#it all feels so horrible and dramatic when youre in the midst of it all

[orcelito]

angst digging turned into genuine enjoyment of seeing the kind of kid i was back then. hyperactive, dramatic, funny... and also so achingly sad. there’s a special kind of melancholy that comes from seeing a kid being very goofy then in the next breath genuinely fantasizing about being struck by lightning. it makes my heart ache for the lost joy of the time. 

[partycatty]

dark star johnny hatefucking his gf/bf over the balcony in his mansion, and acting like he’s gonna drop them off of the balcony if they misbehave in any way

this one has been SIMMERINGGGG in my inbox ive been too excited to write it LOLOL, also i changed this prompt just a smidge

dark star!johnny cage > fall for me

warnings: SMUT AS FUCK, UR LIFE IS BEING THREATENED BUT UR INTO IT LOL, again ds!jc is just literally insane !! also exhibitionism !! and also cnc !! jesus this man needs hella warnings!

notes: IM SORRY U GUYS HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR SO LONG YOU ALL HAVE BEEN SO PATIENT SO IM REWARDING YOU

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 6*

[ masterlist ]

• dark star!johnny has a short temper, one he enjoys putting out on you. oftentimes, you didn't actually do anything, he's just mad at the idea of you going against him and that's typically enough to rile him up alone.

• this time around, you were a whopping ten minutes behind getting ready for one of his A-List parties. something about your makeup just didn't feel right no matter how many times you applied your eyeshadow or concealer, so adjustment after adjustment left johnny tapping his foot outside of the bedroom door.

• "baby~," he'd sing-song shout from the crack of the door. "this party is a big networking deal for me, and you're already fucking it up~!"

• "i didn't fuck anything up," you reply from the vanity seat, trying to focus on your lip liner. "we'll be on time, you baby."

• "don't you talk back to me!" he slams his palm again the wood, making you jump and, yet again, smear your liner. your lower your head to the vanity, bumping your forehead against the surface with a sigh.

• he eventually unlocks the bedroom door using his master key and ushers you out of the door with the temper of a toddler. his hand grabs your upper arm as you're placed into his luxury car and he drives off with a huff.

• johnny refuses to speak to you the entire time you're at the party, mostly ignoring you to bump shoulders with directors and writers. he wouldn't ever publically admit it, but roles were running dry as his agent turned up with no jobs, so he brought it up to himself to make some damn money.

• will probably call you the "ball and chain" or "the missus" in a super objectifying way as he gestures at you, trying to make the older higher-ups laugh. you had enough of it.

• deciding no longer to be his personal punchline, you wander away from the bustling, hot celebrity room and find a balcony. you were always the one to prefer fresh, open air and city skylines while johnny would rather be the one in the midst of the aforementioned city. you took advantage of this independence and leaned over the glass, savoring in the way the wind cools your damp skin.

• you only get to enjoy a few minutes in the quiet bliss before you hear the door slide open. at first, you expect it to be another partygoer hoping to squeeze in a quick smoke break, but you're horribly disappointed to be ripped from your tranquility by none other that your boyfriend.

• johnny stands at the door, fists clenched and jacket swirling in the wind. his eyes look dark, his brows furrowed.

• "where'd you go?" he asks, crossing his arms.

• you look at him like he's stupid (because he is). "the balcony?" you reply. johnny shakes his head.

• "that's not what i meant."

• "well, i left your side because i was tired of being shit on for an hour straight."

• "nobody's shitting on anyone!" johnny throws his arms in the air at your admittance, like he had no idea how cruel he was being. "they're just jokes! you're being dramatic. i thought you loved attention."

• "johnny-" you pinch your nose. "i have literally never said that."

• "but you show it! through your actions!"

• "oh my god, you're delusional," you turn away from him with a groan, trying to ignore the whiny bastard behind you. that proves a hard task when you hear his boots step up behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist and head buried in your neck.

• "you know i want you here," he mumbles into your skin, rocking you gently. you turn your face away from him, not falling for his charm.

• "you don't show it," you mutter in response, trying to take a step away from him but his grasp only strengthens.

• "i could," he hums, pressing his front to your backside. "or i could punish you for making us late."

• you swivel your head, craning your neck to glare at him. "seriously? now?" he breathes into your neck, agreeing breathlessly. "no, johnny. not here. people will see."

• "isn't that the fun part?" he grunts, grinding his hips into your ass. "don't be boring. you've been boring all night."

• his hands hike up your skirt hungrily, exposing your nearly-naked ass to the cold air. you shiver and yelp out, which only makes you jump back against him even harder. he shudders at the contact.

• "come on," he whispers, hands snaking up to squeeze your chest. "don't make me be mean. you know i don't like being mean to you." his fingers find your hardened nipples, massaging them with pinched fingers.

• attempting to crane your neck to ensure the balcony's doors are locked, johnny notices your diverted attention and holds your jaw, angling it out toward the city.

• "you see that?" he breathes, now fully grinding against you. "that's my city, baby. i'm the king of hollywood, isn't that right?"

• "i guess," you reply, gasping at his erection sliding against you.

• SMACK! johnny didn't like that answer. you lurch forward from the hard slap to your ass.

• "say it," he growls, biting your neck. "or i'm gonna make you."

• "you're the king of hollywood," your voice is comically flat, exhausted from always having to gas him up for the dumbest things. johnny picks up on your unenthusiastic tone and spins you around by your hips, sitting you on the balcony ledge. his lips latch onto your throat, sucking and biting hungrily.

• his fingers danced on your panties, sliding them aside. as much as you wanted to be annoyed with him, he is so unimaginably fine. and you're the type of person that likes to be manhandled. both traits he ate up.

• before you could say anything more, johnny's fingers dove into your mouth, collecting a good amount of your saliva before using it on your pussy, shoving two fingers inside making you cry out in surprise.

• "not here, right?" he breathes, savoring the way your breathing gets heavier and your skin warms from his touch. "then we'd better be quick. and quiet." his fingers scissor inside of you, making you moan with a hand shut over your lips.

• johnny was impatient, not finding any joy in fingering you, so he glanced behind him to ensure the coast was clear before whipping his dick out, holding his shirt up by his teeth. he lined himself up, eyes focused on your bodies merging rather than your expressions.

• didn't matter how many times you get it on, you will never be fully ready for how long his dick is. while not the thickest, it just feels seemingly endless as it's embracing your walls.

• he spins you around again, throwing your front over the balcony ledge and holding you by your hips. surely, if he were to let go, you'd fall. and it wasn't a short drop.

• "fuck," he hissed as his tip met your entrance. "i control you, isn't that right?"

• a distant "mhm" slips from your lips as johnny shoves himself inside again with a slapping thrust. his gasp slides into whimper territory as he bottoms out.

• "fuck yeah i do," he growls, now going at an unholy pace. he hated the progression of sex - it was either all or nothing. "could drop you right now."

• you're pulled from your lust when you look down, noticing the rocky way down to a small river. damn these celebrities and their hillside mansions. you swallow thickly, hoping he was joking.

• "please don't," you beg in a whisper, interrupted by gasps with each thrust. "please don't let go."

• johnny could only laugh loudly at your plea, bruising your hips with his grip as he ruthlessly pounded. he was sticking true to his word about being quick, because his breakneck pace was making your cunt flutter.

• "nobody would even notice," he moans, his shirt dropping from his teeth and falling back down his front. "i'm the star."

• "you're the star," you parrot in a sick mix of lust and fear. "you're my everything."

• "i could fucking throw you off for making us late. could drop you — haah — you like it when i play god, don't you? you wanna fall for me, baby?"

• his brows knit and eyes screw shut as he finds his release inside of you. you try hard to not laugh at the fact that his own dirty talking is making him close. his grip loosens as he concentrates, and you fearfully try to hold yourself against the balcony so you don't topple forward.

• "joh— john—" you worriedly look down again, your stomach flipping as it nears an orgasm - and potential death. "johnny, please—"

• "hmm?" johnny tilts his head, a cocky smirk on his lips and exposing his beautiful pearly white teeth.

• your brain feels torn in half. you want to beg him to hold on, but you also want to cum so badly. unable to decide on an outcome, your voice sputters out pathetic begs, not entirely coherent as your mind grows foggy with an overwhelming amount of emotion.

• thankfully, your body decides for you. your knees buckle inward and his hold on you tightens. you cry out, cumming around his dick as your voice echoes through the hills. you swear a flock of birds takes off from how loudly you orgasm.

• "haah — don't fucking fall—" johnny's hands pull you impossibly closer. "not when i'm clo— ngh —"

• you find no peace after finishing, just johnny's hips slamming into your ass as his pants grow uneven. it's not long before he spills inside of you, holding you there as you're filled up.

• johnny's the first one to pull away, pulling out and making you whimper from the emptiness. you turn around to face him, your ass still bare, red, and spilling with semen. his phone's in his hand when he snaps a couple photos of this puppy eyed look.

• "you look so pathetic," he laughs, the flash of his camera making you shield your eyes. "i bet hollywood heard those moans. all thanks to me."

• you pull up your own panties and johnny visibly twitches seeing a droplet of his cum seep through. shockingly, he places a quick, chaste kiss to your lips.

• "and you're welcome for not dropping you," he winks with a toothy grin, thinking it was some kind of joke. a deep, dark part of you knew he probably genuinely considered dropping you. you were just lucky you were only ten minutes late, who knows what he'd do if you were an hour late.

• as you're pondering your life and near-death experience, johnny returns to the party, waiting for you at the door. it would be best if you stuck by him for the rest of the party.

[ao3commentoftheday]

been having a bit of a weird time in fandom recently, because i recently got into a new ship (call them A/B), in a pretty well-established fandom. A and B are both pretty new characters in this media, and a lot of people's initial impressions of B was that she's a bratty childish dramatic type, and that A (more on the serious side) was her "dad". but that bit of characterisation on B's part was revealed to be largely a facade. A also had a decently popular ship with another character C, and it's been a bit frustrating? because people who ship A/C will show up in completely unrelated A/B posts to like. intentionally ignore the explicit romantic implications of things like, A/B fanart of them dancing, and call it a father-daughter dance, or insinuate the artist is a pedophile for... *checks notes* ...daring to ship an unrelated adult woman and adult man with one another. and on the other hand (because A/B is a f/m ship and A/C is a m/m ship) there are people in the A/B community who are going out of their way to say weird homophobic bullshit about A/C. idk, i'm just. frustrated because it's been a struggle trying to find a community in this fandom that isn't either weird about A/B or weird about the,,, general existence of gay people. any recs on how to find that?

Oof. Fandom sure is a place, huh?

I think step one has got to be blocking all of the assholes. I'm extremely liberal with the block and unfollow buttons myself, and it makes my tumblr experience pretty great. You can mute people on AO3 too, for anyone who wasn't already aware, and block them from commenting on your works or replying to your comments elsewhere.

But that just removes the people you don't want to see. How do you find the ones you do want to see?

Start with one person. If you can find one person who also likes A/B but is normal about gay people existing, follow them and see who they follow so you can follow them too.

Post about A/B yourself. Talk about the ship, and when someone from A/C comes barging in being horrible, remove their replies, hide their reblogs, and block them. Don't feel the need to engage because that's just going to be a bad time for everyone concerned.

Be the kind of fan that you're looking for and you'll become a sort of beacon for the other ones who feel the same way.

What advice do the rest of you have? How did you find "your people" in the midst of a fandom that ... wasn't your cup of tea?

[eddiemunsons80sbaby]

Everybody Hurts

Chapter 6

Pairing: EddieMunsonxReader

Summary: You needed to escape, escape from your life, your messy divorce, and all the pitying looks. Looks you couldn't ignore when everyone in town had known you and Cam, had known your shame and failure. So, you took the first job you could get, teaching third grade in a town called Hawkins. Little did you know, you were walking right into another messy situation, a messy situation with big brown eyes and long dark waves. But he's resistant, at times unbearable and you start getting curious about the town's past, his past, especially when things don't start adding up.

18+ Only for eventual smut

Next chapter: 10/04

Word Count: 5.8K

Masterlist

1 2 3 4 5

You dropped your head into your hands, sitting at your desk in your classroom. You'd just dismissed the kids after having felt like the end would never come. The day had been so long and you were exhausted but you just needed a moment of solitude and quiet before you headed home. You needed just a minute of peace before you trekked out on your bike amid all the chaos of people and vehicles in their hectic scramble to get home after work. 

It had been one of those days where everything that could go wrong just did. Johnny would not stop talking all day. Maddie called him annoying during writing time when she was trying to focus so he threw his pencil at her which missed its mark and hit Brodie. Brodie in turn threw an eraser at Johnny and then they were yelling at each other across the room. You'd had to calm the situation down, speaking to both boys about using their kind words and soft voices, but the chaos hadn’t ended there. 

Gracie skinned her knee at recess and was a dramatic mess, acting as if she’d just suffered a horrible trauma. She insisted that she couldn’t walk so you had to carry her into the nurse and the girl was not exactly small. Gracie was one of the tallest kids in your room. You were surprised your back had handled it as well as it did. Hauling around a third grader was quite different from a first grader.

Lance had been picking on Charlie again, this time about his long hair. The boy had hidden behind a tree to try to keep his tears from view of the others. You had spoken to Lance about how his words made Charlie feel but that kid was difficult to reach. No matter what you tried, he didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with his behavior. Quite the opposite actually. He often looked proud of himself. Unfortunately, you had a feeling that was coming from home. His dad was quite the piece of work who also never saw anything wrong with his son being mean no matter how many times you'd called him or asked to speak to him after school. 

You'd dropped a piece of lettuce from your salad on your favorite shirt during lunch and now there was a bright orange stain from the salad dressing. A bee had gotten into the class in the afternoon, creating absolute pandemonium as all the kids screamed and ran to the far corner of the room, swatting and jumping. In the midst of you racing around, trying to catch the bee so you could release it outside, your principal had walked in to have you sign some paperwork, observing your completely out of control class. He’d simply raised his eyebrows at you as you tried to explain about the stinging insect that had sent your class into a panic.

You could not wait to go home, put on your sweats, pour a glass of wine, and curl up on the couch. You grabbed your bag, stuffing the paragraphs the class had been working on for the last two weeks inside to grade later while watching some mind-numbing thing on television that wouldn’t require too much of your focus. Heading out of the room, you locked the classroom door behind you, taking a deep breath, reminding yourself that you had a whole blissful evening of nothing ahead of you before you had to do it all over again. 

“Rough day?” asked your colleague, Leslie as she locked her own classroom door that was right next to yours. 

The woman had been a godsend when you'd started at Hawkins, helping you navigate third grade, something you hadn’t taught yet. You had been nervous taking on a grade level you didn’t know, in a building where you didn’t know anybody, but Leslie had stepped right up, offering you assistance as a teacher as well as a friend. 

“Is it that obvious?” you laughed, hefting your bag up higher on your shoulder. 

“Oh, I know that look on your face very well. I think every teacher knows that look well because we’ve all looked like that,” Leslie answered, walking alongside you as the two of you headed out the side door to the parking lot. “You look like a glass of wine and possibly a nice, long bubble bath is in your very near future.”

“Something like that.”

“You do what you have to. Self-care is so important in this job if you don’t want to burn out. Have a good night. Tomorrow’s a new day!” Leslie called with as much positivity as she could muster and a wave over her shoulder as she headed for her car. 

“You too!” you called back. 

You walked around the side of the building, toward the bike rack, pulling up short when you saw someone leaning against the rack casually, looking as if he were waiting for you. It was the last person you expected to see, the last person to show up at your work. But he had no other reason to be here, no reason to be hanging around an elementary school that you knew of. He didn’t have any kids, right? Someone would have mentioned that at some point, especially when they found out you taught at the school.

You paused about eight feet away from him, your hands clutching your backpack straps, instantly on the defensive, wary of his intentions. “Are you lost or something?”

Eddie’s tongue slipped out, running over his bottom lip. He looked at you with a wry smile, his eyes crinkling just a bit at the corners but his expression otherwise revealing nothing. It was as if he were trying to hide the fact that he was amused by you right now. Heaven forbid he actually let someone see him being anything other than surly. You really wanted to know what had caused this man to be so guarded.

“I don’t think so,” Eddie replied, pointing over to the school building. “It says Hawkins Elementary on the front of the building. That’s where you work, right?”

“Yeah, it is but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

Eddie’s hands slid into his front pockets as he pushed off of the bike rack, standing straight. His eyes moved down toward the ground and he kicked at the pavement with the toe of his Reebok. He looked back up at you, opening his mouth and then closing it, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get the words out. 

You stood silent, confused but unwilling to utter a word. You would not be the first to break the quiet. He was the one who had come here and he could explain why. You had no intention of making this situation any easier for him. He certainly hadn’t worried about making anything easier for you.  

You were completely flummoxed, growing more and more so with each new interaction with him. Only a couple encounters and your head was swimming with thoughts, too many thoughts of him, none of them making any sense. Everything was a jumbled mess of questions and half-answers that you could not string together to make a coherent picture of what Eddie was doing here or what the hell he wanted from you. 

“So, a little birdie may have told me that you’re in need of a car,” he finally explained, one of his hands slipping from his pocket to rub the back of his neck. “I may have something for you. Well…I mean, my uncle might have something for you. I mean, if you wanted it.”

Stunned, you shook your head, “I’m sorry. You came here because you found me a car?”

“Uh…yeah…that’s what I said, isn’t it?” asked Eddie, his expression filled with annoyance as if you were incredibly stupid and should understand why the guy who couldn’t seem to stand the sight of you was suddenly waiting for you at work, telling you he found you a car. 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you try to find me a car?” you demanded, tilting your head, the pieces of this puzzle just refusing to fit together. Jesus, this man was exasperating. 

“Because you needed one, obviously. And I didn’t exactly try. When I heard you needed one, it made me think about my uncle selling his car,” he snorted, again looking like you were stupid for not getting this very complicated gesture. “Look, if you don’t want the car, that’s fine. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Since when?” you shrieked.

Eddie spluttered in offense, his head shaking. “What do you mean? I can be nice. I was nice last night when I said I would lay off you with all the comments and then I did.”

“Yeah, until you got all shitty with me again and then just took off.”

“I had to take off. I told you I had to work early this morning and I was not being shitty. Excuse me if I didn’t want to watch some stupid ass movie with everybody. I didn’t think you’d care if I stayed or not. You looked plenty cozy on the couch all cuddled up next to Harrington. Why? Did you miss me?”

His head tilted, a teasing smile playing at his mouth as his lips pouted together in the corner. You fought the urge to slap it right off his face. So, not only was he rude, he was also egocentric. He must really think himself some kind of ladies man, probably got all kinds of girls playing in a band. Well, you were not one of those girls. You were not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing what kind of effect he had on you.

“Ugh, you wish. I barely know you and what I do know I am not a big fan of. I don’t even like you so why would I miss you?”

“You tell me, Prom Queen. You’re the one who’s got her panties in a wad because I left.”

Every single feature on your face twisted into a grimace of disgust. You looked as if you had just eaten something horrible and was about to vomit. Every inch of your body language was filled with repulsion, not caring whether Eddie saw it or not. In fact, you wanted him to see how disgusted he made you. You were so beyond done with him and all of his bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself by thinking you had any effect on my panties or anything else. You are such a prick,” you scoffed, pushing your arm against him in an attempt to get him away from your bike. He didn’t budge but simply crossed his arms, looking entertained as he watched you struggle. You growled in frustration. “Would you move out of the damn way so I can get my bike and go home?”

“Someone’s got an attitude today,” he snorted, still not moving.

“Yes, I do! I have had a shit day and you have somehow managed to make it even worse! All I want to do is go home, put on some comfy clothes, and have a glass of wine so if you don’t mind, get out of my goddamn way already!” 

“What about the car?”

“I don’t want your fucking car, Eddie. In fact, I don’t want anything from you. I don’t even know why you came here when you obviously hate me.”

Eddie’s eyes softened, his arms dropping to his sides, and if you hadn’t known any better, you would have said he looked wounded. But you did know better and that couldn’t be the case. He couldn’t stand you. He’d made that perfectly clear over the last couple of days so why would he care at all what you said? The tendon in his jaw tightened for a moment and then he cleared his throat.

“I don’t hate you,” he said softly, so softly that you almost didn’t hear him. He began pressing his thumbnail into his other thumb, pushing back the cuticle as if he were nervous. “I don’t even know you. How can I hate you?”

“Well, I’ve been wondering the same thing but somehow you’ve managed because it’s glaringly obvious you don’t like me very much. I thought maybe we’d come to some place of at least tolerance last night but then you left like you couldn’t wait to get away from me. What the hell else am I supposed to think?”

His eyes slipped closed, hand covering his mouth, running down over his jaw, the jawline that had monopolized your thoughts for the past couple of days. The jawline that curved down to that neck. You hadn’t even known you had a thing for necks. It was just a neck, something that was required to attach your head to your body. You'd never given them much thought until he came along and now you couldn’t stop thinking about it, the way that tendon along the side bulged when he was frustrated or annoyed, that Adam’s apple that bobbed when he swallowed hard, that dip just above the neckline of his shirt that you'd dreamed of pressing your mouth against…

Jesus Christ! You were doing it again. You shook your head in frustration, trying to rattle out these thoughts you didn’t want to be having. You needed to get the hell away from him. You definitely needed therapy or a self-help book at least. How to avoid toxic men. 

“Look, just step away from my bike so I can go home and you can leave. We’ll both be much happier then.”

“Would you?” he asked, eyes opening, piercing you like a knife to the chest. Those eyes that were deep and rich like that perfect piece of chocolate that melted on your tongue, eyes you could easily get lost in for hours, if only he would let you. 

“Would…huh?” you asked, your mind struggling to process anything as he held your gaze, almost imploring you.

“Would you be happy to get away from me?”

“I…what? That’s not what I meant. You’re the one who…” You released a massive groan of irritation, your fingers curling into claws, hands in front of you. “You are so damn frustrating! I have never known anyone as frustrating as you!”

Eddie laughed, the sound rolling around you like thunder, shocking you. It was that laugh, that genuine laugh you'd heard one time and wished you could hear every day for the rest of forever. You felt a deep desire to be the reason he laughed like that all the time. It felt like something special, something that didn’t happen all the time. It was as if nothing else mattered in the world as much as that laugh. It made your heart feel light, it made your soul sing, and you were left flabbergasted once again as to why this man affected you so deeply, why you cared so much about his moments of joy, as fleeting as they seemed.

“Why is that so funny?” you demanded, coming back to your senses, remembering that you were supposed to be annoyed at him. 

“Because, sweetheart, you are not the first person and you certainly won’t be the last to feel that way.” He held his arms out in supplication. “Come on. You need a car, right? Just let me show you the car. What do you have to lose? It’s a couple hours of your time. If you don’t want it, then fine.”

“Look, I don’t have a lot of money for a car. I’ve been saving but I can’t afford much,” you admitted, embarrassed to have to speak the words out loud, hating that even after your ex had dicked you over, he just continued doing so, leaving you with nothing. “I…I’m not exactly flush with cash at the moment.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem. You don’t need a lot of money for this car,” Eddie assured, those plush lips puckering, one shoulder lifting. “It’s nothing fancy but it will get you where you need to be. It’s lasted my uncle for a long time. So, what do you say? A couple hours tolerating each other and maybe you get a ride out of the deal.”

Your mind flashed to exactly what kind of ride you wanted from him, your cheeks blazing with heat as the image burned against the backs of your eyes. You averted your eyes quickly, hoping he didn’t catch your embarrassment, sure you were as red as a tomato ripe for picking. The thought of being alone in a car with him was not helping you lock down those thoughts you didn’t want to be having anymore. But you did need a car. 

“Alright, fine. I suppose I can stomach a couple hours with you as long as you’re playing nice. But my bike…”

“I’ll take it along,” he said, grabbing the handlebars and immediately wheeling it toward his van. You stood still, watching him, just as confused as you had been when you first spotted him, maybe more so. He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Your cheeks puffed wide as you blew an anxious breath out and hurried off behind him, wondering what the hell you were getting yourself into. You had to be a glutton for punishment. There was no way this was a good idea but you did need a car, a cheap car, and if he had one then you should at least go look. 

For the second time in three days, you found herself in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van, not wanting to be here anymore this time than the last. This man made you feel like you were riding the Gravitron at the fair, so dizzy that you had no idea which way was up and which was down. You still had no logical answer for why he was trying to help you when he’d given you the impression that hanging out with you was the last thing he wanted to do. Maybe he didn’t actually hate you but he didn’t act like he was eager to get to know you either.

As ‘One’ by Metallica came on, Eddie’s fingers found the volume knob, twisting it even higher than it had been before, the sound completely filling the space, swallowing any chance of conversation. With each head bang of Eddie’s brown mane, the van began to rattle. The drums vibrated your seat, his thumbs pounding against the steering wheel in time with the rhythm. As Kirk Hammett’s guitar solo hit, it felt as if the van would tear itself apart. 

You watched him, transfixed, a metalhead and his music, the rest of the world simply ceasing to exist inside this metal sanctuary on wheels. You couldn’t keep from smiling, feeling like this kind of moment might be fairly rare for him, like music was his therapy, his escape from whatever dark shit he had in his past. It was nice to see him at ease after you'd experienced nothing but tension and anger from him.

“You like Metallica?” 

You jumped, his voice startling you, as he turned the volume back down to, not exactly conversation level, but not eardrum shattering level anymore. He was looking at you with undisguised surprise, his eyebrows racing toward his hairline. Shit. Had he noticed how you'd been staring at him like some lovesick teenager? You quickly became interested in the thread hanging from the sleeve of your shirt, praying that you weren't as red as you felt. 

“Yeah,” you shrugged in an attempt to play it cool. “I mean ‘Justice for All’ was a kickass album and Kirk Hammett’s guitar solo on ‘One’ is pretty damn epic. But honestly, nothing will top ‘Master of Puppets’ for me. That whole album is a goddamn masterpiece.”

His face was the picture of absolute disbelief, “Well, well, well, you are just full of surprises, aren’t you? You mean to tell me that you, the former Prom Queen, third grade teacher in her cute little sweaters and jumpers, likes metal music?”

“You know, you really need to stop making snap judgments based on how people look,” you reminded him with a small smile. “I just happen to appreciate talent when I see it or hear it and you can’t deny Metallica’s talent. Why is it so surprising to you that I would enjoy this if you obviously do?”

“I just didn’t see you as the type of girl who would want her music all loud and aggressive,” Eddie explained, a wry smile playing over his lips. “I saw you as more of a Mariah Carey type of girl. You know, safe and sweet, the type of stuff you’d slow dance to with someone you love or bop around to with your girlfriends at the club. You know, mainstream shit, what everyone else listens to.”

“I do like Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson. They’re all extremely talented artists. But I also love Metallica, AC/DC, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Dio. I also love The Beastie Boys, Green Day,  The Smashing Pumpkins, and Jane’s Addiction. I happen to also love Aaliyah, TLC, Lauryn Hill, and Tupac. My taste in music is endless. I listen to just about everything.”

“Damn…well, okay,” Eddie nodded, impressed, and then his nose scrunched up as if he smelled something bad. “Country?”

“Not so much but I do like Garth Brooks and Reba McIntyre,” you told him. “Does that negate all my other musical choices? Is that the line for you? Country music?”

“Nah, not really. My uncle listened to a lot of old country so I know some Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings…that kind of shit. He’s also a Garth Brooks fan and listen, you ever tell anyone and I will deny that shit, but he’s not so bad. It’s nothing I would ever choose to listen to but at least it doesn’t make my ears want to bleed. But Jesus, it’s depressing shit. Someone’s always losing their wife or their dog or their money.”

You laughed, pleasantly surprised at the turn this conversation had taken, the ease with which you were chatting about music. You weren't sure what had happened since last night but you were glad for it. And no, this was not because you were attracted to him, whatever the hell that was about. Obviously not. If you were going to be friends with his group of friends, then it would be nice if you could at least get along. Yeah, that’s all it was. You didn’t need to be besties but the ability to carry on a civilized conversation was necessary at least. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” you teased, bringing your finger up, making a cross over your chest. You were silent for a moment, Eddie’s eyes focused on the windshield but you didn’t want to go back to stilted silence so you wracked your brain for another topic of conversation that seemed safe. “So, uh…last night when we were talking about books, you seemed like you wanted to say something before Steve did his awful Inigo Montoya impression.”

That muscle in his jaw jumped again, his teeth clenched for a moment, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the steering wheel. You thought maybe you had picked the wrong topic, one that wasn’t safe after all. Books seemed innocent enough but apparently they made him angry for some reason. But Eddie inhaled through his nose and his jaw relaxed, his hands loosening, the sun catching those rings and sending pinpricks of light dancing across the ceiling of the van. 

“Did I…I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” you asked hesitantly. 

“No,” he breezed as if he wasn’t wound tighter than a clock just a moment ago. “No. It was nothing, really. You mentioned Lord of the Rings and those are, like, my favorite books of all time. It just surprised me, that’s all.”

“I seem to keep surprising you,” you mused, unsure how you felt about how satisfied that made you feel. 

It was a subtle movement, barely an upturn at the corner of his mouth, but it was there. A small smile, a smile you'd caused and a million butterflies erupted in your stomach at once, swarming and swirling, making it suddenly hard to breathe. That small smile was positively radiant, filling your heart with joy at the thought that you could make that happen. Something about him stirred up a strong desire within you to make him happy, to chase away those dark clouds that hovered above him all the time.

“Yeah, you certainly seem to be,” Eddie admitted, turning as a sign for ‘Forest Hills’ trailer park came into view. 

There was a certain charm to this trailer park, despite the fact that a lot of the trailers were run-down and looked like they were in need of some work. The closeness of the homes gave it a uniquely cozy feeling. Eddie pulled up to a trailer that was in a small row of them that all looked newer than the rest, the paint fresher, no signs of the weathered look some of the others had. It was like half the trailer park had been built years after the other half. A small red Honda sat to the side of the trailer with a For Sale sign in the window. A big silver pick-up truck sat next to it. 

“Here we are,” Eddie announced flatly, his face suddenly hard, almost as if he were daring you to say anything negative. “Home sweet home. This is where I grew up.”

“You lived with your uncle when you were growing up?” you asked, feeling it was a fairly innocent question but obviously not as his eyes darkened, jaw clenched once again. 

“Yeah. I did. I was the kid whose parents were deadbeats who couldn’t be bothered with him so his uncle took pity on him and took him in. The trailer park trash that the whole town thought was a freak,” he muttered, pushing his door open and stepping out. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

You sighed, a deep sigh of defeat, a noise of irritation because here you were again. His hackles were up, his defenses in place, all ease of conversation gone. You'd thought you'd, if not broken through, at least chiseled a little crack but just like that he’d sealed it off. You had no idea what you'd done yet again. Eddie was a damn minefield and you kept stepping in the wrong places, setting off little explosions. 

You got out of the van, slamming the door behind you a bit harder than was necessary, earning an annoyed look from Eddie. Whatever. You'd already offended him, obviously, so what was one more?

The door of the trailer opened, an older man with a weathered face stepping out onto the porch. He held a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, a smile that was even brighter than the light that was blinding him appeared on his face when he spotted Eddie. The lines on his face deepened in delight as he came down off the porch and pulled his nephew into a bone-crushing hug.

“Eds, what are you doing here? I didn’t think I was going to see you again until Wednesday dinner. Not that I’m complaining, kid.” He pulled back, suddenly noticing you standing there quietly, your hands clasped in front of you, feeling like an intruder, an unwelcome party crasher once again. “And who is this pretty little thing?” 

His uncle grinned, his eyes going from you to Eddie, a glint of hopefulness in them. Your stomach curdled at the sight, knowing this would probably only make things worse for you. Was he hoping Eddie was bringing a girl home to meet him? Because you hated to burst his bubble but nothing could be further from the truth and it would probably only piss Eddie off more and it would be your fault somehow.

“This is Y/N,” Eddie said dismissively, his hand flapping lazily in your direction as if you were just a book sitting on a shelf. “This is my Uncle Wayne.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure young lady,” the older man said warmly, extending his hand, so opposite from his stiff, cold nephew. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around town before.”

“That's because you haven't,” you explained. “I just moved here a few months ago, actually.”

“Oh, well it’s nice to see a fresh face around this place, especially such a pretty one.”

Your cheeks blazed at his complement, “Thank you.”

“Ease up there, old man. She’s a bit young for you,” Eddie teased, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, you stop it. Anyone with eyes could see how lovely she is. You spending time with my Eds, here?” he asked, hands tucking into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels eagerly. “It’s about time he got himself a girl. I’ve been on this boy to start dating but he’s so damn stubborn and…”

“Whoa, you got it all wrong,” Eddie insisted, shaking his head emphatically. “It’s not like that. She’s just here to see the car.” He nodded his head toward the Honda. “All she’s got is a bike right now. She needs something cheap but she needs some wheels so she’s not walking to work when winter hits.”

Wayne’s face scrunched up, unsure, “Oh sweetheart, I mean it is cheap but it needs some work. That old girl has lasted me thirteen years. I would get the work done myself but I don’t need it anymore. I’m only selling it because I could finally afford the truck I’ve always wanted.”

“How much work?” you asked carefully, looking over the car. The red paint was faded, rust around the wheel wells and the door frames, but it didn’t look like it was in the worst shape ever. Of course, you didn’t know a lot about cars but depending on the cost of the car, it might be worth it to buy it and get it fixed up. 

“Well, the head gasket could be replaced and the oil pan needs sealing. You see that dark spot under there? The oil is leaking. It could use some new tires, possibly a new battery. That’s why I’m selling it for so cheap.”

“How cheap?” You really weren't sure why you were asking. You had no idea how much all that work would cost you so you had no way of knowing if this car was in your budget or not. 

“I’m selling it for eight hundred bucks. I mean, it’s a steal if you know how to work on cars but if you’re taking it to a shop, they’re probably going to charge you a pretty penny with labor,” Wayne explained. “Eddie’s friend, Mike, works at the local dealership, sweetheart. Maybe you should go talk to him and see if you can find yourself a nice little used car that doesn’t need all this work.”

“Oh, okay,” you replied, instantly trusting him. You had no idea why but he had such an honest face and a kind smile. How had Eddie been raised by this sweet, warm man and turned into such a jerk?

Eight hundred dollars would be a dream number but not if you had to sink another couple thousand in repairs. You only had a couple thousand for a car period. You weren't picky. You weren't looking for anything fancy. Beggars couldn’t be choosers but you did need it to run. There was no point in forking over money for a car for it to sit in your driveway when you couldn’t pay to fix it.

“Thanks for being honest with me. Maybe I’ll give El a call and see if I can meet with him sometime this week,” you shrugged.

“She’ll take the car,” Eddie stated. 

“Now, son, you know any mechanic will take one look at her and take advantage. They’ll charge her more than they should just because they can. I don’t want to see this sweet girl get in over her head.”

“She won’t. Are you forgetting who always fixed up this car for you, old man?” Eddie asked, pointing to himself. “She happens to know a certified mechanic.” He turned to you. “Look, I’ll do the labor for free if you buy the parts I need. And I’ve got tires for this thing so you don’t need to worry about that.”

You found herself once again suspicious of his intentions. This man was giving you serious whiplash. Why would he offer to give up his time, for free, to help fix a car for you? Wayne snickered softly, shaking his head as he looked down at the ground. Was there some kind of joke you werent in on? 

“And why exactly would you do that?” you asked.

“Jesus Christ. I’m just being nice,” Eddie huffed, rolling his eyes. 

“For now? And what? Next week I’m left with a car that won’t run because I somehow pissed you off, you’re being a jerk again, and you don’t want to help me anymore?”

“Look, I’m trying to do you a favor, Prom Queen. You don’t want a car that is going to be in perfect shape when I’m done with it and way under your budget, then that’s your choice.” He folded his arms, staring you down, as if you were the unreasonable one in this…whatever the hell this was. 

Your eyes narrowed. You might be the dumbest person on the planet for agreeing to this but you really did need a car. Walking to work in January and February on days when the weather didn’t allow you to use your bike had been awful. Your teeth had been chattering, fingers frozen, nose bright red by the time you got to school. You'd spend ten minutes shivering under your winter coat at your desk before you were warm enough to remove it. You could not go through another winter of that. 

“Fine,” you muttered, knowing you would probably live to regret this. “I guess I’ll take the car.”

“Well, alright then,” Wayne chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Looks like you got yourself a car and a good mechanic to go with it. Let’s get this all sorted and I’ll get you the keys, honey.”

Eddie smiled smugly, clearly feeling like he’d won, though what he thought he’d won was a mystery to you. He was giving up his free time to fix a car for someone he barely knew, someone he didn’t even seem to enjoy being around. You groaned, only imagining how badly this could go as you followed the two men into the trailer.

Chapter 7

Taglist

@tlclick73 @bebe07011 @eddiesguitarskills @witchwolflea @strangerfreak @emilyslutface @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @corrodedcoffincumslut @mmunson86 @josephquinnsfreckles @katethetank

[thehauntedair]

Day 16: Release

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, Dorian, how was your week?”

“It was… good, actually. Zachary and I had a date this weekend, I’ve been getting close to a lot of my book club friends lately. It was good. Yes.”

“You sound a bit unsure”

“Well, it’s just…”

“Come on, I know that face. The nightmares again?”

“…yes. Unfortunately.”

“I presume you still don’t want to talk about them?”

“I… well. You say that like. I don’t know. Like I should want to talk about them. I just don’t. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Dorian, we can talk about whatever you like. I’m not judging you. You won’t tell me about them until you’re good and ready, and that’s your prerogative.”

“Thank you. Good.”

“So how are these book club friends of yours?”

“They’re good. They’re really good, actually. Very nice. I enjoy discussing books with them. We’re in the midst of The Count of Monte Cristo, and some of them have such incredible insights.”

“Oh, really? And the ones you’ve gotten close to?”

“Ah yes, they’re incredible. There’s this one girl who is almost alarmingly cheery even when she’s talking about the most miserable things in a way that reminds me a lot of my sister, actually.”

“I don’t think you’ve mentioned your sister before.”

“Yes she. Died. When I was very young.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Well you know, I was a teenager when it happened, and it’s honestly not the worst… I mean I do miss her, often. We were both young and all each other had and she did her best for me. Made sure I became incredibly enamored with books at a very young age, for one. And the way she told stories… Zachary tells me all the time about my storytelling voice, and the way I move while I tell them, and all of these things, and every time all I can think about is her. She taught me all of that. She was so dramatic with her stories, entertaining us both, I think. Sorry, I’ve been rambling.”

“No, this is good. It sounds like you really love her.”

“Loved her, yes. She was incredible.”

“Do you not love her anymore, now that she’s gone?”

“What?”

“It’s just that you corrected me. I said “you really love her” and you said “loved”, past tense.”

“I… well… I suppose it’s complicated.”

“Really? Why?”

“I mean I. Well. It’s not any of your- I just.”

“That’s okay, we can move along if you like.”

“No, no, it’s just. I do love her. Whenever I think about her. She’s so important to me. It’s just that. I also sort of. Blame her. For the way my life went after she died. I know that’s awful, I’m sorry, I just…”

“It’s not awful, Dorian.”

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s not. You were a teenager, just getting your footing, and she left you alone, with no one, fragile and hurting. And from what you’ve told me before you spent a long time after that in what you have described several times as a death cult. Cults prey on vulnerable people. You were vulnerable because she was gone. It makes sense.”

“It’s still horrible, though. She couldn’t control dying. Honestly I still to this day half suspect the aforementioned death cult had something to do with it.”

“Right. Well all I’m saying is, you can blame her a little bit and you can still love her. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Hm.”

“Hm.”

“The nightmares. Um.”

“Yes?”

“Some of them are about her. Most of them are about the death cult, and the uh. Escaping of the death cult, and the. Uh. Horrible things that might happen to Zachary, or kat, or even some of my new friends. And some of them- a lot of them- are just really awful memories. Watching Allegra die…”

“Allegra, that was?”

“The cult leader. She was like a mother to me for so long and she… detonated a bomb right in front of me. Blew up a building, tried to blow us both up. We landed in the ocean and I was saved by a passing ship, but she drowned. And in my nightmares I’ll see her just before the bomb went off. Or I’ll hear her telling me things, horrible things. Or I’ll remember people I’ve killed…”

“That does sound… complicated.”

“Yes. I didn’t know what to feel then and I honestly still don’t. The things she made me do are fuel for other, distinct, nightmares, but she was also the only person in the world who even came close to loving me for so, so long, and I just- sorry, I just-“

“It’s okay to cry, Dorian.”

“I don’t want to cry over her, I shouldn’t cry over her, I killed for her, she almost killed me, killed Zachary, she completely destroyed me and I have had to thread myself back together with… dental floss and peanut butter, and I don’t-“

“Here, it’s okay, Dorian. Here, breathe with me. One, two, three, in, one, two, three, hold, one, two, three, out. Good. Wipe your eyes. Where are you?”

“I’m… in New York”

“Where in New York”

“I’m in your office. The new therapy building in the medical complex. Across from your introduction to cognitive development books and horrible annotated books on Freud and why he is wrong about everything. On a couch. The carpet is blue. I kicked off my shoes as soon as I got here.”

“Good, yes. And what year is it?”

“It’s February of 2021. The eighth.”

“Excellent. Good. Keep breathing.”

“I just. It wasn’t fair, you know?”

“What wasn’t fair, Dorian?”

“All of it. Growing up with no parents. My sister dying. Allegra taking me in. Being taught how to kill people, praised for it, murder, subterfuge, all of that godawful violence, enjoying it, being good at it. And then, god, and then Mirabel, and Zachary saving me, I do not deserve that man even in the slightest-“

“I’m sure he would argue that point relentlessly”

“And then almost killing him because of that stupid-“

“You almost killed- okay never mind go on,”

“That stupid instinct, I thought I would know if it was him but I didn’t and those godwaful caverns and Allegra dying right in front of me and all of these years of realizing that I am so, incredibly, irreparably broken that I-“

“Dorian. Look at me.”

“That I-“

“Look at me. Breathe.”

“Okay.”

“Breathe”

“Okay I’m, I’m breathing, I’m-“

“You’re hyperventilating. Breathe with me. One, two three-“

“In”

“One, two, three, hold, and one, two, three, out. Good. A few more.

“One, two, three…”

“Good. Now Dorian. You are not broken.”

“I am, though.”

“You are not. And very much not irreparably so.”

“I’m not completely sure that is a feasible conjugation of that word.”

“Okay. Fine. But Dorian. You have a husband who loves you. You have a home. You have many friends who care very deeply for you. You cook, you clean, you find things to do with your days, you have a new book club with people who seem to be having a great time with you. And you are sitting here with me, in therapy, trying to heal all of those old wounds so that you won’t have to deal with nightmares, or flashbacks, or panic attacks every day of your life. You have built a good solid foundation for yourself. Don’t go telling me these are the actions of someone irreparably broken. You try so hard for yourself, Dorian, don’t dismiss that.”

“I… well. Yes. I suppose so.”

“You’ve got a bit of a smile going there”

“It’s just that you sounded a bit like Zachary there.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that he’s sensible, then!”

“He is. God I love that man. I don’t deserve him.”

“Again, I do believe he would argue that point very strongly.”

“He would, he does.”

“Tissue?”

“Thank you. It is just… there is so much of my life that was spent doing horrible things, dealing with horrible people, being someone monstrous, someone I try to distance myself from as much as humanly possible. And it’s over now, it’s over, and like you say I have this wonderful life I’ve built myself, but it just feels like he- that man I was- is haunting me. Like any moment I’ll just. Turn into him again. Hurt everyone I love, run away and never be seen again.”

“Start up your own death cult while you’re at it maybe?”

“Come on.”

“No, I hear you. Now Dorian I’m going to say something you aren’t going to like, but can you consider it anyway?”

“… alright.”

“What if that man who you were was not a monster. What if he was just a man. In pain, desperate for love, any kind of care and attention. What if he was a man, and that man is still haunting you because he is a part of who you are, and now that he knows you can have love, he wants some from you?”

“…”

“Yes?”

“I’m considering it.”

“And?”

“You were right, I don’t like it.”

“Mhm.”

“But it also… makes sense.”

“I thought it might.”

“I really don’t like it.”

“Tell me why you don’t like it.”

“Because it means that there is nothing… separating me from him. I could just-“

“Hurt people?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you hurt people anymore? Why don’t you explode on everyone you love? Why don’t you run away and start a new death cult?”

“Because I- I-“

“Yes?”

“Because I changed! I am not the man who did that anymore!”

“Does change mean you aren’t that man anymore?”

“Yes! No? Maybe! I don’t know!”

“Or does it mean that that man made a choice to change his behavior. That you made choices to get better. To get out. To have a life.”

“I.. I mean…”

“Dorian. If you are that man, it does mean that all of those things you did back then are still your responsibility, yes. I don’t think you ever stopped thinking of them as your responsibility. But it also means that you get the credit for making those choices to change.”

“Mm. I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s… so much of it was so out of my control! If it hadn’t been for Mirabel, and then Zachary, I couldn’t have-“

“So because you were lucky enough to have a support system you don’t get credit for changing?”

“I… well.”

“Dorian, I would argue that if you weren’t ready to make that change in your life, you wouldn’t have. They didn’t make you into the man you are today, you did. A young man lost his sister, his only family, and then the only love he ever got was from a horrifying death cult, and even that was sparing and conditional. The second you got an opportunity to be something else, to be loved, really loved, you took it. That matters.”

“But what if I’m not better?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I’m not better. What if that part of me, that part of me that almost killed both of them, that gives me nightmares, that makes me sleep with a knife under my pillow, that man. If you say he’s me. And I’m him. What if he’s just waiting? What if the second something goes wrong I snap and I’m him again?”

“Dorian. Look me in the eye and tell me that you losing your senses and murdering your husband is a genuine concern that you have.”

“Losing my senses and murdering my husband is a genuine concern that I have!”

“Okay! Fair enough. Why?”

“I just told you why!”

“No, you just told me some- roundabout poetic tale about body snatching.”

“Fine. Fine! I am worried about murdering my husband because I have nightmares about murdering my husband and I sleep with a knife under my pillow and sometimes when I wake up the knife is in my hand. Happy now?”

“Dorian?”

“Are you, are you, happy now, that you’ve gotten me to say it? That I can’t even-“

“Dorian.”

“What!”

“Does he know?”

“Of course he knows!”

“Okay, and have you had a conversation about it? A real, feet to the ground conversation about it?”

“… Yes. He insisted after I started sleeping on the couch. He told me that he loved me and trusted me not to kill him in his sleep. He told me that he woke up a few times when it had happened and I never got further than the knife in my hand. And we agreed that if he woke up he would wake me. And I started coming to therapy not long after that.”

“Zachary is a very sensible man. It sounds like you have the situation about as under control as you can get it without actually working out the underlying issues.”

“I love him.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt him. Or scare him. I know it scares him.”

“I know. How about we work on getting you comfortable enough to sleep without the knives?”

“I… yes. I hate that too, but it’s probably a good idea all around. Yes.”

“Okay Dorian. Drink some water. We made some good progress today, I’m proud of you. That’s time for today, go hug your husband who has been hovering outside the door for the past ten minutes. I’ll see you next week and we can get started on a plan, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. And hey, think about what I said. That man you used to be deserves love just as much as the man you are now does.”

“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

“See you next week.”

[kellyvela]

Why do you think GRRM is so drawn to tragic romances and stories? He is happily married and now very successful, so is that coming from his own personal preference do you think, or is that how he thinks of reality and he wants his stories to feel real, or is that to emulate the Greek Myth, Shakespeare, & Histories he’s so inspired by? All of the above?

All the above, I think.

He was asked or mentioned most of the stuff that’s already been covered, but one thing he talked about that I found particularly interesting was Romanticism. He said that he is a romantic, in the classical sense. He said the trouble with being a romantic is that from a very early age you keep having your face smashed into the harshness of reality. That things aren’t always fair, bad things happen to good people, etc. He said it’s a realists world, so romantics are burned quite often. This theme of romantic idealism conflicting with harsh reality is something he finds very dramatic and compelling, and he weaves it into his work. Specifically he mentioned that the Knight exemplifies this, as the chivalric code is one of the most idealistic out there, protection of the weak, paragon of all that is good, fighting for truth and justice. The reality was that they were people, and therefore could do horrible cruel things, rape, pillage, wanton killing, made all the more striking or horrifying because it was in complete opposition to what they were “supposed” to be. Really interesting stuff.

—US SIGNING TOUR (SEATTLE, WA) - NOVEMBER 21, 2005

NG: Looking back at the space operas you produced early in your career, two related features stand out: intense Romanticism, and melancholy Gothicism. What influences, what artistic and personal considerations, impelled you in these literary directions? 

GRRM: I was always intensely Romantic, even when I was too young to understand what that meant. But Romanticism has its dark side, as any Romantic soon discovers… which is where the melancholy comes in, I suppose. I don’t know if this is a matter of artistic influences so much as it is of temperament. But there’s always been something in a twilight that moves me, and a sunset speaks to me in a way that no sunrise ever has.

—Sunsets of High Renown - An Interview with George R. R. Martin by Nick Gevers

“A great battle is a terrible thing,” the old knight said, “but in the midst of blood and carnage, there is sometimes also beauty, beauty that could break your heart. I will never forget the way the sun looked when it set upon the Redgrass Field…ten thousand men had died, and the air was thick with moans and lamentations, but above us the sky turned gold and red and orange, so beautiful it made me weep to know that my sons would never see it.” 

—THE SWORN SWORD 

Now and again one of my readers will ask me why I don’t write sad stories of unrequited love any longer, the way I did so often in the ‘70s. Parris is to blame for that. You can only write that stuff when your heart is broken. —DOING THE WILD CARD SHUFFLE - Dreamsongs - Volume II - George R R Martin

Thanks for your message :)

[amor-litterae]

Why is it so scary to see my own reflection on the TV screen

What are you so afraid of?

It’s only you, despite it all, you… has it ever been any different?

My mind ruminates in the basks of night, churning down its newest concern, a twisted image of me licking around it like a cheap jaw-breaker

That breaks the peace in my lungs rather than the integrity of my jaw, as my tired eyes find other ways to cry

But they do nothing to soothe the scorching, plaguing the back of a mouth so loud, yet so silent

When did I grow up? When did I grow to resent laughter, perhaps it feels bittersweet in the midst of muddy worries, that remain both unnoticed and unsoothed

I troubled myself to think, wonder even. Have I perfected such an act that no one would expect even a hair out of place in my mind, or something much more painful?

Spare me some sympathy, my heart is bleeding in the face of my own dramatics, theatrics and silent hysterics

I wish I could find more poetic words, maybe even drag up the reminiscence of whatever literature swam in my unconscious to make my rambles far more dignified, more meaningful

Perhaps I have grown into a tall child, perhaps

Is it unwarranted? To be shown love rather than to hear about it- Am I selfish for wanting action, for wanting to see your eyes soften at the sight of me

To want to feel soothing and comforting words rather than silent apprehension, do I disgust you? Do my tears scare you? Does my emotion confuse you?

Frustration brews in empty silence, repeating myself and beginning to feel pointless, being heard but never listened to…

Do my exhaustion and pain not show to you either? Can you claim to know me? Do you even have such energy too?

Loved from behind a screen, how undoubtedly sad

Oh goodness of a Goddess, oh Love incarnate, whatever am I supposed to do? Can my voice reach you? Can my tears sway you? Can my tired eyes pull on your heartstrings? Can I be loved? Without hesitation…

Is that too much?..

I find myself growing increasingly bitter for my delicate heart, when did I grow up..

I want to go home, to be nestled in my mother's arms once more, and pushed on rickety swings by my father, chastised by my brother, my fear does not matter anymore

I guess i’ll wait out my life

(02/01/2024)

(God January was horrible and it shows-)

[merrywaanderer]

l'altra parte

vic de angelis x fem!reader

requested: enemies to lovers with vic

synopsis: tale as old as time. you hate victoria, and she hates you. or maybe you just haven’t heard the other side of the story.

warnings: swearing, my terrible attempts at italian/roman dialect, a single implication of violence, slight angst

word count: 2.6k

a/n: massive thank you to @maneskintookawaymysanity for creating that wonderful post of roman/italian slang, to which i referred excessively (obsessively, even) whilst writing this <3

⭒

It was quite frankly too early in the morning to be yelling at Victoria, but with her, it was unavoidable, an everyday staple you were forced to adhere to by no obligation except your existence and hers. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you got up this early just to piss me off!”

“Victoria, you seriously think I would get up at four-thirty as part of my villainous plot to make your skin crawl?”

“Well you’ve certainly succeeded! We were up until two trying to get that song right, all while you slept soundly on that sofa—”

“Like that was my fault!”

“You and Thomas wouldn’t stop giggling for the first hour of rehearsal—”

The slamming of a door cut Victoria off in her monologue of anger, and out of the bedroom across the hall came Damiano, waving his hands, a mess of hair piled atop his head and a robe thrown around his shoulders.

“Girls! Cosa fai? It’s four in the morning!”

Victoria muttered, “Grazie al cazzo, Damiano.”

“Four-thirty,” you crossed your arms with a pointed look at Victoria. 

As Victoria’s best friend since childhood, and your cousin — slash partner in crime — since birth, it was fair to say that Damiano was always torn between whose side to take. He had maintained a diplomatic role since yours and Victoria’s first meeting, when it had all gone horribly wrong. 

First impressions are often fallible, but this was one that you just couldn’t shake. 

It was seemingly impossible that you’d never met the rest of the band before, given how often Damiano was with them, but fate and circumstance had intervened ceaselessly, and so it wasn’t until two years ago that you’d been introduced. 

They were mid-tour when you’d caught up with them, somewhere in the midst of southern Italy. On holiday, you were finally fulfilling the promise to visit your beloved cousin after a year — an age, said Damiano — of separation. 

You didn’t speak Italian, but you understood it well enough, and Roman dialect too.

“I don’t want her here!” A rather high-strung female voice, shouting.

“For god’s sake, Victoria!” Damiano. “Relax. It’s only for a few days.” 

“After everything we’ve been through, can you not understand that I don’t fucking want her here?”

Damiano sighed. “Yes, but you’re being over-dramatic. I’ve known her for so long, so the least I can do is let her come with us until the end of the trip.”

“Damiano—”

“You know as my best friend you’ve always been my first priority, but there’s got to be room for other people too. So shut up, and let’s go.”

A sickly feeling had settled in your stomach.

Then Damiano had rounded the corner with Victoria in tow, and walked straight into you. 

Your first impression of Victoria was with mascara thick on her eyelashes, a dark look in her eyes, her lipstick was bright red and vaguely smudged. Damiano had a hand on her right wrist, below which it seemed her own hand was bandaged. Her blonde hair was tousled. She glared at you. 

“Ah,” Damiano swore quietly. He opened in English, “Victoria, this is my lovely cousin.”

You told her your name and offered your hand, then retracted it with a wince. 

“Sorry, can’t shake your hand,” she mumbled, barely looking at you. 

“That’s fine,” you said quietly, unable to gauge her tone or what it meant. Then you remembered what had been spoken of you by Victoria before she and Damiano had run into you, and decided you didn’t care what she meant. It wasn’t friendly, that was for sure.

Damiano looked uncomfortable. “Maybe not the best time. Cugina,” he addressed you, “it’s late, we’ll see you tomorrow for proper introductions?”

Mutely, you nodded, and with an apologetic look, he swept Victoria away with him down the hall. 

But the next morning had arrived sharp and cold, rain pouring down from the skies like there was a singular, humongous waterfall above the region of Basilicata, intent on drenching everyone on the ground. You had been offered no further introductions beyond saying hi to Thomas and Ethan after being seated by them on the bus. You caught the occasional glimpse of Victoria, who was sitting at the back, head leaned against the window, not speaking to anyone. 

The rain had not relented by the time the bus reached the next location on the tour, and it was in a confused frenzy that the instruments and equipment were ferried between the bus and hotel.

Victoria, after previously making it clear that she wanted nothing to do with you, now went one step further and decided she thought of you as nothing but a concierge. You had been standing beneath the overhang of the hotel entrance, under Damiano’s orders — because as he had rightfully told you, “You don’t know where we want all our stuff, better just to let us do it.” It was then that Victoria had shouted at you. A few of choice words, and then telling you to get her guitar. 

She hadn’t even remembered your name. 

She sure remembered it now, though, standing in the villa kitchen, grumbling at you that four-thirty had turned into four-fifty, and still she was not in bed. 

“Should put you in a bed together, then you’ll have something to complain about,” Damiano muttered.

“What?” you snapped, at the same time that Victoria spat, 

“Cosa?”

Instantly, you glared at her, and she mirrored the expression. How like her to say in Italian what you had just said in English, to satisfy her competitive nature and prove once and for all that she was just that little bit better than you; she spoke three languages where you spoke only one. 

“Ah! See,” said Damiano, “you can agree on one thing.” When met with blank looks, he shrugged. “You both think I’m an idiot.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep well,” you said, without thinking. 

But you must have come off as sarcastic, because she flipped you off as she disappeared back into the darkness of her bedroom. 

You remembered then why it was you couldn’t stand her.

Only, when you searched for a singular reason, you found yourself scrambling as to why it really was she made your blood boil. 

You hated everything about her.

⭒

The next day was the same as many previous: the hot summer sun blazing overhead, Thomas interchanging tutoring sessions with Ethan, video games, and lazing by the pool, where Damiano and Victoria occupied a pair of pool floats and glasses of what they called limonata. 

Damiano’s speaker was blaring in the background when you came outside, towel slung over your shoulder. 

You thought Victoria peered at you over the rim of her sunglasses, but you blinked, and her glance was gone. Now she looked as though she hadn’t seen you at all, head thrown back against the plastic of the float she was lying on, throat bared to the sun like she was soaking it in. Or maybe the sun was soaking her in, taking her away to forever be wrapped in its rays, a goddess rather than a human being. 

You recoiled violently. 

What?

Had you really just called Victoria  — Victoria  — a goddess?

You ran a hasty hand through your hair and resumed your passage toward the pool, because it appeared that you’d stopped somewhere along the way. 

“Ciao?”

It would also appear that Damiano had said your name multiple times whilst you’d been staring at Victoria.

She smirked, and your skin felt hot. Too hot. Her glances were scorching, and you hated her. 

Hated her. Hated her.

“Going swimming?” your cousin asked. 

You nodded, setting your towel down on a sunchair. 

Then you proceeded to jump in the pool, soaking both Victoria and Damiano in the process.

When you returned to the water’s surface, Damiano was laughing, but Victoria looked like she was most certainly going to murder you this time. 

“Oh, vaffanculo!”

Victoria’s hair was dripping down the sides of her face with pool water, her blue eyes dark like the sea beneath a tempest of a storm.

“Victoriaaa,” said Damiano. “You spoil everything.” Still, he was laughing, and you had joined him.

Victoria rolled off of her pool float and swam toward the edge of the pool, taking the ladder and pulling herself out of the water. 

“Victoria!” Damiano yelled, in a pleading tone, as though that would make her see reason.  But with her towel wrapped around her lithe frame, she disappeared back into the house, disappeared like she always did. 

Damiano sighed. “Aridaje.” 

You sat on the pool stairs in an uncomfortable silence. 

It was minutes before your cousin turned to you. “Why can’t you just get along?”

You sputtered, “Because she hates me!”

Damiano snorted. “Because she hates you?”

“Yes!”

“Cugina, she was so excited to meet you, years ago, because I spoke so highly of you! And then she was embarrassed as hell because you saw her like that, the first time.”

You blinked. “What?”

Your cousin threw up his hands, “Yet you hated her from the moment you met. It was obvious.”

“What?”

Damiano frowned. “There’s some misunderstanding, I’m sure. You’d better go talk to her.”

“Talk to her?”

He waved his hands, “Get out. Go.”

“But — ”

“No, go. Mó!”

Understanding well enough, you swam to the side of the pool and got out, confusion muddling your head beyond relief. You towelled off and hurried inside, water still matting your hair against your skin. 

She wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen, but you thought you could hear someone playing music down the hall, and it couldn’t be Thomas or Ethan, because they’d been in the middle of an intense game of Fifa on the PlayStation. 

The door to Victoria’s room was closed when you reached it, but you hazarded a knock, and the deep thrum of bass subsided. 

“Come in.” Her voice was quiet, cautious. 

You pushed the door open to find Victoria sitting on the bed, leaning on her lap the white bass guitar with Girls bite back written on it in Sharpie. She was still wearing her bikini. Her skin glowed golden in the afternoon light. 

You bit your lip, a nervous habit picked up from living with too many circumstances you couldn’t control. 

“You?” Victoria said, incredulously.

You could feel the little hairs rising along your spine, hatred settling into your bones like a cold draft on a winter’s night. 

You scoffed. “Me. I can’t even enter a room before you start glaring at me.”

Victoria scowled, true to your accusation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Forgoing all of Damiano’s advice to simply talk, you cast your eyes about the room. “You hate me!”

“I hate you?”

“Yes!”

“No,” said Victoria, “you hate me. Ever since the day we met, you’ve hated me. And I can’t figure out why.”

“Because you didn’t want me here!” you cried. “You’ve never wanted me here. You four have been friends forever, and you resent me for barging in.”

She looked affronted, setting down her bass. She stood, her palm against her chest. “I never said anything like that.”

“I heard you and Damiano talking.”

“When?”

“Two years ago, just before I met you. You said you didn’t fucking want me around. Ring any bells?”

Victoria’s puzzlement fell from her face like a penny to the floor. She looked suddenly pitying. “Oh, cara, I didn’t mean you.”

Something in the room had shifted. 

You felt as though you’d stepped out onto a stage with no words to say. The temperature had risen again instead of dropped, and Victoria was gazing at you like she’d broken your heart and was terribly afraid of breaking it further. 

“You — ” the breath left your lungs. “You didn’t?”

Victoria shook her head, baby blue eyes wide. “No, not at all.” Then she laughed. “I hadn’t met you. How could I have hated you then?”

“But —” you stammered, “you couldn’t look at me, and you ignored me the next day. You didn’t remember me when we got off the bus, just told me to get your bass —”

“How embarrassed do you think I was, to meet you the first time with a bloody  lip and a fractured wrist, wrapped up like I’d been in a —” Victoria searched for an expression, “a bar… brawl?” She sighed. “I’d just broken up with my girlfriend. She threw my guitar at me. She was still on tour with us, on the same bus and everything, because Damiano knows her mother.”

You balked for the hundredth time. “Oh... Oh my god.”

Victoria shook her head, seemingly unbothered. “And I’m sorry if I yelled at you. It was raining and I couldn’t hear myself think, and I thought my wrist was going to fall off.” She shrugged. “Not an excuse, but I am sorry.”

“No,” you murmured, your eyes on the floor. “It’s okay.”

“And you were so pretty,” Victoria continued. “I was fucking intimidated!”

Your eyes snapped back up. She was watching you gently, her hands clasped almost nervously at her chest, where she wound her fingers in knots a sailor wouldn’t have been able to untie. 

You could hardly breathe. 

When had she gotten so close to you — not even an arm’s length away? Her fringe fluttered over her forehead in the breeze that bustled in from the open window. 

“So,” you whispered, all too aware of the fact that you were now breathing the same air as Victoria, in the same frantic string of heartbeats. “You don’t hate me?”

“No,” she said. “Never.”

Her lips were the colour of pink summer peaches; she smelled of rain.

“Victoria —” her name was soda bubbles in your mouth.

“Please kiss me.”

Soft words breathed from softer lips were all you needed.

Your hands were on her face and she was in your embrace, wrapping her arms around your middle and pulling you to her as you pressed your mouth against hers. 

She was summer itself, the sun curling through leaves and shimmering against the water, and she tasted better than peaches, kissed with more gentleness than the light of the moon. 

There was no hatred here. It had all melted away and was unfathomable in the wake of its passing. You could not remember what it was to hate, with the brush of Victoria’s nose against your own, your heart fluttering in your chest, against her heart. 

Ire had turned from sour into sweet, and you were addicted to the spun sugar of her lips, the light pressure of her fingertips against your waist, the warmth of her skin and how it felt to hold her. 

“Eccallà!” a shout interrupted you suddenly, and you broke hastily from Victoria to find Damiano, Thomas, and Ethan standing in the doorway. Ethan continued, “That’s not hate.”

Thomas was laughing. He sang, “No, that’s amoooore!”

Victoria still had an arm around your waist and her head rested in the crook of your neck, but she managed to flip them off with her other hand. 

“Could have fooled me!” said Damiano.

“Well,” Ethan snorted, “you are dense.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “Get out of my room,” she said, and promptly slammed the door. 

You found yourself up against said door, and raised your eyebrows.

“We’re not done, pretty girl,” she murmured. 

“No?”

She kissed the hollow of your throat. 

“You’re not going to remember how to hate me after today.” 

A shiver ran down your spine at her lips, pressed to the shell of your ear.

You smiled and let yourself be enveloped in her arms, deciding it was pointless to tell her that you already couldn’t have hated her if you had tried.

⭒

taglist: @tabi-toast​, @hazypoppy​, @aprilaady​

[peakgenko]

Songs the Haikyuu boys would slow dance with you to...

CW; suggestive sexual themes

N/A, my heart nutted while writing this tbh

not proofread!!

© All content belongs to damnihateithere.

Kei Tsukishima

Dream A Little Dream of Me- The Mamas & The Papas

I don’t even know how i made this connection but i feel like tsukishima hums a lot of old songs and so this would be one of them

Or slow dancing in the dark by joji. it’s his favourite song. because of you.

Yuu Nishinoya

So Good At Being in Trouble- Unknown Mortal Orchestra

You’d rock back and fourth with him slowly while his lips press against the back of your hand— his eyes staring intently while he hums the lyrics

Shoyo Hinata

I’m Yours- Jason Mraz

So it’s not really something you can slow dance to but this is definitely his song for you. He sings this to you in the showers, during pillow talk, or drum the rhythm with his fingers against a Tupperware when he’s cooking something for you.

He’ll pull you in by the waist and nuzzle his head up against your back with a grin.

At this point it’s his favourite song because it always gets him in the mood. But that’s only because he thinks of you when he hums it.

Rintarō Suna

Versace On The Floor- Bruno Mars

OMG

okay so I imagine the two of you on some dance floor. Like at a club. I head canon that he’s good at dancing. Effortlessly too.

The music stops and and they choose a slow song to end the evening

You’re wearing a dress that cuts off mid thigh. And he’s in a little suit. His blazers loose and his collared shirt is buttoned down since it got a little heated in the midst of sweaty bodies practically grinding up against eachother

Underneath the red and purple spotlights, specks of iridescent lights from the disco ball hanging from the ceiling arrange themselves on your faces.

He’s singing the lyrics wholeheartedly with a fox like grin while his hands roam down to your ass. Although it’s intent was far from sexual.

Atsumu Miya

Corduroy Dreams- Rex Orange County

LOVE LOVES WHISTLING IT TO YOU

Definitely does kiss you in the shower for a couple hours.

He’s fresh out of the shower and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Drops of water race down to his feet as they roll down his bare chest. You have your towel wrapped around your chest

One hand laced with his, he leads you in a slowing pace around the room with a chirpy smile.

Osamu Miya

Blessed- Daniel Caeser

i’m not sure how i made this conclusion but i’m gonna go with it

He has the prettiest voice when he sings along.

It’s not really dancing though. He has your back facing his chest while his arms enveloped on top of your collar bones and shoulders. He’s pecking gentle kisses against your cheek while rocking back and fourth to the song while you two prepare breakfast.

Keishin Ukai

Fly Love- Jamie Foxx

I imagine you two on some sort of resort of beach. You two are soaked of water but this song just happens to pop up so you stand there in his arms while he teasingly blows a cloud of smoke into your face.

Keiji Akaashi

HENTAI BY CIGARETTES AFTER SEX!!!!

okay for those of you who don’t know that song i know by the title of the song it looks sus and trust me he was definitely skeptic of it as well but give it a listen because now you’re all he ever thinks about when he hears this song.

he swears he’ll dance to this with you in his arms on your wedding day.

if you’re feeling angsty, he’d definitely hold you close and dance with you to the swan by camille saint-saëns

Wakatoshi Ushijima

I Hear A Symphony- Cody Fry

He loves how classy it sounds and it perfectly describes how he feels about you. hell it may even be his favourite song.

He felt like volleyball was his only purpose and for a while he was more than okay with that. until he met you and now he strives for more in life. Hence the whole “I used to hear a simple song” verse. loves putting emphasis in his tone when singing “perfection is so quick to bore...you are my beautiful by far” (only to himself of course) homeboy gets a little embarrassed when it comes to singing.

Daichi Sawamura

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby- Cigarettes After Sex

I don’t even need to have a scenario for this like he just radiates this energy:((

Like imagine his cheek pressed against yours while his hand weaves through your hair

Tadashi Yamaguchi

You say I’m in love- Banes World!!!!!!!!

Head empty just you and yams dancing to this song underneath LEDs and a ceiling projector

you’re all he thinks about when he sings this song

and bubblegum by clairo- he’d tell you not to focus on the lyrics but instead the instrumental portion. he says the comforting mellow beat reminds him of you.

Kenma Kozume

Nothing- Bruno Major.

Sings the lyrics to you

You’d think he’d be too shy and youre right but it’s because he does it subconsciously.

BRO THIS WOULD LITERALLY BE HIS SONG IN A RELATIONSHIP

Aran Ojiro

Ugotme- Omar Apollo

Such a good singer as well

When the two of you dance, you two dance.

His ability to dance is almost mesmerizing along with his singing.

Sings while covering your neck and collarbones with kisses

Satori Tendou

How Deep Is Your Love- Bee Gees

Also dramatically lip syncs the lyrics to you

Lifts you up into the air and into his arm almost five times mid dance.

He’ll shake his head with his lips pressed up against your neck while his hands trail upwards and toy with the hem of your shirt, his hands hungry with anticipation to just rip it off.

and you scold him when you feel his lips contort into a devilish grin.

Kotaro Bokuto

Hopelessly Devoted To You- Olivia Newton John

hear me out. He only knows this song because akaashi made him watch grease bc he says bokuto should be exposed to the “classics” and since watching it at age 12 with akaashi and bo’s two sisters, he’s prayed that one day he’d meet someone that’d make him feel the way that song did.

He does now and everytime that songs on he’s practically carrying you in his arms.

Tobio Kageyama

Love Me Please- OCTAVIO

this is the only song he knows with the exception of old kanye west because he considers his music grind music but you definitely put him on this song.

He’s literally a psychopath who doesn’t listen to anything EXCEPT like popular rap songs from 2017-2018. And even then he’ll only tolerate it when he needs to work out.

And then he meets you. Now he listens to music in a different aspect.

He knows he’s not the most romantic guy out there but he’s trying his best and you tell him that’s more than enough. He loves you so much.

Koushi Sugawara

This Side of Paradise- Coyote Theory

he’s dragging you out of the house to dance with you to this song. bonus points if it’s raining

he’s also the type to scream-sing to love songs.

There aren’t any cars in the vicinity due to the pouring rain so the two of you make your way to the road.

Your hand in his, he twirls you underneath the storm and into his arms.

Toru Oikawa

Pretty Boy- The Neighborhood

He’ll put so much emphasis in his tone on the “Even if the earth starts shaking, you’re the only thing worth taking- with me. Even if the sky’s on fire, got you here it’s alright.” verse

You’re literally everything to him

he won’t let you go even for a second until this song is finished even then he’ll have trouble parting.

Hajime Iwaizumi

Baby I’m Yours- Arctic Monkeys cover

It’s not even dancing at this point, it’s just you two cuddling and him pretending like he hates it even though he’s the one who refuses to let go of you.

Ryonusuke Tanaka

Knockin’ Da Boots- H-town

if he’s not dancing to this with you in his arms he’s definitely ironically grinding on the floor to this with a fuck boy face.

Hitoka Yachi

two queens in a king sized bed- girl in red

I just imagine the most “call me by your name” scenery type shit.

Or maybe like a field of flowers? You just have her in your arms on some sort of picnic date she planned for the two of you

Semi Eita-

I Wanna Be Yours- Arctic Monkeys

your arms wrap around his neck and his lips press onto yours while the two of you sway back and fourth underneath red led lights.

don’t be surprised if things get sexual.

Tetsuro Kuroo

Careless Whisper- George Michael

okay first he played this song when you were over once and he had it on so that he could initiate a little make out sess with you but when you could tell how nervous he was on making a move on you you told him that there was no pressure on anything and he sort of just danced with you instead. he ended up unironically really liking this song because of that.

(bonus: if it’s fanon kuroo he likes to dance to sway by Michael Bublé with you and the whole time he’s just eyeing you down with a sly grin)

Kiyoomi Sakusa

Beach Baby- Bon Iver

Space Song- Beach House

I imagine it’s raining horribly outside to the point where the thunder outside is retro boomin

but the windows are open because both you and Sakusa love the sound of rain pouring

he has this song playing from his record player while he hums against your neck.

[jimlingss]

The Seven Year Itch

➜ Words: 5.2k

➜ Genres: 99% Fluff, 1% Angst

➜ Summary: The seven year itch is the curse of all marriages. Your own parents divorced after seven years. Your friends separated after that doomed number too. And now, you're trying to prevent the same downfall from reaching your marriage with Yoongi.

➜ Warnings: Implied smut and discussion of sexual topics.

You and Yoongi met at eighteen.   It was during a crazy New Year’s festival on the beach around a bonfire when you were introduced to one another from friends of friends. Much to your mortification, you were totally drunk that night and hit on him while insisting he should make you s’mores since his toasted marshmallows were the best.   The two of you started dating at twenty two after a few years of friendship and a tedious period of time wondering if he liked you like that. That New Year’s Eve was spent on a cute, romantic date holding hands while watching fireworks by the river.    And now at thirty two….   “Did you do anything over the New Years break, Y/N?” Kijung asks as she stirs sugar into her steaming mug of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter. She’s your colleague of several years now and part of the marketing team that attributed much to the profits and sales — or at least that was your opinion as part of the finance department. But your manager who has a stick up her ass and has a fixation for the research department would adamantly disagree.   “Nothing much,” you reply. “Did you?”   “Not really, but my boyfriend and I went on a road trip on New Year's Eve to the hot springs and we managed to catch the fireworks.” Kijung smiles and your eyes light up.   “Oh, I went there a long time ago with Yoongi. It was nice.”   “Yeah, I really enjoyed it.” Her cheeks are rosy and you muse how pleasant it is to be young and in love. Those old days of dating and shy flirtation seems so long ago. “Did you and Yoongi do anything special for the countdown?”    “I don’t remember…” you murmur gently while you try to recall. These days, everything blurred together. Waking up, eating, television, bed time. “I think we just slept through the countdown.”   “You make it sound like you’re fifty,” Seokjin laughs much to your chagrin, entering the kitchen and firing up the coffee machine.   “Easy for you to say,” you retort back to your coworker with a light scoff. “Weren’t you having back problems a month ago?”   “Nothing my chiropractor couldn’t fix up.” The human resource manager dramatically stretches out his muscles and rolls his broad shoulders as if to prove it. Much too early for his shenanigans, both you and Kijung exchange unimpressed expressions and choose to ignore him even when he begins to loudly protest.   “Oh yeah, isn’t your wedding anniversary with Yoongi coming up?” Kijung asks, remembering that a few years ago, you took a long vacation to celebrate right around this time.   “Yep.” You smile. “Seven years.”   “Wow, that’s a long time,” Jin notes as he sips on his coffee. “My cat hasn’t even been alive for that long.”   You’ve never really thought about it before. “It has been a long time, huh?” you hum.    Kijung grins. “Congratulations.”   “Thanks.”   Time was so gradual, one day after the next, one moment after another. It was only when you stopped to turn around did you realize how long and extensive the journey has been. That you discover that you’ve actually been married to Yoongi for seven years now.   Seven years….   Seven.   Suddenly, it hits you. There’s a sickly feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach. It makes you nauseous like you’ve dropped from a ninety degree roller coaster. It propels you forward, making your mouth and throat dry, your face drained of all colour. You can’t believe you could’ve forgotten—   The infamous seven year itch.

The seven year itch is a curse. It’s known to be the point where marriage satisfaction begins to decline. It’s the average length of a marriage. The point of no return.   To some, it may just be a myth or a simple statistic, but your own parents were together for only seven years before getting themselves into a nasty divorce. And you know friends who were only together for seven years — Hoseok and Jimin were separated six months after their seventh year anniversary. Jungkook and Eunbi left one another before their seventh year…   You can’t believe you’ve allowed yourself to forget about the cursed number seven.   And now that you’ve realized, you’re worried you’ve allowed your marriage to become stale.   “I’m home.”   The house is quiet and dark except for the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen. You follow the dim light and cross your arms, leaning on the doorframe as Yoongi turns from the stove.   “The patties in the freezer were about to expire,” he says as if to explain what he’s doing and you nod.   “Burgers for dinner then?”   “Uh-huh.” Your husband is dressed in gray sweatpants and a black shirt oversized on his body, dark hair in a disarray as if he just rolled out of bed an hour ago. It might not be too off the mark considering he’s been working from home for a few months now, an arrangement he’s fallen in love with. Namjoon might never be able to drag him back to the office after this.   “I fixed the plumbing issue in the shower, by the way,” he calls out as you drag yourself down the hall.   You stick your head out the door. “You didn’t have to call Taehyung?”   “Nope.”   This was your life with Yoongi. He’s stable, a grounded and secure force, who lives in a consistent routine. It’s peaceful and you love it. It’s all you could have yearned for after your chaotic childhood and crazier teenage years. But now, you wonder if these habits you cherished will someday be your downfall.   This mundanity might breed boredom and then discontentment.   It’s only a matter of time now.   “—took me two hours at the hardware store. But then I managed to find—”   “Hey, Yoongi,” you interrupt him in the middle of his story in the midst of dinner, unable to shake the thought off your mind. There were more pressing matters to you than Yoongi trying to prove to Taehyung that he doesn’t need his help.   The man blinks at you. “What?”   “Do you want kids?”   Yoongi puts his burger down, visibly taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “I mean, if you want to. But I thought we were going to wait until we were finished paying off our mortgage and had more saved up.”   He’s right and having kids won’t make your mundane marriage any more exciting.    If anything, it might just make it worse.   “Where’s the diapers?” you would screech to the other while holding the howling baby in your arms, your phone sandwiched between your shoulder and ear in the meanwhile.   “I thought you bought them!” Yoongi would emerge from the bathroom, juggling the other two shrieking babies in his arms with his shirt unchanged from a week ago and still stained with milk puke.    Triplets, you can envision them as clear as day. A luck of the draw or a curse, you wouldn’t be sure of.   “What?!”   You dispel the horrible vision from your imagination, crashing back down to reality. “Never mind.”   Yoongi catches your long sigh, but doesn’t comment.    That night, you turn to him while you’re both in bed and the warm sheets are pooled around your laps. And more enthusiastically than you intended, you declare, “We should make our sex lives more exciting!”   He flinches from the sheer volume of your voice but it seems to catch his attention and his brows lift curiously. Yoongi puts his phone down. “What are you thinking?”   Your eyes are big and excited and you lean over as if to whisper a dirty secret in spite of being the only ones in the bedroom. “How about...anal?”   Yoongi’s blank expression remains unchanged. “We already tried that and we weren’t into it, remember?”   Oh. Right.   You quickly retract, stuttering and bumbling, “I-I meant you can be the one on the receiving end—”   “We already tried that in college,” Yoongi reminds.   “How about role-playing?” you offer, a last ditch attempt at trying to come up with something creative that the both of you haven’t attempted in your fourteen years of being together.    “We tried that on Valentine’s two years ago. It didn’t work out well,” Yoongi recollects.   “Never mind then.” You sigh, giving up. You’re going to need to put a lot more thought into how to keep your marriage from being so mundane.   But for now, you crawl out of the sheets to the bathroom and Yoongi takes off his rounded spectacles, placing them on the nightstand. He watches your backside with his lips pouted and his brows slightly furrowed, wondering what’s wrong.   //   For the following days, you begin to brainstorm ways to spice up your marriage with Yoongi and keep the seven year curse at bay.   You read a few articles here and there and ask some married folks around the office how they keep their marriages exciting — to which they give you too many details over their sex life that you never wanted. But your attempt at a candlelight dinner ends up with the candles blown out when the tablecloth nearly sets aflame. Yoongi also cooks again when you undercook the fish.    You try to surprise him by getting naked but you give up when he takes too long in the shower and you start violently shivering from the brisk air conditioning. You pull the whip out from the back drawer too to get freaky in bed, but one spank has you cussing him to stop. And when Yoongi denies you of your orgasm, you throw in the towel and call it quits, deciding to go at it the old-fashioned way for just some simple love-making.   The two of you aren’t as young and adventurous as you used to be — it was something you were quickly realizing.   But you weren’t going to give up so easily, not when you were so desperate to keep your marriage with Yoongi alive and keep boredom out of your partnership….   And it’s when you’re putting away the old leather whip to the back of your closet that another box comes tumbling out. It’s a memory box, full of high school yearbooks, knickknacks at amusement parks, and a bright pink book with pages and tabs sticking out of it.   “I forgot I had this,” you mutter to yourself, holding your worn diary that’s filled with memories and nostalgia.   Opening it up, the spine cracks and you’re met with your sixteen year old self encapsulated between the pages. There are scribbles and doodles, entries from random days, notes that you passed to your friends, pictures and movie tickets taped to the pages. There’s even a whole section dedicated to your old celebrity crush — Lee Hyun — and you cringe while reading the small blurbs around cut outs of him describing certain scenarios. First date. First time he held hands. First time he proposes and how the paparazzi go wild and you become famous too.   But as much as you cringe, it’s kind of wholesome.   You forgot what a hopeless romantic you were.   Flipping the page, you’re taken aback by the decoration, vivid colours and washi tape. It lines the paper, bright markers that bleed to the next paper. But what takes your attention is the bold letters at the top. It’s written: Couples Bucket List.    Your eyes skim the rest of the page.

Flowers delivered on doorstep :)

Receive a love letter!!!

Be confessed to***

Be serenaded outside a window!

Dance in the rain.

Go stargazing~

Take a long walk on the beach <3

The first on the list is to have flowers brought to your doorstep — which you muse has been completed many years ago. Yoongi did it once on Valentine’s….mostly because he had to go to work and you were busy running errands with your mom, so he had no other choice but to leave his gift for you at the doorstep. It still technically counts though.   The second goal you have written is to receive a love letter. That would be impossible. Yoongi doesn’t do declarations like that. He’s not one to talk about his feelings. But ironically, the third point on the list you wanted to achieve with your future significant other is being confessed to and he technically accomplished that one too….   In tiny text, there’s a description of your fantasy — how your crush would call you out to the back of the school and declare it underneath that giant tree that kids used to climb. It’s utterly ridiculous but you find yourself standing, grabbing a red pen from your vanity and putting a check mark next to it.   Yoongi might’ve never professed his love in the way you imagined it but you remember how he proposed to you. It was supposed to be in private, but the ring box fell out of his pocket and you noticed, picked it up, and he scrambled to get on his knee in the middle of the park.   You smile at the memory.   The fourth thing on the bucket list is to be serenaded outside your window. And you burst out laughing at the mere thought of it. Yoongi can’t sing for shit and he wouldn’t do it even if you paid him to.   The following point is to dance in the rain, but your husband would never. He hates the rain. Yet the sixth task on the list has been completed. The two of you had gone to a planetarium on one of your first dates and you’ve spent many late nights outside together during winter where you were able to see the stars past the light pollution.   You’ve taken a long walk on the beach too, holding hands and watching the sunset. It’s something you did on your honeymoon and you grin while recalling it.    You flip the rest of the pages in the diary, giving it a skim before you’re about to tuck it back where it belongs, but you hesitate. Your hand tightens on it. You can’t let it go.   There are still things that you have yet to complete.   //   “Hey, do you remember when we used to write notes for each other?”   Yoongi’s eyes are plastered on the television playing some random Netflix original series that was on his recommended section, one you had not bothered to pay any attention to.   He mumbles past his cheek full of food, “Kind of.”   Your eyes pin onto your husband’s profile and you rest your cheek in your hand, elbow propped up on your knee. “We should do that again….or maybe we could write a really long letter to one another.”   It’s still lingering on your mind — the couples bucket list and your unfinished task of receiving a love letter.   “Why?” Yoongi chews haphazardly and goes quiet for a moment to watch the action on screen before he speaks again. “We did that when we were living apart. If I need to tell you something, I’ll just tell you now.”   You hold your sigh in your nose. He’s not wrong, but it was still worth a shot.    You fail to notice the way Yoongi glances at you, obviously aware of your disappointment. But he doesn’t ask. It’s already been long established that you can come to each other for anything. Yoongi knows that you’re fully aware of that. So while he doesn’t pry, it doesn’t stop him from wondering what’s the matter with you.   //   It’s a Sunday afternoon when you’re quietly watching the rain pitter-pattering on the ground outside and against the window frame, spraying like an artist splattering paint on their canvas. It’s showering, enough to collect puddles and to wash the grime off the driveway.   The peaceful sound of the droplets hitting against the roof is interrupted by Yoongi coming up behind you with crossed arms and grunting, “Looks like we can’t pick up groceries today. We’re running out of toothpaste though. Do you want to pick that up tomorrow after work?”   You don’t answer. You merely turn around as an idea flickers into your mind. A mischievous smile spreads into your features and you grab hold of your husband's wrist.   “Let’s go outside.”   It swirls in the forefront of your brain — dancing in the rain.   But at once, Yoongi’s expression blanches and he looks as if he ate rotten eggs. “What?”   “C’mon! It’ll be fun!” You drag the grumpy, old man and he stumbles forward from the sheer force.   He whines childishly, already pouting at the thought of it. “We’ll get wet.”   “That’s the point!”   Yoongi’s not impressed with your antics whatsoever. When you open the door and try to haul him out, he protests and grips the doorframe like a child not wanting to leave a toy store. But he ultimately relents at your insistence and is yanked outdoors to the downpour of pelting rain.   You burst out laughing the moment you see him despite his glare. Yoongi’s black hair shags down in front of his forehead, nearly pricking into his eyes. His clothes are becoming drenched, heavy on his body and dragging down. The sleeves of his flannel pulls past his fingertips.    His tender features are wrinkled into distaste, lips pouted, his eyes unamused and full of hatred of the rain. Yoongi looks like an angry, wet dog.   Unable to resist, you cup his cheeks, lean in and kiss his lopsided mouth. It’s a short peck, one you can’t draw out when you’re grinning and he refuses to reciprocate.   “It’s cold!” Yoongi shouts as the rain becomes heavier.   You giggle and tug on his arm, dragging him further out onto your driveway where the neighbours might be able to see and conclude that the pair of you have absolutely lost your minds — something you’re sure isn’t too far off. But you don’t dwell enough to get self-conscious.   You clutch Yoongi’s hands tightly and slowly walk in circles as if you’re playing ring around the rosy.   “C’mon, husband, you can be more enthusiastic than that!” you laugh much to his dismay.   You step forward and back, dancing stiffly and Yoongi’s body is like jelly. He allows you to pull him along as you please even when you lift his arm, twirl around and land back in them.    “Why are we doing this? Why?” True to himself, he’s trying to act like he’s not at least enjoying this a little bit. You’ve known Yoongi for long enough to see the way he’s trying not to smile and opts for whining instead. “I already showered, you know!”   “You can always shower again!”   Yoongi lets you move his body like a marionette doll, dancing along with you, and your giggles finally lets a smile on his face slip. But at that moment, lighting flashes over the horizon and thunder booms loud enough to shake the ground. The pair of you jump and rush back inside.   You both enter in the midst of laughter and then Yoongi sighs lightly, looking at the mess on the tiled floor. “The floors are all wet.”   “You were going to mop them today anyway,” you cheekily retort and he playfully spanks you, ordering for you to get into the shower before you make an even bigger mess.   The two of you hop in together, but Yoongi finishes faster. He gets himself dressed while you enjoy the steaming water for longer. As he’s drying off his hair haphazardly with a towel in the bedroom, he picks up his phone. Yoongi notices the low battery percentage and searches for his charger. When he’s unable to find it in its usual spot, he assumes you stole it again and pulls out your vanity drawer.   Yoongi doesn’t find his charger, but he discovers something else inside.    A bright pink book with worn pages.   Curious, he picks it up and flips it open. It automatically falls to the doodled page that you’ve been studying most recently these days and he skims it.    After a moment, Yoongi scoffs. But a softened smile stretches into his face.   //   “You’re happy,” Seokjin comments passive aggressively as he observes your expression while stirring his mug of coffee on this cold Monday morning.   “Yeah.” Your grin widens and your dismayed colleague wonders if you know that the week has barely begun. “I am.”   These days, you’re having a lot of fun trying to find ways for Yoongi to secretly fulfill your wishes, even if it’s silly and childish. There were only two more things that needed to be done on your bucket list — receiving a love letter and being serenaded to, things you’re sure Yoongi would rather be killed than be seen doing. But your new fixation and ambition has kept you preoccupied from thinking about the seven year curse approaching in three weeks time.   It’s a win-win. The bucket list might, quite literally, be the solution to the seven year itch. Completing it might just be enough to deter the curse and keep discontentment at bay.    After a long day, you arrive home while brainstorming a strategy to get Yoongi to profess his love for you in a letter — perhaps something you might enlist Taehyung’s help in. But your thoughts are interrupted when after dinner, Yoongi suddenly grabs his coat.   “I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”   “What?”    You’re utterly confused at why someone who was as an intense homebody like Yoongi would want to step outside the comfort of his warm home at such a ridiculous time of night.   “We still need toothpaste, remember?” he says nonchalantly. “You forgot to pick it up after work.”   “Oh. Well, I can always get it tomorrow.”   “It’s alright. I’m going to stop by Jimin’s too. That brat keeps telling me I should come over, so don’t wait for me.”   “Okay.” You nod, bidding him farewell. It’s a bit of a foreign sight, one where you can’t tear your eyes away from until the door shuts and he’s gone. You end up surfing the internet and playing on your phone for a good half hour in the serene silence before your boredom spurs on yawns.   You decide to head to bed early and brush your teeth, completing your whole nightly routine.   But before you crawl into the toasted sheets, an unfamiliar envelope on your vanity catches your attention. It's thin and rectangular without postal stamps or an address — only your name written on it in sloppy cursive. You approach the dim light of the lamp on your bedside table to get a better view and you rip it open.    Immediately, a gasp tears out of your mouth.   Your heart stutters in your chest. Your breath holds. It’s Yoongi’s chicken scratch writing.   To my beloved wife,   It’s me. Your lovely, amazing, best husband, Min Yoongi.   This is really embarrassing and I don’t know what to write either. But I was just thinking about how difficult it is for us to meet and be together. If you think about it, there’s almost eight billion people in the world but we still met each other. I don’t know if it was luck but I’m relieved to have met you. I also can’t believe we’ve been married for seven years now.   Thank you for making so many memories with me.   Love you, Yoongi.   P.S. please stop digging your ice cold feet into my feet at night. go to the doctor it’s not natural.   You choke on your own saliva, tears flooding your vision as your overwhelming emotions swell into a lump in your throat. It’s Yoongi’s love letter. Everything that’s so unabashedly him encapsulated in a few sentences — not cringey, a bit distant, but tender all at the same time.   You don’t know why he’s written this so out of the blue or how he knew you wanted this so badly, but you don’t care enough to question it. You hold the letter to your chest, head falling as your tears rise to squeeze out of you — but before you can melt on the carpet, you’re startled by a giant rock slamming against the window.   You jump, screaming, and your face drains of colour.   What’s left on the glass window is a jagged line split in different directions and you rush over in shock, opening up the latch to figure out who the perpetrator is.   What you find is your dumb-ass husband standing below your window. “What the hell are you doing?! You cracked the window, you idiot! We’re going to have to get it fixed,” you hiss into the dead of the night.   “Shut up, will you?” he sharply whispers back and your eyes adjust to the darkness.   From the glow of the street lights and the lamp on your table, you’re finally able to discern the acoustic guitar slung over his body.    Oh my god.   Before you can even burst out laughing and tell him to get inside, much to your mortification, Yoongi begins to sing in spite of his tone-deafness. “If I should stay, I would only be in your way….”   He strums one chord, the wrong chord, and it jumbles with the false notes streaming from his vocal cords. Yoongi stares down at his fingers, stretching them across the guitar neck and he strums every other sentence. His singing is awful and it’s noisy, especially when you begin to laugh.   You’re tempted to grab your phone and record him, but decide to savour the moment first-hand.   Your husband struggles and at some points, the pitch goes too high and his voice cracks so horrifically that he stops singing altogether.   Yoongi’s only put out of his misery when across the street the lights inside the house turn on and there’s a grumpy voice shouting— “Shut up! Some people are trying to sleep!”   You end up running downstairs at the same time he’s finally coming inside and you’re still giggling as he sets his guitar down, leaning it against the wall. “Where did you even get that?”   “I borrowed it from Hoseok,” Yoongi sighs. “He kept on asking so many questions. I had to tell him that I was bored at home and wanted to give it a try.”   You close the distance and encircle your arms around his neck. Yoongi’s hands immediately find purchase on your waist and you plant a fat kiss on his mouth before leaning away, confused curiosity not allowing you to prolong the affection.   “Why’d you write me the letter and why….this?”   Yoongi answers you by moving away to the entryway table past the foyer that’s there more for decoration than usage. He goes for the second shelf and holds up your worn diary.   That’s when you realize you’ve been caught and Yoongi’s brows lift with a tiny smile.   “I hope I got to fulfill the rest of your wishes, even if they were back to back.”   The pair of you gather together in your cozy bedroom, guitar tucked safely away and the letter still displayed on your vanity where you’ll be able to see it for the rest of your days. But those silly antics are far from being over and you know it with the way Yoongi’s been looking at you.   “You should’ve just told me if you wanted to do those things,” he says as he rips off his socks and changes into comfortable pajamas.   “Yeah, but you would’ve refused…” You twiddle with the hem of the duvet and Yoongi hums after a moment, crawling into bed with you. He realizes that you’re right. He probably would’ve scoffed at the idea of writing you a love letter or serenading you if you asked up front.   “I thought there was something wrong. You got me worried for a few days.”   “I’m sorry. I just…..I know I’ve been a bit off.” You sigh, locking your gaze with your husband as you finally confide your concerns to him. “You know how our seven year anniversary is coming up, right?”   “Yeah. What about it?”   “I know this is going to sound really, really stupid and dumb, but I was kind of, a little bit, worried about the seven year itch.”   Yoongi’s brows furrow and he squints. “The what?”   “You know, the seven year curse thing.” When his expression remains blank, you exhale and explain, “it’s when marriages are known to go downhill and divorces happen because people get bored. My parents got divorced after seven years, remember? So did a bunch of our friends and I don’t know, the thought kind of freaked me out.”   Yoongi softens and the corner of his mouth quirks. His arm reaches over and around your shoulder, and he pulls you closer to him in a loose hug. “I don’t know about you, but I have no plans of divorcing you any time soon.”   You mold yourself against Yoongi’s embrace, allowing yourself to melt into his comfort. It was soothing to hear his deep timbre next to your ear, to let him reassure you in such a way.   In one instant, all your doubts seem to vanish.    “I’m not bored of you, Y/N.” Yoongi smirks and you lean your head on his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.”   “Are you sure?”   “As sure as I was when we made our vows,” he consoles without even needing a second to think about it and pulls away with a tender, thoughtful smile. “Plus, we’ve survived this ‘seven year’ curse anyways.”   You frown. “What?”   “Didn’t we start dating ten years ago? Yeah. It’s our ten year anniversary of being together. So we technically passed it three years ago already.”   You’re puzzled — you’ve sure the seven year itch only applies to marriages, but in a way Yoongi was right. It’s not like you want to disagree with him anyways. But the pair of you have been together for considerably longer than seven years. Your relationship had begun much farther back.   You lean in, planting another kiss on Yoongi and it’s one he happily obliges to deepen.   It’s a familiar kiss, but not one you’re discontent with. It’s practiced, skilled and full of technique. Not hesitant, lackluster or sloppy like the first time. Yoongi kisses you the way he knows you like it. After so many years and spending so much time with one another, it’s been perfected after all.   He pulls apart and you snuggle in him with a giant smile, digging your cold feet into his warm ones much to his dismay. But this time, he doesn’t complain and molds himself against you.   Yoongi plants one more kiss on top of your head, feeling sleepy and too tired to even turn off the lamp on the bedside table. “Is there something special you want to do for this year’s anniversary? We still haven’t talked about it yet.”   “I don’t want to stay in,” you hum. “How about a road trip up to the hot springs? Kijung was talking about it and it sounded nice. We haven’t been up there in a while.”   “Okay.” Yoongi is happy to oblige. “Sounds like a plan.”   You and Yoongi met at eighteen. After four years of being friends, the both of you broke the barrier and started dating. It took only three years for him to put a ring on your finger and for you to share his last name. It’s been seven mundane but wonderful years since. And while it seems so long ago, you’re certain there will be many, many more years to come.

[fandomoverdrive]

Okay I just need to go on a rant about Whirl because I love him he might just be the most tragic character in the entirety of MTMTE and considering the candidates that’s a pretty hard position to cinch. Some of this is gonna have mentions re: self harm, suicidal tendencies/ideation, overall bad coping mechanisms etc so if that’s not your cuppa please scroll on. 

This gets long so here’s the obligatory read more. 

Let’s write “tragic” in flickering neon letters with the fact that Whirl’s first appearance in MTMTE, dropping the titular “how to say goodbye and mean it,” is a personal soliloquy delivered as he’s in the midst of constructing his own funeral pyre. Whirl is lost, directionless, trapped and unwilling to be such in a postwar environment. But how did we get here? 

Whirl is without a doubt a driven character. In the prewar functionist society, he had no qualms switching careers, risks be damned. Whether he’s always had a knack for disobeying authority or was simply driven by passion or both isn’t elaborated on, but he’s got a hell of a hardheaded streak that’s impossible to ignore. When destroying his business wasn’t enough to deter him from further rebellion, the Senate was happy to turn him into an empuratee and destroy not only the opportunity but the capability of continuing to rebel by pursuing his passion. This is what I’d personally consider the big ‘whump’ moment, less so the use and abuse as a pawn that followed but the point of trauma at which we begin to see Whirl’s psyche begin to twist.

From this point forward we see Whirl in and out of prison, let loose when he can be useful to someone else’s ploy and otherwise incarcerated for a buffet of offenses. No longer able to be constructive and having little if any control of his life, Whirl becomes aggressively destructive. In response to having everything he aspired toward ripped away from him, permanently, he builds a mental defense of bitterness and anger and paves over his black hole of self worth with a veneer of outright assholery. It’s here that he bares his metaphorical fangs and pushes - with gusto - anyone who might even suggest they’re trying to appeal to reason or get close to him as an individual. 

It’s hard to imagine, given even subtly different circumstances, that Whirl would not side with the decepticons for the war. While he’s single-handedly responsible for radicalizing Megatron towards violence, the ‘con intent at the start of revolution - that movement in society should be possible and a caste system based on alt mode is unethical - aligns quite nicely with what he’d already aspired to do with his life. His conscription to the side of the autobots is just another instance in which his autonomy is cast aside. 

Whirl is a tool. Whirl had a passion for watchmaking, but now he can’t, so his new passion is violence. Whirl is a gun and someone else has always told him where to point and all he’s ever been given for his cooperation is the blame of pulling the trigger. Whirl is an asshole, Whirl is unpredictable, Whirl isn’t a mech anybody would ever think twice about saving - the answer would always be no. Whirl wants to die. Whirl only wants to die on his own terms and he’ll be damned if he’s going to keel over under the orders of someone he doesn’t respect, for a cause he doesn’t believe in. 

A few years of this sort of treatment would be enough to drive anyone insane, let alone the millennia of warfare he suffered through. Worse yet is the one time he found a group, a team that was known for the unorthodox and taking on the big messy challenges, the Wreckers kicked him out. Whirl was too much for the mechs that were too much and there’s no way in hell that doesn’t still sting. 

That’s how we get here:

Whirl defends himself through isolation from others. He can’t be hurt by others if he never lets them close enough to be hurt by. In a hypersocial society, he has no close long-term friends, he is one of the few with no roommate aboard the Lost Light. He made himself as unpalatable as possible. He’s crass, he’s volatile, he makes it clear with every word and action that Whirl is first, you don’t mean anything, I’d leave you for dead in an instant..... But that’s not true, is it? 

Whirl is shown being completely, dramatically, self-destructively caring throughout the series. Between risking his life for the scraplet colony disguised as a protoform, participating in an untested spark jumpstart to save a life, coming up with a plan to rejuvenate Tailgate’s spark, and performing a spark transplant surgery on Megatron - without whom the world would never have been even a fraction as cruel to Whirl as it had been - Whirl is far from the most selfish character in the series. It’s in his nature, however, to deny such, to the point where he more than likely believes his own narrative that he’s irredeemable, self-absorbed, invincible, degenerate, and neither capable nor deserving of close interpersonal relationships. 

It’s also how we get here:

Whirl is one of the characters that we more frequently see in a state of disrepair. He fights passionately and recklessly, with no regard whatsoever to whether or not he makes it out of a scrum with all his limbs intact. Injuries like these, and those that he experiences elsewhere in the series, would put other mechs out of commission through pain alone, but as long as Whirl is conscious he doesn’t stop until the fight is over. 

As depressing as it is to think that Whirl is simply at this point accustomed to extraordinary pain, it’s even moreso to think about the more likely concept that he wants to be hurt. Whirl doesn’t have control of a lot that happens to him, but do you know what he does have control of? Who he chooses to shit-talk. More often than not we see Whirl being blatantly disrespectful of his superiors, and some of the more dangerous mechs aboard the LL. While obviously his intent when insulting Ultra Magnus isn’t to start a fight, harping on Drift (and subsequently getting cold clocked) or Cyclonus is a little more self-destructive in nature. 

While Whirl has been in therapy, we see during the encounter with Fort Max that he’d shared very little of what he actually considered traumatic with Rung. With no material to work with, Rung wouldn’t have been able to give Whirl instructions or advice as far as a healthy coping mechanism, and so I’m firmly of the belief that Whirl goes out of his way to get himself hurt as a way to have a vague sense of control. 

On his actions and guilt:

Whirl is immensely guilty. When he’s overcharged, he admits that everything feels like his fault - and unfortunately a lot is. Whirl believes he’s the bad guy, and he’s willing to take the fall for actions that others might find immoral. There’s a lot Whirl has done that he’ll likely never forgive himself for, even if he garnered the ability to start forgiving himself for the small things, but the character he’s created for himself has been part of him for so long that it’s near impossible to tell where to draw the line between caricature and his genuine self. 

At this point in time, Whirl is not capable of improving himself without external assistance. 

He has accepted (however wrongfully) that he is not cared about, trusted, wanted, or respected. 

His assumptions become self-fulfilling prophecy as he - consciously or not - works to perpetuate his image. Whirl is a dick, he’s unfazed by anything anyone says about him, if someone is insulting him they’re probably right, why bother arguing unless it’s with the intent to get in a fight? He doesn’t pay attention to others, he doesn’t pay attention to himself, nothing that anybody could say could possibly make a difference. 

Right? Right?

Wrong. Part of what makes Whirl so heart-wrenchingly tragic is that it is so incredibly clear that nobody has ever told him he mattered. Rodimus throws out what could be interpreted as a snide remark, “even the crazy bastard makes a difference,” and that aside sticks with him. Millions of years of warfare, of being a tool to use, an expendable soldier, a rabid dog to throw at their enemies, and not once did someone turn around and say he was anything good. He’s been thanked for saving lives, for contributions, for individual acts, but his reaction to Rodimus really cements in my mind that nobody has ever said that he, that Whirl, was important. 

Whirl is a broken character. He’s subsumed by his own self-hatred that he perpetuates and justifies with a mask of cruel indifference and aggressively abrasive snark. He’s alone, by what he thinks is his own choice but is really a horribly misguided attempt to keep himself safe. He’s got no potential for growth unless someone wants to force their way through his defenses in order to help him find the line between who he is and who he pretends to be in order to keep from being hurt. Whirl is terrified of abandonment, and guarantees that nobody will ever be able to leave him by never letting them come close to begin with. He’s not a good person, he’s violent and callous and has little regard for the consequences of his actions, but he is that way because of the life he was forced to lead. He falls into consistent patterns because he craves control, even if those patterns are self destructive. It’s proof of the little growth he was allowed during the course of MTMTE/LL that after their quest was over, he didn’t attempt suicide again but instead got into the revolving door of incarceration for petty offenses. 

All in all, Whirl is one of the saddest characters in any media I’ve consumed and please someone get this despicable bastard helicopter a new therapist and a stiff drink 

[kaminobiwan]

in sickness and health

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader

summary: Confined to a day in bed, Obi-Wan is enlisted to keep you company. Featuring mild spoonfeeding I make no apologies

a/n: First off, THANK YOU FOR 300 FOLLOWERS! WOW oh my goodness that happened so fast. I’m still working through the prompts from my 175/200 follower celebration (of which this is a part of), and I can’t wait to figure out a way to celebrate this milestone as well! I’m so grateful to all of the support and love I’ve gotten so far; your kindness and readership means the world to me, and I’m so glad to share my stories with you :-) Without any further ado, here is the return of Padawan!Obi....and if you’d like to join his fanclub, might I direct you to my co-president @highlycommendable lovely dove

Before I forget, taglist masterlist all that shite. Enjoy my bubs

On his way back to the dormitories after an early morning meditation session, Obi-Wan hears arguing.

Though it’s not uncommon to hear discord in the wing of the temple where the Padawans make their residence, it isn’t the usual ruckus of Quin and Kit wrestling, or Shaak Ti demanding to know who had taken her Akul-tooth headdress again.

This time, it’s the voice of a Master filling the halls, berating his student with fond persistence.

“Padawan, my word is final.” Obi-Wan turns the corner as Plo Koon raises a talon at a figure huddled in blankets in the doorway. “You are too ill to travel.”

“But I’m almost better! And Shaak’s told me so much about the Togruta, and I want to see how big of an Akul she’s killed!” He recognizes the protests coming from your distinct yet muddled voice, and his vision confirms his guess as you come into sight, fabric draping across your body like a spirit. “I promise I’m fine, Master, please!”

Despite his mouth being completely covered by his breathing mask, Obi-Wan can almost detect the makings of a smile across the Jedi’s features. “The healers were adamant, my student. You’re to rest one more day. Perhaps, instead of stories of Akul, you can detail our sightings of the neebray mantas to your peers. I assure you, they are much bigger than any Akul you hope to see.” Abruptly, he turns to Obi-Wan in a way that makes him think the Master had sensed his presence long before he’d approached. “Padawan Kenobi, if you’re not terribly occupied, I have a favor to ask of you.”

Obi-Wan comes to a stop in front of the pair of you, your eyes dragging to his frame after shooting a disgruntled glance at your Master. “Master Koon?”

“I’m set to depart for Shili within the hour, and unfortunately, this one,” he gestures a robe-covered hand towards you, “is recovering from a mild case of Balmorra Flu and will be unable to accompany me. I would appreciate it immensely if you’d monitor my student to ensure that she does, in fact, fulfill her last day of bed rest.” Obi-Wan notices as you bristle at the notion of being babysat like a child, but says nothing as Plo continues. “The healers have been kind enough to deliver medicine and food. You’d need only to stay within the room.” Before Obi-Wan can reply that he’d have to seek the approval of his own Master, Koon finishes for him. “I’d be happy to request an excuse from the rest of your duties, but if I’m being quite honest, I’m aware that most of your training for the day has already been completed.”

Obi-Wan schools his own features in haste from revealing how impressed he is. Though, he really shouldn’t be surprised. Plo Koon was legendary amongst the younger generations for both his intuition and skill with a lightsaber. Still, he pauses.

“There’s no cause for worry, young one, she’s not contagious any longer. The sickness is in its last stages.” The Kel Dor assures him, somewhat humorously, but that’s not why Obi-Wan is hesitating.

He’s nervous — he’s never spent much time alone with you. It’s not that you’re unlikable, or intimidating — okay, maybe you are a little — but actually, you’re quite popular with the rest of his crèchemates. He’s only had the opportunity to spend time with you in the midst of his other friends, and the times you have had conversations by yourselves, he gets an uncomfortable twist in his stomach that he’s not sure he likes.

But Obi-Wan is a good Padawan. Trying to be, at least. And Master Koon is close friends with Qui-Gon.

“Certainly, Master.” He gives a slight bow at the middle of his waist. “I would gladly be of service.”

The Jedi nods at him gracefully, and bids a soft farewell to you as he departs the conversation and the dormitory wing. You mutter a goodbye of your own moments after, followed by what Obi-Wan thinks is a variation of be safe. Then, you turn haughtily into your bedroom, retreating with your nose high in the air. He follows with a smirk of amusement.

“Sorry you’ve been sidelined.” He offers, as you face plant dramatically onto the bed. You bounce head-first into the pillows, and he can feel the irritation radiating off of you. “I know it that goes.”

You lift your body enough to place your chin in your hands, and regard him with a softening quirk. “It’s okay. I was just excited to get out on a mission again after my last one got cut short. This wretched flu.”

You flop onto your back, but Obi-Wan can sense your resentment quickly fading as you pull up the sheets to your chest. He notes that you already seem to be complying with your Master’s orders, grateful at the thought of not having to force you into bed. Another thought passes through his head, reminding him of the specific name Plo Koon had mentioned earlier.

“Balmorra flu? Weren’t you on Dantooine?”

“We were. Unfortunately, the illness is not limited to the planet for which it is named. But how it made its way to Dantooine, the middle of nowhere, I’ve no idea.” You sniff harshly. “It’s a shame, too. I wanted to take some time to admire the grasslands, but Master Koon wanted to get us back to the temple before I got worse.” The pout on your face morphs into a far-off look, and while you’re daydreaming, he takes the time to admire you. “It was majestic, Obi-Wan, the rolling plains, the rivers — you’d have loved it, I think.”

To himself, he smiles warmly. Here you are, sinuses stuffed to the brim and wallowing in the discomfort of sickness, yet you still found it within yourself to think of him. He can see why you’d been spoken so highly of by the others before he’d had the courage to befriend you.

You had a good heart.

“I know what you mean.” He presents you with a new tissue as you toss a used one into the wastebasket by your bed, and you watch him speak intently. “Once, on a mission to Alderaan, my Master told me he’d save time to hike one of the mountains if we finished early. A meditation retreat, of sorts. We did, but just as we were prepared to go, I came down with nerf-pox. A youngling sneezed on me in the middle of the assignment.” Disdain paints his appearance, and you cough out a laugh at him behind your fist as you reach for something off your bedside table, where a steaming bowl and cup of water sits.

“To the experiences that disease took from us,” you raise the cup in the air as if you’re making a toast, and although he’s not holding one of his own, he mimes the action with a grin. “Here’s to hoping we’ll get to do them someday.”

As you raise the drink to your mouth, Obi-Wan can’t help but notice the way it trembles in your hand. Eyes narrowing, he takes in the slight shake of your arm. “You’re quite weak,” he moves closer to take the cup from you and set it back on the table. “I think I should feed you.”

Your eyebrows knit in defiance, but he’s already holding the bowl of soup, stirring the spoon in its depths. Immediately, his nose wrinkles in distaste.

“This smells horrible.”

You sigh in agreement, leaning your head back against the pillows. “Rootleaf stew. Master Yoda’s personal recipe.” As he lifts the utensil to your still-moving mouth, you add, “Thankfully, it doesn’t taste as bad as it stinks.”

He snickers quietly as you drink the liquid down with a small noise of disgust. Your face seems to relax after a minute, however, and he hopes the warm broth is soothing your throat. He offers you a bit more, but this time, you stare straight at him as your lips close around the spoon, and his wrist falters when you peer at him from beneath your lashes.

Soup dribbles down your chin and neck as you squeal in surprise, the heat of it making you jerk back. Obi-Wan drops the bowl onto the table as he frantically snatches up tissues to offer you between panicked apologies, not trusting himself to dab the droplets on your skin away himself.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry, I —” he stammers as you clean up what you can, blinking at him in amused surprise. You don’t look angry at him, but stars, does he feel bad. “Ah, I didn’t mean to. So much for helping you.” From the shoulders up, he burns bright with remorse, but you shake your head amusedly with bright eyes.

“It’s okay. I probably would have done the same to myself. You were right, I am too weak to carry anything.”

Sheepishly, Obi-Wan picks up the stew again, but places it in his lap for a moment as he waits for his body to stop freaking out, for lack of a better term. It’s good timing, too, because you promptly break into a hacking fit, coughing violently as he winces in his seat. After you blow your nose loudly, you seem to notice his expression, because you suddenly turn self-consciously away from him.

“I’m sorry, too. I can’t imagine I’m a pretty sight to see as of right now.”

He disagrees. Surprisingly, your physical state hasn’t been too affected. And even in spite of your slightly ruffled exterior, you’re still exuding the same liveliness that he can’t help but find attractive. In his mindlessness, Obi-Wan’s mouth acts before his brain as he responds. “I think you’re always pretty.”

You both freeze, eyes meeting in shocked gazes as he attempts to backtrack. “I — I mean, you’re a pretty sight to see —” Nope, that’s worse, kill me, Maker, kill me now —

“Obi — it’s okay,” you cut him off from embarrassing himself further, though your own voice is shrill. “I appreciate the compliment.”

His face flushes again, this time at the nickname more than his stupidity. He stares resolutely into the swirling broth as he fiddles with the spoon, and deafening silence fills the air between you as you both look anywhere but each other. Soon enough, though, you’re brave enough to break the quiet. With an even braver comment of your own.

“You know, you’re not too bad-looking either,” he peers at you cautiously, and your eyes are kind, offering comfort. He breathes out a long sigh, but manages a weak smile in return.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and you nod at him easily. He’s jealous of the way you’re expressive, yet so effortlessly at ease in any scenario — someday, he swears, he’ll nail down his composure. He’ll be in complete control of his every emotion and have the coolest demeanor of all the Jedi.

Just, not today.

Obi-Wan forces himself to steel the muscles in his arms as he brings another spoonful of soup to your waiting mouth, and exhales in relief when he successfully avoids causing another mess. Unfortunately, it seems that you’re intent on making one, because as soon as you swallow, you’ve got another remark that you deliver all too casually for Obi-Wan’s liking.

“In fact, I’d say you’re the prettiest Padawan in the Order.”

He spills the entire bowl across your sheets.

[just-a-poor-boy-queen]

Alternate Universe requested by anon

The first thing Freddie noticed when he woke up was that he was wearing waders.

This was most peculiar. He never wore waders. The only person in Garden Lodge who wore waders was Jim for when he was cleaning out the koi pool. Freddie would sometimes throw them on as a joke, laughing at how they were too big for him; but today, to his surprise, they fitted perfectly. Even stranger was the pair of large wellington boots he was sporting on his feet, caked in mud and the most hideous shade of green. This was an outfit he wouldn’t be seen dead in, let alone asleep in.

What the hell is going on? He thought to himself as he stumbled out of bed, only realising once he was at the door that this wasn’t his bedroom at all. It was much smaller, with hideous peeling wallpaper and a tiny, single bed crammed in the corner. The place reeked of an odour that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It almost smelled like… dog.

This was either an elaborate prank or some horrific dream, Freddie decided as he quickly descended the staircase, hoping that he might suddenly snap out of this nightmare if he ran into a familiar face. He heard Phoebe’s voice coming from the lounge downstairs and he quickly made a beeline for the room, desperately throwing open the door.

‘Phoebe, something weird is going on!’ He declared, only to stop in his tracks when he saw the other man.

Phoebe was… working out. Lifting weights, more specifically. In all the years that Freddie had known him, he had never seen Phoebe lift weights. Even more shocking was that the usually chubby man was now built like a tank. It was so surreal it was almost disturbing. Phoebe was a round, jolly guy who loved his food and never worried too much about his body image. This guy on the other hand...

‘What is it now?’ Phoebe sighed and set his weights down, flexing his huge bicep. ‘Shouldn’t you be out doing the garden? The boss is going to kill you if he catches you slacking.’

‘The garden?’ Freddie replied, appalled. ‘Why would I be doing the garden? That’s Jim’s job!’

Phoebe rolled his eyes. ‘Very funny, Freddie. Now, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something.’

Freddie opened his mouth to protest but Phoebe had already gone back to his weights and started lifting again. Annoyed, the singer turned and stormed out of the room, unable to believe how rude and dismissive his friend was being. And what was all this about “the boss”? Freddie was the boss!

Maybe Joe could shed some light on what was going on. Freddie quickly made his way to the kitchen, where he found the American in the midst of baking a cake, carefully sieving flour into a large bowl.

‘Joe-’ he began, only for the other man to shriek, flour flying everywhere until half the kitchen looked like a Christmas card.

‘Oh, it’s you, Fred.’ Joe clutched his chest dramatically, his glasses completely white. ‘What are you doing here? You should have finished the garden ages ago.’

‘Why does everyone keep banging on about the garden?’ Freddie grumbled, angrily wiping flour off his moustache. ‘And since when are you so easily startled? You nearly shat yourself!’

Joe looked slightly annoyed – at least, Freddie assumed he did, as he couldn’t really see his face under all the flour – ‘you know what a scaredy-cat I am, Freddie. The smallest drop of blood and I’m passed out on the floor. It’s a curse, really.’

Alright, whoever this was, it definitely wasn’t Joe. No way in hell was this the same Joe who, only last week, savagely beat a wasp to death with the kitchen mop, then left its severed head on the kitchen windowsill as a warning to the other wasps.

‘God, look at this mess.’ Joe rushed to the kitchen cupboard and took out a broom, sweeping up the mess on the floor. ‘When the boss sees this, he’ll break my neck!’

‘What are you on about?’ Freddie snarled, ready to tear his hair out. ‘I’m the boss! This is my house!’

‘I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now, Freddie.’ Joe replied, not even looking up at him. ‘Hurry up and get the garden finished, otherwise we’ll all be in the doghouse.’

Freddie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Whatever parallel universe he was trapped in, he wanted out right now. But Joe had already turned his attention to cleaning up the mess, so Freddie had no choice but to leave him to it and trudge out into the garden.

He took a moment to survey the area; he didn’t know the first thing about gardening, despite sometimes watching Jim while he was working and occasionally helping him plant seedlings for his favourite flowers. He noticed a rake laying nearby and decided to start by raking the leaves off the lawn. How hard could it be?

--

‘Freddie? Freddie! Where have you got to?’

The sound of Jim’s voice echoing across the garden alerted Freddie, and he almost tumbled right off the ladder he had been balancing on to trim the hedges. He had never realised gardening was so much work; he was covered from head to foot in soil, his waders ruined and his hair dripping wet from when he had attempted to reposition the stone bowl in the koi pool, only to fall in face first. But none of that mattered now. Jim was here. His wonderful Irish husband was here, and he was going to sort this horrible mess out.

‘Jim!’ He cried as he entered the conservatory and found the Irishman standing there, looking unusually solemn. He immediately threw his arms around his neck. ‘Jim, I’m so glad to see you! You won’t believe the day I’ve had-’

He was cut off as Jim abruptly pushed him away; taken by surprise, Freddie didn’t have time to steady himself and ended up on the floor.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!’ Jim barked, wiping off the dirt that had smudged all over his expensive looking shirt. ‘You really think that’s an acceptable way to behave with your boss? You should know your place by now, Mercury!’

Freddie stared at him from where he sat on the floor, dumbfounded. What was going on? Why was Jim treating him like this? There had to be some mistake.

‘Jim,’ he said softly, his eyes large and confused, ‘it’s me.’

‘Yes, it is. Unfortunately.’ Jim huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘For God’s sake, you’re filthy! And what the hell have you done to my garden?’

Freddie glanced out of the conservatory window, noting the misshapen hedges, the large holes in the lawn from where he had clumsily attempted to plant flowers, and the overturned stone bowl in the koi pool which miraculously hadn’t crushed any of the fish. Gardening clearly wasn’t his forte.

‘I-I did my best.’ Freddie insisted nervously.

‘A blind monkey could have done a better job.’ Jim snapped, crossing over to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. ‘I sometimes wonder why I keep you on, Mercury. You’re absolutely useless.’

Freddie felt the colour drain out of his face. This wasn’t the Jim he loved. This man was cruel and demeaning, treating him like he was nothing more than mud beneath his shoe. His sweet and lovely Jim would never do this.

‘Jim, please!’ Freddie scrambled to his feet, grabbing Jim’s sleeve desperately before he could take a swig of his drink. ‘It’s me, Freddie. Your husband.’

Jim scoffed, shrugging the Persian off as if he were an annoying fly. ‘Husband? Sorry Mercury, but I don’t bat for your team. I don’t know what sort of weird obsession you have with me, but you’d better stop it. I won’t have any of that queer shit in my house.’

His house? What did he mean, his house? This was their house. Well, legally it was Freddie’s, but he had always considered it Jim’s home as much as his own. Tears rushed to Freddie’s eyes. This couldn’t be real. Any moment now, he would wake up and find out this was all just an awful dream.

‘Jim, I’m telling the truth! I’m your husband!’ Freddie rambled, heart breaking as Jim rolled his eyes in disgust and took another sip of whiskey. ‘Look, you bought that ring on your finger to show your commitment to me! And you bought one for me too, right here-’

He went to show Jim the ring on his right hand, only to find his finger bare. He immediately panicked. Where was it? Had he lost it? Had it fallen into the koi pool during the incident with the stone bowl? Had someone stolen it?

‘I’m not sure what planet you’re living on, Mercury.’ Jim finished his drink in a single gulp, completely ignoring Freddie’s distress. ‘But I bought this ring to show my commitment to my fiancée, not you.’

‘Your fiancée?’ Freddie could feel the walls closing in around him; in that moment, his entire world shattered and suddenly his lungs were fighting for air. ‘But who-?’

‘Oh, Jiiiim!’ The sound of the front door closing came from the hallway; moments later, the conservatory door swung open, and a familiar blond woman strode inside, laden down with dozens of shopping bags.

Freddie’s jaw almost dropped to the floor. ‘Mary?’

Mary pulled down her sunglasses a moment to acknowledge him, ‘oh, hi Freddie,’ before she immediately turned her attention to Jim and pressed a big wet kiss to the Irishman’s mouth. ‘Thank you so much for giving me another credit card, darling. I know I maxed out the last three, but I just had to buy that new dress I saw in the boutique window.’

‘Anything for the love of my life.’ Jim crooned, rubbing their noses together in a way that made Freddie want to vomit. ‘I’m glad you’ve had a better day than I have – just look at what that idiot’s done to the garden!’

‘Now, now, Jimmy.’ Mary replied, looking at the man as if he was a deity. ‘You know we have to be patient with the help. It’s not like anyone else will hire him.’

Freddie had never hit a woman in his life, but right now Mary was really tempting him.

‘Here,’ Mary held out her bags to Freddie, looking down her nose at him as if he were contagious, ‘take these up to my room, would you? Jimmy and I need to discuss the plans for our wedding.’

Freddie’s cheeks burned with both anger and despair. He went to take the bags when he noticed the gold band on her left hand; it was much smaller, clearly fitted for a woman, but he would recognise it anywhere.

‘My ring!’ he cried, hands clenching into fists as his entire body began to shake. ‘That’s the ring Jim gave me!’

‘Don’t mind him, love.’ Jim put an arm around Mary, a horrible sneer on his face. ‘I think he’s been snorting something; all sorts of crap is coming out of his mouth today. Make yourself useful, Mercury, and go take the dogs for a walk. Maybe that will sober you up a bit.’

‘Dogs?’ Was all Freddie managed to get out before the door flew open again and he was set upon by at least six or seven four-legged fiends.

Don’t misunderstand, Freddie liked dogs. But unlike cats, dogs lacked any sort of grace and dignity; they piled on top of him like they wanted him dead, tongues licking mercilessly at his face until he managed to wriggle free and take cover on one of the sofas.

‘Since when do we have dogs?!’ he practically screamed over all the barking, holding up a pillow to shield himself as a dog the size of a bear leaped onto the sofa to join him.

‘Your memory needs testing, Mercury. We’ve always had dogs. You sleep in their room, for God’s sake.’ Jim refilled his glass and called over to the Newfoundland, which was currently smothering the Persian man. ‘Bad dog, David. You know you’re not allowed on the sofa.’

‘David?’

‘Yes, David. Phoebe said we should have called him Goliath because of his size, but I thought David would be funnier. Completely catches people off guard.’

Freddie felt his spirit rise out from his body and drift up towards the ceiling.

‘Right, you’ll need to keep him on a tight leash if you’re going to take him through the park – you know how much David loves children and I don’t want any parents filing a lawsuit because he’s knocked their kid over.’ Jim said, as Mary took out a small pocket mirror and began applying lipstick. ‘Juliet gets really nervous, so make sure none of the others bully her. And Samson hates you, so just keep out of his way.’

Freddie glanced over at the white poodle with brown markings, who was growling at him menacingly. No, no, no, not Delilah. She was his baby, his princess. How could she ever hate him?

‘By the way, Jim!’ Mary chirped, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around her as the dogs swarmed the conservatory. ‘I took another test this morning and it came back positive – I am pregnant!’

Freddie covered his ears and screamed.

--

‘Freddie? Freddie, wake up!’

Freddie bolted upright, panicking when he felt his arms pinned to his sides, only to realise he had cocooned himself in the bedsheets. Jim was right beside him, carefully untangling him and smoothing back his sweaty hair while the singer trembled, mind still stirring from the nightmare he had just awoken from.

‘Sweetheart?’ Jim said softly once his husband had time to calm down. ‘You were crying out in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?’

As if snapping out of a trance, Freddie felt his right hand in the darkness, almost weeping when he realised it was bare. ‘My ring! Where’s my ring?’

‘Shh, shh, it’s okay, love.’ Jim soothed, reaching over to turn on one of the lamps and pointing to Freddie’s bedside table. ‘It’s right there, safe and sound.’

Freddie immediately grabbed it and slid it onto his finger, vowing never to remove it again, not even when he took a bath. He turned and snuggled into Jim’s arms, head tucked under the Irishman’s chin, relieved that he wasn’t pushed away.

‘That must have been one hell of a dream.’ Jim murmured, kissing Freddie’s temple. ‘Are you alright?’

Freddie wasn’t sure if he’d ever get those images out of his head. Having to wear waders. Phoebe with a six pack. Joe being skittish as a kitten. Destroying his own lawn with his terrible gardening. Jim treating him like garbage. Mary wearing his ring on her finger. His lovely cats transformed into a kennel of hyperactive, smelly dogs.

But it was just a dream. He was back in reality now, safe in Jim’s arms.

‘I am now.’ He mumbled sleepily into Jim’s neck, placing a kiss against his throat. So long as Jim was his, he would always be alright.

The prompt

OH MY GOD I AM DYING😂😂😂😂

Ahh fuck this is so good I am STILL DYING😂

Firstly, kudos to the anon who came up with such a brilliant prompt. I mean this is innovative af, and you did complete justice to it, writer anon! I had actually forgotten about the prompt, and was afraid that it wasn't a dream😂

Freddie reactions were the best part lmao. How he's utterly horrified at the aspect of Jim and Mary (behold the return of jimary!) being partners, his baby delilah (rather her counterpart) hating him, Phoebe being a gym-aholic and ahhhh Joe, sweet baby Joe actually being sweet like a baby kitten😂😂 I loved it all! Imma reread this so many times ahahahahahah oh god.

(More drabbles by writer anon)

[whattodowithkpop]

Kisses Like Medicine (Yeosang)

Title: Kisses Like Medicine

Pairing: Reader x Yeosang (ATEEZ)

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 821

Writer: Kpopmadness (Ju)

“Just take the medicine.” Yeosang whined as he tries again to get me to take the red liquid in the small plastic cup.

“No!” I protest, hiding my face with my covers, “I hate that stuff and you know it. I’ll just be sick and die. It’s fine.”

Yeosang sighs and sets the cup on his lap. “It doesn’t taste that bad,” he says, trying to convince me. “I promise.”

I peak one eye out from underneath the blanket before asking, “What flavor is it?”

“Cherry.” He answered.

“Lies.” I grumbled, hiding my face once again.

“They have no clue what a real cherry tastes like. It just tastes like death.”

“Your so dramatic.” Yeosang chuckles, pinching my leg that was under the covers.

I don’t answer him, instead I pull my legs away and bury my face deeper into the blankets. I had gotten sick in the middle of the night, my throat on fire and my body feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Somehow in the midst of all that, I managed to fall asleep again, when I woke up I felt worse. Yeosang, my childhood friend, had texted me asking how I was. I jokingly said I was dying from a cold and within twenty minutes he was at my apartment with soup, movies, and medicine.

Now he sits on the side of my bed trying to convince me to take my medicine.

“You have a temperature of 103,” he pointed out after the silence had stretched on for a time. “Your cool shower didn’t work so this will bring it down. Please, take it.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. Without even looking at him I could tell from his voice that he was giving me his famous puppy eyes which worked on me every since we were two.

“Fine.” I grumble, letting the comforter fall away and getting into a sitting position.

Yeosang lets a triumphant smirk cross his lips before he carefully hands me the cup filled to the brim with medicine.

I scrunch my nose seeing how red and thick the liquid is;

“This looks disgusting.” I complain, trying to delay taking it.

Yeosang doesn’t fall for it, “Then you better get it over with.” He remarks sarcastically

I shoot him a glare and bring the cup up to my lips, that’s when I catch a whiff of it’s strong smell.

“Nope.” I grunt and hand it back to Yeosang while I shake my head. Determined not to take it now more than ever.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and pushes, “Take it.”

“No.” I shoot back.

“Take it.” He says firmly. His eyes narrowing.

“Kang Yeosang,” I say firmly, using his full name, “if you think you can get me to take that crap than you can forget...”

Suddenly I’m pushed backwards, my back pressing into the headboard behind me; my eyes going wide. Yeosang’s lips press firmly against mine. He stays there for some time, his cool lips tracing mine. After some time I relax and close my eyes. He pulls away slightly, my eyes still closed.

Suddenly, thick liquid pours into my mouth and a bitter taste overwhelms me. My eyes spring open and I go to spit out the medicine but Yeosang presses his hands against my mouth, forcing it to remain shut.

“Swallow it.” He says firmly, his eyes boring into mine.

I shake my head and try to fight his hand off my mouth, all the while wanting to gag.

Yeosang brings his free hand around and holds my arms down so I can’t push his hand away from my mouth.

“Swallow.” He whispers, “Please.” his voice gentle.

I stare at him for a moment, seeing the concern in his eyes. He’s only trying to take care of me.

Finally, I swallow the medicine and Yeosang releases me. I cough and sputter, trying to get rid of the taste in my mouth. Right about then Yeosang hands me a Sprite.

“This will get the taste out of your mouth.” He says after he’s opened the lid for me.

After taking several swigs, I begin to feel like the horrible flavor has faded. After putting the cap back on the bottle I pout, “You tricked me.”

“If you had just taken the medicine I wouldn’t have had to kiss you like that.” He points out, a smirk tugging at the side of his lips and a twinkle in his eyes

I lay back down pouting before saying, “Glad you found enjoyment in it.”

Yeosang runs his fingers through my hair before saying, “I can make it up to you.”

He gently kisses my lips again once, twice, a third time before he pulls away, his face scrunched.

“Your right. That medicine is nasty.” He remarks at he wipes his lips off with his hand.

I throw a pillow at him before we both burst into laughter

[danganronpa-21]

Naegiri Week Day 1 - Sweet

Happy first day of Naegiri Week! Today I bring you the most tooth-rotting fluff I have ever written. Like it is excessively sweet. Still, I even managed to make myself get all giggly and excitable during the editing phase, so I really hope you like it. I have no content warnings to issue this time around. Just pure, sweet Naegiri. I hope you enjoy it!

________________________________________________________________

“No way.”

Kyoko’s lips curled into a smile as she stared at her wide-eyed fiancé, a curt nod punctuating the statement that had caused him the utmost disbelief. Though there were plenty of things that might shock him about her, she never expected for this to be one of them.

 “Yes way.”

 “No way!” Within a matter of seconds, he’d taken hold of her wrists, shaking them with all of the enthusiasm of a small child. There was a frantic look in his eye as he shook her, clearly too absorbed in his shock to even think about how funny this would look from her end of things. God, her Makoto was a special one. Not that was a bad thing, of course. His little eccentricities were part of the reason why she liked him so much. “No way, no way!”

 It was hard to fight off a laugh as she watched his expression; he looked all too serious for the topic of conversation. He always had been a man of rather interesting passions. She had been a witness to many a debate between him and Yasuhiro about seemingly silly things, most of which she did not understand. How he found the energy to argue about flavours of soda pops, which Robocop movie was objectively the best one, and which sitcom had the weirdest actors was beyond her. Still, she found that this one was a bit… much, even for him. On the list of things that she anticipated he might get overly excited about, a topic as childish as candy was not one of them. It was a bit of a strange position to be in, watching the man she loved have a total conniption over her grandfather’s refusal to accommodate her sweet tooth.

 “Yes, really,” she did her best to not sound short with him, but she really didn’t see what the big deal was, “I missed out on a lot when I was a girl. I never had a chocoball, or a crunky bar, or caplico… There were even some traditional desserts that I missed out on, too.”

 If it were possible for his eyes to open any wider, they would have. He practically gasped at her statement, so horrified that her younger self had been denied the sweets he deemed so precious. “What desserts haven’t you had? I swear, if you’ve never tasted manju, I think I might cry.”

 Kyoko chuckled softly, rolling her eyes at him. Had he really forgotten? “No, I’ve had manju before. You made it for me for our first date, remember?”

 Makoto exhaled with quiet relief instantly, nodding his head with a nonchalance he hadn’t possessed thirty seconds prior. You’d have thought she had just told him he had not tested positive for a fatal disease or something, with the way his shoulders relaxed. “Right, I did do that,” he paused for a second, “And you liked it, didn’t you?”

 She could have laughed at how intense his eyes got over the question. She’d seen troublesome students at Hope’s Peak receive glares less intense than this one. “Yes, it was lovely,” she assured him, brushing some hair away from her face, “The variation of desserts I have yet to taste are more treats like dorayaki, taiyaki, yokan, dango, or coffee jelly.”

 To this, Makoto actually cringed. Full-on eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched, drawing the head back slightly cringed. You’d have thought the man were genuinely pained. “I can’t believe I’m marrying a woman who’s never had dango,” the furrowing of his brows seemed to deepen as the news settled within him, “And coffee jelly! Oh, Kyoko, you would just love coffee jelly!”

 “I’ve always thought I would, but I didn’t have much of a chance to try it.”

 “Well, that settles it, then.”

 “Settles what?” Kyoko blinked, tilting her head to the side.

 A new found determination settled in her fiance’s expression; within seconds it seemed his energy had renewed. He practically beamed with elation, a cheery smile stretching across his face. “You and me are going sweet-tasting. Desserts, candies, the whole deal!”

 “Wait, Makoto. You don’t have to do this for me,” she fruitlessly attempted to wiggle her wrists out from his grasp, “It’s okay, really-”

 “No!” he interrupted her without a second thought, his movements just as dramatic as ever, “I have to. This is a matter of life and death.”

She snickered, finally prying her wrist out from Makoto’s hand with sheer force. “I think that’s a tad dramatic, love,” her now-free hand found her way to her ear, reaching up to tuck some of her lavender hair behind it, “But I suppose… I will indulge you. I don’t imagine you would give me much of a choice otherwise.”

 He chuckled. “No, I would not.” His hands rested on his hips as he puffed his chest up proudly, looking a bit like a small child who had just finished tied his shoes for the first time. “Now c’mon and get your coat! We’ve got a shop to visit!”

  Kyoko couldn’t help but smile as she and Makoto walked through the crisp winter air, the snowing raining down and settling on top of both of their heads. Fighting off the grin forming on her face as she watched her husband-to-be prancing through the snow was a fruitless endeavour, so she didn’t bother. His fingers were interlaced with her own as he led her down the street, swinging their hands forward together with uncontainable glee. It had been quite awhile since he last saw him ignited with this much energy, and to be honest, she was relishing it. His smile always felt like seeing the sunrise after waiting all night.

 “So where is it that you are taking me again?” Though she was not sure whether she should be enthused or slightly fearful, she tried her best to keep up with her fiancé’s delight. It wasn’t particularly hard, getting to see that big smile on his face and hearing the snow crunch cheerfully beneath their winter boots. Admittedly, the promise of many delicious sweets probably had something to do with it, too. After all, her grandfather had been the one to make the choice about whether or not she got them as a child. If a young Kyoko had had things her way, she would have been eating candy and desserts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Her sweet tooth was unimaginably huge back then, and if she were to tell the truth… it was still pretty big as an adult, too.

 She was sure that Makoto’s smile would deepen if it were capable of getting any bigger. “It’s this combination dessert café-candy shop that lets you taste all of the sweets of your dreams. I was thinking we should start with desserts, and then move onto the candies to take home. I hear they have a great selection.”

 “I will take your word for it. You are the candy connoisseur.”

 Makoto rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly; his face tinged pink. “I’m not sure if I’d go that far…”

 Kyoko smirked. “The dessert director.”

 “Alright, Kyoko, stop playing around-”

 “The chief of confection.”

 His lips twitched, telling her just how badly he wanted to smile. Still, he was trying pretty hard to keep that phony scowl going. She could even see that liar biting his cheeks to keep himself from laughing at her jokes! Oh, she would get him for this falsity later. What a cruel, cruel man her lover could be.

 “Are you done now?” He asked, his tone betraying the amusement that his expression wanted to hide. She nodded contentedly, happy to know how easily she could get him to grin. With all of his seriousness about the desserts and candy, she figured that she should be able to take her turn to be silly. So, she didn’t think it so wrong that she could joke around with him, and then press a kiss to his cheek.

 “Yes,” she affirmed, “I’m done now. Care to continue on with your sweets speech?”

 “Hey!” His tongue poked out at her cheekily from between his lips. “You said you were done with the alliteration!”

 A gloved fingertip pressed itself against the space just below her lips, batting her eyelashes at him with all of the innocence she could muster. If she truly desired to portray innocence, she would be doing a horrible job of it… but thankfully, this kind of thing would work when playing around with Makoto. “Whatever are you talking about?”

 He half-nudged her shoulder before pulling his phone out from his pocket. For a moment, he swiped fruitlessly over the touch screen with his gloved hand. Then, with all of the lacking grace of a middle school boy, he pried the glove from his hand with his teeth. Sometimes, he really could be so boyish. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, of course. It was actually something that she liked about him. It made him passionate and interesting in the same way that other people just weren’t. She couldn’t count on both hands the number of men she’d met who took themselves far too seriously, denouncing anything childish and writing horrible love stories in their ugly moleskin journals. Try-hards, she remembered thinking about them. Makoto never seemed to feel like that. In a way, she supposed that was why pleasure from his little dessert desperation blossomed so easily.

 “Anyway,” she was so lost in thought that she wouldn’t have noticed him pulling up her options if it weren’t for him shoving the phone four inches in front of her face, “They have a big menu of desserts that you can look at online. You should look at their options and see what you want to try!”

 A smirk threatened to overtake her, leaving her wondering just how cheeky she could with him before he got fed up. “I was under the impression that I would simply be trying everything I had yet to try, given that you seemed so serious about it when we first set out. I definitely know that coffee jelly is on the list, though. You know how much adore coffee and anything coffee-flavoured.”

 Keeping her mind from drifting to a cup of warm coffee was a struggle. In the midst of the frozen air nipping at their noses, a cup of coffee sounded excellent. Just holding it against her gloves, breathing in that rich aroma… Mmmm. Kyoko hoped that they might serve a cup of coffee or two at the shop. You know, to pair with the desserts. Not because of her own fixation on it or anything.

 “Well, ideally, you would try everything. I just wanted to know if there was anything you really wanted. If you don’t like it, I can always eat it for you.”

 She shook her head. “I’m sensing a bit of an ulterior motive here, my love.”

 Blush rose in his cheeks, prompting him to reach up the scratch at them in that awkward habit he never managed to kick. “I mean, that wasn’t my only plan, but… it is one of the perks, heh.”

 “So you say.”

 “C’mon, don’t give me a hard time!” The luckster whined, pushing out his lip in the fakest pout he’d given her in a while. “You can’t be mean to the guy who’s getting you desserts and candy.”

 A smile played at her lips. “Is he paying for all of it out of his own pocket, or is he snagging some of his rich fiancée’s money?” She asked, quirking an eyebrow at him expectantly. She couldn’t help watching intently to see if his blush from before would strengthen. Perhaps doing so was a tad mean, but she liked to tease him. Getting a reaction out of Makoto was always fun, especially with his tendency to get flustered and stumble over his words. If she were to be honest, she found his embarrassment totally adorable.  

 To her surprise and slight disappointment, he puffed his chest up at her. Prideful little Makoto who would pay out of his own pocket. “He is treating his special lady today, and so she pays for nothing. Although it should be pointed out that he usually pays for dinner anyway.”

 “Alright, alright. You got me there,” she chuckled, leaning over to plant another kiss on his cheek, “Now is this dessert shop very far from here? I fear my nose might start to frost over soon.”

 He giggled and reached over to place his hand on her nose. “Aww, your poor little nose,” it was hard not to cringe as he rubbed her nose, “Does this help?”

 Admittedly, his mitten-clad hand did help her nose become toastier, but having her fiancé rub her nose in public felt a little embarrassing. Like one of those things that others would judge them for. People already tended to stare at them due to their presence in the School Life of Mutual Killing broadcast, so she preferred to avoid attracting extra attention where she could. She briefly considered whether or not she should swat his hand away, but that nose warmth… it was too good to pass up. Her hands reached up to meet his wrist to keep him there, muffling any words she spoke. “Yes, that is good. You still have yet to answer my question, however.”

 “It’s just a few more buildings up the street. Something like four,” he tilted his head to the side, “Can you manage that?”

 Kyoko mustered up the biggest possible sigh she could manage. “I suppose,” She complained theatrically, batting her eyelashes at him once again. All her partner could do was snort softly and shake his head at her, keeping his hands on her nose as they ventured towards the combination candy-dessert shop.

 The rest of their walk seemed rather short in comparison to the first half; the two of them chattering back and forth lazily the whole way there. The pieces of conversation weren’t anything incredibly impressive – Makoto enthused about the snowflakes that settled within Kyoko’s silvery locks, and Kyoko murmured quietly to him about how cute his pink nose looked in the winter’s cold. A more girlish part of Kyoko squealed at how lovingly domestic this all felt. She prayed that after their wedding in the summer, the same happy feelings would persist. The mere thought of getting to go on adventures like this as a married couple made her heart light itself with new flame. Maybe, if today went well, they could even see about having a sweets bar at their reception. Wouldn’t that just be so nice, she said when she told Makoto. Her soon-to-be-husband had lit up at her suggestion, saying that he’d let her pick out all of her favourites to be displayed on the table. Next thing she knew, they were babbling excitedly about their future desserts table, barely even seeming to notice that they had come upon the dessert shop.

 “Here it is!” Makoto announced, throwing his arms open wide, “Chieko Chisu’s Confection Cabin!”

 That’s a lot of c’s was Kyoko’s first thought. Following that: this is exactly the kind of shop Makoto would pick out. Seriously, the cabin name was almost literal. The whole store appeared as if it could have been made from bulky cherrywood planks, with a pair of frosted-over, white-trimmed windows being the only clue to the inside. The door appeared to have been fashioned from lumber as well, with a forest-green sign hanging on it. The characters for ‘OPEN’ were written across the sign in someone’s swooping handwriting, portrayed by a white marker. They’d even taken the care to doodle little ice cream cones and bonbons along the sign’s edges. When her eyes found the rim of the roof, it met her with a scattering of multi-coloured lanterns, all featuring hand-painted illustrations. From the way it looked, each of the lanterns was intended to advertise its own type of dessert or candy. The purple ones all had a shiba inu snacking on manju, the yellow with an ezo red fox enjoying dorayaki, the pink featuring a deer nosing around a few choco-balls. They were so childishly sweet that she couldn’t help but grin at them, knowing for sure that they had plenty of young customers. Without going in, she could already feel the warmth radiating off of the place.

 “It’s adorable,” she told him, leaning her head on his shoulder, “Did you see the lanterns?”

 He nodded and pointed up at them; his finger directed her to one of the green ones. “The field mouse struggling to enjoy the hi-chew is my personal favourite. It’s so chewy it gets stuck in his little mouth.”

 Sure enough, there was a depiction of a field mouse with a sticky green candy in his mouth, trying desperately to chew it. She could relate to that one – Hi-chew was just fruity enough that her grandfather let her have it as a treat every once in a while, and she had many memories of it getting stuck in her teeth. “At least he has good taste. The green apple ones were always my favourite.”

 “Mine too.”

 Expectation might have led one to expect the couple to do something other than smile and take each other by the hand, but that is where it would be wrong. In times like those, sometimes the only thing either of them needed was to take the other by the hand, and lead them to a new moment of happiness.

 Kyoko refused to fight off her sigh of relief as the door to the Confection Cabin closed behind them, the homely air soothing her chilled bones. Though she would be the first to confess about having complained, she hadn’t realized how much the winter air affected her. Now that she was inside where it was all cozy, she wanted nothing more than to snuggle up in Makoto’s arms and have a nice, long nap… and perhaps peel off the layers of her coat that suddenly felt very hot. Such things would have to wait, of course, for an incredibly bubbly staff member bombarded them the moment they entered the restaurant.

 “Hello there!” The girl chirped, waving almost too enthusiastically at them. “Welcome to Chieko Chisu’s Confection Cabin. My name is Kajitani Anzu-san, and I’ll be looking after you today. How might I help you? Would you like to explore our nummy candies or mouthwatering desserts today?”

 Kyoko couldn’t help but glance over at her fiancé helplessly; talking with staff always made her uncomfortable. Not due to any snobby rich girl disdain for them, of course – her generally more closed-off behaviour simply made it more difficult for her to be comfortable with someone who was so obviously ingenuine. Makoto tended to handle it better, and certainly much more naturally than she ever could.

 “Actually, if it would be okay, we’d like to try both!” Without warning, he threw his arm around Kyoko’s shoulders, taking her entirely by surprise. She hoped the staff member hadn’t seen her tense in shock. The last thing she wanted was for this random girl to get the wrong impression about her relationship with Makoto. “You see, my fiancée here has been very deprived of sweets all her life.”

Anzu’s hands flew to her face almost comically; her brown eyes as wide as a full moon. “Oh no! We can’t have that!”

 Her fiancé nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Which is why we were wondering if it would be possible to start with desserts, and end off with some candy shopping. Would that be okay?”

 It became Anzu’s turn to nod as she clapped her hands together enthusiastically. “Of course, of course, sir! We can manage many a treat for you and your sweetheart! A table for two, I presume?”

 The only thing Kyoko could think to contribute was an awkward snicker. “Yes, please.”

 “Excellent, now if you’ll just follow me…!”

  At this point, Kyoko was very close to bursting like a balloon.

 Well, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but she sure felt like it. After an hour in the café portion scarfing down Makoto and Anzu’s recommended desserts, her stomach already felt full to the point of discomfort. Their insistence on her attempting to choke down all of the candies and chocolates the store had to offer only worsened the strain, and now, she felt a bit like a beached whale.

 She supposed she could take some pleasure in the fact that Makoto seemed to be feeling the same way. He’d become so full while enjoying the desserts with her that he insisted that they call a cab to bring them home, rather than force themselves to walk the full way with the weight of their packed bellies. As embarrassing as it was to admit, she felt so overwhelmed that she had to oblige.

 Even so, it was a good trip, all things considered. Just as promised, she and Makoto packed themselves to the brim with all kinds of goodies. Mochi filled with strawberry ice cream, dango of every colour they could manage, some beautiful winter’s nerikiri, delectable banana mushi pan, and the definitely-as-good-as-promised coffee jelly… Her mouth could have watered at the thought of all of those foods, had it not been for the fullness. She could still recall sitting in her booth with Makoto, the two of them sliding dishes to one another across the table and popping treats into their eager mouths.

 “Oh my god,” Makoto had exclaimed upon taking his first bite of the mushi pan, “I think this is the best I’ve ever had.”

 Kyoko had already been in the process of enjoying her half of the bun cake, and could agree wholeheartedly. The texture was so light and fluffy that it felt as if it melted in her mouth; the sweet but subtle flavour of banana dancing across her tongue like a memory. “Me too,” she mumbled through a muffled full mouth.

 “You have nothing to compare it to! This is your first mushi pan.”

 She smiled at him with chipmunk cheeks. “And it’s the best I have ever tasted. Pass the coffee jelly, please?”

 “Of course,” he chuckled, “I knew you’d love it.”

 What a surprise, the answer tempted her far too much. Hopefully, as her fiancé, he would know her that well. Still, she held her tongue, instead choosing to take another spoonful of the jelly he’d just slid over. Pure heaven the moment it entered her mouth. Coffee jelly plus banana mushi pan tasted like breakfast but better. Together, she and Makoto had entered a sugary paradise.

 And now they were laying at home, flopped on their plush blue couch, lethargic and exhausted. Yet, strangely, Kyoko honestly couldn’t help feeling happy. The grin on her face was effortless as she laid her head on her partner’s shoulder; the two of them doing their best to ignore their aching tummies. Even if this was the worst shape her stomach had been in in a while, she couldn’t find it within herself to care. Honestly, she wouldn’t even be willing to categorize the scenario as a mistake.

 “Ugh…” Makoto groaned, sticking out his lower lip into a childish pout. “I ate way too many desserts.”

 She found herself nodding in agreement, reaching over to pat his belly. “You sure packed away a lot. You ate much more than I did… Not that I’m surprised. You always have been better at eating than me.”

 His shoulders rose and fell; a smirk snaked across his face. Clear intent to be cheeky. “What can I say? You called me the chief of confection. I had to do my best… I’m paying for it now, though.”

 “As am I,” Kyoko sighed and nuzzled her cheek into his shoulder, “But if I have to feel like I’m going to regorge a rainbow with someone, I’m glad that it’s you. Today was really special, my love.”

 She knew his cheeks started burning without looking at him. In spite of their engagement, she didn’t always have the confidence to use pet names with him. ‘My love’ was his absolute favourite, and she liked to spring it on him at unexpected moments like these. It always seemed to bring him the greatest joy. When he spoke, she could hear the smile in his voice.

 “I’m glad you liked it. I had a really good time with you, too. I hope we can keep doing stuff like this for a long time.”

 Kyoko laughed and raised her hand to eye-level, wiggling her fingers in front of his face. The rose-shaped diamond on the ring glittered at them cheerfully, as if to accentuate her point. “I should hope so. That is what you gave me the ring for, is it not?”

 “That’s true,” he snickered, “So I can have good times with the woman I love for the rest of my life.”

 “Well, I can’t promise you that I won’t spend the night regurgitating all of the desserts we just ate, but I can promise you that.”

 He leaned his head down to rest upon hers. “That’s more than good enough for me.”

[b0rista]

Oh my god, oh my GOD you gave me the most ridiculous brainrot with those hcs of the Titan trio in a gloomy city, I literally haven’t stopped thinking about it all day. If you’re still open for requests, could you maybe write something similar, but with the reader having a crush on bertholdt, or being his s/o in that au? Thank you so much if you do, I hope you have a lovely day! 🥰

— ❝︎ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐎 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍! 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐔 𝐏𝐓. 𝐓𝐖𝐎 ; 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐓. ·˚ ༘

♡︎ : PLEASE I'M SO GLAD THAT YOU LIKED ITDK I LOWKEY FELL OFF AT THE END BUT TYTY 🥺 and tbh i was THIS CLOSE 🤏 to turning it into a bert x reader post so you like read my mind PLSKD. and i hope you have a lovely day, too!! 🥺

reader x bertholdt version of this! i suggest reading those headcanons first because i absolutely refuSe to attempt to explain the atmosphere again because i'm illiterate gegsgdgh

if you'd like a music recommendation for when you're reading this, literally just play the band cigarettes after sex and you'll get the vibe i'm tryna put off 😭

also this is long and dragged out and im SORRYYFHF

because there isn't a whole lot to change (other than bertholt's feelings for annie; he's older, so in this version, he's over it entirely), everything will be the same as it was in the first part. the four of you, all living in extremely gloomy territory. you're only close with eachother, and it's the sour scent of cigarette smoke and green tea keeping the lot of you sane. that, and the rain. the sweet, senseless rain.

as before, bertholdt's in his twenties, and currently working as a philosophy professor's assistant. his workplace is at a local community college, where you and the other two occasionally visit.

the same goes for the others, as well— while annie's a policy analyst, reiner's taken up certified training. again, not much is different from the first version, if anything at all. what you do for a living is entirely up to you. as for lodging, you're still sharing an apartment with annie, and the boys still visit far too often than remotely necessary. for such a big city, the four of you don't really get out much. really, if you ever do, it's with eachother. you're a very, very tight-knit posse.

back during your college campus days, you're liking toward bertholdt was merely platonic. after all, not only were the bunch of you focused on your academia, but he was always the quieter sort. back then, you were more close to reiner, and even annie, who's worse. still, that didn't mean the two of you didn't interact quite a bit. whenever you were struggling with your studies, he was always offering to help. if we're being entirely honest, there were quite a few exams that you'd have likely failed if it weren't for his assistance.

now, the two of you have grown far more comfortable with one another. of course, college was years ago. as time went on, you'd managed to get closer to him, and vice versa. all four of you are close, despite you having turned their trio into a quartet only a mere matter of years ago. somehow, it felt as they were waiting for you to join them.

if you read the part before this one, you read the instance of which you were hassled on the subway, ultimately leading to an actual buddy system in your favor. well, your friends claim that it's in your favor, anyway. really, it feels like babysitting. they don't like whenever you board the underground train by yourself, and you've been caught trying once or twice. the first time, it was by reiner, who nearly bit your head off. the second time, it was by bert, who was mildly displeased.

instead of scolding you, though, he only boarded the same train as you, offering to see you home. unlike reiner, bertholdt isn't aggressive, especially towards you. if anything, he's protective. he doesn't like it whenever the lingering eyes of a stranger land on you, and he sure as hell isn't fond of the thought of another man taking you home. if you're the more flamboyant sort, and you're unafraid of a fling or two, he'll be quietly bitter. of course, he'll never tell you what to do with your life. he'll tell you to be careful with who you trust, and to stay safe. he's only one call away.

back to your feelings, though. currently, your quiet crush on bertholdt is rising with every given day. it's a struggle, bearing feelings for a man so closed off. nevertheless, it's uncontrollable. fortunately, your pining towards him is more subtle than it is obvious, so he's yet to actually realize. that, and he's fucking oblivious. annie and reiner, however? they're as observing as they come. they know about it, and while they don't tease you, they do root for you. reiner more than annie, because annie's horrible at that sort of thing. still, 10/10 friends.

as of right now, you have three pieces of bertholdt's clothing in your closet. a sweater, a scarf, and a t-shirt. he hasn't asked for any of them back, so they're practically yours. they were all loaned to you on seperate occasions. and although he'll never tell you, there's an actual reason for why he hasn't asked for them back— one time, while you were wearing his sweatshirt, he caught a brief glimpse of you from afar: you were bringing the collar to your nose, inhaling the bittersweet scent of his cologne, his scent. you looked so pleased, and it fucking melted him. he can't bring himself to take anything back that he gives to you.

cuddling. all of you cuddle, though it's a bit subtle. whenever the four of you gather at you and annie's apartment after a rough week, you all have this moment where for hours, you simply sit in silence, watching the rain pour atop the cityscape from the other side of the balcony. the television is lowly drumming in the background, and glasses of tea mixed with pure whiskey sit ontop of the coffee table behind you. you do this as a group, and it's weirdly cinematic. when annie's head isn't rested against your shoulder, you like to press the bottom of your chin onto the top of bertholdt's head. from behind him, your arms lazily wrap around his shoulders, and he sinks into you. this is such a weekly occurrence, neither of you even think much of it. after all, reiner and annie are falling asleep ontop of one another beside you. when they do, you and bertholdt often have a quiet conversation. it's sweet, and exactly what the two of you need.

one time, he took you to an ice sculpture festival. it was the midst of winter, and there was one showcasing in the city. of course, the other two were invited. however, they both claimed to be "busy," when really, they went out to see a movie so the two of you could actually do something together. that being said, you went as a pair.

it was actually fun, to your surprise. not because of the sculptures themselves, but because of how much bertholdt actually liked them. for being so closed off, he showed quite a bit of interest in them. y'all know he's artsy. you couldn't help yourself— as he was silently gawking over a ten foot sculpture of a roaring tiger, you called him cute.

of course, knowing him, he immediately started to flush. due to the weather, he easily pinned the redness of his cheeks to the cold. you, of course, were smarter than that.

speaking of the cold, you were freezing. while you made sure to bundle up, you didn't think to bring a scarf. the blisteringly cold wind tickled at your exposed neck, earning itself a shiver from you. you may not have thought much of it, but he certainly did.

from directly behind you, you felt a hand move to hold your hair out of the way as a large, burgundy fabric coiled itself around your neck, immediately encasing you in its warmth. glancing both behind and above you, you saw bertholdt, snugly tying his own scarf around you. from the looks of it, he thought nothing of it. you were cold, and he wanted to fix that. still, the brief collision of his palm against your bare skin was enough to make you melt.

cigarette sharing. this is just,, a thing. the entire group does it, you and bertholdt especially. there have been plenty of instances where you've snatched a dart from in between his lips, bringing it to your own. vice versa, as well— he's a bit more gentle with it, though. when he reaches for your lips, he's careful, and his knuckles ever so slightly graze against your face as he tugs the cigarette from out of your mouth. to this day, you debate surprising him with a quick kiss to his hand.

speaking of kisses, several have been placed on your forehead. despite not being an item, after a particular rough moment, bertholdt's incredibly tender whilst comforting you. by your shoulders, you'll be pulled into an embrace, where he'll bury his nose within your hair while quietly reassuring you. using your chin to raise your face, he'll place a soft, sweet kiss on the center of your forehead. it's short, but effective.

this man is your personal umbrella. if it's pouring rain—which it usually is— and you're without coverage, he is your coverage. he'll either pull off his jacket and use it to cover your head from the rain, or you'll be sheepishly pulled into his chest, where he sacrifices his back to keep you dry.

if the two of you ever exchanged your feelings toward one another, it would be through a dramatic, rainy confession.

you likely went first, blurting out what you felt through a flash of frustrated impulse; it was pouring down rain, and somehow, the two of you had gotten into a conflict in the parking lot of bertholdt's apartment complex. now, you were shouting at him, "perhaps it's because i love you, you goddamn imbecile!"

and he just,, stared. you stared in horror, he stared in utter shock. now, the two of you were drenched, and you were absolutely mortified.

after a couple of moments, you would falter. digging into the left pocket of your coat, you would pull out your pack of marlboros— despite the rain, you moved to get a smoke. "fuck this," you said, "i need a cigarette."

however, right as you flipped the top of the pack open, it would be abruptly smacked out of your grasp, rendering you speechless. and before you could even regain those words of yours back, they were quickly halted by the lips of another, shutting you up for good.

with multiple year's worth of pent up emotions, you and bertholdt kiss beneath the weeping sky.