“Bye, Nat,” he murmurs softly as he gets to his feet. “We miss you, and we—I—love you.”

Long after Steve has disappeared back into the night, the humming stops. A completed marker stands, small but erect, at the head of a makeshift grave at the bottom of the cliff. It will stand there for the rest of eternity, for nobody and for everybody. On the surface of the stone, a hand-written conscription has taken form, carved painstakingly by a multitude of different hands.  

Here lies Natasha Romanoff,

One who would give everything and ask for nothing in return.

May the world remember her for who she was:

A spy, a hero, a friend.

A loved one.

[slurp-imagines]

Usopp - Night-watch

Words: 4,481 Content: nsfw, 2nd person, female reader, piv

The island and its inhabitants are peaceful, but its waters are certainly not.

Which is why the Strawhats, upon disembarking, had decided to leave one crew member behind to make sure the Sunny wasn’t... ravaged by sea monsters, or anything equally horrifying, while the rest of them were gone. Franky had taken this responsibility upon himself for the day, but once the local tribe had decided to hold a celebration to welcome their new pirate friends, you had suggested taking over for him.

A party was definitely more Franky’s scene than your own, and you were already exhausted from exploring the island with Luffy and the others. Ship-watch duty honestly sounded like it would be a huge relief since it meant having some time to yourself.

Franky, ever perceptive despite the loud impression he gives off, had picked up on the pleading undertones of your offer and connected the dots himself. So, after receiving numerous long-winded explanations on what to do if XYZ happened, you saw the rest of your crewmates off to the party.

–––––

Usopp has to admit that while the celebration is a lot of fun, he’s definitely missing your presence.

Since you’ve joined the Strawhats, Usopp has always enjoyed your company. You had warmed up to Nami and Robin the most quickly, being the three women in the crew, and Luffy had easily garnered your affection (just like the rest of them); your integration with the rest of the crew went rather smoothly from there.

Usopp had done his best to give you a hand with it early on, though, since he could tell you were rather shy. He doesn’t know why no one else thought so when he mentioned it once, but this impression of you had formed pretty early on for him and still had yet to be changed. You were a bit skittish, perking up when his presence manages to catch you off guard; a bit bashful, your cheeks often sporting a pink blush even at the slightest bit of teasing. And a bit quiet, as well– oftentimes when you two were alone together, you allowed him to do most of the talking.

Even so, you and he have found a nice synergy together. While Usopp is rather outgoing, snarky, and high-strung, you are reserved, kind, and level-headed. Being around you is easy and comfortable, and feels almost like filling in one another’s gaps. 

So yes, he misses you.

But more than that, he worries about how you’re doing back on the Sunny.

He knows you enjoy your peace and quiet once in a while, and that sometimes you tend to shy away from huge crowds, but... what if you were getting bored? Or lonely? Or far worse– what if something bad does end up happening and no one is there in time to help you out? Sure, Franky showed you how to send a signal up in case things went sideways, but Usopp just can’t shake his nerves. He could offer to help you out with the night-watch, couldn’t he? It wouldn’t be weird or pushy or anything. That’s just what friends are for. It’s only an offer, anyway.

He calls your name once he’s set foot on the grassy deck of the Sunny, but doesn’t get a reply. That’s fine. Doesn’t mean it’s an emergency just yet. You were probably in the crow’s nest, and if not, then somewhere downstairs.

After checking the former location, he descends the stairs to the galley, and after finding it empty as well, he commands his nervous heart to be still before making his way to the ladies’ bedroom.

Surely you’d be there. There were no signs of a sea monster attack when he’d been on the deck earlier. You are definitely doing just fine, and he’s been worrying over nothing... Or so he tells himself, but he can’t help the anxious flutter in his chest as he hurries his steps every so slightly on his way there.

As he’s about to knock on the door, he hears your voice coming from inside the room.

“Usopp...”

He freezes, his raised fist merely inches from the wood. Because his name is immediately following by a groan– drawn out, possibly with pain, and that’s about where the train of thought ends for him. Perhaps it was a little ambiguous to his ears, but his pre-existing nerves about your being hurt in a sea monster attack stops him from questioning it before he’s turning the knob and hastily pushing the door open.

“Y/N! Are you okay?”

At the same time you scream, he thinks his heart stops.

Of course, being as experienced a fighter as you are (you weren’t a pirate for nothing), you’re pretty quick to leap to one side of the bed, out of his view, taking the sheet with you to cover yourself.

Still, despite your best efforts, he’s not dumb. He knows what he just walked in on.

That was Y/N, naked on the bed. Her legs spread, head tossed back into the pillows.

...Okay.

Okay.

There is a moment where the two of you simply stare at each other, eyes fish-bowled, and in Usopp’s case, jaw dropped.

“I... You, uh, um...” There are about a hundred different thoughts running through his head at the moment, but none of them make their way to his mouth in a coherent sentence just yet. He suddenly has the mind to look away, his eyes darting to the right to instead focus on the first piece of furniture that came into his field of vision. “Y-You called?” he finishes lamely, his heart pounding out of his chest. The shaky grin on his face probably does not measure up at all to the air of charming bravado he had attempted for that sentence to have.

When you still don’t say anything, he gulps. The tension right now is insane. He’s surprised you haven’t thrown anything at him yet, because he definitely deserves it. He just barged in on you during a private moment, and he hasn’t even left yet.

Why the hell haven’t I left yet?! His mind backtracks in a panic, a choked sound forcing its way out from the back of his throat.

But he answers his own question soon enough when he recalls that his name was on your lips moments before his entrance. There are still so many questions, but the thought of it gives himself a little twinge of confidence. After a deep breath, he tears his eyes away from the dresser and back you. Well, you’re now completely hidden by the bed, assumedly crouched somewhere behind it.

“Y/N?” He tries. “S-Sorry for barging in like that, I just... I, uh, it’s just that I heard my name, and–”

He’s interrupted by quite a miserable-sounding groan, and he actually flinches at the sound of it. But your voice, small and clearly filled with shame, follows it: “I’m so sorry.”

Well, that’s not what he expected you to say at all.

“...Sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Because I was...! You know what I was doing!” He doesn’t have to see you to know that your cheeks are flushed, your fingers twiddling with one another in front of you. He’s seen it in so many other contexts, always thought it was charming. “And now I just ruined our friendship. So I’m sorry. You can go now.”

Hearing verbal confirmation of it sparks a fire in his belly, and he feels blood rush to his cheeks. Well, also his groin, but that can be ignored for now, because he’s got another concern. “You didn’t ruin anything, Y/N.”

You don’t reply, so he takes a few tentative steps towards the bed and sits with his back to you. “I...” Jeez. He pretty much knows how you feel about him at this point, so why is it still so hard for him to say? Feeling incredibly awkward, he runs his hands down his face, urging himself to overcome his embarrassment. “For the longest time, I... I’ve liked you. A lot. Like, more than a friend.”

He thinks he just barely hears a gasp from your side of the bed.

“So, I... I mean, if it was my name you were calling, then... I don’t want to go. If you want me to s-stay, then I’d be happy to.” He gulps, waiting for your response.

“What happens if you stay?”

Well. He really hasn’t thought that far ahead. “Whatever you want,” he blurts out, then immediately cringes at how breathless his voice was. They haven’t even done anything and she’s somehow gotten him this flustered.

He startles only slightly when he hears movement from the other side of the bed. “Y-Y/N?”

He stands when he sees you approaching in his periphery. The sheets are still wound around you but by now seem to be properly tucked, although your hands are still lightly gripping the top so as to keep it from falling. You’re looking at your feet, but shortly later, your hands wring and you seem to gather the courage to raise your head. 

Your gaze is unsteady but hopeful, flicking about but still eventually returning to lock with his. Still, despite the slight flightiness, in your eyes, Usopp finds something affirmative. 

And so he takes the two steps that close the distance between you; he fixes his hands at your waist, rubbing back and forth with one of his thumbs. As he leans in, every glance you two share seems to ask, Is this okay? and each time, even smaller changes of your expression seem to signal, Yes, keep going.

When he kisses you, it’s soft and short.

But the second is more insistent, more lasting, and each one from there is increasingly so. His hands at your waist pull in you closer until you’re flush against him, and your mouth opens for him just as easily. After a moment for breath, his tongue explores your mouth, and your hands leave the sheets to instead tangle in his hair.

His nose against the side of your face pokes at your ear, and although the giggle doesn’t make its way out of you, you can’t help the smile that forms on your face. He matches it, and the kiss is briefly all teeth. “Could you close the door?” you murmur, beginning to pull away.

“No one else is on the ship,” he protests, beginning to tug you back again; you have to resist him before he can distract you with another kiss.

“That’s what I thought a few minutes ago,” you say, fixing him with a pout, “and look what happened to me.”

Usopp lets out a laugh at that, finally letting go of you to do what you asked. “Think I should lock it just in case?” He does so at your nod, then hurries back to you, carefully guiding you to lie back against the pillows on the bed. At this point, the sheet is tangled around you like a fishnet, and he doesn’t want to trip you over by mistake.

But once he’s leaned over you, nude underneath that thin white sheet, you both pause.

“W...What now?” he prompts. He doesn’t want to rush you and make you too uncomfortable, but he also has the feeling that if he doesn’t get the ball rolling, you’ll be staring at each other, fully covered, for ages.

Your eyes flicker away from his. After a moment, your fingers curl around part of his wrist, a tentative, gentle touch; while your other hand fists itself in the sheets, seemingly caught between pulling it lower and pulling it higher. Though subtle, the backtracking movement doesn’t escape the sniper’s notice. 

“Y-You first?” you ask.

Usopp nods, perhaps a bit sharply, but he goes through with her request. He isn’t wearing very much to begin with– a simple open button-down, sandals, and sweatpants– but each movement feels to take much longer than it should.

He pauses when he’s down to his boxers, looking to you again for... he doesn’t really know what. But it feels like reassurance when you glance up at him, eyes half-lidded and dark, so he strips the rest of the way and tosses his underwear onto the floor with the rest of his clothes.

Usopp is self-conscious for a moment, but this is the body he’s trained so rigorously for two years, and his worry at your scrutiny is quickly converted into pride at the fruits of his efforts.

He notices your hands fiddling with the sheets, not yet drawing them down, but questioning.

"Is- Is it okay if I...?”

“Yeah!” He answers perhaps a tad too loudly, a tad too quickly, a tad higher-pitched than he normally would. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, uh, whenever you’re ready. Of course.”

It’s about three seconds after his nervous blathering that the corner of your lip twitches and the two of you burst into laughter.

“Your face...” you just barely make out between laughs. He has no clue what his expression was like, except that he must’ve been shaky-eyed and tense as all hell.

“Sorry,” Usopp says once he’s mostly sobered, though some of the remnants of his laughter still manage to slip out. “Sorry. I guess I’m kinda nervous.”

“You don’t have to apologize...” You give him an embarrassed smile, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. “I’m... pretty nervous too.”

“We’re in this together, then, huh?”

“Well, yeah.” Your eyes snap down to your bare body, then back to his. Obviously.”

You get another laugh out of him with that remark, and it helps calm your pounding heart. The giggle fit from earlier had already broken the odd tension that had existed in the room since Usopp’s well-timed entrance, but the knowledge that he’s just as wound up as you are helps put you at ease.

Feeling slightly emboldened, you take one deep breath before attempting to unfurl the white sheets from your body.

Keyword: attempting. Because it doesn’t come loose very easily.

Usopp very obviously snickers once he sees you squirming in this cocoon of yours, then immediately hopes the sound doesn’t offend you– he’s laughing with you, not at you. He’s laughing because he’s nervous, he’s laughing because he’s still sort of in disbelief that this is happening at all. And he really can’t help smiling at the very least, because god you’re so cute how are you allowed to be this cute–

While that train of through runs his course, he busies himself with helping you untangle. Once you’re finally free, he bundles the sheet at the edge of the bed, and when he looks back to you...

He had been sporting a halfie for a good while now, but as his eyes roam the curves of your body, the anticipation of what’s to come is enough to bring him nearly to full mast.

His cock twitches when he realizes that your gaze has been fixed on his member as it grew substantially. Well. That’s sort of embarrassing, but what can he do. He’s excited for this, and he can’t really be upset that his body is letting you know he feels that way.

You look up to him as he puts his weight onto his elbows, and as he leans in for a kiss, you respond to him with gusto. You let out a soft sigh at the feeling of one of his hands roaming upwards from your waist, gentle as it cups at the swell of your breast, slow and tentative before his fingers pinch at the nipple. The kiss is shortly broken by your gasp, and the sound of it surprises him, but he immediately seeks it out again as he rolls the hardening nub between his fingers.

His efforts are rewarded, but he’s surprised even more by the brush of your hand against his dick, a moan escaping his throat as you palm its girth and slowly drag your hand towards the tip. At your pause, Usopp pushes his hips forward, pumping into the curve of your hand. He kisses at your jawline before continuing with his thrusts, his heaving breaths hot by your ear as he does. You tighten your grip slightly, twisting your wrist to help with the friction, and both Usopp’s breath and hips stutter at the sensation. His slowing allows you to take the reins, and in the moments following he treats you to moans even louder than the one previous as you continue to jack him off.

Your wrist eventually begins to tire, so you take a moment to encircle the tip of his cock with your thumb, spreading the pre-cum that’s now beginning to bead out from it. He nuzzles into your neck, groaning and biting down at your skin, the suddenness of it eliciting light a moan from you as well.

You’re just barely able to see it when his trembling hand reaches under himself to begin massaging his balls. “D-Don’t stop,” he pants, “don’t stop.”

And so you resume the motions of your hand, alternating between pumping his shaft and circling the tip– and he shakes over you, you can see it in the arm holding up his weight– his hips occasionally buck into your hand and then still afterward, as if unsure whether to chase the end or simply allow it find him– his body is all tense, sharp lines, and you think he’s close, so, so close–

Usopp seems to think so as well, though; and he apparently doesn’t want to finish just yet, because he places a hand at your wrist to still you and leans back on his heels. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat, and his cock is twitching between his legs. He pushes a curly lock of his hair back over his shoulder, as somewhere along the line it had escaped from the tie at the back of his head.

Pulling himself back from the edge has left his body taut and fidgety, and he needs a little bit of time to recover, lest he blows his load the very next time you touch him. The thought incites a huff of laughter, quick and out through his nose, as he places a hand on your knee. He doesn’t know what for, but the contact is nice.

He can’t help but blush when he notices his pre is smeared across your stomach, translucent and shiny under the ceiling lights. The sight of it is beautifully erotic, and while his member is aching for more friction, he opts to pay you some attention instead.

The hand at your knee pushes outwards, gently coaxing you to spread your legs farther apart. The look on your face is bashful but not unwilling, and at his concerned gaze, you offer him a nervous smile. Usopp returns it as his hand trails toward your slick entrance, pausing at the junction between your thigh and your pelvis. “This okay?” he asks. Perhaps needlessly, judging by the quick nodding of your head, but he likes having the confirmation from you.

You let out a sigh when his fingers finally reach their destination, his ring and middle fingers stroking between your folds, already wet and ready for him. Your hips buck up to meet his hand when it passes over your clit, and he indulges you almost immediately, using the pads of his fingertips to rub it in tight circles. You bite your lower lip to help stifle the loud groan that nearly escapes and toss your head back into the pillows, your legs crossing at the base of his spine. He allows you to revel in it a few moments longer, listening intently to the sound of your whiny gasps, before his fingers slide back down towards your core; and from there it’s but a light press of his middle finger before it’s slipped inside you.

He begins pumping slowly at first, watching your expression carefully for any discomfort– when he finds none, he ups the ante a little. Usopp is gentle but generous, picking up the pace once he sees that you want it by the rocking of your hips and the pleasure in your expression.

When you feel the nudge of a second finger, you plant your feet back onto the bed and your hips rise to meet it, to guide it inside and out again– except he pauses.

Your eyes flutter back open to see Usopp grinning at you, waggling his eyebrows. “Eager, huh?”

You’re able to share a laugh with him, but you’re sure that you must be flushing red at his remark, so you can’t help but bring your hands to your face.

“Aw, no, don’t get embarrassed,” he says apologetically, though there’s still humor in his voice. His free hand tugs at one of your wrists. “I liked it a lot! Really!” His honesty flusters you even more, but you let him nudge your hands away. “Hey, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, just...” Sort of embarrassed and caught off guard by it. 

If you’re pouting, he doesn’t point it out, but you think he gets it. He gives you an easy-going smile, the same one he's been showing you for ages now– patient, happy, and kind. The one that you now realize has probably spoken to his feelings for you more loudly than you’d understood even yesterday.

He leans closer to you, kissing you rather chastely before he begins moving his fingers once again. He crooks them now and then, pressing against your walls experimentally before he finds the spot he was looking for.

“Oh, yes, right there...” you whine, one hand clutching at the pillow behind your head while the other runs up his chest to grasp at his shoulder. He smiles– a bit cocky, but he’s doing so well that you don’t see it fit to complain about it. He pays extra attention to that spot after each plunge of his fingers, and soon enough, you’re responding in kind with small noises of approval from high in your throat.

He leans towards you again and you welcome him with open arms, accepting his kiss and deepening it, even as you pant into his mouth out of pleasure.

“Usopp,” you exhale, one hand fisted in his hair while the other presses insistently into his back. “Usopp, please...”

“Tell me what you want,” he replies, though it comes out sounding more like a question. He thinks he knows what you’re asking for, but he doesn’t want to screw this up.

“I-I want you... inside,” you confess, your hips nudging up to meet his hand once again. Your request goes straight to his cock, and it twitches slightly at your added whimper of, “Please, Usopp.”

The request takes some of the breath out of him, and really doesn’t think he can form a proper sentence at the moment– he’s so turned on he can’t believe it– so he nods, pulling out so he can line himself up with your entrance.

He pauses to glance once more at you, wanting to make sure you’re ready– and at seeing the confirmation, he steadily pushes himself inside.

Both of you let out a moan, oddly in sync, and he leaves a few moments for the two of you to breathe. For you to get accustomed to the stretch if you need to, but also for himself to get accustomed to... everything. The wetness, the warmth, the slight movement of your walls around his member– he gulps, fixing his hips in place as he knows he should wait for your signal.

A brief squeeze of his arm does it, coupled with the insistent look in your eyes. Usopp slowly pulls his hips back, waiting until only the head is left before thrusting back in. Your sigh of pleasure sends another wave of arousal through him, and on his next thrust he watches your eyes flutter closed and your head tilt back further into the soft linen of the pillowcase. He returns to kissing at your now-open neck as he begins rolling his hips, pulling back and fucking into you a few inches at a time, reveling in the soft, breathy moans you’re letting out.

“Is that good?” he murmurs into your skin after a little while.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Yeah, so good...”

You can feel him smile into the crook of your neck– perhaps proudly, or simply relieved– and he lays one more kiss onto your collarbone before he pushes himself up so that his arms are fully extended and bracketing you on both sides.

His gaze on you, clearly roaming from your face to your body and back up, makes you slightly self-conscious, but you resist the urge to cover yourself.

"You look beautiful,” he suddenly blurts out, then blinks, like he hadn’t been expecting it. "That just slipped out, but it’s true,” he laughs, his cheeks going slightly pink.

With a smile on your face and cheeks to match his, you prop yourself up for a moment so you can kiss him again. It’s pretty sloppy, especially as he resumes his thrusts– your teeth clack against his at least once, and you nearly bite down on his lip once he starts to speed up. Instead, you fall back into the mattress, grabbing both your legs to spread them further and moaning at the repeated slap of his hips against yours. “Usopp, oh, yes...!”

His hand takes hold of your breast once again, rolling your nipple between his fingers just as he did earlier, before it trails down your abdomen towards your sex. You can feel the coil in your lower body becoming tighter and tighter, knowing that just a little more friction will take you a long way.

“Usopp, please–” Your thoughts and sentences are fragmented, but you hope he can get the idea by the touch of your hand at his wrist.

And thankfully, he does, because he presses the thumb of his free hand against your clit, inciting a loud moan from you. He rubs and pinches it sporadically, not always in time with his strokes– still, it manages to do the trick, and the pleasure builds until you feel the coil come loose. You cum with his name on your lips, your hands grasping at his wrists, legs curling around his waist. 

Usopp cants his hips so he can help you ride out your orgasm. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, head in a daze. The feeling of you tightening and shifting around his dick is almost too much. His breaths, now higher-pitched and shaky, draw out into a long moan, and he moves his hip in tight circles for a few moments before pulling out. From there, it’s only two tugs before he finishes, his cum spilling over your stomach.

You pull him toward you for a kiss, and though half out of breath, he meets you with vigor.

[theomachys]

rkweishin x

from ( x )

I.

jinhyuk walks wooseok to the bus stop after every practice.

it starts innocuously–as the trainee who’s been there the longest, welcoming the new kids becomes his thing, mostly because cheol doesn’t want to. and jinhyuk really doesn’t mind showing the newbies around, holding their hand (whether metaphorically or literally) through their first day at transform media. it’s scary, venturing out into the unknown. if he can help somehow, he’s happy to.

wooseok is hard to read, but jinhyuk thinks he must be nervous to be thrown into all of this without a warning. jinhyuk remembers feeling like he’d wandered into the deep end of the pool with no lifeguard present. but here, he is the lifeguard, and he’ll rescue trainees like wooseok from going under. so he lets wooseok stick close throughout the day, shares his mother’s homemade snacks during breaks, and waits with him until he finishes changing after practice. 

the sun’s long since set as they leave the building, and jinhyuk turns to wooseok with a frown. “d’you know your way home?” he asks, and wooseok jerks his head in a nod. 

“yeah.” he points in the opposite direction of where jinhyuk’s headed. “i have to catch the bus from there.” but wooseok doesn’t move, frozen in place as if held there by some unseen force. 

jinhyuk waits, then says eventually, “i’m going that way too. want to walk together?” 

“okay.” he thinks that it’s something akin to relief softening the corners of wooseok’s eyes. 

they chatter about a number of different things on their way there, and jinhyuk stays with wooseok until his bus arrives. once the bus is finally out of sight, he turns back around and begins the late-night trek to his train station. 

it becomes routine after that, and despite the aches and pains, jinhyuk doesn’t mind the doubled journey, because it gives him more time to spend with wooseok. 

(wooseok eventually figures it out. “you should’ve told me,” he says, faintly mortified, and jinhyuk just laughs and slings and arm over his shoulder. 

“you needed me to stay with you,” he says. “i was your lifeguard.” it was my choice. he’s never regretted it.) 

II.

they see the first frozen movie together.

it’s not a date, except it is, but jinhyuk is too young to call it that. it’s ‘friends hanging out’ instead, though cheol says, “if you want it to be a date, then make it a date” when jinhyuk asks him for advice. like it’s just that simple, that straightforward. jinhyuk wonders if these things just come easy to cheol. 

“isn’t that weird? we’re both boys.” and he feels like wooseok is easily spooked. hopefully not by him anymore, but uncertainty makes its home in jinhyuk’s chest, whispering that wooseok wouldn’t like it if–

“it’s only weird if you act like it’s weird.”

and maybe cheol has a point, but jinhyuk still can’t bring himself to say it. ‘it’s a date!’ even casually, even nonchalantly, might betray deeper feelings he doesn’t know how to deal with. so he sticks to ‘friends hanging out’, but it’s more. 

he dresses nicer than usual, pays for all the food, and slips his hand into wooseok’s in the darkened theatre when hans turns evil. wooseok doesn’t question it, doesn’t pull away, just gives jinhyuk’s hand a reassuring squeeze as if to say, hi and i’m here and i wouldn’t do that to you and this is a date. 

jinhyuk tries to explain it to cheol later, but can’t. some memories belong only to him.

(they see frozen 2 together as well. 

jinhyuk calls wooseok first, two tickets in hand. they’re the pretty ones, collectibles in their own right. he wonders if wooseok would give him his to keep if he asked. maybe it should be awkward, asking wooseok to do anything with him–they still haven’t returned to what they used to be, and perhaps they never will–but he blurts the invitation out before he can convince himself this a bad idea. wooseok agrees quickly.

“it’s a date,” jinhyuk says, and there’s a hitch of breath followed by a long pause on the other end of the line. “figure of speech,” he adds belatedly, resignedly. some risks aren’t worth taking anymore. 

“yeah,” wooseok exhales. “of course. see you then.”

wooseok pays him back for the ticket, and they buy snacks separately. jinhyuk’s hand twitches, but he keeps it glued to the armrest and never glances over, even when he can feel wooseok’s eyes on the side of his face.

it’s a date, except it’s not.)

III.

here is how jinhyuk realizes he’s in love with a boy he can’t have:

in the back room of a tv station, with a lukewarm cup of water in his hands, his manager bearing down on him with hissed advice about the questions the hosts are going to ask. “they’ll ask about your first love,” he says. “and just tell them it was someone in elementary school but you haven’t seen them since.” 

it’s a standard, safe answer for an idol. it feels wrong. jinhyuk knows that variety shows like this are mostly an opportunity to flex the carefully constructed background his company designed for him, but he doesn’t want to lie about this. “but i only met wooseok in middle school–” 

he stops, and his manager gives him a pointed look. “what does that have to do with anything?” he asks, and jinhyuk can’t answer.

it hits him then, and half the water in his cup spills onto the floor, onto his shoes. my first love was wooseok. and a second later, i’m still in love with wooseok. and it’s so goddamn clear, so obvious that jinhyuk cannot believe he didn’t see it before. maybe he did. maybe on some level, he’s always know, but–

his eyes burn with unshed tears, but all he wants is to laugh. jinhyuk gets the chance to do neither, because the assistants usher him on set for the taping not long after. he puts on a smile for the show, focuses on his reactions and on making people happy, on looking like the comedian he knows they want him to be. it’s his image. it’s a shield. it’s armor. it keeps him from having to think about wooseok’s shade and the confession on his own lips, a year too late.

the hosts ask the first love question eventually. jinhyuk takes a breath. “we met a while ago,” he says, deliberately ambiguous. “we were close for some time, and i really liked them. like, i couldn’t imagine not being with them, you know?” cheol pinches his knee in a silent warning. “but i basically got rejected before i could confess, so maybe i have some heartbreak-related trauma?” jinhyuk laughs and shakes his head.“we didn’t keep in touch after that,” he continues. “i doubt they even remember me.” 

(”real subtle,” cheol says later, acidic. “like we don’t know you were talking about wooseok. like wooseok doesn’t know you were talking about him.

jinhyuk shrugs. “i doubt he watches.” he didn’t really lie. wooseok probably doesn’t remember him.)

IV.

he sees wooseok once from a distance, in those three years they spend apart. 

it’s on the train. spect8 is suspended in limbo these days, and jinhyuk is astute enough to recognize the hiatus for the death sentence it is. he picks up a part-time job at a chicken place, and what hurts is that no one recognizes him enough even to mock him for working a menial job when he should be–hell, he doesn’t know. he should be a star. they promised him he would be a star.

he usually logs into the fancafe during his commute to leave messages for their fans and read the ones they’ve left for the members. but the membership numbers have been declining along with the messages themselves, and some days jinhyuk feels like he’s yelling into the void. it’s a quiet day when he looks up, defeated, and spots him.

wooseok, with his glasses on, looking down at something on his phone. he’s wearing a black sweater that looks too big for him, and his hair is soft and floppy. he sways in place with the motion of the train, but doesn’t seem in danger of falling or hurting himself. 

and there’s a hollow place in jinhyuk’s chest that aches at the sight, that wants to push his way through the crowd and come to a stop in front of wooseok and say, hi, it’s me, i miss you–

but seungwoo is behind him. he taps wooseok on the shoulder and says something. wooseok replies without looking away from his phone, then sighs and puts it away when seungwoo persists. the corners of his mouth tug up in a small, private smile.

jinhyuk almost calls out, then doesn’t. 

(sometimes, he writes in the fancafe later, i remember that i’m not all that brave.)

V.

years and years after, jinhyuk writes wooseok a letter.

five pages, single-sided, a messy stream of consciousness. jinhyuk’s never had a way with words, really, but they spill out of him in a frenzy, desperate to escape. 

he starts page one with, you probably guessed this a long time ago, but i used to be in love with you. 

i don’t know if i ever really got over you, he admits on page two. but i need to.

page three is introspective. no one will write any stories about us. people crave a happy ending, some closure. we never found ours. was it coincidence or by design? maybe closure meant letting you go and i was scared. loving you alone was better than not loving you at all, because i don’t know how not to be in love with you. 

this is so fucked up, he writes on page four. i don’t think things were meant to turn out this way. in an ideal world, maybe i would have… maybe you would have… you ever think the universe fights for some people to be together, but they screw it up? their one chance? their one shot? 

on page five, he scribbles, i don’t regret loving you. however we ended–i don’t regret that. i don’t regret you. 

i’m going to be happy, is what jinhyuk ends the letter with. i hope you are too.

(he almost sends it. then doesn’t. then does and never asks if wooseok received it. for his part, wooseok never brings it up, and this, then, is their closure.)

[whump-goes-the-weasel]

“I have something I need you to do, Rose.”

It wasn’t the request that made Rose anxious—it was the ambiguity. She was used to being asked to “retrieve this, listen in on that, find something or other, confront so and so.” Always to the point. Naturally, Marshall couldn’t—or at least, he wouldn’t—tell her every detail; secrets don’t stay secrets for very long, he would say. But “something I need you to do” could’ve been anything.

It occurred to her that she didn’t have to say yes. Marshall was a lot of things, but easily angered wasn’t one of them. The two of them had been good friends; whatever they were now, it was at least alright. She could reason with him. Talk to him. Or at least try. There were options.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You know I consider my words carefully. If I wanted to tell you, I would have.”

Marshall had stuck the point of a dagger into the wood of the table, and was slowly making it turn in his hand. So frail for someone so young. Rose wasn’t always fully aware of just how ill he was until something like this made it obvious. She sat down across from him, because of course she would, of course things would go exactly as they had gone before. Marshall would have something to do that he couldn’t—or at least, wouldn’t—do himself. She’d go and do it for him, because... because they were friends. Or had been friends. And because he needed her.

“Alright.” She hesitated, her jaw tense. “But we need to— can we at least discuss—”

“The magic? It’s a moot point, Rose. You and I know the reason you’re still here.”

Because I didn’t have a choice.

“Because you chose to stay, time and time again. You cared, Rose.” He sighed. “It feels like everyone has it in for me sometimes. This is the only way I can trust you. I shouldn’t have to say it again.”

Rose stared at the pockmarked table and pressed her knuckles into its surface. “How urgent is this? Should I be leaving now?”

“If now works,” he said with a grin.

She looked up and met Marshall’s eyes. That was all it took for the spell to hit, and it hit fast—a sinking feeling in her body, a floating feeling in her head. And then the sudden shock of what felt like a door being slammed shut between the two. The tensions in her chest unraveled all at once.

Her body got up from the chair and took the dagger as Marshall handed it to her. 

“Just in case you need it,” he said.

She felt the hilt in her hand, but the sensation was distant, not attached to the rest of her.

The dagger slid into a sheath at her hip. No other words were spoken as she walked out the door.

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

It never stopped being strange to Rose, the feeling of someone else taking control. There was nothing inside her for her to reach out to; even her eyes wouldn’t blink if Marshall didn’t make them. The level of focus he must have had was beyond impressive, even now.

It should have worried her, she knew that. But there was some kind of rush to it, some blend of comfort and excitement in her at getting to watch it all. She didn’t know where it came from. Maybe it was the spell turning certain gears in her head, but right now she didn’t care. It was so much easier, felt so much better, to go along. To not fight it. To—she hated the word, but it was accurate—obey.

Obey. It didn’t sound so bad, did it? Not now, at least.

In truth, this was why she had never said no to him. And she didn’t have the heart to say it to Marshall, but he must have been well aware of it.

The streets moved past her inconsequentially, like a blur. It didn’t matter where she was going. She would find out when she got there. 

Only once her hands gripped onto a stone wall and she began to climb did she start paying a bit of attention. Marshall liked finding shortcuts, and he would often pursue them with only a minimal regard for Rose’s well-being. Only at a time like this would she ever climb so quickly, jump so recklessly down to the other side. That was part of the fun, she supposed. She must have scraped a knee; she felt the pain like the soft glow of a covered lantern. But no time to check. Back to the retreat of her own mind. She kept walking. 

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

It was humble, the house that Rose arrived at. She wondered what she might need to do at a place like this. Her hand knocked on the door, and a slightly disheveled-looking man opened it.

“Benjamin?”

"Do I know you?” the man—Benjamin—said.

“Marshall sent me,” she said, walking past the threshold.

Benjamin squinted his eyes. “This isn’t another one of his games, is it? I don’t care what message he has. Go and tell him—”

Rose’s hand gripped the dagger and pulled it from its sheath.

Wait.

Benjamin backed away from her, his eyes locked on the blade. “You must have misunderstood.”

“I doubt it.”

This can’t be what I think it is.

"I never meant any harm to Marshall.” It was clear the man was trying to stay calm, though a quiver in his voice gave his fear away. “If you could just—”

Rose cut him off, pinning him to the wall with one hand, holding the dagger to his neck with the other.

He sent me to kill him?!

No. Not this. 

She fought to pull her arm away, reached for any sense that it was her own. All it did was make her hesitate. Benjamin sent his knee towards her stomach and dashed upstairs as she fell; the dull pain set off a few lucid sparks. She got back up faster than she would’ve liked, grabbed the man’s wrist, kicked the back of his knee, took his shoulder and turned him to face her.

No, Marshall. I’m not going to do it. Her skin crawled. 

But you are, aren’t you?

Marshall couldn’t hear her. Or at least, he didn’t listen. She knew that.

She put the dagger back at Benjamin’s throat. And it felt right.

No...

“Y- you had your chance.” The words struggled to leave Rose. Her jaw tensed, her eyebrows furrowed. She only noticed this once Benjamin’s expression changed, became startled. “You’re not... he’s got you, doesn’t he?”

That did it. 

A cut across his neck and a jab into his stomach later, Rose sheathed the dagger and ran.

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

She payed attention to nothing. This was how it was supposed to be; Rose staying curled up inside her head with nothing to worry about while Marshall did what he needed to do. That was how she avoided knowing awful things like this; that was the way to keep everything feeling good and right and in its place.

She hadn’t... done this before, had she? Killed someone?

No. She never had. This was Marshall’s doing. Not hers. Not her fault. There was nothing she could have done—this both comforted and frightened her.

She let herself sink back. Let the gears turn. Somehow she always managed to forget it was better that way.

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

Her body arrived at the door and opened it. Marshall was still at the table, eyes closed, forehead resting in his hand.

“You’re back,” he said, chuckling.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. You’re really going to taunt me with this? Now?

“Please... let, me...” The words barely made it out before her mouth closed shut, and the muscles around it clenched.

“It’s remarkable how much tension you can hold in that one spot,” he continued, and she felt her jaw relax.

She walked forward, then stumbled onto her knees as control began to seep back into her. Slowly, she moved her fingers, clenched a fist and opened it, steadily got back up.

It felt... off.

She’d adjust back to it soon enough. She always did.

[afootnotetoallthisnoise-blog]

on ‘lady bird’, ‘love, simon’, and teenagers’ relationships on film

(Plug: this new YouTuber is way better at analysing film/TV than I am.)

I just watched Lady Bird and Love, Simon on a flight to New York, and since both films are deeply preoccupied with teenagers’ platonic, romantic, and familial relationships, I wanted to look at what I thought was original and fresh about these films’ perspectives – and what was more derivative and inauthentic.

i. parent-child relationships: attention and complexity

Lady Bird is centred around the titular girl and her developing identity, relationships and aspirations through her final year of high school. Easily the deepest and most emotionally arresting aspect of Lady Bird is Christine’s, or ‘Lady Bird’s’, relationships with her family, particularly her mother, Marion. This film works hard to expand a turbulent mother-daughter relationship past the simple archetypes of ‘moody teenage daughter’ and ‘unreasonable bitch mother’, into a more complex, three-dimensional whole which incorporates both the faults and the humanity that both characters have. Not only are both characters viewed singly as well as in relation to each other – LB is not solely ‘Marion’s daughter’, Marion does not solely exist as ‘LB’s mother’ – the film moves past a simply summed-up conflict into a more complicated picture, where both LB and Marion are driven by desires, fears and anxieties they can’t completely articulate to themselves, but which drive conflict both through difference in perspective and through inability to communicate.

There are painful, powerful, intense moments in Lady Bird where LB and Marion are struggling to communicate, to reconcile their differing views and convey themselves properly. LB’s confused but intense desire to go to New York, a place where she believes she will experience things which constitute ‘life’, exists alongside Marion’s grief at LB’s ostensible rejection of the life she has worked to give her, and neither are made out to be ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. They love each other deeply, but they can’t articulate the fears, anxieties, and stubborn desires which complicate their relationship, so their silent moments of shared, intense emotion – like the audiobook at the beginning of the film – are coupled with frustrated moments of crosstalk, mutual misunderstanding, hurt, affront, and anger. LB, as a self-centred, self-discovering adolescent, often fails to think about how her actions and speech are affecting her family, whilst Marion’s worry and care about LB manifest in being overly critical – she seems completely incapable of speaking positively to LB, including a deeply painful moment where she refuses to compliment LB’s prom dress.

They both reminded me of real people I know, real pangs of discomfort I’ve felt hearing a family friend speak slightly disparagingly about her daughter’s university chances, or an old acquaintance roll his eyes at his parents’ careful efforts to help him. It felt so refreshing seeing that complexity get handled on film – often parents are just supplementary figureheads in their child’s story (or vice versa), and if the film is interested in the parent-child relationship, it rarely gets its teeth into the sheer nastiness which can come out in certain parent-child relationships. There are, of course, teenager-centric films which get into complex parent-child dynamics – the differing burdens of childhood illness on parents and children, like in The Fault in Our Stars; parents’ work intersecting with children’s feelings of neglect, like in Coraline; radical inability to communicate or understand, e.g. The Virgin Suicides – but that richness of both love and frustration on both sides is a rare thing to see.

Love, Simon isn’t aiming to be as deep on this matter as Lady Bird, but it still has its own insights. Mostly Simon’s family is pretty happy and saccharine, but when Simon comes out, I think Simon’s father’s reaction – garbling a joke, panicking, leaving, shutting down – showed excellent acting and direction: it did what most good acting does, which is to break down a dichotomy of response (here, between the coming-out reactions of ‘I love you and everything’s fine’ and ‘BEGONE FROM THE PREMISES, DEMON GAY’). That confused, choked response conveyed the rush of forces acting on Simon’s father: desire to defuse the tension, desire to support, desire to downplay the situation, confusion, shock, grief at the reality of change, grief at the loss of a presumed similarity, grief that he hadn’t realised sooner. I’m sure more realistic reactions like that have happened in films before, but I haven’t personally seen any, and I found it refreshing: it broke down the scripted feel of both overly saccharine and uniformly harsh reactions, both of which close the door to further growth and development in the parents’ reaction to their child’s queerness.

ii. romantic relationships: centrality, development

In Love, Simon, there are tropes present, but I liked how it approached some aspects of teenagers’ romantic relationships. The ambiguity about Blue’s identity meant that we got a different model for how relationships can develop, pertinent in an age where dating is conceptualised as mainly visual (think the structure of apps like Tinder) and connection is determined through in-person interaction, but where, conversely, deep, lasting relationships have developed without that visual focus since the advent of the internet (through MMORPGs like World of Warcraft, for instance). The bit at the end was cheesy, but that’s what they were going for, and it was so sweet to watch.

Most of the other romantic stuff was pretty run-of-the-mill – the couple who like each other but things keep getting in the way; the unrequited crush; etc – but there’s one other aspect I’d like to mention, which is how Simon’s falling-out with his friends is handled about 2/3 of the way through the film. A less nuanced film would just have Abby, Leah, and Nick getting pissed that Simon meddled in Abby and Nick’s relationship, without them understanding about Simon’s bind due to Martin’s blackmail. But what I liked was that both Abby and Leah acknowledge the pressure that the blackmail put on Simon, but they make clear that it doesn’t excuse his disrespect for both Abby (by treating her like a ‘piece of meat’ to be given to Martin in exchange for his own safety) and Leah (by sending her on a date with a man he thought she loved, knowing that he wasn’t interested in her). It’s not the tired ‘it’s all a misunderstanding, guys’ conflict: they understand what happened, but they still argue that Simon’s disrespect for their own romantic lives and autonomy wasn’t okay.

While Love, Simon is dually focused on Simon’s coming out and his budding relationship – though the two threads aren’t separate – LB’s relationships in Lady Bird are significant but aren’t the central focus of the movie, which I liked; while it makes sense for a romantic relationship to be central to Love, Simon, since it’s a sensible mode within which to discover something like queerness (which is intrinsically tied up with your relationships to other people), Lady Bird’s focus on self-discovery works better with the romantic relationships not being central, otherwise it would perpetuate the tired stereotype that a woman’s ‘coming of age’ has to be pretty-much-entirely experienced through falling in love with a man. (It being central is fine, but I don’t like the implications that somehow, teenage girls cannot Mature into Full Human Beings unless a dude and his dick shows up.) LB’s two relationships are with the too-perfect-guy and the douchebag-who-doesn’t-give-a-shit, neither of which provide really new perspectives on teenagers’ romantic relationships – neither character has much depth in the film, either – but I thought the sex scene and its aftermath was very well done: LB’s recognition that the performative significance she’d given her first sexual experience was different from the reality, and her recognition that the guy she’d slept with wasn’t worth the language she’d inherited for it, rang very true. (Also, the situation bore out some excellent humour. ‘I was on top! Who the hell is on top for their first time?!’)

iii. friendships: the status problem

I think Lady Bird is a great film, but the part I found the least inspiring was LB’s friendship arc. I’m pretty sick of this formula: protagonist is best friends with good, loyal, but low-status friend/s -> protagonist manages to get in with the popular kids and abandons their low-status friend/s -> protagonist realises popular kids are shallow assholes and they’ve made a horrible mistake -> protagonist apologetically returns to low status friend/s, there is a bit of anger and conflict, but eventually they all make nice. I’m sick of it because I feel like it doesn’t ring true.

Now, I have been through secondary school, recently though not overly so (I graduated from sixth form in 2015). I know that status is a thing in secondary school and that it exerts an influence. But I dislike this ubiquitous storyline which implies that a) every school conforms to a rigid hierarchy of popularity and that b) literally everyone gives a shit about improving their status. I found Love, Simon’s group of four much more authentic in this regard: ultimately, Simon’s group of four just enjoy each other’s company, rather than being rigidly grouped based on status or fitting a recognised ‘type’. Depicting popularity as being present but not all-encompassing seems to resonate more with how my school worked, where there were recognisable groups but a lot of boundary-blurring, and where different subcultures could - usually - peacefully coexist alongside each other.

Because it adheres closely to the student-social-climber model, the astounding depth of familial relationships and notable depth of romantic relationships in Lady Bird isn’t replicated in LB’s friendships. Not every character needs to be an incredibly complex seventeen-year-old (I’m fine with Kyle just being a bit of a bored poser), but I feel like the film either tried and failed to give Jenna depth or just agreed she wouldn’t have any, and I feel like it would have really served the story for LB to realise that the girl at the top of the totem pole actually had problems and internal conflict, despite her status and wealth. As it is, she just stays ‘bored rich chick’ from beginning to end. Julie isn’t given as much depth as she could be either – all her appearances just seem to reinforce ‘sweet nerd archetype’, and no attention is given to her own brief romantic relationship and romantic turmoil - though I don’t begrudge them the prom scene (it was very sweet).

Overall, I didn’t realise just how refreshing it would feel to see a group of friends who experience growth, development and conflict, but who also just really like getting iced coffee together! And the fact that it did highlights a problem with friendship stereotypes in high school movies.

[sunyoonandstars]

Rivers In Our Hearts || series || Jungkook AU || Chapter 1

There are rivers in our hearts. They flow constantly, overcoming any obstacles. Eventually, certainly, finding their destination. Taking us just where we need to be.

Two brothers. Perfectly alike on the surface, fundamentally different, however, once you catch a glimpse of what’s hidden behind the façade. One of them captured your heart, but the other one kept it. Until a fateful event leaves the table’s turned …

¿ Jungkook x You ?

!slow burn!

college AU, identical twin brother AU, artsy ‘rebel’/’black sheep’/street performer Jungkook AU 

angst, fluff, future smut, mentions of/dealing with death

word count 4.138

This is Chapter 1 of a series set in an alternative universe in which Jungkook was born with an identical twin brother, based on a request made by the lovely @thedawnsky 💜 Thank you for inspiring me. 😌

„I will never forget the look in your eyes when you realized it was me who had survived and not him. The utter disappointment and heart-wrenching agony. For a second there you hated me, y/n, you truly did. Just admit it. I already know I’m right.“

You had always been so sure of your love for him. For Jeon Jungwook. One of two who used to come only as a pair, inseparable, until you made your way into their lives. Somehow, for reasons unknown to you back then, the identical twin brothers had started drifting apart from that point onward. They’d spend less and less time together, at least whenever you were around. What happened to be the case almost constantly, since Jungwook barely ever let you leave his side. And you gladly complied. 

Jungkook, on the other hand, his ‚rebellious‘ twin brother, the bad seed, the family’s black sheep, did his best to avoid you. Whenever you’d enter the room, he’d leave the house. Whenever you’d come into sight, he’d turn on his heel and practically run the other way. Never meeting your eye. Never responding to your greetings. Never showing any interest in you whatsoever. 

Or so you had believed. 

Now, as you lie in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall against yours with every breath he takes, the heat of Jungkook’s body close to yours running through your very veins, and the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat vibrating under your bare skin, you know you were mistaken. 

You’d fallen for the wrong twin, to begin with. Or rather you thought you had. Sometimes, life is twisted. And people are not who you think or who they want you to believe they are. There is a dark side to every all too shiny medal. One just has to take a closer look. But you never did. You had no reason to believe your love was a lie. No reason to doubt it or him. Jungwook, your perfect angel. The one you’d deemed the love of your life. 

Now you know better. 

Now you know.

TWO YEARS AGO

„Excuse me? I think you dropped something.”

Startled, you spun around in place, almost hitting the dazzlingly handsome stranger who’d just gently tapped your shoulder with your bag sent flying by the sudden movement. He shirked from the wildly swinging object in the very nick of time, as it seemed effortlessly making use of quick, cat-like reflexes.

„What?“, you asked, a little too loudly, feeling a burning hot blush stain your cheeks as you quickly pulled out your earphones. „I’m sorry, did you talk to me?“ 

„Yeah, I kinda did“, he chuckled, smiling the most endearing smile which strangely reminded you of a fluffy baby bunny, although the rest of his physique did not quite match that image. 

The stranger before you had a dominant, manly chin, broad, muscular shoulders and strong, well-conditioned arms, their toned outline even showing through his tight black leather jacket. His hair and eyes were of a rich, deep dark brown and his skin was the warm color of creamy caramel. Moreover, there undeniably was something obscure, enticingly ambiguous stirring underneath that sweet grin of his. It pulled you in instantly.

„You dropped your pen“, he explained. „I called after you but you obviously were … someplace else.“

He gestured towards your headphones. 

„Oh, yeah. Sorry. I kind of do that on purpose“, you involuntarily admitted to this perfect stranger, not even knowing why. He seemed to have that kind of effect on you, to virtually pull the words from your lips as if you had no choice but to give them to him. 

„Do what?“, he inquired, eyes wide, showing what you believed to be sincere interest. 

„Tune out the world. Drown out the people and voices with music. It’s the only way to survive this madness. Well, it is for me at least.“

„All right“, he nodded, eyes wide, brows raised, an amused smile playing on his lips. „So, I gather you really like music, huh?“

You swallowed hard, feeling your body tense up. It was about time to end this conversation before you would give away too much.

„Well, yeah. I guess“, you stuttered, lowering your gaze to avoid the sharp one originating from the stranger's vibrant brown orbs. 

„Wow, that’s a … sudden shift in tone“, he acknowledged, slightly tilting his head. „Just seconds ago you sounded so … convinced. And now you just … ‚guess‘? All right, then.“

He shrugged, mischief twinkling in his eyes. 

„I mean, I may have slightly understated my love for music“, you hesitantly admitted, cheeks hot, again clueless as to why your lips kept moving without your consent. „It’s actually like a drug to me. I really can’t live without it.“

„Well, then we have something in common, I guess“, he concluded, gently nudging your shoulder, almost as if you were already close friends instead of complete strangers. „Maybe you can show me some of the stuff you’re listening to next time.“

With those words, he waved you goodbye and turned to go, just like that.  

„Sorry, gotta get to my lecture“, he merely called back over his shoulder, face alight with a dazzling smile. „See you ‘round, Headphones.”

And so he left you, flustered, clutching the pen that had started it all, standing by yourself in the middle of the bustling hallway of the university’s main building, wondering what the hell had just happened. And why it was that this charismatic stranger just wouldn’t leave your thoughts, his mental image lingering in the back of your mind all through the remaining day, going on to haunt your dreams the following nights. 

Days passed and turned into weeks of you, both eagerly and subconsciously, keeping an eye out for this mysterious, leather-clad stranger who had missed to tell you his name, leaving you with absolutely no information helpful in finding him. You had almost given up hope to ever come across him again when you unexpectedly happened to bump into him in the university’s cafeteria of all places.

„The chances …“, you greeted him, shaking your head, unable to keep yourself from smiling at the sight of his face which had become so familiar to you by now since you had taken great pains to memorize every last detail of it. 

„Excuse me?“, he raised a brow at you in evident confusion, his expression remarkably more serious than last time and something about him … different.

You couldn’t quite point your finger at what it was, still, something seemed off. The leather jacket was missing. In its stead, he was wearing a light blue jumper and a grey college jacket. Also, his features were a tad harder, more earnest, and his aura had a different vibe to it. Yet, it was definitely him, beyond all doubt, from his softly curved nose via his intense, dark eyes through to his blackish-brown bowl cut and his rosy lips with their distinctive, double-arched form now stretching into his signature bunny smile. 

„The chances of what?“, he asked.

You had to clear your throat before you managed to reply, blushing under his glance. 

„Of meeting you again, and here of all places. I rarely ever frequent the cafeteria. The food’s not exactly gourmet, to be honest, and I have a picky stomach.“

„Good to know …“, he muttered, awkwardly stretching the last word, faintly tilting his head to the right exactly like he did last time, a gesture hardly noticeable, however, eradicating the very last doubt you had harbored regarding his identity. 

„But … who are you again?“

„Headphones. Remember?“ 

„Headphones?“

„Yeah, Headphones. You called me that yourself. A couple weeks ago. You picked up my pen. We talked about music“, you stammered, beginning to regret ever having stricken up this increasingly embarrassing conversation in the first place. 

„Nah, don’t mind me, it doesn’t matter anyway“, you eventually decided to end it before it could get even more pathetic. „Of course, you forgot. Stupid of me to think otherwise. This university is huge. So many faces. And I’m not even that special.“

Yah, get a hold of yourself and stop blabbing y/n! You’re making a fool of yourself! Retain at least some of your dignity.

By now, the first of your fellow students had started gaping, whispering. 

Awkward …

Your hands were clenched so tightly around the edges of your tray that your knuckles shone white through the skin as you finally decided to turn your back on him and beat retreat before things could get any more embarrassing - which was really the only tenable option at this point. After having given him one last apologetic smile you turned on your heel, shoulders slouched, hiding your reddened face behind a curtain of hair to shield it from curious glances as you quickly departed. 

„No, no. I remember! I do!“, the stranger suddenly called out, so enthusiastically heads were being turned, his clear voice loudly ringing out across the cafeteria leading you to stop cold in your step and freeze in place. Dumbfounded, you slowly turned around to face him once again, his brilliant eyes now glistening with the excitement of realization. 

„Headphones“, he nodded, swiftly headed towards you. „Of course. Of course, I remember you. How could I ever forget?“

Although you inwardly cringed at his uninspired pick-up line, you couldn’t help but reciprocate his beaming smile when he now extended a hand to you, effortlessly holding his tray with only the other one. Timidly following suit, you shook his stretched-out hand with your right one. His palm was smooth and warm and did, contrary to your expectations, not have the usual, repellant dampness to it that most stranger’s palms oddly do. His handclasp was strong, exuding unassuming confidence just like his entire appearance did. 

„Jeon Jungwook is my name“, he introduced himself, bowing his head politely so that strands of his silky brown bangs fell into his eyes, stray wisps coming to a rest on his long, dark lashes. „And what may I call you, other than ... Headphones?“ 

„Y/n. You can call me y/n“, you responded, avoiding his vivid gaze. 

„Well, nice to officially meet you, y/n.“ Jungwook gave you an inscrutable side glance while the two of you walked alongside one another, making towards an empty table. His grin broadened even further the longer he watched you, his eyes turning into sparkling crescents. „Nice it is indeed.“

You spent the rest of your lunch break in animated conversation, talking about anything and everything. The two of you clicked instantly. Not only were you enraptured by Jungwook’s twinkling eyes and radiant smile, but also his sharp intellect and the endearing coyness which at times pierced through the air of confidence he seemed to try so hard to uphold. 

Apparently, Jungwook was a premedical student, aspiring to become a neurosurgeon, having chosen this career path due to his mother’s untimely death of an, as the surgeons claimed at that time, inoperable cerebral aneurysm. You couldn’t help but admire his inspired determination and the courage to open up about such a traumatic childhood experience to you, a perfect stranger. 

Before parting ways, he proposed another meeting, preferably off campus, to have dinner and drinks together. 

„So it’s a date then?“, you joked, throwing back your head in embarrassed laughter. 

„Yes, of course“, Jungwook simply replied, utterly earnest and apparently confused as to why you wouldn’t take him seriously. „I want to see you again, y/n. I haven’t had such a pleasant lunch in … well, ever since I started attending this university.“

„All right, then“, you scoffed, taken aback by his suave directness. 

„Here“, he held out his hand, waggling it impatiently. 

„Give me your phone“, Jungwook then demanded, an ambiguous half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, not reaching his eyes. „I want to enter my number, so you can reach me.“

„Oh. Oh, of course“, you mumbled, shaking your head at your own slow-wittedness. „Here you go.“ 

A prickly heat slowly crept up your neck again to settle on your, once more, quickly reddening cheeks as you watched Jungwook’s long fingers artfully dance across the touchscreen of your device. Yes. Indeed. Those slender, wiry hands were those of a surgeon. You couldn’t help but stare at them. Never before had you been this captivated by the mere sight of a man’s hands at work. You wondered what else they would be capable of. 

„Good. That’s it. I’ve taken the liberty of adding myself on your social media accounts, as well. So you’ll have no excuse to miss our appointment. I’m gonna have an eye on you, y/n.“ 

His last words were accompanied by a roguish wink. Nonetheless, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he actually meant them, unsure if you should be flattered or rather put off. 

„Okay ... See you Friday night then“, you nodded before you turned to go, your head full of conflicting thoughts, your heart pounding with mixed emotions, but most of all excitement. Because you felt as if a new light had just entered your life.

The following few days flew by in expectation of your next meeting. Just like after your first encounter, Jungwook did not leave your mind. His laughter lines and enchanting eyes kept smiling at you whenever your mind started wandering and your glance drifted upwards to get lost in the clouds. 

Almost too soon, Friday night was there. You had forgotten the time while studying in the library, so you hurried to the restaurant where you were supposed to meet Jungwook without freshening up beforehand, wearing the casual outfit you had thoughtlessly thrown together that morning, cursing yourself for not having taken the time to prepare for this date you’d been looking forward too so much, with a guy you didn’t even deserve, and of whom you could still not believe he was actually interested in you.

„Shit!“, you’d swear after checking your phone once again. 

Only ten minutes left. If you would run now, you would probably be able to get there in time. So you started running, darting across the deserted campus in the dark of this winter night, the cold air burning in your lungs and stinging in your eyes, leading them to tear up. You’d be a mess when you arrived there, but at least you would be punctual. Kind of. 

A sudden movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention. More or less subconsciously, you decreased your pace to get a better look at the hooded figure clothed in all-black. Judging by the broad shoulders and muscular build, it was definitely a man. And something about him, about those arms and his movements, most of all that leather jacket of his, seemed strangely familiar. So you stopped and stepped up to him, only now becoming aware of what the man was doing. And that was covering the east wall of the university’s main building in elaborate graffiti.  

„Hey!“, you called out. „What the hell do you think you’re doing?“

Alarmed, the figure paused, apparently paralyzed by shock. 

„I mean, I like your style and all“, you continued while cautiously moving in even closer to hopefully catch a glimpse of the talented vandals face. „But this is still illegal. If you’re a student here and you get caught, you’re most definitely gonna be expelled. Are you sure that it’s worth the —“ 

As soon as you recognized the graffiti artist’s unmistakable eyes, the rest of his features being covered by a black mouth mask, the remaining sentence got stuck in your throat. 

„Jungwook? I thought we had a dinner engagement? Were you planning on standing me up? And on ruining your academic career in the process?“

Brows furrowed, a distinctive crease forming between them, Jungwook pulled down his mask, tilting his head questioningly. 

„What?“

„Our date, remember?“ 

„Date?“, he echoed, taking off his hood. „What date?“ 

„Are you kidding me right now?“

You tried to laugh it off but couldn’t deny the anxiety building up in your chest. „I’m afraid not“, he muttered, Jungwook’s posture easing instantaneously now that he realized he was, in all likelihood, not going to get in any trouble since it was only you who had caught him. 

„I was actually looking for you, Headphones.“

„Very funny.“

„What? I thought we were gonna trade tunes? I took that arrangement pretty seriously, made a mixtape and all.“ 

You couldn’t even tell if he was being serious or not. His eyes, at least, were gleaming with mischief.

„Well, last time you seemed to have forgotten all about it.“

„Last time?“, Jungwook repeated. His bewilderment was apparently growing by the second, in accordance with yours, and that bright bunny smile of his slowly but surely faded. 

„When we talked last time“, you explained.

„Well, back then I was kinda pressed for time. So ...“ 

„But —“

„But what?“ 

You took a step back, perturbed by his evident, or rather feigned, ignorance. „What kind of sick game are you playing here? Do you really not remember? Or are you just trying to make a fool of me? Do you think this is funny?“ 

„I — What? Why? Why would I be playing games with you? I’m not —“

„Never mind“, you cut him off. „I don’t need this. Have a nice night.“ 

„Yah! Wait! Headphones! Don’t leave! Let me explain!“, he shouted after you, his rich voice echoing across the desolated university grounds. „Headphones!“ 

But you were in no state to talk right now, feeling pathetic, frustrated, hurt. Because, for once, you had actually dared to believe that something good could happen to you, that there were still decent men out there, only to be disappointed anew. Naturally. 

This had been the last time, the last chance you had given your non-existent love life. 

„No more dating until you’re done studying and have a decent job, y/n“, you swore to yourself on the way to your dorm, clenched fists buried deep inside your jacket pockets. „No more of this bullshit. You don’t have time for this, y/n. No more distractions.“ 

The next morning you awoke from a restless sleep to a dozen of unread messages from no other than Jeon Jungwook himself. With a groan, you heaved your tired body out of bed and to your dorm’s shared kitchen unit in order to take in the dosage of caffeine required for your brain to function properly before you grudgingly applied yourself to going through the unopened texts.

For a few minutes, your thumbs hovered over the touchscreen of your phone, hesitating, unsure of what to type in response. Until they did, almost all by themselves.  

And that’s how it all started. 

You fell for Jungwook more quickly than you preferred, more swiftly than you ever thought would be possible. 

Never before had you felt like this. So lively and light, freed from yourself and everything that had kept weighing you down. Jungwook made it seem like you were the only woman on this planet. His everything. His entire world. Like he loved all about you without exception. He treated you like a queen, effortlessly charmed all of your friends and family. After only six months your mother practically begged you to marry him at the earliest opportunity, before he could possibly change his mind and decide to find someone worthier. 

Someone worthier. 

Those words of hers kept haunting you. Because, yes, you, too, believed him too good to be true. Too good for you. Couldn’t fathom why a man as perfect as Jungwook would ever waste his time on you. 

„Jungwook? What do you see in me?“, you wondered aloud one night, your head rested on his bare chest while his fingers tenderly trailed the length of your spine, the warm summer breeze brushing past your skin sending pleasant shivers over your entire body. 

Your question let Jungwook stop his movements. You could feel him raising his head off the pillow to get a better look at your face which you, however, merely snuggled more closely into his side, covering it with your hair. 

„Why? Why would you even ask that, y/n?“

Now he abruptly sat up, his strong hands gently grabbing you by your shoulders to prevent you from hiding again. 

„Y/n, seriously. Look at me, baby. Come on, please look at me. Look me in the eyes.“

In saying so, he put one hand under your chin, nudging it up slightly to make you comply with his demand. 

Abashed, you cast down your eyes. 

„Y/n, baby, I love you. You know that, right? I said it a thousand times before and I meant it, every single time. I still do. You dropping that pen back then in the corridor was the best thing that happened in my whole life. You’re perfect. y/n. Perfect for me. You’re just what I need, what I ever wanted. And you’re all mine. You belong to me. And that makes me the luckiest man walking this earth.“ 

Jungwook’s gaze, fixed on yours, grew more intense by the second, darker, carrying an expression within them that was foreign to you, almost scary. 

However, after he blinked just once, it disappeared just as quickly, leaving you wondering if what you believed to have seen was nothing more than an optical illusion since now he looked at you lovingly, just like he always did, the brown of his beautiful eyes softly glowing in the moonlight coming in through the open window, exuding nothing but fondness. The eyes you had fallen in love with at first sight all those months ago, in the hallway. Or so you believed back then. 

Only about a month later, already more than half a year into your and Jungwook’s relationship, you found out about his identical twin brother. And by accident, that was. 

You had stopped by at his family’s home to fetch a book for Jungwook since you had been in the vicinity and he was caught up at university, preparing for a group presentation. Just when you had found the book and stormed out of his room to leave again and hurry back to campus, you ran into a half-naked Jungwook who had obviously stepped out of the shower only seconds ago, hair still soaking wet, skin damp, nothing but a towel wrapped around his slender hips, his surprisingly toned torso exposed. 

Apparently just as startled as you were, he pulled to a halt in the middle of the hallway as soon as he laid eyes on you. They widened with shock while he merely stared at you, lips parted as if he meant to say something but not a sound leaving them. 

„What are you doing here?“, you asked, brows arched, letting your gaze slowly wander down his glistening body. In response, his hands simply clenched more tightly around the rim of his towel, pulling it up as far as possible without exposing anything too sensitive. 

„That’s — That’s what I should ask you!“, Jungwook finally managed to stammer in response, retreating the further the closer you stepped up to him. 

„No. Really. Why would you ask me to pick this up for you if you could just as well come here and get it yourself, obviously even having the time to take a shower?“

„So, I’m not allowed to shower in my own home anymore?“

„What?“

„Isn’t that what you just said?“

„No, I -- That wasn’t my point. I — Wait, what?“ 

A low chuckle escaped the deep of his throat as he admired your confused state, evidently amused. 

„Never mind Headphones. I’ll be outta here in a sec. You never saw me. No word about this to my family. Got it?“ 

You couldn’t help but keep shaking your head in bewilderment, completely clueless as to what he was talking about. And, most of all, as to how he could seem so … different. His smile and eyes brighter than usual. His body much more muscular. Or was it only a trick of the light? 

„Headphones? I thought you hated calling me that.“ 

He shrugged.

„No. I don’t. He does. But I don’t know what else to call you by. Since he won’t tell me your name and all.“ 

„What the hell are you talking about?“

„You don’t know?“

For some reason, he seemed genuinely appalled. 

„Don’t know what?“, you echoed, growing increasingly anxious, Jungwook’s enigmatic behavior and allusions making you nervous. 

„He hasn’t told you then“, he concluded, his strong shoulders slumping slightly.  

„He? Who? Told me what? Stop beating around the freaking bush, Jungwook. You know how much I hate that.“

„I’m not“, he shook his head, his expression quickly darkening. „I’m not Jungwook. I’m his brother. His twin brother. Jungkook.“

PRESENT DAY  

You don’t feel your own body. You don’t feel anything but dread as you race up the stairs to the hospital’s main entrance, your numb limbs trembling, your legs barely carrying your own weight. 

You don’t even remember how you made it to the hospital room when you finally stumble through the door, the linoleum covered floor closing in rapidly, your fall only being caught in the very nick of time by Jungwook’s father’s sturdy arms. 

„Please, calm yourself, y/l/n y/n. This won’t do anyone any good.“

The sound of his almost inappropriately calm voice doesn’t have the intended soothing effect on your racing heart but rather proves to be self-defeating, only fueling your anxiety. 

„Where is he? Where is Jungwook!?“

The shrill sound of your voice, strange to your own ears, echoes throughout the tiny room as you leap forward, towards the only occupied bed which remains hidden behind a sheer curtain, struggling to free yourself from the older man’s grasp. Eventually, he lets you go. 

„Jungwook, what —“

You stop in mid-sentence, your vocal cords abandoning you at the sight you are faced with now that you have drawn back the curtain, your shaking hand tightly clutching its smooth fabric being the only thing that keeps you standing upright.  

There he lies. His bandaged head resting on a flat white pillow, staring back at you out of tired black eyes, his all too common, beautiful features distorted by swollen bruises and lacerations. 

The wrong brother. 

You can tell right away. 

„You — You’re — You’re not —“

He calmly licks his split lower lip, apparently having difficulty to breathe, shutting his billowed eyelids before starts to speak, in evident pain. 

„No. No, I’m not Jungwook.“ He shakily exhales before opening his eyes again to look at you. „I’m sorry, y/n. I truly am. But I’m not him. He — He didn’t —“

Jungkook’s voice trails off, his red-rimmed eyes filling with tears. 

„No. No. No. No. No. No. No“, you spit out the same, empty word over and over again, unable to stop your lips from forming it time after time as if your meaningless stammering will actually change anything. But you know it won’t. You know he’s gone. Past praying for. Gone. Your Jungwook. The light of your life. Your support and stability. The only person who saw and truly loved you for who you are. Just gone. For good. 

As the realization sinks in, you can feel your heart stutter, your breath hitch and get stuck in your throat.

You will never see Jungwook again. Never look into his eyes again. Never see them sparkle whenever he lays them on you. You will never be able to watch him study again, watch that delicate crease form between his brows when he’s focused. Never hear him say your name again. Nevermore feel his touch, the comforting warmth of his embrace. 

All you will have from now on is this stranger in the hospital bed before you. This other man. Carrying his DNA. Wearing his face. Talking in his voice. 

You can feel nausea rise up, a cold knot forming, twisting, in the pit of your stomach as you stagger backward, away from the bed, away from Jungkook’s desperate eyes following your every move, his lips soundlessly forming words he does not speak. 

„I — I think I have to go.“

END OF CHAPTER 1 

I really hope you enjoyed it so far and want to read more. 😌💜

Please, let me know what you think and if you’d like me to continue this series. I already have an outline sitting on my desk, all I need now is to see it get some love. 💜 Otherwise, I’ll spend my time primarily on other requests, since a series like this demands a lot of time and work. 

In case you’d like me to (and maybe even if you don’t, I’ll see) I’ll update the series once a week and post a new chapter each Friday unless I say otherwise.

Thank you for reading! 💜 

Take care! I hope you have a splendid day! 

Here you can find my Masterlist, in case you feel like checking out more of my BTS fiction!

[sarahbethimagines]

Chapter 3: Young New England

Chapter Log!

The metal of the storm door rattled loudly as its edge crashed against the rubber heel of my sneaker. Building up and echoing into my house as I pressed the large white door open, somehow knowing it wouldn't be locked. But the sounds erupting around me only escalated from there as the brass hinges instantly threw the door into a pile of large cardboard boxes that had been stacked inside the entry. "Kennedy?" I heard my father called as I looked up from the scattered mess around me to see him emerge from another pile just inside the living room. "You're back!" He exclaimed. "I am..." I dragged softly, once again looking down at my feet. Right where I'd made a habit of kicking my shoes, boxes of varying sizes were now sprayed about like Jenga pieces.

"I've been meaning to call you!" My dad added, swiftly swooping down to fetch the closest box and place it on top a now sideways one in front of the coat closet. Then scratching his balding head, "But I just couldn't seem to find the house phone in well – all of this!" I nodded knowingly now as he motioned to the vast piles of boxes which I learned had exploded all over our previously pristine living room and seemed to only just begun to spill over into the entryway. "What is all of this anyway?" I dared to ask, following in my father's step and lifting a box up onto the one he'd just relocated moments before. Making a home for my dusty sneakers in the process. "Your dorm!" He chirped as I peaked at the return label haphazardly slapped to the box at my feet now. Squinting my eyes to try and as casually as possible make out the offensively small letters printed on it. 'Tuscon, Arizona 85721' "Right..." I pulled, scratching the tip of my small nose. As though any of that was actually supposed to mean something to me in my current state. "I figured in the next few days or so, if you felt up to it that is, you could go through them and sort some stuff out to go into storage for the summer!" He said smiling at me. And I returned the grin warmly. Since the accident and having to digest everything, I've been able to tell how hard this has all been on my dad. And even though on moments recently I would have rather beat him with a photo album than actually look through it. I can tell he's trying, it's not like he asked for any of this either. It's just a difficult pill to swallow. And when someone who wants you to remember the life they seemingly single-handedly provided you is standing over your shoulder; well that only makes it harder. "I think I can do that..." I informed him, causing his grin to grow even wider before he waved me with his rough meaty hands as though to follow him. "Great!" He exclaimed, "I made a path into the kitchen if you were hungry we can look at what there is to eat for dinner! Any ideas?" "Uh... No, not really." I made out softly attempting to match my father's vast strides as he swiftly navigated the leaning towers of boxes with ease. Before, being in this house was weird, but not entirely abnormal feeling. Something about the sand-colored walls and hardwood floors felt comforting. And although I don't exactly remember the years I'm sure I'd spent inside its halls, the house felt like home in some obscure indescribable way. Some things now were a total guessing game, like which toothbrush on the bathroom counter was mine. But other things were not. Some things in my life I found to be innate and almost habitually remembered. For instance, while I had to guess whether I put normal or almond milk on my cereal in the morning, I knew without even skipping a beat that the utensils were in the drawer to the right of the stove, and the bowls in the cupboard left of the microwave. Why or how I knew that is beyond me, but the more I navigated through this life I didn't yet remember, the more I started to pick up on small things I seemingly knew anyway. And the survey of that house was one of the more prominent ones. I didn't have to question, even on the first investigation that just beyond the living room was the dining room, which I also had grown an inkling that we never actually used. And even then, a few days in as I followed my robust father around the last cardboard stack I knew exactly how the kitchen would look when it came into view. Chestnut colored cabinets lined the walls overhead and below. Thick granite countertops were accompanied by a tile backsplash of varying gray, beige, and taupe hues. And a small peninsula jutted out sporting two bar stools which I found myself sliding up onto as my father wrapped around into the heart of the space. "I was just starting to unload the dishes when I heard the door!" He informed me, breaking the brief silence as he made his way to the still ajar stainless appliance. He glanced at me briefly as he flipped the door down, "Where did you run off too anyway?" I signed softly, eyes falling to my hands which had naturally begun to twist themselves into knots. "I don't really know," I admitted thinking of how I'd mindlessly found myself in that field just earlier. Looking up as a glass bowl clanged against a pan as it lifted from the wire brackets of the washer. "I guess I just started to walk to wherever my feet felt like taking me." He hummed softly as he made his way to the cabinet beneath my elbows. "Well good." He nodded, a soft smile and a content expression adorning his tanned wrinkled face. "Maybe getting out of this house a bit will help you relax a little from the stress of everything, that's what you used to do in high school anyway!" "It was?" I questioned, my brows squishing together as my arms folded on the cool countertop. "Oh, all the time!" He brushed off, his smile spreading wider exposing his teeth. "Anytime anything was on your mind there was never any hope of getting you to talk. You'd always just throw on a coat, say you'd be back, and head out the door." I huffed softly to myself as he let the cupboard door slap shut and retreated back to across the kitchen. My lips contorted in an ambiguous manner as I watched the elder man move effortlessly through his actions. "And you trusted me to just up and do that?" I couldn't help but ask. "Of course!" He basically laughed. "You were always honest with me if you'd ever gotten into trouble, and well, I raised you after all, so I'd be damned if you didn't have a good head on those shoulders." That remark, though it made me laugh, settled thickly in the bottom of my stomach. I'm sure it was true. As I watched him smile over at me for a brief moment, his eyes radiated nothing but pride and happiness, and although my stomach was twisting itself into a friendship bracelet of guilt and confusion; the look in his eyes dulled the pain, even if just slightly. He looked so happy then to talk about the version of me he'd known so well, that knew him just the same. The little girl who'd grown into a seemingly independent college student whom he didn't have to explain anything too. I looked down at my hands again, crossed over sun-kissed arms and painted with small scattered freckles, and I thought to myself about the past few hours I'd had. Since returning small bits of me had been coming back, realizations or epiphanies. But never as full or as vivid as I'd experienced that afternoon. The memories I'd had – well, experienced really – of Alex and I were so drastically different than any other small bit of information I'd collected beforehand in ways I couldn't even begin to describe in a manner that would do the sensation justice. It was like flipping through television channels in my mind and falling smack dab in the middle of a movie I knew I'd seen before and yet knew nothing about. Where I didn't know or understand the plot line, or any of the actors, and yet I was the leading role. And everyone around me had the script encrypted into their memory. I knew these were my memories, and I was the girl whose eyes I was watching them through. But more than anything it felt like I was watching home films from a first-person point of view. And the more I thought about what I'd experienced that day, the more I began to contemplate the idea of sharing that with my father. The boy I'd remembered – Alex. I didn't even realize the mental manhole I'd fallen into till the clashing of pans and my father's voice pulled me out of it. Halting any and all developing intentions of entertaining such an idea of sharing. "You alright kiddo?" My dad asked as he pulled a frying pan from under the peninsula. I nodded, giving my head a small shake as I fluffed the haze from my eyes and unraveled my arms. "Yeah, my head just hurts..." I softly informed. Pressing my hands on the slick granite and flopping my feet to the floor. "I think I'm going to go lay down 'till dinner." He nodded softly as I turned my back on the kitchen and began to weave back through the boxes and clutter filling our home. Without even thinking, I wrapped my hand around the wooden railing and ascended the stairs making my way towards my bedroom. I don't know how I knew, or why it was then my feet decided to carry me to the third door from the stairs. The thin white wood with a prominent black 'K' painted smack dab in the center of it. But as I ran my fingers down the grooves in the thickly laid paint, the sides of my palms lightly brushed the edges of a few faded photographs I couldn't have been bothered to look at just yet. Instead, my hand continued its venture, taking in the soft indents of the grain before it reached the round silver nob. I'd yet to be inside my bedroom since I'd returned home. Mostly from fear. I was afraid of what would happen if I ventured through that door. I was fearful of being surrounded by everything I once valued so highly I desired to keep them as close to me as possible and wake up surrounded by every morning – and remembering none of it. But now, after all that had happened that day, and those few things I'd begun to remember I felt differently. Anxiety still contaminated my blood with every pump of my apprehensive heart. Fear of stepping through the threshold and examining all that laid behind it and remembering nothing still filled my mind and stalled my hand at the nob. But with every second I remained on the other side of that shut door, I kept myself from possibly remembering who I was. Maybe now that the memories had started to flow without even trying, they would just keep coming. And If I had any hope of remembering who I was beyond a girl with a sugar addiction and a possibly alcoholic friend, I needed to take some initiative. Above all other feelings that came with forgetting every aspect of who you are, frustration was by far the most prominent. Behind the guilt, sadness, confusion, and all too real headaches. The feeling of being so completely frustrated with myself had begun to slowly consume every breath I took in this new empty life I'd woken up too. And I wanted more than anything to make it go away. And I truly do believe looking back now, that the desire to rid my mind and being from the never-ending frustration was just strong enough in that moment to trump the fear that had been keeping me in the hallway those past few days. And finally, I built up the courage or frustration should I say, to wrap my nimble fingers around that glistening nob and turn it gently, pushing my bedroom door wide open with creaky ease. In a matter of seconds, I was consumed with the soft yet prominent scent of sandalwood and vanilla that pulled me slowly across the threshold by my nose. And I was greeted on the other side by light grey walls, their color only making its presence known in certain sections while the majority was masked by an eclectic collection of posters, photographs, drawings, and painted crafts. Right inside the door I stepped towards a large, open closet with two bi-folding doors painted the same color as the one I'd just pressed open. And as I made my way around to the front of it, I found a long white dresser, clothes still spilling from its drawers and onto the floor where I must have last left them. Placed on top, I found a small display of a few framed photographs I didn't bother to look too closely at and two large candles with their lids missing I assumed to be filling the room with the familiar custom scent I felt in my core belonged to myself. Continuing on my slow adventure of my own sleeping quarters, I hesitantly moved onto the white mirrored desk between two rather large windows. I ran my fingers across the slick glass that topped it, gazing quickly at the concert tickets and movie stubs I'd shoved beneath it, smiling at their presence although the headache in the front of my head remained dull and constant from before. That was until I moved right past the bookshelf overflowing with an obnoxious number of knickknacks and mementos and swiftly stepped to the small nightstand just beside my bed. On it I found a petite, tea light sized scented candle, and two photographs encased in glass. Subconsciously, my mind reached for one of them. A small black, perfectly squared frame with a rather poor-quality photo collage type image inside. Squinting at the picture, I couldn't help but brush the tips of my fingers down it as I sat on the very edge of my still unmade bed, the pounding in my head slowly beginning to increase in intensity. Four small photos were cropped together, a progression of one short scene and the closer and the longer I looked eventually I came to the realization that one of the two girls shown in the image was me. I was sat in a brightly colored stripped hammock with a tanned blonde girl.Scrunching my lips, I stared at the smiling figures as they – we, I guess – progressively fell off the hammock in our fits of laughter captured in these four tiny images. I almost let out an audible whine as a stabbing pain shot through the front of my head straight to the back of my skull. Shutting my eyes, I reached with my free hand to rub the small space between my thin brows and grimaced. The pain pulling me from the bedroom I'd just rediscovered and into a world, I knew but couldn't remember. "This is literally so unfair Em!" I whined, throwing myself down onto my puffy comforter as I pressed the large beige house phone to my ear. "How can he just rip me away from my entire life – and right before high school!" A muffled sigh came from the other side of the phone as I rolled to my stomach. My long brown strands softly falling to my cheeks as I pouted to no one at all. "I don't know..." My best friend quietly muttered from the other end of the line. "Did he give you any warning at all?" "Like no!" I proclaimed rather dramatically. "I knew he hated this house once Jake and mom moved out and all - but moving to a completely different state is just totally ridiculous! He can't actually expect me to do that can he?" I exclaimed to the blonde. "I don't know, Kenn" She whined in agreement, which only made the sinking feeling in my stomach feel even heavier. So heavy in fact I was almost certain it would leave a lasting dent in the memory foam beneath me. "How am I supposed to go to high school without you, we never do anything alone!" "Exactly!" I shrilled back. Crawling just slightly up my bed I grabbed hold of the nearest pillow my stumpy arms could reach and dragged it under my upper body. The soft pink fluffs not doing nearly enough to comfort the complete and total tragedy I was currently going through. After my parent's divorce finalized, everything was supposed to be great! It was just supposed to be me and my dad against the world, and now it just felt like the world and my father were only conspiring against me. I came home from school, feeling so excited for summer being right around the corner and thinking I'd just be able to goof off and do absolutely nothing with Emily every single day. And instead, I came home to my dad packing the fine china from the large glass display it never – ever – left and stuffing them in boxes. And as hard as I hoped he was finally just taking the gaudy stuff down and sending it off to my mother. That dream was quickly crushed when he sat me down at the dinner table and told me he'd taken a slightly better job offer in Baltimore, and we'd be moving in just a few weeks. Destined to downsize from the beautiful childhood home I'd grown to know and love for something subpar and suburban within driving distance of a city that could never compare to Boston. At least not to me. And this was all to go down in a matter of weeks! "This is so unfair!" I spewed again for what was probably the millionth time in just that brief phone conversation alone and I pushed myself to my feet. "How on Earth did he think that this would just be okay to spring on me after everything else I've had to deal with this year!" "So unfair..." She agreed yet again, I knew deep down as upset as I knew she was, and we both were, that to some extent she would have normally called me dramatic. But in my defense, if there were any time for a teenage girl to be dramatic this was that time! Emily and I had basically been attached at the hip well – our entire lives! And now that was alljust going to be ripped out from under me, and I didn't have a single ounce of a say in the matter. No matter how loud I screamed or how big of a temper tantrum I threw, I knew all attempts would be proven futile in mere seconds. My whole life as I'd known it had been torn apart that year and all I had left was my best friend and my finally perfect bedroom. And now, it was only a matter of weeks, no days really, before that too would be stripped from me and I'd be left with absolutely nothing to hold onto to my sanity with. I looked around my room and grimaced at the idea of someone else living in what I'd spent so long to perfect. Whoever it would be would only destroy it. They wouldn't care about how much time I'd spent and how much I annoyed my father in order to find the most perfect shade of lilac to ever exist for its walls. They wouldn't care how innovative the chalkboard I'd painted over my bed was. They wouldn't know when to shut the shades in the summer so the room didn't get stuffy, or to toss a sneaker in the door to keep the draft from making it slam. They wouldn't know the patch under the carpet by the closet where the wood panels squeak in the winter. They wouldn't know anything about this room. This was my room and soon enough someone else would be living in it and mucking it up with whatever garbage they brought in with them. Some teenage boy would probably get it and ruin the perfect scent I'd finally managed to have linger without ever having to light a candle. Taint it with dirty socks and hockey pads and mud-caked soccer cleats and ruin everything I'd done to make it my picture-perfect dream room after all these years. And the worst part was, I wouldn't even get to enjoy it now that I'd finally perfected it. I'd just have to leave it to let the carpet be rotted away by stale boy stench and filthy laundry. Sighing loudly down the now silent phone line, I walked over to my bedside and picked up the newest addition to my impeccable collection. Four small photos I'd mashed together of Emily and me just a week or so before when the sun had finally heated the New England air to hit 70 degrees, and all hell broke loose in Essex County. Pools were opened, jeans were shortened and sneakers had been ditched quickly for flipflops. It was a perfect day sitting on Gracie's pool deck with all our friends, and it was what I thought to be the perfect start to what was supposed to be the perfect summer. And now I stared down at the photos of Em and I falling off the hammock, the laughter still ringing clearly in my ear as I stared at it, but I couldn't feel the warmth the photos provided me when I'd slid them into their slick frame. Instead, I felt cold and empty. Everything I'd been smiling about in those photos wouldn't be even a possibility soon enough. I wouldn't have my perfect summer with my best friends. I wouldn't have more pool day's lounging around with Em and Gracie. I wouldn't get the movie-esc first day of high school me and Emily had been talking about and obsessing over since sixth grade. Soon enough, all I'd have to feel close to this place, and this room and Emily herself would be these photos in this small black picture frame. "You'll still be my friend Em, right?" I asked her tentatively, hands shaking ever so slightly as I sat on the edge of my bed. The anger I'd been feeling just moments before had quickly dissipated into crippling fear of yet another giant change about to shake my life up. "Always." She said, quickly and with certainty, her tone never wavering. "You're my ride or die Kenn, till the end!" Her remark gave me the slightest ability to smile as I nodded, even though she couldn't see, I knew she could picture my reaction better than I could even act it after all these years. "You'll always be my favorite sister, I hope you know that." "Shut up, twinnie!" She laughed fully then, I could practically hear her shaking her head nonchalantly. "You're moving, not dying, and if you think a few state lines are going to get rid of me that easily well, you're crazier than the cast of Laguna Beach!" "You're right, you're right!" I managed to giggle, feeling slightly better – but just slightly. Emily was my best friend in the entire world, and more than anything, more than leaving my house, my school, or my perfect room, I was terrified of having to live my life without her being no more than two blocks away at all times. Her reassurance filled me with a mild sense of comfort that moving wouldn't completely wash her from my life. But deep down I knew being states away would change everything for us in some way or another. And even just telling myself that, I lost any ability to stop the tear that had slowly been building from slipping onto my cheek from the edge of my baby blue eyes. Blinking, and wiping at my face, I almost didn't realize I had slipped from the memory almost as seamlessly as I had slipped in. Hands shaking, and slightly damp now from the streams that had been pouring down my face for what must have been some time now, I reached out to place the frame back where I'd snatched it from. Head aching from the flashback. In the small clean strip left on the dust-coated nightstand, I placed it back down perfectly beside the most ridiculous photo of Jack and Alex I'd taken our sophomore year. I was quick then to finish wiping my eyes before letting my head smack my stale pillow and my hands mindlessly find the edge of my puffy back comforter, pulling it up over my shoulders. It all happened so quickly, shutting my eyes and swiftly drifting off as I silently prayed for a moment of rest that was absent of nightmares or any more memories for that day. I almost didn't even realize what I'd remembered without even thinking about, I knew the name of the boy in the other photograph. That I somehow remembered Jack Barakat.