#and i realized that far of the way through. that the only dialects i’m fucking familiar with are all fucking variations of north central

[arthur-r]

genuinely how does someone succeed in college when you’re so terrified of being incorrect or looking stupid that you can’t even say anything to begin with???? i was trying to go into this year brave and everything but i’ve already been laughed at multiple times by a class full of people older and scarier than me and i already feel like i’m being judged and underestimated for so many reasons that i don’t want to give anyone another reason to look at me that way. but it’s gotten to the point (in the less than one week that classes have been in session; maybe it’s always been at the point) where i’m failing to submit assignments because i know that my teacher is going to see it and think i’m stupid, and never listen to me again, and i’m going to lose all the credibility that i’m trying so desperately to hold onto. and i know from a logical standpoint that it’s the teacher’s job to meet people where they’re at and lift them up from there, but honestly is that much even true anymore?? isn’t college about figuring out who has what it takes and who is going to get left behind???? why did i enroll in fucking honors classes of course i can’t do this???? i’m really not feeling well and i stayed in tonight and missed dinner and i miss home and i miss being able to talk to my friends and not be actively ruining my future. i feel like i’m always good until i’m not, and i don’t realize i need help until i’m too far in and by the time i get it, i won’t need it anymore but i’ll have ruined everything back when things were worse. i’m isolating from my roommate (who hates me because he thinks i hate him) and losing every friend i’ve started to make at the same time as i’m losing all the real friendships that i already have. and my roommate is across the room right now as i’m quietly fucking crying. and i want to go home and i want to be safe. and why is everything so unfamiliar and simple and wretchedly complicated.

#im really not feeling well. i want to go home and im not used to that at all #i miss my little sister. i miss my teachers and i miss my friends. im not used to this #what prompted all of this: i was trying to do my linguistics homework and i made it about an hour in coming up with faulty hypotheses #and i realized that far of the way through. that the only dialects i’m fucking familiar with are all fucking variations of north central #‘whoa somebody talks similar in anchorage as they do in taylor’s falls?? it must signify a deep linguistic thread traceable over generations #they’re just both right next to fucking canada???? of course they fucking sound similar???? the fact that i don’t know anyone from the east #or the south and even the people i know in the west are still the same fucking thing we all talk the fucking same #i know village english that’s a little fucking interesting but it’s not like i have any INSIGHT i don’t KNOW anything!!!! #told my french teacher i’m learning latin he asked me if it’s fucking ecclesiastical because once you’re in college it’s just normal i guess #i just feel like. yes i’m here because some part of me stood out from my peers. but in this group of special people?? i’m nothing!!!! #so i’m really struggling. and i want a hug and i wish things were different. i want to be here but i don’t feel like i deserve it #and i’m not going to get anything done if i keep feeling like this #i dont know. i hope everyone is doing well. sorry for the extra stress it’s just really difficult and strange #i hope everyone has a good night - i’m heading to bed soon #me. my post. mine. #friends only #vent cw #delete later #and everyone here speaks fcuking MANDARIN or something and all of a sudden my five years of french feels fucking basic. #kids who have been in advanced programs since birth. the imposter syndrome is fucking PALPABLE!!!! i want to go home and i want to forget #okay i’m done. im done!!!! everything is fine. hope everyone is well

[jjkpls]

the wishlist (m) - 5

“She broke up with me.”

> genre : Angst, fluff

> pairing : jeon jungkook x reader (f)

> words : 4k

> content/warnings : back at it again w/ the bff2l; one sided love, lot of pining; explicit language; ambiguous infidelity; jjk heartbroken & crying; some wholesome flashbacks to make you swoon

previous - next

The next box arrives about a month or so later. You haven’t seen Jungkook in a while. He had been out of town, hopping from shop to shop, completing a series of long-awaited guest positions. 

He’s kept you up with his days and his appointments as much as he could, sending you dorky selfies, little videos of city landscapes you’ve never seen before, and exhausted late vocal notes made in tiny, with dragged on, mumbled words, to wish you luck and send you some courage for work. 

You did not expect that the day you’ll meet again, he’d be so different from the Jungkook you prefer and left a month ago.

It takes you a few seconds to realize. At first, you’re preoccupied with the sudden set of needles stinging your insides when you hear the peculiar sound of your front door being unlocked. There’s a very finite amount of probability that it’s not him, he's the rudest of your tiny group of friends and the only one that feels comfortable enough in your home to invite himself without any prior warning.

It’s him, your best friend and subject of too many of your both daily and nightly thoughts and preoccupations.

Once he appears in the door frame, with his heavy coat on his heavy XXL sweatshirt, in his heavy military pants, face turned down hidden by his hair, the magic thing, that grows so mysteriously quick. There’s the little explosion of warmth in your chest. The one that makes you smile tenderly without meaning to. He’s allowed to see how happy he makes you, as a friend anyway. Everybody smiles this way when he walks into a room.

Your eyes catch sight of a box, all white, that fits in his hand. Your eyes roll on reflex. You’re about to curse again. It’s not nice, you don’t want to, to attack him as soon as he returns to you but he’s asking for it, isn't he?

He’s still in the hallway, slowly slipping his shoes off, focus fixed on the present in his hand. The time he takes doing it and the seemingly seriousness you feel irradiating from his aura, confuse you.

Jungkook shakes his head twice, the way he does, kind of like a wet puppy would, before setting the box on the counter of your open kitchen.

It’s only when he starts walking towards you, that his head raises up, just a bit, enough for his eyes to meet yours through his hair. He has a tiny smile as a greeting. He looks really upset. 

He should be bouncing on the balls of his feet, he should be doing some TikTok cringe dance moves to make you laugh or yell some greetings in a dialect. He has a lot of peculiar, very Jungkook ways to celebrate meeting you again after a while. Even if neither of you has ever said the words, you do miss each other a lot when you can’t see each other, and the excitement that blooms during your reunions translates that. 

But he’s sad today. It’s obvious. 

When he takes a seat beside you on the couch, he avoids your gaze. You’re agape, watching him with probably too much insistence, a hand holding a spoon half-filled with yoghurt in the air.

These few moments are decisive. They’ll determine rather he’ll talk or not. Jungkook, for someone who cries easily, is not good with feelings and sharing them aloud. Sometimes he can, often he can’t. He’s told you not to worry about it before, that it was fine because sometimes he just didn’t need to, he just wanted a shoulder to lay his head-on. 

“You okay, Guk?”

He shrugs. You just have the time to catch his upper lip sucked in, a twinkle in his eye before he’s switching position, bumping into you and hitting his own shin against the coffee table like a giant dog, unaware of his own growth, would. Only to settle for an impressively tiny huddle against your side, cheek pressed to your shoulder. 

So that’s how it’ll be. 

It’s heartbreaking, torturesome. You always feel miserable when you know he’s sad but not knowing the reason makes it a thousand times worse. You might be the same vengeful kid you used to be. The one who’ll inquire straight away who made him cry and immediately went on her way to beat that reason up -it being another child or the troll of a tree that made him trip. 

Except you are grown-ups now. He knows he can deal with his problems on his own and he would probably not let you go and try to beat up everyone -he probably doesn’t believe you can too, even though he’d be wrong about that. 

Jungkook tears his hand out of his pocket only to mime you to turn up the volume of the television. You do so and the pretty hand is gone and if it wasn’t for his quiet sniffling and the heavy press on your side, you wouldn’t know he’s really here with you at all. 

Your heart hurts the whole duration of the shitty afternoon movie, even if having his warmth next to you helps a little. He leaves later the way he entered, mostly silently, only smiling a bit when you smooch the side of his head and squeeze his forearm in a wordless comforting effort.

Guk

Sorry for earlier

Guk

It was nice seeing you though

You

Don’t be sorry. Can you call?

Guk

Yes, in 5

The five minutes turn out to be twenty. You wonder, hoping to be wrong, how numerous those tears were that he needed twenty minutes to dry them. 

When he finally calls, voice quiet and throat dry, whispering through the phone straight in your ear, uneasiness settles deep and heavy in your stomach as you know, you were right. 

“What happened, Jungkook?”

He must not have heard you this soft and gentle for a while because you can hear a humourless chuckle you recognize as incredulity. He clears his throat a first time, inhales deep and has to clear it a second time before he can start, still choking out on a syllable or two. 

“She broke up with me.”

The gasp that escapes you, loud and obnoxious, could not have been faked. This news is hardly believable to you. First of all, because, to your greatest guilty despair, Jungkook and his girlfriend, who’ve been dating for almost a year, are probably the embodiment of The Power Couple. There’s no doubt, in all the people that know them, that they are meant to be. They look good together. They are on the same page, always, it seems. They’re beautiful and enviable, an example of a match from Heaven, healthy and aesthetic if that's even a mentionable point.

You can’t, even in your deepest, darkest fantasies, have imagined them to break up. 

But the thing that makes it all the harder to comprehend is that she is the one who did it. The girl is great. She’s beautiful, she’s smart and funny, so you heard. She has that glamour to her, with her dainty pretty milky hands and long thin milky neck, with her silky, shiny black locks wondrously floating over her shoulders. She is great, matches him well.

She is not that far behind him but she's still not Jeon-Jungkook-great.

How could she have broken up with him? Someone dumping him makes no sense to you. 

“That’s-“ You catch yourself before the words slip out clumsily. You’ve never really been talented at comforting people with words, especially a crying Jungkook which is the equivalent of your very own kryptonite. “I’m so sorry, Jungkook.” And you mean it. Even more so when you hear him snivel hard. You’ve never allowed yourself to, even just for yourself, in the quiet and discreet comfort of your own head, wish for that to happen. Because if there’s one thing that you want more than anything else, more than having him for yourself, more than your own fulfilment, it’s his happiness. And he was happy with Jiyeun. He’s got the girl he had a crush on for months and they went so well together. “But why? Did she give you a reason?”

You hate how eager you sound asking. The question is so pressing though. You wish to know so bad why, in what circumstances, Jeon Jungkook gets dumped. 

“She-“ There’s a sob he swallows back. “I know what you’ll say,” Your eyebrows dip low on reflex. You couldn’t imagine the reason. He must have really fucked up but Jungkook is not the kind to fuck up. Even when he’s annoying, even when his mindset on something turns a bit auto-centric, he’s too compassionate, he’s too considerate and loving, to suddenly stop wondering how the person facing him is feeling and act without care, hurt them, in any way. It’s just not his kind. So what did he do that even you’ll have a word to say about it. “Spare me because she’s done enough.” 

It takes another set of minutes for him to gather himself, find most of his voice back clear enough for you to decipher. You show yourself patient, not saying anything and leaving him all the time that he needs. In all honesty, in the darkness of your curtain closed bedroom, tucked comfortably in your mountain of pillows and blankets, with your phone stuck to your ear and just the quiet sound of his breathing and humming to himself to break the silence, but rock it rather than disturb it, it’s easy to be patient. Feels like an ASMR. A class A type of ASMR, his breathing to your ear could so easily lead you to sleep. 

“Yesterday, she came to welcome me back and-“ Rather than hurt, his tone sounds weakened by shame now. What the hell did he do? “She found the- the thing I brought for you today.”

The fucking idiot.

“Oh my God.” You feel instant nausea. It's not like you never thought about it. You wondered, multiple times, if she was aware that her boyfriend was buying you these. You never allowed dipping far in the questioning because what would be the point? Ultimately, it's his relationship. And it's his way of shaping your friendship. If she kept smiling pleasantly, asking politely, as she always would, how you're doing whenever you happened to cross her path, leaving his apartment, or visiting his shop, it was fine by you. It must have been fine by her. She might have known about it, or she might not, didn't really matter. Jeon Jungkook is a grown-ass man, who's allowed to make his own decisions, no matter if they make sense to you, or her, or whoever.

But he's a fucking idiot.

If she didn't know, if he didn't warn her, and now she's mad after learning about it, and he's surprised and he's sad then he's a fucking idiot.

“She asked if it was for her, I wasn’t gonna lie!” Fantastic. He's passed the shock, soaked in wrath now. That was quick.

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook!"

"What?" He sounds a bit hysterical on the phone, voice rough and angry, incredulous, even mad that you might suggest he's wrong. Obviously, he already knew you'd react this way, hence the primary warning. "You're my best friend. I get to gift you whatever the fuck I want." He whisper-yells, suddenly very much aware again of the late time and the quiet calmness he'd perturbed. "She-"

"I don't think that's the issue, is it? Did she- Did you tell her that- Like, nothing was up?" You don't know how to articulate what you mean to ask. It sounds so bizarre, so irrealistic, the idea of something romantic or sexual going on between you two. It sounds so ludicrous you can't even say it. And again, you're scared to say the words. You don't know how they'll sound leaving your mouth. Suspicious, maybe revealing.

You owe to ask the question though. Because the cause of the sudden nausea comes from one surprisingly major reason, you would hate for her to hate you. To think of you as the bad guy, the massive bitch who stole her boyfriend. It shouldn't matter but it does.

"What do you mean?"

"That it was just friendly. Did you say that to her?" You stutter, largely on edge.

"Of course, I did." He doesn't seem to notice. Or to pay attention to the, evident to your ear, change in your tone. "She said that it didn't matter." You bite your tongue, along with the couple of words threatening to slide off it. Quite frankly, Jungkook is a weirdo with his own intake on the world surrounding him, she chose to date that special, in a lot of different ways, one, however, you can fairly understand that she wouldn't accept any explanation, of any kind, for this situation. "Do you get that? If she thought I was cheating, I'd understand that she'd be mad but- it's not even the case!"

You try to focus on the essence of the conversation, annihilate the faint words you can read in between the lines. The ones that say that even his girlfriend, in those strange circumstances, couldn't imagine the two of you as more than friends. Just as he couldn't. Just as you can't either.

"She knows and she's still mad. But- I do- I was just curious about it."

"About what?"

"The toys." He pouts, barely articulate like the kid he really is.

"Why didn't you get them for her, then? She's your girlfriend."

There's a pause after your words coming from him.

"She hates those." The pout sounds so thick now, in between the sniffs, you wonder if his mouth won't stay stuck in this position, like a cute permanent raspberry on his cute little dumb face. "I did once and she- threw it in my face and called me a freak."

"Jungkook." You sigh. "That explains a lot, by the way." This comment might be mainly for yourself. He doesn't need an explanation, as it seems. He doesn't seem that troubled about the whole deal, about that new hobby he's picked for himself. But you did. It's hard to simply content yourself with a "well, it is what it is" and nothing more.

He's been curious about them, couldn't buy them for Jiyeun because she wouldn't use them and make him feel guilty about his interest. He's sort of living it by procuration this way.

Now you feel guilty. He can't have found much satisfaction from your reviews if you ever have given him any. And she called him a freak. What a bitch. You wouldn't have imagined that coming from her.

Your mind is a mess.

"And it makes you happy. I see the way-" You hear the friction of tissues, the squeaking of his bed, and the deep sigh that follows when, as you picture, he finds a comfortable position on his back. "You seem much better. Less stressed and-" You cannot deny that. Even though it's partially frustrating, to think that he has this very unpleasant picture of you, of the version of you preceding the very first orgasm brought by him - sort of. You are feeling considerably better. Even if you have to force yourself not to abuse the masturbatory habits, not wishing to turn into a jerk off crazed teen like you once was when your hormones were fucking you up, it helps a lot. Sometimes it's a late-night quickie, other times a longer seance to celebrate the start of the weekend, or find force for the beginning of a new week.

"What was that again? Youthful?" You wonder aloud, an annoyingly amused smile on your face.

"Rejuvenated." He's laughing a bit. And for that, all the turmoil he's been putting you through feels fine and worth it. When you think about the heartbreaking tone of his voice when you first heard it through the phone, it eases an incredibly heavyweight to your heart, enchants you to know that he can still laugh, and you can still be the one reminding him how to. Unfortunately, his heart's just recalled how to hurt and the ache is back as quick as it pretended to leave an instant ago. "She said to never call her again." He confides with a hearable sorrow.

"She didn't mean it." It's surprisingly easy to be a good friend to him. The words you know he needs to hear not even hurting that bad.

"I don't know. We never fought like that before."

"Of course, you didn't. But it's been a year, it ought to happen at some point."

"But if she won't even let me talk to her, how am I supposed to make it better?"

"Be patient and leave her time to cool down." He sighs, already defeated. "Maybe send her a vocal note, she'll listen when she's ready.” They're awfully nice when he sends some to you. “It'll be fine." You're made to be together, probably, you should add. You could add, it might help him immensely, to dry the tears you can picture filling up his eyes. It's a little too much though. You're not that strong of a masochist to force this on you.

"How do you know that?"

"I just do. Don't worry too much." He can't. His heavy silence precisely screams that. "Do you wanna come to my island? I'll let you run in my flowers if you want."

It makes him laugh once again. The lovely, most satisfying sound to your ear.

"That's sweet of you." And it is, extremely sweet of you. If there's one thing that you despise is him sprinting through the mindfully planted flower beds of your Animal Crossing island. It pisses you off. Even more so when he does it by accident than on purpose, because this shit happens way too often. And now, you're allowing him to do so. You're definitely too good at being his friend. "It's fine though. Turnips sell at 138 on mine if you're interested."

It's your turn to be laughing now. You love how even with his heartbroken, upset and crying, he still picks up his Switch to check where's the turnips' stock at.

"Jungkook." I adore you.

You have for seemingly ever. Since the very first time you met.

You'd never forget it. How you almost passed out from laughing because of the street sign that nearly knocked him unconscious. His forehead was already bruising dark, eyes unfocused and shiny with tears. You didn't mean to laugh but he was adorable and funny, and even if you felt guilty for enjoying it, people don't run their faces into street signs every day. You called it in your own head a miracle.

He had to sit for a little while from how dizzy he felt. His ears were burning with embarrassment too, your uncontrollable giggling not helping. He just sat there, on a bench you had dragged him to, hands tucked in the pocket of his sweatshirt, waiting for you to allow him to leave.

The kid stood unbalanced the four times he tried to walk and even if at eleven, you had nothing close to a doctoral degree, you still felt like it was wrong to just let him stumble his way back home straight away. You had to hold him hostage for a little while. You had shared your homemade cookies with him, the ones you hid deep in your bag for you didn't want anyone to ask for a bite at school. You made him drink the whole content of your water bottle because drinking water is never an unhealthy thing to do, therefore, it felt like a good idea.

He was so shy that your own timidness quieted down enough to allow you to make conversation to him. Or more accurately talk over the silence and distract him. He giggled a lot and smiled with cute bunny teeth. Kept saying thank you for every bit of cookies you'd given him and once you had walked him home and he arrived safe and sound, he bowed very low, apologized and thanked you again.

You thought it'd be the end of it. He pretended to be going to the same school as you but you had never seen him also he was a few years younger.

The next day, and every single day after that, at recess, he would appear out of nowhere. Wearing his adorable smile, and a tint of red on his ears, a bunch of homemade cookies of his own filling up his pockets. As a puppy would, he'd follow you around with a certain distance until you waved him over, rolling your eyes, because if he was going to stick by your side, he might as well actually play with you.

The most precious friendship you have ever experienced bloomed from this seed. A friendship, at the start, mainly based on a shared interest for very sugary treats, marbles, and that common memory of him eating shit in this street sign. You didn't mean to remind him, it made him flush furiously each time and you were not that cruel, but you couldn't help bursting out in laughter whenever you'd walk home -with him or alone- and pass that sign. It's your favourite spot in your home town. You never miss an occasion to take a selfie for him whenever you go to visit your parents.

It's hard to define the moment your feelings, once purely platonic, changed. But there's a memory that feels notably significant.

A guy made you fall. A useless asshole, who in retrospect was not even worth a single crumble of your time. You were confused. As you often get, without really knowing why. Maybe it's just you, maybe it's for everyone the same. People start by being too good in your eyes, too good for you not to give them your all, and maybe build pyramides upon pyramides of expectations.

Until they're not anymore.

Suddenly, they hurt your feelings. They suck ass and you felt so invested emotionally, way too invested for it to be any kind of healthy, and their very human selves harm you straight in the heart, where it is the most painful.

It didn't feel like a mistake this time. Like any of the other times, at the beginning, of course, otherwise, it wouldn't catch you again and again.

You fell hard and it's Jungkook who picked you up. He had cooked for you, one of his mother's infamous recipes because he knew you wouldn't even bother eating otherwise. He had held you close. He had kissed the top of your head, your cheeks and your eyelids when a diehard tear had slipped. He had called you baby and sunshine and his little kitten. Had showered you in an unfamiliar type of loving. Something so soft, so tender and warm. Hands firm when they'd wrapped around you and pulled you in. Fingers gentle when they'd brush the hair out of your face. He took care of you, made you feel good in ways no one has ever had. You had not known him to be like that. Suddenly, he really felt like a man when he touched you, when he talked to you. He wasn't only a dorky little overgrown baby anymore. He was a man, shaped like one but also able to act like one. Able to take care of a woman, please one you were sure of it. And suddenly, you wanted, so desperately, to be that woman. To have the same free access you had on his usual candid-self, on this newly met man.

Of course, it's too ludicrous for you to ever act on it. But deep down, a naive tiny voice kept claiming, in the back of your mind, that you could spoil him. Very few people in this world know him the way you do, surely, no one can please him the way you could.

Guk

She listened to my note!!!

Guk

She said she'll make me miss her a bit more and then she'll call

It took less than a day for her to give him a sign. You're not surprised. It's hard not to miss him. You're not surprised but somehow, still, disappointed.

A/N: tadam!! i needed to include some flashbacks because i know my fellow f2l addicts just adore these, also, i just can’t get over writing kookie as a cute kid.

Guess what guys? there is only one chapter to go *sweats profusely* I- am worried. I hope you keep enjoying it and will enjoy the rest. :] For now, let me know your thoughts. I hope you have a sweet, lazy Sunday and wish you a lovely, peacful week! bises!

As always please ask to be tagged for the final chapter on this post

#btswriterscollective #networkbangtan #ggukienet #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #my writing

[thisbeatchachinglikemoney]

So Far Away (part 3)

Part 8 of the Boys with Luv series

Pairing: Reader x BTS

Summary: Everyone finally makes up... kind of...

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, some triggering PTSD episodes

Tags: @calling-dips-on-j-hope, @fic-recs-by-moon, @luvtaeha, @aretha170, @xicanacorpse, @kookieebangtan, @fangirl125reader, @seoul9711, @channiespup , @lindsayjoy444, @fairygirl18​, @black-rose-29​

AN: The last part of the first part of the series. GOT7 are not a band in this btw. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist and what you think of the series so far :) I purple you guys!

Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Y/N POV:

My knees felt weak and my palms were sweating. I knew Yoongi could feel it as he held tightly onto my hand, quickly walking us through the park towards the exit. His jaw was set in determination, his grip on my hand borderline painful, but I knew it was because he was scared... I was too. 

If He had managed to find out where I was, I was never going to be safe. I knew I needed to tell someone, but who would believe me. I had no proof, and the bruises and cuts He had left on me had faded. 

We arrived at the van that was waiting outside for us and Yoongi helped me in before settling near the back. He pulled me onto his lap and wrapped his arms around my waist. My heart was racing. I knew he could feel it under his arms.

My stomach churned as I let my thoughts run away with me. What if He finally got to me and took me back to His house and never let me leave or have contact with anyone? What if He actually killed me this time? What if I killed myself? I wasn’t going to be strong enough to make it through. 

“Jagiya, your heart is racing. You need to calm down.” Yoongi said gently. I shifted in his lap so I was sitting sideways. I rested my head on his chest as I sighed, playing with my fingers.

“I’m scared, Yoon.” I whispered. “I don’t think I’ll be able handle it again if He takes me. I really don’t.” I felt him stiffen underneath me, knowing that he knew what I was talking about. 

“Don’t say that.” Yoongi said, stroking my back. “Please, don’t say that.” He sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “You are the strongest woman I have ever met. You will get through this. And even if he does take you, which he won’t, I will not sleep until I have you back in my arms again.” He vowed. “But that will never happen because he will not be able to get near you. I promise.”

I smiled faintly at him and leaned against his chest. “Just don’t let me go.” I said.

“Never.” Yoongi said. “I love you. I will never let you go.” A small smile crept onto my face as he froze, realizing what he had just said.

“Yoongi oppa,” I said, taking his face in my hands. “I love you too.” I leaned up and kissed his lips gently. “Thank you.” He tilted his head at me in confusion. “Thank you for taking me in and not rejecting me. Not all people like you would have done that for someone like me.”

“I love you, so much.” Yoongi said. “And I think I knew that the moment I laid eyes on you and felt our bond. And I’m not saying that because of it. I’m saying that because you made me feel the same way I do with the members. You make me smile and laugh, which is hard for some people to do. It feels like you complete me.”

“You complete me too. All seven of you.” I replied as the door to the van opened, making me jump and freeze.

“Hyung? Are you here?” Jimin called as he hopped into the van.

“Yeah, we’re here, pretty boy.” Yoongi called back, nuzzling his face into my neck. “Did you round up everyone?”

“Yes, they’re all here.” Jimin replied, making me look at Yoongi.

“All of them?” I asked feeling even more scared. I could not face Namjoon, Hoseok and Taehyung right now. Not at all.

“It’s okay. They’re all sorry for what they did. I still haven’t forgiven them though.” Yoongi replied. I nodded slowly and rolled my eyes at him.

“Of course you haven’t.” I murmured, making him tickle my sides.

“Yah, what do you mean by that, hmm, baby girl?” He said, his dialect very strong.

“I mean that you haven’t forgiven them because you’re stubborn and want to make them work for your forgiveness. You forget I know you very well, Min Yoongi.” I replied, touching my finger to his nose. I turned as Jimin approached and sat next to us as the others all found their seats in the front two rows.

“Hey my beautiful princess. You okay?” Jimin asked, leaning down and pecking my lips as he pushed my hair out of my face.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I replied, taking his hand in mine. “I just want a quiet night in with lots of cuddles and some movies. Oh, and lots and lots of ice cream.” I requested.

“That we can do. But first, you have to speak to Namjoon, Hoseok and Taehyung and sort everything out. They are also your soulmates.” Jimin bargained. I pursed my lips slightly, looking up at Yoongi who nodded.

“Okay.” I agreed. “But I don’t want a massive argument.”

“There won’t be.” Yoongi reassured me. “Is everyone here now?”

“I think so, hyung. Is my carrot okay?” Jungkook called from near the front of the van where he was snuggled next to Namjoon. Hoseok and Jin were with Taehyung near the middle.

“Carrot?” Yoongi frowned, looking at me. I whined and covered my face with my hands, not wanting to have this conversation right now.

“I’ll tell you later.” I replied making him nod and peck my cheek. “Yeah, I’m fine Kookie oppa.” I called back, making him flash me his bunny smile before he settled back in his seat.

After a half an hour drive, we arrived back to Yoongi’s apartment. Home. Yoongi helped me out of the van and together we walked up to his apartment quickly while the others gathered their things.

“Get changed into something comfy.” He said gently. “Do you want to order takeout?” I nodded as I rifled through my drawers to find some sweatpants and a hoodie.

“Yoongi oppa, can I have a hoodie please?” I asked, beginning to undress myself. He hummed and nodded, walking to his closet and grabbing one out.

“Okay, when I bought you that set, I knew it would look good, but fuck, jagiya.” He groaned when he turned around to pass me his black hoodie that had the word ‘Damn’ written on the front. I flushed red and moved to pull on my sweatpants, but he moved forward and grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Just let me look at you.” He said, holding onto my waist. His eyes travelled down my body hungrily.

“Yoongi...” I whined as he leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to my sternum. “We have other people here. We can’t. Not right now.”

“I know.” He said, his forehead resting against my chest. I ran my hands through his hair, the smell of his shampoo and cologne reaching my nose.

“So can you let me get changed please? I don’t really fancy having this conversation in my underwear.”

“It’s so sexy though.” Yoongi huffed. He pulled away from me. “Get changed, quickly, because I don’t know how much longer I will be able to control myself.” I quickly pulled on the hoodie and sweatpants and we left the bedroom and entered the living room.

Hoseok and Jimin were cuddled together on the armchair while Namjoon, Jin and Jungkook were sprawled over each other on one of the sofas. Taehyung was lying across the other one, his eyes closed and foot moving to the beat of the music playing on the TV. Yoongi cleared his throat, making Taehyung sit up straight and Namjoon, Jin and Jungkook pay attention and look at us.

“I think three of you here have something to say.” Yoongi said slowly, making Namjoon, Hoseok and Taehyung hang their heads in shame. 

Jimin stood up off Hoseok’s lap and approached me, kissing my lips gently. “I’ll see you soon, okay.” He said softly. “Kook, Jin hyung, let’s go. Give them some space.” Jin and Jungkook stood up and followed Jimin out of the room, dropping swift kisses to my lips.

“So...” Namjoon said awkwardly as Yoongi sat down on the armchair, pulling me onto his lap. “We’re your soulmates, then.” He said slowly.

“That does change anything you said about her, Namjoon ah.” Yoongi said sternly. “Properly apologize, the three of you.”

Much to my surprise, it was Taehyung who spoke first. “Y/N-ssi, I should be the first to apologize. It was me who told Yoongi hyung to reject you when I found out. I know now that that was unacceptable for me to do and it was not my place to make that decision, but I was just scared and jealous. Scared that Yoongi finding you would throw off our entire relationship dynamic and jealous that he would most likely spend more time with you than me. I’m so sorry that I made you feel like an outsider. I understand if you can’t forgive me. What I have done and said is inexcusable.” He said, dropping to his knees in front of me.

“I-” I looked at Yoongi, who gave me a comforting smile and rubbed my hip. I did feel bad for Taehyung; it was me who took Yoongi away from him, but he could have voiced his feelings earlier and we wouldn’t be in this mess. “I accept your apology, Taehyung-ssi, but what you said about not only me but also Yoongi is something that I cannot forgive that easily. But I am willing to get to know you and spend time with you while I take the time I need to fully process what has been said and done.” I said slowly.

“I understand. Thank you.” Taehyung smiled and returned back to his seat. 

“I’m sorry that I made you feel scared and unwanted.” Namjoon spoke up.

“And me too.” Hoseok agreed. “We were both being selfish and unwilling to give you a chance.”

“And we were protecting Taehyungie.” Namjoon added. “We didn’t know if you would be a saesang or not. We wanted to make sure everyone was safe. But we know now we should have given you a chance and that is something we both really regret.”

I nodded and hummed. “But if you were scared of me being a saesang, why would you let Yoongi be alone with me?”

Namjoon and Hoseok looked at each other before turning back to face me. “Yoongi was adamant that you weren’t, so we thought it would be best to allow him to spend some time with you and if you turned out to be a saesang, then...” Namjoon trailed off and hung his head, not making eye contact with Yoongi. 

“Then what, Namjoon?” Yoongi asked carefully, his voice laced with a slight hint of venom. I could tell Yoongi had not heard this part of their story before.

“Then we hoped it would have taught you the lesson that you should listen to us.” Namjoon admitted. “Yoongi hyung, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I was just angry.”

“Angry enough that you would allow me to be hurt if it came to it?” Yoongi was seething. “And just to think I was starting to forgive you both.” He gently pushed me off his lap and stood up, stalking over to Namjoon. “How could you ever think of doing that to not only one of your best friends, but also your boyfriend!” He yelled and raised his hand over his head, making me flinch.

Jimin POV:

We were listening in on the conversation just to know how it was going. We could hear voices starting to become slightly raised, so I was ready to go out there and take Y/N away so she wouldn’t begin to have any flashbacks to what had happened to her. I moved out of the door to watch her carefully and see how she was acting and reacting to everything.

I watched as Yoongi pushed her off his lap to walk over to Namjoon. I could tell he was about to yell and I knew that was one of the things that could potentially set Y/N off. 

“Where are you going?” Jungkook asked me in a hushed whisper. 

“There’s about to be an argument and Y/N will not be able to handle the yelling.” I replied, walking further away from the door. And that was when Yoongi shouted, and raised his hand over his head, and Y/N, my sweet, beautiful princess, flinched away from him. “Shit.” I said under my breath and quickly made my way into the living room. “Come on, princess.” I said, wrapping my arms around her and leading her away from the argument. 

“Where are you taking her?” Yoongi asked, turning around, his eyes flaming with anger.

“You’re scaring her.” I said shortly, taking her to one of the bedrooms to calm her down. “You can come and see her once you have calmed down.” I looked over my shoulder and saw Taehyung curled up on the sofa, his hands over his ears. He hated it when people shouted in anger and he would only resort to it himself if he really had to. “Taehyungie, come on.” I said softly, holding out my hand to him. He looked up and almost ran over to me, taking hold of my hand like it was his lifeline.

When I turned to look at Yoongi, I saw his eyes filled with guilt. “Y/N, jagiya, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” He reached out to touch her but she flinched away from him again, making him take a step backwards and cover his mouth, regret filling him.

“You can come and speak to her once you have properly calmed down and thought about what you were going to say.” I said coldly. “Sort this out first.” I gestured between him and Namjoon. “I’ve got you princess.” I whispered in her ear as I lead them both to the bedroom.

Jin looked up when we entered the bedroom, noticing Taehyung’s tear-stained face, and Y/N’s blank stare. “What the hell happened?” He asked, his eyes glancing between the two of them worriedly.

“Yoongi shouted.” I replied.

“Shit. Tae baby, come here, come to hyungie.” Jin said, opening his arms. Taehyung let out a choked sob before hurling himself towards Jin, dissolving into tears. Jin began to calm him down as Jungkook and I tried to break Y/N out of her own mind.

“Princess, you’re okay. You’re safe.” I said as I sat down on the bed, sitting her down between me and Jungkook. She was silent and remained staring into space.

“Carrot?” Jungkook pushed her hair out of her face. “Jimin hyung, she’s saying something.” He said, noticing her lips were moving.

“Princess, what are you saying?” I asked gently. All of a sudden, she screamed and began to cover her face with her hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.” She begged as she sobbed.

“Princess, you’re okay.” I said again. “Listen to my voice. You’re here with me, Jungkook, Jin and Taehyung. We’re all here for you. We will keep you safe.” I said. “Come back to us. Please. I can’t bear to see you hurting.”

“It’s not working.” Jungkook said, panic filling his eyes. “What should we do now?”

“Ummm...” I wasn’t sure what to do. I racked my brain, trying to remember if Yoongi had told me something about how she would calm herself down. “She used to dance to calm herself, but she can’t do that now.”

“Sing to her, hyung!” Jungkook said as he got the idea. “Let’s sing to her.”

Y/N POV:

I was back in His house. No, this was not possible. I had left him. I was with Yoongi now. Unless... that was all a dream. A nice, peaceful, cruel dream. It must have been. Why would an idol like him be soulmates with someone as broken as me? Why would I be lucky enough to have seven soulmates? I looked down at myself. I was wearing a familiar red cocktail dress. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah I knew that dress would look beautiful on you.” A voice came from behind me, making me jump. I gulped as I turned around and saw Him stood in front of me. He scoffed. “Is that how you greet your boyfriend on your anniversary party?” He asked. He moved closer to me and raised his hand to slap me across the face. “Now, greet me properly, you dumb bitch.”

“Happy anniversary, Jackson.” I said quietly. He grabbed hold of my jaw, his fingers digging in hard. 

“Hmm, happy anniversary to you too.” He kissed me, instantly slipping his tongue into my mouth. “Now go and greet our guests and offer them some refreshments.” He ordered, smacking my ass. I nodded and left the room to go to the kitchen, grabbing the tray with the champagne flutes.

I walked over to the first group of people, realizing them to be some of Jackson’s friends from work. “Hello, thank you so much for coming.” I said with a smile. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Ah, hello darling. Thank you for the invite.” One of his colleagues, Yugyeom, said with a smile. “Happy anniversary to you and Jackson. He was very excited about your present today.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be a very good present.” I smiled, as they all took a glass. “I’ll see you all later at dinner.” I bowed as I walked away to the next group of people. Soon the glasses of champagne were replaced with red wine as dinner loomed nearer. 

“Y/N, come here a second.” Jackson called me over. I carefully walked over, ensuring I did not trip and spill the red wine on anything otherwise it would stain and Jackson would get mad at me. “Is the dinner ready to be served yet?”

“The cook said it would be another five minutes. They are just plating everything. They’ll come and ring the bell when it’s time for everyone to be seated.” Just after I spoke, one of the cooks came out and rang the bell, indicating it was time to eat. “It’s ready now, I guess.”

“I didn’t realize.” Jackson rolled his eyes and pushed past me, causing me to spill the red wine all over his white suit jacket. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Jackson, it was an accident.” I said quickly. He grabbed hold of my wrist and squeezed tightly.

“You will put down that tray and then follow me upstairs. Say you are going to help me with my jacket if anyone asks.” He said slowly, his eyes blazing with anger. I nodded timidly and set down the tray, following him out of the room.

Upstairs, he took off his jacket and turned to face me, clicking his knuckles as he tilted his head to the side, watching me like I was his prey. My heart began to hammer in my chest as I glanced up at him.

“I didn’t say you could look at me.” He said, making me look down at my feet. “Get on your knees you little bitch and apologize for ruining my expensive suit!” He shouted, shoving me down.

“I’m sorry for spilling wine on your jacket, Jackson, I am clumsy and lost my footing on the way back to the kitchen. I will make sure it never happens again. Please don’t hurt me.”

“You’re damn right it won’t.” He said. “Now...” I heard his belt unbuckle and him pull out through the loops in his trousers. “You’re going to take your punishment and then you’re going to stay up here. You don’t deserve to eat. You need to earn it.” I heard him fold the belt and felt him pull down the straps of my dress. 

I yelped as the belt hit my shoulder. He was holding it with the buckle in his hand, but I knew that would change. There was another hit, and then another. He continued until I was begging him to stop.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.” I cried. He just scoffed and paused while he readjusted his grip before hitting me again, this time with the belt buckle. I felt it rip my skin open as it made contact and felt the hot blood trickle down my back. He hit me another ten times before he threw the belt on the bed and knelt down in front of me.

“Now, stay up here and don’t make a sound. I’m going to lock the door behind me so you don’t even try to get out.” He grabbed hold of my hair and pulled me up, making me cry out in pain. “Go do whatever you want with yourself. I don’t care.” He threw me into the corner of the room, leaving me crying and broken. I curled up in the corner, letting the tears roll down my face. I wasn’t going to be able to last much longer in this environment. I had to try and get out, whether that be I run away or end everything. 

Why did my mind have to grace me with such a cruel yet calming dream? Why could I not be there? I knew that was how I was supposed to be treated in a relationship, but there was the fear of no one wanting me ever again with all my emotional baggage.

I let my brain drift away and shut down slightly to drown out the pain of the wounds on my back. I could hear faint voices, singing one of my favorite songs that would calm me down.

허공을 떠도는 작은 먼지처럼, 작은 먼지처럼 날리는 눈이 나라면 조금 더 빨리 네게 닿을 수 있을 텐데

눈꽃이 떨어져요 또 조금씩 멀어져요 보고 싶다 (보고 싶다) 보고 싶다 (보고 싶다) 얼마나 기다려야 또 몇 밤을 더 새워야 널 보게 될까 (널 보게 될까) 만나게 될까 (만나게 될까, ooh-ooh-ooh)

추운 겨울 끝을 지나 다시 봄날이 올 때까지 꽃 피울 때까지 그곳에 좀 더 머물러줘, 머물러줘

Translation:

Like the tiny dust, tiny dust floating in the air Will I get to you a little faster If I was the snow in the air

Snowflakes fall down And get farther away little by little I miss you (I miss you) I miss you (I miss you) How long do I have to wait And how many sleepless nights do I have to spend To see you (to see you) To meet you (to meet you)

Passing by the edge of the cold winter Until the days of spring Until the days of flower blossoms Please stay, please stay there a little longer

“Y/N? Can you hear me?” I heard someone call out to me. It sounded like Jimin. Was my brain really tricking me again?

“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.” I murmured to myself.

“No, princess, this is real. We are real.” Jimin said gently. “Come on, come back to me. To us. You’re stuck inside your mind. Just listen to my voice.” I could feel a hand on my shoulder and voices talking to me. My vision began to become fuzzy and then clear. I was back in Yoongi’s apartment. This was real. That was just a memory. A horrible memory.

“Jimin.” I cried out before dissolving into tears in his arms. “It was him. It was Jackson. I was back with him. I didn’t mean to spill the wine. It was an accident.”

He pulled me onto his lap. “You are okay. You’re safe. I’m here with you. Jungkook is here with you. Jin is here with you. Taehyung is here with you. We’re all here with you.” He rocked me gently from side to side, his hands rubbing a soothing rhythm on my back.

“Please don’t let him hurt me again.” I sobbed.

“Hey, shh, don’t cry, princess.” Jimin said, his voice cracking slightly. Was he crying? “I can’t stand it when you cry.” He admitted. “It breaks my heart.”

“Sweetheart, can you tell us what happened?” Jin asked, taking hold of my hand.

“I...” I sniffed, rubbing my eyes. “I’m not sure what happened. All I know is Yoongi raised his voice and made an action like he was about to hit something and then I was back there.” I took a deep breath to try and calm myself down. “It was strange. It was like I was reliving the past with no memory of what happened during that time, but I remembered all of you. I thought this was all just a dream.”

“This is not a dream.” Taehyung said gently, still keeping his distance. “But I’m slightly confused. Who’s Jackson?”

“Jackson is my abusive ex who I had run away from the night I met Yoongi.” I replied. “I don’t really like to talk about him because he caused some of the darkest moments in my life.”

“He sounds horrible. I’m glad you got away and found us.” Taehyung said.

I smiled at him. “I’m glad too.” I turned to look at Jungkook who was sat facing the wall. “Koo? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Jungkook said, wiping his eyes quickly with his sleeve.

“No, you’re not.” I got off of Jimin’s lap and knelt down in front of him. “Why are you crying?”

“I was scared we had lost you. I was scared you had gone to a really dark place and were not going to be able to get out of it. It was so painful to watch.” He said quietly. “But you’re okay now, so I’ll be okay too.” He leaned down and kissed my lips gently. “I’ll always be okay if you are okay.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. I turned and saw Taehyung stood there awkwardly still. It was strange. I looked at him and in that moment I understood why he had said everything he had said. He was just scared and wasn’t sure how to deal with it, like I was. He dealt with his fear in a way he saw best, as did I, even if we were both wrong. “Tae.”

He looked at me and hummed. “What’s wrong? Do you guys need some privacy because I can go if you need me to.”

“No, Tae, I just wanted to say that I forgive you. I understand why you did what you did. You were like me, sort of. We were both scared of the situations we found ourselves in and the ways we dealt with it, no matter how bad they seem now, were what we thought was right at the time.”

“Do you... do you mean that?” He asked. I nodded, causing a boxy smile to form on his face. “Thank you. I’ll be the best boyfriend ever!” He pulled me into a hug, his tall frame completely enveloping mine.

“I think you have a few other competitors for that title.” I laughed, making him shrug.

“I don’t see them as competition.” There was a knock at the door, making us move apart.

“Who is it?” Jin called.

“It’s Yoongi. Can I come in? Please, I need to see her.” I heard Yoongi’s muffled voice say from behind the door. Jimin looked over to me. I looked between him and the door, trying to decide what to do. 

“I...” I trailed off. He did shout at me and cause me to have a flashback for the first time, but that was not his fault. “Let him in.”

“Are you sure, darling?” Taehyung asked. I nodded. 

“I have you four, don’t I?” I said. “My four protectors.”

“Your four protectors.” Taehyung confirmed, hugging me from behind and resting his chin on the top of my head. I sat down on the bed and Jimin looked at me once more before opening the door.

“Princess.” Yoongi came over to me and knelt in front of me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you scared. I honestly didn’t know.” He said. His eyes were red and puffy. I could tell he had been crying.

“You caused her to have a flashback, Yoongi hyung.” Jimin said curtly.

“No.” Yoongi sat down on the floor in shock. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such a terrible boyfriend. You should just reject me as your soulmate right now.” I looked at the other four, silently telling them to leave us alone. Jimin looked unsure, but allowed Taehyung to pull him out of the room.

“Yoongi, it was a mistake. You couldn’t have known. Even I didn’t know.” I said. “This is not your fault. It’s mine for having such a broken mind that it can’t even deal with a simple argument.” Yoongi looked up at me with a frown.

“Don’t you ever, ever say it is your fault. None of this is your fault. Don’t you ever say that, jagiya.” He said sternly, holding my hands.

“I forgive you, Yoon.” I said gently. “I will always forgive you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, jagiya. I’m so sorry.” He said, leaning up to connect our lips.

“Where are Hoseok and Namjoon?” I asked.

“I sent them off to get pizza and lots and lots of snacks.” He said. “You said you wanted a movie night, and so I’m going to give you the best movie night ever.” He flashed his gummy smile at me, making me fall in love with him even more, and feel the safest I have ever felt in my life. All of them did.

#sub!reader #sub!taehyung #sub!jimin #sub!jungkook #switch!jin #dom!yoongi #dom!hoseok #dom!namjoon #so far away #soulmate au #bts x reader #bts ot7 #Poly BTS #bts poly #btspolyau

[haikyuuuuuhypeeeee]

Chapter 3

⚠WARNING: Mention of previous characters' deaths

• ────── ✾ ────── •

You have no idea how you got here.

Here, being in front of the lone coffee shop on campus, on your way to meet the stranger who’s had the misfortune to get Hajime’s old phone number and receive your sad ramblings meant for no one else.

And you, the author of those sad ramblings, written in moments of weakness, are going to sit with this stranger and….

You haven’t gotten that far yet.

Honestly, you’ve been more incredulous at the odds of this meeting even happening.

What the hell am I doing???

You really have no explanation, not even for yourself. The time is 9:58 and in two minutes you’re going to walk into the cafe and meet with a stranger who is going through a traumatic life experience similar to yours.

Ok, so you can explain what you’re doing. But the why is what’s escaping you. And frankly that should scare you more than it is currently doing.

Especially seeing how you haven’t told your friends what you’re doing. You bugged off lunch (much to Oikawa’s annoyance) but didn’t tell them why. Not only would Oikawa throw a fit but he, Mattsun and Makki wouldn’t understand your reasoning for meeting a stranger you met only a few hours ago.

They really wouldn’t understand why you don’t have a solid reason for meeting this stranger.

Put all the red flags together and you would find yourself locked in your apartment with no means of escaping under Oikawa’s watch.

To be fair, you are meeting them in a public place and you have no intention of going anywhere with the stranger. You’re just going to go have a cup of tea, shoot the shit, and then leave.

Yeah, it’s definitely doable. And not at all crazy.

You take a deep breath before walking inside the shop. It’s a bit crowded - the weekend mid-morning rush makes the employees hustle behind the counter to fill orders. All of the tables are full, leaving no space for two strangers to sit and….

Oh, this was a bad idea. A really bad and stupid idea.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out and nearly jump at the caller ID.

Your brain points out that it’s not Hajime but the stranger you’re meeting. You pick up the phone quickly. “Hello?”

“Heya, how’re ya doin’?”

You hope you’ve schooled your expression into nonchalance but you can’t help your eyebrows jumping hearing the clear Kansai dialect through the phone.

Besides the surprise at the unfamiliar drawl, you’re pleased to hear a clear and strong voice on the other line. Nothing creepy or weird or anything your brain was trying to convince would be the case.

“Hi.” You reply into the phone. You can hear background noise from his end, which assures you again that he must actually be here.

“‘M over in the corner with the baseball cap.”

Your eyes move to the corner immediately and zero-in on a figure sitting at the table there. It’s a man, wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and a dark ball cap. And he’s staring straight at you.

You hang up the phone and walk over to him. You spot a coffee cup on the table in front of him and watch as he takes his hat off and sets it on the tabletop. His silver-grey hair is messed up from the hat but that’s the least of your concerns at the moment.

No, what has you almost faltering in your steps is the exhaustion that lies deep on his face. The bags under his eyes are heavy and stark against his pale skin. His mouth is drawn in a small frown and with his eyebrows furrowed slightly it makes him look troubled.

You recognize his weariness. This is a man who is burdened to carry an intangible weight.

However this man still meets your gaze and gives you a small, tired smile. The small gesture brightens his face considerably but doesn’t completely erase the empty look. But you feel your nerves settle when he smiles at you.

“Hi,” he says when you approach the table.

“Hello.” You sit in the chair opposite of his and shrug your jacket off. “It’s busy, thanks for grabbing a table.”

“No worries.” Hearing his calm and measured tone in person relaxed you more than you realized and you felt some tension release from your shoulders. “‘M here all the time and I figured they’d be a bit busy on Saturday. D’ya want me to grab ya something from the counter?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” You shake your head to emphasize your point.

“Nah, I insist. Coffee? Tea? Fancy mocha drink?”

“Uh,” you’re startled by his insistence but relent. “A tea, please. Jasmine if they have it.”

He nodded before standing and making his way to the register, letting you fully settle in your seat and try to still comprehend what the hell you are doing.

Mid-inner freak out (oh god, what if he drugs my tea, what am I doing?!) a cup materializes in front of you. Osamu comes around with another cup for himself and sits in the chair across from you.

“They had Jasmine and it smells amazin’.” He shifts in his seat and takes a sip of his coffee. “‘M not a big tea drinker but that smells like it would calm ya down real good.”

You send him a smile before lifting the cup up. The smell of jasmine tea was soothing and the taste was even better when you took a small sip. “It’s my go-to comfort drink. I’ve probably had a few more cups than normal in the past few months.”

The sympathetic look the stranger sends you makes you purse your lips, realizing too late what you said. You look away, cursing to yourself. Great, way to go and make it awkward now. It’s quiet for a bit, now awkward by your weird ~fun fact~

“My name’s Miya Osamu.” You look up at the man and see a rueful smile on his face. “I probably shoulda told ya my name earlier. ‘M a first year student at Sendai University.”

You blink. Of fucking course you didn’t know his name. You never thought to ask when texting him earlier. You met up with a LITERAL stranger for tea and coffee.

“Wow, I’m sorry for being so rude!” You hurriedly say. “I should’ve asked AGES ago. But my name’s L/N Y/N. I’m also a first year student at Sendai.”

“Huh.” Osamu (not The Stranger) says. “What a weird coincidence.”

You nod. “Yeah, um are you not from around here? I can tell by your dialect.”

Osamu hums. For the first time you see his face fall and set into something more stone-like. It’s a subtle difference but it’s there nonetheless. “Hyogo. Came to Miyagi for school and had to get a new number.”

“Oh.” It’s a dry answer that you really don’t know how to reply to. “Do you like it so far?”

He shrugs. “It’s not bad. Pretty far.”

You nod. “Yeah, it is.”

You both lapse into a silence that is neither comfortable nor relaxing.

Oh my GOD this is so awkward! Why did you agree to this? Why did you think this was a good idea?! Yeah sure, he’s not a freaking weirdo serial killer, you can check that off your list. But you didn’t think about what you would actually TALK about!

“Do ya wanna talk about Hajime?”

Your reply to his question is to spit your tea across the table.

You look up to meet Osamu’s concerned gaze. Neither of you move before you both reach across to grab napkins from the dispenser.

“Are ya alright?”

“Oh my god I’m so sorry!”

In your haste to clean up your tea the napkin dispenser gets knocked to the ground, and the napkins explode out like an explosion of white confetti.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” The napkins springing up startle you so much that your knee knocks into the table hard, almost upending Osamu’s coffee.

“Argh!” You lean down to clutch your knee as it throbs painfully but your head collides with the table instead. “OUCH!”

“Are ya alright?!” Osamu asks frantically.

You exhale deeply. “Yep, I’m just a klutz. Fuck, that hurt my head.” You wish you could keep your head down and disappear. But you look up, your face bright red with embarrassment, and meet the concerned look from Osamu.

“I’m ok,” you reassure. “Really.” You look around at the mess surrounding your table and catch a few people gawking. Good lord. “Besides my pride taking a beating, I’m all good.” You stoop down to grab the napkins scattered around, wincing at the waste. Osamu also bends down to help.

“It looked like a pretty hard hit,” he notes.

“It’d be worse if I had something in my head worth keeping safe.”

Osamu smiles at your quip, a little half-smile. It’s nice.

Soon you both stand back up to throw out the napkins. Osamu grabs the bunch from you, letting you sit back down. You try to cool the fuck out and you will your face to not resemble a tomato when he comes back.

“Are you sure yer alright?” Osamu asks again.

“Yes, really.” You nod. “I’m sorry if I spat tea on you. I was just really surprised.”

Osamu tilted his head. “From what I said?” You nod. “Why?”

“I mean,” you start. “It mainly just caught me off guard. I’m not used to it, like just talking about him.”

“Do ya talk about him at all?”

You want to nod, but thinking about it you honestly don’t remember the last time you were able to tell someone about Hajime. Not his passing, but just talking about the person that he was.

“Oh.” Osamu pauses, looking at you considering. “Well my old therapist said it’s good to talk about this stuff, so I figured that’s what ya wanted.”

You don’t know how to reply to his simple explanation. Because you do want to talk about Hajime. You want to so badly. You want to tell the world how amazing he is, how he makes the world a better place just by existing, how strong he is and how much lighter you feel when he’s around

Or, how it was.

But you haven’t been able to talk about him. Every time you tried to talk outside of group therapy with your friends, Oikawa shuts down and Makki and Mattsun get uncomfortable. Your therapist is always able to handle anything you throw at her, but it’s not the same as just talking about a friend to someone.

So maybe Osamu is right about just talking about Hajime.

“He has hair like a porcupine.”

Osamu gives you a look of confusion before you continue. “Our friend Oikawa used to call him prickly, and we’d tease him when he’d bristle up and say he looks like a porcupine.” You laugh at the memory of Hajime bristling up, constantly egged on by Oikawa. “It wasn’t even bad hair, it was just so sharp. It was weird.”

Osamu doesn’t say anything for a second before he bursts out laughing. “Atsumu had weird hair too - dyed bleach blonde. Thought it made him look badass.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

You wrap your hand around your cup of tea, hesitating. An obvious question hangs in the air but for the first time since sitting down Osamu looks a bit lively.

“Was Atsumu your brother?”

The lightness on Osamu’s face is extinguished when he nods at your question. “Yeah, he’s a pain in the ass but I love him.” He pauses, looking down at his coffee cup. “Well, he was.”

You can feel the pain radiating from that one word. You understand the horrid dread that comes when you realize you’d been speaking about Hajime in the present tense. Even more so when you have to admit it out loud.

You look at Osamu and frown upon seeing his withdrawn expression. You feel immense guilt, knowing that you’ve contributed to his change in mood.

You’re desperate to lighten the mood and bring that smile back to Osamu’s face. You search through your memories, trying to find something funny. A thought crosses your mind and you feel a small smile grace your lips.

“There was one time that my friend was determined to roast smores on Iwa’s head.” You giggle at the disbelieving look on Osamu’s face. “Yeah, it was the stupidest idea he’d ever concocted. We didn’t even get one marshmallow on his head.”

“We?” Osamu asks, his voice lifting in amusement ever so slightly.

“Of course.” You reply, a smile spreading over your face at the memory and at Osamu’s content face. “I too was curious if we could do it.”

Osamu snorts, shaking his head as he brought his coffee to his mouth. “That idea would have intrigued Atsumu for sure. He was all about the far-fetched plots to piss off everyone around him.”

You smile, leaning forward in your chair. “Oh yeah? Wanna share some notes?” Osamu’s face brightens slightly at your words and he begins to talk, more animatedly than before.

• ────── ✾ ────── •

A/N: So nothing bad happened with Y/N meeting the stranger (besides her being a clumsy klutz, where are my fellow klutzes at?) Thank you for reading, I hope this chapter was a little soft respite from the initial angst~

Taglist Open! Please send an Ask with the request to be added to It’s [Not] Okay Fic & SMAU (bold cannot be tagged): @psycho-nightrose @camcam1617 @kamalymaly @toobsessedsstuff @shookykookie30 @roro-707 @qualitygiantshoepsychic @cerealfrdinner797 @ara-mitsue @gray-444 @tanakasimpcorner @rintarovibes @jellien

#haikyuu! #haikyuu #haikyuu fic #haikyuu social media au #haikyuu smau #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #hq smau #hq x reader #hq x y/n #hq x you #haikyuu angst #hq angst #haikyuu romance #hq romance #miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu x y/n #miya osamu x you #iwaizumi hajime #miya atsumu #oikawa tooru #hanamki takahiro #matsukawa issei #tw.mention of past character death #kita shinsuke #suna rintarou #ojiro aran #its [not] okay fic & smau

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Sweetest of Exiles - One

Summary: When Oberyn Martell travels to Essos for exile, he found more than he anticipated when he first lays eyes on Pero Tovar, his brother-in-arms in the Second Sons mercenary company. While Pero is a bit resistant to his Oberyn’s overt charms at first, the Prince always gets what he wants. When the Second Sons are hired to rescue a wealthy merchant’s daughter, Oberyn learns there is much more to the grumpy sellsword. And Oberyn doesn’t mind sharing–especially when the merchant’s daughter smiles at him like that.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Pero Tovar, (past) Pero Tovar x F!Reader (No Y/N), future--it is a surprise.

Rating for this chapter: T for mentions of blood, guts and gore...magic. My overuse of italics. 

Word Count: 5k

A/N: I wrote most of this drunk (or buzzed). I am still riding my red wine high so I almost apologize for the nonsense. If you have any questions about the ASOIAF lore/geography that I’m mentioning, please send me an ask or a DM! I’m always happy to ramble about this series.

(thank you to my love, @starlight-starwrites for the absolutely gorgeous banner. I love you.)

Or read on Ao3 here!

CHAPTER ONE: The Mercenary

Oberyn had always wondered what he looked like when fucking someone. He had looking glasses set up in one of his lover’s rooms so he could try to catch a glimpse himself. But his unrelenting need to keep his partners satisfied always won out over his curiosity.

But then the gods seemed to have a sense of humor when they sent him away from Dorne after he might-have-killed Edgar Yronwood. The Citadel and Oldtown had entertained him for a moment but it soon bored him and he set off across the Narrow Sea to Essos. While the Second Sons mercenary company welcomed him and his sword arm, his eyes were firmly trained on the man toward the back of the company with the scar down his face.

His face.

And well, his time away from Dorne just became much more interesting.

**

It had taken almost an entire year of not-at-all subtle flirting and propositions and nearly losing their lives time and time again before Pero found himself tumbling into the Prince of Dorne’s bed. The Prince was definitely persistent, Pero would never admit that his charms—his annoying charms—had worn him down instead of Pero’s selfish desire for release while the company was too far away from any sort of willing woman and his hand just wasn’t cutting it. But the Prince had been attentive—willing to let Pero wrap his scarred and rough hand around his throat when he was pressing him into the threadbare bedroll in the quiet corner of camp.

The prince felt good—and he knew how to make Pero feel good.

It was infuriating—he wanted to strangle he smug smirk right off the prince’s face but he knew that the Prince was only capable of enjoying when someone’s hand was around his throat. But he had to admit that he had finally found a true friend (and not just release) with the man who looked strangely like him.

It had been nearly two decades since he could speak with someone as openly as he did when he was alone with the prince in their tent.

But his mind still drifted—to years ago. To his life before finding coin in the service of the Second Sons.

“You make the moon shine brighter, Pero.”

It was childish of him, stupid, to still think of her all these years later. Surely she had forgotten him. They had just been children—he had just been a third-born son of a disgraced lord from Valysar and she had been… she had been everything.

“You are pensive, Tovar.” The prince’s voice cut through his reverie.

He had thought the prince asleep—spent from a long day’s ride and a quick, near-desperate fuck as soon as their shared tent was erected. “It is dark, princeling. You cannot see me.”

Oberyn chuckled. “I know your brooding silences from your angry quiet.”

“You think a great deal of yourself, don’t you?” He grumbled, rolling his eyes despite the dark.

“I believe you think a great deal of me, as well.”

Pero sighed.

“Tell me what weighs on your mind.”

“Nothing that concerns you. Go to sleep.”

Oberyn laughed. “I will find out what has you brooding.”

“Do not hold your breath, princeling.”

He only laughed.

Pero was not sure when they had both fallen asleep but they were both woken by a frantic yell outside their tent. The prince’s knife glinted in the dimming moonlight and Pero had never let his hand leave the hilt of one of his smaller swords as they charged outside. They expected an ambush—a retaliation from the Tyroshi they had just pushed back on behalf of Lys—but instead, they found a disheveled man, bloodied and bruised and desperately limping toward their camp, frantically waving his hands above his head, shouting something in the Myrish bastard Valyrian dialect.

Pero sheathed his blade as he finally started to realize what the man was babbling. “Calm yourself, man.” Pero said, stepping in front of Oberyn.

The man nearly collapsed as he reached them, big, brown eyes shining in the moonlight. “They took her. They took her—I barely escaped.” He continued to jabber and Pero mostly listened—having heard desperate pleas from hundreds of men and women over the years of his service in the mercenary company—the man’s story consisted of being surrounded on the road to Myr by a group of religious zealots. The story was not an unfamiliar one. The Free Cities were known to erupt with pockets of violence; the causes ranged from trade disputes, claims to land, religion, and everything in between.

Pero had heard it all.

But then the man opened his mouth, blood drying on his chin, and said, “but they took her—they wanted her.” And a name pushed by the man’s bruised lips—a name he hadn’t heard in years.

Before he could stop himself, Pero reached out and grabbed the man by the collar of his tunic and hauled him to his unsteady feet. “Tell me where.”

**

The captains deliberated for only a few short moments before refusing to take the charge.

The fact that the woman was Qohorik had negated the fact that the Myrish magistrate who had fought his way to their camp had promised a princess’ ransom and promised that her father, a prominent merchant, would double it for her safe return. The Second Sons had been humiliated generations ago at Qohor and had not taken any bounties or contracts from the city or its inhabitants since then.

The Second Sons gave the magistrate—Orestes, his name was—some water and a bit of feed for his exhausted horse and then told him to leave. They would not go.

And Pero was an angry man. He had wrath in his blood since he was a boy, tempered only with bouts of relief and quiet. But this had sent him into a near rage with how flippant they captains had been when they had delivered their decision. Of course, he had not mentioned that the woman Orestes had pleaded to be rescued had been…her. Or how he knew her. Attachments like that were frowned upon, even by mercenaries. Soft hearts made easy targets.

But as the sun set the next day, Pero knew what he had to do. Even if he was alone. He packed his bare essentials, mostly worried about his sack of coin and weapons, and then pushed out of the tent-

-only to be met with the smirking face of the princeling. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”

“I do not have time for this.”

“Yes, you do,” Oberyn said with a broadening smirk as he turned away, leading Pero further away from camp as the moon continued her climb up into the inky sky. And why was Pero following him? He had to leave. He had to find that stupid magistrate. He had to-

There were about two dozen Second Sons, including one of the company’s healers, waiting at the tree line with their packs and mounts. Oberyn’s smirk reached its peak as he winked over his shoulder at Pero who only scowled in return. The Magistrate—Orestes—was standing with them, looking more than a little out of place with his rumpled fine clothes, now stained with dirt and blood. But he offered a tentative tilt of his head when Pero stepped up to the group with Oberyn.

“What did you do?” Pero hissed.

“I formed my own mercenary company,” Oberyn replied with a roll of his shoulders. “I know you are brighter than this, Tovar.”

If possible, his lips formed an even thinner line.

“Do not pout. We are going to save the damsel and get paid.” There was a cheer from the small band of men—both Tovar and Orestes were the only ones who did not seem to enjoy it. But soon they were on their way, each step taking them further away from the strange safety of the Second Sons and into the wilds of Essos.

**

Orestes, Pero found, was fond of speaking to anyone who would listen. His voice was pleasing but Pero preferred the quiet in most instances. But, he supposed it was necessary to learn just how he had ended up fleeing to the Second Sons in a desperate plea for help.

Orestes and his companion had been traveling from Qohor to Myr—and Pero tried very hard to not grind his teeth every time Orestes referred to her as ‘my lady’—to allow her to see more of Essos and to return Orestes to Myr after his year-long residency to Qohor that had been in the name of strengthening trade routes and agreements.

(“But, of course, I found myself more entranced by the city and its people than my fellow magistrates’ mandates that I was told to quickly solidify.” He sighed, the sound only a lovelorn man could make and Pero could not stop the grinding of his teeth at that.)

But on the road between Volantis and Myr, a group of heavily armed, religious zealots had slaughtered their small band of traveling companions and guards and took her and Orestes captive in a plot to gain the knowledge her father was keeping secret.

Her father, Lord Ollo, had been one of the famed smiths in Qohor who still knew the secrets of re-forging Valyrian Steel. The famed metal had become a treasure since the Doom and those who could work with the fickle and strong metal were regarded as lords and wielded their power like nobility, too. Travelers from all across Essos sought him out for new weapons, armor, and the occasional piece of jewelry from bits of Valyrian Steel and he had gained a reputation for being excessively secretive but the best at his trade. His wife was a noble woman and had raised his status with their marriage while providing her with the lifestyle on par with princesses.

But Pero knew all of this. He had seen it firsthand. He had supped with him and felt his lady-wife’s fingers tug at his boyishly poorly cropped hair with a fond smile. He knew that their home, an imposing fortress deep in the Forest of Qohor, always smelled of fire and metal and drying flowers.

It smelled…like home.

Well, it had. For a time. A long time ago.

And Orestes never needed to know that—never needed to know that the only reason he had a small band of mercenaries at his call was because the Prince knew that the woman, whose name he could not even say aloud, meant something to Pero.

For all his pride and well-earned arrogance, Oberyn was a good man, Pero had to admit. (He would never actually say this to Oberyn, his ego was big enough without the extra fodder.) And he would have to find a way to repay the prince-who-had-everything in some fashion. Pero’s pride would not allow this kindness to be left unpaid.

Orestes went on to explain that the zealots thought attaining the knowledge of Valyrian Steel would allow them the proper way of sacrificing in order to satiate the supposed blood lust of some old, stupidly named god. They hoped to trade her for Lord Ollo’s knowledge.

“But you seem to know my lady,” Orestes said, turning in his saddle to look Pero straight in the face. “Do you?”

“Is she your lady?” Pero asked in return, ignoring Orestes’ question and how his stomach turned at the thought of her being alone with a group of men as delusional as the band of zealots. Thankfully, they were nearing where Orestes said he had been held captive—less than two days’ ride from their camp but they had set their horses upon the trail with haste, cutting time from their journey.

Orestes’ answering smile was small. “No. But I am blessed to know her and I will never forgive myself for leaving her behind.”

“But she told you to, didn’t she? Told you to run and not look back.” The words were out of his mouth before he could bite them back and his ever-present scowl deepened.

“You do know her. Indeed, she told me to run as soon as I was able. But not to Myr—she told me to run west.” He paused and shook his head and Pero barely caught the confusion coloring the Magistrate’s features. “I had thought the prince was jesting when he said you knew her. I am in your debt, it seems.”

“Just pay the fee you promised.”

“Of course! I would not dream of-”

“Good.” Pero dug his heels into his horse’s side and urged the animal into a faster trot. “You will keep your head, then.” Orestes said something else but Pero had already galloped away to Oberyn’s side at the front of the group. “What have you said to the magistrate?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“Do not lie to me, princeling.” Pero scarcely noticed the men behind them slow their horses’ pace to give them room. Their relationship—if it could even be called that—was an open secret to most in the Second Sons and some of those who followed Oberyn into this new company were also willing to indulge themselves in each other’s bedrolls if the time called for it.

Oberyn only laughed. “I did not know that your obvious reaction to a lady’s name was a secret needing to be kept.”

“What else have you told him?”

“Nothing. Just as you have told me nothing. But I have still called the men who were loyal to me and the promised coin to save this woman you have kept like a secret.” Oberyn arched an eyebrow, a look Pero knew meant Oberyn was daring him to argue. “She will be safe. The Magistrate will be on his way and our pockets will be filled.” Oberyn’s dark eyes sparkled in the growing sunlight. “And I shall meet this lady of yours. She must be a sight to behold to warrant such attention.”

“She…” The words died on his tongue. How would he even try to describe her? How childish would he sound to a prince for harboring such affections for his childhood love after all this time? “She warrants much more than any man could ever give. Including the Magistrate.”

Oberyn huffed but a smile tugged at his lips. “We are nearly there, Tovar. You can make the polite introductions.”

**

Night had just started to fall, painting the sky a violent shade of orange, when Orestes had announced that the ruined castle was just over the next hill.

Pero felt his chest tighten for a moment, a shot of adrenaline he had not felt as strongly since he was a new recruit to the Second Sons facing a small horde of Dothraki.

They crested the hill and Pero saw the broken remains of a once-grand castle. A single window was lit with the dim light of a candle just as the sun disappeared behind the stone, making it look like it had absorbed the red light and bathed in an inky black.

Defense of the castle was nearly impossible with its location and the small band of mercenaries quickly surrounded it, ready to drive inside when suddenly….the door, large and rusted, opened and a single man rushed out, screaming something in what Pero thought to be Old Ghiscari and covered in…blood.

Pero turned to look at Oberyn who seemed to be waffling between amusement and confusion at the sight. He waved a hand, silently commanding two men to secure the fleeing zealot—quietly, if possible.

“It is too quiet,” Pero said as he turned back to the castle after watching the screaming man be brought to his knees and a dirty rag shoved between his lips.

Oberyn agreed. “Surely a band of zealots would make more noise. I’ve been told they’re fond of chanting.” The prince slid closer to the ruined castle, staying hidden behind the rolling hill and scattered boulders for cover.

Pero watched him move, knowing the prince had an innate talent for hearing the smallest noises—whether it be from a rabbit or a sneaking assassin, and would trust whatever his judgement was.

“If anyone is left, they are not moving.”

Pero nodded, ignoring the umpteenth time his chest clenched, and signaled for the rest of their band of men to press forward. Step by step, they neared the castle and spread out to find different entrances. Orestes stumbled in the loose dirt to stay near Pero and Oberyn and Pero grimaced when Oberyn nudged him in the side, silently telling him to allow it—at least for the time being.

Closer and closer, they crept until they Pero was able to curl his hand around the edge of the door and peel it open just enough for him and Oberyn to slip inside. Orestes tripped over a loose stone as he followed.

And Oberyn had been right.

The castle was quiet. Unnaturally so.

The grip on his swords tightened as the small group pushed further into the dark ruins. Torches were scattered and burning out in their holds on the wall, casting even more shadows against the crumbling stone. He heard the soft footfalls of his fellow mercenaries coming in through the east and west entrances but it gave him little comfort. They were alone.

Alone.

His next step made a splash and he looked down to see the toe of his boot submerged in a dark puddle. He reached out and grabbed a torch from the wall and let the dying flames shine near the floor.

It was blood.

He raise the torch just enough to light the end of the hall and sighed.

“How interesting,” Oberyn said as he glanced over his shoulder.

Blood pooled between the broken stone and drip-drip-dripped from some unseen source to puddle in the corner. Bodies were crumpled along the path and Pero turned to pin Orestes with a look. “These men were the ones who slaughtered your guards and took you captive?”

Orestes looked down at a body and seemed to bite back a gulp. “Yes.”

“It looks like they put up quite a fight.”

“It looks like they were ripped open,” Pero corrected before pressing forward. “What did this? Did they do this to each other?”

“I’ve never seen a group more cohesive than them,” Orestes said. “They never contradicted each other or spoke out of turn. They had a singular mentality, it seemed. I would not believe they turned on each other.”

“Men turn on each other all the time,” Oberyn said. “Even without cause.”

They continued forward, Pero leading. He was not sure where they were going, but he knew—instinctively—that he needed to keep moving. If another person or creature had found the castle before they did, what hope did she have? Would he find her like this, too? Reduced to a bloody corpse? Would that be the last chance he would have to see her?

But they walked on, further into the dark, catching glimpses of the rising moon in the half-collapsed windows until they turned and saw the outline of a door, lit by a dim, orange light. Without a care, Pero pushed forward, hilt of his sword still in his hand as he pushed the door open and his grip faltered.

For the first time in nearly two decades, Pero let his swords fall from his grasp.

In the corner of the small room, huddled near a solitary candle, was a woman. Not just a woman—her.

Chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists and angry, deep cuts spanned the length of her legs and arms and her fine dress had been reduced to rags. He barely registered Oberyn calling for the healer as he stepped to her side and quickly knelt down. The locks on the chains were easily undone and his roughened hands carefully prodded at the broken skin.

“Pero,” she whispered, the name sliding by her chapped lips. Her head sagged and Pero moved just enough to let her forehead rest against his shoulder. “You’re here…” her voice was rough and raspy, like she had been screaming for hours. And perhaps she had.

“I’m here.”

The healer came in, arms filled with supplies, while more than a few of their company stuck their heads into the room to see their charge. Oberyn quickly moved them back and shut the door—Pero would thank him for it later.

“Look at me. Look at me, Petal,” Pero said as the healer tutted as he looked over her wounds before uncorking a bit of firewine.

Her unfocused eyes slid to him as the healer set to work. A cry broke her chapped lips as the firewine started to spill across her legs.

Pero reached out and kept her head still, gaze on him, as the healer continued. “Just me, Petal. I am here.”

“Pe-Pero.” The name was stilted on her tongue. “Please—it hurts-” a scream tore its way out of her throat but Pero held her steady even as his chest clenched.

“I know. But it will be over soon.”

Tears gathered in her eyes and slid down her dirty cheeks as her hands shot out to grab at his armor; he could feel the heat of her touch sliding and blooming warmth through his thick tunic. But he kept her focused on him even as the healer muttered about needing more wrappings.

“I’m here, Petal. I’m here.”

**

“This is my fault,” Orestes whispered.

The company had settled into the ruins as a camp for the night, finding the rooms (where there wasn’t blood or any bodies) more comfortable than the outside ground. Pero, Oberyn, and Orestes were the last three to retire from the roaring fire they had made in the remnants of the great hall.

Pero agreed but kept that to himself. “How?”

“We travelled by Myr weeks ago. But I could not bear to part from my lady’s side—I convinced her, selfishly, to let me take her to see Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh. She had marveled at everything Norvos and Braavos had offered—even Lorath had made her wonder like a child. I wanted to give her more of that, to show her all I could.”

“And then you were set upon by zealots. Probably followed you from Dagger Lake.”

Orestes shook his head. “Our party never neared that pirate hive. The closest we came to it was when she insisted on seeing Valysar. That little town of no consequence.”

Oberyn, only briefly, touched Pero’s back and he knew the prince meant it as a comfort at the mention of Pero’s former home. Orestes did not notice it.

“But she was adamant and refused to tell anyone why. But she all but disappeared for an entire day once we arrived and would not speak of her adventures—the little box she had procured never left her side and was never opened.”

Pero almost smiled at that. She had not changed—in that respect, at least.

Orestes yawned and stood from the rickety chair. “I must retire for the night. Please alert me if my lady calls for me.”

Oberyn hummed an agreement while Pero felt his face curl into a sneer as the magistrate left the hall.

“He certainly holds a candle for his lady, does he not?” Oberyn mused as soon as Orestes was out of earshot.

“She did not ask for him once,” Pero said before reaching forward to grab the jug of terrible wine left on the table and took a large gulp.

“But she’s asked for you? Hm?” Oberyn asked, snatching the jug from him. “And you’ve yet to introduce me. I am almost insulted.”

“She needs rest, princeling.” He had made sure she was comfortable in one of the largest rooms and was happy to find that her trunks, filled with her belongings, were still intact and made sure she received them before he had let her rest for the night, making sure to let the rest of the company know that she was not to be disturbed.

“I’m sure she does.” He took a drink. “But she has also been trapped, alone, with men who meant her harm for nearly a week. You were the first friendly face she saw—do not think that I misheard her. She called for you. Pero.”

“You could walk in there now and she would not be able to tell the difference.”

Oberyn tutted and Pero stole the jug back. “I believe she would.”

Pero nearly startled when Oberyn reached out and grasped his wrist, keeping him from draining the rest of the wine. His grip was firm but gentle and a hold Pero knew well. “I thought people in Essos were more willing to indulge themselves in matters of the heart and flesh. Do not be stupid.”

And somehow…that worked. Pero slipped into her room and found her sitting on the small bed, wrapped legs atop the thin blankets and a book on her lap. In the warm candlelight, she looked almost healthy. Like she was not covered in healing salve and he didn’t know there were long, angry cuts hidden by wrappings and her thin nightgown.

She looked…so much like the girl he had left behind decades ago.

Pero remembered Lady Daeryssa smiling down at her daughter, flowers twisted into her braids.

“You are special, my star. Like me.”

“Like you, Mama?”

Daeryssa nodded and grabbed the small, blue rose she had Pero fetch just that morning and pressed her thumb against one of its thorns until blood bloomed on her skin and started to trickle down her skin. Her face was serene and Pero could not look away. Her bloodied fingers pulled the petals from the rose and she carefully pressed them against her daughter’s forehead, sticking them to her skin with blood. Words he didn’t understand slipped by her lips as she pressed another petal and then another to her daughter’s face until she stripped the flower bare.

“You will be magnificent, my star. Your trials will be hard but you will always rise above.”

“Come in,” she said, setting her book aside.

Pero did as he was told and blindly set his hands in hers as she reached out for him, letting her tug him onto the edge of her bed. “How are you?”

“I will heal.” She smiled as if nothing had caused her pain and his chest hurt. “I brought you something.” She leaned back just enough to retrieve a small box from the mess of blankets.

The box was nothing spectacular, made from a polished dark wood with a simple latch and did not weigh more than his dagger. “How did you know we would see each other again?” He asked.

She only smiled and pressed the small box further into his grip. “Open it.”

And he could not tell her no. He unfastened the latch and felt his face crumple as he looked inside. His mother’s handwriting, still beautiful and tilted, drew his eye first. He grabbed the thin bit of parchment and unfurled it.

My dear boy- I love you more than words can say. You have saved us.

The rest of the letter was filled with anecdotes, telling Pero how the coin he had sent back home kept their family afloat and settled his father’s debts, allowing his mother and brothers to stay home and retain their titles and livelihoods. He had saved them. His mother had written it at least three times in her short letter.

But I still wish I witnessed you grow into the man you are today. Come home. You are always welcome.

He quickly let the letter curl in on itself again and shoved it back in the box, knowing she was watching him, face serene and almost unreadable. He reached into the box again and let his fingers brush against something cold and smooth. A shuddering breath pushed its way out of his lung as he pulled out a small, carved wooden wolf that fit in his palm. He raised it up to press the well-worn wood against his lips, just once, before placing it gently back into the box.

“You met my family.”

“I did,” she said. “They were very kind.” She paused. “And they smile so often. I almost didn’t believe you were related to them.”

He huffed. “You never let me have a moments’ peace, Petal.”

“You were the only peace I knew as a child,” she responded.

Pero sat with her for hours under their tree after her mother had disappeared and the petals remained on her face, only falling one by one after the sun had set, leaving little bloody thumbprints across her skin. He tried to press them back onto her skin without success, and she only giggled at his attempts, leaning into each of his touches and letting him try and try again.

She collected all the petals as they fell and Pero had given up on trying to re-stick them.

“What are you doing?”

“Practice.” He watched her reach out and scratch her palm against the broken bark of the tree, slicing open her palm in a single movement.

He squawked and moved to grab her hand but she curled her fingers into a fist, crushing the petals against her bloodied palm. She took a single, long breath through her nose and then unclenched her fist. The petals rose from her bloodied hand and floated up into the air as if pulled by invisible strings. They swirled around the pair before, with another long breath, she let them fly away, disappearing into the thick of the forest.

She laughed then, a light sound that had blood rushing to his cheeks for a reason he could not explain or pinpoint at that moment. All he could mutter as she looked at him, eyes twinkling and a giggle still on her lips was…”petal.”

“Why did you leave?” She asked as he tucked the small box away into his tunic.

Pero froze. “I had to.”

A/N: please let me know what you think! I hope you guys like this! there will be three chapters. 

#oberyn martell x reader #pero tovar x reader #oberyn martell imagine #pero tovar imagine #game of thrones imagine #asoiaf #game of thrones #the great wall

[ecrivant]

on intimacy pt. 1 | levi ackerman

(levi ackerman x reader)

as the trauma of soldierhood begins to weigh on you, you turn to levi for comfort.  a quiet exploration of damage and the intimacy shared by two.  read pt. 2 here.

a.n. – stop me if you’ve heard this one before: a fanfic where the reader has a tender encounter with levi in his office.  i think i’m on the brink of discovering a writing trope no one has ever used before!  don’t worry, we explore the incertitude and conflation of platonic and romantic intimacy, i swear i’m different, and i swear this is a character study and not just wish fulfilment.  

touch is the reader’s love language.  

word count: 1.9k

Ferric miasma hangs in the air, low to the earth, a gauzy tulle of dawn fog.  Beneath it, terra inked with sanguine dew.  You stand above your parents’ mangled corpses, still.  Blood roars in your ears, your face pulsates, hyperaware. You hear your eyes dart between your mother’s slack jaw, ripped from the cheek, and your father’s deranged expression, one eye hanging from the socket by a tendinous cord. Freckled complexions washed in red.  Lifeless amputees, limbless, silent, barely even there.  

An immense umbra engulfs you; you have no feeling as you’re lifted into the air, ascending towards an obscure ether, pulled away from the statuesque corpses that lie beneath, overlooking a perverted vignette, figures composed in beguiling agony, a foreground washed in vermilion.  A feverish vise clutches your unmoving form, and soured iron permeates your nostrils as teeth crush your skull—you hear the sickening crunch of bone, the pulping of your brain as it seeps between fractures, but you feel nothing at all.  

You woke with a heave in the dark of the barracks, unclenching your teeth and forcing your jaw apart.  You searched in the dark until eyes find the dawn light.  Everything was still; no one had stirred at your outburst.  Why dream of them now? Your index and middle fingers wrapped around your wrist, feeling rapid palpitations, matched with an inbound throbbing behind your eyes.  You focused on a gouge in the wall opposite and listened to the steady breathing of your teammates, slowing your pulse, grounding yourself.  

An ambient hum hung in the air: the world’s low, ceaseless murmur.  In the white noise, you heard remnants of a familiar melody—something quiet your mother used to sing to you, something formless and only heard in that vague void between wakefulness and sleep.  Knowing it wasn’t there yet still listening intently, you grasped onto the wispy tones, and found yourself lost in nothing, and allowed yourself to fall into a dreamless sleep.  Your mind produced no images, yet you sensed an incoming danger that left you restless.  

You came to with Mikasa gently shaking your shoulder.  Her expectant gaze hung above you.  

“Training starts in ten minutes.”  Said with gentle urgency.  

You were inexplicably struck still, as if the thought of getting out of bed was paralyzing.  You sat up but didn’t move further.

“Don’t wait up.”

You felt a hand in yours as Mikasa kneeled, quietly examining you.  Her concerned eyes would be too much; you kept your gaze in your lap. She ran her thumb over your hand, as if to ask if you were okay.  No response, and her hand slipped out of yours.  She drifted towards the door.  

“I’ll tell Captain Levi.”

—

A lifeless automaton, you eventually found yourself on the field just as everyone began warming up, feeling Levi’s eyes on your face as you wordlessly slipped into the drill.  

“I expect punctuality at all times, not just when you feel like it.”  Like a knife.

Steel eyes, annoyed.  Concerned.  You let the reprimand linger as dull shame settled in your chest.

“Yes, sir.”  You apologized with your gaze.  

—

Your tailbone struck the ground hard, birthing a shockwave that emanated through your spine.  You made no moves to get up.  Your respiration had ceased, and you fought against your sternum for breath. Hands gripped at loose soil, desperate for tangibility.  

Eren began to gloat but cut himself off when you didn’t respond to his outreached hand.  

“Hey, what’s with you?”  He kneeled as he spoke, leveling himself with your gaze.  

You swallowed hard, tasting tears.  Panicked. The thought of death lorded over you, taunting, ready to crush you underfoot.  

“I—I don’t know.”

You were vaguely aware of Eren calling for Mikasa, strong hands lifting you, bodies supporting your dead weight.  The infirmary, hazy voices, ‘trauma,’ disembodied grey eyes, nervous observation. Void, melting away, drifting.  

Your sleep was restless, filled with ravaged bodies, flayed flesh.  As you finally awoke, you watched the glistening sinew creep up the walls, branded into your vision.  Wordless, fearful babbling.

A strong hand pressed into your shoulder, pushing you back onto the mattress.  Levi stood above you, expressionless, eyes roaming over your face. His hand remained until your expression calmed.  The croak of your voice, your uncontrolled panic—you were humiliated.  Eyes looking anywhere but him.

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

He scoffed.

“Stop thinking.”  He let go of your shoulder and held out a glass of water, bringing it to your lips to drink.  A worthless invalid.

He stayed with you for hours.  Neither spoke.  At one point he asked if you wanted him to leave—you admitted you didn’t.  

Your hand rested on the edge of the bed, and he grabbed it without thinking.  In spite of yourself, your face flushed at the contact.  His touch was comfort, an unspoken assurance.  When the nurse came to check on you, his grip stayed firm.  

You were released the next day to a group of concerned teammates.  Levi ordered them to stand down, but the words of your superior were no match for their worry.  Despite insisting you were fine, they treaded lightly, on eggshells.  Eren led you to the dining hall, a plate already prepared and sitting at the table with Mikasa and Armin.  

“Please treat me like I’m normal.”  Spoken with a hollow smile, a slapdash attempt at humor, normalcy.  

Flushed, Armin rushed to insist you were normal; Eren denied any special treatment; Mikasa watched you carefully, as if she were afraid a heavy gaze would break you.  You did feel the weight of her gaze, this time meeting her eyes, and you felt your chest swell.  Her concern cut through you, warming your face.  You tried to calm the rest of your friends down, but things began to escalate when Connie and Sasha joined in, mentioning they were glad you weren’t mentally ‘fucked up,’ to which Jean shushed them.  Glares and overlapping, apologetic rambling overwhelmed you.  You were grateful for their concern but only in doses.

Levi eyed your antics from his seat, recognizing your discomfort.  He crossed the room in long strides, silencing the table with his arrival.

“Can I speak to you in my office?”  His words were deadpan, but his eyes held no malice.  You nodded, grateful he read you, and followed him out of the room.

—

“You’re not to train for the rest of the week.”

You couldn’t suppress your shock, which quickly turns to shame.

“Captain, I’m sorry.  I won’t let my emotions interfere—”

Levi rolled his eyes, cutting you short.  You shifted from foot to foot, unsure of what to say.

“It’s not punishment. Believe it or not, I’m actually concerned for your wellbeing.”  Deadpan. You had assumed you would have acclimated to his way of speaking, but it still gave you pause.  You couldn’t help you felt patronized by him.

You stood in front of his desk, looking at his cheeks, his forehead, feigning eye contact.  His gaze bore into you.  

“You’re not a special case. This has happened before.”  Again, that equivocal, Levi-specific dialect. Did he mean to comfort you?  You stayed silent, implicitly encouraging him to explain.  

“It just—it happens when a soldier isn’t,” he paused, breaking eye contact, choosing his words carefully, “hardened.”  

He returned his gaze to you.

“It doesn’t mean you’re weak, brat.  You’re just still sensitive.”

You processed his words.

“How do you become strong?”

His eyebrows raised, fractionally.  He set his jaw, his neutral expression returning.

“I just said this doesn’t mean you’re weak.  You are strong.”

“I mean, how do I avoid more of these episodes?”  You didn’t mean to raise your voice—you despised the desperation that slipped through.

“Just watch more people die.”  He eyed your reaction, taking in your surprise.  

“I don’t mean to be callous: it’s just a matter of exposure.  Each death you see or cause or cannot prevent carves at your insides until you’re… hollow. And you have to let it happen.”

You were silenced, winded by a realization of a reality of unceasing cruelty.  It was something you had always known, but to be faced with it so explicitly? You felt eviscerated.  

“Many die before they reach that point—empathetic and afraid.”  

Your knees threatened to buckle—Levi was quick to rise and support you.  He apologized for going too far.  

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

You insisted it was not his fault.  He only spoke a truth you were simply not ready to face.  Levi led you over to his desk chair and you shakily sat.  He stood before you, unmoving, before walking away, giving you space—moments later, deciding against it, he turned at the heel and returned, kneeling in front of you.  He grabbed your hands, and you felt his breath on your face.  Meeting his gaze, you saw an uncharacteristic softness, iris wavering.  You wondered if he liked speaking to you, holding you.  You wondered what would happen if you placed a chaste kiss on his lips.  Levi’s smell struck you—it was familiar, nostalgic; it reminded you of home.  Of a past, forgotten.  Of the sunshine streaming through your grandmother’s kitchen window, the smell of your father’s tobacco pipe, your mother’s vanilla perfume.  You couldn’t remember the last time you imagined any of them alive, rather than lifeless viscera.  

You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, retreating as fast as you had advanced.  It was chaste, demure, and you watched Levi remain motionless, wide-eyed.  Red shame crept up your neck into your face, but you instead focused on his shock—what was the last thing that truly surprised your captain?

Your captain—captain.

Reality set in and your eyes widened in horror.  Impulse driven by an entirely constructed, drunken, nostalgic familiarity.  You felt more faint than you had in days.  It wasn’t even an especially passionate moment, more awkward and quiet and, frankly, underwhelming.  Maybe that was what made a first kiss special: the unique mundanity of it.  You wished you could revel in the indistinctness of the moment—but instead, you fearfully eyed Levi, half-embarrassed, half-angry that you would so blatantly and thoughtlessly overstep that boundary.  You retraced your thoughts: had you ever been captivated by Levi, or were you caught up in the moment of comfort he offered you?  The intimacy of familiarity, amity?  Maybe a bit of both.  

You watched as he finally recovered, defaulting to his normal expression.  He didn’t have a tell, except for the deep red that tinged the tips of his ears.  He pulled away, returning to his standing position and cutting you off before you had the chance to speak.  

“Don’t apologize.  You didn’t do anything wrong.”  He spoke firmly, softly.  Idiosyncratically Levi.

Emboldened by some deep irrationality, you spoke, not shying away from his gaze: “It felt nice, sir.”

He was silent again, short-circuited by your boldness.  You hung, suspended, in the tension of the room.  He eventually confirmed your statement, agreeing.  

“It did.”  Bewildering for the both of you.

You insisted you needed to go back to your room and try to get some sleep, a cumbrous mess of meaning and filler words, and Levi didn’t stop you.  There was no declaration of love, nor did he beg you to stay the night with him.  You stood up and left, and as you shut the door, you looked back and caught a smile break through Levi’s look of consternation.

— 

haha!  part 1 of 2!  i know we’re all horny and want levi to just ravage us, but i honestly think he wouldn’t know what to do with intimacy and physical touch and i will die on this hill if i have to!  anyway, feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated!

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #attack on titan imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot imagines #aot x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi x you #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #writing!

[quidfree]

can you Please write the scene with bakugou's piercing SGDHEFEH the concept is too funny to me !!!

anon you’re lucky 報復性熬夜 is a concept i am firmly attached to so here i am at 1 am rattling this off instead of getting my beauty sleep. please excuse the standard of writing as a result

by the second day, katsuki is seriously considering agreeing to todoroki’s earlier and ambiguously sincere proposal that they play i spy.

he doesn’t know what it is about this particular job that’s so unbearable. no, scratch that- of course he knows what’s unbearable; it’s sat right next to him on a too-small chair in their too-small room staring impassively out of a too-small window. but he’s been thrown into so much shit with icyhot you’d think he’d developed some kind of immunity by now, the way vaccines microdose you on viruses so you can resist the real thing. call katsuki an antivaxxer, he guesses, because he has overdosed on todoroki ever since he met the asshole and he’s still not ready for how far up the wall he’s driving him when they’re stuck together for two straight days without a breather or any contact with the outside world.

cards on the table: stake-outs aren’t his thing. he does them just fine, fuck you very much, but he doesn’t like ‘em. why would he? they’re some ungodly blend of extremely boring and extremely tense, where nothing happens right up until way too long into it and then everything goes to shit unprompted. it’s rare he ever gets called in on jobs like this- people tend to assume he lacks the temperament for it, for one, and for another he’s too useful to lock away for days on end. it’s only because their suspected target is so insanely volatile and dangerous that it’s the two of them waiting for her to show her ugly face- no one else is even allowed in the perimeter. which is fucking fine, but he just wishes the cops would get their shit together for once and actually have the proof ready by the time they call the pros in so he doesn’t have to wait before he goes in guns blazing. instead they talked some bullshit about how critical of a stage this was and blah blah fifteen years of (obviously mediocre) work had gone into setting this trap, etc etc. the point is that it’s led to katsuki stuck in the world’s most disgusting little apartment, staring out of a splintered window for two-going-on-three days with no one but the world’s most annoying prodigy to keep him company. the place is such a dump they’re sleeping on mats in sleeping bags. it’s like fucking UA summer camp, and at this point he’d take the kidnapping over the waiting.

day one wasn’t so bad, right up until he realized there would be a day two. day two is bad from start to finish. they’re supposed to take turns on watch but there’s fuck all else to do except sit on their phones, and katsuki can only quote tweet so much dumb shit before he gets bored. he can’t talk to anyone outside because of confidentiality bullshit, and there’s no point checking work shit when he can’t do anything from where they are. so it’s either silently watching the warehouse or talking to todoroki, and todoroki is a fucking terrible conversationalist.

the thing with icyhot is this: katsuki doesn’t hate him, okay. like, he hates him, but also not really. they’re, at a push, maybe, sort of, friends. verging on close ones. not that he’d say so, but after the amount of dramatic self-sacrifices and final stands against a joint enemy they’ve endured he can’t really muster the energy to argue otherwise. todoroki’s tolerable, sort of maybe. usually katsuki borderline likes working with him, because if nothing else he’s good at what he does, and they know each other too well to be anything but in sync in the field. if they were doing almost anything else he’d be relieved at the choice of pairing.

they are not, however, doing anything else, and todoroki still fucking sucks at talking like a normal person. when he’d woken katsuki up for his shift of night-watch he’d loomed over him ominously like a fucking ghoul and said, voice belying no humor: “do you think plants can feel pain?”

there’s fucking nothing to talk about. anything interesting is essentially vetoed because it’d inevitably distract them from the whole intent observation thing, and katsuki hates small talk on a normal day but especially when todoroki’s doing his ‘alien attempting earth dialect’ bit and asking him about weather or the tokyo transportation system or whatever. so they just sit in semi-silence and occasionally go on very stupid tangents katsuki is glad no one can witness and remain overall bored out of their fucking skulls.

by day three they’ve already exhausted i spy and also the alphabet game and hangman, and katsuki draws the line at tic-tac-toe. todoroki looks implacable as always but his eye has started twitching a little. katsuki tries to think of literally anything that could plausibly take up their time and not take their eyes off the window, comes up short. twister is not a good idea even ignoring their lack of a board. shop talk is so very tempting, but he’s not losing this villain and wasting two days’ suffering because they get carried away on some long-winded discussion, so that’s not an option either.

“how’s your ear?” todoroki says, and at first katsuki thinks he’s really fucking lost it if he’s started asking after the wellbeing of his individual body parts, but then he remembers the last time they saw each other katsuki was throwing himself into the path of some jackass with a trumpeting quirk who nearly blew out his eardrum, so he guesses half ‘n half’s not entirely insane yet. he shrugs, shifts in his chair.

“fine. couldn’t hear shit from it for like three straight days, though. and my balance was fucked.”

“it hasn’t scarred at all.”

“yeah. lame place for a scar,” katsuki says, flexing his fingers absently. they’re all of them more roughed up than they were at UA, but talent and good healers have kept him mostly intact, give or take a few big nasties like the time he got gutted in first year or his near loss of an eye around graduation. privately he suspects genetics have dealt him a good hand, what with his gene donor’s perfect skin, but then todoroki doesn’t have that excuse and he’s not scarred anywhere ugly except the obvious, though katsuki could point blind to most of the nasties he’s accumulated under his suit.

not that he thinks about what’s under todoroki’s suit. god, he needs to get out of here.

“i don’t know,” todoroki is saying now, thoughtful. “a lot of people have ear-scars, no? from piercings.”

“that’s different,” katsuki says, immediately contrarian, even as he thinks about it. by the warehouse a truck stalls, but then moves on, lessening his momentary excitement. “most people don’t let that shit heal. unless you’re a moron there’s no point getting a hole jabbed through your ear if you’re not sure you want it.”

“would you?” todoroki asks, mildly curious, and taps his ear where katsuki can see him in the window’s reflection. “get a piercing, i mean.”

“what’s it to you?”

todoroki rolls his eyes at him like he’s being pointlessly difficult, which he maybe is a little. “i don’t know. i think it would suit you.”

“yeah?” katsuki sniffs, mollified and trying not to show it. it’s always a mistake to let icyhot know when his obvious ploys are working. “been thinking about it?”

“i can hardly sleep at night for thinking about it,” todoroki deadpans, which makes katsuki scowl and stomp down on the extremely unwarranted flush crawling up his neck in response.

“fuck off. i guess i’d do like one or two.”

“really? you always say no to tattoos.”

“that’s different. i don’t trust some asshole to draw a fucking infinity sign on my knee or whatever. sticking a hole through an ear is hard to fuck up, and you barely register it after. if you get a shitty tattoo you have to think about it all the time.”

“if it’s easy then why don’t you have any?” todoroki asks, but he sounds genuinely curious more than like he’s trying to catch him out, so katsuki thinks about it honestly.

“don’t have the time. ‘s not like i can really afford to pencil in an afternoon to the nearest parlor or whatever just for that.”

“i read you can pierce your ears with a needle.”

“i guess i haven’t fucking thought about it that much, then,” katsuki grumbles, forever irked by todoroki’s smart mouth. problem solver his ass. the guy goes around making problems for everyone.

they sit in silence for a beat, watching the breeze rattle the wooden planks barricading a window opposite them, and then he thinks needle, and does some very quick mental arithmetics to reach the conclusion that todoroki is probably also landing on, judging by the way he blinks when katsuki briefly glances his way. 

he thinks about the job, and how close he’d come to throttling todoroki during i spy, and the great dawning nothingness ahead of them for fuck knows how long still. at the very worst, they have to start moving with a needle in his ear. 

“pass me your medikit.”

todoroki does, but when katsuki unzips the pack he shifts. “it’d be easier if i did it.”

“it’s not rocket science,” katsuki mutters, considering the needle critically before glancing back out of the window. “'s not like i give a shit about precise location.”

“i’m just saying i wouldn’t have to go in blind. and you can keep watch while i do it.”

“or you can keep watch while i do. same shit.”

todoroki only shakes his head, because unlike some people who shall not be named he is not so incredibly psychosexually attached to offering help where it isn’t wanted. “fine.”

katsuki eyes the window, squints at his ear. tissue’s the best bet- he thinks he could probably manage cartilage fine, but on the off chance they have to drop everything and run he doesn’t want to accidentally snap a bone and start the fight inconvenienced. lobe it is.

“wait,” todoroki says, just when he’s focused, and then reaches over without removing his gaze from the window to press two fingers to the needle, tip going blisteringly red-hot before he releases it. cauterised. their kit’s sterilised anyway, but katsuki grunts his begrudging thanks, repositions himself. 

“wait,” todoroki says again, and this time katsuki can’t help but turn to glare at him where he’s still watchfully staring outside.

“fucking what, icyhot?”

“two seconds,” todoroki promises, gaze flickering his way for half a second with something like self-effacing amusement before he turns his eyes dutifully away and reaches his other arm around to pinch his ear, which flares cold so quickly katsuki hisses even as his cheeks heat. fucking weirdo.

“could’ve just said,” he mutters, ignoring his not at all jumpy pulse to refocus on the task at hand as todoroki does that obnoxious lip-twitch thing that means he’s smiling internally. 

physics dictates that he keep his wrist at an angle if he wants the needle to come out right, so he does, braces and jabs. it goes so easy he almost doubts his own success, not even the slightest twinge of pain ensuing. he twists for good measure, removes the needle, watches tiny beads of blood emerge from the piercing. 

well, that was anticlimactic, katsuki thinks, retrieving an anti-bacterial wipe for the needle, and then pauses, staring at the window.

“motherfucker.”

“what?”

“what the fuck am i supposed to put through this?”

todoroki’s mismatched eyes go gratifyingly wide in the window, and for one spectacularly braindead moment two of the world’s most outstanding pro-heroes stare at one another in a shitty broken window with equal amounts of retroactive dismay. 

“um,” todoroki says, or as close to ‘um’ as todoroki will ever say. katsuki wishes dearly he was still of an age where he could throw him through a wall. then his eyes focus elsewhere, sharpening with what could pass as professional focus but is mostly naked relief. “um.”

um in-fucking-deed. by the warehouse, a door has just opened a sliver.

“you owe me a fucking earring,” katsuki declares, but so fast it lacks any aggression, already halfway out the window by the time he finishes speaking, atrophied limbs reviving with an ecstatic chemical burn as fresh air hits their faces. 

god. if he ever gets stuck on stake-out duty again he’s sleeping by himself under a parked car or some shit. 

they make disgustingly quick work of the fight, in the end, days of pent-up frustration and skull-numbing boredom leaving them so bursting with power that it’s almost embarrassing for the villain, but when the first kow-towing police officer reaches them full of praise and suggestion that they handle another job he has queued up they chorus a ‘no’ so violent the guy actually jumps. 

todoroki’s not so bad, katsuki thinks fondly, watching his face slide into frigid blankness with absolutely no idea of how shitless he’s scaring the officers around them. it’s almost enough to make him forget to kick his ass for the enormously shitty banter he’d had to endure vis-a-vis his still-bleeding ear throughout the entire tragically short fight.

almost. not quite. who even knew there was a ‘gay ear’?

#qui parle #qui ecrit #anon #todobaku #bnha #tdbk

[dimigex]

Genma, sauntering into the Anbu barracks: look what I found

Kakashi, eyeing her up and down: we don't take strays

Genma, gesturing at Tenzo

Kakashi: fine, just the one, and she better pull her weight

I demand this in drabble form! This is your fault. You started this. Anbu Fynta is a must. 😂

Leaning over the map, Kakashi frowned at the pencil marking near the border of The Land of Fire and The Land of Rivers. He traced his finger in a lazy circle around the X and sighed, trying to recall the layout of the forest there. “Is this the best they’ve got?”

“Unfortunately.” Tenzo raised his shoulders in a shrug from the opposite side of the small desk where they worked. “The team has no idea what happened. Genma was there one minute and gone the next. They agreed on an explosion of some sort, like lightning from a clear sky, and a tremendous amount of chakra in the air.”

Kakashi huffed another sigh and dropped into the chair. He popped each finger methodically, trying to work through a problem that his mind didn’t fully grasp. “It’s been two weeks and all we have is a weird energy fluctuation? What does that even mean?”

Tenzo shrugged again and ran his fingers through his hair, combing out a stray tangle. Kakashi watched the movement, wondering when he should tell the boy that it would be better to cut the locks short so that they couldn’t be used against him in combat. So far, Tenzo hadn’t needed the warning and Kakashi hadn’t convinced himself to bring it up. “They didn’t have a better way to describe it. If you’d read the report about it—”

“Maa, maa,” Kakashi grumbled, ignoring the guilt for not combing through the background of every mission that he took. He hated this part of being a team leader and had cited it as the reason that he wasn’t qualified to do so at every opportunity. Nobody listened. “I guess there is nothing we can do except go out there and see--”

The door swinging open cut Kakashi’s words short. The man that sauntered into the room looked out of place. Kakashi had expected the familiar grey and black of Anbu since they were in the barracks, but this was something foreign. Dark grey pants glowed with a leather like sheen in the pale light cast by the single lightbulb above the desk. The deep maroon long sleeved shirt strained against the muscles in the man’s shoulders, and a thick black leather strap circled high around the man’s chest. A thinner piece hung over one shoulder, securing something high on his ribs. Another piece strapped to the man’s thigh.

Weapons, the subconscious part of Kakahsi’s mind warned. He reached for a kunai as his gaze slid higher. It took Kakashi’s mind a stuttering moment to recognize the face staring back at him with a self-assured grin. Genma wasn’t wearing his signature bandana, and the senbon that clung to his lips was missing. Fury and relief welled in Kakashi’s chest. “Where the hell have you been?”

“You wouldn’t fucking believe me if I told you.” Genma laughed and nodded behind him as he stepped into the room. “Look what I found.”

Kakashi realized for the first time that an unfamiliar woman stood behind Genma. The way that she stood at his side spoke of familiarity. Kakashi’s grey eyes narrowed as he took in the newcomer. She stood a head shorter than Genma, dark eyes throwing a challenge at Kakashi. Her thick blond hair was tied away from her face in a braid, and her lips were pulled down in a frown as she looked at Tenzo and Kakashi.

Kakashi scoffed under his breath then shook his head. “Take her back to wherever you found her. We don’t take strays.”

“I’m not—” The woman growled, only to be cut off immediately.

Genma raised one eyebrow in Tenzo’s direction and scoffed under his breath. “Oh, really?”

Kakashi bristled at the suggestion, looking at the younger man that he’d taken under his wing. Tenzo was hardly untried or under prepared for Anbu. He’d come from Root for kami’s sake; that required more training and secrecy than Anbu. The woman glaring at Kakashi from Genma’s side could have been anyone. He sighed, looking at Tenzo again and felt something behind his sternum tighten as he shrugged. “Fine, but she better pull her weight.”

Laughing, Genma slung an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “See? I told you there was nothing to worry about. Kakashi, meet Fynta. Fynta, Kakashi.”

Fynta dipped her chin in greeting, but the scowl on her face remained as she stared at Genma. “Why do I feel like you just signed me up for another tour with the SIS?”

Kakashi frowned, wondering what the words meant as Genma’s grin sharpened. “Look on the bright side, at least this gets Theron off of our backs for a little while.”

“I get the feeling that he’s not much different.” Fynta nodded toward Kakashi, brushing her hand over the pouch that hung at one hip.

Kakashi followed the movement with narrowed eyes. “You know I can hear you, right? Are you going to tell me where the hell you’ve been for the past two weeks?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Genma chuckled, shaking his head. Then, he frowned. “Wait, did you say weeks?”

“You’ve been missing for two weeks; your team only just made it back to Konoha.” Kakashi gestured at the map that he and Tenzo had been studying.

Genma moved closer and ran a finger over the markings along the border, frowning to himself. The woman followed him toward the table, then started laughing. “He was kriffing right, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe,” Genma sighed, chewing his lower lip in place of his senbon. “But, he must have made a mistake somewhere. Otherwise, the timeline would have dropped me back where it was supposed to, alone.”

“Will someone please explain what the hell is going on here?” Kakashi growled; the annoyance at being left in the dark for so long sharpened his tone. Genma and Fynta were rambling about things that made no sense. Kakashi still hadn’t been able to place the woman’s dialect. “And who the hell is she?”

Genma snapped out of his thought process to glance at Fynta, then sighed at Kakashi. “I think you better sit down, this might take a while.”

#Dimi Answers #Dimi Drabbles #Cinlat #Genma #Fynta #Naruto meets swtor #Anbu!Fynta #The world is not ready

[wonder-womans-ex]

Curtain Call

Act One, Scene Four

Wednesday morning dawns to see Sirius Black slowly open his eyes, stretch his legs and arms one by one, shove James onto the floor as payback for the previous night, and immediately begin to panic. 

Today is the day he either goes back or he doesn’t. 

In the meantime, he stomps down the hall into his bedroom to change. After all, he’s been in these clothes all last night and a good portion of yesterday, and ‘I-realistically-could-have-and-actually-did-wake-up-like-this’ is really not the look he wants. Instead, he struggles valiantly to decide between suave and drop-dead gorgeous. 

On the one hand, he could go with his personal spin on the classic bad boy: button up shirt under a leather jacket, hair carefully mussed, slim black jeans. But he knows from experience Remus doesn’t like bad boys. Remus likes him. 

Or, well, he did. 

The other hand it is, then—denim overalls with fishnets showing through the holes in the knees, his old Blue Jays shirt, and, after a good half hour spent in the bathroom, a dusting of silver eyeshadow paired with eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut glass. 

James visibly brightens when he walks back into the kitchen. “Can I braid your hair? Please? Please let me braid your hair.”

He lets James braid his hair. He always does. James is good at it, too—he only pulls Sirius’s hair hard enough to hurt once, and even that’s only because Elvendork bumps his elbow. In the mirror afterwards, Sirius turns his head to and fro and admires his friend’s handiwork. 

It’s one thick french braid tied with a red scrunchie at the bottom. He blows at the two tendrils that hand near his face. “Perfectly done, Prongs,” he says. “As always.” 

“Thanks. Now go write some books and win back your man.”

Sirius manages to not to point out that, A), he’s a long way away from full-length novels, and B), Remus broke up with him for a reason and is therefore probably not looking to take him back. James would just ignore him, anyway. He has a tendency to do that. 

This time around, he finds the Rogers lecture room without incidence. Unfortunately, he underestimated himself when it came to leaving the apartment, and he ends up already standing outside nearly twenty minutes before he’s technically supposed to be there. Someone’s inside, judging by the voices he can hear. One of them is recognizable as Lily Evans’s thick maritime dialect, and the other—

Fucking hell. 

It’s Remus. 

Sirius may not be here to win Remus back, but he never said anything about not showing him what he’s missing out on. So he strides into the lecture hall as confidently as he can, grinning when both Remus and Lily’s head turn towards him. He focuses on the latter, giving Remus the same out-of-sight-out-of-mind treatment he himself received the previous week. 

“Hi,” he says brightly. “I realize I’m a little early—sorry about that, by the way—but I’ve got time to kill and I was wondering if you need help with anything? Setting up, or…”

By some miracle, he manages to trail off in a way that is decidedly not awkward. Sirius: 1. Remus: god knows how many by now. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Lily says. “Wait actually—you know how to use a photocopier, eh?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I need you to run down to the staff room and make nineteen photocopies of this.” She pulls her backpack off and roots through it for a moment, finally pulling a slightly crumpled piece of paper out triumphantly. When Sirius takes it, flattening it out against a desk, he feels her—and, next to her, Remus—eyeing him curiously. 

“Where’s the staff room?” he asks at the same time as she blurts out, “Do I know you?”

Sirius doubts she’s talking about their brief interaction last week. He’s not entirely sure what she does mean, but at least he’s narrowed it down a little.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

“No, Lily,” Remus finally says, voice halfway between chilling and resigned. “You don’t. I do.”

Both Sirius’s and Lily’s heads turn to look at him so quickly it would seem hilarious to an outside spectator. “What do you mean, you know him?”

“He’s… well. Sirius, I’m sure you know Lily by now. Lily, meet Sirius, my ex-boyfriend.”

In the past, Sirius has heard the phrase ‘the silence was deafening.’ This silence is not deafening; it’s suffocating. 

At least, until something registers in Lily’s expression and she turns on her heel, taking a step towards Remus, who backs away. For good reason, too—she’s clearly on the warpath. 

“Sirius? Sirius Black? Sirius Orion fucking Black? That’s him?”

Remus manages one minuscule nod, eyes blown wide with fear. “And he’s here? R—” she breaks off, pausing a moment before continuing. “John Lupin, I don’t believe you.”

“Look, Lily, I can explain—”

“Explain to him. Show him where the staff room is, because he clearly knows nothing.” 

“Okay,” Sirius protests, “I think that’s a little—”

“Go. I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten, and if either of you is still here when I open them again there is going to be bloodshed.” 

There is no bloodshed, because they are not there when she opens her eyes. Instead, they are out in the hall, Remus leading Sirius towards the elevator. 

Much like with Lily the previous week, they do not speak. Even when Remus courteously holds the staff room door open, all Sirius gives him is a short, sharp nod. Somehow, without so much as interacting, they manage to work out a system: Sirius puts the initial page into the photocopier, and Remus does everything else. 

He turns away as Remus presses the buttons, and then he waits. There’s a faint beep beep and then silence except for the sound of paper being spit out of the machine. 

It is, by far, the most awkward silence in the history of silences. 

When nineteen copies have been made, Remus gathers them up and hole punches them. Someone should really say something. Remus clearly isn’t going to, so Sirius says the one thing he can think of. 

“Why’d you do it?”

The one benefit to asking this, out of every question out there, is that Remus can’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “I did something stupid.”

“Are you saying you broke up with me because you did something stupid, or that breaking up with me was the stupid thing?”

“I—” he cuts himself off, and doesn’t speak again for a good long time. Finally, Sirius gives up, walking towards the door. He’s reaching for the handle when Remus starts again. 

“I was at a party. I was… well, I wasn’t drunk, exactly, just a little tipsy, but… I kissed someone.”

Okay, that is a bit surprising. Sirius hadn’t exactly had him pegged as the type. But then again, he hadn’t though Remus was the type to dump someone with no explanation, either. He should really work on his assumption-making skills. 

“And that correlates to breaking up with me how? Because I think I’m missing something.”

“I thought that if you found out, you’d be the one doing the breaking up.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh.”

Yet another silence. Somehow, this one is worse than the last. That was like the dream where you show up at school naked. This is the dream that you never remember, the one where you wake up crying. 

Sirius sets his shoulders. He grasps the doorknob firmly, prepared to make his escape. 

“Or maybe I would have. We’ll never know, will we? Because you dumped me first.” 

The door swings closed behind him, and if Remus says anything, he doesn’t let himself hear it.  

#sirius black #remus lupin #lily evans #james potter #cw: mentions of alcohol #cw: mentions of infidelity #sort of? #wolfstar #remus x sirius #muggle au #university au #breakup fic #I am slowly and steadily digging myself deeper into this hole aren't I #no editing we die like men

[jungkookiebus]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: tea shop owner!jjk x reader  ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: angst x fluff x eventual smut  ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: mentions of death (non-major character)  ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 11.2k sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:  you thought after three years the hurt in your heart for your dead husband would sting a little less than it did. in an attempt to clear your mind and start anew, you move to a small, coastal town. there, you find comfort in a tea shop run by a man named jeongguk. every day, at the same time, you come to the tea shop and soon start to fall for the bright-eyed man that listens to you pour your heart out. but the guilt settling in your stomach every time you think of your husband has you running from jeongguk entirely. do you have what it takes to let go?

Part of the Love Yourself The Collab. I hope you enjoy all of the wonderful stories!

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: This is part one to this installment. There is so much more story and I didn’t want it to feel extremely rushed. Picture for my heading and fic breaks are of the Aoyama Flower Market Tea House. 

The whirring of machines and the steady, monotonous beep beep beep echoed loudly in your head; ping ponging off the sides of your skull until it felt like it would break straight through the bone. A tension headache pounded behind your eyes and you pinched the bridge of your nose to alleviate some of the pain. The room’s sterile scent burned your nose and you were sure the smell had permanently seeped into your clothes. Outside, the night was quiet save for the sirens every now and then. You absently wondered if there were people out there having just as bad a night as you. There was soft, raspy breathing steadily beside you as you sat doubled over in an uncomfortable chair as your head lay on the hard hospital mattress. You stared down your arm to your fingers intertwined with his and ran your fingers softly against his skin. It was then that every alarm in the room went off. He gasped for breath as he struggled unconsciously, hands reaching out to an unknown specter. You panicked and grabbed his shoulders to keep him steady, screaming in panic for someone to help you, pressing furiously on the nurse’s button. But help never came. All at once, he went still, and his eyes focused on your face. His lips moved slowly, and he seemed to be saying something. Leaning forward, you turned your ear close enough to his face to feel his warm breath against your skin.

“Why?” he breathed.

The monitor beside you blipped one last time before hitting that too well known tone of death. Your breath caught in shock as the realization kicked in. He was gone. Nurses poured into the room seconds later and you were jolted awake as you slid from his bed.

Sitting up in the darkness you looked towards the clock. 4:34 am.

You had had that reoccurring nightmare for years.

You looked to your right at the empty space beside you and immediately fell into tears. It had been three years since he died. Some days were easier than others, some days you’d even forget about the whole thing, and then some of them were so unbearable you could barely move. You had dated your husband since high school, married in University, and you both had the whole world ahead of you. He had accomplished every goal he set for himself, got a good career, and was ready to start creating a family with you when he had received the news. Brain cancer. Very aggressive and minimal chance of an effective treatment. Your world came crashing down around you with the news. Every which direction you had expected your life to go was suddenly skewed by a landslide.

He hadn’t even lasted the month.

One second you were happily married and the breath before your next heartbeat, he was gone. He had left you well cared for, but the pain in your heart could not be softened by being financially stable after his death. It took months for you to put his bathroom things away; a few months after that you had the heart to tidy up his study, putting away reminders, and picking up the coffee cups that seemed to accumulate there; it was two years before you were able to donate his clothes; and it was almost three when you moved the book he had been reading from his bedside table.

“Is this something you really want to do?” Ki whispered cautiously over his cup of tea. Steam wafted outwards towards you as he asked the question. His glasses fogged up once more as the heat was once again directed at his face.

You smiled down at his cautious gaze and glassy eyes. “I really want to do this.”

“Tongyeong is so far away,” he pouted.

“You can visit.”

“What will his family say?”

You stared out of the café window to the bustling city streets. What would his family think? Probably glad the bitch was out of the picture. When he had died, his family was outraged to find that he left the majority of his belongings and holdings to you. They fought tooth and nail to take everything from you, but his will was legally sound and so they had no other option than to relent. Ever since, they had cut off all connection, but were still nosy, using proxies to delve for information about your life. You weren’t going off and blowing his money. You had invested most of it after you paid off the house and was living comfortably off the earnings. The only news they ever got was that ‘she’s still there, leaves the house when she needs to, gardens when she’s sad, and sits outside for long stretches of time.’ Eat that, Jung family.

You smiled to yourself then said, “Who cares? They can go fuck themselves.”

Ki snickered into his drink. Setting the cup down on the table he reached across and grabbed your hand.

“___, if this is something that you want, I support it 100%. Know that I’m here if you ever need anything.”

The move went easier than you had expected. Your therapist talked you off the ledge of a mental breakdown twice as you packed up your life. If it wasn’t for her and Ki’s unswaying friendship, you wouldn’t have been able to do it. Tongyeong was on the southern coast of Korea and was everything you ever wanted. It boasted mountain ranges and evergreen trees for miles. The small part of town you had purchased in was nestled amongst the craggy rocks of the shore, dotted with docks, several hundred boats swayed amongst their moorings, and the smell of salt was fresh on the wind each day. The home you purchased was cottage style, slightly outside of the range of “town”, but close enough to walk. There was room for you to garden and still be able to enjoy yourself if you were to put in a sitting area. This house was admittedly smaller than your last so you did sell some items of furniture you wouldn’t be needing and packed up your most treasured possessions. Windows were on each wall of the single story home, which would boast sunshine for most of the day and called for a warm house during winter. Most of your unpacking was done save for a few of the books you had yet to shelf in your new study. For now, you had your essentials and the rest could wait. You were eager to explore the town and familiarize yourself with some sort of café to enjoy some tea.

Pulling on a light sweater, you slipped from your house and down the path into town. It was lazy on this Sunday morning and you were thankful for the lack of interaction you would have had to otherwise endure. Passing a small dress shop, florist, and bakery you finally stumbled upon what you were looking for. Settled oddly, almost at an angle between two buildings sat a small, squat building. It seemed to give an almost magical aura with its soft, gray brick. The glass in the windowpanes looked old as the sun rippled across them. A green door with intricate wood carvings greeted you as you pushed it open. A rush of warm air hit you and was quickly followed by the smells of spices, something citrusy, and chocolate. Dried flowers hung from string in the windows. Behind the long, wooden bar stood floor to ceiling shelves with hundreds of jars of various teas. A library ladder stood at one end, ready to be rolled to its next destination in this journey of tea. Soft piano music came from an unseen speaker. Besides you, there was no one else in the café. You looked around thinking maybe you had made a mistake and accidentally came in while it was closed. As you were turning to leave the way you came a bright ‘hello!’ startled you into turning back around. A tall, broad chested man with black hair that fell into his eyes came out of a door behind the counter. His eyes shone bright in the lights of the café, lights you couldn’t see now that you were observing your surroundings more. The café seemed to glow as if it created its own atmosphere. It glowed even brighter as he entered the room. All at once you felt instantaneous relief wash through your body as he smiled at you.

“How can I help you?” His voice was neither very high nor low, but the lilt of his dialect calmed you.

“I, um, well…,” you trailed off.

“Let me ask you this. How can the tea help you?”

Your brow furrowed at such an odd question. You were trying to wrack your brain for some logical answer when he spoke again.

“What ails you?”

Was this turning into some health appointment?

“Tea has all kinds of healing powers. I have tea for depression, insomnia, nerve pain, chronic sinus infection, and the occasional ‘blend’ for the hypochondriacs.” He threw his fingers into air quotes at the end. “Or, you know, if you’re just into peppermint I have that too.”

He leaned against the counter and looked at you questioningly. His eyes held the same attentiveness as someone saying, ‘I’ll stand here happily for 8 hours until you decide’.

“Yea, well…sometimes…I have trouble sleeping.” You looked away shyly. Something inside you told you that if you looked him directly in his eyes, he’d know all your secrets.

You felt his gaze on your face as you pretended to read the names on all the jars.

“Nightmares?” he questioned.

Your eyes immediately met his as they widened. Your mouth fell open slightly before you snapped it shut and fixed your gaze.

“How did you know?”

“Intuition.” He leaned on the counter for a beat longer before he pushed off, grabbing the ladder and rolling it behind him. “I have just the one.”  

As he climbed the ladder you let your eyes flit over his lithe frame, probably small under that oversized sweater, but you could tell by the fitted pants he wore that he was well toned. Your cheeks burned with guilt as you thought about it.

“Take a seat,” he said as he jumped off the ladder, jar in hand, and gesturing towards the counter.

You sat down slowly on one of the bar seats, placed your bag in front of you, and watched as he moved around burners and teapots.

“Are you visiting?” he asked as he sat some water on to boil.

“No, I just moved here.”

“Oh! We rarely get anybody new around here. Small town and all.”

“Yea, it’s a really pretty town and it boasted some of the best seafood.”

He laughed as he nodded in agreement. “Some of the freshest you’ll ever get. Go down to the docks early on Saturday mornings before the sun comes up and you’ll receive the best squid you’ll ever eat.”

You laughed as he tried to get you to warm up. His banter was oddly comforting, and it seeped like honey through your veins. Your mind seemed lazy, slow and all at once at ease. The tension you held in your shoulders dissipated and the slight clench in your jaw relaxed. Chamomile, lemon balm, and something spicy wafted into your nose. The man stood there; lips pursed as he concentrated on the cup of tea steeping in front of him. The more he moved his lips the more you saw his dimple appear and disappear. He had a strong jaw that led to an equally strong neck. He was wiry; veins stood out along his neck, arms, and hands. You wondered what else he did to keep himself in such great shape besides make tea all day.

“Perfect,” he muttered as he pulled the leaves from the mug. Carefully, he sat the mug in front of you. “Now, I suggest drinking it as is, but if you want sugar, honey, or milk I’ve got it.”

“Oh, no, this is fine, thank you.” The mug was pleasantly warm in your hands. The glass was not so hot that you had to pull your hands away and the warmth seemed to shoot into your limbs. He turned away to clean up his imaginary mess as you took the first sip. If molasses were sentient and it carried healing properties for stress, then you were dunked in a vat of it. The feeling seemed to slide across your skin slowly, making sure to fill each and every crevice of your soul. You almost wanted to bow down at the feet of whoever made this blend.

“This was a good pick…,” you trailed off. You wanted to put a name to the face.

“Jeongguk.” He wiped his hands to preoccupy himself as you took another sip.

“Well, Jeongguk,” you said giving him a look of surprise, “you were spot-on knowing exactly what I needed.”

He smiled shyly as he looked down at his shoes.

“Mom always said I had a knack for it. I make the blends in house.”

You looked around in shock at the hundreds of jars that lined the wall behind him. “You made all of these?”

“Yep!” he grinned proudly as he spun to look at his work. “I live farther up in the hills. I grow a lot of tea up there; they love the humidity in the summer. I get some stuff imported from reliable, sustainable growers. But yea, these are all hand crafted by yours truly.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Yea? Well, you’re welcome to stop by any time. Hell, you could come here everyday for the next few months and try one new tea a day.”

“That sounds great, actually. My name is _____ by the way, I don’t know if I told you.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you move here?”

You’d knew he ask, but you still weren’t prepared when he did. What were you supposed to say? ‘My husband died three years ago, I’m still not over it, I wake up with nightmares every night, and I can’t sleep with my light off anymore, but everything’s great! Town is lovely!’ or do you simply say:

“Mid-life crisis.”

He snickered as the sentence came out of you dead pan.

“You look too young to be having one of those.”

“What makes you think I’m going to live much longer?” you laughed.

He doubled over in exaggeration at your joke. “No one around here has a sense of humor sometimes. Glad to meet someone that’s a little more normal.”

“Surely not everyone here is lifeless.”

“Ah, no. It’s just mostly a bunch of burly old fisherman, rich fishermen’s wives, poor fishermen’s wives for that matter too. Needless to say, it’s a mixed bunch and they don’t all get along. The hardened old timers that this is all they know, stay. The kids they had started moving away and now there’s barely any young people left in the town. Why stay here when you can be living life in Seoul or Busan.”

“What made you stay?”

“I love it here,” he said without missing a beat.

You appreciated that he took stock in the simple things. Everything about this town screamed simple and it appealed to you. This would be a no-nonsense restart to your life.

“I know what you’re thinking. He’s uneducated and knows nothing about life because he’s never left this coastal town since the day he was born.”

You shrugged at his almost correct assumption about himself.

“Well, no matter what anyone in town tells you, that’s wrong. I went to University, graduated, lived in China for a couple of years and that’s where I learned everything I needed to know about tea. I came back here with some of my savings and I opened shop. Been here ever since.”

“You seem very accomplished.”

“I feel very accomplished,” he smiled. Damn it, if that toothy grin wasn’t getting you every time. You found yourself blushing more than once as he fixed his gaze upon you, listening as if you held the universe in your hands.

You told him the bare minimum about yourself, barely scratching the surface of your depressing past. You told him where you moved from, your education background, and a few mundane aspirations you had for yourself. Luckily, a year ago you had started wearing your wedding bands on a necklace which now was tucked snugly inside your sweater. The lack of jewelry stopped him from asking any questions about your relationship status.

Once your conversation had lulled and your mug was drained, you stood up to leave.

“This was all very lovely, Jeongguk. Thank you for the suggestion in tea.”

He seemed very boyish when he smiled, but he looked to be the same age as you. Praise made him light up like a Christmas tree and you found yourself liking his smile more and more.

“Any time. Oh! And if there is a blend you’d like to try don’t hesitate to ask me.”

You gave him one last smile as you exited the tea shop. The difference in atmosphere as you stepped out was almost otherworldly. Reality seemed to tip on its axis before it readjusted itself and you were left staring dumbly on the sidewalk. You looked behind you to see if you had imagined the whole thing, but the tea shop still stood in front of you looking the exact same as when you walked in. Tendrils of anxiety pricked at your brain. The comfort of the tea shop had helped you forget for a little while, but now that you were alone and exposed to the evening air you felt an emptiness creeping back inside of you. Clinging to the last few notes of chamomile on your tongue, you held on to the feeling as you walked back home.

The next day you awoke to the sounds of seagulls gathering at the docks in the hopes of getting a stray fish that fell. You had left your windows open that night, letting in the early morning salty breeze. The smell of fresh fish carried on the wind and permeated your house. As you stretched your limbs, hopeful excitement bloomed in your chest as you thought about the tea shop and its semi-mysterious owner. You realized immediately that you slept through the entire night, not once woken up by horrible nightmares. You quickly dressed, looked yourself over in the hall mirror briefly, and stepped out into the morning air. All kinds of birds trilled in the trees and you still heard the shrill call of the seagulls closer to shore. You walked with purpose this time. You knew exactly where you were going and wanted to at least give the air of a local. You found it looking just as it had the day before.

The air inside was comfortably warm and today the shop smelled like lavender and bergamot. A patron sat at a small table near a bookcase, but the old man did not look up from his reading. Jeongguk beamed at you as he walked out holding a tray of fresh lavender scones.

He glanced towards the grandfather clock that flanked one of his walls. “Same time as yesterday. Punctual, I see.”

“And I see that not only can you make amazing tea blends but also baked goods as well,” you said taking the same place at the counter like you had the day before.

Today it sounded like he was playing music from some fantasy movie; a long, forlorn single note played, and violins dramatically sang in the background. Herbs were now placed on the line with the dried flowers and the smell of rosemary wove in and out of the calming lavender scent.  

“You can have one on me and you can tell me if it’s good or not.” He placed one on a plate before sliding it over to you. “What’ll it be today?”

He slid the tray of scones into a small bakery case and turned expectantly towards you.

“I’m feeling something fruity today.”

“Perfect,” he smiled. “You’re in luck. I had a bunch of strawberries that I dried last year that weren’t getting used. I made a strawberry and peach tea last night with just the slightest hint of vanilla.”

He bounced around excitedly like a kid showing you a new trick they had learned. He reverently put the leaves in to steep and stood idly by as he counted down the seconds until it was done. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated on not spilling a drop as he carried it over.

“How’s the scone?”

“It’s amazing. Not too much lavender, which is perfect.”

His grinned at the praise.

“Jeongguk?”

“Hm?” he was absently licking his lips and you were momentarily distracted by the action.

“You have a lot of family here?”

He stopped short with a confused look on his face, like you had caught him completely by surprise. His mouth fell open and the café lights reflected off his wet bottom lip. Questions formed in his eyes as he cleared his throat. A second later, he was smiling as if nothing had happened.

“Not anymore,” he sighed. “My sister was the last to leave maybe two years ago. My mom died right before I moved to China and my dad went to live with my brother. ‘Can’t stand to be here without her anymore.’ I get it; I just get lonely from time to time for my family.”

You picked at the scone on your plate as you tried to contemplate the best response to give him. “Do they not come visit? Do you get to go see them?”

“Oh, yeah! I visit as often as I can and my siblings still come, but my dad won’t. It’s too hard for him to be here.”

“Your mom must have been a very wonderful lady.”

You sipped quietly as you watched his eyes. He looked beyond you, out the window, at something you knew you couldn’t see even if you turned around. The muscles in his face relaxed, smile slipping, and the gleam in his eyes shined a little brighter as tears pooled in the bottom of his eyes. He sniffed quickly as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“She was.”

You weren’t going to ask more than he was willing to offer, so you smiled at him instead. He choked out a laugh as he reached for your empty plate.

“She was my biggest supporter in this endeavor.”

He turned to put the plate away and your attention wandered to the shelf of jars in front of you. How many of them were woven with the sorrowful love he held in his heart? He had so many teas with so many specific treatments that you began to wonder how much of himself Jeongguk had put into his creations.

“So, where’s your family?”

Fuck. You had to open your big mouth and ask him about the F word and now he was curious about you. You did not ask him if he were married so maybe you could skate around the subject as well.

“My parents live in Andong and I’m an only child, so no interesting siblings to speak of.”

He seemed satisfied enough with your answer and went back to busying himself with putting the jars back where they belonged.

You looked around and noticed the other man in the café had left at some point and neither of you had noticed. Soft music flowed lackadaisically through the air around you. Light filtered in through the dried flowers as the sun traveled across the sky and you watched the shadows dance on the indoor greenery. If there were a roaring fire and maybe a few lightening bugs dancing about you would have thought you were in a fairy’s house. Everything about the café seemed small and comfortable, but large and magical all at once. If Jeongguk offered to make you potions you would not have been surprised.

“Would you like anything else?” His expression was just as you had seen him when you first walked through the door, happy and full of life.

“No, actually I need to do some grocery shopping before I starve in my own home.”

“Well, if you ever want actual food I know how to cook as well.”

“Is there anything you don’t know how to do?” you asked grabbing your bag. Pulling out a few won, you laid them on the counter as you swiveled on the stool.

He mocked concentration as he looked around the room.

“Well,” he smirked, “I can’t sew.”

“I’m surprised. I’d probably not think twice about if I came here tomorrow and you had knitted me a sweater.”

“I can crochet,” he said with a point and wink in your direction.

“Of course you do.” You were laughing, already easing into a comfort you hadn’t felt with anyone for a while.

That’s when the guilt hit. It was like a punch to the stomach and as if someone had reached inside your chest and started to squeeze your heart. Your breath caught suddenly the room swayed ever so slightly around you. An echo of your husband’s voice telling you he loved you bounced around in your mind.

“Hey, are you okay?” his question was muffled at first and you weren’t sure what he said. It took only a few seconds of your addled mind to decipher his words. “You look a little pale.”

The pain in your chest eased just enough for you to retain some composure.

“I think I stood up too fast.”

“Ah, might have something to do with the altitude here. Here,” he said grabbing a jar at eye level. “Drink some of this before you go to bed tonight.” He pulled a small baggie and filled it with just enough tea to make a cup. “On the house.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” He was all smiles as he handed the baggie over.

“You spoil me.” You tried to bring humor back in the conversation, tried to be your normal self, but even you could hear the sadness in your voice.

Jeongguk seemed to notice, but only smiled when he caught your eye.

“Have a good rest of your day, _____, and don’t forget to drink that tonight.” He pointed towards the bag as he wiped the imaginary water off the same cup for the nth time. “It’ll also help you sleep.”

You felt the first set of tears start to well in your eyes. Saying a rushed goodbye, you slipped from the shop, forgoing the grocery store and walked home as fast as possible. As soon as the door shut behind you, your back connected to the wood and you slid down hard onto the floor. Fresh, hot tears streamed down your face as you sobbed into your hands. If a literal stranger showing you kindness made you feel this guilty then how were you going to survive this move? At least in the city you never really saw the same person twice unless you were loyal to a coffee shop (which you weren’t) and at your previous job no one had paid much mind to you. You internally berated yourself for being so disloyal to your husband. ‘Til death do you part and beyond. Your heart ached for him every day. Some days it was a dull pain, others you could barely get out of bed, but grief was strange; you’d often forget he was dead. It was like walking up a set of familiar stairs in the total darkness, having counted them millions of times, but every now and again you miscount and take one more step than necessary at the top. Your body lurches, panicked as if falling through space and suddenly your adrenaline is pumping because surely, you’re about to fall, then your foot hits the ground. You’re brought back to the present, a little stunned and uneasy. Your heart settles back to its normal beating and reality sets in. Some things can be forgotten, we become so used to the feeling being there that we forget we even have them until we trip up and our minds betray us; showing us just how lonely we truly are.

The house had fallen dark when you woke up on the floor. Your body was stiff and sore from having been on the ground for so long. A few hours had passed since you came home, your stomach grumbled, and you internally berated yourself for not going to the grocery store earlier. You groaned as you pushed yourself to your feet and tried to adjust to your surroundings. Having been expecting a package, you turned and opened the door not to be met with what you had planned to see there, but a small bundle with a note on top. Bending over slowly, you picked both up to inspect them more closely. The script on the cardstock was perfect, so perfect in fact that you thought it was typed but the smudges of ink gave it away.

“I didn’t see you head in the direction of the store, so I made you a bento. Hope you like it! -JJK”

You wanted to cry again but you were all out of tears. The bento was neatly sealed and placed inside a beautifully woven bag. Bringing it inside you sat it on the counter and popped open the lid. Inside was marinated beef, onigiri, steamed vegetables, and a few pieces of sushi. You grabbed a pair of chopsticks and stuck a piece of beef in your mouth and moaned inwardly. Having lived in the city your entire life you thought you had tasted it all, but this beef was cooked so perfectly it seemed to melt in your mouth. You were in the middle of enjoying this perfect meal when you heard it. A soft mew floated on the breeze and through your open window. Listening again and tilting your head in that direction, it came a little louder the second time. You walked to the window and leaned out. The night was a calm one, so the sea was quiet and all that interrupted the night was the sound of crickets…and a meow. Frowning, you ducked back inside and made your way to your back door. You rounded the house in the direction of the sound and heard it again in the bushes near your window. Pulling your phone from your pocket, you shone the light and a pair of eyes immediately glowed under one of the plants.

“Hey,” you whispered even though your nearest neighbor was several hundred meters away. The small kitten mewed again. “Where’s your mommy?” Mew? It seemed to say.

Getting on your hands and knees you crawled in its direction and much to your surprise, it bounded straight for you.

“Oh!” you cried as it jumped into your arms. Immediately, it started to nuzzle your neck and purr. “Well…okay.” You were a bit taken aback and puzzled at how soon this cat had warmed up to you. In the past, when you were around friends’ cats, they all steered cleared or hissed in your general direction.

You stood from your position and walked back inside to get a closer look at your new friend. Its fur was bright orange and even in the light its green eyes seemed to glow magically. Turning it over you discovered it was a girl.

“You’re a rare baby,” you said shifting it so that you could hold it like a baby. It played with your finger as you brushed along its belly, but it made no attempt to escape your hold.

“Kyongni,” you whispered as the name immediately popped into your head as you remembered your husband’s favorite epic, Toji.

The kitten immediately made eye contact with you and meowed loudly.

“You like that name?” You couldn’t help the smile that crept across your face. “I bet you’re hungry.”

Setting her down on the floor you reached for a piece of your dinner and handed it to her. She immediately took the meat and started chewing furiously. Before you were ready to fall into your bed you had fed her some lunch meat, made a makeshift bed in a box by yours, and found a brush to get some of the dirt from her fur. Plugging in a heating pad, you placed it beneath the blankets and placed  her inside where she instantly curled up and closed her eyes. You looked at her and thought that maybe the following days didn’t have to be so sad after all.

After you made your tea, you sat in bed and sipped at the delicious blend he had yet again nailed. Embarrassment flooded through you as you thought of your day’s encounter with Jeongguk. As much as you didn’t want to face him again you were going to have to apologize for how you acted and thank him for the food.

That night you had no dreams or nightmares.

The next morning you awoke to Kyongni mewing loudly in her box. You rolled over to see her standing, paws on the edge of the box, and looking at you as if to say, “It’s about time you woke up.”

“Hey, sweet baby.” You swung your legs over the side of your bed and reached into the box. “Let me get cleaned up and find something for you at the store.”

An hour later, you had laid a few newspapers down just in case, sat out a bowl of water, and a promise to Kyongni that you’d be back later. She simply meowed and jumped onto your couch and onto the windowsill she had discovered.

Your walk would take you past the tea shop so you figured you would bite the bullet and pop inside. The shop was bustling, and it was the most amount of people you had seen in one place since you moved here. A group of older women sat at a table near the windows gossiping about someone who had recently left their book club for another, the same mysterious man you had seen was sitting at his same spot reading the newspaper, and a very disheveled mom was enjoying her first sip of tea as her baby sat slumbering in its carrier beside her. Jeongguk was busy helping a teenager pick a tea, ensuring her that it had more caffeine in it than her usual coffee order. He hadn’t noticed you yet, so you decided to take your spot at the bar and wait. You watched him as he worked, not having seen him interact with anyone else beside yourself. He gave the girl just as much rapt attention that he had been giving you and didn’t seemed the least bit put out that she couldn’t decide on what she wanted. His eyes wandered briefly and landed on you, beaming and giving a nod before turning back to the girl who was smelling various teas out of the jars he had placed on the counter. About ten minutes later, tea in hand, and happily walking out of the shop, the girl left, and he was standing before you.

“Hey, _____! Did you like the tea I gave you yesterday? I hope it helped with the dizziness.”

“It was lovely. Got a good night’s sleep, too.” You stared awkwardly at your hands as you picked at the imaginary dirt under your fingernails. “Look,” you started. “I want to apologize for the way I acted yesterday.”

Jeongguk looked puzzled when you finally decided to look at him.

“What?” You knew that he knew exactly what you were talking about but was trying to save you the embarrassment.

“I freaked out for a second. There’s a lot you don’t know about me and sometimes…,” you trailed off without knowing what else to say.

“Listen,” he said leaning forward on his elbows and you caught a whiff of him that caught you off guard. He smelled strongly of cinnamon and berries. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience that much I can tell.”

Your mouth fell open and he held up his hand to stop you from speaking.

“You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to. I get it. You don’t have to explain it to me. I’m just here to ease the pain a little bit.”

His face softened as he looked at you and at the same time so did your heart. Relief washed over you because now he knew.

“I…I’d like to talk about it…some time. If that’s okay?” You felt like a child; small and vulnerable, but your therapist had told you that talking about the pain would ease the sadness.

“Sure!” he said standing back up and acting like nothing had happened. “How about you come see the tea I’m growing right now? You can come by tomorrow if you’d like. It’s my off day.”

“I’d love to,” you smiled.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer before he seemed to snap out of it. “Did you have something in mind for today?”

“Something to-go, please. I have a new friend at home.”

“Oh?” You saw something flash in his eyes before he turned to grab a jar from the shelf. He stopped talking or looking at you as he busied himself with the kettle.

“Yea,” you sighed dreamily, playing into the act. “Listens to everything I have to say, loves to cuddle…” You saw his shoulders slump slightly. “Purrs a lot and really loves beef.”

He turned to look at you inquisitively. “Did you say purrs a lot?”

“Yea, I found a cat. Or, I guess the cat found me. Showed up at my house last night so I need to go get supplies for it.”

“The grocery store has a small section,” he said setting the cup down in front of you with a look of relief on his face.

You sat money on the counter and grabbed the small paper cup, smelling near the opening and caught hints of lavender.

“Thank you, by the way, for the food. You didn’t have to do that.”

He scoffed and waved his hand. “No big deal.”

“It was all very good. You’re an extremely talented cook as well.”

His cheeks flushed a dark red color as he grabbed a towel and began wiping the counter.

“Here,” he said grabbing a napkin and a pen. He jotted something down and handed it over to you. “My number.” He coughed and scratched the back of his neck. “For, you know, tomorrow. I can text you directions.”

You reached to take the napkin from him and his fingers brushed against yours. Jumping slightly, you retracted your hand and placed the napkin in your bag.

“Thank you, Jeongguk,” you said holding up the tea. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yea,” he laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The shop seemed like a warm blanket that you had just pulled from the dryer and you were hesitant to leave it. Even with the chatter and Jeongguk busily moving things behind the counter, you felt peace here. Your heart swelled in your chest at the thought of being here once more and you were sad to leave its warm embrace.

The next day brought clear skies and sunshine. Kyongni was happily lounging at the foot of your bed when you awoke, and she blinked blearily at you as you sat up.

“Did you rest well?” you asked her, rubbing behind her ears as she purred loudly. She had loved the food you’d gotten and litterbox training, who? She was, in your opinion, the perfect cat. “I’m going to his house today.” She looked at you pensively before reaching out a paw and laying it on top of your hand. “Is this a good idea?” Her head cocked to the side as the stared at you. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” She removed her paw and began to lick her fur. “You’ve convinced me.”

What should you wear? Why were you even thinking about this? Just dress like you normally would. After about fifteen minutes of telling yourself what you had decided to wear was fine, you dug through your bag for the napkin he had written his number on. Sighing deeply, you took the plunge.

[you]: Hey, Jeongguk, sorry if I’m texting a little early, but I wasn’t sure when you wanted me to drop by today.

That seemed simple enough. You didn’t want to sound too eager. It wasn’t a full minute later before your phone vibrated in your hand and you felt your heart lurch in your chest.

[Jeongguk] I’ve been up so you’re okay! Ummmm wanna come over in about thirty minutes? I’ll text the directions.

You had discovered early on that anything and everything worth getting to in town was within walking distance. The directions he had sent were simple enough. With a kiss to Kyongni’s head and a promise to call Ki in the event of your death, you headed out.

The walk took you all of thirty minutes. It would have been faster if you hadn’t stopped to examine some wildflowers you had never seen before. Jeongguk’s house was up on one of the hills behind town, not easily seen through the trees, but when it came into your view it took your breath away. It was two-story but small, painted a light green that matched the surrounding trees, and had an immaculate garden out front. He must have been watching because he eagerly stepped out of his front door and threw a dish towel over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing a large sweater like he usually did at the shop, but instead had on a plain white t-shirt and joggers that showed the muscles you guessed he had and were made painfully aware of in that moment.

“Hey!” he called out while walking down the steps. “I hope you’re hungry because I made brunch.”

“If I would have known that I would have brought something.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “You’re my guest.”

He turned and headed back inside, and you followed dutifully behind. The inside of his house was just as cozy as his café. The smells emanating from a yet unseen kitchen had your mouth watering. You followed him into this kitchen, and you were met with a comforting sight. Much like the café, herbs were strung up in the windows that lined the entire back side of the house. Out past them was an even bigger garden and several different rows of tea bushes. A fat, white cat laid on a hammock hung in the corner and in direct contact with the morning sun. It blinked lazily at you with large, blue eyes before closing them and laying back down again.

“That’s Bungeoppang…he loves fish,” he said shyly.

“Fish bread hardly has fish in it,” you laughed.

“Yea, but he’s cute like fish bread.”

He started grabbing several small dishes of banchan and brought them over to the large table by the windows.

“If you want to help, I kinda overdid it with the small dishes if you can bring them over here,” he laughed as he balanced three on his forearm.

Setting your bag down you quickly walked over to the counter and surveyed the damage he had done. Ssamjang, dongchimi, gyeran mari, spicy tuna, and many others dotted the counter amongst vegetable refuse and shavings of ginger.

“You really did out do yourself.”

“I got excited, okay?” His smile was wide as he came up beside you to grab a large bowl of rice. “I don’t get visitors often.”

Your heart hurt in your chest at his boyish, dopey grin and his admission at being excited to have you over but you quickly dampened the feeling before you let it get the best of you. You both quickly moved every dish he had made over to the table and before long, you were both trying to figure how to move them so that’d you would both have a place to sit. Jeongguk scratched the back of his neck as he looked down, scooting plates here and there and stacking the ones that could be without mess. Once the both of you were settled, he handed you a pair of lovingly worn chopsticks. The few moments of comfortable silence as the both of you started to eat was only broken here and there when something was asked to be passed. You were each sated well enough to begin a conversation before long.

“I needed that. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I walked in here and smelled that pork belly,” you said while reaching for more cucumber kimchi.

“Well, besides the meat, all of this comes off the property.” Jeongguk gestured proudly at the dishes around as if he were a king looking over his treasures.

“You even made the kimchi?”

“I have a few onggi’s in the back,” he said so matter-of-factly as if every household had one.

“I have a few onggi’s in the back,” you said back in a mock tone.

His face flushed red immediately as he started to defend himself. “It’s just! You know! I can make so much at once! Who wants to go to the store all the time?”

“No, no, no,” you said between laughing, “I love it! You just sound like my grandma is all. Living in the hills and making your own kimchi.”

“The young today would do well listening to their elders,” he said regally.

Lunch passed by lazily. He had opened the windows next to the table and a cool breeze aired out the house. A mixture of florals and something spicier wafted into your nose.

“Gonna show me what’s out there?” you asked, pointing a chopstick out the window.

“Of course. Are you done?” He wiped his mouth and placed his napkin on the table before standing up from the pillow he sat on and reached out his hand to you. At first, you were surprised, and the sun seemed to shine a little brighter. A single bird chirped outside, and you heard Bungeoppang meow softly.

“…I mean, if you don’t want help that’s okay, too,” you heard him say as he was slowly pulling his hand away.

“No!” you said lunging forward and grabbing his hand almost a little too desperately. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking about yo-something.” You tried to quickly cover up your blunder. He didn’t seem to notice as he smiled again and helped you to your feet.

“I’ll worry about his later,” he said pointing towards all the uneaten food. He walked to the door and opened it before turning to you expectantly. Bungeoppang jumped off his hammock to walk in and out of his legs before trotting off to a spot beneath a tree. The garden buzzed both mentally and physically. The same feeling as the café and his home bled into the garden as well; you searched for the source of the power, but it seemed to be all around you. Bees buzzed lazily amongst the wildflowers he had planted along the path to the rows of tea bushes. You followed a few feet behind him and watched him as he walked. All the flowers seemed to turn from the sun and face him as he passed; only going back to their original positions as you walked by. Butterflies followed behind him and would then light on the flowers, fluttering their wings and spreading them in the sunlight.

“Camellia sinenis,” he said lovingly as he ran his fingers amongst the leaves of one bush. “Green tea.” He turned and smiled at you and he seemed even more supernatural in his element. No matter where he stood the sun seemed to shine behind him as if to say, ‘Look at him!’

The sound of trickling water reached your ears the further you walked between the rows, Jeongguk calling out the names of each one as if they were his beloved children.

“And these,” he said throwing both arms out wide, “are my koi fish!”

Ahead of you was a pond about ten feet long, five feet wide, and probably no more than three feet deep but several kois swam right below the crystal surface. They varied in color from bright orange, to solid white, and one was even decorated in splashes of orange, white, and black. A golden colored koi seemed to notice Jeongguk first and raced towards the edge of the pond, followed closely behind by the rest. They swarmed the surface excitedly and the water churned amongst their fins. Jeongguk reached for a plastic container under one of the nearby bushes and pulled a handful of food from it and threw it towards the swarm. He held the container out to you, and you grabbed a handful, delighting in the activity below you.

“The gold one is my favorite and my only one. Her name is Geum. She’s my very first koi, probably around six years old now.”

“This is beautiful, Jeongguk.”

“You really think so?” The way he looked at you told you he was yearning for approval. Perhaps his dad hadn’t come in a long time? It must be lonely in such a large house alone.

“I mean it,” you smiled.

“Come sit,” he said as he gestured towards a large, hand carved wooden bench. The designs along its back and arms were intricate and worn a little with age. “My mom carved it.” Jeongguk noticed you running your finger along the wing of a bird.

You looked at him, wide-eyed. “She made this?”

“My creativity came from her.”

“You must be a lot like her.”

Jeongguk stared wistfully out at the fish who now resumed their lazy swimming about the pond.

“I’m sorry…,” you whispered.

“Oh! It’s okay! I was just thinking about her is all. I just…you know, I don’t take time to think about her like I should anymore. I’ll see things here and there that will remind me of her. Hell,” he laughed, “sometimes I catch myself talking to her like she’s here. She was my biggest inspiration…and my biggest loss.”

You both sat in silence for some minutes more before he spoke up again.

“I almost let this place go when she died. I didn’t harvest any of the teas that year, weeds were overtaking everything, the pond was even filled with all types of weeds and scum. But then one day I had a dream about her. She was sitting in the garden out here and it was beautiful. The day was bright.” He squinted up at the sun as he spoke. “There were bees, butterflies, and birds flying about amongst the tea bushes. No weeds, nothing. And I just sat with her. She didn’t speak, she just held my hand and when I woke up, I felt so…relieved. The next day I came out here and started cleaning the place up and I haven’t looked back since.”

Your mouth vomited the words before your brain could catch up. You were caught up in Jeongguk’s somber story and your heart ached for him and suddenly you wanted to relate to him so he wouldn’t feel alone.

“My husband died.”

You saw him twitch slightly and his grip tightened on the arm of the bench. He turned his body towards you and reached out as if he wanted to hold your hand but drew back.

“I…I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were married.”

“Why should you? It’s not your fault and it’s okay…really. I honestly never planned to just dump that on you.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a spouse, but I am, obviously, very well versed in loss; if there’s anything you want to talk about, I’m all ears.” His smiled broadened at the end of his statement, reeling you into his comfortable aura once more.

What could it hurt to tell him? It wasn’t like you were hiding some huge secret.

“Well,” you sighed, “he had a brain tumor.”

Jeongguk sat patiently beside you, not a sound coming from his side save for the occasional tap of fingernail against the wood and the shuffle of his feet in the gravel around the bench.

“Very aggressive. He died three years ago. We met in high school and dated through University. We got married before we graduated. Then, we got our dream jobs. We thought we had it made; we were good financially, our jobs were going well, we got a new house, and we were even talking about kids.” Your voice trailed off at the end as you thought about the children you would never get to meet. Your silent guardian shifted ever so slightly to let you know he was still listening.

“He died within the month that we found out.” Jeongguk’s nails scraped along the wood as his hand made a fist; he was anxious but wasn’t trying to show it. “Of course, I stayed there, I didn’t know what else to do. His family and I…didn’t really get along very well after and we eventually became estranged. They’re still oddly nosey about my life, though. Then, I decided there was nothing tying me there anymore, so I decided to pack up and leave. My life felt like it had a dull, gray film over it all the time. Every time I rounded a corner in my house, I expected him to be there smiling at me while he typed on his computer or sat in the reading nook with a cup of tea, or…,” your voice caught at the end. Jeongguk’s fingers spread out wide on the bench and he moved his hand until his pinky barely touched your leg. “What I wouldn’t have given to see him walking through our front door just one more time.” You had to stop, or you would be in full blown tears before too long.

Once more, silence fell between you. Nothing was strange, his hand stayed steady beside you on the bench, and you willed your tears to not fall. The sun was making its journey across the sky and by Jeongguk’s deduction, it was probably somewhere around 2:00.

“Come on,” he said getting up suddenly. His movements knocked you out of your daze. “I picked some fresh peaches today and I bought some fresh cream from Mrs. Kim, so I have dessert for us.”

“Spying on me? Peaches are my favorite fruit,” you said, trying to lighten the mood once more.

“Lucky guess!” he called back as he headed down the path between the bushes.

Bungeoppang was laid out on his side, still under the tree, and very much asleep as you passed. Once inside the kitchen, Jeongguk removed previously sliced peaches from his refrigerator, placed some in two bowls, and poured cream over them. He grabbed a bento box and brought it to the table with him as the both of you ate. While chewing, he began grabbing bits of the several dishes in front of him with chopsticks and was quickly filling the bento until it was neatly packed. He secured the band around it and stuck it in a bag before tying it shut and sitting it beside you.

With his mouth full he said, “In case you get hungry tonight, or you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”

“You really don’t have to-“

“You think I’m gonna eat this all myself?”

You laughed at his exaggerated gesture of sweeping his arm out across the table as his eyes bulged.

“I guess you’re right.”

That was when you felt it. The first little bit of stabbing pain you hadn’t expected to come back so soon, if at all. That first sting in your heart when your husband died was the worst it had ever been. Days after, the pain in your chest only subsided when you were able to get a few precious moments of sleep. Months later, the pain was dull, but still ever present. A year and then two went by and the pain only came on rare instances when you were having a really bad day. When his words and his comfort was needed the most was when you felt that stab straight through your heart. Yet, here you were, accepting the hospitality of a new friend and you felt the sting. Guilt blanketed you like an old friend, grasping at your shoulders and whispering in your ear. Your smile faltered as Jeongguk looked on and his expression changed to that of confusion before quickly painting a smile on once more.

“I think there is a storm coming in this afternoon. Don’t worry about helping me here, I can clean up, and you need to get home before the weather gets bad.”

He stood up quickly from where he sat and grabbed a couple of plates to bring into the kitchen. You grabbed your bento and bag. The sting was starting to subside and soon you felt guilty for possibly making Jeongguk feel bad.

“I can’t thank you enough for today,” you began. “I really enjoyed everything, and you have a beautiful home here. I only hope to have a garden like yours one day.” You tried to make your smile genuine.

“Well, if you ever need tips, I’m your man.”

“Thank you, again,” you said as you walked to the front door, him following close behind to let you out.

“I’ll see you at the shop then?” He was looking at you with a question in his eyes and high expectations on the rest of his face.

“Of course,” you smiled. Maybe you said it awkwardly. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed your change in mood. You waved before turning and headed back down into town and home.

The sky overhead started to turn a dark shade of gray. You had had no idea that it was even supposed to rain today. Winds picked up and blew leaves across your path. Your chest felt tight and once again, the stabbing pain of guilt seemed like the lightning now streaking the skies. Seconds after you shut your door against the howling wind, the sky opened up. Kyongni trotted out of your room and into the hallway in greeting, rubbing against your legs and purring.

“Is the storm scaring you?” you asked as you picked her up. She only stared at you with sleepy eyes as she continued to purr.

The hot bath you took did nothing to settle the uneasiness in your bones. The wind became high pitched as it came through cracks in the windows and the rain beat hard against your roof. Maybe a book would distract you, but you soon found out that even that wasn’t enough right now. You settled, then, to just turn off the light and lay in darkness. Lightning flashed outside, creating stark shadows against your wall. Turning over, you reached out to Kyongni who lay beside you, curled up, and fast asleep. Why did the weather outside match what you were feeling inside? A storm of emotions seemed to push and pulse inside your heart. On one hand, you were thankful for Jeongguk. He had accepted you with open arms as soon as you moved here and made you feel at home. He had even invited you into his own home. That didn’t mean anything. On the other hand, everything you were doing was wrong. Jeongguk is nice, good-looking, single, and you shouldn’t be talking to him. You had taken vows, to hell with ‘til death do you part’ you had promised someone your life. Even though he was dead, any other feelings you had towards anyone else made you feel as if he would find out. He would find out you were cheating and somehow, he’d never forgive you for it.

What was so wrong with making friends? But you knew, deep down inside, you had come to like Jeongguk. Not just for his boyish good looks, but because of how open, forgiving, friendly, and almost loving he had become. Not loving in the way of falling in love, but of the small gestures; sending you home with tea, leaving food at your door, and inviting you to see his passion.

Maybe if you didn’t pursue it…maybe Jeongguk didn’t even slightly feel the same way as you and you were just overthinking this entire situation. You sighed knowing you weren’t going to be giving yourself any more answers tonight. Brushing your hand along Kyongni’s fur, you finally fell asleep amidst the storm.

You were four months into your new routine in life. Every day, unless you were sick or otherwise detained, you were at the café ready to greet the day with a warm cup of tea. Sometimes Jeongguk would have a new creation for you to try or he’d subject you to a Frankenstein’s monster pastry that he “dreamed of” the night before. Every day he’d greet you with the same huge smile. You had never seen the sadness in his eyes that he held when he talked about his mother again. Sometimes, he would have a bento made of food that he kept tucked away until you arrived.

“You know I can cook, right?” you asked him one day, jokingly, as you passed a cleaned bento box from a previous lunch he had given you.

He simply shrugged as you both passed the boxes. “Sometimes I make too much food.”

But you knew he didn’t. Sometimes, the fruit inside the boxes were so fresh they had to have been cut the same day, if not minutes before your arrival.

On this day, you had entered the café to see the same mystery man reading his newspaper and the chattering book club.

“Have you been to that Italian restaurant in town?” He had asked this while leaning on both elbows, gazing around the café, but not having a direct conversation with you in that moment.

“Are you talking to me?” you asked, but first you had checked behind you to make sure no one else was near.

“Yes, silly. Who else?”

“I thought someone had walked up.”

“So, have you been?”

“Where?”

“Oh my god, ______,” he said rolling his eyes before laughing, “the Italian restaurant, do you not listen to anything I say?” He said it in a mock tone that you had used several times to make fun of your ex mother-in-law.

“No,” you giggled, “I have not. I make food and sometimes I get so much food from you that I don’t have to worry about groceries for a week.”

He stuck his tongue out at you as he rotated his elbows just enough to face you.

“Would you like to go? It can be on me.”

You willed your traitorous heart to stop beating so fast because you were sure he could probably hear it. You were also telling the nagging voice in the back of your brain to shut up.

“Like…a date?”

He sputtered and stood straight at the counter. “I…uh, well…not necessarily…I mean if you wanted it to be I guess, but…uh…we could just,” he started to grab things and frantically organize in a panic, “I could just meet you there I suppose,” he knocked a container full of sugar on the counter, “Crap. So, it’s not a big deal if you-“

“I’d love to.”

His head shot up and he was looking at you with large eyes. Shock was written across his features and you hadn’t even known his eyebrows could go up that high.

“Really?”

“Why not? Let’s do it,” you smiled. You were surprising yourself at how calm you were being. The last few months had been a lesson on forgiveness; forgiving yourself and the actions you deemed “inappropriate”. Doing so had let Jeongguk in a little more and you found yourself feeling a little less guilty and little more drawn to him.  

He blew out a heavy sigh of relief, hip hitting the counter as he slumped, and threw a towel over the mess he had made.

“I was trying to think of an exit strategy while I was talking. That’s why I was all over the place,” he mumbled as his cheek pressed against his arm.

Your heart melted a little and your body relaxed as you watched his internal struggle. Despite being just as anxious as you, he managed to always calm you in some way. Being in the café only seemed to heighten his supernatural ability to leave you both breathless and relieved.

“When would you like to go, you anxious little bun?”

He stood straight then, chest out, and a proud look on his face. “Anxious? Me? Also, bun?”

You felt your face burn red at the pet name you had mentally given him and just decided to blurt out like an idiot. Maybe your friendship wasn’t as comfortable as you thought.

“Forget I said that,” you said quickly.

“Oh, hell no. Bun?!” he started to laugh and you saw the man in your peripheral shift his newspaper a little to peer over the top.

“Jeongguk, shut up,” you whispered.

He leaned on his forearms across the counter and got extremely close to your face as he stared in your eyes. You leaned back a little, but your gaze didn’t waver.

“Explain yourself,” he said seriously, but you saw joy swirling in his eyes.

“When you smile…you look like a little bunny,” you said while finally breaking eye contact. You couldn’t look him in the face as you said it.

His smile reached his eyes and they disappeared as he laughed.

“Cute.”

You wanted to die. You were so caught up in him asking you out that you decided to let your guard slip too much.

“Anyway, when would you like to go?”

“Tomorrow? I can close up early.”

“Deal.”

“Not a date anymore?” he winked, but you could see he was seeking validation.

Butterflies swirled in your stomach and there seemed to be several dozen vying for space to fly. You couldn’t help the genuine smile that you gave him in that moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jeongguk,” you said standing from your chair.

He grinned knowingly at you, the most flirtatious you had seen him in a while.

Friday morning was met with the perfect temperature as you sat outside on your back porch with Kyongni in your lap. You were going to forego the tea shop today in favor of cleaning around the house and then getting ready for your “date” later. Standing from your chair as soon as Kyongni jumped down to pursue a lizard, you walked over to the edge of the house to look out towards the water. Down the hill and in town, it was bustling with activity with the fishermen cleaning up for the day and leaving the smaller fish out for the hovering birds. It all seemed normal…it all seemed right. You finally felt good about being here and it was all falling into place.

What you couldn’t see was the storm just beyond the horizon, lying in wait, ready to lay waste to anything it touched.

#love yourself the collab #ficswithluv #bangtanarmynet #btswriterscollective #magic shop #jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook x reader #reader insert #tea shop owner!jk #bts #bts fluff #bts smut #bts au #nonidol!au #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff

[theleftovertaco]

Ratel

Someone sent me this amazingly specific ask about a Afro- Caribbean girl at Hogwarts and I loved the idea so this is the result. I would like to preface this by saying that I am not afro-Caribbean. While I did spend a few hours researching Trinidadian, Kenyan and Nigerian culture, food and customs, I am extremely sorry if anything here looks stereotypical or if i get something wrong. Please correct me if I mess up because I would never want to dishonor a person’s culture or country.

ONTO THE STORY

Y/N’s arrival had been a bit of an event. Transfer students were rare, and when they occurred, they were treated as a big deal, since often they only happened for some political reason of the students parents. This was exactly the case with Y/N

Dumbledore had stepped to the front of the Great Hall at the beginning of the year after the first years had been sorted and called everyone’s attention.

“This year, we have a new 4th year transfer student joining us,” excited chatter erupted around the room, “I trust you will make her feel welcome and show her what Hogwarts School is all about. Please welcome Mrs. Y/N  Y/L/N from Uagadou School of Magic in Uganda!” The doors opened and you walked through, head high and looking straight ahead despite the stares that followed you.

Professor McGonagall gave you a smile and instructed you to the stool for your sorting. 

The hat barely touched your head before “HUFFLEPUFF” was exclaimed and rapturous applause came from the yellow and black table. 

As you sat down for the feast, a tall boy with fluffy brown hair reached out to shake your hand, “I’m Cedric Diggory, sixth year. That was quite an entrance. Welcome to Hufflepuff.” 

“Thank you.”

“Are you surprised to be in our house? Honestly with the way you carried yourself I would have guessed Slytherin.”

“Not really. Hufflepuff is the house of the loyal, kind, and hardworking. Just because I’m sharp or harsh looking doesn’t mean I can’t have those traits.”

He looked at you in shock

“You’ve done your research. Yeah, I guess you’re right, a person can be more than one thing. So what’s Uganda like?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I went to school at Uagadou but my family is mostly Nigerian, Kenyan, and Trinidadian and most of my life we’ve spent moving around those areas and the Americas. My parents have some sort of business here for the next year or so, and I decided that I might as well try a new school, so they let me come here.” 

“Oh that sounds fun!” A younger blonde girl jumped into the conversation, “Sorry to interrupt. Hannah Abbot, third year.” You nodded her way and shook her hand as well as other Hufflepuff’s began to introduce themselves and listen into the conversation. 

“So,” Susan Bones asked, “Do you speak any other languages?” 

You nodded and listed them off, “Yes. Officially, English is the main language in Nigeria but in Kenya and Uganda, Swahili is also common. I also speak Spanish, Portugese, and I’m familiar with French and the Trinidadian dialects of French as well as French Creole.” A chorus of wows surrounded you. 

“What’s Uagadou like?”

“It’s nice, just very different from what I can tell. They are a lot more loose about how they teach things there. It’s strange, everyone here is dependent on wands.”

“You don’t use wands?”

“We do, but before that we’re taught to use magic with our hands and nonverbally. Helps avoid detection and makes it easy to still use magic if we’re disarmed. Dependence on a wand is pretty strictly European. Almost every other country learns without them first.”

“So you can just do magic, like with your hands?”

“Yup.” You flicked your fingers and the fork and knife in front of your plate did a little dance before picking up a piece of chicken and bringing it too your mouth.”

You looked around and your cutlery show had attracted the attention of a few of the surrounding houses students as well as professor Flitwick’s attention.

“That was marvelous, Mrs. Y/L/N! Would you mind demonstrating some of that again in my class tomorrow?” 

“Sure, I have charms tomorrow at 2 pm so it should work.” He nodded and walked back to his table with the other professors.

The conversation deviated and eventually with dinner over, you were ushered to the coziness of the Hufflepuff common room and dorms. Plants and comfy blankets were all about the rooms. This was exactly the house you belonged to.

-----------------------------------

Breakfast the next day saw a new set of questions and some repeats from other houses students who hadn’t gotten the chance to ask. Word had made it’s rounds by then, and people realized you were exceptionally gifted. 

During your free period after lunch, you were practically assaulted by a set of identical red headed string beans.

“You’re the transfer student right?”

“Yes, I-”

“We heard you’re gifted.”

“I mean I suppose-”

“What else can you do?”

“Can you show us?”

“Someone said you’re already an animagus?”

“OK SHUSH! One. I am not a goddamn zoo animal for you to just ask to do tricks at your whim. Two. One question at a time, for fuck’s sake.” 

Shocked identical looks were followed by sheepish remorse.

“And three. Yes I am and animagus.”

One of them stepped forward.

“Sorry, that was kind of rude of us. We didn’t mean to come off so pushy. I’m George. He’s Fred.”

Fred also apologized and once you accepted, they asked again, albeit a little more gently.

“So, what animal can you turn into?” Fred asked slowly, like he thought he might annoy you again if he asked. 

“You don’t have to talk that slowly, I won’t bite.” Fred laughed some and motioned for you to continue.

“I’m a Ratel.”

“A wot?”

“Also known as a honey badger.”

“Ohhhh.” Fred gasped

“I actually like that better than honeybadger. Sounds nicer.”

“Can we call you that? Ratel?” You shrugged and from there on out Ratel was more your name than your actual one. The teachers, staff, students. Even Dumbledore called you that. 

---------------------------

The one group of people you refused to tolerate was Malfoy and his goon-squad. 

It’s the superiority complex for me. 

And everyone. 

“How dare you look at me, filthy little-”

“Malfoy I know you weren’t just trying to beat up another first year.” You marched over to him with Neville, Luna, and the twins behind you. Crabbe and Goyle immediately dropped the Ravenclaw they had hoisted over their shoulders, and the small boy raced behind you and clutched onto your side. Crabbe and Goyle knew not to mess with you. Not after the thrashing you had given them before winter break. 

Apparently Draco hadn’t learned the same lesson.

“Technically, I wasn’t.”

“Not you trying to use that smart shit with me. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size.”

“And if I don’t? What are you gonna do Princess?”

Princess. Absolutely not. 

You stormed over to him, grabbed his pressed collar (fucking prick) and slammed him against a tree. 

“If you even look in the direction of any of the younger kids. If you even look my way, or my friends way, or anyone’s way really. I will shove your own wand so far up your ass your can taste it, throw you to the forbidden forest, chuck whatever is left of you at the Whomping Willow, and then throw the remains in a disintegrating solution. Don’t try me. You know I’ll do it.”

You leaned back, and then punched him in the sternum. He crumpled to the ground before stumbling back up and running off. 

You checked over the first year and then sent him on his way. As you walked off with the others, Neville spoke up. 

“I’ve never heard of a disintegrating solution. Did you just make that up?”

“No, my mother and her twin have this old family book of spells and potions. It’s been passed down through the past few generations and people add to it often.”

“Wicked! Is that how you managed to remove Parkinson’s nose the other day?” Fred asked.

“Yup. She still in the infirmary?” 

George laughed before responding, “Yeah, Pomphrey still can’t figure out how to reattach it and Parkinson refuses to say who did it.”

Everyone laughed as you headed to the library. 

----------------------

“What are you doing in here?” Dean and Seamus stepped behind the portrait in the kitchens. 

“Jesus CHRIST! You scared me.”

Seamus smiled and kissed your cheek, “Sorry, love. So, whatcha making?” He leaned over the pot you were stirring. 

“Trinidadian curry. I missed home, and no offense, but British food has little to no flavor.”

“None taken- Mm! Thasth really goof!” His mouth was full but you picked up the gist. Dean laughed as he also stole a bite.

“Quit it you two. It’s not quite done yet.” 

“Fine.”

“Sorry, Ratel.”

-------------------

“Harry James Potter!” Harry jumped as you stormed into the Gryffindor common room.

“How did you even get in here, you’re a hufflepuff?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why didn’t you tell me you were getting headaches? I just had to find out from Hermione!” 

“Ratel, it’s not a big deal calm dow-”

“Kid. If you’re getting headaches everyday you need to get some help for it.”

“I’m not a kid, and it’s none of your concern!”

“You’re my friend. Of course it’s my concern. And don’t pull all that ‘Oh I’m the Chosen One, I need to do shit by myself’ because it’s dumb, ok Harry.”

He paused, “Fine… I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are, now sit your ass down and I’ll grab you a headache potion.”

“Ok… Hey, Ratel?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

--------------------------

“The mandrake leaf has been in your mouth all month, you’ll all be fine.” Fred, George, Seamus, Dean, Luna, Neville, Cedric, Ron, Harry and Hermione all stood surrounding you in a circle as you held a glass phial. A flask of a potion was passed around and then each of them chanted the needed incantation.

All around you, each of them shrunk or grew as their form took place. 

Fred and George transformed into identical hyenas who turned towards each other and erupted into a high pitched cacophony of screeching and laughing. Seamus turned into a phoenix with bright orange and yellow plumage, while Dean turned into a rather large fluffy golden retriever. Luna turned into a white hare and proceeded to dart around the hill you were on. Neville was now a meerkat. Cedric was a Lynx. Ron was now a roaring lion, Hermione now a river otter, and Harry a similar Stag to his father’s. 

You shrunk down to your badger form and the lot of you rushed around for the next few hours until the sun came up. Racing, messing with each other, 

Hogwarts had turned into home.

--------------------

If you saw something incorrect or inconsistent with any culture PLEASE LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT. There is such a lack of POC representation in the fandom and as someone who is latina, I love when I see even a scrap of representation so after this I will probably start doing more like this (likely more mexican/ salvadoran cause thats where a lot of my family is from).

Also I’m sorry if this is too long or I wasn't able to get every detail in I hope this was what anon wanted! 

#fred weasley #george weasley #seamus finnigan x reader #cedric diggory #ron weasley #neville longbottom #draco malfoy #dean thomas #luna lovegood #hermione granger

[grayhouse3]

SJTR is my villain origin story

So I finished Stalking Jack the Ripper.

Originally I told myself that I was going to just stick it out and read the next one (“Oh, it’s about vampires and Dracula. It’s probably more fun. You can forget all about the pain this one inflicted on you"). No. I got 12% of the way through and had to DNF. So here are my messily compiled thoughts on the book, basically expanded from the last post. Honestly, kind of feel free knowing I won’t be writing more about this series. (Also I am adding some TWs down below but don't know if I am doing them right!)

More on the exoticism, weirdness with Audrey Rose's Indian mother, and the British Empire:

In chapter 14, we read, "Dark strands of hair were piled atop my head, my eyes more mysterious somehow with the dark liner, and my lips were the bright crimson of freshly spilled blood … I thought of my mother and the saris she’d brought me to wear from Grandmama’s homeland. I felt just as stunning now as I did then, and the memory warmed me.” I am still trying to figure out why Maniscalco made Audrey Rose mixed race. Why is Audrey Rose’s grandmother from India? Literally, what did it add to the story? Was it nothing more than just a cute lil quirky fun character trait to her? I don’t think I missed any key moments where there were important conversations about race, imperialism, British occupation, etc., mostly because Audrey Rose’s father (a big fancy rich lord) is a white man and because Audrey Rose is white-passing. I can’t recall any moments in the book where she faces the realities/consequences of being a socially mobile POC WOMAN in LONDON IN THE 1880s. Honestly, if someone else can point out a passage I glossed over or explain some nuance I missed I would actually really appreciate it, because this drove me CRAZY.

(Audrey Rose and her brother also go visit a circus in town in chapter 15; of course these events existed purely for England/colonizing countries to exercise and display their power and to exoticize/exploit the communities/cultures that they came into contact with. Audrey Rose sees silks, beads, etc. that remind her of her grandmother’s saris, smells the foods of her family’s “homeland,” etc. Also in the same chapter there’s this great scene where her brother is describing their mother and father’s marriage: “Grandmama told me she’d refused him twenty times just for fun,” Nathaniel replied. “Said he squirmed like a cobra in a basket. That’s how she knew he was in love.” Uhhh … Is that supposed to be romantic?)

On the feminism stuff:

I am too *gestures vaguely* to write much more on this. Yeah, it’s heavy-handed. Yeah, it’s cringey. But at the end of the day, it’s not really that harmful, I guess. Here’s just a fun sampling of some of my favorite lines from the book:A few of my favorite bites from the book:

***“close-minded society” (chapter 21) Okay

***"Why turn a murderer of women into front-page news?” (chapter 15) Bro do you know how the media works

***"But what of her [mother’s] insistence that I could be both strong and beautiful? Surely Father had to be wrong.” (chapter 21) Yes girl you are strong and beautiful!

***"There would be no skirts or bustles to wrangle with anymore. I was through with things confining me” (chapter 22) Ugh down with corsets just another tool of the patriarchy amirite

On the violence against women, weird classism, and stuff about prostitution:

I was bound to be uncomfortable about a lot of this because I have weird feelings about true crime stuff, and this is historical fiction set around the Jack the Ripper murders. It was going to go sour somewhere.

Consistently Audrey Rose wants to be sympathetic, but is unable to connect all the parts of this situation together: she struggles to imagine the women (very real-life victims) beyond their lives of prostitution, poverty, squalor. When she does, we see something like this: "The women he murdered did matter ... They were daughters and wives and mothers and sisters” (chapter 28). Oftentimes she wishes she could continue to cut cadavers open in peace (women in science!) without having to think about how those cadavers came to be on her examination table: “I needed to get away from those women and their tragic lives before my emotions got the better of me” (chapter 25). Perhaps Maniscalco deserves more credit here, and perhaps I’m just being a bitch, because Audrey Rose is a very privileged girl and her actions and thoughts make that clear. It’s just that the conclusions she comes to in the name of feminism, justice, etc. weren’t at all satisfying to me.

Also: OH MY GOD. Oh my god. There is this one moment that is BRANDED AGAINST THE GRAY MATTER OF MY BRAIN FOREVER and I will never forget it. At one point, Audrey Rose and love interest Thomas decide the best thing they can do is go out and—yes—stalk Jack the Ripper. To do this, they know they need to “blend in” with the crowds in East End. So … like … cosplaying as poor people? Audrey Rose manages to find and wear the dress of ONE OF THE MURDER VICTIMS (long story short her medical doctor uncle was in a relationship with this woman and when she died he acquired her worldly possessions). It’s like, so fucked up, I can’t even describe my reaction when I read it. In chapter 25 we read, "The dress was a little too old, a little too ragged, a bit too big. If I were to wear this ghastly dress out, I’d look as if I belonged in the East End, begging for work to feed my addictions … It was absolutely perfect.” Oh my god. And THAT’S NOT EVEN THE WORST PART. While they’re “stalking Jack the Ripper” on this incredibly stupid mission, the two main characters just … make out in an alley. Like, okay. People are being murdered and you’re wearing a dead woman’s dress and you suspect your father of being guilty, but yeah, that kind of stuff makes us all a little horny. Super relatable. Absolutely no concept of reality or consequences or anything at all.

Another random note on class: I noticed the only time Maniscalco writes in dialects/accents, she’s writing seedy/working-class characters. Not saying this is a problem unique to Maniscalco’s writing by a longshot, but ... something to think on. (I think it’s ingrained in a lot of author’s writing habits/minds at this point.)

Weird stuff about the dad, the brother, and what justice means to Audrey Rose:

I had to add a whole new highlighting color for this stuff!

Any growth Audrey Rose might’ve shown over the course of the novel—anything about how these women mattered, and how they deserved justice as any “highborn” individual might, simply by dint of being humans—goes away when she and Thomas come to the conclusion that the Ripper murders must have been committed by Audrey Rose’s father. She realizes her moral dilemma when she contends with the harsh reality: if her father is the Ripper, can she turn him into the authorities? Audrey Rose worries how that might impact her own moral virtue: "They’d hang Father. Given who he was, they’d make it as public and brutal as possible. Just because blood might stain his hands did not mean I wanted his on mine. No matter if it was right or wrong” (chapter 24). First of all, BITCH. You have to. You have to report this kind of thing. No ifs, ands, or buts. I HAVE to imagine Maniscalco’s intended audience would feel the same? It’s? Serial murder? Second: Audrey Rose, baby, sweetie, honey. This is just a reminder that ACAB. I actually don’t know a whole lot about how the late Victorian criminal justice system functioned, but something tells me her family's public outlook would’ve been less bleak than she imagines here.

Lucky for Audrey Rose, her dad isn’t guilty in the end—but her brother sure is. He’s a mad scientist, using the brutalized bodies and souvenirs of his victims for Frankenstein-style experiments. Ultimately, he wants to reanimate the corpse of his and Audrey Rose’s long-dead mother, and he believes he can achieve this by transplanting fresh organs into ? Her dead and decomposed body? The thing is that, this moral dilemma persists for Audrey Rose—and her dad, too. He pressures her not to bring the little matter of Nathaniel’s issue—you know, his casual murder of a number of local women—to Scotland Yard: “They’ll have your brother hanged,” he said quietly. “Could you honestly watch that happen? As a family, have we not suffered enough?” (chapter 29). Nathaniel electrocutes himself to evade capture by the authorities, and Audrey Rose and her father feel relief. The book ends by confirming that "Lord Edmund covered up Nathaniel’s involvement, I didn’t ask how. One day I’d let everyone know the truth, but the pain was too raw now” (chapter 30).

((Side note: Listen. I knew Nathaniel had something sinister going on from the GET-GO (I’m not trying to be obnoxious) because he basically started some nighttime vigilante group called the Whitechapel Knights of Justice or whatever bullshit, I don’t know. All I know is that my red flags IMMEDIATELY started going off because that sounds exactly like the terrible and awful Crusader cosplay clubs from my (bad) Catholic childhood, where everyone thinks they’re a knight for Good but really they’re the bad guy.))

Overall, kind of ...

I think one of my biggest issues with this ending was … You have already stepped into a realm of fantastical revisionist history here in writing such a fictionalized version of these real-life events. (I know Maniscalco is far from the first to do it.) That means that the rules you are playing by are essentially your own—evidenced by the liberties she points out in her Author’s/Historical note (dates changed for convenience or storytelling purposes, real-life individuals changed for narrative purposes, etc.). So WHY would you not conclude this fantasy retelling of the Jack the Ripper murders by meting out some form of justice? I hear the counterargument: "Well, because we still don’t know the culprit today. This book would ring hollow if it named someone since historians, forensic scientists, etc. still don’t know who committed these crimes." My question: is that really a problem though? This is a work of fiction. Nothing in history happened the way it is written here. Is it crueler to the women who were murdered and who remain spectacles for true crime junkies and authors like this, less satisfying to readers who want some more concrete kind of closure, to not offer that up? I am asking this in earnest here, because I don’t know. Maybe it is insensitive to make up a murderer, to fill in the gaps in order to make sense of the violence that happened. But in my brain it feels almost like a responsibility at this point, since these murders served as the backdrop for the romance between Audrey Rose and Thomas, for the background to Audrey Rose’s empty feminist diatribes, and as inspiration for a book that went on far longer than it needed to. To me it kind of feels like the least an author could do, but I have no clue.

Anyways, I'm just glad I get to put this series to bed. No more.I truly lost sleep over it this weekend. Onto something better, please, for the love of god.

#mnc reads #mnc writes #stalking jack the ripper #sjtr #I dont know what to tag this as but I dont want to leave anything out! #tw death #tw suicice #body horror #violence #classism #I guess #racism #maybe #I dont know #Im sorry

[ourimpavidheroine]

And here he is, guys, gals and nonbinary pals: His Majesty Hou-Ting LIV!

Wu

So listen, I can’t even begin to parse as to why I loved this smarmy, slangy, embarrassingly whiny little royal elbow leech. But I did. And then he rode in those badgermoles (a plot point that Bryan admitted he hated and didn’t want to do) and I was like I MUST WRITE ABOUT THIS LITTLE ASSHOLE.

I don’t know what to tell you. My brain is what it is.

Wu is so weird. He’s just weird. He’s 1000% clueless about normal life. He’s unimaginably rich - the Jeff Bezos of the Avatar world - and in Book 4 he has quite literally zero social skills.

After I had written Please Excuse My Penmanship Bryke came out and said they thought Wu was already in Republic City when the Earth Queen was assassinated, possibly going to boarding school or college. This never made much sense to me. I think it was one of those things they didn’t think through, they just put this very wealthy prince there in a hotel and didn’t worry about what got him there. (This was not the first time Bryke had done that.) I never bought that he was older; despite his sophisticated clothing and the fact that outside of Mako he’s on his own he screamed teenager to me. The Wu of Book 4 always seemed to me to be a kid who is trying very, very hard to act like what he thinks a sophisticated adult should be like. Which is why I put him at eighteen in Book 4. (I seem to be in the minority there, most other fanfic writers put him as older than Mako, even.)

It also never made any sense for me that this Crown Prince would speak as much slang as he did. I did a fair amount of research on Puyi, the last emperor of China (I saw the movie, The Last Emperor, when it came out in 1987 but I realize now it was a heavily whitewashed and historically inaccurate portrayal) and brought that into my Wu. True story: in 1921, when Puyi was fifteen, he had a telephone installed in the palace, under the mighty disapproval of his various advisors (and even his father). They didn’t want him having contact with the outside, modern world. Puyi was the emperor, however, so he got his own way in the end. And what did he do with this new phone, at first? He used it to make crank calls all around Beijing. Because he was the Emperor, yes, but also a fifteen year old boy. (A year or so later he used it to try and relocate imperial treasures outside of the palace for fear that he’d need an escape route outside of China, a fear that was absolutely justified.)

So I thought to myself, what would happen if you took an utterly and completely sheltered fifteen year old boy and threw him into the world, unsupervised? He’d cut off his queue, ditch his traditional clothing and start watching every single mover he could get his hands on, read every single cheap novel he could find, listen to every single sensational radio drama and base his personality on the heroes of those stories. And there he was, three years after being rescued out of the palace in Ba Sing Se, an eighteen year old refugee prince in Republic City, envisioning himself as one of the fictional heroes he was so fond of, halfway in love with his handsome bodyguard, in complete, terrified denial of the reality of what Kuvira is doing to his kingdom. 

Making him younger also serves to make him less of an asshole. We can forgive an eighteen year old twirling his walking stick and calling Mako his big tough guy and pretending he’s actually interested in the ladies (never mind being somehow good with them) far more easily than we can forgive a twenty-three year old doing it. Eighteen year old Wu doing what he did in Book 4 makes him a kid still figuring out his own way. Twenty-three year old Wu doing it makes him a clueless, uncaring creep. Those five years makes a difference at that age, for sure.

I made him smart; I made him politically astute. I gave him the kind of education a Crown Prince would have received with regards to politics, culture, history, international relations, etc. (Boarding school my ASS.) I created a backstory for him and the Hou-Ting family that heavily relied on the actual history of Imperial China. 

I had Huan tell him to knock off the slang because that shit was annoying and it needed to stop. You’re welcome.

He’s also ADHD as fuck. My Betareader says that reading his run-on sentences, heavily seasoned with obscure vocabulary, jumping from subject to subject is like listening to me speak. I do not deny this. I do not even try.

Is he still the guy that danced around Beyoncé-style at his truncated first coronation? Oh he is, he really is. Does he write himself that way in his diaries? Please. Of course not. Some of the fun of writing Wu is writing about him from other POVs; he’s the most unreliable narrator of ever. He’s vain, self-centered, prone to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed (he’ll always be a King, let’s get this clear right now) but he’s also generous to a fault and, because he won’t have nannies (he’s afraid of having in-house staff because of the betrayal of his own personal staff when the palace was overrun) ends up doing the lion’s share of raising his four children, which does a lot to mature him and ground him in reality. He’s never going to be an average Joe, however. He’s never going to be normal. He’s an abdicated King. That does not equal normal in any universe, including ours.

Wu is a refugee. He lives in a country that is not his own. While he speaks the same language as those in Republic City, I’ve made sure to note that his accent/dialect are completely different. His culture and customs are different. His entire family is dead and the only person he has left from his childhood is the former Grand Secretariat Gun. (There’s another character I completely rewrote.) Wu is a profoundly lonely man, even in the middle of his noisy, loving family. He knows he is different; he’s aware that he will never really fit in, not really. As an immigrant myself, I know exactly how this feels and I have certainly brought that into his character.

Which leads us to this song, which to me is the ultimate Wu song. Retitle it “An Earth King in Republic City” and there you have it. (Not to mention I’m pretty sure Wu in his eighties would channel more than a little of Quentin Crisp.) This song has been his ever since I wrote Penmanship. He is the gentleman in this song.

I don't drink coffee I take tea my dear I like my toast done on one side And you can hear it in my accent when I talk I'm an Englishman in New York See me walking down Fifth Avenue A walking cane here at my side I take it everywhere I walk I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York If "Manners maketh man" as someone said Then he's the hero of the day It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile Be yourself no matter what they say I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York Modesty, propriety can lead to notoriety You could end up as the only one Gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society At night a candle's brighter than the sun Takes more than combat gear to make a man Takes more than a license for a gun Confront your enemies, avoid them when you can A gentleman will walk but never run If "Manners maketh man" as someone said Then he's the hero of the day It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile Be yourself no matter what they say Be yourself no matter what they say Be yourself no matter what they say Be yourself no matter what they say Be yourself no matter what they say... I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York

#character soundtrack #Wu

[terrorhqs]

[tw: blood, major character death]

A week after the takeover, the Promethean is well on its way to finish its trek. Cutting through calm and complacent waters, the crew and guests note that the ice that had once held them hostage has dissipated overnight with the dark and the gloom. Perhaps the deaths of the soldier and the girl sated the beast, some whisper — it’s leaving us alone. No, their comrade scoffs. Too easy. You heard the French - the thing killed a boatload of them before it left them alone! Two people are nothing but crumbs to it. It’ll be back.

“You’re all buffoons”, another chimes in. “The Agathe? Mutineers all along. It’s as Estrada said. They killed their crew and are killing ours too.” 

Amid the new tension borne of the mutiny, suspense heavy as wool hangs over the ship as it resumes its course. Lookouts are silent as they watch the ice, dread fraying their nerves, the same thought trawling across their conscience. Surely, it will reappear. After everything, it will come back.

But nothing parts the ocean, not even the breeze. An uneasy quiet descends upon the ship as those with an interest in completing the passage outnumber those who seek to return now that the waters promise an easy journey. An end to all of this is feasible — the only question remains: will all that’s been lost have been worth it? Is there any end that justifies the means?

It’ll be weeks, months yet before the Promethean reaches Hong Kong, but a call rings out in the midst of the morning. Wick and Bastien, high atop and on lookout, wave down wildly at the deckhands below. 

“Land! Land ahead!”

A seaman relays the message, bursts into the captain’s quarters where Marcus waits, in covenant with Hugo. Both men snap their heads at once, when they see the rallied cry that’s being picked up among the ranks. Both men, yes, to the slack curl of their jaw, can hardly credit it. It cannot be, their dark eyes say, pupils flashing. Even down to their mannerism, they have begun to look the same. 

“Land, sir. Lookout’s caught sight of land. Of a city - and its harbor!”

The vice-admiral-made-captain starts in his seat, brow furrowing, skeptical. “You’re joking. Even you must have looked at a map, we’ve got quite a way before even—”

“I swear it!” In his haste, he doesn’t mind his manners. As frantic as anyone’s ever seen, even Estrada cannot deny the truth from his eyes. “The lads are calling for you up-deck, Sir. The whole world is. A port awaits us.”

The rest of those onboard join the watch on the upper deck, curious clamoring seizing even those under the watchful eye of a musket barrel. There is no mistaking it - an oceanside city perched on low, rocky stone worn by lapping waves is clear through the spyglass. Slender, shimmering buildings of white spiral towards the sky in spires; others buildings are lower to the ground, and all are built with the same stone upon which the city sits and all are half-hidden behind a mist. 

“Make plans to dock.”

—

“Don’t stand up, Dowling. It’s only me. I come bearing news.”

Silence. In the space between the bottom of the floor and the door, Malachy’s silhouette shifts. 

“Too much of a coward to face me, Estrada?” Ragged voice tears through the air like a dagger, muffled through the door. “State your peace and leave.”

“Is that an order, captain?” A humorless, hollow laugh. “This is a gesture of goodwill, Dowling. I’d mind yourself until I’ve said what I’ve come to say.” He pauses. Perhaps to hide his own disbelief. Perhaps to spite Malachy. “We’ve fucking crossed it, Dowling. We think we’ve found the passage and we’ve found a way through. Hell, we might have already crossed it. We’ve got a city in sight and we’re making plans to dock in their harbor.”

A long pause. “No. No, that can’t be. It’s far too soon. A week, that’s not enough.”

“Say it as much as you want. By the time we lay anchor, you can come see for yourself. I reckon, see, that it won’t even be a day. As a truce, I’ll let you out—supervised, of course, and never too far from my sight. But freedom, Dowling. You’re to partake in it as well.”

“Thrilled, are you?” A soft thump on the other side of the door as Malachy leans against it. “How neatly this all transpires for you as soon as you seize the helm. Should’ve mutinied sooner, I bet you’re thinking.”

“Not here to question it. For your sake, I hope you don’t either.”

— 

Up close, the mist that cloaks the city shifts with every step taken. Appearing transparent once, then cloudy with a thin, greenish film next, then shimmering with an opalescent, abalone sheen. It is cold, but not cold enough for the thick coats that have proven imperative for standing outside in the Arctic. A strange humidity permeates the air - it is thin and thick, at once, and one feels a shortness and a swelling in every inhale - not painful, nor is it natural. The luster visible from the sea is procured from shells embedded into the foundation of every building, in between the stone and plaster - old and weathered, they glint in the light that parts through the mist. Perhaps the first thing that can be glimpsed, like a maroon carpet of colour, is the red sands on the eastward beach. Ground to a fine point, blanketing uniformly around the village until the paved streets begin to stretch on, it resembles a carpet of leaves or clipped gems as much as a natural phenomenon.

No other ships are docked at the silent harbor. Cobblestone lines the path up the crumbling seawall and into the city where townsfolk mill about in the marketplaces and town square, a vast space eclipsed by grand, towering edifices - a spindly cathedral demarcated by an unfamiliar brass symbol of the very tallest of its spires; an ancient, squat tavern; an inn with patrons streaming in and out like shoals; a surfeit of various shops of every variety, marked not by words or names, but by images painted into the overhanging signs. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, one realizes there is an absence of gas lamps that dotted London in abundance. Instead, white wax candles spill over every ledge, every crook and cranny, their bases melted into the stone and bedrock and wood. 

Townsfolk cast strange, curious glances at these newcomers, but their gazes never linger long before they carry on with their businesses. The accents are implacable, though they speak English - not even a mishmash of any known dialects, but entirely unfamiliar. Not even the Promethean’s most well-traveled guests can narrow their tongue or the origin of their accents down. 

The shops and inns here refuse currency - one takes what they need, and they carry their debt with them until it's repaid, metaphorically or literally. 

— 

Malachy emerges from the boiler room a fragmented man, gaze trained on the multiple barrel ends that follow his every movement. Every breath he takes lifts his entire body in a heaving pulse-thrum. Hair unkempt and eyes wild with animal fury, his lips lift into a sneer as he finds Marcus in the crowd of muskets.

“Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for your mercy, Estrada?” He appraises the armed crew. “And your lackeys, for their restraint?” 

“Chin up, Dowling.” The vice-admiral’s lips curl into a grimace. “Even you cannot deny this good fortune. Certainly this justifies some of the trouble.”

“It justifies nothing. If you’re wise, you’ll not let me out of your sight.”

No more is exchanged between the two men before Malachy is ushered up the main ladderway, up to the upper deck and onto the dock, one armed escort in front and behind him. The rest of the crew begin to disembark, all who aligned with Malachy closely followed by another who wasn’t. 

The dock creaks beneath their feet, and the procession is slow, tentative, upon reaching this new port. Everything is familiar, and yet nothing is - not even the screech of a gull to announce their arrival.

Then, a scream, feral and hoarse. 

Behind them, Jules takes advantage of the momentary awe and sweeps the legs of her captor, knocks them into the harbor waters. A musket fires. The narrow dock doesn’t allow much in the way of room, and those who have not yet made it out of the ship clamber back on. Captors shout for their captives to STAND STILL, MOVE BACK down into the lower deck, but the chaos and the overlapping shouts overpower them. Smaller squabbles break out as the rest milk the opportunity given to them by Jules’ commotion. Ahead of them all, Malachy slams himself into the guard in front of them, tackling them both to the ground. His second escort scrambles for a clear shot, musket trembling - only to lurch back, struck in the shoulder. Behind him, Ephraim had broken free and wrestled the gun from his warden, his aim true then and now as he holds it steady on Malachy’s escort, who wordlessly surrenders his own weapon to Malachy. 

On the boat, chaos descends. Roi has easily overtaken his guard, pinning them to the side of the boat. Before he can hurl them into the water, Mariah throws himself onto his back, pinning the steward’s neck into the crook of his elbow. A flash of silver in his free palm - but then Laurents is on him, twisting their arm back until the knife drops to the ground with a clatter, and drives his fist into the mercenary’s gut, allowing Roi the chance to break free. Elias dives for the dagger and slashes at the ankles of Fahra’s guard, who had her wrists firmly in their grip. He cuts deep, cuts an unthinkable and irreparable gash over both calves; enough to maim, perhaps, if another one of Estrada’s hounds had not stepped in. The second man, bigger, wrangles the steward into a deathgrip. They both take the fall, tumbling several paces across the teak. In the somersault, the snowfall of movement and limbs, Ayla Dowling steps in with a lifeline. A physical rope, no time for metaphor, no time for anything but the hard gnashing of the present. The doe loops the rope around the guard’s neck, and, with a vicious tug that no one would’ve wagered on, pulls him off Elias and onto the planks. She waits no second before helping Elias up, and together they join Jack, the sergeant’s dagger blocking Violet’s aim on August.

Some paces away, Noemie leads the rest of the Agathe survivors through the skirmish and off the ship - they start down the docks, but Katja blocks their way, and it’s her musket to their none. She grabs Tristan by the arm, presses the musket to his stomach - if you want him alive, you’ll do as I say. A gun close by goes off, causing all of them to flinch. In that instant, Nyima breaks from the hostage group to lunge at Katja. The two scuffle, until Nyima gets a grip at the barrel of the musket, shoves it into the air - it goes off. Tristan tries to pin Katja down, and she hisses, points the gun at him - Nyima yanks the barrel back. It goes off again - whether by accident or as a result of the scuffle or by intention, it finds its mark. 

A wail cuts through the air, and for a moment, the bedlam stills. Nyima clutches a weeping wound on her chest, collapsing into Tristan’s arms. Ever the protectress, she is restless still even with her grievous wound, tries to force herself before the rest of the Agathe survivors as they fall to her side. This is one of the last attempts, the last slingshots of action in her muscles and spirit: to interpose between her friends and Katja. The translator backs away, wide-eyed, but still in possession of her wits - weapon poised to fire again if they tried to seek retribution. 

“Call Jonathan! Casimir! Help her!” Emma begs to no one in particular. She is quick to kneel, had already torn off half the scarves she was wearing, and is pressing dry palms, wet cloth, crimson sash to Nyima’s blooming chest. The petal spreads, swallows the entire front of the amulet’s dress. For all her time spent in gardens, for all that she turned stem and stalk to see the wonders of the world, this is a flower Emma cannot understand. Cannot weed out, or stall, or even conceive of. The blood flows, pours, goes over easy; a swell like the motion of waves, on what was once a ferocious, then a frozen, now an utterly becalmed sea. Nyima’s hand raises to Emma’s cheek, and, like the curl of a gentle claw, wraps around the jawline. Tristan falls to her other side. She whispers something to both of them, a voice that doesn’t carry, a wisp already flattened into velvet by the winds. Then she presses her own face into Tristan’s thigh. Her Judas, her Captain; it’s hardly appropriate, isn't’ it, that he’s the one that has been betrayed again—that he’s the one left behind. Perhaps this is why the cook smiles to him, last. To assure, as much as assuage. To promise there is another turn to this story, even as her own is already fading. 

By now, Malachy and his officers and Marcus and his loyalists have found the source of commotion and gathered, wordlessly. Jonathan weaves through to reach Nyima - there’s shifting, the subtle sounds of men taking aim,  and Ephraim immediately raises his gun to Marcus. It takes his own Captain’s voice to make him lower it, hip level, eyes murderous.

“Let them go. Let her…” Malachy pauses, swallowing through his hoarseness. There is no doubt as to the injury’s severity - the bleeding has not abetted, thick rivulets seeping through Emma’s fingers and pooling on the fallow ground. Malachy Dowling was a man of many wounds; some borne within, some hidden, but most of all witnessed. He knows what a death mark looks like. Nyima’s body is a canvass of carnage.

Not much for Jonathan to do, no, not much for anyone to do at all. Doing has led them here; the rough, loud, prideful fall of it. The impossible tally. The Captain, the former Captain, rises his voice once more. “Let them care for her in peace. You’ve had the upper hand, and now - now neither of us do.”

It’s Tristan’s cry that announces it; the death, the finality. Emma’s face is as white as the sky above them. Hands as rusty as the sands on this beach, on this strange place of salvation. Ayla and Noemie huddle closer to lift her up, lift her away from Nyima, but she won’t go. It seems no one is going anywhere, anymore — the whole possibility of it has been culled. Bones resting as slack as burlap; as unconscious as the flotsam left after a flood. 

Behind him, Edward and Jaya usher those they knew to be aligned with the old command off the docks and into the city. Marcus watches, impenetrable, his own musket held limp at his side, unmoving, unspeaking. 

Then he extends a hand to Katja, like a faraway tyrant, the stone hewn statue of one, calling home its acolytes. He waits until the thief, once-translator, now trembling toll paid in blood, comes into his shadow. Lays a hand on her shoulder, protective and proprietary all at once. Lays a gaze, then, like the snag of a chain; drags it over all of them that remained up deck. Only then he begins to speak.

“So that is how these things end: the pointless brutality of it. Man’s obsession to keep a code of honour that has long stopped serving. Has everyone seen it, looked their fill? Good. I am nothing if not prophetic, hm? Now. Now. Let us make sure no other prediction of mine will see the garrish, gruesome light of day. Have you all had enough of mutiny and cockfights? Are you ready to make something of your life?”

His body turns to the rest of the crew, a full recoil, almost a repose.

“Seems to me this is as good a place to start as any.” 

To his own, Malachy offers his own words. Exhaustion permeates his words, weighs them heavy as lead - the fight is over, all there is left to do is rest. Regroup. Loss, they all know by now, regardless of their alignment, is consumptive. It eats and it steals and it offers nothing in return. “Let us not forget the dangers that have led us here. Betrayals. Mutinies. Guns at our heads as we lived and slept. A beast that knows not of compassion nor mercy. Just because we are alive does not mean we are safe - do not let your guard down. Rest, and we will regather. Salvation, whether it be here, or home, awaits us in unity.”

OOC: We hope you enjoyed today’s plot drop, lovely members and lurkers! The Promethean has landed in strange new lands where nothing is at it seems, with tension aboard boiling over into a chaotic climax. The crew has mostly dispersed into the city, with each side of the mutiny looking to gain their bearings and regain control. 

A poll will be posted in the discord so that you can choose if your muses retreated with Malachy Dowling or stayed anchored with Marcus Estrada. Please remember that everyone who helped Mal/Jules stage the insurgency is no longer a crew member. However, if your character has motives for staying (a loved one, a status as double agent, suddenly undecided etc.) you are welcome to have them remain on the Promethean. Just be sure to keep us up to date if any major loyalties have shifted, and, as always, to have a blast writing & plotting through these little rats’s conflicts. 

There is, of course, much to explore in this nameless port city, including NEW LOCATIONS, listed below, and new NPCs with which to interact as sideblogs. These will be ran by the admin team: K., Venli, and Rhi, and will be strangers to the rest of the crew, each bringing their own motives, mysteries, and intricacies into the interaction. Keep an eye out for the follow post within the next few days! More locations will also be added as the plot and exploration of the area progresses. As of now, THE CAPTAIN is an active muse and may interact with the rest of the characters. Have fun, and happy writing!

AT HANGMAN’S TRINKETS.  

At the other end of the port, pushed far enough from the seaside that it almost looks like any other village, splays the tight, narrow venue of the store. If most buildings on the docks look comely, a peace that alludes to most corners of the world where the ocean laps the shore, this one has a marked touch to it. It draws the eye, the firm painted a gaudy russet, as red as the sands that litter the eastward beach. Despite its hue, the sign has been battered into something closer to dried blood by the gale, and the marks on it are illegible. Could be any human language, or not at all. Perhaps what makes the shop stand out even more is the absence resounding in the harbour. The maroon posts are entirely devoid of any other ship, not even small fishing vessels anchored at half-length on the wharf. It should make the Promethean loom, but instead it diminishes it; could be soothing, could be dangerous, the way the quiet waves knock it about, with very few inhabitants coming to stare at it, to help tie it to the pier, or even to barter. Yet there is plenty of bartering to be done further inland. The rest of the expanse might be barren, but the shop is bright and bundled up, like an old woman sat by the fire. A string of fairy lights are hung over it in a diagonal row, the sash of it lolling slack enough to catch a taller sailor’s head and dapple it with warmth. At the counter, a young, plucky clerk spreads their arms in welcome. Behind them, vials, jars, and tinkling bottles litter the entire front wall. It is such a kaleidoscope of size and color that any customer might be more dazzled than tempted to purchase. From camphor oil to whale teeth necklaces, from silk handkerchiefs  to beads of black glass, everything seems ready to be displayed, bartered, and doubted. The clerk is nothing but exhilarated to have someone to talk to at last. Their bronze face is dappled with the hanging lights, and a nose ring stretches from their septum to their ear. That golden chain makes them look both older and younger at once — as they chuckle and lapse into chatter, already ready to soak up all the information visitors might bestow, it becomes more and more difficult to gauge their age. Or their intentions…. How much will you share?

HIGHWAYMAN’S REST.

Perhaps the most striking front belongs to the port’s hotel, a polished three-tiered complex that occupies the main street. Oddly enough, despite the fact that the port seems all but deserted, the building has the most upkeep in the area. The outer walls are painted olive green, in a stark contrast with the houses’ cream-colored front and the greyed, saltwind-bitten outstretches of wood along the pier. The double doors allow a glimmer of light to cross the threshold, since its glass panels are painted with scenes that resemble the stained glass on churches and temples all over the world. Once inside, the vista opens on a waiting room decked with paintings and sculptures, with works of art that don’t seem to resemble anyone in particular. In order to ring the receptionist’s bell, you have to wrangle your hand through a number of small statutes. One bust on the receptionist’s counter, reads king sylvester stuart. Another, an effigy that seemed carved in filigree, depicts josephine robespierre.  On the usual, there is no one in the waiting room, and no noises pour from above. For all intents and purposes, it feels as if the entire establishment is deserted; or perhaps never used in the first place, simply spruced, polished, and displayed for the hollow beauty of it. On the fourth clanger of the bell, the receptionist finally walks into view. A door in the wall opens, and they step through with a merry gait, not allowing anything to be glimpsed behind them. At once, they are ready to sort the visitor with the best sets of chambers for their disposition. They try to strike up a conversation, one hand already on the ledger, and do not even presume to ask for money until after the end of the stay. Their demeanor might almost foster the sense of a homecoming; only their remarks, and the parental, proprietary style of their speech, makes it feel more like a transaction instead. For all the luxury that defines the hotel, a visitor may wonder if, in fact, they’re being sold something else underneath. However, after such a long journey of darkness and water, who can say no to even a few hours in an ivory bedroom—for a dalliance, a tumble into unconsciousness, or just to experience the decadent beauty of those who’ve had easier lives?

THE SIREN’S SORROW. 

Coming up from the docks, the hard-teak stairs lead into a bulky tavern, a building more squat than inviting, which carries a barrack’s efficiency about it. The place’s foundation looks rooted into the scaffolding itself, the moldy, barnacled pillars somehow supporting the weight of the place. At the ground level, the dingy, round windows open up into the street, but it’s difficult to peer through the grime crusted over the glass pannels. At the upper level, which the two-storied construction seems to be bowled over, the blinds are drawn shut, their velvet dusted a bile-yellow even from afar. Yet through it all, what actually grabs the visitor’s by the throat, is the strange allure of the place. Not a disparaged charm, mind you—most of these sailors have spent their pay and day in shindigs far worse than this. It is not much, in way of grotesque, just as it is not much in way of poetry. But a certain shimmer permeates throughout, like mist gathering over the shingles, and it renders the place noble and faraway. One might almost expect to see a lighthouse cave around it. When the doors open, the interior is low-ceilinged and vast, the chambers burrowing further than the outside lets on. Depending on how the sunlight, which is still paltry further off the Arctic glare, the main room of the tavern looks both too hollow and too overcrowded, all at once. Truth be told, no one can be certain if it’s not the most beautiful place they’ve ever seen; if only because it peals out to a sense of humanity, a sense of being rooted down. It takes a while to realize that the humanity, for all its urgency, is slightly skewed at the corner. Takes a while to gather up the questions, rather than just gawk at a bar stool that isn’t nailed down into the ship’s timber floor; at a glass that isn’t canister, but actual earthenware, tangible and frail. When the questions do gather, the barkeep is there for the tending. Jaded, old, he seems to have borne both the glow and the gloom of the place, allowed it to mantle them from brow to navel. They seem, also, like the kind of man who has heard a story for every life the sailors wished upon, for every lie they cast over dice. What will you ask him?  

#thqadmin #thqevent #make urself comfortable friends #its a chonky one!! #tw blood #tw death #tw major character death

[edmund-valks]

Ilandreline - Soul Food

(( The Call - A Compound Beginning - Just One Cookie ))

She had nothing left to eat, a realization prompted by the sensation of fingernails scratching in an empty pouch.  A giggle escaped her.  There was something comical about running out of food in this vast wilderness.  "I could eat the plants."  That was her voice, wasn't it?  "They won't feed me, though.  They're made of nightmares and failure.  That won't do."

After realizing again her food pouch was empty, Ilandreline looked around.  Something about this place… She shook her head.  "Too hungry to think straight."  Her fingers wrapped around nothing in the little bag where she'd kept the last of her cookies.  "Wish those plant-things could help."

She reached for her water, settling for a drink now that there were only crumbs left to eat.  Squeezing the last drops into her mouth, she wondered what it would be like to die of dehydration at the end of her journey simply because she'd become so disoriented from a lack of food that she hadn't bothered to leave the Paths.  "Hah!  That would be some serious chump shit, wouldn't it, Granny?  Granny?"  She looked around, frowning at the emptiness where Aurelaine had been.  "Where'd you go?  Oh, there you are."

The old elf said nothing, merely sighed.  That was probably fair.  Ila wasn't exactly doing the family proud at the moment.  "Look, I know it's sad -- pathetic, even! -- but you have to admit it's funny.  Me dying, I mean.  Like this.  Right at the door out.  Hilarious!"

Maybe it wasn't that funny, now she thought about it.  More disappointing than funny.  That hurt, in a strange way.  She was used to disappointing her mother, but disappointing Granny Laine was something else entirely.  Maybe she should find a way not to do that?

"Would it be better if I, you know, left?  That way you wouldn't see it, right?"  She was beginning to suspect that wasn't really her grandmother at all.  Maybe it was a ghost.  Maybe it was a hallucination.  But would either of those be able to mimic the displeasure on her face so well?  She didn't know, ghosts were a Von thing, not an Ila thing.  "Whatever, it should work, I guess.  Or something.  Better to die where the dead go than here, where I'm like ninety percent sure they're just eaten.  Better than dying at a door I forgot to open then."

Again, the nagging feeling that there was an answer she was missing.  And again if fell away quickly, drowned out by the rumble of a stomach and the ridiculous situation she'd found herself in.  "Fuck it, let's just do the blood thing, plenty of that around here."  Someone laughed aloud -- it didn't sound like her, it was a bit high-pitched, kinda manic -- while Ila looked around for a plant to chop open.  There weren't many, for some reason.  This area seemed strangely barren, like if someone had cleared it intentionally.  That was odd.  Or was it?  She couldn't remember anymore.

Oh well.  No plants didn't mean no blood.  She had plenty.  Not just in her body, either!  Chuckling to herself, Ilandreline grabbed a large bottle from her pack, removing the stopper.  The iron-tang of its contents filled the air, tickling her nostrils with warm memories of a full belly.  Delicious.  Maybe if she drank the whole thing then-

No!  You're supposed to be doing something with this!  Nodding at the voice in her head, she stumbled around, emptying it as carefully as the wobbling terrain would allow.  Who authorized such an unstable plane?  She wanted to have words with them.  Or she would later, once her thoughts cleared up a bit; this haze was frustratingly hard to shake.  

She blinked bleary-eyed at her handiwork.  A circle… and now what?  Oh, right, some symbols of… uhhhh… similarity, right?  Making here like there and there like here and something big in the middle to represent an open conjunction of adjacent planes.  The blood was a perfect reagent because it was also a pun -- the places were joined because they started to bleed into one another.  A cackle from somewhere, probably her grandmother, who had decided to be invisible again.  That was her right, of course, but it got frustrating to be laughed at by someone you couldn't see.  Seemed rude somehow.

"Whatever, let's light this candle and uh… wait, there aren't any candles.  I… what was I supposed to use to…?  Oh, right!  Obviously."  She positioned herself over the central rune, giggling like a girl at the absurdity of everything.  Knife in hand, she opened her jacket and lifted her shirt out of the way.  While activating a circle normally didn't take too much, this wasn't a usual sort of rite.  Muttering something untranslatable in her family's Shath'yar dialect, Ilandreline slid the blade into her side.

The pain brought unexpected clarity.  Hissing through clenched teeth, she had a moment of recognition, one she did her best to cling to.  The life she gave to this work had to be placed here and here, with the proper invocations.  The words spilled out with only minimal slurring, the extensive practice Aurelaine had insisted on paying off in her moment of need.

This was indeed the exit, her planned destination and point of egress to the Shadowlands.  Despite being mostly delirious, she felt the work forming around her.  Through her?  Yes, that.  Black fire froze her arteries, leaving the pins-and-needles of lost sensation in its wake.  The symbols written in blood -- hers and others -- blazed holes in the non-space she’d traverse, like projector film melting in the lamp’s heat.  There was screaming somewhere, her throat sympathetically echoing the rawness of the cry.  Colours inverted around her, scintillating motes dancing in her vision, the darkness agonizing in its brilliance until-

There was light all around her.  Even with her eyes squeezed tight, she could feel its insidious heat trying to burn its way in.  But there was a certain firmness of ground around her, perhaps to all of reality, and that was what mattered.  Sightless, her fingers grasped at her belt to where she’d left her goggles hanging, exhausting what little energy she still possessed to replace them on her head.  Only then did she dare look to see what had happened, where she was.

Despite the smoky blackness of the cut-crystal lenses, there was more brightness than she would ever be comfortable with.  It didn’t hurt, not yet, but it ached.  She found herself staring at an endless blue sky overhead, with vague awareness of white stone around her, glinting gold.  Blood -- her blood -- pooled around her, providing a coolness the horrible sunlight never could.  Did she need to stop that?  Had she cut too deep?  It didn’t matter, she didn’t have the strength to cauterize herself at this point.

Wild laughter bubbled up from somewhere.  No, not somewhere, from inside her.  After a moment of wrestling with it, she stopped, though the inclination remained waiting behind the barrier of self-control.  “What a fucking joke,” she said, voice weak even inside her own head.  “Travel a billion non-miles or whatever only to die alone in a sun-scorched hellscape of a temple plane.”

“No, you will not die here.”  The words came from somewhere she could have seen if she’d been capable of moving any longer.  “You have not journeyed in vain, stranger.  There will be questions for you, when you are well enough to answer, but not until then.  Rest easy, child, knowing that the Kyrian will not let further harm befall you.”

The who?  She got as far as saying “What in the Endless Dark is a Kyr-” before her consciousness gave out entirely.

#ilandreline #ilandreline glimmerbow #fence macabre #wow rp #warcraft rp

[bakusoftie]

Loved me those lov reactions! Could I get one for reactions to a recruit with a snake based quirk (control,naga,etc) that talks in sarcastic haikus? Think zero from borderlands if you've ever played lmao

anon came for my obsession with snakes and love of poetry with this one

I’ve never played borderlands but I hope this is what you’re looking for ;)

Quirk: Snakecharmer - With this quirk, Y/n can summon snakes that live inside of their skin to do her bidding. The only drawback is they have to shed their skin now and then and they have a speech impediment that makes them prolong the ‘s’ sound (like a snake’s hiss”

Shigaraki

giran brought you along with toga and dabi as new recruits for the league

at first glance, he just thought you looked normal, your face wasn’t fucked up like dabi and you didn’t seem to be as batshit crazy as toga

when he asked you to introduce yourself he took back the part about you being normal

“Our eyes meet across

the room. My lips say no, my

eyes say ‘read my lips’ “

bitch what

he doesnt understand this cryptic bullshit

when he starts to realize what you just said, he gets super annoyed

he just wants to disintegrate your flesh but kurogiri won’t let him

poor brat baby

he thinks your quirkless or that you have an weak quirk because you just seem so harmless

But

when the league were out on a mission and you and shigaraki got separated from the rest of the members, he thought shit had completely shit the fan

the heroes were surrounding you two and he was slightly injured

but when 20 fucking snakes jumped out of your body and started swallowing the heroes whole

[surprised pikachu face]

shigaraki literally said “and i OOP?!?”

he was so shocked

he thought it was kinda hot too 👀

shigaraki has a naga kink : exposed

he definitely starts to see you as less annoying and more ‘evil hot snake god(dess)’

the poems still get on his nerves tho

Dabi

he thinks giran is out of his mind to bring an actual knife-wielding child and a weird poetry lady

that is until he sees your quirk

he thinks it’s pretty awesome

one day, Shigiraki tries to grab you when you make a comment about Father and Dabi just sits back and watches these giant pythons come out of your back and bite shigaraki’s wrist before his hand touches you

Dabi is fucking impress

Your dialect does confuse him but if we are going off on the Dabi is a Todoroki Theory, then he’s used to Traditional Japanese Culture and his mother probably read some haikus to his as a child so he finds it endearing

but sometimes he gets triggered of his past and ignores you but if he thinks he can just get rid of you so easily he’s got another thing coming 👏

“A friend’s silence leaves

scars far deeper than the lash

of an enemy”

Dabi doesn’t get emotional very often but when he’s like that and having flashbacks about his past, he’s so soft

you remind him of his mom

or how his mom used to be before she went crazy

you wrap your snakes around him like a tight hug but not enough to hurt him

he actually gives you a genuine smile

uwu

Toga

this girl only speaks in kawaii and yandere

she’s also a middle school dropout so

she stupid

i mean she’s street smart but girl don’t even know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell

smh

she first starts taking interest in you after watching your snakes rip through an enemy’s body, splattering blood all over your body

she thinks you’re hella cute with all the blood on your face

she also thinks your pet snakes are adorable and she’s named every single one

lowkey named one izuku and started stabbing it but stopped once you started crying about your baby being hurt

she has a uwu crush on you

but not in the way where she wants to stab you

in the way where she wants to stab people with you

be gay do crime

she gets so confused when you talk tho

she stupid, as i said before

she loves when you make haikus about her tho

or the ones you stay when you’re about to kill someone

“ “women are weaklings!”

I’m strong enough to carry

your corpse to the woods”

she likes that one 🥰

#toga himiko #toga x reader #himiko toga x reader #dabi x reader #shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #bnha x reader #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha