#as a means to a dream or the perfect centre or something to project or as a means to revenge
Text
Berry Blues
Season Two
Part Sixteen - (Original Song) Trouty Mouth!
Quinn Fabray x Reader
Summary: Against what you considered your teams better judgement, the New Directions were convinced to write original songs for the upcoming competition, that could seal your hopes and dreams of -temporarily- getting out of the small town you called home. If only drama didnt follow the club like a plague.
Word Count: 5,352
WARNINGS: Maths, argument, yearning, that’s mostly it
-----
"Guys, I've got some bad news."
"Oh, just what I want to hear on a morning," you sassed from your seat beside Artie, the boy helping you finish your calculus homework last minute.
"No one does, Y/N," Mr Schue drawled, "You know how we decided on 'Sing' by My Chemical Romance for Regionals? Well, I hold in my hand a cease and desist letter from the band. We can't do it."
Puckerman scoffed from the back of the choir room, "It was the perfect anthem."
At the Spanish teacher's statement, you pulled your attention where you were scribbling a -probably wrong- equation onto the paper in your lap, looking at him with furrowed brows.
"That really doesn't sound like something the band would do."
"How much do you wanna bet Coach Sylvester has something to do with this?" Mercedes asked, shaking her head.
"One step ahead of you."
"So, what are we gonna do now?" she continued.
Before Mr Schue could begin to offer up some words of confidence, whilst he secretly worried inside, Rachel voiced her opinion.
"I think we should write original songs for Regionals."
"Oh, nope. That's still a bad idea." You shook your head, turning back to your homework.
You hate to admit it because you loved your sister dearly, but your hand was one of the firsts that rose into the air after Santana's declaration.
"All those in favour of voting Rachel down a second time?"
However, what came next shocked you to your very core.
"No, I think Rachel is right."
With horrified eyes, you turned to look over your shoulder at the blonde sitting behind you.
"Who are you, and what the hell have you done with Quinn Fabray?"
The girl rolled her eyes at you.
"This team works best when we push ourselves and do something a little different."
At Quinn's defence for your sister, everyone with their hands raised slowly started to lower them, listening to her reasonings intently.
"That's true, but if the all the other teams are doing amazing songs, we're not gonna be so good."
"You're right. We're not gonna be as good. We're gonna be better," Quinn countered Mercedes, "We won't be using other people's words or music. It'll be our own. Our own heart, soul, not just our voices. We have a really talented songwriter in our midst. Rachel, I was thinking maybe you and I could write a song together."
Okay, now something was definitely up.
Not only was Quinn Fabray volunteering to spend time with your sister, working on a project, when you knew full well that she could barely stand the shorter diva Berry.
But she also called her a "talented songwriter", when if she was forced to hear any of the drafts you had been, you knew she would not be saying that. Nor would she be jumping -creating- the opportunity to work with her.
"I'm with Quinn and Rachel," Finn spoke, looking between the two teenagers he had dated, making you roll your eyes at him, "I mean, if these two can agree on something, it's probably an idea worth considering."
"Well, I still think it's a bad one."
"Wait a minute. So suddenly, you two are writing music for Regionals?" Santana asked, almost affronted, "No way. I think that everyone should get a chance to write a song."
Sam was quick to agree with his girlfriend.
"Santana's right. We can do this."
"What do you think, Mr Schue?" Mercedes asked the man standing in the centre of the room, cease and desist letter still within his grasp.
The curly-haired man shrugged, giving a tight-lipped but pleased smile.
"I think we're doing original songs for Regionals."
After the short applause, both young Berrys turned to gander at the blonde behind them.
Rachel with a thankful smile.
And yourself, with a snappy comment.
"Seriously, who are you?"
---
Early the next day, before your first class, you meandered the halls, looking for one of your friends to chat with for the short time before the bell rang.
And that's exactly what you found.
Only, they didn't look how you expected.
"Oh, what the hell happened to you two?" you asked the two ex-cheerleaders, whose clothes were caked in soil, mouths also coated in the stuff, looking as if they had been eating it.
"Sue put dirt in our lockers," Santana explained as Brittany spat the stuff from her mouth, trying to pluck it away with her just-as-covered fingers. Her statement made your eyes drag behind them to where their lockers sat, filled with dirt.
"That's insane. Why'd she do it?"
"She's still pissed at us for not going to the Cheerios Nationals and the fact that she's not a cheer coach anymore."
"She is the prettiest person I have ever met, and I live with my sister." Gesturing them towards you, you said, "Okay, let's uh... let's get you two a change of clothes. Unless you wanna look like you just dug yourselves out of shallow graves."
Hours later, you had escorted the -now changed- girls into the choir room, dispersing throughout. A lot of club members with open notepads on their laps and pens in hand, just waiting for the director to enter the room so that they could start their lesson.
With a tall stack of yellow books in his arms, the man said, "All right, guys, let's hear it for our first songwriting seminar."
You still thought it was a bad idea, but you had decided to go with it nonetheless. It's better for you to try and fail than to not try at all.
"While Quinn and Rachel are hard at work, we're gonna try to write an anthem of our own," Mr Schue told, as he handed out the thick books, "Now, these are rhyming dictionaries for all of you."
"Mr Schue, Tina, and I have been uh already working on a song that I wrote," Santana offered.
"Really? That's amazing. Well, can we hear it?"
The Latina gave a small nod before moving to stand in the centre of the room, Tina making her way to the heys of the piano.
"This is a song that I wrote for Am. It's called 'Trouty Mouth'."
The blonde boy's sweet smile fell at that.
"Wait. What's it called?"
Only for Mike to lean over and whisper, "'Trouty Mouth'."
You didn't know a song could make you this happy.
Every one of Santana's lyrics was better than the last.
That was until Sam had to go and ruin it for you.
"Okay, can we stop?" he asked, outraged, as he jumped to his feet, "Stop with the mouth jokes."
"No, no, no!" you whined, aghast, once the music was abruptly cut off.
"Sit down. I'm not finished."
"Yes, you are." The boy then turned to the seated teacher, "Mr Schue, we're not doing a song at Regionals called 'Trouty Mouth'."
The man stuttered, rising from his own seat as he gestured to the blonde, "You know what? I have to agree with Sam on this one."
"Oh, I disagree." You shook your head with a bright smile tugging at your lips. "'Trouty Mouth' has got to be an iconic anthem. Really a song for generations."
"Y/N," Mr Schuester scolded you before turning back to Santana, "But such a good first effort. I just don't think it's got the epic feel we need for Regionals."
"I do." Your hand shot into the air, playfully being shoved by Sam as he manoeuvred back to his seat.
It seems Santana wasn't the only eager participant in the room, as Puckerman soon voiced his own involvement with a raise of his hand.
"Mr Schue, I wrote a song too. I wrote it for Lauren." The girl looked away awkwardly at that, spurring the boy into manoeuvering further into her line of sight. "I know that when I sang 'Fat Bottomed Girls', it might have hurt your feelings a little bit, but... I think this makes up for it." The delinquent continued down to replace a disgruntled Santana. It's got a bit of a rockabilly feel, so it could give us an edge this weekend."
"I'm inclined to agree with you there," you admitted as your teacher nodded the boy on.
"All right. Show us what you've got."
You couldn't help but laugh as Santana walked by Mr Schue, muttering to the man, "Don't touch me. Don't touch me."
"It's called 'Big Ass... Heart'."
"Why was that good?" you asked once the boy's short performance was over, "Stop making things that I like."
Mr Schuester, it seems, didn't share your same opinions, 'cause as soon as he could, he popped up out of his seat, hoping to get the boy off of the floor.
"All right, guys, let's make Puck's song a contender, but I don't totally think we're there yet. Everyone look at your rhyming dictionaries, and let's work on banging out some songs that rock."
---
"I have to talk with you."
With a short yell, you startled back, slamming your locker door in reaction. Snapping your head to the side, you spotted your sister, an almost conspiring look upon her features.
"Hey. Why do you always have to scare me? How was your songwriting session with blondie?" you asked, beginning to make your way down the hall, forcing a trailing Rachel to jog to catch up, to be by your side.
"It was fine. Quinn lacks my vision and years of studying lyrics and the meaning behind songs, but with some more work, I'm sure she could help me."
You rolled your eyes in reaction to her grandiose words while she quickly shook her head. "But that's not what I want to talk to you about."
"Aha. And what's on your mind?"
"I think Finn is dating Quinn again."
A familiar weight sunk in your chest. Cold and heavy. Something close to hopeless despair.
But you couldn't let your sister know that.
And you couldn't tell her that you knew they had been fooling around, even with no proof of that fact, considering she had flat-out believed Quinn's lie in the last celibacy club session you had attended. It would destroy her, and even though you knew you should tell her the truth, it would be the right thing to do, but you just didn't want to see her hurt.
"What makes you say that?"
"They were talking, and they were really close."
You gasped sarcastically, "I'll call the Pope!"
"Y/N, would you take this seriously?"
"And why the hell should I do that?" you asked, talking with a hand whilst the other held onto the strap of your backpack, "They were just taking, Rach. They can do that."
"Yeah, but it seemed... different."
"'Different' how?"
"Like they were talking about their relationship."
"And how does that look?" you almost laughed, "Look, Rach, at the end of the day, it's none of our business what they were talking about, no matter if he's your ex or not- If anything, you have less of a right to know."
Before she could reply, you were literally saved by the bell ringing overhead, signalling the start of your next class.
"Now, if you'll excuse me." You pointed over your shoulder with your thumb. "I have to go get a 'C+' on my calculus homework... with any luck," you finished to yourself as you walked away from her,
Thoughts of Quinn and Finn swam through your mind as that sinking feeling continued to grow.
---
It was a relief when Mercedes pulled you away from the rhyming dictionary before you with the incredible song she wrote and performed for everyone in the choir room.
"Yeah. Mercedes," Mr Schuester applauded with the club, speaking over everyone's cheers, "Really, really good."
"Thank you." The girl beamed.
"But, um..."
Mercedes' smile dropped at that.
"'But' my butt, Mr Schue. That song was amazing." She pointed a finger in the man's face as to get her point across.
"No, I agree. I'm just not sure that it's Regionals material."
The girl sighed softly, making her way over to the seats.
"Mr Schue, I wrote another verse of 'Trouty Mouth'," Santana voiced, bringing the attention to her, spurring Sam to raise the sign he had scribbled onto his notepad in support of Mercedes' song, reading 'hell no'.
Nodding along with the Latina from your seat beside her at the piano, you said, "I helped."
"No, no, no. Guys- Guys, just think about it. What's your favourite song of all time?"
"'My Headband'," Brittany spoke instantly.
"I'll let Rachel know that one person likes the song she's been torturing me with for weeks now."
"Allina Morissette's 'You Oughta Know'," Santana offered next.
Puckerman was Next. "'What's going on', Marvin Gaye."
"Puckerman, you're on a roll." Zizes complimented from where she stood, leaning against the side of the piano closest to you.
Taking the time to think on it while Santana and Puck had offered their favourite songs, you wracked your brain to find one of the songs that you loved.
"'Piano Man' by Billy Joel." You nodded, playing with the pen between your fingers.
"Okay, and what are all those songs about?" the teacher questioned.
"Headbands?" Brittany shrugged behind him.
Deciding to ignore the dirty blonde's answer, the man continued, "All these songs come from a place of pain. Look, the greatest songs are about hurt. And that's the side of yourself I want you to get in touch with."
"That should be easy," Artie stated, "Coach Sylvester tortures us for no reason and tries to get the entire school to hate us."
"Not that they didn't already." You shrugged. "At this point, it's just beating a dead horse with a stick."
"Yesterday, she filled Britt's and my lockers with dirt."
Mr Schuester rushed up to the whiteboard to begin listing Sue Sylvester's verbal abuse to the club.
"Okay, okay. Slow down."
"Literally no one else was talking," you uttered.
Mercedes voiced her own complaint about the blonde coach next, "Well, she literally throws sticks at me."
"Okay, what else? What else?"
"She called the Ohio Secretary of State saying she was me and that I wanna legally change my name to Tina Cohen-Loser."
You couldn't help but snort at that as everyone looked on in shock.
"She...?"
"Mean. Mean."
"I'm sorry," you told the girl, "I just wasn't expecting that."
"Okay, and how does that make you feel?"
"That she shouldn't be around children."
Fin had something else to say, however.
"Well... at first it hurts, but... then it mostly makes you wanna win."
"Guys..." the teacher smiled. "I think you may have just found your song."
"And that song is 'Trouty Mouth'." You pointed.
"No!" Mr Schue and Sam called out at the same time. Disappointing both you and the Latina who created the song.
"Now let's get to writing," the curly-haired man psyched everyone up as the title 'Loser Like Me' sat on the board behind him.
With a deep, grunted sigh, you dropped your head onto Santana's shoulder, preparing yourself for the only lesson to go.
By the end of the Glee Club meeting, your brain was fried by the number of words that ran through it. You were pretty sure you wouldn't be able to string together a sentence if your life depended on it.
To come to your sister's aid, however? That was a whole other thing entirely.
It was the end of the school day, and you knew Rachel would be working overtime on her songwriting, dragging Quinn along with her.
And considering you would rather not have a murdered sister, you were on your way to the auditorium, fully intent on dragging her kicking and screaming from the school if you had to. 'Cause, there was no way in hell that you were coming back to pick her up.
Only, you didn't have to do anything of the sort.
You were stunned in place just before you could reach the backstage door of the auditorium when your sister strode out, tears spilling from her eyes, trying to keep her sobs at bay.
"I'll be waiting in the car," she whimpered, rushing past you, trying to get out of the school as quick as possible but knowing that you weren't about to let her state slide.
So, as you watched her leave down the hall, your face grew hard, anger boiling up within you, face turning into a snarl as you span on your heel, slammed the door open, and strode over to where the blonde was sitting at the piano on the stage.
"Hey, what the hell did you say to her?!" you asked, pointing behind you.
Quinn sniffed, blinking back the wetness building up in her red eyes.
Maybe if you weren't so angry at her, you would have noticed apparent distress of her own.
"I just gave her a dose of reality," she said primly, straightening out the papers scattered along the grand piano.
"Reality that makes her cry?"
"Life sucks, sometimes, Y/N," she snapped, "She needs to get used to it- The rest of us have."
You scoffed at that, shaking your head in reaction.
"You know, though last year you were pregnant and had all of those demon hormones, so that if I said, "Hey, I don't like this flavour of gum," you would go into an eternal rage. But at least you weren't such a heinous bitch all the time!"
The blonde was gobsmacked by your sudden snapped reaction, gasping and pointing to her chest as she repeated your words, in offence, "You think I'm a heinous bitch?"
"Oh no, I know you are!"
"And what?" she challenged, "You want me to go back to being that sad, pregnant girl? Just so that you will like me?"
"No." You shook your head, obviously. "I want you to go back to that girl who cared about people other than herself."
"You think I don't care?"
"Do you call this caring?!" you argued, gesturing to the space around you wildly, "Really? So, what was this "dose of reality" you gave her that you consider caring?" you asked, utilising air quotes as you did.
"I told her that she didn't belong here, in this town. She was going to get out of here, and I was just sending her on her way." She almost sneered, confusing you, as you thought she had insulted your sister and not told her exactly what she wanted to hear. "That I was going to get married to Finn and start a family, he was going to get Burt's tire shop, and I would become a successful real estate agent, and she-" Quinn had to take in a sharp breath to gear herself up for what she was about to say. "She knows that she's going to get everything she has ever dreamed of... just not the boy she loved in high school."
The blonde had a hard time reading you as you stood there, silently evaluating her.
"Is that really what you think of yourself?" you asked finally, confusing her.
"What?"
"You think you're gonna be stuck here for the rest of your life?"
"That's my dose of reality. I've gotten used to it."
Suddenly, your dwindling anger spurred back to life.
"After- After everything I told you, you still believe that?"
"What do you mean?"
"How many times have I told you you can do anything, Quinn Fabray?" you stepped up to her now, unknowingly mirroring her and Rachel's positions from only minutes ago, only flipped in your favour.
But still, the girl was stubborn. Looking up at you with a hard pour, not backing down.
"You're amazing, and you don't fucking see it. You once told me that you wanted to help change the word, make it a better place-"
"That was just a silly dream!" She yelled, flinging her arms out by her sides.
"No, it's not! It's not silly, and it's less a dream and more of a plan. Being a real estate agent is all well and good, but you are destined for far better things- Greater things."
It was only then that you noticed the hopeless look in her eyes, the way they shone with tears, reddened and burning as she fought them off tooth and nail.
"Quinn," you breathed, "Is... is this about-?"
"Don't." She sneered. "Just... just don't, Y/N. I don't want to hear this right now."
She turned, trying to walk away before you could confront her truth when it was too hard for her to do so herself.
"You don't need to hide yourself like this."
"What do you know?!" she yelled, spinning back to face you, tears fully built up in her eyes, but still, none fell, as she stormed back over to you, "You've never had to do it! You've never had to be someone you're not. You're lucky enough to have a family that accepted you the second you were born. Not only that, but your parents relate to you on that!"
"Yeah, you're right." You nodded after a few moments of silence. "I don't understand exactly what you're going through. But I do know that you don't have to throw yourself into a life you truly don't want just because you're too scared to be you. Look, I'm not telling you to come out or lead the fucking pride parade. That's up to you. It's your choice. You can still live the life you want without doing all that. Don't throw your dreams away because you're scared of how other people will perceive you."
And with that, you left the blonde alone to her thoughts, heading off to comfort your crying sister as best you could.
You couldn't get anything out of her during the whole car ride back home, which was abnormal for her when she was in a state such as ones like this.
Even when you arrived home, Rachel rushed straight up to her pastel yellow room, leaving you to watch from her doorway as she cried and scribbled lyrics onto her notepad, surrounded by multiple drafts crumpled up around her.
With a deep sigh and a droop of your shoulders, you knew there was nothing you could do to help her at that moment. She didn't want any help nor did she want comfort, so there was no likelihood that she would accept it.
Stepping foot into your own room, your eyes travelled to where your own pad of paper sat at your desk, infesting your brain with thoughts of writing your own song.
Shaking your head, you quickly decided, "absolutely not." Instead, you pulled out your textbook to work on your homework, your brain was broken enough from songwriting today, and you needed to finish your history for tomorrow. Even if you wanted to lay down and nap for the next four hours.
---
The next few days passed in a blur and yet dwindled along slowly, at the same time, mainly when you and your sister had to be around the blonde and her boyfriend.
But the day had finally arrived.
Regionals.
You had to admit that you weren't that hopeful, with your songs being original and all that, but you were still gonna give it your all. If not for yourself or your team, but for your sister.
As usual, your club was late arriving at the competition, so as the announcer introduced the first competitors over the PA, you scooted your way through the rows to your designated seats.
"-Let's have a warm welcome for Aural Intensity!"
"Still sounds like a stupid term for going down on someone," you mumbled over to Mike, who had to stifle his laugh into his shoulder.
The expression you wore was one of disgusted astonishment, watching Sue's clear attempt at pandering to the judges, which only further grew with the cheering crowd.
You just hoped that Kurt and the Warbler's performance was far better than what you were just forced to sit through.
That hope was quickly proved true, as to your utter surprise, your friend began the setlist for his Glee Club, which made you beam out of pure happiness for this chance for him to shine in front of an audience.
Both Berry's in the crowd found their eyes trailing over to the couple that was Quinn and Finn, noticing the way that their hands were linked. Rachel and yourself yearning for opposite people in said couple. How two people could captivate a pair of siblings and be together like it was nothing, effortlessly crushing both Berry's hearts, was beyond you. It just seemed like a sick joke the world was playing.
Tearing your eyes away from them, you focused back on your friend and his boyfriend.
You suppose that is why he didn't let you know that he would be singing front and centre for this competition. He was far too excited to gush about the boy he had been harbouring feelings for, for months now, who had become his boyfriend. And not only that, he had had his first real kiss, that wasn't with Brittany. Or, unknowingly to you, taking from him by Karofsky.
After their duet and Blane's rendition of 'Raise Your Glass', that got the whole crowd jumping on their feet, it was the New Direction's turn to perform.
Walking through the backstage area with Santana by your side, you overheard Finn talking to your sister.
"I really like your song."
"It sure is better than 'My Headband'." You threw over your shoulder, gaining a soft glare from Rachel before she swiftly turned back to talk to her ex-boyfriend.
"I still think I should have sung 'Trouty Mouth' as the solo."
Breathing out a laugh, you threw your arm over the girl's shoulder. "Oh, I agree with you there."
From across the way, almost as if his ears had been attuned to the two words so that he would be able to hear them strung together within a five-mile radius, Sam yelled, "Stop talking about 'Trouty Mouth'!" Harbouring laughs from the club in reaction.
"And now, from William McKinley High in Lima, Ohio, the New Directions!"
You were by Finn's side during the entirety of your sister's performance, arms folded across your chest, all the while he listened to the lyrics intently, with an awestruck look on his face.
"She was crying while she wrote this."
"Why?" he breathed back as if speaking any louder would disrupt the performance. Unable to take his eyes off of his singing ex.
You could have told him about her and Quinn's argument, but you thought it best to give him the whole, blaring, obvious truth.
"Because she's still in the love with you."
His breath shortened then, while you glanced behind him, spotting his girlfriend, who had obviously heard your statement, staring into your soul with a look you couldn't quite decipher. She was frustrated and annoyed you could tell that much, even though she hid it well. But there was also a hopelessness and longing emitted from her.
But there wasn't long for you to dwell on it, as a few moments later, she and the rest of the girls were marching out. Followed by the boys and yourself after Rachel had introduced your team. Which quickly lead into your next and final song for the competition.
You were glad that it wasn't another slow number, where you had to be careful and intricate with your dance moves, but instead was one where you could end it off by dousing the audience with shiny red confetti, masquerading in slushie cups along with a cart. A reference, which only people who knew about and attended your school would know of.
After the judges had taken a short amount of time in their deliberation, the three Glee Clubs and their directors were gathered on stage to hear the results of the competition.
"And now, to announce our winner, Lieutenant Governor Stevens' wife, Carla Turlington Stevens."
"Who are these random-ass people they get for these things?" you whispered, once again to Mike, as you joined everyone else to applaud for the woman.
"Do you think they would be able to get anyone else to do it?" he countered.
"Touché, I supposed not."
Once the woman took the stage, she felt that to be the ideal time to get her troubles off of her chest.
"My husband is verbally abusive, and I have been drinking since noon." Feedback from the microphone was the only thing that filled the awkward silence her confession had garnered. "I'm bored. Let's just see who won, huh?" Suspense filled the three hopeful teams as the drunk woman opened the first-place envelope. "The New Directions, you're going to Nationals in New York."
The celebrations with your team were cut short, thanks to Sue Sylvester's outburst, where she strode up to the Governor's wife and knocked her out cold.
Talk about being a sore loser.
---
You were sat beside your sister when Mr Schuester walked into the choir room, carrying a small trophy, busy talking on the phone.
"I'll show you the video when you get home. Have fun at the sweat lodge." You cringed at the next words he cooed down the line, trying -and failing- to hide it from his students. "Namaste to you too. Okay, bye."
Leaning closer to Rachel you muttered, "She could do so much better than him." Knowing that he and Holly Holliday had been seeing each other since she came in to teach everyone about sex, because they were so bad at hiding it.
Only she wasn't the only person who had heard your comment.
Quinn Fabray, who was seated in front of your sister, peered at you from the corner of her eye, a ghost of a smile shadowing her lips. Sending a hopeful rush through you, even though your mind was screaming at you that it was worthless to even feel.
"Miss Holliday sends her best," he turned to tell the team, "And can't wait to congratulate you all in person when she gets back from her meditation retreat. Now, we all know that winning Regionals was a team effort, and Nationals isn't going to be any different. But... like in sports, every winning team has a player that rises above to help carry their teammates to victory. The M.V.P.." He pointed before bringing the gold star trophy into view. "And I would like to start a tradition of honouring that player after every one of our competitions. So, per a unanimous vote by all of you... our Regionals M.V.P. is... Miss Rachel Berry."
The club applauded for your sister as the director waved her down to accept her award.
"Congratulations."
"Thank you." She beamed. "If I could just say a few words?"
"Sure."
"And here she goes, making me regret voting for her," Santana said dryly.
"Same." You nodded, smiling down at Rachel playfully. Please don't start singing."
She rolled her brown eyes at you.
"Well, first of all, I just wanna say how amazing the song you guys wrote was. I-I was so inspired. You know, it's funny. I've won a lot of trophies before for singing competitions, and dancing competitions but... I've always felt like the girl who never gets the brass ring... and maybe I never will." She shrugged. "But today a-and at Regionals... the way you guys believed in me and... took a chance with me... all I've ever wanted was to feel special... and to feel chosen. And... I just, um... I wanted to thank you guys so much for giving me that. So, that's all."
After your sister's tearful speech, you lead the charge in giving her a hug, a proud look on your face, at her -not arrogant- speech.
So maybe doing original songs wasn't the worst idea ever.
You still thought it was pretty dumb, though.
However, there was no way you were gonna let Rachel know that anytime soon.
After all, you were far too excited for one thing and one thing alone.
New York City.
-----
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I mean I love shoto and would still argue he is the most boring in the family. He is perfect by design and has a very clear moral standing of clearly a victim who has never done anything wrong. We know exactly how his story will go from the tournament arc and forward.
Compare to enji or touya who is just convoluted messes with questionable morals (or non existent in touyas case) same with rei, who as much as she’s a victim also was never there for a single one of her children. You could do something with that guilt or the pain that they must feel over it. For fuyumi and natsuo you have to question what it means to be a failure and all that that means. It’s not a coincidence that the backstory barely even included him
As I said I love him, but he tends to sometimes feel like a plot tool rather than a person when tododrama is at play. Things happened that led to him being born, his existence itself is more relevant than how he feels about it and who he is. Which is why he works better as a character when around class 1a where his backstory isn’t as defining. When around the other todorokis I just feel less interested because the others are more narratively compelling
We have some glimpse of "abuse made me cold and unwelcoming and it made me hurt people" (for example, Inasa) but we receive this information AFTER Shouto starts his change which obviously doesn't contribute much to our perception. While Enji's redemption starts with us seeing his worse, Shouto's starts with us just seeing a bit cold teen with trauma so then I can't really care when he keeps on talking about his change. Yeah, you've been cold but we found out about that fact that it hurt people after you became a good boy
I too feel like other character of todofam are more fun. Though it doesn't have to be this way, it's just that Shouto is rarely the centre of attention in the family plotlines. He doesn't really talk with them outside plot convenience like when he went to meet Rei and she started getting better. It's almost like that Todoroki family exists as an additional characterisation for Shouto but when we talk about Enji then they start looking more like fleshed-out characters. Look, we didn't even hear Rei speak anything that would move her beyond the archetype of "loving mother with abusive husband" before Enji's storyline began developing. Same with Fuyumi and Natsuo. Then, of course, Touya's storyline added too
But in Shouto's storyline family was and remains a backstory. And what is worse is when Horikoshi makes him react to current family troubles he is put afront others and talks about eating udon with a mass murderer he barely knows. How does Natsuo feel about being attacked with the directions of beloved his brother? What does Fuyumi go through now when her dream of a happy family is destroyed completely? No, we gotta have Shouto and only Shouto thinking back to his change and projecting his own struggles onto Dabi who is a completely separate person, please
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bathroom designers Houston
Change Your Houston Property with Brito Designs & Construction into Your Perfect House
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Experience the True Essence of Comfortable Living: Whiteland Gurgaon
Gurgaon is an economic hub in India, popular among professionals and entrepreneurs from across the country. But the high cost of living there can be a barrier for many. That's where Whiteland Gurgaon comes in to help. Whiteland is a well-known real estate company that offers a variety of affordable apartments in Gurgaon to meet the housing needs of people from all income levels.
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Chembur's Alta Vista: Your Ultimate Guide to 3BHK and 2BHK Flats
Hey there, folks! Today, we're diving headfirst into the vibrant neighborhood of Chembur, where the real estate market is buzzing with excitement, thanks to Alta Vista. We'll be exploring everything you need to know about this gem of a location, along with insights into the availability of 3BHK and 2BHK flats in the area. So, fasten your seatbelts because we're about to embark on an exciting journey through the heart of Chembur!
Exploring Alta Vista in Chembur
Picture this: a tranquil oasis nestled amidst the bustling city of Mumbai. That's exactly what you'll find at Alta Vista in Chembur. This Residential Project has been making waves in the real estate market for all the right reasons. Let's take a closer look at what makes Alta Vista stand out.
Connectivity That Counts
One of the key factors that can make or break your living experience in any area is connectivity. Fortunately, Chembur doesn't disappoint. It's well-connected to all major parts of Mumbai, ensuring that you're never too far away from the action.
adhasai Iit Neet Coaching Mumbai (1.3 Km)
Holy Cross High School (4.3 Km)
General Education Academy (1.6 Km)
Vidyalankar Classes – Chembur | Iit Jee (1.8 Km)
High Street Phoenix (9.5 Km)
Food Bazaar (2.7 Km)
Sahakari Bhandar (2.9 Km)
R.K. Studio (1.5 Km)
Peninsula Business Park (8.9 Km)
Peninsula Corporate Park (9.2 Km)
Marathon Futurex (9.0 Km)
India Bulls Finance Centre (7.7 Km)
The Allure of 3BHK Flats in Chembur
If space, comfort, and luxury are what you desire in your Dream Homes, then 3BHK Flats in Chembur are your answer. These spacious apartments offer ample room for you and your family to stretch out and unwind. Alta Vista, in particular, has redefined opulent living with its meticulously designed 3BHK flats.
The Appeal of 2BHK Flats in Chembur
For those who seek a cozy yet stylish living space, 2BHK Flats in Chembur are a fantastic choice. These apartments offer a perfect blend of functionality and sophistication, and Alta Vista has some excellent options in this category as well.
Why Choose Properties in Chembur?
Now that we've explored the allure of Alta Vista and the variety of flats available, let's discuss why Chembur is becoming a hotspot for Property Seekers.
Upcoming Developments
The real estate landscape in Chembur is evolving rapidly, with several new developments on the horizon. This means that investing in a property here could potentially yield excellent returns in the future.
In Conclusion
As you can see, Alta Vista in Chembur isn't just another Residential Project; it's a gateway to a lifestyle that combines luxury and convenience seamlessly. Whether you're eyeing a spacious 3BHK flat or a cozy 2BHK option, Chembur has something to offer everyone.
For more information visit our website: https://www.propmart.co/properties/alta-vista-chembur/
#Alta Vista#Alta Vista in Chembur#3BHK Flat in Chembur#Properties in Chembur#2BHK Flat in Chembur#2BHK Flats
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My darling,
it is nothing but an absolute honor to share the same passion for literature with you. It is something important to me; being able to talk about the works I read and write, and sharing my thoughts with someone who is equally interested. It is one of the things I value about you and what made me fall madly in love with you. And as I want to go on a little adventure with you, I will leave you a list with books I would like to read. I want you to pick one as a birthday present so we can explore it together.
Yours truly,
Cas.
⟴ ⟴ ⟴
⤪ The whistling, Rebecca Netley
Feel shivers down your spine with this chilling and gripping ghost story set on a far-flung Scottish island.
When Elspeth arrives on a remote Scottish island to become nanny to a young child, she hopes to bond with her. Until she learns that, for reasons no one will explain, Mary has not spoken for months. And the girl's silence is not the only mystery.
Hypnotic lullabies drift down empty corridors. Strange dolls appear in abandoned rooms. And as the nights draw in, darker questions arise.
What happened to Mary's late twin, William? Why did their previous nanny disappear so suddenly? And is the whistling Elspeth hears at night just the storm outside? Or is something else out there?
⤪ A good girl’s guide to murder, Holly Jackson
The case is closed. Five years ago, schoolgirl Andie Bell was murdered by Sal Singh. The police know he did it. Everyone in town knows he did it.
But having grown up in the same small town that was consumed by the crime, Pippa Fitz-Amobi isn't so sure. When she chooses the case as the topic for her final project, she starts to uncover secrets that someone in town desperately wants to stay hidden. And if the real killer is still out there, how far will they go to keep Pip from the truth?
⤪ Babel or the necessity of violence, Rebecca F. Kuang
A new dark academic fantasy by the New York Times bestselling author of The Poppy War. Traduttore, traditore: An act of translation is always an act of betrayal. Oxford, 1836. The city of dreaming spires. It is the centre of all knowledge and progress in the world. And at its centre is Babel, the Royal Institute of Translation. The tower from which all the power of the Empire flows. Orphaned in Canton and brought to England by a mysterious guardian, Babel seemed like paradise to Robin Swift. Until it became a prison… But can a student stand against an empire? An incendiary new novel from award-winning author R.F. Kuang about the power of language, the violence of colonialism, and the sacrifices of resistance.
⤪ The song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
Greece in the age of heroes. Patroclus, an awkward young prince, has been exiled to the court of King Peleus and his perfect son Achilles. Despite their differences, Achilles befriends the shamed prince, and as they grow into young men skilled in the arts of war and medicine, their bond blossoms into something deeper - despite the displeasure of Achilles's mother Thetis, a cruel sea goddess. But when word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped, Achilles must go to war in distant Troy and fulfill his destiny. Torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus goes with him, little knowing that the years that follow will test everything they hold dear.
⤪ The Atlas Six, Olivie Blake
Each decade, only the six most uniquely talented magicians are selected to earn a place in the Alexandrian Society, the foremost secret society in the world. The chosen will secure a life of power and prestige beyond their wildest dreams.
But at what cost?
Each of the six newest recruits has their reasons for accepting the Society’s elusive invitation. Even if it means growing closer than they could have imagined to their most dangerous enemies or risking unforgivable betrayal from their most trusted allies they will fight tooth and nail for the right to join the ranks of the Alexandrians.
Even if it means they won’t all survive the year.
⤪ Things we do to our friends, Heather Darwent
Edinburgh, Scotland: a moody city of labyrinthine alleyways, oppressive fog, and buried history; the ultimate destination for someone with something to hide. Perfect for Clare, then, who arrives utterly alone and yearning to reinvent herself. And what better place to conceal the secrets of her past than at the university in the heart of the fabled, cobblestoned Old Town?
When Clare meets Tabitha, a charismatic, beautiful, and intimidatingly rich girl from her art history class, she knows she’s destined to become friends with her and her exclusive circle: raffish Samuel, shrewd Ava, and pragmatic Imogen. Clare is immediately drawn into their libertine world of sophisticated dinner parties and summers in France. The new life she always envisioned for herself has seemingly begun.
Then Tabitha reveals a little project she’s been working on, one that she needs Clare’s help with. Even though it goes against everything Clare has tried to repent for. Even though their intimacy begins to darken into codependence. But as Clare starts to realize just what her friends are capable of, it’s already too late. Because they’ve taken the plunge. They’re so close to attaining everything they want. And there’s no going back.
Reimagining the classic themes of obsession and ambition with an original and sinister edge, The Things We Do to Our Friends is a seductive thriller about the toxic battle between those who have and those who covet—between the desire to truly belong and the danger of being truly known.
⤪ Ninth House, Leigh Bardugo
A tale of power, privilege, dark magic and murder set among the Ivy League elite. Alex Stern is the most unlikely member of Yale's freshman class. A dropout and the sole survivor of a horrific, unsolved crime - the last thing she wants is to cause trouble. Not when Yale was supposed to be her fresh start. But a free ride to one of the world's most prestigious universities was bound to come with a catch. Alex has been tasked with monitoring the mysterious activities of Yale's secret societies - societies that have yielded some of the most famous and influential people in the world. Now there's a dead girl on campus and Alex seems to be the only person who won't accept the neat answer the police and campus administration have come up with for her murder. Because Alex knows the secret societies are far more sinister and extraordinary than anyone ever imagined. They tamper with forbidden magic. They raise the dead. And, sometimes, they prey on the living.
⤪ Dead Inside, Chandler Morrison
A hospital security guard with a morbidly unique taste in women. A maternity doctor with an aberrant appetite and a penchant for popping pain pills. When the two meet, they embark on a dark, horrific journey of self-discovery and transcendence. Lines are crossed, taboos are shattered, and good taste takes a permanent leave of absence.
⤪ Brother, Ania Ahlborn
Deep in the heart of Appalachia stands a crooked farmhouse miles from any road. The Morrows keep to themselves, and it's served them well so far. When girls go missing off the side of the highway, the cops don't knock on their door. Which is a good thing, seeing as to what's buried in the Morrows' backyard. But nineteen-year-old Michael Morrow isn't like the rest of his family. He doesn't take pleasure in the screams that echo through the trees. Michael pines for normalcy, and he's sure that someday he'll see the world beyond West Virginia. When he meets Alice, a pretty girl working at a record shop in the small nearby town of Dahlia, he's immediately smitten. For a moment, he nearly forgets about the monster he's become. But his brother, Rebel, is all too eager to remind Michael of his place.
⤪ Seed, Ania Ahlborn
With nothing but the clothes on his back - and something horrific snapping at his heels - Jack Winter fled his rural Georgia home when he was still just a boy. Watching the world he knew vanish in a trucker's rearview mirror, he thought he was leaving an unspeakable nightmare behind forever. But years later, the bright new future he's built suddenly turns pitch black, as something fiendishly familiar looms dead ahead. When Jack, his wife Aimee, and their two small children survive a violent car crash, it seems like a miracle. But Jack knows what he saw on the road that night, and it wasn't divine intervention. The profound evil from his past won't let them die...at least not quickly.
Country comfort is no match for spine-tingling Southern gothic suspense in Ania Ahlborn's tale of an ordinary man with a demon on his back. Seed plants its page-turning terror deep in your soul, and lets it grow wild.
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Package Properties Perth, Western Australia
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Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨2
Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) nothing as yet.
This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.
Note: Thank you for your positive response to this one! I hope you enjoy what I have in store.
Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)
I really hope you enjoy. 💋
<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!
Your Spotify list of redundant tracks flowed through the apartment as you sat typing at your small desk in the corner of the front room. The boxy space was as oppressive as any office space, another reason for your voluntary work at the gallery. Vanessa let you in the studio to paint. Without the privilege, you wouldn’t have the space for your easel.
You stretched your fingers and rubbed your eyes. You felt dizzy from staring at the screen, even with night mode on. The work was monotonous and made you restless. You wanted a pencil or brush in hand, a canvas before you, not this blaring laptop. You yawned and took a sip of your lukewarm water.
Your phone vibrated from across the room and you checked the time. Your lunch started soon but no one was really keeping track. As long as you got your assignments done, it didn’t matter when you chewed on toast and disassociated.
You got up and grabbed your phone from the corner table and leaned against the arm of the couch. You remembered how Marcus woke up there and grumbled as he lifted his head in pain. You couldn’t really feel bad for him going into work hungover. He embarrassed you and it didn’t quite sink in until after Clark left you to stare down at your drunk boyfriend.
An unknown number showed on your screen and you answered tentatively, ready to hang up at the first sales pitch. Your name came from the speaker and you recognized the deep voice in an instant. It took you back to the night before and the canvas hung on the wall.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Clark said, “I only just had the paintings hung and I thought… well, I thought you might like to come see them in their new home.”
“Um…” you chewed your thumb, uncertain how to respond.
“Sorry, I know I can be a bit… to the point,” he laughed at himself, “how are you?”
“I’m good, just… taking a break.”
“You working?”
“Yeah, but I work from home,” you said as you touched the side of your neck, “I could… I could come see them but it might be a while before--”
“When are you finished work?” he asked bluntly.
“Four but I… maybe another day.”
“I don’t mean to be pushy but I did have something else to speak with you about,” he said, “a commission, like I mentioned.”
“Oh?”
“I kinda wanna get it started sooner than later, it will probably be pretty time-consuming,” he explained and you heard a clink and a soft sip, “I don’t wanna get into details on the phone but I promise, you will be compensated nicely.”
“You can’t wait until tomorrow?” you wondered.
“I suppose I can but it’d have to be during the day,” he responded, “why don’t you take some time to figure it out and get back to me by two? You can text me through this number.”
“Erm, sure,” you said uneasily, “I’m sorry, it’s just… very sudden, I don’t--”
“You can bring the boyfriend,” he said casually, “if you like.”
“He won’t be… home,” you said carefully, “I’ll let you know. Thank you.”
“I look forward to hearing from you,” he replied, “have a good day.”
“You, too,” you said and the line died.
You put your phone down and took a moment. Good things rarely happened to you. You struggled so long it was hard to think that might change. The skeptic in you told you there was something behind it all. That it couldn’t possibly be your art.
You went back to your computer and sighed as you waved away the screensaver with your mouse. The blinking cursor made you want to believe it was your big break.
🎨
You texted Clark at one and at four, you were in an Uber. Marcus drove his car to work and you stuck to buses and the underground when you could. The address was at least an hour out, the house among those estates on the edge of the city reserved for the upper echelon. You’d only ever seen the sprawling yards on your way to the next town.
When the car finally turned up the drive and you passed beyond a low brick wall, you felt entirely out of your depth. You tipped the Uber but didn’t feel too bad with the check from Vanessa sitting soundly in your account. You clutched the strap of your bag and walked along the curve of the brick work towards the stairs.
“Hey,” you stopped as Clark called to you, your ankle still tender from the night before.
You glanced over as he came out of the large garage and peeled off a pair of leather gloves. He smiled as he tucked them into his jacket pocket. You watched him and played with the clasp on your bag.
“Just got back from a drive,” he said, “I almost got carried away. I’m glad you made it.”
“Yeah, no problem,” you replied.
“Well, come on, let me show you around,” he waved behind you towards the front doors, “we’ll go on a tour and then we can talk details.”
“Wow,” you uttered mindlessly as you climbed the stairs to the door but kept the weight on your uninjured ankle, “this place is huge.”
“My contractor went a little crazy,” he scoffed, “but I can’t complain.”
He led you through the doors and directed you to the left. In the front room, your work was hung along the opposite wall, arranged in a way that drew the eye to them. You stepped closer and peered up at your work with a hint of awe. They looked even better in a place like that.
“I had my interior designer make the final call on where to hang them,” he explained, “I hope you don’t mind, I gave her your details. She said she had clients who might be interested in your work.”
“Really?” you breathed, “that’s… too nice.”
“Oh yeah? One day, you’ll be sick of rich pricks like me,” he grinned, “I’ll show you the pool, that’s usually the main attraction.”
“Sounds good,” you said as you followed but he paused and watched your stunted gait.
“I forgot, we can go slow,” he offered, “how’s the ankle?”
“I’ll make do,” you affirmed as you neared him, “just need to get my steps in.”
🎨
As you finished the tour of the second floor, you slowed along the long hall and admired the work of artists you only ever saw in museums. You couldn’t help but be enamoured by the historic blots of paint. You almost forgot where you were as you leaned in to read the initials beneath the pastel flowers.
“So,” Clark’s voice brought you back, you almost blanked him out entirely in your mind, “I think you might have noticed the empty space above the fireplace in the front room. I was hoping you could fill it.”
“Oh?” you looked at him and smiled nervously, “did you have something in mind? A landscape or--”
“Well, your portraits are great. I like the old world style. I was hoping you might do one of… me,” he suggested, “I know, it’s vain but why not?”
“I mean, yeah, I could do that,” you said.
“I’ll pay hourly plus materials,” he continued, “three hundred an hour.”
You almost choked at the number. You blinked and swallowed through your surprise.
“Even a small portrait would take at least twelve hours,” you warned, “are you sure?”
“I know it’s a lot of time for you, so… I was thinking, if you have to miss work, I’ll factor it into your rate. I would really like to get the project started as soon as we can,” he put his hand on his hip as he looked down at you, “the only thing I need from you is a list of materials. I’ll have them waiting for you here.”
“Here?”
“Well, yeah, I figure it makes most sense,” he turned his palm out.
“Hmm, sure, I prefer my own brushes but… you know I can just buy the stuff myself--”
“Ah, no, I want it to be perfect. You send me a list and I’ll have my assistant go out and get it all ready,” he assured, “How does Sunday sound?”
“Sunday?” you blanched. That was two days away.
“Like I said, Marcus is more than welcome to come with you,” he offered, “I’d hate to keep you from him too long.”
“I guess Sunday works,” you squeaked, “I’ll talk to Marcus.”
“Great,” he said coolly, “well, that’s business. How about a drink to seal the deal?”
“I don’t know, I should probably get back,” you fiddled with your bag against your hip.
“One drink won’t hurt,” he said, “go on, call the boyfriend and let him know you won’t be much longer.”
“I… thanks,” you murmured.
“You’re humble for an artist,” he joked as he sidled by you, “once you grow an ego, you’ll be unstoppable.” He neared the stairs as you turned to watch him, “I’ll be at the bar, waiting. You like gin?”
“Sure,” you answered as you pulled out your phone, “I’ll see you down there.”
🎨
When you told Marcus about your new side gig, he was even more excited than you. You were anxious and slightly hesitant. You hated to jump in feet first and risk losing more than a few tubes of paint. What if the work wasn’t good enough?
Marcus was more than willing to come with you when you told him about the size of the place. He knew by the area that it was extravagant. You sat in the passenger seat with the most expensive bottle of wine you’d ever bought cradled between your legs. You hated to show up empty handed after all of Clark’s generosity.
Marcus got lost and went down the wrong driveway before you righted your course. As you drove up, you were once more overcome from the rich rosebuds and sparkling fountain at the centre of the mosaic. You gripped the neck of the bottle and got out as Marcus whistled in awe.
“You weren’t kidding. This place is fucking nuts,” he swore, “I should’ve worn the tux from my brother’s wedding.”
“Please, Marcus,” you rolled your eyes, “let’s both try not to break anything.”
“You’re the clumsy one,” he chirped, “shit, you’re so lucky. You get to hang out here and paint all day? God, I wish I had an ounce of artistic talent. I’d trade it for code in a minute.”
You climbed the steps and clanged the large knocker on the right door. You waited a moment before an answer came and Clark appeared on the other side and beckoned you inside. He smiled as he shook Marcus’ hand.
“Thanks for joining us,” he said, “I would’ve felt awful stealing your girlfriend on the weekend like this.”
“Are you kidding me? She said you had a pool and I snuck the swim shorts into the backseat,” Marcus chuckled and you nudged him with your elbow.
“See?” Clark arched a brow, “the pool is always the seller.”
“Here,” you said as you held out the bottle of red, “for everything you’ve done and welcoming us into your home.”
“Ohhh,” he took the bottle and looked over the label, “I got a spot for this right behind the bar. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, I brought my brushes,” you patted the canvas bag on your shoulder.
“Mmm, yeah, well, I’ll just put this away and we’ll give Marcus the grand tour. Then I’ll get you situated,” he assured and rushed off.
He returned and pointed Marcus through to the front room, “you’ll see, just over here,” he directed him to your paintings.
“Oh, wow, babe,” Marcus marveled at the hung portraits, “you really did it.”
You smiled bashfully and Clark peeked over at you and winked. You squirmed as your cheeks burned and you turned away as he beckoned Marcus past the mantle.
“It’s a big place,” Clark said, “I’d like to get you started before noon.”
Clark led you along the same path as days before and slowed as you came back to the top of the stairs. He turned back and clapped his hands together.
“Marcus, if you wanna hop in the pool, we’re gonna start just in there,” he pointed to the one door you hadn’t looked through, “that’s the studio.”
“What about you?” Marcus asked.
“Well, I’ll be a part of the process so I’m afraid I will be just as busy but if you need anything, Nina, she has a crooked nose and mean mouth but don’t let her fool you, she’ll get you whatever you need,” he said, “just don’t track in water from the pool or she’ll string you up.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t sound too bad. Some alone time in the sun and a pool,” Marcus grinned, “I really couldn’t ask for anything else… except you, babe.”
“Sure,” you scoffed, “go, have fun.”
Marcus kissed you quickly and thanked Clark again before he excitedly barreled down the steps. You scratched your neck as you looked back to your host, and you guessed, your new boss.
“I’m sorry about him. He can be such a kid sometimes,” you said.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he waved it off, “so, you ready to see your workspace? I kinda wanted it to be a surprise. Also, a bit last minute so it’s not perfect… yet.”
“Uh, yeah,” you answered, “can’t wait.”
He motioned you over to the tall dusty rose doors and hooked his fingers in the slotted handles. He slid them open and revealed an airy room with a tall ceiling and long windows. An easel stood facing the sun streaked glass, an immense canvas bigger than yourself, bigger than him, propped up on it. There was a ladder nearby and the table was set with a rainbow of paints and a large pallet.
Your lips parted as you neared the easel and stared up at the canvas, “you were right, it’s gonna be a lot of work.”
“I hope it’s not too much,” he said, “but you name your price. We’ll make it work.”
“No, no, I think for what you’re paying, I’ll do just fine,” you put your bag down daintily on the table, “so, uh, a portrait, I guess that means…”
Your voice trailed off as he went to the upholstered chair across the room, at an angle so you could see him from your vantage. Behind it, hung a velvet curtain to add to the scene and a bust on a pedestal. It felt surreal, like a dream.
You turned and pulled out the brushes, “I think you’ll get more tired than me, just sitting there.”
“I’ll make it through,” he assured as he sat, “is there anyway you’d like me to sit? Chin up, or…”
“Hmmm,” you turned to look at him, “I think… if you just put your shoulders back and… did you want a profile or--”
“I was thinking front-facing,” he stared at you steadily, unflinching as his eyes stuck to you, “just like this.”
“Perfect,” you said nervously and looked back to the table.
There was water to rinse your brushes, rags, pencils, blending sticks; everything you needed and more. You took a pencil from the bunch and pulled over the ladder. You climbed up and looked over at Clark as he sat stoic and still. He looked picturesque in real life, you expected paint would only lend to his figure.
His eyes met yours and you turned to start tracing the basic shapes onto the canvas. You had to stop and steady your hand as you did. His gaze made it hard not to tremble.
#clark kent#dark clark kent#dark!clark kent#clark kent x reader#dark fic#fic#dark!fic#series#portrait of a dangerous man#dc#dcu#au#mob au#mob!au#superman
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depth of field
pairing: yoongi x female!reader
genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer
warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak,
header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante
word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know)
rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit)
collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories!
summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you’re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.)
A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”.
[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]
[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]
There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off.
He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.
“Yoongi!”
Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle.
“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance.
“You could have called before you barged in.”
“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.”
“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind.
Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.”
Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes.
It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera.
“So how was Greenland?”
“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.”
“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”
“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.”
Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.” Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”
“I don’t take pictures of people.”
“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet.
“Used to. Not anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”
“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.”
“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”
There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up.
“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder.
“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.”
“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!”
“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“I think you just need to try.”
The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works.
“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly.
Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”
[Ready Or Not.JPEG]
[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]
Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers.
It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.
Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)
“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.”
He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders.
“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”
He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.”
The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter.
“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold.
“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.”
“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”
“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”
“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”
When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice.
All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog.
“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”
“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.
It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go.
“What’s your exhibit on?”
“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”
He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”
“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else.
How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”
“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”
“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)
“So I’ll do it.”
Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”
“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.”
“What is it?”
The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”
[Are You In Love.JPEG]
[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]
Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills.
Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you.
A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”
He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.”
You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?”
“Yes please.”
You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you.
“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives.
Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”
“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”
Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?”
What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again.
Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.”
Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing.
“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?”
His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”
You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”
“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”
When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”
“What?”
“Are you heartbroken?”
The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—
“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?”
(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)
“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”
You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”
Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?
“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.”
You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.
But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare.
It could never.
[____Struck.JPEG]
[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]
Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives.
Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you.
“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep.
Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows.
You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.
“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy.
“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”
“What do you mean?”
You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.”
His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.”
Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”
It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.)
“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes.
“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”
Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.”
He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while.
He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall.
He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.
Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?”
“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.”
There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”
“It’s coming along.”
“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”
He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”
“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”
“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”
“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “
Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?”
Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”
“Alright. I’ll see you then.”
“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”
“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.”
[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]
[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]
It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up.
“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”
So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself.
So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much.
Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too.
When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”
“So?”
“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?”
He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences.
“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer.
His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.”
He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.
When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold.
The pillow doesn’t smell like you.
[Apparition.JPEG]
[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]
It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you.
Did you eat?
Are you free anytime soon?
I miss you.
Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought.
He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition.
You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?”
He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.
“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas.
When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.”
His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings.
“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed).
“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don’t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol.
“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”
“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”
“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue.
“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”
He forces himself to look up at you.
“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”
Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head.
I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head.
Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi?
Who am I to you?
What do you see through the lenses?
When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.
Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”
That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t.
You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back.
He’s alone again.
[Blank.JPEG]
[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]
Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile.
He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile.
His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall.
There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat.
Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry.
So why does it hurt so much?
There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off.
He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.
Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent.
They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.
“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”
Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin.
Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember.
“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”
“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry.
I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this.
He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you.
“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”
“Okay,” he whispers.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Are you heartbroken?
“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”
“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs.
“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back.
“I know. I know.”
“How do I stop hurting?”
Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”
“What if I’m not ready to move on?”
I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?
“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”
Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear.
“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”
“Do what?”
“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways.
Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself.
He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you.
You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you.
But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about.
And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is.
When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out.
“Take care, Jimin.”
“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”
A very familiar silhouette greets him.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him.
At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you.
“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his.
You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you.
“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”
“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all.
“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”
“I could have.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.”
“I think I loved you.”
“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.”
He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?
“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing.
“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.”
“I don’t-I’m not following.”
He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”
“Yoongi, I’m not-”
“What’s your name?”
“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it.
“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee?
You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you.
He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to.
It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline.
He’s never been more ready.
#yoongi fic#bts fic#yoongi x reader#yoongi fluff#yoongi angst#yoongi imagine#yoongi scenarios#bts fluff#bts scenarios#bts imagine#bts x reader#thebtswritersclub#heartsforbts#bangtaninn#btswritingcafe#bangtanuniversity
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In the end (pt. 1)
It feels a little surreal that the show is over and I will no longer have anything to look forward to because the devil judge set such a high bar in terms of writing and character exploration that I will always hold dear to my heart. Given that its actually done, I found myself drowning in the realisation that we will never see these characters again and how I feel about where the show left them off. So this is me coming to terms with it:
1. Min Jung Ho - Snake lol. Something I admired about the writing was how they didn't try to make him all out some evil piece of shit but rather someone that had a very strong misguided belief off some strange frustrations against Yohan who was changing the legal system more radically but effectively. Which he could not come to terms with. In the end he villanised Yohan and ignored the actual problems that persisted and inevitably contributed to the problem all in a sense of self righteousness, ah sorry, hypocrisy is the better word. The show leaves him looking oh so pathetic, he can't even raise his head to meet Gaon, the boy he betrayed severely and he'll rot for the rest of his life going down in history as a hypocrite who did nothing to actually fix the system he claimed he would be the arm of justice for. Its a fitting end.
2. Heo Joong Se: Clown. The show really said he's a spoilt, stubborn arrogant joke until the end. Down to the way he insulted everyone but specifically insulted women. The way all he did in that court room was scream his head off without an ounce of remorse somehow still deluded by the fact that he's doing this for the country? But knowing fully well he's a businessman through and through and that was all he will be. I can not stress how phenomenal it is that it is Jung Sun Ah that shoots him dead. Its clear he's had it coming from her hand ever since she tried to suffocate him during the massage but it's just how randomly she does it. She's sick of him, she's aware she's going to be targeted, she's aware he's done too much behind her back and never once respected her and its in the midst of one of his screaming fits particularly screaming "I am the King" that the bullet goes through and there's silence. Perfection.
3. The rest of the clowns of the SRF : idle bystanders that turned an eye away from inherent evil and repeatedly benefitted off of their actions without an ounce of remorse yet again. But hilarious nevertheless because they really became jesters on that stage in a desperate fit to live, threw themselves away to get out a door. It's noteworthy that they spent most of their time trying to stop the other from leaving instead of quietly watching and just getting out. None of them of are capable of that, they only know to take from others. Crumbling under the systematic stage they built? Poignant. I don't really care what anyone says they deserved to die point in tow with HJS who saw human life as so unworthy of it wasn't their own. There's a reason why human trafficking is considered one of the worst of crimes, human experimentation falls closely next to it. All because they were poorer than them. Guess their greed really out did them. Tried to put on a show in a court house which was anyway all just a staged facade and ultimately they died on that stage with their masks out for everyone to see. For their people to see them throw each other away to live. If they were going to throw each other away - their own kind- what wouldn't they do to the lower class? Oof the show gave them what they deserved- humiliation.
4. Jung Sunah - I still struggle to come to terms with how she's gone and how painful everything about her was until the last minute. It's clear Sunah has been breaking for a few episodes now. She's so close to the top and she's realised how truly alone she is and she's realised Yohan will never want her the way she wants him to. She's realised every person she used to get to where she was, ended up being wasted stepping stones because she doesn't have what she wants all the way at the top and never will. The way the show has her quietly go to the experimentation centre and weep over the girl she saw herself in but someone she initially turned away from because she's not part of her bigger plan. The child she left to fall prey to the people Sunah has inevitably helped secure positions in her attempt to secure her own position. The way the show focuses on how the child has been repeatedly pierced with needles something Sunah hates the most and how she realises this is also her fault. She probably thought hey I'll get to the top and do things my way but as Yohan pointed out, ruling over trash isn't it, it'll never be worth it and she's essentially walking with a target on her back and she'll never be free because the weight of her sins will catch up to her and the rich will always be after her because she's not the same as them. She would be living on the edge forever. And she knows this.
Something I found very interesting was how she wasnt roped in on the crimes of the Dream House Project. Yohan only highlighted her crime as having killed K and Soohyun and its the frustration she feels in that moment that really gets me. It's also why I think she could never get out of the show because she killed innocent people which is highlighted repeatedly and at the time never showed remorse for it. BUT I love how the show somehow saves her from humiliation, until the end they paint her with regality and power because that is who Sunah is. Frankly she could have walked right out of the door while they were throwing a fit and Yohan would have let her because that was the terms of the game but he'd have come after her at some point and even if he didn't Gaon most certainly would have.
But it's the way the show brought it all back to how she feels about Yohan since he's the other half of what she's always wanted, the way she's happy he's alive, how she goes and stands in front of him and she's got her hand on the trigger of the gun while Yohan on the button of detonator. I believe, if Sunah had shot him Yohan would have detonated the bomb and died with them and I also believe deep down Sunah knew Yohan would somehow get out of this even if she didn't shoot him, so she really gave him the chance to get out and back to Elijah. I am not sure if Sunah couldn't shoot Yohan or if she didn't want to, and I lean towards the latter because she really liked him, it might have been ill placed desire but if things were different if she hadn't sided with the SRF in hopes of getting to the top she and Yohan might have worked things out and they would both be healing. If she only hadn't killed the innocent people to make a point... But at the end of it Sunah took her fate into her hands and I appreciate that the show gave her the agency over it, to decide not to shoot Yohan because she's finally letting go ( I stand by this but if Yohan had died Sunah would have lost - she never wanted him to die), because she won't do what the rest of the SRF scum want of her and because she's fine with going on her own terms.
That doesn't mean it didn't hurt though... I cry thinking about it because the show tried really hard to show how unfair everything was to Sunah and how if circumstances had been different, if the world had cared a bit more how she might have turned out differently. Her final moments the flashback to the one act of kindness she had needed in her life, the way Yohan really must have sparkled in her eyes, and how much she valued that moment all the way to her death because no matter what, in his own loneliness and difficulty he was kind to her. Jeez it hurts.
Ideally I'd have wanted her to live but I don't know how that would have worked out. At the end of it not all villains are evil. Some are products of the ills of the system that left them alone and let them become monsters but behind a monster there can also be a victim.
#the devil judge#kdrama#I was going to add my feels on everyone else's end#But this is already too long#and Sunah has me feeling sad
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Strawberry shortcake
Valentine’s Day (Prompts)
Request: @imerdwarf Ooooh I love your valentine's Day prompts! May I send in a request with dialogue #5 please for Bucky x Reader? I don't mind if you write smut or fluff 💜 thank you so much my dear friend 💜
“I’m your husband; I’m your automatic valentine.”
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: In a completely alternate universe, you and Bucky are an unusually quirky, but completely happy couple set in the 1940s, but nothing is as it seems.
Warnings: 40s. Parallel Universe, Fluff.
Word count: 2858
A/N: Inspired by WandaVision. Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.
It is known that some people live in a world of dreams, while others prefer to face reality as it presents itself to us; then there is you, who has turned your own reality into a dream.
A dim flame adorned the room from the centre of the table, making warm lights clash against the shadows. Duke Ellington set the melody to that Friday evening, while a sweet aroma of turkey confit wafted from the little nooks and crannies of the oven, drifting out of the kitchen and into every room. The ticking of the wall clock informed you that time was not standing still and that it was getting closer and closer to your arrival. You had taken your time to organise yourself, there was nothing you were better at and even more so when such an important day was about to arrive. You had bought flowers to welcome her into the hall, her favourite wine from the French vineyards and that perfume for you that you knew would melt as she approached to kiss you.
That day was no ordinary day, a red circle was surrounding that 14th of February and although you still hadn't figured out why, there must have been something special about it, that's why you had put your hands to work so that everything would turn out exquisitely. You knew that your husband would arrive tired from work, that that car company would leave him exhausted at the end of the week, but as a good wife you had been foresighted with everything. You wanted him to leave all the worries and problems behind and for that night to be as special as possible, and for that you had to radiate beauty. But maybe there was something else, to be honest you weren't a housewife like any other, that organisation was your forte didn't mean that you knew how to cook, how to keep a house and you were attentive to the care that a traditional husband needed, because neither you nor Bucky were what they call 'traditional'. But for one day in your life you wanted to try to be.
You had every corner of the kitchen under scrutiny, the orange sauce prepared, the potatoes cooked, the strawberry shortcake in the fridge and the turkey slowly cooking in the oven. You were able to nod to yourself and give yourself a smile of satisfaction that you had managed to complete each of those tasks without having to ask for outside help. You took off your apron, you knew it was the perfect time to do the finishing touches before your husband would be home in half an hour. You went upstairs to put the red lipstick on your lips and treat your earlobes to the earrings Bucky had given you for your birthday, you stood thoughtfully staring at yourself in the mirror, it was strange you could barely remember where you went to celebrate.
A roar from outside brought you out of your thoughts for a moment, you knew that sound, it was the engine of Bucky's car. Time had finally caught up with you, you slipped your slender feet into your high heels and sped down the stairs. His figure was visible through the translucent glass of the front door and when the door opened you raised your arms and gave him one of your broadest smiles, standing in the middle of the stairs.
"Good evening dear," you exclaimed in a sweet melody, continuing to pause on the fifth step. "How was your day?
Unlike you, Bucky's facial expression was rather more subdued, as he just looked at you without any encouragement, closed the door behind him and left the briefcase on the floor. In spite of your attitude your spirits hardly waned, and as you had intended, like a good wife you approached him to take his coat and scarf in your arms and give him the pleasure of kissing your lips.
"Is something the matter?" he frowned, letting himself take off his coat.
"Not at all. I'm just giving my husband the welcome he deserves," you argued, kissing his cheek, making Bucky smile in surprise at your behaviour.
"Interesting," he stood there watching you place his belongings on the coat rack in the hall. "Have you cooked?"
"Exactly," you affirmed, offering him passage to the lounge so he could make himself comfortable in the armchair nearest the fireplace, which was alight. "Turkey confit with orange sauce and strawberry shortcake. A glass of wine?"
"Is this about anything in particular?" he asked again after getting her to take a seat. "Am I forgetting something? Because if so, I beg your pardon, darling."
On the one hand you were surprised that he didn't know what that red circle denoted around the number 14 on the kitchen wall calendar either, but on the other you assumed he must have too much on his mind to focus on it. Still, you set out to celebrate in the most special way that night, so that whatever that mark meant, it would be a success.
"I don't think we have to celebrate anything in particular for me to want to cook dinner and help you get rid of work problems," you offered him the glass of wine and sat on the armrest. "I guess that's what you usually do."
"Then I have nothing more to say," Bucky set the wine glass down on a small table next to the couch and wrapped his arms around you causing you to fall on top of him.
The laughter of the two of you projected through you and crashed against the four walls. You were lying in his lap, which made it easier for your gaze to bring his face close to yours and offer you a warm, soft kiss on your lips, taking in much of the reddish lipstick you had just put on.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered for the millisecond he pulled away from you before returning to kiss you again.
The surroundings helped to create such a homely atmosphere, the Duke Ellington solos from the record player, the lights and shadows coming from the fire in the fireplace, the smell of the turkey confit coming from the oven...
"Shit!" you suddenly broke away from Bucky, trying to get up a little clumsily from the armchair to run towards the kitchen, where a smell of burning was coming from.
"What's going on?" Bucky followed you at high speed, stopping your hand that was going to open the oven to do it himself.
When that door opened a greyish smoke invaded the room, taking over as far as your eyes could see. Your emotions ebbed in that instant, accompanied by an insufferable moan of agony. Bucky took over the opening of the windows, allowing the smoke to fade away. You slumped over the counter, all the work of that afternoon had been for nothing, on the contrary, now you barely had anything for dinner. Light laughter came from inside your husband who stood beside you with his hands on his hips watching you.
"I'm not amused," you said, folding your arms as you stared at her lips stained with her lipstick. "I've been working so hard to make something decent for dinner tonight for when you got home. I had it all prepared, I wanted to surprise you and now it's all gone to waste."
"Sorry dear," Bucky stopped his laughter but a smile was still present on his face. He approached you and took your face in his hands. "I don't want you to do all this for me, but I really appreciate it. You know I'm happy with anything, as long as I share it with you. I don't need any of this."
"I know, but today is a special day and I wanted to do something special," you pointed to the calendar, a place where Bucky's eyes landed without taking his hands away from your face.
"I knew I was forgetting something," he whispered to himself and looked back up at you. "You may want to kill me after this question, but what are we celebrating today?"
You brought your hands to his and caressed them, your mind was really blank, you didn't have an answer to his question. You knew it wasn't either of your birthdays, you didn't really remember what day your birthday was, which was a little unsettling for you, but you knew it wasn't your birthday. It wasn't your anniversary either, nor were you pregnant enough to celebrate, there was no promotion at work, nor had you met anyone for lunch or dinner, as sadly you had just moved to that neighbourhood and had no friends. So what could that mark on the calendar symbolise?
"I don't know!" you exclaimed, completely frustrated at the situation. "I thought you would know, I've been preparing for this day all week and I don't know why. I didn't want to ask you because you would think I would have forgotten something important."
Bucky lowered his hands to your shoulders in an attempt to relax you, while his face wore a thoughtful expression, trying to figure out what day it was.
"Maybe..." he said with a blank stare. "No, I don't remember what we're celebrating today." A groan of exhaustion came from inside you. "But it doesn't matter darling, the important thing is that we're together, we have a delicious strawberry shortcake for us, a bottle of wine and Duke Ellington. What more could we ask for?"
You didn't know how but he always managed to make you feel as if you were the luckiest person in the universe, just having those blue eyes looking at you as if you were his life, made him your life. You stood on tiptoe, reaching up to his lips and trapping them between yours, wrapping your arms around his neck and deepening the kiss.
"I love you," you mumbled still with your eyes closed.
"I love you more," he kissed your lips softly again, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him tightly and lifting you off the ground. "And now, let's have dinner."
He reached out his right arm, opening the refrigerator door to pull out the homemade strawberry shortcake you had prepared. You had to admit that at first glance it looked very good, you had done a great job in that regard, the problem was that you had tasted it during its preparation and the appearance didn't account for the taste, it had turned out too bland to become the main course. You had hoped that Bucky had lost all appetite with the unsuspecting turkey so he wouldn't want to try the pie, but things hadn't gone as planned.
"It looks great, my dear," he said, slipping a finger inside and popping it into his mouth, you frowned in anticipation of his approval. "And... it's really exquisite."
"Oh, please," you added almost with a chuckle, "it's awful, I know, I've been so dry and clueless. I'm such a mess."
"No!" he exclaimed sticking his finger back into the cake. "It's scrumptious darling, I promise."
You cocked your head to the side watching as Bucky was eating practically the entire cake in front of you, just to please you and make you feel no worse than you already did. That image you knew was going to stick in your memory, your husband with his face covered in strawberry jam, red lipstick around his mouth and his hands all smeared, smiling at you. You couldn't help but laugh, which caused him to pause as he sucked on his fingers.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked with a grin.
"At your face, it's a mess."
"My face?" he pointed to his face and then reached up to march your strawberry jam cheek."Whoops!"
"No!" You exclaimed taking a step backwards in laughter, you reached your hands out towards him, in a vain attempt to stop him, as he counterattacked again. "Buck! Hold still."
"Now who's face is a mess?" he asked cornering you in between the countertop and his body, in an attempt to make a Picasso on your face.
His attempts to turn your face into a work of art stopped and you were able to open your eyes again to watch him, playfully reaching out your tongue to taste the jam that was smeared across his cheek, causing a half smile to take over his features.
"You were really right, it is exquisite," you said, unconsciously biting your lower lip.
"I told you so," he whispered repeating your movement, licking your nose very slowly, and then placing a kiss on your lips.
As if on cue, the front doorbell rang, interrupting the moment of intimacy you had forged in the kitchen and bringing strawberry jam into the room. Strangely you both looked in the direction of the front door, wondering if you were expecting a visit from someone in particular. Bucky broke away from you and turned with the intention of opening the door.
"Honey!" you exclaimed after him, approaching him with extreme speed with a napkin in your hands to clean up the mess you had both created on his face.
"Thank you," he kissed you again and placed his hand on the doorknob to open the door.
The situation was that the gesture he brought was quite peculiar, you were standing next to your husband, flashing your sweetest smile, which was instantly wiped away when that door showed you two figures even more smiling than you.
"Happy Valentine's Day from the Pierces!" exclaimed an ostentatiously dressed woman in a pink dress. "We're sorry to disturb you at this hour, I'm Susan, and this is my husband Alexander. We've organised a small barbecue for the nearest neighbours, and we wanted to invite you to join us for dinner, so we can get to know each other once and for all," she looked you up and down with a tiny giggle. "If you're not busy, of course."
They were a rather peculiar pair at first glance, or so it seemed to you, though seen from the outside at the time you and Bucky weren't exactly the most ordinary thing in the neighbourhood either. Your prejudices marked that Susan looked like the neighbourhood gossipy neighbour who offered a smile to your face but then behind your back criticised any move you made, on the contrary Alexander had a rather funny moustache and seemed to be terrified of his wife, what caught your attention the most was a distinctive pin on his jacket lapel that read 'HYDRA'.
"Of course!" you exclaimed with a slightly unfounded tone. "We'd be delighted to attend, I was just talking to my husband today about how much we were looking forward to meeting the neighbours if only they were half as charming as the neighbourhood."
"You'll see we're all one big family," Susan replied, taking your hand in hers. "Well, I'll see you now. The others will be delighted when I let them know you're coming."
After several comments and a long goodbye, the door closed behind you, causing your features to return to their normal state. Bucky watched you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for a response to the strange attitude you had just maintained a few seconds before, but you only gave him a half-smile.
"So Valentine's Day?" you said, walking into the living room, where the LP had ended but the needle was still spinning. "How could we forget something like that?"
Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist and you did the same by wrapping yours around his neck, dancing to the sound of silence.
"Maybe because Valentine's Day is every day for us?" he said moving closer to your lips but not quite touching them.
"Good point," you affirmed, brushing his nose with yours.
But at that moment the discovery that you had forgotten Valentine's Day was a tremendous disappointment inside you, compounded by how disastrous the dinner had turned out.
"So, even though I'm a little late... will you be my valentine?" a wide smile that reminded your husband of childlike innocence fell across your face.
"Darling, I'm your husband; I'm your automatic valentine." he closed the distance to your lips. "And I'll remain so for the rest of your life."
The depth of the kiss deepened, adding gentle brushes between your tongues, rediscovering again and again what your taste was, until Bucky suddenly broke away.
"Wait, do we really have to go to that barbecue?" he whispered in disgust at the thought.
"I think we're in control of our lives," you narrowed your eyes with a smile, "so we can do as we please."
Taglist Open (DM)
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#bucky barnes imagines#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes alternative universe#bucky barnes au#winter soldier x reader#winter soldier#40s#captain america#hydra#alternative universe marvel#avengers x reader#fluff#angst#smut#imagines#bucky barnes imagine#marvel fanfic#fanfic#fan fiction#one shot#prompts#drabbles#female reader
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Maybe one were Y/N is a virgin and Harry is her first one but he is so horny that he goes to far or something...
Try Again Later
summary: you're a virgin, and think you're ready to have sex but you quickly learn you're not.
word count: a lil’ 2.6k word blurb of smut and a small little scene that some people may find uncomfortable, so this is your warning. (not proofread again, i'm too tired.)
You weren’t completely sure about how you’d gotten yourself into this position. It was a good position, to say the least, but one that you hadn’t expected but wouldn’t change for the world. It wasn’t as though in the past you’d shy’d away from relationships, because that hadn’t been the case. You just hadn’t met the right person.
Fresh out of university, you certainly hadn’t given any thought to your love life. It was almost as though for the past three years you’d been in a bubble of your university work and not taken any notice of anything around you. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, just different to the people you were friends with.
That was until you met Harry.
It was completely on a whim that you met him, but you couldn’t be more thankful for that whim. You were in one of your favourite bookstores, flicking through the Historical Fiction category to add a little to spice to your quite bland reading habits that you’ve had over the past three years when he mistook you for an employee. You had started talking, and you obviously explained that you thought he was talented and that you liked his music and the rest is history.
It’s hard for you to believe that was only a few months ago.
“Whatcha doing?” You jump out of your skin, placing a hand firmly to your chest to calm the hammering that he had caused.
“Fucking hell, H.” You sigh, “Give a woman a warning. You can’t just sneak up on me like that.”
He wraps his arms around your shoulders in a hug, placing a small kiss to the top of you head, “Where’s the fun in that?”
He laughs as you roll your eyes.
“It’s only fun for you.”
“I know.” He drops a kiss to your neck, “Missed you, that’s all.”
“You saw me this morning.”
“That was hours ago!” He counters back, “Can I not miss my girl?”
He’s always been good at making your heart flutter, “Course you can. Just be a bit louder when you greet me again.”
“Will do.” He presses his teeth into your skin gently, “I think it’s time for you to put this away.”
You try to hide the small smile that flutters onto your lips, “I need to get this project done.”
“I’m sure it can wait.” He starts to trail his hands down your body, “Missed you.”
“I know.” You sigh, “You’ve already told me.”
“Missed you in more ways than one, love.”
Sex was something that you two had spoken about, but not a lot. You weren’t ashamed, or anything, you had no reason to be, but it was just a sensitive topic and Harry understood that. He never did anything to make you uncomfortable, he checked you were okay with everything that you two did. He was amazing.
Going into your relationship with Harry, you knew he wasn’t a virgin. It wasn’t something that you focused on for too long because it could send your mind spiralling and you tried to do that as little as possible.
It hadn’t come up in conversation un til the first night stayed over, which was a month into your relationship. Since you hadn’t been in many, and Harry had been in a few where he admitted that he went too fast and it consequently made it harder, you both decided to take it slow and you were okay with that.
Harry was human though, and he was attracted to you and even though he wouldn’t dar do anything if you weren’t comfortable, you couldn’t blame him for trying.
He was a little shocked when you told him you were a virgin, and you weren’t surprised. What did surprise you, however, was how supportive he was. He asked you questions, made sure you were okay to answer them and you did just that. You explained that you weren’t against relationships, of having sex, but you just hadn’t found the person or really had the want to do it with anyone just yet.
After finding that out, you were scared that he’d ask you to leave. Anyone would be scared of that but he didn’t. He kissed you like he hadn’t before and you cuddled and watched films until you fell asleep.
You slept over more after that, and you started noticing small things that he’d do that you didn’t know if you found flattering or confusing. You’d sometimes wake up, and you’d feel something resting upon your behind. It, of course, sparked a curiosity in you but before you could say or do anything about it, he was kissing your cheek and getting out of bad and to the bathroom.
This continued for a couple of weeks, or so, until you finally grew the balls and said that even though you didn’t think you were quite ready for sex, you were open to doing other things.
You had no idea what you’d been missing.
In the past, there had been many occasions where you’ve felt a little stressed and needed to relieve yourself. That was nothing compared to the way Harry’s fingers and tongue made you feel. It was almost as though you became addicted to his touch, and he certainly didn’t mind.
He helped you navigate your way through pleasuring him. One of the things you were most nervous about was the fact that you had no idea how to pleasure a man properly apart from what you watched in porn and on TV. Harry had no problem teaching you how to make him feel good and you eventually ended up being a pro, if you do say so yourself. Harry certainly had no complaints.
He was happy. You were happy. Everything was content within your relationship. He knew that at this point, that was all you were comfortable in doing and he wasn’t going to force you to do anything you didn’t wan to do. That didn’t mean that he didn’t think about what it would be like, feeling you around him. It was an orgasmic thought in itself.
It’s hit a point where you’re also curious. In your mind, you think you’re ready. You hadn’t spent every second of every day thinking about it, obviously, but the few times you had thought about it, it wasn’t as nerve wracking to you as you had found it. There was still a part of you that had worries and fears but you knew that Harry would do everything in his power to make sure that wasn’t the case.
You were ready, or at least you thought you were.
“This morning wasn’t enough?” Your tone is teasing, his lips parting in shock as you swivel around in your chair so that you’re facing him.
“This morning was plenty enough.” He leans forward, pressing his lips to your cheek, “I’d love to wake up with that every morning.”
This morning, for some reason, you had a sudden splurge of confidence and after feeling Harry rutting his hips into your behind in his sleep, you decided to wake him up in a way he was certain to enjoy.
He certainly enjoyed waking up to your lips around his cock, his eyes fluttering open to watch you rhythmically bounce your head up and down upon him. He felt as though he was in heaven, and he words couldn’t describe how he felt.
“In your dreams, H.”
“You are my dream.”
“Always the charmer.” You giggle as he drops down upon his knees in front of you.
He smirks, “You fell pretty quickly for my charm.”
“Not just your charm.” You counter, “You have a pretty nice ass as well.”
“Always knew you were a bum girl.”
“What can I say?” You shrug, “It’s perfect and so plump. Like a peach.”
You knew exactly where this was going. If it hadn’t been obvious before, the feeling of his hands dancing up and down your clothed thighs certainly made it obvious.
“Can I take these off?” He asks, letting his hand mess with the drawstring of your jogging bottoms.
You hum, watching as his fingers undo the bow and hook into the waistband. You lift you hips up, making it easier for him to pull the material down your legs. It hadn’t occurred to you that this would be happening today, so you hadn’t really dressed for the occasion but that didn’t matter.
“Watermelons?” You can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips at his reaction to your underwear, ones that you had bought on a whim, “Nice touch.”
“Thought you might like them.” You bite your lip.
“I love them.”
He kisses your knee, starting there and working his way up the inside of your thighs, spreading your legs open as he does so. It was slow, sweet and sensual but also had you withering in your seat. You started to breath quicker, the feeling overwhelming your senses all of a sudden.
You jump slightly at the feeling of a kiss to your clothed clit, the throbbing between your legs intensifying by the second.
“Soaked for me poppet.” He starts to run his finger up and down your centre, feeling your arousal that had started to soak through the think material of your underwear, “Got yourself in a little bit of a mess.”
“S’your fault.” Your back arches off the seat as he presses a kiss to the top of your pubic bone, “Fuck, H, stop teasing.”
“Why?” He pouts, looking up at you from in-between your legs, a sight that you want imprinted on your brain forever, “I quite like teasing you.”
“Prepare to be teased later then.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Make me come.” You sigh, “Then I might reconsider.”
“Your wish is my command, Darling.”
He presses a small peck to your clit, teasing you before he wraps his lips fully around your sensitive nub. The pressure of his lips, mixed with his tongue lapping and flicking at a quick speed you’re putty in his hands. He knows the exact pressure, the exact speed to have your toes curling and erotic sounds leaving your mouth.
“H.” You drop your hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, doing a mixture of pushing him further into your core and tugging his hair, “Faster.”
You whimper at the sudden coolness, “What?”
“Faster.”
“Oh?” He tilts his head to the side, “You want it faster.”
Letting out a groan, you push his head back down towards your heat. He laughs and flicks his tongue, up and down before sucking gently with his lips. You soon feel his finger dancing up and down your slit, collecting wetness that laid there before pushing his finger in, just the one for now.
“Harry.” Your fingers dig into the arm of your chair, “Another. I want another.”
Your wish is his command. He pushes a second finger in, and uses his free hand to push your stomach down so you stop moving your hips.
You’re unsure whether its the pleasure you’re feeling, or the way you feel for man between your legs but your muttering the words before your brain can catch up.
“I want you.”
His movements stop, his eyes lifting to look at you.
“Wot?”
You swallow briefly, “I want you.”
“Like now? Do you want me to do something else? How to do you want me?”
“H.” You rest your hand on his cheek, “I want all of you. I’m ready.”
“Are you sure?” He furrows his eyebrows, “If I’ve pressured you in any way, you don’t have to do anything.”
“Harry.” You smile, “I’m ready.”
“Fuck. Okay.”
You squeal as he wraps his arms around your thighs, picking you up and walking you towards your bedroom. He captures your lips, and you moan at the taste of yourself on his tongues. He drops you upon the bed and removes his shirt, exposing his tattooed torso to you.
You pull your shirt over your head, your nipples immediately pebbling at the cool air and the nerves that bubbled in the pit of your stomach since you hadn’t worn a bra. It was started to become hard for you to differentiate from your arousal or nerves.
“You sure about this?” You watch as he unzips his trousers, discarding himself of the fabric and the restraints of his boxers.
“Positive.” You swallow, flicking your eyes from his throbbing member, stood proud at the end of his happy trail and his face.
His eyes flicker over yours once more and you smile, offering him a small nod of reassurance. You did want this, with him of all people.
You watch in shock as he walks over to the bedside cabinet at his side of your bed, reaching into the drawers and pulling out a condom.
“Were you expecting this to happen or something?”
“No!” He’s quick to respond as he opens the packet, “I just wanted to be prepared.”
“I’m only teasing, bub.”
You don’t watch him as he puts the condom on, instead you lay back on the bed and look at the ceiling. You try to contain your breathing as he does so, focusing on the fact that Harry was going to do anything in his power to make you feel comfortable.
“Are you 100% sure?”
“Yes Harry.”
“Okay.” He hovers over you, “I’ll go slowly.”
He does, for the beginning. He watches the discomfort on your face as he pushes in, inch by inch. That is until all he can feel is you squeezing around him, tight and warm. He tries to be slow, and wait but once you nod your head, he can’t help but thrust his hips back and forward hard.
You were uncomfortable. It hurt, not as much as you thought it would, but it did. Harry was enjoying himself, and you could see the pleasure laced over his featured but you weren’t. You had a sudden urge to cry, which you didn’t think was normal but you closed your eyes to mask it.
“Fucking hell, love.”
You bite your lip to suppress a sob and that when you push his body away, uttering a, “Stop!”
Harry’s face drops, a look of concern over his features as he looks at you. He almost cries out himself when you reach for the duvet to pull over your body.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You manage to not let out any tears, which your thankful for, and you shake your head.
“I’m sorry, H.” You shake your head again, “I don’t think I’m ready still.”
“Hey.” He drops down next to you, reaching over to take your hand in his, “It’s okay, yeah? It was probably my fault.”
“It wasn’t!”
“It was.” He admits, “I went too far, and I didn’t check on you. I’m sorry, baby.”
“H.” You touch his cheek, “It’s not your fault. It’s mine for being a pussy who’s too scared to get dicked down by her boyfriend.”
“You’re not a pussy.” He shakes his head, “There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s no pressure to do anything, okay?”
You lean forward and peck his lips, “I know.”
“I love you, YN.” He smiles, “I would never want to do anything that would upset or hurt you. I’d hate myself.”
“I love you too.” You beam.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod, “And you didn’t do anything to hurt me, I swear.”
“Good. That’s good.” He drops his head to your shoulder, “We’ll just have to try again later.”
“Try again later.”
#harry styles#harry styles blurb#harry styles imagine#harry styles fic#harry styles x reader#harry styles x yn#harry styles x you#harry styles drabble#harry styles smut#virgin!reader
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There’s No Business Like Show Business: Chapter 5, Part 1
T/N: This is one super-long chapter ( ; ω ; ) so it has been split into 2 parts.
One week later. This was the night Maya’s company had been invited to perform.
The West End of London, stretching from Soho to Covent Garden, was renowned for its large theatre district, crowded with historic names such as the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Haymarket Theatre, and St James’s Theatre, in addition to newer entrants. [1]
Right in the centre of the district was Piccadilly Circus. At this time in history, the “Eros” fountain had yet to be built [2]. Here was the intersection of numerous thoroughfares, with pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages coming and going, day and night — the busiest spot in London.
It was here that a certain elderly noblewoman drove past in a carriage. But the next moment, she saw a strange sight in the middle of the square, and ordered her coachman to stop the carriage.
“……My word, what could that be?”
The words fell from her lips.
In the centre of the square was a simple stage about ten metres wide, composed of wooden boxes placed together and covered with boards. Passers-by had stopped to look out of curiosity, and a small crowd began to form.
After a short while, a lone woman appeared on stage.
She wore a sky-blue dress and a long, blonde wig. The crowd stared blankly as she gave a reverent bow.
“——Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. We are a small theatre company hailing from the East End. I am Maya, its chairperson.”
She raised her head, and gazed upon the whole of Piccadilly Circus.
“You may be feeling confused as to why a stage has suddenly occupied the Circus, but first, let me express our deepest gratitude that we, a theatre company of humble origins, have been able to meet you in this miraculous way.”
Her dignified voice resounded across the square, causing a stir among the onlookers. As more people noticed what was happening and gathered in droves, the crowd encircling the stage gradually expanded.
“Without further ado, let us bring you a little dream in a fantastic world.”
Maya ended her introduction with a graceful bow. Then, a man appeared on stage. Facing the crowd, he began to speak in a sonorous voice.
“It was a radiant afternoon filled with golden sunshine. A boat cruised leisurely down the river. Small, young hands gripped the oars. They seemed to lack strength: rising nimbly, then falling left and right as if to guide the oars’ movements.”
“……Hmm?”
The crowd listened intently as he narrated, with accompanying hand gestures.
“Oh, how terrible: what a cruel fate this is, to meet three girls! I’m all warm and sleepy. But still you wish to talk to me! You move my feathers, and do not breathe. But I’m all alone. I’m no match for the three of you.”
“This— Could it be……?” someone in the audience murmured.
With his monologue complete, the man took his leave. Then, another woman appeared at a corner of the stage. Holding a book in one hand, she began to read fluently from it.
“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank——”
In tandem with the narrator’s words, the blonde-haired Maya gave a small yawn. It was as if she had swapped places with a young girl herself. Without realising it, the audience held their breath.
Then from the side of the stage, a person appeared wearing a vest and rabbit’s ears, with a pocket-watch in one hand.
By this time, the crowd encircling the stage had become fully spellbound.
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
“——All the world’s a stage. And the men and women merely players.” [3]
An actor delivered his lines from the stage of a gorgeous West End theatre, as its owner, a nobleman, looked on from the box seats.
The actor himself knew the height of his fame, and hence his actions were somewhat egotistical. Nevertheless, these were the acting skills of a true professional: his clear, bright voice resounded in every corner of the intricately decorated theatre, delving into the ears of his audience, and producing an indescribable feeling in their chests.
His salary was eye-wateringly high, but evidently, it had been an excellent decision to hire this actor. Still, despite his self-satisfaction, the nobleman had a pained expression.
The reason for it was clear. This was a renowned theatre company famous for its acting talent. Even though it was their opening night — a momentous occasion, the stalls were unusually empty.
He’d made sure to advertise the play well in advance, so this was unexpected. As he admired the actors, who were not bothered in the least by the empty seats in the audience, the nobleman stood up and headed to the entrance.
“Hey, you. Haven’t there been any more visitors?”
He directed his question to the young man behind the ticket window.
“About that— Just a while ago, it seems a show’s begun at Piccadilly Circus.”
“A show?”
“Yeah, though I heard about it from someone else. A stage suddenly appeared in the middle of the square, and it looks like there’s a play being held. It’s about…… that; the one where a girl chases a rabbit and falls down a hole, uh……”
Those keywords alone led the nobleman to the answer.
“——Do you mean, ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’?”
The young man clapped his hands in appreciation.
“Oh, that’s right. Yeah, that.” He sighed wistfully. “Ahh, it brings me back: I read it when I was a child. And as I recall…… was it ‘Maya’? It seems that’s the chairwoman’s name.”
“Wha……!”
Upon hearing that name, the nobleman recoiled in shock.
“That theatre company from the slums?”
A play held on a stage that appeared out of nowhere. The young man saw it as a mere street performance, but to the nobleman, this was something different. As soon as the image of the perpetrators surfaced in his mind, his face turned red with anger.
An extraordinary turn of events, happening right on the opening night of an important production — as if it had been carefully planned to do so. In other words, Maya and her company had intended to sabotage his production out of spite, by putting up a play out of the blue, and not even in a proper theatre. That was what the nobleman concluded.
To add insult to injury, they had chosen to perform “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. To stand up to a classic with a piece of children’s literature. To pit Lewis Carroll against Shakespeare.
Although it was a ridiculous idea worthy of scorn, the fact remained that they had stolen his precious audience.
He posed a question to the young ticket seller.
“Well if that’s the case, wouldn’t there be a huge commotion? The Yard should be on to them any moment now.”
“That’s the thing…… It seems they’re already gone.”
Hearing that, the nobleman threw his head back in laughter.
“I told you so. It’s all because they’re out of their depth. They can recite their lines in jail for all I care.”
However, the young man made a troubled expression.
“Uh…… Sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. Actually it seems that after finishing one scene, they specified a different location, packed up their sets quickly and left.”
“……What?”
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alice; a great girl like you, to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!”
Behind the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, in Trafalgar Square, Maya and her company acted out the scene in which Alice shrank and grew larger, panicking all the while. The front of the stage had been covered with a white cloth, and a light shone on it from the back, allowing them to show the changes in Alice’s size in the manner of shadow puppets. As Alice grew until her head struck the roof, the audience buzzed in excitement.
Watching from the wings of the stage, Bond could see that everything was proceeding smoothly.
His plan to demonstrate the true abilities of this company, was a moving theatre that roamed all around the city of London—— a “guerrilla theatre”.
They would perform in busy areas to attract people’s attention, then quickly cut off their act and leave before the authorities arrived to stop them. After which, they would continue the performance at another location. One could say this method was the exact opposite of performing in an officially-recognised theatre.
There was a reason why they had changed the contents of their play. As their original performance comprised three short stories, there was a concern that the audience would grow bored after watching just one scene. However, staging a full-length play across various locations would keep up their interest for the next scene.
In addition, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland��� took place in a nonsensical, chaotic world, with no apparent connection between its acts. As a well-known story in itself, anyone joining in halfway would still be able to enjoy their performance — a perfect work to be presented in this manner.
The main issue was the acting, but that was helped by their practice in performing on a big stage.
As part of this plan, the play they would put up was not of the type that drew the audience’s attention to the stage right from the start, but rather one that was performed outdoors to people passing by. Hence they would have to project their voices and exaggerate their actions, but this was simply an extension of the two weeks’ practice they had done before.
Moreover, Maya and her company had extensive experience in performing children’s literature, with a focus on ease of understanding, so much so that they had almost learned the entire tale by heart. Memorising their lines had been no trouble at all.
Furthermore, the preparations at each of the locations they moved to — the very heart of the operation — were borne by the East End residents, who appreciated their performances.
The plan inevitably required manpower, but there would be no point in Bond providing it. However, with the trust of their fellow residents, Maya and her company had managed to recruit the stage crew by themselves. This achievement was their own.
As the company performed in one location, the stage crew would set up the temporary stages in the other locations across the city. They had accepted the company’s request with pleasure, and Bond couldn’t thank them enough for the depth of their kindness.
As he looked upon the crowd, all standing with eyes locked upon the stage, Bond chuckled.
——Even without a theatre, there would always be a place for acting.
It had been a wild idea to turn the city of London into their stage. But the East End residents lent them their support. And Maya and her company were putting up an excellent performance.
In a manner of speaking, this play was an all-out challenge from the people from the East End, to the gilded theatres of the West End.
Ten minutes till showtime. The players announced the location of their next act, then quickly descended from the stage.
“I’ll be leaving the cleanup to you then,” Bond addressed the remaining crew at the square. Then he directed the actors to board the carriages he had prepared. Taking the reins of one himself, he urged the horses forward in a gallop.
“Um, we owe it to you that our audience has enjoyed our play thus far, but…… I’m not sure if we can continue to do so,” Maya asked with a worried look.
Hearing that, the other actors in the carriage, who’d been going over their lines, turned solemn.
Although things had been going well so far, if their acts attracted too large a commotion, it stood to reason that Scotland Yard would put its full attention into stopping the play. Moreover, bad actors may also seek to take advantage of the hubbub. As far as possible, they wished to avoid their audience falling victim to crime.
Bond fully understood their apprehension. Because of that, he kept calm as he reassured them.
“Not to worry. I have some dependable colleagues.”
Saying that, he gazed in the direction the carriage was going, and smiled.
“It’s a popular saying, isn’t it? The show must go on.”
The curtains had been raised. Now all that was left, was to play their roles to the end.
Footnotes:
[1] This district is known as Theatreland (Wikipedia). The first two theatres listed are still standing, with St James’s Theatre having been demolished in 1957.
[2] If you were to go to Piccadilly Circus now, you would see a very prominent bronze fountain with a statue of a winged angel on top. Actually, the statue isn’t of the Greek god Eros at all. (Wikipedia)
[3] A line from Shakespeare’s As You Like It (Wikipedia).
Translator’s notes:
Quotes from Alice in Wonderland
All dialogues from the East Enders’ production have been heavily referenced from the Project Gutenberg version of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll.
Thinking about what year the series was set in
In this chapter, we learn that the “Eros” fountain hasn’t been built yet — it was unveiled only in June 1893. But we know some events of the Phantom of Whitechapel arc, such as when the people of Whitechapel formed a militia, did take place in history — these were broadly in the autumn of 1888. So this actually works out, and gives us a sense of when the events of the manga unfolded.
Edit: The manga seems to be canonically taking place between 1879-1882 latest — you can read my analysis here!
Piccadilly Circus in 1868
This is entirely for fun — here’s a screenshot from the game Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate (set in London 1868), with Evie standing at Piccadilly Circus:
I couldn’t find any pictures of the Circus from before the “Eros” fountain was built, but in Yuumori’s time, it would’ve still had the circular shape shown here. When Shaftesbury Avenue was built in 1886, it transformed Piccadilly Circus from a circle into the sort-of trapezoid crossroads layout it has retained today (British History Online).
#moriarty the patriot#yuukoku no moriarty#yuumori#english translation#forbidden games#illustration insert
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3x03 - Bad day at Black Rock
I’m hard pressed to think of a Ben Edlund episode I don’t adore but this one is definitely a gem. Perfect balance of humour, pathos and just straight up absurdity. I mean the one liners alone in this one:
“I lost my shoe.”
“Don’t play with my Jesus.”
“I’m amazing. I’m Batman!”
“Oh don't go away angry, just go away.”
I’m particularly partial to how the religious hunter Gordon sent after Sam, who has Jesus paintings and memorabilia all over his RV, starts to believe the lord is guiding him onto the right path when really it’s just bad luck resulting from losing a cursed rabbit’s foot. It’s especially interesting in light of season 4 where everyone’s running around thinking this is all God’s will, when really God wasn’t saying anything to anyone, but the blind faith that he commanded allowed the angels to get away with the things that they did.
I know it’s not foreshadowing or anything, there were no plans to introduce heaven/angels/God at this point, but it’s clear that many of the writers, Edlund included, were always thinking about the concepts of God and faith and role they played in people’s lives and mindsets. Come on his exact words were “as it turns out ... I'm on a mission from God,” as well as “It's God, Creedy. He led us here for one reason. To do His work. This ... is destiny.”
This is also the episode where Bela is introduced, and damn do I love that woman. She’s just such an interesting character (even though I’ll always wish we got to see more of her and who she was underneath the polished in control image she showed the world.) I especially love how she challenges the so-called nobility of hunting. Sure it’s saving people, hunting things, but for most hunters, especially earlier in the series, the saving people thing was more of a by product than the ultimate goal.
Bela’s a really great counter to Dean in that regard because she can read him, they’re similar in some ways, and she can see when he’s projecting, particularly when it comes to the John Winchester of it all. Dean’s emotional arc in this season centres around his low self esteem, how he doesn’t believe he deserves to be saved, and as long as he’s done his job, which is to protect Sammy, that’s all that matters.
Later in the season, he realises maybe that doesn’t have to be true. I mean of course all his self worth issues aren’t magically solved, and in fact the whole “You don’t think you deserved to be saved?” thing gets worse after his guilt over the things he did in hell, so much so that it breaks Cas out of his righteous stoicism when he gets a glimpse at who Dean really is for the first time(more on that here if you’re interested) but Dean does have a moment when he believes he could want more from his life. More than what his father “the obsessed bastard” had let him believe he could have.
Interesting then to see how Bela described hunters in her first appearance:
Being a Hunter is so much more noble? A bunch of obsessed, revenge-driven sociopaths trying to save a world that can't be saved?
I mean she’s right about the obsessed, revenge driven sociopath part anyway, even Dean recognises that, though he can’t admit it to himself just yet. He’ll come face to face with himself soon enough and realise just how toxic John’s mindset was.
Oh and while we’re on the topic of Dream a little Dream of Me, and Dean seeing himself as “daddy’s blunt little instrument” and how he believed his father saw him as just a soldier whereas “Sam he doted on. Sam, he loved,” that little moment in John’s storage locker is particularly poignant.
As they’re inspecting the contents of the locker, Dean finds a trophy. Turns out it’s Sam’s, a soccer trophy he won as a boy, and Sam’s surprised and touched that John kept it for all these years. Don’t worry though, John didn’t forget about Dean, as they look around at the next shelf Dean realises John has kept something he was proud of Dean for too
“Oh, wow! It's my first sawed-off. I made it myself. Sixth grade,” he says as he pumps the shotgun.
Daddy’s blunt little instrument huh? Oh Dean...
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Well, I wanted to write a fix-it fic of sorts, an alternative morning after for episode 26. And I will, pinky promise. But after the fragmans for episode 27 and our babies in all their engaged glory, I was also attacked by this idea to start a collection of short one-shots centred around married Edser.
So here we go. The first short piece.
I don't own any of the characters or the show. They all belong to Sen Çal Kapımı writers, the production company and FOX channel. This is only fanfiction.
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Married Shenanigans. Part 1.
Eda's feet were barely touching the ground. She still couldn't believe all of it was actually real. Her and Serkan got married today. They were now officially husband and wife. And she... She was no longer Eda Yıldız. From now on she was Eda Bolat. Even the thought alone made her grin like a lunatic as she was zipping her suitcase. She brought it downstairs and placed it by the door the exact moment the doorbell rang. She swung the door open. What Eda saw was truly sight to behold - her new husband, grinning from ear to ear and bouncing on his feet. Serkan Bolat was bouncing. Eda let out a giggle at that.
"Ne?" Serkan asked, a little bashfully.
"Nothing," Eda responded with a smile and a shake of her head.
"So, are you packed and ready?"
"Yeah," Eda nodded at her suitcase by the door.
Serkan eyed it sceptically, then looked at Eda.
"Are you serious? Another suitcase with flipflops inside?"
"What? No! I have everything I need there".
"What about the rest of your stuff? Because I was going to hire a movers truck to bring it all to our place so you can, you know, move in".
"I, well, I... I haven't packed anything yet," Eda stuttered, a bit lost.
"What? Why? Eda!"
"I didn't really have time! Everything happened so quickly! Our engagement, then henna night and all the craziness after it. And then the wedding. I have barely had enough time to breathe, let alone pack my whole life".
"Fine, we'll do this together next week".
"Next week?"
"Yes, we're taking a week off".
"Why?" Eda asked confused.
"Because we're newlyweds, it's our honeymoon. You know, it usually follows the wedding," Serkan explained, as if talking to a child.
"A honeymoon. We're going to have a week-long honeymoon?"
"Yes, Eda!"
"Who are you?" Eda teased him with a smile.
"You know, there's this amazing, beautiful, smart, funny woman. Eda Bolat is her name. Well, I am her husband," Serkan retorted, his own grin risking to split his face in two.
He pulled Eda to him and she went willingly. Serkan pecked her lips softly and squeezed Eda's hand.
"Get your flipflops and let's go home," Serkan murmured.
They went hand in hand to Serkan's car. Shortly after they arrived at Serkan's apartment which was now their home. Serkan even went as far as carry a laughing Eda over the threshold. They got Eda's suitcase into the bedroom upstairs and fixed a light late dinner together. Even though they had had a small wedding reception with their loved ones, neither of them had touched any food, too wired to eat. So they were both pretty hungry. After having eaten, they started cleaning up together. Perfect team work with Eda washing the dishes and Serkan drying them.
Eda rinsed the last plate and handed it to Serkan, who was standing to her right, facing the stairs leading to the second level of the apartment. Serkan started drying the plate but his gaze was fixed on the stairs, his brows furrowed, as if he was calculating something.
"What's wrong?" Eda asked him softly.
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Just thinking".
"What are you thinking about?"
"It's a good thing you haven't packed your stuff and we haven't moved it here. Because we're gonna need to find a new place," Serkan said, still looking at the stairs, but with a hint of suspicion and weird hostility.
"What? Why? What's wrong with this place?"
"Well, these stairs, for one. Look at them. They're not fit for children. They're dangerous".
Eda's could swear that her brain short circuited.
"Children? What children?"
"Our children," Serkan said without even blinking.
He said it with such calm and confidence that Eda couldn't help but smile.
"Oh, we have some children I don't know about?" she asked teasingly.
Her words made Serkan tear his gaze from the stairs. He got a bit flustered, the tips of his ears turning slightly red.
"Well, I mean... I mean when we have children. When we decide that we're ready. Then. Then we'll have to... You know... Make sure there are no... dangerous stairs".
"Yeah, definitely. We will. But now is not the time. I mean, I need to finish my education first, get my degree. And you have so much work, so many projects".
"Of course. You will get your diploma. And there's your dream to go to Italy. We will go together. And then... well..."
"And then, yes. We will grow our family," Eda agreed with a smile.
Serkan gifted her with a somewhat shy smile of his own.
"You know, I never thought about kids. I never really wanted to be a father. But with you... With you I want it all," he confessed.
"Our feelings are mutual, Serkan Bolat. One day".
"One day," Serkan nodded.
"But before that I think we should practise," Eda said with a wink and pulled on Serkan's hand, leading him to the stairs and to their bedroom.
#sen çal kapımı#sen cal kapimi#sck#love is in the air#sen çal kapımı fanfiction#sen çal kapımı fic#sck fanfiction#sck fic#edser fanfiction#edser fic#edser#eda yıldız#eda yildiz#eda bolat#serkan bolat#eda ve serkan#eda x serkan
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I’m not going to change your views but it does feel a bit dismissive when you say it wasn’t that bad because he had rich parents who neglected him but hey they got a maid for him and he probably wasn’t outcasted or bullied so hey it’s not that bad right 🤷♀️! I don’t know he definitely didn’t have the worse out of the villains but I don’t know it felt a bit dismissive is all. Although we need to all remember these are fictional characters so have no idea why the other anon needed to get so aggressive! Also the person in the notes I don’t know how to say it but uh the whole the Todoroki’s had a rich father they didn’t have to work a day in their life take is not a good look. Just because someone has parents with money it doesn’t derail the fact that neglect can cause trauma.
Anyways for the real reason I sent this, you wonder why Dabi is so insane. Well take into account the neglect alongside the fact that he burnt to near death up on that hill alone at the age of what 13? That’s got to be extra traumatising, especially for a child that was already not mentally ok. We also don’t know what his circumstances were like after that fire, like was he homeless? Or picked up by someone nefarious? Kind of like AFO(not him exactly but someone nasty) who maybe fed on his brewing anger and hate instead of positive healing. I’m sure we will find out at some point? I don’t think it was just what happened in the Todoroki household or the fire that broke his mind? There had to be other factors after the fire after his “death”!
[[WARNING!!! I love Dabi as a character but I am not a woobifier so if you are too much into him don't read!!!! No complaints taken, y'all will be blocked for being rude I am too old to deal with people unable to interact with me in good faith (anon it's not for you, you are good and I can't understand your point of view I am just not as good as a person and too old for that shit)]]
I don't think I will change my mind either but I feel like the belief that every trauma is equally bad is just... Simply wrong. Like, we can legit compare this stuff and how badly it affects our brain, what do y'all think psychologists research 🤷♀️ Like, your therapist won't tell you this because it's not their job to make you understand you not the centre of the Earth (and it won't help because it is a legit trauma response that is very valid but is annoying you're fucking 25 yo). And to say that, neglectful parenthood is probably the worst parenthood style, as far as I know XD I wrote coursework about this (neglectful bitches are having a lot of need to make us the biggest victims (the bitches is me))... It also feels really American to me? Like, are we going to pretend people who got to live in a nice house and were neglect somehow got it as bad as people living in poverty or warzones? Hello? Imagine telling some orphan "I know you have no parents but actually, my trauma of my father not spending enough time with me is just as severe as yours". Bruh couldn't be me sorry... Like, even taking into account the fact that we can have weaker or stronger nervous systems or be more prone to depressive episodes *looks in the mirror and cries* I simply wouldn't find the guts to say my trauma is as severe as idk people who had physically abusive parents or no parents at all or who were disowned for being gay
And like **again** I am not saying that neglect is not traumatic I WAS NEGLECTED THIS IS TRAUMATIZING AS FUCK. I just am living in a country at war and with lots of discrimination problems and I like... Can't say I am the biggest victim. Sorry I can't though there were times when I was a lot more bitchy especially before being in therapy so I understand where you are coming from and I know what I am saying won't resonate with everyone (it's ok go on your own healing journey I believe in you) but this doesn't mean it is garbage and won't help me or someone else... I've already talked once about it but as a person, I am very easily irritated and envious and really not your local Jesus and partially my trauma turned me like this so being more humble about my sufferings helps me not be a complete bitch (believe me or not but people with traumas and mental illnesses are often insufferable *looks in the mirror* not me though I am perfect... BUT IT IS OK TO BE INSUFFERABLE OK??? like, bitch, that's normal. That's normal to stink when you are depressed it's ok to be a bitch when you are hurting. Forgive yourself because I forgive you (when you are not being an abusive asshole but if you apologize and explain yourself I will forgive that too)
The reason why I talk about the fact he is rich is that I've got a disease called leftism and I am a person of several marginalized identities and since this fandom LOVES looking at characters like real humans, I looked at Dabi this way. And if Dabi was a real human, I wouldn't sympathize with him one bit. I would fucking hate him for being the biggest entitled asshole who commits crimes for the reason his Daddy didn't give him attention. Bitch, my Dad didn't give me attention either! But somehow I don't kill people! And I don't even have money!!!! But like... I am not denying that neglectful parents are not a problem. It is. But he is overreacting, bro. He needs to humble down and recognize the fact he is a fucking idiot (he is). He has inherently so much more resources to recover and heal himself than I had... Yes, I am just being jealous at this point but honestly. Making an entire country suffer for you is not a good thing and y'all need to stop using trauma and mental illness as an excuse for people. No! Being abusive to people because of neglect is not valid, is overreacting and you had no reason to do that. I am dismissing your trauma because you are exaggerating it to make me sympathize with your asshole behaviour. I won't judge people with different sets of standards as I judge myself
I bet it would be dismissive and bad if I said it in conversation with someone who is currently struggling with mental health and is not a murderer. But guess what! I don't talk with humans and my friends the same way I talk on my Tumblr about fictional characters 🤷♀️ Not to mention I don't have rich friends akabsksbxm
I think with Dabi there's this whole thing where we saw him at 14 (poor baby boy) and 24 (a grown-ass boy) and... Like, I am so sorry for 14 years old Touya not receiving the help he needs (bruh so relatable) but I am not gonna act like 24 years old bitch can't get his ass to a psychiatrist (extremely unrelatable and infuriating). We shouldn't apply the same standards to kids and adults. We can talk all day long about how society is bad and how our parents ruined us but at some points, you gotta take your life into your own hands and do something and be an adult. And it's fucking hard when you're born with a shitty brain that was fucked up by your parents even more in a society where no one gives a fuck but I sincerely don't know another way to live. You will feel bad and want to die but you either keep on recovering or keep on getting worse and at this point getting worse is Dabi's *choice* That's how I live, that's my framework and I am, of course, extremely fortunate in a lot of ways but I just don't know how are you supposed to survive without the notion that grown people are responsible for themselves and their mental health. We can't act like adults are babies
But as a character, Dabi is fucking hot ngl. Like, do I sometimes want to murder my entire family, make them suffer AND commit terrorist attacks? We all do. Dabi is the dark fantasy of us neglectful bitches craving some attention. Gotta kill the president and tell everyone that my Dad sucks. Imagine the entire country hearing your Dad sucks? That's the juice, that's the dream. Trauma makes you vicious. I get the sentiment. Imagine all those fuckers who made you feel like shit pissing their pants and crying? Imagine your Mom being afraid of you the way you used to be afraid of her? People do have the desire for some violent justice but like... Think of bullied kids committing school shootings. But instead of a kid, it's a grown man who graduated school and who also have a rich father
Ok too much about irl stuff and philosophy shit. I know my way of talking is kinda brute so just know the way I treat people is different from that I treat fictional characters, in particular, I don't call real-life humans submissive and breedable... And stuff...
Damn Dabi is kinda good to project your hatred of your parents in bruh, I should write a fanfic about that (would be cathartic)
To the plotline, I am also very interested in what the hell happened with him after burning because... How the hell he wasn't found? I kind of DON'T want him to be groomed at this point because I feel like it won't be as cool as him just more naturally evolving into what he became. Like, surely, he is an asshole but consider this: as a villain, he is morally obligated to be an asshole
I feel like someone hiding him and Touya overstating the gruesomeness of his living conditions to the dude so he feels *bad* for him and hides him and feels sympathy and Touya gets attention but also begins to reassure himself in the fact his Dad needs to be punished... Idk it's a lot of mystery but I feel like more suffering won't deliver the point the way I want it... I mean it CAN be handled this way and initially I thought a lot about Dabi being brainwashed a bit or having his memories altered so it seems worse to him or even him being groomed or lied too but nowadays I am not into it. I mean I believe in Horikoshi and that he will handle him well 🛐
I talk a lot so I will summarize
If we judge him as a real human
14 yo Touya - DID NOTHING WRONG IN HIS LIFE PROTECT HIM
24 yo Dabi - go fuck yourself bitch you older than me and act like a child and kill people, I couldn't care less about your trauma rich boy
If you want me to talk as his psychologist
Yeah, it is painful and sad, I understand him so much and surely, his trauma is valid as is his hatred but probably revenge won't bring him what he wants. And what he wants is love and attention. But he gotta make choices that will lead to his healing. He needs to *want* to heal. And we will step by step go to the healing because it is possible. He is loved and he is enough. AND YOU ALL MOTHERFUCKERS WILL HEAL I BELIEVE IN YOU BESTIES
Also his therapist (behind his back)
You won't believe it but my client is the most infantile attention whore I've ever met
But if we talk about him as a character... Very delicious soup
If you talk with your friends
Please, if your friends are being abusive to you or someone else don't even LET them say how their trauma made them this way. No. Nothing allows you to be an abuser. Call them out and stop them and make them talk to the therapist. Like, surely, there are extreme situations like severe mental illnesses or extreme neglect where we should be more forgiving but babying adults won't do you any good and won't make them recover
Yeah, I guess this is what I forgot to say. When I say "it wasn't that bad" what I mean is that I would be more forgiving to people who had it worse. It's more of a personal measure where I can tolerate stuff from people who had particular traumas or from those who suffered greatly (it's not my place to be a bitch here). I can forgive 14 years old or a poor person for stealing stuff but not the 25-year-old man who got no need for money and is not a kleptomaniac. I would be more forgiving to Shigaraki than to Dabi because Shigaraki was groomed a whole lot. Same for Toga, who is not even an adult or Twice who is a poor orphan. But that doesn't mean I would forgive them completely. All of them are shitty people. It's just that they had fewer resources and possibilities to not be what they became while Dabi had more but he acts like he is extremely hurt and the biggest victim which is like... There will be people like this in your life, please, don't make friends with them, they WILL abuse you
I talked a lot damn. It's adhd I can't shut up
#asks#bnha#bnha manga spoilers#todoroki touya#bnha dabi#killing people is a legit coping mechanism#I mean I possibly do sound dismissive I am very brute in my talking but I really can't be bothered#all I am saying that I am not dismissing neglect what I am dismissing is the idea that is is bad enough to justify Dabi's reaction#neglect was bad Dabi's reaction is disproportionate though#you. don't get to kill people because your Dad didn't love you#you do get to kill people if those people killed your family#just so you understand#I got tired of talking
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