#i keep thinking about turning the entire thing into a brightness layer calling it basically quits and recoloring it the normal way with the

[oozeandgoo-art]

also like, why not, in-pprogress shots. here

finished piece here!

[tomurasprincess]

Kinktober Day 24: Monster (The Asylum)

Day 24: Monster Title: The Asylum Pairing: Mothman Shigaraki x Reader Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Noncon, monster mind control stuff, oviposition, cumflation, belly bulges, breeding, forced orgasms, some slight descriptions of gore and blood, yandere Note: The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum is a real place, although parts of what I wrote is fake, mostly the part where they close down a second time in the fic. IRL, they’re still open and doing tours. Tagging @ichor-and-symbiosis​ and @kazooli​ as two of the OG Mothura writers 👀

Sequel: The Brood

Kinktober Masterlist

You’ve always loved urban exploring, going to old mental asylums and hospitals to look around and see the decay of places that used to be so bustling with people. You especially liked the places that had tragic pasts, the ones where horrific things occurred. It sounds morbid to anyone you talk to about your interests, but it was the truth. You’ve always believed in monsters and ghosts just out of sight of humanity, lurking in the dark corners of abandoned places.

That’s why you instantly planned a trip to the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum the second you heard about it. It had been abandoned years ago due to extreme abuse of patients. A historical society had moved in later, renovating the place and making a history tour of it that also did ghost tours at night.

But even they ended up abandoning the place due to the fake ghost tours apparently starting to become real ghost tours. People began to see creatures out of the corner of their eyes, something they said was much larger than a human, with wings on its back and piercing red eyes.

It was initially dismissed as overactive imaginations, people who wanted to see ghosts so badly that they were seeing things that weren’t there. Or people who just wanted to start tall tales  for attention and were flat out making things up in order to scare the rest of the group.

But then the disappearances started to happen. It was almost always young women who got separated from the tour group, although a few times it was a boyfriend and girlfriend who got lost together. The tour guides scoured every inch of the asylum looking for the missing people, but they found no trace of them. At first it was dismissed as the people getting scared and running off without telling anybody.

Until one day, a regularly scheduled tour group stumbled across the bodies. Not the bodies of the missing girls, but their partners. They were viciously torn apart, with limbs scattered all over the room. Their blood covered the walls, the floor, even the ceiling of the room. The women were alive but traumatized, rocking back and forth in a corner of the room absolutely covered in blood, none of which was their own.

They told the same tales that the rest of the people did. They were captured by a monster, around 8-9 feet tall, with large moth-like wings and red eyes. The creature was surprisingly gentle to them, they said, at least until they saw that they were with someone. The creature had become enraged, tearing their partner to pieces as they watched. They knew for certain that they would be next, their eyes squeezed tight as they waited for their death.

But the creature did nothing, simply turning away and leaving the room like they were not what the creature wanted.

Although everyone agreed that something horrible had happened to the young women, none of them believed their story. They had stayed in that room for several days, covered in the blood of their loved ones, not knowing if they were ever going to make it out. Of course they were traumatized, thinking they saw monsters. But monsters aren’t believed to exist, and so everyone began to look for a human murderer that was never found.

The asylum tried to recover from the tragedy, but it was never able to. The amount of bad press they got for having lax safety standards and not taking care of their tour groups caused everybody to stay away. Finally, having no other choice in the matter, the asylum had closed.

When you heard this story, you were over the moon excited. Not just a historical landmark, but also a place with a possible real life monster sighting. Nothing was going to stop you from going there and seeing the place for yourself.

And now here you stand, in front of the building with a backpack full of supplies slung over your shoulder. You had your phone, flashlights with spare batteries, a spare change of clothes, matches and lighters, even a rope and various other tools should something happen inside of the building.

And so, with a deep excitement bubbling up in your stomach, you find your way through a hole in the fence and walk through the front door. The first thing you see is the reception desk with various odds and ends left over from the closure. There are even still brochures describing the various types of tours and listing prices.

You walk down the first corridor you see, going past various closed off rooms that look to be basic examination rooms. There is surprisingly little decay, mostly everything still looking rather clean and intact besides a thick layer of dust and cobwebs covering everything. You’re a bit discouraged but decide to continue on to see if things get more interesting.

After all, the murders occured in the basement, and you’re not anywhere close to that yet.

Soon you find yourself in the medical ward where the patients were kept, and you instantly realize one of the reasons this hospital was so nightmarish. The rooms are even smaller than jail cells, leaving barely enough space for patients to lay down in. There are so many rooms of that exact size that you wonder how the staff could accurately take care of the amount of patients there had to be. But you remember your research, remember the fact that they couldn’t.

That was why so many brutal procedures were performed such as lobotomies, in order to keep the peace at the asylum and make things easier for the doctors and nurses. You give a quick shudder and begin to move on, feeling a strange sensation that you desperately want to get away from.

The decay gets worse and worse the closer you get to the basement, rust and decay beginning to cover every surface you see. You walk past some of the surgery rooms and feel horror at the utensils and instruments you see in them. The historical society tried to keep things as accurate as possible, and as such, they had kept most of the equipment that you would see back in those days.

You’re beginning to wonder if this is a good idea, as that strange sensation continues to worsen and worsen. You realize with a start what this feeling actually is.

It feels like someone is watching your every movement. You whirl around, shining your flashlight in every direction as you try to see what’s watching you. But there’s nothing but darkness and the decaying walls of the hospital. You shake your head, laughing quietly at the fact that you’re spooked out by a few weird shadows and an odd feeling.

You’re not going to let it stop you from your goal, however, and you continue forwards until you get to the doors of the basement. The feeling here is overwhelming, simultaneously telling you to run and move forward all at the same time. The conflicting emotions leave you off balance and light headed, and you reach your hand out instinctively when you sway on your feet. You touch a section of the wall and instantly pull your hand back.

The wall is warm, not cold like it should be. A sense of unease crawls up your spine, and you decide then and there that it’s time to go. Making it to the basement is not worth this, whatever it is you’re feeling. But then you hear a soft humming and the flapping of wings, coming from deep within the basement of the hospital.

Instead of being terrified, however, you feel entranced. It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever heard, and it’s calling you. You open the basement door without even thinking about it, walking down the stairs in a dreamy haze. You don’t even pay attention to how heavy the rot here is, how the walls are entirely blackened by decay that spreads out like veins on a body.

You don’t pay attention when the door slams closed behind you, locking you in with whatever is calling you closer. All you can think about is getting to that beautiful sound, that lonely haunting call that seems to burrow deep into your brain. You walk as if you’re in a trance, turning corridors that you’ve never seen before but somehow know where they’re going.

Finally, you get to a door that is deep within the bowels of the basement, a bright red door that seems to beckon you inside. You push open the door with no hesitation, walking through and letting it close behind you.

And you finally come face to face with the creature. He is about 9 feet tall, towering over your small form. He’s not overly muscular, but he has a thin wiry look to him that says he is deceptively strong. His red eyes bore into you like they’re staring directly into your soul. On his back are two massive wings, spread to their full wing span and utterly gorgeous.

The creature makes a small chittering noise as he motions you towards him, and you follow like he’s a puppeteer holding your strings. He pulls you tightly into his body, burying his nose into your neck and taking a deep whiff of your skin. His hot breath on your sensitive skin pulls a shudder from you. and he tightens his grip as if he’s worried you’ll get away.

A long tongue pokes out of his mouth, licking at the pulse point that is frantically beating. “Mine,” he groans into your skin, sharp teeth grazing you. “Mate.” You’re lifted up off your feet before being laid down on the ground, hips in the air and face down on the floor. He rips your pants off easily, leaving your panties on as he lowers his head down. You feel a flash of embarrassment as he sniffs them like he sniffed your neck, groaning again as his tongue drags across the wet abric. “Fertile,” he whispers as he pulls your panties aside, “fertile mate.”

The haze parts from your mind long enough for you to feel a sharp flash of fear, and then his tongue is lapping at your folds and the fear is quickly chased away again. You dig your nails into the floor as you feel him work his tongue inside of you, using it to fuck you like a cock would. You gasp when he hits your cervix with his tongue and keeps going, wiggling against the barrier like he’s trying to break through it.

Something in his saliva causes your body to heat up and your muscles to loosen enough for him to batter his tongue harder against you and push through. Your scream echoes through the walls of the room, but not of pain. Instead, a fierce pleasure overtakes you as your cervix gives way to the creature’s tongue, allowing him to enter into your womb.

The feeling of this tongue wiggling around in your empty womb causes you to tip over the edge and cum around the creature’s tongue as he eagerly laps at your juices. He withdraws his tongue, causing you to let out a whine of disappointment, only to be surprised when you feel something prodding at your entrance. It doesn’t feel like a human cock at all, with ridges and bumps along the length and much thicker than a human cock would be.

You have a single moment to wonder how it will fit inside of you before it’s pushing in, stretching out your tight outer ring of muscles and causing a sharp burning in your lower stomach. You whine and try to pull away, only for the creature to let out a snarl as claws dig into your hips, causing your blood to drip down onto the pavement.

Even though there is no pain, only more pleasure, you learn your lesson and don’t try to move away as the thick cock slides even further into you. It’s so much thicker than anything you’ve ever taken before, and you’re shaking like a leaf when he finally bottoms out inside. You think he’ll start thrusting like a human male would, except that he doesn’t.

He keeps pushing, humping into you with sharp movements designed to force your cervix open even further. You squeal as the cock makes it past the barrier, burying deep inside of your womb. You glance down and let out a choked sob at the bulge in your stomach where the tip of the creature’s cock is.

“Pretty - pretty mate,” the creature says hesitantly, rolling his hips experimentally into you and drawing a groan from your throat. “Tomura,” he adds, and it takes you a second to realize that’s the creature’s name.

“Tomura,” you murmur, and the creature chitters happily at the sound of your voice saying the name. You try to think of something else to ask, maybe even to beg to be released as the haze seems to clear a bit, but Tomura begins to hum again, and you instantly smile in bliss as all of your concern fades away.

You feel something else pushing into your entrance, and it takes a long moment to realize what it is as you feel it slip up your stretched out tunnel.

Eggs. The creature is filling you with eggs. Instead of being horrified, however, you moan as they continue to move inside of you. There are multiple eggs at once, small and gooey, and they coat your insides with wetness as they make their way to your still stretched out cervix.

You feel them pass through the opening to plop down into your womb, and you cry out and cum hard, pussy wildly fluttering around Tomura’s cock. He lets out a deep grunt of pleasure as he rocks his hips against you, and you feel more eggs pushing into you. This time, a few of them get stuck against a spongy spot inside of you, and you scream out your orgasm, legs shaking and eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck, oh god, shit, Tomura - “ you babble mindlessly as more eggs push into you, “it feels so good, why does it - “

Before those eggs can push fully in, there are already more entering you, and you feel so incredibly full. They drop down into your no longer empty womb, wringing another orgasm from your tired body. The skin of your stomach is stretching, making you look bloated, and Tomura still isn’t done.

You lose track of time completely, only aware of your body twitching and convulsing as more and more eggs push up into you, settling into your womb with the rest of them. Your stomach already looks 9 months pregnant, and you can barely hold yourself up.

Tomura sees this, and he gently picks you up and lays you down on your back. “Pretty mate,” he leans and kisses your forehead, “look so good with my children. Our children.”

“Oh god, no more, please no more, I’m so full Tomura,” you whimper as more eggs push into you. “Please, so full - “

Tomura hums softly at you, and you smile with bliss as the final eggs plop down into your womb.  His movements become more savage, thrusting hard into you as he grunts and groans. The force of his thrusts has you sliding up, breasts bouncing and your belly jiggling. The feeling of the eggs moving around inside of you has you howling out your orgasm, blackness dotting the edge of your vision as you almost lose consciousness.

Finally, Tomura is finished, and his cock begins to twitch inside of you as hot ropes of cum fill you up, shooting directly into your womb where the eggs reside. You sob as you watch your stomach bulge out even more as the creature’s cum fertilizes the eggs inside. You can no longer see the dents and valleys of the eggs along your stomach, and you reach down to gently run your hand over your bloated stomach.

You can feel the eggs through the barrier of skin, and it causes your eyes to roll back at the pleasure. Tomura gives a soft, happy chirp as he places his hand over yours on your belly, rubbing it gently. He pulls out slowly, causing a mixture of your cum and his to gush out of your now gaping pussy.

He reaches down to pick you up as he walks towards a door in the back of the room that you hadn’t noticed before. You’re shocked by what you see when you walk through. It’s an utterly untouched room, still looking brand new and with none of the decay that covers the rest of the basement. There is no bed, but there is a pile of clean blankets and pillows in the corner, piled up high and in a circle.

A nest, you realize. It’s a nest. For you. He tucks you in gently, chirping again as his clawed hand runs over your pregnant belly. “Mate,” he says happily, “my pretty little mate.” He stands up and walks towards the door, turning to you one last time as his gaze narrows and darkens just a bit.

“No running. Don’t want to have to tie mate down.” He continues to gaze at you, as if waiting for something.

“I won’t run,” you say quietly, and the dark look on his face is gone instantly as he beams at you.

“Good mate, good.” And with that, he’s gone.

With his absence, some of the haze lifts and you’re able to realize the horror of the situation you’re in. Nobody knows where you are, and you’re trapped. Even if you wanted to run, you don’t think you could with how large your belly is. No escape and no help coming for you, and the creature already seems so possessive of you that he’s not going to let you easily escape.

If only you had listened to your instincts earlier, if only you hadn’t been so fascinated with the grotesque, if only you had simply chosen to stay home.

You’ve always believed in monsters. You just never thought you would find one.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Kinktober: @thewheezingwyvern​, @vixen-scribbles​, @katsukisprincess​, @hisoknen​, @trafalgar-temptress​, @leeswritingworld, @burnedbyshoto​, @bakugotrashpanda​, @dee-madwriter​, @kittycatkrissa​, @reinawritesbnha​, @yanderart​, @dabilove27​, @anxietyplusultra​, @flutterfalla​, @angmarwitch​, @nereida19​, @babayaga67​, @fromsunnywithlove​, @dabis-kitten​, @bakugos-cumsock​, @yumeneji​, @the-grimm-writer​, @iwaizumi-chan​, @slashersheart​, @bunnyywritings​, @bakarinnie​, @angie-1306​, @lalalemon101​​, @videogameboiwhowins​​, @f4nficbaby​​, @tenkoshimmy​, @baroque-baby​​, @bbyspiiice​​, @thirstyforthem2dmen​​, @blissfulignorance2000​, @bluecookies02-main​

[telehxhtrash]

A masterpost on Togashi’s gay subtext and why it’s intentional.

Hi ! After seeing so many posts about Togashi dropping subtext about Killua's possible romantic feelings for Gon, I thought it'd be a good idea to make a sort of "masterpost" with all the subtext that Togashi has included into his work.

I usually see a lot of people trying to say that HxH isn't about romance and that Togashi isn't interested in writing romance into the manga, but when you analyze all the subtext that's been going on the further Gon and Killua's relationship progresses, I think it's incorrect to say that Togashi has never hinted at the possibility of romance in HxH.

This is going to be a long post, enjoy your read!

Also, please note that I will only base this analysis on the manga, so there can be no mistake that "maybe this is just something the anime made gayer" : i want to prove that the subtext is 100% intentional on Togashi's part.

I'd also like to mention, although I will analyze it further after listing the subtext, that Togashi is a VERY smart man. There are always little details in the story and/or foreshadowing that are easily missed at first but when you notice them, it truly makes you understand how much attention and care Togashi puts into his work. There are countless details and symbolism that are analyzed daily through wonderful meta posts, from the main 4′s birthdays and their link to their character or the religious symbolism in Kurapika’s story arc.... Togashi loves to foreshadow and plant little details into his work, so when Togashi plants subtext, I'm sure he 100% knows that he's writing it, and it can't be seen as unintentional.

I'll also link all my references for this post at the end of it, so feel free to read all the additional textposts and content if you want to know more.

Well, let's get into it!

EDIT : i can’t believe this post is still being used as a reference it makes me so happy... thank you so much !!! i edited this to tweak it a bit because i wrote this a while ago and the phrasing seemed off to me, so if you’re reading or re-reading this post, hi, welcome to masterpost on gay subtext 2.0 !

GREED ISLAND ARC

Greed Island is to me the arc that lays down the nature of Killua and Gon's relationship. It's during this arc that we get to see a bit more of what Killua thinks, how he's lucky to have met Gon and that he feels really grateful. Gon’s behavior in this arc is also very affectionate, with him always reassuring Killua about his place next to him. While the scene where Killua thinks "You've got it backwards, Gon, I'm the one that's glad I met you." can't be considered as subtext, I think it's something that lets the reader know a bit more about how Killua feels towards Gon. 

But other than this scene, which can clearly be dismissed as platonic, there are 2 more moments in the Greed Island arc that are layered in subtext.

• The Rainbow Diamond (chapter 151)

During their time in Dorias, Killua uses Risky Dice to gain cards from the slot machines. The first card that Killua gains is called "Rainbow Diamond", the description of the card being "A diamond that shines in a rainbow of colors. Propose with this diamond and she is guaranteed to say "yes"". 

There are 3 different things we can take from this panel. First, the card is a marriage proposal card, so it's obviously romantic in nature. Second, the object is a RAINBOW diamond. And third, Killua, wanting to keep the card safe, gifts it to Gon.

In short, Togashi sat down at his desk, decided to draw Killua winning a MARRIAGE PROPOSAL CARD (it could've been any card, but Togashi CHOSE to make Killua win a marriage proposal card) that has a RAINBOW diamond on it and made Killua gift it to Gon. 

While I personally don't think that subtext can be used to 100% ascert that Killua has romantic feelings for Gon, I think it's a funny little touch from Togashi, and I'm even gonna say a sort of hint towards how Killua's feelings for Gon are going to evolve in this arc and the next.

• “It has to be Killua” (chapter 166)

Now this is a scene that I've never seen anyone talk about, at least on Tumblr, but when I read a bit of analysis on it I was 100% convinced this was intentional subtext. I'm basically quoting here what this article explains, so if you want more detail, I recommend reading it.

As you probably recall, during their deadly dodgeball game against Razor, Killua decides to sacrifice his hands to ensure that Gon could use all his strength. When confronted about it, Killua insists that it's nothing, and Gon shocks him by saying that he knew all along that he was hurting himself for his sake. 

Gon then says that it can only be Killua holding the ball, and that it has to be Killua, resulting in Killua being absolutely awestruck and embarassed. I'm also going to talk about the anime adaptation for this one, because it's perfectly executed and translates extremely well the nuance that the second sentence bears. If you want to rewatch it, this scene happens in episode 70. It's worth noting that in the anime, we see Killua not reacting to Gon's first sentence, but losing his composure entirely when Gon says the second sentence. But why ?

The reason was lost in translation. His exact words are "Booru wa Killua ga motte-kurenai to. Killua ja nakya dame nan da.". Both sentences basically say the same thing : It has to be Killua holding the ball. That second sentence can be translated literally as "If it's not Killua, that won't do." However, the second sentence, in a different context, can also be used to say a totally different thing. 

While it's certain that Gon used this sentence in the context of the dodgeball match, the sentence "~ja nakya dame nan da" also serves as a confession of one's feelings in japanese. It's basically the equivalent to "you're the one for me". When you google the sentence, it turns up romantic songs, forum posts asking what it would translate to in English and posts on how to confess to someone. 

The sentence basically drowns in romantic subtext. As mentioned before, Killua has no reaction to the first sentence "Booru wa Killua ga motte-kurenai to.", but loses his composure at the second one, and I think that was a very deliberate thing Togashi wanted to convey : this sentence has an additional layer, and clearly Killua is taking it to heart.

I will come back to this specific subtext in a bit, because we can parallel it with another subtext-y situation, so please keep it in mind for now.

CHIMERA ANT ARC

Now onto the sad gay arc! This arc is so RIDDLED in subtext and parallels that it's making me lose my mind.

• Gon, you are light. (chapter 199)

This scene is just... So romantic in nature. I’m not too objective on this, but I really do believe that this moment is the exact moment Killua fell in love with Gon and started to realize he felt a bit more than friendship towards him. It’s Killua respecting Gon for who he is, realizing that he’s light and he’s always been, he’s the one who saved him and who’s always been so bright and optimistic and always makes the best out of any situation. In this scene, Killua lets himself drown in Gon’s light, allows himself to feel this “wow” moment of pure admiration and love, and it’s absolutely beautiful.

It's extremely important to take the context of this scene into account. What happened is that Killua, who has been struggling mentally for the entire series with the fact that he's always running away, ran away once more, leaving Kite to die with Pitou. This ENTIRE chapter is literally adults absolutely DESTROYING Killua, first Kite's troupe bashing him for leaving Kite behind, and then Netero, Morel and Knov coming in like icing on the cake telling Killua that "After all, he's just a kid", and that he should hurry up to his mommy. 

Killua is beating himself up for running away again, got destroyed by Kite's team and 3 extremely strong pro hunters. His morale is down in the drains right now. He expects Gon to be mad at him for betraying Kite, for running away once again, for leaving Kite to die alone and ripping Gon away from Kite : he expects that he'll lose Gon for his cowardice.

HOWEVER, the first thing that Gon says to Killua after having been passed out for god knows how many hours is "Thank you". 

Gon woke up and instantly eased up all of Killua's fears : he wasn't a loser for running away, and Gon was actually thankful for him. Gon, at this moment, was the only one that showed kindness, understanding and gratefulness towards Killua. Gon even goes so far as saying that he knows that Kite isn't dead, and that they have to help him. At this instant, Gon is truly Killua's saving grace. He's the one that trusts him with his entire heart, and believes in his choices when even he can't believe in himself. Gon is truly Killua's light at this precise moment, because he was the only one who supported him, trusted him and reassured him in this awful situation.

How can someone shine so bright in such a terrible situation ? How can someone be so positive that nothing bad will happen ? 

Gon asserting all of this makes Killua respect him a lot. Keep this word in mind, because it’s going to be important in the next piece of subtext I’m analyzing, because those two scenes canonically follow each other and are basically Togashi highlighting that something special happened when Killua called Gon his light, and that his feelings deepened.

• Introduction to Palm's character (chapter 200)

This piece of subtext is very very easy to miss but it's one of the most important subtext-y scene, because coupled with the “Gon, you are light” scene, it’s very clear that this dialogue is deliberately highlighting Killua’s feelings.

This chapter introduces Palm's character (which, imo, is a character introduced for the sole intent of being a catalyst to Killua's feelings towards Gon, but I'll talk about it in my post talking about the CAA parallels) - edit: i talked about this briefly here.

So, Killua having looked into Gon's eyes for like 10min straight and concluded that Gon was the light of his life a chapter ago, is now chilling with Gon as they meet Palm. 

Palm takes them to a café and STRAIGHT OFF THE BAT harasses them about how much she's in love with Knov. Like when I say harassing, it's literally a whole page of her explaining her feelings towards Knov. 

There are two interesting things that can be drawn from this interaction.

First, it's extremely easy to draw parallels between Palm's situation towards Knov and Killua's situation towards Gon. Palm starts by saying how amazing her master is, that she probably has special feelings for him but the most important thing is to respect the other person. Remember how I talked about how this last scene was Killua having a surge of deep, deep respect for Gon ? Palm makes sure to highlight that special word, that it’s important to respect someone when it comes to love.

She then goes on to say that she hasn't said anything to Knov, and never will. All of this adds nothing to the story, it's empty dialogue, Togashi could've introduced Palm in virtually any other way possible, but he chose to drag her and the gay duo to a café and make her have a monologue about love RIGHT after the extremely emotional panel of Killua declaring that Gon is his light just a chapter ago.

But there's more. Not only does Palm monologue for a while about love, but after finishing her monologue, this happens :

This panel features ONLY Palm and Killua, her looking at him like the psycho she is, and straight up telling him that "love can suddenly spark out of nowhere, don't you think so?". 

What's so interesting about this is the fact that Togashi made the deliberate choice to have Palm say this to Killua and Killua ONLY, which after the gay existential crisis he had last chapter, can very much be applied to his situation. Love DID spark out of nowhere, and Togashi wants you to notice. Togashi could've made Palm say this to herself, with no distinct listener like the last panel, but he made the conscious choice to draw this panel with Palm adressing herself to Killua SPECIFICALLY. 

Those two pieces of subtext, that fit perfectly together, make me believe 100% that Togashi knows what he's doing and he's not unintentionally planting gay subtext in his work. The fact that Togashi sat at his desk, drew Killua calling Gon his light, and then followed this scene with the introduction to a character who picks Killua apart to tell him that "love is something that just happens, don't you think?" is 100% proof that Togashi knows what he's doing.

• Date with Palm (chapters 217 and 218)

I think this situation has many layers, but many people still dismiss it as bro behavior so I'm gonna try my best to counter argue. First of all, and although that's not proof of anything, Killua looks EXTREMELY distressed by the prospect of Gon going on a date with Palm, but that can be counter-argued by saying that Killua is just worried because Palm is completely crazy. 

What I want to talk about is the scene that happens right after, when Gon and Killua go to the gym (because theyre DUDES YEAH WE WORK OUT NO HOMO), and the conversation casually drifts to Killua asking Gon if he's ever been on a date before, valid question considering what just happened previously. There are multiple things here :

1) Killua seems distressed that Gon has been on dates before. While it can be argued that it's a normal reaction because Gon has and he hasn't, I believe that Killua - who is in no way a normal person who would get flustered about "not having been on dates before a certain age" - would not feel uncomfortable that his friend is more experienced than him - especially when literal seconds later, he monologues about how he doesn’t care about dates and just wants to stick with Gon.

2) Gon then proceeds to ask Killua if he's ever been on a date, to which Killua responds :

What I want to highlight is the panel where Killua says "And the truth is, I want to stay by your side... Always...". Basically, what Killua is saying, is that he doesn't care about dates, all he wants to do is be with Gon.

I don't think this can be counter-argued as bro behavior, but with all the subtext I've explained before, this right here is pretty gay. Togashi put this panel deliberately to show that Killua doesn't give a crap about dates when he can stay with Gon, and with the "gon you are light" scene and everything in mind, this is another intentional subtext.

There's also the fact that Killua stalks the date like a jealous girlfriend - but I'm not gonna count that as subtext because it can be argued that he's just worried about Gon because Palm is insane.

• Gon is my best friend ! (chapter 219)

Remember how I told you to keep the "It has to be Killua" subtext in mind because I was gonna come back to it later ? Well.

During Palm's date with Gon, Killua runs into Rammot, who would definitely have ran into Palm and nenless Gon. Killua is forced to confront his worst fear : this is the moment where he knows that if he runs away again, Gon WILL die. Killua is literally overcoming his "programming", the physical representation of years of abuse out of love and care for Gon. He's ripping out the needle from his forehead out of pure, genuine care for Gon, because if he doesn't, then he'll lose him forever. 

Now, what I actually wanna talk about is this panel :

What we see is Killua thinking happy thoughts about all his adventures with Gon because he can't - won't - doesn't want to run away anymore, and all this for his sake. But what I wanna draw attention to is the dodgeball panel that's bigger than all the others, and the only one where you can actually clearly make out what's written : "Killua ja nakya dame nan da". 

Now, isn't that interesting that the panel that takes a bigger place in the whole panel is the one with this particular sentence? Remember what I talked about a bit earlier, about how "~ ja nakya dame nan da" is a sentence with a lot of romantic connotations (would pretty much equal to "you're the one for me" in English). Clearly this particular sentence stuck with Killua. 

I'm not completely objective on this matter since I firmly believe that at this point, Killua has romantic feelings for Gon, but I interpret this as another deliberate thing Togashi did : putting the panel bigger so we can see that it has a particularly significant importance to Killua, and Killua's state of mind right now (not wanting to lose Gon). 

In my opinion, two things happened here: One, Killua remembers this specific interaction because he knows how much Gon trusts him and he doesn't want to betray his trust. But I also firmly believe that Killua remembered this specific interaction because of the romantic connotation the sentence "Killua ja nakya dame nan da" has. Those words clearly shocked him, and I think he remembers them in this life-threatening situation, after the "gon you are light" scene, Palm talking about "love just happens", the "i want to stay with you, always" because he realizes that he wishes Gon would say that sentence in a romantic context, and not in the context of the dodgeball match, thus leading him to surpass himself to prove his love and perhaps live to see the day where Gon could say those words in that romantic context.

Now, of course, all of this is my interpretation, so it's really up to debate, but I really wanna highlight the fact that Togashi deliberately CHOSE to highlight this particular interaction between Gon and Killua, this sentence with romantic subtext, to lead Killua to finally break his chains and be able to be protect Gon fully. It’s also interesting to note that the 2011 anime adaptation also makes it a point to emphasize how deep these words stuck to Killua by making it the last flashback that makes Killua effectively rip out the needle out of his head. 

Also let's quickly mention the irony in the situation here : while Gon is on a romantic date, Killua fights to protect him, overcoming his weakness to prove his love. It’s not Palm who deserves that date, it’s Killua.

• A lovers’ suicide (chapter 286)

Now, onto the most important piece of subtext, that can not be counterargued as platonic in any way, shape or form. During the palace invasion, Killua leaves Gon's side, proceeds to go kick Youpi's butt only to have to fall back because he used up all his electricity nen. When Killua is charging up, he meets with Meleoron, and tells him that once he's done charging, he'll go back to Gon's side. 

They briefly exchange information about the battle, and then Meleoron proceeds to ask Killua what's the plan for him and Gon. That's when Killua explains that "Once Gon is like this, he won't budge an inch. Worst case scenario, it'll be a double suicide.". At worst they both die, cool. They “go down in flames together”. It’s actually much, much more meaningful than that.

The specific word that Killua uses for double suicide is "心中" (shinjuu), which is a heavily romantically connotated word in japanese. Shinjuu, also translated as "lovers’ suicide", is when two people die out of love, by the same method, because there's a belief that this'll allow those two people to spend eternity together. Shinjuu is a major theme of Japanese literature, and it is always used romantically. It's a very uncommon word to use to refer to two people dying together, because of its heavy romantic connotation, and because it always refers to double suicide committed by people bound by love. In literature, it always refers to two lovers, in love. If you want to read more on shinjuu, i suggest this and this, those articles explain its historic roots and the definition, also emphasizing the feeling of "oneness" that characterizes shinjuu. If you’re interested, I also suggest reading the japanese article that defines shinjuu, and hitting the google translate button, it has some pretty interesting sentences like “Shinjuu is traditionally committed by men and women out of mutual love, in the hope that they will be connected in the afterlife because they can't be together in this world.”

So basically, what Killua is saying is that he wants to go back to Gon's side to die with him, committing a "lovers’ suicide" because he doesn't want to leave Gon to die alone, and wants to die with him.

I also want to emphasize how special this word is to Killua, and that he and everyone around him know the special meaning of this word - In chapter 300, Ikalgo literally says "We were... No, KILLUA was ready to commit shinjuu with Gon". Ikalgo is really highlighting the fact that this word holds special meaning, especially to Killua, and that it was HIM who was willing to commit shinjuu by staying with Gon. Ikalgo and company dying with Gon wouldn't be shinjuu, but Killua dying with Gon would be, and Togashi emphasizes this through Ikalgo's thoughts.

This is pretty much the gist of it, but I suggest reading the wonderful post I linked in the references below if you want to know more about this specific subtext.

(edit : i actually wrote a post going a bit more into detail on Killua’s shinjuu wish if you want to read it here ! :3)

• “The one that Gon needs the most is you” (chapter 294)

I will go into this subtext more in details when I write the post about parallels in CAA, but I still want to talk about it briefly here.

Like I said before, to me, Palm was introduced as a catalyst for Killua's feelings towards Gon. Togashi purposefully wrote Palm as having romantic feelings for Gon to foil Killua's feelings for Gon and make him show jealousy towards Palm. 

To Killua, Palm is someone who stole Gon from him, he sees her as a threat because maybe she'll make Gon happier than he does ? (ofc we all know thats not true but Killua is baby) - Basically, Killua thinks Palm might be more important to Gon than Killua is, because he believes they are romantically involved. That's why when he sees her again later on, after Gon rejected his help, leaving Killua helpess as to how to save his dear friend, Killua sees Palm as a saving grace. 

He knows that if Gon sees Palm as a chimera ant, he will spiral down even more, so he tries to reason with her to get her to be gentle to Gon, because if not her, then who could? Palm would clearly be able to comfort Gon, with whom Killua believes is romantically involved with, better than him, right ? If Gon rejected Killua, then clearly Palm could help, since she seems closer to Gon (BECAUSE HE BELIEVES THEYRE DATING), right? 

This confrontation between Palm and Killua closely ressembles a situation like an ex confronting a new girlfriend - and I think this is exactly why Togashi wrote Palm this way. He wanted Killua to confront who he thought was a threat to their relationship, making him believe that this person who's """"dating"""” Gon is more important to him than himself, only to have her openly admit that she means nothing to Gon. The only one Gon needs is Killua.

And that, my friends, coming from someone you believe is romantically involved with your best friend (who you probably have a crush on), someone you're jealous of, the one you thought was the person most important to him, that's a pretty meaningful statement. 

Basically, what's happening, is that Palm reaffirms that Gon holds Killua closer than a potential romantic partner. And that's why Killua is so, so happy to hear that. He was questioning his entire relationship, questioning if Gon even cared about him, because he rejected him a few minutes before, but then his "rival" comes in and reaffirms that even she knows that no one comes close to Killua to Gon.

I also want to mention that this act of pure love (Killua only thinking of saving Gon when in a life threatening situation) is what made Palm come back to her human senses. d'awwwwww

• Illumi and Hisoka’s parallel on lovers who die of Alluka’s requests. (chapter 323)

Now onto the final significant subtext - while I don't particularly think of it as subtext-y, I know a lot of people have so I still want to include it here.

When Illumi explains Alluka's powers to Hisoka, he explains that there are two different types of linked deaths when a request is failed : 1) the person who failed + the person they love the most 2) the person who failed + the people they spent most of their time with. 

When applied to Killua, Hisoka naturally comes to the conclusion that no matter the outcome, Gon would always be the one dying with Killua, because he's spent so much time with him, and because he's the one that Killua loves the most. In the panel where Illumi explains this, we see a romantic, heterosexual couple  demonstrating the effects of not completing one of Alluka's requests, and thus the "most important person dying". 

While not making any true parallels, the fact that Hisoka, and the readers, are drawn to compare a heterosexual, romantic pairing to Killua dying with Gon because he's his "most important person" is an interesting piece of subtext.

_______

I want to finish by talking about Killua's birthday and how significant it is in my opinion. All the main 4 characters have birthdays that fall on specific dates, related to Japanese tradition, and often with events that can be associated to their character. Gon's is 5/5, which is Children's Day. Kurapika's is 4/4, the number 4 being considered an unlucky number, and this being an unlucky day to have a child. Leorio's is 3/3, Hinamatsuri (not really any main parallels here but still). But Killua's birthday is 7/7, and is the Japanese day to celebrate Tanabata. 

If you are not familiar with Tanabata, the story is as follows : Orihime is a princess who works for her father, working hard and well, but she laments the fact that because of her hard work she can't meet someone and fall in love. Her father arranges for her to meet Hikoboshi, allowing Orihime to leave because he expects her to come back to work for him, but the two immediately fall in love and get married, and she never returns. I won't get into the rest of the story as it's this part that interests me the most, but if you want to read more about Killua and Tanabata I suggest reading the post I referenced below.

Does the story of Orihime remind you of anyone ? Killua also works for his father, but laments the fact that he can't go outside and meet someone. His father then lets him go, saying, and i quote: "he will come back, because he's my son". Doesn't this remind you of the tale of Tanabata ? Killua's story references the tale of Orihime perfectly, and I believe this is intentional : Killua's birthday isn't of any importance to the plot, so why make it Tanabata, a day that celebrates a love story that closely ressembles Killua's story ? The answer is simple : subtext.

With all this in mind, I think it's pretty clear that Togashi is writing intentional subtext to hint at Killua's feelings being romantic in nature. Togashi is a master writer, he has years of experience, and I strongly believe he knows what he's doing and not planting unintentional subtext. He's a very smart man, and knows how all of this can be interpreted.

I will finish by saying that Togashi is NOT an author that would deliberately queerbait his readers. So many people dismiss the possibility of having gay subtext leading onto an actual canon gay relationship because "it's not like the author would ever have gay main characters". While this holds true for a lot of manga authors, especially shonen manga authors, it does NOT apply to Togashi. 

Togashi has always displayed interest in queer subjects and queer representation, putting trans characters in all of his major works (Miyuki in YYH, Mikihisa in Level E and Alluka in HxH). There were also canonically gay characters in his previous works : Itsuki in YYH, and a character named Kuramoto in Level E. 

Togashi also always had interest in mangas having BL elements, citing Maya Mineo's "Patalliro!" as a manga he was attracted to during High School. If you're unfamiliar with Patalliro, the story focuses on the main character's love life as a gay man.  He also admitted to basing Hiei's (YYH) design off a character from that manga. 

Last but not least, Togashi mentioned in a note included in volume 1 of YYH that he wanted to write a sports manga, called The Trouble Quartet, where basically all the characters are gay. Togashi said he based it off his own interests as a writer, and that while it was refused by Shonen Jump, he got deeply attached to the project and that he would love to explore this project in a different shape once he made a name for himself. I suggest reading this post because the parallels between The Trouble Quartet and HxH are HILARIOUSLY accurate.

In short, Togashi has always had interest in queer matters, and was always interested in putting queer representation in his work. After YYH, which was a terrible experience for Togashi as a writer, he managed to snatch a contract that basically allows him to do whatever he wants with HxH. Having always held dear BL matters but never being able to explore it to his full intent, I believe Togashi is exploring queer identity further with HxH, because Shonen Jump basically lets him do anything.

To conclude, with Togashi's past experience and skill, his interest in queer representation, and the amount of subtext surrounding Killua, I honestly believe that Togashi is trying to explore further queer representation, and I wouldn't be surprised if HxH ends with Gon and Killua becoming a canon pairing, whether it be delivered in an ambiguous manner or not. 

Edit : I actually wrote a post on why I believe it won’t be ambiguous, and that it’s truly never been ambiguous, just developing : here.

I hope you enjoyed the read, thank you for reading all of this, and feel free to show this to anyone who denies subtext in HxH !

REFERENCES

- "It has to be Killua" - Medium article, "Impossibilities in Translating Queerness : The Dodgeball Dilemma" 

- Palm's Date Scene - Reddit post, "Togashi's love of Ambiguity: Chapters 217 and 218" 

-A thematic analysis of Palm’s character : ”The Issue With Palm”

- Shinjuu - Tumblr post by hunterxhell, "A lovers' suicide, I guess." :  + the post that mentions Ikalgo talking about shinjuu 

- An analysis on different subtext-y situations

- Illumi and Hisoka’s parallel : here and here 

- Killua’s birthday : "Killua, July 7th, and the significance of his birthdate”

- Togashi's interview mentioning Mineo's Patalliro 

[bakedbananners]

Can we talk about his Alex literally was depicted as a villain for the beginning of the hammer of thor? Nobody had any reason to trust her and she made it kinda hard too. I do think if there was more time in the series this could have been super interesting, kinda like the reverse Luke story arc, but it was fascinating how Magnus who doesn’t trust anyone in the first book was like “no I trust her” completely. I wish it was more relevant to the book like maybe imbedded into a prophecy, but I still like this kind of detailed story developments

Villain is maybe a strong word for her imo. Not sure if I’d call her a foil either, but maybe a… morally questionable person? The point of Alex’s introduction is that she is ALWAYS more than she appears, and basically the moral is “don’t judge a book by it’s cover”. She’s misgendered, she looks preppy and bright but is really moody and serious, she uses the Urnes snakes symbol, etc. Alex is considered a deviant by Asgardian standards as much as Samirah was, because they are judging her based on Loki. Hell, she even tells the Thanes to not refer to her in relation to her mother because she doesn’t even like him lol. Plus Magnus had also already befriended a child of Loki in Samirah, adding onto the whole “don’t judge people at first glance”. The audience, who read book 1 and saw how Samirah was treated due to her heritage, should catch on that it’s probably not really the case with Alex. (Maybe I’m biased bc I read it after the entire trilogy came out tho lol)

I’ve been thinking about this for a while but I do appreciate to some extent that Riordan writes Alex as having a pretty common type of trauma response by being physically destructive and flighty for a while. And the thing is that Magnus understands that. He even says he remembered doing the same things because he had a hard time adjusting. He recognizes her, sees HIMSELF in her, and because he had been given opportunities and showed extensive kindness by others, he’s passing it forward to Alex (granted that “kindness” does kinda dip into a problematic pushing of boundaries for a moment re at the campfire but alas). It’s a more “unpleasant” response to trauma that some victims/survivors go through, and I think it’s good to show that without demonizing it.

Hence I wouldn’t want her to be forced into a plot twist where she was somehow the villain the whole time or whatever, because it feels antithetical to her character to say “here’s a misfit who everyone thinks is bad, she gains everyone’s trust, and turns out she really IS bad ooooo”. HOWEVER, I think she’s a great narrative vehicle for change. Maybe I do want her to keep fucking shit up anarchically messing with the gods and giants like she did with Surt in 9ft9w. I think it would be a great way to hammer (pun not intended) home the point that the gods are shit and change comes from The People, and fate maybe can be toyed with sometimes, if not for Good then at least because it’s fun lol. It would be the only way I could accept her being a “villain” AKA opposing systemic unjust power structures and being demonized by said unjust power, in my opinion lol. I’m still rereading PJO rn so I think it would be a SIMILAR but not quite exact parallel to Luke’s story where he’s kinda doing the same thing in theory but in actuality is committing genuine atrocities instead and just generally being a piece of shit lmao.

TLDR I don’t think Alex is actually from a narrative standpoint conveyed to be a “villain” per se, but there’s literary layers to it because you’re 1) seeing things through an inherently biased 1st person narrator in Magnus 2) a lot of the characters with “moral authority” like the Thanes and Norse gods are kinda shitty and stupid anyways and 3) Alex as a character unfolds in layers. Like an onion lol. I do think it would be fun to make her a force of anarchic change and upheaval of the system which has shown to be unfair and unjust, but then Rick would have to be like an actual anarchist lol. Which he is not (AFAIK) 😢

[sulphuryasecretcloset]

What if...? Part 6

Again, this one goes out to you beautiful enablers! You who comment, reblog and are along for this journey through AU land! I see you, I appreciate you and you make my day :D

So, uh, a quick question: Which do you, read readers, prefer; either one giant part 7 or more regular sized part 7 + a part 8... What’s your vote?

-

What if Dulsissia hadn’t died, what if she had grabbed Corin and fled? What if she met Davarax? What if…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

“I want you to train me. Teach me how to fight.” Dulsissia blurts it out as she settles herself down next to where Davarax is sitting on the floor with his blaster meticulously laid out in pieces on a blanket in front of him to do maintenance on the different parts.

Davarax freezes for several seconds and then he cautiously puts the pieces he was holding down and he looks over at her. “I, uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Dulsissia frowns. He doesn’t think she can handle it?

“I’m sure we can ask Decco to train you.” Davarax offers.

“Bee-cause you don’t want to.” Dulsissia draws out the word, not entirely sure whether to be hurt or offended, but right now she’s leaning towards both.

Davarax lifts a placating hand, sighing. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just… I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

Had it been any other man, Dulsissia would have gone on a rant by now, but she knows Davarax wouldn’t say no if he didn’t have a good reason. “Would you mind telling why not?”

His hand slowly sinks down again and he makes a couple of efforts at starting a sentence, but in the end; Davarax’ shoulders sag slightly with defeat. “It’s just… not.”

“Why not.” She insists. Fine, Dulsissia can ask Decco, but she will at least know why the most skilled fighter in the Covert refuses to train her. He’d even called her Mandokarla once. “You don’t think I’m Mandokarla any more?” 

When had she broken his faith in her? When she’d panicked over that storm trooper? Was that it? Mandalorians aren’t allowed to show fear?

“You are!” Davarax blurts out. “You definitely are. Mandokarla. You are.” He then sighs again and gestures faintly towards himself. “It’s me, okay? I’m the problem.”

“You?” She narrows her eyes suspiciously. How can he be the problem? He’s their best fighter.

“I’m too…” Davarax searches for the right word. “...invested.” He finishes, somewhat lamely, and his hand just drops to his lap.

Dulsissia snorts. “You’re training my son, your own kids, but you can’t train me?”

“You’re different.” Davarax mumbles, sounding awkward.

“Nonsense.” Dulsissia inches closer. “I want to learn and I want to learn from the best. Please? I’ll be a good girl and do everything the teacher says.”

Davarax makes an odd sound deep in his throat.

“I know you are busy and you’ve already helped me so much and it is incredibly selfish of me to put another burden on your shoulders,” Dulsissia confesses, feeling the taste of shame again, “but I trust you. And… I like spending time with you. No offense to Decco, she has been wonderful, but she’s not exactly… cheerful. Or especially fond of conversing. She threatened to glue my mouth shut yesterday and I honestly think she wasn’t joking.”

Davarax chuckles, sounding both resigned and fondly amused. “She wasn’t.” Then he hangs his helmet low for a moment or two before sighing yet again and looking over at Dulsissia. “Okay.”

Letting out a low squeal of delight, Dulsissia bumps her shoulder against his. “Thank you! You won’t regret this.”

Davarax makes a sound as if he’s not entirely convinced about that before he picks up the blaster pieces again and continues his work. “Tomorrow. Thirty minutes before I teach the kids.”

“Thirty minutes?” The man pushes the children far harder than that. “That’s it?”

“One, it’s your first lesson. We’ll be going over basics. Two,” Davarax’ t-visor turns to look at her, “I thought you were going to do what the teacher told you to do?”

Dulsissia puts on her sweetest smile and nods. “Thirty minutes. Before the kids. Yes, sir!”

Davarax sighs, how many times is that now in such a short while, and turns back to his blaster.

-

She meets up a little early, eager and wearing her finest skirt, ready to impress and become the best student Davarax has ever had. Dulsissia straightens her spine and gives him a bright smile when Davarax enters the training room.

He comes to a halt when he sees her, then clears his throat and continues to walk over to her. “You’re early. Good.”

Dulsissia tilts her head, still smiling. “Ready for training. As you can see.”

Davarax makes a non-committing hum.

She can’t keep it up any longer. Dulsissia reaches down, undoes the two buttons and lets her skirt fall to the floor to reveal the far more practical pants she’s wearing underneath. “Ha! Got you!”

He does the Davaraxian huff of a laugh and rewards her with a faint nod. “Funny. Very funny.”

Stepping out of the skirt before picking it up to fold it, Dulsissia rubs her successful prank in with a smug cackle. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to say anything. You’re so sweet.”

“I can’t believe that you don’t think I won’t get back at you for calling me out on it.” Davarax replies, crossing his arms and tilting his helmet in a challenging way.

Dulsissia grins, puts the folded skirt by the wall and trots over to stand in front of him without a hint of fear. “Whatever you got, my good Lord Davarax, I can take it.”

Davarax just looks down at her, breathes, and for some reason; Dulsissia’s heart does a flip.

Then the Mandalorian suddenly unfolds his arms, clears his throat and steps away to take up a position she’s seen the children start the day with.

“We’ll start with the basics. Just the basics. It’s going to be harder for you than the children because you’ve grown accustomed to your body in a way they haven’t had the time to yet, and you’re going to have to unlearn a bit of that plus replace some old reflexes with new ones.” Davarax says.

Dulsissia forces herself to focus and tries to copy the stance. “I’m ready to sweat. Show me.”

Davarax glances over at her, she can feel his gaze slide over her, then he nods.

Yeah, okay, Dulsissia is starting to understand why he’d been hesitant to agree to teach her. He’s an excellent teacher, explains things so well, but she’d failed to take into consideration how every single touch of his hands on her, despite the gloves, despite the layer of clothing, results in flares of heat, moments of complete distraction and a flush to her face that has nothing to do with the strain of the exercises.

She had complained about thirty minutes not being long enough, but after twenty five of them; Dulsissia resolutely sits down and lets out a loud, unladylike groan at the ceiling. Who could have known copying moves that Davarax makes seem easy would be this hard? And while Dulsissia had not considered herself to be out of shape, this has left her completely exhausted.

“Still five minutes left.” Davarax points out, standing next to her, sounding smug.

Dulsissia decides to wipe that smugness off his face. Fast as lightning, she flings herself over and grabs a hold of his lower leg with both of her hands, aiming to bring him down to her level, and she yanks with all of her might.

Nothing. It’s like trying to pull at an AT-AT. And Davarax just looks down at her.

Groaning, Dulsissia lets go and flops over to lie on her back. “It was worth a shot.”

Laughing, a low, warm sound, Davarax eases himself down to sit next to her. “It was cute.”

Cute? Dulsissia glares over at him. And before he realizes his mistake, she launches herself at him, climbs into his lap and shoves at his shoulders. Maybe she couldn’t topple him over on his feet, but surely she can knock him over like this?

No.

She’s not entirely sure how he does it, he moves too fast, he’s too strong, but suddenly she’s on her back on the floor and he’s hovering over her. His hands are pinning her wrists to the floor and a quick tug tells her she has absolutely no chance of getting loose. Dulsissia grins. “Also worth a shot.”

Davarax hums, deliberately not to touching her with anything but his grip on her wrists. “Be careful with your shots, Dulcy. You don’t want to end up like this with the enemy.”

Her face burns. She’s suddenly so very aware of him. “It doesn’t feel all that bad, to be honest.”

It feels like all of the oxygen in the room abruptly disappears, gravity gives up and the temperature sky-rockets. Neither of them move. The tension keeps growing and then…

Davarax looks over at the door and scrambles away from her half a second before the children come stomping into the room, chattering and eagerly anticipating today’s lesson.

Dulsissia closes her eyes and let out a long exhale, just as she hears;

“Mom…?”

-

It’s Din’s birthday. Dulsissia had overheard it by accident when Din had been talking to her son and he’d mentioned how he was counting down the years to when he would finally be allowed to put on the helmet. 

She’d asked when he was having his birthday celebration so she could get a present for her son to give him and felt no small amount of horror when Din said there wasn’t going to be one. His parents had said there was no point so he assumed that meant no celebration.

Well, he was wrong about that.

As Din is more comfortable there, she arranges the birthday celebration in her and Corin’s room and invites the rest of Davarax’ children, plus the man himself. It’s a small thing, compared to the parties she used to throw, but it is a huge deal to Din. He shies a bit away from being the centre of attention, but with Davarax and Corin both encouraging him; Din ends up actually enjoying it a little.

And it is all worth it when a red-faced and awkward Din gives Dulsissia by his own free will a quick hug at the end of the day.

Dulsissia then has to hide a smile when Paz ‘innocently’ mentions how he has his birthday exactly one standard week after Din’s while they are seated at the table and devouring the sweets she’s made. (She’s getting pretty good at this baking thing. The fighting? Less so, but she’s improving.)

Paz’ father has a big celebration for his day, but while Dulsissia mostly observes it from the outside, she can’t help but to notice how, while it is in his name, very little is focused on Paz himself. It’s mostly about his father, adult food and strong spirits. Not much for a twelve year old to enjoy.

So she throws him a party in her quarters with the other children and their teacher like she’d done for Din. And Dulsissia feels her heart break yet again when, at the end of the day, Paz hugs her so tight he almost squeezes the air out of her.

Standing next to her, Davarax sighs as he watches Paz leave with the other kids in tow. “I didn’t really celebrate my own birthday much so I never thought about theirs. I let them down.”

“From what I’ve seen,” Dulsissia replies with a bittersweet feeling, “you are the only person in this place who hasn’t let them down.”

Davarax shakes his head. “Not entirely true, but thank you.”

She turns to face him, places her hand on the breastplate where she’d feel his heart if not for the armor. “You took them under your wings when everyone had given up on them. You didn’t just give them the abilities to survive that they are going to need, but your attention and kindness as well. You are those children’s entire world. And I don’t think they could have chosen a better man.”

Davarax reaches up and covers her hand with his. “Dulcy… Do you know what a kov’nyn is?”

She shakes her head. Her heart is going faster and faster.

“Find out.”

“How?”

Davarax does his trademark huff-laughter. “You’re a clever girl. You can do it.” He then lets go, says his goodbye to Corin, who sits on the bed and watches them with a far-too-knowing grin on his face, and gives a final bow to Dulsissia before leaving as well.

Flustered and a little breathless, Dulsissia walks over to clean up the last traces of the dinner.

“Mom.” Corin says.

“Mmh?” She replies, wondering if she can ask Decco what a kov’nyn is or maybe just try to find some sort of dictionary so she won’t have to trouble her all the time.

“Can we ask Din to stay here with us?”

Dulsissia gathers up the plates. “Baby, I don’t think Din’s parents would like that.” Unfortunately.

“He says they wouldn’t mind.” Corin replies. “Also, when you and Davarax become girlfriend and boyfriend, can I call him ‘dad’?”

Dulsissia straightens with a jolt and her face flares up so badly it hurts. “Go brush your teeth, baby.”

“But-”

“Go brush your teeth!”

-

The Tribe doesn’t have an abundance of datapads or old fashioned books. Most of their teachings are done verbally, but Decco is kind enough to ask around and two days later, a Mandalorian in an orange armor agrees to borrow Dulsissia something similar to a dictionary.

Too curious to wait until she is back in her room where Corin is getting ready for bed while she rushed out to get the book, Dulsissia stops in the middle of a hallway to look up the word. She’s dying to know what Davarax had hinted at, what he was trying to tell her and wanted her to know.

Turning the pages, Dulsissia finally finds the word. ‘Kov’nyn’! There it is!

A headbutt.

Dulsissia blinks. What? Excuse…? She vividly remembers the sight and not to mention the sound of Davarax headbutting that poor Mandalorian during his training and her eyes widen with startled surprise. What?! Was he going to do that to her during their next training? Oh, nonono, no way.

Just as she’s about to slam the book shut and declare that Davarax had been right; Decco might be a better teacher after all, Dulsissia almost accidentally reads more of the text.

Or: A kiss between couples when wearing armor.

Now she does slam the book shut and she’s finding it a bit hard to catch her breath.

Oh.

“I heard you were looking for a book on Mando’a.” A voice says behind her.

Making a startled sound, clutching the book close, Dulsissia spins around and is even more startled when she sees the golden armor and fur cloak.

It’s her. The leader.

“Yes. I, uhm,” Dulsissia awkwardly pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, “I thought it was about time I learned a little more about… Mando’a. You have all been so kind to me.”

The leader looks at her and her body language is as impossible to read as her facial expression hidden by her helmet.

Dulsissia tries to smile.

“I also hear your son is making good progress in his training.”

Nodding, Dulsissia tries to hide how nervous she’s feeling.

“On his travels, Davarax has brought back many Foundlings. That is his Way and that is The Way.” The leader says. “But he has never brought back an outsider.”

Dulsissia loses the smile and she feels her shoulders sagging a little under the heavy weight of shame. “He… He was kind enough to save me from some horrible men.”

“Mmh.” Is the flat reply. “Are you going to take the Creed?”

Surprised, Dulsissia struggles to find the right answer. She’s been so busy trying to deal with the present that she hasn’t really planned her future. “I… I don’t know.”

That does not seem to impress the leader of the Mandalorians. “Then find your Way. Before you ruin his.”

Watching the Mandalorian walk away, Dulsissia isn’t entirely sure how she feels about this conversation. She’s getting the distinct feeling that this was a message for her to stay away from Davarax, but why? Surely the leader of a warrior tribe does not care about the love life of one of her soldiers? And what gives her the right? Rude.

Frowning, Dulsissia starts walking back to her room while the thoughts keep churning in her brain.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do, not even when she walks over to Davarax’ door instead of her own and finds herself knocking on it. Dulsissia waits until he opens the door, says her name in a slightly confused tone, and then… she drops the book, reaches up with both hands to take a hold of the top of his breastplate and promptly pulls him down to thump her forehead to his helmet.

Ow.

Letting go, Dulsissia takes a step back and rubs her forehead. One eye closed, she stares at him in confusion. “I think you people got kissing a bit wrong. It’s not supposed to hurt, you know?”

Stunned, Davarax finally straightens back up and reaches out a hand to take a hold of her upper arm in case she falls over. “I don’t… That’s not how…” The Davaraxian laughter huff appears before he urges her to take the step back to him. “Can I show you?”

Dulsissia moves closer to him willingly enough, but she keeps rubbing her forehead and hesitates. “I’m not sure if I want another concussion.” Maybe she isn’t Mandokarla after all? She prefers softer things than headbutts from her date.

“Trust me?” Davarax asks in a quiet tone.

Sighing, Dulsissia lowers her arm. “Fine. But if I am knocked unconscious, you’re in charge of making breakfast to Corin tomorrow as an apology.”

“Deal.” Davarax murmurs, but in an absent way. His hands are already sliding up to cup her face and she shivers at the memory of them without gloves. “Close your eyes, Dulcy.”

Swallowing hard, she does. Suddenly she doesn’t care if he headbutts her into tomorrow as long as he doesn’t take his hands off her or stop talking.

“It’s mean to be gentle…” Davarax says, so soft and smooth, his hands tilting her head backwards, just a little, but enough so her body automatically arches against his. “It’s meant to be warm…” One hand moves to cup the back of her head, the other slides down to her lower back. “It’s longing…” Smooth beskar gently meets her now very warm skin and he eases her body close, so very close, until she’s firmly up against him with a very strong arm around her waist. “and it’s giving.” He tightens his grip around her.

Reaching up, Dulsissia’s fingers dig into the fabric on his upper arms, desperate to hold on to something so she doesn’t just swoon in his arms like a bad theatre actress.

Davarax lets out a soft exhale, it’s sounds almost like relief, and she can feel the muscles in his arm tightening a little more, his hand cupping her head and holding her there, as if she still isn’t close enough for him.

Time stands still. All she feels is heat, him and her own frantic pulse.

Breathless, far too warm for any decent explanation, Dulsissia reluctantly opens her eyes when he pulls away and shivers with disappointment when he lets go of everything but her hand.

“That’s what it’s meant to be like.” Davarax says.

“Oh.” Dulsissia manages. Okay, maybe everyone else had something to learn from Mandalorians.

It takes a visible effort for Davarax to make himself let go of her hand, for a second she can see the twitch in his shoulders when he stops himself from pulling her close again, but he lets go and now he is the one to take a step away. “Good night, Dulcy.”

“Good night.” She whispers, and it takes a visible effort for her to turn around, pick up the book with numb fingers and go over to her own room.

-

Stupid Mandalorians and their stupid headbutt kissing! Now Dulsissia can’t even look over at Davarax without feeling her face burn or be near him without having her heart to backflips all around her ribcage. This is making her life very frustrating!

And her only comfort is suspecting that Davarax isn’t faring much better either. Judging from how he walked into that table yesterday when she stretched out.

The training? Oh, it’s the sweetest torture ever.

She’s on her way to pick up Corin at Din’s room when a familiar piercing way of screaming catches her attention and Dulsissia doesn’t hesitate to run towards the sound.

Inside what looks to be school room with several pillows on the floor placed around a larger one. A group of scared children are huddled together in one corner while a Mandalorian who looks to be the teacher is restraining a fully feral Raga, with one big hand gripping her arm and the other hand is locked around her neck and preventing her from moving her head.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dulsissia shouts, stalking in and shoving the Mandalorian away.

Once again surprise is on her side and the Mandalorian stumbles away, releasing the little girl and Dulsissia does not hesitate to crouch down and wrap her arms protectively around the flailing child. Pain flares when sharp teeth dig into Dulsissia’s arm and latch on.

“She’s completely feral!” The teacher shouts, pointing at Raga. “I’ve taught children, youngsters and foundlings alike, for decades and I’ve never met a child that feral! She’s hopeless!”

“What do you expect when you restrain her like a rancor? I’d bite you too!” Dulsissia shouts back at him. She gets up, hoists Raga in her arms, ignores the pain of the teeth still digging into her and marches out of the room with her.

She’s halfway to her quarters, Raga still hasn’t let go but at least she has stopped flailing and screaming and is just quietly twitching so that’s something, when a Mandalorian comes trotting with Davarax on his tail. They both come to a halt when they see Dulsissia carrying Raga.

“I was just coming to…” Davarax points helplessly in the direction of the classroom. “They said she…” He sighs at the sight and reaches out towards Dulsissia’s arm. “Here, I’ll try to-”

“No.” Dulsissia snaps, turning away to shield her arm and Raga from him. “I got her. I’m taking her to my room. You go tell Corin, he’s with Din, that I’m going to be late, and then you go get us Paz.”

Davarax seems a little surprised, but eventually he gives a nod and Dulsissia continues her march back to her room, giving a quick couple of pets to Raga’s back as she’s still twitching.

Once they are inside in the safety of her and Corin’s room, Dulsissia walks over to sit down on the bed. Raga is a bit larger than Corin, her thin frame doesn’t make her much heavier, but she’s taller and it takes a little arranging of her skinny legs and arms. Once they are settled, Dulsissia continues to run her hand up and down Raga’s back and just waits.

To her surprise, Raga lets go of her arm. And a few seconds after that, the girl quietly mumbles; “M’ sorry…”

Smiling, Dulsissia continues to stroke her back. “It’s okay, baby. I know you didn’t mean to.”

“He said I had to sit in the corner because I threw some thing at him.” Raga mumbles. “But I didn’t. It wasn’t me!” She starts to get agitated again. “I told him it wasn’t me and he said he was going to tell my parents I was a liar and have them punish me!”

Forcing her own anger away, Dulsissia strokes the girl’s back again. “I’m sorry he did that to you, sweetie. I’m sorry he didn’t believe you. That was wrong of him.”

“It wasn’t me…” Raga whispers.

“I believe you.” Dulsissia reassures her. And for the next ten minutes, she just holds her close, strokes her back and pets her hair. And anger quietly simmers inside.

Finally Davarax arrives and in his footsteps, Paz follows. He instantly darts by his teacher at the sight of Raga and the girl doesn’t hesitate to twist around to reach out to him.

Dulsissia gets up from the bed and watches Paz take her seat, pulling Raga close and lets her curl up on his lap. She almost disappears in his embrace. That boy is going to end up a giant if he doesn’t stop growing soon and yet he treats his friend with such mesmerizing gentleness.

“Your arm…” Davarax asks quietly, looking over.

“It’s fine.” Dulsissia replies. It aches like crazy and there will definitely be bruising, but that is not what is important right now. She looks over at him. “They called her a liar. They were holding her down like a rabid loth-cat. And they are surprised she bites?”

Davarax shakes his head. “I know…” He sounds pained and resigned. “The four of them are marked as troublemakers. If something goes wrong, if something could have gone wrong, they’re always blamed. And I can’t stop it.”

Dulsissia’s eyes narrow. “Stay here with the kids.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to talk to someone.”

-

Dulsissia raps on the door with urgent haste and this time she doesn’t wait for the drowsy Mandalorian to speak before she asks; “Is he in?”

He is.

She knocks and then barges in to the room, startling Barthor into a defensive stance. Dulsissia ignores the tiny fists. “What I’m about to ask you can never be repeated. Do you understand?”

Barthor stares at her, slowly lowering his fists. “What?”

Dulsissia stalks closer and he backs up a step so she crouches down for them to be the same height. “I need you to do something for me and no one can ever find out.”

Barthor’s dark eyes slide from side to side, as if checking for hidden cameras. “Do… what?”

“I want you to make me a stink bomb.”

Snorting a laugh, Barthor shakes his head and walks over to sit on his bed. “I don’t know how to-”

“You know.” Dulsissia interrupts him. “Will you make me one?”

Barthor frowns, now suspicious. “Why? What are you going to do with it?”

Dulsissia raises an eyebrow. “I want to place it in the room belonging to man who teaches Raga’s class.”

That seems to make Barthor even more suspicious. “Why?”

“Because he’s a bully to Raga.”

Something flickers in Barthor’s eyes. “He was mean to Raga again?”

Again. The word hurts Dulsissia’s soul. If that man had been mean to her son, he wouldn’t have had the chance to do it ‘again’. She nods.

Barthor stares down at that floor for a little while, then he jumps to his feet and sighs. “Okay, give me ten minutes.”

It takes him eight to finish it. But he insists on joining her when she goes to plant the contraption.

“You might do it wrong.” Barthor informs her, gingerly easing it into a small bag.

Dulsissia rolls her eyes but follows him when he marches off towards their unsuspecting victim.

Once there, it’s clear it won’t be as easy as they hoped. The man is in his room.

“You distract him, I’ll plant it.” Barthor declares.

Dulsissia nods. “Be careful.”

Barthor smirks. And they go to work.

Knocking on the door, Dulsissia waits for the man to open it and then begins lecturing him on all the wrong ways to handle a sensitive child, not letting the man get a word in, and she barely catches the shadow of little Barthor sneaking by them and into the room.

She keeps her rant going, the man is too surprised and startled to do much than come with feeble objections, and the second Dulsissia sees the shadow sneak out by the man’s legs again, she finishes her speech.

“Good day to you, sir!”

Marching down the hallway, she rounds a corner and finds Barthor there. He looks up at her with a hint of respect.

“Not bad.” He says with grudging respect.

“You too.” Dulsissia replies, reaching out a hand and shakes his when he takes it. “But remember, no one can know.”

Barthor grins. “Don’t worry. No one is going to be able to to prove anything.” “Good.”

When the stink spreads in the man’s room, Dulsissia and Barthor has picked up Corin, and somehow Din ends up tagging along, and they are all safely in Dulsissia and Corin’s room, along with Paz, Raga and Davarax. Eating cookies.

And Barthor was right; nobody is ever able to prove who was behind it.

-

“Mom, are you sure we can’t ask Din to stay here?” Corin asks one morning.

Sighing, Dulsissia looks over at her sweet son. “I told you, baby. I don’t think his parents will like that. Is there something wrong? Is that why you keep asking?”

Corin, sitting on her bed, shrugs and looks down. “He doesn’t like it there.”

Clearly, as the child spends most of his time with them rather than his parents, but Dulsissia isn’t sure how Mandalorian adoption works. She’s fairly certain it would be frowned upon if she just started hoarding children from them. Otherwise, she would probably have had bunk beds and five children in this room. “I’m sorry to hear that, Corin. Has he tried to talk to his parents?”

Corin shakes his head. “He doesn’t like talking to them.”

Dulsissia has a sneaking suspicion that Din doesn’t like much, except Davarax and her son. At least he has excellent taste. “Do you think he’d like me to talk to them?”

Corin shakes his head again. “He won’t like it if he knew I’d told you.”

Figures. Dulsissia sighs. “Then I don’t know what we can do, baby. They are his parents. We are guests here.”

“Well,” Corin looks over at her, “at least he can come and visit as much as he likes?”

“Absolutely.” Dulsissia confirms. “And I’ll ask if he can stay over some time. Would that help?”

Her beautiful boy lights up with delight. “Really? You’re the best, mom!”

“Remember you said that when I tell you to clean up your toys.” Dulsissia declares.

Corin laughs.

It’s such a wonderful sound. He never used to laugh. He’s always been such a silent child, like Din, but the longer they have stayed here at the Covert; the more Corin has come out of his shell.

He no longer cowers behind her leg when they are in the common room with the other Mandalorians. He still flinches when someone raises their voice, but at least he doesn’t go pale and look like he’s about to pass out. He has friends. And there is a father figure whom Corin greets with joy and looks forward to spending time with, unlike his biological father.

Losing her dresses and servants is a price she’s more than willing to pay to see her son this happy.

There is just thing that could ruin everything. And considering it’s not just harmless flirting any more, Dulsissia decides it is time to tell Davarax.

She asks Decco to look after her son, which she grudgingly agrees to despite meaning the boy is old enough to look after himself, and then Dulsissia asks Davarax to meet her in Din’s hiding space.

“Well,” Davarax say as he steps over a piece of engine and barely manages to make his way over to where she’s sitting on a sofa pillow without falling or knocking himself unconscious against some metal part sticking out amidst the debris they are surrounded by, “this is romantic.”

“Sorry.” Dulsissia says, too nervous to be amused by the graceless way he tumbles down on the pillow next to hers. “I just wanted us to be able to talk in private.”

The tone of her voice makes him sit up and pay attention. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to tell you something.” Dulsissia says, sighing. “And I’m not sure how you’re going to react.”

“You can tell me anything.”

Oh, how she hopes that is true. Dulsissia takes a deep breath, looks down at her own hands as she wrings them nervously in her lap. She smiles a little when his hand moves over to cover them and stops her from hurting herself. Okay. Here goes. “I told you my name is Dulcy.”

“Yes?”

“It’s not.” She glances over at him. “Well, it kind of is. It used to be my nickname. My name is Dulsissia.”

Davarax gives a faint shrug. “Okay?”

“Dulsissia Motti. The man looking for me, his name is Macero Valentis. He is Corin’s father.” Dulsissia braces herself, turns her gaze down to his gloved hand over both of hers and dreads the moment it will withdraw.

Davarax’ voice is carefully neutral. “If you’re a Motti, surely your family will help you get rid of Valentis?”

Dulsissia’s smile is bitter and it hurts. “No. I stupidly defied them to marry him and I’ve been told that I have to lie in the bed I made.”

Davarax hesitates. “Would you like to go back your family?”

Looking over at the man by her side, unable to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes, Dulsissia shakes her head. “No. And they’re not my family. They don’t know what the words means.”

Davarax’ hand withdraws from hers, but only so he can gently cup the side of her face. “Mottis and Valentis, they don’t scare me if that’s what you were worried about.”

“Kind of.” Dulsissia admits, a tear slipping from her eye. “I have seen the destruction they can cause. I don’t want to bring it here.”

“We’re Mandalorians.” Davarax says, a slight grin in his voice. “We thrive on battle. It’s in our blood. And they would find us a lot more dangerous than any other opponent they’ve been up against in the past.” His thumb caresses her skin, wiping away her tear, and his voice softens. “They don’t matter. They’re in the past. You are here now. You’re Dulcy. And Corin is safe. You both are.”

It might not be Mandokarla, but Dulsissia doesn’t care; she leans over and he wraps his arms around her.

“As long as I breathe,” Davarax mumbles, holding her close, “you and Corin will always be safe.”

[nomazee]

Homegrown

ushijima wakatoshi x reader

word count: 1700+

content: friends-to-lovers, fluff (particularly birthday fluff because it was his birthday a few days ago and i wanna celebrate that somehow!!!), gardener ushijima, pining 

(this is basically a late b-day gift for best boy ushijima!! this is something i just wrote really quickly but regardless, i hope you all like it!! 

happy reading <3) 

☾.:°∗★.:☆:.★∗°:.☽

On your birthday, Ushijima gives you a basil plant. 

You blink down at the plastic pot in your hands, fingers feeling the cool slickness of the roots hanging out from the bottom. Ushijima waits expectantly in the doorway of your home, eyes scrutinizing every flinch of your expression to try and judge your reaction. 

“It’s basil.” He repeats the words he stated moments ago, being the only words he’s given you to work with in the six-- no, seven minutes he’s been outside your house. 

“I can see that.” You respond, staring down at the small, shiny leaves peering up at you from where they were cozily nestled between soft, lightly damp soil. “It smells nice.” 

“Yes,” he agrees, “I like the smell of basil.” No more words are exchanged between the two of you, and you’re instead left staring down at the plant with Ushijima’s watchful eyes continuing to analyze you. 

“It’s your birthday gift,” he tells you, with a cock of his head and a slight furrow in his brow. “Did you forget about your birthday?” 

“Uh, no. I… I didn’t!” Yes, you did. You absolutely did. The delivery of a gift in the middle of a Saturday made a bit more sense. The gift itself, however, did not. But you supposed Ushijima was a bit inexperienced in the art of giving friends gifts so you didn’t really mind it too much in the moment. 

Ushijima lets out a huff--almost inaudible, but you caught it just in time to view the sight of him averting his eyes with a tint of red at his ears. “Yes, you did. I thought you would remember. Last week you mentioned that you wanted to spend time together.” 

Oh. You did. You stand, mouth parted slightly in the sudden realization of your past promise. You’re dressed in baggy pajamas--plaid pants that reach past the soles of your feet and an XX-L t-shirt that you’re sure belongs to either your dad or Ushijima. 

“I’ll get dressed,” you blush at your chaotic state of dress and back away from the door to let Ushijima inside, “and then we can head out.” You pause, and then, “I’m really sorry for forgetting, Ushi. I was just tired from this week and it slipped my mind. You can pick wherever we go, to make up for it.” 

Despite your words, the furrow in Ushijima’s brows doesn’t dissipate. “Why are you apologizing? You didn’t upset me. I was just worried that you were going to spend your birthday alone.” 

Oh. You freeze, then smile. Always the considerate friend, even if he wasn’t fully aware of it. You approach where he sits on the couch, run a hand through his hair, and press a kiss to his forehead that sends a blush down his neck that you don’t quite catch. “You’re so cute, Ushi. I’ll be down in five minutes.” 

---

Three days later, Ushijima gives you a basket of tomatoes. 

You think it’s a bit funny. First basil, now tomatoes. His unorthodox gifts bring a smile to your face, and you find him mirroring a similar expression in the cold of the night outside your house. 

“These look great,” you tell him, digging around in the crate and examining each plump tomato individually. The skin was shiny and taut, a healthy bright red reflecting the light in a glossy highlight. “You’re really great with plants, Ushi.” 

He hums in acknowledgement of your compliment, eyes drifting to the concrete of your front door steps. 

You snap out of your distant haze, looking back up to the boy in your doorway. You set the crate down on the coffee table of your living room, calling out to Ushijima as you move frantically around the room. 

“You should get going, Ushijima. You’re drenched in sweat and it’s cold and I don’t want you to get sick. Here,” you extend a hand to him, one of his sweaters in its grasp--Ushi had given it to you the day of your birthday when you were both walking home in the cold. 

He blinks down at the article of clothing and you wait curiously. “Keep it.” Your brows furrow, and he elaborates. “I’ll be fine. I don’t get sick easily. And I want you to keep that in case you ever get cold.” 

Oh, Ushijima. You joke to yourself that you’ll fall for him at this rate, then silence your mind at the realization that that’s the reality you’re living in at this point. 

You wrap a hand around the nape of his neck and pull him down, lips firmly pressing against the middle of his forehead. You notice the flush of pink on his skin this time, and find the color pretty on his flesh.

“Thank you, Ushi. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gives you a smile, one of his subtle ones that are just a slight upturn of the corners of his lips.

---

Over the next few weeks, you accumulate a healthy gathering of fresh fruits and vegetables in your fridge. Your parents are overwhelmed at the fresh produce and start half-jokingly questioning if you have a sugar daddy who only pays in homegrown plants. You say no, obviously, but the fiddling of your fingers make them exchange a knowing look and teasing smile. 

Ushijima brought you a lot of things--parsley, lemons, beets that you’re not sure what to do with. Your most recent favorite was a bunch of zucchini that you ended up spiralizing and serving with sauce (which is, of course, made from the tomatoes he consistently keeps giving you). You were proud enough of that dish to send a picture to him, to which he responded with a simple :). You found it funny how a simple emoticon was enough to make you swoon. 

Sitting at the kitchen counter, you eyed the tupperware container that held Ushijima’s most recent gift--a generous amount of plump, ripe strawberries. They were certainly smaller than the ones you’d normally buy at the grocery store, but he brought such a large amount it made you worry and ask if he was giving you his entire garden’s worth of plants every time he gave you something. 

(“I don’t want your mom getting mad if you’re wasting everything in your garden on me.” You chastised him as you looked into the basket of the day, which contained a few tomatoes, a healthy pile of mint, and a small watermelon that you were sure took months to grow and therefore should not be gifted to you so casually.

Ushijima’s lips were downturned when you looked up at him. He shuffled one of his feet along the ground as he avoided your chastising gaze. 

“It’s not wasting,” he muttered. “I want to give these to you. If you don't want them anymore, then just tell me.” 

You couldn’t help the melting of your expression into one of adoration and softness. You reached a hand up habitually, running your fingers through his hair and averting his gaze back to you. 

“I do, Ushi. I just want to make sure I’m not stealing everything in your garden, you know?”

He smiles. You hear distant harps playing in the background. “I know. But I have plenty leftover. And even if I didn’t, I’m giving them to you. So I’m happy either way.” 

There he goes again, crawling right into your heart so casually. Ah, you loved this boy.)

The strawberries. Right. Ushijima’s birthday was coming up. You had too many boxes of puff pastry in your freezer. Time to get to work. 

---

At Ushijima’s request, you visit his house the day of his birthday. It’s a Sunday, and you make the walk to his house with a cute cardboard box in hand, pink ribbon securing it tightly and strawberry danishes packed inside. 

He opens the door for you, leads you inside, and you both end up on his bed, the box of pastries open and in front of you as you take turns ripping apart each danish to share between the both of you. 

Ushijima hums as he chews, teeth biting into and pulling apart the layers of puff pastry and tongue catching the jam that threatens to spill over the edge of the dough. You watch the movement of his lips and tongue intently, with a vehemence that you should not be watching the movement of his lips and tongue with. He catches your stare but for some reason you can’t be bothered to look away in embarrassment. 

“It’s good,” he comments. “Very good.” 

You hum back, adjusting your position against the headboard of his bed. “I’d hope so. I didn’t work on these all morning for nothing.” 

For some reason, that particularly catches Ushijima’s attention. He furrows his brow at you, an expression you see a lot lately. “You worked on these all morning?” 

You’re confused by the question. “...yeah? I wanted to make sure they were good. So I took my time with it.” 

He exhales deeply through his nose, finishing another bite and swallowing before he elaborates. 

“You didn’t have to do so much, just for my birthday. Just coming over would be enough for me.” 

Once again, your stomach is sent into a flurry of emotions but you ignore that momentarily to scoff at his first sentence. 

“Ushi, you gave me a whole basil plant for my birthday-- and you keep giving me all your herbs and vegetables and stuff. I barely did anything for your birthday compared to your birthday, don’t give me that.” 

A frown is evident in your features and you can’t help but replicate the expression. You don’t understand why he’s so insistent on this concept--you genuinely didn’t do much compared to all the random plants he’s gifted you over the last month. 

“I don’t think you’re… understanding.” You almost huff at that, but are cut off by his next words. “You being here is enough for me. Enough of a gift.” 

You pause. There’s something hidden in his words and you have a feeling you know what he means but you’re too nervous to do so yourself. Thankfully, he turns to you, eyes boring into yours despite the softness that comes with them. 

There’s a smear of strawberry jam on his lip that you didn’t catch before. “Can I kiss you?” The words should’ve sent you in a flustered frenzy but you sit calmly and nod with a soft, “yes, please.” 

He leans in. Your lips meet his. He tastes like the strawberries from his garden.

[svnflowervol666]

Ma Petite Chérie: Sweet Creature (Harry Styles x fem!Reader)

Read more from this little universe, Ma Petite Chérie, in my masterlist!

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Harry goes out of town and leaves Tallulah with Y/N for the week. 

Author’s Note: Hiiiii. I decided to turn Ma Petite Chérie into it’s own little “thing,” so here’s another look at Harry, Tallulah and Y/N’s life! I’ve found it much easier to write in little blips rather than following a direct plot, so expect random little moments featuring the three of them. Also, this is not proofread and I am going through a period of having full blown insomnia, so I’m praying there aren’t too many mistakes. I hope you all enjoy and send any ideas, asks, or questions you have for them my way and I’ll be happy to respond! Take care and TPWK.

“I left her car seat in the garage. If she starts gettin’ fussy during the day, just put her in her room and turn on the noise machine and let her color - that usually does it. I refilled her medicine the other day, didn’t I-”

“Har-,” she shushed him, “We’ll be fine. I know the drill. Allergy meds and gummy vitamins in the morning, french vocabulary every other day, no tv before bed, and no sugar after six.”

He took a deep breath in and placed his palms on top of Y/N’s that are gripping his shoulders to ground him. He was a mess, but how could he not when one of the only people he trusted with his daughter, his mother, was away on holiday and couldn’t stay with her when he had to go on a week-long business trip? It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Y/N, he absolutely did. He just hated feeling like she thought he was using her as a free babysitter rather than the loving girlfriend she actually was. That couldn’t be further from the truth, but his anxieties always had a way of getting the best of him.

“Sorry. Always get nervous leavin’ her. Feel like something bad’s gonna happen every time and I won’t be there t’ help her.”

“It’s just a few days, bubs. She seems to like me, or at least pretends to. I’ll keep her entertained. Take her to the park and go get our nails done or something. It’ll be like one, big sleepover.”

“If yeh take her t’ the park, make sure yeh put sunscreen o-”

“Harry,” she’s stern and it shut Harry up immediately.

“Right,” he paused and took another intense, labored breath in an attempt to stop himself from canceling his plans and just staying home with Y/N and Tallulah for the week.

“She does like yeh. Asks about yeh all the time when you’re gone. Loves yeh a lot, actually. We both do.”

That word used to scare him, love. He realized long ago that he had only ever truly been in love with his daughter, so making himself vulnerable to sharing those same emotions with another person was genuinely terrifying. But each and every time, Y/N does something to remind him that it is well-worth the internal struggle he’s endured. 

The proud smile that adorned Y/N’s face at his words is another one of those moments. It’s full of light and reassurance that his baby will be perfectly safe and healthy while he tended to business an entire continent away.

“I love you both as well. Might have a slight preference towards Lulah, but it’s nothing to worry yourself over.”

“Swear yeh only datin’ me because of her,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“You’re absolutely right,” she scoffed, “I only come over five nights out of the week to watch The Little Mermaid with her and I just tolerate you.”

Harry laughed, a genuine cackle that reared his cavernous dimples and turned the apples of his cheeks a pale shade of pink.

“I’d do the same,” he said with a shrug.

“Harry, you’re stalling. You’re gonna miss your flight if you don’t get on the road soon. I don’t think you want me to kick you out of the door.”

He feigned ponderance and tapped his index finger on his chin.

“I do love it when yeh mean t’ me.”

“Harry, go.”

“Alright, alright. I’m leaving. Just...check in with me every once in a while. Let me know how she’s doin’, yeah? I’ll call every night t’ talk t’ her.”

“Was already expecting you to.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeated.

He cleared his throat, heart weighing heavy in his chest. He knew he was supposed to leave for the airport ten minutes ago, but he couldn’t find himself to wheel his luggage out to the trunk of his car.

“Goodbye, Harry,” Y/N whispers in hushed tones.

She reached up on her tiptoes to plant a chaste kiss on his bright pink lips, which he then took upon himself to deepen by loosely wrapping his fingers around her throat and applying just enough pressure to make her contemplate giving into his obvious hesitance about leaving.

“Tell Lulah I love her when she wakes up, okay? Feel like shit leavin’ her in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll tell her first thing.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too, Harry,” she smiles, “See you in a week.”

//

Their first few days went by smoothly, a little too smoothly, Y/N thinks. She’d let her pick one activity to do each day and it seemed like to Harry and Y/N, she was having the time of her life. 

Monday was the park, an obvious choice for a toddler. Tallulah wore herself out so much that she’d gone to bed that night with no trouble whatsoever.

Tuesday was a pampering day. Y/N had tried to get them into her preferred nail salon for pedicures, but there were no empty slots so she’d made up Harry’s master bathroom to look like a spa. She painted Tallulah’s nails blue (because Tallulah said blue was her dad’s favorite color), ran her a bubble bath with more bubbles than Harry ever allowed, and even let her put on some of her expensive face mask cream (Harry nearly shit himself out of pure adoration when he received a selfie of the two of them with pink goop smeared all over their faces and cucumbers over their eyes).

Tallulah’s request for Wednesday was a trip to the carnival that was in town, in which Y/N spent nearly fifteen dollars trying to win a stuffed bear for her but was unsuccessful. They went home with a real, live goldfish instead that Tallulah named Carrot because she claimed he looked like her favorite vegetable - she told Tallulah not to mention it to Harry and that she’d break the news to him later. She even let Tallulah have sugar after six o’clock (what Harry knew wouldn’t hurt him and besides, she told Y/N that she’d never had cotton candy before and Y/N totally wanted bragging rights for introducing her to basically a two-year-old’s fever dream of eating pink clouds).

She hadn’t asked about Harry once.

It wasn’t until Wednesday night after the carnival and her bath and daily FaceTime call with him that she began to get antsy with Y/N, claiming that she wanted her dad to tuck her in and read her a bedtime story. No matter how many times Y/N told her that Harry couldn’t do that but that he would be home in a few days, Tallulah didn’t understand why her dad wasn’t there to give her cuddles and rub her back until she fell asleep like he often did. Eventually, her exhaustion caught up to her and she gave in to the need for sleep, but Y/N had a feeling that that wouldn’t be the end of her tantrum.

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and Y/N was in the living room enjoying a glass of red wine from Harry’s vast collection of alcohol that he kept in his office (for some reason he had an irrational fear that Tallulah would somehow get into it, so he kept it locked away in a room where she wasn’t allowed in). The fermented concoction had almost lulled her to into a light slumber right there on the couch in the middle of a documentary about how agriculture influenced climate change when she heard the piercing cries of a toddler coming from down the hall.

Y/N rushed towards Tallulah’s room, all effects of the wine immediately dissipating as her mind went to the worst possible scenario. She’d fallen off her bed and hurt herself, she was having an allergic reaction, there was a strange man in her room trying to kidnap her. But there was seemingly nothing wrong with Tallulah when Y/N flung her bedroom door open so quickly she almost broke the knob.

“What’s wrong, Lulah?” she asked as she approached her on the bed that sat low to the ground.

Tallulah was red in the face, covered in a thin layer of sweat, and tears continuously flowed from her bright, green eyes that looked exactly like Harry’s and even shifted a teal blue in the sunlight.

Y/N’s heart sunk when she heard it. Over and over again. Nothing else. Only crying out one word.

“Daddy.”

She didn’t want to overwhelm her, so Y/N laid down next to Tallulah and pulled her close. As she brushed her curls away from where they were matted to her sweaty forehead, Y/N cooed her reptitiously in an attempt to calm her down. After about three minutes of incesant crying and copious amounts of fat, shiny tears, Y/N needed a better idea.

“I know you miss him, bubs. I miss him too. But he’ll be home soon, okay? I know something that might make you feel better. Do you want to come in daddy’s room with me?”

It was quiet and muffled over her blubbery cries, but Y/N heard a tiny, “yes,” escape through her lips and then she was scooping Tallulah up into her arms and carrying her off to the master bedroom.

She placed her in the middle of Harry’s bed and quickly began digging through Harry’s dresser for what she was looking for. When she found it, she ran back to Tallulah’s curled up body on the mattress.

“Okay, whenever I miss your dad, I put on one of his shirts because it smells like him. It always makes me feel like he’s close to me. Do you want try that?” 

The toddler had calmed down dramatically since she’d left her own bed, most likely due to exhaustion from crying so much in such a short period of time. She gave Y/N a gentle nod and let her take off her matching set of pajamas and replace them with the shirt of Harry’s that dropped almost all of the way to her feet. It was a white t-shirt with the words “Dream Boat” screened onto the fabric, which was perhaps a bit controversial for his two-year-old daughter to be wearing, but it was the smallest shirt of his that she could find. Otherwise, it’d be falling off of her shoulders and she wouldn’t be able to move.

“Can you smell it?” Y/N bunches the fabric in her hands and raises it to Tallulah’s nose.

“Smells like daddy, doesn’t it?”

Tallulah inhaled the best she could through her stuffy nose.

“‘mells good,” she whimpered, reaching her short arms to wrap around Y/N’s neck.

“Do you want to lie in daddy’s bed with me for a little bit? You can sleep in here, if you want,” Y/N spoke softly into Tallulah’s hair while she held her.

Y/N felt a nod against her chest and that was all it took for her to climb towards the pillow with Tallulah in her arms. She laid Tallulah on Harry’s side of the bed, hoping that the extra scent he left in the sheets would further will her back to sleep.

And it worked.

After reaffirming what felt like a million times that Harry would cuddle her for an entire day straight when he got home because he missed her just as much as she missed him, her eyes slowly shut and peace took over. Y/N thought the coast was clear and a crisis had been averted, and she also remembered that she hadn’t taken her makeup off yet. So she wriggled Tallulah off of her chest and slipped stealthily out of the bed like a burglar attempting to not get caught and tiptoed away into the bathroom to wash her face.

Right when she was patting her face dry with one of the plush towels on the rack in Harry’s bathroom, she realized that the coast was indeed, not clear, and Tallulah began wailing once again.

“It’s okay, Lulah. I’m right here,” Y/N consoled the small girl that looked even smaller in Harry’s king-sized bed.

But she wasn’t interested in Y/N at all. Her sobbing was louder than the last and it was Harry’s name that fell from her weepy lips like it was the only thing keeping her alive. This time, Y/N knew there was nothing that could soothe her besides Harry himself.

“Here, baby,” Y/N wriggled the toddler out of her arms and reached over to the nightstand to grab her cell phone, “Let’s see if daddy’s awake and maybe you can talk to him again, okay?”

“Okay,” Tallulah huffed, but it sounded more like “o-tay.”

Under any other circumstances, Y/N would be awing at the way she said certain words, but now, she just wanted Tallulah to go back to sleep. She was just as exhausted as Tallulah and was starting to become overwhelmed by the nature of everything that was happening.

Harry picked up her FaceTime on the second ring, eyes wide and concerning even though Y/N could tell that her call had woken him up.

“What’s goin’ on? ‘S she alright?”

Her cries that he heard through his speaker broke his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to jump on the next flight home to hold his sweet little girl until all of the tears had dried from her face.

“She’s been crying for the last hour, Har. She wants you. Maybe talk to her a little and see if she calms down?”

She heard Harry curse under his breath and rub the sleep out of his eyes. There was a sense of relief that washed over him when he realized that everything was alright and his daughter wasn’t in any immediate danger, but he didn’t quite feel better by any means. Y/N tilted the phone down towards Tallulah who had taken to rubbing the corner of Harry’s pillowcase between her thumb and forefinger.

“Lulah, baby. Talk t’ me. What’s the matter?”

“Daddy?” her face lifted from where it was buried in her stuffed elephant that she’d had since she was a baby and looked up to see her father’s face lit up on Y/N’s phone screen.

“Hi, lovie. Why’re yeh cryin’?”

“Want you come home,” she pouted, her bottom lip jutting out in a way that made her look far too adorable for how sad she really was.

“I know yeh do, petal. I’ll be home soon. I promise. Then, we can have a big cuddle. Does that sound good?”

“You come home tomorrow?” she asked, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

Harry internally cringed when he saw her wipe it on his sheets, but he was obviously not going to scold her for it at the moment.

“Not tomorrow, but soon. I’m not goin’ anywhere for a long time after this so it’ll be just me and you for a bit.”

Tallulah grew upset by this, and understandably so. Her dad always gave her cuddles when she was sad. Why was he telling her that he couldn’t?

He sensed her tears springing back to life, to which he quickly diverted her attention away from.

“Tell me more about what yeh did with Y/N today at the carnival, bug.”

After sucking up a few slobbery breaths, Tallulah was able to speak to Harry again.

“We got a fishy.”

Damnit.

Harry’s ears perked up.

“A fishy? At the carnival? How did yeh do that?”

“Y/N gotted it.”

“She did?”

Y/N knew Harry was not only talking to Tallulah but also to her. A tone that suggested Y/N had some explaining to do, but he wasn’t going to bring that up now.

“Yeah, she winned a game.”

“Does the fishy have a name?”

“Carrot.”

This made Harry snort, as he was not expected that one.

“And did Y/N get Carrot a nice bowl and some food?”

“Mhmm,” Tallulah nodded, “He’s in the kitchen.”

“Well, that sounds lovely. I can’t wait to meet Carrot. Gonna give him cuddles when I get home, too.”

“He said he loves you.”

“That’s very sweet of him. Tell Carrot I love him, too.”

There was a long pause in which Harry, Tallulah, and Y/N all yawned, clearly overtaken by the urge to fall into a deep sleep.

“It’s really late, Lulah. Yeh think yeh can go back t’ bed for me?”

Tallulah brazenly shook her head from side to side, no. 

Harry sighed heavily, his frustration and sadness becoming all too much for him to bear. He was nervous to do what he was about to offer, but he knew it was the last resort in anyone in this scenario getting any sleep whatsoever.

“What if I sing yeh your song? Will that make yeh feel better?”

He watched as her eyes light up with a glint of joy and he knew that that was possibly the cure to everyone’s problems. 

“Peas?”

“Of course, baby. Thank yeh for usin’ yeh manners.”

Y/N laid the phone down so she could reposition Tallulah in her lap as Harry’s melodic voice began to pour from the speakers.

It was her favorite song in the entire world. No matter what was wrong or how upset she was, the second he sang the first few notes and the sound registered in her ears, Tallulah was always able to bring herself back down to earth. 

The first time he sang it to her, she was only ten weeks old, just two weeks after she was brought into his life. He first thought it was a one-off chance that the song had lulled her to sleep, but he quickly found out he was wrong and that she took a genuine liking to it. He’s always assumed it brought on a sense of familiarity and comfort to her whenever she felt like her tiny, two-year-old life was crashing down on her. 

Y/N had never actually seen him sing to her. She’d heard it a time or two through the door of her bedroom when she stayed over, but she’d never asked Harry about it. She had always let their song be just that - their song.

Hopefully, and he genuinely means hopefully, the trick works just as well as it usually does despite him not being there physically. He’s got to be up at five and he refuses to hang up the phone until his baby isn’t sad anymore.

It took a bit longer than usual, but by the second round of the chorus, her eyelids were heavy and the grip she had on Y/N’s lotus pendant had weakened. Hell, the song almost put Y/N to sleep as well. Had she not been worried sick over waking Harry up in the middle of the night and his daughter spilling the beans about the fucking fish, she would have been out well before Tallulah. She loved his singing voice, but she only ever got to hear it when he bopping along to a song on the radio or when he was really, really drunk. 

As the last few notes of the song trailed to silence, both Y/N and Harry took a peek at Tallulah through the phone screen, eager to see if she was fully asleep or just in a state of tranquility. Sure enough, she was out cold.

“I think she’s asleep,” Y/N whispered.

“Thank god,” Harry muttered, “Bloody awful, that was. She’d been cryin’ like that the whole time?”

“Pretty much. Sorry for calling so late, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“‘S alright. Honestly, I was waiting for it. When she stays with mum, I usually get a call or two just like this. By the way, was she wearin’ my ‘Dream Boat’ shirt?”

Y/N starts to chuckle but remembers there is a fragile (both physically and emotionally) child on her chest and she can’t move too much in fear of waking her back up.

“Yeah, she is. I told her I wear your shirts and sleep on your side of the bed when I miss you because they smell like you and thought it would calm her down. It kinda did, but she woke up when I left to go to the bathroom.”

“Christ,” Harry wipes his face with his large, ringed hands.

“What?”

“That’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard in my life. I love you. A lot.”

“I love you a lot, too,” Y/N grinned.

After a brief moment, Harry talks again.

“So, what’s this about a fish named Carrot?”

Y/N grits her teeth together and sucks in a deep breath.

“Have you seen her face? I know you have. What was I supposed to tell her? No? Got that fucker on the first try after spending seventeen dollars trying to win her a stuffed animal.”

A laugh from deep within Harry’s belly reached the surface and he stifled it with his fist.

“You’ve got a point, princess.”

“I can get rid of him, if you want. I figured she’d get bored and forget about him in a few days, so it wasn’t a big deal.”

“No,” Harry insists, “Keep him. Teach her how t’ take care of him. Give her a responsibility. Maybe she’ll stop harrassin’ me about gettin’ a damn cat.”

“Already done,” Y/N smiles proudly at the camera.

“She knows we feed him in the mornings and she told me she’d help clean his bowl once a week. Even taught her how to say ‘fish’ in french.”

“Have I already told yeh that I love yeh? ‘Cause I do.”

“You did. But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

Harry took a moment to just look at her. Her eyes were bloodshot and he knew she probably felt like she’d just been to hell and back, but there, with his baby girl on her chest, she had never looked more beautiful. He was physically incapable of stopping the words that left his mouth.

“Move in with me.”

“Hmm?” she lifted her head from where it was resting halfway on her pillow and halfway on Harry’s as if to see if he really just said what she thought he said.

“Only if yeh want to. I know it’s a bigger deal because of Lulah, so I get it if yeh still want yeh space. Just...really want yeh around all of the time. And I know she does, too.”

Y/N smiled from ear to ear and placed her free hand that wasn’t holding the phone on top of Tallulah’s curls. She’d been wondering when this conversation would happen, given that she sleeps over at Harry’s more than she does her own apartment and she’d slowly taken over half of the drawers in his bathroom and three shelves in his closet; she just hadn’t expected it to come at midnight, directly after his daughter had the biggest meltdown she’d ever witnessed.

“If I say yes, will you sing to me like that every night?”

Harry blushed beet red as he breathed heavily through his nose.

“If that’s what it takes. Then, yes.”

“Think Lulah’s strong enough to help me carry some boxes?”

[johannas-motivational-insults]

So I don’t mean this argumentatively, I’m just genuinely confused & would like to understand this. I also struggle with empathy & take things very literally, so that could be part of why I’m not understanding. But where is Catra shown to be empathetic or compassionate? I understand that her abuse informs a lot of her actions and that’s why she is impulsive, lies, and manipulates others in the earlier seasons- they’re survival tactics that she got from SW + growing up in the Horde.

But I didn’t notice her going out of her way for others unless it could also benefit her in some way. I’ve also seen people say that she died in the process of sending Glimmer to Adora, & therefore deserves redemption because she made the ultimate sacrifice, only to then be saved and effectively made to work on her behavior and become a better person. And that would be all well & good, except we don’t really see her working on her behavior, except in the scene where she’s telling Adora that she’s working on her anger, and in the scene where she asks her to stay. I’m also not sure that she actually died, though I have heard a lot of people saying that. And I get that it’s called a redemption arc for a reason, & that the implication is that she will continue to work on her behavior and be better, but I just don’t know that we saw enough of that in the show.

So the thing with Catra is that a lot of this is pretty subtle. And as I said in the other ask that I assume you’re referring to with this, she’s often driven by a mix of selfish and unselfish motives. You’re correct that a lot of the times she does things for other people could also be seen as selfish moves because there’s something in it for her too, but that’s not always true and even when it is it doesn’t mean that that empathy or care for other people isn’t there.

Some examples of times when she shows empathy/care for others while also helping herself:

Gives Adora the sword so she and Glimmer can escape in 1x09, which is a kindness to Adora but also allows Catra to keep her job and her power (even if it breaks her heart to give up on bringing Adora back)

Warns Entrapta to stay out of Hordak’s sanctum and chases Entrapta down when she defies her in 2x03, which seems to be a mix of not wanting to deal with an angry Hordak herself and protecting a rather oblivious Entrapta from getting into trouble

(Note that in both of these examples she does this in a rather brusque or mean way, hiding her concern, but the subtext is there if you watch closely)

However, there are also many instances where Catra helps other people despite there not only being nothing in it for her, but when it’s actually against her own interests. Here’s the ones I can think of off the top of my head (but I’m sure there’s more):

Lies about Adora’s whereabouts and then her identity as She-Ra early in season 1 to protect her from the Horde, even after she’s promoted to Force Captain, which is dangerous not only to her career but to her life and limb

Tries to comfort her abuser Shadow Weaver when she sees her in distress in 1x04 and 1x10, the former instance right after Shadow Weaver gears up to attack her and "drag the truth” from her mind (anyone less empathetic would run away or even gloat)

Brings Shadow Weaver her old badge in 2x06 as a final favor when SW is about to be shipped away for good, despite it possibly being something that could get her in trouble and there being nothing in it for her (and in fact if she’s as selfish and callous as some say she’d deny SW this closure out of spite)

Turns down Scorpia’s offer to break her out of prison in 3x01, which seems to be entirely for Scorpia’s benefit as Catra has nothing to lose at this point (people just don’t see the compassion in this because she drives Scorpia away in a mean way to ensure she actually leaves)

Doesn’t tell Hordak that Scorpia “broke the recordings” that were inside Emily in 4x06, lies and says there was nothing, which turns Hordak’s anger on her instead of Scorpia (this perhaps is also motivated by guilt over how she just yelled at Scorpia and said awful things to her -- like I said, Catra is complicated -- but alleviating her guilt doesn’t help her situation at all so that’s borderline)

If you want, there’s a whole tweet thread of instances of Catra showing care and empathy for others. Some of these are weaker than others and the list may not be complete, but they’re all there for your consideration.

In addition to the things she does for other people, a lot of this is in her body language. If you really watch Catra, you can see that being cruel does not come naturally to her and she feels conflicted about a lot of her choices (or is straight up haunted by them, like her nightmare about betraying Entrapta in 4x03). Likewise, you often see her expression soften when she sees someone in distress. There are so many examples, it’s something baked into her character and it’s evident throughout the show, even when she’s at her lowest. But I think people often miss these moments because she usually shoves that initial reaction down and reacts in a way that on paper just makes her look like a cruel villain. For instance, she has a particularly guilt-stricken moment in 4x12 when Kyle calls her out for treating her old squad badly before she reacts by shoving that guilt down and reasserting her power, as that’s the only thing protecting her.

You have to understand that Catra was taught both implicitly and explicitly that compassion and vulnerability are weaknesses. And throughout the show, oftentimes when she does open up or do something for someone else it results in her being hurt/betrayed. Shadow Weaver in 2x06 and Double Trouble in 4x13 teach her that trusting people and allowing them in is dangerous and only ends in pain and devastation (and with Shadow Weaver, it teaches her the same lesson about showing mercy). When she spirals into her homocidal/suicidal breakdown starting in 3x03 it’s because she finds out Shadow Weaver left her to join the rebellion, just like Adora, and that Bright Moon is now harboring her abuser (as she understands it). Thing is, that all happens just as she’s starting to open up to and actually befriend Scorpia, and even though Scorpia isn’t the one who hurt her it still reinforces that pattern that vulnerability and kindness comes before a horrible, life-shattering event. Because of all this, she hides the empathy and kindness intrinsic to her actual character under layers of power and cruelty to protect her broken heart from being hurt again and protect herself from getting removed from power, because that’s the only thing keeping her from becoming someone’s abuse victim again after so many years suffering under Shadow Weaver’s heel.

I totally hear you about wishing there was a bit more to Catra’s redemption arc, but much like the rest of her emotional arc a lot of it is implicit. I’m very glad they added that one moment where she talks about working on her anger as well as her mini arc with Perfuma in 5x10 that culminated in Perfuma’s speech about learning to be vulnerable so you can be happy. But there’s lots of smaller moments buried in the season too, where we see her conflicted and struggling with these impulses of protecting herself vs. opening up or showing kindness. I mean, her half of 5x06 was basically about that too, though that’s only the beginning of this journey. Having Melog around was great too because they not only mirror her emotions for the audience to see but also help her process said emotions. Basically, the redemption is a process for her and a lot of it is not super explicit but in the end I think we have all we need to understand who Catra really is and that she wants to do better and is going to continue to in the future.

Really, Catra’s redemption arc is not so much about making up for what she did (which I and many others wish there was more of but oh well) as it is about rediscovering her true self and honoring that, learning to be vulnerable and kind again. In the end, her willingness to open herself up to potential rejection and loss and her kindness and love motivating her to help Adora get to the Heart and complete her mission are what ended up saving the universe, and that was a very intentional choice by the creators. Catra’s journey is not about coming back to Adora, it’s about coming back to herself, and I think that’s beautiful.

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 15

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 12.0k

warnings: descriptions of violence, sexual assault, mental illness. dark themes and foul language. all information regarding psychiatric conditions or courtroom procedures are to be taken with a fat grain of salt.

description: As Han Jisung’s trial steadily approaches, Hwang Hyunjin struggles to decide where his loyalties lie. Prosecutor Kang is as ruthless as he is greedy, and a startling confession from Yang Jeongin reveals that the ugliest pasts often lie behind the brightest of smiles. Old scars run deep, and all wounds are finally reopened on the day of the trial.

watch the trailer here!

ryu says: “holy h*cking shit.”

15| the devil’s advocate.

“Is Miroh Heights rallying for the death of a 20-year-old orphan? Is justice always this heartless?

“The only existing psychological analysis of alleged serial killer Han Jisung has now been revealed to the public eye, painting a stark contrast with the image of the stone-cold murderer we were all introduced to before. What else is the prosecution hiding? Is Han Jisung at the mercy of a system that has failed him once — and will it fail him again? More on this complex case, next week.” 

You set the school paper down on the diner table. Across from you, Bang Chan gave a low whistle. “Lee Felix, is it? You really outdid yourself, kid.”

Felix grinned. He was glowing, not just from the detective’s praise, but with a light sheen of sweat — you two had woken up at the crack of dawn to deliver the newspapers around town, Felix on Jeongin’s bike, and you and Chan in Woojin’s police cruiser. The delivery boy had even drawn out a map of all the shortcuts he knew, and so you had all made it back to Glow Cafe — where Hyunjin was waiting with fresh mugs of coffee — before noon.

Jeongin scanned the front-page article again, nodding excitedly. “I read the local press’ papers every day while I was in the hospital — this basically goes directly against everything they’ve been saying.” He still had weeks before he was allowed to be discharged from the hospital, but had managed to bribe a nurse into letting him take ‘short walks for fresh air’ during the day. 

“Why’re we fighting against the local media, though?” Hyunjin asked. The barista looked much better now that Jeongin was awake — the colour had returned to his once-pale cheeks, and he had opened the cafe back up for business again. “I mean, what does the news have to do with the trial? Knowing the prosecutor, he probably doesn’t even care.”

Chan shook his head. “The media plays a huge role in cases like these — mass murder allegations, things that’ll implicate the entire town. In smaller cases, yeah, no one would look twice at the news. But for cases like Jisung’s, they’re going to bring in a jury for the trial — and most times, what the jury agrees on ends up being the final verdict.”

“But the jury isn’t supposed to have heard of the case beforehand.”

Woojin grimaced. “In theory. Miroh Heights is a big town, but it’s old — not to mention it’s a campus area.” When Hyunjin still looked confused, Woojin continued, “That all makes it a close-knit community. There’s only so many people who qualify for jury duty — and I’m willing to bet that there’s not a single person in Miroh Heights who isn’t keeping up with Jisung’s case by now.”

“Kang’s a top-tier scumbag, but he’s far from stupid,” Chan mused, reaching for his mug and frowning when there was no more coffee left. “It definitely wouldn’t be beyond him to pull some strings to make sure he gets to choose the people on the jury: the ones exposed to the case — the news — the most—”

You finished his thought for him. “Students. Professors. Citizens.”

“Exactly.”

There was a brief silence. Chan began a side conversation with Felix, and you snuck a look at Hyunjin. He had disappeared behind the counter, and was fiddling with the cash register with his head down.

You glanced back at the table. Woojin and Jeongin were sitting in a strangely awkward silence — the delivery boy’s expression was oddly closed off, you thought to yourself. It was almost...cold, a side of Jeongin you had never seen before. Shrugging, you excused yourself from your seat and retreated behind the bar to where Hyunjin was standing quietly. The barista was idly unrolling packets of coins to refill the cash register, and didn’t look up at you. 

You nudged him gently. “Hey, ‘jinnie.” Nothing. “Hwang Hyunjin, talk to me.”

The long silence was broken only by the clinking of coins, until Hyunjin finally mumbled, “What d’you mean?” 

You sighed, fiddling with an empty coin tube and trying to find the right words. “It’s— it’s a lot to ask for, I know.” You didn’t have to mention Jisung’s name for him to know what you were referring to — your boyfriend’s case hung over all of your heads like a guillotine every second of the day.

Still, your mind flashed back to his sudden outburst months ago, when he had first met Jisung face-to-face in the cafe. His cold, guarded wariness towards the other boy, and how he’d spent the next two months practically soulless by Jeongin’s bedside. You tried to meet his eyes. “You’ve been through a lot.”

The coins were trembling in Hyunjin’s long fingers. “You’ve been through more,” he muttered back. You didn’t have to follow his gaze to know he was looking at the site of your stab wound, hidden under the layers of your sweater. “How’d they let you out so early, anyways?”

“Hey, I was in there for nearly a month — they said I slept for three weeks straight, you know?” You laughed lightly, trying to ease the tension, but Hyunjin didn’t return the smile. “I’m okay, ‘jin.”

Your eyes searched his face for a response. Despite everything, Hyunjin still looked weary — like he had gotten older, more tired. He had seen things in the past few months that could never be erased — you all had. And you knew Hyunjin like the back of your hand — he had been one of the first faces you’d met when you’d moved to Miroh Heights, the unlikely first close friend you’d made. With absent parents who ran businesses abroad, Hyunjin had been on his own for most of his life. You knew how he always kept his worries and doubts to himself, how his polite, casual demeanor hid a heart full of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with or express. 

“Are you okay, though?” Hyunjin asked, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours, and you felt your heart pang at how helpless he looked. “Every time you see something wrong — someone in trouble, you stop at nothing until you can help them. And I love that about you, y/n. I really do—but—” Hyunjin gestured his hands wildly, voice wavering as if he was struggling to get the words out, “You can’t save everyone, y/n.” The familiar words made you shrink back as Hyunjin kept talking. “The last time you tried, you nearly ended up— d-dead. I’m worried like hell, okay?. Worried that if you keep trying to save others, you’ll just be the one hurt in the end.”

“Hyunjin—” You reached out to grab his shaking hands, to calm him down, but your elbow knocked over a roll of coins. They spilled across the floor, making everyone jump and look up.

“Everything okay back there?” Chan called, and you nodded, waving him away distractedly as Hyunjin dropped down to pick the change up. As you knelt down to help him, you heard footsteps approach the counter, and looked up to see Jeongin behind you. Back at the table, Chan and Felix were still talking like newfound frat brothers, but Woojin was fiddling with his mug silently.

“Can I talk to him for a moment?” Jeongin asked you quietly, and you glanced back down at Hyunjin. Jeongin had been sitting the closest to the bar counter, you realised — he had probably heard a good chunk of your conversation. You nodded, placing the change on the countertop, and headed back to the table.

Hyunjin watched Jeongin dive for a quarter that was rolling away. Underneath Jeongin’s sleeves, Hyunjin could see fading scratches peeking out — where the skin had scraped away when he’d fallen to the ground, bloody and unconscious, the night of the attacks. They were nearly healed, but the memory alone still made Hyunjin’s gut twist, and he tore his gaze away.

“Do you still think about that night?”

Both Jeongin’s quiet voice and his question took Hyunjin by surprise, and he couldn’t help but look up. The younger boy’s eyes were soft, gentle — a contradiction to his naturally fox-like features — and it was as if he’d spoken Hyunjin’s thoughts out loud. You never had to explain anything to Jeongin, Hyunjin thought. Growing up with no one but his sickly grandmother, Hyunjin had never truly opened up to anyone before — but Jeongin always seemed to understand exactly how Hyunjin was feeling, and there was something about the younger boy that could always calm Hyunjin down. 

He’d always looked at Jeongin like a younger brother, a bright presence Hyunjin wanted to protect and take care of at all costs. 

Now, Hyunjin found himself wondering if Jeongin had been the one taking care of him, all along.

“I see it every time I close my eyes,” Jeongin finally continued, and the question repeated itself in Hyunjin’s head — that night. The night Han Jisung had killed another student, and sent Jeongin into a two-month coma. The night Hyunjin had woken up to find his closest friend bleeding out on his storefront. No matter how many times the memory crept up on Hyunjin, it still made his blood run cold.

Hyunjin could only nod, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Sometimes...I think about how things might’ve been different. If I hadn’t stopped — no, if I hadn’t even taken that shortcut through the Yellow Wood. Or...if I didn’t have to work the night shift in the first place.” Jeongin huffed a soft laugh, then drew quiet. “But we don’t really get to decide what happens to us, huh? One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, the world’s turned upside down.” He paused. Something in the younger boy’s voice made Hyunjin think he wasn’t just talking about the Yellow Wood anymore.

“I wonder if he...if Jisung thinks about that, too.” Jeongin continued. “How things would have changed if he hadn’t taken that path that night. Or, if he never had to do the things he did...” Jeongin trailed off, and a question was left hanging in the air.

Where did it all go wrong?

It wasn’t like Hyunjin had never seen Jisung in passing — the kid whose bright smile and boisterous laugh masked his strangely wide, dark eyes. Who seemed to linger alone on the streets and in the shadows of murky alleyways after curfew, just wandering. As if the boy was constantly looking for something he’d lost — but had long since forgotten what it was.

“I just...” Hyunjin’s own voice surprised him, but as soon as he got the words out, he could no longer stop them. “I just want everything to go back to normal. The way things used to be. I—” Hyunjin looked around the cafe, letting out a shaky sigh. “I’ve grown up in this town all my life. Maybe I’ve grown scared of change — scared of how it could make me lose everything. Scared of how it could make me lose you guys.” He put his throbbing head in his hands. “Maybe that’s what makes me a coward. I don’t know Jisung. But I’ve seen the things he’s done, and I can’t — I can’t watch it happen again. I don’t think I could take it.” He looked at Jeongin helplessly. “How do you...forgive someone who could have killed you?”

Jeongin was silent, pensive. He picked up the last coin and slid it into the cash register before saying quietly, “Did I ever tell you about my dad?”

Hyunjin frowned in confusion. “You don’t...talk about your family often.”

“Most of the time, I’d rather not.” Jeongin gave a small smile. “But these days, I keep thinking about them. I know people talk about them behind my back — why a freshman has to work delivery jobs all day, and study all night. Why no one came to visit me in the hospital, except for you.” The younger boy shifted his feet, gaze dropping to his hands. “My dad’s in prison. Third-degree murder.”

Hyunjin’s hands stilled, and Jeongin continued talking. “My mum was your typical office worker — real big company, too. We were never that well off to begin with — maybe that’s why she stayed silent about the...the abuse for so long. About the stuff her higher-ups would do to her behind locked doors, when they’d make her stay overtime in their offices.” Jeongin’s voice wavered, and he cleared his throat shakily. 

“I don’t know how my dad finally found out, I...I could never bring myself to ask.” Jeongin was gripping the count[er, knuckles white and voice barely audible. “I’ve never seen my dad angry before. He doesn’t get angry. He’d always take the short end of the stick with a smile, you know? This was the first time he’d ever...picked a fight with anyone.” Jeongin paused, eyes glazed over in memory. “That night, Mum was staying late again. But this time...my dad showed up at her workplace. Burst in after-hours, like a madman. And that night, neither of them came home.

“The police came knocking on our door the next morning. And they told me my father killed three men in a fight. A fight.” Jeongin looked up at Hyunjin now, smiling, but his crescent eyes were filled with tears. “No one cares about an office woman’s sexual abuse story. Not when you have the families of three rich businessmen bribing law enforcement any way they can to keep their reputations clean. You can guess who the lead prosecutor of the trial was.”

“Prosecutor Kang,” Hyunjin breathed, not daring to believe it, but Jeongin nodded.

“The trial was easy. My dad would spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“That’s not fair,” Hyunjin blurted, voice barely a whisper. “They can’t—it’s not—”

“The system isn’t fair,” Jeongin replied. It sounded like he was quoting someone. “It’s been a long time since the system’s chosen morals over money.”

Hyunjin’s gaze wandered back towards the table, where Woojin was sitting, and thought back to the tense atmosphere between Jeongin and the young police captain earlier. “Is that why you and Captain Kim…”

“His parents put mine in prison. It’s more than a little awkward, really.” Jeongin laughed, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. The younger boy always tried to put on a bright face, Hyunjin realised with a pang, no matter the pain he might be hiding underneath.

“I’m not trying to compare my dad to Jisung. Jisung, everything he’s done…” Jeongin shook his head. “He has too much to make up for, I wouldn’t even know where to start. We all knew that going into this.” He glanced over his shoulder at the table where his friends were seated. “y/n more than anyone. If we make Han Jisung out to be innocent, if we try to get him pardoned...that makes us just as bad as Kang.” Jeongin sighed. “But I can’t just watch them treat him like they did my dad. Make him out to be a psychopath, until even he starts to believe it.

“My mum can’t find work anywhere. She doesn’t sleep, barely eats, never leaves the bed because she’s so sick. The doctors all say she has lifelong trama. I don’t want to watch the system...end another life that doesn’t deserve it.” Jeongin glanced behind him. Hyunjin followed his line of sight towards the table, where everyone was chatting. Jisung’s friends — Felix, Chan, maybe even Woojin; and his girlfriend, you. “I don’t want to see what it does to the people that love him.”

Hyunjin was silent for a long moment. The chatter at the table and the clinking of the coffee mugs seemed like background noise as Jeongin watched the older boy take in everything he had said. Outside, students and citizens were beginning to fill the streets as rush hour approached — it was the end of the school term, and the bustle of summer life was humming beyond the glass windows of Glow Cafe.

Before Hyunjin could respond, though, the cafe doors swung open, the CLOSED sign clattering against the glass in protest and making everyone look up at the sudden commotion. A middle-aged woman in a tweed blazer and pencil skirt was marching straight towards the table you were seated at, a younger woman with a notebook stumbling after her.

Hyunjin straightened up, tone professional despite the weary look on his face. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed today under special circumstances—” 

She cut him off impatiently. “Where is Felix Lee?” 

Bewildered, Felix stood, holding out his hand to attempt a handshake. Instead, the woman reached into her bag and slammed down a newspaper identical to the one you already had on the table — the school paper.

“What is the meaning of this?” Her voice was high and reedy as she jabbed a red-nailed finger onto the front page, where Jisung’s article had been printed. “Who do you think you are to publish these—these baseless stories?”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” you responded tensely, “I think you’ll find that this article contains more truth in it than all the articles the local press has published, combined.” 

She turned on you, sneering in disbelief. “Do you know who I am?” You glanced outside uneasily, where a sleek black car was parked.

“Why do rich people always assume we know who they are? Listen, lady, we don’t care—” Chan began, but was interrupted by a sputtering sound Felix made.

“I think we should care,” your best friend choked out. In his hands was a business card that the woman’s assistant had handed him, and the blood had drained from his freckled face. “She’s the head of the local press.”

Everyone fell silent, and the woman smiled slyly. “Precisely. Publishing articles like these…” she glanced down at the school newspapers on the table, clicking her tongue. “Your school should be ashamed of you. An amateur school newsletter, overstepping their boundaries.” 

You saw Felix’s expression darken at her words, ears red. “A good newspaper reports on all sides of the story. We publish the truth here, and nothing but the truth—”

“Why? So you can all bail your psychopath friend out of prison? Do you even care about the implications? Your truth is hindering the investigation of a convicted murderer. People like him should not get their story told. Your truth will put this town in danger if he walks free, you understand? It will get more people killed.” She fixed Felix with a withering look of contempt. “Let me give you a word of advice, young man, if you even think of surviving in this industry—sometimes, you need to know when to keep your mouth shut.”

Your mouth was burning with countless words to bite back with but your tongue stayed stubbornly tied, mind racing. The woman had spoken out loud what you had all thought of at one point, what you had been most afraid of the public believing. You stole a look at Hyunjin behind the counter. The barista was avoiding eye contact, but you knew he had been thinking the same thing. His stormy, unreadable expression made your stomach churn — you knew he had been the most hesitant and unsure of Jisung’s case out of everyone, but seeing it written on his face now made you feel even worse.

Sensing that things were beginning to get out of control, Woojin cleared his throat. “Ma’am, if you’re finished, I would kindly ask you to leave—”

“I have every right to stay here,” the woman interrupted viciously, snatching up the campus newspaper again, “until your journalist friend revokes these articles—and promises not to interfere with the investigation until the trial has concluded.”

You started in protest. “You—”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Hyunjin’s calm voice cutting through the growing chaos made everyone freeze and turn towards the barista. He pushed the cash register shut with a bit too much force, and leaned down to rest his forearms on the bar counter. “I told you we were closed, yes? You have no more business here. If you choose to continue infringing on my property, we can bring this to the police.” His eyes were still stormy as he stared the stunned woman down — but the words coming from his mouth were the complete opposite from what you had been expecting. “Now get out of my cafe.”

“I—why, you—” The woman could only sputter for several seconds as you all stared at Hyunjin in awe, the most self-assured expression you had seen on the barista in ages — as if he had finally made up his mind about something. Behind him, Jeongin had a small smile on his face.

“Preposterous,” the head of the press stammered, taken aback by Hyunjin’s bluntness. Her mouth opened and closed like a puppet’s, but no words came out. Finally, glaring daggers at all of you, she snatched her bag and stormed out in a whirlwind of nauseating perfume, her poor assistant barely keeping up behind her.

The silence lasted for several more moments. Hyunjin was still staring after her with a reserved expression, his shaking hazel pupils the only indication of how nervous he was.

Felix was the one who finally spoke first, the wide grin in his voice breaking the tension. “Hwang Hyunjin. You are the man.”

━━━━━━━━

Opening the door to Bang Chan’s office sent clouds of dust into the stale air, and the detective into a coughing fit. Chan moved to snap the blinds open, letting evening sunlight warm the musty room.

“Bloody hell, Chan,” Woojin groaned as he patted the dust from the coffee table in the corner. “I was joking about your office being a coffin before, but—how did you let it get this bad?”

You, Hyunjin, and Jeongin followed the police captain into the room, taking tentative seats around the coffee table as the detective tried in vain to open a window and clear the stuffy air.

“I haven’t had any new clients since this case was taken from me by that damn prosecutor,” Chan protested indignantly, grabbing a notebook and pen. “I’m taking a well-deserved hiatus. B’sides,” he added, sighing, “I don’t exactly have the heart to focus on anything else right now.”

Woojin grimaced, and looked around the room. “We’re waiting on Felix?”

You nodded. It had been nearly a month since the first article had been released — a whole month since the head of the press herself had come storming into Glow Cafe, demanding for the publication to be stopped. You weren’t sure if it had been the woman’s biting remarks or the newfound support from Hyunjin, but Felix seemed to have hit the ground running, publishing story after story and going head-to-head with every article the local press put out. 

The articles were beginning to pick up steam, too — as soon as the school year had ended, the entire town had begun buzzing with talk about the contradicting stories. You should have felt relieved that your last-resort plan had even stood a chance — but the longer the fight and investigation went on, the more you could feel the stress weighing down on your shoulders. Though removed from the investigation, Chan and Woojin came to you with more and more bad news they were able to overhear with each passing day. The trial was scheduled for next week, and you hadn’t heard from Jisung since...well, since you had found him, bloody and broken, in the back lot of Mia’s Diner.

“Things aren’t looking too good,” Woojin began, expression grim. “The prosecution’s claimed custody of the camcorder footage and Jeongin’s Walkman tapes. Seungmin’s legally not allowed to touch them anymore—not without Kang’s permission.”

Your heart plummeted to your stomach at the police captain’s words. You, Chan, and Seungmin had all been warned separately to stay out of the investigation by legal officials, but that hadn’t stopped you from gathering what information you could. You should have known Kang would find a way to get ahold of all the evidence, but nothing could have prepared you for the sick feeling the confirmation stirred in your gut. 

Chan sighed, tapping his pen on his cheek. “Far as I know, Jisung still isn’t taking a lawyer. The kid won’t even talk to me now.”

“How’s the trial going to work, then?” Hyunjin asked. “If the kid doesn’t take an attorney…”

“It’ll be his word against Kang’s,” Chan nodded glumly. “It’s a trial held under special circumstances. The prosecution will present all the evidence they choose, the judge and jury’ll listen to all the witnesses who decide to come forward, and then they’ll use that to form the final verdict.” He paused, then added, “And if Jisung chooses to defend himself, he has the right to speak, too.”

“Except he won’t,” you interjected, heart heavy, remembering Jisung’s face when he had told you about his parents’ deaths. Jisung had spent his entire life living in the shadow of guilt his childhood cast over him, a self-induced hell he forced himself to relive every day.

“Kang has the jury, the witnesses, and the evidence,” Jeongin thought aloud, the sentence alone making the air feel heavy. 

“We’ve all been called to attend the trial, yeah?” Chan nodded at you, Woojin, and Hyunjin. “Us, Felix, and Seungmin can only come as spectators. Jeongin’s been called in as an eyewitness.” He frowned, counting off his fingers. “The only other type of witness Kang can bring in would be an expert witness. Medics, psychologists, that sort of thing.”

“Kang’s clever — he’ll probably bring in child psychologists or medical specialists,” Woojin noted, frowning. “It’d be easy for them to cherry-pick the evidence to use it against Jisung — especially since he refuses to speak to anyone right now.”

“Haven’t they found anyone for Jisung?” You asked desperately. “His old social workers, foster families —”

“He was abandoned over a decade ago. None of his social workers have come forward.” Woojin sighed. “But you’re right — they have found a forensics specialist to come testify.”

Jeongin perked up. “Who?”

Chan looked grim. “Head coroner Lee Minho.”

Your heart sank. Lee Minho. No one was willing to address the elephant in the room: that Minho admitting to his own crimes would be one of the easiest ways to avoid a death penalty. Except…

“No one on the prosecution knows what Minho’s done, and we don’t have any incriminating evidence against him, either. They won’t believe us, and there’s no way he would confess,” you muttered, remembering the uneasy conversation you had had with the coroner on the rooftop. Minho had been hiding in the shadows of Jisung’s self-destructive crossfire his entire life. From the coroner’s unreadable eyes to his strange, reserved attitude, you had no idea how to guess his next move.

There was a knock on the door, and everyone looked up as Felix walked into the office, backpack sliding off one shoulder. “I have good news and bad news,” your best friend announced, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa.

“Bad news first,” you answered immediately, groaning. Good news was rare these days. “I want to get it over with.” Hyunjin nodded in agreement, looking at Felix expectantly.

“The head of the press is still up our asses, believe it or not. She’s changed her strategy —  they’re making bribes now.” Felix fished a slip of paper from his bag. “Someone came in today — dressed real proper and business-like — and told me that if I halted publications, they’d be willing to pay a pretty hefty sum.” He flipped the slip over onto the coffee table.

It was a cheque, you realised. Chan whistled as he read out the amount. You looked back up at Felix, holding your breath.

“I took the bribe,” Felix admitted, tone apologetic, and your shoulders slumped. Your last connection to the investigation, gone — but Felix kept talking, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I took the bribe, and we used the money to buy everyone in our department the most expensive coffee on campus. Actually, thanks to them, we pulled an all-nighter and published the last part of your case study this morni—oof!”

Your best friend was cut off when you tackled him into a hug, nearly tumbling backwards as Felix laughed and patted your back. “Felix,” you declared, voice still shaking from how scared you had been, “You are ruthless.”

“One of my many charms,” he grinned, Hyunjin clapping him on the shoulder. Felix pulled away from you, and his hazel eyes suddenly grew serious as he scanned your face. 

Out of everyone at Miroh Heights, Felix had known you the longest — if anything was wrong with the other person, you were always able to pick up on it. Despite your relieved smile, Felix could see how overworked you were — you had been reading up on past cases nonstop, making phone calls, and making notes on the camcorder footage, no matter how much rewatching it traumatised you to the core. From your bloodshot eyes to your pale lips, anyone could see that the upcoming trial had taken the worst toll on you. “y/n,” he said worriedly, “you need to take it easy.”

You sighed, scrabbling a hand through your dishevelled hair. “How can I? I need to keep working on this — I need to be strong.” 

“You’ve always been strong.” Surprisingly, it was Hyunjin who spoke up this time. For the first time in weeks, there was no more anger or bitterness in his voice — only sincerity. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You tried to give him a small, grateful smile, but even that couldn’t staunch the bubbling anxiety in your gut. “The trial’s in a week. We can’t let up now.”

You could sense the boys looking at you anxiously until Chan finally clapped his hands, breaking the grim silence. “Well, you heard the boss lady.” The detective winked at you. “Let’s get back to work, boys.”

━━━━━━━━

The courthouse lobby was already overflowing with chaos and reporters by the time Prosecutor Kim Seungmin arrived at its doors.

This wasn’t his first time attending a trial, of course, but the scale of it all was what made him uneasy. Citizens of Miroh Heights were huddled outside the gates, catching whatever glimpses of the trial and snippets of information they could. When Seungmin had elbowed his way into the building, he spotted security guards flanking all the entrances.

There was a sign for the bathroom on his left hand side. Seungmin made a beeline for it, pushing open the doors and allowing himself to escape the pandemonium for a couple of moments. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw a familiar figure standing by the sink. 

Prosecutor Kang’s eyes met Seungmin’s through the mirror and the older man straightened up, snakelike mouth curving into a smile. “Ah, Prosecutor Kim. Good to see you.”

Seungmin nodded stiffly as he tried to muster up the courage to walk past his colleague. He could feel Kang’s beady eyes watching him contemplatively.

“Are you still beat-up about the case? You must be,” Kang mused, turning back towards the sink and flicking on the tap. “Don’t get yourself too down about losing it. It was only a matter of time.” If Seungmin didn’t look at him, Kang’s tone sounded almost kind.

Almost.

Kang was here on behalf of the prosecution, with his team of carefully selected witnesses and—Seungmin was willing to bet—jurors. Seungmin had barely landed a spot as a spectator in the trial, alongside Felix, the school journalist. If things went Kang’s way, anything and everything that happened in today’s trial would be completely out of Seungmin’s control. 

“Rookie mistakes,” Kang continued, wiping his spectacles. “It’s to be expected at your age, really—”

Seungmin ignored his passive insult and turned back towards Kang, tone pleading as he tried one last time. “Mr. Kang, you don’t have to do this. Han Jisung—”

Kang barked a laugh, cutting him off. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were filled with equal parts amusement and resentment. “I’m not sure why you young people always have such blinded judgement,” he seethed. “He’s a monster.”

“He’s just a boy,” Seungmin shot back, heart pounding at the way surprise flashed on Kang’s face. He had never dared to challenge his colleagues before — especially not Prosecutor Kang — but he forced himself to stand his ground as Kang finally turned around to face Seungmin. He was silent for several tense moments, slowly drying his hands before picking up his briefcase. Then, Kang’s expression smoothed over as he raised an eyebrow at the younger prosecutor. 

“Not in my court of law, he isn’t.”

He had walked briskly out the door before Seungmin could muster a reply. The commotion outside grew louder before it was muffled again by the closing doors, and the younger male was left in the dark, empty washroom, filled with an increasing feeling of dread.

━━━━━━━━

Jisung jerked forward when the prison bus came to an abrupt halt, nearly slamming his head against the front seat. He tried to shake himself out of his daze and turned towards the window, tired eyes adjusting to the morning sunlight. Outside was the town he had grown up in, and yet everything felt so...different. 

As soon as the bus doors swung open, swarms of reporters surrounded its sides. Two policemen roughly escorted him through the crowd, and he could vaguely register the questions being screamed at him from every angle.

“Han Jisung, is it true?”

“Did you kill all those people? Did you set fire to your own home?”

“Will you plead guilty? Will you plead insanity?”

Insanity? Jisung’s mind flashed to the memory lapses every time he...killed, the gaping black spots in his thoughts, the endless throbbing in his temples that never quite went away. His head was swimming, but his body felt numb. Have I gone insane?

Once they were inside, he was ushered further down the hallway into a side room. A stone-faced clerk in a grey suit nodded at the policemen, then fixed his hawk-like eyes on Jisung’s unfocused face.

“This is him?” He asked dubiously, then cleared his throat. He didn’t move to shake Jisung’s hand. “Well, then. You refused to take an attorney or public defender, so, uh...your trial will be held under special circumstances. The judge will hear the witnesses, the evidence, and anything you have to say. Got it, kid?” 

Jisung couldn’t will himself to form any words. Everything sounded as if he were underwater.

The man coughed nervously. “As long as you cooperate, things shouldn’t be too bad, eh? Although from what I’ve heard about you, I wouldn’t keep my hopes up.”

Jisung could sense the official’s eyes raking him up and down in slight distaste at his silence. As Jisung quietly took a seat in the corner, he could hear the man muttering irritatedly to the guard by the door and chuckling.

“It’s always the messed-up kids, huh?”  

━━━━━━━━

You watched as the courtroom slowly filled with people — reporters and spectators huddling around you, clerks and attorneys taking their places in their respective boxes. You were sitting with Bang Chan, Felix, Woojin, Hyunjin, and Seungmin near the bar, watching the members of the jury shuffle in. They were all somewhat familiar faces — students, professors, and citizens, as Bang Chan had guessed — and you felt a small glimmer of hope every time you recognised someone.

The prosecution’s witnesses were beginning to file in on the opposite side of the room, as well: A stocky boy with a swollen, bandaged nose, and a scrawnier one, also heavily bandaged — the only survivors, you realised, shuddering — from that terrible night at Mia’s Diner. Then there was Jeongin, whose face made you relax slightly. Next to him, though, there was a nervous old woman who you didn’t recognise, and an unfamiliar middle-aged man. And of course, pacing back and forth behind them, like a panther on the prowl, was Prosecutor Kang. 

Every time the doors swung open you couldn’t help but look up, heart hammering in your chest. 

You were really only looking for one person, after all.

Sure enough, the heavy oak door in the corner creaked open, and a familiar flash of golden hair made your breath catch in your throat. Flanked by two stone-faced officers, Jisung entered the courtroom. 

You immediately leapt to your feet, and heard Chan whisper in warning. “y/n.”. The detective’s tone was gentle, but you didn’t have to turn back around to imagine the alarmed look on his face. Your eyes were glued on Jisung, and it took every fibre of your being not to sprint up to him, push past the guards, and pull him into your arms. You were shaking with equal parts relief and horror as you took in the sight of him. 

He’d lost weight, his skin was pale and bruised, but his eyes — you felt your mouth go dry. The eyes you had seen fill with both laughter and sadness, light and darkness, were now completely lifeless. As if he wasn’t really seeing anything at all. You felt hot tears prick at the back of your throat and you clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from calling out his name. You had thought you were prepared, that you would force yourself to stay calm at all costs — but now, as the weight of the situation was finally beginning to sink down on your shoulders, you weren’t so sure you would be able to.

You felt Felix’s hand gently tug at yours, the only thing anchoring you to reality, and slowly sat back down, your hands grabbing fistfuls of your cardigan to keep from shaking.

Jisung found you in the crowded courtroom before you did, and the split second he caught your face soothed an ache in his chest he’d been trying to ignore, like a long-neglected wound. Seeing you alive and breathing — when the last memory he had of you had been one where you were bleeding out in his own hands — sent a bittersweet pang through him, the sheer relief overwhelming him to the point that he felt his own knees buckle. To anyone else, you looked almost normal, he thought — but he would have been a fool not to catch the dark circles under your eyes, your shaking hands, the raw worry that had etched itself into your weary features.

As soon as your eyes flickered up to him, Jisung immediately looked away, a voice in the back of his head seething. Coward. 

His gaze wandered around the room and he was instantly met with a mix of hostile glares and fascinated stares — like an animal that had been chained down. Wherever he looked, dozens of eyes were on him, dozens of blazing lights searing through him and pinning him to the spot. It was almost as if he could hear the spectators’ thoughts, the countless names that the local press had called him ringing through his head. The youngest mass murderer of Miroh Heights. A walking psychopath. The soon-to-be-convicted serial killer.

“Order in the court,” you heard a man next to the judge call out, and a hush swept across the room. The judge — a middle-aged woman in sombre black robes —  nodded. “The trial is now in session. The case of Han Jisung, and the Miroh Heights Murders, Your Honour.”

Kang moved forward and cleared his throat.

“Your Honour, today I intend to prove the defendant guilty of nineteen counts of first degree murder, as well as a history of crimes spanning over a period of thirteen years. This includes eight counts of arson, including the defendant’s own home, and five counts of aggravated assault, including the attack of Yang Jeongin three months prior. The numbers are based on the images of the victims we showed him that he recognised.” Kang gave a deliberate pause, flashing a look of disdain over where Jisung was seated. “He has violated Sections 235 and 435 of the Criminal Code, and the prosecution intends to prove him fit to receive capital punishment.”

Capital punishment — the death penalty. Kang was doing exactly what you all had feared, and his words and self-assured attitude made you feel sick. 

“Does the defendant have any opening statements?”

Your eyes flickered to Jisung’s face — had his expression darkened? His features had stiffened into a cold mask — lifeless eyes, sickly pallor, clenched jaw. It was almost as if he was trying to fit into Kang’s description of him, you realised with a sinking feeling. To your dismay, Jisung stayed silent, and the judge cleared her throat.

“Please call upon your first witness.”

You watched the nervous old woman from earlier wobble forward and introduce herself.

Kang had pulled out images of a familiar crime scene — the burnt-down flat on the outskirts of town, where the remains of a woman identified as a local sex worker had been found. The night of your first date, you thought, grimacing.  “Where were you, the night of this fire?”

“I was making my rounds through this neighbourhood,” the old woman began, fingers trembling as she pointed at the images. “I happen to live ‘round there, and I own some of these flats myself. This woman is—was—a tenant of mine.”

“Did you see anything suspicious prior to the fire?”

The old lady paused. “I thought I saw a boy lingering ‘round the alleyways. Holding his head and stumbling around real bad, pacing back ‘n forth like he couldn’t see clearly. ‘twas near the red-light district, so I thought he was just another drunkard.”

“Could you point to the boy you saw, stumbling through the alleyways?”

The old woman slowly pointed at Jisung.

“And what did you see, at around 10 o’clock, sundown?”

“I-I saw the roofs in my neighbourhood go up in flames. Ran as quick as I could, but the blaze was already too big to stop —” She shuddered. “But through the smoke, I could see the figure of a boy in the fire, escapin’ from the house.”

“Could you point to the boy you saw escaping the burning building?”

You watched in muted dread as she lifted another quivering finger in Jisung’s direction.

“There’s no way she could have seen clearly through all that smoke and fire,” you heard Woojin mutter behind you.

“Your tenant had no prior connection to him — no negative relations beforehand, correct?” 

The old woman nodded. “Not that I know of.”

Prosecutor Kang hummed. “We have no reasons to believe this murder was provoked by the victim. And yet, that night, Han Jisung set fire to an innocent woman’s home — in cold blood. She was an outcast, no family or friends — he likely chose a victim that wouldn’t be missed.” He smiled, turning towards the judge. “That is all for the eyewitness, Your Honour.”

You grit your teeth as the old woman sat back down. Kang had called on his next witness — a chubby, red-nosed man who introduced himself as a child psychiatrist.

“The defendant refused to answer questions during the psychological evaluation,” Kang informed the judge smoothly. “We researched his past thoroughly—”

“Bullshit,” Felix muttered.

“—and reached our conclusions by analyzing the nature of his criminal history during his adolescence. We will also be consulting—” Kang motioned for the two boys to step forward, “His former classmates, who will testify on Mr. Han’s character.”

“He’s insane,” Chan whispered in horror, “He’s letting the kids from the diner attack testify on Jisung’s mental condition?”

“Please state your affiliation with the defendant.”

“We grew up in the same orphanage,” the boy in the buzzcut answered, his voice thick from his swollen nose. “Kid always stuck out like a sore thumb.”

“Did the defendant ever exhibit any strange behaviours during his adolescence?” Kang asked.

“He’d be missing from classes for days,” the scrawny boy piped up. “Always hoverin’ in the corner like a little creep. Sometimes even lightin’ things on fire. Never got in trouble though — always real charming towards the teachers.” 

“Changed his expressions like masks,” the boy in the buzzcut added quickly.

Kang turned towards the child psychiatrist. “How would you describe the mental condition of a patient like Mr. Han, taking these testimonies and the defendant’s criminal history into account?”

“W-well,” the red-faced man began, sweaty brow furrowing. “Starting with his unexplained history of pyromanic tendencies — this destructive behaviour indicates the patient harboured violent habits from a young age. That’s often a strong indicator of various conduct disorders in young children.”

“But isn’t it normal for children to be curious, to cause a little trouble?” Kang smiled — he was playing the devil’s advocate, you realised uneasily. “You surely can’t sum up his fascination with fire as a dangerous condition.”

The psychiatrist nodded. “Of course not. But the patient was able to shift between personas from a very young age — like his classmates have said, he could be cold and reserved to them, but charming and cunning towards authority figures. This constant deception in young children, along with the destructive tendencies, is what often leads to sociopathic behaviour.”

“Sociopathy,” Kang repeated, and turned towards the judge. “Oh, dear.”

You looked on in dismay as Kang kept twisting the case like the strings of an ugly puppet, clearly aware of the way the jury and spectators were beginning to lean towards the prosecution’s arguments. With Kang’s carefully crafted questions directed at nervous, unsuspecting witnesses, everything seemed to point to one obvious answer. Han Jisung was a guilty serial murderer, there could be no question of it. Even the testimonies were beginning to blur together:

He went all psycho on us. 

Laughing like some maniac, like he enjoyed it. 

Murdered my friends for no reason. 

At this rate, you didn’t stand a chance.

Kang needed one more witness — one more witness was all it would take for the trial to shift completely in his favour, and for you to finally lose hope. You looked around the room in desperation and spotted Minho seated on the prosecution’s side, the coroner’s smooth and mask-like expression doing nothing to calm your frazzled nerves. His words from the rooftop rang in your head, sending chills down your spine.

There is little you can do with people who don’t want to be helped, y/n. You’re just like how I was. 

Was that why Minho had cooperated with the prosecution? Because he thought that Jisung was already beyond saving? As if he could feel your gaze burning into him, Minho’s eyes darted upwards to meet yours. You were startled to find that there was something unfamiliar in his expression; something that hadn’t been there the last time you’d met him — like a crack in a mask, a ripple in smooth water. Before you could decipher what it was, you heard Kang’s haughty voice calling Minho up to the stand, and the coroner turned away.

“Please state your name and status.”

“Lee Minho, forensic pathologist and head coroner of the Miroh Heights murder cases.”

“Could you describe the autopsy results of the confirmed victims?” Kang held up a remote and projected images of various crime scenes onto a screen. An uneasy murmur rippled through the jury and spectators at the graphic images — some, like the burned body of the woman, and caved-in skull of the man at the Yellow Wood, you recognized, but there were several more you never had the courage to look at before.

Minho glanced at the photos Kang had projected onto the screen, expression unchanging. You remembered his oddly empty smile when you had first met him, when you had asked him if the endless rows of corpses ever made him uncomfortable.

“I’m sure it did, at some point. Sooner or later, they all start to look the same.”

“Yes. Well, as you can see, the victims’ bodies almost always showed signs of excessive force and trauma. Victim #1, Na Jangmin, was pronounced dead on scene from smoke inhalation and respiratory burns from the combustion of various chemicals found in the science laboratory.” Minho pointed to a gruesome image of a peeling, shrivelled corpse that made your skin crawl.

“Victim #2, Park Beomsoo. Died from asphyxiation. The victim had a high dosage of flunitrazepam — Rohypnol — in his system prior to his death.”

“And what is Rohypnol, Mr. Lee?” Kang interjected.

“It’s a powerful tranquilizer drug. Small amounts are sold as sleeping pills, but high concentrations can cause paralysis, or even loss of consciousness. It’s a common date rape drug.”

“Did the victim consume the drug of their own accord?”

“The concentration is too high to have been used as a sleeping pill dosage. The victim’s time of death was around noon, on campus, so there would have been no reason to for him to consume the drug. We detected traces of food in Park’s body along with the drug, but we don’t know where the drug came from.”

Kang turned towards the judge triumphantly. “Shortly after the drug took effect, the victim was pronounced dead. This was a premeditated crime. The defendant drugged the victim’s food, and slowly suffocated Park Beomsoo to death. Taking the defendant’s mental condition into consideration, Your Honour—” Kang gave a meaningful nod, a dark glint in his hawklike eyes, “I would argue that the defendant may have enjoyed the process of committing the murder.”

It took the last ounce of your self-control not to leap up from your chair at his words. Seemingly unfazed, Minho kept talking. “You can also find strange correlations between the victims. We always deduce signs of brute force exerted, and a pattern of victims: people with a history of abuse, adultery, and harassment. You could say that this killer...hunted killers.”

“The defendant’s M.O., Your Honour,” Kang added, nodding. “The constant pattern of victims and killing styles confirm that these were premeditated murders, habitual murders.”

You felt your heart sink, feeling sick. Beside you, Woojin had his head in his hands. Your last hope had gone down the drain. You should have known the coroner would play along, that he would never give himself in; that Lee Minho was the type to always save his own skin before saving others’— 

“However,” Minho spoke up again, “I’d like to add that all the crime scenes are also always impeccably clean. We observed minimal blood spattering, DNA evidence, and even fingerprints. Some wounds on the victims’ corpses didn’t match the hypothesised murder weapons, and were ready to become cold cases.” 

“Evidence that the perpetrator of these murders was also able to plan their clean-up afterwards,” Kang flashed the coroner a strange look. “Ladies and gentlemen, this only shows that the killer is meticulous and calculated in his attacks. As I’ve said, this is an insidious, long-seasoned killer we have on our hands—”

“You might be wondering why the evidence for this case is so scattered,” Minho’s mild voice cut him off, and Kang looked irritated at the sudden interruption but let the coroner continue. “Why the killings are so sporadic, always occurring at irregular intervals.” He paused, thinking. “Why nothing seems to fit together.”

It took several moments for his words to hit you, and you lifted your head in disbelief.

What? You turned to your friends, who all looked equally confused. 

What is he trying to say?

“I remember recording that the deduced weapon at the Yellow Wood attacks was a hammer, or crowbar.” Minho nodded at the papers in the Judge’s hands. “That’s not true.”

All the heads in the room seemed to snap up in shock at the coroner’s blunt words. You felt your breath stop, and looked over at Chan, whose expression was just as stunned.

“The weapon of choice was actually a stone from the Yellow Wood,” Minho shrugged. The coroner set down the papers Prosecutor Kang had handed him, turning to face the jury. “If you dig around in the lake outside Miroh Heights Hospital, you might be able to find it. Then there’s the vodka from the fire, the knocked-over chemicals in the science laboratory, a janitor’s rope from the rooftop. They were all impulsive weapon choices,” Minho nodded at the judge, “all from the scene of the crime. As if the perpetrator had chosen it on the spot, in a fleeting moment of impulsive judgment.”

You saw Kang sputtering behind him, mouth opening and closing uselessly. The Judge was evidently taken aback, too, peering at Minho from over her half-moon glasses. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Lee?”

“That it should be obvious that these crimes were almost never premeditated.” Minho glanced at the pictures of the crime scene. His voice was quiet — nearly inaudible — but exasperated, as if he were surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. The entire room seemed to be leaning forward, listening to his words with bated breath. “They were done in the heat of the moment, and someone else had to tamper with the evidence afterwards.”

“How could you possibly know—”

“Because I’m the one who’s been cleaning up after Han Jisung for the past thirteen years.” 

Your mouth dropped open in shock as a hush fell over the room, reporters gasping and scribbling in their notepads. Minho had a small smile on his face as he took in the entire room’s response — how everyone had fallen quiet, speechless at the sudden turn the trial had taken. The smile wasn’t gloating or cruel, you realised slowly. It was filled with a simple curiosity and wonder, like a child who had finally tried something new for the first time. 

Even Jisung had looked up, his eyes widened in surprise. “Minho—” His voice was raw from disuse as he called out to his first friend, his oldest friend —  but Minho only smiled at him and shook his head slightly.

The room was shifting uneasily around him. He should have been scared, Minho thought. He could already feel lies instinctively forming on his tongue, a thousand ways he could backpedal and take back what he had just said. It had become second nature to him, he realised — covering up murders first, and his own emotions second; the two things he had always feared the most. He could hear Kang angrily stammering and calling his name behind him, but Minho ignored him.

The judge cleared her throat unsteadily, fixing her piercing gaze on him. “Why are you doing this? You are aware that a confession like this will lose you much more than your job? That it may very well condemn you to a lifetime in prison?”

“I’m aware,” Minho replied softly, eyes wandering across the room and landing on Jisung’s distraught face. The boy he had clung onto as his only family, the boy who he had both loved and feared for thirteen years. There was nothing left for him to lose. “I thought for the longest time that covering the murders were my own twisted way of...saving the boy. I don’t think I had the courage in me to do much else.” He looked around the courtroom, and his eyes finally landed on you. The girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, but was strong enough to challenge him with a steady voice and blazing eyes. The girl who was an unapologetic contradiction, he remembered, almost fondly. The girl who had reminded him what it was like to be brave, to finally start living for himself.

Yes, he thought. This was the least he could do.

“Han Jisung had nothing to do with the cover-ups of the crime scenes,” Minho raised his voice, surprised at the strength in it. Behind him, he could hear the prosecution stirring, and felt two security guards seize his arms to remove him from the podium. “He is not the depraved killer the prosecution wants you to think—”

“Your Honour, this must be a set-up between the coroner and the defendant,” Kang cut him off furiously, shooting Minho a death glare behind his spectacles. The murmuring of the jury and reporters drowned out the coroner’s last words as he was dragged from the room. “Your Honour, do not be deceived—”

“Order in the court!” The judge banged the gavel repeatedly, holding her head in her hand as if she had a migraine. “The—the coroner’s statements will be deemed faulty, and Lee Minho will be dealt with separately. The trial will continue.”

The silence that settled over the room after the coroner’s outburst was eerie. You could feel your heart still pounding, mind racing over the words Minho had shouted over Kang’s, the almost wistful smile on his face as he let the guards drag him from the room. The coroner had been a wildcard, you thought uneasily, your gut churning with a cocktail of anticipation and anxiety. There was no telling which way the trial would go from here.

“Does the prosecution have any other witnesses?” The judge called out, and you saw Jeongin finally stand up. Words and whispers began flying as he made his way forward to the witness box, the citizens recognising the delivery boy immediately. You glanced over at Kang, who looked more relaxed than ever — and you knew why. Everything from Jisung’s camcorder footage to Jeongin’s salvaged Walkman tapes had either been confiscated by the prosecution, or were in Seungmin’s hands. Kang had been meticulous making sure that the younger prosecutor had no power over the case, banning him from interfering with the investigation for good. 

Which meant that all Jeongin had to sway the jury was his own verbal testimony. One young boy’s word against Prosecutor Kang’s. 

“State your name and status.”

“Yang Jeongin. Um, student at Miroh Heights University.”

Kang looked down at his papers, then back up at the judge. “On the night of the Yellow Wood attacks, Yang Jeongin was biking home after closing shift before he was brutally attacked by the defendant with a blow to the skull. He is the only living witness that has come forward to testify, and the only person who witnessed the defendant’s attack firsthand. Luckily, he was able to regain consciousness after the horrific attack.” He turned towards Jeongin, smiling triumphantly. “What he has to say may well turn the entire case upside down.”

He was clearly expecting Jeongin to give away evidence against Jisung, you realised. After they had told Jeongin that his tapes had been withdrawn from the investigation, the delivery boy had hit a dead end in his testimony. No matter what he said, Kang would be able to find a way to use it against Jisung. Sure enough, he was watching the young boy now like a vulture, ready to pick him apart.

But Jeongin only smiled back at Kang. “Actually, it’s not what I have to say, sir.” When the prosecutor’s face contorted in confusion, Jeongin continued, “It’s the things that you’ve said.”

Before Kang could reply, Jeongin reached into his pocket and pulled out something silver. The guards instantly moved forward, but Jeongin set it onto the clerk’s table, motioning for him to take it. After several moments, the low crackle of speakers connecting began filling the tense silence, and you realised what it was that Jeongin had brought with him. 

A voice recorder.

“He didn’t tell anyone to make sure it wouldn’t get confiscated, too,” Chan realised, eyes widening. “Smart kid. But what could he have possibly recor—”

The detective’s awed voice was drowned out by a recording of another very familiar voice.

“Kim Seungmin. As you may have heard, the serial killer — ah, the Han Jisung case, I could say — has been transferred to me.”

Prosecutor Kang.

The room froze. When you looked at Kang, you saw that all the blood had drained from his face.

“Now, now — don’t feel too ashamed, Kim. Everyone makes rookie mistakes. They may have assigned the wrong case to you, but rest assured — it’s in proper hands now.”

“Is it?”

You winced, peeking at Seungmin beside you when you heard his voice on the recording as well. Seungmin had never mentioned the way Kang treated him to anyone, and the younger prosecutor’s jaw was clenched, but his eyes were blazing. 

Still, you weren’t exactly sure why Jeongin was playing a recording of Kang and Seungmin’s conversation. What could he have possibly overheard, that made him look so confident now?

“Have something to say to me, Kim?”

“I’ve just — never understood the way you handled cases, sir.”

“Seungmin.” You could almost see the condescending look on Kang’s face. “Allow me to share a word of advice. They won’t teach you this in law school.”

Seungmin watched realisation flash across Kang’s face like he had been struck by lightning, but it was too late.

“Your job as a prosecutor is not to judge the defendant fairly.”

“Wh—”

“If you want a smooth career...all you need to do is make sure you’re appealing to the right people. In other words, listen to what the public wants. Please the public; don’t waste a single damn about the defendant. You spent all your precious time worrying your little head over the killer’s motives, and now that we finally have him, you’re still worrying over the severity of his sentence? Murder is murder, Kim Seungmin, and actions speak louder than motives. You can show lenience towards a mass-murderer, or you can sweep his sorry past under the rug and bring closure to dozens of families. Which would make you a richer, more popular man?”

“Your Honour,” Kang stammered, face white, “This is—improper use of evidence, this shouldn’t—” The recording cut him off again, the judge’s face stony as she motioned for the clerk to keep going.

“Is that how you got to where you are?”

“Think, boy. As far as anyone needs to be concerned, the cold-blooded killer is caught, peace is re-established, families are soothed, justice is served once again — and I come out the hero. You saw that boy’s wretched past. Even he can’t handle it. So why poke at wounds that aren’t meant to be re-opened?”

You didn’t realise how hard you were clenching your fists until you felt your palms sting from your nails. The entire room seemed to be holding its breath. Kang looked stricken, pale mouth opening and closing frantically like a fish out of water, but no words were coming out.

“You think you’re being kind? Justice isn’t meant to be kind, Kim. Make up the easiest case to solve, and do everyone a favour.”

The judge stopped the tape, her face livid. The room had gone deadly silent, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. ““Your job as a prosector is not to judge the defendant fairly?”” 

Kang could only shake his head wildly as she continued, raising her voice, ““Make up the easiest case to solve, and do everyone a favour?” From a faulty forensics expert to this — Prosecutor Kang, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Your Honour, I—” Kang sputtered out, beady eyes darting around furiously — at Jisung, and at Jeongin. “L-lies! It’s all lies, this is absurd!” He laughed, trying to make himself sound nonchalant, but his voice was weak. “This must be a—a fabrication perpetrated by the defendant—” The room was erupting in chaos now, the jury and reporters bickering amongst themselves. 

You had never seen the prosecutor so worked up before as he continued to protest frantically, “Your Honour, the defendant must have coerced the victim to do this, to—to frame me. Please listen to me, we must conduct another investigation—”

There was a deafening bang as the Judge slammed the gavel down, making the room jump. “There will be no investigation,” she thundered. “Prosecutor Kang, you are hereby removed from the Han Jisung case.” 

Kang leapt up from his seat as officers appeared on either side of the prosecutor, seizing his thrashing arms. “Let go of me! Your Honour! Your Honour, you cannot do this. Han Jisung must be condemned — you cannot let this murderer walk free—”

“Silence!” The judge bellowed, and the last of Kang’s words were drowned out, the heavy oak doors banging shut as he was thrown from the room. Jeongin looked evidently shaken. He had been right. His last existing recording — the unlikely trump card — had flipped the case on its head. You heard frenzied whispers all around you as your heartbeat pounded erratically in your chest. 

“Does this mean the prosecutor’s been fabricating all the evidence? Who can we trust now?”

“I’ve never seen a case like this before.”

“What’s going to happen to the trial now that the lead prosecutor’s been detained?”

The banging of the gavel eventually brought the restless audience to a strained silence. The Judge looked weary. “We need to take an emergency intermission. The trial...will recommence shortly.”

━━━━━━━━

You let the sea of people push you through the courtroom’s double doors, your legs threatening to collapse at any moment. Outside was hardly a breath of fresh air — all around you, cameras were flashing, reporters were gossiping, and officials were arguing. You tried to focus — to process what had happened, but the incessant buzzing of people chattering around you made your head pound so hard you swore your skull was splitting.

A firm hand on your shoulder yanked you out of your migraine, and you whipped around to see Hyunjin. You let out a small sigh of relief. 

“Hey, it might be good to get out of this crowd for a bit,” Hyunjin said, taking in your exhausted expression worriedly. “I, uh, lost everyone, but if we step outside—”

Before he could finish, you both caught sight a blond head bobbing towards you in the sea of people. Felix pushed through, cradling his camera for dear life. His freckled face was sweaty and breathless. 

“Kang—Kang’s lost all power,” he gasped out when he reached you. “Detective Bang’s managed to convince the guards to let him talk to Jisung for a few minutes—”

You had already seized your best friend by the shoulders and spun him around. He instantly got the message and the three of you began elbowing through the hordes of people, Felix leading the way.

The clamour died down to a quiet hum as you reached the hallways, Felix ushering you past an OFF-LIMITS sign. The corridors were nearly empty now, and the three of you sprinted to the end until you reached a heavy oak door. It was slightly ajar. You caught a glimpse of Jisung’s expressionless face through the dim crack, and your hand hesitated on the door handle. 

“I told you and Woojin I wouldn’t give you any counter evidence.” Jisung’s voice was cold and lifeless. 

“And you didn’t.” You could hear the growing agitation in Chan’s voice as the detective pleaded. “But you’ve got to listen to me. More people want you — need you — to keep living, more than you give yourself credit for.”

“Stop, Chan. You don’t have to do this anymore—”

“Han Jisung.” You couldn’t help his name falling from your lips, voice louder than you’d intended as you threw open the heavy door. The guards rushed to block you before you could get any closer, but you pushed back, forcing Jisung to meet your eyes. His were flat, dark, horribly cold.

“y/n,” he replied softly, and you felt your heart break.

“Why are you doing this?” You fought to keep your voice steady. “You have the right to speak for yourself. Defend yourself. You know what they’re saying isn’t true. So why are you letting them keep accusing you?”

“How do you know it isn’t true?” Jisung laughed humourlessly, shaking his head. “Don’t lie to yourself. I did kill all those people, and you know that.”

“I do. But you’re not the psychopath Kang is making you out to be,” you protested. “I know you.” 

“You don’t.” Jisung’s voice was bitter. “You don’t, actually. I’ve always — always hidden parts of myself from you. What you’re hearing from Kang is the closest you’ll ever get. He — he knows me better than I know myself.” He smiled weakly, but it fell flat. “I’ve always been like this, drawn to murder and blood and fire. It can’t be fixed.”

Each one of his words pierced through you like bullets, and you searched his face frantically for a sign, anything left of the rain-drenched, smiling boy from the diner; the wounded, soft-hearted boy you had fallen in love with. Your heart was hammering in your throat as a horrible question echoed through your head. 

Did he mean it?

It was as if Jisung had pulled on a mask, you thought. His face was absolutely still — but for a fleeting moment, you could swear you saw a flash of pain

No.

You had grown to know him, grown to know that he was the kind of boy who was willing to play the part of a depraved monster, just so you would push him away first. 

Jisung stared back at you, and for once, the darkness in his wide eyes no longer scared you. Instead, endless memories were flashing through your mind.

Jisung making you laugh until you choked on Chinese food, and apologising profusely for hours afterwards.

Jisung spilling pancake batter all over your kitchen counter, and feeding you blueberries to make sure you didn’t notice.  

Jisung, holding you in his arms until you fell asleep, hands as gentle as if he thought you were made of glass. 

“You need to go,” Jisung broke your long silence. “Stop hurting yourself. You need to let me go.”

You looked up, taking in his slumped shoulders, the note of defeat in his voice, the facade he had pulled on during the trial, and everything hit you all at once. Maybe it was the stress of the weeks leading up to trial or your hatred towards Kang had finally reached its breaking point. Either way, an overwhelming feeling of sheer frustration was washing away the anxiety that had been thrumming in your veins for weeks, and it left in its place an unbearable, burning anger.

You felt yourself push past the guards as if in slow motion, a voice in your head telling you that maybe this wasn’t the best idea — and slapped your boyfriend across the face.

The slap wasn’t hard, but the sound that rang through the room felt deafening.

“Han Jisung, you are such an idiot,” you yelled. Guards immediately surrounded you, dragging you backwards, but you didn’t take your eyes off Jisung. He was staring at you, stunned,  the stone-cold facade he had put on earlier now cracked wide open. “What do you think you’re solving this way? Do you know how many people have been working nonstop to make sure you don’t get yourself killed?” You could feel hot tears of frustration spilling onto your cheeks. “Your friends want you to stay alive. Your mother wanted you to stay alive. I need you to stay alive.” Your voice was hoarse as you screamed over the guards pushing you out of the room, and the heavy door swung shut with a deafening bang. 

The silence in the hallway seemed to swallow you up, the weight of what you had just said and done crashing down on you like a ton of bricks. You felt your knees finally buckle as you sank to the ground, burying your face in your arms and finally letting all your pent-up tears fall freely. 

Hyunjin and Felix were by your side, exchanging worried looks as they patted your back gingerly. You weren’t sure exactly how long the three of you stayed like that, your exhausted body racking with frustrated, mortified sobs, until you heard footsteps running down the corridor towards you.

“There you are— I’ve been looking for you guys for—” Kim Woojin’s breathless voice made you look up, and the captain did a double take. “Bloody hell, what happened?”

You wiped your reddened eyes furiously as Felix shook his head at the police captain, who was kind enough to take the hint.

“The thing is —” Woojin began again, tripping over his words. It was the first time you had seen the police captain so frantic. “It’s — it’s an emergency situation right now. A mistrial. The head prosecutor’s been thrown off the case, people are rioting—”

“This is a fucking mess,” Hyunjin muttered, but Woojin shook his head.

“No, it’s not,” the police captain exclaimed excitedly, “Not for us. They’re calling for a prosecutor who’s familiar with Jisung’s case to step up, asap. If there’s any prosecutor who was also working on the case—”

As if on cue, the intercom buzzed above you, making you jolt. “The court hearing for Han Jisung and Miroh Heights Murders will be resuming in five minutes. All attorneys, jurors, and participants of the trial, please report to the courtroom immediately—”

“Seungmin,” you, Felix, and Hyunjin all said simultaneously, and Woojin nodded. Felix was already pulling you to your feet, and the four of you broke into a run towards the courtroom.

[writtenonreceipts]

I saw this prompt for feysand and i would love to see your take on it - I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

I've really been enjoying your writing!!❤

AN: I took it and ran, and ran, and kept running.  Thank-you so, SO much for sending it my way!  This was a great prompt that had fun with.  I’m glad you’ve been liking my stuff, it means a lot! ~5.5kwords

TW: Brief talk about death, anxiety, depression, fear.

 Worth It

Seated at a canvas with paints or pencils in hand, Feyre was unstoppable.  She could create landscapes with ease or depict a simple still life and turn it into something far greater.  Art was where she lived.

Not in a basement classroom learning about Prythian history.  

There wasn’t anything wrong with history, especially when it was as rich and vibrant as Prythia.  But talking about wars, treaties, and assassinations could only be discussed for so long.

Of course, it didn’t help that Feyre was dyslexic, but she didn’t talk about that.

She glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone else was as bored as she was.  It was the first day of class and she was the only one not taking extensive notes.  Well, she and a guy at the front of the room.  All Feyre could see was the back of his head.  His hair was dark as midnight and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up as he sat at his desk.  He didn’t even have a textbook with him.

Feyre forced herself to pay attention as the Professor finally shut down the slide show presentation.

“Make sure you look of the syllabus,” Dr. Wesson addressed the class.  She was a small woman with rich brown hair and a plain green dress.  “It outlines the schedule of tests and essays.  None of the dates will be altered.  My TA will be at your disposal.” 

Dr. Wesson nodded to the guy with the black hair and gestured for him to stand up.

And just like that, the class was the most fascinating thing in the world. 

He was tall, taller than he’d originally appeared.  His warmly tanned skin made his violet blue eyes bright and eager.  A sly sort of smile traced his mouth as he observed the class.

“Call me Rhysand,” he said, “I’m working on my masters specifically in the historical aspect of how literature was shaped by wars in the land.  I’m always glad to help with your questions.  Just make sure you email me to set something up.”

The girls next to Feyre whispered to each other, exchanging significant looks.  Feyre exchanged a significant look with the amount of reading and writing that was required.

Hell.  It was going to be a long semester.

The class dismissed right at nine o’clock, much to Feyre’s relief.  While most of the students flocked to the front of the room to either gawk at the TA or further discuss issues with the Professor, Feyre left the class.  Already she could feel her dread pooling into anxiety.  Her heart rate quickened and the muscles in her left hand twitched.  

She just needed to get home and sit down with a canvas and paint.

As soon as she made it outside the Humanities Building however, the dread continued to tug at Feyre.  It was far too dark.  With far fewer lights than she’d expected for a college campus.  Or maybe it was because there was a thick layer of clouds sagging down and threatening rain.  

“Feyre!” 

Snapping to attention, Feyre clutched her bag to her chest and found the source of her name.

Her friend, and roommate, Alis waved at her from a path diverging deeper on to campus.  Her dark hair hung in waves down her back and the jacket she wore was flattering against her curves.

Feyre let out a long, releieved breath and plastered a smile on her face.  Quickly, she moved toward her friend.

“Hey,” Feyre greeted and accepted a hug from the smaller girl. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you had a late class,” Alis explained, “and I knew it was with Wesson.  I heard the woman is miserable.  So intense.  But--I mean--you’re going to do great.  Your always so creative with everything I’m sure she’ll love you.  Anyway, I was finishing up buying my books for the semester and thought I’d meet up with you.”

Feyre smiled as Alis spoke, grateful for the small distraction.  Even if it was slightly horrific in thinking about trying to get on a professor’s good-side.

“Thanks,” Feyre said, “I appreciate it.  It was a bit intimidating.”

“I think everyone just likes making freshman miserable,” Alis said.  Alis was technically a junior, but had changed her major four times and couldn’t decide on a minor.  She was not on track to graduate when she’d originally thought, but wasn’t at all concerned.  

Feyre wished she could be more like that than the raging mess she felt she was.

Behind them, leaving the Humanities Building, the TA appeared leading an entire gaggle of girls.

“Let’s go,” Feyre muttered. “I’m exhausted.”

#

By the third week of the semester Feyre came to better understand her relationship with exhaustion.  And it was not a good one.

She was fairly certain her body consisted of ninety percent caffeinated beverages and ten percent hot pockets.  She’d never been one for eating much.  Growing up had always been a struggle in keeping food in the fridge and a decent pair of shoes on her feet.  Feyre knew by now how her body functioned.

It wasn’t healthy, not in the slightest.  And there was a part of her that recognized that.  And another part that ignored it.

Two nights a week, Feyre found herself stuffed in the basement with little enjoyment.  Other than getting to stare and Rhysand when Dr. Wesson turned the class over to him for brief instruction.

And looking at him was enjoyment.  He was far different from any other guy Feyre had encountered.  His hair was kept neat and short sweeping easily back out of his face, a charming smile, and warm brown skin.  Not to mention the tattoos. 

Feyre had never really considered tattoos as being attractive.  Perhaps it was the artistic side of her that couldn’t get enough of them.  On him at least.  The way the black in swirled on his skin and swept up his arms.  It was a shame he never wore short sleeves or unbuttoned one extra cutton at his collar.

Hell.

Mentally shaking herself, Feyre forced herself to pay attention.

Rhysand was discussing scores from the test last week.  And, to put it mildly, was not impressed.  Oh, there was plenty of good to say.  Some of the students were engaged in the topics at hand.  Some of the students displayed an obvious grasp of complicated topics.  Others did not.

Feyre found herself sinking deeper into her seat by the end of class.

He hadn’t called her out by name, but truly--it felt like he had.

“That’s it for today, enjoy the weekend,” Rhysand called out at the tick of nine, “and remember essay proposals are due by the start of class on Tuesday.”

There was a quick rustle of the students getting up and gathering their things.  It was a glorious Thursday evening and Feyre had somehow managed to keep her Friday’s clear of classes.  At least something had gone right.

“Feyre?” She whipped around to meet those stark violet eyes. Hell. “I needed to talk to you about the questions you had on the proposal assignment.”

Feyre bristled.  And not just because some of the girls shot her angry looks for being singled out by the hot TA.  She hadn’t asked any questions.  She was just trying to skate by on this class and be done with her prerequisites so she could get into her Art Major.

She set her bag on the floor once more and went to the front of the class.  Already most of the students were leaving, far too eager to be done with school for the night.

As Rhysand answered a few last questions and dismissed the rest of the students, Feyre approached.  Already she knew what she was going to say.

“I don’t have any questions.” The words fell from her mouth with ease. “I already know what I’m writing on.”

Lie.  But a well-practiced one.

Rhysand’s mouth curled in a smile.  He hefted a small stack of papers in one hand and leafed through them.  Feyre froze realizing that they were the tests from last week.  He pulled one of the stapled bunches out before setting the rest down.

“Honestly, I was surprised while grading this,” he said, “I mean, you’re obviously smart.  I saw that you were awarded the Starfell Scholarship, not an easy accomplishment.  Not to mention your always engaged and taking notes.”

Feyre wished her skin wasn’t as pale as it was.  Her skin flushed under his scrutiny, but she tilted her chin up and met his gaze.

“And?” she asked. “I take my education seriously.”

Somewhat.  When she actually liked the work.

Rhysand handed her the test.  And she saw the grade.

D.

D.

D.

Hell.

Her stomach churned.  Roiled actually.  Maybe she was going to be sick.  That was just what she needed.

“So?” she asked instead. “It was the first test of the semester.”

“And yours in the only outlier,” he replied.

His eyes never left hers and Feyre felt more and more inclined to throw something at him.  Who was he to talk to her about her grade?  He was just the damned TA.

“Dr. Wesson doesn’t like picking up the slack of grading or talking to students about it all that much,” he continued, literally reading her mind. “I’m just concerned about you falling behind.”

Feyre stiffened and pursed her lips.

“I grew up learning Prythian history, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said stiffly.  

Another lie.  She knew enough that basic education taught and what she’d heard and listened to.  But reading about it?  Her mind couldn’t grasp it.  It had been hard enough getting decent SAT scores to get accepted in the University let alone writing that damned Starfell essay.

“Of course,” Rhysand said slowly.

And Feyre had the sense that he was assessing her.  Analytically, carefully.  In the was that one would size up an opponent or scrutinize a strange recipe.  He was trying to understand her.

Feyre handed him back the test.

“Thanks for the concern,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

Perhaps he was just being nice.  Perhaps he was merely trying to fulfill his duties as TA.  But she had seen the way he acted in the class.  At times rebuffing boys and girls alike.  Not to mention seeing him around campus tossing a football around with two other boys.  She’d also seen him get kicked out of the library for a parkour prank challenge.  

In all honesty, Feyre had no idea what to make of him.  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

He didn’t seem to believe her.  Not with the crease forming between his brow nor the frown turning down one side of his mouth.  

Well, that was his problem.

“Have a good night,” Feyre said.  She spun on her heel before he could say anything and grabbed her bag and was out the door.  

Once she was outside, she could breathe again.  Strange.  She often found the darkness, the night, to be so suffocating.  It wasn’t long before Feyre realized something was off about the night.  And then she realized.  Alis was nowhere in sight.

Feyre dug her phone out of her pocket and found a missed text.

Sorry chica, caught up at study group.  Probs gonna spend the night at Nuala’s too.  See you tomorrow!

Of all the nights Alis could get serious with her girlfriend.

Feyre swallowed stiffly and stared out over the pavilion that stretched between the humanities building and out to the mathematics building.  A few pathways branched off to different parts of campus and then there was the main one that would take her to the dorms.  And of course, most of the streetlamps were barely flickering to life.

She’d never liked the dark.  Never liked what could hide in the shadows.  Nor what could sneak in silence.  Perhaps it was childish to still hold onto that fear.  She was almost nineteen years old after all. Nearly fifteen years later and here she was.

Feyre’s hands shook as she clutched her phone.  She could call Elain.  Nesta.  Even just to talk to as she walked.  Though Elain lost her phone even when it was in her hand.  And Nesta was at work.  

But it was fine.  Feyre knew it was fine.  Because all she needed to do was walk.  And shed been walking for long enough that putting one step in front of the other was natural.  Easy.  Simple.  Yet here she was.  Standing.

When Rhysand spoke, she didn’t even start.  

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

Myself.  “No.”

Silence.

“It’s getting late.”

“I know.”

Silence.

How strange it was, to hear only the hum of crickets and breath of night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rhysand asked.  

Feyre glanced at him.  Even in the shadows she could see him clearly.  It was like he was made of night, of dark, of the mysteries that she could never lay her hand on.  She shook her head.  Focus, Feyre.

“Of course I am,” she insisted, a little too sharply. “Maybe I like having time to think.”

“At nine-thirty at night.  Outside the least exciting building on campus.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I heard that last year a group of boys nearly got suspended for trying to host a snowball fight, indoors.” Feyre couldn’t help but grin when she saw how Rhysand flushed.

“Technically, I’m not the one who brought the snowballs inside the building,” he said defensively.

“Oh, no, you’re just the one who built an entire fort in front of the main entrance to the building,” Feyre said.

It had actually been pretty hilarious when she’d heard about it from Alis. It almost made her wish that she'd been around last year instead of taking a year off.

“Technically,” he said again, the word making Feyre’s brow arch, “it was my brother who instigated the fight. He couldn’t let his reign be challenged.”

Feyre snorted a laugh and looked out over the quiet campus. It almost didn't look so dark and cold as she'd thought it had.  But still, she felt her heart continue to hammer out unevenly in her chest.  She couldn't walk home alone. Even the thought of taking one step forward had her clench and unclench a fist over the strap of her bag.

Rhysand continued saying something, but Feyre was only half listening.  She was mostly focused on the thought of walking home.  She could cut through the Science building.  If it was still open.  Or she could full out sprint.

“Are you alright?” Rhysand asked.

Flushing, Feyre pushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded. “Fine, yeah.” She knew she had to ask him.  Knew that it was her only option despite how embarrassed she might feel. “Could you--this is stupid, so you can say no--could you walk with me to the dorms?”

Rhysand was quiet for a moment.  And in that moment Feyre was certain he was going to sneer at her.  Laugh.  Tell her to get over herself.  Just like the others before him.

"Where do you live?" Rhys and asked suddenly, cutting Feyre off before she had the ch

“The dorms on the west side,” she said.

“Alliance Dorms?” Rhysaid confirmed.  When Feyre nodded, he flashed her a small smile. “Absolutely.”

Relief pounded through Feyre.

“If you tell me what the deal was with that test.”

“You’re an ass.”  The words were out before Feyre could stop them.  Not the best thing to say to the TA of a class she was likely going to flunk.

Scowling, more to herself than him, Feyre started walking towards the dorms.  She was a strong confidant woman.  She did not need him to walk her home.

But Rhysand with those damned long legs kept stride with her easily.  And he was laughing.  Feyre was half tempted to knock an elbow in his side for laughing at her, but his next words caught her off guard.

“I like you Feyre,” he said, “you are rather interesting.”

She glanced up at him.  Was he serious?  She’d insulted him.  She’d barely exchanged ten words with him at this point.  And was scared of walking home alone.  Granted it was a valid fear for a young woman on a college campus these days.

“Insane is the better word for it,” she replied, mostly under her breath.  That’s what everyone back home said at least.  In the small town where nothing was supposed to go wrong.  But everything did.

“Interesting, curious, vibrant,” Rhysand listed off. “Far better words I think.”

Feyre had never been good with words.  Like now.  She couldn’t find the energy to respond to him.  There was a spark in his eye that almost challenged her, begged her to continue the banter, the little game.  

She remained silent.

She’d heard it was a far better mask for her to wear anyways.

#

The first paper she turned in for the History class was returned with far too many red marks.  Far too many question marks.  Far too many.  So Feyre merely folded the thing in half and stuffed it in her bag.

She could burn it later.

Dr. Wesson ended the lecture right at nine and dismissed the class.  Feyre had almost disillusioned herself into thinking she could avoid a conversation with the Professor.  With Rhysand.  But just as she was trying to maneuver around the giggling pack of girls that sat next to her, Dr. Wesson’s voice called out for her.

“Oh Miss Archeron, a word please?”

Feyre froze.  She could feign a phone call.  But then next class session the same thing would happen.  So, Feyre braced herself for what was to come and went to the front of the class.

As usual, Rhysand looked perfectly unruffled.  Despite the fact that Fall was quickly slipping into the winter months, he still wore a simple black button up tucked into slacks, the sleeves rolled up.

“Feyre,” Dr. Wesson said as she approached, she reached out a hand and gave Feyre a firm pat on the arm. “I know Rhysand spoke to you last week about your test.  I wanted to follow up, especially in seeing how this essay went.  Now, there is still plenty of time left in the semester, but I worry you aren’t grasping the things you should be.”

Blood pounded in Feyre’s ears.  She could hear her heart beat throb, feel it in her veins.  Her entire body flushed with embarrassment, stress, horror.  Everything bubbled to the surface even though she’d tried so hard to tamp it down.

She tried to open her mouth but found her teeth were grinding together so bad that her jaw hurt.

“I think,” Dr. Wesson continued, “that you would benefit from spending a bit of extra time with Rhysand.  Just to make sure you’re where you need to be in the class.”

Feyre found herself nodding and agreeing.  Her voice was relaxed, calm even.  But far too close to breaking.

After thanking the Doctor for her uncharacteristic kindness, Feyre stared and the poorly erased whiteboard over Rhysand’s shoulder for a long moment.  With a slow exhale she finally met his gaze.

Rhysand met her eyes with such intensity that Feyre nearly lost her breath all over again.  She shook it off and rolled her shoulders.

“Shall we get started tonight?” she asked. “Or I’m sure you have plans.”

“Nah, only kicking Cassian’s ass at Mario Cart,” Rhysand replied.  He flashed her an innocent sort of smile.  Feyre wasn’t sure if it was one out of kindness or mockery of some sort.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stuck it out for him. “Just give me your number and I’ll let you know when’s a good time to study.”

Rhysand hesitated on a moment before accepting the phone and adding his details.  As soon as she got her phone back, Feyre changed his name from Rhys to Prick.  It seemed to fit better.

“It’s not a big deal you know,” Rhysand said.  

He followed Feyre out of the classroom.  His steps were confident against the carpet that had to be at least thirty years old.  Truly Rhysand was an enigma with his ease, grace, and elegance when pitted against the drab interior of the Humanities Building.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Feyre said.

Once outside, the cold night air nipped at her skin and even through her jacket she could feel goosebumps rise.  Just like the night last week, Feyre waited just outside the building doors.  She stared into the night; across the courtyard she could see a few pale lights from the Math Building.  None of the lampposts had been fixed which left most of the walkways in shadows.

Nothing about the night was out of place.  It was calm, still, and everything lingered on Feyre’s mind.  And just like last week, Rhysand waited beside her.

Overhead, Feyre could just make out the stars.  Only a thin veil of clouds hung over the sky allowing a small bit of freedom to pierce her heart.  But not enough.

“Could you walk with me again?” she asked quietly, unable to look at Rhysand.

“Only if you talk to me this time,” he said.  That cheeky grin returning.  And despite how much she hated it, it put Feyre at ease.

“Fine.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets and began walking. “What made you pick history?  There had to be something else.  You don’t seem the type for old stuffy books or maps.”

“And who do you peg me for, Feyre?” His voice was practically a purr.

“High and mighty sitting behind a desk,” she replied drily. “Running some company somewhere.  You certainly have the personality for it.”

He laughed unamused. “If my father had any say in the matter.  A degree in history only puts off the inevitable.”

“That’s a rather bleak look on things,” Feyre said.  It sounded like something she would say.

“Only if I didn’t enjoy what I was learning so much,” he said.  In the flickering light of the lamps, they walked beneath, Rhysand’s expression brightened. “Between the wars and legends surrounding what shaped the country...it’s always been curious to see what we became.  What we can become.”

His response seemed so honest, so genuine, that Feyre nearly stumbled.  She barely knew him, had barely spent any time with him, yet she was beginning to feel that she knew him.

“So you devote all your time and attention to it?” Feyre asked.

They passed by the last of the campus buildings.  A brisk wind scattered fallen leaves on the sidewalks and crunched under their steps as they walked.

“Don’t you have something you love?  Something that you feel has changed you and you’d never want to give it up?”

A box of paints.  Brushes that she’d had since she was ten.  A canvas only half finished.  She’d thought she could complete the image but it had been almost a year since she’d even looked at it.  But art…art had changed her.  Art had loved her just as she loved it.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted.  Tilting her chin up, Feyre caught sight of a small patch of stars amid the inky black sky.  Dim but shining still. “There’s always something.”

If he heard the sadness in her voice, he said nothing.  Which was partially surprising, but Feyre would roll with it.

“The tutoring,” Rhysand began.

“No,” Feyre cut him off.  “Not right now.”

“So you’re just going to ignore your problems?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Seems to be.”

Feyre stopped causing him him to move a few steps ahead of her.  When he turned back towards her, he waited.  

“I’ll admit to needing a little extra help to help my tests and essays, but I don’t see what else you’d need to know.”

“It’s alright to talk,” Rhysand paused, something else on the cusp of behind heard.  But he restrained, his voice trailing off softly.

Feyre ignored the comment.  Talking had never been her strong suit.  She was more of action.  Less idle, more work.  Ever since she was a child it had been that way.  She knew why, of course.  It was obvious when she thought about it.  So she never thought about it.

“What are you planning on studying?” Rhysand asked when she made no effort to continue on the topic of her test.

“Art,” she replied immediately. “I’m an artist.  But my sister wanted me to get more of an education that could support me.  So I’m just working on my prerequisites.”

“Art,” he repeated.  There was a lilt to his voice as if he really were actually interested in what she was saying. “Sketching?  Sculpture?”

“Paint and canvas,” Feyre said.  “Since I was little.  After my mom died, my sister bought me my first set of brushes and paint and everything I could need.  She was only nine.  I think she stole my dad’s credit card to do it.”

The reality of that had Feyre laughing softly, but Rhysand gave her look that was a mix of horror and confusion.

“It’s fine,” Feyre said quickly, “I’m fine.”

It was a lie of course.  If she really were fine, she wouldn't have asked him to walk her home.  She would better know how to control her fears, her anxiety.  She would be happy.

“My mother died ten years ago,” Rhysand told her, his voice quiet and contemplative. “She’d been sick for a while and we knew it was coming.  But for a ten-year-old boy, it was hard to understand.  My father certainly didn’t.  Still doesn’t.”

They reached Feyre’s dorms then, floodlights illuminated the front street and made it seem as though it were day.  Feyre turned toward him and found herself smiling, just barely.

“Thank-you,” she said sincerely.  “And I’m sorry you have to be a part of the dead mother’s club.”

“You too,” he said.

Feyre wondered if there was something else she should say.  Wondered if he would even want to hear it.  It was strange, that little flame of comradery that she felt towards him.  But it was gone in an instant as Alis came running out from the building.

“Feyre!  Get inside, it’s movie night!”

Shaking her head, Feyre offered Rhysand a small wave and headed into the dorms.

#

With three weeks until the next paper was due in that miserable class, Feyre spent her free time studying with Rhysand.  It wasn’t as miserable as she’d been expecting it to be.  Not when she realized he was far more laid back than she’d assumed.  And then she’d met his best friends who were essentially like his brothers.

It was far easier to study in the relaxed environment that Rhysand created.  And far easier to be herself around him.  Of course, it had taken Feyre a while to decide that maybe they could be friends.  

“Summarize what the chapter from last night’s reading discussed,” Rhysand said one night as they were studying.  It was well after ten o’clock but they’d been given permission to stay in the building.  

Feyre pursed her lips.  She’d done the reading of course.  As well as she’d been able.  Most of had been hard to understand.  No matter how she tried to focus or train her mind, her dyslexia always got in the way.

“Right,” Feyre said slowly. “It was about the last king of Hybern.”

“And?” Rhysand prodded.

“And he was a jerk,” Feyre added.  

Rhysand’s fixed her with a look.  Long and hard but still underlined with compassion.

“Feyre,” he said, just a bit more seriousness to his voice.

She sighed heavily and tugged at the sleeve of her shirt. “I read it.  I just didn’t understand it.”

Silence.

Feyre shot him a scowl but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m dyslexic.  And History tends to be a bit harder for me to understand.”

Rhsand blinked.  Once.  But nothing else.  No laugh or scoff of scorn.  Instead, he smiled and pushed to text book toward her.

“Then read.”

“Read?”

“Aloud, preferably,” Rhysand said.  He shrugged. “You want to be ready for the paper and subsequent test?”

“Prick,” she muttered.  But she dragged the book towards her and began.

It became habit.  A rhythm they fell into for the next several weeks.  Rhysand helped Feyre study and prepare for the paper, the test.  He walked her home, remaining the perfect gentleman.  And Feyre, Feyre relished the time.

It was because he was genuine.  Honest.  There was something about him, deeper than the intensity he displayed on the outside.  And for the first time in a while, Feyre found herself laughing with him.  For the first time in a while, she was living for more than just expectations.

He was actually turning into her friend and it was strange thought indeed.

“Alright students,” Dr. Wesson announced towards the end of class on the last day before Thanksgiving break. “I have your midterm tests and papers graded.  So now you can either relax or stress even further.  Depending on the grade.”

A weak laugh bubbled around the room.  Feyre gripped the underside of her chair tightly.  She wasn’t ready for this.  Not in the slightest.

Dr. Wesson slowly made her way around the room delivering both test and paper.  Feyre, by some stroke of cosmic affair, didn’t get her paper until last and the entire room was empty aside from Dr. Wesson and Rhysand.  Why was it they always ended up here?

“Well done, Miss Archeron,” Dr. Wesson said.  She handed two packets of paper to Feyre and smiled. “I love to see improvement.”

Gaping, Feyre looked between the two grades.  Heart hammering, she looked over the scores, brilliant red B’s shined up at her.

“I don’t usually offer extra credit,” the doctor went on, “but an exhibit is coming to the University about the Prythian Wall and it’s destruction.  If you can come up with a project to demonstrate what it entails, I might be convinced to help you keep your grade up.”

Feyre could only nod as the professor bid them goodnight and left.

“Well done.”

Feyre looked up to see Rhysand beaming at her and she couldn’t help but grin.  She leapt out of her seat and flung her arms around him in an embrace.

“Thank-you!” she whispered.  It took her perhaps a moment too long to realize that a hung might not have been the best of plans.  She hurriedly pulled back. “Sorry.  That was uncalled far.  I’m just really excited.”

“As you should be,” Rhysand said.  His smile hadn’t dimmed but there was something in his eyes that Feyre couldn’t quite read. “It wasn’t an easy test.”

“And now we have a full week off for Thanksgiving,” she said.  It was the best news she could have been given after getting her grades back.

“If you want,” Rhysand said, “my brother’s and cousin and I are having a game night, with pizza.  If you want to come.”

A spark of excitement ignited in Feyre’s chest.  She didn’t know when she’d developed a stupid little crush on Rhysand, but it was slowly starting to simmer out of control.  She should have said no.  Or come up with an excuse of some kind.  Insead she found herself nodding.

“I’d like that,” she said.

They collected their things and left the building.  Feyre took a few steps down the path they usually took to get to her dorm when she paused.  She turned back to Rhysand and frowned.

“Where do you live?”

Rhysand looked a little sheepish.  “Oh, I live over in the Court Apartments.”

Feyre blinked. “That’s in the complete opposite direction from my place.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been walking me home for practically a month.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Feyre asked, practically waving her hands in the air.  “It’s basically a two-mile walk from my place.”

Rhysand shrugged. “You asked for help and I wanted to give it.”

Feyre stared at him.  Her coat and scarf bunched around her neck, even though the night was perfectly clear.  It was clear enough that she could see the billions of stars overhead.  She could see them sparking in the black night.  And for one she wasn’t overcome with her usual anxiety.  Her usual fears.  Instead, all she would do was stare at Rhysand.

“Why would you do that?” she insisted.

Rhysand opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Because you were worth it.”

His simple words hung between them and Feyre had a hard time knowing what to say or how to react.  So she merely smiled and hooked her arm with his.

“Tell me about game night.  Am I going to wind up on some snipe hunt?”

“Oh no, you and I are going to gang up against Cassian and beat him at Mario Cart.”

Feyre laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

And she realized that she wouldn’t mind if that’s how the rest of her nights played out.  Late hours of laughs and friends, being around people--one person--who made her feel better than she had in a long time.  

No, she wouldn’t mind it at all.

#

thanks so much for reading!

tags:

please reach out if i missed you and let me know if I put you on the wrong tag list/want to be removed.  it’s generally going to be easier for me to just have basic acotar/tog lists and not go into too much worry about that, so just and fyi...anywho

tags:  @tottenhamboys20  @aelinchocolatelover @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx  @bamchickawowow @ladywitchling @ireallyshouldsleeprn @courtofjurdan @sassys-world @sleeping-and-books @superspiritfestival @chieflemming @julemmaes @lysandra-ghost-leopard @harrymoncheri @firestarsandseneschals @emikadreams​  @rapunzel1523 @booksofthemoon  @highladysith​ @fangirlprincess09

[ilkkawhat]

"How long have you had this planned?" "Since the moment I fell in love with you."

(For MacDalton)

[two things: one, this is like the first time I've written them in over three months so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty and two: I just straight up invented a new music venue for the sake of plot. I hope you enjoy Nade!!!]

If there’s one thing Jack’s learned in all of his years of knowing Angus Macgyver, it’s that for certain anniversaries; be it birthdays, deathdays, randomly constituted holidays mostly created on Jack’s behalf such as Bruce Willis’ birthday or the day Die Hard premiered in theaters, it’s that Mac is very...picky when it comes to his sentiments.

He loves a good party, sure, but doesn’t necessarily enjoy birthdays—at least his own, because he still always puts forth effort for others’ to ensure they have a good time.

He believes in Santa Claus, with what he thinks is irrefutable scientific proof, but doesn't believe in the other innocent childish entities such as the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, agreeing with Jack that the Tooth Fairy is nothing more than a unwanted home invader in the form of a lying parent and the Easter Bunny is just downright made to terrify children with mall photos.

Hell, he at times even downplays the importance of Cairo Day, willing to work instead of lazing around the deck with a six pack and bags of takeout delivered by Jack himself—and while there really was an emergency this time around that left both of them bruised and battered and shaken with the sight of a gutshot Bozer, it ended up being the perfectly bided time for something he’s had planned for, well...for a long while, now.

That, and he’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone, embarking on a road trip to find a long lost father that he already knew Jack would join him on before he even said a single word, and in turn take Jack on a trip he never quite expected to have. One without any hiccups, not even an improvisation. Perfectly planned and tailored to the man he both owes his life to, and wants to devote his life to.

He asks Jack to take a pit stop on their cross-country road trip—immediately dispelling Jack’s insistence of hitting up the casinos in Vegas with teasing argument that he’d lose all of their money for food and gas no matter how many times Jack explains that he knows the “system,” but once their banter fades back into the comfortable silence, he directs Jack past the state of Nevada and into the southerner’s own home state—the Lonestar state.

“Texas? You really think Daddy Mac might be hiding in a hole in Texas?”

Mac shrugs coyly and Jack grins.

“Don’t matter anyhow, been wantin’ to take you back down here anyway. Mama’s missed having a scrawny kid to cook for,” Jack teases with a wink.

“Well good, cause we gotta swing by your casa and pick somethin’ up real quick,” Mac puts on a faithful imitation of the Texan’s accent, and Jack beams.

“Going native, huh, hoss? What do we gotta pick up?”

“Your guitar.”

“My guitar?” Jack’s eyes narrow behind the large yellow lens of his aviators and gives up trying to ask why because Mac keeps his lips sealed.

They just keep driving instead, down a long country road with the appropriate tunes to accompany this feeling; Mac’s hair flowing in the wind, Jack casually driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on Mac’s knee, a wide grin on both of their faces as they watch the sun set and the beautiful unseen stars in the sky rise out to greet them.

And a robot in the backseat, but he’s smart enough to know when to stay quiet and just enjoy the moment.

They make it to Jack’s home, an intended short visit turns into almost an entire day and while Mac is never the one to make excuses to leave, he tries to come up with as many as he can to make it to their destination on time.

Fortunately, he also got Mama Dalton and Jack’s sister in on it too, which does make it just a little easier and Mac promises that they’ll come back on the way home after nearly having to drag Jack out of the beloved ranch home.

He won’t be so grumpy once he sees what I got planned, Mac has to remind himself, because his light layer of deception does hurt him as much as it hurts Jack.

Another reason he wasn’t a fan of the “surprise” element of having a birthday. There’s an almost malicious level of teasing to making sure the birthday boy or girl doesn’t suspect a thing.

But he knows Jack, and knows he has to be suspecting something, evident by his sudden bitterness in their usually laid back banter.

“You’re just getting tired of driving is all,” Mac tries to reason with him.

“Me? I ain’t tired. You’re the one who’s tired, want me to tuck you in the back?” Jack sneers.

“How am I supposed to give you directions then?”

“I got Spanky back there—”

“Sparky.”

“Whatever. And where is it that we’re going anyway, Mac?”

“Up there,” Mac smiles when he sees the building in the distance, the GPS on his phone indicating they’re only mere minutes away.

“Wuh—No. No!” Jack gapes and Mac burst out in glee. “What are we doing at the Armadillo II?”

The Armadillo II, being a freshly renovated bar and music hall was built as an homage to the Amradillo World Headquarters, which Jack often talked about having gone to as a young kid, wishing it had lasted longer before being turned into an office building—something he often compared to the transition of childhood to adulthood itself.

“Beer and music, what else would you do?”

“Yeah, but I mean, how does this relate to…”

“It doesn’t. It’s just for you. For us,” Mac grips Jack’s hand and gently kisses him on the cheek. “Making up for Cairo Day.”

“Aw, gee, Mac,” Jack’s eyes are glistening, his teeth shining under the bright moonlight in the brightest smile. “You shouldn’t have!”

They’re greeted by a bouncer who holds up a hand to Jack’s chest as he was ready to strut his way in.

“Tickets,” the bouncer grunts.

“Ah, damn, don’t have ‘em on me, but I know the owner—” Jack starts to ramble, ready to sneak their way in but surprisingly, Mac has two ticket stubs.

“Where’d you get those?”

“From my pocket,” Mac says simply and pushes Jack into the building.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the concert will begin in fifteen minutes, please fill you drinks and take your seats!”

“Concert, what concert?” Jack shouts as he takes in the room, taking the chair closest to the door at the table that Mac directs them to.

“See that banner?” Mac nods up to the stage.

Willie Nelson.

Jack knew of course, that Willie Nelson would occasionally come out for a concert or two, usually to fundraise for his acts of activism—and even if he couldn’t attend he’d always try to send some money for the cause, but never, and he really means never in his right mind did he ever think this would happen.

“I love you, Mac,” Jack breathes, and the concert begins.

A few songs in, Willie slows down to a gentle strum on his guitar, and the lights dim to match an intimate, romantic atmosphere.

“Now, this next song is called ‘A Song for You,’ although, it is my honor to make a slight alteration to the title for one of our country’s greatest unsung heroes. A guy with a name that sounds like it’d be on the menu at Carl’s Junior came up to me on the street the other day—”

The crowd laughs at the name joke, and so does Mac but Jack’s jaw is hung open, no sound coming out which makes Mac laugh even harder because he knows it’s all coming together.

“He told me his story, their story and well, now it’s my turn to tell y’all that story too. This here is a song for you, Jack Dalton.”

“No. Fucking. Way!” Jack breathlessly gasps, his fingers shaking, his eyes watery and red. Mac puts his hand on Jack’s knee, and Jack sandwiches it with his own. It’s not until the song is over that he’s able to speak again, wiping the tears from his eyes as the crowd applauds.

“When the hell didja manage to talk to Willie Nelson?”

“On my way back from Siberia. Made a pit stop.”

“And now, it’s my greatest pleasure to welcome onto the stage, the man himself—”

“Mac…” Jack starts slapping, clawing at Mac is if to bring him back to life because this sure as hell feels like he’s died and gone to heaven—though he knows, and Mac knows, that will never happen.

Jack Dalton will never die.

And even if he did, he’d never go into that light without Mac by his side, and because of that, because they’re alive, they both feel unstoppable, almost youthfully immortal in that sense—if they were going to die, they would have kicked the bucket by now, surely.

“Come on up here, Jack!” Willie calls and Jack just cannot believe it, especially not when that same bouncer comes up behind him holding his own guitar that he had stashed away in the back of his GTO.

“How long have you been planning this?” Jack asks wildly as he rises from his seat.

“Since the moment I fell in love with you,” Mac replies, and rises with him, sending him to the stage after a good luck kiss. “Which was basically when you played Willie Nelson every day in the Sandbox.”

[inessencedevided]

(You can find the set that this gif belongs to here 💙)

From planning to posting, share your process for making creative content!

To continue supporting content makers, this tag game is meant to show the entire process of making creative content: this can be for any creation.

RULES: When your work is tagged, show the process of its creation from planning to posting, then tag 5 people with a specific link to one of their creative works you’d like to see the process of. Use the tag #showyourprocess so we can find yours

I was tagged by @aheartfullofjolllly. thank you so much Pat! it was really fun to reflect about my own process 💗 You can find her post here and @lan-xichens' post that started it all here :)

Also thank you @huigusu 🥰 (who tagged me for my nie brothers set) I'll get to that one in a few days!

Now Pat gave me two sets to chose from to show my process, so obviously I chose the more complicated one :P

I only work in Photoshop CC 2018. I know that there are programs out there for easier cutting and sharpening but I have only just figured out how to do that in PS and I am too lazy to figure out any other programs right now xD

1. Idea and Planning

This set, like most of my sets with lyrics started with me reading the poem, clutching my heart and going "oh shit this fits my favourite characters!!". The idea actually started with me thinking that the first stanza of the poem would go really well with wwx during the burial mounds arc. Then I realized that the last stanza fits lwj better than him and from there came the idea to contrast the both of them next to each other. This is when I realized I wanted to do a dark-light contrast set, though I did not know that I would go with red and blue at that time. My idea in the beginning was just to do a black and white set

I was really impressed by how Pat said that she plans her sets around exact timestamps. Because I don't do that at all ^^ I just get ideas for which scenes would fit (in this case the wwx burial mounds scenes and lwj's kneeling and punishments scene) and then I watch the scenes to narrow them down.

Back when I made this set, I still used a screenrecorder (AceThinker Screen Grabber Pro to be precise. They have a test version that allows you to record up to 3 minutes) and recorded the scenes I needed from Netflix. This worked well enough but now I have the entire show saved on an external drive and it makes a world of difference when it comes to gif sharpness

Now, in this case I had to repeat this step once because when I was almost finished, I realized that I wanted a gif for the lwj corner but let's pretend I didn't do that and that's the way this gif was always going to look because otherwise this post will be way too long ^^

2. Creation

Short disclaimer: The creation process for this gifset was anything but linear. Multiple effects I used here were things I had never tried before. I just had a vague idea and tried to realize it through trial and error. So whenever I say "then I did xyz", it is implied that I ultimately went back to that step several times and changed stuff ^^

I started with the Wei Wuxian part of the gif. I usually use a frame rate of 0,06 (with some variation depending on gif length and size). I work in timeline so I converted all the layers to a smart layer. Then I resized the gif into a square, leaving big chunks of the gif empty (as can be seen below.) I flipped the gif horizontally, so he is looking inwards. This was simple because I felt it fitted the composition better. Then I imported the Lan Wangji part of the gif, again with a frame rate of 0,06. (Image 2)

After that I created a layer for masking in a separate PS document by rotating a square until it was point down (is that a rhombus?). I sized it to match my gif (540x540 pxl) and copied it over. (Image 3) a bit of masking magic and ta da! There's the basic layout (Image 4)

I put a layer of solid black behind wwx to get rid of the transparent bits (Image 5) and then started adding more white and black to both sides by adding solid whit and black layers that i put masks on and changed the opacity as i needed (Image 6)

("reading" direction: from the upper left to the lower right corner)

Then I fiddled with the colours a bit. The first thing I always do is using the curves layer to get more contrast. Then I use the colour balance tool and the selective colouring tool to get rid of that cql-typical cyan tint after that it's just trying to have it look "natural" while the colours still fit the overall scheme. This was difficult here because wei Wuxian’s side of the gif was very dark and when i turned up the saturation to see which colour dominated it was a very weird mixture of multiple colours. That's when i decided that I'd just go with red on his side, since lwj's side was already so blue and those to look great as contrasts.

After that just came a lot of fiddling with selective colour layers and brightness and contrast unti I has happy. There really wasn't much to it ^^. (Image 1)

After that I added the text. I knew I wanted the two lines to for a square of some kind. So I tried different fonds until I arrived at the one below. The two lines are in seperate layers so I could move them around and change the spacing between the letters until I was happy with the layout. I also changed the layer mode for the text to "difference" (is that what it's called in english? my PS is set to german sorry ^^), keeping their colour white. (Image 2)

I originally hadn't planned adding anything else but I felt like the gifs (plural because I switched between the gifs of this set) was still kind of empty and lacking, so I added the tear down the middle (a tutorial for that is either coming up later or already posted. I recently got an ask for this :)) (Image 3)

It still felt empty after that, so I tried different overlays. Okay no, first I wasted a lot of time on different free image sides but then I tried out different ones until I chose the one you can see in the finished gif. I liked that one because a) I felt the round shape was a nice contrast to all the straight lines already there and b) because once I applied a black and white filter to it and switched the layer setting to "difference" (again, i hope this is the correct translation) it looked a bit like a moon. (Gif at the top)

("reading" direction: from left to right)

And that's it! :)

Although in general, these gifs took so much fiddling! I went back and forth between them a lot and sometimes almost redid the entire thing because I had no idea what I was doing in the beginning and by the time I noticed an error, the only way to fix it was ti redo everything. So yeah, this set definitely is the the one that took me the longest out of all the ones I've posted so far.

3. Posting

I save all my gifs to my drafts first to see what they look like put together and to check if they look any different on mobile. Usually i do this several times and change stuff until I'm happd enough with it to hit post. Once i am happy enough, i can't hold back. Doesn't matter if it's at a time when nobody is online, i hit post 😅

And that's it!

Tagging:

@lanwuxiann for this gifset (I adore it so much. I've looked at it and read it severat times since you posted it and the poem just kills me every time!)

@suibianjie for this gifset (The combination of static images and gifs in your gifs is always absolutely perfect! This one is only my favourite of yours because the light coming from behind wwx is just so pretty!!! ^^)

@sweetlittlevampire for this piece (It was soooo hard to pick a piece of yours because I have so many favourites! But this one is just so out if this world, I want to know how you worked that magic :D)

@wei-gege for this set (sparkling shijie! 😭 that set is so incredibly beautiful! I love how you matched the colour of the overlay with her dress!)

@purplexedhuman for this set (your gifs are always incredible! I chise this one because it showcases both your colouring skills and some really intricate effects)

If any of you have already been tagged or don't have the time or energy for this, obviously no pressure to do this at all! 🥰

(btw, I originally tried to place the actual text of this under a "read more" cut but somehow it always messed with the order of the images, so this ended up as a rather long post. sorry!)

[dear-yandere]

[ terror eyes ]

yandere! risotto nero x reader. commissioned.

› word count: 2.8k. › warnings: consensual kidnapping, delusions, dependency, implied familial abuse, graphic gore and murder. › art credit: 39805470.

“Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” — Kait Rokowski, Alight

he didn’t expect to feel this way. he didn’t expect to lose himself in you.

it’s the way your eyes shine when you look at him — the fleeting glances, the lasting smiles. it’s the way you say his name — the unexpected tenderness, the excitement on your face. it’s the way his heart beats wildly in your presence, the way he’s reminded of its existence. it’s the way you remind him that he is human, not the monster he’s made himself out to be. 

when he looks in the mirror, he sees a void, a blackness so thick he’s afraid it will devour him whole. of all the things risotto nero does not fear, he fears himself most. and yet, when you look at him, there is hope, light, the very opposite of what stares at him from the mirror. you look at him like there’s something worth adoring, something worth loving — emotions he never imagined could be directed at him. it’s a foreign feeling, something he hasn’t felt in years. nothing short of a nuisance at first, the way your gaze would pin to him like a fan adores their idol or a disciple worships their god. being the source of admiration is nothing new to him — many a man look up to him with a mixture of awe and fear, some groveling for mercy and others joining his cause. risotto nero is accustomed to being watched, to having eyes on him from every angle and direction: from diavolo, who both trusts and distrusts him; from the capos, who look at him with awe and scorn, and from his own underlings, who both fear and revere him. risotto nero is a force to be reckoned with, and yet, the way you look at him like a lover is enough to unravel his layers, as if there was nothing to fear at all.

it’s hard not to feel naked around you, to not feel vulnerable, as if you’ll figure out his deepest desires and worst fears if you so much as tried. vulnerability is not to be shown in his line of work, even you understand this much. despite the way you look at him with such ardor, you keep distance. whether it’s out of fear or respect, he doesn’t want to find out. it’s better this way, to keep you at arm’s length; you aren’t supposed to be alive. that thought rings true in the recesses of his mind, a reminder of who you truly are, who he truly is, of how this relationship was fated for end from the start. but even he isn’t immune to selfishness and desire.

“welcome home!” 

your voice holds the universe together, its stars and planets localized entirely to the house you both call home. there isn’t this urgent need to be careful around him — to feign happiness, to pretend your heart hasn’t been shattered so many times you’ve lost track of its pieces. there isn’t this urgent need to put your guard up around him, ensure it’s airtight, ensure it can take another beating. there isn’t this urgent need to be afraid around him. not anymore.

you don’t wait for a response, you never do. he never speaks without purpose, and you’ve grown accustomed to the way he wears silence like a mask. bounding up to him with a skip in your step, you attach yourself to his arm and lead him to the living room, the same conversation on your tongue as yesterday, the day before, and every day before that. 

“how was work?”

a trivial question, considering his occupation; work is never good nor bad, because to him, taking life is neither good nor bad. it’s normal, it comes as easy as breathing. but for a moment, he feels the normality of it all wash over him. the catharsis that an ordinary life brings, one where he is married to a loving spouse, someone who greets him when he arrives home, someone who dotes on him at his highest and comforts him at his lowest. for a moment, you are his home, and for a moment, this is normal.

but moments are fleeting.

his heartbeat reminds him that this is real, that you are real. but there’s an ache in his chest and a longing for something else — for something more. he wonders if this happiness isn’t enough for him. if he was good, would he be capable of love? if he was good, would he be worthy of love? of your love?

how foolish... murderers aren’t meant to dream.

“i was so lonely without you, even the little metallica got bored...” you rub the smooth head of the stand, a little part of his soul perched atop your shoulder. a means to keep track of you, but you insist on treating it like a friend. as much as he pretends to find disinterest in your affection, he feels your touch vicariously through the little being and silently revels in it. “you didn’t get hurt did you?” your eyes scan his chest, searching for any visible wounds. when you find none, you look up at him with a smile that reaches your eyes. “i know you have a high pain tolerance, but i know basic first aid, and...”, you hesitate, heat dusting your cheeks like stardust. should you finish that thought? it’d not like he particularly cares for what you have to say, or so he lets on.

“and i want to be of use to you.”

he stares at you, a sense of affection flickering through his gaze. his heartbeat quickens and he searches your eyes only to find that same brilliance, that same hope worn proudly like armor. a reminder that you are blameless in all this. there are still things you don’t understand, things you couldn’t possibly understand. the true nature of his job, the truth about his past, all parts of him remain shrouded with uncertainty, parts of him that will forever remain a mystery. never does he speak of the thoughts weighing him down. you wish you could understand and he wishes he could let you, but his heart does not allow it. you are better off in the light.

“aha, forget i said anything. i was just joking...” your laugh is sardonic and forced, and yet it is still music to his ears. “but rely on me if you need anything, okay?” the question is rhetorical, you don’t expect an answer nor do you expect him to ever need your help, but you offer yourself on a silver platter nonetheless. it’s the least you can do for the man who saved you.

risotto laughs through his nose and corrects that earlier thought: you may belong in the light, but you’re better off here. he tells himself that anyways, convinces himself that what he did was for purely for your benefit. and even then that sentiment feels foreign, his behavior like a man possessed. who is he? that day he saw you, that day he killed your parents, who did he become? he’s heard that some change when they meet a lover, that they become someone else. a sick yet romantic concept, to change into someone else entirely as easily as changing clothes, as if love is enough to change the depravity of humans. tragedy and hatred was never foreign to him, the better part of his adult years spent wallowing in contempt and resentment; a shameful part of him, one he looks back on with disgust. how he used to wish that were true, that the scum who killed his cousin would seek forgiveness and repentance. but life is no fairy tale. and yet, when he met you, he became someone different, someone better.

and it still isn’t enough to make him worthy of you.

you are not red. when he met you, you were pure, untouched, unsullied by the red that surrounded you. unaffected by the red of your parents who hurt you, by the red of your family who let them, by the red of your friends who left you. despite the sea of blood you used to live in, you were anything but. anything but that wretched color, anything but the color of blood. you were his realization, his epiphany: his world has been dyed red for so long, he’d forgotten the beauty underneath.

you make him feel alive again.

“you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, won’t you?” there is no need for words, but you speak in hopes of giving assurance. you want to be his shoulder to lean on and to cry in, even if that offer will forever go untouched. but he can’t. as much as he longs for that companionship, to fall apart in your arms and let you the collect the pieces, he can’t. he doesn’t know what he needs. he doesn’t even know if he needs you.

but you need him. “if it concerns you.” his reply is blithe, far too scathing a response for a lover’s concern, but you show no signs of quarrel. this isn’t the first time he’s brushed you off, especially when this false game of house has become commonplace: go to work, come home, be greeted a woman who’d happily be your wife if you asked, rinse and repeat. “i can take care of myself.”

you nod like you always do, but he knows you’ll fuss over him come his return from work tomorrow. a familiar smile is directed at him — a display which still feels foreign — and the gentle musings of a woman smitten with love follow as you guide him to the couch with the promise of dinner being ready soon. as he seats himself, the worries of the day roll from his shoulders like rain. how you fell for a man like him is beyond his understanding. even if he did save you from a far worse fate, from a family who would sooner be your undoing than the catalyst of your betterment, he is undeserving of your love. what he sees when he looks at you is hope and misguided truth — you’re too bright for him.

“we’re running low on groceries,” you call out from the kitchen, broaching the topic carefully, scared he’ll think you’re eager to leave. in this situation, you suppose most would assume that much, but you... you want to stay here. you want to be with him, to be around him more, not just when he returns from work. you want him, and you know he wants you too if only he’d let himself indulge. “i... i know you usually pick it up yourself, but i want to come with you,” you try to explain, confidence melting away like ice under his gaze. will your words get through to him? “n...next time, i mean, if that’s okay...” you meekly clarify.

if you didn’t admire him, the way he looks at you now would make your legs buckle. his eyes have never scared you, not like he expected they would, but there’s a certain terror they inflict when he looks at you as a nuisance rather than a lover. piercing red on black, the eyes of a demon rather than a human. and yet, he is your guardian angel, the only man who’s ever saved you. you know you’re safe with him, he wouldn’t hurt you like they did. the thought has flitted through your mind from time to time, memories of your abusers’ bodies mangled and torn apart from the inside. explanations don’t come easy to risotto, so you’re still left in the dark about your own parent’s deaths. not that you cared much for their passing, you were more concerned with the nature in which they died. tiny slits had opened on all corners of their body, as if they’d been instantaneously cut from the inside. you still remember their screams, guttural like the dying wails of animals, infused with the intense smell of iron permeating the air. you want to learn more about him, to understand him, and this... this power is the best place to start. why did he save you? why does he keep you? will there come a day where he leaves you too?

“it’s dangerous.” his eyes peel away from yours and you allow yourself the luxury of relaxation. “passione is still looking for you. your parents had an outstanding debt that your disappearance alone isn’t enough to tide over.” he notices the way your shoulders slump in his peripherals. if his lies weren’t for your own good, he might have felt some semblance of regret. “things will settle down, it’s pointless to keep asking,” he adds with a tone of finality. he’s never been one for consolation, so he doesn’t dwell on the sadness that permeates your being. you’re safer here, even you realize that; you don’t put up a fight.

“i see...” you turn away, hands busying themselves with a nearly-finished dinner. the smell of a home-cooked meal imbues the air with warmth, a reminder of his childhood. how long has it been since he’s enjoyed the presence of another, a meal made by someone who loves him? even when he treats you harshly, keeping you in the dark about your own safety and the reality of your situation, it’s never held against him. the love you pour into his meals is palpable, carrying a certain sweetness even where the dish has no place for it. if he’s being honest, it’s... addicting. to feel normal again.

his earlier reasoning isn’t a complete lie, more of a... half-truth. upon learning of your home life, of how much abuse you endured at the negligent hands of parents who refuse to let you leave, he’d intended to kill you too. put you out of your misery. leaving the children of hits alive is problematic for a number of reasons, the biggest being that grief drives people to extremes. risotto has always been keen on finishing jobs thoroughly, but even he could see that something inside of you was... broken. the way you watched your parents being ripped apart, mauled by something you can’t see nor begin to comprehend... amidst the guts and gore, he wasn’t able to place an emotion to it at the time, only that it was visceral, animalistic. realization only came later: the look on your face was one of pure happiness. surrounded by the blood of your own family, you were happy, relieved, hopeful. to see them finally suffer as much as you had, to see them finally gone from your life; you were so much like him, and yet so far removed all the same.

regret is lost on him. he doesn’t regret ‘saving’ you. your parents had it coming; their presence in the underbelly of naples had become troublesome for passione, the pair even going so far as to try to escape their debt to the mafia. a last-ditch attempt akin to the behavior of animals who’ve been cornered, risotto almost felt pity upon learning of your existence. the onus of repaying their debt would have fallen on you, a tactic even he didn’t quite agree with. but passione was never known for their lenience; this was the life risotto had chosen, after all. a life of crime and of murder, a life befitting a monstrous stand like his. at some point, he’d lost all sense of sympathy for his hits, their faces replaced by that of the drunk driver who killed his cousin. that scum’s sentence was far too lenient, and risotto has seen first-hand the trouble leniency can bring.

but he felt sorry for you. coming to terms with the sudden onslaught of pity was nauseating enough, but he’d offered to hide you until things settle down. the don was enraged that you’d ‘escaped’ before risotto could finish you off, but it was easy enough to let it go: you’ll ‘turn up’ eventually, and the debt your parents owed is the back burner for the time being. and, whether or not you preferred to die at the hands of your savior, you still followed him without quarrel when he took you. under normal circumstances, perhaps it’s better to say he kidnapped you, but you’ve always insisted that he did just the opposite; he freed you. for the first time in his life, he saved someone. where he couldn't save his cousin, he could save you.

“i’ll stop asking, but... maybe we can go together one day?” you pipe up, already setting a fresh plate of food before him. a model housewife, if this had been under normal circumstances. despite your attempts to hide any sadness, you wear a blissful expression when you glance up at him, head curiously tilted with the weight of your admiration for him. when you speak, he feels your love for him in every word; when you speak, he feels like he can love again. “as a couple,” you suggest, your smile genuine.

no, he doesn’t deserve you. not in the slightest.

“...i’d like that.”

but maybe one day he will.

dear-yandere, all rights reserved. 

[teddyylou]

FLASHOVER: Klance - teddyylou

Post-mission hurt/comfort klance. Enjoy xx

-

“You really can’t come out of one day without a new purple mark on you, can you?” Lance called behind to Keith, his hand intertwined with his, hastily leading him over to a table in the observatory to tend to his bruises.

They were probably better off in the hospital wing, but everyone was still buzzing from the mission, giving everyone else a look over to make sure each team member was still intact. They liked it better when it was just them. Lance had stocked up a storage compartment by the lounges with some first aid, so that they could look at the stars and just sit with each other, alone, out of the way of anyone else’s gaze. They could process the fact that they’d lived to see each other another day, in peace.

Lance smiled as he helped Keith sit up on the table, eyes bright and tone casual and chipper, pretending that he didn’t tremble as he opened the first aid kit, or that he didn’t almost drop the box of band-aids he picked up.

Keith did the same: He pretended it didn’t hurt his back to sit up, and that he wasn’t completely and utterly exhausted both physically and emotionally. It had been a rough battle, they’d both been scared beyond their wits, but for the moment they could set it aside and purport the idea that everything was fine.

“It’s my body itching to be Galra, what can I say,” Keith shrugged, a giddy smirk on his lips as sarcasm bled into his words. Lance sighed a laugh.

“No, it’s you being impulsive and you can say sorry?” Lance’s tone was still upbeat for the sake of their juvenile ritual, but the seriousness of his words weighed down on Keith’s aching shoulders. Lance really wasn’t alright, even if they both were pretending not to know it.

“We won, no one got hurt,” Keith assured him. Lance raised a brow. Instead of retorting, he jabbed a finger into Keith’s rib, casing an immediate jerk reaction from his boyfriend who slapped his hand away. Lance pressed his lips into a think line pointedly. Keith stared back for a moment.

“No one got badly hurt,” He corrected. He could feel the weight of reality weighing down heavier, but it was easier for the both of them to ignore it for a little while longer. They were both so drained from the fight, it was better to keep up the loving banter, shovelling the dread off to future Keith and Lance. Lance rolled his eyes with a huff, eager to let it go for the moment as well.

Lance sponged a disinfectant wipe over Keith’s cheek before placing a band-aid on his wound, a small cut under his eye. He shook his head to himself, breathing out frustrated words under his breath that he didn’t let Keith hear as he used another part of the wipe to sop up the blood that had dried under Keith’s split lip.

Lance stood back and thought for a second, he tugged his lip to the side as if to shrug saying, ‘can’t put a band-aid on that’. So instead, Lance leaned down, offering a warm smile before pecking Keith’s bottom lip gently. He relaxed his shoulders as he stood. ‘All better’.

Lance placed his palms flat to the table, one either side of Keith’s legs. He looked down for a second, eyes darting back and forth, the previous few hours swimming in his head so impactfully Keith could almost pinpoint what part of the mission he was reliving. “You didn’t have to jet off away from the group though,” Lance told him. His voice was suddenly dull, gently being drowned out by the growing feeling of tension building up in the small space between them. Electrical currents zapped around in the mere foot that separated their faces. It was still a quiet hum, but it was also them. The dull roar was almost at its tipping point, like the muffled speaker of a house party that would become clear if someone just opened the door.

“I knew I would have him if I just pushed red to full speed, I had to take the chance,” Keith explained, his tongue the wistful hand that turned the knob.

“Yeah well, we couldn’t see you,” Lance shouted suddenly, his voice dark and deep as he slammed his hands down on the table where they laid. Keith jumped a little where he sat, not expecting the outburst. They were usually pretty good at keeping their cool until they settled their object permanence. Lance took a breath, closing his eyes in silent agreement. They were not about to fight. “Are you feeling okay?” He asked, voice calmer, quivering slightly, eyes darting to all the bruises he was yet to rub Altean healing cream into.

Keith could feel the tension under his voice like it was lacing his throat, sticking to each word as it passed but not quite willing to bubble over again. It was a really stressful battle when it could have been easy. They hadn’t been prepared. Keith knew how scared Lance got when they weren’t prepared.

They were best as a team when they all knew exactly what they had to do, saving some room for someone, usually Keith, to break line for some improvisation. He could see it in the tight miosis of Lance’s pupils, small with bright piercing blue irises showing like he was shell-shocked. Lance was angry at him. Very angry. And he probably deserved it too. But right now, they both just wanted to be close.

“Yeah, the hand-to-hand left me a little dusty though,” Keith said casually, not wanting to alarm Lance any further, attempting a last-ditch effort to lull the unrest back to sleep.

“Let me see your wrist,” Lance said flatly.

“My wrist is fine.”

“Let me see it…” he repeated sternly. “I told you to keep the brace on for longer.”

Keith hesitated but reluctantly held his hand out to Lance. The brunet took it gently and Keith watched intently as he pressed down on different parts carefully. He was afraid of another flashover. He never used to let people help him, scared to show people that he needed it. But Lance was so kind and understanding. He made things feel less serious than they were. But that spark of trust could ignite a conversation to come alive. The delicate circuits they kept insulated under layers of irony, momentarily grounded by the emotional charge of tension. They’d get heated like they always did. They’d fight. Keith didn’t want another chance to lose him.

Lance trailed the pads of his fingers up over Keith’s palms to prod the centre of his wrist joint. Keith flinched, feeling the pain shoot straight up his arm like a jolt of electricity. The sudden movement pulled a hiss from him as his entire forearm was encased in pain. It was silent for a moment

“You just don’t listen, do you?” Lance looked up at him from where his head hung, depleted. There it was, the flashover. He wasn’t yelling anymore but his tone was so cold Keith would have preferred it if he’d gotten heated. He’d rather be screamed at by Lance than have to stare into his eyes as the truth settled in that Keith had lied to him, to everybody.

“I tell you,” Lance pushed himself off the bench to pace on the floor in front of Keith. His hands were clenched tight like he was trying not to punch something. “I tell you every. Single. Time. Keith. Don’t push yourself or you’ll be out of commission and no help to anybody, but you just don’t listen. It’s like my words don’t even matter!” Keith winced, he sounded exasperated.

Keith drops his eyes to his lap. They do. You know they do,” he grumbled, face red hot with shame and trepidation.

“Yeah, right,” Lance muttered as he came to a stop in front of Keith again, catching his wrist before he can pull it away. He took some bandages and began to strap the injured limb. Keith felt the heat in his face subside a little. Even when furious, Lance still took care of him, still showed him he loved him.

“Listen… You have to take better care of yourself. If not for you, then for the team. For me. So I know that you aren’t going to get hurt, the kind of hurt we can’t just fix.” Lance went on as he wrapped another layer of bandage, pulling it securely tight. “Look, I know you’re reckless, that’s you and I have learned to love you for it. You like to have a stab,” he even laughed a little. “But being reckless is about not knowing if you can do something and trying it. That’s basically how we run in Voltron. But when you know you can’t do something then doing it anyway isn’t reckless, it’s stupid. You are human Keith, even if it’s only half. You have limits and it’s okay to not be able to do everything. You have to stop this silly one-man team bullshit. You could hurt yourself and get in some sort of trouble that I can’t pull you out of.”

Lance took a deep breath, finishing his work. “I can’t lose you, Keith.” And the fighting was done, the banter was done. The pretending was over as Keith pulled Lance into a desperate kiss, afraid to ever let him go again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered against his boyfriend’s lips. They ended up on the floor against the table, sitting side by side to look at the stars and revel in the aftersome of the war. How they ended up loving each other so much.

Keith was astonished to think of the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought them to that moment—as if he’d spent years bouncing down a Plinko pegboard, passing through a million harmless decisions, any one of which might’ve changed everything. It made that moment feel so impossible.

“You know, it’s 5 pm home in Texas, all the cadets would be heading down to the mess hall, classes and training done for the day. Life was so easy when you didn’t have to think about it,” he said, almost in disbelief that he’d ever been one of those cadets in this lifetime.

“It’s 4 pm in Havana,” Lance replied.

“Hmm,” Keith hummed, “happy hour.” Lance snorted at that, shrugging as he opened another storage compartment in the table. He pulled out two beers, handing one ice-cold brew to Keith before uncapping his own.

“Always past noon somewhere.”

[patton-cake]

Past adventures and future experiences

Pairings: Logicality and very background Anaroceit, it's only mentioned.

Summary: The Christmas ball, a magical high school experience. At least that’s what it’s supposed to be. Patton knows that he has to ask Logan soon or else he might be too late. You know what? Forget it. There’s no way that Logan would want to be his date. 

Word count: 3635

Additional information: Merry Christmas Gabi! I had the honour to be your Secret Santa this year and I really hope that you're not disappointed with that! Anyway, I love you and I hope that you'll like my gift :D @irritating-lady-knight

~The Story~

Books had always been Patton's escape from this repetitive world. Sure, there were a lot of good things in the world and he certainly wasn't complaining, but sometimes it just feels nice to be somewhere else you know? To be away from your annoying teachers, who think that 25 homework assignments due next week is completely reasonable. To be away from that one feeling you get when you think that you've finished everything, but you're not 100% sure, and to be away from himself for once.

That's why Patton started to read.

When he was younger, his mom used to take him to the library every Tuesday afternoon. They would spend hours reading together about brave princes who saved princesses ("But what if I want to save a prince instead of a princess mama?" "You can save whoever you want Mon Étoile"), they learned about the most beautiful creatures, and one day, they met one of Patton's future best friends.

Logan would teach him everything he had learned about the stars and their different constellations, the planets and their little baby moons ("They're not their children Patton.") And in return, Patton would read him his favourite stories and take him on thrilling adventures.

Unfortunately, the boys grew older and with becoming older, came more responsibilities. School wasn't much of a problem for the two friends. They both enjoy learning and Patton even made a new friend (who he immediately introduced to Logan, because the two were and always will be a package deal). 

At the first sight, you would think that someone like Virgil would never become friends with someone like Patton. His dark black hair with faint purple dye, dark lether jacket decorated with punk rock pins and spiky boots have scared off a lot of people, but not Patton. Instead of running away, Patton basically adopted him.

Don't worry! He and Logan are still best friends! Patton has two hands and a lot of room in his heart, especially for someone like Logan.

  "Thinking about Nerd number 1 again huh?" Patton shook his head and blinked a few times, before completely zoning back into reality. Oh right, school. Virgil laughed at Patton's 'angry' glare and pointed behind him.

"Good news Pattycake, your sweetheart is coming this way."

Patton poked his side and grumbled "He's not my sweetheart!"

With a look of disbelief, Virgil stared at his best friend and rolled his eyes. "You two are basically married already! Roman and I have a bet that you two got married years ago somewhere in France, because that's totally the type of romantic Logan would pick, but just didn't invite us to the wedding."

"If you keep bullying me then no, I won't invite you to the wedding!" Patton tried to hold back his laughter, but failed completely.

"So there is going to be a wedding??"

Before Patton could react, he heard a quiet voice calling his name.

"Salutations Patton, Virgil. I hope your day has been satisfactory so far." Logan had a slight blush on his face and was anxiously fidgeting with his tie.

"Goodmorning Lo! We saved you a seat!"

A small smile appeared on Logan's face as he sat down next to Patton.

"So mr. and mr. Nerd, did you two already hear about the nightmare that is the Christmas ball?"

Oh right. The Christmas ball. The event of the year.

The Christmas ball was this party for everyone in their last year. It was a sort of last goodbye before they graduated. Basically their school just took prom and slapped a different name on it to feel special and creative.

"Yeay! I bet that you, Janus and Roman are going together huh?" Patton winked at him and gave him a bright smile. He had been so happy for his friend when he and Roman finally got together and even happier when later Janus got added to the relationship. They were really adorable with the three of them.

"Mhm! Roman wanted to do some big promposal, but fortunately for us, Janus managed to talk him out of it. But how about you Logan? Anyone you wanna ask?"

Oh gosh Patton was going to kill Virgil. His friend knew that he wanted to ask Logan. In fact, he had tried to ask him like 5 times already, but every time he was about to pop the question, his anxiety took over and he asked some other random thing. This had lead him to asking Logan about the way ducks keep floating, their math homework and random facts about ladybugs instead. Patton truly was hopeless.

"Logan? Are you blushing? Now you gotta tell!" Virgil leaned over the table with a mischievous smile on his face.

"I did no such thing, but yes, I suppose there is someone I'd like to go with." Unfortunately for Logan, his face only turned darker red, which made Virgil laugh harder.

"Tell us more Logan!! Come on!" Virgil gently poked Logan's arm and leaned on his elbows, interrogating Logan,

"Well.. They're the most wonderful person in the world and I could not imagine my life without them, but I'm not telling you their name, not until I've asked them."

"Come on Lo! You can trust us! Right Patt? Patton? Everything okay?" His voice suddenly turned concerned when he looked at Patton, who was fidgeting with his necklace and looking at his hands, a sad smile on his face.

"Yeay, I'm fine," he grapped his backpack and stood up, "I'm gonna go to my next class, see you later guys."

  In all honesty, Patton wasn't fine. He had failed to ask Logan to the prom and now he was too late. Gosh he was pathetic. He felt a few teardrops falling down his face as he walked outside. Patton desperately needed to get his mind off of everything, so he went to the place he always went when he was sad. The magic treehouse.

When they were younger, Logan and Patton had wanted to go on their own adventure. They tried to discover the hidden secrets from their library (the only thing they found was that the librarian was secretly dating ms. Williams. Patton still got shivers when he thought about that), they practised their sword fighting skills, discovered that Logan shouldn't be trusted with sharp objects and searched for hidden treasures in their backyard.

One day, after getting complaints from ms, Williams, their parents decided that they should have their own little place, somewhere where they didn't disturb other people. Logan and Patton had spent all summer building their treehouse together. Of course that meant that their parents build it and that they had decorated it with fancy fairy lights.

Patton smiled when he reached his backyard. The magic tree was located in the little private forest, behind their yard and right now, it looked absolutely magical. It had started snowing a few days ago so the whole scenery was covered in a little layer of white snow.

He carefully climbed up the ladder and entered the treehouse. Patton looked around him with a soft smile on his face, nothing had changed in their secret hideout. The shelves were covered with books, the fairy lights were still covering almost the entire ceiling and on the walls hang multiple drawings of their great adventures.

A chuckle escaped Patton as he looked through their drawings. Most of them were from when they were 9. He could barely identify the two blue stickman figures as Logan and him wearing their crowns. Logan always said that one day, he and Patton would become mighty rulers of their own library kingdom. They would have flying books and magical flowers that changed colours.

Patton's heart broke a little when he thought about that. Logan always claimed that they'd be together forever, Patton knew that they had only been children at the time, but still, he couldn't help but feel heartbroken. He'll get over it eventually, Patton would be happy for Logan and his date of course, but it still hurt.

Suddenly, his phone started to beep and he could hear the Sherlock theme song starting to play. Logan was calling him. Patton turned his phone off and sunk down to the floor. Class had started half an hour ago and here he was, crying in his childhood treehouse. How pathetic.

After a while, Patton's breathing had become steady again and he walked towards the bookshelves. A shiver spread over his body and he finally began to realise exactly how cold it was in the treehouse. Patton picked up the first book and started to read. Stories had always cheered him up a bit.

  "I think that I remember that one."

Patton snapped his head towards Logan and let out a deep breath.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" Patton knew that he was being hypocrite but at this moment, he couldn't really care about that.

"As should you." Logan sat down next to Patton, taking in the their treehouse. "Nothing has changed here, has it? Do you remember when we were 11 and those bullies threatened me on the playground?" Logan chuckled softly and looked at their drawings, "We spend all day hiding here, drawing together."

Patton too, let out a soft laugh and looked at his hands, keeping his head low.

"Wasn't that the day we made the first drafts for our little kingdom? You know? With the weird roses and the unrealistic inhabitants?"

"Hey! Don't you dare insult Regno Libri like that!" Logan exclaimed. He tried to keep a serious face, but couldn't help but laugh. Patton giggled softly and finally looked Logan in his eyes.

"I'm sorry if I worried you Logan... I just needed some time for myself, I'll be fine."

Logan smiled soflty and took Patton's hand, gently fidgeting with his fingers.

"You're my best friend Patton, I know when something is bothering you. It's okay if you don't want to tell me, but just know that Virgil and I are here to help you okay? We care about you." He squeezed Patton's hand and moved closer so there sides were touching.

"I know Logan, thanks.." He slightly blushed at their intertwining hands and leaned onto Logan's shoulder. Physical touch had always been the best solution to cheer Patton up and especially if Logan was providing that touch. Logan would never admit it, but he secretly was a great hugger.

After a few minutes, Logan gently let go of Patton's hand and put his arm around Patton's shoulders instead, carefully pulling him closer. He gently stroked his hands through Patton's curls, softly twirling them around his fingers before speaking up again,

"Patton? There is something I'd like to ask you.." Logan smiled down at his friend with a loving gaze,

"I know that this might not be the most perfect time to ask, but do you might want to be my date to the Christmas ball? And perhaps we can try to become Promkings? Instead of rulers? Do you remember that?"

 Wait

 What?

 Patton's thoughts zoned out and he looked at Logan with a shocked look on his face. Did.. did Logan actually asked him to prom?

"Patton? I- you don't have to, I understand if you don't see me that way, if you don't like me like that but-"

"Logan, please don't doubt yourself that much."

  And with that, he kissed him. It only lasted a couple of seconds, but it was everything they needed. The kiss was sweet and gentle and it tasted a bit like vanilla, Patton couldn't get enough off it.

When Patton pulled away and looked up at Logan he giggled a bit. His (boy)friend (?) had a dazy smile on his face and his cheeks were bright red. After a few seconds, he spoke up

"I- you- is that a yes?"

Patton chuckled at the normally composed and stoic boy and kissed his cheek,

"Yes Logan, I'd love to be your date to the Christmas Ball." Patton leaned his head back onto Logan's shoulder and nuzzeld his cheek gently, taking in everything around them.

  He had just kissed Logan

  Patton had just kissed Logan

And it was perfect

After what felt like hours, Logan kissed Patton's forehead and carefully stood up. He reached out a hand to help Patton and linked there hands together,

"I think it's time to return, Virgil must be really worried." Patton let out a yawn and leaned into Logan's embrace,

"You're probably right."

   And yeay, Logan had been right

"Where the hell were you Patton? I was so worried! Are you okay? Why did you leave and- Are.. are you two holding hands?" Virgil waved around with his arms, face full of worry. But when he saw Logan's loving gaze at Patton, something in him shifted. A soft smile appeared on his face and he smirked down at the two.

Patton looked down at their hands and blushed soflty. He loved Virgil, he really did and it was so funny to see him turn into this overprotective mother hen. Eventhough Virgil liked to act like he didn't care about other people, Patton knew how much of a softy he actually was.

"So when's the wedding?"

Logan almost choked on air.

  It had only taken a few days before the entire city was covered in snow. Patton could hear the white crystals crunch under his feet as he walked through the park close to his house. Virgil and Patton had agreed to meet up a few hours before the Christmas ball was supposed to start. He checked his phone when he arrived at the old oak tree. The old oak tree had been in the park for ages, hence the nickname. Patton could remember being a little boy and trying to climb all the way to the top of the tree, even though Logan would always warn him that he could fall down and break his legs. Which he eventually did. Well, not both of his legs. Patton had only broken his left ankle, but he got a lolly from the nice nurse lady so he was fine. Giggling at the memory of Logan’s concern, Patton unlocked his phone to check the time. Five minutes until Virgil would arrive.

Just when Patton was about to send Virgil a message, letting him know that he had arrived, Patton saw something flying towards him before said thing hit the ground with a muffled sound.

“Damn that was supposed to hit you!” Patton turned around a saw a big bundle of purple coming his way. The purple blob tried hard to keep his balance on the slippery snow as it made it’s way to the tree. “Did it scare you?” It’s voice was slightly muffled by a fluffy scarf but Patton could still recognize the bright purple hair that always looked like an absolute mess.

“Oh I was terrified” Patton rolled his eyes while simultaneously trying to contain his laughter. Virgil scoffed and lightly hit Patton’s arm.

“Mission completed then I guess, but it’s not like you could have done it bette-“

Before Virgil could even finish his sentence, a cold snowball flew into his face. He quickly shook all the snow off of himself and looked at Patton who had a really sweet and innocent smile on his face

“Oh you bastard, it’s on” Virgil quietly mumbled to himself and began to collect more snow.

“What did you say Virgy? You looked like you needed a little cool down time!” and yeay it was really no ones fault besides himself when Patton too, got hit by a snowball right in his face.

A lot of snowballs later, Virgil walked up to his friend with his hands high up in the sky, slightly shivering from the cold.

“You won okay, I give up. I’m literally freezing.” Patton took this opportunity to hug Virgil around his waist and nuzzle close.

“Alright, alright we get it, you love hugs. Now come let’s get some hot chocolate or something. We deserve it after this intense battle.”

Patton nodded in Virgil’s chest and together the tried to find their balance while walking out of the park.

   When the two friends walked into Patton’s house, they were met with an overwhelming smell of gingerbread and apple-pie. Which made sense because Patton’s parent had been baking Christmas treats for their family this morning.

“You mind if I grab one?” Virgil held up one of the chocolate chip cookies and ploffed down on one of the chairs in the living room. He took a bite when Patton motioned that he could eat it and let out a small noise of contentment.

“Your suit arrived last week right?” Patton nodded and Virgil continued, “Have you tried it on yet?”

Patton nodded again and smiled brightly at Virgil

“It fitted perfectly! I really hope that Lo will like it too”

He hugged himself anxiously and Virgil stood up to wrap him into a strong embrace

“Hey it’s okay Pat. Your boyfriend absolutely adores you. Believe me, if it would have taken you two any longer to get together I would have sued Logan, because he just couldn’t shut up about how handsome you looked and how he would just skip the prom because he couldn’t ask you.”

Patton giggled and blushed slightly

“And besides, if Logan does somehow decide to hurt you in any way or form, I will gladly kill him for you!” Patton lightly hit Virgil’s arm before looking up with his bright smile returned on his face.

“Thanks Virgil.”

  After Patton changed into his light blue suit and Virgil had eaten more chocolate chip cookies, he also finally decided to put on his indigo purple suit with bright red and golden bracelets to match his boyfriends. Logan and Patton had agreed to wear matching ties, which meant that Patton was wearing a beautiful navy-blue necktie.

He triple checked if he had all of his stuff, including his phone, keys and if Virgil was ready, when he suddenly heard a soft knock on his door. With a mischievous smirk, Virgil walked up to the door and opened it slightly, leaning in the doorway.

"Hello Logan"

"Salutations Virgil, is something wrong?" Patton couldn't see Logan but he could identify the slight shake in his voice as anxiety.

"I don't know Logan. Tell me, are you going to dance with Patton tonight? Bring him some pretty flowers? Give him everything he deserves and more?" He could hear Logan clear his throat and Patton was sure that he was anxiously fidgeting with his necktie by now. Logan always did that when he was nervous.

"If Patton wants to dance tonight then I'll gladly join him, I did indeed bring him a flower and believe me, I will try to do anything I can to make him happy." Patton almost melted at the soft adoration in Logan's voice and he pushed Virgil out of the doorway.

"Virgil! Stop that! You're bullying the poor thing. I'm sure that Logan will be a true gentleman, as will I." Patton giggled at Virgil when he rolled his eyes and then turned back to face his boyfriend.

"Hi Logan," Patton whispered breathlessly, "you look absolutely amazing"

Logan, who looked equally as breathless, blushed slightly and whispered back with a soft voice "As do you Sunshine, as do you."

He then held his hand out and presented Patton a singular light blue and slightly bowed

"For you my love" Logan smirked up at Patton and chuckled softly.

"Move your domestic display elsewhere you nerds. This is too nauseating." Virgil smiled softly down at Patton and hugged him quickly before Logan took Patton's hand to escort him to his car.

  The night sky was filled with stars when the two boys finally arrived at the oh so dreaded Christmas ball. Well, of course the ball wasn't that dreaded anymore. Patton wondered if anything could be dreadful when Logan was there by his side.

"Your mind is lost in space Sunshine, what is troubling you?" Logan intertwined their fingers and gently rubbed his thumb over Patton's hand to soothe him.

"Nothing's wrong Starlight, everything is perfect. Absolutely perfect." The honesty in Patton's voice made Logan blush and together, they entered the ballroom.

Suddenly, they were surrounded by hundreds of fake snowflake decorations. The fairy lights gave the room an enchanting atmosphere and because it was Christmas, in the corner of the room stood an eight feet tall Christmas tree, decorated with the most beautiful ornaments. It looked magical

"Well I did promised a dance didn't I?" Patton turned around to face Logan and saw that his boyfriend was holding out his hand for him.

"We don't want to disappoint Virgil now do we?" He giggled as he happily accepted Logan's invitation and followed him to the dancefloor.

The music started to play and Patton could feel Logan's hands gently wrapped around his waist. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear the other people entering the dancefloor, but Patton was too distracted at this moment. Blue. Beautiful dark blue. The only thing Patton noticed was how the lights reflected into Logan dark blue eyes, making him truly look magical.

"..Logan" Patton slightly cringed at the crack in his voice, but Logan didn't seem to notice

"Patton?" His boyfriend looked at him with a confused smile and a lot of admiration in his eyes.

"I love you"

"Well that's perfect Patton, do you want to know why?" Logan blushed while still keeping a smirk on his face leading them through their dance. He continued when Patton nodded,

"Because I love you too."

The two swayed the night away, living in their own private bubble. It was just the two of them and it was absolutely perfect.

[slygirl666]

Call me your love

The beginning

Fred Weasley x Lestrange!reader 

historical au: 1800′s 

warnings: none for this chapter, will eventually be an 18+ story. probably not historically accurate, I kinda don't care 

will most likely be on Wattpad too (might change the name please help me with it)

An eight year old Y/N Lestrange walked with her mother to their carriage. It was a rare time she was allowed out of the manor. They had stopped in a dress shop because Lady Lestrange needed to get Y/N a dress that was appropriate for a funeral.

The Funeral of the Mr. and Mrs. Potter, a well respected wealthy family. Though Y/N didn’t know them she did know that they were dear to cousin Sirius’ heart. So dear that their nine year old boy was left in his care.

Sirius had invited his own family seeing how the potters didn’t have any living.

Y/N sat as still as possible while an older lady took measurements of her and her mother looked at materials.

When Y/N had gotten back into her proper clothes she sat patiently waiting for her mother to finish. She played with the pendant that fell over her dress.

When her mother was finished she walked out to the busy streets of london she felt a hand on her wrist as she was pulled away from her mother.

She was pulled behind a shop where she was met with the dirty face of a young boy slightly older than her whose smile spelled trouble.

“Do you have money, miss?” the boy whispered almost ashamed. His eyes not meeting hers. She took a moment to take in his appearance. His trousers had holes in them, he was barefoot on the dirt street, his bright orange hair had dusty areas in it.

“No I don't,” Y/N almost felt bad for him. She looked for something to give him before reaching for her necklace. “Why do you need the money, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My family has none, miss, see I have six siblings,” his hazel eyes finally met your tears in them with a hint of shame. “We might starve if my brothers and I don’t find away to get money for them.”

So Y/N Lestrange made the decision to unclasp the necklace and put it in his hand, “sell it, it can get you a few galleons.”

“I’ll never forget this, miss I’ll owe you for the rest of my life.

Y/N finally hears the distant yell of her mother, “i have to go.”

She walked off and the little redhead boy knew he would never see her again.

***ten years later***

An eighteen year old Y/N sat in a carriage with her cousin Sirius Black and the boy Harry Potter as the view of the Lestrange manor became smaller with each turn of the wheel.  

Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange had died of an illness that went undetected until it was too late.

Y/N sat silently in the seat of the carriage, her parents weren’t the most loving. She was mostly raised by a nanny, rather than being educated she was encouraged to do more ladylike activities like needle point and music. But they were her parents, her  blood.

Her aunt Andromeda had married poor and was disowned so she could not live with her, her aunt Narcissa’s husband was much too busy a man for another child to be around.

Her cousin Sirius said he had more than enough room for her to stay, with a cousin she didn’t know hours away from her childhood.

Sirius had fallen asleep an hour into the ride, Harry Potter finally spoke. “Miss Lestrange, I know it isn’t much but I do understand. Living with Sirius is an interesting time yes but I do hope we can be friends.”

“That would be nice and given the circumstances of our situation why don’t you call me Y/N” she tried her best to smile.

“Only if you agree to calling me Harry.” he smiled.

The two sat for the other hour of the trip with polite conversation between the two of them.

When the carriage came to a halt the redhead man came down to open the doors, Sirius laughed. “We aren’t normally so formal but we are trying to make a good impression here.”

Sirius waved his hand in the direction of the tall stocky man with his red hair tied lowly behind him. “This is Charlie Weasley, he is our driver, when he is not doing that he can be found in the farm.”

“Goodday, miss Lestrange it is exciting to meet you,” he helped her out by hand.

“That is very kind of you to say.” she smiled as she walked off with her cousin.

Sirius opened the door to Grimwald manner and yelled out, “Ginniveria!”

A thin girl in a simple dress that went to her calf walked in. she looked to be around your age which excited you. “yes Sirius, and you know it's Ginny.”

Y/N was startled at the lack of formality, but eased as Sirius laughed and apologized. “This is Ginny Weasley, she does a lot of the house keeping, she will be showing you around.”

Sirius dismissed himself as Harry said he must be off to study, nodding shyly to Ginny.

“Well miss Lestrange, I can show you around, your room is prepared, but the boys will be bringing your stuff up so we can see the grounds.”

Y/N followed the excited girl as she spewed facts about what was in the house and her family. She learned that all the weasleys but two worked in the house, her mother was the cook, her father repaired around the house with the youngest of her  brothers, two of them worked the stables and Charlie took care of the farm animals.

To Y/N it seemed like a lot of people doing so many things.

When they reached the stables Ginny called out for her brothers, “Fredrick, George!”

That's when all of a sudden a young man with bright red hair appeared behind them spooking his sister and Y/N in the process. Ginny hit him with her arm, “fredric you absolute pr-”

“No no sister,” he tisked at her, “we have to make a good first impression don't we?”

He gave her a wink she scoffed, “cause you're doing so well aren't you?”

“Feisty, ain't she?” she took her hand bringing it to his lips eyes locking with hers. “Frederick weasley Miss Lestrange, Happy to meet you.”

“Well Frederick. I do enjoy horses and think you will be seeing me quite a bit.”

“I'll look forward to it,” something in his hazel eyes was awfully familiar though she couldn’t quitte place why.  Ginny grabbed her wrist pulling her back to the house.

Ginny led Y/N to her room, multiple trunks containing her entire life were there. “Could you help me unpack?”

“Yes miss,” she smiled, opening one of them expertly making her way around the room. “You know other than my mother who hardly counts, I’m never around other girls. I do hope we can be friends.”

The thought of making friends with a girl who worked for her would have scandalized Y/N’s mother. But she had never had any friends her own age other than her cousin, “I think I’d like that, call me Y/N please.”

Ginny smiled and continued helping her unpack, Y/N looked around the room, some one had put flowers on the dresser that she recognized from the field outside. Y/N smiled knowing Ginny placed them there.

“I should go help Mum set up for supper, I’ll come get you beforehand.” Ginny walked out closing the door, it was funny she had only just arrived today and they treated her so warmly.

Y/N moved to the chest that she knew carried her more casual dresses moving to take off her heavily layered dress.

That in itself took a good amount of time, after redressing she moved to the vanity beginning to take out the intricate pins and overly done curls, running a brush through them. Struggling to put it up.

With a knock at the door Ginny entered the room. “Do you want some help?”

Y/N nodded letting Ginny take the brush before putting delicate braids on either side of her hair tying it back with a grey ribbon.

They walked together to the dining room. Y/N was surprised to see the large family of redheads also sitting at the large dining table. She knew her parents would hate it, she smiled to herself. Her cousin was so kind to the people who work for them she almost wondered why.

But she sat happily joining them for supper.

* * *

Waking up in a room that wasn’t her own was a strange feeling, Ginny opened the room's curtains before getting a simple shirt and long skirt for her to wear.

“You’ll be joining Harry in his studies today,” she made the bed as Y/N got out of it. “Your afternoon is free.”

“But i-”

“Hurry now, breakfast will be finished in a minute.” Ginny helped her get into her skirts, getting as Y/N buttoned up her shirt to the neck. Putting her hair back into a subtle half up style.

The two girls went down the stairs chatting. Like the night before the Weasley family was at the breakfast table.

Harry and the youngest Weasley boy were having a conversation, the twins, Frederick and George, recalled laughing at the expense of Charlie Who seemed annoyed. While Molly, Sirius and Aurther had a quiet conversation. Ginny sat next to one of the twins leaving an open space on the edge of the table. Y/N sat eating her breakfast quietly just observing the odd way everyone interacted.

“Miss Lestrange, how did you settle in on your first night?” one of the twins turned his attention to her. Taking a sip of her tea noticing the sudden silence.

“My first night was well,” she smiled at him sweatley. “You all have been very inviting, I’m grateful for that.”

“And your room?” Sirius smiled at her.

“It’s lovely, Ginny has lovely taste.” she laughed, winking at the redhead girl.

There was a knock at the door. Ginny excused herself to answer the door.  Behind ginny a tall man with dusty hair and a scared face walked in.

The adults greeted him with a warm ‘remus’ but the weasley kids and Harry called out ‘mr.Lupin.’

He smiled at everyone greeting them by name, “you must be miss Lestrange, i'm the tutor you will be working with.”

You hesitated before thinking better of telling everyone one about your education status.

When the Weasleys began to excuse themselves you spoke up, “cousin, may I have a word?”

“Of course Y/N what seems to be the problem,” sirius looked concerned as he set his tea down.

“Well, you see my mother was a bit old fashioned when it came to where a woman should stand in society,” you started as Sirius nodded. “They did not let my nanny educate me past basic reading, enough to write a simple letter even. I’m just afraid that I won’t be able to keep up with Harry.”

“Yes, I can see where that is a genuine concern,” he smiled warmly. “If you would like I could look to find you a different tutor willing to work at your speed. I would use Remus but Harry's studies take a lot of his time and he has other students.”

“That would be wonderful, cousin sirius,” you smiled sweetly to him.

“Y/N, given the fact we are family you could call me just Sirius.” you felt a wave of relief wash through you.

That's when Ginny ran back into the dining room, “Mum needs me to pick up more fruits from the store. May Charlie and I go?”

“Of course Ginny, Y/N why don’t you go see the town with Ginny,” you looked taken aback. To go into town unsupervised. “Charlie will be with the two of you.”

“We can go to mrs.Kranes,” Ginny turned her attention to Sirius. “Y/N doesn't really have any simple dresses.”

“That's great Ginny,” You watched as Sirius pulled out a key and unlocked a box. He pulled out a coin pouch handing it to you. “Enough for two dresses for you, and one for Ginny if she would like something.”

Ginny grabbed your hand pulling you outside to the farm, “Charles!”

The closer we got to the more we could hear the Squeal and heavy breathing of a pig, “what’s wrong Gin?”

“We have to go get things for mum from the town.” her voice flattered seeing charlie hold a small piglet. “Ask Fred, He shouldn’t be too busy and he knows how the carriage works.”

“All right charlie, tell us when the litter is born.” Ginny turned to the door leading you to the stables.

“Freddie!” you took note that Ginny really liked yelling when she called for her brothers. “Charlie said you were the driver while May was having her baby’s.”

Both twins walked out of stalls across from each other. “Okay, where are we going?”

“Nice try George,” Ginny smiled to the one on the right. “Fred get ready we'll be ready in an hour.”

Ginny once again pulled you back to the manor.