#i will not bring this anecdote back around to where you all probably assume it's going bc for once that isn't the point

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I think some part of me will always be that kid walking out of a huge movie theater into a grey overcast afternoon not realizing her world was about to be permanently changed but feeling changed already herself by the animated Disney film she'd just seen that she would spend a year acting like she was too cool to be affected by, even though she'd never cried at a movie before that and and the cries from the speakers were still ringing in her ears on that cold, overcast afternoon, right before her world changed

[unhingedwomandiaries]

I recently learned about this situation involving a friend, and it made me ponder the seemingly random injustices of modern life in a way that feels almost metaphysical. It's one of those stories that starts out innocuous enough, but keeps unspooling into layers of absurdity until the entire episode transcends mere anecdote and becomes an allegory for the inherent illogic lurking beneath society's surface.

Here are the Cliff Notes: My friend decided to sell her vintage Nissan Figaro online, which I guess makes sense if you're the kind of person looking to minimize your automotive carbon footprint (even though driving a 30-year-old car seems like an odd way to make that particular statement). But whatever - to each their own quirky ecological passion project. So she lists this admittedly kitschy-yet-endearing hatchback for £3,000, which strikes me as an absolute steal when you consider she ponied up over 15 grand for the thing several years back. I'm talking 80 percent off the original sticker price, folks. You'd assume only an enthusiast willing to overpay for some niche Japanese nostalgia-mobile would be interested, right?

Well, you'd be wrong - because the person who indeed snatched it up promptly turned around and ratted to PayPal that he wanted a refund. While still driving away with the actual car he had just purchased! It's honestly the kind of diabolical grift that makes you marvel at someone's sheer audacity. Like, this rando essentially decided to just take the Figaro for free and let the corporations sort out the details. And shockingly, PayPal was like, "Sure, why not - screw that seller." Even more shockingly, when my friend tried bringing the legal hammer down, the courts sided with el-scammero as well!

I mean...what the hell is that? How does one even process that degree of inexplicable chaos butchering any sense of transactional accountability? It's a vortex of meaningless unfairness, yet it somehow happened - an entire system failure event where the aggrieved party got royally hosed for legitimately trying to conduct business. In what plane of reality is that an acceptable outcome? None that I want to experience, that's for sure.

Honestly, it's the kind of Kafkaesque debacle that makes you say, "Welp, I'm never buying or selling anything online ever again, because the entire mechanism is hopelessly broken." And while that's probably an over-correction, you can't help but acknowledge the brokenness of it all. It's profoundly messed up in a way that chips away at your psyche's perceptions about cause-and-effect. If stories like this don't low-key shake your faith in the social fabric, you're not paying close enough attention.

[analtyranny]

let’s play gore screaming show, part 9: saito from class 3

anyway, it's another totally normal morning at kyoji's--

......aaand here's our pantsless cousin

(this was before the days of pro-rice propaganda, you see)

hey look, it's our old pal The Red One she's got some kind of handouts from school and needs yamiko's, our guardian's, signature. weird that a legal adult like kyoji would need that, huh? does he even need a guardian? how peculiar!

yamiko to the rescue, as always...oh shit, right, she was wanting to meet akane

HIMEKO ONEE-CHAN... kyoji tries to warn akane that yamiko hates that name but she does not listen and keeps saying it. repeatedly.

doesn't catch on quick, does she

so yeah she FINALLY gets the name right, eventually, and explains why she's here. yamiko assumed akane was here to wake kyoji up

but not anymore... not since...that day...

then they start going on about embarrassing shit kyoji did as a kid, like "god remember when he was still half-asleep and called you mom" "omggg i do, that was cringe af lolol"

at least akane's acting more like her old self again

anyway, back to school

...oh, this might be the same street office lady was going down kyoji gets the sense there's more people around than usual, but it's probably nothing. not like there's a CRIME SCENE nearby or anything

he complains about them talking about his childhood, because "it wasn’t all good memories" (briefly shows a zoomed in, greyscale, grainy version of the [REDACTED] cg)

not exactly something he can just ask her

anyway now she’s mad about him complaining and she’s all “FINE maybe i’ll just NEVER come over EVER AGAIN”

Don't Be An Asshole is always a great choice. shockingly this gets us a point with akane

i've yet to see any green hearts from our choices but maybe we'll unlock that later (this IS one of those games where certain routes aren't available on your first run) shinta's all "omg you came to school with kazuyagi, is she your giiirlfriiiiend"

and then this happens.

😳

so then the srs bsns bgm starts playing and we find out there's no homeroom today and there's a staff meeting during first period. i wonder why that could be.......

SAITO? 

FROM CLASS 3???

so saito from class 3's older sister has gone missing. presumably the office lady. i swear, this family has the worst luck

oh yeah, he got interrupted again yesterday by anime girl three stooges. it sure is taking a long time for him to finish this story. it reminds me of whenever i try to tell dad some funny anecdote but it takes 10 minutes because he keeps interrupting/changing the subject "so i was hanging out with the cat the other day--" who the fuck thinks that's a full story? my dad, that's who

that's either clown boy or the gun ossan from the OP, the latter of whom we WILL fuck so we talk about it a bit and shinta's finally about to continue where he left off. apparently there was something particularly strange about how the elementary schooler disappeared?

GOD DAMMIT

......oh, they gave mai different bread. i'd say that's a nice detail but mostly i wish these three would fuck off

so a "deputy teacher" comes in and yells at us for not doing study hall. we are NEVER gonna hear the rest of shinta's story, are we

(update from The Future: almost done w/ kiika’s route and no, we are not)

shinta route 😳

findom route 😳

shinta's like No Fucking Thanks and gets back to work. kyoji is bored, bringing us to our next choice:

[donotscratchyoureyes]

A Sailor’s Tale

Many seasons ago I used to be one of those lads that threw balls back to players. It wasn’t a particularly arduous task unless you were placed on the Lower Rous in which case you would have to jump down into the void that existed between the two tiers in those days and take a lucky guess as to where you were throwing the ball back.

This was a role without any pay, but you did get a polystyrene cup of mystery soup at half-time and a programme which you could get signed by both sets of players (and Sir Elton) if you were lucky. If you were unlucky you could get shoved out of the way by an irate Bruce Grobellar or have Brian Clough insist you move the away bench a few inches to the left for no apparent reason. Further anecdotes from this period of my life will be revealed in a forthcoming autobiography ‘What Flavour Is This Soup…Anyone?!’ and any appearances on The Graham Norton Show that follow on from it’s Sunday Times Bestseller success.

It wasn’t just on first team matchdays that our services were required. Oh no. We were there for reserve and ‘junior’ (now known as under-23s) matches. You really haven’t lived until you’ve sat in a puddle for 90 mins on a Tuesday night, watching Jason Drysdale and Barry Ashby stretch in front of your face whilst looking forward to being bollocked the following day for not having done your maths homework. ‘But Miss, I was throwing goal kick balls to Mel Rees last night’ isn’t a reasonable excuse for not being able to calculate the area of a circle as it turns out.

The ballboys were organised by a chap called Arthur and his father-in-law, Percy who was affectionately known as Grandad due to his grandson, Richard, also being a ballboy. Rarely seen without his grey trilby hat on, Grandad used to always have a large white bag of Extra Strong Mints with him that he would offer us as we lined up to clap the teams out. “Keep ya warm that” he’d say as you took one.  

One of the other characters that used to be around at every match was an old boy known to all as ‘Sailor’, who was slightly bent over, always wore a tired old suit and, as I recall, had what I would describe as a country burr when he spoke.

Sailor’s sole job at The Vic was to fly and take down a huge flag from a mast that was positioned in NE corner of the Vicarage Road end.

On 85 minutes he would make a slow walk along the main stand, up the stairs of the Vicarage Road end, lower the flag, fold it neatly and make his way back. This ritual was more obvious at reserve and junior matches as there wasn’t a crowd on the terrace to obscure his work. Being kids we teased him about this errand taking longer to undertake each match but he didn’t seem to mind, a big gummy smile used to spread across his face and he’d put the flag away for another day.

Fast forward a few decades, I wasn’t prepared for how strangely moved I felt upon seeing it in all its glory at the 100 Years At The Vic exhibition at Watford Museum last week. Whilst others were oohing and ahhing over bricks and The Observer clock, it was this large piece of yellow cloth that brought back the strongest memories for me. When I took a picture of it and sent it to my brother who was also a ballboy with the text ‘Sailor’s Flag’ he replied ‘Awesome. Fond memories of that’. It probably seems peculiar that something as seemingly innocuous as a flag can bring back ‘fond memories’ unless you also remember the person and the ritual behind it.

On a recent podcast with the curators of the exhibition, I was asked if I knew why Sailor was known by his nickname. I assumed that as a man of a certain age he had served in the navy. This however is not the case. It turns out he was left at an orphanage in a sailor suit as a baby. You have to love the fans of our club for knowing (and passing on) things like that.

So when it comes to writing my book, chapter three (which will be titled ‘Can’t I stand down The Rookery tonight, Arthur - it’s raining’) I’ll talk about Sailor and his flag, and how it’s one of my strongest memories of being a ballboy. That and when one of the Janaway brothers patted and then whistled loudly into one of the long shaggy microphones they put out on the side of the pitch for televised matches. It was cruelly amusing to see a technician tear off a pair of headphones whilst swearing loudly.

[mishasminions]

The Last Time I’ll Write a Long Post About Supernatural (15x18-15x20)

15 YEARS OF WATCHING THIS SHOW. 11 YEARS OF RUNNING A BLOG ABOUT IT. IT’S BEEN QUITE A RIDE.

[15x20 Speculation + evidence at the bottom]

First off, I just wanna come clean and say, after all these years, I still think they should’ve ended at Season 5.

If you’re going to come at me with “Then why’d you stick around to watch it if you didn’t like it?”, your question is immature, and the answer is simple: I just want to know what happens next (I also love the main characters and their actors too). You can watch a show and still think it’s shit.

Call me a clown, but despite all the disappointment and trust issues that this show has given me, I would still look forward to the day where it might just turn itself around and bring back the quality it once had, or realize the potential of each story it was trying to tell, or at the very least, do justice by my favorite ship.

Never happened.

They’ve had a few good episodes here and there. I can’t imagine the SPN Universe without The Man Who Would Be King, The French Mistake, and Scoobynatural. Seasons 6-10 were enjoyable at times. I blocked out most of 7 & 11-15. 

If you’ve been following this blog since its heydays in 2010-2014, you’d know I’d try my best to defend Destiel and this show’s decisions regarding it no matter what.

Because you know what, as a CONCEPT, this show is good. If you take a look at all the worlds its storylines have birthed in fanfiction/fanworks, you’d see how much Supernatural has wasted its own story arcs. The writing got shittier as each season progressed, and they’ve obviously given up in production as well because the quality in the execution has noticeably gone down too, but if you take a step back and take a look at the bigger picture, you’ll see that this show still tries to make sense of itself.

[If you’re still following this post, please bear with me, I know this is long, but I just want you to understand how jaded and pessimistic I am with regards to this show, so maybe you can buy into whatever hopeful thing I’m about to say later on.]

SO LET’S TALK ABOUT DESTIEL

Never in my wildest dreams did I think that they would give us Castiel’s “I love you” speech. To the point where, if I weren’t so desperate for it, I would argue that it was completely out of character for him to word vomit the way he did (but I’m not gonna diss on that right now because I’ll take what I can get).

I’ve valued every meaningful and obscure exchange that Dean and Cas have had in the earlier seasons, and I was willing to accept their relationship as just that--undefined, without any clear boundaries as to what they really are. And I think that was beautiful on its own.

But now, they’ve chosen to define it.

After they’ve driven every possible wedge between Dean and Castiel in seasons 11-15, to try to explain away their feelings as something they offer to a collective.

Dean can’t mourn and pray for JUST Cas, he has to mourn and pray for EVERYBODY--even Crowley, even some chick he just met, because god forbid he cries about just the guy who has given up everything for him--that would be “too homo”.

They’ve even set Cas on a path to abrupt fatherhood just so he can care about something other than Dean. Make it seem as if Dean wasn’t his purpose through and through.

And after all these years of this stupid show trying to deny it, they choose to acknowledge it at the worst possible circumstance, at a time where they’ve been so far apart, that it seems so foreign for them to suddenly come together.

But here we are. And they’ve chosen to tell us.

Chosen to tell us that everything that Castiel has done leading up to his death, he has done it because he was IN LOVE WITH DEAN WINCHESTER.

Chosen to tell us that the ONE THING THAT WOULD MAKE CAS HAPPY IS DEAN WINCHESTER.

Chosen to tell us that BEING WITH DEAN WINCHESTER is something that CAS WANTS BUT KNOWS HE CAN’T HAVE.

And they’ve also chosen to tell us nothing about how Dean feels.

Sure, finding out your angel made a deal, the stipulations of said deal, his newfound happiness philosophy, his long-winded monologue of why he loves you and why you’re worthy of his love, and to top it all off he tells you that being in love with you is enough to make him happy while he subtly hints that he’s always wanted to be WITH you romantically, was a lot to process in the 5 minutes after you’ve just had an existential crisis.

It’s whatever, right? Let’s culminate 11 years worth of tension and feelings in 5 minutes. Let’s waste the entire episode with cringey expository dialogue, and irrelevant sequences. The whole season was a waste anyway.

You know what Supernatural? FUCK YOU FOR THAT. They deserved better. WE deserve better.

And I would love nothing more than to hurl every possible insult your way,

But for the last time, I’m going to HOPE that you’re finally going to try to make it better for the fans that stuck by you all these years.

No more baiting new viewers, no more placating casual viewers, no more excuses. 15 years. Bring it home for the people who have actually been around.

SO HERE’S HOW I THINK 15x20 IS GONNA GO

There’s two ways this series is gonna end. Horribly or Spectacularly.

First let’s all take into consideration what Andrew Dabb says about it:

So, let’s start with

ENDING HORRIBLY

In this scenario, Misha is telling the truth about his last day of filming being 15x18. His “camping trip” during the last few days of filming 15x20, was actually a camping trip. He doesn’t go to Vancouver to shoot.

Jensen wasn’t “being careful” during the zoom interviews that it was just him and Jared quarantining for the shoot, it really was just him and Jared (althought most of these were done pre 15x19) Supernatural isn’t smart enough to do misleading PR, and they’re once again oblivious to the potential of their own story.

Misha hasn’t posted a “Goodbye Castiel” tweet because he’s probably saving it for last episode or he forgot because it was overshadowed by the Destiel trend that night.

So what we get is:

Sam and Dean are on the road again, up against the monster of the week. Only their world no longer has actual Supernatural beings anymore, so the monsters they’re fighting are humans.

Humans end up killing the Winchesters (despite having gone up against literally every powerful being imaginable INCLUDING God himself). Dean and Sam end up in heaven and relive their greatest hits.

Meanwhile, Castiel rots in The Empty because he died after realizing that he was happy and gay. Jack doesn’t bother rescuing him—his surrogate dad, the guy who made this specific deal to spare him—even though it was so easy for him get Cas in and out of The Empty when he had a fraction of the power that he has now.

Dean never speaks of Castiel’s confession because despite all the hints of a profound bond in the earlier seasons, and the fact that Dean has never cared for anyone (who isn’t his actual brother) as immensely as he does Cas, Supernatural just can’t have its main macho character be “suddenly bisexual” because that would hurt the male ego or some shit.

His heaven would probably be living happily ever after with his family. “Family” meaning Mary and John Winchester--two of the shittiest parents ever (but they’re not going to include them in this episode like they were supposed to because of Covid) and Sam.

Sam also gets a dog. As usual.

I wouldn’t put it past Supernatural to do this. After everything they’ve pulled, this would be right up their alley. I actually expect this ending.

Anyway, onto the next possible ending

ENDING SPECTACULARLY

In this scenario, Supernatural tries to stick the landing, and Jensen’s whole “It didn’t sit well with me at first, but then I took a step back after talking to Kripke, and realized that I had to view it from an audience perspective, I am now really excited about it” (DC Con 2019) anecdote about his thoughts on the final episodes, were actually about Dean potentially ending up with Cas. (Which would totally make sense because Jensen at first didn’t see Dean as anything but hetero, but as of late, he has been throwing in Destiel jokes of his own, so he seems to have warmed up to the idea)

Backed with Misha’s tidbit (DLConline 2020) that he and Jensen had conversations about Destiel, and that they wouldn’t have gone through with it if Jensen wasn’t onboard with it, but Jensen didn’t push back at all. (Why would they need to check with Jensen if it was just Cas going all in?)

Robert Berens (writer of 15x18) also wrote the script at the beginning of Season 15, but made Misha privy to the concept a year prior (Season 14), so they went into this season knowing about Destiel going canon.

This one’s a reach, but this scenario also supposes that Misha was lying about his whereabouts during the filming of the final episode, and him saying that 15x18 was his last episode is part of the diversion to avoid taking away from the weight of Castiel’s death.

And that Supernatural is actually self-aware of its own material (similar to how they have wrapped things up in the past—lots of expository dialogue, poor execution, but fulfills the story arc)

Since Season 15 is basically a Meta Season (Chuck/God as a writer, pretentiously calling out how he created the worlds, its characters, and basically invalidating the past 14 seasons), and 15x19 is supposedly the finale for Season 15, written by two of the worst Supernatural writers, Brad Buckner and Eugenie Ross-Leming (Bob Singer’s wife), then we can assume that 15x19 is where the shitty writers kill themselves--as Chuck, of course.

So we get a badly written episode that produces a bad ending, or as Becky put it, “All action, and no Cas”

So we get the bad writers season ending at 15x19.

And 15x20 is where Sam and Dean write their own stories, and where the cast had a hand in pitching ideas for it.

Dabb has mentioned that 15x20 (Act Two) is a SERIES finale, where they try to resolve the characters’ journeys.

Because as everyone has acknowledged, Supernatural isn’t about the story, it’s about the characters.

So here’s what we can get out of it:

With no more Supernatural beings left to fight, Sam and Dean are in a stalemate. They’ve resigned themselves to fighting to the bitter end, but the “end” has passed, and they’re still standing.

So they try to figure out who they are now, and what they want out of the life they still have.

Sam still wants a normal apple pie life. Before Dean dragged him out of college to go hunting with him, he had a whole life planned out for him. Become a lawyer, settle down with a nice girl, and get a dog. He gave all that up because they had work to do, but now the work is finished, he can finally go back to wanting that for himself again.

Dean finally realizes his self-worth after Cas saves him again. His prayer to Cas in purgatory may have helped him come to terms with his anger, but the whole “you’ve done everything you did for love” speech finally put him in his place, and he learns not to hate himself anymore.

But of course, he cannot fully reconcile with himself if he doesn’t get Cas back, and tell him how he feels.

Because Dean actually wants something for himself this time. Something he knows he can finally have if he can just salvage it.

So maybe this time around, with the help of Jack (off-screen), Dean saves Cas. Grips him tight and raises him from perdition.

They bypass The Empty deal by turning Cas human, and he lives the rest of his days with Dean.

Dean and Cas know they deserve to be saved, and they know that they deserve to be happy.

(Wishful thinking, maybe they kiss a little)

Anyway...

I’m just saying, there’s NO WAY that they’d have Cas go through that whole rushed speech, if they weren’t going to do anything about it later on.

But again, after 10 years of disappointment, I wouldn’t put it past Supernatural to pat themselves on the back and say, “Okay, we sort of gave them what they wanted. We’re good now”

If that’s the case, Supernatural, I’m sorry I wasted my time on you.

Here’s to hoping 🤡

[kindahoping4forever]

My Drug Is My Baby // Ashton Irwin

Thank you to everyone for your patience - I wrote and teased this story quite a while ago but I’ve unfortunately had some real life matters keeping me away from Tumblr. So it fits that I’m back with somewhat of a comfort fic (with a dirty edge because obviously) 😌. No big backstory, I was in a shitty mood, decided a horny smoke sesh in Ash’s backyard was the only cure and I wrote this surprisingly easily (for me). Thanks to @cal-puddies​​​​ for assuring me that this wasn’t just a “me” fantasy (lol) and for cheering me on in the form of copious clown emojis in the comments section of Google Docs.🤡🤡🤡🤡

Warnings: A boyfriend!Ash fic featuring weed smoking, mention of masturbation and sex toys, dirty talk, brief manual and oral stimulation of a female, dry humping, cum play

Word count: 3300

Masterlist // Ko-Fi and New 2021 Taglist linked above

Let  me  know  what  you  think!

You close your eyes, stretching out on the patio lounger and losing yourself in the music pouring from the bluetooth speaker on the table next to you. The cool night air blows across you and you surprise yourself with the volume of the pleased sigh you let out; it could just be the state you’re in but you swear it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt.

It’s only Tuesday but you’ve already absolutely had it with this week and all day the only thing you could think about was getting home, getting off and getting high. You’d hoped to tackle those last two items on your checklist with your boyfriend but just as you were pulling into the driveway, he texted saying he'd be home late.

You felt disappointed but adaptable and made a nice little evening for yourself: you ordered dinner from that Italian place only you like, indulged in a hot shower that went on for far too long and spent some quality time with your favorite vibrator. To close out your evening, you threw on your panties and one of Ashton's hoodies and headed out back to have a smoke in his “garden.” 

It’s not much, just a few pots with flowers and vegetables, but he’s so fucking proud of it, especially since you’ve helped him spruce it up with string lights and furniture, you’ve come to love it as much as he does.

You sigh again as the breeze continues to tickle your skin and you wiggle your toes, trying to decide if your bare legs are actually chilly or if you're just sensitive from your high. You're pretty sure you saw a blanket by the door but that seems super far away right now so instead you just hug your knees to your chest and try to fit them inside your oversized sweatshirt.

"Thought I heard a party back here," a voice teases from across the yard. 

You turn to look behind you, delight decorating your face. "I didn't hear the car pull up!" You consider running over to him and leaping into his arms but again, that seems like a lot of work so instead you just sit up on your knees, pucker your lips and wait.

Ashton chuckles, bounding over to plant a soft kiss to your impatient mouth. "Mmm, you taste sweet," he comments.

"Oh! I saved some for you," you exclaim, offering him the three-quarters eaten bag of kettle corn you've been snacking on.

He snorts and shakes his head but still dips inside for a handful. "Midnight snack in the garden and about 20 minutes ago I got five different messages that had no words but roughly three dozen kiss emojis… my love, are you high?" He spots your pipe on the table and turns it over in his hands, exaggeratedly inspecting. 

"Why, you jealous?" You giggle as you swipe it back from him.

"A little," he laughs, running a hand over your face and grinning as you melt into his touch. "Had a bit of a day myself."

You pout at his statement, yanking him down into another kiss, mewling as his beard scratches your face. "I was thinkin’ about packing another bowl, come smoke with me, tell me about it,'' you insist.

“Planned on it when I heard you back here,” he smiles. “Might need to go in and grab us another snack though, evidently.”

You stick your tongue out at him. "Oh wow, you're right, I am super sweet," you observe distractedly, now happily licking your own lips. 

Ash laughs joyfully, settling into the chaise opposite yours. You start off asking softball questions about each other’s day, wanting to save the bigger complaints for later, when the high can take the edge off. In between anecdotes, there’s that comfortable silence you always love falling into with him. The two of you are thinkers as well as talkers and sometimes you need to collect your thoughts before you launch into the next topic; you love that you both recognize and appreciate that need. You also love the chance to just observe your man, love watching his wheels turn as his mind works, love taking him in, marveling that he exists in your world.

Tonight you find yourself fascinated as he takes the supplies off the table and gets to work, fingers reaching into the stash jar to break off pieces of the bud, long hair falling in his face as he methodically loads them into the grinder. You can’t take your eyes off him, the metallic cylinder seeming to disappear in his large hands, veins becoming visible as he grips it, arms tensing and tattoos flexing as he twists, offering you a soft smile when he notices your gaze.

He stretches in his chair, trying to reach the pipe near you. It takes a minute to register that you should hand it to him, you’re caught up thinking about how big he looks leaning across the table, how his t-shirt pulling across his chest like that makes you want to bury your face in it, how warm it’d be, how safe and content you would feel.

Ashton gently says your name, breaking you from your reverie and gesturing towards the pipe.

You grab the glass piece and happily plop onto his chair to hand it to him, pecking him on the cheek for good measure. He chuckles at your eagerness, shifting to make room for you; he watches amusedly as you attempt to find a sitting position opposite him that is both comfortable and allows you to cover yourself with your hoodie.

“You know you’d probably be warmer if you didn’t come out here pantsless, baby.”

“You know I don’t believe in pants after 11pm, I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing,” you reply with playful indignance, looking up at him triumphantly as you successfully bring the sweatshirt down over your crossed legs.

He cackles as he packs the ground weed into the bowl; he nudges your knee, which you correctly assume is his way of asking for the lighter he knows is in your hoodie pocket. You hand it to him and watch as he lights up and starts to take his first couple hits. 

You intended to pay more attention - admire his lips wrapping around the mouthpiece, his fingers flicking the lighter, let yourself be awed at how small your pipe looks in his hand - but you got distracted at the sight of his thick thighs as he sits cross-legged in his favorite basketball shorts. You think to yourself you don’t appreciate Ashton’s legs enough and reach out to tenderly rub your palms over them, humming contentedly when you find his skin as warm and comforting as you imagined.

“Baby...” He squeezes your hand on his thigh, refocusing your attention as smoke pours from his mouth. “You’re in a mood tonight, aren’t ya?” You can tell by his sing-songy tone and goofy smile he’s already starting to relax.

“Been thinkin’ bout relaxing with you like this all day,” you say dreamily. He offers you the pipe and you take it, practically purring when he sneaks his hands inside your sweatshirt and strokes over your legs while you smoke like you did with him. “Just happy you’re home and here with me.”

Ash pulls you into a slow kiss, tongue moving in the same delicate pattern his fingers are tracing on your thighs. “I missed you too, baby,” he admits as he pulls away. “You know I try not to be a downer but it was one of those days where I couldn’t help thinking it would’ve been better if we’d just shut off our alarms and stayed in bed together.”

“God, fucking same,” you commiserate, taking one more puff before passing the pipe back to him. “Tell me what happened.”

The two of you go back and forth trading stories, the pipe and every so often, a kiss. After a while, he decides to pack one more bowl and you lean back opposite him on the chair as he sets up again. You look at the stars, smiling to yourself as the combination of your high, the breeze and the sound of Ash quietly singing along to your playlist makes you shiver. Today was hard but if it’s what you had to go through to end up here in this moment? It was worth it.

You sit up on your elbows when you hear the spark of the lighter. You watch him take a long drag from the pipe and you’re not sure what it is but he just looks so goddamn beautiful, you find yourself overcome. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you crawl over to him and bury your face in the crook of his neck.

He giggles softly, sitting the pipe aside as you attach your mouth to his neck, giving him what could either be three hundred quick kisses or just three long ones, you’re not sure, your lips seem to be moving of their own accord and really all you’re thinking about in this moment is how much you wish the beard burn you’re feeling on your face was between your thighs.

“You good, baby?” He asks with a slight rasp in his voice, which you suspect is partly from his long day but also perhaps an indication he’s beginning to feel needy for you too. You take a detour to nip at his ear for a second before you kiss your way down his neck again; you work your mouth over the front and you moan when your tongue feels the vibrations of the soft moan he lets out.

You climb into his lap, straddling him and he stretches out his legs to accommodate you. You wrap yourself around him, in a kind of koala hug for a beat or two before quietly murmuring, “Been thinkin’ bout this all day too.” You offer him a deep, passionate kiss that tells him how much you need him, today, everyday and right now this fucking minute.

Ash waits for your lips to slow and then he pulls away, cradling your face, looking into your eyes, searching. His hazel eyes are gorgeous as always but blown wide from smoking; you know yours must look similar but you can tell he sees the love in them, can sense your hunger. He makes out with you for a few minutes, following your lead, waiting to see how far you want to take this.

Your kisses are becoming increasingly heated, increasingly filled with need and he decides to have a little fun with you. His hands run down your back and land on your ass, affectionately rubbing over your hoodie covered backside as he cheekily replies, “Thinking about me all day, huh? What exactly you been thinkin’ about all day?”

A naughty grin spreads across your face. You love playing this game with him. “Started this morning when I had to drag myself out of bed even though I had you naked next to me,” you start, leaning into another slow kiss before you pull back just slightly, staying close enough that your lips brush against his while you speak. “You looked so good when you told me goodbye, laying there half-asleep, cock more awake than you were. Wished I’d taken the time to slip you inside me, started off my day by feeling you get hard for me.” You begin grinding into his lap to emphasize your point.

Ashton licks over your lips, squeezing your ass approvingly as you move over him. “If you’d have done that, I guarantee neither of us would’ve left the house today,” he laughs sinfully. “What else, baby?”

Your hands brush over his bearded cheeks. “Every time I saw my reflection today I expected to see the marks your beard leaves - every weekend I just get so used to seeing my neck and chest so red… I miss it when we have to go back to reality,” you sigh, leaning back on your hands as you grind, exposing your neck, whining a little as he takes the bait and sucks a few spots on your skin, purposefully dragging his beard on you.

“Like that, baby?” He eggs you on, helping you ride him over his shorts, hands now roaming your ass over your panties, your hoodie having ridden up from your movements. “You want to know something I thought about today?” Suddenly his fingers are firmly gripping you and he gently lifts his hips up against your center, meeting your hips a few times to show you how hard you’ve made him.

You nod, gasping as you feel the swollen head of his cock rub directly over your clit, just two thin pieces of fabric separating you. Weed always makes you sensitive but you can’t believe how you can feel yourself already soaking through your underwear, making them feel even thinner than they already are.

You can tell Ash notices it too, his fingers moving down your ass, inching closer to your pussy, clearly having felt the wet spot you’re spreading on his shorts and wanting to feel it for himself. “Mind was wandering while I sat in traffic… thought about that time we got caught in that big jam driving home from the airport? Been so long since I’d seen you… you didn’t want to delay our reunion any longer so you started jerking me off right there,” he remembers, breath heavy. 

For a brief second you think he might pick you up and take you inside, fuck you against the glass door or maybe on the table in the entryway. But instead he keeps moving his hips with yours, biting his lip as the friction builds. "Got so hard remembering your lips wrapping around my cock just as I started to cum… I was so sure someone was going to see us but you couldn't give less of a fuck… Jesus, baby, you're dripping." His fingers dance over the wetness that’s spread down to your thighs and you breathe his name as he stills and pulls your panties to the side, sliding his fingers through your folds.

You brace yourself on his shoulders as he teases your clit. “Thought about you all day, Ash... was so ready to let you have me however you wanted as soon as I got home… but then you weren’t here… had to do it myself, think about you some more.” You’re not sure if you’re making sense but you’re so far gone you don’t really care and judging by the look on his face as he watches you grind into his hand, he doesn’t either.

“Saw your vibe on the nightstand, wondered what I’d missed out on,” he laughs, pressing your clit a few more times before bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. “Might have to ask for an encore performance, you know I love watchin’ you, baby.”

You feel his cock throb beneath you, as if to back up his claim. You groan and grip the tent in his shorts, pulling the material slack against him and squeezing, watching in awe as precum seeps through the fabric, leaving his bottoms almost as wet as yours. You can’t stop picturing how angry and red his cock must be from leaking like this; you decide you need to see it and pull him out of his shorts, whining when you see how shiny and wet he is for you.

You tap his cock on your clothed clit, rolling your hips over him, the both of you moaning at the motion. As good as it feels, it’s not enough and you push your panties to the side again and rub his tip directly against you, whimpering as he growls your name, his hands flying to your hips to keep you moving. 

Ashton’s fingers dig into your skin as he holds you against him, thrusting steadily through your wet folds. In your hazy state, you have the briefest thought of slipping him inside you but you’re already sure you could cum from this and it’s just feeling so good… has anything ever felt this good? You don’t want to stop. As you slide your pussy over his length, you can feel every ridge, every vein, you swear you can even feel his pulse as you move against his cock. You can’t stop.

“So fucking wet, baby,” he pants, hips moving wildly now. He slaps your ass a couple times, partly hoping it’ll get you moving faster and partly hoping it’ll get you to cum sooner because he’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. “Were you this soaked when you played with yourself earlier?”

You moan when you feel the sting of his palm. “Of course not,” you huff, nearing your end. “Nothing’s ever as good as when I’m with you… fuck Ash… love your cock so much, don’t even need it inside me to get off,” you ramble as you move eagerly on him. A few breathless whimpers later, you’re grabbing onto his shoulders as you cum and shake against him.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck,” he groans, pushing through your wetness once more just as it gets to be too much. You feel his cock jump and then he’s shooting cum all across your pussy; you gasp when you feel the warmth of his release on your thighs, a stark contrast to your cool, exposed skin.

Ashton tries to keep his eyes open so he can watch himself cover you in rope after rope but between the noises you’re making and the relief of finishing, he has to let his head fall back in bliss. You lean over him, softly nibbling at his lips as he comes down. 

“Hi,” you coo as his eyes flutter open.

“Hey,” he sighs, dazed.

“Think you ruined my panties,” you smirk.

Ash grins devilishly. “Is that a complaint?”

You coyly shrug and squeal as he suddenly presses the latch on the armrest, laying the chair flat, settling back to easily hoist you up over his face. You let out a desperate “Oh! Ash!” as his tongue licks you clean, eagerly moving across your folds and your thighs, mixing his cum with yours and swallowing it all down.

As he pulls away, he flicks over your clit a couple times, laughing warmly as you nearly jump out of his hold. “Relax, baby, I’m just playin’,” he soothes, pressing a soft peck to your pussy and each of your legs before moving you off of him.

Neither of you can seem to hold back the satisfied smiles painting your faces as you resituate yourselves: him putting his cock away and readjusting his chair, you peeling off your underwear and pulling your hoodie back down before crawling back into his arms.

You lay against his chest and the two of you bask in euphoric silence for a few minutes, curling into each other as the late night breeze picks up. You start to wonder what he’ll do if you fall asleep out here, when he reaches for the long-forgotten pipe, sparking the lighter to finish the bowl he started before you got frisky.

Your eyes meet as he pulls his hit and when he’s done, you press your lips to his, inviting him to pass the smoke from his mouth to yours. You easily finish off the bowl together like that and then you’re back on his chest again, sated and stoned.

“Sorry you had a shit day, love,” Ashton murmurs, pecking your forehead.

“Same… but it’s kinda funny to think that the shittiest days always seem to lead to some of my favorite nights with you,” you muse, softly sighing as he wraps his arms around you and squeezes you tight.

————-

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[anabsolutetrainwreck]

but we’re still young || h. styles

warnings: mentions of alcohol, references to alcoholism, swearing, brief mentions of death, sexual references, discussions of infertility, googled medical diagnoses, breakup, references to covid, not really proofread

word count: 7.2k

summary: anecdotes of a relationship destined to collapse...

01 march, 2013

“Just talk to her, man!” Liam yelled over the deafening music of the club. Harry sighed, his eyes drifting between the drink in his hands and you. You were dancing with your friends, laughing as the skinny girl tripped over her own feet. Snapping his eyes away from you, he glanced across at Liam, “Bit creepy, though, isn’t it?”

“You have been staring at her for the past five minutes. That’s creepier than just talking to her,” Liam shrugged, patting Harry on the back. 

The band had been given the night off. Finally. Collectively, they’d all decided to go out together. That’s not to say they would be staying out too late, though - they had an early start the next morning. “Yeah, man,” came Niall’s voice. “Just go buy her a drink or something.”

“No,” Louis said quickly, arriving at the bar with Zayn. “Don’t do that. They’d rather you just spoke to them than try and buy them a drink. It makes it seem like you’re trying to get them drunk and, you know…”

Harry finished the rest of his drink, running a hand through his hair. Zayn glanced between him and the exit to the club, “Harry, mate, maybe you shouldn’t. If somebody sees you talking to a girl and leaks it to the press-”

“Well, then they’re a dickhead,” Liam said. “It’s your life, Hazza. Worth a shot, right?”

Zayn sighed, “Yeah, they’re a dickhead. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be her who faces the consequences for talking to you. You know what they’re like whenever we talk to a girl.”

“Too late,” Niall said quickly, gesturing over to the three girls walking over to the bar. One of the girls was considerably drunker than the others, both of them having to support her. The five boys tried to be subtle as they carefully watched you and your friend sit the drunker one down at the booth by the bar. They could just about hear your conversation over the music. After all, you weren’t sat all that far away. “Jesus, Eileen,” you sighed, examining your giggling friend. “What did you drink?”

“I think we should take her home,” your other friend said. 

“No!” Eileen protested. “We’re having so much fun!”

“You’re so drunk,” the other one laughed at Eileen and your frustrated expression. 

“You know me, Nelly, I love a good vodka and coke!” Eileen grinned. “Once I have one, I can’t stop.”

“Have you considered therapy?” Nelly joked. “An AA meeting, maybe?”

You scoffed, slumping back against the padded fabric of the booth. Brushing the loose strands of Eileen’s hair out of her face, you wrapped her jacket around her bare arms. “Come on,” you sighed, “let’s go home.”

You and Nelly carefully lifted Eileen up from the seat to guide her out of the club. The cold London air was refreshing against your flushed cheeks. Yes, you may have been slightly tipsy, but you were nowhere near as bad as Eileen. Besides, Nelly was entirely sober. The only thing she’d drunk that night was a glass of lemonade. She wasn’t much of a drinker. She’d have a glass of wine at fancy dinners and that was usually the extent of it. 

Back inside the sweaty club, Harry was beginning to regret not saying a thing to you at all. He’d watched you leave the club with your friends and he suddenly just wanted to go home. “Tough luck, mate,” Louis sighed, smiling sadly at the deflated boy before him. 

Fortunately for Harry, he noticed something on the table of the booth you’d just been sat at. It was a set of keys. He quickly snatched them up and ran out after you. There was hope for him yet. He ran down the street after you. Thankfully, due to Eileen’s stumbling, you’d yet to get too far. “Excuse me!” he called. “Excuse me, I think you dropped your keys!”

It was you who turned back to look at him. His arm was outstretched, the keys between his fingers. You thanked him as he dropped them into your hand. Once he straightened his back from being hunched over, trying to catch his breath, and his face became illuminated by a streetlamp, did you realise who he was. Harry Styles. You didn’t say anything, though. You assumed he probably got enough of people telling him who he was on the daily that he wouldn’t need an extra one from you. He reached out to shake your other hand, “I’m Harry.”

“I know,” you smiled. “Y/N.”

He grinned. Y/N. He knew your name. Your hand was soft against his. You were wearing this black dress, or maybe it was blue. It was too dark to tell. Your lips were red, maybe pink. You smelt of strawberries. “I think you look really pretty,” he said, thankful it was so dark to hide the red tint that graced his cheeks. 

You smiled politely, trying to ignore the sniggering of Nelly and Eileen from behind you. “Thank you, Harry.”

He nodded, unsure what to say next. But he knew he couldn’t let this opportunity slip from his grasp. “Can I have your number?” he asked, already knowing what the answer would be. Of course you weren’t going to just give him your number. 

You shrugged, “I don’t even know you.”

That wasn’t necessarily true. Your younger brother had given you a full debrief on the members of One Direction last time you’d gone back home to visit your family. He’d made sure not to miss a single detail. So, yes, you did know him. Not personally, of course. But it felt personal. He hung his head, “Yeah. Of course. Why would you trust me?”

You knew he wasn’t saying it in an aggressive or sarcastic way. Really, why would you trust him? You sighed, “You’re famous?”

It was a joke. You were joking. And it took him a split second to laugh. Well, he chuckled, really. “I’ll give you my number if you write a song about me,” you smirked. Again, you were kind of joking. And yet, he nodded. 

“Deal.”

20 november, 2013

And write a song about you he did. You found yourself tangled up in the sheets of his bed five days before his third studio album was set to be released. Two months you’d been together now, and they’d been perhaps the happiest of your life. Running your fingers delicately through his mop of hair, smiling contently as he closed his eyes in utter bliss. It should have been sunny outside, the golden rays practically pouring in through the windows of his flat. But alas, it was pouring with bitter rain. “I have to go soon,” he grumbled, nuzzling his tired face into your waist, wrapping his lethargic arms around your thighs. 

You nodded, sighing, “I know, baby.”

“So much fucking press,” he groaned, forcing his eyes open. “Same fucking questions. What’s your favourite off the album? Who is this one written about? Are you single? Everyone’s in love with you, how does that feel?”

You smiled down at him softly, “Good thing you love talking about yourself then, isn’t it?”

He grinned, “Exactly. Just wish they’d ask something novel and somewhat fucking entertaining. Podcast or songs in the shower? Would you ever become a classical composer? Hardback or paperback?”

“What, and ‘podcast or songs in the shower’ is novel and somewhat fucking entertaining,” you couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, a real exclusive for the journalists.”

He chuckled, dragging himself out of bed. He slipped into the bathroom, emerging in no time at all dressed in a t-shirt and some jeans. Unplugging his phone, he pressed his lips to yours. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

You threw the covers from your body, following him through the flat. Harry grabbed one of his coats, before hugging you tightly. “I love you.”

You pulled away quickly, staring up at him, eyes wide, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I guess I do.”

“I guess I love you too.”

When he returned, it was dark. You were lying in his bed, your eyelids heavy. He crept in, kissing you lightly. “I wrote a song about you,” he whispered. 

You smiled up at him weakly, “You did? You kept your end of the bargain.”

He nodded. And so, he played it for you. You were curled up in his bedsheets, listening to a song a guy had written about you. And it was pretty fucking good. “When did you write it?” you asked as it came to an end.

“A few nights after we met. Do you like it?” he asked nervously.

You nodded, grabbing his face to kiss him, “I love it. What’s it called?”

“Little Black Dress.”

07 january, 2014

Months passed. And every single one seemed to get better than the last. It felt as if you were high, right up in the clouds, every waking moment. But you were nervous. Your fingers were practically shaking. However, as soon as Anne opened the door to greet you both with her warming smile, the nerves just seemed to disappear. Vanish. She hugged you first, squeezing you tightly as if she’d know you all her life. She hugged Harry next, hurrying you both in. 

The house was warm and cosy and oh so welcoming. There were pictures on the wall of Harry and Gemma as kids and some of Anne and Robin on their wedding day. You couldn’t help but smile at them. Harry noticed you admiring the snapshots of history that had been framed and hung up on the wall. “Cute, wasn’t I?” he joked, squeezing your hand. 

You shrugged, “Not as cute as Gemma.”

You had met Gemma before. You’d gone out to dinner with her and Harry when he decided he wanted you to meet his family. She was lovely and too kind to you. But this was your first time meeting Anne and Robin. Their warm smiles and kind words did nothing but make you feel at home. 

After chatting for a while, they let you and Harry get settled in. You’d be staying for a couple of days before heading back down to London. He showed you around his childhood bedroom, which did nothing but fill you with joy. “Nothing’s changed,” he smiled, eyes exploring the room that still made him feel like a kid again. “I love coming back. Brings me back down to earth, you know? Back to home. I know it’ll always be here, no matter where I go.”

“That’s poetic,” you said. His lips curved up slightly and when he pressed his lips to your head lightly, you couldn’t help but smile too. It almost felt illegal to be so innocently intimate in his childhood bedroom, filled with long-forgotten memories of a life once lived. 

Later, as the sun set over the house that you already felt so welcomed in, you found yourself sat beside Harry in the kitchen. You’d become acquainted with the cats that inhabited the home and Anne’s gorgeous cooking. As Anne and Robin got to know you, you made sure to ask plenty of questions about them. The smile that adorned your face throughout the evening and the following days never seemed to fade or die away. And, by the end of your stay at Harry’s childhood home, you felt as if you’d known Anne and Robin all your life. As if you’d known the walls of the house all your life. And the pictures of youthful ignorances and watercolours of distant landscapes. And the cats that purred loudly as they ran their head along your legs the last thing before you slept and the first thing before you woke. 

And you were sure you could revel in the feeling of warm, welcoming homeliness of the home and the family for the rest of your life.

12 october, 2014

Nelly had looked truly ravishing on her wedding day. The white dress was an unusual contrast to her jeans and sweaters. You were convinced there was nothing she couldn’t pull off. Harry had been hanging off your arm all evening, like a lost toddler. He’d acted like one too, making comments about being tired and his feet hurting all day. You paid no mind to him, though. This was Nelly’s day and she was your friend and you wanted to be there to support her. You’d known the girl since your first day of secondary school when you were both a mere eleven years old. 

Eileen plopped herself down beside you, her eyes exploring the faces that were lost on her in the large hall. Everybody was mingling now, catching up with people they hadn’t seen since 2010. Her presence pulled you away from your hushed conversation with Harry. “I don’t even know who half of these people are,” Eileen sighed. 

“That’s how it usually goes at weddings,” Harry replied, taking a sip of the provided champagne, slumping back in his chair slightly. 

“Like, who even is that?” she sighed, gesturing subtly to an elderly man stood with Nelly and her mother. 

You sighed, “That’s her granddad.”

“Oh,” Eileen said. “Are you sure? I thought her granddad died last year.”

“No, that was my granddad,” you chuckled. “That’s Nelly’s Granddad Joe.”

“If you say so,” she sighed, finishing the rest of her gin and tonic. “They all look the same to me. White hair, wrinkly.”

Harry stifled a snort at Eileen’s nonchalant tone. You patted her shoulder lightly, also amused. Eileen had a habit of growing very tired of boring occasions very quickly. It had happened numerous times before and it always cracked you up. She started up again, “I never mind the actual ceremony, like that’s somewhat interesting. It’s the mingling I can’t stand. We’ve been here for two hours, Nelly’s already married, why do people care about this stuff so much?”

“Because it’s nice to catch up with people,” you replied. 

She lay her head down on your shoulder tiredly, “That’s what Facebook is for.”

Harry chuckled, “Well, she isn’t wrong.”

You tried so hard not to sigh so loudly, but it still came out louder than you perhaps would have liked, “Will you two at least pretend to give a shit? Eileen, this is our best friend getting married and you don’t care. We’ve known her for ten years, liven up. Harry, this is my friend and I want to celebrate with her. Just suck it up and deal with it. We’ll go soon.”

You were quite literally dealing with toddlers. You looked up when Nelly finally came and sat down at the table you’d been huddled around. She finished what was left of her drink and threw her head back. “I’m so tired,” she sighed. Even the bride was beginning to act like a two-year-old. 

“I can imagine,” you offered her your best smile. “So, how does it feel to be married?”

“Relieving,” she explained. “But somewhat anticlimactic. My feet hurt and I’m sick of having to say hello to every single aunt, uncle, cousin, nephew, niece. Just to get told ‘oh, I never thought I’d see our Nelly get married’ or ‘my, haven’t you grown’? Yes, Linda, I have. Because it’s been seven years since you’ve last seen me, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

The three of you exchanged amused glances at Nelly’s grumbling. She was throwing her arms about, staring down at the white tablecloth that had a big wine stain in it. Your mother had knocked over her wine when explaining to Harry how much of a teacher’s pet you were in school. Obviously, you had to interject and explain that caring about grades didn’t equal a teacher’s pet. “Oh, you never thought you’d see your Nelly get married, did you? Well, maybe that’s because gay marriage was only legalised last year. Fucking disgusting,” Nelly went on.

Eileen quickly held up her hand, “Please, we’ve heard this rant before.”

Nelly sighed, glancing boredly at Eileen. You all sat in peaceful silence for a moment, comforted by the feeling of Harry’s large hand on your leg. When your mother finally came over, telling you she was heading off, you decided it was time for your departure too. So, congratulating Nelly and her new wife, Emma, on their marriage and beautiful ceremony and bidding farewell to those you were sure you wouldn’t see again until 2016, you and Harry ventured back to your little flat. 

Once you were showered and out of the dress you felt so beautiful in, you tumbled into bed, happy to finally have those heels off. Harry’s suit was stranded across your bedroom floor in little piles of shirt and trouser and sock. “Can I perform at our wedding?” he asked, turning to look at you as you lay your head back against the inviting softness of your pillow. 

His question and casual tone is what awoke all the life in you. You didn’t sit up dramatically and make a scene about it. You merely rolled over to face him directly, smiling softly at him, “Who said we’ll be getting married?”

He shrugged, “I think it’d be quite nice if we did one day.”

“Maybe,” you hummed, finding a wonderful level of contentment in the discussion of the future with Harry. “But you’re not performing at it.”

He chuckled, “Why not? Me and the boys. The lads and I. A bit of Up All Night? Some more recent stuff? Come on, Y/N, you’d love it.”

“Not when my new husband is singing with his little boyband.”

Hearing you refer to Harry as your ‘new husband’ certainly made him light up inside. And his head was suddenly filled with all sorts of fantasies of what it would be like to wake up beside you every day. To come home from a long day and order food in because neither of you could be bothered to cook. To get your first pet together, probably name it after a character in a show you were presently obsessed with. To raise a family together. To fight through the sleepless nights of infancy, but knowing it would all be worth it because, at the end of the day, he knew you’d always be there. Just as he’d always be there for you. 

And he smiled, because he knew this was where he wanted to stay for as long as he can. With you. 

15 may, 2015

It felt different waking up under the sun in Italy. Same sun, just… different. It was Italian. It was glorious. Perhaps it was the peacefulness of not having management drag Harry out of bed in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps it was the refreshing release of the pressures of university coursework. Perhaps it was the mere fact that you were completely alone with nobody to interrupt you. 

Harry’s hair was splayed out across the cool silk pillows that rested quite perfectly on the bed you wished belonged to you. His tattooed arms were slung lazily over your body and the thin sheets had been kicked to the bottom of the bed in your sleep. It was something about being on holiday that always made you tired, despite doing nothing but reading or lounging about in the sun or splashing about in the pool. 

He was snoring quietly, still sleeping soundly. You were happy, though, staring out the large floor-to-ceiling windows that replaced a wall of the bedroom in the villa you were staying at. It opened up onto the pool and had a simply marvellous view of the blue sea. It was a short walk into town, but you and Harry had made a point of exploring it all within the first three days so you could spend the rest of your overdue holiday cuddled up together in the sunlight.

When Harry stirred, his tired eyes still full of sleep, you finally sat up. He wrapped his arms around your waist, trying to pull you back down. You laughed, trying desperately to pry his fingers off your skin. “I’m getting up now,” you said happily. 

“Don’t,” he grumbled, closing his sleepy eyes again. “Why get up when we can stay here forever?”

“Why stay here forever when we’re literally in Italy and there’s a pool outside?” you countered. 

“But why go swim in the pool when we did that yesterday?”

You shook your head at him, laughing. You pulled yourself away from the bed that could only be described as heavenly. He watched you leave, smiling away to himself. Was this what it felt like to be in love?

Carrying a bowl of fresh strawberries, you wandered out into the garden of the villa. Soon enough, Harry joined you in his yellow shorts. Of course there had been paparazzi pictures of you and Harry exploring Amalfi, hands clasped together tightly. But, for once, you paid no mind to them. Usually, you found it hard not to stare at the pictures of you and Harry for hours, picking apart all the pixelated details of your face and body. You would be lying if you said it didn’t take a toll on you mentally. But, when you were able to turn your phone off for a week and just enjoy the world around you, it left you feeling refreshed and cleansed. 

Harry sat himself down by the side of the pool, letting his legs swing between the cool ripples of water. He lay his head back, letting his eyes flutter shut. No words were exchanged, for none were needed. You were both in silent agreement that this was where you wanted to go when you died. 

When you finished your strawberries and your lips and fingertips smelt suitably like them, you clambered up from the bench and slipped quietly into the pool. The water was contrastingly cold compared to the sun that beat down relentlessly but perfectly. You swam towards Harry, interlacing your strawberry-scented fingers with his own. He looked down at you, smiling brightly at the sight of such. “I love you,” he whispered. 

You grinned, “I love you too.”

“I’d call it more of an unhealthy obsession with me,” he replied, shrugging jokingly.

You scoffed, “If anyone has an unhealthy obsession with someone, it’s you. Let’s go to Italy, you said, you can finish your uni coursework later. You begged me to come here with you.”

He smirked down at you, “Begged? You seemed pretty eager to me.”

“Well, you never have been very observant,” you joked, squeezing his hands tightly, before dragging him into the pool with you. 

When he finally resurfaced, brushing his long hair out of his green eyes, he reached out to grasp you. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around your body submerged in the water. Placing a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose, he held you as if he was scared you were going to be pulled away from him. As if was the last time he would ever get to feel your skin against his own. “When we go home,” he whispered, “move in with me.”

You lay your head against his shoulder, softly closing your eyes. All you needed was the sound of his light breathing and the increased beating of his heart as he waited for any kind of indication of a response from you. “Yeah, okay,” you replied, equally as quiet.

You didn’t want to make a deal about moving in with Harry. The setting wasn’t right. You were holding each other tightly in the pool of an Italian villa in Amalfi, the world around you warm and serene. So, you agreed gently, buzzing violently inside at the prospect of all the adventures you and Harry could get up to living together.  

02 july, 2016

You’d lived in Harry’s flat for a month before you both decided to buy your own house. It was a lovely home in Chelsea that you and Harry had simply fallen in love with when you first saw it. It felt perfect in the sunlight and in the pouring rain. But, as you both returned from going out for drinks after your university graduation ceremony, you were quickly irritated by the half-painted walls and flat-pack furniture. 

A week or two prior to your graduation ceremony, you had both been sat at the island in the kitchen, when you both decided that you wanted to renovate the house. Maybe replace the grey walls in the living room with a forest green and swap out the black and white furniture for navys and mustards. The modern style of the house had been nice at first, but it quickly began to feel like less of a home and more of an office building. So, you decided to change it up a bit.

Harry recently got back from America after finishing some last-minute shoots on the new Christopher Nolan film he’d been cast in. While you’d visited him once when he was shooting in Dunkirk, you still felt eternally grateful to have him back home. And, while you could sit and hear him talk about what it was like working with Christopher Nolan and the likes of Tom Hardy and Kenneth Branagh, you grew increasingly stressed about graduating and renovating the house. But now the graduation was over and you were officially free of education. The renovation was well underway and you were actively seeking a job with your English literature degree. “Thank God that’s over,” you sighed, sitting down at the kitchen island after pouring yourself a glass of chocolate milk. “Finally free of the tiresome shackles that are higher education.”

He snorted at you, “I’m proud of you. Just think, you were only in your first year at university when we first met.”

You couldn’t help but smile. So much had changed in the last three years of your life. You were sat with your boyfriend, who had just come back from shooting a movie, in the kitchen of your own house in Chelsea, London having just come back from your university graduation ceremony. One of your closest friends was married and had been happily for coming up to two years. The other had just got herself into a relationship after ranting to you about how she wanted to stay single forever countless times before. Life was good and you were content in where you were for your age. Who wouldn’t be? You’d just broken into your 20s and were about to enter the brutal world of careers. “I miss your long hair,” you said suddenly, pouting slightly at the sight of Harry without his hair you’d grown so used to. 

“I don’t. Dries so much quicker after showers,” he said. “Stays out of my face when I’m doing stuff. Doesn’t get knotted so easily. So many perks to shorter hair.”

“But you looked so hot with it,” you said, mocking a sad tone.

He smiled, “Don’t I look hot now?”

You shrugged, “You always look hot. Just less hair to grab now.”

His cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help but laugh, “You’re so cheeky sometimes!”

“Just speaking the truth, your honour,” you raised your hands in surrender. “What shall we order in for dinner?”

“Up to you, it’s your day after all,” he smiled. “I’m just going for a shower, so just order me whatever.”

As he got up, he pressed his lips to yours briefly as he walked past, squeezing your shoulder. It was the domesticity of it that made you fall in love with him more and more. Late nights binging crappy tv shows and early morning leftovers and the moment of realisation that you’d forgotten to water the plants by the kitchen window. It was what you’d imagined the entire time you’d been with Harry. All of these hypotheticals that you had stored away in your mind were now your simply marvellous reality.

10 may, 2017

The topic of children had been brought up a few times before. You’d both agreed that you wanted them one day. Mid-twenties maybe, 25 or 26? You’d been together since you were both nineteen, but you were still young. That’s not to say that if you happened to fall pregnant now you’d be entirely opposed to becoming parents. Your house had long been finished and you had a decent job and Harry had his debut album and his film coming out. 

But presently, you found yourself sat on the sofa, listening to Harry’s completed album. Anne was sat beside you, silently absorbing the masterpiece that her son had crafted. As Two Ghosts slowly became Sweet Creature, you felt yourself tear up, only to look over and find Anne in floods of tears. You knew, as you listened intently to the lyrics, it was Harry’s way of assuring you it was going to be okay. You didn’t need to worry about starting a family yet. You didn’t need to worry about arguing with him. It would all be okay in the end. 

As the final note of From the Dining Table echoed across your living room, it was safe to say you and Anne were both desperate to hear it all again. Harry Styles being unapologetically himself was something you would be eternally proud of him for. 

21 july, 2017

Maybe if you hadn’t gone to the Dunkirk premiere on Harry’s arm, you wouldn’t be feeling so uneasy. You were there to look nice and give the newspapers something to talk about the next morning. Always something about ‘HARRY STYLES AND LONG TERM GIRLFRIEND Y/N Y/L/N AT DUNKIRK PREMIERE’ which would be full of meaningless facts about your relationship, your education and career and family, who styled the two of you. Of course, you were excited to see Harry in a project he’d put so much life into and you were so proud of him. But it was when you and Harry were being interviewed that you began to feel uncomfortable. 

It had started off fine with questions about what prompted Harry to star in a film, what it was like working with Christopher Nolan, that sort of thing. But, as usual, the interviewers managed to make smooth transitions into Harry’s personal life. “Y/N, you and Harry have been together since 2013, how does it feel to see him succeed on such a global scale?” one asked. 

Your gaze shifted between Harry and the camera behind the interviewer, “Well, he’s happy, isn’t he? And, as long as he’s happy, I’ll always be proud of him.”

He couldn’t help but smile to himself at your answer, as did the interviewer, who knew they were getting some good footage. It wasn’t often you did publicity things. Obviously, you would have to be in certain places with Harry to spark some news articles, which were completely set up by Harry’s management. You didn’t mind that so much. But being asked about yourself and your relationship was something you didn’t like all that much. You’d go live on Instagram sometimes and you would get a couple of questions about Harry, which you were usually happy to answer. And if you felt uncomfortable answering them, you could just pretend you hadn’t seen it. But in real-life interviews, there was no escaping them and the hole the camera burnt into you. “So, you two have obviously been together for nearly five years,” another began, “is there any possibility of children in your future?”

Harry had been getting the kids question since he turned twenty, but this one seemed to make him flinch slightly. Maybe it was the recent tension you’d both been feeling about starting a family. Were you ready? Weren’t you? Should you get a home that wasn’t so central first? All these questions that neither of you knew the answers to. Maybe it was the recent loss of Harry’s stepfather and the ripple that had caused within the family. “I think we should get a cat before we have a child,” was your reply, your tone joking and your smile friendly, but your answer serious. 

Harry chuckled, “I think we’re both still quite young and we’re both committed to our careers, so having a child right now would just be illogical and impractical. I think it’s healthy to focus on ourselves and our relationship for a few years more.”

But that wasn’t the last question about parenthood. And with each one, you began to feel the pressure of society to start a family more and more. It was actually such a relief to get into the cinema, sit down and just enjoy the film. When you finally got home and up into bed, you had to roll over and voice your thoughts to Harry. “Should we have a baby?” you asked quietly.

“Not if you’re not ready,” he replied in a hushed tone as if he’d been expecting you to bring such a topic up. And, truth be told, he had. He had watched your eyebrows furrow more every time you were asked about kids and your tone become an increasingly stronger mix of shakiness and aggressiveness. 

“Everyone expects us to, Harry,” you said. 

“Well, they’re not in our relationship. It’s your body, love, when you want a kid, we’ll have a kid.”

09 january, 2019

One year ago, you and Harry had decided to start trying for a baby. You had both reached a point in your lives where you were happy and comfortable. You decided it was the perfect time to start expanding your quiet little home. Neither of you were to know the stress that would come in the following months. 

It had been a year. A year and not even a single sign of pregnancy. None of your periods were significantly late, you never felt the urge to throw up in the morning. No weird cravings, no weight gain. 

You were round at Nelly’s house with Eileen. Her wife, Emma, was out for the day so Nelly had invited the two of you round. Six episodes deep into the latest craze of television, the three of you found more interest in conversation. “How’s Harry?” Eileen asked after she’d finished telling you about the new dog she and her boyfriend, Charlie, had adopted. 

You sighed. You didn’t want to lie and say he was fine; that the two of you were fine. Because you weren’t. Every single negative pregnancy test resulted in an extra argument, more pressure and stress and lots more guilt on both ends. “Yeah, yeah, he’s good. We’re good,” you said. 

“You’re such a liar,” Nelly laughed. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

Taking a deep breath, you prepared to explain everything to your friends. From the pressures of the media to the failure to conceive. The two girls sat and listened in silence, absorbing the piles of information you were presenting them with. And, when you were finally finished, Eileen said, “Maybe you should go to the doctors about that. If it’s been a year and you still aren’t pregnant, it might be something they can fix… you know, cure.”

“I’d rather not know if there’s something wrong with me,” you grumbled. 

“I think you would. It would be better to know, right? As Eileen said, it might be something they have some pills for,” Nelly said.

“They have pills for everything,” you sighed. “But fine, I’ll go to the doctors. Only if you come with me.”

“Of course,” Nelly smiled softly as Eileen leaned over to squeeze your trembling hand. “Are you going to tell Harry?”

“I’ll tell him if something happens. If they say it’s nothing, then he doesn’t need to know,” you said quietly. 

Nelly and Eileen exchanged a silent glance, before Eileen said, “It’s been a year, Y/N. It must be something.”

17 january, 2019

You sat nervously opposite the doctor. Your knee was bouncing and your heart rate can’t have been healthy. You had gotten up early, leaving Harry asleep in bed, to come and collect your results from the doctor. She smiled softly at you and it definitely made you feel more comfortable. “So, Y/N. Your results came back and it appears you have Diminished Ovarian Reserve, or DOR. Basically, you have a lower number or quality of eggs, which makes it harder to reproduce. Essentially, you don’t have as much reproductive potential left within your ovaries.”

Her words quickly became a ringing noise rooted deep within your ears. Your eyes fell from her own and found the horrible carpet on the floor far more comforting. You were alone now and you were beginning to wish you’d brought one of the girls or your mother or even Harry. “I-is there any kind of treatment?” you asked. 

She leant back in her chair slightly, interlocking her hands on her lap, “We can prescribe some supplements, which will hopefully increase fertility. But if you want a child, there’s always adoption or we can even try IVF. It’s up to you, Y/N.”

You nodded, grabbing your coat from the chair beside you and slipping your arms into it. You thanked her quickly, taking the supplements and leaving. Everything seemed to pass you by in a blur. It took you a long time to collect your thoughts. And, as you reached your front door, it hit you that you were to blame for the lack of positive pregnancy tests. It was your eggs that were fucking it all up. You might even have a baby right now if it weren’t for you. You took a moment to wipe away the tears that were falling freely from your eyes. You rested your head against the front door before finally pushing your way through. 

Harry was sat at the piano in the corner of the living room. He was still in his pyjamas and there was a glass of half-drunken orange juice on the coffee table. He didn’t turn to look at you when he heard you enter, he just said, “Morning, love. Where have you been? You weren’t here when I woke up.”

He was busy scribbling in his notebook to take any real interest in your whereabouts. This was the problem with the hole you and Harry had dug yourselves trying to conceive: nobody cared anymore. He didn’t care where you went or how you were. He didn’t care how your mother was. You didn’t care about how his day was. You didn’t care how his friends were getting on.  Nobody cared anymore and it was driving you insane. “The doctors,” you said firmly, standing in the doorframe of the living room, waiting for him to turn around. To face you. To fucking look you in the eye and not be a coward for once in his life.

But alas, he didn’t. He kept his eyes trained on the scribbles of lyrics, “Oh yeah? How was it?”

“Shit,” you snapped. “It was fucking shit. I can’t have kids. We can’t have kids. If you cared to know.”

“How come?” he asked, his back paying you more attention than his eyes. 

“Because, Harry, I’m fucking infertile. Okay? I’m infertile. I have Diminished Ovarian Reserve. So, we can’t have kids, so there’s no point in even trying anymore.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We can try again later.”

He wasn’t listening. He didn’t know what you were talking about. You finally snapped in that moment. You’d had enough of living like this. “Why are we trying, Harry?” you asked, the tears you’d tried so hard to hide resurfacing.

“Because I thought you wanted kids,” he replied. 

“No, Harry. Why are we trying? With us. Neither of us cares about the other, we’re both miserable. You’d rather be anywhere but here. And I can’t stand this house any longer. We’re both fucking miserable so why are we still trying? Why are we still fighting for this? Why are we still fighting for a relationship that died months ago?”

He turned to look at you. The scribbling had stopped. The tinkering on the piano had stopped. He was silent. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that, so he didn’t think about it, “I am happy, love. Can’t you see?”

You shook your head, stepping back, “No, you’re not. You’re angry at me and you’ll only blame me because I can’t give us children. I need to leave, Harry.”

“What? Y/N, wait,” he said, but you’d already marched up the stairs to your bedroom. He knew you were packing your things up and what you couldn’t pack you’d come back for later. He knew he couldn’t stop you from leaving. He knew he’d be wrong for trying. Maybe you were right, maybe he was miserable, but he still loved you. God, he was so fucking in love with you. And now he was watching the girl he’d loved since he first laid eyes on her dancing in that club with her friends in 2013 walk out of his life. 

When you came back down the stairs, some bags thrown over your shoulder, you stood in the doorway to get a final glimpse of him. He looked up, meeting your eyes. Your pretty eyes. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. But he knew you weren’t apologising for the outburst. He knew you weren’t going to come crying into his arms and apologise profusely. He knew he wouldn’t have the chance to explain that they could work through it together. As they always had done before. 

“Me too,” he said quietly. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And you were gone. You did love him. You felt obliged to tell him so. But you needed to leave. You were being strangled in that relationship, in that house. And you knew he was too. You’d grown to resent each other, but you were sure you would love him forever.

13 april, 2021

The baby gurgled loudly, clasping your hair between his fingers. You smiled down at the little miracle in your arms. He was only six months old. But what a little bundle of joy he was. You looked up at the sight of Eileen emerging from the shop, tucking her mask into her pocket, “Thanks for taking care of him.”

You handed him back to his mother. You had swiftly agreed to look after baby Oliver while Eileen ducked into a shop to buy Charlie his birthday present. You both wandered through the hot streets of London, patrolling the fresh fruit market that radiated a vast variety of marvellous scents. Oliver was asleep, the sun making him tired. You liked the little world you’d built up for yourself since 2019. You were a couple of years older with a flat of your own, with plants you still forget to water. And yet, you couldn’t help the prideful smile that took over your features when you heard that Harry had won a Grammy. Any bitterness you’d felt for him soon dissipated. It was your fault for the collapse of your relationship as much as it was his. 

But, when you saw Harry Styles purchasing some fresh strawberries just a few metres away, it all came flooding back. A tsunami of forgotten memories. You felt like a young and innocent university student who fell in love too quickly again. Maybe that was the reason you approached him. As he turned to leave the stand, his eyes connected with yours. You smiled softly, “Hi, Harry.”

[haloshornsinkstains]

Kisses Under the Mistletoe:   (Formerly) Undateables Edition

I’m enjoying these mistletoe kisses headcanons too much, I should have started earlier. I’m trying to get a few more festive pieces written before Christmas, and hopefully some for New Years (intermittent inernet problems permitting). And make this place a bit prettier.

Diavolo

When Diavolo called for you to visit his office you thought you were prepared for just about anything, after all you’d had plenty of experience of his eccentricities and whims at this point.

So when he started grilling you on festive traditions in the human world while you sat beside him at his desk you weren’t exactly surprised, although the breadth of the information he’d gathered to grill you on was a little overwhelming.

You almost felt bad admitting you weren’t particularly familiar with the festival of Saturnalia, partly because of the way Diavolo’s face fell and partly because it sounded wild. 

As you progressed through various traditions you grew more and more comfortable, shedding the usual layer of formality that being in Diavolo’s presence seemed to make you grow, adding your own anecdotes about traditions you followed personally.

He’s writing things down, and you assume, making plans for some kind of festive celebration in the Devildom. It’s all so normal you let your guards down, and as such, get blindsided by his next question.

“What about mistletoe? What is the importance of mistletoe?”

You blink a few times, trying to get the cogs in your brain to function properly. “Oh, um, it’s become tradition to kiss under mistletoe. I think it’s supposed to bring luck…”

Diavolo frowns, retrieving something from his drawer and holding it out to you to inspect. “Then perhaps I should ask Asmodeus why he gifted me this?”

You’re staring at the mistletoe like it’s going to jump out and bite you. (Stranger things have happened in the Devildom, even if this particular plant looks pretty harmless).

“Oh!” Diavolo beams in a way that worries you. “I suppose we should kiss now!”

y/n.exe has stopped working

“I… I can’t! Lucifer would kill me! I mean, you’re the Future King and I’m just… me?”

Diavolo frowns and for a moment you see your life flash before your eyes. If for no other reason than Lucifer is probably going to murder you for upsetting his Lord. 

“But, y/n, I would like to kiss you if you would let me.” He’s still grinning mischievously but his eyes are soft with affection. “You’re special y/n. And if Lucifer shouts we can just tell him it was my idea, he rarely shouts at me.”

Your cheeks are on fire but you nod, letting Diavolo cup your face between two large hands and press his lips to yours. The kiss is warm and gentle, almost chaste. He kisses you like he’s afraid he’ll break you, and to be fair he probably could, but it leaves you heart racing and lips tingling when he pulls away.

Barbatos

It’s only been two days and Barbatos would very much like to find out who exactly told his Lord all about human festive traditions, in particular who gave him a record of ‘festive’ music. He just wants to talk. (Not that he would ever say this to Diavolo, he is an impeccable butler after all).

You had been roped in to coming to the castle to help with the decorations, but as you wandered past the kitchen with a box of tinsel and baubles you heard a tired sigh that sounded awfully familiar.

Popping your head through the door you spot Barbatos frowning at a mixing bowl.

“Everything alright in here?”

Barbatos never jumps at anything, but his eyes do look a fraction wider than usual when he turns to look at you.

“Perhaps you could assist me? Lord Diavolo asked me to make a ‘Christmas Cake’, if you’re familiar I could use your expertise. I’m not as experienced with baking human world delicacies.”

 You grin, stepping inside and settling your box down on an unused counter and heading to his side to help. “There are some things even you don’t know?” You laugh softly, looking down at the mixing bowl. “It’s been a while since I made one, but I can try to help? The secret to my grandma’s recipe was usually a lot of alcohol though, she’d bake it months in advance and keep topping it up...”

The two of you bake together, and if Barbatos notices the pink flush on your cheeks whenever your body bruises against his, or when he wipes flour from your cheek, he is polite enough not to mention it.

You’ve just put the cake in the oven when Barbatos moves over to the forgotten box of decorations, rifling through curiously before pulling something out.

“Y/N, are there supposed to be plants in here?”

You walk over to see what he’s talking about just as Lord Diavolo walks in with a beaming smile.

“Y/N! Here you are! Oh, I know what that is!” He’s gesturing to what you now realise is mistletoe dangling between Barbatos’ gloved fingers. “That’s mistletoe, Asmodoeus and Solomon were telling me all about it. You’re supposed to kiss under it for luck!”

You’re making up a plan to murder your friends for teaching Diavolo about this while Barbatos studies you thoughtfully.

“If you’ll allow me?”

His voice startles you and you look back up at him for a moment before the words register. You just managed to squeak out a yes before he kisses you and you almost feel your soul ascend out of your body. Barbatos’ kiss is precise and practiced in a way that reminds you just how many more centuries of experience he has on you.

There’s nothing obscene or improper about the kiss, but when you pull away you’re feeling lightheaded and a little weak in the knees. Barbatos smiles just a little before turning back to Diavolo.

“Now, about the cake my lord.”

Simeon

Simeon, unlike the demons, seems to be at least somewhat aware of human world festive celebrations. Some of his knowledge is a bit out of date, but he’s better at this than you expected.

By the time you get to Purgatory hall the place is already pretty well decorated, the decorations lean more towards the religious but you still find tinsel and even a few paper snowflakes dotted here and there.

Simeon greets you as you enter their main common area with a beatific smile and an excited wave. “Oh Y/N, Solomon said there was something I should show you.”

You follow him, only a little wary, Solomon might cause trouble on occasion but Simeon is usually not involved. Usually.

He stops in one of the doorways that you’re pretty sure you’ve never been near before. In fact the corridor behind it looks pretty much unused. It doesn’t bode well for this being entirely innocent, though at least with Simeon involved it’s probably safe.

Coming to a halt he gestures up and you look up towards a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the doorway. Which would explain why it was so far from the frequently used areas of the halls. You smile softly, shifting your gaze from the mistletoe to Simeon.

“Solomon told you to show me this hmm?” You grin, noting the way Simeon’s eyes flick away from yours. “Did he tell you why?”

“Maybe he mentioned it, maybe he didn’t.”

You laugh, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss that leaves you both breathless and flustered. For all he is an angel, Simeone seems to know an awful lot about kissing and how to do it so you’re weak in the knees.

“You know, if you wanted to kiss me you only had to ask.”

“But this seemed seasonally appropriate.” He hums, gently stroking your hair.

“Very seasonally appropriate. And I guess we don’t need to worry about Luke wandering up here and scolding us.” You laugh, kissing his cheek softly.

“Ah yes, that too.”

Solomon

Any mistletoe shenanigans are entirely Solomon’s own doing and he knows exactly what he’s up to.

He’s been helping you with your magical studies recently, much to Satan’s chagrin, and this evening you decided to study in the House of Lamentation in front of the warmth of the fire.

The night starts wearing on and after a few hours of study you’re getting restless. Solomon pauses to glance over at you and sighs. He knows as well as you do that you’re no longer taking this in.

“Shall we take a break?”

You sigh in relief. “Please? I can make us some tea.”

He nods and follows you to the kitchen where Asmo, Mammon and Belphie were sat in the middle of a discussion. You greeted them happily, laughing as Asmo flirted happily with Solomon. You keep up idle conversation while you make tea, missing the small gesture Solomon makes with a free hand and the ripple of magic in the air.

“Hmm, Y/N, what’s that above your head?”

You pause, glancing up as Solomon sidles over with a smile. You were sure you hadn’t noticed the mistletoe hanging there before, and it was a strange place to put mistletoe, but then again you were busy chatting so maybe it had just slipped your mind.

“You’re familiar with the tradition right?”

Solomon holds your chin between two fingers, suddenly very close, his eyes studying your face questioningly. Somewhere in the background you can hear Mammon exploding and Asmo talking about romance but it’s all lost on you with Solomon’s lips hovering so close to your own. 

You don’t trust your voice to answer him, but you do just about manage to nod. You catch the expression of triumph for a brief second before he kisses you. You expected something quick and chaste, but those expectations were swiftly dashed when you felt his tongue brush against your lower lip. Any other day you know you’d have given in, but the clamour of voices behind you are a stark reminder of where you are and who your audience is so you press gently against his chest.

“Oi! Whaddya think you’re doin’ kissing my human like that?!”

“Oh hush Mammon, I think it’s very sweet.”

Embarrassed, you grab the tea and Solomon’s arm, practically dragging him out of the kitchen with Belphie’s eyes burning holes in your back.

“You did that on purpose!”

Solomon shrugged. “Perhaps I just saw an excuse to kiss that gorgeous face of yours and took it?”

“No one hangs mistletoe above a teapot! You did that to annoy them… wait, did you just call me gorgeous?”

“Perhaps. Now, shall we get back to studying?”

You were going to murder him one day. Maybe after another kiss though.

[dwellordream]

“...Where the show had sensibly added yurts and merely forgot to have any way to move them, Martin has the Dothraki live in “palaces of woven grass” (AGoT, 83) which I assume the show did not replicate because the moment someone described doing that everyone realized what a bad idea it was and moved on to something more sensible like a yurt covered in leather. Grass and reeds, of course, can be woven. However, as anyone who has done so will tell you, the idea of trying to weave what is essentially a grass basket the size of a tent in a single day is not an enviable – or remotely possible – task.

Trying to move such a giant grass basket without it coming apart or developing tears and gaps is hardly better. And at the end, a woven-grass structure wouldn’t even really be particularly good at controlling temperature, which is its entire purpose! It is rather ironic, given that unlike the show’s Dothraki, Martin’s Dothraki do seem to use at least some carts, because Viserys is forced to ride in one (AGoT, 323) and so could bring yurts with them. They just don’t.

More to the point, it is very clear that Martin imagines the Dothraki subsistence system to consist almost entirely of horses. The Dothraki ride horses, they eat horses, they drink fermented mare’s milk. The Dothraki – as in the show – are presented as eating almost entirely horsemeat. They eat horsemeat at the wedding (AGoT, 84), and Daenerys’ attendants are surprised that she asks for any kind of meat other than horse (AGoT, 129), although Daenerys herself seems to have access to a more agrarian diet (AGoT, 198) and other characters observe that the Dothraki prefer horsemeat to anything else (AGoT, 272). There is no mention of herds of anything except people and horses moving with the khalasaar.

There is also no sense that the Dothraki are hunting big game like one would in the Great Plains; Drogo kills a hrakkar – a sort of lion, apparently – as a display of bravery (AGoT, 495) but there is nothing that would suggest the kind of bison-based subsistence system (at the very least, if that was the system, Daenerys would be well aware of it, because the camp would be awash in bison-products). I found no references to larger game and the Wiki only offers, “packs of wild dogs, herds of free-ranging horses, and rare hrakkar” which is, needless to say, not enough to make up for the absence of large herds of bison, especially for trying to feed Drogo’s camp of perhaps a hundred thousand people (or more!).

They clearly do not herd sheep. This becomes painfully obvious with the raid on the Lhazareen village. The Dothraki – Khal Ogo’s men – in raiding a sedentary pastoralist settlement, kill all of the sheep and leave them to rot. Dany sees them “thousands of them, black with flies, arrow shafts bristling from each carcass” and only knows that this isn’t Drogo’s work because he would have killed the shepherds first (AGoT, 555). And we are told that the people there “the Dothraki called them haesh rakhi, the Lamb Men….Khal Drogo said they belong south of the river bend. The grass of the Dothraki sea was not meant for sheep” (AGoT, 556).

We are told that the Dothraki have “vast herds” but this can only mean herds of horses, given that they apparently take offense at any other animal being grazed on the Dothraki and look down at shepherds in general (AGoT, 83). To be clear, for a nomadic people moving over vast grassland to spurn the opportunity to capture vast herds of sheep would be extraordinarily stupid. At the very least, thousands of sheep are valuable trade goods that can literally walk themselves to the point of sale (we’ll get to this idea that the Dothraki also don’t understand commerce a little later, but it is also intense rubbish; horse nomads in both the New World and the Old understood trade networks quite well and utilized them adroitly). But more broadly, as I hope we’ve laid out, sheep are extremely valuable for subsistence in Steppe terrain.

But Martin does not even do horse-string logistics right. While Daenerys eats cheese (AGoT, 198), we never hear of the Dothraki doing so. The Dothraki do have an equivalent to qumis, but no qulut, no yogurt. Even the frankly badass bit about drinking the horse’s blood as a source of nourishment does not appear. The horses themselves are also wrong. First, Daenerys and Drogo each have one horse they use, seemingly to the exclusion of all others. If you have been reading this long, you know that is nonsense: they ought to both (and Jorah too, if he intends to keep up) be shifting between multiple horses to avoid riding any of them into the ground. Moreover, Martin has imported a European custom about horses – that men ride stallions and women ride mares – into a context where it makes no sense. Drogo’s horse is clearly noted as a red stallion (AGoT, 88) while Daenerys’ horse is a silver filly (AGoT, 87). But of course the logistics of Steppe raiding revolves around mares; in trying to give Drogo the ultimate manly-man horse, he has actually given him the equivalent of a broken down beater – a horse only able to fulfill a slim parts of its role.

Finally, the group size here is wildly off. For comparison, Timothy May estimates that, in 1206, when Temujin he took the name Chinggis Khan and thus became the Great Khan, ruling the entire eastern half of the Eurasian Steppe, that the Mongol army “probably numbered less than a hundred thousand men” (May, The Mongols, (2019), 43), though by that point his army included not merely Mongols, but other ethnically distinct groups of steppe nomads, Merkits, Naimans, Keraites, Uyghurs and the Tatars (the last of which Chinggis had essentially exterminated – next time, we’ll get to the nonsense of the Dothraki being a single ethnic group).

That is, to be clear, compared to the armies of sedentary empires of similar size (which is to say, huge) a fairly small number! We’re going to come back to this next week, but the strength of Steppe nomads was never in numbers. Pastoralism is a low density subsistence strategy, so the steppe nomads were almost always outnumbered by their sedentary opponents (Chinggis himself overcomes this problem by folding sedentary armies into his own, giving him agrarian numbers, backed by the fearsome fighting skills of his steppe nomads).

Khal Drogo’s khalasaar, which moves as a single unit, supposedly has 40,000 riders (AGoT, 325-6); Drogo is perhaps the strongest Khal, but still only one of many. With 40,000 riders, we have to imagine an entire khalasaar of at least 120,000 Dothraki (plus all the slaves they seem to have – put a pin in that for later; also that number is a low-ball because violent mortality is clearly very high among the Dothraki, which would increase the proportion of women and children) and probably something like 300,000 horses. At least. Of course no grassland could support those numbers without herds of sheep or other cattle. As noted above, Isenberg’s figures suggest much lower density in the absence of herding – just under 70,000 nomadic Native Americans on the Great Plains in 1780 (and less than 40,000 in 1877), including women and children! But more to the point, no assemblage of animals and people that large could stay together for any length of time without depleting the grass stocks.

Even if we ignore that problem and even if we assume that the Dothraki have Mongol-style pastoral logistics to enable higher population density on the Dothraki Sea, my sense is that the numbers still don’t work. Even before Drogo dies, we meet quite a few other independent Khals with their on khalasaars – Moro, Jommo, Ogo, Zekko and Motho at least and it is implied that there are more. Drogo’s numbers suggests he should be roughly at the stage Chinggis Khan was in 1201 or so – with Chinggis controlling roughly half of the Mongolian Steppe, and his old friend and rival Jamukha the other half. But Khal Drogo has evidently at least a half-dozen rivals, probably more. It is hard to say with any certainty, but the numbers generally seem too high. Having that entire group concentrated, moving together for at least nine months (long enough for Daenerys to become pregnant and give birth) would be simply impossible inside of a grazing-based subsistence system, sheep or no sheep.

In short, no part of this subsistence system works, either from a North American or a Eurasian perspective. This isn’t actually much of a surprise. Martin has been pretty clear that he doesn’t like the kind of history we’re doing here. As he states: I am not looking for academic tomes about changing patterns of land use, but anecdotal history rich in details of battles, betrayals, love affairs, murders, and similar juicy stuff.

That’s an odd position for an author who critiques other authors for being insufficiently clear about their characters’ tax policy (what does he think they are taxing, other than agricultural land use?). Now, I won’t begrudge anyone their pleasure reading, whatever it may be. But what I hope the proceeding analysis has already made clear is that it simply isn’t possible to say any fictional culture is ‘an amalgam’ of a historical culture if you haven’t even bothered to understand how that culture functions. And it should also be very clear at this point that George R. R. Martin does not have a firm grasp on how any of these cultures function.”

- Bret Devereaux, “That Dothraki Horde, Part II: Subsistence on the Hoof.”

[galacticlamps]

im sorry im sorry im sorry i know it’s been well over a year but i accidentally thought about Short Trips: Deleted Scenes (again) and it’s killing me (again) so i think im just gonna go ahead and post all these stupid thoughts that have been plaguing me about it since i first heard it & maybe that’ll help clear up some space in my head for like, real life things.

Spoilers I guess? It’s like a year and a half old but also high key the most recent 2nd doctor content i believe we’ve gotten which is like, the only negative thing I can say about it

The TLDR version is this:

I literally cant believe how sweet it is? Painful, but sweet. Like. I don’t honestly know what’s more likely - did they set out to write Jamie a nice little straight love interest and just fail miserably at it by constantly likening her to the Doctor AND paralleling the Doctor’s perspective with her ex’s AND putting Jamie’s relationships with both of them in direct tension with each other while constantly letting his with the Doctor win out?

OR - did they do a very 1960s thing and say hey we’re gonna write what’s essentially a story about how much Jamie and the Doctor love each other and release it on Valentine’s Day thinly disguised as a one-off romance with a french lady?

Now, as a general rule, my attitude toward questions like that is usually “don’t know, don’t care, doesn’t matter” - and while I 100% stand by that, I also have to admit that this particular audio seems to pay enough attention to detail that I’d kind of think I was selling it short if I assumed too many of these things were just meaningless coincidences, you know?

Anyway, that’s the most coherent/overarching thought. And here’s a disorganized list of things I absolutely cannot get over about it (they don’t form any kind of argument, mind, they just all happen to live rent free in my head):

- Celine is first taken in by Jamie being an idiot (specifically him claiming not to speak French, in perfect French); likewise, her entrance in the scene where they actually kiss is marked with a little anecdote about her hat getting stuck on a doornail and her scolding it as she attempts to fix her un-tameable appearance, and the narration says Celine “would often clown for Jamie like this” - all of which, while undeniably adorable, don’t exactly strike me as entirely original traits to have been assigned to Jamie’s love-interest (but also Celine is so cool and her perspective on film/media/time is an excellent addition to the long list of dr who characters)

- When they’re in the present, describing Jamie’s relationship with Celine in 1908, they call him her “companion” and highlight his going nearly everywhere with her, which earns a laugh from the 4th doctor (and me as well, though probably for slightly different reasons - but like, is that really all it takes to have a fling with someone in 60′s era who? bc if so...)

- Celine’s ex-fiance is still in love with her and is jealously watching when she kisses Jamie ... and then the Doctor appears beside him, evidently doing the exact. same. thing. They have the following conversation:

“You know, it’s not prudent to spy on people. But then, people in pain can’t be expected to act prudently.”

“Pain, monsieur? You mistake me.”

“Ah, do I? Good, because I rather thought you’d lost something.”

“What would you know about loss monsieur?”

- I’m sorry doc but who do you think you are, saying stuff like that and smiling sadly at the floor to boot? I 100% had to pause it here the first time I listened, just to not throw my laptop across the room. 

- Then when I recovered continued, the Doctor closes the door so they can’t watch anymore and explains “Possessing things comes so terribly easily to some men that losing them can feel cruel, intolerably cruel. In my experience, only the very best of men cannot be tempted to answer that cruelty with more - I do sincerely hope that you are the best of men.” (guess who gets described as the best of men by the end of the audio?)

- Jamie and the Doctor apparently develop a habit of walking along the river in Paris in silence

- During one such walk, Jamie suggests Celine come with them since she already figured out about the Tardis - and when the Doctor’s worried by this, he says he only allowed Jamie & Celine to grow closer “because of Victoria.” Jamie takes offense at the ‘allowing it’ comment and also refuses to admit he knows what the Doctor means about Victoria, which leads the Doctor to say that he knows how fond Jamie was of her - he was too, of course, but with him, “it was different, wasn’t it?” Jamie only says maybe that’s true and maybe that’s not, but his voice catches until he changes the subject

- Jamie doesn’t see Celine for days both times that she’s recovering from the shock and depression of her work being destroyed. In contrast, when the Doctor’s not well, Jamie’s "afraid” and “guilty” and hardly seems to leave his side at all, if his being there “rushing to embrace him” the second he wakes up - after a period Jamie describes as “at least a week” - is anything to go by, anyway. so either bf writers need to learn how to write a committed straight relationship or admit that’s not what they ever intended in the first place

- Oh yeah, and the Doctor spends that week "asleep” in Jamie’s bedroom - no, there’s no explanation as to if that’s where he was when he first collapsed or if it’s where Jamie decided to take him bc why would they feel the need to explain him being there? why was it even relevant to tell us it was Jamie’s room in the first place?

- The Doctor somehow manages to control the Tardis enough to take Celine on one trip to an alien planet and then return to the correct time & place for her to use the footage she recorded there in her new film - and while the audio doesn’t do very much to explain how that was possible, it does treat this as A Pretty Big Deal, and immediately afterward the Doctor has to spend a week communing with his past self (and/or the Tardis?) debating how likely it is that the Time Lords could use this to trace him. When he decides it’s not worth the risk and they have to stop the film from ever being shown to the public, Jamie asks why he agreed to it in the first place, and all he can say is “Because, Jamie, you asked me to!” earning awkward stares from the crowd.

- Oh, but, lest we forget, that little outburst is also immediately followed by him putting his arm around Jamie’s shoulders, and, shockingly, apparently beginning to actually explain the truth about the danger from the Time Lords - until they’re interrupted, of course idk why exactly but the idea of a 60s dr wanting to come clean with a companion but not being allowed to bc the show demands the war games be something of a reveal hurts me in a very good way

- The mental image of “the Doctor and Jamie, resplendent in borrowed evening wear”

- The audio admitting that Jamie’s not very good at subterfuge, and the Doctor asking if he’s going to be alright with them having to steal the film back from Celine - and Jamie’s little “Aye, Doctor” as he feels a ‘glass arrow piercing his chest’ glad to see bf is reading all my letters about exactly how i feel any time something sad happens to james robert mccrimmon

- The Doctor’s anxious to get out of there for obvious reasons, but he hangs around bc Jamie wants to see Celine again - which doesn’t happen, because of her aforementioned shock & depression, but she does leave Jamie a note that ends “you and that Doctor of yours - look after him Jamie, he loves you dearly, as do I.” yeah, if you didn’t want people to draw a parallel there, you could’ve picked, like, any other wording in the world.

- In case you weren’t fully convinced I’ve been reading too much into this whole audio already, consider this: Celine dies in Long Island in 1968, three days before her birthday - 1968 is when this story would’ve taken place in the show’s history (between Fury & Wheel), and dying three days before/after a birthday in America seems a bit... well I had some deja vu from it, anyway

- Four of all people being the one to bring back the film - I know he does it bc Sarah Jane makes him, but personally, I often feel like despite the length of his run, 4 is the Doctor with which we might’ve gotten the fewest glimpses into his interiority, so the fact that it’s him and not one of the more overtly sentimental Doctors makes it feel like it carries even more weight somehow, to me anyway. I think I wrote a post saying roughly the same thing about 4 & Fate of Krelos/Return to Telos but maybe I only did that inside my own head lol. Still, I’m all for any opportunities for Jamie to be one of the few characters to draw some noticeable emotion out of Four, but in fairness I haven’t touched too much of his EU stuff to really be able to compare the frequency with which this happens with other past companions

- Is Four referring to Two or Jamie when he says he got the film from “an old family friend”? Two did the actual stealing, but he probably means Jamie’s involvement - either way, it’s an interesting way of describing old companions - or selves?

- When Jemima goes to call Jamie a thief, Four is “roused” to defend him: “he really was the very best of men” again, any time four freely shows he cares about someone, im over the moon about it

- Oh ha ha, there’s an audio called “Deleted Scenes” featuring the Doctor who’s most affected by junked episodes. And at the end of it, a character who’s spent her life researching and lecturing about a lost film gets to watch it be ‘rediscovered’ after it’s gone unseen for decades. I feel marginally less stupid for reading into the other details of a story like this when it ends up deciding to be to be clever & slightly meta like that

But yeah

all in all, it’s kind of amazing to me that this genuinely reads like they sat down and said okay boys it’s valentines day, let’s write an audio where jamie kisses a girl, since that hasn’t happened except as a plot device in one story in 1967 - but then when they got down to business they accidentally(?) wrote a story all about how important his bond with the Doctor is and how easily that can be compared to a legitimate love interest (even if the love interest in question is a one off character & the extent of the relationship appears to be like one kiss & then having Jamie spend most of his time around the Doctor instead)

I realize there’s something slightly illogical about writing the words “shipping aside” after a post like this but seriously - no matter how many categories you’re able to see two & jamie’s relationship fitting into, this is 40 minutes of big finish just hitting you over the head with how powerful/special/important that relationship is, and with them being two of my favorite characters, i really haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since

[hollyhomburg]

Reasons Wretched and Divine (Pt.5)

Genre: hybrid au, polyamory au, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Pregnancy

Parings: Snake hybrid! Yoongi x Dog hybrid! Jimin x Dog hybrid! Namjoon x Pregnant! Reader, Platonic Vmin, allusions to 2seok,

Summary: You live on an isolated but sprawling farm with your abusive husband, but things start to change for the better when your husband adopts a retired police dog hybrid named Namjoon.

Tags: hurt/comfort, panic attacks, past abuse, food-related anxiety, Post-traumatic stress disorder, low self-worth, bonding over trauma, Jimin has self-esteem issues, internalized victim-blaming, mute characters, scent-marking, brief gore, but don't be fooled- this is equal parts angst and fluff

W/c: 13k

Song Rec: Talos - to each his own

SERIES MASTERLIST (5/10 parts complete) 

A brief interlude on hybrids pack behaviors, romantic attachment between hybrids, hybrid polyamory:  

Though pack forming behavior is the strongest in canine type hybrids- pack behavior (also known as grouping behavior) is seen in every species of hybrid. It doesn’t seem that species has much of an influence on which hybrids will choose to form a pack either- as interspecies groups are incredibly common accounting for around 50% of all hybrid packs.

Though polyamorous behavior might seem strange to human owners; to hybrids, it’s a natural extension of the pack dynamic. It’s what keeps pack bonds strong and reinforces existing dominance structures within the group. That doesn’t mean that love between hybrids within a pack is any different than the love that hybrids might have with their owners or love between humans.

Packs that are decided in juvenile periods of development more mobile and eventually break apart as hybrids age, and then re-solidify in adulthood. In many cases, hybrids without packs tend to be better adoptees as removal of one or more hybrids from a pack can result in many of the same markers associated with removing an imprinted hybrid from it’s imprintee. for that reason, the modal age from 16-22 is the best age to adopt hybrids.

Though one might assume that because of imprinting- that humans would exempt from being apart of hybrid social structure; this is untrue. humans usually seem to be on the more alpha side of the dominance structure, however evidence of this is anecdotal at best and will further statistical significant results in order to be proven.

When packs are settling and a new member is being admitted, this can often result in a period of turmoil in the group dynamic where stereotypically alpha members may act more submissive, or vise versa, where the new pack member is being admitted into the social structure and dominance is questioned.

- Yoongi tilts his head at your words staring Jimin down, before he juts his chin out at him, glancing back at you. “Oh I forgot! you probably haven’t been introduced. Yoongi this is Jimin, Jimin this is Yoongi. If you haven’t guessed Yoongi is a snake hybrid- one of the very few of his kind.”

- Jimin tries to recoup some of his politeness and struggles to smile at the hybrid; Jimin holds his hand out for Yoongi to shake, “it’s nice to meet you.” Yoongi stares at Jimin’s hand for a moment and makes no move to take it. It hangs there for a palpably awkward moment before you grip Jimin’s hand and pull it down to hang in between the two of you. Giving it a reassuring squeeze, not letting go of it.

- Jimin feels flustered as Yoongi lifts the bag of gardening equipment that Jimin had missed by his side and gestures towards a field. You must have some sort of established language because you answer his question. “Yes, we will be doing the veggie garden today Yoon,” Yoongi makes a huffing noise in agreement, and heads down the path. You tug Jimin after him.  

- Jimin is perplexed at the lingering silence, even as they reach the far vegetable garden (and Jimin realizes you haven’t let go of his hand with a flush and makes to detangle it or risk feeling like a creep). You’re not trying to feed the whole of the farm with the produce, but that’s certainly an eventual goal of yours. 

- It’s large, probably 30 by 50 feet at the very least. You have rows of tomatoes, potatos, carrots, and a half plot of butternut squash and tiny watermelons nothing more that flowers. You start to instruct Jimin on how to tie up The tomato’s that have started to sag with the rain and their continuing growth away from their circular cages. Instructing Jimin how to do the same with the green twine.

- “Gardening is easy,” you tell Jimin, “You have to have some patience, nothing grows overnight.”

- The smell of the wet earth seems to lul the three of you into a hazy silence, He purses his lips, brain running full of information before you turn to him, “got any questions?” 

- he has a lot, so many, they spill out. “How many different types of plants do you try to grow? Which one is your favorite? Do you grow any flowers or do you only have your garden for those? What about like seasonings and stuff? those are plants right?” 

- Jimin asks a lot of questions, but you seem happy to answer them. Especially once you start harvesting the tomatoes. “You mean you’ve never had one fresh?” Jimin shakes his head “no, most of the food I ate was like, chips and other dried stuff- if he ever bothered to feed me at all”  Behind you Yoongi snips through some twine angrily, the older hybrid huffs, shaking his head at that, but still dosent say anything. 

- It’s the most communicative that he’s been the whole day, but his displeasure at that is clear. Yours too, Jimin hadn’t even realized he’d said something concerning until he hears your dismayed noise and looks up from what he’s doing to see your jaw tight, that familiar anger in your eyes.

- Before he starts to feel like he’s done something wrong, messed up another job just like he’d done with all the others, you smooth away his worry. “Here, you can try one if you want” you hand him a half dozen tomatoes that are so dark they’re almost purple, then add a few more for good measure until they’re almost spilling out of Jimin’s hands. They’re still warm from the sun Jimin can tell, you give him an encouraging nod “go on- they’re sweet I promise”  he slowly lifts one to his lips and bites down. 

- The tangy fruitfulness explodes on his tongue- He actually yips, his floppy ears lifting up in his sun hat and his tail wagging so quickly you think he might just take off. By the time he’s done with the first, he’s already reaching for the second, and then looking at the other unripened ones around them hungrily. 

- You and Yoongi laugh, though for Yoongi it’s only the twitch of his shoulders and a strange hissing sound as he opens his mouth, gums on display as well as his slightly elongated incisors (and they look sharp, Jimin feels ghoosebumps erupt on his arms). Jimin shyly hides his blush under the brim of his sunhat. “They’re so good! I didn’t think they’d be so tasty- it doesn’t taste anything like ketchup at all!” 

- You wince when you think that he’s never had anything other than ketchup to compare what a real tomato tastes like. You and Jimin lapse into a comfortable companionable silence and you don’t say anything when Jimin sneaks a cherry tomato here and there. Though you do hide your smile when he makes a sound of disgust when he decides to try a green one after he’s eaten all of the ripe ones in his area. You catch his cheeks puffed up more than once when you turn to ask him to do something, and your heart melts a little at his chubby cheeks. 

- When Yoongi leaves soon after to grab some fresh seedlings for the herb garden you’re quick to explain to Jimin about Yoongi. You want to make sure Jimin is comfortable, but part of the reason why you’d asked him to help in the gardens in the first place is because of how genuinely friendly Jimin is, and how closed off Yoongi is from the rest of the hybrids at the farm. 

- Yoongi is the only other hybrid besides Namjoon that stays in the main house with you. You explain to Jimin that he has issues regulating his internal body temperature and need a heater and several heated blankets even in the summer. “Some of the others see this as preferential treatment- when really it’s just what he needs, and it doesn’t help that he doesn’t talk to any of them.”  

- “Does he talk at all?” Jimin asks, just as his ears start to pick up on returning footsteps of Yoongi back over the field. “Not that I’ve heard” your whisper hushes when Yoongi comes close with the 12 packs of herbs, gestures to Jimin to follow him. 

- Jimin’s heard more than one of the teenage hybrids bemoaning the lumps in their mattresses and their envious rants of how comfortable the beds in the big house are. (Apparently, there’s a closed-off second apartment suite in the side part of the house where the hybrids are allowed to spend their heats when they have them, though you’re working on fixing up what once a stable house to make a more private place for that) 

- Jimin thinks that the other hybrid obviously hasn’t spent enough of his life sleeping on the floor because Jimin’s bottom bunk below Taehyung’s is more than comfortable enough. But he keeps that particular opinion to himself. 

- He’s also sensed how conversation comes to a halt whenever the snake hybrid comes near for the lunch line or to get a tool from the shed or get Namjoon for something (Namjoon always ends up supervising the more technical chores, having a knack for mechanics and putting things together, like the soaker hose system that will enable some of the vegetables to get more consistent watering as the summer tugs on). Jimin dosent know how he didn’t notice the hybrid before now, but he must have been there the first few days, Jimin was probably just too overwhelmed. 

- Even Taehyung seems to quiet down in the Yoongi’s presence, whenever he comes to visit Jimin on his break in the gardens or brings them watermelon from the big house for a snack (though when Yoongi hungrily scarfs down a few pieces Jimin does see a small smile play at the edge of Taehyung’s mouth)

- Jimin never catches any sort of aggressive behavior or meanness from Yoongi beyond a roll of his eyes at those who quiet when he walks by, turning to Jimin so that he can see. 

- Jimin decides after the second day that he dosent mind yoongi at all. his presence is comforting even next to Jimin in the dirt, help you dig holes for sprouts and seeds. Jimin holding the latter when Yoongi goes up to check on one of the peach trees (you have a full orchard tucked back into the side of the property- accessible only by walking through the woods and Jimin can’t wait for summer when the fruit is ready if fresh peaches taste anything like the canned kind that Jimin is used to- he thinks he’ll like them). 

- But Jimin does see Yoongi’s shoulders tense and his hands tighten a little at times, especially when he sees the other hybrids engaging in leisurely time. Jimin sees Yoongi’s yearning look at the dog hybrids throwing a Frisbee in the empty field between the barn and the main house when they call for Jimin to join, or the cat hybrids grooming each other in the shade all cuddled up or the pair of tiger hybrids stretched out nuzzling into the grasses and flowers.  

- Jimin figures the hybrid must be lonely, and he can’t blame him, being surrounded by a community like this and somehow set apart from it doesn’t sound nice at all. Sometimes Jimin wants to reach out and tug a stick out of the elders hair- but even you seem to be careful not to be physically affectionate with the snake hybrid, and Jimin has seen you scratch the ears or hug just about every hybrid that lives at the farm. 

- Jimin doesn’t realize Yoongi’s caginess might be for a deeper reason until Jimin accidentally touches him.

-  It’s a hot day and you’ve just gone inside to get all three of you some sweet tea from the pitcher, and He swears he was just asking for a shovel. Jimin had accidentally touched his arm. His fingers ghosting over the line of dark scales gently. And before jimin had realized his misstep- Yoongi had started shaking so violently. 

- His hands clenched and his shoulders quivering- shivering. Looking strange in the heat of midday and the too-bright slant of the noon sun. Jimin has seen Yoongi shiver in the slightest breeze before, but this, this is so much more than that. And it’s hot, but Yoongi doesn’t look like he’s sweating at all which almost seems more dangerous. 

- “Hyung? Are you okay? Hyung?” he gets nothing in response- not a small shake of his head or eye contact, just Yoongi’s unfocused gaze, little huffs of breath coming out from his clenched teeth.  

- Jimin didn’t think- just ran to get Namjoon, working in the field closest to them, almost falling after he heaves himself over the fence. Namjoon is already running to meet him when he’d heard the younger shouting his name. Looking panicked- Jimin can barely get the words out, “it’s Yoongi he’s- I think he’s having a panic attack or going into shock or-”

- “Take me to him Jimin,” Namjoon says dropping his shovel and easily keeping pace with Jimin as they dash back to the vegetable garden. Namjoon steadying Jimin with a hand fisted in the back of his shirt when his foot hits a divot in the ground and he almost trips.

-  They find Yoongi in the same spot, still quivering like a willow in a thunderstorm. At the sound of his name coming from Namjoon’s lips, Yoongi sharply looks up, his eyes focusing after a moment before they go hazy again and he starts to cry in Ernest. 

- Namjoon had quietly led Yoongi back inside the house, you set the pitcher on the table hard enough that the dark tea spills over the side when you see Yoongi and namjoon in the doorway, the elder hybrid sagging when he sees you, his knees weak. You say his name, and Yoongi’s eyes focus again, You don’t touch Yoongi. You’re very clear and careful with your intent grabbing onto the edge of his sleeve before you tug him, speaking in a low voice and guiding him up to the second floor and back to his room- probably the direction of the shower to cool off.  

- Namjoon puts a hand on Jimin’s shoulder, smoothing it over the back of his neck. “Jimin- hey pup- it’s fine” Jimin looks up at Namjoon, panicked and imploring, tears in his own eyes and adrenaline in his system for the first time in weeks. Fuck- he’d forgotten how terrible it felt to be afraid “I didn’t mean to trigger him I swear-“ 

- “Jimin- it’s okay, Yoongi will be fine he just probably needs to sleep and to cool down a little, it probably wasn’t even your fault- we should have known this would happen on such a hot day.”

- Namjoon’s voice is honeyed and soft, expression torn as he looks down at Jimin from the upper step. “This just happens to him Jimin, it’s not your fault.” Namjoon reaches up to thumb away a tear on Jimin's cheek that he hadn’t realized he’d let out. 

- it shocks him almost more than the sudden affection does. Enough that he lets out a low whine. Not knowing what to do with his hands until they close around the hem of namjoon’s flannel, jerking the larger hybrid towards Jimin, making his pine scent settle over Jimin like a comforting blanket - strong  and alpha and everything Jimin wants to press himself into-

- A  cat hybrid bustles through the entryway carrying a crate full of something- headed for the basement refrigerators, and Namjoon straightens, his mask of careful control back in place- (like it always does, Jimin thinks a little sourly) as Jimin steps away and shakes off. Jimin wonders if he had dreamed up the brief heavy look in his face or if it had never been there at all. 

- Both of them hear the sound of you upstairs, lingering “Do you want me to stay?” a pause, and then you continue, “okay, I’ll come to check on you later- don’t turn the shower on too cold or else you’ll go into shock okay Yoon?” 

- If Jimin did know any better (and he certainly knows better) he would have mistaken Namjoon’s look for the same one he gives you when you reappear at the top of the stairs, Namjoon and Jimin spill onto the landing to make room for you. Namjoon’s hand hovers on your arm, tugging you in close for a moment, he can audibly hear the swallow you let out as Namjoon buries his face in your shoulder, tension locked in every muscle of his body until he exhales. 

-  “I’ll help you with the garden for the rest of the day just let me grab my hat Jimin.” You say, smiling at him, but Jimin can see the clenched worry in the set of your mouth. Namjoon gives your retreating form a withering look and he tells Jimin under his breath, “make sure she rests when she gets tired okay?” Namjoon asks, to which Jimin nods, his tail swishing between his legs. “I heard that!” you shout from what must be your and Namjoon’s room. 

- You and Jimin spend the rest of the day watering the cutting garden, and Jimin finds himself asking you what kind of plants these ones are. They’re large and pretty. A little ruffly and torn looking but beautiful none the less with a strong floral scent that sort of reminds him of how you smell. Jimin likes them, especially the light pink ones that are the same color as the blushing sky. 

- “We planted these for a local florist, they’re called peonies, and those are dahlias,” you say, pressing your face into one, the soft petals brushing against your cheeks as you rub your face into one, and Jimin feels his heart flutter like a butterfly. “hang on- you’ve got a little” he brushes away the Pollen on your cheek, “Thanks Minnie” 

- Minnie- the butterflies in his heart flutter harder- probably causeing a tornado  somewhere elce. He hides his blush by turning away to snip off some of the dying leaves with his scissors, trying to slow the thundering pace of his heart. 

- Later that evening when the skin is purple-tinted dark blue, you stand in the cutting garden with Namjoon. Armed with a pair of scissors you snip the most beautiful blooms. Though it will be a few more days till you drive another shipment into town to the florist and you know the few blooms you take won’t be missed. 

- “What are you doing?” Namjoon asks, taking the fist-sized blooms from you as you cut more. “Just making someone happy.” You say, And Namjoon just shakes his head. He knows what you’re talking about and who you're picking them for, And it might be for the puppy who always picks a wild cosmos and puts it on the strap of his sun hat, and looks at the two of you like he wants to be affectionate or dote on, but might not know-how. 

- “He hasn’t had an easy day has he,” Namjoon says, voice low, you shake your head, because no- Jimin hasn’t and you’re only trying to make him a little happier.  He seemed a little too shaken after the incident with Yoongi.  a small act of kindness goes a long way. 

-  He finds them the next day shortly after breakfast, about to change into a  pair of shorts so that he can swim in the stream with Taehyung and some of his other bunkmates before work starts. He finds the pink, white, and purple blooms stuffed into a jam jar on the small side table next to his bed. Blushing as his fingers skim over the edge. Unable to handle the sudden rush of hope and affection because he knows- he knows these must be from you- but he can’t imagine why you’d left them for him to find.  

- “Someones got a secret admierer~” Taehyung teases with a sing song voice from where he changes- almost tripping as he steps into his red swim trunks. Jimin blushes and tries not to let him see. 

- But when he really thinks about it- all he wonders is why. He’d hurt Yoongi yesterday- Someone who seemed special to you. He’d been half-expecting you to punish him at some point- not reward him with these flowers that he gets to look at when he falls asleep. Jimin hugs his pillow to his chest and lets the scent of you (because yes- you do smell like peonies) lul him into sleep. 

- Yoongi appears by the middle of the next day to help Jimin twine up the lines of peas. Yoongi looks no worse for wear, if not for the bags under his eyes that seem a little shadowed, the elder doesn’t look like he’s gotten a wink. 

- (Later- when you break for lunch- you and Jimin find Yoongi asleep underneath the shade of one of the oak trees that border the vegetable garden, His sun hat pulled low over his face to shield his eyes from the sun, and decide it’s better if you let him be for the rest of the day)

- Jimin is so puzzled by the flowers that he asks Yoongi about them. But the elder pauses, and shakes his head, making an X with his hands. And points to the other side of the garden where you stand, whistling a little and watering some of the carrots (the few that have managed to avoid the hungry bellies of the bunny hybrids)

-  Jimin blushes and swats his hands at Yoongi’s small smirk. Saying “oh shut up!” even as Yoongi rolls his eyes, I didn’t say anything he can almost hear the other say.

- Late that night Jimin wonders what Yoongi’s voice sounds like. Then when the days press on, he starts to doubt that he’ll ever find out. But that's fine, they don’t have to talk to be friends. Not when he comes back from a bathroom break with a glass of water and ice for Yoongi only to find that the elder has filled his discarded sunhat to the brim with sweet Tomatoes and green beans. 

- Namjoon makes a brief appearance one day to lug in a few bags of mulch in your private garden. Eyeing Jimin and Yoongi in the field, as Jimin points energetically to a small bright blue bird that seems very interested in some of the pees. neither of them makes to scare the bird off or pounce like a cat hybrid might, merely straightening up to watch, still as to not startle it, as it twitters and is joined by another bright blue bird and then two more.

- they fly away, and Jimin shouts excitedly and hops over to the fence, stoops to pick up a tiny bright blue feather. Jimin chats animatedly to Yoongi, who doesn’t respond but holds it up to the sky to compare the color. Both of them leaning around the light to see it, their straw hats bumping into each other. 

- Jimin must ask Yoongi because he’s dropping the feather into his hand and tilting his head down so that Yoongi can stick the blue feather into Jimin's hat, right in-between an orange snapdragon and a dried pink clover. 

- Namjoon sees the smile tugging at Yoongi’s lips and feels deep satisfaction. Later that night, curled up in your bed with your form propped up on many pillows, Namjoon tells you that you made the right decision to try and push Jimin and Yoongi to be friends. He’s gotten so much better; less twitchy and easy to startle. Both of them have really. They’re good for each other.   

- you fall asleep with a soft smile on your face, cheek pillowed against the soft cream bedspread. Namjoon nuzzles his face into your stomach, resting his cheek below your breasts as you sleep on. You’re so used to his movements next to you that you barely startle. “Things are complicated little one,” he murmurs to the bump. 

- Pressing a kiss to it through your large sleeping shirt (an old one of his) one of namjoon’s large work-roughened hands smoothing over it. “Only a few months now and you’ll be here. I can’t wait to meet you but I’m also scared.”  He shakes a little as he thinks about it- about being a dad, about being parents with you.

- And then he thinks of the others, “We’re both going to need so much help, but I think you’ll like them too.”

- after he showers and before dinner time Jimin helps you and the few other hybrids set up the long table in the largest barn that serves as the dining room for all of the hybrids. As you hand out napkins, More than one of them asks you to get off your feet. 

- He spends dinner on Namjoon’s left side and you on the other side and Yoongi next to you. The hybrid files in after everyone has already started at the line for the buffet of food. Keeping his head ducked and making himself as small as possible. Jimin tries to catch his eyes in hello but doesn’t manage too. 

- - As April fades into may, Jimin starts to feel disconcerting comfortableness slip under his bones, the day’s aren’t exactly the same, but they do become familiar. And it doesn’t comfort him- it just makes Jimin anxious. the planting comes to an end, and the three of you find yourselves coming in earlier especially once it starts to get hotter. Because of the absence of work, Jimin often finds himself wandering the property without a task. 

- The less work there is to do in the gardens, the more he looks to find something that will occupy him- any way to contribute more. He keeps helping during dinner time, to set out the tables and the dishes. And goes back and forth to the house to get anything he might need, unable to sit down until everything is done, even then, he barely gets a few bites in before he’s standing up to help bring the dirty dishes back to the house. 

- You notice, Namjoon does too but you both quickly get dragged off to deal with another call that you’ve gotten to pick up another hybrid. And though Jimin might be hungry when he goes to sleep, it’s worth it to stay up to watch your car lights pull back up the long road to the main house. The anxiety in his chest is abated enough to where he doesn’t feel the hunger.

- That might be a bit of a lie, but really, he was hungry for so many years that he doesn’t mind.

- the presence of a new hybrid makes it worse. It’s the first house call you’d made since Jimin- thought you tell him that it hadn’t really been a house call at all. The locals in a beach town had seen a stray here and there lingering in the lagoon and the ocean waters.

-  The otter hybrid named Hoseok looks like he’s been living on his own for a number of years. He’s Grubby, his hair overgrown but cut short by your hand in your kitchen the next day. And though he leans away from your hand when you try to touch his head, he eventually relaxes under your calm soothing voice, “That’s a good boy, there we go- now you look all clean and pretty!”

- “You think I’m pretty?” the otter hybrid has the Gaul to ask- shy- his eyes wide, and Jimin’s blood wants to boil. He sits with Yoongi at the prep table, helping the cat hybrids de-stem some of the peas and early spring greens that they’d harvested from the garden, and he almost nicks his hand on the knife he’s using. Next to him, Yoongi makes a noise and gestures at him to hand the knife over, he can see the scolding look on his face, “be more careful”

- He’s bubbly and happy after the first day, his little curved ears cooed at by the cat hybrids in the kitchen. Everyone likes Hoseok, Jimin should like Hoseok- but he can’t help but feel a little jealous at how he immediately fits in. He finds his place the first day when Jimin and Namjoon take him to see the sheep and other farm animals, immediately taking an interest in the thick skeen of bright red wool that Seokjin was hanging out to dry,

- The alpaca hybrid turns bright pink when he first sees Hoseok, all the way from his dye stained hands to the tips of his white ears. Jimin can hear the nervousness in the way he says “you can stay as long as you want- all day- it would be nice to have some company” which is funny because seokjin hates company- likes to be left alone with his radio and his pets. 

- “Of course!” the otter says, ears flicking rapidly in happiness in his shiny curly hair, “can you show me how you dye the wool?” Jimin hasn’t ever heard the alpaca hybrid say so many words at once. 

- Jimin wishes he didn’t feel jealous.  

- But he realizes- as one of the cat hybrids comes to asks him which of the herbs in the garden are which, and finds that he does know how to differentiate between the different kinds- At least he’s earned his place here, for a little while he can pretend that he belongs here. He feels a little dizzy like he used too, unsteady with the pounding in his chest- he gets startled over the littlest things, Yoongi standing up too quick next to him or Taehyung’s loud laugh when he walks into the bunkroom.

- The next stage of his anxiety makes him annoyed, his will power worn down by his own inability to relax. He snaps at one of the bunny hybrids after she drops his clothes after they were freshly laundered, ignoring her apology when she drops it.

- He helps the cat hybrids who work in the kitchen making dinner one night and growls when they keep thanking him for staying “Jesus it’s nothing please drop it” and then immediately feels guilty afterward.

- He can’t be this way, Needs to stop being so easily irritable and taciturn. he remembers what his other bunkmates had said on The first day: Namjoon will throw anyone out who makes problems. Jimin dosent want to leave, can’t help the thudding breathlessness that fills his chest when he thinks about the possibility. 

- He knows that Namjoon likes him, it’s the only fact that logically makes sense: that he acts differently around Jimin than the others. But he can’t shake the feeling that he doesn't really know for sure. And once the thought has fit its self into Jimin's head he can’t shake away the lingering feelings of dread- like he’s going to somehow lose his place here and have to leave. 

- Jimin starts to gather snacks here and there, shoving them into the drawer of his side table, just in case so he has some when he gets thrown out of the farm. 

- He even snaps at Yoongi at one point, when he splashes Jimin's feet accidentally with a hose, he grumbles and heads off towards the cutting garden mumbling about something that he needs to check, sequestering himself there for the rest of the day crumpling dried peony leaves in his fist. He misses the pregnant look that Yoongi shoots you- a worry you return.

- You can tell something’s wrong with Jimin- there isn’t any other reason why he’s suddenly started to withdraw from all of you. No longer lingering as much over the flowers and the fruits of your labor in the garden.

- You and Namjoon talk about it one morning after breakfast. Watching where Jimin’s sat on the grassy hill waiting for you and Yoongi to come out. Usually, he’d wait inside or sit on the steps but he hasn’t lately. You watch from the back of the house, looking out the window at him. Namjoons arms clasped around your middle. “Is it bad to assume that he’ll come to us if he wants to talk?” you ask Namjoon.“There's something wrong and I feel like I’ll just make him feel attacked if I ask”

- Namjoon looks conflicted, his fingers playing with yours, lacing and unlacing- your hands are so small His rough callouses feel good against your skin- rough in a nice way. “I’m worried too- but I think- maybe everything here has gotten to be too much for him, you know how overwhelmed he got in the first few days, maybe he just needs distance.” You nod against his shoulder, and though neither of you likes it. You think it’s what Jimin needs.

- It’s not really, so much of what's bound to happen could have been fixed by a little more care on your part- and you’ll never make the same mistake of leaving Jimin alone again.

- Over the next few days, Jimin can feel himself getting more and more annoyed- but he can’t for the life of him figure out why.  He sequesters himself on the other side of the cutting garden trying to find some comfort in the flowers. But the peony rings just won't stay upright, the Dalia stakes too, and the daisy poles, the green garden twine won't stay tight in Jimin’s shaking fingers.

- Nothing feels right, he feels listless,  skin feels itchy laying over the bit of pudge, he’s gotten since he came here and started eating 2 square meals and snacks every day. The tensegrity over his bones, never quite able to stretch, out the hot sun on his back. He feels sharp, his mind teetering on the edge of something he dosent understand. 

- And like an idiot, he tries to ignore it.

- Jimin gets to his breaking point a day later- when you finally turn in from outside. It’s hot, and Jimin feels overheated and sticky with sweat, but he doesn't feel like he can leave yet and take a shower like he so desperately wants.  One of the hybrids gave him a weird look when he was showering mid-day yesterday and he’d like to avoid that again if he can. 

- Most of the hybrids wait until after dinner to shower but Jimin didn’t want to deal with vying for hot water. It was just another thing that made him frustrated. And he’s unsure if he’s more frustrated at the hybrid or at himself for making another social miss-step.

- It hits him there in your kitchen the reason why he’s so frustrated. He’s been here for a little over a month now and still- still he dosent understand the rules, the socal rules are still escaping him just as much the physical ones. In his old home- he got a shower whenever time allowed it- here it was seen as lazy to take one before the day’s work was truly done. 

- There is sweat dripping down his back even as you get both him and Yoongi a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the table. “Do you want some watermelon?” Jimin shakes his head, unsure why he’s refusing when hunger aches in his belly.  But someone else might want the watermelon on the table, someone else might need it so Jimin can’t have it- can’t intrude any more than he already does. He might break another fucking rule- it’s better, isn’t it? to just not take up space and resources when he can avoid it. 

- “I could reheat some of the food from this morning if you’d rather have that? or we could make something else before dinner?” you proffer, washing your hands in the sink, running over them with the brush to get the dirt out from under your nails. 

- “No you don’t have to” he answers too quickly. You let the silence sit for a moment before you’re turning to Jimin, And he feels something that feels suspiciously like fear spark and itch underneath his skin. You look a little put-out, biting on your lower lip and for some reason it makes him feel even worse. Which doesn’t make any sense- 

- Why would you be upset that you can’t help a dumb puppy like Jimin? who can barely garden right let alone do anything like a normal fucking non-damaged hybrid could do. He’s not Namjoon, gorgeous tall and capable Namjoon, or even like Yoongi who doesn't even talk but finds himself more needed than even Jimin- the most replicable hybrid on the farm. 

- Why does he feel like he needs to placate you- why don’t you just fucking get it already. You dry your hand on a towel and lean back against the sink. Jimin takes a deep sip of the ice water but finds it makes him feel sick. “What’s wrong?” you proffer gentle and kind.

- “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, he sets the water down too hard and he tries to turn away but you don’t let him, grabbing his wrist. “Jimin,” you say, and he doesn’t know if it’s a plead or a command from you. Maybe if you did command him Jimin would understand better, would know what you wanted better than all of this- all of this assuming that drives him crazy. 

- He rolls his wrist out of your grip, suddenly whirling around, his voice a growl. “Would you just leave it- fuck- I’m fine,”  Jimin can hear dimly, the footsteps above which must be Yoongi. Pausing and then rushing when he hears Jimin’s elevated voice.

- You pause for a moment, picking your words carefully “Jimin, you don’t seem okay- I know something’s been bothering you. Come talk to me about it, tell me about it,” Jimin’s scoff feels acrid in his lungs. “No thanks, don’t want to feel like more of a burden than I already am.”

- You recoil- shocked “Jimin what? you really think that? you’re not at all! please don’t think that, don’t think that you’re a burden! We love you- we care about you- we’re just worried”

- Jimin shakes his head, angry, he’s not even sure why he’s fucking angry,  “You don’t love me” Maybe it’s the frustration, the frustration at all the heavy looks and all the kindness- none of which Jimin knows how to interpret or how to decipher. 

- He dosent know why he said it- even though deep down he’s sure it’s true. He knows you love him. And suddenly the words are spilling out of him along with all of the fear and anxiety and petty anger. Even though deep down Jimin knows that he really doesn’t have anything to be angry about

- “I hate when you walk on eggshells like I’m going to go fucking awol because I can’t fucking adjust to living like this- and then go on treating me with so much affection like I fucking deserve it.” 

- “Jimin- you’re not- we don’t walk on eggshells around you because we want to keep you far away, we do it because we want you to feel comfortable, we don’t want to force anything on you-” 

- “Force me to do what? Force me to help out even if not doing so would make me a freeloader, but if I help too much then- it sets me apart and I just don’t fit in- I’m not even like apart of everything here- when I’m fucking suffocating under what no one says- no one tells me. So what? What can you possibly say that will help? That won’t hurt?”

- For once, you fall silent. Your hands drop, and Jimin feels the guilt swell up, strengthening to a crescendo before he falls falls falls and has nothing but the anger to comfort him, even as tears cloud his vision. 

- “You treat me like this- like I’m fucking worth anything at all and it drives me crazy- I’m not like you- You ask me to confide in you but you wouldn’t fucking understand if I tried- I’m the fucking dregs of what anyone wants and I’m never going to be like the others- I’ve already fallen too far behind and you might as well give up-” 

- “Jimin” its Namjoon at the door, his voice full of caution, not anger- Jimin expects anger but when he looks up all he sees in Namjoon biting his lower lip and looking like he’s about to cry. He reaches out to try and touch him but Jimin flinches back, namjoon freezes, eyes wide and worried. Jimin’s tail drops low, and he pushes past Namjoon without a second thought, leaving you there- you let out a strangled aborted noise in your throat. 

- His beat-up second-hand shoes thud against the wooden steps and the adrenaline is still firing in his system telling him to get away from you. Namjoon calls his name and he breaks out into a run across the field, his ankles almost failing when he stumbles in some of the holes. The tears in his eyes burning as he runs and runs and runs. 

- I’m never going to be like them, I’m too damaged for a life like this, I’m never going to understand how to function because- because I wasn’t raised like them. And it’s too late to learn- it’s too late for the life he wants- even though he never wanted it until they showed him what life could be like.  

- Jimin feels terribly alone. 

- Taehyung finally finds Jimin in the paddocks, deep in the barn with a baby lamb in his lap. It’s little soft pink and white body sitting in Jimin’s lap. Docile at his pets even as the hybrid sniffles, nibbling cutely at his fingers. He puts a hand on Namjoon’s arm, wordlessly telling him to stay behind with Seokjin. “Thanks for getting us Jin” Jimin hears him whisper. Even if he dosent sit up or stand to acknowledge his bunkmate's presence. 

- “That looks a little nasty,” Taehyung says, gesturing at Jimin’s hand. He’d fallen on his mad run, his knuckles grazing the ground. And they’re a little bloody and dirty. It’s not that bad though- Jimin has felt worse pain. 

- “You want to talk about it yet?” 

- “No,” Jimin says too quickly, worried that Taehyung would leave and also- that he would stay. “But I think I should?” The little lamb seems to tire of Jimin’s restless pets and migrates over to Taehyungs lap.  “Where were you before you came here Tae?” in all his weeks at the farm Jimin has never asked Taehyung about his own origin story. But the hybrid dosent look surprised or unwilling. The lamb lets out a little bleat. 

- “You know the story probably, its the same one a lot of us rare breeds have- rich family- bought me as a present for their youngest son- never knew my parents, you know- the classic hybrid trifecta of angst” 

- “I didn’t know my parents either,” they shift to sit back against the wall of the barn. “How did you end up here?” 

- “He wasn’t always violent, but by the time his parents realized it had gotten out of hand, they barely cared he was hurting me only that I bit him back- they didn’t tolerate it and sold me to a circus.” Taehyung gets a faraway look in his eyes. 

-“I refused to perform, and they put me out in the sun without food or water until I agreed, I escaped within the first week, they didn’t realize that the chain was rusty enough for a hybrid to break.” Tae’s softness has always been disarming, but Jimin has also seen the bear hybrid lift 50-pound bags of flour like they weighed nothing. 

- Jimin thinks about his next words carefully, “Do you ever, think it would have been better if you stayed? sometimes I think I deserved it.” Taehyung’s inhale is jagged- “No- Jimin- you shouldn’t- you didn’t deserve what you got I promise you” 

- Jimin looks down and tries not to feel upset because- he feels like he deserved it even if Taehyung is telling him he didn’t. The bear hybrid has never lied to him and maybe, just maybe Jimin didn't- maybe he really hadn’t deserved it.

- “I don’t miss it not really- but- sometimes I think- my body does or maybe my head? It’s hard to explain.” Jimin knows Taehyung is trying. Tae puts his arm around Jimin’s shoulder, his wide hands rubbing up and down Jimin’s spine.  Jimin tucks his face close to his knees and lets Tae touch him. The repetitive pets feel nice. 

- “Why do I feel so scared Tae? Why is everything so hard? why do I feel like I don’t deserve anything good? There are so many things that I don’t understand or don’t know- so many things I never even knew I didn’t know.”

- “I think I might know someone who understands how you’re feeling Minnie.”

- Jimin tries to turn away when Taehyung leads him up to the front porch where you sit with Yoongi, but his hand is strong on the back of Jimin’s neck. Jimin is a little startled to see Yoongi’s hand withdraw from yours quickly. “It’s okay Yoongi, wanna give us a minute?” you say, standing along with him as Jimin rises on the steps, hands clenched by his side. 

- Neither of you talks, Jimin can’t look up to meet your eyes. Taehyung and Yoongi sigh at the same time. “I left some of my beekeeping gear down at the bottom of the hill- if you help me carry it up I’ll give you some honey?” Yoongi scoffs but shows a small smile as Tae turns and starts off with him down the hill. Yoongi sends Jimin a single pitying glance before he does. 

- “I think the squash is probably done cooking by now, Come inside.” The ground floor of the farmhouse is empty but filled with a mild sweet scent. All of the other vegetables are already set out, The carrot, celery, And onion already chopped. It doesn't look like there's enough to feed the whole farm and Jimin is about to ask when you clarify. “I thought it would be better if we all ate together tonight, and this soup is a little specialty of mine.”

- You go to the cellar door and opening it. “Go downstairs, look at the floor- and tell me what you see.” Jimin listens- he’s always been good at following instructions. 

- The cellar smells musty and cold he’s careful not to trip over the extension cords that wind down the stairs, the industrial-sized freezers and refrigerators hum and buzz. There is a barely-there stain in the concrete, rust-colored, fading like someone had tried to wash it away but hadn’t been able to it. 

- “Why is there a bloodstain on your floor?” Jimin says as he comes up the stairs, taking them two at a time. You're just stirring vegetables in the pan. “iI’s mine,” you say, turning the heat down and covering it. Jimin's breath catches. You start fiddling with the other burner, “You’re not the only one who's been through some shit Jimin,” 

-“Who hurt you- when.” Yimin pulls out a place for you at the prep table and you make a noise when you see his bloody hand, “my late husband,” Jimin's eyes hover on your stomach for a second before you flinch, turning away to retrieve the first aid kit from below the sink.

- “Why did he hurt you?” Jimin asks as you pull his hand close to you to rest on the table, carefully and gently dabbing at the broken skin with a cool cloth to clear away the dirt. You’re so gentle that It barely stings. A lock of hair falls in front of your face, and Jimin reaches across the table to tuck it behind your ear. 

- “Honestly? I have no idea. Maybe some people are made rotten- maybe it’s easier to hurt others than hurt- but regardless- I hate him- hated him- But I also loved him at one point. And I think- until Namjoon came- I honestly was dependent on his approval, did you feel dependent on your old owner?”

- “Every day. I don’t miss him- I hate him too- but” Jimin’s hands are shaking when he looks down at them. ou steady them a little- rubbing ointment into the scrapes “I think that I miss understanding everything that was going to happen, knowing what my purpose was.” 

- Your face is shadowed and dark as you keep working- you might not be able to fix Jimin’s mind- but you can help this- the wounds on his body that ache in time with the pulse of his heart. “People like us- we miss abuse because we get dependent on it- because it ran your life and now- you can’t make any choices without-” 

- “Without thinking you’re making the wrong one because choices have consequences and now they don’t- not really- not in the same way. It was like that for you too?” you nod, starting putting bandaids across Jimin’s knuckles. The onions in the pan smell good and start to sizzle. Jimin is almost breathless when he asks- cuz now you’ve helped him put it together he needs to know “How did you get out- how did you learn?” 

-“Namjoon was really patient with me, he gave me what I needed without letting me fall back into the cycle- I’m lucky to have him.”  We’re lucky to have you, he wants to say, he’s never heard of a human who had been through the kind of abuse that hybrids do. But he thinks that maybe it would be wrong to say especially after the words he’d shouted at you. He winces, and you look up from his hand worried you’d hurt him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier- you didn’t deserve it.” 

- You shrug, “We’ve been expecting you to be okay- and I’m sorry- I should have been more communicative. It’s kinda been a hard transition for you and I should have been there to help more.” 

- “Why does doing what I want not feel free all the time? Why do the choices make me feel like im suffocating?” 

- “Because if you don’t have a choice- you can’t make a wrong move.

- “Did you know- neither Namjoon or I can go into that basement without having a panic attack? There are other things too- like if something comes at his face too quick he growls- even if it's me. The smell of motor oil makes him feel sick and I still have nightmares- We’re still learning. The people we love don’t negate our trauma, but it helps at least when they try to understand it with us.” 

- You set the last bandaid over his nuckles, and he reaches out to grasp at yours and give it a squeeze. You take his hand and lift it to your mouth all of the scrapes covered. You press a kiss to each bandaid and Jimin feels like he’s going to cry for a whole different reason- he feels so undeserving of your care and of your affection, especially after today. 

- “I want to help you Jimin- I care about you too much not to try and make you happy,” Jimin can’t argue- not like he did before when he was too anxious not to perceive anything close to him as an attack. “What do you want? There are no wrong answers” 

-“I want-” before he can answer, Namjoon and Yoongi walk through the door, the younger hybrid prattling to yoongi about the restorations currenly underway at once of the little chicken coops on the sothern edge-  and then he looks back at you- your face a little tired, but truly truly imploring, Jimin feels a strange kind of acrid black hope lurch in his belly. 

- Both of them smiling softly, Namjoon saying something and Yoongi nodding while makeing a so-so motion with his hands. When Namjoon looks up and sees the two of you sat on the kitchen table his tail wags and then falls still, then wags again when he sees both you and Jimin sitting close. Your hands still tightly clasped in each other. 

- “I want to help you cook- can you show me how you make the soup?” Jimin lies. But you don’t catch it, even as you smile at him, and reach your hand up to touch his ears. Pull gentle scratches over them. “That we can definitely do,” you say. Namjoon and Yoongi don’t look upset with Jimin when they come close, Yoongi opening up the pan on the burner and sniffing the air. making a pleased noise in the back of his throat, “squash soup” you clarify and Yoongi smiles.

- Namjoon lifts Jimin’s hand up for inspection, “You okay?” Namjoon asks, his tail hanging low, he doesn't like to see the younger hurt- doesn't like the shyness lingering. “No,” Jimin says quietly, “But I will be,”

- Namjoon pulls him up with a whine, scent-marking along Jimin's shoulder- the other hybrid freezes and then whines when Namjoon’s scent puffs up fanning out to comfort Jimin. The other hybrid is so much larger than him, he makes Jimin feel so small. Namjoon’s hands on both of his shoulders holding him still. Jimin is breathless even after Namjoon pulls away with a faint blush on his cheeks- because Jimin- Jimin smells like Namjoon now.

- Every hybrid is going to know what Namjoon did that when he walks out. And it’s intimate- so intimate- because hybrids the only scent mark each other when they- Jimin's breath catches in his throat- when they belong to the same pack.

- That means Namjoon wants Jimin to belong here. 

- “Can I-” Jimin knows his face is bright red, “Do me?” Namjoon proffers, and though Namjoon has to stoop for Jimin to rub his cheek all over Namjoon he does and looks happy, his dimples poking out. 

- “What do I smell like?” Jimin asks, because honestly- he’s never known- never had another hybrid scent mark him. “Something flowery but more like- citrusy?” Namjoon says, taking in a deep breath at Jimin’s throat that makes a shiver run down his spine.

- Yoongi makes a noise and holds out a lemon- tapping it for a moment and nodding sagely, The visual makes you all giggle. You smile too, “What do I smell like?”

- “Flowers,” Namjoon says instantly, at the same time Jimin says, “Peonies... and cream?” Namjoon blushes- gesturing at your stomach, “that wasn’t there before- yeah” his dimples are so pronounced when he absently rubs a hand over your bump, You can't resist getting up on your tippy-toes to peck them. 

- Jimin learns that even though he had asked you to teach him how to make butternut squash soup, that didn’t mean you were going to let him do any of the work involved. You explain how to do everything sure- but Jimin is banished to sit at the table with namjoon and watch. 

- You and Yoongi cook, dancing around each other in a dance that seems almost choreographed. You must cook together often because Yoongi seems to anticipate your movement, handing you a wooden spoon to stir the vegetables. 

 - Namjoon pulls him back to lean against his chest facing where you cook, Namjoon’s back up against the wall the older hybrid combing his hands through Jimin's hair. Jimin would think it was weird had he not seen countless other hybrids cuddle the same),

-  Yoongi brings Jimin spoonfuls which he presses to Jimin's lips and makes him taste. And Jimin wants to yip when the savory tang of the soup hits his tongue, makes a happy grumble as his eyes flutter closed. “Wait- that's so good- how is it so good?” you look happy at his praise. 

- When it’s finished, the four of you eat out on the porch. Jimin licks his bowl clean, he catches Yoongi watching him, a small satisfied smile on his mouth, he even gets up and gives Jimin seconds. The warm soup fills his belly like liquid comfort. and after so many bowls he ends up listing to the side, nose pressed to the hard part of your shoulder, lulled further to sleep by the rub of your fingers up and down his skull.

 -The kitchen starts to buzz with the noise of dinner preparations but jimin is full and happy, his sun-warmed skin soothed by the dropping temperature. You don't say anything when he starts to cry, his face hidden in your shirt, you just keep running your fingers through his hair scratching his ears. Namjoon and yoongi get up and go upstairs, leaving the two of you to sit side by side. 

- No one hears the words you whisper into Jimin's ear, “You’re not broken beyond repair Minnie, help me- help me fix you- tell me what I can do to make things easier for you.” 

- Jimin's eyes are half-lidded when he opens them, “Can you just- tell me things? Not order me- I’m not asking for you to like- control me- but I think if you just all told me what you want it would be better- take out the guesswork you know?”

- Jimin is so sleepy Namjoon ends up having to carry him back down to the bunks. his strong hands gripping Jimin under his thighs The smaller hybrid on his back, Jimin’s hands around Namjoon's neck. The younger hybrid nuzzling his nose into Namjoon's shoulder to get more of the pine scent on himself. They pause on the steps. The last thing Jimin is aware of is a puff of your scent and soft lips on his hairline.  He wakes up in his bed the next day, his pillows smelling like Namjoon. His bunkmates give him strange looks. 

- The next few days are better, and slowly but surely, the anxiety he’d felt dissipates. You give Jimin little moments to latch onto. the Stability of clearly communicated consent. You say “sit next to me” when dinner comes. Yoongi and Tae across from you at the table. “It makes me feel better the more you eat- I like seeing you full and chubby Minnie” 

- The other hybrids help too- so you must have told them. Namjoon brings Jimin one of his old button-downs, a thick flannel that smells like the other hybrid. “This is too small on me now- so here- it’s yours.”

“Enjoying your courting gifts? Taehyung teases after he sees Jimin wearing it, making the younger splutter, “this? a courting gift?” Tae shrugs, “that's the only reason why he would give you something of his to wear- and both of us know it the alpha of a pack that initiates the courting.” 

- The clearly communicated wants and desires do wonders for his level of comfort. Even Yoongi tries- writes down what he wants on a napkin at dinnertime. I want to help you in your garden today. No offering for Jimin to decline, no wiggling out of it. And slowly, Jimin finds himself becomes more comfortable with his place here. 

- You try to keep the satisfied smile off your face when one day you ask Jimin to come up to the house- cuz it’s just too hot today- and he’s struggling to put together a trellis, “one second, I want to finish this before dinner” and he sits up with a jolt- realizing- he’d actually articulated his own wants for once, he’d asserted his own wants into a conversation instead of just- reacting to everyone else's. 

- Your satisfied smile warms his heart too, you notice the slow change. jimin beginning to heal. “no- I don’t need that it’s okay” “yes you do jimin just take the fancy soap,”

- “Are you sure it’s okay if i-” “Yes it is I promise.”

- The change is slow but one day, He gets to the point where he can say “Tae and I are going to go try and find some berry patches down by the river so I’m going to meet him after we get done with the ground cherries” without fear

- Jimin takes a bucket and he brings back a quart of wild blueberries. You make blueberry muffins with them while Tae, Namjoon, Yoongi and Jimin sit at the prep table. Yoongi carefully plucks thorns out of Taehyungs hand as Namjoon tells Jimin that even though Yoongi can cook- you’re the only one in the house that can bake. He even gets a pat on the head for his work and a soft “good boy” from you, and it makes Jimin's heart feel light and blooming like a flower. 

- The afternoons stop making him anxious, and after the first few days, he’s inclined to relax rather than go in search of more work. He goes to visit Taehyung by the bee hutches, hovering a few meters away as Taehyung brings him a spoonful of honey. Or if he dosent feel like doing anything at all- he plays cards with you and Yoongi on your back porch, Namjoon too- if he finds out that you’ve all turned in for the day. 

- Yoongi always wins during the afternoon card games. Whether it is poker or rummy the snake hybrid comes out on top- even when it’s something like Uno, and the elder will just shuffle the cards again for another round and smile a little, more than he does ever. And the three of you will shout and grumble in dismay when he shows his winning hand, round after round until dinner preparations start to pick up enough for someone to need help.  

- One afternoon, you look so sweet in your loose taupe frock, the stretchy material pulled over your belly and your hair free from its fixings spilling over your shoulder Jimin sees the way that Namjoon has his palm placed against your round stomach and can’t stop himself from asking. 

- “Can I?” Jimin asks, and you look up from your hand of cards and place them on the table before taking Jimin’s in yours, and oh, your baby bump is warm and soft and surprisingly more solid then Jimin expected. He wasn’t expecting to immediately feel like he was going to burst into tears, but he feels an incredible well of fondness well up in him. It must have something to do with the way that your peony and cream scent seems to tug at his heart like strings on a marionette. 

- He wants to lean forward and press a kiss there- or nuzzle it and scent mark it the way he knows Namjoon does- but even that feels like too much. You must know what Jimin is wanting as you look down at him, smiling a little even as he blushes. 

-  Little does Jimin know that this is nothing particularly new to you, every time Namjoon gets a whiff of your pregnancy hormones- he’s gotten simultaneously possessive and cloudy eyed with protectiveness. Yoongi seems to be the only one who doesn’t have that reaction. But you bet he’s spared that particular embarrassment by his admittedly more human sense of smell.

- The rest of them don’t notice Jimin’s wave of emotions, or at least they pretend to be interested enough in the third round of hearts that you’ve played this evening. Though Jimin does catch a small smile on Namjoon’s face when Jimin scoots closer. Reluctant to let go now that he’s felt the soft pleasure of feeling your baby bump.

-  The endorphin response alone has his voice husky, he’s a goner the second you lift your hand up and rub his ears, letting out a whine and putting his cards away- much more interested in begging affection off of you now.  

- “How far along are you?” “Around 5 months now I think- nearly 6 now that I think about it.”

- The four of you decide to eat dinner out on the patio instead of joining the others in the barn. The older cat hybrid sees how slumped you are and how you’re near to sleeping on Namjoon’s shoulder, and brings the four of you out dinner plates, much to the thanks of Namjoon and Jimin, Yoongi nods gratefully when she hands over his plate. 

-  By the time Jimin reluctantly so steers his way back towards the barns, the common room lights have finally turned out. A lone fox hybrid sleeps on the couch in the common room, her head tipped back and the light from the tv blue across her face. 

- He goes up to his bunk bed, the other hybrids sleeping soundly around him, perplexed to find his bed disturbed, his pillow gone and his blanket missing from his bed. He figured someone might not have wanted to get up to grab one from the linen closet downstairs, but when he goes down to the ground floor he finds it empty, not uncommon on a cold night like tonight. Jimin’s bare feet are already feeling the brunt of the cold stones, and the cozy but still slightly drafty barn. 

- He goes up and notices that the hybrid that shares the bunk to the left is the one that’s taken his blanket. “Hey give it back” Jimin hisses hushed, fighting with the half-asleep hybrid whose eyes still haven’t opened, he’s clutching the extra warmth to his chest. “I need that to sleep” the dog hybrid on the bunk above them grumble and turn over in his sleep. 

- Jimin puts a hand on his shoulder to really wake him, The hybrid, a wolf hybrid named Minhyung, wakes up with a start, arms already swinging, his foot kicks out at Jimin’s stomach.  The sudden violent reaction tosses him onto the floor with a thump, waking those in the vicinity.

- Jimin tries not to let the stinging feeling invade too much even as his ass goes numb, and he flushes with anger, especially when one of the others whose woken by the brief scramble laughs at Jimin. Minhyung does too, looking barely contrite with half his hair messy and a little bit of drool on his cheek. 

- Minhyung smiles showing his teeth. “Thought you’d be warming up that snake boy by now. Have fun sleeping in the cold.” He says, and turns to his side, ignoring Jimin. Jimin tries not to feel ashamed or rejected or any of the other nasty emotions singing in his chest at the indifference of the other hybrids in his bunk.  

- A glance at Taehyung’s bunk, the only one who might come to his aid, confirms both that the bear hybrid was the only one without an extra blanket and is also still asleep. 

- Jimin doesn’t even stop to think, he just knows that he doesn’t want to stay here on the bed, feeling cold and alone and like everyone in that room hates him. Feeling his head spinning, and his heart thudding erratically, he leaves the bunkroom and the barn and stops just outside. The cold is worse here and he tugs his fluffy cardigan around his shoulders before he starts walking slowly up the hill to the main house. 

- The lights on the ground floor are all but turned off, but the glowing he can see in the living space foretells that of a television. He deliberates on the front porch for a second, wondering If he should even bother, momentarily worried that you’ll keep him out in the cold too. 

-But he shivers and hopes beyond hope that you won't. And when he knocks on the door it's only a few seconds before he can hear someone get up. It’s not nearly enough time for him to think of a good excuse as to why he can’t sleep in his own bunk. 

- It’s Yoongi that answers, bundled up in a pair of very warm flannel pajamas and a sweater, his hair curling against the nape of his neck from a fresh shower. The bright green tartan does wonders for Yoongi’s scales, making the ones on the back of his neck look brilliant even in the half-light of the porch. He’s a little wide-eyed and taken aback by Jimin’s presence, but he waits for Jimin to speak.

- “The others- they-” Jimin’s words fail him at the worse time, throat closing off into a whine, his ears pressed into his skull. “Is it okay if I sleep up here tonight?” Yoongi’s eyes are dark and half-lidded, but he steps aside instantly nonetheless. Jimin slips into the warmth of the house closing the door behind him.  

- There is an old fashion black and white movie playing on the tv but Yoongi clicks it off and goes into the ground floor bathroom. Making a noise for Jimin to follow, he rummages around in a drawer and pulls out a toothbrush and a washcloth for Jimin to use to wash his face and leaves Jimin to wash up in peace. And comes back a few minutes later lugging a blanket with too many cords to seem logical.  

- Jimin realizes what it is when Yoongi fluffs it out on the couch and a wave of Yoongi’s scent- like the crackle of heat and something that kind of smells a lot like marshmallows fluffs towards him- Yoongi’s scent. Taehyung’s words about courting gifts suddenly ring in his ears.  

- “Yoongi, I can’t take one of your heated blankets on the coldest night of the season” Jimin protests. But Yoongi just shakes his head, putting his hand on his chest while keeping eye contact with Jimin meaningfully, then pushing his palm to the floor. jimin takes it to mean “I don’t need it.” 

- Yoongi ignores Jimin’s protests and stoops to plug it into a surge protector anyway. The couch, which already has a pillow on it, looks even more inviting now.  

- Jimin feels like a broken record uttering thank you after thank you even as Yoongi heads towards the landing, and up to where his room must be in the house, after nodding what must have been a goodnight at Jimin. 

- The couch is so comfortable that jimin gets cozy quickly (even if it is a little squishy). His heart feels a little heavy with the events of the day. He’s sure you’ll ask in the morning, and probably Namjoon too. He falls asleep easily, sighing into the warmth of the blanket as it heats up. 

- A story above, in the master bathroom, you’re pressing giggles and kisses into Namjoon’s bare chest. “Oh my god - we have to sleep it’s so late,” you already can tell waking up tomorrow at the crack of dawn is going to be brutal, but you can’t help it, Namjoon looks so soft and fluffy. He’s punch drunk and smiley with his hair ruffled at the back from the countless times you’ve tugged on it or ran your fingers through it in the past few hours.

-  He nuzzles into your shoulder and hums. A strong arm clung over your waist that draws circles over the spot where your baby bump meets your hip. He pulls you snug against him, always closer- as close as he can physically get you. 

- Namjoon whines, he never wants to sleep when it’s you in his bed- or more correctly- him in yours. Though it’s been months since he even thought about sleeping in his old room downstairs, and months since it was unoccupied by Yoongi. 

- The only good thing about going to sleep is that he gets to wake up to you. The thought always has him going to sleep like a kid on Christmas, almost too excited to sleep at all. What a dichotomy love was, making you soothed and calm and at the same time too elated to dream at all.

- You try to get out of bed, prompting immediate grabby hands and a low whine that tapers off into a growl from his throat. You're immune to his display of possessiveness, and it only makes him melt into the sheets further. “Oh you big puppy,” you tease happily in response to his whines, Tying your fluffy pink robe around your waist concealing your nakedness as you head downstairs for a glass of water and leave the door open.

- Namjoon whines again with no one to hear and burrows into the warmth you left, getting impatient pretty quickly, kicking his feet a little when he presses his nose to your pillow and gets a particularly strong wif of your scent. his tail thwacking against the covers. 

- The ground floor is dark, almost dark enough that you don’t see Jimin asleep on your couch. The blanket all but making him blend in. You only see him when you are already on the way back. 

- You’re not exactly surprised to see him asleep on your couch as he hadn’t exactly looked like he wanted to leave earlier but there is something about the tense pull of his eyebrows that tell you there must be some deeper reason why he’s here. Oh well, you’ll find out in the morning, for now, you’ll let him sleep. 

- The whining behind you and the sheer familiarity for Namjoon’s body is the thing alone that keeps you from being startled when his arms snake around your waist to rest on your baby bump. Namjoon stills for a second when he sees the figure on the couch. Jimin’s blonde curls puffed against the pillow, his thick lips pouting in his sleep. 

- “Yoongi must have let him in.” Namjoon murmurs over your shoulder into your ear, hushed so as to not wake him, you make a noise in the back of your throat in agreement taking in the delicacy’s of Jimin’s face as he sleeps, unable to resist running the back of your hand softly over the top of his cheekbones. 

- They’re so much fuller than they used to be you notice appreciatively. Brushing over his puckered lips, finally pushing back the blonde curls at the top of his head and running through his hair a little. Jimin tilts his face up, his cheeks flushed, Plush lips parting in a sigh as he chases your hand, needy for affection even in sleep. His ears twitching in the direction of your movement. 

-  “He’s so cute” you murmur. Namjoon stifles his laugh in your shoulders. “Yes” he agrees, his hands tugging on your waist, “now stop ogling the pretty pup and come to bed with me.” You grumble something like “you’re ogling too” but let Namjoon pull you back upstairs.  

- On the couch, Jimin sleepily opens his eyes to the darkroom, hearing the thud of your retreating footsteps on the creaking steps.  unsure of what he just heard was a dream or reality, the tide of sleep quickly pulling him down. The memory of the moment to be lost in his dreams by the next morning.  

- When the four of you wake in the morning, it’s too a muffled shriek on your front doorstep. One moment namjoon is asleep curled around you and the next he’s vaulting down the stairs in only his pajama bottoms. Hauling opens the front door, splattering blood everywhere before Jimin can do more than stir and rub at his eyes. 

- “Jesus what the fuck!” Jimin cries, rushing to the door while Namjoon blinks, Still half asleep and barely awake. One of the cat hybrids that usually come to cook has fallen back against the steps, disgust roiling in her face, hand against her heart in shock. “I promise it wasn’t me I just- I just was gonna get breakfast early and I came up and it was already there”  

- Namjoon turns to the door, touching his face where the blood sticks smearing it against his cheek. Yoongi skitters down the stairs after Namjoon, socked feet sliding on the floor. 

- “Fuck-” Namjoon growls out- turning to Yoongi, “don’t- Yoongi you shouldn’t-”  Yoongi makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, goes pail,  and Jimin makes the split-second decision, turning to him to block his view and asking him to go get a rag from the bathroom to wipe the blood off of Namjoon’s face. Anything to get him away from this. 

- You're standing bleary-eyed at the top of the stairs in your Pajamas, “What is it Joon? what's wrong?”  None of them knows how to say it, or what to say. 

- Its blood has dripped down the blue chipped paint of the door and pooled on the porch beneath- its scales black and pearly just like Yoongi’s. 

- On your front door, a dead snake hangs, gutted. It’s head nailed to the wood. 

My Kofi

[sam-and-buck]

At Home With Captain America

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes

Rating: G

Words: 7.7k

Also on AO3

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

At Home with Captain America

By: Adrien Davis

Published: February 2, 2026, 3:35 PM 

To say I’m intimidated by interviewing Captain America in his own home would be an understatement, and I would never have thought to ask if I could do that if he hadn’t personally invited me. Normally, I’d start one of these articles by describing the location, maybe even throw in an anecdote or two about how I got there, but that’s not going to be possible here.

Sam Wilson lives on [REDACTED] in [REDACTED]. It was a windy day.

Here’s what I can tell you: it’s an apartment. A nice one. Two bedroom, two bath.

“Am I allowed to describe the inside of your house?” is one of the first things I say to him, after getting his permission to turn on my recorder.

“Go right ahead,” he laughs, arms crossed over the worn USAF logo on his gray t-shirt. “Just don’t put the street name in there or anything.”

Wilson gives me a moment to poke around. Whoever decorated this place has good taste; it’s no haphazard bachelor pad. There’s an exposed brick wall in the otherwise slate blue living room, several plants (which I assume are fakes—albeit convincing ones—since Wilson is, by his own admission, not home as often as he’d like to be), a sturdy walnut coffee table, and a magnificently squishy-looking red couch.

It’s unmistakably lived in, though. I don’t get the sense that the place has been scrubbed spotless or particularly arranged for my visit. There are two abandoned mugs on coasters sitting on the coffee table, along with several different remote controls, and a stack of half-finished books with dog-eared corners. A pile of mail has been pushed to the side. Next to the door, a wall-mounted coat rack holds several leather jackets in shades of brown and black, and at least as many sweaters, mostly navy blue, charcoal and maroon. The shoe rack underneath houses multiple pairs of black combat boots, worn running shoes, house slippers. And next to that, on the floor, a large, gleaming silver case with red detail that could only contain Wilson’s Falcon wingpack. The legendary shield is propped up against it, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

I’m trying to imagine how it would be to leave the house for him. Got my keys, wings, phone, shield, wallet?

There are pictures on the walls and the mantle above the fireplace, under the television. People who I can only assume are Wilson’s relatives by their similarly gap-toothed smiles. Veterans. Wilson in full air force gear next to a blond man I don’t recognize. Then Captain Steve Rogers, in the 1940s with the Howling Commandos, and in the twenty-first century by himself. Wilson with Rogers, and Natasha Romanoff. One conspicuously empty nail where a large frame would clearly fit. 

Scattered among these are several very old, dour black and white photographs of a dark-haired family. The first shows a mother, father and two small children, a boy and girl. The second is the mother and children only, taken some time after, judging by their apparent ages. The third is several years later still; the same children with light eyes and dark hair, but they’re teeangers now, and without parents. They look haunting and out-of-place among the glossy prints of Wilson’s big, happy family in matching 80s colorblocked tracksuits, or Wilson and his sisters in front of a Christmas tree, surrounded by wrapping paper and toys.

There’s also a wood-framed painting that stands out: an idyllic watercolor of a little farmhouse with a green roof and shuttered windows in a field. A small pile of lumber and a white mailbox make up the foreground. The most distinctive feature is the signature at the bottom: S.G.R. I know those initials. 

“Captain Rogers painted this?”

“Uh huh,” Wilson nods fondly, hands now in his pockets. “Man of many talents. Maybe every talent. Having a hard time thinking of anything he wasn’t good at.”

I hear the unstated in that. A tough act to follow.

I think, for purposes of journalistic integrity, I should probably insert my bias before we go any further. We had never met before this interview, but I am and have always been enormously supportive of Captain Wilson and the work he’s done, and have written myriad articles and think pieces about him over the past several years. He’s shown himself time and again to be a man of unshakable integrity and endless emotional intelligence, and frankly, I’m more worried about the poor sucker who’s going to have to follow Wilson. Rogers did a lot of great things, but among the best of them was choosing a successor.

I tell him as much and he smiles, looking down at his shoes.

“Yeah, I know that’s how you feel,” he says. “I requested you for this piece, actually, because of that. People are going to accuse me of wanting a softball interview here, and maybe they’re right. For this one, I think that’s what I need.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but he continues before I can ask.

“We should probably do this in the kitchen.” Wilson indicates behind us with his thumb, after I’ve stood silently in his living room for probably way too long. “That couch is too comfortable. I end up falling asleep every time I sit on it.”

The kitchen is, perhaps, a little cramped. There’s a large, dark marble-topped kitchen island that just fits in the center of the room with four bar stools tucked under it. The cabinets are tall, with glass doors showcasing a massive collection of healthy, but non-perishable food. The shelf nearest us holds several well-used bags of pantry supplies: chickpea flour, arrowroot starch, raw sugar. There’s a pasta shelf above it, but no Kraft Mac in sight; everything is lentil-based, chickpea-based, black bean-based.

“Have a seat,” Wilson says, inclining his head towards one of the barstools. “Can I get you something to drink?” He opens the refrigerator.

“We have…” he pauses. “Water. Sorry, just got back from Ecuador this morning. Sparkling or still?”

I accept a glass of still water from Captain America. He sits down on the stool next to mine.

His house, or what I’ve seen of it, is homey in a way I can’t imagine any of the late Tony Stark’s buildings ever were, and I mention this.

“I lived at the Avengers Tower briefly,” Wilson tells me. “Tony liked everything streamlined, really modern. Kinda sparse for my taste. I needed some real furniture when I got out of there, you know? Like, things that were made by human beings. Stuff with ‘character,’ that’s what Steve would call it.”

“So you decorated this place?”

“I think it’s about fifty-fifty,” Wilson says, indicated with vague hand motion.

This is my in.

This interview, as you may have read on the cover description, is actually intended to be an exposé about the working partnership between Wilson and Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, but I didn’t want to be the one who brought him up first. 

All I knew going in is that they’re a package deal in the field, a unit. We’ve all seen the footage.

Also, Barnes lives here too, but evidently, he’s not home.

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

“I hope he apologized to you for that,” I tell him, because I’m not exactly sure how else to respond.

“Oh yeah, of course he did, even though he knows I don’t blame him for it. He doesn’t remember it at all,” says Wilson. “There are a lot of gaps, to be honest. Most of it is gaps.”

What Wilson is likely referring to here is the decades-long period in which Barnes was under the complete mental and physical influence of the Nazi splinter group known as HYDRA. If you’re unfamiliar with the history of Sergeant Barnes, I’ll list a couple of great articles for you to read at the end of this one. I assure you, it’s worth your time. 

Wilson has without a doubt been Barnes’s most ardent supporter. He’s spoken out many times about not judging Barnes based on the actions he couldn’t control, and has masterfully refocused the national conversation towards Barnes’s invaluable contributions in World War II and in the recent war to bring half the universe’s population back into existence. Wilson has been quoted as saying, “The least extraordinary thing about Sergeant Barnes is his vibranium arm.”*

But perhaps Wilson’s most effective act towards building public confidence in Barnes was his decision to designate him as an almost exclusive mission partner. Even if the general populace has been reluctant to trust the Winter Soldier, it is abundantly clear that Captain America does, absolutely. Barnes is a constant in the footage of Wilson’s exploits. The moment he touches down on the ground after a successful arrest or negotiation, Barnes is right there. He’s been sighted treating Wilson’s minor injuries, tightening straps on the Falcon wingsuit before Wilson takes flight, and he stands quietly behind Wilson during almost all of his many public appearances.

Despite his ubiquitous presence in Wilson’s company, Barnes has remained elusive for comment. He has no social media, and the only public statement he’s made to date was in November of 2023, in support of Rogers’s decision to pass on the legacy of Captain America. Barnes expressed his categorical agreement that Wilson is “the best and only choice for this job,” describing him as both “worthy of the honor,” and “equipped for the burden.”**

“Is it fair to say that Sergeant Barnes almost comes with the shield?” I ask.

Wilson makes a face.

“No, it isn’t,” he shakes his head. “The shield is an accessory; my partner is not. I really don’t like it when people lump him in with the shield. It sort of minimizes how Bucky and I have made a series of conscious choices to be the way we are now. Especially because he’s experienced being fully stripped of his personal autonomy—as a veteran, I can say I’ve had a taste of that, but nothing like what he’s been through—and I think it cheapens his choice to do what he does if we imply that he, as a person, is a package deal with my title, you know?”

The therapist in Wilson is showing. In addition to his decorated military history and service as Captain America, he has a background in psychology, and a Masters degree in Social Work with a focus on Veterans’ mental health issues. He’s worked extensively with the VA as a leader in group therapy.

“So Sergeant Barnes is by your side day in and day out because he wants to be?”

This, Wilson has another unequivocal answer for. “Yes. He wants to be there, and I want him there. And here at home.”

“Tell me a little more about that,” I say. “After the...steering-wheel-stealing incident. Once he was more or less himself. Did you two hit it off right away?”

Wilson laughs again. “Not at all,” he says. “I think there was this resentment, kind of, in the beginning. Like I’m Steve’s best friend and no, I’m Steve’s best friend. Real elementary school stuff. He really got on my nerves; just everything about him annoyed me, and the feeling was mutual. Looking back…”

And here Wilson pauses for a moment. He chews on his bottom lip, and I notice all at once how nervous his body language has become. His fingers are drumming on the table, the line of his shoulders is taut, his leg is bouncing. He clears his throat though, and seems determined to continue.

“Looking back, I can see where it was coming from. It wasn’t clear to me at the time, but now I get it. There was this one time, it was during the fight over the Accords. We barely knew each other at this point. Buck and I, we’re fighting Spider-Man—who neither of us had ever even heard of before, like, that afternoon—and he pins us to the floor of this hangar with that goo he shoots out of his wrist. Really gross. I manage to get Redwing [Wilson’s drone] to fling Spider-Man out the window. So we’re just laying there, me and Bucky, stuck. And he goes ‘you couldn’t have done that before?’ And I just turn to him, and I’m like, ‘I hate you.’”

At this, Wilson really starts cracking up. He relaxes visibly, just a little.

“Did you mean it?”

“I sure thought I did,” he says, still chuckling. “Like, I wasn’t about to take it back.”

He continues: “Anyway, so after Steve, you know, passed on the shield to me, that’s when things really changed. Actually, back up a second. After the whole Accords incident, we ended up sending Bucky to Wakanda for like… to hear him describe it, it’s like we sent him for a two-year spa retreat. They unscrambled his brain as best they could—and really, I think it’s a good thing they couldn’t do any more because I wouldn’t wish some of his memories on my worst enemy—and he spent like months meditating in a hut and milking goats and going to therapy every day. When I met up with him again, I barely would’ve recognized him.”

“So that’s kind of when you guys reconciled? The arguing stopped?”

“Oh, it never stopped,” Wilson says with a grin. “We still argue all the time, about all kinds of things. Just ask Rhodey [Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, aka War Machine] or Scott [Lang, Ant-Man] or anybody. But the dynamic shifted a little, I think. Bucky’s got… Like I can’t imagine some of the stuff he’s been through, but he’s just kind of learned to roll with it. He is hands down the most resilient person I have ever met. Easily. It was real hard to keep hating him when he was so dead set on getting me to like him, too.”

“Can you walk me through the process by which you two decided to live together?”

“Yeah,” he says, and the nervousness is back. He smooths his hands on his thighs over his jeans. “So, basically, once I got the shield, we’d just barely come back. Like everyone else who got… I—I still don’t know if this is like an okay question to ask people. Do you mind me asking if you were dusted?”

I don’t mind. “Yeah, I was.”

“So you get it,” Wilson says. “Might be the most vulnerable I’d ever felt. I got nothing. Nowhere to go, just the clothes on my back. Then Steve hands me this shield and this enormous legacy—and I look back and there’s Bucky, standing a couple of yards behind me, nodding like, yeah, it should be you. He was the first person who knew, and he’s been right by my side ever since.”

“So you decided to stick together?”

“The original conversation about it was pretty logistical,” Wilson says, rubbing his beard. “There was so much going on, it’s hard to remember exactly what was said, but I think it was along the lines of him offering to fetch the shield for me while I learned how to throw it, and stuff like that. Just easier to do when we’re together 24/7.”

“So rooming together didn’t actually grow out of field partnerships?”

“It was definitely the other way around,” says Wilson. “Basically, I’d get a call from the powers that be that there was something I had to go check out, and it was easier to just walk across the hall than to pick someone else, try to wake them up, and then have to rendez-vous and strategize.”

“I’ll bet,” I say.

Wilson nods. “Easier and faster. Bucky can go from dead asleep to fully geared up in under three minutes. The first few times were like that, with me just knocking on his bedroom door like ‘hey, I need—’ and he comes barreling out covered in knives thirty seconds later like, ‘where are we going?’ We just… clicked. And I’ll be honest; I was really surprised. He’s got my six, I’ve got his, and I never question it. I started asking for him specifically on all my assignments after that, and Fury [Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.] and everyone caught on quick that that’s how it was gonna be. I don’t have to ask anymore.”

“Do you see this continuing long term?” I ask.

Wilson doesn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Sergeant Barnes now?” I ask. “Clearly you’re partners in the field, and roommates, but…”

Wilson takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking, but he clasps them together in front of him and looks me straight in the eye.

“As of last month,” he says slowly, “Bucky and I are married.”

In the spirit of my interview with Captain America, who stands for honesty and justice and integrity, I think you deserve to know the truth. I want to say that I didn’t drop my recorder, but I did. It clatters to the floor, luckily undamaged.

That startles Wilson into a laugh. For the second it takes me to retrieve my recorder from under my seat, I wonder if he’s kidding.

“Come on,” he says. “Say something. I’m getting nervous.” He’s smiling, but not joking.

“Congratulations,” I blurt out. “I...really?”

“Yeah.” The tension leaves his body in a rush. “We, uh, it’s official.”

I’m struggling for questions at this point. The talking points I was planning on hitting in this interview are all suddenly moot, and I decide to throw out my mental to-do list entirely. I finally settle on, “How long have you two been together?”

“A little over two years,” Wilson answers. “About three months after I took up the shield.”

“How did it happen?”

Wilson grins. “Uh, well. I had sort of been…having feelings about him, you know, for awhile. Actually, it’s more like I had noticed that I was having more-than-friendly feelings in the few weeks leading up to that. I think the main reason we had so much trouble getting along in the beginning is that it took some time to process those feelings as attraction. So in a way, I was interested on some level right from the get go.”

“Even if that person wasn’t...behind the wheel of their own brain, so to speak—” I start, but Wilson interjects.

“I see what you did there.”

“—I think it would take a lot for me to be attracted to someone who had previously tried to kill me.”

“Less than I would’ve expected, that’s for sure,” Wilson says. “But it’s not like I was checking him out while he was busy tearing my wings off my back; I’m talking about once he was mentally present in his body. That was like...two years after the whole steering wheel incident, and I hadn’t seen him at all in the interim. I didn’t even know where he was during that time.”

“So it had at least been awhile since he had tried to kill you?”

“Oh yeah. And plenty of other people tried to kill me in those two years, and they weren’t even sorry about it. You gotta adjust your standards, you know?” he says with a laugh.

“Anyway, if you ask him, he says he’s been all in since the moment he saw me back in Wakanda after his little vacation. Now we’re talking about four years since the steering wheel thing. Me, Steve, Nat and everybody; we landed in Wakanda and Bucky’s there. He and I look at each other over Steve’s shoulder, and like, bam, that was it for him. 

“And then there’s five years where neither of us exist. We get back, we fight the monsters, Steve gives me the shield, and while all this is happening, apparently Bucky has come to the conclusion that he’s in love with me. After that, he was just waiting for me to catch up.”

“And he just knew you’d get there? Did you give him any indication that you were interested, or…?”

“I definitely did, but not intentionally,” says Wilson. “He’s very perceptive—like way more than I was giving him credit for—but I think it’s a combination of that and me not being as subtle as I think I am.

“Because, see there’s this invisible line I’ve drawn here—at least that’s how he was thinking about it—and I keep dancing a little closer to that line every day, the line being the no homo line; the point where you can’t take it back. The flirting, I mean. I, of course, think he has no clue and that I’m being slick about it. Actually, lemme ask—how much detail are you looking for here? Like do you want to know the whole story or just—”

“Lay it on me,” I tell him. “Just however you want to tell it.”

“Alright. Where was I? So I’m just there going back and forth on whether or not it’s a good idea to risk this roommate-partner-buddy thing we’ve got going here by trying to make a move that, frankly, I have no clue if he’s gonna be receptive to. You have to remember we’re talking about a guy from the Great Depression here, like that’s the time period he grew up in. I’m no historian, but I think it’s common knowledge that if you were a man who was attracted to men back then, you mostly kept that to yourself. The chances of him bringing up his sexual orientation unprompted are very low. And like, I’m 90% sure I’ve caught him looking before, but that’s never a guarantee, you know?

“So, instead of sitting down and having a mature conversation about my feelings, I keep doing this thing where, for example, say he’s trying something new with his hair, and I’ll say something nice about it. And then I follow up immediately with, ‘Almost makes up for your ugly mug,’ or whatever, which—I mean, he’s such a good-looking guy, like what ugly mug, obviously I don’t mean that. And he’s not stupid, he knows what he looks like. So he picks up on what I’m doing, doesn’t say anything, and lets this go on for months.

“Eventually, there’s one night… We’re on the couch, watching like, I don’t know, Seinfeld or something. Whatever was on. He’s reading a book on my tablet, looking all relaxed and handsome. I can’t have that, so I start egging him on like I usually do, and I guess I got close enough to the line that he just puts the tablet down, turns to me and says, ‘Sam, you know there’s no line, right?’ 

“And I’m going, okay, what does that mean? Like, is this a conversation I was previously a part of and forgot or...? Where is this ‘line’ thing coming from? And so I ask him—I think I just said, ‘What?’ At that point he looks me right in the eye, and he goes, ‘You can kiss me if you want to.’” So I did, and he was ready for it, like no hesitation. Like I said: waiting for me to catch up.”

This, as you can imagine, is far beyond the level of detail I could have ever imagined I’d get about Captain America’s love life in my wildest dreams. I decide to ask a new question, because I feel like I’d be pushing my luck to delve further when he’s already been so open about this experience. 

“Who proposed and when?” 

“Ooh,” says Wilson, “I guess technically I did, but I’m gonna go on record saying that one was a group effort.”

“Well, now you’re gonna have to explain that,” I tell him. “What’s a ‘group effort’ proposal look like?”

“Hmm. I backed myself into that one, didn’t I?” he says. “First, I want the record to show that before I called you guys to set up this interview, I specifically asked Bucky if there were any us-related topics or whatever that were off-limits to discuss and he said ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Are you sure?’ and he said ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ and I said, “You better be sure, because whatever I say is gonna be public knowledge after that,” and he said “I know, I get it, Jesus.” Then I dropped it because he sounded like he was getting kinda irritated. If he didn’t want me to tell you any of this stuff, that would’ve been the time to speak up, so here we go:

“We were at… Well, I can’t tell you exactly where we were, but let’s just say we were working. There was nobody else in the room, but we were getting ready to go out in the field; seemed like it was gonna be a pretty...intense situation out there. I had my whole suit on, he was calibrating his arm, and the conversation ended up at living wills. As you can imagine, that’s an important thing to have when you’re in this line of work. So he proceeded to tell me that the last time he’d updated his was never and that his next-of-kin was nobody. And I was like, ‘So what, your grenade launchers are all gonna go to the state? I don’t even get the red one?’ and I’m just giving him a hard time, you know, and he’s like, ‘Sam.’ 

“And then, my god, he just goes all the way off about how much he loves me and trusts me and I—we don’t usually go there. I mean, we’d been on the same page for a long time as far as, we’ve established that we’re in love, this relationship is going well, but it’s not something that we’d verbalized in any real depth. That’s just a level of like, exposure, vulnerability, I think, that doesn’t come naturally to most people, myself included. 

“So he just keeps talking—and I think it’s fair to say he’s not a very talkative guy most of the time—and I’m standing there with my jaw on the floor because he is not holding back, and this is all clearly unrehearsed. Like, this is just how he really feels about me, apparently. By the time he’s finished, I’m crying, he’s crying, it’s a mess. And so I open my mouth, and I have no idea what I’m gonna say to all that, but what comes out is, “Will you marry me?” I wasn’t planning on it, but suddenly I just knew. Best decision I ever made.”

“And you’ve made some very important decisions in your life.”

“That’s right. I know which ones I’m leaving out by saying this was the best, and I stand by it.”

At that moment, as if on cue, the lock clicks, and Sergeant Barnes walks through the front door carrying two very full bags of groceries on his vibranium arm. He tosses a set of car keys into a little dish and locks the door behind him.

“Hey, babe,” Wilson calls out, catching his eye.

“You did it?” Barnes asks.

“Yeah.” Wilson tilts his head up.

Barnes rounds the corner, pecks Wilson on the lips with all the comfort and familiarity of a couple who have done it a thousand times. I hear him murmur, “Proud of you,” under his breath.

Barnes sets the groceries on the counter in front of me as Wilson introduces us.

“Call me Bucky,” says Barnes, reaching out with his right hand to shake mine. There’s a silver band on the fourth finger, and when I look back over at Wilson, he’s slipping his wedding ring out of the pocket of his jeans and putting it back on his left hand.

“Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go through with all this,” he says, gesturing to me and my notepad. “I took the wedding pictures down in the living room too, before you got here.”

“I knew he could do it,” Barnes tells me. His voice is low, soft, and so quiet, a hint of an old Brooklyn accent underlying his words even now, despite everything he’s been through and everywhere he’s been. He shrugs out of his nondescript hoodie and tosses it on one of the unused stools, grabbing a kettle and putting it on the stove.

“Hibiscus or chamomile?” he asks me, pulling two boxes of tea bags from one of the grocery bags and letting me choose before turning to Wilson. “Bad news, hon. They were out of your whole wheat pita.”

“Again?” says Wilson, with feeling. “Really?”

“They only had the gluten free. I guess I could check the other store tonight, but it’s supposed to rain later, and I kinda don’t feel like going out again,” Barnes says, head buried in the cupboard as he stacks cans. “I was thinking maybe I could just try making ‘em. How does that sound? How hard can it be, right?”

“‘How does homemade pita sound,’ he says,” Wilson repeats, jabbing a thumb towards Barnes. “Can you believe this guy?”

“I honestly can’t.” It’s the truth. My brain refuses to reconcile this man with the supposed playboy I read about in my 11th grade history textbook, nor the internationally feared assassin.

“Is that a yes or no on the experimental homemade pita?” Barnes asks Wilson, still deep in the cupboard. “No promises on quality.”

“That’s a yes, Buck,” says Wilson, then he turns to me. “Don’t listen to him; he’s a great cook.”

The Winter Soldier is a great cook, I write in my notes. And then I realize this is my moment to shine.

“I actually know a good recipe for homemade pita,” I tell them. “It’s whole wheat.” That gets Barnes’s attention.

“You do?” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can you send it to—hmm.” He frowns. “Sam, it’s not showing the thing.”

“What thing?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s phone from his hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s cause it’s set to Contacts Only, Buck, you have to switch it to Allow Everyone.”

Wilson looks at me, smiling. “Bucky here hates technology—”

“—I don’t hate technology—”

“Oh yes you do, you won’t even let me get you an iPad—”

“Yeah, for what? What do I need it for? I wouldn’t even use—”

“You wouldn’t use one, huh? How about I stop letting you borrow mine for a couple of weeks, then we’ll see how you feel.” Wilson turns to me, passing Barnes’s phone back to him. “He should be showing up on your AirDrop now.”

Sure enough, I’m able to send the recipe link to Bucky’s iPhone. He thanks me and starts scrolling right through it, argument apparently totally forgotten.

As Barnes continues to read, periodically checking on the kettle; Wilson excuses himself to help put away the rest of the groceries, which are mostly produce. 

“I hope you have like, immediate plans for these,” Wilson says, inspecting the avocados as he pulls them out of the paper bag. “They are ripe, man. Tomorrow’s gonna be too late for them.”

“Yeah I do, I was gonna make grilled chicken and avocado sandwiches for dinner,” Barnes replies. “I got tomatoes, swiss cheese—”

“What’s all this about pita then if we’re having sandwiches?” Wilson asks.

“No, the pita is the bread here,” Barnes explains. “You stuff everything in the pocket. I’m gonna have to get started pretty soon; probably gonna double the rising time since it’s cold out.” Wilson hums in apparent approval of this course of action.

I lose Wilson to the refrigerator for several minutes. He stands back up after arranging things in the crisper to his liking.

“Any chance I could get a peek at those wedding pictures?” I ask.

“Oh,” says Wilson. “That okay with you?” He turns to Barnes, who nods, carefully steeping bags of tea in three steaming mugs, and then leads me back to the living room. 

Wilson has stashed two silver-framed pictures in a drawer of the coffee table, apparently in anticipation of my visit, and he pulls them out to show to me. Both are taken in front of a familiar-looking farmhouse, which I struggle with for a moment before placing it as the exact one in Captain Rogers’s watercolor painting that’s hanging to my left. Wilson’s suit in the photo is a matte but brilliant shade of cobalt; Barnes wears black.

One is of just the two of them, arms around one another and foreheads together. It’s almost too intimate to look at; I feel as though I’m intruding on something intensely private, even though Wilson is standing right here offering me a glimpse of it.

He puts that one back up onto the mantle.

The next is them in the center of a large group that consists of some people I recognize and others I don’t. Familiar faces include Dr. Bruce Banner [The Hulk], Clint Barton [Hawkeye], and Maria Hill [Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.]. Also present: King T’Challa of Wakanda and his sister, Princess Shuri. There’s a young girl in a white dress, carrying a flower basket and missing a front tooth, standing in front of [C.E.O. of Stark Industries] Pepper Potts. Next to them is a teenager with floppy brown hair doing an indescribably awkward double thumbs up.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.

Wilson snorts. “Some punk. Family friend.”

That picture gets hung on the empty nail next to Captain Rogers’s painting.

Barnes knocks quietly on the doorway behind us. “Tea’s ready.”

An awkward silence settles in with us once we sit back down in the kitchen, Wilson and Barnes next to one another, and me across from them. I flip through my notes, taking a sip from my mug.. My drink is sweeter than I was expecting, because apparently the Winter Soldier has added agave to the hibiscus tea he made me. It’s delicious.

Barnes eventually breaks. “So whatcha go over so far?”

“How we got together, how we got engaged,” Wilson answers him. “In detail too, so if you don’t want that published, you’re gonna have to grovel at the journalist yourself, because you said—”

“Oh my god,” says Barnes, old-school New York sarcasm dripping from every word. “How dare you tell people about the best thing I ever did, huh? Now they’re gonna think I’m like, a sensitive, good guy, and here I’ve been coasting along on this murder cyborg image. What have you done, you dick?”

Wilson rolls his eyes.

“So...you’re okay with it?” I ask them, absolutely ready to scrub the record if he hesitates.

“You kidding me?” says Barnes. “Every other week comes up some new atrocity I committed against my will in like...the 70s, and you think I’m gonna be upset with people knowing that once in a while I say nice shit to someone I love? Write it. Please. Knock yourself out.”

Okay then. Since Barnes seems willing to talk, I ask them if I can throw them a few questions I have for them as a couple. Barnes looks as though he wasn’t anticipating this.

Wilson turns to him. “You wanna be here for this?”

Barnes nods slowly, hesitantly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“You’re okay?” Wilson asks. “You decide you’re done at any point and I’ll end it. Or you can go hang out in the other room, your call.”

“I’m good for now,” Barnes decides. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“You can ask whatever you want,” Wilson says to me. “I can’t promise we’ll answer everything, but go ahead and shoot.”

“I guess the first question I have is: what’s the hardest thing about navigating your jobs as a couple? What bothers you the most about that?”

Wilson exhales loudly. “I mean, the obvious answer is the danger,” he says. “The nature of what we do is fundamentally unsafe. I think it goes without saying—I’ll still say it—that we’re always aware that one of us might not make it back from a mission, which is...” Wilson trails off for a moment, shaking his head. “You don’t get used to that feeling. The fear.”

“Mm hmm,” Barnes agrees, from behind his mug.

“And,” continues Wilson, “I’m also aware that by doing this interview, I’m putting Bucky in additional danger. I’m not naive enough to think that the people working against us won’t try to use my relationship with him as leverage against me.”

“That makes sense,” I say, because he’s absolutely right, and pretending that public knowledge of his marriage doesn’t put them both in a new kind of danger seems disingenuous. I face Barnes. “Your turn.”

“Racist assholes,” says Barnes immediately.

Wilson smirks and cocks his head in agreement. “Sometimes I think I’ve talked that subject to death, other times it’s like I could never hope to address it enough. Today feels like the first one.”

A diplomatic, but clear answer. Time to move on. 

I’m about to ask the next question when he adds: “Another thing that gets under my skin is how it’s like Bucky’s image in the eyes of the general public is totally dependent on me hyping him up all the time. As far as I’m concerned, he’s proven himself a hundred times over, and yet if I’m not on T.V. reminding people of that every day, it’s suddenly like ‘oh, the Winter Soldier, can we ever really trust him?’ 

“I just… It bothers me. I want us to come to a collective understanding that everything that happened happened to Bucky, not because of him. It kinda circles back into another of the things I’m passionate about, which is mental health care and awareness. I think if we as a society were better about recognizing and addressing mental illness, and particularly Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation about my husband.”

Barnes’s face is getting pinker and he says nothing, but he’s smiling a little at Wilson, who puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Anyway, we can move on,” says Wilson, his expression going easy again. “Just had to get that out there one more time.”

“Hopefully this one’s a little more pleasant,” I say. “What inspired you to come forward about your relationship? I know you guys—” I gesture between them, ”—have been together for a couple years, so why now?”

“I want to go on a date in public,” says Bucky. “I haven’t been on a date since the 40s.”

“That’s right,” says Wilson. “We’re doing all this so I can take him Denny’s and hold his hand over a $6.99 Super Slam.”

When I finish laughing, Wilson continues. “Part of it’s because we realized it’s gonna get out there whether we like it or not. You already knew when you got here that we lived together, and that’s because that information got leaked to the public last week, so it was always just a matter of time before people found out anyway. I’d rather have some control over that narrative; better you hear it from me and Bucky, how we want to tell it, than in some tabloid.”

He’s right about that: they would undoubtedly have been outed one way or another. Their status as “roommates” was reported by TMZ a week and a half ago, and there was a Buzzfeed piece only yesterday, rife with gifs, entitled 15 Times Captain America and The Winter Soldier Made Us Wish We Were Their Third Roommate, that ended on the note of how Wilson and Barnes are “absolute BFF GOALS.” Wilson continues:

“But I think the biggest reason is that we decided, together, that we actually think it’s good for people to  know. I’ve seen firsthand the impact that having a Black Captain America has had on the Black community and on the national topic of race, and we think—we hope—that a Captain America who is a member of the LGBT community will have a similar effect. 

“The people who already hate me aren’t going to like me any better or worse for being bisexual, but some bisexual teenager out there is hopefully gonna read this article and feel a little bit better about themselves than they did before. That’s really the impact I want to have here. Got anything to add, Buck?”

“Actually, yeah,” says Barnes, staring at the counter in front of him and fiddling with his wedding ring. “I grew up gay in thirties. The idea of being able to just...tell people, that’s still amazing to me. The fact that I’m sitting here talking about it with a stranger and you’re not screamin’ in my face right now…”

“You do know I’m not straight either, right?” I ask him. I’m not exactly shy about that, it’s the kind of thing most people can tell just by looking at me.

“Even so,” says Barnes, finally looking me in the eye. “You fool around with a fella back in the day—or worse, you make a pass and he turns you down—then he knows about you, and then it’s like, what if he tells someone? Some of the worst shit I ever saw came from people who found out that way. So, other gay guys. Basically you never felt safe.”

“What about Captain Rogers?” I ask. “Did he know?”

“Oh yeah, Steve knew,” says Barnes with a dismissive wave of his hand, like that ought to be obvious. “He wasn’t gonna tell anyone; I got too much dirt on him.“

“Pfft. He’s messing with you,” Wilson interjects, directed at me. “There’s no dirt on Steve anywhere; believe me, I’d know by now if there was.”

“I want you to guess how many times I’ve had to clean up Steve’s puke,” says Barnes in a total deadpan, leaning forward. “Whatever number you think it is, the real answer is higher. 

“This again,” says Wilson. “I keep telling you Buck, Steve throwing up on you at Coney Island isn’t the big scandalous story you seem to want it to be.”

“Sam wasn’t there, he didn’t see it,” Barnes insists. “We were with these girls and they just left us standing there by the Cyclone, covered in hot dog chunks. Actually, that part was kind of a relief ‘cause one of ‘em was definitely jonesing for me to kiss her before that, and I really didn’t want to. 

“But seriously, after everything we went through together, I knew I could trust Steve with anything. And that made me luckier than most—at least I had one person. Lots of guys had no one. 

“Anyway, my reasons for coming out with all this are probably more selfish than Sam’s. You know some of those Nazis—we’re callin’ ‘em something else these days, like ‘alt-right’ or whatever, but I know a Nazi when I see one—they have this crazy idea of what I was like back in the day. They’ve got this fantasy, like a golem of toxic masculinity with my face on it, and I just want to publicly shit on their dreams. Every date I ever went on with a girl was a total sham, and I was scared down to my bones that someone would figure that out. I fight because someone needs to and I’m good at it, but I hate hurting people and I’d much rather be sitting here cuddling on the couch with a man. This man.”

Barnes is grinning big and wide by the time he finishes—a real, genuine smile that brings out the sparkle in his eyes—and suddenly I feel like I’m catching a glimpse of what Wilson must be seeing in him. Wilson himself is laughing.

“I like how you snuck your little buzzword in there, baby,” he says. “Toxic masculinity. That’s one of Bucky’s things he learned about from his Wakandan therapist. 

“Obviously super important,” Wilson adds, lest I think he’s making light of something serious.

“I think it’s great that we’re talking about it so openly now, especially with respect to the military.”

Barnes tilts his head in agreement, checking the time on his phone. We’re probably approaching the point at which he wants to get started on that pita bread, and I’m definitely in his way.

“So what’s next for you guys?” I ask.

“Isn’t that always the question?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s right hand in his left and resting them, intertwined, on the countertop. “Sometimes it’s aliens. Sometimes not. Who even knows anymore?”

“Hopefully, a whole lot more of this,” says Barnes, looking down at their hands.

Wilson smiles. “Well, that’s a given. That’s always.”

This is when Barnes gets up to pull a stand mixer out of one of the cupboards, and I read that as my cue to take my leave. I end my recording, Wilson thanks me for stopping by, I promise to give him an advance copy of my writing to make sure he’s comfortable with what I said, and I find myself standing back on the sidewalk of [REDACTED] moments later.

I’m not typically in the habit of including as many details about the dinner plans of my article subjects as I have here—and I’m certainly testing the limits of my editor’s patience with the word count—but in the spirit of Wilson’s wishes for what his coming out story will mean to the people of America, I wanted to emphasize how human his marriage is. 

Barnes and Wilson have extraordinary jobs that they are undoubtedly uniquely suited for and that most of us will never fully understand, but they are also two people who have been through a lot of hardship and found happiness and peace in one another. And that’s something that most of us do understand: love, the human experience that transcends the divisions we give ourselves.

*From a press conference Wilson gave on May 7, 2025.

**From a statement written by Barnes and issued through a S.H.I.E.L.D. representative on November 1, 2023.

For further reading on Barnes, the author recommends: 

1. Greatest Generation X: The Impossible Life of James Buchanan Barnes, by Ariel Guzman, published in 2025.

2. R.Y. Uhlencott’s column “The Wolf of Brooklyn” in the October 2024 issue of Time covers the basic timeline and trajectory of Barnes’s life.

[freddiekluger]

Do you think that if the ghosts sees period dramas set in their time, it will reignite memories of their life?

i think it definitely depends on the accuracy and style of the drama- if they're too poorly researched, any attempts at reverie would be totally disrupted by the historical and visual inaccuracies (think: thomas yelling about the 'roccoco legs' during the byron shoot). of course the other big thing is setting: it's all well and good to watch to a movie set in your time period, but if it's based in a country you've never been to (especially for the older/less privileged ghosts like mary and robin, who probably didn't have much knowledge of the world outside of their continent when they were alive), it's not going to feel particularly familiar.

working on the assumption that we have at least partial historical and geographical accuracy, here's how i think each of the ghosts would respond to

robin: considering how little we actually know about early human history, i don't think robin would be that fussed by any attempt to put that on film- he'd still appreciate a good caveman joke, although he's not a big fan of how stupid every movie assumes they would have been (it's not like they had omega-3 tablets back then!). robin's unspeakably old, and for the most part he seems to have processed through all the parts of his past that he possibly can, and is now committed to enjoying his time at button house as much as he can (a big part of this is his prankster spirit and frankly underrated friendliness), so it would have to take a lot more than a stone age movie to rake up serious conflict.

mary: given her incredibly traumatic death, mary avoids virtually anything that hints of fire or witchcraft which is where things become difficult. i think mary could really enjoy a film set in her time if it follows a working family not dissimilar to her own- it could help her remember some of the positive things from her life, and probably help her feel a lot more seen as she often ends up misunderstood or ignored by the other ghosts (pat initially dismissing mary's advice about the camera work because he didn't think she properly understood what was happening; the ghosts focusing on correcting her speech more than what she actually says). the problem is, almost all movies set in mary's time that follow people from her class end up focusing on the witch trials, which is a BIG no no for her.

humphrey: i think humphrey could really enjoy watching some tudor set films. like mary, he often gets ignored (and straight up left behind), so watching a period film absolutely gives him the opportunity to feel a bit more seen and stew on those long forgotten memories like post-meal games of cards with friends, or the occasional hunting trip when the king came to visit (the trips themselves were more stressful than anything, but mouthing off about them with the king's entourage after he went to bed was always a highlight). humphrey would definitely have a keen eye for inaccuracies, but i don't think they'd bother him. it's just nice to have things be about him for a change (if by him, we mean having all the ghosts watching something that is vaguely related to his alive-period and actually looking to him with questions instead of just using his head as their personal football/security camera/magic 8ball).

kitty: kitty is one of the ghosts who accesses her memories pretty easily- she has no problem with thinking about her life, even when the anecdotes are screamingly sad to anyone listening. so a period film would naturally bring some memories, but i don't know if they'd be anything radical or new- kitty's real growth and drama would come from her leaving behind the rationalisations of what clearly was severe neglect. actually on that note, while not quite kitty's environment, i think she might get a lot out of Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette. something about the themes of the loneliness that comes with growing up in high society and only being valued for what your status and your biology can give to your family and your husband (who you likely didn't choose), along with feeling like an outsider and being visibly othered, even by those you outrank, no matter how friendly and approachable and like them you make yourself (while not necessarily linked to the broader themes of familial neglect kitty's character touches on, i think her experiences as a georgian noblewoman of colour would have to have impacted her growing up and also socially- i'd love to hear any thoughts on this from fans of colour, as i'm white and so any theories i could come up with would likely be a poor approximation). and she'd definitely like the pretty dresses and stunning rooms of versailles, and for that i can't blame her.

thomas: most of thomas we sort of got to see in Free Pass- the detail nitpicking, the excitement until a specific trigger from his life (in this case, lord byron, the man thomas considers his greatest enemy, although i’d be curious to know whether byron acually had any idea of thomas thorne’s existence) causes him to go into a full thomas hissy-fit. sure, the emotion is real to him, but he absolutely plays it up, even trying to get humphrey’s body to fetch alison so she can see how ‘upset’ he is (thomas reminds me of a child in this respect).  there’d probably be less of the tantruming for a movie that had already been made, although i’m not so sure about the memory point. The Thomas Thorne Affair sort of brought out thomas’s big Unresolved Life Mystery, and now i think all that’s left for him to work through has got to be a lot more internal. sure, he’d be reminded of a few good old parties, and maybe any romance scenes might trigger some of the sad isabelle/general lost love emotions, but i don’t think they’d be anything particularly spectacular. 

fanny: now fanny would be a real stickler for accuracy. she would be calling out every makeup, decorative, hair, wardrobe, architectural, and lingual failure with the classic lady button judgement in her voice. this is probably half because she can't help herself, but half a measure to distract herself from actually having to pay proper attention and relive her life. i think fanny struggles a lot with no longer running her own household (along with the shifting morals, and fashions, of the modern world), and so to be reminded of everything she can no longer have would be tough. i'm not saying she would long for a time when women didn't have a lot of rights, but she went from a wealthy society woman who held a lot of power in her own sphere to a ghost, unable to touch anything or even be seen by the living (save for the photo glitch), and stuck spending her days with a motley crew of equally frustrating ghosts whom she doesn't always feel respected by (noting that 'respect' to fanny is much the same as deference). she could have it a lot worse, but i think fanny would much prefer to not have to think about her old life.

the captain: the captain is an interesting one. he's one of the few ghosts who actively seeks out media related to his time, although that's within the impersonal war documentary which focuses on facts and mechanics as opposed to day to day realities and feelings. on the one hand, any war film for the captain would be sure to rake up memories of wartime (even if he never made the front- that remains unconfirmed), and the immense grief that comes with watching the people around you slowly stop returning home. the captain is a war fanatic, and has no problem talking about the great battles, victories, and tactics, so i think the heightened emotional states that a film presents would be the key to unlocking the captain's inevitable wartime trauma and going beyond the surface level facts. for that reason, i'd really like the captain to see Peter Weir's Gallipoli. i know it's the wrong war and the wrong country (although the australian's were technically part of the British forces), but i think the overarching themes of the idolisation of the military, the deconstruction of the glory of war, and the intense (bordering on the homoerotic) although never quite realised relationship between Archy and Frank (which, spoiler alert, ends in tragedy), could give the captain a lot in terms of food for thought and unlocking some of those deeper experiences. on the other hand, the captain watching a period film set in the years before his war could be equally interesting- i think they'd play on some his is insecurities and general issues surrounding the difficulty he may have had fitting in with day-to-day life (not just due to his homosexuel répression, but due to his broader issues with fitting in socially which we see through his interactions with both the ghosts and his own forces- some particularly valid fans have used these to headcanon cap as autistic). in short, films would unlock a fair few memories for cap, but even more EMOTIONS.

pat: with pat and julian it gets interesting because while yes, technically any movie set in a non-current time period is a ‘period piece’, you also have to deal with the fact that they’re going to have less impact on their respective ghosts because you also have actual movies from those periods floating around. for this reason, my answers for pat and julian are relatively similar: they wouldnt have any more memories appear than for any film coming from while they were alive. for pat, this means he’d get pretty excited about ones that came from his childhood (pat would be a giant sci fi fan don’t @ me he loves technology), but i think anything that came with too strong a family attachmet, or that he watched in the weeks/months/year leading up to his death might bring out the angry pat we saw in Happy Death Day and Perfect Day. anger is how his inherent death trauma (and the additional loss that comes from the world moving on without you) manifests, so i definitely think that would come out here, even if he isn’t quite able to put his finger on why specific movies make him so angry/irritated. for pat, childhood memories would abound, but the closer we get to his death, there’s less memories but definitely more unresolved emotion.

julian: see my point above about the whole period-film-vs-regular-film thing. julian doesn’t really strike me as a movie person, and i definitely think he wouldn’t give much care to the influx of 80s/90s set british political media (think The Iron Lady etc). in his words, “i don’t really care for politics, and they’re all too busy trying to push their labor propaganda”. he just makes a captain-inspired noise when alison reminds him that he WAS a politician. julian is another character who accesses his memories pretty easily (although they’re usually either horny or at least slightly morally bankrupt), and i honestly find it hard to give a tory emotions so i’m very excited to see how the christmas special manages. julian is a self-centred bloke though, so i think only things that are directly about him could have the power to rake up buried memories and feelings. now i really want to see julian watching a documentary on himself and just getting outraged.

thanks for this one, sorry for the delay!!

[your-lips-are-very-red]

St. Vincent x Emma Madden Interview

This is the text from the St. Vincent interview that Emma Madden was asked to not use. Since Miss Madden has decided to take it down, I wanted it to be available somewhere online - in case she manages to get all the cached versions taken down, too. 

SOURCE: https://archive.is/wFkLN

About a fortnight ago I was commissioned to interview St. Vincent, an artist I have been inspired by, impressed by, turned on by, compelled by, curious of, in awe of, occasionally suspicious of—for the better half of a decade. I try not to think about other journalists too much, but St. Vincent has developed a reputation for intimidating us. For her last press cycle, she made her interviewers crawl into a pink box; she would play a pre-recorded message on a tape recorder if a question bored or irked her. I found that quite funny—irresistibly imperious—but I considered it an act of degradation rather than an interesting switch of power. I love famous people but I also find them quite silly, like a Schnauzer wearing a bowtie.

  I didn’t know why, but for around two hours after our call ended, I was reeling with nervous energy. I was vocalising it and trying to get to the other side of it, the way I sing songs when I’m walking through a haunted house. I woke up the next morning with a voice message from the editor who assigned this piece. I am fond of this person and I will not name them. MBC, the team in charge of St. Vincent’s publicity (which is helmed by Barbara Charone, who also works for Madonna, and is considered one of the more powerful and intimidating publicists in the industry) had been on the phone to this editor, demanding the piece be pulled. My editor’s words: “They said she’s terrified of this interview coming out.” The publication didn’t have a leg to stand on.

"Terrified"? That word didn't seem to square. I thought I had done a not-so-good job the night before. I ended the call thinking I hadn’t asked the right questions. St. Vincent and I didn’t feel like a good match in conversation (or at least not in this conversational setup set-up, for which I was given thirty minutes, and continual reminders from the person on St. Vincent’s team, who remained on the call with us, that we’d need to wrap up well in time for St. Vincent’s Instagram Live session with Paul McCartney, which directly followed our interview.) St. Vincent tended to interpret my questions in bad faith. I assumed she believed me to be a Bad Reader; presumptuous, judgemental, simple, anti-curious—all qualities that her latest album ‘Daddy’s Home’, which I’ve interpreted as a counter to the folly, inadequacy and meretriciousness of moral purity—counters. Anyway, she read me wrong. I love Lana Del Rey.

  I got a call from MBC later that morning by a man who sounded quite nervous. I told him I was confused, I asked him what the matter seemed to be. He wasn't totally sure, he said, "she found the interview aggressive." Aggressive? I complimented her and cowed to her and laughed at her jokes. "Well, the message has been passed down a line of many messengers, she might not have actually said that." The man on the phone said that this—one of his artists demanding an interview to be pulled—had never happened to him before. It hadn't happened to me either. I felt annoyed by how easy it was for St. Vincent to kill something I had researched and expected money for. But the interview started to seem valuable to me after I was told that she didn't want it out in the world. "Can we draw a line under this and just kill the piece here?" said the man on the phone.

Below is the full transcript of my interview with St. Vincent (save for a short and-forth about Tool which didn’t make sense when turned into text). My questions are in bold, her responses are in italics.

**for the sake of this post, Madden’s questions are bold and Annie’s answers are not** Hi, how are you? Good how’s it going?

Not too bad. What’s your mood for today? My mood for today, well it’s good, I’m getting on an Instagram Live chat with Paul McCartney in a couple minutes so my mood is a little bit nervous but good.

I’m excited to talk about this album, I think it has a sick sense of humor that I appreciate a lot. I’ve had a really fun time listening to it.

Oh I’m glad, thank you.

I’m sensing there’s kind of a 70s trend at the moment in terms of fashion and the ways some other bands are presenting themselves. Is that something you were anticipating, is that something you feel you belong to, or was it just kind of accidental?

Accidental.

Do you feel bummed about that? No I don’t, I always just kind of do my own thing.

Do you think there’s a reason why people might be inspired by the 70s today? Do you see an analog with our world today and with the 70s? I guess this album is based in 1973, right?

Between ‘71 and ‘76, so post flower children idealism, post the Summer of Love hangover, but pre escapism of gay disco and pre nihilism of punk. Life was bad but music was good, kind of vibe.

Kind of when the trash aesthetic was taking hold, especially by Andy Warhol. Does trash inspire you? Um like literal rubbish?

No like the trash aesthetic, I guess in the PR you call it sleazy, grimy. Yeah but the difference with sleazy is that sleazy tries to present as glamorous but there’s something off, trash is just trash. I don’t know if trash pretends to be anything other.

  Can you have glamour without sleaze? Sure, absolutely. I mean, like the 20s Greta Garbo way, I would say Golden Era Hollywood, I mean behind the scenes it was probably a nightmare but you look at it and it is very genuinely shiny and beautiful.

I love the sitar on this album especially on ‘Down’, the riff is so sick. How did you get to the sitar? Well it’s not a sitar per se, it’s a choral electric sitar guitar and so it was I think George Harrison made them kind of popular in the ‘60s, I think the one I have is from ’67 and it plays like a guitar but it has a resonating body on it so it sounds sitar-esque. It was made very famous in the Steely Dan Do it Again solo.

  I guess the main PR bulletin point of this album is about your dad coming out of jail. Why did you want that to be the main way that people might read this album? More like an entry point, the title Daddy’s Home to me I mean one, it is literal but also it’s funny and cringy and pervy and also I think more than anything kind of refers to my own transformation into Daddy as it were. Yeah it’s probably not anything I would’ve really thrown out there except that it was made public without my consent but I didn’t really get to tell that side of the story and I don’t bring it up for sympathy. It simply is my story, it’s not intended to be indicative of necessarily anything, it’s just my story and I was gonna tell it with humor and compassion, all of that.

Did you anticipate a lack of sympathy for your dad’s crimes and the subject matter of this album and did that factor into how you shaped this record? That’s the tail wagging the dog my dear. No, no. A lack of sympathy, well, which crime would be the most sympathetic? I didn’t do anything, I’m simply writing about something that I think on some level everyone who’s ever had a parent can understand in the sense of you’re often going “How much of you am I?” and we kind of do identity projection through all these things so no, it’s again, it’s not really there for anything other than my own anecdotal story.

At what point did you transform into this daddy character? For how much of your adult life have you been the daddy? Oh I would just say over the past few years, I’ve just been quite a bit more leaned back and shoulder shrug and say let’s just sit down in the old beat up leather armchair and have a tequila and chat it out you know. Life is complicated, human beings are complicated and I wanted to just write stories about flawed people. There’s a whole lot of judgement going around and not a whole lot of understanding. And judgement is anti-curious. There are some people, perhaps the more sanctimonious and morally pure, who might not be interested in an artist’s reflection on their father’s white collar crimes. Do you have much sympathy for those kinds of people? I mean I think I can get sympathy for all people. If that is the reason why they decide not to spend 46 minutes with my work then I’m sure there’s plenty of other work out there for them that they can enjoy that is morally pure. They should find pure work from pure people and enjoy it.

I guess last year’s riots brought abolition towards the mainstream, during the time you were making this record, which is partially about your father’s time in prison. How did that square with your thoughts on prison and the US carceral system? Well I have plenty of thoughts on it, I’m not totally sure how it’s relevant to this.

Well I was wondering if you have a standpoint on it or if you’d rather just be ambiguous? I have so many thoughts and opinions, I don’t presume that my thoughts and opinions are relevant on every subject though. I don’t have that much hubris.

I understand. I was wondering about the Candy Darling inspiration, how does she come into the fold? Oh I just, Candy Darling to me is such a beautiful heroine in that she came from Queens and went not geographically far but worlds away to Manhattan and became her true self and in that particular kind of combination of glamour and toughness, where you feel like her name should be on the marquee and yet she could stick you with a shiv if you said the wrong thing. And I just find her inspiring and really beautiful, and I didn’t know but I found out a friend of mine was close with her and was at her bedside when she died so I was just picturing Candy Darling’s ascent to heaven as taking the final uptown train.

Wow. Did you feel like you were embodying her on this album or presenting as her? No not as such, but definitely taking inspiration from some of her energy for sure. I do hear a bit of her voice on the title track, I was wondering if you were kind of modeling your voice after her? On Daddy’s Home? Oh, no.

I love the sultriness of that song, even though it’s just about signing autographs in prison. I found it really funny. Yeah it’s definitely again, I’m writing about my own story with humor and compassion and self-effacement, all that.

Do you see this album as a movement, does it have a narrative? Yeah. It’s a full story, it’s a full collection of short stories. It has a shape and everything.

That’s just how I listened to this album, as a series of short stories. I was wondering how they interlink in your mind? I guess you have the person on Broadway, you have your dad, you have the person who’s maybe thinking of having a baby or not having a baby. I just could write stories of flawed people doing their best to get by because I’ve been most of the people on this album at one point of my life or another. And again I could write about them without condemnation and judgement just, here we are.

Are you a nostalgic person? No not generally.

Not even during the creation of this album? I’m thinking of the humming tracks, your mum cooking in the kitchen. Not exactly, I think that this particular kind of music with its sophistication and some of the jazz language in the harmony and its sense of time, it was a kind of music that I’d loved for so long but never really dipped into myself, and I think we kind of learn things a lot of times when we’re ready to, and I think I was kind of ready to learn some of the lessons that this kind of music had to teach me.

Do you think about shame a lot? Um, I think that shame is the reason why most people do the violence that they do. I think violence is an expression of impotence.

What was it about the post-idealist era in particular that you were drawn to, why not go through the flower power utopia sort of 60s route? I think that there’s an intellectual orthodoxy that is involved in utopian thinking and a lot of times it doesn’t allow for either a complex set of incentives or it doesn’t allow for the totality of human nature in its equation, and then it fails and because the structure of any kind of power is really complicated so I think in general the desire… and I understand that we’re living in, in some ways, I think just with the internet part of it, in some ways unprecedented times. And I understand people’s desire for certainty in times economic strife, cultural upheaval, all this stuff. I completely understand the desire for certainty. But I don’t think it’s as simple as demanding moral purity and punishing anyone who doesn’t fix the orthodox criteria. I understand the desire but I’m not sure it’s gonna get to where I think we want to be, which is just general more equality, whether it’s wealth equality, wealth disparity, all that kind of stuff I just think the matrices of power are really complicated.

You were saying earlier about Daddy and how you were thinking about your dad and the overlap between you two and how we all possibly become our parents. I was wondering how you consolidate the influences of your parents? I don’t know anything about them obviously but I know that your mum was a social worker, your dad was an entrepreneur, and those seem like two totally opposing worlds. Yes, my mother is a social worker and she instilled in all of us I think the idea that the work we do should be meaningful and she’s definitely really humanistic and that kind of thinking I think, that had an impression on me. My dad wasn’t an entrepreneur, my dad was a stock broker I think? But I grew up with my mom and my stepdad and my stepdad was a very different kind of guy, just was an army brat and grew up really poor, and was just coming from a different mindset and they’re just very different kinds of people. Not a judgement thing, just very different. Yeah my mom definitely errs on the very humble side. And yeah, my dad is a complicated, charismatic person who’s also very intelligent, and who went down a path that was full of consequence. Yeah they’re really, really different people so it’s funny to kind of square who was who.

What does your dad think of this album? Oh he loves it!

Yay, that’s good to know. Did you ever rebel against your dad’s lifestyle growing up as a teenager? I didn’t grow up with him, and he was in Tulsa Oklahoma. I don’t know what lifestyle you’re necessarily presuming but..

No I’m not presuming, just wanted a little background on your relationship with him I guess. So he wasn’t in your life that much where you were younger? I would go and we would spend summers there and Christmas, but I grew up in Dallas for the most part with my mom and my stepdad.

Was this album in any way an opportunity to get closer to your dad? Not in any way consciously, no.

  But are you finding with age and with time you’re getting closer to him? Well him being out of prison helps in terms of just proximity. Yeah, here’s what I’m finding. I’m finding that we live by the stories that we tell ourselves and that sometimes we realize that the story we’ve been telling ourselves for a long time was either wrong or lacked a certain amount of information, and then we have the choice of whether to reject the new information because it’s too painful to rethink the story that we’ve been telling ourselves, or assimilate the new information and go, wow life is complicated, this is an interesting wrinkle. I choose to do the latter.

  Yeah, it’s very easy to bullshit yourself, right? Yeah, it's true in all kind of ways you know?

This story, the story of your dad, it almost seems redemptive. I mean I would say so, and that’s not in any way what I intended and you know, a lot of times when you’re making something, I mean you’re a writer you know, you have the compulsion to make it but you’re not necessarily sure where it’s coming from or why or any of those kind of questions, but I think there is the possibility of redemption, I do, I think there is the possibility of people to change and I think there is a possibility of things like forgiveness and growth. And if I didn’t think that there was a possibility for human beings to change, to grow, to take in new information and then continue to write their story, then I don’t know what we’d really be doing, you know? And that’s not really the world I want to live in, we’re a moving picture we’re not a still photograph.

Do you want to try and change the world, do you feel like you have that power, do you feel hopeful that there can be a better future? Sorry for the cheesy language. No, I mean I don’t think that many people would accuse me of being an optimist in a lot of ways, and I don’t think in terms of my “power to change the world” I mean I think all I can do is try to study the human condition and write about the human condition in some way that resonates and then maybe people will hear that and that will resonate with them and I think that ultimately the best case scenario for music is empathy because it’s like psychologically this is why we like to listen to stories or this is why we like to watch movies is so we can go down the empathy exercise and you can see yourself as that person in the film, see someone who isn’t like you in any way, shape or form from a just box ticking kind of way, but then realize oh, we’re very similar in some ways or what would I do if I was in that situation, we do all these things and we live by these stories and I think those stories well-told can encourage empathy and empathy can go out into the world and have a kind of transformative experience. I don’t really think about, I mean I think once I make a thing and then it’s out in the world and it’s for other people to assimilate or enjoy or not, whatever, however they take it, is absolutely fine by me. But it’s for them, it’s not my place in any way to say how people should or should not enjoy it or assimilate it.

Yeah the reason I brought up prison abolition earlier is because that might be how some people contextualize this album. I would say that that’s one lens. That to me would not be the main lens.

[I’m told to wrap it up]

Yeah let’s wrap up. So Tool cover album next? No, I wish.

Someday I’m hoping. I love Tool.

I feel your Paul McCartney nerves Yeah, I’m gonna go shower.

That’s always a good idea. Okay take care, thank you again for you time Thanks, bye.

[jonthethinker]

Does the Cerberus Assembly need to be reformed, or destroyed? And can it really be either?

Let’s start with an opinion we can all agree on; Trent Ikithon sucks. He’s clearly a very bad person, and our collective hatred of him is one of the rare things this fandom seems to actually agree on. What he’s done to his “disciples” is horrifying, and his general ideology is monstrous and abhorrent, although not surprising considering the role he plays in the Empire. We can, on this, agree that the world would be a better place if he was removed from power, correct?

Now this is where I start explaining my probably very divisive opinion.

A lot of people would say that all it takes to make the Cerberus Assembly better would be to replace the members like Ikithon with Good People. Maybe Caleb Widogast, for instance. If you simply put someone with a stronger moral character into that position, then its output in turn will also be Good.

This, whether knowingly or not, implies that institutions, even those like the Cerberus Assembly, are by their nature at the very least morally neutral. That all it takes to make an institution like the Assembly be Good is have Good People run it. You do that, and with time, all is well.

But what if institutions did have a moral character? what if the responsibilities and powers given to a body like the Assembly and its requisite components are not Good or even neutral, but instead very, very bad? And what if the incentives the people deciding who stands on the Assembly, namely the members of the Assembly themselves, are actually antithetical to any ideas of a substantially reformed Assembly in the first place?

Let’s think for a minute about Trent and his job. We are all horrified by his methods of creating his Volstruckers. But as much as it bothers me, what bothers me more, personally, is what they are for. While we tend to view them as arcane assassins, what they really are is a wholly unaccountable means of performing all of the Assembly’s, and by extension the Empire’s, dirty deeds not meant for public notice. And seeing as they fall under the sole purview of the Archmage of Civil Influence, this is largely going to translate to “managing dissidence and discontent” in the polite language a body like the Assembly would use to describe its work.

What this means is that its job, and the job of Trent’s office as a whole, is to keep the wrong ideas from getting too popular and the people from getting too loud about the awfulness of their everyday lives, and inside a broader system like the Empire, this is usually going to be dealt with by means of coercion and outright violence. While it’s easy to feel sorry for the incredibly abused and tormented people under Trent’s power, like Caleb and Astrid and Eadwolf, I feel like I’m one of the few in the fandom who has really considered the true extent of terror being unleashed on so many whose faces we’ll never know.

Peasant farmers’ organizing for lower taxes on their grain sales. Laborers gathering to raise hell over the low wages they receive from mandatory state projects. Citizens concerned about the unchecked brutality of the Crown’s Guard. Religious worshipers worried the Empire is straying from the path set by their gods. The mentally ill and other people who simply don’t comfortably fit into the grand scheme of things. Races of folks seen as outsiders suspected of conflicting allegiances. How many people like this have vanished in the night, either to be imprisoned or tortured or killed, or I guess in many cases, all three? How much suffering has been caused, hidden away from any measure of accountability?

And this brings me to my next point; While Trent is truly awful, his title, and the role he plays, are also awful, and I think you don’t get into a position like that in the first place without being someone like Trent. I say this because we’ve gotten to meet a handful of people on the Assembly outside of Trent, and they’ve all generally had the same things to say about him; he gives them the creeps and they don’t like him personally, but he has his uses. I interpret this to mean he performs the responsibilities of his office well enough, and while his methods and general demeanor may be off-putting, it isn’t worth causing a fuss about so long as the work gets done. If they simply ignore what he’s doing, they get the benefits of a suppressed polity with very little of the personal hangups of what it requires to make that happen.

So let’s say, for some reason, Trent dies or is imprisoned and disgraced, and Caleb assumes his role. Caleb has experienced a remarkable amount of personal growth, although not without his own stumbles and set-backs like any victim of severe trauma such as he. He is, in my humble opinion, a Good Man. I know if given the power of this office, he’d be motivated to end the traumatizing of children, and killing of parents, and perhaps even the wholesale disbanding of the Scourgers itself. He’d maybe seek to alleviate the suffering of those his office is meant to contain instead of inflicting more pain upon them. And wouldn’t that be nice?

But when you’ve got this entrenched elite like the Empire does, those sorts of efforts are not going to go unnoticed, and in many cases, are going to cause one hell of a backlash among the powerful, who more often than not believe in their heart of hearts that those lowly commoners deserve their lot in life, and to spare the lash is to spoil the child, and soon you’ll have a bunch of peasants thinking they can go so far as to ask for actual power, actual control over the direction of their lives, and for any empire, but especially this one, how do you imagine that’s going to fly?

I’m reminded of an anecdote out of Brazilian politics. Former President Lula da Silva is one of the the most popular Brazilian political figures of all time, and managed to massively alleviate poverty in Brazil while also working with Brazil’s entrenched elite to make sure not to piss off the wealthiest of the wealthy. But the comfortably upper middle class, or “petite bourgeoisie” as Marx would call them, were disgusted that all these poor people were suddenly climbing the ladder. According to some folks, they complained “The airports are starting to look like bus stations,” because for the first time, working class people in Brazil could actually afford to fly. This discontent among the comfortable led to a chain events ending in the false arrest and imprisonment of Lula and the rise of their current terrifying president Jair Bolsonaro. I learned from this, and other tales like it, to never underestimate how angry some people will become when their special status ain’t so special anymore.

This is to say, that while Caleb is an undoubtedly brilliant man, without the potential intervention of DM magic, I don’t see someone with his lack of political savvy either holding power long or holding onto his convictions long enough to do anything meaningful, if someone like him is considered for the job in the first place. AND even if he does accomplish all those wonderful things through this office and survives until he’s old and gray, he will eventually die. And judging solely on the general quality of character among the wizards we’ve met thus far, I’m not so optimistic about his potential replacement.

This example does spill out my major beef with the whole “Good Person in power” idea of reform. Good People either can’t live up to their values and actually wield power, or the clock itself defeats them and everything they ever stood for. This is also my problem with governmental models overly dependent on norms, as all it takes is someone willing to just completely ignore them,and for the people in power around them to have no incentive to stop them, for things to completely go off the rails. This is why reforms generally don’t last unless they universally redistribute power itself, from the top to the bottom, and even this is going to come with its own backlashes, and it generally doesn’t happen from polite attempts at reform by well meaning leaders, at least not all on their own, but through the sheer force of mass movements or outright revolutions.

And its not just Trent’s office that has this problem. It’s every single seat on the Assembly. His is just a particularly egregious example. Vess DeRogna didn’t get her job by being polite, of that much I’m sure. She’s clever, devious, and patient, not to mention her skill set and interests directly line her up for the role as Archmage of Antiquity. I don’t really think her sole interest is making sure nobody gets hurt by all these artifacts lying around, and neither do I imagine the Empire itself has any intention of keeping her discoveries behind lock and key; they pretty clearly want them mass produced where they can and immediately wielded against their enemies, both foreign and domestic.

And I’ve hinted at this earlier, but if you think Trent is a unique monster in the halls of Dwendalian mages, I’m going to have to disagree. I’m certain there are more than a few wizards in service of the Assembly and the Empire, who if not already believing similarly to Trent, could easily be convinced of his convictions, and ready to use his power themselves in an eerily identical manner. People like Trent aren’t as rare as we’d like them to be, and they’re all ready to grab power just as soon as they can.

So it would seem I come firmly on the “burn it all down” side of things. If only I believed it were that simple.

You see, I see the Cerberus Assembly as an institution that exists, in its entirety, for the cementing of power of the Dwendalian Elite and the progression of its interests. It protects them from threats both from inside and out, it teaches their children magic, it helps negotiate its trade, it aids in putting food on its table, and makes sure its armed for bear with the deadliest of magic only the Age of Arcanum and ancient elves could provide. It’s very reason for existence is to uphold the way of life for those on top. Even if it competes idly for who sits at the head of the table, it very much is invested in maintaining the structure of that table.

So if it were sundered and destroyed as an institution, what is to stop its functions from simply being absorbed by the broader Empire? What’s to stop the Empire from simply recreating the Volstrucker program under a different name? What’s stopping them from hiring its wizards to perform their original tasks, just under the sole discretion of the king? So I’d wager the problem isn’t the Assembly, but the very distribution of power required to maintain an Empire like Dwendal’s in the first place. The assembly is an immoral institution upholding a much larger, equally immoral institution. And you can’t truly solve the problem without tearing the whole damn thing down.

Do I think this campaign is going to be one in which our lovely players start a revolution? Hell no. I expect Trent at least to die or be deposed, and with the aid of some DM magic, things will get a little better. But Matt has given enough consideration to the political forces present in his world building, that I wanted to treat his world as if it were subject solely to the forces and motivations our own is. Just to see how things could turn out without a generally kind god like Matthew Mercer at the helm.

Plus I just really love trying to understand how fantasy political structures would really work. It’s usually a lot less depressing than real political structures, at least in so far as there are no real consequences for their abject failures. But I’ve rambled long enough. Thank you to the poor souls who read this ramble. You’re truly wonderful.

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

Penny For Your Thoughts (V)

Pairing: Young!Sirius Black x Reader

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has lived in the Potter household since she was eight years old. Even amongst the Potters, whom she knew loved her, she has never felt truly accepted, never felt like anything other than a burden. Until she went to Hogwarts. For the first time she had friends who weren’t forced to act as such, she had a family who loved her by choice. There, she met Sirius, the first and only person to ever truly understand what she was going through, to listen to her and not judge.

Chapter Warnings: Ummm not sure - maybe swearing?

A/N: And here’s part five! Please let me know what you think - especially if you’re on the taglist, hearing your comments always inspires me to keep on writing, so please do let me know. If you wish to be added to the taglist send me an ASK, replies to the parts asking to be added onto it won’t be responded to

Just to remind you of what I said last time - there’s a bit of a time skip in the following chapters, here we jump to the end of the Xmas holidays but there are gonna be a few more of these kinds of skips in time in the next couple of chapters as well so please keep that in mind!

Y/N’s winter holidays passed in a flash. 

During her first term at Hogwarts, Y/N had spent so little time with the boy who had been her surrogate brother that she had actually forgotten how much she enjoyed his company when it was just the two of them, not feeling as though she was hiding something from her friends by just being in James’ presence. 

But back at the Potter’s house it was once again her and James, attached at the hip, as they had been for years now. 

In a way, Y/N dreaded going back to Hogwarts with the knowledge that she would be going back to spending minimal time with James since they were in different houses, had very different friends, shared few of the same classes and no one other than Beatrice knew that they lived together.

However, returning to Hogwarts after the break did bring a sense of relief, an overwhelming joy at finally being back with her friends who she had missed so much in the brief time that they been separated - a sentiment that she knew James shared regarding Sirius, him having confessed to her how worried he was for his newfound best friend. 

It was oddly comforting to walk back into the Great Hall the morning after the return train to Hogwarts, side-by-side with Beatrice, Liane and Jessica chatting animatedly behind them, the four of them catching up on their holidays, filling in the gaps that they hadn’t managed to on the train the previous day. 

Before she could actually enter the Great Hall to have breakfast with her friends, however, she heard a voice call out her name and turned around with a slight frown. Liane bumped into her, not having realised that Y/N had stopped.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, seeing her friend’s startled expression.

“Y/N!” The voice repeated.

“Sirius?” Y/N laughed a little as she finally placed the somewhat out of breath voice calling out to her.

“Hey! I wanted to talk to you!” 

“I kind of figured,” Y/N said with a grin. Feeling the gazes of her friends still on her, mild confusion hidden in all of their expressions, she turned to them and gave a half shrug. 

“Save me a crumpet?”

Sirius gave her a sheepish smile once her friends had left them standing in the entrance to the Great Hall, rubbing the back of his neck, tousling up his hair in the process.

“Where are the other three?” She asked, surprised that James had apparently not surgically attached himself to Sirius’ side.

“James is waiting in the common room to corner Evans,” Sirius informed her, the smile on his face becoming more mischievous.

“I thought you made every effort to try and be there whenever Lily was rejecting him?” Sirius laughed at that, shrugging his shoulders as they moved out of the way of the doors to allow older students past them.

“Remus and Peter will tell me about it - I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?” 

“I just…” a dusting of pink tinted Sirius’ cheeks and he avoided her eyes in a show of uncharacteristic nervousness. “I mean - thank you for… you know… that Christmas present,” he said, peeking up at her from under his long lashes.

“Oh - that - Sirius, you don’t need to thank me for that, that box was filled with so much random stuff, you probably didn’t need-”

“No!” Sirius cut her off, shaking his head wildly. His face was scarlet with embarrassment but his eyes shone brightly with an emotion that Y/N couldn’t quite place. “It was really… nice of you and you didn’t have to do it so I just wanted to say thank you.” His words were spoken all in a rush, the look on his face conveying a sense of complete mortification, completely unable to meet her eyes, though his words bled with sincerity.

Y/N wasn’t sure what came over her in that moment, but she couldn’t stop herself from stepping closer to him and wrapping her arms around him, embracing him tightly.

“O-oh.”

“You okay, Sirius?” Y/N asked as the boy slowly lowered his arms, hugging her back unsurely.

“This may come as a surprise to you but my family aren’t exactly… big on the whole… affection thing.” 

Y/N laughed, pulling away from her friend and seeing the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed his face as she did so, putting an appropriate amount of distance between the two of them.

“Sorry.”

“No - I - I -” Sirius shut his eyes tightly, a slight groan escaping him. “Don’t be sorry,” he settled on at last. “I did have a question about the present, though,” Sirius hurried to add, evidently not wanting to dwell for too long over the sudden affection that had passed between the two of them.

“Oh?”

“Those… disk things you put in… what are they, exactly?”

“They’re records - haven’t you seen them before?”

“Records? Records of what?” Sirius’ expression was only sinking into deeper confusion, his eyes studying Y/N intently as though worried she was poking fun at him. She let out a laugh.

“Of music! You put them on a record player and they play music,” this explanation didn’t seem to alleviate Sirius’ confusion at all. “Sorry - I assumed you knew what they were when I put them in there.”

“Are they… muggle?”

“Yeah - ask Remus, or James actually. Both of them know how they work,” she shrugged and Sirius gave a slow nod of his head, deep in thought.

“And the sunflower seeds - why were they… in there?” 

“I just thought that they might cheer you up - when they grow, I mean,” Y/N explained, feeling herself growing a little embarrassed. 

Of course Sirius was questioning her gift to him - he came from a wealthy, pure-blood family. He didn’t want a care package consisting of baked goods, muggle records, sunflower seeds, a book and some socks. He was likely used to far more extravagant gifts than that - and it wasn’t even as though they were particularly close friends to begin with.

“So you like gardening?” Sirius asked and of everything that Y/N had thought he may ask her, that was not what she had expected.

“I’m in Hufflepuff - it’s basically one of our defining qualities.”

“Right up there with loyalty and hard-work?”

“Did you miss the Sorting Hat saying so?”

The two of them shared a moment of laughter.

“Thanks - I was expecting to have a pretty… awful Christmas, to be honest with you, so thank you for making it… less so.” Y/N laughed again at that, rolling her eyes.

“At least you didn’t have to put up with James - he insisted on sneaking up on me every five minutes in his invisibility cloak after he got it for Christmas.” Sirius laughed at her anecdote but a look of mingled surprise and confusion painted his features. Y/N realised her slip-up a moment too late and her eyes widened just a little. “I should - my friends are waiting for me,” she said, gesturing to the Great Hall, not waiting for a response from Sirius before darting away.

“What was that about?” Beatrice asked when Y/N sat down in her usual space on the bench beside her.

“He just wanted to say thanks for his Christmas present,” Y/N shrugged. 

“You got him a Christmas present?” Jessica asked, frowning a little when Y/N nodded in confirmation.

“I didn’t know you were actually friends with him,” Liane commented through a mouthful of toast.

Y/N made a non-commital noise, sharing a look with Beatrice, who held a certain amount of understanding in her eyes and offered her a slight smile. 

“My mum won’t shut up about exams, by the way,” Liane went on when she realised that Y/N wasn’t going to give anything more on the subject, evidently going back to the topic they had been discussing before Y/N had rejoined them.

“They don’t start for ages, though,” Beatrice groaned. “Plus we’re first years, surely they don’t matter that much.”

“Not really,” Liane agreed.

“But we should still work hard for them,” Jessica interrupted seriously, a determined expression on her face. “I refuse to let Eric beat me in the exams,” she added, causing the other three of them to laugh.

Their first lesson after breakfast was Charms with the Gryffindors, but considering how much time she had spent with James over the past few weeks, she had assumed that he wouldn’t have anything new to say to her in the hours since their return to Hogwarts, but outside the classroom he tugged her to the side.

“What?” Y/N asked, furrowing her brows as she watched him rifle in his bag.

“I have something for you,” he muttered distractedly.

“What?” She repeated incredulously, not being able to think of any reason why James would have something to give her.

 “Oh - it’s not from me,” he explained, flashing her  quick smile before returning to digging through his bag. 

“Here!” He pulled out a scruffily-wrapped package, a triumphant grin on his face as he held it out for her. Y/N took it, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Thanks.”

“It’s from Sirius,” James explained, zipping up his bag and hoisting it back up onto his shoulder. Y/N frowned, looking over at the aforementioned boy, who had been watching her and James but quickly looked away and engaged himself in the conversation being held between Remus and Peter, though Y/N thought she saw a trace of pink on his cheeks.

“We were talking outside the Great Hall before breakfast, why didn’t he just give it to me then?” 

“He didn’t want to see your reaction.” James said drily, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

“What?” Y/N laughed as Flitwick approached down the hall, gesturing for the students to enter into his classroom. Y/N walked side-by-side with James.

“He’s worried you’re not going to like it, I think.” 

“That’s…”

“Weird?”

“I was going to go with ‘nice’,” Y/N laughed, pushing James’ shoulder a little and rolling her eyes. 

James grinned cheekily at her, starting to make his way towards the back of the classroom where Sirius, Remus and Peter awaited him.

“Oh, by the way, Sirius also said that he has no idea who Rosa is so she definitely doesn’t exist,” he added before walking away, a smug smile in place.

Once Y/N had settled into her usual seat beside Beatrice with Liane and Jessica the table in front of them, she placed Sirius’ present in her lap, not wanting to draw Flitwick’s attention to it lest it get confiscated.

“What’s that?” Beatrice whispered.

“Christmas present,” Y/N responded, also keeping her voice low.

“Why didn’t James give you his present when you were at home?”

“It’s from Sirius,” Y/N replied, not looking at her friend and carefully beginning to unwrap the scruffy paper.

“From Sirius?” Liane repeated, turning around in her chair to try and catch a look at the gift on Y/N’s lap. Y/N nodded her ascent as she pulled out the gift.

A quiet laugh broke from her, a soft smile on her face as she stared down at the present.

“It’s a book?” Liane asked, craning her neck, evidently desperate to find out what it was.

“‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’,” Y/N confirmed.

“Don’t you already have a copy of that?” Jessica asked quietly, only sparing them a quick glance backwards, not wanting to be caught breaking the rules.

“Well, yeah - but it’s still nice of him,” Y/N shrugged, carefully tucking the book into her bag and getting out her charms textbook.

“Very sweet,” Beatrice agreed and it was clear to Y/N that she was trying her hardest not to laugh.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Y/N had another proper run-in with Sirius.

Y/N, Beatrice, Liane and Jessica had been studying outside, making good use of the rare day of warm sunshine that had occurred out of the blue. It hadn’t been long before they were joined by Eric and his friend Jason from Ravenclaw, who also stretched out in the sun rays with their books in front of them, beginning to revise for the upcoming exams.

Remus turned up nearly ten minutes after Eric and Jason, looking a little awkward and uncomfortable, evidently unsure of how welcome he would be within the group of Hufflepuffs and the singular Ravenclaw.

“Remus!” Y/N spotted him, smiling at the quiet boy.

“Hey…”

“Is there something wrong?” She asked, frowning a little.

“Mind if I join you?”

“James not letting you study?” Y/N grinned, which Remus appeared to take as agreement to his question as he settled himself with his back against the tree they were using as shade.

“No - him and Sirius were trying to rope me and Peter into pranking some Slytherins so I figured I ought to make myself scarce,” he confirmed, shooting her a wry smile and opening his books. “I was also hoping for some help?” He added, looking even more uncomfortable than before. But his eyes were no longer on her, instead he looked to Liane, who seemed to feel his gaze and looked up with a quizzical expression.

“What’s up?”

“I heard you’re good with Potions?”

“I’m pretty great at everything,” Liane corrected with a cheeky smile. “But I suppose I am known to specialise in Potions.”

Their productive studying, however, only lasted for half an hour at most. James, Sirius and Peter approached them, wide grins on their faces, evidently ready to disturb the group of students.

“I can’t believe you guys are studying already!” James laughed, standing by the edge of the group, looking at Y/N with raised eyebrows.

“Some of us want to do well in our exams, Potter,” Beatrice said, not looking up from the Herbology textbook that her and Jessica were both pouring over.

“I’m gonna do just fine in my exams, thank you very much,” James protested.

“He’s right, B - as annoying as it is, James can actually sometimes be rather smart.”

“I think that’s the closest you’ve ever been to paying me a compliment,” James informed Y/N, plopping down onto the floor beside her, ruffling her hair. Y/N groaned, reaching up to hit his hand away.

“Leave me alone!” She complained as Sirius settled down on her other side, lounging on the grass and looking completely at ease.

“Anyone would think you don’t like our company,” Sirius mused.

“There’s at least a ten percent drop in productivity whenever you’re in the same room as someone, Star Boy.”

“That’s because I’m just such a delight to be around that others find it distracting, Sunflower.”

“Sunflower?” Y/N asked, raising her eyebrows at him but Sirius just gave a wink in response, stretching out even more.

Y/N gave in, shutting her Defence Against the Dark Arts book, aware that as long as the Gryffindor boys were present, there was no way that she was going to be getting any actual revision done. 

Her friends appeared to be thinking the same thing as her, also allowing themselves to be pulled away from their work and taking James and Sirius’ approach to make themselves comfortable in the grass.

“I can’t wait for summer,” James declared with a content sigh.

“Neither,” Liane agreed.

“No homework for two months,” Peter added, a satisfied smile on his face from just the thought.

“You guys are aware that we haven’t even had Easter yet, right?” Y/N asked, shutting her eyes, feeling the tiredness that her body held beginning to wash over her.

“And we do get homework over the summer, Peter,” Remus added.

“Easter barely counts - we’ll all be studying,” Beatrice inputted.

“Though you guys have clearly got a headstart on that,” Sirius agreed and Y/N could tell just from his voice that he was smiling. 

“Do you guys have any plans for the summer yet?” Eric asked.

“We always go and visit family,” Liane murmured, evidently beginning to feel just as lethargic as Y/N was in the summer heat.

“So do we,” Beatrice inputted. “My sister and I will probably end up staying with my grandparents for a little while.”

“Quidditch - I’m going to play so much Quidditch,” James sighed contentedly.

“You thinking of trying out next year?” Jason asked interestedly. “What position.”

“Chaser.”

“He’s pretty good,” Y/N backed her friend up, opening one eye to see James beaming at her. She could feel Sirius’ gaze observing the two of them but chose not to acknowledge it. “What about you, Sirius?”

“I don’t play Quidditch all that much,” he said, misinterpreting what Y/N had been asking.

“I mean for your plans over the summer,” Y/N laughed, lolling her head over to look at him.

“Oh! Nothing interesting - the usual, you know? Galas, dances, dinners, that kind of thing.” 

No one responded immediately, all of them looking at Sirius in mild shock. He frowned, looking around the group. 

“What?”

“That’s the usual?” Beatrice asked.

“Well… yeah?”

“Bloody hell, Black, remind me to get out my ball dress next time I see you coming,” Liane burst out through her laughter. The rest of the group joined in, even Sirius laughing a little, though clearly a little uncomfortable.

“Sorry - must be a… pureblood thing, then.”

“Sacred twenty-eight, huh?” Y/N grinned and Sirius returned it bashfully.

“Guess so.”