#the rose-ing force; art

[chogiwow]

confessions of a wilted flower | hwang hyunjin

genre: first love, fluff, slight angst

wc: 12.2k+

warnings: that high school love i can never have again, reader has a fear of failure, general stress about grades but grades can go fuck themselves, hyunjin is a little jelly ft. jeno

a/n: prolly still not proofread expect the random typos sorry :'>

i.

The first time Hyunjin ever confessed to you was in elementary school.

It was child's play, quite literally.

Holding up a bougainvillaea with a crumpled petal, for it had been the closest substitute he could find on his way to school in place of the red rose he had so carefully wrapped in a plastic sheet last night with his mother and neatly tied a white ribbon around, but had forgotten to take in the morning, he had stuttered through his lips for a way to confess.

Seemingly all the times he had practiced it in his mind instead of working on his multiplication tables had vanished — all gone, his perfect "I love you" and the time he could have spent learning the seven's multiplication.

You had accepted the rather shabby flower, holding it precariously by its stem and blushed at his confession, even though he had settled for a "I like you" in the end, not finding it in himself to do otherwise under the giggling mess that his entire class was, ooh-ing at his display of affection.

And that's how Jisung, to this date, keeps teasing him about it. Curse the heavens for putting them in the same class back then.

A confession at six was probably not even a proper confession. But who made that rule? Who gave people the right to disregard a six year old’s thumping heart and nervous stutters and the colossal amount of courage he had to summon to say those three words with a crumpled up flower for a sorry excuse of a valentine’s day offering?

So what if he was a kid? Hyunjin had seen a fair amount of proposals that never went wrong, where the adults in the movies would hand their love interest a flower, kiss and hold hands. It was simple right? Hyunjin thought so too. He would confess, give you the flower, mayhaps get a kiss and hold hands with you.

The kiss had been optional in his books, his mind no less than a nervous, flustered wreck at the thought of your lips on his. Yes, he could definitely survive without the kiss. Besides, he was too young… he could kiss you some other time, when you were both adults.

His first valentine’s day had therefore come to an end disastrously — at least that’s how it had been for him.

He realised that a confession of love should never be done in the first period, that was art and the children were allowed to chatter amongst themselves because their art teacher was the kindest soul on this earth who let her students talk and play in class. Because this meant that the entire class was talking about you two, more about Hyunjin than you though, and he had to sit in forced silence in a group of rowdy boys making kissing faces at him and mocking his “I like you” in a high pitched voice. He was feeling rather pathetic while you sat in a circle with your friends who were giggling and teasing you too.

He had to run away when he saw you approach the water taps to fill your bottle, leaving his own favorite red spider-man bottle abandoned as he sprinted to the class, too embarrassed at the prospect of facing you the entire day.

Alas, he had not got to hold your hand that day either.

He had gone back home depressed, absently looking out the window as the horrible day kept replaying in his head.

Every day he got down the bus and saw his mother waiting to pick him up, he would smile and hug her and babble about how his day went, how Jisung tripped over his own feet and the whole class laughed at him, the three red stars his math teacher had drawn on his homework and you. Mostly you — how you had offered to share your spring rolls with him, lent him your precious set of colour pencils and saved him a seat beside you during lunch.

That day he got off the bus with a sad pout, and when his mom took his bag from him and inquired about the missing water bottle, he burst into tears.

It would have seemed that he was crying because he had forgotten to retrieve his bottle after successfully avoiding you, and now he was afraid of the scolding as a consequence. But in reality, it was because he was positively convinced his love life was over — ruined, gone to shambles and never to come back again.

Quite dramatic, but understandable for a six year old experiencing his first times and messing it up.

“There, there,” his mother had patted him on his back, lifting him up in her arms and letting him wrap his clenched fists around her neck, crying into her shoulder.

The six year old Hyunjin had hated the sight of roses since that day, irrespective of their colour be it red or white or pink, and had unceremoniously crushed the flower on reaching home, plastic wrapping and ribbon included and stomped on it on the ground.

His mother had sympathised with her son, musing at his small body with so much anger and resentment it carried, and baked him his favorite banana cake along with a cup of chocolate smoothie.

Needless to say, he had let go of his sulky pout the next day, for you had invited him to your birthday party in the coming week. He didn’t have to avoid you the entire day and even grabbed his water bottle his homeroom teacher had retrieved for him rather gleefully, ignoring her words of taking care of his personal belongings better in his exhilarated state at having things back to normal.

And he babbled again to his mom that afternoon, not forgetting to mention your birthday and wondering what he could possibly get you, going as far as enquiring excitedly about the amount of money in his pink piggy bank. She had laughed at him and said rather gently that it was enough to buy you a decent present.

What Hyunjin didn’t know was that you had gone home in tears that day as well. Some kid in the bus had accidentally sat on your flower and squashed it. One of the petals was torn and by the time you reached home, it was already losing the bright coral colour and had veins of black running across the other petals.

It was a whole ordeal trying to get you to quieten down, your dad explaining to you in patient tones on how all flowers wilted at some point, the ones which were plucked sooner than the ones still blooming on plants. It took you an hour to understand. Or maybe you just stopped crying because you were tired.

Kids can be so simple and yet complex.

ii.

Hyunjin’s dislike for roses had remained even as he grew up to be a frequent receiver of the darned flower.

But Hyunjin was a kind kid. Beneath all the awkward limbs and sinking feeling in his chest that came with the realisation that he was going to have to turn down yet another valentine rose, he did it kindly.

“Ah, sorry… I don’t like you that way,” he’d mumble, toes curling inside his shoes at the sheer amount of people who had gathered to watch him break another heart and you sitting in one corner of the room, where the coral rays of the afternoon sun only glowed on you and the curtains only fluttered around your frame. It was puppy love for Hyunjin, one that made his teenage heart do cartwheels around you; all that ‘the time seemed to stop’ jazz.

Fifteen year old Hyunjin was still in love with you.

And that made it hard for him to ignore the red roses taped to his locker door, the white ones along with chocolates placed on his desk and the pink ones he’d receive from girls from other classes.

Fifteen year old Hyunjin had very carefully ensured that you were no wiser of his feelings.

And that made it easier for him to hang out with you after school in the playground, sucking on ice lollies and tasting a bit of each other’s lolly flavours. This surprisingly didn’t concern him in the least as an indirect kiss. It also weighed less on his conscience when he’d deliberately play a horror movie, knowing that if he kept the throw pillows on his side, you’d cling on to his arm, that being the nearest thing you could bury your face into. He could always play it off as his way of teasing you.

Fifteen year old Hyunjin also held your hand in his.

The first time was because he was genuinely scared of going on the pirate ship in the amusement park that you had dragged him to on the eve of your sixteenth birthday, teasing him of how he was still couple of months younger than you; you had to intertwine your fingers with his and put up with his constant whining and foot stomping about the whole ordeal.

He never went on that ride again.

The second time, though intended, the hand holding came more naturally.

It was on the subway… actually, it was even before the subway.

It was a Friday evening, and both of you were catching a train later than your usual one having spent the freedom that came with finishing your exams, on the old market street near your school.

Apparently you had come across a picture of tonkatsu surfing through the hell that social media was, and had craved the crispy snack. On further research, you found out about the shop and texted Hyunjin about it excitedly.

Your messages had been amusing, a mixed bag of threats and pleading. Somehow the clash of emotions had made him smile. Your impatience always shone through when you didn’t get prompt replies to your messages.

[you]: we’re going there tomorrow after school, no ifs and buts.

Sent at 7:30. No wonder your following messages were a mess; he had just gone to take a shower and had come back to his phone blowing up with your spam. Unfortunately, he had left your chat open, so it had seemed as if he had left you on read.

[you]: don’t you leave me hanging now !!

[you]: hey! are you ignoring me?

[you]: omg hwang hyunjin you ass, the one time i need you, you leave me on seen?! The aUDACITY !! the Betrayal™ :’((((((

[you]: fine then. leave me on read and never talk to me again. i shall enjoy myself without your constant annoying company

 [you]: hyuuuuunjiiiiiiinnnnnn, cmoooooooooooon,,,, i was kidding about you being annoying, please please please come with me ;-;

[hyunjin]: geez, i was in the shower and left our chat open. You know i’ll say yes, it’s the last exam -_-

[you]: yAYYYYY HWANG HYUNJIN I LOVE YOU SO MUCH !!11!!!!1!!

Hyunjin knew you hadn’t truly meant your last message, nonetheless it made him drop his phone on his chest and facepalm.

As promised, promptly after the last bell rang, signifying the finish of two hellish weeks of exams, he made his way over to your classroom where you had been seated temporarily for exam period only. It was then that he had tugged on your hand in the horde of students, excitedly chatting about summer break and pulled you out of the crowd.

It was an unspoken agreement between the two of you to never bring up the question paper and discuss it once you were officially through with the whole ordeal of sitting at a desk for two hours working on pythagoras problems and reciting world war dates in chronological order — it was history and must not ever be brought up.

So the two of you settled on chatting about plans for summer vacations, mostly trying to fit in studying in your schedule that comprised mainly of catching the first screening of the new movie coming out next week and having a different flavour of ice cream at the new ice cream parlour that had recently opened down your street.

The walk to the old market street wasn’t long, it was pleasant to be ambling along the road under the muted afternoon sun with a spring breeze blowing and an occasional dry leaf falling on your shoulder when you had to wait at the cross section for the lights to turn red.

Although there wasn’t much of a crowd yet given the hour of the day, once you reached the market street, there was quite a hustle. The pavements were lined up with stalls, multicoloured cloth awnings serving as a splash of colour. It was comical, the way the main street and the market stood in contrast with each other, as if two worlds had somehow stuck at the junction of their collision, hanging in space awkwardly.

The hum of the cars and honking had set a backdrop to your evening rendezvous, the hullabaloo of the market chaos making a din like crickets on a hot summer day.

You could catch the people reciting orders of food and mothers bargaining with vendors on the price of ceramic jugs.

Hyunjin noticed the way your eyes sparkled, your lips pursing themselves in a smile he knew you were suppressing out of sheer excitement, and your eyes travelling greedily, taking in the scene in front of you. Markets, for whatever odd reason, excited you to no end.

You held on to your reasoning that somehow it was easy to blend in with the multitude of people and pretend you didn’t exist in a world where people were concerned about mundane things.

The lanterns strung high up, but not too high up, hadn’t been lit up yet. They would be soon though, because late afternoon marked the busiest time of the market. Fathers rushing home with candied pineapples wrapped in a local newspaper bag from the trusted man in his fifties, who sometimes gave away free candies to kids, young women looking for a hair piece and earrings to wear on dates - something pretty but not too expensive, orders of steamed buns in servings of a dozen ringing through the air, the steam rising off the heated pans sizzling with water and oil.

Everybody existed, and yet nobody paid attention. It was a happening experience.

In that seemingly bustling void of craziness, and people pushing past each other, yet not minding the shoulder bumps, your eyes found his.

Hyunjin was sure he would have missed it had he not been intently staring at you under the golden evening, but when your eyes lock he feels so grateful that even amongst thousands of people, you found him; you chose to find him.

It made him happy, his hand reaching out for yours and clasping together, eyes soft under your own sparkling ones. It’s times like this that he found his heart wavering; a clench of muscles that released the butterflies in his stomach.

You raise an eyebrow, bringing up your clasped hands and point at it with your chin.

“So I don’t lose you,” is his reply, and oh so befitting,

You don’t overlook the underlying meaning to his words, rather you choose to do so. Because if you didn’t, then you would have to question his intentions, and if that happened you might find yourself questioning whether you liked it or not, and that in turn would lead to confusion, because… surely, you weren’t supposed to like your best friend?

It was easy and a simpler route — ignore all complexities and just hold hands; no questions asked, no intentions suspected, just innocent hand holding. The action of placing your palm in the palm of another person and clasping them together under a slowly darkening sky lit up with orange and yellow lanterns that casted a sweet, charming glow on the handsome face of your best friend.

How stupidly romantic, and yet it was your own mind conjuring these things up. You just wanted to hold hands.

Hyunjin decided that he had stared long enough at your face, a flush rising up his neck that he entirely blamed upon the proximity of the steaming pan of the pastry seller. The sweet fragrance of cinnamon and honey was like amortentia and Hyunjin abashedly pulled you away from the stall, hand still holding yours.

You ended up roaming the streets for a good half an hour in search of your tonkatsu place, before you finally realised it was tucked away in a smaller alleyway in between two stalls that casted a shadow in the entrance. Hyunjin, as much as he liked you, was also pissed off when you kept making him run around in circles with a backpack on his shoulders and his hands growing uncomfortably sweaty in the heat.

Now, this was something Hyunjin hadn’t foreseen; physical touch was all good until you had the embarrassing memory of trying to live down the sweating due to nerves and heat. Still, he didn’t hate it as much as the first rose he had demolished.

Now that you both were finally fed and on the train back home, he had other things to worry about than just sweaty palms.

For one, you were wearing your bag up front, hugging the pastel blue fabric protectively with the knowledge that inside lay two paper bags of piping hot tonkatsu and sauce, carefully wrapped in plastic. This caused Hyunjin some pain, for the chain of your front pocket kept digging into his skin every now and then.

Secondly, this train was packed to the brim with people going home from work. The man behind him kept bumping into his back and resulted in him colliding with you… your bag, more like.

“Can’t you just wear the bag like it’s supposed to be worn? On your back?” Hyunjin hisses at you, his hand coming to rest on his chest after another collision.

“But what if someone steals my food?”

Your exclamation doesn’t amuse him, rather he looks at you like he wants to throw you off the train.

“(y/n), nobody wants to steal your cheap tonkatsu, okay?” he grimaces to make a point.

You feign a gasp of horror, hands patting your bag comfortingly.

“So what if they’re cheap? They’re the best ones I’ve ever had, and don’t you deny it,” you raise your voice when he’s about to interrupt, “You literally inhaled four plates of these cheap tonkotsu Hwang Hyunjin.”

He gives up when you pout at him, shaking his head in defeat.

The train stops at a station right then with a jolt and Hyunjin finds himself leaning over you, his free hand that wasn’t clutching the overhead handle reaching out to grab your flapping hands that had no support to resist the laws of inertia.

His fist encloses over your own, pulling you towards him so that he’s subjected to yet another assault from your bag but manages to not let you topple in a crowd of people behind you. The distance separating you is negligible, and had it not been for Hyunjin’s insane growth spurt in just a few months from when he turned fifteen, your face would have been smushed against his own, unlike now, when your nose crashed painfully against his chest.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Hyunjin worriedly inquires, bending his head to your level to inspect the damage. Your eyes were tearing up and you were rubbing your nose that was tingling in pain.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you sniff, blinking your tears back, “but what the hell, I swear your chest is just made of a rock.”

Of course you would blame him, how typical.

“So much for saving you,” he rolls his eyes, nevertheless, rubbing your nose with his thumb and pinching your cheek afterwards.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you sulk, “you just prevented me from falling, not save my life or anything.”

“I’m thinking I should have just let you fall,” he deadpans.

You hit his chest softly, your hand finding its way to the hem of his shirt where it tucked at the fabric.

Hyunjin glances down at your fingers and then to your face, which was busy looking down at the interesting pattern of your shoes. With an inexplicable hesitance, he gently pries your fingers apart from his shirt and slips his hand in yours.

You hum contendendly, the noise going unnoticed and blending in with the buzz of the train machine.

Fifteen year old Hyunjin had at least got to hold your hand in his.

iii.

The second time you received a proper confession was in high school.

It wasn't the season of love, but then again, love blooms in every season. And it wasn’t Hyunjin.

The warm days were coming to an end, and you were starting to pull out all the sweaters and hoodies from the back of your closet.

Another set of examinations had just come to an end. This time Hyunjin had actually studied for his physics test rather than second guessing his answers and settling for option B after rounding up his decimals and digits in the first place which resulted in a consecutive row of option C on his answer sheet.. He even worked out the multiplication in a rough column on the left side of his page.

The reason for the sudden interest and desire to do well in the subject was because he had successively failed his prior minor tests, ranking at the bottom for this particular subject and if he didn’t get his grades up, there was a high chance of him failing at the end of the academic year even after a cumulative total was taken into consideration.

That and, if he didn’t get his grades up he was going to be debarred from applying under the performance arts department in university, which Hyunjin could not let happen. It was the sole reason he had been slaving away in the shabby dance studios after school every day.

The easiest way out of this to get you to tutor him.

Getting you to agree had been easy when you had agreed to do it voluntarily because you were as concerned as him about his grades, but for different reasons. Where you just wanted to graduate together, even though that meant Hyunjin barely passed his subjects, he was just worried he would have to settle for a mediocre college with a stream he didn’t like in the first place.

“Alright so, using Fleming's left hand rule, your forefinger is pointing towards the direction of the force field...see, ‘f’ for forefinger and ‘f’ for force field…”

“Yes and ‘f’ for fuck this shit.”

You sighed for the seventh time in the last five minutes, sitting back on the floor seeing how Hyunjin had given up not even half an hour under your tutelage, lying on his back with his arms spread out.

“It’s too hard, I can’t do this,” he groans, squirming around on your carpet and messing it up.

“I know,” you reply with a bored tone, “that’s like, the twentieth time you’ve said that since we started studying.”

“Oh you wouldn’t be so patronising had you been dumb like me,” he chastises, pointing an accusing finger and lifting his head to glare at yo with his double chin protruding out.

“I’m trying to make you less dumb, now get up and let’s at least finish this topic.”

Hyunin whines again, stomping his foot and messing the carpet under you further as he throws yet another tantrum. You grabbing the nearest cushion and throwing it at him only makes him act out more when it hits his face with a pouf.

“Come on future dancer, get off your ass and do it for that university you’ve been whining about,” you attempt at the psychology of backhanded guilt tripping, because it usually works on Hyunjin.

You know it does and yet you use it to make him work even though it makes you feel a little guilty.

Hyunjin lays silently on the ground, his fingers twitching under the signals his brain was sending him to get up and stop the guilty conscience he had unwittingly found out made his chest pang, but his limbs were locked in place and he was physically unable to get himself up from his sprawled position on your floor.

“If you do this and solve the questions I give you,” you start with a scheming tone, one that Hyunjin is too well acquainted with, “I’ll set you up on a date.”

Hyunjin doesn’t remember the last time he’s jolted up this fast. Not even when he had missed his first alarm and slept ten minutes into his usual routine which already made him late every morning, he had lain on his bed and rubbed his face, making no attempts at hurrying up. 

Not even when you had rudely interrupted his Saturday morning sleep in time by jumping straight on his middle; he had merely groaned and kicked you out of his bed, facing away from you and curling up into a ball.

The knowledge that you were thinking - no, planning - on setting him up on a date was news to him. And quite a horrifying one at that, because he can’t remember the last time he ever talked of his dead love life to you, but if he didn't know better, he would have thought that the apparent stagnancy in his streak was binding on you.

What gave you such a ridiculous idea?

You scoff in disbelief, crossing your arms across your chest and humming in interest.

“Someone is eager.”

Hyunjin is annoyed at the way you smile at him; that devilish grin borne not out of a suppressed nonchalance but an impish excitement at the prospect of planning out his love life. He’s annoyed at your obliviousness and rightfully so because even to this date, he’s never loved someone as much as you.

Your grin makes him feel pathetic, vividly aware of the thin line separating you two from a platonic and romantic relationship. No he’s not frustrated over his unrequited feelings, it was your futile matchmaking and the fact that you ever thought he'd be interested in dating and dating someone who wasn't you.

His youthful crush weighs like a burden on him at that moment.

Why was it that you were so unimaginative? How could it be that you completely overlooked the p;ausability of you two being a thing?

He gulps thickly, an action which accomplishes nothing but pushing his already sinking heart further down, his body sagging under the weight of twelve years worth of crush that felt like a sack of cotton submerged in water.

His swimming instructor had told him that breathing was a crucial skill in the sport. It may appear simple, but knowing when to lift your head above the water and catch your breath is a skill that takes practise.

Despite the fact that Hyunjin had received an A in that class, he couldn't even recall how to breathe on land. It was akin to being under water, his limbs kicking insensibly at the water in an endeavor to resurface, but heavy chains attached to his ankles pulling him down the more he resisted.

In that moment he resented a little for stealing his breath away unannounced, and he meant it as literally as he could. He resented the way you observed him with a teasing glint in your eyes, as if you had him all figured out. You didn’t and you were so very wrong for thinking otherwise.

And he was so very wrong for not realising how your intended words that spring Saturday had an underlying message that he had neglected.

iv. 

Contrary to how sweet strawberry milk Hyunjin was sipping on should have tasted, his mouth was left with a bitterness that he could physically feel at the back of his tongue.

“He asked you out on a date?”

His disdain is just short of the frown that he conceals under a hasty version of eyebrows shooting up in fake surprise.

You hum in confirmation, turning to a new page in your textbook and scribbling down the molecular formula for formaldehyde before forgetting. Hyunjin was perplexed by your indifference, which he perceived was likely because once you buried your nose in your books, not even the hottest most scandalous gossip being whispered around you would make you look up. It was surprising you were even acknowledging his presence in the middle of studying for your quiz tomorrow, and while that did raise red flags, Hyunjin decided not to pursue it.

Leaving the half empty carton of milk by your bedside table he finds respite on your bed, hugging a yellow throw cushion to his chest and fixing his gaze at the back of your head, meditating on his thoughts with a frown he had finally succumbed to.

Even though your attention was on the list of chemical terminologies you had highlighted with different colours based on their functional groups, it was hard to ignore the burning state directed at the back of your head. While it would have been seemingly easy for you to pretend not to address his glare, you were admittedly in a state of turmoil yourself.

The pastel pinks and blues on your text was starting to irritate you, coupled with the impatience you would feel a mile away radiating off Hyunjin, you decide you need to acknowledge this situation before you lose your sanity being subjected to the traumatic hellhole that high school education was.

(You heard from Felix that a girl in his class started having panic attacks when she was asked to solve a question on the board that was supposedly an important one for their finals. She had to be taken to the infirmary but she became so paranoid about missing class that she had to be sent back home)

Flinging your own across the table, you swivel your chair around so fast it makes Hyunjin flinch, raising a hand to his heart in shock.

"Holy shit, that scared me!'

"Alright, what is it? What do you want to know, just spit it out."

Hyunjin could be oblivious to a lot of things. For example, the pointed stares whenever he would fling his arm around your shoulder in the hallways, or the upset tears when he would have to politely turn down another confession. But he never fails to pick up your little quirks and behaviors.

You're not upset that often, but when you are you shut yourself off from people because you're too afraid of what you'll say if you do open your mouth. And when you're sad, for a reason or not because everybody's allowed to be a bit sad without a cause, your eyes lose focus as you stare off into space, lips turned down in a sad frown.

It's hard to miss the frustration lacing your voice now when it sounded almost like you were mad at him for it. And while you had your reasons, you don’t think you’re obligated to address the questioning frown on his face.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh yeah,” you scoff, “you didn’t say anything, but the way you stare me down is nothing compared to it. It’s annoying!”

“I wasn’t going to say anything either, what so… now I can’t even look at you?”

“Of course you can look at me, but you’re doing that thing which annoys me.”

This argument was starting to get pettier by the minute, your immature remarks ricocheting off the walls like childish rebukes. ‘That thing’ you mentioned is something Hyunjin is unaware he’s doing unless you point it out.

It’s the frustratingly confused frown on his face along with his teeth biting on his nails (and he wonders why his nails look short and ugly).

“Well I’m annoyed too… no, not annoyed, but like… upset that I found out about my best friend being asked out from someone who isn’t my best friend!” his hands move in dramatic waves, the complaining ending with a sharp jab of his finger in the air pointed towards you.

“Well I was going to,” you defend yourself, “as soon as we got home. How was I supposed to know word would travel so fast? And if anything, it could have been a rumor, how could you believe it so easily?”

It was a rhetoric, a clear indication that this blame game could go on and on if you wanted; and Hyunjin believed in it because factually speaking, you were the smarter of the two and you made better points. He just yelled and made noises of disbelief.

Fighting was no new concept to you both and you had both accepted that as pretty as a relationship can be, sometimes a bit of yelling does one good more than harm. Neither of you liked the essence of it though, so it had been a pact you made him sign in middle school to not let it become a matter of concern, especially when you knew some insults could be a little too much to handle sometimes.

While you were more supportive of your arguments, Hyunjin had a more tactless approach, therefore, decidedly it was him who mostly backed down.

That’s what he does now because as much as he would hate to admit, you had a point and there was no reason for you to hide this from him.

He relaxes into your cushions, crossing his arms and pouting in defeat.

You knew this meant that he had more to say, but was giving you a chance to explain; much rather like a sulky kid letting their mother explain to them why two plus two equals four and not five; not a word would you get out of him until you were done.

“Alright,” you sigh, doing what you supposed you should have done yourself rather than wait for your best friend to interrogate you about it.

“Jeno asked me out at lunch today, and since you were nowhere to be found — by the way I waited like a fool in front of your class for ten whole minutes before someone told me you were in the dance room,” you scowl at him forgetting to mention it to you, his lips forming a small ‘o’ in revelation, then sheepishly falling into an apologetic smile.

“So then i was on my way to you, giving up on my precious lunch,” another scowl, “but I bumped into Jeno on the way who was nothing but sweet about it to me, and asked me what I was down in the basement, so I told him about going to find you, but apparently you already went to lunch?”

“Wait I can explain,” Hyunjin interjects, sitting up on your sheets, because now it was starting to feel like you were constantly reminding him of how things had come to this and it was all his fault, “the reason I didn't stop by your class was because I thought you would already be in the lunch hall and I could just meet you up there, and as for not telling you, it was an emergency meeting our instructor called so I had no way of letting you know…”

“Yeah okay,” you accepted his justification, albeit still a bit miffed about it, “So anyway, we just fell into a casual conversation while walking to lunch together, but then one of his friends… Haechan, I think? The one who’s always yelling at Mark in the football field… anyway, not my point — he appears out of nowhere and pounces on Jeno, so then I’m just kind of stuck waiting for Jeno because he did get cut off mid sentence, and it would be pretty rude of me to just leave,”

“Since when have you cared about being rude…” Hyunjin mumbles under his breath, hiding his pout with the pillow he was hugging. Thankfully you don't hear it, or you pretend you don’t.

“Well anyway, that’s how I missed my lunch and Jeno felt bad about it, so he offered to buy me a meal tomorrow,” you shrug.

“Wait, hold on… tomorrow?” Hyunjin is unable to hide the shock in his voice. He had no idea your date was tomorrow.

“Yeah…” it sounds more like ‘so what?’ as if this didn’t phase you in a bit.

“Besides, he just meant to grab a meal at the cafe at the intersection, and he didn’t really call it a date, although…”

“Although?”

Your hesitance hits Hyunjin like a wave of anxious foreboding, ankles crossing under his feet. Although what?

“I mean, he just said that… “call it a date, if you may”.”

The pink hue on your cheek is faint, but in Hyunjin’s mind they were exaggerated blooms of red brought upon you by a boy who was not him, and so was the small smile you tried to hide by clearing your throat and biting down on your lower lip.

Oh god, he was already starting to hate this so much, how would he stand it if you two started dating? Would he be the third wheel? Was he always going to be stuck watching you from the sideline as his flowery version of your very platonic friendship came crumbling down in wilting petals on a dead road? Would he have to finally give up on his unrequited feelings?

You know by now that Hyunjin goes uncharacteristically quiet when he tends to overthink, as his customary habit of biting on his plump lips (it’s important you mention plump, because that’s what makes it so hard to ignore — you swear people find it hot when he does that, but in actuality, he’s trying to choose between chocolate and strawberry milk.)

But Hyunjin is not trying to be hot right now, he doesn’t have to try to be fair, but he’s genuinely worried about something he knows he shouldn’t be. There were other important matters like his failing grades, the vase he broke three days ago and tried to hide until his mom found out this morning when he was leaving for school (he was sure to get a beating over that this evening) and prom.

Oh god, he was going to ask you out for prom, but he probably can’t anymore. Because you had yourself Jeno who was going to do that and you were going to dance with him and laugh at his stupid jokes even and blush at him through the entire evening.

And what was Hyunjin going to do? Stand in one corner of the room, sulking and frowning at being forgotten by his best friend, and spending the one thing he had been looking forward to since high school, just because some stupidly handsome guy whose smile made him look like an innocent puppy and had most of the girls in his year crush on him had asked you out on a stupid, stupid date... god he wished your date would be bad, and you would dump a smoothie on him—

“Hyunjin?”

Your third call is when he finally jolts out of his reverie, looking at you as if he were constipated.

“It's just a meal, I don’t even consider it a date, okay?”

Somehow, those words are successful in easing the tension in his body, an affirmation that he was urgently looking for somewhere at the back of his head that had been clouded by his judgement and over the top thoughts.

You’re not sure why you find the need to mollify Hyunjin in the first place. Because as oblivious as you tried to be of the gray area you and Hyunjin were dabbling in since…forever, did not obligate you into providing a sense of security to him. The only confession you remember receiving from him was when you were six and someone had squashed the flower he had given you with shaking hands and a trembling voice.

Perhaps you were hopeful of great things, but you would never admit it.

v. 

It wasn’t a date, that’s what you had said.

So in Hyunin’s mind, those words had molded themselves in the form of a solid piece of metal with engravings on it that clearly stated, “It’s not a date, so there’s no reason for them to continue meeting up with each other after this.”

What he did not expect was for Jeno to be standing over your desk, minutes after the bell for lunch went off and laughing with you on whatever Hyunjin had missed.

Hyunjin had not seen you on the night of your… outing, with Lee Jeno, when you called him unexpectedly and rather tiredly said that you were going to bed early so you could complete your assignments early in the morning. While this was normal for you, and Hyunjin was used to your eccentricity, he was a little disappointed because he looked forward to hearing about your date... uh, outing (although he had accepted your reasoning the previous night, a part if him had hoped and even dreamt of you dumping a smoothie on Jeno’s head).

“So, how did it go?” was the first thing he asked you the next morning. Unlike you, he had the whole night to lay awake in bed, tossing and turning over the possibility that you had assured him had negligible chances of being true, but which in his over-wired mind had a fifty-fifty chance of being plausible.

He knew about Jeno’s charms, and he knew you were all for it.

Regardless, your small disruption in the library had been to glance at the said boy many times just because of the ruckus the other girls would make, all whispering and stuff, Hyunjin had noticed you exchange a smile or two with him sometimes.

Jeno had a nice personality, a cute smile and even cuter eyes that would disappear into crescents when he would smile. He had a soft voice, a gentle way of talking to people no matter how rude they were, and the only person who could tolerate Haechan.

If you think Hyunjin doesn’t know those were the very characteristics of your ideal type you had based your fictional oc upon (he caught you writing on one of those fanfic sites in middle school), then you would be wrong.

He never held this information as a leverage against you, but he was seriously contemplating doing so now.

It was relatively easy to feign his restless night had been devoted to only worrying about the occurrence of a potential smoothie dump, but it was difficult to ignore the answers he had unintentionally stumbled upon torturing himself with a rapid fire round of questions.

“It was fine, we just had some food and chatted.”

“Talked about what?” Hyunjin hoped his paranoia wasn’t showing.

“Oh just this and that, college plans, Ms. Oh’s stupidly difficult quizzes... you know, just casual stuff.”

You believed that your shrug and nonchalance were enough to convince Hyunjin that you didn’t consider last evening to be a date, and even if you did, you were sure as hell not going on another one. It was just friendly hanging out, just like you and Hyunjin… just like you and Hyunjin.

But why is it that he walks in on Jeno offering you to sit with him for lunch?

“Oh, that’s alright,” you smile up at him, “I’m gonna sit with Hyunjin.”

You point your chin to where he was standing, making Jeno turn around to glance at him and smile.

“That’s fine, enjoy your lunch.”

Jeno smiled and left, not sounding one bit upset for turning down his offer. See, that’s how Jeno was, kind and gentle and understanding. Hyunjin wishes he was a bit of a jerk so he could dislike him without feeling guilty about it.

“How was your quiz?” he pulls up a chair in front of your desk, plopping down on it and resting his elbows on your table.

You groan and bury your head in your arms, grabbing your hair with your fingers and pulling them slightly.

“Ugh, I forgot to write down the units.”

Hyunjin sympathises with your wailing, patting your head and smoothening your hair comfortingly. Everybody knew how Ms. Oh was absolutely anal about writing units; she would go as far as deducting a whole mark off five points if you forgot to write it or wrote the wrong one.

You poke your head out from between your elbows, peering up at him with pleading eyes. It takes a lot for Hyunjin to restrain himself from kissing you on the lips right then and there. He settles with pinching and squishing your cheeks, your face resembling a blowfish which makes him laugh.

“Stop it,” you whine at him, turning your face away to grieve in the passing away of your perfect A grade you had taken so much caution and meticulous efforts to maintain. Hyunjin isn’t sure why you’re this upset; sure you’re as anal as Ms. Oh about here units as you were for maintaining an above average report card, but surely this was you stressing too much?

“I think I messed up my last two questions,” you mumble so silently, he has to strain his ears to catch your words.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says softly, changing tact now that he realised you were genuinely upset.

“It is,” you wail again, drawing out the last syllable and glaring at Hyunjin. The glare turns to confusion and if he was seeing quite correctly, he thinks you may have started crying had you not blinked your tears back at the sight of his alarmed face.

This was all his fault. If your overall dropped because of a B on a subject you had slaved on for ages, you were so gonna blame him your entire life.

“Hey, I don’t know what’s going on but you can talk to me okay?”

His gentle voice breaks your frustrated streak and you instantly feel the tears at the back of your eyes trying to push past the barrier you were holding up. You bury your head deeper into your arms, nose touching the wooden surface of the table and feel the first tear roll down your cheek and fall on your palm. This was a dreadful position to be in while you cried, because now you wanted to sniff but you couldn’t because Hyunjin was sitting right there and you couldn’t let him hear you.

You nod your head, biting on your lips to stop the whimper threatening to come out of your mouth.

There’s a few times you have cried, not finding it in yourself to be fond of the action altogether. And in those times, you’d give yourself exactly five minutes, a little more sometimes to cry your tears out and then stop, wiping your cheeks and washing your face and fanning the redness off from your eyes till you deemed it satisfactory enough to be able to walk out of your bathroom without raising any concerns. You usually have a penchant for reserving this between the walls of your bathroom, but never your bedroom because anybody could walk in at any time and you don't want that, save for the singular occurrence in Hyunjin’s room back in middle school.

You were still learning the art of hiding your tears from people because a) you didn’t want them to worry about you, the attention was nothing but embarrassing to endure and b) because some people just never cared for them, and you couldn’t blame them for this.

You were sure you remembered why you had cried on Hyunjin’s bed that day, but you think it must have been something silly because you had forgotten now.

With a long sniff, you sit up, rubbing your cheeks with the sleeves of your shirt which get stained and face Hyunjin who was now looking at you flabbergasted.

And inaudible gasp makes his jaw drop at how silently you had relieved yourself in such a short span of time without letting it on and he felt terrible about it.

“Did you just cry? Without making a sound?”

You sniff again, unsurprised at why Hyunjin felt so deceived with the notion that you could do it while he was sitting right there in front of you.

“I’m fine now,” your voice is a little heavy, making you clear your throat, “is my face too red?”

“Okay what’s going on?” Hyunjin completely ignores your question, sitting up straight on his chair and fixing you with a look that was partly confused, surprised and concerned.

You shake your head with a wry smile, fanning your eyes as best as you could before lunch got over and the students came back, for it was just the two of you in the class right now.

“Sorry, I'm just a little stressed with the finals coming up and you know, I really don’t want to risk making such silly mistakes now.”

You hope your lie is passable to cross his radar of lie detection which he was surprisingly good at when it came to you. Maybe it was good enough, or maybe it was because you had just cried, your eyes red and nose flushed, but Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, meaning he bought it… for now or whatever.

It was convenient for you that the bell rang and a few students already trickled in, the ones who always started back for their classrooms two minutes before lunch was over so they could make it just in time and not have to get squished in a horde of scurrying students.

Hyunin can’t do much but push the chair back and stand up, pulling your head to his stomach and hugging you with another pat on your head.

“You can talk to me about this whenever you want, just don’t let it get to you, okay?”

You smile and nod up at him, and again Hyunjin is inclined to reach out and stroke your cheek and tuck the lock of hair behind your ear and gently kiss the sad smile away from your sad lips; and again he settles with a soft pinch on your cheek which was gentler than he had ever been with you and it almost throws you into another spiral of emotions.

This time though, your heart beats too loud for your own liking and you wish Hyunjin would stop.

vii.

“We need to talk,” you state, walking right up to the sweaty boy who looked surprised that you were there.

“Hey (y/n), everything okay?” Jeno asks, tucking the basketball under his arm and waving at the other members of the basketball team to go ahead without him. A few of them snicker and hoot, but he just sighs.

“It's about Hyunjin and… what you said the other day.”

Jeno tilts his head in confusion, brows furrowing cutely in a mock frown, “about what?”

You inhale deeply, feeling the air filling up your chest as you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear that didn’t need to be tucked back in the first place., seemingly unaware of the smile that Jeno was trying to hide.

“I think I like Hyunjin.”

“You think you like Hyunjin?” Jeno’s eyes crinkle up when he laughs in his sweet way, but the humor was lost on you when his chuckle sounded like he was ridiculing you.

“Are you laughing at me?” your disbelief stems from his gleeful expression which makes an inexplicable exasperation bubble in the pit of your stomach.

“And are you kidding?” he scoffs in good humor, “You more than like him, and I can’t believe I had to say it out loud for you to realise.”

“It’s not that! I’ve always liked him, but it’s just… I can’t possibly see us anywhere but the gray area we’ve been in for so long.”

“Because you’re already past the stage where romantic gestures like holding hands and sleeping on the same bed are considered platonic and now you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is an intense desire to kiss him or punch him in the face?”

You blush under the presumptive assertion that is an exact word to word report of what you have been feeling for so long. To make matters worse, the definitive judgement of his observation - of a third person’s observation - makes your heart drop, gulping at how obvious you would have had to be for him to notice.

“We haven’t slept on the same bed!” you cry in exasperation, cheeks flaming with every word you were near about forcing yourself to say. It’s true, the most you two had done was lay beside each other during lazy summer breaks and cuddled on the couch, but contrary to popular platonic culture, you had never found yourself in said predicament. The thought makes your chest leap out of your throat and you have to gulp to force it down.

“That’s not the point, the point is that you’re too afraid to own up to your feelings.” Jeno states as a matter-of-fact, “Who knows, he may actually like you.”

The way Jeno says it comes out as an equivalent as “two plus two equals four”; you can shrug off it’s opposing arguments because you know it’s true and factual.

“You don’t know that!”

Oh Jeno knows, and only too well. The supposed date that he had with you, one would have expected that you would have talked about yourself, but all you wanted to talk about was Hyunjin. What he likes, what he dislikes, his little quirks, his stupidly gleeful laugh that is infectious … all him, and all for him.

And you know this too.

You know Hyunjin likes you — has since forever. From the first day of kindergarten when his clumsy limbs had bumped into yours and toppled you both across the floor, and even though the cut on his knee was bleeding, he still kept apologising for the bruise on your elbow because you were crying so loudly. He wasn’t scared of being scolded, but genuinely scared that you were perhaps going to die given the way you were wailing about it.

When you were the clumsy one and tripped over your own foot in the playground, scraping your knees but this time just sniffling at the slight sting due to your injury, he had brushed off the dust from your clothes and led you to the nurse by your hand. Hyunjin doesn’t remember that he had in fact held your hand at the age of seven. He was so concerned about the tiny scratch across your knee, he hadn’t even noticed. If he knew, he probably would have been exhilarated.

When every single memorable moment of your life you’ve had him right beside your side, ready to share the happiness and the pain with you as long as you could be together. At one point just thinking about it had made you so feverishly happy, you had cried a small tear of gratitude that you had such an amazing person as your best friend who you were in love with.

But…

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

This question is something you had been hoping you would be able to answer for yourself, but in all these years you’ve never been able to discern between the love he shows you on the surface level and the one he stores safely in his heart that is only visible like a little twinkle in his eyes on the subway or the crowded streets of your favorite night market where it’s easy to blend in with the people, and your feelings are too entangled to tell apart. If it’s anything even close to what you feel for him, you have every valid reason to lose your sleep over it and mess up your math quiz that you studied hard for.

And you’re hoping Jeno can answer this, because you sure couldn’t do it yourself.

“And what makes you think that?” he asks, eyes softening at your dubious self. Your silence is not your inability to put your doubts in words, it’s the fear of saying something you might not like and may be true.

“You wouldn’t know unless you try (y/n),” Jeno’s soft voice breaks your silence, the empty court making his word sound louder than intended as the sun outside flushes it’s last rays.

vii.

Winter had finally set in.

The brown carpets of dead leaves were being swiped away and the branches of the trees were already naked. A slight nip in the wind was a signal to wrap scarves around your neck on the way to school.

And it was Christmas season.

December had started fairly well for you, for you had successfully been able to avoid your blooming feelings. You had hoped that the start of winter would be metaphorical to your feelings, cooling down, losing their sizzling fire, but if anything they were only amplified. You believe it's because of the common notion you’ve always had about winters being the most romantic season.

You had done a fair job in holding back on your feelings and a potential confession, but in actuality, being busy with your finals and college enrollment exams had made it easier for you to push those thoughts back at the back of your mind. Moreover Hyunjin had not questioned the way you had been avoiding his company, because it was normal for you to do so in exam season.

This, albeit making you feel guilty, worked in your favor because now was probably not a good time for misunderstandings. Not when in a few months you would be stepping out of the shielded walls of your school. The dread of losing friends and being hurled head first into the world of adulting had nothing on the dread of being separated from Hyunjin though.

Admittedly, you were excited for what was to come but at the same time it was the knowledge that eventually you would have to walk a path without him was scary. No matter where you went, you always had him by your side; on wide roads you would skip along the emptiness holding each other’s hands and on narrower ones you both squeezed yourselves, shoulders touching each others’ and laughing.

Now you only see a big, wide concrete path and no Hyunjin in sight and a looming uncertainty of whether he would ever be by your side again.

Perhaps the reason you had found yourself reluctant to confess even months after you admitted it to yourself was because you had inherently been too late to it. Had you done this earlier, hell even the starting of high school, you wouldn’t have been regretting it so much now.

It wasn’t whether Hyunjin loves you now, it was whether he would still love you even though he knew your time being inseparable had come to an end. Maybe that was why you never could find an answer in the first place, because you were reading the wrong question.

The start of Christmas break had slowly eased you in this tub of anxiety, where you found yourself flipping through years worth of memories captured in the cellophane pockets of albums.

Hyunjin would leave, and you knew he would.

He was hard-working and devoted to his passion, which he had come to hone in the past few years and there was no stopping him back, not even the assumed love he had for you. Hyunjin had to leave, no matter how much he loved you because that’s how things were and it didn’t need an explanation.

And it was you having to walk alone on a new path without him that scared you into clamming up your mouth.

“You wouldn’t know unless you try…”

Jeno’s words were like a stab to the heart, the bittersweet taste it left in its wake swirling and filling you up.

With the final steps over and a farewell to one chapter of your life, you had no reason to turn down Hyunjin’s incessant invitations to his house or blatantly refusing his video calls because believe it or not, you caught yourself in the mirror one day, and even you couldn’t deny the unmistakable worry etched upon your face.

But when Hyunjin invited you to an evening out to the old market street, you couldn’t push him away anymore. Reluctantly agreeing to accompany him for Christmas shopping, you forced a painful smile upon your face to his excited chattering.

That is how you find yourself wrapped in your thickest scarf and blowing puffs of cloud in the air on the middle of the old market street.

It was forever unchanging. No matter what season it was, the street was packed with people walking even closer to each than than before due to the biting cold; the red lamps strung up high and glowing like soft bright beacons through the fog, the steam of dumplings in a pan of oil and the sweet savory scent of honeyed pastries floating in the air.

Hyunjin was bent over a box of pretty bracelets and hair clips that he was thinking of buying for his cousins, the paper bag containing a small bottle of scent for his mother, tucked under his arm as he sorted through the colourful beaded accessories.

Hyunjin’s near cousins always visited them during Christmas, a tradition they had followed since childhood so that now even you referred to them as your sisters.

Deciding that he’d rather get them the silver lockets with cute charms hanging from them, he places the smaller paper bag inside the one with the perfume, storing it together in the inner breast pocket of his coat.

Immediately his hand reaches out for yours and curls his fingers around your cold ones, pulling you closer in doing so and you think you might as well combust right then and there. The feeling is nothing foreign and yet it makes you hold your breath.

“Have you bought my gift yet?” he asks happily, slowly ambling towards an unknown destination as the crowd let you both be engulfed in it’s wavelike motion.

Oh shit.

Of course you forgot. What with wallowing in self pity, you had forgotten to buy him a gift and there were only two days left until Christmas. Even if you scrounge the net in search of something to buy him, it wouldn't arrive until after Christmas was over. How could you have been so dumb?

“Uh…yeah,” you gulp, relieved that Hyunjin isn’t paying attention to you anymore, instead attracted to a stall with bright lights like a moth. You let him pull you towards it, stopping with an inaudible gasp of surprise in front of the stall.

Strings of small fairy lights hung from the canvas ceiling, swaying whenever someone took them in their hands for examination, or simply ran their fingers along them. You could see more such lights at the back, small dangling lanterns like a mobile over a child’s cot, strings of crystal like beads that cast streaks of small rainbows when they caught the light.

You both stare at the mesmerising curtain of lights, eyes slowly travelling from the different hues and colours, some blinking slowly and some dangling in the wind like small fireflies.

“It’s beautiful,” Hyunjin murmurs, squeezing your hand gently.

You turn to face him, his face blushing under the glow of warm colours, the rainbows playing a game of chase on his face that god seemed to have taken extra efforts carving out.

In that moment you feel a part of you slip away and land gently in front of the entrance to his heart, and you hope your gentle knocking is loud enough for him to open it for you. You desperately want a small piece of you to be a part of him, in whatever form he accepted it as, because your heart was filled to the brim with the love you had for him already.

Hyunjin senses your gaze on him and slowly brings his eyes to meet yours under the canopy of yellow stars and orange fireflies. For a moment his gaze flickers to your lips and you can feel yourself being pulled towards him, inch by inch, one small movement at a time like you would approach a kitten - cautious and gently to not scare it away.

The moment though is not meant to happen.

You understand, it's a busy street, probably not ideal for you to be kissing in the middle of it (if that was indeed what was intended to happen) and so with blushing cheeks you both step apart, the awkwardness easy to hide in the loud bustling of people around you.

The warmth of the closeness you had a few seconds prior an embarrassing wall of ice between you that burns you. It makes the back of your eyes prick with tears that can’t be explained, the disappointment of your rude awakening serving as a reminder that this was probably for the best.

You don’t hold hands the entire evening after that.

viii. 

When on the night of Christmas eve, you are not bombarded with the customary Christmas memes and silly selfies with rudolph and santa filters, a part of you breaks. In fact you’re not met with a single notification from him.

What breaks you more is the emptiness in your chest and coldness in your fingers.

With nothing to do the entire day, because you had already stress-decorated the Christmas tree and had been shooed away by your mom when you almost burnt the Christmas chicken, you had resigned to cleaning your room.

Getting rid of the sheer amount of useless things you had collected felt like a therapeutic decluttering of your mind of equally unavailing thoughts. The room was strewn with all kinds of oddities. It was all in fair will when you stumbled upon a tin box that you didn’t remember owning.

With fumbling hands you managed to yield it open after some struggle and the first thing you saw was a familiar flower, dried and encased inside a transparent sheet. You were trying to forget, not be reminded of the things you were supposed to let go.

Now that you were holding it in your hands for the first time after twelve years of being stacked away under the mess that your cupboard was, it felt like an ancient wonder. The history attached to it came rushing back to you and you sighed at the sight of the dead petals; brown and crusty and on the verge of being crushed to smithereens if you took it out of its protection.

You don’t even remember saving this, only the agony of letting it get crumpled under someone's weight and the subsequent tears. Had you really intended on protecting it since the beginning? Had the six year old you invariably decided to protect Hyunjin’s heart?

With a trembling sigh you let the flower fall into your lap, and instead you rip off the blanket of safety you had covered yourself with, letting the tears that were long overdue finally escape.

You wish the eighteen year old you had been as brave to protect Hyunjin’s heart.

There’s a lot of things Hyunjin wasn’t expecting for Christmas.

For one, he didn’t think his father would gift him the old battered up car that he had been so insistent on driving just so he could take you out on rides and boast about owning a car. It wasn’t a brand new gift, but Hyunjin was more than happy to receive it. At least, he’s sure he would be as soon as the dismay at the pit of his stomach died down. That’s what he convinced himself.

Secondly he didn't think it was possible that he could spend an entire day without texting or calling you even once. The radio silence on your end made him apprehensive, because he knew that you knew what the night at the market had meant, and what it could have possibly ended in.

Thirdly, he never thought that Christmas could ever feel so lonely even with all the people around him, laughing cheerfully and chattering merrily. Christmas had never ever felt so depressing, and he had never hated this festival more than he did now.

Fourthly, he never thought that being in the same room with you could make him feel nervous to the point that it made it impossible for him to even spare you a proper glance.

You had dreaded going over to the Hwang’s for Christmas too, and had almost contemplated feigning a cold. But that would have been a very petty thing to do, and another thing to put down in your list of regret.

Thankfully no one had questioned the way you both had mostly resigned yourselves to the opposite corners of the room and not interacted except the one time you found yourself reaching out for the bowl of chips, but before Hyunjin could confront you, you had already hurried off to god knows where.

You were avoiding him, and although he took the hint he wanted nothing more than to speak to you; hear your voice and hold your hand and look you in the eyes rather than stealing glances at you across his cup of hot chocolate and kiss you… god he wanted to turn back time so badly.

It wasn’t until the late hours of the evening, when everyone had assembled in the living room, forming small groups and chatting softly into the night that he missed your presence.

He spotted your figure quietly slipping out into his backyard, away from the eyes of people, following you not long after.

“Hey you,” he says softly into the night, shivering at the wind nipping at his cheeks.

“Hey,” you greeted back simply, lifting your eyes only long enough to capture his face.

The silence that falls is hostile, no longer carrying the sense of comfort with it; an exceptional occurrence that pains you both.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, holding out a red and white paper bag towards you and forcing a smile on his lips.

You take the bag from his hands, casting him an anxious look that he notices and tries to soothe with a soft smile.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?” 

“I... should I do it now?”

He nods at you comfortingly, and motions for you to go ahead. You think fate is playing a bad joke on you.

You recognise the small orange balls of light before you even finish unwrapping the present, a painful reminder of last night. It chokes you up and makes your hands tremble. You don’t know what to say, or where to look. 

Hyunjin thinks he’s being cruel, he definitely feels his chest rip apart, but then he sees you smiling. Before he knows it, you have your arms around him in the tightest hug you could muster.

He stumbles back when you fling yourself at him, but finds himself letting out a breath of relieved laughter and hugs you back, holding you closer than he has ever before. He wishes he can capture this moment to relive it countless times; to feel your lips brushing against his neck, the whiff of citrus scent of your shampoo and the feeling of your chest pressed against his.

“I have something for you too,” you say, breaking the hug and Hyunjin almost frowns at the absence of your warmth against him.

Slowly, you pull out the small rectangular box in your pocket you had been clutching the entire night and hand it out to him.

“Merry Christmas Hyunjin,” you smile just as he opens the box and a flash of recognition passes across his face.

For a moment Hyunjon can do nothing but stare at the box in his hand, delicately picking up the contents within it. Then without a word he leans over and places his lips over yours

Kissing you was nothing like he had imagined it would have been — the sweet, pure symphony of lips, moving softly against each other’s in a confession of innocent love — it was more than that; a longing passion that burned when your lips met and your cold fingers at the back of his neck. It was aggressive and messy, a twelve year long wait coming to an end and the desperate urgency to get your feelings across to each other and feel the warmth of your lips in the biting cold. 

Under the clear sky that was ironically bereft of any stars as he had expected it to be when he had imagined kissing you under a canopy of stars, you don’t feel the need to put your feelings into words, you already know and he knows too.

Hyunjin doesn’t think he’s ever received a better present in his life and grins down at the delicate flower sitting inside the box you had given him, wrapped carefully in a transparent sheet.

[shynmighty]

🖊️🖊️ for Taijax and Vhespasian?

This makes me so happy, I do love an excuse to ramble!

Here we go with Taijax!

First of all, I'm so glad you asked about him because I feel like he falls by the wayside a lot (which is totally my fault), so I've been trying to show him more love! Thank you!!

I've mentioned this in some of the descriptions I've done for him, but he's my little mystic woo woo. He is perhaps overenthusiastic about sharing his knowledge of Jedi proverbs and mystic lore. Whatever crazy adventure he finds himself roped into, you can bet he 100% would rather be lost in some ancient library. He's a nerd, but he embraces that about himself.

His heritage and culture are also a point of fascination for him, but more in an academic sense. He's interested in the Chiss because it helps him better understand himself as a Jedi.

His full name is Srost'aija'xani. That was all the information that was given to the Jedi when he was given to the order. The pair of Chiss who handed him over as an infant were never seen or heard from again.

As part of the Silverblade legacy, he is not the Barsen'thor but does become a reputable Jedi master, and obtains a seat on the council for a time. When he is not seeking out lost knowledge or exploring ancient ruins, he accompanies Aeseca and her crew, which is how he eventually meets and falls in love with Nadia Grell.

He and Aeseca are old friends, and they grew up together in the Jedi Enclave overseen by Aeseca's mother. When the enclave was destroyed by the Sith, he and Aeseca remained good friends, to the point where they were separated for an alleged romance. This never took place, but it would be years before they saw one another again, this time as adults. As Yuon Par's apprentice prior to taking on Aeseca, Taijax had a vested interest in curing his old master from the plague inflicted on her by Lord Vivicar. He traveled with Aeseca during this time, and assisted her in ending the threat.

This got pretty long-winded... let's move on to Vhespasian!

This guy! I created him totally by accident and he's become one of my favorite OCs. Galactic Seasons told me to complete a few missions as an Imperial Agent and I made him to delete later... except he was really freakin' cute and I couldn't bring myself to get rid of him. So with him began the Imperial side of the Silverblade family.

Vhespasian is the youngest in his family, and great things were expected of him, even when he proved to not be Force sensitive. He took this to heart, throwing himself into every challenge he faced with all the passion and gusto a good Imperial baby should display. Unfortunately for him, his efforts went mostly overlooked by his Sith grandfather, the Silverblade patriarch, Darth Aemnos.

Perhaps predictably, all this negative reinforcement had an adverse effect on Vhespasian psychologically. Although he excelled academically and rose meteorically to the rank of Cipher Nine within Imperial Intelligence, his accomplishments never delivered what he thought he truly wanted: his grandfather's love and acceptance.

Needless to say, his class story went and messed him up. He came out of it, however, more devoted to the Empire and helping it become the best version of itself. He realizes there's a lot that needs to change... but he also knows that as a phantom agent with the galaxy's secrets at his fingertips, he's in a fantastic position to help that along.

It should also come as no surprise that Vhespasian has some difficulty forming lasting connections with other people. Especially romantically. His love life is a disaster. While quite adept at the art of seduction, the thought of commitment still makes him uneasy. Hopefully, someone someday will come along and sweep him off his feet. Raina Temple came very close, but Vhespasian backed out of the relationship when she asked where it was going.

I'm still back and forth-ing over who he should romance, if anyone. Major Anri is my top contender at the moment, but I can also picture him with someone like Empress Acina (I'd just headcanon it, I know she can't be fully romanced) and of course I could always just make a new OC and pair them up... It's a conundrum. I'm open to suggestions!

I should probably wrap this up, but I'm always happy to answer questions if I raised any! Thank you so much for the ask!!! 😁

[demospectator]

“No. 1015. A Chinese Chef driven from Kitchen to Curb by the San Francisco Earthquake disaster, April 18, 1906.” Photographer unknown (from the collection of Wong Yuen-Ming).

Wok-ing Outside: Chinese Quake Cooks of 1906

The settlement of the American West was marked by labor shortages in practically all fields of endeavor. In California, men far outnumbered women during the Gold Rush era, and domestic services were in short supply, and Chinese entered the field in which competition with white labor was less intense, as was the case in the industrial and agricultural sectors. “He was seen in homes, on the ranchs [sic] and farms,” historian Thomas W. Chinn wrote, “tending stock, cooking, cooking, doing indoor and outdoor work such as washing and ironing, cutting firewood and working in the garden.”

Officer’s home on Funston Avenue, c. 1880. Photographer unknown (from a private collection). Two Chinese servants flank the members of an Army officer’s family in the Presidio of San Francisco.

Chinese domestic workers often endeared themselves to Californians, and family memoirs often recounted the presence of Chinese houseboys and cooks in employers’ homes, often serving families for two or three generations. Domestic work provided the workers of the 19th and early 20th centuries the opportunity to work outside the confines of Chinatown and often for prosperous white employers.

In the chaos of the April 1906 earthquake and fire in San Francisco, Chinese domestic servants found themselves thrust into a harrowing ordeal. Many were forced to flee alongside their employers, abandoning their homes and livelihoods in the face of impending disaster. As they navigated the rubble-strewn streets and sought refuge from the encroaching flames, these workers faced challenges and uncertainty. Some managed to find temporary shelter in makeshift camps with friends or family members. Others remained with their employers.

A lone Chinese man, having fled from the 1906 earthquake and fire, sits next to a white woman amongst a collection of household goods with other refugees probably in the Potrero Hill area of San Francisco, c. April 1906. No other Chinese appears present. Photographer unknown (from a private collection).

In the aftermath of the 1906 disaster, it was hardly surprising that many Chinese domestic workers -- already adept in the culinary arts -- rose to the occasion. San Francisco lay in ruins, buildings and streets having crumbled or fractured. Amidst such desolation and chaos, the need for sustenance became paramount. Chinese cooks utilized their skills to provide food to their employer’s households and the displaced populace in improvised street kitchens, which had sprung up all over the city. Photographers captured images of makeshift kitchens operating outdoors in the face of adversity.

A lone Chinese cook stands outside a small shack, inspecting his improvised stove and oven probably assembled from salvaged bricks, a pile of which appears at left, c. April 1906. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the California Historical Society).

Chinese domestic servants were among the many who demonstrated remarkable adaptability in the wake of the disaster. With traditional households destroyed, they took to the streets, employing whatever resources were available to them. Improvised stoves and salvaged utensils allowed them to ply their culinary craft despite the challenges posed by the destruction.

The images of cooks with their employers reflect a kind of community and solidarity amongst the Chinese domestic servants and their patrons. Amidst the uncertainty and upheaval, the street kitchen became not only a place to procure nourishment but perhaps provided a higher degree of interaction through sharing of meals, amidst the ruins of homes and buildings in the aftermath of the disaster.

Chinese cook in a makeshift kitchen shack stands by while a man, possibly his employer, reads the day’s news, April 1906. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the California Historical Society).

The appearance of the street kitchens represent a snapshot in time of the perseverance and adaptability of Chinese domestic workers amidst community devastation and adverse conditions. The small stories recognize and honor the resilience that shaped the collective history of Chinese San Francisco and America.

The Chinese cook, grinning from the doorway, Chinatown, San Francisco" c. 1896-1906. Photograph by Arnold Genthe (from the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division)

[calle-dnd]

The Ordning

You met a friendly, but rahter strange, giant in an flying castle. He told you abot the Giants social structures. 

---

In an age before human and elf, when all dragons wereyoung, Annam the All-Father put the first giants upon the world. These giants were reflections of his divine off-spring and also children of the world, birthed from the marrow of mountains, the hot blood of volcanoes, andthe breath of hurricanes.Annam conceived the giants to be masters of theworld. He gave them great height so they would lookdown on all they ruled. He created a hierarchy for hischildren- the ordning- so that all would know theirstatus with respect to one another, and would know whoamong them stood nearest the knee of the All-Father.United in purpose, Annam's children built Ostoria, thefabled empire of the giants, where they lived according to the ordning. Storm giants ruled all from both below and above. They held sway over the oceans from under-sea fortresses and lorded over the land from castles in the sky. Cloud giants built immense floating cities andserved the storm giants as their strong right hands.Stone giants and fire giants settled on the mountaintopsand in the sprawling caverns beneath them, where theycarved and forged the greatest works of giant art andcraft. Frost giants defended Ostoria with the might oftheir arms, not just on the chilly peaks and glaciers buton every frontier. Hill giants sprawled over all otherlands, subjugating lesser creatures through brute force.

BEGINNING OF THE ENDAll told, the empire of Ostoria dominated the world forfour millennia before its decline began in a genocidalstruggle against the dragons that came to be known asthe Thousand-Year War.Dragons had lived in and around Ostoria in relativepeace since the empire's foundation. Conflicts betweendragons and giants in those days were personal, nottribal or regional, and usually involved bragging rights or hunting territory. Differences were settled by indi-vidual contests of might, wits, or skill. That situation persisted for generations, until the red dragon Garyx inflamed the greed and envy in its followers by rail-ing against the giants' prosperity, and they rose up in response.At least, that's what most giants believed to havehappened. No one really knows any longer what set offthe war. But once battle began, the long-standing peacebetween giants and dragons crumbled everywhere.Foes tore at each others' throats in all parts of Ostoria.There were no front lines or safe havens, only endless ambushes, sieges, and atrocities committed against gi-ants and dragons alike. Eventually, none were left alive on either side who had seen the war's beginning. Ageand brutality had claimed them all, and the few giantsand dragons then alive had spent their entire existenceat war. The Thousand-Year War didn't truly end so muchas it wasted away through attrition and exhaustion.The realm that could still be called Ostoria survived only far in the north. A few outposts and fragment king-doms, such as the fire giants' Helligheim and the stone giants' Nedeheim, clung to life in deep caverns and hid-den valleys. In the millennia that followed, even these places fell, and what remained of Ostorian territorybecame barren, shrouded in ice as thick as mountains. Since that time, many lesser races have attained great-ness and themselves fallen into obscurity. Few hints of the giants' once-great empire have survived the relent-less accumulation of years. But the giants remember. Their empire and their unified purpose are long gone, but a yearning for a re-turn to the greatness that was once theirs burns in all their memories.

--

THE 0RDNINGGiant society (such as it is) is defined in large part bythe ordning, a caste system imposed upon the giantsby their gods, chief among them Annam the All-Father.The ordning determines where a giant stands amonghis or her ilk. Traditionally, storm giants have stood atthe top of the ordning. Tall and powerful, they struggleto keep the weaker races of giants from despoiling therealms of small folk and sparking conflict. The greateststorm giants are powerful seers, skilled at identifyingand interpreting cosmic signs and divine omens. Thealoof and aristocratic cloud giants, one step below thestorm giants, rarely condescend to deal with lessergiants or small folk. Extravagance defines their cultureand their place in the ordning. Below them are the tyrannical,warmongering fire giants and the merciless,predatory frost giants. Fire giants rank themselves bytheir forging skill, whereas frost giants rank themselvesby their martial prowess. Near the bottom of the ordningare the xenophobic stone giants, who mostly liveunderground and regard the surface world as a realmof dreams. How well they sculpt stone determines theirplace among their peers. The lowest and smallest of thetrue giants are the hill giants, as gluttonous as they areloathsome. Hill giants are dullards who live in fear oftheir more powerful giant cousins. In hill giant society,the biggest rule.

--

Something must have happened because the Giants are moving about and chaos, disorder and mayhem is in their tracks. Zephyros doesnt know why and have tried to scry and contact other planes to understand the cause. He is troubled but also a bit crazed as it seems...

[finishinglinepress]

FLP CHAPBOOK OF THE DAY: Aphids in the Rose by Joan Baranow

ADVANCE ORDER: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/aphids-in-the-rose-by-joan-baranow/

Joan Baranow’s Aphids in the Rose charts her intimate experience of #breast cancer, from the shock of diagnosis to treatment to healing. Interwoven throughout her journey are #poems about the fragility and resilience of #nature, where she finds she is not alone in her struggle. Like the gull in the rain “just standing there,” she withstands the ordeal of disease and goes back into the world with renewed gratitude and wonder.

Joan Baranow is the author of six poetry collections. A fellow of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and member of the Community of Writers, she founded and teaches in the Low-Residency MFA program in Creative Writing at Dominican University of CA.

PRAISE FOR Aphids in the Rose by Joan Baranow

Joan Baranow‘s poems are moving, beautifully crafted, filled with both fear and gratitude. She has a gift for choosing multi-layered images that reveal so much more that the few lines we read on the page. There are no wasted words, no too-easy emotions. I was swept along with her in her cancer journey, a journey no woman wishes to undertake. Her poems are a guide for others who find themselves unwillingly but courageously on that path.

–Cortney Davis, author of I Hear Their Voices Singing: Poems New & Selected

This collection of poems about a cancer patient’s journey vividly conjures the universal anxieties of the human condition as it confronts the simultaneous crises of bodily frailty and ecological precarity. Joan Baranow colorfully details the audacious cures in which we humans put our faith as we try to keep our worlds—inside and out—from falling apart. Modern medicine is at once celebrated and scrutinized in poems recognizing that scientific victories are as bruising as they are benevolent, that there is a cost to “force / assert[ing] its fact.” In looking to nature for answers, these poems bring to mind the Robert Frost of “Birches,” who would surely have approved of Baranow’s homage to a redwood tree’s dignified death: “that’s what I want,… / the full weight of gravity / pulling // with its fiery core, / whose hold never slips, / whose fist releases / such glossy, improbable leaves.”

–Jenna Le, MD, author of A History of the Cetacean American Diaspora

Breast cancer: not a poetic subject, you think? Think again. Step by step, with candor and clarity carrying us from diagnosis through surgery and radiation and beyond, to a world where even “the trees are trying to remember,” these marvelous poems are rich with Baranow’s trademark closeness to the natural world, her sensuousness, her gift for levity, her brilliant leaps of utterly apt metaphor, her self-acceptance—in a word, her humanity. This is a book every woman who has had—or might have—breast cancer, should read and cherish.

–Alicia Ostriker, author of Waiting for the Light

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #chapbook #read #poems #breastcancer #survivor #healing #nature

[idv-nortnort-and-baesop]

"Thank you. Thank you for always being on my side, Norton."

“And I will always be on your side until the very end.”

[dinpascal]

No Good Deed — Din Djarin

No Good Deed — Chapter One

➥ There’s an unconscious Mandalorian outside your door, along with some tiny, green thing clutching at his cloak. There has to be some sort of manual that tells you what to do in this situation... Right? 

There were many things to hate about Nevarro. The miles and miles of just-barely crusted over magma, the Rebels that tended to brush through every now and again, acting all high and mighty and as if they were too good to set foot on such a planet. However, without a single doubt, the thing you hated the most was the damn Guild.

You had never been the type of person to judge another for their method of survival. You had done many... unsatisfactory things in your lifetime, just to see another day. A few of those still kept you awake at night, debating whether you were deserving of what you had, no matter how miniscule. The Guild, however, was an entirely different thing.

Perhaps it was the mere fact that at least seventy percent of the people you served were hunters from the Guild. And if not already in the Guild, aiming for opportunity to be. They were a cocksure group, always carrying themselves with an aura of arrogance and as if they were allowing you the privilege of surviving. As if your little, insignificant life was balanced between their fingers, because they were all so skilled in the art of bounty hunting.

A lot of mudscuffers, in your opinion.

You wiped your palms down your apron, which did little about the stickiness that was present from hours of drink-making. The hairs were no-doubt spilling from your braid, hardly remembering to breathe in-between each order and the chaos that surrounded you. Creatures of all kind called out to you in many  different languages, some you understood and others you required your “partner” to translate. The droid was good for nothing apart from that, perhaps apart from being perpetually in your way. It reached the point where you no longer felt guilty for bumping it out of your way. 

Today, evidently, was Greef Karga’s awaited return from some mission, leading to the assembly of many (impatiently) awaiting their next bounty. In other words, the bar was way past its capacity limit. Many patrons were shoulder-to-shoulder, filling the building with endless, buzzing chatter that made the ache that much more present at your brow.

“C’mon, I’ve been trying for months. Why don’t you let me take you out? Just one night?” You eyed your suitor as you collected empty glasses and bottles, eyeing him with a thoroughly practiced smile that gave him the impression you enjoyed his company. It was something you were forced to learn early in this occupation, if you were even remotely interested in tips. Customers, males especially, enjoyed feeling wanted. As if they had any semblance of a chance with the “pretty thing” that served them drinks behind the counter.

“Cardon, you know I don’t date bounty hunters.” You replied, taking a moment to take another order and busying yourself with making it. Luckily, very few (if any) frequenters drank anything complicated, often preferring spotchka and even simple shots of hooch.

The dark-skinned hunter smiled, moving to brush his hair back with a gloved hand. “And why not? Don’t think you could handle one?” If you had to decide, Cardon wasn’t the worst of the bunch you could choose from. He had ebony hair that touched the top his shoulders, the top half often twisted into a bun. He was tall enough, but quite lanky compared to many of the other hunters that frequented the cantina. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing. If you had to guess, the majority of the hunters you served only had one head. Instead of commenting further, you motioned towards his glass. “Want another, Cardon?” He waved a hand in silent agreement, seemingly coming to terms that he was, yet again, striking out with you. 

“I think I’m your relief for the night.” You turned, positively beaming at the sight of olive skin and black eyes. “Alejad... My savior.” He grinned wickedly and threw a rag over his shoulder, lightly tsking at the mess you’d made of the bar. 

“So very messy. Have I not taught you a thing?” 

With a roll of your eyes and slight scoff, you began fingering the knot of your apron. “We’ll see how lucky you end up tonight. Karga isn’t even supposed to be showing up until second sundown.” You brushed your hand over his shaved head as you passed behind him, an act of affection you’d picked up in the time you’d worked together. Alejad had been the one to train you, considering no one else apart from the two of you seemed to want to work in this hunk of junk somehow considered a “proper establishment”. 

Stepping out of the back entrance with your day’s tips firmly shoved in your pocket, the silence of the alley was almost dizzying compared to what you’d dealt with for the last seven hours. Despite the distant sounds of the hustle and bustle of the market, it was much more preferable. Almost anything was preferable to being cat-called and yelled at all day. 

With a sigh and a brush of the back of your hand across your forehead, you finally made your way home. It wasn’t a far walk, just a few twists and turns that made it a comfortable enough walk to and from work. Your home was nothing exciting, nothing more than what you absolutely needed — the absolute bare essentials. It had once served as some kind of building for the Imps that were once stationed on Nevarro and eventually separated into two, unconnected homes once the Imps were chased (or killed) out. A little family had moved into the home above yours, made up of a young Twi’lek couple and a little, rose-colored girl you doubted had seen more than five cycles. You often found her crouched outside your home, digging through the dirt to find new additions to her rock collection. On the rarest of days, when you’d either be leaving or just returning from the bar, she’d already be outside as the first sun was rising and would offer you a toothless smile that made your heart warm. 

However, given the first sun was only just beginning to set, there was no young girl parading about the property. Hopefully, she was busy eating a plentiful dinner with her parents and had a nice, warm bed to look forward to tonight. 

The door creaked as you stepped inside, double-checking that you’d locked it behind you before making your way (all three steps of it) to the kitchen. With a quick look in the conservator, it seemed for the fourth night in a row now, you were having broth for dinner. With a sigh, you discarded your dirty apron aside and flipped the oven on to reheat your soup. It seemed you were in dire need for a trip to the market. 

There were a dozen and a half things you needed to do around the house, including a deep clean of your floors, as well as stripping your bed and washing the linens that you’d ignored for much too long. Taking the trash out was sufficient enough for the night, right? Right.

The evening air was cool against your skin, the first emergence of the first sunfall of the night beginning to appear. In a matter of hours, the cool air would soon become too cold to bear without some kind of protection. It was an interesting contradiction. While the ground beneath your feet was warm, almost hot to the touch because of the molten lava beneath it, the air was often cool and bleak the moment the suns began to sleep for the night. 

A soft noise behind you drew you from your thoughts, nothing more than a gentle, sad coo. You immediately turned, worrying a young babe had dodged their parents and was now exploring with no supervision. While Nevarro was now exponentially safer now that the Imps were gone, it still was no place for a child to be roaming at first sunfall. 

The last thing, actually very last thing you had expected was the sight before you. A Mandalorian slumped against your home with a little, green creature clutching at the frayed ends of his cloak. It regarded you for no longer than a moment, big eyes quickly returning to the hunter and cooing softly once more, as if urging him to get up. It tugged at the cloak again, its free hand bumping against his shoulder as if the tiny jostle would wake him.

You stood there a moment, almost afraid to take another step towards the pair. Though you’d never met a Mandalorian yourself, their reputation was enough to make your legs shake a bit under your weight. None too long ago, one had caused the entire town to burst into gunfire and killed dozens of other hunters. Undoubtedly, he (was it a he?) knew more than a dozen ways to kill you. And the creature? While it looked harmless enough now, how could you know if it would begin spewing venom at you the moment you took two steps towards it? If you’d learned anything growing up, it was to not trust a species you didn’t know. And you’d learned that lesson the hard way. 

As if aware of your thoughts, its eyes turned towards you once more and made another sad sound. It pulled at something deep inside you, something dormant and untraveled. Whatever it was, it urged you to move your damn feet and make the poor thing stop giving you those big, sorrowful eyes. 

“Okay...” Hesitantly, as if standing eye-to-eye with a Nexu, you braved a step forward. When it didn’t abruptly move or hiss, you took another. “Hey... little guy,” you murmured, eyes flickering from gleaming silver to the little one’s, “What happened?” 

It whined pitifully, turning towards the Mandalorian with a three-fingered hand as if motioning towards him and saying, ‘help him, will ya?’. 

If it were any other situation, you may have found the little creature amusing. It didn’t seem to be able to speak, but its body language and big, bug eyes were expressive enough. 

Once you were close enough to touch the Mandalorian, you slowly kneeled and made sure it stayed in your peripheral. You doubted it would suddenly sprout wings at this point, but you could never be too sure. Maybe it enjoyed playing with its food. 

“I’m gonna... Take him inside, okay?” Much to your surprise, it nodded and backed away a couple paces to give you space. Okay, so the green thing was intelligent. Good to know. 

With a steadying breath, you maneuvered your way around the Mandalorian so you could (attempt to) lift him. You imagined his armor couldn’t be light by any means, meaning you were going to have to carry a man already twice your weight, along with that much more in armor. “Knew I should have bought those weights...”

Sliding your arms under his armpits and securing your hold through intertwining your hands over his chest, you figured this was the best chance you had. There was no way you were getting him up over your shoulder and you figured dragging him by his feet wasn’t the best method, in case of a possible head injury. 

The breath immediately whooshed out of your lungs as you straightened, using gravity to your advantage and using the force to drag him backwards, instead of back down like it wanted. The little rag-covered bean waddled after you, apparently not willing to allow the Mandalorian out of his sight. 

The helmet lulled forward as you mostly-dragged him into your home, most certainly and unquestionably out cold. 

In the middle of your kitchen, you paused. Where the hell were you going to put him? The kitchen certainly wasn’t spacious enough for him. It was hardly enough room for you to comfortably move about. 

That left your bedroom.

“Just a little farther, alright?” You huffed, suddenly very keenly aware of the heaviness in your shoulders and triceps. The creature stumbling after the Mandalorian’s feet cooed in response, seemingly more content now than before. 

It took you much longer than you would’ve liked, but eventually, you somehow managed to get the damn guy on your bed. His feet hung over the bed and no doubt was coating your sheets in dirt and blood and who knew what else. At least they already needed washed.

After taking a moment (minutes, really) to catch your breath and watching the bean climb its way up your bed and back to the Mandalorian’s side, you once more found yourself at a loss. What the hell do you do now? 

Checking him for injuries was probably the best next course of action. You didn’t want the guy to die right here, on your bed, right?  

With your hands on your hips and a sweat breaking out over your brow, you looked in the what you now mentally referred to as the bean’s direction. “These guys have something against taking off their helmet, right?” Your response was a sound you couldn’t quite differentiate between amusement and agreement. Nevertheless, you nodded. “That’s what I thought.” 

After another few minutes of heavy consideration, you decided starting from the bottom-up was probably your best bet. If you were lucky, he was just incredibly sleep-deprived and absolutely nothing else was wrong with him. 

The little bean at his shoulder watched as you methodically undressed the Mandalorian, beginning with the armor as his shoulders and then moving to his chest plate. You made a small stack of it just beside your bed, being careful to not add any dinks or scratches that weren’t already on them. 

With shaky fingers, you began lifting his shirt to inspect any possible torso wounds. You were met with caramel skin etched in paler, puffier skin in various places where he’d been wounded and scarred over. A trail of dark, nearly black hair drew your gaze below his belly button and disappearing into his trousers.

You swallowed. This was not the time.

“Stomach looks good.” You mumbled, mostly to yourself. You pushed the fabric up further until it was under his chin, fingers delicately brushing across an angry, red line just below his left clavicle. It didn’t look serious and most likely just a result from his armor pressing into his skin, but it gave you an excuse to feel his skin beneath your fingertips. His chest was faintly dotted with hair, nipples pebbling at the sudden exposure to the air. “Chest looks good too.”

That left on more thing to check, the one thing you were hoping you wouldn’t have to do. 

You sank back onto your haunches for a moment, teeth anxiously worrying at the inside of your cheek as you considered your options. You didn’t have to do anything — you’d already given him and his... pet? Child? Friend? Somewhere to rest and checked him for any serious, deadly injuries. On the other hand, however, what if he did have a head injury? Without aid, a head injury could easily and quickly result in death. And you certainly didn’t want a dead Mandalorian on your hands. 

“Second option it is.” You murmured, brushing your palms down your trousers and taking a soothing breath. “But,” you began, pointing a finger in the air as you looked towards the bean. “I am not being that person.” You disappeared out of the room for a moment, quickly returning with a clean rag and making a show so the bean could see it. “See?” 

The bean, seemingly content, made an inquisitive sound. With one hand, you curled your fingers under the helmet’s edge and searched for the locking mechanism. Once you felt the tiny button, you nudged it and released a breath as it unlocked. “Okay, okay... Just gotta do this quick...”

With one, shaky hand, you gently tugged the helmet free from his head, immediately snapping your eyes shut the second you no longer felt the weight of his head. Discarding the heavy thing aside, you took the rag and, as efficiently as possible with your eyes firmly shut, placed it over his face. Though it wouldn’t make breathing especially easier, it at least would preserve some of his modesty. 

Once finished, you took a deep breath and regarded your work. You turned towards the bean with a triumphant smile. “Not bad, yeah?”

The bean regarded the rag with something akin to distaste but you couldn’t be sure. It was difficult to distinguish every emotion with its tiny face. The majority of your basis was just on its eyes.

You maneuvered your way around the pile of metal on your floor, as well as your own things to the head of the bed, eyes settling on the head of brown, presumably thick hair that stuck out from under the rag.

When was the last time someone so much as had seen a strand of his hair? Had anyone ever? Yet there you were, looking at not only it, but nearly everything else aside from his face. 

You eyed the creature currently tracing a three-fingered claw up the Mandalorian’s arm. It seemed... Conflicted. As if the whole world rested on its little shoulders, now that the Mandalorian was no longer protecting it. Its tiny features were pinched in worry, shoulders slumped forward and ears drooping at the corners. 

You wanted to console the little thing, except you still weren’t completely sure it wouldn’t nip at you if you got too close. 

Turning your attention back to the man (because at the current moment, he seemed to pose less danger), you cautiously slid your fingers around the back of his head. There was nothing but thick, course hair, even as you rounded the back of his head. At the very least, there were no external injuries. 

Until you looked down. 

And found that his foot was twisted at an angle that it most definitely wasn’t supposed to. 

“Well, kriff.” You mumbled, mostly to yourself. You regarded the said appendage for awhile, unsure quite what to do now. It wasn’t that you didn’t know what to do, but moreso the fact that you weren’t sure you wanted to go snapping a bounty hunter’s leg back into place. It was usually something a person informed another of before doing. 

With a sigh, you turned your attention back to the little bean. Though you had little to no clue if it was capable of understanding you (though it had somewhat shown it could), it made you the teensiest amount less nervous to talk to it. “Maybe it’s better to do it while he’s out. What do you think?” The bean babbled something incoherently. You nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too.”

✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ - ✷ 

Surprisingly, the Mandalorian hardly flinched when you snapped his ankle back into place. Most surprisingly, he hadn’t woken up either. Hours later and he was still completely dead to the world. Numerous times you had to check to make sure he was still breathing. 

After about hour five, the bean decided to venture from his side. It appeared at your feet just as you were elbow-deep in washing, first inquisitively watching you scrub at your clothes, as if you were doing something it had never quite seen.

“Hey, little... Guy,” you finished lamely, pausing to eye the green creature as its head tilted to the side and those big eyes blinked. It made a soft sound, as if expecting you to easily understand. When you didn’t immediately react, it’s features pinched and it threw its arms up as if it were exclaiming something as it spewed into further coos and babbles.

You stared blankly.

What would a small, green creature want? A new, preferably clean rag for clothes? For you to throw something so you could chase it? Something to sink its little teeth into?

You faulted for a moment in your thinking. “Are you hungry?” It nodded immediately, fingers touching its belly and watching you with a look that clearly said ‘that’s what I was saying!’. “Okay, well, what do you eat?” It blinked as you stood from your washing, little feet tapping against the tiled floor as it followed you. “All I really have is broth, so it’s either broth or nothing.” It didn’t make any sound of disagreement or disappointment, so you took it as enough agreement and poured the still-warm broth (which you’d forgotten about until the stove beeped indignantly at you, still preoccupied with snapping a literal bone back into place) into a bowl. When it took the bowl you offered it, it blinked at it for a moment. Then it blinked up at you. 

“What? It’s all I got, little guy so I—,” It cut you off as it set the bowl down, before lifting its arms up that very plainly was uppity arms that babies were known for doing. It left you to stand there for a moment, mouth falling open and eyebrows shooting upwards. “You’re a kid?”

It babbled impatiently, big eyes looking at its meal before back up at you again. “Okay, um...” Slowly, still not completely sure you trusted it, you picked it up and then its bowl of broth. “You need... Help?” It cooed in what you assumed was agreement.

That was how you found yourself sitting at your table, some kind of child creature sitting in your lap as you spoon-fed it broth and occasionally pausing to let it babble something or burp. 

It was quite the character, you were learning. 

And quite the conversationalist. If only you could understand a word it was saying. 

Then you felt the atmosphere change... Shift. Where calm once sat, something you could only describe as charged replaced it. The child seemed to notice as well. Its head turned toward your bedroom, softly squealing and clapping its hands together. The Mandalorian was awake. There was a moment of silence as the dread pooled in your belly and a chill ran down your spine. 

This was the moment you hadn’t really considered. Many people, especially a Mandalorian, wouldn’t like waking up in a strange place with their armor stripped and their damned helmet off. 

Dank farrick, you just had to go and get yourself involved.

The seconds stretched as complete silence filled your home. Not even the child made another sound, though it was evident its feelings were a stark contrast from your own. Of course, it hadn’t dragged a Mandalorian into its home and practically stripped him bare. 

There was a flash of silver at the doorway of your bedroom. 

No good deed goes unpunished indeed. 

[dwellordream]

“A millennium of detailed descriptions of Amazons presented as history began with Herodotus (fifth century BC) and continued through the late antique authors Orosius and Jordanes (fifth–sixth centuries AD). Between the lifetimes of these men, many other Greek and Roman historians also chronicled the origins, rise, and fall of the legendary Amazon “empire.” Each of these writers had access to texts and unwritten traditions that no longer exist today. Their accounts commingle fact and fancy, legend and history, but all identify the women called Amazons as Scythians.

Herodotus, the inquisitive Greek historian from Halicarnassus (Caria, part of the Persian Empire), preserved a treasury of information about the many tribes of Near and Far Scythia, based on personal observations, local histories and legends, and interviews. Admiration for resourceful, self-reliant Amazons is evident in Herodotus’s “historical” account of the origin of the Sarmatians. That story (recounted in the next chapter) tells how a gang of Amazons from Pontus joined a band of young Scythian men from the northern Black Sea and relocated to form a new ethnolinguistic group, a realistic option in the nomadic context of flexibility, alliances, and constant movement around the Black Sea and steppes.

About a century after Herodotus, in 380 BC, the Athenian orator Isocrates named the three most dangerous enemies of Athens: the Thracians, “the Scythians led by the Amazons,” and the Persians. Isocrates was harking back to glorious victories when “Hellas was still insignificant.” He reminded his audience that the first Athenians had repelled an “invasion of the Scythians, led by the Amazons.” Isocrates was alluding to the mythic Battle for Athens, which the Athenians treated as a historical event (chapter 17). After their defeat, Isocrates recalls, the army of women did not return to Pontus but went to live with their Scythian allies in the north. The Greek historian Diodorus of Sicily (65–50 BC) also wrote about Amazons, associating them with Saka-Scythian women who were as brave and aggressive in battle as the men. He pointed to the historical example of Zarina, who led a Saka-Parthian coalition to victories against tribes who wanted to enslave them (her story appears in chapter 23).

For his research on Amazon history, Diodorus consulted works by Ctesias (a Greek physician who settled in Persia around 400 BC) and Megasthenes (a Greek ethnographer who traveled to India ca. 350–290 BC). According to Diodorus’s sources, after a series of “revolutions” in Scythia, the Scythians were often ruled by strong women “endowed with exceptional valor”; they “train for war just like the men and in acts of manly courage they are in no way inferior to the men.” Many of these women accomplished “many great deeds, not just in Scythia, but in the lands bordering Scythia.”

At some point in the past, Pontus became home to a Scythian group governed by women who rode to war beside their men. One woman (Diodorus does not give her name) possessed extraordinary authority, superb intelligence, physical strength, and battle prowess. This brilliant leader trained a handpicked force of fighting women and began subduing neighboring lands. She founded Themiscyra at the mouth of the Thermodon in Pontus. Filled with pride “as the tide of her fortunes” rose, she began calling herself “Daughter of Ares,” the war god. Under this “kindly ruler beloved by her subjects, young girls were taught to hunt and they drilled daily in the arts of war.” She continued to lead her special army on wars of further conquest, advancing as far north as the Don River. So far there is nothing incredible in Diodorus’s account of a group of Scythians led by a successful female commander at some point in the distant past.

But in the following passage we can glimpse mythography in process, as the plausible is transformed into something more sensational. Ordinary Scythian society is twisted into an ominous “rule of hubristic women” scenario, a reversal of what was normal in the Mediterranean world, bound to titillate Diodorus’s audience. This powerful “queen,” declares Diodorus, enacted new laws that created a true gynocracy in Pontus, in which the women would always be sovereign and trained for warfare. She assigned men to domestic tasks, spinning wool and caring for children. She ordered that baby boys’ legs were to be maimed and girls would have one breast seared. From then on, Diodorus tells us, this Scythian tribe ruled exclusively by women was known as the Amazons and their queens were called “Daughters of Ares.”

This first great Amazon queen died heroically in battle. Her daughter (also unnamed) surpassed her mother’s great accomplishments, relates Diodorus, conquering lands around the Black Sea from the Don to Thrace, and she even made forays south into Syria. For many generations, these queens’ descendants continued to advance the Amazon nation in power and fame. Their decline began when the Greek hero Her- acles killed their queen, Hippolyte. Then Theseus abducted Antiope and made her his wife in Athens. In retaliation, the Amazons, aided by other Scythians, invaded Greece and besieged the Acropolis. But meanwhile, the native Anatolians they had conquered saw a chance to ex- ploit the Amazons’ absence. They united to make war against the few Amazons guarding Pontus.

These wars were so successful, says Diodorus, that the great race of Amazons of Pontus was essentially erased from history. Soon the Amazons were so diminished that only a few scattered bands remained. One of these small vestigial bands, led by Penthesilea, helped to defend Troy in the legendary Trojan War. People “in my day wrongly consider the ancient stories about the Amazons to be fictitious tales,” declares Diodorus. He explains why. After the Amazons lost the great Battle for Athens, the surviving Amazons gave up the idea of returning to Pontus, because it was ravaged by wars while they were away. Echoing Isocrates, above, Diodorus says the defeated Amazons accompanied their allies “the Scythians, into Scythia.” Thus the great Amazon empire vanished—absorbed back into the steppes of Scythia.

Strabo, a well-traveled native of Pontus, also speaks of the Amazons as an ethnic group consisting of both men and women. These people had once lived on the coast of Pontus, “the plain of the Amazons,” but were driven out. Strabo reports that some say they still live in the mountains of Caucasian Albania (eastern Georgia and Azerbaijan), while others place them in the northern foothills of the Caucasus. According to Strabo, the Amazon tribe was seminomadic and not all female. “When they were at home, they planted crops . . . and raised and trained horses, but the bravest among them spent most of their time away, hunting on horseback and making war.” Strabo’s account is another realistic description of a typical pastoral, seminomadic lifestyle, in which men and women could choose to hunt and campaign together or in segregated groups.

Scythians and Amazons received special attention in a work of the first century BC by Pompeius Trogus, a historian of Celtic roots with encyclopedic knowledge. His lost history was summarized and elaborated by Justin, who probably lived in the second century AD. The Scythians are described as battle-hardened warriors who prized inde- pendence and repelled all would-be conquerors. Trogus and Justin are clear that Amazons were Scythian women, capable of making war when they chose to. Scythian men and women were equals in heroic exploits, remarks Justin, making it “difficult to decide which of the two sexes had the more distinguished history.” Scythian men founded the Baktrian and Parthian empires, he reports, while Scythian women founded the Amazonian empire.

Once when the Scythian men were away for fifteen years making war in Asia, the women sent their husbands a message: If you don’t return home we will have sex with the neighboring tribe and the result- ing children will carry on the Scythian race. This story appears to refer to the seventh–sixth centuries BC during the Scythians’ conquests across western Asia, when there would have been long spans of years when most of the men were away. This theme of Scythian women taking up with other men of their own choosing recurs in many nomadic and Amazon traditions.

Herodotus, for example, relates that while the Scythians from the Don region were away for nearly thirty years campaigning against the Cimmerians and Medes, their women “consorted with the male slaves.” The women and their new consorts not only raised a whole generation of children to adulthood, but together they created an army to oppose the male warriors when they came home. In Justin’s account, the men returned home after receiving their women’s message. But in his detailed story of the origin of the Amazons of Pontus we hear about yet another group of resourceful Scythian women whose men had been killed in battle.

On the northern Black Sea, wrote Justin, two young Scythians named Plynus and Skolopitus were forced out of their homeland by a faction. They assembled a large band of young men and traveled south over the Caucasus Mountains and occupied Pontus. “From their new base in Pontus, they plundered the nearby lands for a long time.” At last, the native peoples rose up. They ambushed and slaughtered most of the Scythian men. “The Scythians’ wives now perceived that they were widows as well as outsiders. They took up arms and defended their territory. And then the women went on the attack. They refused to marry, calling it slavery.”

These women, says Justin, “embarked on an enterprise unparalleled in all history,” creating and defending a state without men. They even killed the hus- bands who had survived by remaining at home, so that no woman would seem more fortunate than those who had lost their men. Next they avenged their husbands’ deaths by destroying the guilty local tribes. In the peace that followed, they had sex with neighboring peoples so that their bloodline would not die out. The Amazons of Pontus killed baby boys and raised the girls to ride horses, kill game, and train for combat “instead of keeping them in idleness or working with wool” like Greek wives.

An earlier fragmentary version of this Amazon origin tale comes from the geographer Skymnos of Chios (ca. 185 BC). In his account, a group of Maeotians led by two young men named Ilinus and Skolopitus journeyed from the Sea of Azov over the Caucasus and settled in Pontus. After the men were killed by an uprising of the natives, the women took up arms and became successful warriors in their own right. The warrior women were later conquered by the Greeks and dispersed back to the north. These “Amazons and their husbands” migrated back to the land west of the Don and continued to be known as Maeotians. Skymnos clearly identifies Amazons as women of Scythian origins. See chapter 22 for a historical warrior queen of the Maeotians, Tirgatao.)

The geographer Pomponius Mela, writing in about AD 43, located Amazons on the steppes around the Don, the Sea of Azov, and the Caspian Sea, and also in the vast expanse eastward toward the land of the Seres (“Silk People,” China). In Pontus, on the Thermodon plain, a place called “Amazonius” had long ago been an encampment of Amazons when they dominated Anatolia. They had worshipped Artemis at Ephesus and named the town of Cyme on the Aegean coast after the Amazon leader who drove out the native inhabitants (Cyme issued coins showing an Amazon and a prancing horse). The steppes, he wrote, are rich in pastures and they are occupied by the Amazons. The Maeotians around the Sea of Azov are called Gynaecocratumenoe (“Ruled by Women”). The men are archers on foot, while the women ride on horse-back and lasso enemies with lariats. There is no predictable age for women to marry, noted Pomponius Mela, because the women remain single until they prove themselves in battle.

Pliny the Elder, the Roman natural historian writing in about AD 70, uses words and names similar to those used by Skymnos and Pomponius Mela. Pliny calls the Sarmatians Gynaecocratumenoe (“Ruled by Women”) and also refers to the “Amazons and their husbands.” A century later, during the Roman defeat of the Goths in Thrace (AD 270– 275), the Romans referred to the captive Gothic women as “Amazons.” Orosius, a learned and well-traveled Christian historian of the early fifth century AD, consulted numerous classical sources, such as Livy, Tacitus, Diodorus, and Justin, as well as Trogus and other texts that no longer survive, including traditional foundation tales of cities that claimed Amazons in their past. In his History Against the Pagans, Orosius tells how the Amazons came to rule in long-ago Pontus. Orosius’s history recaps Diodorus’s account, above, but supplies proper names and details from Justin’s account.

Orosius also inserts his own views. One of Orosius’s important sources was Justin, who reported that the ancient Amazons of Pontus were ruled by a pair of queens named Martesia (Marpesia, “Snatcher or Seizer”) and Lampeto (Lampedo, “Burning Torch”). Justin says the corulers divided their all-women forces and took turns leading conquering armies and defending Pontus (Orosius says they drew lots). According to Orosius, Lampedo led the invading Amazon army to subdue most of Thrace and captured some cities of Anatolia, founding Ephesus and other towns. Her victorious army “laden with rich booty,returned to Pontus.But she found that the other half of the forces that had remained with Queen Marpesia to protect their empire had been cut to pieces in a battle.”

Marpesia’s daughter, Sinope, succeeded her mother, giving her name to Sinope in Pontus. As a “crowning achievement to her matchless reputation for courage,” says Orosius, Sinope remained a virgin to the end of her life.” So great was the “admiration and fear spread by her fame” that when Heracles was ordered to bring the weapons of the Amazon queen to his master, he was “certain that he would face inevitable peril.” Orosius expected his Christian audience to be shocked and outraged by the “shame and human error” of powerful women of antiquity willfully dominating men, choosing foreign lovers, killing baby boys, building cities, and marching out to conquer. Unlike Justin, who plainly admired the “unparalleled enterprise” of the women, Orosius is the first ancient writer to explicitly express disapproval of the “unnatural” state of independent Scythian women who behaved as the equals of men. Yet even Orosius cannot suppress his admiration for the Amazons of yore. In a surprising conclusion, Orosius praises the sublime courage of the four greatest Amazon queens, Hippolyte, Melanippe, Antiope, and Penthesilea.

Notably, in 2006, archaeologists discovered magnificent life-size portraits of the famous quartet of Amazon queens, Hippolyte, Antiope, Melanippe, and Penthesilea, in a mosaic floor of the ruins of a villa under a parking lot in ancient Edessa (Sanliurfa, Turkey) . The action-packed scenes are unusual because they show the queens hunting lions and leopards instead of making war. The spectacular mosaics at the Villa of the Amazons were made in the fifth or sixth century AD, in the period when Orosius was writing his history of the pagans. The power of ancient Amazon stories to thrill had not faded after four centuries of Christianity.

Another author of later antiquity, an Alan-Goth from the northern Caucasus named Jordanes, wrote a fascinating history of the Goths— laced with heaping doses of fiction—in AD 551. Jordanes, who had access to ancient Gothic and Alan traditions, portrayed the Goths, who migrated from Europe to the steppes, as the heirs of the Scythians “whom ancient tradition asserts to have been the husbands of the Amazons.” Here is yet another succinct expression of the ancient understanding of Amazons as Scythian women. Jordanes says that the Amazons once dwelled around the Sea of Azov, from the Borysthenes to the Don—and he claims the Amazon queens Marpesia and Lampeto as the ancient “ancestors” of the Goths.

In Jordanes’s Gothocentric version of the old legends told by Justin and Orosius, long ago while the Goth men were away on an expedition, an enemy tribe attempted to carry off the Goth women. But “they made a brave resistance, as they had been taught to do by their husbands.” After routing the attackers, the Goth women “were inspired with great daring.” They took up arms and chose as their leaders the two boldest women, Marpesia and Lampeto. In this Gothic rendition, it was Marpesia who led an army of conquest while Lampeto stayed to guard their native land. On her campaigns Marpesia and her Amazon army encamped for a long time at the eastern tip of the Caucasus range where it meets the Caspian Sea (ancient Caucasian Albania, now Dagestan), one of the major nomad migration routes described earlier. This place, says Jordanes, was thereafter called the “Rock of Marpesia.” This legend was already known in the first century BC to Virgil, who calls it the “Marpesian Cliff.”

Jordanes lists the glorious conquests across Anatolia and Armenia by the “Scythian-born women who had by chance gained control over the tribes of Asia and held them for almost a hundred years, before returning to their kinsfolk at the Marpesian Rock.” Amazons retained “power in that region up to the time of Alexander the Great” (here Jordanes alludes to Alexander’s meeting with Amazons on the southern shore of the Caspian; chapter 20). By Jordanes’s time—more than a thousand years after Homer and Herodotus—the fame of the warlike Scythian women, called Amazons, evoked such respect and awe that the legendary Amazon queens were claimed as ancestors of the powerful Goths.”

- Adrienne Mayor, “Scythia, Amazon Homeland.” in The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women across the Ancient World

[inkedtae]

rupture; rapture ⇾ kth. [M] | teaser

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ ex-boyfriend!taehyung x curvy!reader (f.)

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾  angst, smut, f2l(?), e2l(?), ex lovers au, rekindled lovers(?), sculputor au, 18+

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾  responding to a late night call for help forces you to revisit truths you so skillfully ignored. was it always meant to fall apart to fall back into place?

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ full: 20k | teaser; 1.2k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ slight upsetting themes, mentions of a new relationship, mention of infidelity (tae thinks reader used him to cheat on her date), mention and consumption of alcohol, switch!Taehyung, mullet!taehyung, sub!reader, [redacted] [redacted]!reader, unprotected sex (wrap it to tap it), clay/paint/art sex(?), rough sex, hate-love sex(?), [redacted] sex (?), [redacted] kink, [redacted] (f. receiving), multiple [redacted] (f.), [redacted], overstimulation, a lil [redacted]-[redacted]ing, [redacted] worshipping, [redacted] worshipping, a lil [redacted] biting, [redacted]ing, [redacted]ing, [redacted]ing, begging, teasing, swearing

anon asked: taehyung19angst asghjkll. U have a prompt list ? So for that. Maybe. If u want to. WOW. Ur awesome. The bestest. Okay. Bye. Love. Me.

#19 ⇝ “You said you knew how to do this.”

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾  i decided to share an unedited teaser of what i’m currently working on

☾ banner by ⇾ @editingverse​ (thank you so so so much dear~ please go give her all your love!! this banner is beautiful!!)

☾ anticipated post date ⇾ 15 AUGUST 2020

☾ le playlist (coming soon...)

☾ tag list ⇾ open (leave a comment and/or send an ask to be added)

◖send me a prompt from dabble drabble. i will try to get to it as soon as i can. please note that i have the right to refuse any request i find uncomfortable.◗

Navigating to the chipped yellow door is second nature. Four months of distance does not change how easy it is for you to find your way to his place from across town. Your most haunting regret, however, is accepting his call. You sat around your apartment for months, fantasizing about how powerful you’d feel when your phone rings and you see his name flash only to decline the call. You told yourself that is how you will regain your dignity, how you will reclaim your life. He’s been a big part of it since freshman year. Best friends instantly, lovers only a year down the line. Clicking that red button, rejecting his apologies is how you believed you’d be able to move on and fully erase him from your life for good. 

But, when he does call, and you do not refuse. You don’t even think about declining at all. And then you hear his voice, and he sounds so unsure, so nervous. 

The shame creeps upon you, condescendingly soothing your ego. Where’s your dignity now? It’s as nonexistent as when you stormed out of this very door and swore never to return. You can hear the fates snickering now, watching your pathetic self stand outside of the door. Shaking out a shiver, you gather up the broken pieces of your courage and knock on the door. 

The screech of metal on metal echoes as he unlocks the door. The sound is more comforting than you expected it to be. You can’t remember the amount of times you’ve nagged him to replace the damned thing. It’s old, rusted, and the scratches of the metal made you cringe as though your bones are rotting. It used to make your jaw ache, now it only shudders your courage. Little things already undress your confidence. What will seeing him again do? What emotions will it beckon?

Misery leaks from your bones and into your bloodstream. The door opens to a vision of grace. In his clay-smeared jumpsuit, the sleeves wrapped around his waist and his bare chest exposed, he stares back at you. Though frozen from the winter air, you feel your face grow hot. Eyes shaking, you don’t know where to look. You’re not even sure if you can meet his gaze. It intensifies with every ticking second and his long bangs fall over his lashes. He let it grow out? You’ve begged him to do so for months and once you’re apart he finally gives in? You knew he’d look good, maybe even better than his shorter cut. 

The sight only confirms that you’ll never understand him. But, you suppose, you don’t have to. He’s not yours to understand anymore, not even as a friend. That statement should give you a sense of relief, but it only resurfaces the loneliness you’ve been ignoring for months. 

Shakily sighing, you plaster a polite smile and greet, “Hey Tae.”

Taehyung parts his lips, but his voice catches. He stares back at you, gaze dancing up and down your frame. He drinks in the way your black dress pants hug your curves, and how you dare to wear a tube-top under your coat in the freezing weather. Gulping, Taehyung flashes you a kind, tight lipped smile and moves aside to welcome you in. 

Each step back into his apartment fogs your mind with memories of joy and despair alike. Sometimes, those emotions rose in tandem during the same memory, within the same five minute time span. But other times, those memories are saturated with one emotion or the other. You two could never find that balance; not as lovers anyway, not as you thought.

“Make yourself at hom-” he cuts himself off just as the door shuts. 

You turn to face him, raising a brow at his slip up. Funny how things circle back no matter how much either of you try to suppress them. This place has always felt like home to you. In fact, revisiting it proves that it still does. He just never let you make it official. 

The gloom of four months ago has followed you back in here as well, it would seem. You gulp down the little scratch in your throat and try your best to flash a kind smile. His brows raise at the gesture. You assume a teeth braced wince paints your features instead. 

Clearing his throat, Taehyung corrects himself, “Comfortable. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab you a hot drink to warm you up.” His gaze shifts to the slanted window over his little studio sectioned in the corner of his apartment. “It’s really coming down out there.” 

Setting your clutch down on his work table, you nod. He glares at your action before looking back at you. You are fully aware of his distaste for you to dump your things on his work table, even if it happens to be your own sculpting supplies. However, he distrubed your date tonight and that little slip up of his recalls more anger than you care to accept right now. Playing into his pet peeves is the very least you can do to show him that you’re not here for anything else but fixing his sculpture. 

With a pleasant smile plastered on your lips, you peel your jacket off and set it down on the table as well. Taehyung sarcastically smirks then makes his way to the kitchen. You know you shouldn’t but you let your eyes linger on his frame and follow him around the kitchen while he prepares something for you. His shoulder blades flex as he reaches for a mug from the top shelf - a detail you always found makes you anxious because the cups can easily slip out of his hand from such a height and break. 

He must feel your gaze as he glances up at you. “You must be freezing,” he comments. 

Glancing down at your half top, you shrug. “Not really. That’s what a jacket is for.” You shouldn’t sass. It always gets on his nerves. But, with the way he regards you with such tamed hostility and smirks all knowingly, you cannot hold yourself back. He cannot expect to call you over here in the dead of night for help only to glare and sneer at you. 

Out of sheer spite, you sit on one of the stools by the table and bend down to untie your thick heeled boots. He absolutely hates this. Sloppy and messy, is what he tells you when you come into the apartment with your shoes on and take them off near his studio. Taehyung stirs the contents of your mug, tossing daggers at you in his stares. 

It is only now, in the thick silence, do you hear the soft voice of Sinatra through the vinyl player. Glancing over at the source, you recognize the album cover immediately. It’s the same one you gifted him for his birthday last year. His next one is in a couple of weeks. The realization unexpectedly twinges your heart with guilt. You feel as though you should have already bought his gift, planned his party. It is not your responsibility to do that anymore, but you want to and that’s enough for your tongue to coat with disgust and remorse. 

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission.

[rredbirdii]

teen titans (go) / feral boys

i havbe brain rot from the teen titans/feral boys au cus it literally makes so much fucking sense opkay

im just gonna be info dumping cus yes

[its long so yea]

okay so

ohoho alsoalso these are jsut the really rouhg startings to everything and ill proobably make changeds n shits

[like with dream n quackity im really torn but yea]

but oohhhboy this is bnrain rot to its finest

these are just hcs and reasonings but art wise ill probably try to find somethig thats of interest to me and ill probably change up the designs a lil bit

dream as beast boy

-originally i wanted dream as robin cus like both masked but then mt brain thouhgt of dnf[deez nuts found]

-also the dream dogboy/catboy discourse? look no further we can do both

-also beast boy and dream are literally green

georgenotfound as raven

-im not gonna lie to you the main reason was the dee en eff shit i was doing with beast boy

-but aslo like character DESIGN wise[not character wise ravens a bad bitch] ravens design in ttg is hella boring and bland

-like georges personality is the closest to ravens imo

quackity as robin

-i had two and a half breakdowns while drawing him

-not because of his outfit or anything, but instead his fucking mask

-im still super unsatisfired with it cus it doesnt make sense and it doesnt reallly have thast quackity vbie yet

-i rely heabily on quackitys eyes to make him quackity and look mexican; since his skin is lgiht and its his eyes mainly that usually allow me to show the difference between him n like the other white ccs

-but anywas

-the robin from ttg is so fucking quacktiy it scares me

-lik e holy fucking hell i could just FUCCCCCK

BUT YOU SEE IM SO TORN CUS THE TTG ROBIN CAN ALSO BE DREAM AS WELL AND UEUEUEUEU ITS SO FUCKING CHAOTIC

-but please ykl those short robin things yea

-thats literally why i did robin but please im now so fucking conflifeced cus like it could also be dream so like

-dream and quacktiy im super on the toe with and idk if i should or shouldnt switch them just yet

-give me ur thoguhts

karl as starfire

-m,,

-i dont know its just the vibe okay

-the absoutle happy enegyr that thte two radiate just made me autoamticall y pair the two and yea

-like literally its so mmmmm

sapnap as cyborg

-ok this was siomthing that i was kidna hesitant on cus cyborg is really heavily black and good for him!! good for hij rihght

-and like the thing is a lot of his personaltiy and the way he talks is "black" [holy fucxking god if that sounds wrong pls tell me how to rewrite it im not good with explan ing like plsplspls tell me if i accidentailly worded shit wrogn]

-it was also cus cuborg was the last one and i didnt hvae any characters left so i had to leave saonano here and so iut doesnt really work unless i force it to work

-but yea like i really absoutelyl love drawing sapnanp but im going to fucking cry when i need to do cyborg sapnap cus i despise drawing robots and shit like that so :']]

other characters that just fucking absoultely fit and i am definetly gonna draw them in that vibe

-fundy as terra [a little hesitaint tho cus it only works if dreams beast boy n like its really reliant on the fundywastaken kinda shit]

-i have no clue why but for the strangest reasons kid flash as wilbur

-ok yk rose right; okay that s fuckiung technoblade

-oorororor if we are in the og teen titans that might be red x then [jason todd as technoblade]

-ok you see my problem now

-i am so torn between these universes and i could just do batfamily sbi [phil batman; wilbur nightwing; techno red hood; tubbo red robin; tommy robin; and so much more shit and ouinsrhtiubtibddfbsd brain rot? yea <33

-please i for some reason am having dc brain rot again and i dopnt know why

[crystalstar8]

Eye of the Sky

ch. 4

Pairing: Jimmy K x oc

Genre: heist au, action

word count: 2,174

warnings: action, violence, gun violence, car chases, car crashes, swearing, blood probably

notes: heist au, action, adventure, crime, ooc namjoon, because he has his license lol

Summary: Ten years ago, Namjoon's father was killed by his best friend and partner in crime, A man who now goes by the name Hawthorne. Now, Namjoon wants to get into the family business in order to avenge his father's death. After finding the man who killed his father, Namjoon builds a team and creates an elaborate plan to finally take the man down.

But will they be able to get through Hawthorne's state-of-the-art security system? And will they succeed with a mysterious assassin chasing them? Let's just say, it's a good thing Namjoon's team members keep surprising him with useful skills.

@mozy-j  @strawberriewithchocolate-blog @daechwitad-2

The cafe was bustling around Namjoon as he sat in the corner, flicking his eyes to the door. Almost every table was taken by someone on their laptop, friends meeting each other, or just someone who needed to get out to have a coffee and read the paper.

               The bell above the door jingled and Namjoon looked up. A woman in a purple blazer stepped into the café and looked around. Once she spotted Namjoon’s book he was reading, she headed over and sat across from him. Namjoon bookmarked his book and set it down.

               “Are you Namjoon?” she asked, her wide eyes darting around the café.

               “Yes,” he said. “You must be Ishani.”

               She nodded and brought all her attention onto Namjoon. She looked to be about his age, maybe a bit older, with dark skin and wavy hair pulled back away from her face.

               “This is dangerous, what you’re doing,” she said in a low voice. Namjoon had to lean in and strain to hear her. “Hawthorne is a dangerous man. The only reason I’m even still alive is because I went back to India after I was fired. My family wouldn’t let him find me there.”

               “But you came back?” Namjoon asked.

               “To get my tech back,” Ishani said. “He stole my work. I at least want to be paid and credited for it.”

               “That’s fair,” said Namjoon. “But, you know what we’re doing, right?”

               “Yes. Yoongi told me,” she said with a smirk. “I’m looking forward to seeing that bastard fall.”

               Namjoon grinned. Two lattes were set down in front of them. Namjoon looked up at the waiter. It was Jimin.

               “Can I get you two anything else?” Jimin asked.

               “No thank you,” said Namjoon.

               “She’s so pretty,” Jungkook spoke up through the earpiece in Namjoon’s ear. “Tell her that her Korean is really good.”

               Namjoon ignored him. He wasn’t going to flirt for a man a block away on a roof with binoculars.

               “Didn’t she study here?” Jimin said from behind the counter where he was making drinks for customers. “Of course her Korean is good, you fool.”

               “This is an inappropriate use of these earpieces, guys,” Yoongi said from Namjoon’s apartment where he was watching through the cameras in the street and in the building.

               “I have a floor plan of the lab,” Ishani said, sliding a folded newspaper across the table. Namjoon opened it to find a flash drive tucked inside. “I marked where my office was. The code to the door is 5239. If everything is untouched, the drive should be in the bottom left drawer in my desk. It’s locked. You’ll have to break in.”

               “Thank you,” said Namjoon. “How is security at the lab?”

               “It’s nothing elaborate,” she said. “You’ll have to get ahold of a key card, or replicate one. There’s one other problem though.”

               Namjoon raised an eyebrow.

               “Hawthorne’s system uses facial recognition, along with a thumb print,” said Ishani. “The only face it will open for is Laurel Hawthorne. His son. You’ll need a pretty damn good look-a-like.”

               “Namjoon, don’t look now but check out the woman in the corner on a laptop,” said Jimin.

               “Wait, I thought this was an inappropriate use of the earpieces,” said Jungkook.

As subtly as he could, Namjoon glanced at the woman Jimin was talking about. With her back facing their table, she wore a light pink t-shirt and her blonde hair was up in a ponytail. She was working on her laptop, and Namjoon didn’t see anything unusual about her at first. Then he took a look at her computer screen. She was typing a random string of letters into her word document, eyes on the tiny camera window in the corner of her screen. The camera was aimed right at Namjoon and Ishani’s table. There was a purse on the table beside the woman, which she was reaching for.

               “Jimin-“ Namjoon started, but it was too late. The woman pulled a handgun from her bag and spun around, aiming right at Ishani. Namjoon leapt from his seat and pulled Ishani down, the bullet hitting the wall right where her head was.

               “Oh shit!” Jungkook yelled. “I’m on my way! I’m on my way!”

                               At the sound of the gunshot, the café erupted into chaos. People started screaming and running to the exit. Namjoon used the chaos to his advantage, passing Ishani off to Jimin, who snuck her out with the crowd. As soon as the café was cleared out, Namjoon kicked a table at the mysterious woman, who dropped the gun as she doubled over.

               In an attempt to grab the gun on the ground, they both circled each other, pushing tables and chairs in each other’s way. Namjoon eyed the gun under one of the tables and lunged for it. The woman tackled him, making him knock the gun further away. They struggled for a few seconds, Namjoon in a hold on the ground. He underestimated the woman’s strength. Finally, he flipped them over and threw her to the side. A car pulled up outside the café. Before he could make his escape, the woman threw herself at him, forcing them both to crash through the window and land on the sidewalk.

               Jimin was yelling at Namjoon from the passenger seat of the car. Namjoon kicked the woman away and hopped into the backseat of the car that had pulled up. The tires squealed as they drove off.

               “Who the hell was that?” Jungkook asked from the driver’s seat.

               Namjoon, who was still slumped in the back seat catching his breath said, “I have no idea.”

               “I didn’t recognize her,” Ishani said from the seat next to Namjoon’s. “Do you think Hawthorne sent her to stop us? How would he know what we’re doing?”

               “Get back to the apartment, ASAP,” Yoongi said through their earpieces.

               “You got it, chief,” said Jungkook, speeding down the streets of the city.

               “Wait, Jungkook, behind us,” Namjoon said, peeking over the backseat. A black SUV was fast approaching them. Before Jungkook could even react, the SUV slammed into them from behind, making their car swerve and fishtail. With wide eyes, Jungkook righted the car and sped away.

               “Namjoon, Ishani, get down,” said Jimin. He pulled a gun from his waistband and rolled the window down. Pulling his torso out of the window to sit on the ledge, Jimin aimed the gun at the SUV and fired several rounds. The bullets hit the bumper and one even hit the windshield, but the glass didn’t crack.

               “Does she have an armored car?” Jungkook asked. “Who the hell is she?”

               Jimin ignored him and continued firing at the SUV. He seemed to hit a tire because her car swerved and turned down a side street.

               “Fucking finally,” Jimin mumbled as he pulled himself back into the car. They sped away down the highway beside the Han River. As they stopped at an intersection, Namjoon listened to Yoongi talking into their earpieces.

               “I got a picture of her from the café cameras,” he was saying. “I’m trying to ID her but she’s not a Korean citizen. I’ll try to reach out but-“

               “Guys!” Ishani screamed, seconds before the SUV slammed into them from the side.

               The car tumbled over the guard rail and hit the water.

               There was a moment of panic within the car as it began sinking and filling with water.

               “Everyone, calm down!” Namjoon shouted. “We need to be able to hold our breath once the car fills all the way. Then we can open the doors and swim out. Make sure you’re all unbuckled right now.”

               “Jungkook isn’t awake,” Jimin said in a panicked voice. With shaking hands, he was unbuckling an unconscious Jungkook.

               “Get him to the surface,” said Namjoon. “Ishani?”

               She looked at him with dazed eyes and blood running down her face. At least her seatbelt was off. Before Namjoon could do anything else, the water rose all the way, and he and Jimin pushed their doors open, pulling Ishani and Jungkook out with them.

               Once they broke the surface, they began swimming to the shore, the current pulling them further down the river. They made it to the shore, climbing onto the cement. Namjoon rushed over to help Jimin pull Jungkook out of the water.

               He didn’t look good. There was a wound on his head and glass in his arm. At least nothing looked broken.

               “Come on, we need to get to a hospital or something,” said Namjoon.

               “No, you can’t go to a… -pital…I’m se-ing…car,” Yoongi’s garbled voice said through Namjoon’s earpiece.

               “He’s sending a car?” Jimin asked. “Is that what he said?”

               “I think so…” Namjoon trailed off and watched as the beat-up SUV pulled up near them. The blonde woman hopped out of the driver’s seat and aimed a handgun right at Namjoon. She didn’t hesitate to shoot.

               One bullet grazed his arm, the other hit his square in the chest. It knocked him on his back, punching the breath out of his lungs. As Namjoon laid there trying to catch his breath, the woman grabbed Ishani by the arm and pulled her towards the SUV.

               “Who are you?!” Jimin shouted. Ishani was struggling to get up from where she was laying beside the SUV.

               The woman didn’t respond. She only smirked, then dove straight into river.

               Jimin threw himself over Jungkook. Namjoon only had a split second to turn his back before the SUV exploded.

                 Once the ringing in his ears faded, Namjoon looked up. Jimin was peeling himself off of Jungkook. He looked behind him and his breath caught. Ishani was gone. Her body was one with the flaming wreckage of the SUV.

               “Fuck… FUCK!” Yoongi shouted. He sighed a crackling sigh then said, “Your -ide… almost there. Just -et ba-…”

               Another black SUV pulled up. Namjoon peeled himself off the ground and helped Jimin carry Jungkook to the car. They got him into the backseat with Jimin and Namjoon took the front seat. The man driving didn’t say a word to him. He wore a face mask over the bottom half of his face and sunglasses over his eyes.

               A soon as Namjoon was in his seat, he opened his jacket to see the bullet lodged in the center of his Kevlar vest. He hissed as he pulled it out, knowing there would be a nasty bruise under there later.

               “Who are you?” Namjoon asked.

               “A friend,” the driver said.

               Namjoon eyed the inside of the car, trying to gain some kind of insight to who this man is. The car was clean, everything looked brand new. The screen in the center counsel offered the time, outside temperature, and a compass telling them that they were headed south-east. The little insignia in the corner of the screen caught Namjoon’s attention though.

               “Pull over,” said Namjoon. “We’ll walk from here.”

               “What?” Jimin asked from the backseat. “We can’t carry him like this!”

               “We’re almost there-“ the man  began.

               “No, it’s okay. We can get there ourselves,” said Namjoon. “Stop the car.”

               “Hyung, what are you-“ Jimin said before being interrupted by Yoongi.

               “Namjoon. Trust me,” he said. “He said he’s a friend. Trust that he is.”

               Namjoon’s stomach twisted in knots the whole drive back to the apartment. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, but he know there would be no way to escape the car with an unconscious team member. When they pulled up to the front of Namjoon’s apartment building, he leapt out of the car and pulled Jungkook out of the backseat himself, carrying him bridal style through the doors of the building, Jimin stumbling to keep up.

               Once they were in the apartment, Namjoon laid Jungkook on the couch and went to Yoongi, who was at the desk. Namjoon tore his earpiece out and said, “What the hell? You said to trust you, and I really want to, but you know what this looks like right?”

               Jin, Taehyung, and Jimin, who was knelt next to Jungkook, stared at the exchange with wide eyes.

               “I can explain,” said Yoongi.

               “Yeah, you’d better fucking explain why our ride was NIS,” said Namjoon. Jin, Taehyung and Jimin gasped.

               “He’s a friend,” said Yoongi. “Just trust me. He’s with us.”

               “How can we be sure?” Namjoon asked.

               Yoongi sighed and looked away. “I don’t know.”

               “Then I can find another hacker,” said Namjoon.

               “Wait! Let him prove himself to you,” said Yoongi. “Next time you’re in trouble, let him get you out of it.”

               “Do you realize how risky that is?” Jin asked, coming around the couch to meet them at the desk. “We’d be putting everything on the line, just on sheer faith. We don’t even know you that well.”

               “I promise you, he wants this to happen as much as you all do,” said Yoongi. “He’ll do everything he can to take Hawthorne down.”

               “Then let him prove it,” said Namjoon. “And if he sabotages us, you both better run.”

[lordseochangbin]

Soulmate AU- Yang Jeongin

A/N: This probably isn’t my best writing but it is a really cute read for Jeongin <3

Word Count: 2130

It was no mistake this time. At first, Jeongin assumed maybe it was the boys messing with him, writing on his hand when he fell asleep and claiming not to minutes later. It was always a mystery to him, how beautifully drawn objects would magically appear on his arm. After noticing it a few times however, Jeongin seemed to mind it less. That was until he got caught for it. 

“What is this?? On your arm?” Jeongin’s makeup artist asked, holding his hand up to reveal the small designs printed across it. 

“Oh! Nothing..” Jeongin smiled nervously, slowly pulling his hand away from the makeup artist’s grip before she could explain, “We’re going to have to wash this off Jeongin, you’re wearing short-sleeve” 

Jeongin rolled his eyes, of course his soulmate had to draw on their hand right at this moment. The lady practically dragged Jeongin to the nearest sink, lounging his arm in the water and scrubbing as hard as she could. “What is this?! Sharpie??” 

“Umm.. I’m not sure” Jeongin muttered, making the lady groan. “We’re going to have to make you wear something long-sleeved.” As much as Jeongin hated wearing long-sleeves during a concert, he knew it was what he had to do. He had only been in Seoul City for a week but the drawings on his arms were getting bolder- more prominent. Little did he know that was where his soulmate lived. 

----

A loud shriek came from your sister’s room. God, it took you by surprise, causing you to jump in your seat and make a mistake on your new mural. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T GO??!!” Your sister exclaimed on her phone, “We planned this for so long..” A few seconds later you hear your sister barging into your room, you quickly throw a sheet over your art. Cursing yourself you thought about the paint which still wasn’t dry, either way you already messed up because of your sister. 

“Hey, you have to go to the Stray Kids concert with me, my friend just cancelled”

You nearly choked on your spit, how could she ask you to go to a concert that was going to begin in a few hours? 

“Um no? I have artwork to do” You replied, shoo-ing her out of your room and slamming the door just for her to open it again.

“Does it look like I care? Quit talking about your dream of making art and come with me. It’ll be fun!” She said, giving her fakest smile before leaving the room. 

“God, I seriously can’t-” You took a deep breath to calm yourself down before getting ready and leaving for the concert.

----

On your way to the concert, you looked out the window to admire the view. A pen inside the cup holder had you writing things on your hand, one thing stood out to Jeongin when he saw it appear on his as well. 

SKZ

“S-stray kids?!” Jeongin gasped to himself before putting his hands behind his back. 

“What are you looking at?” Hyunjin asked with a smile as he approached the boy. “Nothing!” Jeongin giggled before continuing his exercises. 

---

You had to admit, even though you had never listened to Stray Kids, the adrenaline that ran through you during the concert lasted the whole two hours and was still with you as you got ready for the Hi-Touch. 

“So basically, all you do is give them a high five! Pretty cool right!” Your sister exclaimed.

“You paid $200 to give them a high five?” 

Your sister rolled your eyes, leaning closer to you before whispering, “So here is my plan, when I see Chan- one of my favorite members- I’m going to try to interlace my fingers!!” She squealed as your face turned into a look of disgust.

“God you’re obsessed” You muttered before security could place you in line. 

Waiting in line, you couldn’t help but to feel a tingle from your arm. God, was it an allergic reaction? Maybe the ink from your sister’s pen wasn’t vibing with your skin. You looked at the small roses and flowers that adorned your skin, the ink suddenly blackening, darkening in color. You could feel each line piercing through your skin the closer you got. 

With a small smile you approached the boys, your heart beating out of your chest. “Hi!” You exclaimed as the boys greeted you. One by one, the members' faces came and went until one locked with yours. A shocked expression.

Your eyes met Jeongin’s before it could interfere with the contact of your palms, his long sleeve shirt peeking down just enough for you to see a small flower that mirrored the flower on your right hand. 

Jeongin stared at the flowers on your skin as well. Was this it? Was he your soulmate?

“Hey! Stop holding back the line!” The voice took you by surprise, unlatching your hand from Jeongin’s and turning to see your sister being pulled by security as she tried to hold onto Bang Chan’s hand. 

“I WON’T LET GOOOO” Your sister cried before you could pull her away, apologizing to the boys and leading her outside of the venue. 

“Are you insane?!” You scolded her, “Go to the restroom and clean your face, this concert had you crying buckets” 

Your sister nodded in response, the sound of a few sniffles heard before she could go to the restroom. 

----

When hi-touch is over, Jeongin quickly rushes to the dressing room. He doesn’t hesitate to pass the staff and members, shutting the door behind him as he looks around. How could he get your attention? You were his soulmate, the one making all these drawings on his arms, on his body. He adored your art, especially the one on his inner thigh, a simply smiley face that made him laugh every time he saw it. But was it a two way route? Could he possibly draw something on his arm and have it appear on yours as well? It was worth the shot. 

Taking a pen from Hyunjin’s bag, Jeongin quickly scribbed Stay, don’t go on his arm- hoping that you would receive his message. 

----

In the car you find yourself watching outside as the city starts to build up with lights. The view is beautiful, breathtaking as you take out a pen and draw and your bare skin that wasn’t inked.. until you find out that it is. 

The words Stay, don’t go mark behind your wrist, grabbing your attention as you get out of the car. 

“Where are you going?” Your sister asks before you could leave. 

“I’ll be back” You simply reply. Getting a phone call from her friend, your sister dismisses you as you find yourself running back to the venue from the words on your hand. 

----

Maybe it was a waste of time. You’d been here for what felt like hours, looking for a sign or some sort of message to tell you that you weren’t crazy. To tell you that the boy from that band did have your drawings on his arm. To tell you that the words written on your hand were written by him.

Your fingers line the drawings on your skin, wondering how soulmates link to mirror such drawings. Just how lucky you were to have found yours. 

“You’re my soulmate” You heard. Looking up in front of you was Jeongin, standing proud in a purple tee and sweats. 

Getting up from the floor, you faced him, eyeing his drawings that looked just like yours. “I am..?” you whispered before he could pull you into a hug. 

“Jeongin what-” 

“Shh..” He whispered, holding you closer against him. “I always wondered who was behind these drawings, always something different everyday, I love them” 

“You love them?” You replied, grabbing his hand with a light grasp. “How can you love them?” 

“What do you mean? They’re amazing y/n, I feel almost honored to have your art on me…” 

You smiled at his words. Keeping your talent of art from your disappointed parents, always being told that art was a waste of time from your sister, and now finally here you were- being told by your soulmate that he loved your art.

“Don’t tell me that’s the first time you’ve heard that,” Jeongin said before taking his hand in yours. “Can you show me what else you’ve done?”

----

You and Jeongin sat down on a blanket in the middle of your room as you showcased all your works to him, pulling out each sheet to reveal your works that he continuously praised. He was by far impressed, and even though you two had known each other for less than a day it felt like you had known him for your entire life. 

“So.. the drawing of a dog that you drew on your leg a few years back was your dog?!” Jeongin asked as he eyed the pictures of your family and friends on the wall. 

“Yeah!! And remember the women I drew on hand, that was Julia Roberts” You giggled, watching as he gasped in shock. “No wonder I recognized that face!” 

When Jeongin paced around your room, he noticed the painting from earlier, covered with a green sheet. “What’s this?!” 

“Oh don’t look at-” You said before he could pull the sheet over. It was your incomplete work from before the concert, the one you spilled paint all over when your sister forced you to go to the concert.

“Why not?” Jeongin said, crossing his arms and touching the wet paint. 

“Because… it’s not finished and it’s really bad” Jeongin frowned, dipping his finger in the paint before swiping some on your face. 

“Hey!!” You chuckled, getting some paint on your hands and rubbing it on his cheek. Before you two knew it, you were a laughing mess- throwing bits of paint and taking brushes to paint each other. Your room was a mess but you didn’t even care at this point, you hadn’t felt this happy this much in a long time and you would do anything to live in this moment forever. 

Soon enough, Jeongin was drawing on your face with red paint, the two of you on the floor giggling from the adrenaline. 

“Your art isn’t bad y/n, I’m going to make sure the rest of the world can see it” 

“What?” You said, keeping eye contact with him as he closed you against the wooden floor. You could almost hear his heart beating against your chest, his breath fanning against your lips. You two were getting closer and closer by the second and you just wanted to hold him forever. 

“Your art is beautiful y/n, just like you” He smiled before pressing a kiss on your lips. 

You blushed at the sudden action, realizing your eyes had fluttered shut and your arms had wrapped around his neck.

As you leaned closer for another kiss, you heard the sound of your front door opening, quickly alarming your senses. “Oh my god, that’s my sister!”

“Your sister?” Jeongin asked, watching as you opened your room window. 

“Jeongin you have to get out” 

“What?! Through the window??”

“My sister is a huge fan of Stray Kids, remember how she was holding that one boy during hi-touch? If she sees you she’ll literally freak.”

“Alright, alright” Jeongin said, walking towards the window. 

“We’ll meet again y/n” He said, placing a kiss on your lips before crawling out the window. 

“Bye Jeongin” You pouted, closing the window before you sister could open the door. 

“Oh my god, what is this mess?” 

----

After dinner, you plop onto your bed, smiling at your artwork that you had unveiled in your room. Remembering how happy Jeongin was when he saw them, you wondered if you should put them out for the public to see. His reaction made you feel more confident, despite what your family had to say about it. You knew at heard that you carried a talent, and now you knew you had a soulmate as well. 

Pulling the covers over your head, you grab a pen from your nightstand and draw Jeongin’s name with a heart around it on your hand. 

The ink tracing on his hand took him by surprise, the members crowding his hotel room as he sat on his bed, getting ready to rest for the day. The night itself was overwhelming, but Jeongin was happy to have met the girl of his dreams and he’s glad he didn’t miss out on kissing you. 

Putting his phone to the side, Jeongin noticed the small message on his hand, a small smile creeping on his face as he grabbed the hotel provided pen and wrote your name with a heart by it.

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 48 - 12 Grimmauld Place

Words: 4,338

Summary: Before the school year starts, Yato is faced with a new threat.

Previous chapter | First chapter

Thank you @kiun for beta-ing me

Return of the HP AU. I Lived Bitch.

Read on AO3

Summer plans following the Triwizard Tournament were far and few between. Yukine had shut himself off from the world after Suzuha’s funeral, but Yato assured Hiyori that he was getting better every day. The whole event had left the wizarding world shocked; a young boy killed by what was claimed to be the Sorcerer.

Headlines splashed across the front pages every day; speculating what happened that night, Professor Tenjin’s failure as a protector, and the identity of Suzuha’s killer. Of course, the Ministry of Magic had quashed claims of the Sorcerer returning quickly. After all, it was on the word of a sixteen-year-old boy who was under suspicion himself. Who was to say that Yato hadn’t killed Suzuha himself in the maddening maze to claim the trophy for himself? The Daily Prophet did like to make a scandal out of anything after all, true or not. But the thought that one of the most powerful dark wizards returning? That was not something even the Minister of Magic would want to think of.

Yato made sure to keep Hiyori in the know with what was happening away from the Muggle world by calling (something he had tactfully mastered after screaming down the phone at the Ikis on his first attempt), but on this occasion Hiyori invited Yato to come visit as long as he brought newspapers.

Hiyori’s mother was wary when a knock at the door came at 9 o’clock, finding Yato on the doorstep unannounced and unaccompanied by his short, blond-haired friend. Mrs. Iki paused for a second.

“Can I – “.

Mrs Iki could barely finish her question before Hiyori came barrelling down the stairs, clearly trying to get Yato away as fast as possible. Hiyori had never told her parents what happened that night at the Triwizard Tournament, but the newspaper under Yato’s arm was enough reason for them to never let her go back.

“Oh good you’re here Yato did you bring the books oh you did good lets go I’ll be back later mum,” Hiyori rattled, not taking time to breathe as she propelled Yato backwards up the driveway.

Hiyori ignored her mum’s protests. It was still light out and Yato was all but banned from entering the house after he blew chimney soot all over the pristine living room.

Hiyori led Yato to a small park a distance from her house, the neighbourhood kids long gone leaving them alone to idly sit on the swings. The last dredges of August warmth lingered on their skin and the late summer sun had nearly dipped below the treeline, leaving just enough light for Hiyori to scan what Yato had brought her.

Yato eyed the newest headline of the Daily Prophet that Hiyori had nestled in the crook of her elbow as she skimmed the pages, ‘HOGWARTS TO TEACH AFTER MASSACRE’ in black, capitalised letters on top of a moving image of the foreboding castle.

The world had quietened save for distant bird calls and the wind rustling in the eaves that had begun to turn into fiery orange hues as autumn took its toll. The toes of Hiyori’s shoes skimmed the bracken ground, creating little grooves in their path as she muttered under her breath. If she was reading aloud or cursing, Yato couldn’t tell.

“Bit of an overstatement.” Hiyori muttered as she folded the paper back down and held it on her lap. She looked sideways at Yato. “They can’t really expect Hogwarts to close, can they? We need Defence Against the Dark Arts more than ever now!”

Yato shrugged and looked down at his own scuff marks in the dirt. “People will say anything, but Professor Tenjin has said the same thing about needing to defend ourselves. I bet the Minister loved that.”

Hiyori sighed, looking back at the sunset. Yato stole a glance at her face, etched with worry and brow furrowed, lips slightly downturned. His heart twinged.

“Nothing will change, Hiyori. We’re going back to Hogwarts.”

Yato held Hiyori’s gaze when she looked back at him. He gave her a half-hearted smile. “Unless they decide to get some Dementors guarding the school, then that’s a problem.”

Hiyori gave a slight laugh, standing up and pushing the newspaper against Yato’s chest. “If they bring those back, I’ll be coming straight back here.”

There it was again, that twinge. Even if it was a joke, the idea of Hiyori not being around was more than he would like to think about, not when his final year at Hogwarts would be next September.

Yato ignored his thoughts and slapped a grin on his face, shuffling the newspaper back under his arm and standing up to walk Hiyori home. The pathway out of the park was well lit by neon streetlights, the distant twinkle of city lights, houses and cars shining through the hedgerows on the other side of the park.

“How is Sakura anyway? Been a while since you heard from her?” Hiyori asked.

“Few weeks ago she sent a letter, said she’s managed to get somewhere safe but won’t say where.” Yato replied. He assumed it was a need-to-know basis. After all, Sakura was still a fugitive since they broke her out of Hogwarts. She hadn’t been seen since apart from the odd sighting by a villager that never turned up any clues to her whereabouts.

“That’s something at least,” Hiyori reassured. She fell quiet for a second as the proverbial elephant in the room hung over them. “How’s Yukine?”

Yato grimaced but hid it quickly as Hiyori glanced at him. Yukine had him so he wasn’t completely alone, but going back to Hogwarts within the next few weeks was not going to be something Yukine would be eager to do.

“Fine, I guess...” The words died on Yato’s lips and they fell into silence, the only sound in the night their footsteps which began to echo. The pathway had forked, the right led towards the city, and the left pathway acted as an underground pedestrian tunnel beneath the road which would take them close to Hiyori’s house. They turned left into the tunnel.

“He’ll be ok,” Hiyori reaffirmed.

Yato hummed in response, looking at the white brick walls which had been sprayed with a rainbow of graffiti, mostly tags from kids who had nothing better to do. Orange lights encased in plastic had been on the walls, casting phantom shadows against the walls.

“Shortcut?” Yato asked.

“Yeah, better than trying to cross that road at night,” Hiyori said, nodding her head towards the roof where cars passed overhead.

Yato glanced behind them as they walked. The sun had completely set as they talked, leaving a gaping black hole where they had entered and a milky full moon ahead of them. Their footsteps seemed to echo louder as they went further, and it became colder. Much colder.

Yato’s hackles rose as did his sense of dread. He had felt a coldness like this before – multiple times in fact –, most recently when his own life ended at Hogwarts. They stopped without a word and the world turned silent. Silent enough for Yato to hear Hiyori’s own heart hammering in her chest. The neon lights surrounding them flickered as if they were candles caught in a gust of wind and the world slowed.

Yato’s eyes darted to Hiyori whose face had paled to the same shade of white on the wall behind her, puffs of visible breath leaving her trembling lips and tears forming in her eyes. He could see the hairs on her arms raised on goose bumped flesh and the visible shake of her hands.

Yato’s fingers slid against his pocket, searching for his wand. “Hiyori-.”

A rattling breath from behind alerted them, but it was too late. Yato and Hiyori spun to find the enshrouded figure cloaked in dark rags that flowed freely around its skeletal body and hooded face upon them. A Dementor.

Hiyori’s yelp of terror sounded far away as the Dementors thin fingers wrapped around Yato’s neck, roughly slamming him against the wall. Yato grunted from the force, eyes wide and newspaper scattering around them like falling leaves.

Hiyori stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape, frozen to the spot as the memories of the Dementors kiss haunted her.

Yato struggled, hands clawing at his neck and feet kicking at the rag-draped form. “Hi-yori!” Yato choked out.

Hiyori snapped back to reality. Despite her body screaming for her to run, scarred from the trauma the Dementors had inflicted on her at the lake, she knew she had to fight. Hiyori, defenceless without her wand, lunged for the Dementors arm, fingernails within millimetres of reaching before a sharp tug on her leg brought her crashing face-first to the ground and dragged her away.

Winded, Hiyori scrabbled to sit up before her assailant could get the best of her, but not before she found herself looking into the gaping mouth of another Dementor. The air shimmered before her face and she was enveloped in despair. Blood rushed in her ears, but still she could hear nothing but her heart slamming in her chest and the raspy breaths of the Dementor. Hiyori’s eyes rolled back in her head, body falling limp against the ground as the Dementor claimed her soul with its kiss.

Yato wheezed, fighting the Dementor as it turned his face to its own and drew its first breath. Yato screamed, his head fogging with the suppressed memories of his childhood. His Father trapping him with these creatures long enough to serve as punishment, to make Yato fear him if he ever disobeyed Father. Is this what happens when I disobey? Yato thought.

Yato’s hand dropped from his neck, frantically searching until his fingertips found the shaft of his wand in his pocket. In one motion Yato pressed the wand into the Dementors neck, connecting with a flash of light that sent the Dementor screeching up the tunnel. Yato fell harshly on the floor, wand in a vice grip, gasping for breath and trying to clear his vision before the Dementor returned. Hiyori, motionless with a drained expression, stared back at him.

Bile rose in Yato’s throat, and the rasping of the oncoming Dementor forced his vision to tunnel and hyper focus. Yato flipped onto his back, wand raised and bellowed “Expecto Patronum!”

His wand, held so tightly in his fist that it fought not to snap in his grip, spat out a familiar silvery web. The vague figure of his patronus cat barely formed before it slammed into the Dementor’s chest as it descended on him, sending it screeching out of the tunnel. Yato quickly looked behind him at the other Dementor which, although distracted by Yato, still loomed over Hiyori’s twitching body. Yato grunted and swung his wand over his head. Like a slingshot, the patronus streaked across the tunnel in a ball of light, forcing the Dementor into the night sky along with itself.

The world was coming back to focus, muffled but no longer silent. Yato let out a shaky breath, rolling onto his knees with his head hung and feeling the need to vomit. Was that Father? Yato thought to himself. Why else would there be Dementors in the Muggle world? Yato’s eyes fell on Hiyori, unmoved and facing away from him, and he felt the sickness might overcome him.

Yato scrambled from his knees, only to fall on them again after a few steps that brought him to Hiyori’s side. He dropped his wand in his lap, unwilling to disarm himself in case of another attack.

“Hiyori?”

Yato’s hands cradled Hiyori’s face roughly, desperately searching for some hint of life. The summer warmth had left her cheeks and left her deathly pale, but he could hear her breath which passed through her parted lips.

Yato put his hand behind Hiyori’s neck, gently lifting her head off the ground. His thumb moved against her cheek, urging her to wake up. He repeated her name and gave her a gentle shake. “Hiyori, wake up.”

“Yato…” Hiyori murmured. Her eyes remained closed for a few more moments, brow scrunched. The neon lights burned her eyes, and everything was blurred until her eyes adjusted. The first thing she saw was Yato’s worried face. 

“Yato?” she questioned. In a second Hiyori’s eyes widened as she registered the attack, struggling to push herself up and head whirling to the side.

“It’s ok, they’re gone,” Yato hushed.

Yato’s hand rested on Hiyori’s back to support her, allowing her to rest against his chest for a moment. He could assume that the memories she had relived were as pleasant as his own. He absentmindedly stroked her back, fingertips catching every now and then in her long, dishevelled hair.

“Why are they here?” Hiyori asked. The question was blunt, hollow. The thought of it being the work of the Sorcerer had crossed his mind, and it was the most likely reason.

“The Sorcerer…” Yato said. He barely registered Hiyori’s hum, his mind preoccupied.

If Father had been searching for Yato all this time, perhaps someone was watching Hiyori’s house in case he showed up. If that was the case, the only safe place to go would be Hogwarts.

At this thought Yato eyed the fallen pages of the Daily Prophet. Without a word he pointed his wand at the pile, causing the papers to dampen and turn to mush, ink smearing and the magic seeping away to make it look like another piece of Muggle litter.

Yato lightly patted Hiyori’s back, voice lifting slightly to distract her from her troubled thoughts. “Come on, let’s get you home. Your mum dislikes me enough without you hanging around with me.”

Hiyori laughed gently as Yato rose, taking his extended hands to pull herself up. Yato’s arm wrapped around her middle to keep her steady as they walked, Hiyori’s hand on his which rested on her waist as they walked back into the night.

 ~

 For the first time in five weeks, Sakura sent Yato a letter. Well, not so much a letter but a note.

Yato recognised her cursive handwriting on the envelope when Yukine handed it to him, his name written small in the centre of the yellowed parchment. Inside was a small piece of paper with the address ’12 Grimmauld Place’ written on it. Less than a second after Yato had read the words, the paper burst into flames and singed his fingers, making him curse as the ashes fell to the floor.

“What’s that about?” Yukine asked.

“Sakura,” Yato muttered, “I think she wants to meet.”

Yato tried not to get his hopes up; it had been over a year since he last saw her. So much had happened, all of which she was aware of thanks to his would-be-owl pigeon who ferried their letters to each other. But still, it wasn’t the same as being able to talk to her.

“Best go at night.” Yukine replied, and Yato hummed his agreement.

Yato left that evening, taking the train to Kings Cross Station and following the directions on his small flip phone to a Muggle neighbourhood twenty minutes away. Grimmuald Place was a uniform street of grey bricked townhouses, most of which had flower baskets and planters draped over their fences. Yato scanned the door numbers as he passed. Nine, ten, eleven, thirteen….

Yato paused for a second and backtracked to the previous house. Yato frowned at the front door’s silver lettering. Eleven, he looked to the right, thirteen. He cursed Sakura inwardly, asking himself what this meant, if he had misread the note, or if it was a code.

Yato turned to leave, but small tremors under his feet and grating in his ears caught his attention.

The two houses were splitting down the middle, tearing themselves apart from each other as another uniform house forced its way between number eleven and thirteen as if it had always been there. A black door appeared, its only features a silver knocker beneath the number twelve and an illuminated transom window above it.

The door latch clicked open, and the waify figure of a woman was framed in the doorway. 

Sakura was unrecognisable. She was dressed in light clothing that blew in the slight breeze rather than the dirty rags he had last seen her in. Her hair was longer and kept in a high ponytail with bangs that fell around her face. Her arms hugged her waist as she smiled at Yato. She looked better, healthier. Alive.

“Sakura?”

 “Hello, baby brother.”

Although there was no blood between them, Sakura was the closest thing he had left of a family. Yato barely registered the gate swing open for him as he ran to the house and embraced Sakura tightly.

Sakura laughed lightly. Yato all but towered over her now, evidence of how much he had grown as he trapped her in a suffocating embrace. She rested her hand on Yato’s head, petting his hair.

“Come on, we need to talk.”

Yato released Sakura and followed her into the house. On the outside it was beautiful, just like any other house on the street, but the inside was a different story.

The chandelier, once gold and elegant, resembled a cotton candy of spider webs, as did most of the house as Yato would find out. Gas lamps flickered across the paintings whose occupants had abandoned the house as it fell into disrepair. Ornate green and silver wallpaper peeled outwards and the lustrous carpet had become threadbare and tattered at the edges of doorways. The hallway stretched further back that Yato thought it would, ending in a grand staircase that was forebodingly ill-lit.

Sakura turned into the second left-hand doorway, leading Yato into a dingier dining room. A long wooden table with high-backed chairs stood in the centre of the room, littered with stacks of rotting books and parchment. The torn chaise lounge silhouetted in the bay window and dirt-caked surfaces showed that no one had cared much for the house in the last decade.

Sakura approached the mahogany table, stacking assorted papers and books in her arms to make space. Every space Yato looked at seemed occupied by creepy crawlies; spiders hung in the cabinet of fine china and watched them from the corners of rooms, even beetles scuttled out from under the papers that Sakura moved.

“What is this place?” Yato asked, scratching the back of his neck as he eyed the bugs.

“I guess you can call it my ancestral home,” Sakura replied. “My family lived here for generations.”

She gestured for Yato to sit at the table with an unloaded arm. Yato complied, ignoring the plume of dust that rose from the reddish-brown chair cushion as he sat down. A sense of melancholy overcame Yato as Sakura moved about the dirty room, no doubt in his mind the rest of the house was much worse. Is this how she had been living since her escape?

Sakura dumped the papers on the floor and sat opposite Yato, ignoring the crash as the stack toppled and scattered across the wooden floor.

“My great-great grandmother charmed this place off a poor muggle who was in love with her,” Sakura continued. “She obliviated his memory afterwards and he started a new life in Ireland.”

Sakura chuckled lightly at the story, but Yato didn’t laugh. He stared down at the dusty tabletop, hands in his jacket pockets.

There was an agonising pause. The grandfather clock’s pendulum announced every second that passed. Finally, Yato spoke.

“Is this where you’ve been all this time?”

It was a painful question. Sakura had been so secretive, not wanting to risk detection, but here she was just a few miles from the Ministry of Magic itself. Part of him had hoped she was close to Hogwarts, where he lived for most of the year, not down here in a hole.

Sakura sighed. “I inherited this house after my parents were killed in the First Wizarding War that defeated the Sorcerer. But no, I didn’t come back here until recently.”

Yato nodded, changing the subject. “Don’t the Muggles notice this place? After it pops out of nowhere?”

Sakura shook her head. “Muggle neighbours don’t even know this place exists. Fidelius Charm; you can’t see it unless someone tells you about it.”

Yato nodded again. That made sense, number twelve only appeared because he knew it was meant to be there.

Sakura sighed and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. Streaks of dirt rubbed onto her wrists, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes, deep chocolate and calm, stared into Yato’s.

“Yato, the reason I brought you here wasn’t to show you this place. The reason is because you need to join the Order of the Phoenix.”

Yato blinked at her, the expression lost on him. “The what now?”

After a moment Sakura sighed once again. She withdrew her arms from the table and let them drop to the armrests, leaning against the back of the chair.

“The Order of the Phoenix is a secret society, founded by Professor Tenjin to defeat the Sorcerer,” Sakura explained. “The Order and the Ministry worked together to defeat him when he tried to take power.”

The First Wizarding War, Yato thought. They learnt about it in school, but not about this Order of the Phoenix. He thought this in silence as Sakura continued.

“It disbanded after the war, most of the members were dead by then including my own parents. But now the Sorcerer has returned, and the Order is needed. Only this time the Ministry will not admit the Sorcerer has returned because of the panic and chaos that doing so would cause, so it’s up to us to protect you.”

That last part caught Yato by surprise. “Why protect me?”

He realised it was a stupid question as soon as he said it; he had nearly been murdered at the graveyard by the Sorcerer. But Sakura’s answer surprised him again.

“There’s a prophecy about how the Sorcerer can be defeated, this time for good.”

“What prophecy?”

Sakura shuffled, keeping her face plain. “No one knows for certain. The Department of Mysteries houses these kinds of things.”

Yato knew there was something that she wasn’t telling him. “How does that relate to me?”

Sakura was silent, eyes attempting to stare down his question. But Yato had had enough of secrets.

“It’s about me isn’t it?”

“We think that it’s about you, but we just don’t know.” Sakura replied quickly.

Yato sighed and stared into the spider cabinet to his left. It looked like he was going to be coddled tight if the Order wanted to protect him. Out of nowhere his promise to Hiyori resurfaced; ‘We’re going back to Hogwarts’.

“Can I go back to Hogwarts?” Yato blurted out. He shut his mouth quickly and tried not to look too bothered, but Sakura could see the worry caught in the corner of his mouth.

Sakura’s mouth tweaked into a smile. “Yes, you can go back to school. There’s a few members of the Order in Hogwarts who can keep an eye on you.”

This statement piqued Yato’s curiosity. “Who is in the Order?”

“Witches and wizards who are close friends of Professor Tenjin; war survivors, but there aren’t many of those. Most members are survived by their children, like me.”

It was a vague answer, but Yato could assume it was some of the teachers.

Sakura stood up and came to stand at Yato’s side. She carded a hand through his dark hair and spoke softly.

“Although Hogwarts is safe, the Sorcerer would expect that Professor Tenjin’s army would be there,” Sakura explained. “So, our home will be the headquarters.”

Yato looked up at Sakura, searching her expression, afraid he had misunderstood what she meant. Sakura smiled in return. Yato’s laugh came out in a breath, unable to believe it.

He had a home. An ancestral home.

“What about Yukine -,” Yato started, but Sakura hushed him.

“I’ve already sent word to your friends to join us, and the remaining Order members. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

Yato couldn’t stop his grin, and he didn’t want to. He rose when Sakura beckoned him to follow.

Sakura talked as she led Yato out of the dining room. “Muggles don’t know we exist, and we’re armed with every protection spell possible. It’s not in the best state, -” Sakura gestured around with a flick of her wrist, “- there’s boggarts and doxies, but we’ll have it ready.”

She led Yato further down the hallway and turned a sharp corner he hadn’t noticed. The steps turned to grey concrete that spiralled downwards, echoing the further they went. There were fewer gas lamps down here, making it harder to make out a sooty kitchen.

“I should tell you we’re not completely alone,” Sakura said.

Yato’s eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness as Sakura walked over to the fireplace and set about lighting a lamp.

Black cauldrons and pots lay strewn on the floor. Piles of dishes stacked in the sink and counters threatened to topple over and shatter, not that it would make the kitchen any dirtier. No light shone through the kitchen windows. Whether they existed or were blacked out from soot, Yato couldn’t tell.

A large fireplace fashioned into an aga sat in the centre of the wall, crackling and licking at logs. It was reminiscent of Slytherin’s common room with less light, less luxury, and filthier.

A trick of the light had Yato see a small hand silhouetted against the flames, but the sound of a fresh log splintering in the heat and a shuffle pricked Yato’s ears.

The brightness of a newly lit lamp and the tip of Sakura’s wand illuminated the figure. It was short, about the size of a child dressed in dirty rags, with elongated ears. Big green eyes glittered in the firelight at Yato.

Sakura smiled down at the figure then looked back at Yato.

“This is our house elf, Ebisu.”

[artificialqueens]

Follow Every Rainbow ('Til You Find Your Dream), Chapter 7: 16 Going on 17 (Branjie) - Writworm42

A/N: LAST CHAPTER: Vanessa took a risk and set out for her new job as a nanny, only to find out that she’ll be working for Brooke.

THIS CHAPTER: Vanessa definitely bit off more than she can chew with the Hytes family, but she just might be up to the challenge the kids present to her.

I made a few changes to the events of the movie that this chapter is based on, but I hope you all love it nonetheless. And bonus points if you can spot the references I put in! ;)

P.S. the Zackey in the story is Zackey Lime, a Toronto drag king who is legit amazing and I highly recommend you check out ASAP.

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to Holtzmanns for beta-ing this chapter, Ilysm <3 <3

“… And that’s about everything there is to see.” Brooke brought Vanessa back into the foyer from the east hallway, smiling with satisfaction. “Any questions?”

So many, Vanessa thought, but she just shook her head, smiling faintly. They’d just finished a forty-five-minute long tour of the entire house, and Vanessa’s head was still spinning trying to recall all the details and directions, every room and what it was for and how to get in and when not to enter it. It almost made Vanessa feel like she was back at the convent, trying to make sense of the grounds on her very first day there and cataloguing every room and where it was. Chapel, cell, rec room, kitchen, so on.

Here, though, the sheer amount of rooms blew the convent out of the water. oldest girl’s room, middle girls’ rooms, oldest boy’s room, living room, music room, kitchen, first bathroom, second bathroom, guest bathroom, guest rooms, servant quarters, servant kitchen, living room, mud room, dining room….the list went on and on endlessly, and it was dizzying, having to remember all the places and pathways in the house.

And then there were all the rules and routines, which were so numerous it was enough to absolutely shock Vanessa. Don’t knock on the master bedroom past 7 PM. Lights off at 9 PM. Take the children out for a brisk walk around the grounds on a set, groomed and paved path after they’ve woken up and had their uniforms inspected at 6 AM. Drill them in their studies before they go for tutoring, in order to make sure they’re in the right set of mind to pay attention. If the children step out of line, notify Brooke immediately in order for them to be punished. Dine with the family and provide a healthy sandwich lunch to the children at exactly 12 o’clock, but have breakfast during their tutoring hours. Never eat fish or drink coffee, the smells are too unpleasant. The only books the children can read are classic literature and the King James Bible, of which they’re to memorize a verse a day; if they don’t get it right, drill them until they do. Model perfect behaviour, posture, and language at all times. Absolutely no riding in cars; if the children want to go somewhere, they can bicycle with a chaperone. And don’t ever enter the art room unless it’s with Brooke’s supervision, and never take in the youngest.

No, this was worse than the convent. Definitely worse. Still, how could Vanessa say that? Brooke was looking at her with satisfaction and approval, but there was still a note of scrutinizing skepticism in her eyes that Vanessa hated to see. She couldn’t blame Brooke–Vanessa was about to be responsible for her children, after all–but it still hurt, somehow. Maybe because she was used to seeing it; used to not fitting in, used to people deciding she’d mess something up before even giving her a chance to try. It had been that way ever since she was little, after all. This was finally a fresh start–someone who didn’t know her or her reputation. Someone who had been told about how good she was. Someone who was undecided about her, rather than already filled with images of Vanessa’s childhood and youth and many attempts at success that had ended in disaster.

She couldn’t break it. She just couldn’t.

So instead, she changed the subject.

“I know the kids will still be in their lessons for a half hour, may I go and change?”

Brooke turned back to Vanessa taken aback, a faint note of surprise in her eyes, and for a minute, Vanessa doubted the question, wondering if she’d made a mistake. Brooke did want a nun, after all; was changing out of her uniform coming across as being too comfortable too soon?

But then Brooke’s face smoothed over, and though she didn’t smile, she nodded. “Of course. It’s quite respectful of you to want to change into a fresh uniform after being in what I imagine was a very dirty train station and a crammed train all day.”

This time, it was Vanessa’s turn to be surprised at the way Brooke had brushed her off, the logic she’d strained to stretch towards. The expectations she was refusing to yield from, clearly spoken in the message she was sending. And Vanessa would be happy to play along, if it weren’t for one small problem.

“Actually, um…” Vanessa chewed her lip, watching as that surprised look crept back into Brooke’s eyes.

Come on, speak up, don’t make it worse.

“This is the only convent uniform I brought, I thought it’d be better to dress casually other times. You know, so the kids feel easy with me.”

From the look in Brooke’s eyes, it was clear that her kids’ comfort wasn’t on her mind when she had requested a nun come to watch them, and she was more than likely feeling sore about it now. But just like before, the look disappeared almost as fast as it had come, and her face is—well, happy isn’t the word, but calm again.

“Of course. Please, go change.”

Vanessa hightailed it out of there almost as soon as the words were out of Brooke’s mouth, and it was only when she was out of her new boss’s view that her heart started beating again.

It was okay; it would be okay. Maybe it was a shock for Brooke, but surely it wasn’t that big a deal—it wasn’t like she would be fired for wearing a regular dress, right?

As the clocks in the hallway ticked closer to Vanessa’s deadline while she weaved her way in and out, trying to find her room, she suddenly found it hard to be sure.

—

Vanessa hadn’t kept many “regular” clothes at the convent, but she liked to think that the ones she did have were pretty. They weren’t silk or satin, sure, but she’d sewn them herself, and that fact alone made them beautiful in her mind. There was something about the reds and blacks and floral prints she liked to wear that made Vanessa feel special, alive, almost like she was someone else. Not Vanessa the postulant, but Vanessa the dancer in fringe and lace. Vanessa the teacher in rough, stiff linens. Vanessa the girl at the beach in flowing, light cotton, or Vanessa the sleeping beauty in plaid button-up flannel.

It was a strange feeling, but nice at the moment, to be Vanessa the nanny, confident and motivated and ready to meet her tiny new bosses.

When she emerged from her room, though, that confidence dried up when she noticed Brooke looking sour-faced at her, then looked up at the clock.

Oh, fridge. She was two minutes late.

“That’s a… colourful outfit.” Brooke’s eyebrows rose practically to her hairline as she watched Vanessa rush down the stairs to meet her in the foyer, lifting up the yellow skirt of her dress and showing off the convent’s classic white tights in the process of trying not to fall.

“Yellow’s not my favourite, but I didn’t bring much.” Vanessa shrugged. “We, ah, donate most of our clothes to the poor when we enter the convent.”

“You didn’t donate this?” Brooke frowned, and Vanessa felt her face grow hot as she looked down at the ground.

“The poor didn’t really… want it.” she admitted. “Oh, but I made the rest! Before I came, ‘cause I didn’t want to look too stiff, y’know? They’re kids, after all.” It was the truth, and it must have been satisfactory, because even though Brooke didn’t seem impressed by the answer, she didn’t say anything else.

“So…” Vanessa broke the awkward silence that had begun to force its way between them, “Are we going to meet the kids?”

“The children will be right out.” Brooke said matter-of-factly. She turned away from Vanessa and dug in her skirt pocket, striking Vanessa’s curiosity until she saw what the blonde was pulling out.

Brooke blew hard on her whistle, its high-pitched, tinny sound reverberating off the walls before it was followed by the sound of a teenage voice announcing, “ COMPANY, HUP! ”

Vanessa had to fight hard to keep her jaw from dropping as seven children decked out in identical gray uniforms came–no, marched –down the stairs, feet stomping in perfect unison before they lined up by what she assumed was age and stood tall and straight, then gave her and Brooke a quick, proud salute.

Jesus, Mary, and fudging Joseph. She’d become a nanny to a military cult.

“Children, this is your new nanny, Miss Mateo. She was a postulant at the local convent, and she came highly recommended by the reverend mother as someone who will provide you with a good example of traditional Catholic values and behaviour.”

Now that’s a laugh, Vanessa thought, but kept her lip from twitching as Brooke continued.

“Introduce yourselves, please.”

What happened next was no less than terrifying.

Brooke brought the whistle to her lips again and blew one long, particularly high-pitched note, only for a tall, teenage girl to respond by marching a step forward and coming to stand straight and tall, saluting rigidly. She didn’t introduce herself, only stepped back quickly before Brooke blew her whistle again, two short bursts. This time, a muscular boy stepped forward and saluted in the same way as his sister before stepping back.

“Are you–” Vanessa started as the realization of what Brooke was doing sunk in, but she was cut off by another whistle, three long, low tones. A girl who looked around the same age as the boy next to her stomps forward, repeated the movements of her siblings, then stepped back.

“Excuse me, Brooke–”

“Captain Hytes,” Brooke corrected, and before Vanessa could so much as gawk at the sudden coldness, Brooke had turned away and resumed her ritual. Four blows in a long-short-long-short pattern came next, and another boy with a lean, fresh face stepped forward.

“Captain–”

“Please listen to their signals, you’ll need them.” Brooke shook her head sternly, but Vanessa had had enough. This time, when Brooke brought the whistle to her lips, Vanessa snatched it straight from her hand, sliding it into her own pocket before the blonde woman could grab it back.

“I don’t need a signal.” Vanessa protested stubbornly, her heart beating fast despite the firm, even tone she forced her voice to stay in. “I’ll use the kids’ names.”

“No, you won’t,” Brooke challenged, “You’ll use this whistle right here.” she handed a second whistle to Vanessa, who held onto it tightly, squeezing it so hard her knuckles went visibly white. “I won’t have shouting in my house.”

“But you’ll have a shrill, unignorable call that gives your poor nanny and everyone else a headache?” Probably yourself too, maybe that’s why you’re always in such a bad mood , Vanessa thought, but she bit her tongue. In any case, Brooke didn’t argue this time, because she couldn’t—from the way her eyes twitched, she clearly knew that Vanessa had a point.

“Okay, kids.” Vanessa turned back to the line of children before Brooke got a chance to. “Start again, please, but can you tell me your names and ages this time? And for the love of Saint Peter, please don’t do a salute. We ain’t sailors.”

Brooke’s eyes twitched again, and Vanessa had to bite down on her lip just to suppress a smile.

“You heard Miss Mateo,” Brooke directed, “Step forward, names and ages.” she clapped her hands, and the routine began again.

“Monet, sixteen.” The first girl marched forward, her voice clear and confident.

“Landon, fourteen.” The second boy stepped forward next before marching back, not breaking his stride.

“Kameron.” The third girl stepped forward. There was a beat, Brooke opening her mouth to say something, but Vanessa cut her off, putting out an arm to signal for her to hold back.

“No, you’re not.” Vanessa shook her head, but smiled nonetheless. “I see your sister looking all shocked at you. Tell me your real name and age.”

“I’m Kameron,” A red-headed girl, the one who had cast not-Kameron a dirty look, spoke up, “I’m ten. And I like you, you’re smart.”

“So’s your sister.” Vanessa winked, and the first girl blushed.

“Asia, thirteen.” She muttered, and Vanessa was almost glad that in her embarrassment, Asia didn’t march.

“Zackey, eleven.” A fresh-faced boy stepped forward next, resuming the marching orders.

“You already know me.” Kameron shrugged, and this time, Brooke only sighed, a little bit defeated.

“Crystal.” A small girl with curly hair stepped forward next, “I’ll be seven on Tuesday.”

There was another pause before Crystal nudged the last girl in line, a small, shy little girl who held a frog in her hands.

“I’m Plastique, I’m five, and this is Bertha.”

“It’s nice to meet you all.” Vanessa smiled. “I’m Vanessa.”

The children looked at her, surprised, and Vanessa’s heart sank as she realized they’d probably never had an adult invite them to use their first name before.

“Yes, well, now that the introductions are finished, I have work to do.” Brooke nodded curtly, the tension breaking in the room as she began to walk away. But before she could disappear out of sight, a high-pitched whistle caused her to jump.

“You haven’t shown me your signal yet, Captain .” Vanessa batted her eyelashes innocently as Brooke whipped  around angrily to glare at her. The blonde reddened, but ignored the bait, instead turning right back around and continuing to retreat from the hall.

It was incredibly satisfying to note that Brooke couldn’t hide the furious stomp with which she traveled as she went.

“Alright, see y’all later.” Vanessa shrugged, “I think it’s leisure time for you anyway.”

“You’re not going to lead an activity?” Kameron frowned, but Vanessa just shook her head.

“Nah. You guys can go play.”

It hurt Vanessa’s heart to see how the children hesitated, but they marched away at last, and Vanessa was left alone to think about what she’d gotten herself into.

–

The first place Vanessa went after seeing the children off was the bathroom. She let the water in the sink run until it was freezing, the cold stream making her fingers red the minute it hit her skin. But she could barely feel it; could barely feel anything. It wasn’t until she’d bent down and splashed the water in her face, gasped for air and wiped the droplets from her eyes, that she truly grasped what she was dealing with, why she had been sent here.

She was in Hell; she was in a nightmare. A place where no one like her was supposed to be able to thrive. Probably could survive. And Nina had known Brooke for ages–she probably knew her parenting style. So why would she send Vanessa all people to live with seven little soldiers and their cold, overly-strict, barely-motherly mother?

She was out of her depth, completely in over her head. These kids were nothing like she had been when she was growing up; Hell, they weren’t like any kids Vanessa had ever met in her entire life. They weren’t kids at all; just tin sailors, robots following their mother’s commands.

She closed her eyes, leaned against the sink and breathed in deeply. No; she couldn’t get this overwhelmed this fast. She had to think about her surroundings, break it down and tackle it like Nina and that man on the train and said she was capable of doing. There was hope; the mischief in Kam and Asia’s shenanigans. Plastique holding Bertha and forgetting to step back. Crystal announcing when her birthday was. The small chuckle she could swear she had heard from Landon when she’d sassed back at Brooke. The way the children walked hesitantly, but quickly out of the foyer when she’d told them to go play, as if they couldn’t wait but were afraid she’d take it back.

She opened her eyes, stared herself straight in the face, watched as a glimmer of determination grew in her reflection’s eyes. She could do this; she had to do this, whether Brooke liked her or not.

She opened the bathroom door and charged towards her room, ready to spend some time there in quiet thought, maybe get changed into something a little nicer for dinner. Maybe dance like no one was watching, just like she used to in her cell at the convent on days she needed to loosen up.

She stopped dead in her tracks, though, when she saw the door to her room.

“Shhh!” she heard giggles from around the corner, but refused to acknowledge them; she didn’t look at all, didn’t change her face from the passive, relaxed smile that had been on it before. In fact, she didn’t blink at all. Only opened the door and walked into the room, bypassing the large, dripping bright-red pentagram painted on her door.

–

“ ALL OF YOU OUT HERE, NOW!”  

Vanessa hurried out of her room with a pounding heart, her breath already catching in her throat. As soon as she swung open the door, though, she was met with a furious, red-faced Brooke, who she could tell was foaming at the mouth to yell at someone for what she had found on the door.

“Who drew this?” Brooke hissed as the children rushed out of their room, lining up by age and standing at attention. But barely a second passed before the fear in the children’s wide eyes turned to shock, then to relief.

“I did.” Vanessa looked back at the red rose she’d painted the door over with, courtesy of the paints the butler, Mr Lurchenstein, had lent her ( “your methods certainly are unorthodox, Miss Mateo, but sure, take what you need.” ). The pentagram was completely hidden behind the flower’s red hue, the black lines outlining its petals taking care of any stray marks or drips she hadn’t been able to cover up. “I wanted to make a mark so that the children could remember where to find me.”

“You couldn’t put up a temporary sign?” Brooke snarled, but Vanessa refused to crack, only shook her head as she turned back to look at the lined-up little devils still staring at her in surprise.

“It wouldn’t speak to who I am as well as this would. Especially since a permanent reminder certainly couldn’t help.” Vanessa winked, and thank God Brooke was still so distracted being angry at her, because the way Landon and Crystal especially crumpled at the words would have been a dead giveaway otherwise.

“This isn’t your property!” Brooke spat, “You can’t just ruin things because you want to express yourself! I won’t–I can’t– Miss Mateo, you will fix this right now, or I swear to the Lord–”

“Captain!” Vanessa gasped, cutting the blonde off at the pass as she feigned shock, “Please don’t tell me that a good Catholic such as yourself is taking the good Lord’s name in vain? After you’ve chastised your children for not following the holy example our Saviour has set for us?”

“I–Well–” Brooke sputtered, deflating a bit, her tone lowering as she realized what she’d just said, what she’d been called out on. Once again, Vanessa had caught Brooke in her own trap, and once again, she couldn’t escape.

“Now, I understand that this is your door, and I’ve done a disrespectful thing by painting it,” Vanessa acquiesced, “But I really do think that becoming this enraged is teaching an unholy reverence of property that a Catholic certainly shouldn’t be espos–expos–trying to model to her children. After all, it’s not exactly unsightly, is it?”

“No, it’s pretty!” Zackey cut in, trembling a bit when Vanessa and Brooke turned to look at him in surprise.

“Me too.” Monet nodded eagerly, “It really does say exactly who Vanessa is.”

“Completely!” Landon and Asia agreed in unison. “And you know how much mama loved–”

“That’s enough.” Brooke’s face stoned over again quickly, the ride from anger to defeat to some unreadable expression practically giving Vanessa whiplash. She kept her observation quiet, though; from the way Brooke’s eyes had taken up yet another wall of defensiveness, Vanessa could tell that she didn’t want anyone to notice, or at least, to say that they had.

“Alright, Miss Mateo,” Brooke sighed, turning back to Vanessa, “Have it your way. The painting can stay. But before you do any other… modifications , you will come to me for approval first, do you understand?”

“Absolutely.” Vanessa smiled, and Brooke only nodded before turning on her heels and stomping away, leaving Vanessa and the others to breathe out a sigh of relief. The temporary peace erupted as quickly as it came, though, when the kids looked back up at Vanessa, their eyes narrowing.

“Just because you covered for us doesn’t mean we like you.” Asia warned, but Vanessa just shrugged.

“I didn’t say it did.”

–

After another brief stare-down, Vanessa led the children into the kitchen for their mid-afternoon snack, peeking into the fridge to see what the cook had left and immediately recoiling.

Raw broccoli. Yuck .

“Y’all want something other than these dry little trees?” Vanessa dangled one of the stalks from her fingers, wrinkling her face, and was relieved when a couple of the children laughed, all of them nodding eagerly. It was a little glimmer of hope amidst everything, seeing how they had reacted; the fastest way to the heart was through the stomach, after all. Maybe she was finally earning some brownie points with her seven little monsters.

Then she noticed the way the kids were looking at each other, and that hope dried right back up.

“Can we have peanut butter and jelly?” Plastique clapped her hands eagerly, bouncing a little in her seat. “That’s our absolute favourite, but mother–”

“Which one of you is allergic?” Vanessa crossed her arms over her chest, and Plastique’s bouncing stopped dead in its tracks as her siblings’ jaws dropped open.

“I was a kid too, once.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “I know all the tricks in the book.”

“It’s me.” Kam sniffed, her eyes cast down at the floor. “I’m the allergic one, so mother doesn’t let us have it.”

“Mhm.” Vanessa nodded, though she couldn’t help the smile that curled at the corners of her mouth. “So we not gonna do that, then. Any other suggestions?”

The children were silent, but Vanessa didn’t expect them to say anything, anyway; imagination was hard when people tried to stamp it out of you, she knew that. No matter; she already had an idea forming in her head.

–

“ Why does this house smell like–”

“It’s broccoli.” Vanessa shrugged as Brooke stormed into the room, her nostrils flaring. “You did say the kids should have broccoli.”

“Yes, but not–”

“It was in the fridge.” Vanessa popped another cheese-coated stalk in her mouth, grinning when Brooke’s face took on a stricken look, as if Vanessa had just hit her in the face with a block of cheese. Which, in a way, she supposed she had.

“I said no pungent foods –”

“It was in the fridge.” Vanessa repeated, “I assumed that it would have passed your inspection if it was?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“The Lord doesn’t approve of hypocrisy, Captain, and eating cheese that your children are not allowed to indulge in really wouldn’t fall in the category of fairness, would it?”

Brooke took a deep inhale, pinching the bridge of her nose as she sighed out impatiently. “No, it doesn’t. I’ll throw the rest of it out.”

“No need to.” Vanessa shook her head. “It’s already all finished, and now I’ll spray some freshener and the children can brush their teeth. Problem solved.”

Brooke could only stare in shock as Vanessa stood up and waved for the children to follow, all of them looking like deer in headlights as they walked past their speechless mother out into the hallway.

“Okay, that was cool, but it doesn’t mean we want you here.” Monet huffed under her breath, but Vanessa wasn’t bothered; she understood, after all, so why would she have tried to tell the kids not to feel upset that yet another nanny had arrived to put even more distance between themselves and their mother?

“I wouldn’t want me here, either.” Vanessa threw up her hands in mock-surrender, “But here I am.”

She didn’t bother looking back as she flounced off to the servants’ quarters, ready to get a full list of the children’s allergies and intolerances from the cook.

–

Dinner in the Hytes household was at nineteen-hundred hours sharp. Brooke had made that very clear during her tour, and though throughout the day, her brood of goblins made a strong effort to confuse Vanessa by saying that it was at five o’clock, six o’clock, seven thirty, Vanessa had made sure to double-check with the other staff that nineteen-hundred was correct. So sure, in fact, that she had written it on her arm in thick permanent marker.

There was just one problem–Vanessa had no idea when nineteen-hundred hours actually was , and she certainly wasn’t about to ask the demon squad for clarification. So instead, she tried to remember the twenty-four hour clock lessons from the seventh grade, wracking her brain to remember the trick she was taught, whether it was to subtract ten, eleven, or twelve hours. And then there was the matter of actually doing that math herself…

“You’re still here?”

Vanessa looked up from her book to see Lurchenstein standing in the doorway of the servants’ quarters kitchen, looking aghast. Looking up at the clock, it blinked 6:55 PM, and suddenly, she realized her mistake.

“Nineteen-hundred hours isn’t eight?” she kept her voice calm despite the heat she could feel rising in her cheeks. She already knew the answer–if dinner was at eight, then the butler’s shock wouldn’t have been reasonable. But if it was at seven…

“And your dress is covered in paint, too…” Lurchenstein groaned, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “You need to change, quickly! If you’re even a minute late, the captain…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence; Vanessa was already booking it through the house in a frantic attempt to get to her room, praying to God she wouldn’t get lost on the way.

She arrived in the dining room at 7:05 PM, panting and gasping as she stared at a sea of very pleased faces and one enraged one. Brooke’s expression was so grim, her lips pursed together in such a thin, resolute line that Vanessa thought the captain might implode. She needed to say something, and needed to do it fast.

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa admitted breathlessly, her heart seizing as she spoke, “It’s my fault. I haven’t used the twenty-four hour clock in a very long time, and miscalculated. If it weren’t for Mr Lurchenstein, I would have missed it entirely. I should have double-checked, and that’s on me.”

It was strange–instead of making a snippy comment or taking her to task, Brooke relaxed a little.

“I’m sorry for assuming you knew.” Brooke shook her head. “Thank you for being accountable. I don’t tolerate much imperfection, but not knowing isn’t quite the same…”

So the captain did have a heart. Thank God.

“It’s subtracting twelve.” Vanessa was unable to suppress a little smile as she began to take her seat, her heartbeat evening out and relief washing through her body. “I got it n– Oh! ”

She rocketed back up as her rear hit something soft, springy, something that jumped right back at her.

“Miss Mateo?” Brooke shot her a questioning look, but Vanessa hardly heard her; she was too busy glancing out of the corner of her eye, watching as something fat and green bounced away…

“Rheumatism.” Vanessa coughed, taking her seat.

“Right.” Brooke looked doubtful, but said nothing else. A double blessing.

“So, shall I say grace?” Vanessa changed the subject before anything else could be said, before the rude brood had a chance to call Vanessa out on her lie–not that they would, really, because what could they say that wouldn’t give them away? In fact, Plastique and Crystal were already shrinking back a little, looking awfully guilty…

“Yes, please do.” Brooke confirmed, and as if on signal, every member of the Hytes family made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads in such perfect unison that for some reason, it once again took Vanessa by surprise. Still, the alarm quickly dried up, because even though she’d been at the house for only nine hours, she already knew that if she expected anything less than this, it was her fault. She’d made her bed, that was for sure.

But that didn’t mean she had to lie in it, not necessarily. Not without a fight.

“Actually, before we pray, I thought I’d say something.”

Immediately, every child’s head snapped up, their faces seized with terror. It was pretty satisfying, Vanessa had to admit, and it was tempting not to play to their fears, to snitch or to pretend she was going to. But that wouldn’t get her anywhere, she already knew that. She had to catch these flies with honey, or she could expect something much worse than a frog on her chair next time.

“I wanted to thank all of you for making me feel so welcome here. All those precious games we played and gifts you gave me, knowing how scared and worried I must be, coming into a new place all on my own. How important it was for me to feel accepted and welcome—really, you guys have made me feel at home, and I can’t thank you enough. Now, shall we pray?”

Unfortunately, they never got to grace–because the kids had started sniffling, and then broken into tears.

“Don’t worry,” Vanessa shook her head at Brooke, who was looking around the table in confusion. “They’re just happy.”

They ate the rest of their dinner in relative silence, but towards the end, Vanessa couldn’t help but notice that the dirty looks from the kids had ceased, and every request to pass the salt or for more mashed potatoes was accompanied by a shy smile and a please . And when they finally filed out of the dining room, children first and adults following after, Brooke’s eyes didn’t carry quite the hard, furious look that Vanessa had gotten used to seeing in them.

It was about an hour later, though, that Vanessa really knew that things were turning around in her favour. Vanessa had finished her prayers, finished laying staring at the ceiling without much but passing, overlapping thoughts rushing through her head, and had decided it was time to tuck in for the night. Even if it was only around nine o’clock, she was used to early bedtimes at the convent, and from the schedule Brooke had laid out, it seemed like this house would be no different. The house was already silent, too, everyone else having gone to bed and either fallen asleep or having been smart enough to keep their late-night shenanigans very quiet.

Everyone, apparently, except for the oldest Hytes daughter, who Vanessa could see and hear out of the corner of her window scaling the wall to climb down and meet a very strapping young woman in a military uniform waiting for her on the ground below.

Oh, this was too good not to listen in on.

“Are you sure your mom–”

“I’m sixteen, going on seventeen in a month,” Monet hissed, “And you’re almost eighteen, which means you’re basically an adult. I don’t care if she treats me like a kid. Mama never used to. So mother can grow up and realize I can take care of myself.”

Vanessa had to resist letting out a snort at that, but held back, moving a little closer to the window so she could hear better.

“I don’t like sneaking around–”

“Once you’re nineteen and I’m eighteen, we won’t have to. Anyway, I have this new nanny, she’s…she’s not like the others. She’s actually kind of…well, she’s pretty chill, not like mother at all. As long as she’s around, mother won’t assume I’m up to anything bad, and if she catches us, it’ll be Vanessa’s fault.”

Oh, Hell no. Vanessa had half a mind to call out, pop her head out the window to let Monet and this other kid know who they were dealing with. But before she could, something stopped her–a tiny voice, sweet and scared, one that she wasn’t used to hearing from Monet.

“I–I love you, Monique. I wanna be with you. And I know mother would approve of you, just…you’re in the military, and…you know how that’s a sore thing here. It’s too complicated. So if we have to sneak around for now…”

“I get it.” Monique sighs. “Well, at the very least, can we stay on the property? Your garden’s so big and so nice, and it’s a lot safer than going around at night. We can still spend time together, and I’ll be gone before your mom wakes up.”

Vanessa sighed out, her heart growing warm at the confession, at how responsibly and gently this Monique had responded. It was cute, how vulnerable Monet was being, how Monique was so willing to meet her halfway. Heck, when Vanessa was that age, she certainly wasn’t that thoughtful, and definitely not nearly as careful of her parents or what other people thought as these two. She had always believed in kicking her way across boundaries, not tip-toeing around them, on making messes if she had to, not planning things out to avoid them.

Maybe, just maybe, the kids would be alright after all.

“ Shit .”

Vanessa’s head snapped up at Monique’s voice, the teen’s tone suddenly changing from gentle to fearful.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Vanessa had left her window open, and the two love-birds had spotted her.

“Shit, is that your mom’s–”

“No, just the nanny. Maybe she’s asleep–”

Vanessa had two options. Pretend to be asleep, never mention it, keep Monet feeling like her secret was safe.

Or, she could pop her head out, flash a thumbs up or something, let Monet and Monique know that she was on their side.

Fridge it–she might as well take a chance and do the latter.

“I won’t tell.” Vanessa whispered, popping her head out just enough so that the girls could see her, hopefully hear her enough to put their minds at ease. From the way their eyes became wide as saucers, she guessed they could.

“Seriously,” Vanessa crossed over her heart, making a crucifix, because that was how serious she was, how badly she wanted them to know she was telling the truth. “You seem like a lovely girl, Monique. Just…be careful, and don’t leave the property.”

The two teens didn’t waste any time–they scrambled away, huffing and hurrying and knotting their hands together. Good; they trusted her.

Vanessa was about to close her window, go to bed for real, when the scuff of footsteps running back under her brought her back to look outside again.

“Um,” Monet looked at her feet, chewing her lip and shifting from foot to foot. “I just wanted to say–Thanks. And, um…I like you. You’re cool. And I’m gonna tell the others to stop messing with you, ‘cause…I think I want you to stay.”

Vanessa felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart soaring as a grin spread over her face.

Monet wanted her to stay. She was going to stay. Finally, finally, she’d done something right.

“Don’t worry about it.” Vanessa shook her head, forcing a relieved breath out with the words. “I want to stay, too.”

[idv-nortnort-and-baesop]

“Happy birthday Aesop”

“Thank you, Love. If I’m correct, you say daisies symbolize hope. Is there anything else that it symbolize?”

“Yeah there is from what I have read. It also symbolize innocence, new beginnings, purity and true love”

[patchwork-panda]

If A Moment Is All We Are (Ch.1)

This is the Dazai x OC/”reader” with bits of Kunikida x OC/”reader” fic I created.

I’m just gonna post the entire text of first chapter below the cut bc even tho it’s at zero hits, I still feel there’s people out there who might want to read it...

OC is based off “The Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang, the basis for the movie “Arrival” w Amy Adams.

Shout-out to @discoten for Beta-ing this first part :)

*************************************************************************

Pale gold. Rose red. Dusky purple.

My eyes traveled from one brightly colored glass panel to the next, finally landing upon the deep azure blue of the Virgin Mary’s veil. I kept my eyes trained on her face, trying to stay focused on the massive stained-glass windows, the beautiful art shining all around me, anything to pretend I was at this gallery under different circumstances. Shafts of colored light as bright as shattered gemstones danced across the floor in the late afternoon sun, flitting over the black-clad bodies of the two men who lay prone nearby, their silent forms looking unnaturally still against the vibrant carpet.

I swallowed uneasily, a familiar sort of nausea creeping up from the pit of my stomach as I watched the dark pool of liquid around them grow wider and wider, the smell of iron heavy in the air...

Squeezing my eyes shut momentarily, I wrenched my attention away from them, trying to go back to staring at the windows but found myself looking once again into a pair of steel-gray eyes. There, at the entrance of the gallery, standing so still he may was well be a statue himself, was the young man who’d slain the two security guards lying on the floor nearby. With his pale face, stark-white cravat, and torn black overcoat, he reminded me of a vampire, or maybe even a god of death—his very image called to mind a painting of the Grim Reaper I’d passed on my way into this room. If only I had heeded the warning...

If I had, then maybe I wouldn’t be staring into a pair of piercing red eyes right now—the eyes of a shadowy monster attached to the back of this man’s cloak. As if sensing my thoughts, the demonic creature bared its dagger-like fangs and growled, its bloody, gaping maw stretching wide.

I kept my hands in the air. My cold, sweaty palms trembled on either side of my face as I returned my attention to the stained-glass windows around me. I’d had my hands in the air for so long that my arms were getting tired but I couldn’t drop them—I didn’t want to think about what would happen next if I did. Then the headlines tomorrow would read: “Attack at the South Pier Art Gallery. Three dead: two curators and one visitor.” In perhaps a day or two, they’d identify my corpse as “Kusunoki Kyou, aged twenty, a college drop-out and local shut-in.” They wouldn’t be able to get a hold of my parents; they were overseas and I hadn’t seen the rest of my family in so long, I wasn’t even sure if they were still in Chiba any more. Maybe the reporters would interview one or two of my former classmates... But would they even be able to find anybody who still wanted to talk about me after I shut myself away so abruptly?

“Hey, how have you been? Akutagawa-kun?” the man behind me called out brightly, the lilting tenor of his voice jarring, given our current situation.

I kind of figured he was crazy from the moment we met, but not this crazy.

What kind of man tries to play catch up with a friend (acquaintance? I honestly had no idea how they knew each other) while holding a gun to somebody’s head—my head? Even though I couldn’t turn around to see his face, I could picture his cheerful smile, the twinkle in his intelligent brown eyes, the layers of bandages wrapped around his neck. I could practically hear the gears in his head turning behind me as he watched Akutagawa and calculated his next move, the tone of his voice giving absolutely nothing away.

There was a tiny click—the sound of the safety being shut off—and I grimaced as I felt the metallic chill of the handgun’s muzzle pressing more firmly against the back of my head. Akutagawa immediately shot a dirty glance over my head at the person holding me hostage. He spat out a single name:

“Dazai-san.”

I went back to staring at the windows.

I really shouldn’t have left my apartment this morning.

***

Ramen.

Instant ramen was the reason I decided to venture out of my glorified broom closet for the first time in probably weeks. Had I known that the craving for convenience store food would lead to my being shot to death in six hours’ time, I would’ve ignored the growling of my stomach and taken my chances with starving at home instead.

Maybe.

I’d stayed up far too late the night before binge-watching the latest season of a new anime I’d picked up and my best guess for when I’d finally fallen asleep at my computer was probably around three in the morning. When I finally woke up (sometime around noon), I had Pocky crumbs in my hair, my pajamas were sticking unpleasantly to my skin and my stomach was grumbling from the lack of real food in who knows how long. Unfortunately, my pantry was empty, so I did what any normal person in my situation would do: put off going outside for another couple hours by picking another anime to watch. I only realized I really needed to get going when I finally reached into my giant bag of snacks and found it empty.

Dread building in the pit of my stomach at the mere thought of going outside, I threw off the pink bunny pajamas that I hadn’t changed out of in a while and tossed them on the growing pile of clothes on the floor. I hadn’t done the laundry in weeks and it was anyone’s guess which pile was “clean” and which was “dirty” (I’d lost track of which was which days ago). However, I didn’t have a real need to distinguish between the two until today... I stepped into the bathroom, walking right past the tiny cracked mirror above the sink without really looking into it and pulled the shower curtain closed. I knew what I would see: a greasy, dead-eyed otaku version of the creepy girl from The Ring, with long black hair and reddish-brown eyes, only instead of a haunted child, I’d see an adult who failed to get her life together after just two years of moving out of her relatives’ house.

Half an hour later, I’d dressed myself in an old pair of jeans and a large sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo of a magical girl anime and was desperately fishing around in my kitchen drawer for the thing I needed most: a pair of gloves. I hadn’t needed to go outside in so long that I’d forgotten to stock up on nitrile gloves and it was with an enormous amount of relief that I finally retrieved an old pair at the bottom of the drawer.

I was too tired and hungry to notice the small hole in one of the gloves when I pulled them on, nor did I notice when I put on my face mask and tied up my hair. Honestly, I was just lucky the torn one didn’t rip completely away from my hand when I was putting on my shoes but maybe it would’ve been better if it did. Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up at the art gallery...

But I wasn’t thinking about my gloves when I prepared for my short trip; I was thinking about food. After all, it was supposed to be a quick trip, just a short walk through the hallway and down the street to the nearest convenience store, then back. It honestly might not have been so bad if everything that happened after hadn’t gone so horribly wrong.

The first thing that went wrong happened the moment I stepped out of the building. Blinded by the sudden appearance of sunlight, I smacked right into an old lady walking in front of my building and immediately fell on my butt.

“Oh my, Kyou-chan!”

I groaned as I slowly got back to my feet.

“Is that you, Kyou-chan? Nobody’s seen you in weeks; it’s been so quiet on your end of the floor that we thought maybe you moved out!”

“No, I’m still here, Yamazaki-san,” I replied, recognizing the woman’s face before her voice.

Mrs. Yamazaki lived on the same floor as me and was kind of a busybody, but a caring one. The evening I’d first moved into the building, she’d knocked on my door around dinner time and asked if I knew how to play Mah-Jong. One of her friends had canceled on their group last minute and they’d needed a fourth. I’d declined as politely as I could but was still somehow dragged out of my room by the boisterous old woman and forcibly socialized over a cup of hot genmai-cha. I’d meant to return the favor by dropping by with some kind of snack in hand but never got around to it.

I could feel the guilt curling in the pit of my stomach as I took in her tiny form, her smiling face but all I could do was smile weakly as she remarked on how malnourished I looked and how long my hair had grown since she’d last seen me. Then she spotted the tote bag in my hand.

“Kyou-chan! Are you going shopping?”

“Not really, just getting some ramen at the convenience store.”

Mrs. Yamazaki’s eyes widened.

“Is that all you’ve been eating these days?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“N-no. I’ve had...”

I thought back to my box of strawberry Pocky.

“...Other things.”

She frowned.

“That won’t do,” she declared.

Without waiting for me to respond, she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the nearest crosswalk.

“Yamazaki-san!” I tried to wrench my arm out of her grip but she was surprisingly strong for her age. Or maybe—I cringed—maybe I’d just become extremely weak after months of being a shut-in and not getting any proper exercise. Drawing commissions hardly worked the arms.

“This isn’t the way to the convenience store! Yamazaki-san!!”

Before long, we were inside an actual grocery, Mrs. Yamazaki chatting away merrily as she pulled vegetables off the shelves and tucked them away into her own basket (I’d run into her just as she was about to go anyway). Occasionally, she’d grab something green and leafy and stick it into the basket she’d forced into my hands, and she kept doing it until she’d buried the thick layer of ramen and junk food that lay at the bottom of the bag. When she was satisfied with the composition of my groceries, she nodded approvingly and hurried me towards the cash registers.

“There now,” she laughed once we were outside and I was carrying a very heavy bag of things I hadn’t actually intended to buy. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She stepped off the sidewalk and two things happened very quickly: one, a truck ran a red light, barreling towards her as she attempted to cross the street, and two, as I dropped my groceries and rushed forward to save her, my right glove caught on something sticking out of my bag and finally ripped.

“Yamazaki-san!”

I reached out—my fingers stretched towards her.

“Look out!!”

Several onlookers screamed as I seized Mrs. Yamazaki by the back of her jacket and yanked her back. We fell to the ground, crashing down onto the sidewalk just as the truck sped through the intersection, honking madly as it flew by. Somebody behind us was yelling for the cops, several people had taken out their cell phones and as one of the grocery store employees rushed over to help us up, I felt an odd stinging sensation in my right hand.

I looked down and saw that my right glove had been completely shredded. Though I still had coverage on most of my fingers, much of the pale blue nitrile was hanging off my right hand in thin, ragged tatters and there were several long scratches on the palm of my hand from where I’d scraped it against the sidewalk when I fell.

The store employee, a stout, middle-aged man with bulky arms, helped a very shaken Mrs. Yamazaki to her feet, and though I could feel her trembling as she clung to me, I tried to shift my posture as she leaned on me. I couldn’t let her touch any part of my bare hand.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the man from the store asked.

“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Mrs. Yamazaki answered, her voice quavering as she looked up at the man and then at me.

Tears sprang to her eyes and before I could stop her, she got down on her knees and bowed deeply, touching her forehead to the ground in gratitude.

“Y-Yamazaki-san?”

“Thank you!” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You saved my life, Kyou-chan!”

“Yamazaki-san, please,” I dropped to my knees as well and tried to help her up. “You don’t need to do that. Please, get up.”

As the store employee and I raised Mrs. Yamazaki to her feet, she chuckled, her eyes wide with wonder as she looked at me.

“And to think, if I hadn’t met you on your way out this morning, I might be...”

She shook her head slowly and I exchanged a worried glance with the man who’d come to help.

“I don’t know where I would be if you weren’t here, Kyou-chan,” Mrs. Yamazaki breathed. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Though she seemed to be completely fine, with no broken bones or serious injuries, she continued to cling to me, and I felt her grip on my arm tighten as the employee informed her the police were on their way and we may want to stay to give a statement. Panic slowly rose in my chest as I felt my uncovered wrist coming out of my sleeve but as I carefully began to extricate myself from Mrs. Yamazaki’s grip, she suddenly turned to me and looked me up and down. She gasped.

“Oh, Kyou-chan!”

Her eyes had fallen upon my scratched palm.

“You’re bleeding!”

I yanked my hand away.

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“Let me see it,” she demanded, grabbing my wrist. “I insist.”

As the store employee ran inside to get some band-aids, Mrs. Yamazaki gently picked up the edges of the ripped nitrile, pulling it away from my bloody, scratched-up palm, oblivious to my attempts to get away. As the glove gradually peeled away from my hand, I felt the warmth of her wrinkled skin brush against my fingers.

And then it happened.

The sound of canned laughter echoes throughout the room. Flickering green and white light casts odd shadows upon the walls. The cat-shaped clock above the television reads half past eleven in the middle of the night but there is another sound that is audible over the muffled noises from the TV. It beats in time with the clock and it sounds like something dripping, something liquid and warm.

Tick.

Tick.

T i ck.

The clock cat’s eyes shine with unnatural green light— light reflected from the television screen. They are blank , open, and staring, just like the eyes of the woman draped oddly over the side of the television set, her eyes wide with fear and shock.

Mrs. Yamazaki clutches at her chest. Blood dribbles thickly from between her fingers, her breath comes in wheezes and gurgled gasps as she slumps further and further down the side of her TV set. She leaves a bloody hand print on the side panel and falls to the ground.

Someone is laughing.

I am laughing.

The sound is deep, unfamiliar. There is a large, bloody kitchen knife held fast in my fingers, which are thick and hairy. I move my arm to check the wound Mrs. Yamazaki had inflicted on me and I see the vivid tattoo of a monstrous green snake, its fangs sinking deeply into a cracked human skull.

The television returns to its regularly scheduled programming. A time stamp appears in the upper right hand corner...

I came to, to the sound of somebody calling my name and immediately let out a sharp hiss of pain. While I was out, I had dropped to my knees, scuffing my jeans, and I could feel the thin skin over my kneecaps bruising horribly against the concrete sidewalk. Thankfully, that was all but my hands were shaking and I had a massive headache. Looking alarmed, Mrs. Yamazaki, not a single knife wound visible on her body, held my hand in both of hers with a troubled expression on her face. She had been the one calling me.

“Oh my goodness! Are you alright, Kyou-chan? You’re as white as a sheet.”

I immediately ripped my hand away and stuffed it into my pocket, just as the store employee returned with bandages. As he stuck out his hand to give me the bandages, I took a step back, shrinking away from the two of them.

“I’m fine.”

I stuffed my hand deeper into my pocket, ignoring the stickiness of the drying blood.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Yamazaki asked, worry clouding her voice.

“I SAID I’M FINE!!”

That came out way louder than I’d meant it to. The people around me looked startled. I could hear the whispers. My Ability, “The Story of Your Life,” the curse of seeing visions of the future of those I touched, had manifested at the worst possible moment. I picked my bag off the sidewalk and ran.