#Thinking that people should instead assume they’re not friends at all

[completeoveranalysis]

[4]

Listen I can’t even add to this one it’s already perfect.

#C R U N C H #Like the LEVELS that Watanuki’s brain is working on here #His relationship with Doumeki is on full display #And when people note how close they are #He just DEFLATES in HORROR #Thinking that people should instead assume they’re not friends at all #BUT REALLY THE OPPOSITE IS TRUE ISN’T IT WATANUKI #it drives him completely up the wall that they’re right #But he would NEVER ADMIT IT #not liveblogging the reservoir chronicle #xxxholic #xxxholic 82 #Watanuki #Doumeki #Kohane #They could be at the altar #Being asked if he would take Doumeki as his husband #And Watanuki would SPIT FIRE and scream I DONT EVEN LIKE HIM #While Doumeki calmly takes his hand and slides the ring on #They walk down the aisle together with Watanuki still screaming at the officiant #Doumeki with one finger in his ear to block the noise #Everyone is cheering

[eldritch-thrumming]

watched that new jennifer lawrence comedy on netflix and like. should we make it steddie?

steve’s a rich kid who grew up having to be self sufficient because of his parents traveling constantly for work. he’s basically a mini adult, but because of that, he sees himself as a lot more mature than the rest of the people his age and by the time he’s ready for college, he’s missed out on a lot of the social milestones that young men his age are experiencing. instead of going to prom, he’d hung out around the house with his weird nerdy band geek best friend having marshmallow eating contests and watching bad rom coms. instead of going to graduation parties, the two of them had built a tent in the harringtons massive backyard and gone night swimming before camping out.

enter his parents, who are less worried abt steve coming out of his shell for his own independence and comfort and more worried that he’ll embarrass them at his ivy league in the fall. there’s been a long line of harrington men attending yale and they’ve paid a lot of money to even get steve a spot there, so if he fucks this up, if he doesn’t join the right clubs and make the right friends, they’re worried it’ll all be a waste.

so they put an ad on craig’s list. eddie and his bandmates are trolling the boards, looking for any odd jobs they can find to try and raise the cash they need to record a demo at the local studio. jeff points it out as a joke and, after laughing at the poor pathetic dweeb whose parents think he’s such a dud they’re trying to set him up with a stranger, they scroll on. but later that night, eddie pulls up the page on his own phone while he’s lying in bed. the offered amount is more than enough to pay for their studio time and then some. eddie calls them and sets a meeting.

when he gets to the harringtons beach house, he’s nervous. he’s a townie and townies are rarely invited into the massive homes that line the shoreline. he knows what he looks like and he knows that the rich tourists who infest the beachside towns every summer tend to steer clear of him when they see him around.

but he needs the money and after meeting with the couple, he thinks this kid probably needs all the help he can get and so he decides to meet their son steve.

turns out steve’s a lot more attractive than he’d imagined and he’s only a couple of years younger than eddie is. he’s also a lot more flirty and charismatic than eddie had assumed. turns out, steve doesn’t lack the ability to make friends or get dates, he just really hasn’t been interested in anyone… at least, not until now.

they hit it off almost immediately. eddie’s never had this much fun with anyone he’s ever tried to date before. steve is funny and smart in very specific ways and his best friend, robin, is a riot. eddie’s not sure how steve’s parents don’t see any of that, but then steve tells him all about how he’d grown up basically alone, how he’d had to make a lot of his own fun growing up, how he’d rarely ever even seen his parents between the ages of 11 and 18. they hadn’t even made it to his high school graduation. steve reveals to eddie that he’s not even sure he wants to go to yale at all, that he only agreed because he’s not sure what else to do.

and eddie tells steve about his dad, abt how he’d gone to jail when eddie was 13, on a job with eddie in tow. he tells steve abt how his mom was heartbroken afterwards, would barely get out of bed to even pick him up from school. he tells steve abt the car accident, the flashing lights of the police car that had picked him up one day and taken him to a foster home before wayne had been called down from upstate to come collect him. wayne had moved out onto the island, trying not to disrupt eddie’s life more than he had to, but prices down here were so much higher and he’d had to work all the time. he’d done so much for eddie and eddie is so grateful… he just wants to pay him back anyway he can.

they reveal things to each other no one else knows and suddenly, as the summers coming to a close, eddie realizes that he’s been falling in love this whole time. but before he can tell steve abt the deal, before he can apologize and come clean and confess his feelings, steve has some kind of massive blowout with his dad. and his dad—in all his anger—tells steve the truth. he tells steve how steve is so pathetic that he and his mom had had to buy him a boyfriend.

steve is, obviously and understandably, beyond devastated. he confronts eddie with tears in his eyes, begging eddie to tell him it isn’t true, that his dad was a liar and he’d just known where to hit him hardest. but eddie can’t deny it. that is how all this started.

eddie doesn’t see steve again, not around town, not at any of their usual haunts, and soon the school year is starting. steve, eddie assumes, has moved into his dorm at yale and is, hopefully, making new friends. by the time thanksgiving break comes around, eddie can finally think about steve with only a tiny ache in his chest. he and the band have recorded their first demo, thanks to that harrington money, complete with the saddest love song eddie’s ever written.

and suddenly steve is there in the bar eddie works at, where he’d been taking steve on their nights out all summer. his brown hair looks extra soft and he’s wearing a quarter zip with the yale logo emblazoned over his heart. they stand there and stare at each other for a moment too long before they both try to speak at the same time.

“no, me first,” steve says, and eddie really can’t deny him this. he’s the one who ruined everything, after all. “what you did to me was terrible.” it’s straightforward and factual, but eddie’s face burns. “you hurt me. a lot.” eddie watches as steve swallows. “i told you things i’ve never said out loud.” eddie opens his mouth to speak, but steve powers through. “but now i’m up in connecticut and i’m meeting all these new people. and some of them are great. but i can’t help but compare them to you. everyone i meet, i think of you. and no one is as fun as you, and no one makes me feel as good. no one sees me like you did.”

eddie’s speechless for a moment, mouth dry. he swallows. steve’s looking at him expectantly. “i was always honest abt how i felt about you, stevie. i really was falling in love with you. or… i mean…” eddie pauses, runs a hand through his hair. “i mean, i love you. i am in love you, like, currently. ongoing. probably in perpetuity which, uh, you know. is like, forever or whatever.”

“yeah?” steve asks softly, a small smile curving on his lips. “forever or whatever?”

eddie can feel himself returning that small smile, nodding. “yeah,” he responds, “ no biggie, though.”

steve laughs. “i kind of disagree. cause i don’t know abt you, but i’ve never been loved in perpetuity before. seems pretty big to me.” eddie shrugs as he watches steve close the distance, smiles widening. “i’m pretty sure i love you too, you know.”

“pretty sure?”

“i’m trying to be a little aloof abt it. not reveal my whole hand too soon.” they’re standing chest to chest now, eddie can feel steve’s breath on his face, they’re so close.

“right. makes sense,” eddie murmurs, staring steve’s wet pink mouth. and then they’re kissing.

and they kiss until gareth comes into the bar for the start of his and eddie’s shared shift and turns the club soda spout on them.

they have a lot to talk abt. but thanksgiving break is a whole week long and after that it’s only two weeks until winter break. eddie has a lot of time to make it all up to steve, in any way he can, in perpetuity.

#steddie #here have this thing ​is this anything??? #steddie au #steddie ficlet #steddie rom com au #steddie blurb #steddie fanfiction #steddie ficlets #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steve harrington x eddie munson

[crazykitsch]

Can you do a jealous Fermin one pls, it starts a little angsty but ends in fluff 🙏🏻 I’ll leave it to your imagination

Fermin Lopez: you & me

pairing: fermin lopez x reader

warnings: none

❝I don't care about your first love. This should be your last one. Nothing like your last one. You look better on me, that's fashion.❞

I am not the jealous type. Atleast.. I like to think i’m not, others might disagree.

However my boyfriend, Fermin, sure does know how to make me jealous. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose, but it does sometimes (always) get to me when I see him and his ex girlfriend Valerie (who was also his first girlfriend). They broke up about 1,5 year ago and still remained friends.

I honestly just don’t get it, whats her deal? Me and Fermin are perfect for eachother and look great together. No need for her to butt in.

Right now we’re at Lewandowski’s house for a lunch for all Barca players and their girlfriends. Somehow Valerie is here since Pedri is single and he’s good friends with her so he invited her.

Im sitting next to Fermin and right next to him is, ofcourse, Valerie.

I AM a girls girl but I really do fucking hate her, sorry. I feel like she knows whats shes doing and how to get on my nerves. Should I name an example? Right now she is ‘talking’ with Fermin. Any person who doesn’t know them would definitely assume they’re a couple. But they’re not. I am sitting here, talking to no one, while being on my phone just scrolling on Instagram, I don’t know what to do.

I suddenly hear an annoying voice giggle so I immediately look at Valerie. I see her and Fermin laughing together at God knows what and she leans towards his shoulder and rests her head there. What the fuck. Now i’ve seriously had enough of her bullshit. How does Fermin not notice she’s still into him?

I sit here for a minute thinking of all the things I wanna do to her AND him. I decide to not do anything right now and instead I get up and go to Robert Lewandowski, I say goodbye to him and a few of my friends here and grab my jacket. Fermin has the car keys but I do not feel like talking to him so I just walk home. It is a 30 minute walk and as im walking I start to think about everything. I suddenly start crying and text my friend

~

PRIVATE CHAT: lola <3 & y/n 🎀

y/n 🎀:

lola?

lola

lola

please answer

lola <3:

hi

hi

hi

whats wrong bb

y/n 🎀:

im literally so fucking done

are you home?

walking in your street

lola <3:

walking ??

y/n come over now

~

My tears have stopped and I knocked on Lola’s door. She opens it very quickly and lets me in. ‘Y/n what happened?’ she says and I can’t help but cry again. It might seem dumb to other people but I just really don’t like it when others try to take what belongs to me. ‘Lunch at Lewandowski’s, fucking Valerie getting on my nerves again, Fermin doing nothing.’ I say. We walk into her living room and sit on her couch. She hugs me as she says ‘Boys are really stupid, you know? Especially Fermin. He has such a pretty, smart, amazing girlfriend.’ I don’t know what to say so I just nod and hug her. ‘Do you want to spend the night?’ she asks and I nod again.

We just sit there watching tv and i’ve calmed down a bit. Right now it’s almost dinner time so we decide to cook pasta together. During dinner I suddenly remember I haven’t updated Fermin at all..

‘Do you think I need to text Fermin? I didn’t tell him where exactly I was going.’ I asked, I know I probably should but I don’t know if im ready for an argument. ‘If you’re ready for that you should.’ Lola says. I take a minute to think about it and say ‘I’ll do it tonight.’

It’s currently 8pm and me and Lola are on the couch watching a movie. We’re both so tired that after an hour we accidentally fall asleep. Stupid. I know.

I wake up the next morning and see that it’s 6am. I wake up Lola and say ‘Did I text Fermin? Or did I forget?’ okay now i’m really stressed. ‘Ehm.. I dont know, I think you didn’t’. ‘Fuck!’ I grab my phone and the first thing I see are all his notifications..

~

PRIVATE CHAT: fermin 🩷 & y/n ❤️

fermin 🩷:

where did you go to?

is it because of Val?

fermin 🩷:

just got home, where are you?

fermin 🩷:

im worried

fermin 🩷:

okay youre not funny anymore

where are you

fermin 🩷:

come home now y/n

fermin 🩷:

its midnight. please come home

fermin 🩷:

alright i’ll take it as a sign youre not coming home

~

Oh my god. I’m so stupid??? I show Lola the texts and she tells me to hurry and go home so I do.

She gives me a ride to my house and right now im standing in front of our door. I hesitate for a second but then I knock and I see Fermin standing there. Before I can even figure out what to do or say he pulls me into a hug and says ‘I’m so grateful you’re okay dont do that again please.’ I don’t know how to react. What I did WAS a bit wrong, but he’s not innocent either. Should I mention that i’m still mad? Or should I just let it slide? But if I let it slide Valerie will only get more and more touchy and comfortable with him..

‘Fermin?’ I say as I pull out of the hug. ‘I left yesterday because i’m so fucking tired of you and Valerie. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed but that girl is still into you. She knows exactly how she can get on my nerves and she never fails to do so. I don’t want to be that girl to make you pick sides but I would really appreciate it if you, my boyfriend, would see how she’s acting and tell her to stop.’

I can tell he doesn’t really know what to say. Before I can say something he says ‘Y/n Valerie is a friend of mine, nothing more. If she really does bother you i’ll break all contact with her right now because I don’t want you to go away anymore.’ I see him grabbing his phone and I can see he’s removing her number and unfollowing her on everything. I mumble a little ‘Thank you’ and he says ‘If you feel like that again please just tell me and if i deny it keep telling me, alright?’ I nod yes and hug him again.

It’s now a few hours later, 11 pm, and Fermin needs to go to Ciutat Esportiva Joan Camper for football training. ‘Y/n do you want to come along? Your support brings luck.’ he says and I smile and nod yes.

When we arrive there I see my friend Mikky and sit next to her. All of a sudden she says ‘How are things between you, Fermin.. and Valerie?’ I laugh and say ‘Me and Fermin are good now, Valerie is still the same bitch she was before.’ We both laugh while we sit there watching our boyfriends train.

After training, which took them like 3 hours we go home. He says he’s all sore and hurt but im pretty sure he’s just saying that so we can cuddle which I dont mind. I’m sitting on the couch as he lays on top of me.

‘Was fun watching you train today.’ I say as I start playing with his hair, ‘You were talking with Mikky the entire time though.’ he says. I kiss his head as I say ‘Needed to catch up.’ I can hear him hum and notice he’s been getting a bit more tired. I turn on the tv to watch my favorite show and notice Fermin has fallen asleep. I smile and kiss him one more time before fully concentrating on the show.

A/n: I’m soooo sorry this took longer than expected. I’ll try my best to work on more requests today!!

#fc barcelona #barca #fermin lopez #fermin lopez x reader #la masia

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

I think this is probably the last one for tonight. Or...this morning. It's five A.M. and it would likely be logical for me to go sleep now.

Soooo I got two Fluffy Alphabet requests for Sassy McSwordsman back to back with quite a few intersecting letters, so I just combined them both into one post.

This post, even.

Anyway...Mihawk.

A is for Affirmation (How affirming are they of you and their love for you?)

“Yes, I called you 'darling.' What of it? Shall I call you pest instead?”

Has developed a tendency to address you by pet names without being sarcastic about it, and doesn’t even really seem to notice he’s doing it unless you point it out—in which case he’ll fix you with a wry look and probably an equally wry comment.

The L word really doesn’t come out of Mihawk’s mouth very often. It’s not something  he’s ever said very much to anyone, he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. If you say it then he’ll respond accordingly, but otherwise he don’t say it much.

Actions speak far louder than words in his case. He has made it clear that he absolutely will not tolerate anyone or anything threatening or insulting you, that he places your safety and contentment on a pedestal and will do whatever he has to in order to ensure you have both.

When he does say it, you know he means it. He makes sure to look into your eyes, to say it with absolute conviction.

Always says it before you part ways, regardless of how long, or before you fall asleep. Given the dangerous and violent nature of his life in general, he knows full well that any time you part could be the last time. He wants to make sure that if that should come to pass, that “I love you” should be the final words exchanged between you.

C is for Courtship (How would they court you?)

“I wouldn’t venture to waste my time speaking with anyone but the most stunning woman here, my lady.”

Courtship is a game of cat and mouse to Mihawk—once he knows you’re interested, he thoroughly enjoys teasing you with his own intentions, and he’s both patient and confident enough to keep the game going until you’re ready to lose your everloving mind.

He’s fairly subtle about it, but not so subtle as to leave you wondering about whether he’s interested. He’ll make it clear enough that he wants you to himself, but he wants to make sure to leave you wanting, to build the anticipation to a breaking point.

Intense eye contact when you’re speaking, peppered with quick glances up and down your body.

Keeping his voice low and intimate when he speaks to you, maybe as an excuse to lean in a little closer…or a lot closer.

His hand curling beneath your chin to draw you in, close enough to almost meet your lips before drawing back and assuming a more formal tone again—eyes glued to yours the entire time, drawing a great deal of entertainment from your reaction.

Greeting you or parting ways with you by bending down slightly to lift your hand and brush his lips to it.

F is for Family/Family (What happens when they’re around other people you care about?)

“Yes, darling, I’ll behave—so long as they do.”

He’s willing to grin and bear family affairs and friends for your sake, though he very much prefers it being just the two of you.

Perfectly capable of being polite and cordial, though there’s going to be the occasional dry comment here or there simply because sass is his default setting.

But if it’s uncomfortable for you to be around anyone, or if you have any family members or fair-weather friends that happen to be vindictive and/or judgmental, then it might be best to leave him out of it—he absolutely will not put up with anyone insulting you.

You’re his treasure, after all—and he’s one of the strongest men in the world, which makes you, as far as he’s concerned, among the most valuable treasures in the world. No one gets away with doing or saying anything  to demean you in front of him.

He has more than enough self-control to not get violent for your sake, but he doesn’t need Yoru to tear someone a new asshole if they do or say anything that he deems offensive. He’s just as quick with words as he is with a blade, and the offending party is going to come out of the exchange with a  mortally wounded sense of pride.

I is for I Love You (Who says it first, how long does it take, how does it happen?)

“What do you mean, ‘do I mean it?’ Why would I have said it if I didn’t?”

Him. Absolutely him.

Solitary as he is, it’s a bit awkward for him to say in the first place. He wants to be sure you know, but he doesn’t want to make a huge deal of it. It’s just a simple truth that has to be stated at some point, and he has to be sure he’s the one who says it first.

It might take a while. He won’t say it until he’s absolutely sure of it, but his inclination to be in total control of any and every situation he finds himself in means he’s going to take that initiative himself.

If he so much as senses you intend to say it first, he’s going to cut you off every single time.

It’s also going to come completely out of the blue. Not in the middle of some extravagant gesture, but just in passing; perhaps before you go to bed one night, perhaps as you happen to be leaving the room. He intends to catch you off guard with it, to see if you simply return the sentiment single thought, before it fully registers in your mind what you’ve just said—what he has just said.

The more taken aback you are by the realization, the more amused he’ll be; he was halfway aiming to shock you, and he finds it quite endearing.

K is for Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you/be kissed?)

“…And to whom, little one, do those lips belong?”

Firm and unyielding, deep and intense, grasping you by your arms or your wrists to limit your own movement and claim full control. He wants to steal your breath away every time your lips touch, and damned if he isn’t an expert at it.

He loves to press his lips just below the corner of your jaw to feel your pulse quicken while his hands drift over you.

He’s going to leave bruises, marks across your neck and shoulders that claim you as his, so that no one might dare question who you belong to.

Mihawk would never admit to having any weakness, but if he had to admit to just one, it would be when you brush your lips just next to his ear in between intimate murmurs and whispers—it drives him absolutely feral for you.

N is for Needs (What do they need in a healthy relationship?)

“Come now, dear—do you think I would be here with you if I didn’t honestly want to be?”

Not an awful lot, honestly. As high maintenance as he comes across (and he his high maintenance in nearly every other aspect of his life), he really doesn’t require much from a romantic relationship. Just the basics, really: trust, honesty, and loyalty. The three go hand-in-hand, and he would never have even entertained the idea of a relationship with you if he didn’t trust you, so he isn’t terribly concerned.

His confidence borders on arrogance at the best of times, so reassurance isn’t any issue. He can’t see any reason that you would lie about your feelings, nor does he have any reason to lie about his own. He’s brutally honest to a fault, so there really isn’t any reason for you to mistrust him, either.

While he would prefer for his lover to be just as low-maintenance, he won’t fault you if you aren’t. He has no issue offering you reassurance if you require it—though he may taunt you a bit about needing it in the first place.

Quality time would likely be his primary love language; he can stand some time apart, but he very much prefers having you near. Knowing you’re safe in his arms gives him peace of mind.

O is for Others (How do they react when you’re around other people?)

“Of course I trust you, my little bird—it’s everyone else that presents an issue.”

It strongly depends on the people in question. If he knows that you’re in a social situation you find uncomfortable, he won’t leave your side for any reason, and will use his presence alone to intimidate the opposing party until they leave you be.

If you’re among friends, he’ll take on more of a silent observer role. He’s more than capable of being amicable if directly addressed, but otherwise he’s likely to remain off to the side, quietly watching and listening, taking it as an opportunity to learn more about you.

In a crowd of strangers, particularly if he notices any other men eyeing you, he’ll keep an arm curled protectively around your waist. He isn’t much for public displays of affection, but he wants it to be known that you’re his, and that anyone who thinks they can change that will have to answer to him.

He does his best not to come off as imposing or controlling toward you—but while he trusts you implicitly, he doesn’t extend that courtesy to many other people.

#mihawk #opla #one piece #mihawk opla #mihawk one piece #opla headcanon #one piece headcanon #headcanon #mihawk headcanon #mihawk x reader #fluff

[nhl-stories]

midnight love – Anthony Beauvillier

Summary: Hannah was ready to accept her fate as second choice, but a newcomer just entered the picture

Author’s Note: Oh my god I've been working through this for so long and then bam that trade happens. And changed how I was going to end this so I'm a bit distraught.

Word Count: 3.9k

Album Series Masterlist

I can't be your midnight love When your silver is my gold

She wishes she had enough of a backbone to disappoint people, if only in self-preservation. But no, instead Hannah is spending another night as a stand in.

It’s not like these people aren’t her friends, but there’s a hierarchy; they’re Brock’s friends and teammates first, then Cora’s friends and fellow significant others, then at the bottom of the list is Hannah.

At least it’s just a team dinner, not some event where she has to explain over and over again that no, she is not Brock’s girlfriend, just a friend. Usually throw in a joke about taking advantage of an open bar or nice dinner.

His real girlfriend is prettier and more talented, just busy with her emergency medicine residency. Hannah is just a placeholder so he doesn’t have to go somewhere alone.

Don’t worry, Brock isn’t slumming it with the plain-looking girl who works in a fish market.

He’s with Cora: head cheerleader and prom queen in high school, first in her class in college and med school, Miss British Columbia who probably would have been Miss Canada if she wasn’t too busy studying to be a fucking doctor.

Hannah’s only a little bitter.

To be fair, she did it to herself. She spent her whole life as Cora’s less-than-impressive sidekick, she should have seen it coming.

Hannah should have thought twice before introducing Cora to Brock, should have known Cora would charm him and ask him out before Hannah could even tell her how she felt about him. And then it was a year and a half of worming her way into Brock’s heart down the drain.

Brock and Cora are good match. They look like a Barbie and Ken set and then they’re personable and kind on top of it.

Still, Brock can’t seem to take Hannah off a pedestal. It’s a little lower than Cora’s, but a pedestal nonetheless. Maybe if she jumps off, it will put her out of her misery.

“You’re Brock’s girlfriend? The doctor?”

Hannah’s head snaps up from stabbing the cherry in her drink, to see a new face. Anthony Beauvillier, her brain supplies.

“Oh no, just a friend filling in,” she bites back her initial reaction of a barking laugh, “You’re Anthony, welcome to Vancouver.”

“Thanks, so just a friend, what’s your name?”

“Oh, right, Hannah.”

“Hannah since you’re here and not a significant other, I can assume you know all the dirt.”

Hannah blushes under his gaze. His eyes are so blue she can’t seem to keep direct eye contact. So, they keep drifting to his hair, she hadn’t realized he had such soft looking locks since she mostly had seen him on TV with a helmet.

“I guess, what do you want to know?”

She tries to be coy; she definitely knows more than most. She’s so present but so unassuming she guesses she must be easy to open up to.

“Is it really a big deal that Petey brought around a girl?”

“There hasn’t been a lot of exciting off-ice news this season. But I’ve known him for almost 4 years and I’ve barely seen him flirt with a girl, so to bring a girlfriend is kind of big deal. Although between you and me I think he’s been hung up on her for a while.”

Anthony nods.

“The only thing before this was Quinn broke up with his girlfriend from back home and then just started showing up with a new girlfriend like a month later. But Samantha has been accepted into the fold so it’s not really gossip anymore.”

“You really do know the low down.”

“I can’t give you much on-ice info, but off-ice dynamics, I’m your woman.”

He gives her a crooked smile and starts to say something, when a hand grabs her elbow a bit too tight.

“Dinner is starting, I got us seats,” Brock tugs her towards the table that’s filling up.

“Nice talking to you Anthony,” she gently pulls her arm out of Brocks grip.

“Yeah, let’s do it again sometime.”

∫∫∫

“You smell like fish,” Cora says as Hannah sits down next her in the stands.

She pulls up her collar and gives it a sniff, she doesn’t smell anything, “I changed before I came here.”

“I think it’s just embedded itself into your skin at this point.”

“You smelled like a barn when we met and I still became your friend, even though everyone said you smelled like horse butt.”

“Well, the tables have turned and now you’re the stinky friend.”

“Fuck off,” Hannah laughs and flips her friend off.

Cora reaches in her purse for a tiny spray bottle of perfume, “I got you covered my fishy friend,” she gives her a spritz.

“Did I miss anything interesting?”

“I just got here, like 10 minutes before you. Had a last-minute surgery.”

“So, we were both working with guts before we came.”

“Yeah, and hopefully after this, number six will be rearranging my guts.”

Hannah laughs, but it’s hollow. They’ve been together long enough it shouldn’t still sting, but somehow it does.

Thankfully, there’s a big hit on the ice to shift their focus.

“The new guy is pretty cute,” Cora says when play settles.

“Anthony?”

“Yeah, you met him at that dinner thing, right?”

The tone in Cora’s voice makes it clear that she knows something Hannah doesn’t. That she’s toying with her food.

“Mm-hmm, he seems nice.”

“Brock said he was flirting with you. He was all worked up about it too, like ‘this new guy comes in and just charms the first girl he sees, what if Hannah was my girlfriend?’”

Hannah forces herself to focus on the puck traveling down the ice. She can’t look at Cora, let her see something she might jump on

The puck is blown dead, icing, and Hannah tries to keep her face blank when she turns, “He was just trying to meet the group and be friendly.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him. Why would he be trying to flirt with you?”

Hannah bites her tongue, she knows Cora means why would he be flirting with someone at a team dinner, when most women there would be taken. It doesn’t mean it’s any less hurtful. Like Cora isn’t digging her finger into the soft flesh of her biggest insecurities. 

“Brock’s just protective of what’s his,” Cora adds like that’s not another sharp jab.

A wave of nausea rolls over Hannah.

The boys win by one in a mostly winless season, which is good reason to go out and celebrate. Hannah is wrangled into one of Cora’s dresses, and doused in her perfume, and dragged to a club.

One out of three of those things is Hannah’s choice.

“You smell nice,” Brock leans over to whisper in her ear, reaching across her body to steal a gulp from her drink.

Her body involuntarily flushes, like it always does when Brock casually invades her space. So completely unaware of the effect he has on her.

“I smell like your girlfriend,” she hates the way her voice wavers.

“Where is she anyway?” He stares out into the crowd, arm casually thrown over Hannah’s shoulder.

“Dancing with some of the girlfriends,” she waves in the direction the group went.

“Not like you to not join in,” he gives her a smile that used to be reserved for her only.

“It’s been a long day,” she shrugs, “which reminds me, Cora said certain things that mean if I want a good night’s sleep, bring her back to your place.”

“So, I’m scoring off the ice too?”

Hannah gags, “second star on and off the ice.”

Brock laughs and gives her gentle shove.

“I’m gonna get a drink, need a refill?”

Hannah gives him a thumbs up.

She watches him walk towards the bar and Cora appear out of thin air to wrap herself around him. Hannah knows she’ll be waiting on that drink forever.

“Looked like you could use a refill,” a solid wall of warmth slides up next to her, a drink placed in front of her.

She should have been expecting it to be Anthony, but she’s surprised. A warm feeling rolling over her thinking about how Brock thought he was flirting.

“Thanks, Brock’s useless,” she holds up the glass in cheers and takes a sip.

Over the rim of the glass, she catches two blondes sucking face, having their foreplay in front of everyone.

“Do you want to get out of here?” She blurts without thinking of the implication, maybe not caring.

Anthony gapes at her forwardness before Hannah’s brain catches up, “Like to a quieter bar?”

“Sure.”

Hannah takes him to a dive bar, where they drink crappy beer in tall boys and play darts. She’s too dressed up for the location but it doesn’t matter, they only have eyes for each other.

“You worked on a crabbing boat?” Anthony asks incredulously.

The alcohol is already having her run hot, but the focus from Anthony- or Tito or Beau as he said people call him- feels like a direct sunray. She’s the listener not the talker. Yet, there’s something disarming about Anthony, makes her walls fall away, makes her want to talk as much as she listens.

“Yeah, it was a quick way to make a lot of money in a few months, and it was exciting. There aren’t a lot of crabs the past few years so I haven’t had a chance to go back. And I’m not very smart so I have limited options.”

“You’re talking to a hockey player, I’m also not very smart and have limited options.”

“That’s probably explains why Brock and I became such good friends, although he did go to some college,” she grins and throws her last dart.

Anthony doesn’t make a move to start his turn, “so you and Brock were never–“ he cuts himself off with a throw.

“More than friends?” Hannah supplies.

“Yeah,” Anthony visibly tinges pink even in the darkened bar.

Hannah can’t quite vocalize her answer, worried the timbre of her voice will give away all the thoughts and feelings she’s been hiding. She shakes her head instead.

“If Brock was being weird, I think he was just vetting you. As a teammate and if you were worth my affections or something. Not that you were actually flirting with me.”

“I was,” Anthony looks her straight on, no doubt on his face or in his voice.

Something snaps inside Hannah, bursting red-hot in her veins. She’s not going to sit back and wait this time; she’s going to lean into what she’s feeling and grab it tight.

She drags Anthony towards to the back of the bar, pushing him into the bathroom and pushing him against the door once inside. She feels a little depraved, but she drives through the feeling and kisses Anthony.

He’s quick to kiss back, tongue slipping past her lips, gentling her erratic movements. He grabs her hips gently, but firm. He’s a wave of cold water crashing into her molten lava body. Nature in symbiosis.

“I don’t normally do this,” she says between kisses.

He moves his hands up to her waist, he doesn’t stop kissing her, just moves down her jaw closer to her ear, “and this is what you want?”

He sinks in his teeth into the hinge of her jaw, she gasps.

“I want–“ her voice is shaky.

She doesn’t know how to say it or ask for it. She just wants the light of his attention, on her, his whole-hearted focus directed at only her, like no one else exists.

“Cause I want more than a bathroom hookup, but I’ll take what I can get,” she can feel his smile against her skin.

There’s a bang on the door then someone yells, “You don’t have to go, but you can’t stay here!”

It’s like being dunked in the ice-cold Pacific.

She gives him one more peck, “Another time?”

∫∫∫

They find themselves in another bathroom, this time in Demko’s house while the team has a party. Hannah on the counter and Anthony in a vice grip between her knees.

“Sorry, couldn’t wait until after the party.”

Hannah can’t hold back her smile. Hasn’t been for almost two weeks now. They hadn’t seen each other again, but had been texting. If Cora asks, she says it’s Brock being stupid. If Brock asks, she says it’s Cora being dramatic.

“I like it,” digging her fingers into his hair, it’s as soft as it looks.

 “But we can’t take too long,” she adds, though she doesn’t kiss like someone with an exit plan.

“I’ll take my time tonight,” he whispers against her lips.

Voices drift closer to the door when they finally decide to peel apart. Hannah fixes where she mussed his hair as best she can, before peeking to see if the coast is clear.

She makes her way through the kitchen to casually grab a drink and slides up next to Cora and her conversation with the other better halves.

She’s trying to ease herself into the conversation but her mind is elsewhere. In the future and whatever tonight is going to be and in the present glancing over to see Anthony trying to do the same.

Cora elbows her before leaning in, “Classic hot mess Hannah.”

“What?”

“Your very dumb, signature move,” Cora grins, “you forgot to wipe your lipstick off his mouth before you reintegrated back into society.”

Hannah tries to casually glance back at Anthony, he looks towards her at the same time and grins. His lips a shade too pink to be natural. Hannah mimes wiping her lips with the back of her hand, hoping he’ll get the message.

“You dirty girl, I’d recognize that nude berry on any boy’s lips, which honestly let me find you a new color, you’ve been using that for like a decade now.”

Hannah tries to smile through her worry, but Cora knows her well enough to see through it.

“I’m very proud of you for getting him while the getting’s hot, but if you’re worried about me telling Brocky babe or something, don’t worry, secret’s safe with me,” she zips her lips and throws the key over her shoulder.

The giddy nerves in her stomach start fighting the anxious nerves in her stomach.

A heavy arm drapes over Hannah’s shoulder, “There you are, Cora said she saw you but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

That’s the thing, Hannah trusts Cora to keep a secret, she doesn’t quite trust herself.

“Almost feels like you’ve been hiding from me,” Brock laughs at the thought.

Cora joins in and gives Hannah a desperate look to join in as well, Hannah can feel her own laugh is too erratic, but Brock doesn’t seem phased.

“Babe, she’s allowed to have her own life, she’s not just our personal third wheel,” Cora pulls him into her own side.

“Technically Cora, you’re the third wheel to our friendship,” he grins and gives her a peck.

Hannah feels nauseous.

“Oh honey, you’re the third wheel to Hannah and I’s friendship, it’s been around the longest.”

They’re not even acting like Hannah is involved in this conversation, she takes the opportunity to duck out. She grabs another a drink and goes out to the unused balcony. It’s still too cold to hang out there at night, the air is the kind of wet-cold that you can feel in every breath.

“How long have you been in love with Brock?”

Hannah jumps at his voice, barely managing to keep a hold on her bottle of beer.

“I’m not really in love with him anymore,” there’s no use in lying if she’s that transparent.

“Is that why this all secretive?”

Anthony’s eyes are so big, endless blue that Hannah isn’t sure how to read. She wants to learn.

She has reasons lined up: she doesn’t want to effect team chemistry, doesn’t want to ruin her friendships if this goes south, doesn’t want to fall in love with another hockey player.

But all those reasons are logical and rational. And this is emotional in a way she’s not sure she can find room for in her body.

“It’s nice to have something that’s just mine,” she furrows her brow, feels like it’s not quite what she means.

“I’m not the smartest or the prettiest or the most anything, I’m just Hannah. But you act like that’s enough. I’m not just a consolation prize or silver you’re settling for because you can’t have gold.”

Anthony doesn’t say anything for a long time, Hannah feels like maybe they froze outside.

Then he takes a step forward, cupping her face with hands so warm they burn her cheeks. He kisses her slowly; Hannah doesn’t think anyone has ever kissed her like this. Like she’s something precious, worth savoring.

He pulls away and smirks, “I’ve kind of been wishing for silver my whole life.”

“Jesus Christ, is that a Stanley Cup joke?” her smile grows so big it swallows her face.

“Like I’ve said I’m not that smart or that clever either.”

Hannah just has to kiss that stupid smile off his face, not caring who can see them through the windows.

∫∫∫

Brock is pissed.

He acts like everyone doesn’t know what it’s about. Like they don’t notice the glares he sends Beau when he walks into the locker room or how his knuckles go white around a beer bottle when he sees Hannah dance with Anthony at club.

They all let him sulk for a week, without saying anything.

Teammates start to chirp him when it lasts longer.

It comes to a head when Brock goes to a team event alone and brings his mood home to Cora.

“You’re not even his ex or something,” Cora is pretending to be the slowest customer of all time at the fish counter while she complains.

Hannah sort of wishes it was a rush so she could usher her friend away, she’s so over dealing with Brock. The jealousy that she would have killed for a few months ago is starting to become overkill and Hannah kind find it in her to be bothered.

It’s funny that the first time she’s all Brock can think about, is also the first time she doesn’t give a shit about it.

“He’s never had to share you with someone else and now I’m like invisible or something.”

That make Hannah pause.

In all the years she’s known Cora she’s the never been self-conscious, never had a reason to be.

She has to bite back the spiteful smile, it’s nice to be reminded that Cora is a mere mortal too.

“I’ll talk to him, can’t have you feeling lesser than me.”

Cora scoffs, “Hey, don’t talk about my best friend like that.”

Hannah rolls her eyes.

“I’m serious bitch, I don’t know why it took so long for it to get through your head, but I’m glad someone finally makes you feel on top of the world.”

The next night Hannah and Anthony are at Brock’s door.

He opens the door and almost shuts it in their face, but Hannah catches the door with her foot and shoves Anthony through the door.

“It’s an ambush babe,” Cora squeezes Brock shoulders, trying to make him unclench an iota.

“I come bearing the traditional British Columbian peace offering, a fillet of fish,” she nobly holds out the wrapped package in her arms.

Brock almost cracks smile.

“Brocky babe, why don’t you help her prep the fish and I will fix Beau here a drink.”

Hannah drags him into the kitchen before he can argue or pout.

She doesn’t really need prep; she knows her way around the kitchen already and the recipe like the back of her hand.

She pulls out a knife and points it at Brock.

“I’ll let you be upset for the time it takes me to cook this fish, and then you’re going to snap out of it.”

She gets to work, “You love Cora, you love that she loves hiking and boating and your dogs. You love that she’s as passionate about her job as you are. You love that she moved the fucking earth to make your dad passing as easy as possible for you.”

Brock’s face is set in stone.

“So why the fuck are you so bent out of shape about me dating someone, to the point where your perfect girlfriend is jealous of me?”

“Of all the people in the world you had to go for one of my teammates? What if something happens and I can’t even think of passing to him or it makes things weird with my teammates.” Brock snaps.

“Cause you’re doing a great job of that right now, Petey says he’s worried you’ll throw a punch soon.”

“Were you just using me until you could land the right hockey player?”

“Not everything I do is about you Brock. Sorry I let you think that for so long.”

She throws some of the fish in the hot pan, it sizzles like her nerves.

“I’m sorry it happened this way, it’s the last thing I would purposely try to do. But can’t you tell how happy he makes me?”

She feels her tears start to fall, hot and heavy. They’ve been locked and loaded for years.

“You didn’t want me when we met all those years ago, and that hurt. And then you fell for my best friend like instantly, and that hurt worse.  You don’t want me that way, so you don’t get to be mad that someone else does.”

Brock looks like he might cry, too.

“I love being your best friend. I love your dumb jokes and you’re stupid fucking laugh. But I can find that somewhere else if you can’t accept this.”

Brock squeezes her tight, she can feel his tears on the crown of her head.

“I want what’s best for you,” he pulls away, “sorry I have a dumb way of showing it, is there any way I can make it up to you?”

“Pay my rent when you ask Cora to move in?”

Brock lets out one of his stupid fucking laughs, “maybe by next season you’ll also have a new place to live.”

Hannah shoves him away and plates the last of the fish, “the instant acceptance is appreciated, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

She goes to the dining room where the others are waiting with bated breath, pretending like they weren’t eavesdroping on the whole conversation.

“Hope you guys are ready for some tear-brined salmon for this very emotional and awkward double date.”

Anthony takes her hand when she sits down, she can’t help but kiss him. She likes the view off her pedestal.

#anthony beauvillier #anthony beauvillier fic #anthony beavillier imagines #vancouver canucks #vancouver canucks fics #not ready to tag anything else #brock boeser #brock boeser fics #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #hockey fics #hockey fic #hockey

[ellaphnt]

Saw ur Toshiro post, and I absolutely agree that Toshiro's outburst will be a stepping stone for both um an Laios to grow and that the buildup was because Shuro didn't want to ruin situation he was still trying to figure out. But the funniest thing is, afaik, Laios and Falin are *also Foreigners* for quite far away. Their country is simply Scandinavian/northern Europe themed. I don't think we see any long-lived races in their flash backs (baring the dead man buying a ring of elves?). And both Falin and Laois definitly are the equivalent of nobility/Local chiefs kids. But instead of being send out with all their assistants and guards, Laios ran away and suffered in the army and then on his own in a caravan , and Falin was send to a Magial School full of other races and people. They both had time to 'adjust' to the wider world (and still carry a bit of home-grown uh...prejudice (mountain people)). So when they met Shuro both of them were well used to meeting people not from their Country. Toshiro not being either from the tiny Island or the nearby lands simply didn't mesh with how they had adapted to behave. Plus, obviously, Laios textual Autism. But I feel like Laios could totally have figured it out if he had met people from Shuros island before who would have told him, he does after all know how to behave around Dwarves and such, who also have quite diffrent culturual norms. Sorry for the ramble xD Good Toshiro post!

Hi hi! I’m really glad you’re adding onto my silly brain thoughts hehe - I’m super happy to hear yours, especially since they make me think more! Warning this is going to be long, talking about dungeon meshi is just a lot of fun.

When I said foreigner, I should have clarified that that I meant he’s a stranger to the CULTURE. A good chunk of the people in the island are not native to it! But culturally, they have the social background to fit in. They didn’t all come from the same place, yes, but they grew up in European-esque cultures and interacted to some extent with other races. Even Kabru and Rin are not foreign to this type of culture because they grew up with Western/European socialization.

Gonna elaborate bc I think it’s fascinating: From what we know about the Eastern islands, the worldview is very very different. In the Adventurer’s Bible where Kabru talks to Hien, they talk about how the East defines “humans” as “tallmen”, and oni/ogres were the only “other”. In the post-canon snippet where Toshiro talks to Falin, he even refers to Eastern thinking as “backward” due to the lack of long-lived races. Because of his delayed exposure to other races, and because the worldview is far more different than the one the Toudens experienced, that’s where I make the statement that he had more to adjust to.

I’ll also note, the fact that the Toudens are subjectively more adjusted to seeing and accommodating other races makes Laios’ statement that Toshiro “had an odd appearance” an even more bizarre thing to say. And although we can assume Toshiro also has his biases, we don’t see them highlighted like other characters have had (to my knowledge). So it makes it seem like he was more thoughtful/careful towards other races from the get-go, despite his lack of knowledge. His main issues were always with other tallmen, just like Laios.

It’s good to point out that the Toudens are outcasts in their own right. Both of them went through a really hard time, and it changed them. Laios’ cycle of failures and giving up and being bullied are especially important to characterizing his relationship with his sister and his disinterest in humanity and lack of close friends. Falin at least had Marcille. Both Laios and Toshiro have reasons they’re inexperienced in friendship, but one of them stated it in the story and the other didn’t. There’s more misconception about Toshiro’s character than Laios’. So my post was to talk about that one a bit.

ALSO OOO I COMPLETELY FORGOT but I WAS going to mention how both the Toudens and Toshiro came from families of influence! Thank you for bringing it up! Laios and Toshiro diverge from that upbringing, while making Toshiro and Falin a little more similar. This goes into another whole thing where Laios and Toshiro parallel (and foils?) each other but that’s too long of a discussion. Just as long is how this divergence distinguishes the Touden siblings (too many people have said their only difference is gender..)

Lastly, yes, Laios does need more exposure to Eastern people and Eastern culture to get a grasp on it. He really wants to learn! It’s just that Shuro isn’t his encyclopedia and until he gets that chance, he will make ignorant takes. I can think of two more that will occur in the main narrative alone. (but like Toshiro said, Laios has no malicious intent, that’s what makes it all the more complicated)

While there’s good conversation to be had about the fight from a ND vs NT POV, I’ve seen SO much discussion about Toshiro possibly being read as autistic too, and neurodivergent individuals who can relate to his experience. Often it comes as an intersection between both being autistic and being a poc. I think it brings even more nuance to the narrative. Plus I’m just glad there’s people who can relate to him. He’s meant to be relatable! His problem with Laios is just as much a character flaw as it is human.

Hope this post was a thoughtful response to yours, I tried to tackle everything you mentioned! Thank you sm for the ask :D

Edit: for the sake of context, here’s the og post that’s being referred to!

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #askella #shuro #toshiro nakamoto #laios touden #touden siblings #character study

[sunsetsandsunshine]

An issue I need to address:

TW: Drama, cussing…yk all that jazz. I apologize that this post is what you all are receiving from me today. But I need to talk about this before it get’s worse.

Okay, I just want to clarify that there should be no hate being sent towards @osctwordfan for this. Hate and hurtful comments will not and cannot fix what has been done. But that does not I am not angry about it. I am mad. I am livid. Only two people on this site has been able to make me this genuinely upset and it’s frustrating that making a PUBLIC POST is the only way to get this person’s attention. 

4 days ago, May 16th, @osctwordfan started following me. Which, I greatley appreciated because HELLO??? Who wouldn’t, right? A new follower is just an awesome feeling to have. So, I checked their blog to see what they liked and we shared SO many similar interests it was almost scary. And I followed back. 

If you know me for a while, you know my whole “Hi new mutual 💝” message I send to my new mutuals. Because 1: I love talking to people and 2: I just want others to feel like they’re welcome. (If you haven’t received one yet it’s either bc you’re a little older than me or idk how to send the message. BUT YOU WILL GET ONE TRUST 💞💓💘💖💝)

And you all know how you can SEE when someone is online? Well, they were online when I texted this. And I got no response. I just assumed it was nervousness or shyness so I didn’t really question it. Until a few minuetes later they reblogged my “You can always ask” fic. 

Which, woo-hoo I guess. But my message was still not answered. But I didn’t think it was THAT deep. 

The next day, May 17th, I noticed they were online. I sent a quick “Hi” again, awaiting a response. About 5 minutes later I was met with one, except it wasn’t the one I was expecting or hoping for. 

It was a request. For a fanfiction. Okay okay cool. Coolio. You…ignore my two messages of me just simply saying a quick “hello” and you don’t answer…instead you ask for a tickle fanfiction of some turtles? 

I get people are shy. I get that. I do. But me and one of my best friends were talking about it on Insta and it made no damn sense. Following, reblogging and requesting things from an individual that’s been trying to speak with you for the past few days and you not responding and then ASKING something of them is just…weird. 

Me and one of my best friend’s convo:

So, on May 18th I saw they were online again, and so I texted the following: 

Which I felt was fine. It was straight to the point. But where my anger really emegred was when I got notifications of my fics being reblogged by the same person. AGAIN. NOT EVEN 3 MINUTES LATER.

And then May 19th they liked another post of mine. Although it was a post that you would have to DIG DEEP FOR. Because I made it a year ago and only 4 people liked it (INCLUDING ME.). So you would have to LOOK LOOK to find it. 

Then yesterday, May 20th, was just my breaking point. I was chilling, having a nice evening, talking with my fellow mutuals, writing a fic (AND FINISHING WOO-HOO) until I get a notification. And guess what? It’s just another reblog by the same person. 

Did I get any responses of my pervious texts? Nope. Not at ALL. 

I am sick and hurt of being treated as if I’m just a computer that makes fanfictions.

I am a PERSON. A human being that for the past week has been trying to talk with you. And you at fucking 16 should understand that. 

You are one whole year older than me and you think you have the right to treat me this way. Who the absolute hell do you think you are? 

Because let me get this through your head: I live in an African and Jamaican  household, and one thing that we let each other know day in and day out is to never ever let someone make you feel like you’re less. 

So when you see this @osctwordfan I am hoping you have a good explanation regarding to last week. 

@ ing mutual’s in this because this is INSANE and I am LIVID rn: 

@itzsana-kiddingmenow @veryblushyswitch

@skyloladoodles @saturnzskyzz @backy-san

@creativecutie @savemeafruitjuice

@mythica0 @leosmasktails @someone1348 @vxlepop

@anxious-lee @charismakat

@sunny-117 @odder-outlet @jamiesgotchu @ziipzeepzop-eez

@danineedshelp @pocky-dragon

@my-l0v3r-v3rse @rice-cake-teen10

#Didn’t add everyone bc that would be SM people #Mostly everyone though #Look #At the end of the day I’m sorry it came down to me making a post about you #But you seriously left me no choice #LIKE ACTUALLY #But srsly idfk what could be the explanation towards all of this #You sent me an ask and you would be able to see the notifications of me messaging you #If you had messages off I wouldn’t be able to in the first place/Tumblr would tell me #Also mutual’s you don’t have to respond if you don’t want to 💞💞💞 #I’m just trying to figure out if I have a right to be upset abt this… #Sfw tickle community #Sfw tickle blog #Blog drama #Follower drama #Dude I don’t even want an apology I just want you to EXPLAIN #I hate drama #But I needed to post this #I’m not trying to be mean rn #I’m just trying to understand

[comradekatara]

for tbe atla people who has had in-universe fanfiction written about them (along the lines of tina belcher who came from bobs burger belcher)

your asks are always so strange (both in content and wording) that I end up having to read them like 5 times before I can begin to parse them. anyway I love that you cite tina belcher instead of just. rpf. like the literal terminology for this phenomenon that we do very much have at our disposals. so I even can’t tell if you’re asking “who would have rpf written about them” (which also presumably differs from historical fiction about past avatars or smth like that) and “who would write freaky friend fiction (like tina)?” i’m gonna go with the latter bc it’s way funnier.

i think that girl meng would definitely have written some….things…..about aang, iykwim. zombie apocalypse au, enemies to lovers, there was only one bed, etc etc.

i can also just kind of see jin doing this (abt lee from the tea shop or otherwise) i can’t explain it she just has fujoshi vibes. like, whenever ppl talk about how jin, zuko, and jet should have all been friends in ba sing se, i’m usually like “uhh… why tho….” but now i see why. it’s so that she could write jetko rpf about them.

for therapeutic purposes mai probably writes a lot of really cathartic short stories about her entire family, the entire royal family, and ty lee all falling into a sinkhole. but then mai saves ty lee from drowning at the last minute, which teaches ty lee to appreciate her instead of that stupid sinkhole bitch azula (this is all pre boiling rock, obviously).

at one point mai and sokka find a notebook of really angsty fanfiction about the blue spirit and they’re like, “oh my god this is amazing we gotta show this to zuko, he’ll get a kick out of this,” not realizing that zuko actually wrote it himself as a way to work through his identity crisis. he’s just like, “yeah….wow….so cringey, right? but also, kind of incredible how this writer articulates the struggle of the bisected self in extremis so beautifully……right? you guys think so too?” and sokka and mai just look at each other and silently go, “okay…. we may have made a mistake…..”

when katara was a child she would make up stories in her head about finding the avatar and befriending him and having him fall in love with her due to her courage and beauty and (hopefully, someday) waterbending talent and they would defeat the firelord together and live happily ever after. but thankfully she never wrote any of this down, because paper is a very scarce commodity in the southern water tribe and even she knows better than to invoke gran gran’s wrath on that. she never tells aang. although at some point (in sworn secrecy) she does end up telling zuko (assuming that he’d understand considering he also devised fantasies of finding the avatar to cope with his miserable existence), and he laughs for hours.

during their time together in the nwt, yue’s diary gets filled with all kinds of lurid fantasies of sokka killing hahn (in increasingly brutal ways) and sneaking her out of the palace so that she can join team avatar and they can be together forever. of course, whenever they talk about it, she’s just like “yes I love hahn he is great and I love my people and I would never leave my home” so sokka’s just like “okay girl you do you.” but then during the siege, yue actually sees sokka kill a man, and she’s suddenly so conflicted because all her self-indulgent fantasies were a bit too real (and in reality, he’s way more efficient about killing people than he was in her fantasies, almost like he’s done it before….) and she has no clue how to feel about it. anyway, thankfully, yue has learned how to hide her diary really well at this point, because if arnook ever found those particular pages he would’ve tracked down sokka and killed him without hesitation.

ok bonus follow up to the fujoshi jin writing jetko rpf au: eventually they find it (or maybe she’s bold enough to just straight up give it to them. you know what, she might be) and read it. jet’s like, “uhhh…. jin….. i’m not gay. you know that, right?” (he’s actually been hitting on her for… a while now…) and zuko’s like, “okay well i might be. BUT NOT FOR HIM!!!”

#bigpansy #asks #you always get me to write the darndest things #I don’t even know how to tag this #the gaang and #but not really? #meng #jin #jet #zuko #mai #ty lee #sokka #katara #yue #arnook #mai&sokka #maixtylee #sokkaxyue #katara&zuko #tis the thing itself! #(sorry jetko truthers) #(you know I had to do it to em)

[dwaekkilinos]

wind and water (pt. 1) | lee felix

summary: People always had a way of looking at you as if your skin were composed of paper mâché and your heart was made of glass. They just assumed you were kind of like a weak bird . . . but Felix Lee looked at you like you still had some flight left.

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | surfing au, childhood friends to lovers, slice of life, angst, fluff, eventual smut word count: 15.7K chapter summary: you're in the wind, and felix lee is in the water. both of you are sons and daughters of no one anymore. warnings/notes: ok so! i originally posted this on my main blog but then i decided that'd be too confusing so it's getting uploaded here hehe (i also decided to split the chapter up to make it short but i can't promise that for future chapters), this fic is literally just hurt comfort with smut like i have no excuse, moving on: explicit language ahead, probably many typos, character death (reader's mom and felix's parents) fictional names for chris's family, hyunjin and jisung being the absolute best besties, forced proximity aka reader and felix have to share a room, mentions of death and everything surrounding it, grief, extreme coping mechanisms (reader goes a little insane and that's ok), insomnia, and i think that's it for this part but if i missed anything let me know, ok ok hope you enjoy <3

chapter one: this house is haunted ( next → )

Look for me in the wind.

There’s something people like to say at funerals. It’s stupid really, maybe even a little self-involved, but when the forsaken bell tolls and some poor soul in a casket rolls around, some sorry sucker will without a doubt preach that when people die, they’re never truly gone. It’s supposed to be comforting. It’s supposed to lighten the mood. It’s supposed to make things better; make you better; make you feel better that this person you once knew . . . that this person who had been in your life day in and day out was now gone, sure, but their memory was still there.

That’s supposed to make it better . . . right? It’s OK that they’re dead and gone—an empty cavity with nothing but bones and stitches keeping their flesh from sliding off—because at least they have someone to remember them.

It’s supposed to be OK.

It’s supposed to be.

But it never is.

Nothing is ever OK again. Because the truth is, when people die . . . they’re gone. Dead is dead, and dead is gone. They’re gone.

They become nothing once again. But that's the tricky part, isn’t it?—the fact that they were something once.

And it’s never easy letting go of something that still exists in some nature; because an abandoned house is still a house even with no heart, and a body is still a body even with no soul. Both have the bones to keep them standing for a little longer. Both can withstand a great deal more. And both will.

But they’re still . . . less. The house will never be a home again, and the body will never be a person. They’re just there, not fully present and not fully gone. They exist in this limbo, and it is this in-betweenness that makes letting it all go so . . . hard . . .

How do you put something like that to rest?

But . . . dead is gone, right? Dead is dead and dead is gone, so, fuck! Why was it so hard? She was gone. She was gone, gone, gone . . . but . . . but . . .

Look for me in the wind, was what your mother had told you the day she died. It was something you knew others in the hospital would kill to hear instead of a forced goodbye before a surgery everyone knew would fail. You supposed that should have brought you comfort: that your mother had left you with something irreplaceable.

But it didn’t, because you knew what it meant.

It meant that the rumors were true. When people die, yes, they’re gone, but a part of them is left behind. Only for you, it was the part of her you didn’t want to remember. You didn’t want to walk the streets of New York, always cold and windy, and think of your mother’s dying words.

Look for me in the wind, she had said and hours later she was gone.

When people die, they might not be truly gone, but that didn’t mean you weren’t left with memories you’d rather have died with her. And now . . . now all that you were left with were her final months.

It only reminded you that she was still dead. Even if her memory was there . . . she wasn’t.

You supposed it left you feeling a little . . . lost.

OK . . . maybe lost was a bit of an understatement.

It just . . . it didn’t take long after your mother’s death to figure out she had been the thread holding your family together. And when she died, everything fell apart . . .

It started with your father. At first, you, neither your sister, Erin, saw it, until three shoes by the front door turned to two, and he stopped coming home for dinner, insisting the two of you were grown adults and could fend for yourselves. But you knew what that meant. You’d always known it would happen, too, but your mother would never have allowed it. But you knew. God, you’d known since you were seventeen and you saw the messages on his phone.

Your father had found someone else, and quickly, it seemed. No . . . not quickly. She had always been there. Ever since he went away on a business trip one year after his mother’s death and came back with a secret and a request for a divorce. Your mother never allowed it of course, and they stayed together.

(You supposed you should’ve known he’d stay with her, too, and . . . wait.

Which he did, right? Congrats, dad, you were patient enough to fuck someone else two minutes after mom was shoved in the grave!

Class act, your father.

Whatever.)

So, your mother was dead. Your father was already planning a new family. And you and your sister were stuck in your childhood home, sitting opposite each other at the dining table while the empty seat with an equally empty plate resting on one of your mother’s special placemats, haunted the two of you. Because well, that wasn’t your father’s seat. No, the two of you stopped setting a plate for him the first day he didn’t show.

This seat used to be your mother’s, and that plate was for her . . . or her ghost, you guessed. (It was Erin’s idea. Obviously . . . )

Neither of you had mentioned it.

Neither of you planned to.

Neither of you would.

. . . This went on for a few more weeks.

Then . . . it was August once again. Fall semester was starting. It was going to be the start of your senior year at university. You were almost there. Almost.

Your sister left two days later. Back to Texas. Back to her husband and his kid. Back to her life. Back to normal.

She was twenty-nine and had a life, you got it. You were only twenty-one, just shy of turning twenty-two, and had no clue how to navigate . . . anything.

So . . . you . . . you stayed stagnant in that house.

Now, it was you who sat at the dinner table, not a soul in sight, just you and the empty seat where your mother used to eat when you were growing up. The plate was still empty, maybe even a little dusty now, because no one dared to touch it. Yours was always half-finished. You could never stomach more the second your eyes locked on the empty seat where your mother should have been.

And every night, you’d toss your half-eaten dinner in the trash, glance toward the still-set plate waiting for your mother, wait a few minutes . . . just to see if her ghost truly would take the seat, and when no ghost showed, you’d turn off the lights and head up to your childhood bedroom for the night.

Until . . . it was the night before the first day of the semester, and you realized it would be back to your apartment, and the house . . . her house . . . would be left empty for who knew how long. No more childhood, no more falling asleep on the couch and waking up to your mother carrying you to your bed, no ice cream as dinner, no nothing . . . not even a whisper from . . . her . . .

And like her body that you knew was rotting away day by day in her grave, her house would no longer be a home the second you stepped out the door and returned to the life you had made for yourself. It would stand, bones and all, days passing it by while it slowly rotted away without a single hand to dust its edges and sweep its floors. And so, it, too, would be taken to the weeds, leaving behind memories no one wished to remember. (Perhaps those memories would rot with it, too.)

It all just made you think, and the longer the gears in your brain turned, the more this sliver of rage grew inside of you.

A house with no bones, it would slowly become.

A house with no bones. A house with no heart. A body with no soul. A child with no mother . . .

Your mind just kept spinning and spinning and . . .

You supposed that was when you went a little . . . off course? Downhill? . . . Crazy, maybe? Well, perhaps a little more than that. Maybe like . . . utterly insane. (You were being generous, of course.)

Unbelievable, you say?

Well . . . sit down, buckle up, let’s just see what you have on the checklist.

Trash your childhood home, destroying all evidence that your mother even existed, but obviously leave the plate on the dining table just in case she comes back? Check.

Block everyone you know on . . . everything? Check.

Only show up to class in your mother’s clothes, wearing her makeup the way she used to, asking to be called by her name, basically becoming . . . her . . . ? Check, check, check, and . . . check.

Flunk all your first and second exams? Check, of course.

Midterms come around and your average for all of your classes is about hmm a good forty-six percent? Check.

Eventually withdraw from all your classes, dropping out of university entirely? Yeah . . . check.

The news somehow gets back to your father via bank statements, because how else would he get in contact with you? Oh, and then when he does finally find out about it, he decides that maybe you’re not OK after your mother just literally, oh you don't know, died. And does this mean letting you stay with him and his girlfriend for a little, maybe some therapy and a hug? Maybe? Well, no, of course not!

This means calling up your mother’s childhood friend, practically begging her to take in his delinquent child (AKA you) because well, obviously, you just need to feel connected with your mom again, so duh, that means shipping you off to your homeland or her homeland whatever same thing . . . which is P.S. another continent (Australia of all places . . . yeah) for like their summer or whatever and then you’ll be cured.

. . . Um . . . anyway . . . check!

Yeah . . . you supposed you really fucked yourself with that one.

. . . Whatever.

That was what you kept repeating, at least. Whatever this and whatever that. What else could you do? It wasn’t like anything mattered anymore.

Whatever, you muttered to yourself as you boarded the plane, with not even a second glance. No one was in the airport to bid farewell to anyway. So, whatever.

Whatever, you groaned as you finally landed in, you guessed it, Hell’s hotspot: Sydney, Australia. Whatever, you huffed as you caught sight of the Bahng family—Irene and Monty Bahng and their two kids Chris (one of your childhood friends . . . apparently) and Grace—waving to you. (Supposedly another member of the family was missing—Felix, one of Chris’s friends who you were, once again, supposedly supposed to supposedly know from childhood. He was apparently living with them since last year for unforeseen reasons that no one bothered to mention. But. He didn’t show due to more unforeseen reasons.)

You forgot to groan out another inner whatever the second you stepped into the backseat of their minivan, too wrapped up in your own head to care. Grace kept mentioning this and that, saying how excited she was to have another girl in the house because it was so horrible living with two adult boys. (She was fourteen, interested in being older than she was, and curious about the world. You got it. You used to be that young.)

And Chris, well, he was three years older than you and, as you would like to reiterate, apparently one of your best friends from childhood before your family packed up and moved just before junior high. You remembered little about him, but it wasn’t like it mattered. (You were just glad he kept Grace at bay, telling her to leave you be.)

Irene and Monty were fine, too. They kept asking you how your flight was, if you had eaten, and blah blah blah which you hated and responded with quiet hums as an answer, but . . . whatever. It didn’t matter if they were nice. You were stuck there and you hated it. You hated being back home, too. You hated everything and nothing mattered, so . . . whatever!

You remained silent the entire rest of the way to their house in their shitty, hot, no-WiFi-bearing town from Hell. Your silence carried on even as they ushered you out of the car, taking it upon themselves to carry your bags in without even a single hand from you, claiming that you should walk around the property while they got your room ready so you could get used to . . . everything. And you simply nodded without another word because . . . well . . . just because . . .

The Bahng’s lived atop a hill in a small bungalow with yards and yards of land which overlooked the ocean. You didn’t exactly know which ocean because you’d never cared to learn anything about anything. You’d been a biology major, and you hated it, so it wasn’t like you particularly liked learning. You had just put up with your degree to make your mother proud, and now that she was gone, well . . .

You swallowed hard. Never mind.

It was pretty. You’d give Southhaven that. But that was it.

This wasn’t your home. It never would be. You weren’t sure if you even had a home anymore.

. . .

With a soft sigh, you slightly tilted your head back, eyes closed as you faced the sun. Its heat beat down on you, and for once, you let it touch you. You let it caress your face, desperately trying to warm you, but you had never felt so cold.

And when it seemed your blood had almost frozen in your veins, you felt it . . .

. . . the wind.

In response, your jaw twisted so tight you wondered if it’d be enough to crack a molar. But the slight breeze in a world full of heat nudged you forward, causing your hair to slap your face.

Begrudgingly, you flicked your hair out of your face, forcibly tucking it behind your ears. But the wind persisted, seemingly tugging you toward the edge of the property.

You didn’t want to listen. You wanted to shove off the wind and stalk toward the house, but like the call of your name from your mother’s lips, you couldn’t turn the other way. No, instead, you followed the wind, you followed her voice, and approached the edge of the property where the ocean resided in the distance.

And only then, when you were overlooking the water below, did the wind seem to subside. Like a current, the tide had come in. No more whispers in your ear, but you could still feel it, just . . . in the distance.

You wondered what it meant. You always had. But how could you question the wind? How could you call out to it and beg for its presence?

Swallowing hard, you nearly attempted to question this intangible thing, until something caught your eye.

As you stood atop the hill, quietly questioning its existence, the suddenly wind returned, whipping through your hair, as the image of a man below on the shore stalked toward the ocean, surfboard tucked under his arm. His hair was blonde and wet as if he had been at this all day. His skin was marked with redness and small scratches, showing evidence of his advances. And he had this way of holding himself that just told you he not only held this . . . resentment but also . . . fear toward the ocean.

The wind whispered in your ear once more. You blinked. It was almost as if the wind were telling you to keep watching, to listen and hear the pounding of his heartbeat from up there.

Could you hear how loudly it was beating as he stared down the ocean? Or was it your own heart that you heard?

Was this man even real? Were you?

But that didn’t matter. Real or not, you couldn’t tear your eyes from him. You watched in silence, you and the wind atop the hill, as he paddled out into the water, positioning himself perfectly to catch a wave.

You watched as he waited and waited. You watched as wave after wave became big then small then nothing, and he was left still waiting. And when a good, strong wave did come, he tried and tried, but . . . failed.

And time and time again, the waves kept coming but . . . they seemed to elude him. He missed every single one.

Frustration seemed to consume him as he smacked the water before tugging his hands through his hair to push back the wet, blonde strands. And as he continued to battle with the waves, you could see his anger mounting. The more he missed, the more his frustration grew. You watched him take deep breaths, trying to calm himself, but it seemed even that couldn't bring him the solace he sought.

Finally, you watched as he breathed in sharply through his nose, tilting his head toward the sky as the sun beat down on his face. Just like you had done moments ago, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to soak in the warmth. It seemed . . . it seemed; however, even that couldn’t help him, his brows furrowed and his mouth in a permanent frown as the wind twisted through his wet hair, causing him to shiver even in the sun.

And you began to wonder . . .

. . . Did the wind haunt him, too?

“He’s good, isn’t he?” you suddenly heard from beside you, but you didn’t jump, you didn’t even turn to greet the person. You already knew who it was anyway. Chris, of course. (You supposed his parents had made him become the spokesperson for the family given the fact that the two of you had been friends a million years ago. Or maybe he was just that . . . out there.)

Whatever.

“Hmm?” you hummed out, remaining as silent as you could.

Chris gestured to the vast ocean below, toward the boy (No, man? . . . ) who still sat on his board, eyes now scanning the waters before him once again. “Felix,” he restated.

Oh. You bit the inside of your cheek.

That was Felix.

“You remember him, don’t you? Taught you how to keep your head above water. You had quite the trouble getting a hang of your sea legs.” Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “I remember you’d cry any time you’d get salt water in your mouth.”

“No,” you murmured. “Don’t remember. Doesn’t seem like he was a very good teacher either. Hasn’t caught a wave once.”

You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t turn to meet his gaze. Still, it seemed Chris was hard to turn away. He, like you in the wind, stayed stagnant, solid as stone as he stood beside you. Not even the brisk air could turn him away, even when it seemed to get colder the closer he stood to you. You’d thought maybe he’d catch on; to the fact that in all of Southhaven, the coldest spot was right next to you. But he didn’t. He stayed put, and then . . . then he spoke.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to the funeral,” he spoke softly as if he were talking to a child.

Your heart plummeted, and the sliver of rage grew inside of you once again. A wildfire now, it had become.

Sure, he was a few years older than you, but he didn’t have to treat you like . . . that. You could handle things. You handed your mother’s death for god's sake, so why couldn’t he talk to you like you were an actual person and not some fragile—

“I won’t try to understand, because I don’t,” he continued, knowing you wouldn’t respond. “And I won’t try to make you feel better. I know it doesn’t work that way, but Felix . . . “ He sighed, before breathing in sharply. “He lost his parents a year ago. I won’t try to understand, but he . . . he already does.”

Your eyes snapped in his direction then. But your lips remained sealed.

Chris took this as his sign to continue. “Just—“ he wet his lips, brows raising— “don’t be too harsh on him. If there’s anyone who understands how you feel . . . it’s him.”

Remaining silent, you could only swallow your thoughts, your feelings, your words. You shoved it all down and continued to stare, eyes surely unwelcoming and dull.

But he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Maybe . . . maybe he was used to it.

“Anyway—“ he huffed out with a growing smile— “come on, your room is ready.” He reached forward to grab the bag you still held in your hands without another word. “You’ll have to room with Felix, but I promise we’re trying to set up the shed for one of you. It’s just a little fucked between Dad’s workshop and Grace’s many, many, many abandoned projects . . . but we’ll get there . . . promise. But, hey, you get your own bathroom and—“

Of course, his blabbering didn’t stop there as he began to lead you toward the house, but you couldn’t spend more energy trying to listen to him. It was all useless anyway. You had a room. There were bathrooms in the house. Food. Everything else you’d need to survive.

But . . . your thoughts were elsewhere. Your gaze landed on the boy . . . Felix . . . once again, watching as he remained still, almost as motionless as the sea that surrounded him. It was almost as if he were waiting for something. Even if he caught a wave, it seemed he’d remain there until that something came around.

Quickly, you began to wonder, would it ever? Or would he remain in that water forevermore?

. . . Would . . . you remain stagnant, too?

And amid it all, the wind returned, whistling in your ears . . . and then . . . then you began to hear a faint voice calling your name. You knew it was Chris, but you didn’t care. You were so deeply immersed in your own thoughts, so consumed by despair, that the sound seemed distant and muffled. It was as if a thick fog had settled over your mind, clouding your senses and preventing you from clearly hearing anything other than that cruel wind.

The calls continued, but you remained trapped within the confines of your own mind. You were rendered deaf to the outside world, and you yearned for a moment of clarity, a moment where you could hear . . .

. . . a moment where you could hear . . . her voice again . . .

Chris called your name again, and you squeezed your eyes shut. It wasn’t her. He wasn’t her. It was his voice that called out to you, not hers.

She was gone, the wind serving as a cruel reminder of this.

And finally, you forced yourself out of this haze, shoving out the thoughts of your mother as you tore your eyes from Felix, who still resided in the ocean, and faced reality; faced Chris.

“You good?” he questioned once your eyes were on him again, and you could finally hear him.

But you didn’t respond.

No, instead you hurriedly approached him, snatched your bag from his hands, and stalked off toward the house, leaving everything behind.

But the wind followed, consuming your senses, and you realized it always would.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making any friends. You were awkward and kept your mouth shut at all times. The messages in your yearbooks would always be directed toward how nice you were, but they didn’t know you. You didn’t have a kind soul. It took a while to realize that. It took even longer to accept it—that you were a miserable child who grew into an even more miserable adult.

Boys didn’t like you. Girls didn’t either. Some days you wondered if your parents even liked you. Sure, your mother loved you (albeit, she’d loved your sister more, but that was a given), but some days you wondered if she even liked the person you were.

And your father . . .

You were sure your father was trying to cut ties with the life he had made with your mother the moment they met. (And as time would see it, as soon as she was gone, the love he claimed he had for you and your sister went too.)

So if someone were to ask you if you had been a lonely child . . . You wouldn’t have known what to say because the truth was: if you’re alone all your life; if being alone is all you’ve ever known, then how do you know if you’re lonely?

Was there a checklist for that, too?

Now, yeah, sure, you knew people growing up. Sure, you talked to people throughout junior and high school. But nothing ever carried on outside of the school grounds. Everything had always just been surface-level with you. (At least, from what you remembered, which . . . wasn’t much.)

Being alone wasn’t so bad either. It was just normal. Your normal. So it hadn’t really bothered you when your birthday “parties” consisted of just you, your sister, your mother, and—sometimes, perhaps, maybe if he had the time—your father.

But it wasn’t until university that you realized what it would feel like to lose something.

It wasn’t until the one random art credit you signed up for managed to fall under the same time you had decided to move the rest of your shit into your dorm, leading to you racing to the Creative Arts Center (which was, by the way, located across campus) just for you to end up being the very last person to storm into the classroom, meaning yes, there was only one seat left, and yes, you had to awkwardly claim it with everyone’s eyes on you. But! But! Well . . . the open seat just so happened to be next to Hwang Hyunjin, who would very quickly become the only friend you had ever really had.

Now . . . Hwang Hyunjin wasn’t a tough nut to crack. While you were slightly off-putting and quiet, he was kind and always had something to say, with this odd warmth radiating off him wherever he went. He just seemed to make people . . . better.

His art was that way, too, but that was a story for another day.

Anyway . . . you didn’t exactly remember how the two of you became friends. You supposed it kind of just . . . happened, but one second you were alone, then the next it was where he went you did too, and vice versa.

And halfway through that October, when he introduced you to his dormmate, Han Jisung, the two of you quickly became three, and the rest was three years of history.

It was only then, in those three strenuous years, that you realized that now, for once in your life, you had something to lose. (You’d be a liar if it didn’t keep you up some nights. You’d be a liar if those nights you didn’t cry yourself to sleep, mourning something that had yet to happen. You’d be a liar.)

That was the thing: you always thought it would end. You never thought that this thing you now had would ever last for longer than a few years.

So . . . when you lost your mother, you supposed something in you decided that this was it. It was time to give them up, too, because now that you had lost something, it was time to lose everything, you supposed.

But what you hadn’t accounted for was that Hwang Hyunjin, the poet he was, did not believe in endings. He believed things happened for a reason. He did not believe the two of you met for nothing, and he would be damned if he just let you slip through his fingers like . . . that.

You really did try, too. You tried to avoid him. You tried to lock yourself in your apartment and let the world just . . . fall away. But Hyunjin never gave up; whether it was dropping food off at your front step so you wouldn’t starve, to forcing you to let him and Jisung inside the house just for the three of you to watch a movie in silence, because at least then you wouldn’t be alone. (You were also positive the reason why you even had like a thirty-seven percent in Ecology was because Jisung did your homework and his.)

Somewhere down the line, you realized sometimes you meet people and the rest is history. No matter how hard you tried to push them away like you had done to everyone else in your life, they refused. There was no without with them.

Some things were meant to stay even when you’d already lost everything else. And nights when it felt like you truly had nothing and no one, there would always be a text on your phone from their group chat.

(Some days you wondered if you would even still be here if they hadn’t pushed their way into your life . . . and those days you cried yourself to sleep.)

You supposed there was no more time for that as you glanced behind you, eyes locked on the twin bed situated across the room from yours. There, this Felix, would sleep, the two of you forced to share a room with a bathroom connected to it, sure, but . . . you’d only shared a room your first year at university in the dorms, and that was enough for you. And now . . . this . . .

(You would’ve rather taken the casket next to your mother’s.)

A whiny call of your name tore you from your mind, forcing you to leave behind the past as you turned back to your phone. The faces of Hyunjin and Jisung met you immediately as Hyunjin squinted his eyes at you, taking in your odd demeanor while Jisung tapped away on his phone in confusion (a constant state for him).

Oh, you thought, blinking slowly. You had forgotten they were on the call.

“Hmm?” you hummed, but didn’t speak a word further.

A twitch of confusion tugged at Hyunjin’s brows. “The guy,” he reiterated, trailing off as if waiting for you to chime in and cut him off. But you never did, and for a brief second, you saw him bite the inside of his cheek (something he did when he was worried) before he quickly covered it up by shaking his head and opening his mouth to speak once more. “What’s he look like?”

Before you could get a word in, Jisung clicked his tongue as he lowered his phone. “Do you have to be so cryptic all the time? I get it’s part of the whole tortured artist bit, but—“ he cut himself off with a wave of his hand.

Hyunjin was glaring at him in a heartbeat. “Tortured—“ he scoffed— “Tortured artist? You’re crazy.” He drilled a finger into Jisung’s shoulder. “You sound crazy, know that?”

“Crazy?!” Jisung retorted, fully putting his phone down on the coffee table now. (This was for an ulterior motive, of course, as the next second he was eyeing something out of your sight, which resided on that same coffee table.) “Give me that sketchbook.” Quickly, he bent over and snatched the sketchbook, wasting no time flipping through it. “What have you been drawing, huh? Porn?”

Hyunjin nearly pounced on him. “What the—What is wrong with you? Who even says that?” he grumbled out, trying to pry the sketchbook out of his friend’s hands, all the while, Jisung fought him off long enough to flash you a few of the pages. “It’s called—“ he finally ripped his sketchbook out of Jisung’s grasp and secured it under his arm with an exhale— “figurative arts. Something you’d know if you ever cared to come with me.”

Jisung leaned back, sinking into the couch as he spread his legs for a more comfortable position. “Why the fuck would I wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to go draw naked people with my roommate?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Roommates go on coffee runs together, not draw dicks, which, might I add, you have to pay for?”

“Because it’s art.”

“It’s porn.”

And with that, Hyunjin tapped out. With an exasperated scoff, he sent one more glare Jisung’s way before he was flipping through his sketchbook, trying to access the damage done, all the while, muttering under his breath in his native tongue. (Something about Jisung being an idiot, of course.) Jisung caught onto this, too, and sent you a sideways look before he began to taunt and mock the older boy.

Only then when you felt yourself laugh under your breath, did you realize you had been fondly smiling at them the entire time. But that was just how things went. They were always like this, being roommates for all of university, and it never ceased to fill you with a sense of belonging. (It also never ceased to fill you with a sense of dread . . . because if your suspicions were correct and you did end up alone . . . then this . . . this would be something you’d miss about them the most.)

But until then . . . you’d mourn quietly. You had to . . .

Clearing your throat and head, your smile slowly fell into a straight line as you glanced between the two boys. “Are you two done?” you heard yourself ask before you even felt your lips moving.

“Yeah, when he’s six feet under,” Jisung retorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed his friend up and down.

Hyunjin nearly rolled his eyes. “Like you won’t be buried right beside me just out of spite.”

“Well . . . I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it . . . “

This time; however, Hyunjin did roll his eyes. “Shut up, would you?”

And at those words, Jisung’s mouth hung open with the click of his tongue. He eyed you as if to ask if you had heard the same thing, but you only shook your head at the two of them, trying desperately to bite back the stiff smile spreading onto your face.

As your smile flattened out into the same thin line, you shifted atop your bed, laying on your side with your knees pulled up to your chest as you held your phone in your hand. “I haven’t met him yet,” you muttered out the next second, before either of them could continue this little ruse they had going on (you knew what they were trying to do anyway . . . (Whether they admitted it or not, you could see the change in the way they acted around you after everything . . . happened (now everything was done to get even a smidge of a smile out of you.)))

Jisung quirked a brow, glancing at Hyunjin with his lips pursed as he asked, “Who?”

“The guy,” Hyunjin vaguely explained as he pointed at you through the screen, or rather the bed behind you that could slightly be seen in the camera.

“Oh,” Jisung hummed with a snap of his fingers, “the one you’re going to fuck?”

Hyunjin pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is wrong with you?”

“Listen, I’m always right,” Jisung exclaimed, glancing between you and his roommate. “The two of you can fuck off. It just makes sense. You’ve known him since you were a kid, right? So, a little reunion blah blah blah, you have to sleep in the same room, you’re drunk, you’re horny, you fuck. It’s the circle of life.”

Silence.

Then . . .

A snort from Hyunjin. (You were sure he’d called him an idiot under his breath, but the connection cut out toward the end.)

And you sighed. “OK, Ji . . . I haven’t seen the guy since I was, like, ten,” you explained, trying to explain to your friend all the one-hundred and one reasons why you were not going to sleep with this . . . this stranger. And then, your mouth opened before you could stop it, and words, words that didn’t even sound like your own fumbled from your tongue . . . “Plus . . . he seems like a nutcase. He didn’t show up at the airport because he was apparently busy . . . but when I got here, he was just surfing . . . not even actually. And that! That was five hours ago. He didn’t even come up to eat. I mean that’s crazy, right?”

Shuffling further up the bed, you grabbed the pillow to hug, while awaiting your friends’ responses, but . . .

“Crazy, huh?” you heard a deep voice question from behind you. And this wasn’t a voice you had heard before, which led you to one solution . . . Felix . . .

Fuck.

Hastily, with your eyes wide, you slapped your phone face down as you shot up in your bed, gaze immediately snapping toward the door.

And there he was.

Felix stood in the doorway, towel in hand as he dried his wet, blonde hair (no doubt dyed a month ago guessing by the appearance of his dark roots peeking through). “Didn't realize I was being analyzed today,” he muttered in a soft chuckle.

But you remained silent. It seemed you’d become more afraid of your voice in recent months anyway, so speaking really was rare, but this . . . this had you speechless for an entirely different reason.

In your silence, you let your eyes wander, and noticed Felix only had one foot in the room, the rest of his body lingering in the hallway as he glanced from your face to your phone to his dresser. It was almost as if he was . . . afraid . . . ? No, hesitant. Yes, hesitant to walk in this space that the two of you were now expected to share as if you hadn’t seen each other in a decade or so.

Because the thing was, yes, you remembered him, but not in the same way you’d remember something that happened a long time ago, but rather in the same way you’d remember a childhood pet. There was warmth there; a certain fondness that you could only place when you truly saw him face to face like this. But it was lacking—like you couldn’t remember why or how you felt this way, you just knew you did.

What you could remember felt like a dream. It didn’t feel like it had actually happened. And sure, nothing ever did lately, but this . . . this was different. You knew him. God, you knew him but you just couldn’t . . . place it. You couldn’t remember anything about him. Just those freckles that adorned his sunkissed cheeks, a wide, toothy smile with dimples, his laughter kept floating through your head as you stared at him.

You could remember a boy around the age of eight, and he was laughing. A soft giggle with eyes that smiled too. Then . . . colors. Sunsets. The feeling of floating. The bitter taste of seawater and . . . oh what was it (?) . . . taffy! Yes, the taste of Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy. And . . . (you swallowed hard) . . . the warmth of a hand in yours . . .

Had the two of you really been friends or was that just something your parents said? . . . How close had you been?

Slightly, you shifted on your bed, body inching toward him as if you were dying to say something . . . anything. But no words left your lips and you remained staring at him, and him at you . . . only he wasn’t looking at you in the same way. No . . . he . . . he was just staring at you, his eyes empty; it was like he wasn’t even there, his thoughts carrying him elsewhere while you remained grounded, wondering who he was and why he had meant something to you if you couldn’t even remember him.

Did he not remember you either? Or—

“It’s silent. Is he gone?” Jisung whispered (well, if you knew him, you’d know that his whispering just meant yelling in a hushed tone . . . so really . . . ).

You remained silent once again, unable to tell your friend to keep quiet. Your eyes just stayed on Felix, taking in the way his drenched shirt clung to his body, evidence of his day’s endeavors. And then you began to wonder . . . did he finally catch that wave?

Swallowing hard, you eyed the small scratch on his cheek. The waves, it seemed, had fought back against the punches he’d thrown them earlier in the day. Had they thrown him to the sand? Or had it always been there?

“Well . . . he’s got a voice on him, yeah?” Jisung piped up again after a minute of no words from you or Hyunjin or . . . him.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt your face grow hot. And it seemed Hyunjin knew this would happen, too, as you heard the sound of him slapping Jisung on the arm.

Jisung cried out in retaliation, “What? What?! Tell me he doesn’t sound hot? No, no, Hyunjin, look me in the eyes. Look me in the—“

But this time you were one step ahead. Instead of letting your face grow warmer, you haphazardly snatched your phone and hung up on the two boys before Jisung could say any more.

And then . . . it truly was silent, only the sound of the wind whistling outside mixed with the crashing of waves in the distance could be heard. (That and probably your heart hammering in your chest. (You forgot to mention that you didn’t take well to . . . embarrassing . . . moments.))

You glanced at the scratch under his eye once again as you shifted on the bed, pulling your legs to your chest.

Now . . . you’d like to defend yourself . . . the thing about you was the very fact that you did not do well with people. You never had and you didn’t think you ever would.

For a long time, you tried to claim it was because you simply just didn’t like them, but you knew better than that. What you wouldn’t admit was the fact that you just didn’t know how to talk to people.

You’d always known why people didn’t like you. Even as a kid, it had been obvious. You just . . . didn’t know how to be like them. You didn’t know how to view things in moderation. You didn’t know how to enjoy things. You didn’t know how to talk to them or laugh with them. You supposed you just didn’t really know how to be a person.

And everyone saw this, too. That was why you graduated high school with no one to celebrate it with. That was why you went home every day after school and just sat in your room. That was why you had always tried too hard to fit in, only resulting in looks being sent your way. That was why you had always been alone, waiting for everyone to eventually leave. That was why you still wondered why Hyunjin and Jisung hadn’t given up on you yet.

That was why you now sat in front of someone you once knew; someone that you should recognize; someone that meant something to you but you just couldn’t remember why . . . and now . . . now you couldn’t even utter a word. Because . . . you didn’t know how to speak to people; to him . . .

That was why you had always been alone. And that was why you were alone now.

You were sure he could sense it, too. You were sure he wouldn’t want anything to do with you even if he could remember what you couldn’t. You were sure he’d ask the Bahngs to let him sleep somewhere else as long as it wasn’t next to the odd girl who—

“You must be the American,” Felix suddenly sighed out, stealing you from your own mind. “Can’t say I remember you being this . . . charming.” He sent a glance your way as he finally entered the room, heading straight toward the dresser on his side.

With careful almost fearful eyes, you watched as he rummaged through his dresser for some clothes. “You weren’t meant to hear that,” you found yourself mumbling out, barely audible and hoarse. Quickly, you cleared your throat, and repeated the words once more, this time clearer and a little louder.

(This kind of thing used to happen to you all the time as a kid. You wouldn’t talk for so long that when you finally did, it was like your voice wasn’t even your own. It was like the longer you’d go without speaking, the closer you were to losing your voice altogether.)

Felix laughed under his breath. “Mmm, but I did,” he commented as he glanced over his shoulder at you with clothes now in his hands.

However, when you only stared back at him like a deer caught in the headlights, he sighed. Felix ran his free hand through his wet hair, pushing it out of his face as he fully turned around to face you, leaning on the dresser for support. “Look . . . it’s OK,” he hummed with a small smile . . . one that showed his dimple but only for a second. (Only long enough for you to remember that same dimple from your younger years.) “I don’t mind. Don’t sweat it. Swear I’m used to it.”

Your brows twitched in response, waiting for the ball to drop. When would the flip switch? When would he exile you like the rest?

But nothing ever came.

Felix simply just sent one more tight-lipped smile your way before he headed for the bathroom door attached to the room. And you watched in shock, still waiting for him to say something . . . anything that would send you wallowing under your covers for the rest of the night.

Still . . . even as he stopped in the doorway, nothing came; instead, he mumbled out, “Let me know if you need anything, yeah? I’m gonna hop in the shower. It’s all yours after that.”

And then he was gone. The sound of the shower came a few seconds later, while you stayed stuck on your bed, staring in shock at the place where he once stood.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making any friends, and it seemed some old habits never died, yes, but . . .

This was different.

This was a boy from your childhood. This was someone you once knew. This was someone who meant something to you once. You knew that. You knew he had to have meant something.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making friends . . . except, it seemed . . . for him. Only . . . you couldn’t remember why or how or . . . or . . or anything.

With a defeated sigh, you fell back onto your bed, memories of sunsets and a warm hand in yours playing on repeat in your mind.

The next few days went like this:

Day one: wake up to the sun shining through the curtains, nearly blinding you; realize the view out your window isn’t the busy city streets of New York, but rather a just about deserted beach; rot in bed until three in the afternoon when the thoughts of your mother’s face finally become too much; quietly greet Irene in the kitchen before heading outside with a piece of toast in hand; find Felix surfing just below on that very same deserted beach; watch him miss wave after wave until the sun goes down; dinner, blah, blah, blah and suddenly you’re in bed again, trying not to look across the room where Felix lays; eventually let yourself sneak a peek at him out of the corner of your eye, and when you do, you realize he’d fallen asleep with his lamp on, his face the picture of innocence and yet . . . a pinch in his brows catches your eye; quickly and quietly turn his lamp off before slipping back into your bed and falling asleep with questions of what was playing on his mind.

Day two: wake up, groan at the sun, hate the heat, and stay in your bed until two this time; sit in the living room with Grace (she’s preoccupied watching whatever’s captured her attention on the TV, while you get to work in your sketchbook (something you’ve picked up since that first art class)); dinner, wash, bed; Felix climbs into bed an hour after you have and you realize you’ve subconsciously stayed up, waiting for him; stay silent as he mutters a quiet goodnight to you before the lights are out; stay up an hour more, wondering if he caught a wave.

Day three: Grace wakes you up before it even hits twelve (and you let her because . . . whatever); let her, along with Chris, show you around town as she drags you from store to store, telling you how Abigail Newton would so totally buy that hat but would hate that belt when she passes every mannequin; eventually buy her that very hat so she can tell this Abigail to shove it because . . . whatever . . . ; head back and let her convince you into watching her show with her for the rest of the day; smile once . . . or maybe twice because, of course, you have to indulge her (and that was it); try not to make it obvious you’re staring when Felix comes waltzing into the living room, seemingly coming from his room (your room?) (and not from outside; not from the ocean), plopping down on the couch opposite of you, claiming he just loves this show (but you know he says it to make Grace happy); wonder and wonder and wonder why he’s given up surfing for the day.

Day four: ah, day four, yes . . . manage to wake up at ten (only because Grace told you to the night before); get dressed, touch the locket your mother gave you for your sixteenth birthday for good luck . . . but wait . . . where’s the locket . . . fuck, fuck, fuck; proceed to freak out for the next half-hour, tearing up the entirety of your belongings in hopes of finding it, only to find absolutely nothing; freak out some more, maybe cry a little, and just when you’re about to literally pull all your hair out, there’s a knock at your door and in comes Felix . . . with your locket in his hand; nearly trip over everything just to grab the locket from him, desperately trying to put it back on, but your hands are shaking far too much, only for . . . Felix to gently put a hand on your shoulder before taking the locket back from you; let him brush your hair aside and clasp the locket around your neck; remain frozen in shock as he mutters something about how it must have fallen off your neck last night while you were watching TV on the couch . . . and then . . . he’s gone, and you’re still there.

Day five: Felix is gone; he’s been gone all day and by night, there are people over . . . it’s a cookout apparently . . . spontaneous one, too; awkwardly stand in the corner of the yard, trying to avoid eye contact with everyone because this is too much (everything has always been too much); try not to lose it . . . repeat: try not to lose it; swallow your tears and stay stagnant even as this person who you only know as one of the Bahngs’ family friends comes up to you and starts . . . talking; and then:

“We were so sorry to hear about your mother. She was a good woman. . . . How are you holding up, honey?”

Those words were spoken and you felt your blood run cold. The world caved in a second later. You felt small. Small and worthless. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to run, but you couldn't. Your mind had been the only thing to stay alert. Just run, you thought. Run. Get to your room. There won't be anyone there. Run. Fucking run.

But you couldn’t. You wanted to but the memories of the night your mother died kept rushing in, paralyzing you. You could hear the monitor beeping. You could feel her hand in yours, oddly cold. You could see the nurses and doctors and whoever else scrounging around you, desperately trying to bring her back while someone pulled you back. You could hear your own voice, screaming out for her, screaming for them to put you down, screaming for them, it, whoever to take you instead of her. You could hear her whisper, look for me in the wind, and then you couldn't breathe.

I can't breathe. You tried gasping for air, but it never stuck in your lungs. I can't breathe. You could have sworn this was what drowning felt like as your breaths came out quicker and quicker. Oh, my God, I can't fucking breathe.

You needed air. You needed space. You needed to get inside; to get to your room.

Your eyes darted to the sliding back door, and knew what you had to do. You forced her legs to move as you tried to make it to the door. But you never made it; a hand grasped your arm and you whipped around to face the same woman once again.

“Honey, what’s going on? Are you OK?” she questioned, concern clear in her eyes but you didn’t care.

She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see that when a child loses their mother, they lose everything. Your mother. Your mother. Your fucking mother. It didn’t matter if you had fought or if some days you didn’t like each other. It didn’t fucking matter. She had been your mother, and she was fucking gone.

Fuck! She couldn’t see it. Unless she did. Was she doing this on purpose? Who even was she? Had she hated your mother and that’s why she was doing this to you? No, you were thinking too much into it. Fuck, fuck, you had to throw up. No, you had to get to your room. You couldn’t be here. You had to get away from this, from them, from everything. You had to be alone as you always had been.

And then you were gone, running inside before taking off through the house, weaving past all these people until you finally caught sight of your bedroom door. You were going to throw up. Fuck, you were going to throw up. Your pace sped up and then you were there, hand on the doorknob, swinging it open and slamming it shut behind you before you lunged for the bathroom.

Another swinging of a door occurred as you whipped the bathroom door open, hand already on your mouth to stop yourself from vomiting all over your clothes. You didn’t register anything else as you slapped your hands down against the sink, instantly peeling over and spilling your guts.

And only when you were done, did you realize where you were, what you had done, and who was staring at you in the mirror.

In silence, you wiped your mouth on your hand, realizing you’d have to take a shower after this anyway, all the while, your eyes remained locked on the person staring back at you in the mirror. Regret and horror filled you, because none other than Felix was standing behind you, chest bare, but with pajama pants on and hair that was still slightly damp from the shower that he had most likely just taken moments before you barged into the bathroom unannounced, and vomited all over his night routine.

Felix still stood in confusion, and perhaps concern, with a floss-pick hanging out of his mouth while he took in your appearance. And while he stared, you lowered your gaze, finding it too hard to maintain eye contact.

“What—” he began, but you quickly cut him off.

“Food got to me,” you muttered out, throwing your hands up with a quick laugh. “Hamburgers’re too rare for me, I guess.”

Felix remained silent, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “I’ll leave you to it then,” he murmured, eyeing you one last time before tossing the floss-pick in the bin and exiting the bathroom with his white tee clasped in his hand. And as he turned you watched him quickly tug the tee over his head, but not before something caught your eye.

“How did you—“ you found yourself saying before quickly holding your tongue. But it was too late, your words had already got to Felix.

He glanced over his shoulder, slowly turning to face you again. “Hmm?” he hummed, searching your eyes with that same consuming gaze.

You only shook your head. “Nothing.”

A beat of silence.

Felix didn’t move, as if still waiting for your question.

No question ever came.

You were sure a minute had passed before you cleared your throat and pointed to the shower. “I’m gonna . . . “

Felix blinked, his eyes widening. “Right,” he mumbled, clearing his throat now. “Sorry.” And then he was gone, closing the bathroom door behind him, and leaving you to your reflection in the mirror.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to face . . . well . . . yourself. Your steered clear of your reflection, your mind too dizzy to comprehend anything other than what you had seen . . . because as Felix had turned his back to you, you had caught sight of a large, deep scar starting from the tip of his shoulder and ending just above his waistline.

Perhaps you couldn’t remember much about him, but you were sure you’d remember something as drastic as that. It seemed dark too, not quite new but not old in the slightest.

And then you began to wonder . . . what had happened to him to cause a scar with such brutality . . . ?

On a dreary day of a random Tuesday, you were born to a room of only your mother and aunt. Your father had never made it, due to his new office job, and Erin was forced to wait outside of the room with your grandmother because she was only four at the time. And amid shock from her labor, your mother named her baby girl.

Rosebud was to be your name.

Your mother recalled her little girl coming out of her womb with a small port wine stain on the side of her neck. You were red like a rosebud, she used to tell you as a bedtime story when you were little. Rosebud was to be your name, and it had been.

The little girl was named Rosebud and everything was blissful behind the cages of your household. And all was actually well and right until Erin started jumping up and down at her little sister's bassinet, calling you by the name she’d chosen, not Rosebud. She'd cheer your name over and over again, refusing to call you anything else even when your parents scolded her.

But nothing ever stopped Erin. Back then, she could never be confined by her parents, even in the simplest of terms. To her, her little sister was not this Rosebud.

And eventually, after a few days of Erin refusing to call you anything else, your parents gave in. Their newborn was to be named by her older sister. Not Rosebud or anything else your mother had written down.

Luckily, the papers hadn't been signed or anything of that sort, so their little girl was to be named by none other than your very stubborn, now very stern, older sister.

(Your mother, as stubborn as she was, did get her way by gifting you with the middle name of her name. (You sometimes thought this was your mother's way of branding you, like naming you after her was her way of inserting herself into your soul. (If only she had known she’d forever be etched across your entire being just decades later.)))

Anyway . . .

There was the kicker: you didn't just come to be. Your sister had named you, and thus, a very long and very strenuous name for a very angry and odd girl was born (Sometimes nicknamed Rosebud).

In the past week you had been with the Bahngs, you wondered how little Rosebud ended up alone on the other side of the world. It had been on your mind ever since you arrived and saw how this family acted. It was as if you were witnessing a real family for the first time in your life.

When you were a kid, you’d sometimes see other families while sitting in the stands for your sister’s soccer, basketball, lacrosse (etc . . . ) games (as well as her student council lectures and her flute recitals . . . including that one time she joined the school play for Romeo and Juliet (she got Juliet . . . obviously)) . . . Whatever . . . you’d see how other families acted towards each other at these . . . electives. Some were like yours, but other . . . other had this genuine warmth that you just . . . you just couldn’t wrap your head around.

Those were the times you wondered if your family was normal. If mom and dad fighting every day was the same for everyone else. If sisters battling against each other to be the best . . . the most loved was . . . normal.

You’d learned later that it hadn’t been, but truly seeing it every day in and out like this . . . it was . . . well . . . you were sure there were pieces of your heart beginning to wither away further and further and . . .

The Bahngs (plus Felix, if you were being honest) were a family. A real one.

And there you were, always watching them like something out of place.

It made you wonder . . . had Rosebud been the beginning of an end for your family. Was the day you were born, the day the love in your house died?

Had you screamed too loud? Had you been too fussy of a baby?

Had you drained the love from them, sucking it all up because you were just so desperately greedy for it? Were you still?

. . . If overstayed your welcome; if by the end . . . would you end up draining the Bahngs, too . . . ?

“It’ll pass . . . “ the words suddenly echoed throughout your ears, and you almost thought it was your own mind tricking you into hearing things, but then you realized . . .

You realized where you were. You realized you werent seven or thirteen or even eighteen, still being your family’s shadow. No, now you were twenty-one, left in a strange country with no overbearing mother, no absent father, and no perfect sister. You were alone, yes, tucked into your bed in the Bahng household, but you weren’t entirely alone, because on the other side of the room laid someone you used to know; someone you couldn’t quite remember; someone who was now staring at the ceiling with you.

The lights were off save for your lamp which you had your hand resting on for probably a while now as your mind drifted somewhere . . . else. While . . . Felix endured the light, kind enough not to bother you until . . . now.

It’ll pass, he had said, and you knew what he meant.

When you first arrived to Southhaven, Chris had told you Felix was living with them because of what happened to his parents; because he had lost them a year ago. You never asked what had happened. You never planned to, but given that . . . and him being witness to you literally puking your guts right in front of him, you could guess he knew your mother was gone, too, and you weren’t exactly . . . handling it well.

It’ll pass, he’d said, but what did he mean? What would pass?

You could never get over this if that was what he meant. You weren’t strong like that. Your sister was. She could handle this . . . but you . . . nothing was every temporary with you. Once you’d experienced something, once you’d had something; once you felt it . . . it all stayed with you. Even your first heartbreak . . . you didn’t have to still be in love with him to remember what it had done to you; what it had made you become. The thing was: there was no without with you; everything stayed and you were always changed, never the same again.

“Let me guess . . . “ Felix began again once he realized you weren’t going to respond, or rather . . . couldn’t respond.

You swallowed hard, awaiting.

“They asked if you were OK?” he asked, his voice a little softer now.

Your brows twitched. “Yes.”

And you could have sworn you heard him sigh across the room as if . . . as if the question bothered him, too. And then: “Fuckin’ hate when they do that . . . Threw up the first time, too,” he murmured. “You’re not alone.”

Oh . . .

You hadn’t expected that. You knew he must have felt what you were feeling once, too. Maybe he still did, but . . . It’ll pass, he’d said, but no! No! Losing your parents . . . It was like losing everything you had ever known, including yourself.

You’d been so rude to him, too when you knew how this felt. You knew how immobilizing it was. You knew what it did to a person, and you had still said those things.

And yet . . . there he was . . . comforting you . . .

Only then did you turn to face him, finding that he was still staring at the ceiling. “Felix?”

He turned, eyes meeting yours. “Mmm?”

Wetting your lips, your eyes searched his. “Thank you.”

Felix smiled. It was small . . . lacking, but . . . there. “Room full of orphans,” he nearly whispered, the smile still there. “Gotta’ stick together, right?”

And then . . . you began to smile, too. It was small . . . lacking, but . . . there, just like his. It was enough. It was all you had. Perhaps it was all he had, too.

The lights were out a second later, leaving the two of you in the dark silence. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon, and you wondered if he was the same.

There was a period after your mother’s death when you couldn’t sleep.

It started with just a few less hours of sleep where you’d just stare at the ceiling, listening to your old clock tick seconds, minutes, hours by while you just laid in silence. You’d never known it could be so loud—the silence—until she was gone.

That should’ve been comforting, right? How even in the silence no one is ever truly alone, but it always managed to make you feel . . . worse . . . small. It made the world seem so much greater than you or your family or anything you had ever cared about. It made her death seem like just another number to add to the end of year tally.

It made everything seem meaningless.

So you laid awake . . . and listened . . .

Eventually, you’d let yourself blink just for a second of nothingness, and then you’d roll over, letting sleep take you. Until it was two weeks after your mother’s burial, and you began to realize it had been two days since you’d slept.

Two days of continued nothingness; of being in that house without your mother; of breathing when she no longer could.

You supposed that was when it started—when you began to hear her voice in the wind; when you convinced yourself that you were seeing her out of the corner of your eye; when you started wondering if maybe just maybe there was a chance you’d see her again in some form or another.

When you finally did sleep that following night by some miracle, you dreamt of her. You dreamt of her at the kitchen table with a plate stacked full of all the foods she loved. You dreamt of her warm smile. You dreamt of her gentle hand brushing the tangles out of your hair. You dreamt of her . . . and when you awoke, your eyes were sore and your cheeks were damp.

You supposed you should’ve talked to someone. Your sister, perhaps, but . . . your family was never one for . . . talking. (She wouldn’t know what to say anyway. Erin was perfect, yes, but she had no bedside manner.)

So the sleepless nights went on.

And when the semester started up again, two nights of no sleep turned into three, then four, until you stopped taking note of what nights you slept and what nights you didn’t.

You tried to ignore the depersonalization. You tried to ignore how you clung to your mother’s clothes, wearing them to class and even when you slept. You tried to ignore the need to be called by your middle name . . . her name. You tried to make it seem normal . . . but . . .

Then the hallucinations started.

At first it was in your bathroom mirror . . . then more whispers in the wind which turned to straight up conversations you thought you were having with her. And then . . . then you started to see glimpses of her on campus. In the beginning, it was people you didn’t know—people you’d just pass by while walking to class . . . but as the days and the nights became longer, you’d see her in your roommates, your friends . . . Jisung . . . even Hyunjin.

And you weren’t proud, you weren’t even sure if it even happened, but you’d been in the library one day, and you’d seen . . . her, and you just couldn’t take it anymore.

. . . Apparently, you’d attacked someone in the library, screaming at them to tell you what they wanted from you. (You didn’t find this out until you woke up in Hyunjin’s bed the next morning and he’d explained the entire thing . . . not leaving out the fact that you’d passed out immediately after, but maybe that had just been in your imagination, too? Right? Because you really couldn’t have done that to someone? Right . . . ? . . . )

Between the attack and your failing grades, the news reached your father in no time. You’d take fault for the grades. You’d own that . . . but the attack; the sleepless nights . . . you didn’t want to know you were capable of that. (But the sleeping pills that were forced down your throat every night after the attack were proof enough that something wasn’t . . . right.)

You knew what this meant. You knew what that made you, and you didn’t know how to accept that. (You supposed you didn’t know how to accept most things.)

Sleeping was easier now, albeit, the dreams you had were just as excruciating as those days you’d hallucinate seeing her on the street . . . but at least you knew what was reality and what was not. (There had to be an upside in that. There had to be.)

It had been a month since then. The end of December now. In Southhaven where your winter was their summer and the weather was gentle, not the harsh rain and snow you were used to.

Now you could sleep, and dream of her, yes, but you’d wake up every morning and she wouldn’t be in your mirror. Now you woke, turned to the side, and glanced at a boy who seemed to be holding onto just as much as you were, and you’d be a liar if you said that didn’t interest you.

Because you wanted to know; you wanted to know if losing yourself this much after losing someone was . . . normal. Because truly, either everyone felt this way even just a little bit, or you were completely and utterly alone . . . and you were sure that would be the thing to kill you.

But there was no way you could admit this; there was no way you could ask him what he meant by his little ‘It’ll pass’; there was no way you could ask him when it would pass. So, for the time being, you watched him in silence as you had watched everyone growing up.

This was normal for you anyway. When you were a kid, drifting through middle school and high school alone, you used to watch the people around you. You used to watch how they acted around each other; how their social media posts matched . . . how their smiles matched in them, too. You used to yearn for that—to be liked like that; to have people like that; people that wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with you.

It didn’t help that your sister always had someone over, whether it was friends to boyfriends. You used to watch her, too. You’d sit in the armchair while she chatted with her friend on the phone, lying horizontally on the couch. You’d hang around in the kitchen when she’d have her friends over for pool parties, sleepovers . . . whatever . . . and she’d always shoo you off, but you wouldn’t go far. No, you’d wait on the staircase, tucked behind the railing as you listened to them laugh.

And when you’d finally asked Erin if you could join them next time . . . she declined. We are sisters, not friends. Get your own friends, and stop scaring mine away, she’d said, and you understood.

You never did end up finding any friends, of course (well, at least not until university but . . . you know . . . ); instead, you figured out how to make yourself invisible. And so . . . a shadow you became, learning how to communicate with other people through conversations that weren’t your own.

You learned how to read people; how to tell them what they wanted; how to know what to do when no one else did. (You supposed it all went to shit when your mother died and you realized you could watch people and watch people but you’d never be able to figure yourself out; you’d never be able to help yourself.)

Whatever . . .

The point was: learning about people from afar had always been familiar to you, and when it came to Felix, you decided it was better to watch him in silence than speak with him. He was just that type of person, you had gathered.

Now, you knew how it sounded, but people watching wasn’t like flat-out stalking (Ok . . . you could admit it wasn’t exactly the sanest thing to do but . . . whatever.). Listen, listen, you just so happened to end up waking up when Grace would call you, letting her drag you wherever she wanted because maybe she had grown on you a little over the past few weeks. And most of the time, Grace would take you down to the beach where her brother and his friends apparently liked to surf (well, where everyone in this town preferred to surf) and sometimes Felix would join.

So, were you keeping a close eye on him, curious about everything that he was and who he had been to you in the past? . . . Yes.

And the days he wouldn’t show, you wondered where he’d go. No one ever mentioned it. He never said a word about it, and you were left wondering.

Maybe he was off to that sandy beach just below the Bahng residence. You just didn’t know . . . and that bothered you more than you wanted it to.

And those days that he didn’t show, you’d taken to drawing in your sketchbook. God, fine, you’d taken to drawing him. But, but, listen, the only reason you were was because of what you had seen your first week in this godforsaken place—his scar.

Perhaps that was what had entranced you. Or maybe it was the past you knew which included him but couldn’t quite figure out the rest of the pieces. Or maybe . . . maybe it was him who intrigued you.

Fine . . . like Hyunjin had said on the phone last night . . . maybe you had a small crush on him. Like . . . maybe . . .

You couldn’t help it. He was just so . . . so . . .

. . . you didn’t even know.

Whatever . . .

Anyway . . . today was different. Grace woke you up early, yes, but when you finally stepped outside twenty minutes later, you found the entire Bahng family dressed and ready to go. Irene was busy trying to shove all the beach bags and surfboard and towels and sunblock into the trunk of her minivan, while Monty was already dabbing Grace’s face with sunblock and Chris . . . well . . . he was in the front seat, waiting for everyone to hop in so he could drive.

And you, you stood stuck in the doorway, watching this family be . . . a family while you . . . you had . . . no one. You could have sworn you heard your heart break a third time in your life, but before the floodgates could open, a hand had clasped your shoulder. You turned, in shock, and there he was—Felix.

With a squeeze of your shoulder and a small smile, he nodded toward the minivan, gesturing for you to follow him. And with that, you, and Felix, who was seated behind you in the very last row, climbed into the car. He sat there alone, too, and you couldn’t help but watch him out of the rearview mirror the entire trip, wondering why he had taken the back seat and not you.

That . . . that was about an hour ago. Now . . . now you were the one sitting alone on your beach towel, sketchbook in hand and a pencil in the other as you drew the scene in front of you. While you drew, you desperately tried not to throw your pencil down and flip to the page where you had drawn Felix’s scar.

A call of your name tore you from your sketchbook as you glanced up finding Grace just a few feet from you, holding up a rather large seashell and waving it around to show you. You couldn’t help but smile at her. A real smile, too. Wide and toothy and just like your mother used to get out of you.

Because you couldn’t help it; not when you looked at Grace a little too long and found that she was only a fourteen-year-old kid and reminded you a little too much of who you used to be at that age.

So you smiled, and she grinned back wider before going back to shell searching. And you . . . you watched with that small smile on your face before your eyes slowly flicked back down to your sketchbook and you began to draw the scene before your eyes once again.

Only this time, as you were about to shade, another voice drew you from your mind. Only this time, the voice was much deeper and coming toward you. Only this time, it was Felix calling your name. Only this time, you quickly slammed your sketchbook shut before he could catch sight of what you had been drawing. Only this time, you looked up in horror, trying to act normal but completely failing as you made eye contact with . . . him.

It seemed Felix had caught onto this, too, but instead of mentioning it, he only bit back a grin. And you swallowed hard, shifting slightly as you realized he was going to sit beside you on the towel.

His hair, blonde with dark roots, was wet, and he was wearing a rash guard this time, unlike the first time you saw him. But he still looked . . . good. You could admit that, because well, he just had this . . . way . . . about him . . . but . . . whatever . . .

As he sat down beside you and released a gruff sigh, a few water droplets flicked onto your own bare arms, catching your attention immediately. You blinked at it, unmoving.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“Gracie seems smitten with you,” he mumbled your way.

Your eyes finally snapped from the water droplets sliding down your arm to your lap where your sketchbook lay. “I guess,” you muttered back, fingers playing with the edges of the sketchbook.

“Chris won’t say it. He’s too fixed on you being, like . . . different or whatever . . . but . . . just . . . thank you for being kind to her. I know she comes on strong, but that’s—“ he waved his hand in the air, exhaling sharply— “The kids around here are . . . “ he swallowed audibly that time, and sighed once more before continuing, “awful, so . . . keep up the good . . . work?”

And that time, as his words left his lips, you could have sworn you saw him grimace at what he’d said. And that . . . that got a small, barely audible, barely even noticeable, laugh out of you.

But when he glanced up to meet your gaze, unsure of if he’d heard you correctly, you quickly covered up your amusement, wiping the grin off your face. Instead, when his eyes met yours, you only nodded in response, giving him a small, tight smile.

Felix, however, had caught your little laugh. You knew he did, and he knew you knew. So it was a no-brainer when one side of his mouth tipped into a half-grin as he shook his head. “You don’t say much, do you?” he mused, scooting a little closer, but not close enough for it to seem deliberate.

Wetting your lips, you mumbled, “Not much to say.”

Felix nodded, leaning away from you once again, and you thought you’d lost his attention, but then: “Do you like the ocean?”

You blinked. Why was he so interested? Had he found out about your drawings? Was he taunting you? No, no, that . . . that was stupid. But—No.

You quickly shook your head, then released a sigh. “Um . . . I guess,” you said, nearly under your breath as you shrugged. “I haven’t been this much since I was a kid.”

“Is it weird being back then?”

“I don’t know.”

Felix narrowed his eyes, not in a menacing way or anything like that but almost as if he were considering your response. But he didn’t dwell long as he switched the conversation. “What’s it that you’re drawing anyway?” he abruptly asked, gently tapping your sketchbook.

You blinked . . . again. Shocked . . . again. “Nothing,” you quickly tried to cough out, “just . . . nothing important. It’s shit.”

His brows twitched, his head tilting to the side as he took you in. “Nah, you’re just—“ he cut himself off, shaking his head, but his eyes never left you. He continued on searching your face as he spoke. “We’re our own worst critics, you know?”

You glanced at his nose, then his cheeks, and finally at a freckle that oddly seemed to resemble a heart before you decided that yes, you would like to draw this next—him like . . . this. “Just a realist,” you hummed out, still completely in your own mind as your eyes danced over his features.

“OK, maybe you are,” Felix said with a shrug. And then he was leaning in again, chin in the palm of his hand. “Draw me then. It’s my face. I know it well. If it looks like me, you pass. If not, you gotta hand over the pencil.”

Oh . . .

You swallowed your words.

If only he knew . . .

But instead the words that spilled from your lips were: “And if I don’t want to draw you?”

Felix shrugged, unbothered. “Then . . . draw yourself for me.”

Your brows raised. “And if I don’t want to do that either?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, Felix laughed through his nose. He was staring at you again, kind eyes and a small smile on his lips. “Alright then . . . What do you love, sad eyes? Hmm?” he asked, his voice low.

What do you love?

You didn’t know anymore.

But you had loved something once. You knew you had.

Sunsets. The smell of sunscreen. Sand under your fingertips. Sea water on the tip of your tongue. Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy. And a hand in yours.

“Got it?” Felix asked again, tearing you from a past you couldn’t even remember. “OK . . . now draw that.”

Sunsets. A hand in yours.

You sighed, your next words shocking even you, “What if it’s something . . . intangible?”

“Then how can you draw it wrong?”

How can you draw it wrong? he’d asked you, but you couldn’t respond, because you didn’t know. You didn’t even know what the memories meant. How could you even begin to draw them?

And just as you were about to write him off again, the sound of Grace’s soft laughter echoed throughout your ears. Without any forethought, your head snapped in the other direction, eyes quickly finding her . . . and . . . Chris and . . . Monty . . . even Irene.

It seemed that Monty and Chris had snuck up on Grace, grabbing her before she could realize it, then taking off into the ocean, their laughter in the air. All the while . . . Irene stood where the water met the land, a wide smile on her face as she softly chuckled at their antics.

And you realized something else then. That is what you would’ve drawn. That is what you loved.

Your family had never been a good one, but it was yours. Even your father hadn’t been so bad when you were younger and unaware. You still felt loved by him when you didn’t know the world. And back then, when you thought their fighting was normal, you still came together at the end of the night and watched movies as a family.

That was the last time you remembered being truly . . . happy, and you couldn’t quite place when that all stopped . . .

You thought you’d miss it forever. And you knew that . . . that was what you loved most in the world—a family that didn’t exist anymore . . . perhaps a family that never did.

And yet here were the Bahngs, and they had what you wanted most in the world. They had it effortlessly, too.

Fuck. You swallowed the quickly forming lump in your throat, realizing a little too late that your body and your mind were too many steps apart. Your hands had begun to shake, and before you knew it, that queasy feeling in your stomach was back. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You needed to get out of there.

That was your motive. You quickly stood to your feet, sketchbook still in hand as you tried everything not to look Felix in the eyes. “Sorry, um . . . “ you stammered out. “I have to go. I have to—bathroom.”

And then you were gone, stalking off toward the minivan in hopes it was, by some chance, unlocked. You just needed a minute alone. You just needed to be alone like you always had been.

Alone, you repeated in your head as you finally made it to the minivan, your breathing uneven and shaky. Alone, you begged as you grabbed onto the door handle, pulling repeatedly. Alone, you all but cried as you realized there was no way the door was going to magically unlock just for you. Alone, you knew as you fell against the car, silently crying into the crook of your arm.

It could have been hours that you were standing there, silently mourning a family you could’ve had and a mother you never would. It could have also been seconds, but you did know that you wished you were back home with Hyunjin and Jisung and New York with its cold weather and noisy traffic. At least then you wouldn’t be reminded of the family you didn’t have.

And once you had finally calmed your breathing, you glanced up at the sun, your eyes swollen from crying, and sighed. Is this what your life was now? Is—

The clearing of a throat tore you from your mind, but you didn’t jump. You already knew who it was. You could tell by just the sound of his voice.

“You don’t have to stay, Felix,” you sighed as you remained facing the sun, not wanting him to see you like . . . this. You just wanted to be alone like you had always been. You just wanted him to leave, but then . . . you refused to tell him this. You refuse to tell him to leave, and perhaps . . . perhaps you wanted him to stay or perhaps you were truly going crazy again.

“There’s no bathroom here,” Felix mumbled after a minute, his voice lacking as he ignored your previous words.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you nodded. “Yeah . . . “

With that, Felix stayed silent, just watching you as you wished for the ground to swallow you whole. But it didn’t and you stayed put, realizing this someone you used to know was seeing you at your very worst—tears, snot, and all.

And with a heavy sigh, you let it happen. You let everything fall away just for a second as you sunk to the ground, eyes closed as you leaned with your back up against the minivan.

But what did surprise you was the fact that a few seconds later, you heard Felix step toward you, and then . . . then he was sitting down right beside you.

You didn’t dare look at him. You weren’t even sure if you could. Instead, your eyes fluttered open, small tears rolling down your cheeks as you quickly brushed them away, keeping your gaze trained on the sandy parking lot.

Felix didn’t speak either, and you quickly realized he was waiting for you to say something first. He was waiting for you to do it yourself when you were ready.

And when you finally were ready, you clutched your sketchbook closer to your chest, before you spoke. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry by the way,” you found yourself saying before you could come up with a different response. “For that day; the first day we met. It’s not right . . . but sometimes I just say things. I don’t know why. I never mean it.”

You knew it was almost a month too late. You knew he probably didn’t give a shit now, but you had a habit of clinging onto things, and well, it had never left your mind.

So the words you said, you meant, and you hoped he knew that. You hoped he could feel it in your voice.

And when he didn’t respond, you glanced up, brows pinched upward, only to find he was already looking at you. But only when your eyes met his, did he smile, and you realized he had still been waiting for you.

That was when he spoke—when he had your eyes on him. “And I told you, it’s alright,” he hummed, his voice deep yet . . . soft. “There’s the American way, then there’s the better way . . . Australian. So this . . . this is my way of showing you a little bit of Australian hospitality. Water under the bridge, yeah?”

But you didn’t respond. You didn’t even nod. You couldn’t. How could he be so . . . so . . . kind?

No one had ever been so . . .

No one had ever . . .

No one . . .

Felix seemed to catch onto this with just another glance at your face. “Look . . . “ he began, his features contorting into questioning, “if you need it to be forgiven, it’s already done. It’s—”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you couldn’t help but ask, cutting him off for the first time. “It doesn’t make any sense. You don’t even know me.”

A deafening beat of silence.

Beat.

Beat.

Was that your heart or his?

Beat.

Then, a sigh from Felix. His brows twitched, his eyes squeezing shut and he tongued his inner cheek. “There are certain things no one should have to go through alone,” he slowly began, his words slow yet still so . . . so soft. His eyes fluttered open a second later, and you saw his words before he spoke them. “Losing your mother is one of them.”

Your body became limp at his words, your sketchbook falling to your lap, but your hands stayed locked firmly around it. Felix noticed this, his eyes flicking down to where the black sketchbook lay. He pursed his lips, then nodded, and you waited, knowing he knew.

“You draw dead things . . . “ Felix mumbled a second later, his eyes still trained on the sketchbook in your lap.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you knew there was no running from him now, because he knew. He knew.

Grief made people do tricky, sick things, and you knew this well. It had turned you into another person, and in your downfall, you’d taken to a new . . . hobby—drawing dead things.

You didn’t quite know why, you just knew that when you’d stumble across those poor pigeons hit by cars or those squirrels and moles and mice that cats liked to leave on your doorstep, you always took pictures of them, later drawing them in your sketchbook.

It was the only thing that managed to make you feel better, because there it was—death.

Death had taken your mother, and it would surely take you, too, but if you drew it maybe you could have something over it. Maybe . . . maybe if you made death into art then . . . then you wouldn’t cry every time you heard your mother’s voice in the whispers of the wind.

And at the beach, you’d heard your mother’s voice, you’d felt the wind, and then you’d seen the poor fallen seagull as the current carried its lifeless body to and fro. You couldn’t stop yourself from sketching it while everyone else was busy in the water. But Felix had caught a glimpse of it when he approached you on the beach. Now, you knew he had.

Your sick little secret was no more. Felix . . . had been the only one to uncover it.

That you couldn’t run from.

So, instead, with a heavy sigh, you released your tight grip on the sketchbook, and whispered, “Yes.”

With the release of your words, you couldn’t help it, you grimaced in preparation, wondering when he’d leave you, too. Because he would. That was just how things went.

But . . . it wasn’t disgust which he met you with. No, instead . . . instead, he shifted in his spot and then you saw it—his hand was now resting on his knee, palm up with his fingers spread, and you finally realized what he was offering you.

You glanced at his hand, fully now, and swallowed hard. He was holding out his hand for you to grasp.

But you stayed frozen, unmoving, unsure.

Until . . .

“You don’t have to . . . but . . . “ Felix began, his deep voice a little hoarse now. “When I was a kid, I had problems falling asleep. Nightmares, you know . . . kept me up half the night. And my mom . . . she’d stay up with me trying everything. Glass of warm milk, counting sheep, whatever. Most of the time we’d just stay up watching TV until I eventually knocked out. But there were times when nothing would work . . . so eventually she’d put me to bed and say that she’d be there the entire night, holding my hand, so even if I had a nightmare, it’d be OK . . . and . . . every time . . . I’d wake up and my hand would still be in hers.”

Finally, his eyes met yours.

Your brows twitched, eyes searching.

“I was able to sleep after that,” he mumbled once more, offering up a small smile. It was lacking but it was there, and it meant something. It meant something. “No more nightmares. I guess I felt . . . safe.”

A beat of silence.

Or maybe it had been your heart pounding in your chest.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Then . . . you shakily placed your hand in his. Warmth at your fingertips. Sunsets. Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy. A hand in yours.

With a complacent sigh, you let the incomplete memory in as you slowly threaded your fingers through his, securing your hand tightly in his.

Sunsets. A hand in yours. His hand in yours. His hand.

#lee felix #lee felix smut #lee felix scenario #lee felix x reader #lee felix x y/n #lee felix fic #lee felix fanfic #lee felix fanfiction #lee felix stray kids #lee felix skz #felix x reader #stray kids #skz #kpop #skz au #stray kids au #lee felix au #lee felix series #lee yongbok smut #lee yongbok x reader #lee yongbok x y/n

[thenightfolknetwork]

I have a slight problem, and I’m not sure what to do.

See, me and my boyfriend met online. We were in a game server and have been friends for years, we started dating almost a year now, though we haven’t actually met in person, partially due to the distance as he’s in the states and I’m from the Mediterranean.

We’ve really hit it off though. We have so many things in common and we do voice and video chats. I know he’s of the community mainly due to his fangs, mane like hair, and other qualities. He’s never been shy about being a creature of the night. And he’s just… so amazing and sweet. I love everytime we video talk seeing him gush about the newest game or Blush when I compliment him.

The issue came when he talked about doing wrestling, more a performance, though with his build I’m not that surprised. He even sent me a video of his performance before he headed to bed. When I watched it, I recognised him even with his hair fully down and the over the top heel persona he used. The sweet deep voice making me blush as he talked about taking down his opponent.

But watching the video, I realised he’s a giant, quite literally. Which comes the problem. I have what’s known as Megalophobia. A fear of large objects.

Now, in my country it’s not that much a hinderance, as very few skyscrapers or such, even when cruise ships come by I’m usually away from the harbour so barely see them save when they’re on the horizon. And this fear never really came up before as in the photos and videos we’ve had, he’s usually around things at home that I assume are more scaled up to his size. As such, I never noticed the apparent size difference.

But seeing the video of him in the ring, towering high over most, if not all the audience.

I had to shut my eyes and control my breathing. Even as it’s his own voice that was calming me down.

So, what I’m asking is, is there anything I can do? I mean, I have been trying to deal with this fear before when I’ve had to go abroad and such. But should I tell him about this? And if so, will it affect our relationship?

If you do decide to tell your boyfriend about this phobia, please tread carefully. Phobias are, by their very nature, irrational and don’t necessarily reflect on one's logical beliefs about the world. But you can imagine, I'm sure, how upsetting it might be, to be told that your very body is a source of fear and discomfort.

I know you can't help what you're afraid of. At the same time, giants in particular are often victims of prejudice, persecution and even violence as a direct result of other people being frightened. So it is doubly important to make it clear to your boyfriend that, while you might have an unfortunate psychological response to his size, he is still someone you trust and feel safe with.

Instead, try framing the issue as something he can help with. Talk to him honestly about your phobia, but emphasise how he can help you through it. I think the detail about his voice calming you down while you watched his wrestling video is an excellent example. Reach out to him for support as you start working on the phobia itself.

There are several possible treatments for phobias, including talking therapies, exposure therapy, CBT and hypnosis. It might take a while to find an approach that works best for you and your particular phobia, but stick with it. Your mental well-being is worth it. Your relationship is worth it. You are worth it.

#answered #the nightfolk network #monstrous agonies #we've had more giants since starting this blog than we did in 3 seasons of MA lmao #and i love them!!

[swaps55]

I have never heard of an epithet before! What does it mean?

This is a great question! You have probably seen many of them, and just not heard them referred to as epithets.

An epithet is more or less a descriptive word or phrase that stands in the place of a name or a pronoun, such as, “the taller man,” or “the brown-haired woman.” In my experience, fanfic writers in particular tend to latch onto them, especially when trying to create variety in scenes with two characters who share the same pronouns.

I’ll put my thoughts on them under the cut, because I have Opinions on epithets, but I am not An Authority. I’m not your mom. I’m not here to tell you what to do or how to write, and I’m not here to ruin your fun, but we all have the hills we’ll die on and this one is mine. If you are a fan of epithets, just give this post an eyeroll or the finger and scroll on. If you want to know more about epithets and why I think writers can and should avoid them, read on!

Let me get this out of my system: I loathe epithets. Do whatever you want with your oxford comma, but take your epithets out back and shoot them.

Okay, now that’s out of the way, I’ll be a little more constructive about the purpose epithets serve and why I think they are so frequently used poorly.

In my experience, they’re often used as a tool to avoid pronoun confusion, but it’s an inelegant tool that can become a crutch. You have two characters of the same gender in a scene, you have already used their names in a sentence, but the pronoun antecedent is unclear unless you name the character again. You don’t want to do that because it feels repetitive, so you pick out a physical quality and use that instead. Problem solved! Except instead of solve the problem, you’ve potentially introduced new ones.

Nuance is important, and to talk tools we should be using the same toolbox, so for the sake of this argument I’m going to assume we’re talking about 3rd person limited POV, because that’s what I generally see, read, and write the most of.

Chances are very high that the descriptor you chose for your epithet derived from you the writer’s perception of the character being described and not the POV character. This is important, because if you are writing in 3rd person limited, the way you describe other people is how the POV character sees the person being described.  

Now tell me. Have you ever thought of a close friend, a lover, or someone whose name you know as, “the taller woman,” or “the dark-haired man?” Have you ever thought about YOURSELF in these terms? Probably not. I have never looked at my Real Life Romance Option and thought of him as “the brown-eyed man” or “the taller man.” I’ve also quite frankly never consciously thought of him as “my lover.” Is he all of those things? Yes. But from my POV, those are never descriptors I would use for him. Once you know a person’s name, they tend to become Their Name and not ‘Random Characteristic” in your mental picture of them.

So when you default to Random Characteristic, it’s usually the writer talking, not the character. And chances are high that the characteristic you choose to represent is not something that is important to the POV character or the scene in that moment. Therefore, is it significant enough to the reader that it clearly identifies the character, or does the reader now have to stop and think, ‘wait, which one is taller?’ So instead of eliminate confusion, you may have actually introduced more of it.

And even if it is an important detail, stating it as a fact is generally a lot less effective than making it part of the character work being done in the scene. For example:

“Can you help me reach this?” Jed asks the taller man. Leo stops chopping vegetables to oblige, and snags the wine glass the shorter man couldn’t reach off the shelf.

Vs.

Jed sighs as he makes another futile swipe with his fingers and barely grazes the bottom of the shelf. He looks over at Leo, blissfully chopping vegetables in a world where stepstools are for other people. “Can you help me reach this?” Leo sets the knife down and looms behind him, effortlessly snagging the wine glass and handing it to Jed with a grin.   

Hopefully, the second example feels more impactful than the first, because the height difference became part of the scene, and not just a descriptor cosplaying as a pronoun.

Epithets become even more distracting when they become part of a prose style rather than just a means to avoid pronoun confusion or name repetition. I see a lot of writers make the stylistic choice to have a POV character refer to themselves as an epithet right alongside the epithets being thrown around for other characters, and there are so many crammed into a paragraph or two I can’t figure out who is doing what.

At best, epithets are distracting. At their worst, they’re actively confusing when their purpose is to do the opposite.

“But Swaps, if I don’t use an epithet, how do I avoid pronoun confusion without wanting to throw myself out a window?”

This is a problem every writer contends with, whether you’re writing same gender smut, combat, or just have two people of the same gender doing things in a scene together. And unfortunately, this is one of those ways in which writing is hard. When you have some pronoun confusion in a sentence you can’t wriggle your way out of, the answer is probably to try a different sentence. Break the sentence up. Structure it differently. Finding the better sentence is part of becoming a better writer. 

If repetition is what you’re concerned about, know that just saying a character’s name and using their pronoun is okay. It’s like ‘said.’ ‘Said’ isn’t a trendy word that goes in and out of style. It’s a building block word that blends into the background. Can you get fancier than ‘said?’ Sure! But do it with purpose. Don’t be afraid to use a character’s name. It’s their name. It’s what you’re supposed to call them. Why are we fighting so hard to respect people’s names and pronouns if all we’re going to do is replace them with epithets? (Kidding. Mostly.) And if you’re using their name so much it’s interfering with readability…it’s probably time to revisit a few of those sentences and figure out what the better sentence is.

When can you use an epithet?

I joke that there are no exceptions to my There Are No Good Epithets stance, but there are. Sort of. Because rules are made to be broken, though I do believe you should understand why the rule exists before you break it, and you should break it with purpose.

Here’s the easy one.  

Epithets are useful when the POV character doesn’t know a character’s name. Now you have to use something else! And here’s the great thing about that: the epithet is now a vehicle for characterization. What about this stranger stands out enough to get the POV character’s attention? Do they notice a physical characteristic? Clothes? Attitude? What does the thing they notice say about the POV character and the character being observed?

For instance, my POV character is eavesdropping on a conversation between two people in a restaurant. You could grab the low hanging fruit and describe them as, “the brunet woman” and the “older man.” Or you could make your scene work harder. “The man with the punchable face,” or “the woman who makes eye rolling an art form.” Or how about, “the woman wearing fake pearls,” shorthanded to Fake Pearls Woman, and “the man with the name-brand suit that’s seen better days,” shorthanded to Shabby Suit. Now you’ve said something about the characters that place them in a more useful context than their hair color – you’ve said something about them that helps inform the scene, and how your POV character observes the world around them.    

Are there other instances where you can effectively use an epithet? Yes, if you are using them like this: with narrative purpose. And in those cases, is it really just an epithet anymore? It is in that yes, it is a descriptor taking the place of a name or pronoun, but it’s doing a lot more heavy lifting now. Maybe you have a character who chronically can’t remember or can’t be assed to remember people’s names. The epithet is now a means of characterization. Maybe you have a Jekyll and Hyde style character, in which a descriptor of those different personas becomes a means of setting a scene or crafting their relationship with the POV character. These descriptors are narrative vehicles being used with intention. “The other man,” is rarely a tool being used with any real intention. If there is an instance of it, I have never seen it.

Now, if reading this makes you second guess your own work, or to feel like you write wrong, or if the thought of going to painstaking lengths to rewire sentences you would typically use an epithet in gives you hives, there’s an easy solution: forget about this post.

Because fanfic is supposed to be fun. It’s your hobby. You are not getting paid for it. You don’t have to use a specific writing style, or meet anyone else’s expectations. That’s part of what makes fanfic such a beautiful thing. You can do whatever makes you happy. Not me, not anyone else. If you fucking love using epithets, use them. If you think I am made of bullshit, give this post the finger like I initially suggested and write five epithets just to spite me. No one will stop you, certainly not me. Though I will continue hating epithets, because you can’t stop me, either. XD

#swaps replies #Anonymous #how writing is written

[not-your-fucking-kacchan]

OMG THE PLATONIC AIZAWA HAS ME SCREAMING ILHSM but onto the request aizawa x reader (platonic again) where reader is like really chaotic and short and constantly kicking minerals ass cause they’re tired of him assaulting them and the other students and just what aizawa would say to them abt it??

Im sorry i got to this as late as i did! How do people have hobbies with a full time job they literally expect the whole world from you :(

Anyway I hope you like it :)

Masterlist <3

Warning: mentions of disordered eating, Mineta 💀

Aizawa x Student!Reader (Platonic) Headcannons - Mineta

You were getting really pissed off now. For the third day in a row you had been sent to the principle's office for violence against another student. What bullshit. Obviously Mineta should expect a complimentary kick in the balls every time he comments on yours or Momo's boobs. She's just too sweet to have to deal with that - poor Momo didn't do nothing to nobody and she must be protected!

The same goes for every other girl in your class. And boy, for that matter. Every time he'd say something to upset one of the guys you were immediately there to back their corner and shut Mineta's closed mindedness down. Nobody could run from the protective, mama wolf in your genes. Protect the pack at all times.

You were always very protective and possessive over your friends, and it was something that lost you a lot of them, but luckily, your new friends at UA can handle you. In fact, they not only handle you, but they enjoy your company and treasure you as much as you treasure them.

But noone realises as Mineta sews the seeds of doubt in your mind. Every time he compared your body and personality with your friends', you had looked at yourself a little differently in the mirror that night. You suddenly found yourself very sickening, and it was poisoning you. Your waist isn't as thin as Momo's, you're not as busty as her either. Would anyone ever choose you over her?...

Stop. You are not about to let these stupid feelings and thoughts affect your relationship with your friends, you love them more than you could ever love yourself.

The next day, you return in baggier clothes and a slightly longer skirt, and you pull the back down and keep it flush to your skin as you walk up the stairs on your way to class. None of the girls find it wierd, because they do the same in fear that Mineta is behind them, looking up their skirts because he's been caught before for that.

But Aizawa is horrified. He's horrified, and absolutely livid when he clocks why you're always cussing out Mineta, why you hold your skirt down with fists closed so tight that your knuckles turn white and the fabric wrinkles, why you never walk in front of the purple haired boy, or group with him in a project, and why you refuse to bend down to pick something up, or go to the school's toilets. In fact, none of the girls do any of these things.

You catch his attention, though, when you collapse during training because you haven't eaten enough. You've been on a strict diet and didn't want to gain weight because of the ridicule you might get. Heroes are pretty, after all. They should be model worthy, and if people see you as bland in comparison to all of your friends, it makes you feel envious of them in ways you couldn't understand. You've never blamed or hated them for it though. You could never.

When your Sensei finally manages to ask you what's going on instead of assuming, your answer doesn't surprise him. He's not surprised at all, actually, but one thing he is, is enraged. And when he spoke to all of the girls in the class he realised that they had all been pretty much silent about their feelings, but they felt the same. Crushing guilt was the next thing he felt. How could he have not noticed?! His students are suffering and he didn't even bat an eye? Some teacher he is.

"Why are you putting your body under so much stress? It's not wise, and if you think it's going to make you a better hero, i've come to nip this in the bud. Future heroes don't make dumb decisions like this."

"... That's not it."

"... Why, then?"

...

And it's so much worse when he finds out that all of you'd had issues with your self image because of one student who just couldn't keep himself in check. When he had been told of all the borderline predatory acts Mineta had done, he may as well have been expelled on the spot.

It had taken a lot of courage to tell him about something like this, so when the class was rewarded with less homework and an icecream the next day, everyone was pleased, and everyone knew why.

Noone had anything to say about it though, so we all just let it go.

Mineta ends up being blacklisted from entering any hero school in the future, and not a soul is surprised or upset about it. And when Aizawa quietly offers free counseling for what damage Mineta had done, you politely decline with the promise that it'll get better with time and attentiveness.

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha #bnha #bnha fluff #aizawa x reader #bnha headcanons #dadzawa #aizawa headcanons #aizawa x you #mha aizawa #aizawa drabble #aizawa shota x reader #mha fluff

[communistkenobi]

My friend, Please tell me what you are studying, for I greatly desire to study it too. With many thanks, A frustrated philosopher

I’m assuming you’re asking after seeing that Adorno post lol - I don’t wanna get too specific but my dissertation work is on fascist movements in north america! the first text I encountered that really made me want to study it (in addition to just like observing and experiencing what’s happening in the world, especially as a trans person lol) is The Authoritarian Personality by Adorno, Frenkel-Brunswik, Levinson, and Sanford. I think it’s a pretty flawed text for a lot of reasons but it + some of Adorno’s other work are pretty formative for my research interests and understanding of the social world. I’m deeply indebted to it intellectually and it’s a landmark text in western studies on fascism (so it contains all the issues of western thought on fascism in general in addition to Adorno’s flaws and limitations as a thinker more specifically).

It’s a thousand pages long so if you wanted to read parts of it, I would recommend finding a pdf of the 2019 edition and reading Adorno’s critical reflections on the work written after it was published (it’s inserted as a preface in the 2019 edition) + the introductory chapter. The intro outlines the context and rationale for the study (basically: why did people support Nazi Germany, what motivates antisemitism in the modern day) and describes the methodology of the study. The methods section is incredibly interesting, the authors talk about how they go about collecting fascist sentiment from the public while basically deceiving their participants, since one of the methodological problems they (and prior research) run up against is that most people do not publicly and openly declare, even on anonymous surveys, their support for fascist governments, so you should instead measure their support for the underlying rhetoric and sentiment of fascist beliefs without explicitly telling people they’re being polled on how fascist they are (their unit of analysis is the potentially fascistic subject, not necessarily explicit fascists - they wanted to, in addition to outright fascists, measure potentiality for fascist support and were interested in people who might reject explicit fascist talking points but still agree with the underlying logics of fascist thought). The study is very heavily wedded to psychoanalysis, which I have a lot of problems with, but I think they capture something legitimate and real with their psychological framework. Part of Adorno’s defense of their psychological approach is that personality is the medium through which ideology gets expressed (essentially his claim is that you are your beliefs about the world, and that you become a different person when you believe different things, an argument I find basically compelling), so measuring personality ‘traits’ of a person will reveal their potentiality for fascist support, possibly even moreso than their publicly stated beliefs. Again I think generalising from this framework needs to have a lot of qualifications attached to it, but despite my many reservations with psychology I don’t think this is a totally illegitimate approach.

anyway lol going a bit long but I hope that answers your question !

#I haven’t done comps yet so not claiming any kind of expertise either. currently at the stage of doing a lot of reading #both for coursework and research #asks #the authoritarian personality #< I have a bunch of liveblog notes in that tag if you want to look through it as well #although I feel like I disagree with a bunch of what I said about it when I read it #or that like I’d frame my thoughts differently and problematise some of Adorno’s language more (eg his assertion that fascism is #inherently irrational - I don’t disagree with this per se but I think it lets western history off the hook for a lot of fascist thought) #book club

[the-s-exy-squad]

Foxes Headcanons (Modern Day: Social Media Edition)

•Neil Josten uses social media after canon.

^ he posts the most vague shit ever and dark humor posts. He also has an anonymous hate page full of Riko Moriyama being clumsy or clips from the game where he lost against the foxes.

^^ he uses audios on TikTok and other socials that imply he’s fallen for someone he was on a team with and just lets the fan base assume it was Matt bc the whole Andrew/Neil rivalry. He likes to see reactions.

•Andrew starts to do art to express himself.

^He has a few anonymous art accounts throughout a few platforms and posts like twice a week on each. Hes really popular on TikTok and insta.

^^Neil stumbles across his content and realizes it’s him because he posted a picture he drew and sat on his dresser. Neil doesn’t tell him but frequently visits the accounts bc he wants to see Andrews art but knows he isn’t comfortable sharing in person or he would have.

•Matt and Dan would be influencers.

^ Matt mostly does sports equipment rating and reviews but he also does goofy ass videos with the rest of the foxes. Dan would do a lot about woman rights and activism in general. Big supporter of the LBGTQ.

^^ I like to think they’d occasionally do videos where Dan reviews make up products but uses them on Matt instead. They’re usually silly.

•Aaron takes pictures of every drink he gets from Starbucks and is obsessed. He is a Starbucks girly and has over 200000 pts on the app.

^He saves the pts to use when he’s desperate and for whatever reason didn’t have his wallet on hand.

^^^Starbucks deadass sponsors him.

•Kevin doesn’t do socials and just hired people to run accounts for him.

^ He does the photo shoots and tells them specifically what photos to use. He also puts interview clips so people often time think they’re just fan accounts.

^^he also records and post one singular video a month on his TikTok about upcoming games which serves as reminder that it isn’t a fan account.

•Allison uses her reach as a Sport player to advertise her clothing line.

^ She she has posts with lines such as casual wear, athletic wear, business casual/proffesional wear, and normalizes business making plus size clothes.

^^ she makes a few different lines for her friends and never posts them or sells them to the public. This includes armbands for Andrew, bandanas for Neil, one of a kind pride outfits for all the gay bitches on the team (let’s be real they’re all fruity), fox themed shirts for casual wear (even after they stop playing for the foxes)

•Seth hates social media and doesn’t have any.

^ He MIGHT have another fox run one for him and doesn’t interact at all.

^^ He lets the other foxes post him on their socials but doesn’t want one of his own.

•Rene does a lot of advocacy things on hers.

^ She shares her story about how Christianity and exy helped her.

^^ She doesn’t want to seem like she’s forcing Christianity. She says “having any kind of faith”

•Nicky posts a lot of random shit

^vlogs, funny sports clips, pride stuff. Videos of him and Erik.

^^ He gets the twins in a few and they’re just glaring with such a “I can’t handle you anymore. You should have put me up for adoption /hj” face directed at him and there’s a few comments saying “wait… they’re both making the face. Which is which?”

#all for the game #neil josten #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #kevin day #nicky hemmick #dan wilds #aftg #matt boyd #allison reynolds #seth gordon #renee walker

[hardly-an-escape]

In the February Sun

Square: D2 - Mistaken for a Couple Rating: T Word Count: 2671 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Dreamling Bingo fill, Valentine’s Day, mistaken for a couple, Dream is soft and a little bit needy, Dream is allowed to be kind of obsessed with Hob as a treat, first kiss, getting together, tooth rotting fluff, this took forever partly because Dream’s POV is (unsurprisingly) ding dang hard to write, the feelings are requited they’re just idiots, they’re sort of starring in their own weird romance novel Summary: Dream visits the Waking World, not realizing that it's Valentine's Day. After multiple people assume he and Hob are a couple, an emotional reckoning is required. Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo

Of late he finds his own gaze lingering on Hob’s shoulders. His hands. Dream’s thoughts have turned, in his few idle hours, to the timbre of Hob’s voice and the smile lines around his eyes. He has allowed himself. To imagine Hob’s fingers, interlaced with his own. How that smile might feel, were it to be employed against his skin. How Hob’s skin might feel. He should, perhaps, feel embarrassed by these flights of fancy. Instead he is only exhilarated.

---

Dream steps into the Waking World on what he thinks is a random sunny Tuesday and is immediately bumped into by a starry-eyed young man clutching an enormous bouquet of flowers.

“Oh gosh, sorry! I was so not looking where I was going,” he laughs. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Ah. Valentine’s Day. Dream looks around, notes the shiny hearts in the shop windows and the unusual number of roses and boxes of chocolate being carried around. He dips into the dreams of the people around him: candlelit dinners and first kisses. Well-worn lovers and the thrill of new romance. Sex and wine and sweetness and love.

The emotion is. Tantalizing. Heady. Almost overwhelming.

Dream walks slowly along the river toward the New Inn, savoring the sunshine and the wisps of romantic daydreams. He had intended to drop in on Hob this afternoon, as he does more frequently these days. Had intended to savor a few hours’ worth of his company and his warm, welcoming smile. But now he is unsure.

Hob feels… complicated. He’s known for some time that Hob finds him attractive. But of late he finds his own gaze lingering on Hob’s shoulders. His hands. Dream’s thoughts have turned, in his few idle hours, to the timbre of Hob’s voice and the smile lines around his eyes. He has allowed himself. To imagine Hob’s fingers, interlaced with his own. How that smile might feel, were it to be employed against his skin. How Hob’s skin might feel. He should, perhaps, feel embarrassed by these flights of fancy.

Instead he is only exhilarated.

Dream can recognize these symptoms in himself, and they worry and thrill him in equal measure. He has been able to hold himself in check, but in the Waking World, on this day of all days, the tendrils of desire and daydreams are winding around the walls of his willpower and bringing it down, brick by brick. His eyes catch on a couple kissing over a sidewalk café table and he feels something inside him catch as well.

Perhaps. It was a mistake to come here. On this day, of all days.

But too late. His steps have brought him to the courtyard of the New Inn. And there is Hob, emerging from the side door marked ‘private,’ which Dream knows from experience leads up to his cozy little flat. And Hob has seen him, is waving and smiling in a way that crinkles the lines around his eyes. Dream’s heart flips over in his chest.

Oh dear.

“Hello, my friend!” Hob is saying. “This is an unexpected surprise. I just finished up my morning classes. I was about to go get a bite to eat, if you want to come with me.”

“If you have no prior engagements,” says Dream.

“Not at all!”

They walk together in the February sun. They talk, of everything and of nothing. This, Dream has learned, is what friends do: they chat about books and television, share little stories from their days. Hob tells him about his students’ shenanigans during a particularly amusing lecture on the Black Death, and Dream tells him about some of Matthew’s recent misadventures.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“I would not have thought ravens could get drunk. That’s hysterical.”

Hob’s laughter is a balm, a ray of sunshine, a jolt of caffeine.

They are nearing the café Hob has been steering them toward when a young woman walking in the opposite direction greets him by name.

“Professor Gadling, hi!”

“Hello, Britt, how’s it going?”

“Oh! Well, I actually had a quick question about the homework – sorry, you’re probably on a date, I was going to send an email but would you mind…”

“Of course not, go ahead.”

Britt’s question about Margery Kempe is lost as Dream’s mind circles around that phrase like a cat stalking an unfortunate mouse. You’re probably on a date. Is that – could that be what people see? He and Hob, walking side by side. Talking and smiling. Not touching. But together.

Hob clarifies the reading for the next class and with a cheery “Happy Valentine’s Day, professor!” the girl continues on her way.

Dream and Hob walk for another minute before Dream finds the words to ask.

“You did not disabuse her of her notion?”

“Which notion?”

“That you and I are. On a date.”

“Oh, that,” Hob waves a dismissive hand. “Nah, there’s no point. The undergraduate rumor mill is unstoppable – better to just ignore it. If I’d denied it, it just would have convinced her that we were secretly married or something. Pack of libidinous hyenas, the lot of them.”

“I see.”

“Sorry, was that okay?” asks Hob, suddenly worried. “If it bothers you, that they might think that, I can set the record straight, or try to at least…”

“It matters not,” Dream says.

It matters a great deal, he wants to say. That people could believe it. It matters, that he wants it to be believable, wants it to be true. In a way he has not wanted for a long time.

[Read the rest on AO3...]

green = complete, orange = WIP

#dreamling bingo #my writing #dreamling #the sandman #valentine's day #y'all this started from nothing but I'm weirdly proud of it?? #I got super stalled on it for the better part of a week but here it is!!!

[intosnarkness]

80. “How can you think I’m anything but hopelessly in love with you?” Kanej

(1 2 or make up your own) (ask)

Kaz knows what he is.

He knows who he is, mostly. But he also knows what he is.

And he is not a good man.

There are some who might try to dissuade him of that notion - people who mistake punishing rich assholes for their hubris with being some kind of crusading do-gooder. People who can't tell the difference between doing a favor, and earning a boon. People who don't understand how the world works on supply and demand, and Kaz works for profit.

There are a few of those.

But Kaz doesn't care much about them. If someone looks at him and sees something good, they're not very good at looking.

And then there’s Inej.

Beautiful, dangerous, deadly Inej. Who sees him- really sees him- and stands, unflinching, by his side.

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t, and he never will.

“When are you going to tell her?” Jesper asks, over the third or fourth bottle of wine in the Van Eck manor. Wylan is out of town, and Kaz has been here too long, drank too much. They’re both on the floor of the sitting room, their backs against the stuffy, stiff couches. It’s better down here.

He doesn’t want to have this conversation with anyone, least of all Jesper.

“It’s not that easy,” Kaz says, not meeting his friend’s eyes

“It’s exactly that easy,” Jesper huffs. “You look her in the eye, and you say ‘Inej, I have three emotions: revenge, greed, and overwhelming lust.’ And then you tell her which ones you feel for her.”

Kaz rolls his eyes “I will leave.”

“You won’t,” Jesper waves one of his hands at him lazily, and he’s right. Kaz knows he’s right. They’ve spent too many years together for Jesper not to be able to see Kaz’s drunken tells. He keeps catching himself laying the back of his hand over his cheek, feeling for the warmth that floods his face when he’s had too many. He’s in no state to head back to the slat tonight.

“I have told her,” Kaz breathes, ignoring the noise of disbelief that Jesper makes. “I’ve told her every way I know how.”

“Calling her an investment isn’t romantic, you Kerch bastard,” Jesper sneers. “No other group of people think that calling your lover prosperous is a good idea. Idiots.”

Kaz has the distinct feeling that Jesper has had this argument before. Probably many times. He wonders idly what Wylan says in bed that causes this level of frustration in his friend.

“What should I do?” Kaz says, taking the bottle of wine and finishing it off in one gulp. “Start writing romantic drivel about her eyes and her hair and my heart?”

“What heart?” Jesper scoffs, and Kaz doesn’t flinch because he’s right. He’s right and it’s good to be reminded of it.

But it does hurt, and the wine is gone, and Kaz needs to get out of this conversation before he does something stupid like start talking about Inej’s laugh.

He could absolutely write romantic drivel about her laugh.

“Good night,” Kaz says, hauling himself to his feet. Jesper protests, but Kaz just heads to the guest room they keep on the ground floor for him, a sweet consideration that allows him to break in easily when he needs to, but also spares him the stairs when he’s far too unsteady to take them.

There’s a pen and paper on the desk in his room, he assumes in case some kind of commerce emergency breaks out and he needs to draft a contract. Instead he takes the stack of paper and sits on the bed, staring at the unbroken white expanse of it.

Dearest Inej, he writes. How could you think I’m anything but hopelessly in love with you?

It feels terrible. It feels like opening a wound and bleeding onto the paper. Inej doesn’t want his blood. He crumples the paper and tosses it in the fire.

He’s not going to do this, not in writing. Not tonight. If she doesn’t know, she’ll have to find out another way. He throws the rest of the paper in after the letter, pulls off his boots, and goes to sleep.

He doesn’t dream of her. And if he does, he’ll never admit it.

#talkback #meme #anonymous #kanej #six of crows #several birds book #soc #my fic