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dcxdpdabbles · 6 months

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DCxDP Fic idea: What's the Rule again?

It starts with Wes Weston accidentally banishing Danny from his haunt. He didn't mean to, and he panicked along side Sam and Tucker when Danny was effectively evicted Danny from Amity Park.

See the four have become tight-knited friends every since the trio started talking to Wes back during the summer between freshman and sophomore year.

During that time, Wes's other friends had drifted apart once Wes' attention moved from basketball to ghosts- specifically Phantom. Danny had felt at fault that he was left a loner because of his secret identity and had invited Wes to sit with them at the Nasty Burger the second week of Summer break.

Wes was suprise to find out that Sam, Tucker and Danny were much better friends then the ones he hanged out with since third grade. He was used to people only speaking to him in class or the few times they hang out on breaks but the trio would message him about every single thought or meme they had. They could laugh togther until tears fell from thier eyes and they couldn't breath over the silliest of topics.

Wes also found out that the trio was supportive of all their interests. Sure, his old teammates and friends didn't make fun of him for crocheting or painting, but they wouldn't accompany him to an art market. Nor would they actually wear the scarves and gloves he made them.

They sure as hell didn't volunteer to help him run a booth to sell his own crocheting pieces after encouraging him to get a table. And they wouldn't cheer loudly when he made his first sale.

Wes also wouldn't have happily gone with them to an observatory, a Dark Poem Night, or even a tech expo. But he found that he had the time of his life watching Danny, Sam, and Tucker nerd out at the events much as much as he did at his own.

He also never had anyone he knew would be down to do him favors or even take notes for him when he was out sick.

So he became close friends with them, passing sophomore year with far more enjoyment than any other grade, then Junior year came and went just as fast and as fun. It was their last summer as high school students, so Wes wanted to do as many new activities as the four could together before Senior year.

Who knew what would happen to their little group after graduation? He wants to think they would all remain best friends but he's heard so many stories of people drifting apart that Wes was afraid of risking it.

That's why he researched urban myths and legends around the world regarding ghosts- more then any research paper he's ever done- and jokingly asked Danny to partake in some of them as a halfa.

They joked and laughed- throwing salt in a circle around Danny, lighting a candle for him to use Morse code with- but it wasn't until Wes got to the one where he tried smoking Danny out with a banishing spell he found in an old book that things turned from funny to horrible.

It worked

Danny was flung from his haunt- effectively banishing him from the area he was haunting. Dann just happens to be haunting all of Amity Park, so he ends up on the outskirts of town, unable to cross the invisible line.

Wes practically choked on his tears as he apologized for Danny not being able to cross back in, but the other three quickly informed him that they, too, took part in it, and it was no one's fault. Danny just had to find a way to reverse the banishing spell.

The only problem was that the book pages Wes found online were only on the banish spell itself and nothing else. He couldn't even find the whole book since it belonged in a private family library.

The family library was located in the most dangerous city in America. Gotham.

The library also belongs to a very wealthy family that had recently all but perished except for their lone heir- Timothy Drake.

Now Wes attempted to contact Timothy Drake in hopes of having the other teenager send him copies of the book, but he never got a reply. He thinks it was due to not explaining why he needed the book and ending up sounding like a bot or a scam.

With each passing day of Drake not responding Danny's situation grew worse. Jazz luckily covered for them, claiming to have signed Danny up for some camp so his parents wouldn't think he was missing.

That would only work until school started, which was a time limit that was weighing on all their shoulders as they tried to find a counterspell.

Jazz, Tucker, Sam, and Wes each took turns driving out of town to bring him food and a change of clothes so Danny could figure out his situation, having to do it in shifts to not alert any of their parents.

However, without his haunt to pick up natural exoplasm, Danny was growing weaker and weaker by the day, looking half stave out in the little motel room Sam rented for him as they tried to get him back into the town.

Danny needed to either make his way back to his haunt or go somewhere that was so infected with ectoplasm that it actually felt cursed.

Tucker found the solution to all their problems with a few hacking skills that he learned to fight off Technus' invasive attempts of his personal tech.

"A full ride to Gotham Academy?" Wes' mom gasped staring at the acceptance letter her son eagerly showed her. "With a promised full ride to any university in America?!"

"Yeah, Tucker, Sam, Danny, and I all got accepted for our work on clean energy generators. We sent it in for the Wayne scholarship, and we won! The only thing is that it's a requirement to graduate from high school in Gotham. I have to go!" Wes gasped, eyeing both his dad's and Kyle's doubtful frowns. He couldn't afford for them to say no when Tucker had worked so hard to bump them up as Winners. Bruce Wayne's computer security is no joke. "This is the once in a life time opportunity!"

"But where would you live?" His dad asks, shaking the letter. "Wes, this is clear across states, and it only covers school expenses."

"Sam's parents bought her a house. She's going to rent us some of the extra rooms." It was a lie; her parents would never let four boys- especially these boys- rent from their daughter. She told them that the school provided co-dorm rooms "I can get a job at the local library- I already sent them my resume and got a call for a interview."

"What will you do for food?" Kyle asks. "We both know you can't cook."

"I can't, but Danny does. He's amazing in the kitchen."

Here, his parents share a loaded look. "So you'll be living with the Fenton boy....."

"Well. Yeah? I already said that?" He returns, confused, and Kuule coughs to cover a laugh. Confused he stares at his older brother, who quirks a grin at him.

"Don't worry about it." Kyle laughs, but his wiggling eyebrows tell Wes he should worry a lot about it. He would inisit a little more to find out what Kyle knew, but he needed to convince his parents more.

Eventually, after five days of attempting, Wes got their permission and could tell his friends, who all shared the same results. The remainder of the summer is spent preparing for their move- finding the house, getting it furnished, packing their things, transferring schools- it's a lot, and he's never been so grateful for Sam's wealth.

She hires people to get it all done for her-including hiring a trailer to take their four cars-, so he only has to worry about his packing. The four meet up at the airport on the day they live, flying first class thanks to Sam's grandmother.

Tearful goodbyes and good luck from their families leave them all a bit down but they board the plane and take off without too much trouble.

While on the plane, Sam turns to the boys. "Does everyone remember the phases of the plan?"

"Phase one: Blend into Gotham until we find Timothy Drake" Tucker states, pushing up his glasses

"Phase two: Get Drake to invite us over to his house and find the book," Danny tacks on, tapping his foot on the ground.

"Phase three: Find all the pieces for the counterspell- usually scattered around the magical family's ancestral home- and get Danny home!" Wes shouts, raising a fist in the air.

Sam nods, looking satisfied. "And what are we not allowed to do? Danny?"

"Become a vigilante when my ectoplasm is on a limited intake" Danny grumbles, sinking into his chair. "Let it to the Bats and keep my head low."

"Good. Tucker?"

"I'm not allowed to hack into anything because it can gain the attention of the Bats or Mr.Wayne, and then we'll be on a wanted list" Tucker sighs "No matter how much fun it would be to battle it out with the legendary Oracle."

"That's right. I'm not allowed to go anywhere near Poison Ivy no matter how much I want to yell at her to go fix the coal riffs and cut down forests instead of wasting her powers on the stupid heist." Same all but bites, and then she turns her attention to Wes, who startles.

"Wes?"

"Wait, I have a rule?"

"Course, man," Tucker laughs. "We all have rules."

"But I'm not interesrted in anything in Gotham besides the Drake grimoire!"

"Wes," Danny says gently, his soft baby blue eyes making him a little hot under the collar as they stare into his soul. "You're not allowed to fall in love with any of the Bats."

Wes mind blanks, then reboots, "Excuse me!?"

"We know you had a crush on all of us here Wes and Val" Sam laughs when he turns wide eyes at her. "It's cute but you really shouldn't try for the Bats. They're the violent sort"

"What?!"

"Yeah, you have a type, and it's a hero or hero adjacent." Tucker shrugs "It's cool."

Wes can only gape at them, no matter how much he tries to convince them; otherwise, the three refuse to remove his rule. He is highly offended by it.

Yes, he's never really gone out with Team Phantom, just because when he joined the group, most of Danny's rouges were long gone leaving behind the tiny ones that he could handle on his own, but he wasn't into heroes!

And okay- maybe, maybe at one point or another he may have had slight crushes on his friends but they were quick and gone before the first school year together!

So the rule is utterly ridiculous!

At least, he thinks so until five days later when he's trying to find his way around the new neighborhood and gets caught up in a mugging. He could have quickly taken the mugger- humans had nothing on ghosts- but he attempted to talk the young adult out of it when Red Robin swooped in like a knight in shining armor.

He may have just stared at the hero's tight-skin outfit instead of letting the hero know that he could handle it, and he may have made a fool of himself when Red Robin asked if he was right.

"Yeah tots fine" He babbles. Ugh, who says tots?! He wants to stop talking but when Wes gets nervous he tends to just word vomit and he could hear himself doing it now. "You know who else is fine?"

Red Robbin raises a brow, likely knowing the pickup line. Cowering, Wes changes the answer in a panic. "Timothy Drake!"

Red Robin stills. "Come again?"

"Timothy Drake, a boy in my class! He's fine that you think he was part siren or something. You've seen him, right? I mean you have eyes!" He repeats with a squeal "I want to get into his private liberty!"

"Do you?" Red Robin tilts his head, a slight smirk forming on his mouth. "You should try flirting with him then. Maybe he can give you a tour."

"Oh, I want more than a tour!"

Why did he say that?!

At least the hero in front of him laughs until a shout has them both looking away.

Danny is running down the street screaming his name, thank the Ancients. When Wes turns around to wave at him, Red Robin vanishes without a sound or trace.

Like a ghost.

Oh no, that's hot.

"Danny, I broke the rule"

"For Ancient's sake, it hasn't even been a month."

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #wes weston #Wes/Tim #do they have a ship name?#Wes has a type and it's heros #Tim thinks the new boy is cute #Danny just wants wes to open the childlock on his home town #Sam and Tucker are there for the ride

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ms0milk · 1 year

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𝟗 | 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐭

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"You are mine."

no cw bkg is no poet laureate. the curtain falls on y/n's business formal era. a long overdue confrontation, an eerie garden, IV drip of catharsis, romance a la knock down drag out fight, and an unexpected guest. memories of Alderan monsoons. we're halfway through, folks. the prince and his guard are more similar than they'd like to admit 5.8k

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glossary lmao featherbit is what happens when you're shooting with feather fletching (not plastic) and you don't move the thumb supporting the arrow out of the way fast enough. the feathers move so fast they slice your hand-- i once had to pull some out of my bone, they really get in there. i practiced archery with a bunch of old women as a kid so this might be their special term and not technically accurate. not sure, pls enjoy :)

In the interim between spring and summer, there are a few weeks filled with rage. Fights break out in the kitchens, porcelain shatters at the market. Children used to bumps and bruises suddenly snap the necks off their dolls in the moments after stubbing toes or pinching fingers.

The string of your bow snapped in a tight draw this past spring, while you were training in the forests beyond Aldera’s gates. The nocked arrow bucked sideways with no clear direction and panicked into the ground a few feet away but not so aimlessly that it didn’t catch your bowhand with its fletching first. You screamed that day, for the first time you ever remember and not because it hurt. A quirk like a sneeze maybe. You screamed again, something pent-up and ferocious, after biting the feathers from the thick of your thumb and then calmly packed up to go home.

When misfortunes pile up, there isn’t a person alive that won’t eventually snap. That’s what May is for, that’s all May is for. Those few weeks before summer are especially unlucky and nothing else, and the rage doesn’t mean a thing. Takoba is a vacuum and the prince is fire in a jar, nothing else. It doesn’t mean anything that your fingers are twitching, or that it’s November.

In the sandpit of Aizawa’s training quarters, Takoban soldiers watch on as Uraraka finally convinces you to shoot for her. They whisper on the sidelines sipping from their waterskins, chatting, gossiping all half dressed in some combination of armor and day clothes, or some just look. More than a few only watch you, somewhat apprehensive of the Alderan girl who fired into a crowd with no discipline from Aizawa.

In fact, the Master watches the pit now from his office above the sprawling arena, nursing black tea and a scowl.

You ready a borrowed bow. It’s so natural, the weight of the weapon in your bicep and the sting of fresh strings under your fingertips. “This one’s mine!” Uraraka beams while you repeatedly draw the empty string to your cheek and lower it again for adjustments, “I’m a terrible shot so it doesn’t get much use.”

For a week it’s been this. Training with the timid soldiers and their sweet apprentice captain. Declining a great many invitations from Denki and Mina to “sleepover.” Rising earlier than dawn, banishing the guard sent to watch your door and searching again for your prince. Avoiding the kitchens. Memorizing every corner of the seashell castle in cold autumnal hallways, its sprawling outer walkways battered by sea air, and studying all of the history parsed out in seedsized carvings along odd walls.

For someone so loud, your prince is adept at hiding. For someone so highly trained, your ego cannot take much more of this. Every morning spent searching for someone who thinks nothing of you unless it is to torment.

When the prince is at home he hardly dresses daintily, opting instead for hunting vests and all their loops and hooks for weapons. He wears gold and furs at home, so do you. In Takoba he wears stiff linens with silver climbing from the cuffs. Little blue bows to tie closed his tunic like a viscous babydoll. If you couldn’t still feel his hands at your throat you would laugh.

Shinsou is off running errands for his master and so your only other companion is Sero, gangly as ever, and grinning sleepily as he watches beside Uraraka and her men. “I haven’t seen you shoot in years, Y/n!”

“Why have you seen me shoot at all?” You murmur as you reach into the quiver at your hip to select an arrow. There’s no gallery in Jeanist’s arena at home so unless a lord or lady would like to stand amongst sparring soldiers there is no place to watch you train.

You finger through the decorative fletching and select the one that reminds you most of your queen. Oilslick green feathers, every shimmering color of a peacock sewn to a white birch shaft.

Everyday you find him at lunch, your prince and his friends, growling and smiling through their food in the Great Hall with all the other hundreds of castle staff taking meals. Everyday you station yourself outside the Hall, safe from lunch rush crowds, and everyday he must pass you to leave. You can follow him then. Noon is when you begin your shift. He doesn’t grunt or rumble or speak a single word. Not once all week has he looked at you and no longer do you want to watch him.

Uraraka beams, “Bullseye and lunch is on me!”

“Lunch is free,” you whisper through the draw of your nicely nocked arrow. The bowstrings sit heavy under your fingers as you pull strength to your shoulders in Alderan form. Hips grounded, back straight, shoulders bulging under the pressure, familiar and sore is the draw of a bow and arrow.

Hands trembling, sweat pooling, legs clenched and chest heaving, no matter how often you work your body to exhaustion you can feel him near you. Baths and laundry do not wash away the too soft touch of his hands. Even if it’s only to yawn– to blink– each time your eyes close the prince’s flushed face comes to you, and even more haunting than that is how cold you feel when those same eyes open again. How pitiful your appetite for remembering humiliation. You ready your body to shoot.

You haven’t trained for fifteen years just to miss a shot in front of foreign company. It’s perfect, you are perfect, you know exactly where this arrow will land and how to get it there, like a magnet the arrowhead screams bullseye. You draw tighter, pull the green fletching close enough to your cheek that it’ll cut you on release because the pain will distract from the rock between your ribs, the suffocating anguish tucked under your heart. Why can’t you ever shake him? It helps to hold your breath.

Prince Bakugou's eyes haven’t changed a single time in his life. Wet and worried in a violent carriage. Disinterested in passing on your way to class, bored and rolling when his mother stops to speak with you. Conceited around a campfire. Viscously entertained in windy hallways. No matter what they’re looking at, you will never mistake them, no matter where he is you will find them.

He’s watching you somehow now, you can feel it.

“Kats wait, look!” Sero hollers just loudly enough that you’re shaken from the memories and again focus on aiming. By now the soldiers around him grow impatient and they groan when Sero shouts again, “drinks‘er on Ochako if Y/n hits the mark!”

“I did not say that.”

Above the arena, beside Aizawa’s office, a great distance away, is a little blue balcony and its little blue princess. Right beside her, your prince glowers and slows to a halt as she does. It is well before noon.

Uraraka tries to calm the growing excitement from the crowd, “Princess Fuyumi, please note I said no such thing!” But her soldiers only chuckle and whistle when the princess pretends not to hear her.

What are they doing together? You flex the tips of your fingers just enough to cause pain. Bakugou is not merry, he swells too wide without his cape, he is not with his Champion and so he is not safe and gods how he sucks the soul from a room.

Steady.

Blood red eyes glow from under his fair hair as they always do and they brand you like two pinpoint spotlights. He doesn’t pay attention to Sero chiding or Uraraka bemoaning her wallet or the princess waving her lacey handkerchief beside him. He only watches you.

Smooth pressure like a papercut at your cheekbone and the tension in your shoulders disappears as it always does when an arrow goes flying. Release. For a second you do think you smile.

Perfect center. Finally you breathe again when the room bursts into laughter and clapping, lowering your aiming fingers from your cheek when you look up to the balcony. Amid the cheers, Uraraka is the only one to notice oilslick green blooming from the side of your thumb. Blood begins to pour when you make a point to turn, and to bow deeply to the observing princess while Bakugou glares silently beside her. His charged stare closes the noisy distance. It vibrates the feathers that pierce your flesh.

“I suppose we already knew you were an excellent shot!” Fuyumi cups her hands around her mouth so that you can hear the smile in her words.

Overlapping with her glow, savage eyes drink your blood– the blood that seeps between your fingers as you cup your featherbit hand and your weapon with the other and bow even slightly deeper before rising, weeping wound tucked politely behind your back, to catch the your golden prince leading the princess away.

Bakugou skips lunch today. He skips second lunch and tea and attends not a single meeting, and so you spend your entire wretched day searching for him.

What you would have given to stay in Uraraka’s training pit. To spread out in the sand and watch the soldiers laugh and spar while she bandaged your hand. While she scolded you lightly and slipped you sweet cookies to help with the bloodloss. Instead you left with Sero at lunchtime as you always do, to collect your prince from his hiding place.

The rock of your ribs turns to lead when relief hits you before worry. When Bakugou’s golden head doesn’t appear among his friends at their regular table. You cannot know rest until you know where he is and once you find him you will never know rest again.

You’re wandering now like you have been for hours, without direction from one twinkling meeting room to the next. From silly tea parlors, to the armories, to cartography offices, all empty of the Alderan Prince.

You don’t miss your mother often. In fact, there’s a warm wet hole where her face should be when you think back on golden fields and cotton aprons. You do miss Aldera, obviously you do, and with each mission’s obstacle it becomes more and more clear that home will never be what you left it as. Home will never again be dazzling your queen or hunting with your master, it will be dousing the prince’s flames. Aldera will never again be verdant and protective, it will be Bakugou’s hands on your throat and hips and cheeks and surely he will kill you.

Passing a tidying chambermaid or lazing guard, Takoba Castle has opened up. The prince’s chambers still evade you, but you’re no longer lost in chilly halls or tripping on the odd floor runner. Staff don’t stare anymore. A lord or lady might shirk away from your halberd but they don’t seem too concerned with the woman attached to it. Takoba is getting quieter. In your prince’s distance this week something like peace grows.

A collection of hardly audible voices are the first things to stir the castle in hours and you turn under the stairwell archway to mark where they come from. It’s easily evening now, cold sunsets tipping through windows you happen to pass.

“No– of course I will, but I don’t think–”

“Not for you to think about.”

Winding soft around nothing the voices become distinctly two. One of them is clearly a growling Alderan and as you climb up the tight butlers’ stairwell, the grandeur of an East Wing walkway spills over your face with that same sleepy sun. Seaglass Hall. A mnemonic device from your week of wandering; the ceiling of this appendage hallway like so many others in the castle is made of bottled glass, but in the east, only in the east, is it in shades of seafoam green.

Your eyes land squarely on Prince Bakugou, peering startled into the stairwell’s darkness and framed by the archway you trudge through. You’re not sure how much longer you can survive the sight of your jewelry twinkling in his ears. His gold is awash in soft greens beside Deku, who sinks into the shadows under such cool-toned light and you speak before thinking while dusting your hands on your trousers, “Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

Bakugou hasn’t so much as frowned at you since the incident in the kitchens. Besides the archery demonstration this morning, he hasn’t even flicked his hateful eyes in your direction. He hides, he’s hiding, the way he’s kept to himself this week is different than dislike and now the death of your peace is palpable.

You pretend not to feel your pulse jump when his lips part, before he remembers that you are no longer worth speaking to. Is that what he’s thinking as his jaw clenches? As he rights himself from standing casually with Deku to his usual intimidating loom. As his pretty red eyes drift through the empty hallway and do a terrible job of hiding his frustration with your words.

There is a crater distance between you and family, between you and any semblance of familiar and soft or vulnerable and whose fault is that? So often it’s no one’s– it’s the queen and her station, it’s Jeanist and his rank, it’s your dead mother, it's the uniform you wear and the eyes that interpret it, it’s the soldiers who drink together and who salute when you walk past, sometimes it’s the color red, sometimes it’s recovering from an injury, it’s in the sympathy of strangers, it’s in your muscles and your favorite weapons and your inability to lose.

Even if only for a second, down the hallway, as you move forward Bakugou seems to lean back.

Deku perks up behind the broad frame of your prince who has begun to puff like a cat in the lengthy silence, and even though you haven’t had much of a chance to speak with the little Champion past your accidental spat in the throne room he doesn’t seem bothered by the memory or by the prince who seethes as he’s talked over.

“He’s all yours Y/n! I’m sorry, didn’t realize you were looking for him.”

Where Bakugou should have snapped or snatched, he only stills. No barking, not even a cross of his arms. He turns his head away as you approach as if pretending to roll his eyes but the prince you know doesn’t shrink in his anger. If he truly wanted you to meet his irritation all he’d need to do is blink. All else fails, he could just grab you again– a puppet on strings pulled too close and smile as you fall to pieces. It worked so well last time.

All three of you seem to realize more words won’t cure this quiet and as Bakugou peels away to storm down the hall, the little Champion nods his goodnights sympathetically and gestures through the seaglass after him.

Maybe this is what the sea looks like beneath its frothing waves? Maybe it’s quiet like this, sun bleeding through cool light at lengths immeasurable and asking at a whisper for you to follow.

“Royal summons. Katsuki hates being late.”

Maybe this is what hell looks like? Maybe the heat of the setting sun through stained glass is a warning and your prince, a golden fire, is just a trick the light can use to draw you in like a bug who doesn’t know better. Bakugou’s broad shoulders shrink the longer you let him get away. Maybe you shouldn’t fall for it again.

“Thank you Champion.”

When Deku slips down the stairwell you came up from, peace truly dies at sea.

Ten and some years ago was Aldera’s wettest summer. Thunderstorms, flooding, bugs like you wouldn’t imagine– most of the season was spent rescuing crops and standing still in rare breezes, but the children had school.

Between training and sleep you dragged yourself to class with civilian kids to learn numbers and poems that would do nothing to protect the queen, in a room full of people too nervous to speak with you. Green lightning ripped through the afternoon sky and caused such bruises that the clouds turned purple. Rain pelted the castle walls sideways.

You were late. You fell asleep standing on shift in the North Wing, tricked into resting your head on the wall from the lull of storm on stone and so when you remember this day the first thing that comes to you is sprinting through golden halls, school bag swatting your hips and back. Sliding down the banister of the Main Hall as if it were a playground, a swift turn under the maiddoor and then a mad dash to the East Wing where your lessons were bound to have started without you. Thunder shook the castle.

The sound of rain grew louder and after bounding round the building faster than a magpie, you realized why. In one of the four hallways overlooking the courtyard, wind, rain, and debris sailed through the line of open windows and beneath them an exquisitely detailed rug drank up the water that pooled inside. As the red and gold details wet, the castle seemed to be bleeding. It slipped beneath the floorboards and the space was soaked in an ancient smell that could only be dredged out of wood by divine floodwater.

If you were old enough to know the words, curses might have sprung from your mouth as you abandoned the school mission to seal your home back up. At eleven years old this was no easy task. Perhaps the bugs hiding in their trees outside laughed as they watched you leap to catch the first great window frame and drag it down shut. Maybe the birds winced as water filled your school bag and plastered your hair hot across your throat– at your soldier’s uniform, already too big, clinging to your bones now that the rain had taken them too.

Who left these windows open?!

The queen loved her art, she loved every floor runner and tapestry, and you would not watch on as the wilderness tried to reclaim her castle. As an adult now, fighting the rain for a rug is of course too silly to be noble but at eleven it seemed to be the most important thing in the world. You burned with purpose. You burned too with embarrassment, at the state of your uniform no other child wore and the mess of your hair even as you refused to take shelter or call for help. Then Aldera’s little prince rushed onto the scene from the opposite end of the hall.

Oh how you could have laughed at the state of it all. At Bakugou, scrawny and pretty and dressed up in jewels like he’d just come from an party, and at the thought of what he saw when he turned the corner. Besides how silly you knew you looked, the comedy of the situation hit you for a moment as curtains of rain, branches, and wind whipped inside the eight still-open windows between you.

It was the first of many days you would feel painfully ridiculous beside your beautiful prince. When an unripe peach sailed inside on the gales and cracked you over the head, the pity in his soft eyes stung. This was not how a royal guard should hold herself. Her hair should be kept back, her face should remain neutral, and most of all her cursed uniform was supposed to fit.

As you were knocked off balance, the prince jerked towards you but before he could take a full step into the storm another few fruits were dislodged from their tree and whipped inside around rain and leaves. Bakugou too was clocked in the head, a peach to his cheek and caught another before it could fly into his mouth and knock out a tooth.

As the pair of you righted yourselves and the hallway grew wetter, the thought of class felt too cruel. The decision between your queen’s rugs and her son, too overwhelming– which should you shelter? A bruised prince or a ruined hallway, which would the queen hate more? Your redemption for falling asleep on duty kept drifting farther away, and then Bakugou began to laugh.

He reached up for the window closest to him and shut it tight with a little hop and a whip of his shoulder. A vine of lightning lit the hallway in negatives for a moment.

He grinned, “Get outta here!” And tossed the peach in his fist across seven open stormy windows to you.

Bakugou’s hands are always fists and if you had known this when you were eleven it wouldn’t have charmed you so much. When the prince cracked a smile in the petulant wind tunnel something light like wheat fields came to life inside of you.

“Yes sir.”

As if reading your mind, the grown prince growls when you catch up to him in the Takoban hallway.

Bakugou takes up too much space to hide from anything. He could suck the air from the room like a great big fireplace if he truly wanted to and suffocate every soul inside, so it’s somewhat remarkable, as you fall behind him, that you aren’t brought to your knees or sent through the pretty glass ceiling.

Why doesn’t he speak? What right does he have to be acting strange after pulling you apart for all to see?

The sky through the ceiling above you shifts quietly to purple as the sun sets, although anything but blue feels wrong in Takoba. Immediately at the thought, the red glow of the kitchens plays over the backs of your eyes and your focus darts down again to those dangerous hands you keep at a distance. Bakugou flexes them as he steps.

His big hands dance. At no more than a step or two behind your prince, marching together down the longest hallway you’ve ever seen, you can’t quite look away from his gold fists under the bottlegreen light. Truly, they are always fists. Always a threat and a reminder like an iron to a branded dog. His hands that cupped your face and pinched you close in the cursed kitchens, exalted by your fear. They lifted you like you weighed nothing and then they caged you in. His hands are only for pain. Playing tricks around a campfire. They are only good for fighting, sweaty and tickling with ripping explosions.

Bakugou pretends he can’t feel your warmth at his back as you drift closer.

Those are the hands that tore through a royal crowd and grabbed hold of your nightgown when they thought no one was around to see. They’re thick and violent– they’re soft. Your well-kept rage stirs as you remember. When they brushed your knuckles warm in a cream calm dream or gripped the fabric at your waist on horseback. Plucking splinters from your bloody cheeks. Gentle when they smothered the flames in your hair at the edge of the forest.

The prince jerks to a sudden stop and when you’re too busy watching the ripple of veins in his fingers, you bump into his back. You both flinch on contact; only at the touch do you realize your prince has been keeping you exactly as distant as you him and then that flinch becomes a fling of mismatched magnets when he snaps his head around, you raise yours, and your pair of fraught eyes meet in lieu of shouting. It aches like a strike to the temple.

In a second your prince is turned and down the hallway again towards a set of modest wooden doors still ages away. “Fucking airhead,” he rumbles. The first words all week. Nostalgia turns to ash in your throat.

The seaglass hallway stretches on like a draconian landing pad with no decoration past the stained glass ceiling. From your week of research this is the only path in all of Takoba Castle that leads straight to the ocean. Something about floodwaters and enemy attacks by sea means that this maze of a seashell at least serves a purpose and that this hallway must be special. Your mind races with the possibilities of what your prince has to do on the other side of it. You wish he would speak to you, and then you wince.

What do you miss? His hate-filled spew? You just wish to be rid of this silence you determine, and slow down behind him with generous distance when you both finally approach the exit.

As the prince pulls simple wooden doors apart a great gust of salted air blows the loose hairs around your face with a horrible tickle and where you expect the sea, iron and blue flowers stare back instead. You and your golden prince look over some kind of solemn garden suspended under the moon.

Aldera is a lush green kingdom, Takoba is a portside merchant city. You know nature and fields and crops. This garden is man-made and more than that it is poorly kept. Metal flower beds, soil spilling over their lips from holes dug by birds or damage done by sea winds, and eerily, no weeds. Maybe the sea doesn’t carry weeds like rivers do? Only one type of sad blue flower wilting like a bell. The garden is at least as large as Aizawa’s training pit and filled with copies of the same bellflower weeping up trellises or littering the ground but still it feels vast and empty. Like a cemetery with no more plots to offer.

It’s only you two in the cliffside clearing, not a royal in sight. Who summoned him? Bakugou keeps his back to you while stepping between the garden beds and you wonder if he is unsettled too. You’re glad he does not watch you while you begin to wander.

By all calculations this path should have led to the sea but when you approach the precarious edge of the garden there is still a five story drop between you and high tide. The castle is built on a bluff above the beach. A foundation of rock. Below even that, black water stretches spindly fingers in the sand.

Who is this place for? On one side of you, Takoba Castle’s white spires reach into the now-night sky and on the other a deadly drop into the sea. A single type of flower planted over and over again into boxes that could hardly keep them alive. When you happen a glance between your feet, you’re startled by the movement you can see under them. Candles flickering inside a great many feet below you. A garden with a glass floor.

The air becomes suddenly thick with realization as you scan what parts of the clearing aren’t shadowed by clouds passing over the moon. The one door you came through and a steep drop off the edge with no railings. A single way in but decidedly two ways out. This is no garden.

“Hey.”

Something is trying to distract you. Had it not been just the two of you out here, you never would have registered the quiet voice drifting low through the breeze as Bakugou. Gentle? When you don’t turn around he rumbles soft again, “Eyes.”

His second words all week. The sound is warm wool. Bakugou is trying to speak with you and where surprise at his voice should make your heart race, something much more sinister has settled on your pulse. You are not listening, in fact you cut him off with a wave of your hand instead of turning at his shockingly soft cadence.

“Highness, who sent for you?” You demand delicately, back still turned as you skim the ruined garden. This place is meant to be a prison. You shouldn’t be here. Who is it supposed to keep in?

Had you been watching him, you would have caught the prince’s jaw slack and then coil tight again with your dismissal. He holds himself tenser and tenser.

“Highness–” You try again, but his voice, noticeably less gentle, cuts you off.

“Eyes, not n–” It’s your prince’s turn to try again, but this time you spin around to keep him quiet and take the upper hand.

“We have to leave.”

Suddenly you’re approaching him in the center of the garden, weaving over spilt soil and sad flowers faster than he is able to stop you coming closer, and you don’t yet know that there’s a reason he drifted so far away before trying to speak. You are too busy identifying blindspots to notice him curling inward from rage. All you register is his lack of haste and it compounds a preexisting fury in your bones. You can parse out your feelings about his words later, about the way he called to you, about his tenor, about a thousand things– later. Strong is the sea air tonight.

The distance you kept between his hands and your body this week vanishes under the circumstances and now you are so close you should smell the sweet of his ignition begin to drip in anger. Instead you watch shadows over his shoulder and pause in front of him, “Who summoned you?”

“Will you–”

“Highness who–”

“Shut up!”

Faster than immediately, somehow simultaneously, your body registers his threat that you are so practiced in withstanding and you take a steadying step back, no longer hiding your gaze from that which wants to kill you. Up, up, up is his shadowed face and those tiny shining suns that have done too good of a job until now, in protecting him.

The last time you watched each other like this you feared you might have to hurt him. He is a bit taller, he is much more beautiful than you. You wish you could have known him. It is only one terrible second before the shouting begins but in it is your prince’s final moments of softness, what might be fragility under the reds of his eyes, what looks like worry at the corners of his lips, washed over by crimson fumes like an eclipse or the death of a star.

“Highness–”

“Be quiet.”

But you have already had your fill of his golden cheeks and so you turn with your arm outstretched in the direction of the door, “We need to–”

“Are you fucking demented?” He growls. He does not budge. He stares and you no longer have the patience for him. It is slipping from you like sand.

“Walk and talk my prince, we have–”

“Excuse–?”

“Highness,” you hiss back at him and steady your hand on the hilt of your short sword.

You’ve pushed too far because oh how he bites the air now. He spits, “If you cannot–”

“I cannot–”

“– listen–”

“Come, now.”

“You will listen when I speak.”

“You do not speak to me!” And how you bite back.

He rushes you.

The prince is threatening in the best of situations and when the wall of his body obliterates the space between you, your arms move faster than you’re able to control as they pull your sword from its scabbard. Bakugou flies against your blade as you raise it, pressing his own chest against the flat steel you keep vertical in defense. You hate to admit that he scares you.

“You will lose the fight you pick with me,” you murmur close enough to taste the air he breathes too close. He does not fight back or raise his hands and sparks do not come to life around you. At your back, Jeanist’s halberd itches to hunt.

“And you will lower your weapon.”

“I am your mother’s soldier, not yours.”

Bakugou bares his teeth to the realization that your obedience has only been a courtesy to this point. Pillowed chest to yours, you are close enough to feel the rumblings of his ribcage. Of his biceps as he holds them still at his sides like two great snakes that would like nothing more than to kill you. Dripping fists. You can see it in the tremble of his throat, his resisting a thousand things, screaming, flying, eating you alive, biting down into the meat of your neck that his lips brush as he bows into your blade– all at once like an implosion. What is he holding back?

“Then run back home to your queen.”

“You are my responsibility.”

“Oh yeah my hero,” he swells and pressed deeper, drawing blood, “my little captain–”

The nickname from the night in the kitchens cracks the wax seal of your rage before it can even melt and in seconds you’re losing the fight to contain your ancient violence. Blade now cutting through his tunic and Bakugou still does not pull back. He does not raise his own weapon or his magic and his hands don’t reach for you.

“Check that ego, Eyes.”

“I am doing my job!”

“You! The havoc wreaker, charged with my protection? Careful not to make me laugh Captain or I might just slit my throat.”

The threat oozing from this garden is as far as a thought has ever been from your mind while it is otherwise filled with curses. Could you kill him? You will bite through your tongue before holding it. Every time he calls you captain something inside heaves like the sea.

“Do you tire of torture?”

“You think yourself so special?”

“You are a beast!”

“You are insufferable!”

“You suffer my charity easily enough!”

You almost want to wince at the shape your prince’s lips make when he remembers the weight of your earrings and he presses so deep into the curve of your body and blade that your foreheads bump in threat.

“Run away home.”

“You are not my queen and not my master.”

“And you are still Alderan!” He snaps sweet, “You are my responsibility!”

Sparks come like tears to Bakugou’s eyes and his canines shine when he bares them to you, too close to see the details of his delicate face.

“I am your prince and she’s not here! She is not fighting for her life in Takoba– Fuck the queen!”

“You–!”

“You!”

“You are cruel!”

“And you are mine.”

Somehow the ocean falls. The world stops turning and at the words neither you nor your prince make a single sound.

His scowl melts to shock, jeweled eyes first slits and now wide under slack brows. Blade to his neck and still Bakugou’s hands do not crackle and your breath hardly comes when you need it, and you want to touch him– strike him– you think you might kiss him. You think he might let you, and then comes a voice from the sea.

“Get a room.”

In a shadowed corner of the glass garden your blue ghost bends at the waist to smell bellflowers. His hair is white.

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#bakugou x reader #a hymn to black water #bakugo x reader #bnha #mha #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au

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see-arcane · 2 years

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Goncharov (1973): “Why an apple?”

I know Goncharov is drowning in so MANY themes. We have the Running Out of Time theme, the Cycle of Violence and Repression theme, the Can’t Fight Nature theme with all its animal motifs, we even have Ice Pick Joe’s criminally underappreciated arc about Humanity Doing Violence to Anything/Anyone Outside the Mold of the Cycle/What the Majority Says is Natural theme. Themes on themes on themes!

But the one that still keeps needling me in the heart is, of all things, the Fruit theme. Yes, really.

Sure, right, the whole ‘Forbidden Fruit’ thing is extremely old hat to cinema now, especially within media dealing with gay romances (rather, gay romances that Almost Were and Ended Tragically). But the way it’s played with in Goncharov seems to hit just to the left of the cliché and lets something new grow.

Or, in the case of our various doomed characters, lets it get mowed down.

It starts with the fruit stand. Katya and Sofia, two wives shopping for two husbands. They come to the apples. Sofia, with her serpent bracelet twinkling, stoops to help Katya pick up the fallen fruit that escaped her basket. Is the meeting orchestrated? Accident? Neither woman would ever tell, considering where both stand--where they recognize each other from. The worlds of men and murder they stand so precariously within.

Still. It is so hard to make friends in their worlds. And they are in public. And just for a while, just here, in the sun, they can pretend they are just two women who know each other from somewhere. Just making friends.

Apples segues to temptation, you know the drill--they even bring it up in conversation!

...A conversation that the cut to the far end of afternoon reveals has stretched all the way out of the market and into a bistro. Just two women, just two friends, just talking (in public). They bring up Adam and Eve and the Forbidden Fruit and--

Sofia: I never got why it had to be an apple.

Katya: What do you mean?

Sofia: I mean I don’t get it. Why an apple?

Katya: I don’t know. Because it’s always been an apple, I guess. It’s easier to pull off in art. All the painters and sculptors and everyone else who makes those kind of calls, they all just got together and decided, ‘An apple looks pretty simple. Nice, smooth, round. Easy enough to draw in a tree.’ And boom, everyone sees nothing but apples in the Tree of Knowledge ever after. So it’s always apples.

Sofia: The dullest possible produce. The Forbidden Fruit is supposed to be something off limits, something special. All the knowledge of the world and of each other and of the realization that these two fools are running around the Garden with their asses bare in front of the Almighty. Apples don’t seem right for that. It’s dull. It’s a thing for pastry and postcards.

Katya: ...What would you pick instead?

Sofia: Pomegranates. No question.

Katya: Why pomegranates?

Sofia: It’s the fruit that the God of the Dead uses to trick the Goddess of Spring into staying with him in the Underworld. She tastes the seeds and she’s forced to stay down there for half a year, every year, forever. A fruit so powerful it can trap a goddess seems like the kind of fruit that could banish humanity from Paradise.

(Cue that Very Telling pause. The unbroken eye contact. Then...)

Sofia: Tastes better than apples too. And it looks like a jewel when you split it open.

(Of course, when it’s time to order dessert, they split a pomegranate panna cotta. The scene closes with Katya licking her lips.)

Katya: I do like apples. But this? This is amazing. I’d go to Hell for this.*

(*There’s a whole other essay in describing Katya’s bisexuality, her partaking of apples and pomegranates in equal measure, the genuine hurt she feels in knowing that Goncharov cares for her, but not beyond the presentation they put on for his peers. Arm candy with benefits (and constant threat to her life). And it wouldn’t be so bad, she knows, if they were at least still friends like they were at the start--but all of that has gone to Andrey. The friendship, the love, the care; at least as much as Goncharov is capable of beyond his own issues. But I digress.)

We see this whole undercurrent play out through the film, in parallel to the hammered-in fear and resignation that comes with the characters being crushed by the mantra of You Can’t Go On Forever, Can’t Fight the Cycle, Can’t Fight Nature, Can’t Step Outside the Norm/the Nuclear Family (of the Mafia/the Mob Or Else).

Because it doesn’t have to be an apple.

They never had to worry about the time burning away their lives one miserable day at a time, unhappy and cramped with violence and expectations that are a wholly self-perpetuating horror show that humanity inflicts on itself. The characters compare themselves to animals more than once in the film, all unable to fight the inevitable. But as Andrey and Katya point out to their respective paramours, it does not have to be that way. It never did--it doesn’t need to be now. Please. Please.

They can have the Forbidden Fruit and it can be whatever they want! Let it be a pomegranate! Let them glut themselves on it! And, hell, why do they have to buy into everyone else’s rules about what is and isn’t forbidden anyway? They’re none of them living within the law in the first place. Blood’s on everyone’s hands. Can’t they sin a little sweeter? Can’t they admit the sin they want most isn’t a sin at all, no matter what lies to the contrary they’ve swallowed in the caustic hell they’ve found themselves in?

“We can grow our own garden somewhere,” Katya pleads with Sofia, smiling through tears trying so hard not to fall--the first tears she’s allowed herself in years.

“We can grow our own tobacco,” Andrey tries to joke with Goncharov, not joking at all. He still has that cheap scuffed lighter Goncharov gifted him years ago when they were both nobodies, and he grips it in his visible hand like a talisman.

Of course, we know the endings there.

Katya lives to leave, without husband or lover or friend, and mourn the fact that her beloved Temptation cannot be tempted in turn. Not with where Sofia stands. Rooted by cold blood as much as fear. This is what she knows. This is her world, her Tree, her Devil she knows, her Underworld to rule as much as any queen can rule there, unhappy but resigned. Go, Eve. Grow your garden alone.

Andrey pulls the trigger, and feels more pain in that instant than even Goncharov does with the hole in his heart. He walks away, mourning the man who is as much a victim of himself as the bullet; a stubborn Adam who spat out his fruit and insisted upon fighting the Serpent, who dies reliving a memory of two cigars, sharing a flame against a cold night--the light fading, fading, fading...

It never had to be this way. Not for any of them. Not really. But even with the Forbidden Fruits of their choice hanging in reach, free to take and run, it was not eating them that resulted in their respective tragedies.

The Forbidden Fruit is there to be eaten. To be learned from. To force you to grow and go. To step outside the boundaries made to keep you in.

But you just can’t make everyone eat.

#taking a break from ghouls to get in my two cents about Goncharov and the Themes #still holding out for my extremely late KatyaxSofia sequel Mr. Scorsese #goncharov #katya #sofia #andrey #ice pick joe #unreality

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all-the-things-2020 · 11 days

Text

Late Night Talking - Chapter Fifteen

Summary: Dieter and Emily spend Christmas with his brother’s family.

Word count: 7000+

Rating: PG all the way

Notes: I’ve never been to Vermont. The Christmas Market on Church Street in Burlington is real but all I know about it is what I saw on a quick Google search. Logan’s Candy in Ontario, CA is real, and so is the Parent Navel Orange Tree in Riverside. Everything else is made up.

Tag list: @rhoorl @avastrasposts @readingiskeepingmegoing @runningmom94 @gwendibleywrites @weho2kcmo

Vermont was cold. I’d been to Big Bear during the winter, so I thought I knew what cold was, but I was wrong. California cold, even in the mountains, is nothing compared to New England cold. I huddled in the puffy coat Dieter had ordered for me as I scanned the line of cars in the pick up line at Burlington International. A blue Jeep Cherokee, Dieter had said, but there were so many SUVs and it was snowing lightly, so I had a hard time. Then I saw a familiar face hanging out of a passenger side window.

“Emily! Over here!” He waved his arm frantically, as if I wouldn’t notice him after he bellowed my name.

He hopped out and opened the back door for me. “Quick, get in out of the cold,” he said, taking my luggage around to the back. I slid into the back seat of the blessedly warm Jeep.

“You must be Freddy,” I said to the driver.

”And you have to be Emily,” he said with a smile. “Welcome to Vermont.” He was definitely Dieter’s brother; they had the same warm brown eyes and strong nose, but Freddy was clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed in a conservative cut, and the only piece of jewelry he wore was a simple gold wedding band. And his care was immaculately clean. Dieter’s car always had a few empty water bottles, Kit Kat wrappers and stray bits of clothing rattling around in it, plus an assortment of scripts and paperwork that he hadn’t gotten around to taking inside yet.

Dieter slammed the tailgate and dashed back into the car. “I always forget how fucking cold it gets here,” he said as he fumbled with his seatbelt. “You’re insane for living here.”

Freddy shrugged. “You get used to it. You’re just spoiled by that L.A. weather.”

Dieter twisted around in his seat to look at me. “You should have heard him the first winter after they moved here,” he said with a grin. “You look great, by the way.”

”I’m bundled up in this giant coat,” I replied. “You can barely see me.”

“I can see your face,” Dieter said. “And I missed it.”

”I missed you, too.” He’d been away filming most of the time since our Thanksgiving getaway. The shoot was in Toronto and he’d only been able to fly home for one weekend because of some delays on set due to weather and other complications.

Freddy pulled out into the Christmas Eve morning traffic. The airport was busy but not as crazy as LAX had been. Thank goodness for the airport shuttle, or I would never have made my flight in time. ”I hope I didn’t mess up your holiday plans too much,” I said. “Having to pick someone up at the airport is hassle enough, let alone on Christmas Eve.”

Freddy shrugged again. “Leila and the kids are busy baking, so I usually get banished to the living room anyway. And this one took a cab last night so I didn’t have to make two trips.”

“I am a very thoughtful brother,” Dieter said.

Freddy snorted. “I consider it a Christmas miracle.”

Dieter shoved his arm and Freddy poked him back with his elbow. Yeah, they were definitely brothers.

*********************************************************************

Freddy lived just outside Burlington so it wasn’t a long drive to his house. I couldn’t help but gawk at the snow. Everything looked like a Hallmark card.

“So we thought we’d take you guys down to Church Street this evening for the Christmas Market,” Freddy said as we turned down his street. “We went last week, but the kids don’t mind going again.” He chuckled. “Anytime they can have hot chocolate and donuts for dinner they’re happy.”

”Hot chocolate sounds amazing,” I said. “I might need an intravenous drip.”

”Don’t worry, babe, I’ll keep you warm,” Dieter said. “Bet you’re glad I bought you that coat now.” We’d had a bit of an argument over the coat. I’d told him I didn’t need such a fancy one, since I’d only be using it for a few days, but he insisted I’d freeze without it and we compromised by agreeing I could donate it to a women’s shelter before I flew home.

“I am,” I said. “You were right … this time.”

Freddy laughed. “That’s the way, keep his ego in check.”

We pulled up outside a two story middle class house decked out with strings of Christmas lights and a large plastic Santa on the lawn. “Ignore that,” Freddy said, gesturing toward the Santa, which was a bit faded and listing to one side. “He’s been in Leila’s family for ages and the kids won’t let us get rid of it. ‘But Dad, it’s tradition!’”

”I like it,” I said. “He fits in with all the snow. And traditions are important when you’re a kid.”

Dieter and Freddy exchanged a look and I knew I’d touched a nerve. Dieter hadn’t told me a lot about his childhood, but I knew enough to know that their mom hadn’t exactly been June Cleaver.

Freddy opened the door and we stepped into the house, which smelled like Santa’s workshop. Sugar, cinnamon, and cloves mixed with the scent of the six foot tall fir tree in the living room. My family had never had a real tree; my dad kept repairing the old artificial tree they’d bought when I was a year old and Mom and I had used it until she died, even though by that time it had shed a quarter of its needles and had to be carefully situated to hide the bald spot where one of the branches was missing.

“Uncle Dieter!” The kids came barreling toward us and collided with Dieter. Derek was twelve and Sasha was almost fourteen. Both were wearing silly aprons with elves on them.

“Hey, kiddos,” Dieter laughed, trying to hug both of them at the same time. “You just saw me like an hour ago.”

”We know,” Derek said. “But it’s funny.” He had the same glint in his eye that Dieter got when he had one of his “brilliant” ideas.

“And it’s not like we could run up and hug Emily or anything,” Sasha said. She seemed a bit more reserved than her brother.

”Why not?” Dieter said. “She’s very huggable.” He demonstrated by squeezing me in his arms.

”At least let me take my coat off first,” I managed to say once I could breathe again. “And introduce me properly.”

”Kids, this is Emily,” Dieter said. “Emily, the kids.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “I’m Sasha,” she said, holding out her hand. “And this is Derek.”

I shook their hands. “Very nice to meet you both,” I said. “Your uncle has told me all about you.”

”All we know about you is that Uncle Deet thinks you hung the moon,” Derek said. Sasha swatted at him. “That’s what Dad said,” Derek protested.

“True, but that doesn’t mean you need to say it in front of her.” Leila came into the room, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She was about my height and build. It seemed the Bravo brothers had a type. ”I’m Leila, by the way. And we are so happy to finally meet you.” She handed the towel to Sasha and hugged me warmly. “It’s good to see Dieter happy,” she whispered in my ear. “Thank you for that.”

”Now let’s get back to the kitchen before that batch of cookies burns,” Leila said briskly. “And let Emily get settled. We’ll have plenty of time to chat over lunch.”

Dieter carried my bags up the stairs. “We’re in the guest room,” he said. “Which is way better than the couch I used to crash on in that apartment Freddy and Leila had before he got the promotion.”

”You loved that couch,” Freddy called up the stairs. “As I recall, you even named it. Marlene, wasn’t it?”

”He’s full of shit,” Dieter said, shaking his head. “It was Maria. Because it was a problem. Like the song in ‘The Sound of Music.’”

”You are such a theater nerd.”

”I tried out for my high school production but I can’t sing to save my life,” he said. “Ended up being on the stage crew. And after that I vowed I’d never work on another play unless I was in the cast. The crew has to work too hard.”

******************************************************************

The day flew by. After I’d stashed my luggage, I joined Leila and the kids in the kitchen while Dieter and Freddy caught up in front of the TV. “I know it’s a total stereotype but that man is absolutely no use in the kitchen,” Leila told me as she handed me an apron.

“Dieter’s not much better,” I said. “He can cook if he has to, but he’s lazy about cleaning up after himself.”

”Freddy burned water once,” Leila said. “Put a pot on to boil for pasta, forgot about it and it boiled dry. Scorched the bottom of one of my best pots.”

”Mom banned him from the kitchen after that,” Sasha added.

I helped the kids decorate the sugar cookies and gingerbread men that had already come out of the oven while Leila finished cutting out and baking the last batch. “We’ve got time for one more kind of cookie before I have to start lunch,” she said. “Is there anything special you’d like to make, Emily? Something from your family? We already did the spritz cookies that my grandma used to make.”

”Do you have walnuts and powdered sugar? My mom always made snowballs. The cookbook calls them Russian tea cakes or Mexican wedding cakes, but her grandma called them snowballs.”

”We have that in our cookbook,” Derek said. “I saw it.” He pulled out a battered old Betty Crocker that looked a lot like the one my mom had used.

”Then snowballs it is,” Leila said.

While we mixed up the dough, the kids asked questions about my family traditions. They were shocked when I admitted I’d never celebrated a white Christmas or had a real tree. When I told them about the year I’d gotten a sweatsuit and a bunch of nice sweaters and it ended up being 80 degrees on Christmas Day and I had to wear a t-shirt to Grandma’s house, they thought I was teasing.

“No, seriously,” I said as I rolled the dough into balls and passed them to Derek to be placed on the cookie sheets. “I wanted to wear my new clothes so bad but it was too hot. Grandma had to turn the air conditioning on because the house got so warm from roasting the turkey.”

”Well, we’ll show you how to do Christmas the New England way,” Sasha said. “We can build a snowman and go sledding and have a snowball fight.”

”But don’t let Dad and Uncle Deet play,” Derek said. “They get too competitive. Last year I got beaned right in the face and Dad just told me to walk it off.”

When the cookies were ready for the oven, Leila shooed us out of the kitchen. “I won’t let them burn,” she promised. “But I need you all out of my way while I fix some lunch.”

We joined Dieter and Freddy in the living room, where they were watching the “A Christmas Story” marathon. We all squished onto the couch together, with me sandwiched between Dieter and Sasha.

“You smell delicious,” Dieter said. “Like butter and sugar.” He ventured a kiss on my jawbone, but I elbowed him.

”Not in front of the kids,” I hissed.

Ralphie’s dad had just received the Major Award when Leila called us to the dining room. Lunch was tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, which brought back memories of sick days on the couch watching “The Price is Right” when I was a kid. As I looked around the table, I felt a wave of homesickness. I remembered meals with my parents when I was young, when we laughed and teased each other like Freddy and his kids did.

Dieter must have sensed my melancholy, because he reached out and squeezed my hand, his eyes concerned. I smiled at him and shook my head slightly to let him know I was okay. He winked and turned back to his soup, but slid his foot closer, tapping his shoe against my boot. He didn’t always know what to do, but he was always tuned into my moods. He claimed it was because the vibrations of our souls were compatible, and I wasn’t sure if he really believed it or was bullshitting me. Either way, it was comforting to know that he was always there for me.

***********************************

After lunch the kids insisted I go outside with them to build a snowman.

“She’s probably tired from the flight,” Leila said, but Derek starting singing “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” from Frozen and there was no way I could turn him down.

It was still snowing very lightly and I was so bundled up in my puffy coat and a borrowed beanie and mittens that I could hardly move. My boots weren’t as waterproof as they looked and soon my feet were frozen but I gamely helped the kids roll the snow in the front yard into a ball.

”This is hard work,” I managed to say. My glasses were fogging up from my breath and I couldn’t see very well.

”That’s why we made so many cookies,” Derek said with a grin. “We burn up so many calories out here.”

”Yeah, that’s just your excuse for eating more than your share,” Sasha said.

They started bickering and I took advantage of the momentary lull in snowman construction to rest a bit. I was out of breath and simultaneously sweating and frozen. It was wonderful.

”Merry Christmas!” A voice rang out and we turned to see a woman in a stylish ski outfit carrying a plate wrapped in foil.

Sasha groaned. “It’s Ms. Baker,” she said. “Our neighbor who mysteriously shows up every time Uncle Dieter’s visiting.”

Derek got that look in his eyes that I recognized all too well from his uncle. “Hey, Ms. Baker,” he called out. “Merry Christmas!”

”You guys making a snowman? How cute! I brought a rum cake for your parents.” She stared at me, clearly trying to figure out if she knew who I was. “Who’s your friend?”

”Oh, this is Aunt Emily, Uncle Dieter’s girlfriend,” Derek said with a cherubic smile. “They just flew in for the holiday. She’s from California and she’s never made a snowman before.”

Ms. Baker’s eyes narrowed. “Nice to meet you,” she said stiffly. “So, your uncle’s here? Good thing I made a big cake. I know how much he likes my rum cake.”

”Oh, but Uncle Dieter’s sober now,” Derek said with mock concern. “He won’t want any rum cake, will he, Aunt Emily?”

It took every fiber of my being to keep from laughing. The kid was good.

”A slice of rum cake isn’t the same as having a drink, though,” Sasha chimed in.

“Right, Aunt Emily? I mean, Mom and Dad let me have a little sliver last year.”

”We’ll have to ask Deet,” I said, silently thanking Sasha for giving me an extra few seconds to compose myself. “But even if he can’t have any, I can,”

Ms. Baker smiled tightly. “Well, you kids get back to your snowman. I’ll just go inside now.”

As soon as she was inside the house, the kids started giggling. “That was hilarious,” Derek said. “She always shows up and tries to flirt with Deet.”

”The look on her face when we said ‘Aunt Emily,’” said Sasha. “Oh, it was okay that we did that, right? It was just to mess with her. If you don’t want us to …”

”It’s fine,” I assured her. “And did your parents really let you eat rum cake last year?”

”Yeah,” she said, making a face. “It was kind of gross. But that might be because Ms. Baker does not live up to her name.”

Derek laughed so hard he fell over. When he had recovered, we got back to work on the snowman. My feet were blocks of ice but I was happier outside with the kids than going inside and pretending to be nice to Ms. Baker.

******************************************

We finally got the snowman finished and I went inside to get my phone so we could take a picture. Ms. Baker had left in a hurry, hardly speaking to us as she passed.

“What did you say to her?” I asked Dieter as I headed back outside.

”Who?”

”Ms. Baker.”

Dieter smiled, the same glint in his eye that I’d seen from Derek. “Oh, just mentioned I had a very special gift for you that I wanted to give you surrounded by my family.”

”You’re terrible,” I said.

“Freddy didn’t help,” Leila chimed in. “Dropping hints about ringing in the New Year in style.”

”I hate her rum cake,” Freddy said. “Tastes like stale pound cake soaked in rubbing alcohol. Maybe if she realizes Dieter’s not interested in her she’ll stop bringing us one every year.”

”Tell the kids they have twenty minutes and then they need to get their butts inside to change,” Leila said. “We’re leaving for the Christmas Market at three so we can get decent parking.”

******************************************************

The Market was amazing, like something out of a Hallmark movie. Lights twinkled, music filled the air and shop windows glowed with charming displays. We stopped at a stall that sold hot chocolate while Freddy fetched a dozen freshly made apple cider donuts from another stall nearby.

“Best. Dinner. Ever,” Derek declared around a mouthful of donut.

“Worst. Manners. Ever,” Freddy said, raising an eyebrow.

Sasha and Leila were whispering to each other and stealing glances my way. Dieter was absorbed in his own donut, making those weird little noises he always made when he ate something he really liked. I looked up at the darkening sky and watched the snowflakes spiral down.

“So …,” Leila said. “Sasha has an idea.”

”Um, I think … Emily should get an ornament for the tree,” Sasha mumbled.

”Yeah!” Derek cried. “She totally should.”

Freddy looked at Dieter, who came slowly back from wherever it was he went when he was savoring something. “What?”

”The kids think Emily should pick out an ornament for the tree,” Freddy said slowly.

Dieter’s eyes went wide. “You sure?”

”Yeah,” said Freddy. “I think it’s a good idea.”

”What’s going on?” I asked. Everyone seemed to be extremely concerned about the idea of me buying an ornament.

”Everyone has a special ornament that they put on the tree on Christmas Eve,” Dieter said. “Freddy and Leila and Sasha and Derek … and me. I only put mine on when I’m here for Christmas. It’s kind of a family tradition.”

”And you want me to get one, too.”

”Yeah,” said Sasha, biting at her lower lip.

I looked at Dieter, who was making puppy dog eyes at me. “Okay,” I said, feeling like I was agreeing to a lot more than just choosing a bauble for the tree.

Sasha and Derek dragged me to a booth that was hung with hand blown glass ornaments in all kinds of fancy shapes. “I have a soccer ball,” Derek said. “You have to pick something that’s important to you. Deet has a rubber ducky because he says he had one when he was little.”

”Dad wouldn’t let him buy the weed one,” Sasha explained.

I was fairly certain the rubber duck was not a fond childhood memory, because Dieter had once told me a rather off color story when he was still indulging in alcohol that I wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t true, but I didn’t think the kids needed to know that. I browsed the ornaments before settling on a sparkly orange wedge.

”An orange?” Derek asked.

“Where I live used to be famous for growing oranges,” I told him. “The original navel orange tree is in a protected enclosure in Riverside. It’s kind of a landmark. And there’s a historical park all about citrus fruits out there, too. Plus my mom said her grandma always told her a story about how her mother got her first orange in a Christmas stocking.”

”That’s pretty cool,” said Sasha, although Derek didn’t seem to agree. I paid for the ornament and the shopkeeper carefully wrapped it in tissue and packed it into a cardboard box with a picture of a reindeer on it.

We rejoined Dieter, Freddy and Leila and continued walking down the street. Suddenly Sasha and Derek started giggling and pointed up.

“What?,” said Dieter, looking around.

”Mistletoe!,” the kids cried out. Sure enough, there was a big bunch of mistletoe tied to the awning above us.

Dieter winked at me and slid his arms around me, dipping me slightly. “Got to give the kids what they want,” he said before kissing me very thoroughly. Finally, Freddy tapped him on the shoulder.

“Remember, you’re in public,” he said.

Dieter laughed and although he was wearing mittens, I was pretty sure he flipped his brother the bird as he stepped back from me. “They shouldn’t hang that stuff on the street, then,” he said. “I’m just saying.”

Freddy shook his head. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

****************************************************

By the time we got back to the house, it was snowing steadily. Freddy turned on all the lights in the living room while Leila fetched a green storage container with a red lid. “Okay, time for the ornaments and stockings!,” she said.

Freddy went first, hanging his old school typewriter; then Leila hung up her panda bear. Next came Sasha’s owl and Derek’s soccer ball, followed by Dieter’s rubber duck. Finally, I unpacked my orange slice and found an unobtrusive spot around the side.

Then Leila passed out the stockings, which were bright red felt and appliquéd with snowflakes and little trees. A handwritten tag hung from the loop of each one with the owner’s name in perfect calligraphy — including one that said “Emily.”

”Oh, you didn’t have to,” I protested as I looked at my brand-new stocking. The others were well worn and had clearly seen many Christmases.

”Yes, I did,” Leila said. “How else would Santa know you’re here?” She winked and both kids rolled their eyes.

I hadn’t hung a stocking since I was ten years old, when I’d declared that stockings were for “little kids.” I felt a lump in my throat as I placed mine on the hook next to Dieter’s.

“And now …” Freddy said, pulling out a box of matches. He carefully lit the candles on the mantel and a few others spaced around the room, then Derek flipped off the lights. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the tree lights and candles. Leila started a playlist of old-school holiday songs on the sound system and we all settled down. Freddy and Leila took the couch, the kids curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace, and Dieter pulled me into the overstuffed armchair to the side. It wasn’t quite big enough for two, so I ended up mostly in his lap.

”Are you sure?” I whispered, nodding toward the kids.

Dieter just tilted his head toward Freddy and Leila, who were snuggled up on the couch, her head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped around her. “It’s tradition,” Dieter whispered back.

We listened to Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra for a few songs, then Freddy started telling a story about the year he was seven and Dieter was five and they found out their next door neighbors were Jewish and the kids got eight nights worth of presents instead of just one morning. Leila followed with the story of how her aunt decided she was going to make Christmas dinner instead of her mom and the turkey wasn’t cooked all the way through and everyone ended up making an excuse to leave early and they all ended up at McDonald’s.

“Tell the one about the air conditioning, Emily,” Derek said when he’d finished his own story about the year he thought he was only getting clothes because Sasha had convinced him that his letter to Santa had gotten lost on the way to the North Pole due to an elvish postal workers’ strike. “Dad didn’t hear it yet.”

Then it was Dieter’s turn. “My story is kind of boring,” he said. “It’s about my best Christmas ever and I’m not sure how it ends because it’s happening right now.” He squeezed me tightly. “I’m one hundred percent sober and I’m surrounded by all my favorite people and it’s snowing. You can’t get more perfect than that.”

”Doesn’t count,” Derek piped up. “You’re supposed to tell a funny one.”

”It just has to be memorable,” Freddy said. “And I think we’re all going to remember this one for a long time.”

”Yeah, it’s the first one with Emily,” said Sasha.

I felt tears in my eyes for the umpteenth time that day. How was it possible that I felt more at home with these people I’d just met than I ever did with my blood relatives? “Thanks, everyone,” I managed to say. “I’ll definitely remember this Christmas for the rest of my life.”

The clock on the mantel chimed nine and Leila clapped her hands. “Okay, kiddos, time for bed. Pajamas, teeth brushed and ready for tucking in by nine thirty.”

Both kids groaned. “Mom, we’re not five anymore,” Derek said.

”I know, but I need time to play Santa’s helper before I get to bed,” Leila said, “and you know you’ll both be up at the crack of dawn begging us to let you open presents. Besides, it’s tradition.”

Dieter yawned and stretched his arms wide. “I’m kind of tired myself,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

Freddy shook his head. “Oh, get out of here. I know you just want to get out of helping.”

”I’m a guest,” Dieter said primly. “So is Emily.”

”You’re a freeloader,” replied Freddy. “But it’s Christmas. Consider it your present from me.”

Dieter wiggled out from under me and then helped me up. “Come on, let’s get upstairs before he changes his mind.”

As I unpacked my nightshirt, I remembered something. “I’ll be right back,” I said, grabbing a small box out of my luggage and trotting back downstairs. The lights were back on and Leila was already working on the stockings while Freddy was cursing in the hall closet as he pulled out presents from their hiding places.

”Here,” I told Leila, handing her the box. “I almost forgot. You can put these in the stockings. They’re handmade candy canes from a candy shop back home. They make them with real sugar and premium peppermint oil. I got a dozen, so we can each have two.” I didn’t keep up many holiday traditions anymore, but a trip to Logan’s Candy in Ontario was always on my list. Their canes were the best in the world.

”Thank you,” Leila said. “They look delicious!”

”Do you need any help?”

”No, you get back upstairs to Dieter,” she said. “Freddy and I are old hands at this. And I wasn’t joking about the kids being awake at the ass crack of dawn. You’ll be glad we all went to bed early.”

Dieter was already in bed when I got back to our room. I quickly changed into my sleep shirt and dove under the covers. Despite the heater, the house was chilly.

”Your feet are frozen!” Dieter gasped, pulling away from me.

I snuggled closer. “So help me warm them up,” I said. The man was like my own private furnace, which was good at times like this. In the summer, not so much. I tucked my feet between his calves and he pretended to shiver.

”Blocks of ice,” he muttered. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Then why are you kissing my neck?”

”Because you still smell like cookies,” he said. “And I haven’t seen you in ages.” His hands worked their way underneath my sleep shirt.

”Whoa, hold on,” I said. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s Christmas Eve. And the kids are right down the hall.”

Dieter snorted. “First of all, you aren’t any more religious than I am. And second of all, I’m sure Freddy and Leila do it all the time with the kids in the house.”

”Still, it feels sacrilegious.”

”It feels naughty,” Dieter corrected me. “And I don’t know about you, but the idea of Santa Claus watching us is kind of turning me on.”

”Eww!”

“He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake,” Dieter crooned off key, followed by a trail of kisses down my throat. “Be good for me, baby. Let me unwrap this gift a little early.”

”Well, you have been a good boy lately,” I said. “Just try to be quiet for once.”

”So you want a silent night?”

”Shut up and kiss me, Dieter.”

**************************************************************

It was still dark when our bedroom door flew open and something large crashed onto our feet. “Merry Christmas!” Derek cried.

“You are so rude,” Sasha said from the doorway. “Get off them.” We all sat up, blinking at the overhead light that Sasha had flicked on. “What if they were naked?”

“Why would they be naked … ohhh!” Derek scrambled off the bed. “Gross! They’re Mom and Dad’s age.”

”Mom and Dad still do it,” Sasha said.

Derek made gagging noises. “That is not the image I want in my head on Christmas morning, Sash.”

”Okay, okay, we’re all up,” Freddy yawned from the hallway. “Give us a minute to use the facilities and we’ll go downstairs.”

”Yay!” Derek dashed out of the room while Sasha shook her head.

“Sorry about him,” she said. “He’s such a little kid sometimes.”

Freddy tousled her hair. “O wise and solemn adult, why don’t you put a robe on over your Hello Kitty pajamas so you don’t freeze?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dad.”

Dieter was already shrugging into his beloved green bathrobe, which was starting to get bald in spots, but which he refused to replace because it was comfortable. “Yeah, Freddy, don’t be such a dad.”

”You stop talking, or you won’t get any pancakes,” Freddy said.

Dieter mimed zipping his lips and tossed my robe at me.

After a quick trip to the bathroom and a cursory brushing of teeth, we all trooped down to the living room, where a pile of presents had appeared underneath the tree and our stockings were bulging with treats.

“You really didn’t have to,” I told Leila as she handed me my stocking.

”And have you sit there without anything while we all dive in? No way.”

My candy canes were at the top, but underneath were chocolates, a tube of hand cream, a glass nail file, and a few other trinkets. “Just some fun girl stuff,” Leila explained. “Sasha’s a bit too old for toys but every woman enjoys a mini spa day.”

“Presents!” Derek said after he’d dumped out the contents of his stocking. “Time for presents!”

I curled up on the couch next to Dieter while the kids tore into their gifts. Dieter had had his shipped straight to the house for Freddy and Leila to wrap, so he was as excited to see them as the kids were.

”No way!” Derek cried as he unwrapped a massive Lego set of the Millenium Falcon. “Thank you, Uncle Deet!”

Sasha squealed as she opened a brand new iPad mini. “This is exactly the one I wanted. Thanks, Uncle Deet!”

Dieter was grinning from ear to ear as both kids danced around.

“You’re spoiling them,” Freddy said.

”I’m their rich uncle. I’m allowed.”

After the kids finished opening their presents, we all got dressed and Leila made pancakes for breakfast. Mountains of pancakes with real maple syrup. Dieter and Freddy got into a pancake eating contest that ended only when Dieter was forced to concede because Derek had taken the last one and Leila refused to make any more.

“I need to get the turkey in the slow cooker if we want to have dinner tonight,” she said when Dieter tried to wheedle just one more pancake out of her.

”I bet if Freddy needed one more pancake to win you’d make it,” Dieter whined.

”No, she wouldn’t,” Freddy said, carefully cutting up his final — winning — pancake. “But tell you what, since you are my brother and it’s Christmas … you can have half and we’ll call it a tie.” He counted the pieces on his plate and slid exactly half of them onto Dieter’s plate.

”And the winners get to do the dishes!” Leila said as soon as their plates were clean. Both men groaned, but cleared the table with a minimum of grumbling.

”What can I do to help?” I asked.

“Nothing,” replied Leila. “Which is what I’m going to be doing as soon as I get that bird in the roaster.”

”Help me with my Lego,” Derek said.

”No, help me set up my iPad,” Sasha offered.

”How about if she supervises you both until we get done in the kitchen,” Freddy said. “I want to work on that Lego, too.”

”Me three!” Dieter chimed in.

Soon we were all back in the living room, the boys on the floor sorting Lego pieces and arguing over whether they really needed the directions or not. Leila helped Sasha set up her Apple account, and then we started browsing the App Store. It was cozy, with the tree lights blinking and the scent of maple syrup still lingering in the air.

“Thank you,” I said to Leila.

”For what?”

”For including me. I know it has to be weird having a stranger in your house at Christmas.”

“You aren’t any stranger than Dieter,” she quipped. “Seriously, though, you are very, very welcome. Freddy’s told me how different Dieter has been since he met you, and we’re so happy about it. They were pretty close when they were little but things got strained there for a while, especially after their parents divorced. Dieter felt like they had to choose sides and he couldn't understand why Freddy was still talking to their dad. Then when their mom died … Dieter kind of closed himself off from everyone. It’s good to see him connecting again.”

”That’s not just me,” I said. “He’s been on that path for a while, ever since he started rehab the first time.”

”But you’re a big part of it,” Leila insisted. “Freddy said there was a big change after you and Deet started dating. You’re good for him. And I think he’s good for you.”

Dieter looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Are you talking about me?”

”Of course,” Leila said. “Everyone everywhere is always talking about you, Dieter. You’re a celebrity. The world revolves around you. Geez, get over yourself.” She rolled her eyes and when Dieter had turned back to the Lego, we both giggled like kids.

**************************************************

”I don’t know about this.”

Sasha and Derek had talked me into going to the sledding hill with them that afternoon. Now we stood at the top of a very steep incline with our plastic disks and I watched kids wiping out right and left.

”You’re fine,” Derek said. “It doesn’t hurt when you fall off, anyway.”

”Maybe not if you’re young and bendy,” I said. “But I’m old and stiff.”

”Mr. Gruenberg still sleds,” Sasha said, pointing out an older man with a neatly trimmed white beard who was whooping as loudly as his grandkids were.

”I bet he’s been doing it all his life,” I replied. “I’m from California. I went sledding once, on the side of the road when I was seven and it wasn’t nearly this long or this steep.”

”If you’re gonna be part of this family, you have to learn snow sports,” Derek said. “Sledding is the first one. Next time we’ll get you on skis.”

Sasha shrugged. “You kind of have to learn how to ski and snowshoe and stuff when you live in Vermont,” she said. “Otherwise you’d be stuck indoors half the year.”

I was still stuck on Derek’s offhand remark about being part of the family. I knew that being invited to spend the holidays with someone’s family was a huge step in a relationship, and people would make a lot of assumptions, but it fully hit me at that moment that these kids might just become my niece and nephew someday. That Freddy and Leila could be my brother and sister. For an only child, it was both a dream come true and the weirdest feeling imaginable.

“Okay, you convinced me,” I said, trying to get my brain back to the present. “So what do I do?”

Derek demonstrated, hopping onto his sled and sliding down the slope with a wild yell.

“Ready?” Sasha asked. “On the count of three. One … two … three!” She and I jumped onto our sleds and hurtled down the hill. It was disorienting and bumpy and scary and out of control. I loved it.

*************************************************************************

As we were putting our luggage into the back of the Cherokee the next morning, I pulled Freddy aside. “Thank you so much,” I told him.

“For what?”

”For making me feel like part of the family. I know it must be weird to have your brother bring some strange woman home.”

Freddy held up his hand. “First of all, we should be thanking you for making Deet happy. He’s an asshole sometimes, but he’s my asshole and I love him. And second of all, you are part of the family. Dieter loves you and so do the rest of us. Look, I know Deet’s probably told you I cautioned him not to rush into anything, to take his time with this but … I might have been wrong. Maybe he does know a good thing when he sees it. Maybe his instincts were right. Or maybe he’s an idiot and he just got lucky.” He winked and hugged me. “Take care of him, okay?”

“I will.”

”You okay?” Dieter asked when he helped me into the car. I might have been sniffling a little.

”Yeah, I’m just … gonna miss them.”

”Me, too,” he said, kissing my forehead. “They’re good people.”

”They’re your people, so of course they are.”

*****************************

Toronto was nothing like Vermont. For one thing, Dieter was back on set at 7:00 am the morning of the 27th and working ten to twelve hour days to make up for the lost time over the holidays. I didn’t see much of him except at night, but it was okay. We were together and I got to see what his life was really like for the first time.

I spend my days reading or shopping or watching movies on Netflix. Not too much different from how I normally spent Winter Break at home, except for having Dieter next to me every night.

“Now I know why you always looked so tired when you FaceTimed me,” I told him one evening after dinner. He’d been on set for eight hours already and had to go back for a couple more hours of night shoots on location.

“Yeah, they’re really pushing us on this one,” he said, rubbing his hand across his face. “The studio wants it in on time and under budget and because of the holidays the director is super stressed out. But he did promise we’ll be done by nine on New Year’s Eve and get all of New Year’s Day off.”

Our hotel was holding a New Year’s Eve party in the ballroom but neither of us was really in the mood when the day rolled around. Dieter was tired and didn’t want to be around all the champagne, while I was lonely and just wanted to spend some time alone with him. So at the last minute we kicked off our shoes and ordered a bottle of sparkling cider sent to our room, along with an assortment of hors d’ouerves, for our own private party.

Our balcony faced the harbor, so we’d have a good view of the city’s fireworks display. It was bitterly cold out there, though, so we stayed inside until just before midnight. It was cozy on the little couch and it was tempting to just ignore the festivities and make some sparks of our own.

”No,” Dieter said. “We have to watch the fireworks. I love fireworks. Besides, this is our very first New Year together. We have to do it right. Make a toast. Kiss at the stroke of midnight.”

So at 11:55 we braved the cold, taking our glasses of cider out onto the balcony with us. We had the TV turned up so we could hear the official countdown. Ten. Dieter leaned against the balcony rail, a gentle smile on his face. Nine. He raised his glass. “To us.” Eight. I clinked the rim of my glass against his. Seven. “To us.” Six. We took a sip. Five. He turned around to face the harbor. Four. I leaned against the railing next to him. Three. He laid his hand against my cheek. Two. I tilted my face up toward him. One. He kissed me. “Happy New Year,” he whispered.

I looked out at the fireworks bursting across the sky. Dieter had his arm around me and I felt warm despite the Canadian winter night. We could hear the cheers and noisemakers from the party downstairs but I knew there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be at that moment than next to Dieter, toasting the year we’d had and all the years to come.

”Can I ask you something?” I said.

”Of course,” he said, laying his cheek against the top of my head.

”Will you marry me?”

#late night talking #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter x Emily #the bubble fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #fluff pure and simple #holiday themed

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flyingpurplepeopleprogrammer · 2 years

Text

So I read this post on my timeline (I won't @ OP) that mentioned - an as aside, even - that their past-trauma manifested at least in part as hypersexuality.

I know. It's a trope in its own right: "Hot girl is traumatised and that's why she's a freak in bed." There's a kernel of truth there, too: far too many people - especially people subject to misogyny - have past trauma relating to sexuality in some way, and some of us engage in kink and engage with that trauma through it.

(note: for this discussion, gender non-conforming folks are included in "people subject to misogyny. if you feel wrongly excluded, please shoot me an ask so I can fix it, if you want to argue the fine points of terminology around patriachal oppression, find another post)

Now, I ain't about to suggest that all kink or paraphilia is trauma-related, so let's banish that notion early. I do think there's something here of interest to those of us hypnokinskters, though.

How many of us got into or engage in things like mind control, behaviour modification, brainwashing, and so on to resolve a contradiction? Are you a staunch feminist but sexual objectification is just hot? Do youI struggle with gender but feminisation or masculination are so taboo that you could never ever* engage with them? Maybe you're just horny, but society teaches you that you can only be one of a woman or a whore? What if you're categorically opposed to power structures but want to be an obedient servant - or to have one? You might not like it, but a lifetime of living in a society that sells us on this look or that feeling and - well, it's not your fault you find it hot, is it?

The contradictions are endless, but there's one solution that fits it all: mind control. All of the fun of without any of the cognitive dissonance of having to achieve dialectic synthesis!

And yeah, we talk about it. Of course we do: it's fun! We incorporate it into our fetishism. There are even memes: Who's into dumbification? Fast-track students. Submission? Bosses. Hyperfeminisation? Feminists. And so on. There's plenty about how we reconcile our fetishistic taboos with our personal beliefs, our traumas with our desires, etc.

Sometimes we talk about the stuff that isn't fun, too: serious talk about reconciling contradictions. It's good stuff, and I think it's healthy for the community, but something's missing.

We seem to focus on the experiences of S-types: subjects, submissives, and so on. Even there, it's mostly perspectives of folks subject to misogyny (gender non-conforming folk included here, because that's still an expression of patriarchal abuse). Don't get mey wrong. It's nice to finally have an area where every dick (see what I did there?) with an opinion doesn't dominate the discourse. But.

I, at least, don't see posts about how people get into mind control kink because can't let go of their need to be in control. I don't read about the people how found hypnokink because they couldn't find another way to reconcile their desire for a mass-marketed servile plaything with any kind of healthy morality. There aren't stories of domlydoms accommodating for the agency they never seemed to have in the rest of their life, or lonely people who thought that maybe, if nothing else worked, they would make someone feel for them.

Now. If I were having shower thoughts, which I was this morning, then I might think that this is an expression of kyriarchy. That there are silly ideas about toppyness and domly dominance that make it so the Person In Charge has to infallible and is never ever contradictory.

Tops don't resolve their own contradictions with mind control, only the poor brainwashed bottom's! Stir in some toxic masculinity and patriarchal shame and you have a lovely picture of why we might not be talking about toppy folks' inherent tension. Which- well- yikes? Uncommunicative stoicism ain't great for the boys, and I don't see it working well for the toppy tops, either.

And hey, it's a lot easier to look inside yourself and let yourself see this stuff when you're not the only one talking about it. If we propagate stories about what self-awareness actually looks like, then maybe we'll help more people find their feet without running through a pile of mistakes first.

#mine #mindcontrol #brainwashing #mind control as dialectic resolution

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incorrect-lord-of-the-rings · 2 years

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i’m sorry this will be angry and long

Criticisms of ROP ep 5

why are the numenorian boats so tiny how is a whole ass army supposed to fit on three tiny ass boats

why are the harfoots there

why is elrond being kinda dumb (”did the dwarves find that metal” “i made a promise i wouldn’t say anything about it” writers wtf)

??????? pharazon?????

THE LORE???

Why is that Harfoot like “one of the mothers or children could die because of the Brandyfoots! We could take their wheels and have them die” MURDER??? YOU WANT MURDER???? WHAT IS IT WITH THE HARFOOTS AND DEATH??????????

THE NUMENORIAN ARMOR IS SOOOO BAD IT LOOKS SO AWFUL IT’S LITERALLY LIKE GOT PRINTED FABRIC ON THE ARMS AND SIDES THAT’S SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE ARMOR IT’S CHEAP AS HELL

oh my god istg i need a character in a tv show to stop being like “stand and fight!” and start going “let’s scheme and try to escape.” because COME ON PEOPLE there’s like 30 of you vs a hundred orcs YEAH that’s gonna end well also... don’t give up??? i don’t get anything here.

i...

*sigh*

It took me so long to get through this episode because I kept having to turn it off because it was boring and annoying.

also Galadriel’s fight scene with all the Numenorian guys? not great

what’s with the Stranger... (wtf)

okay ALL the armor except Galadriel’s armor looks bad and like... plasticky and stuff. It looks fake and like something you’d wear to comic con instead of actually to battle.

why is gil-galad like... a dick... a little bitch...

i just want good costumes and hair is that too much to ask

it feels like they’re just pulling plot lines out of their asses

durin says “shit” but elrond cuts him off

NOTHING against the actors, they’re doing well. It’s the directors and writers and costume and hair people I have problems with. The actors have no say in this. If you send hate to the actors (or really anyone else don’t send hate) then please stop because that won’t solve any problems

damn the writers are not doing well. i just. as someone who likes to analyze films and stuff. uh. yike.

isn’t like... oath-breaking like super bad in middle-earth???? like... um remember the oath-breakers??? the dead guys?? um gil-galad? is a bitch? and a screwy politician?

galadriel saying “come at me” unironically brought back many bad memories of 2015 Elsa memes.

doesn’t Numenor have like... barracks or quarters for their soldiers instead of a market square thing?

“galadriel may be no different from the evil she is fighting” ಠ_ಠ huh

WHERE THE FUCK IS CELEBORN?!?!?!?!!?????!?!??!!?!???

other criticisms of other ROP episodes

why is it so funny that one of the harfoots died by bees. why do they laugh at this death. “yes let us mourn those we lost except this guy lols he got kills by bees, the dumbass” and now they want murder

i hate theo. i just cannot stand that kid. he’s so annoying. like yeah he’s fourteen but he doesn’t even have a fun personality. he’s just dumb and an unlikeable character

WHY is galadriel like this. WHY

also why was she just going to Valinor? Wasn’t she banished? And then was allowed to go back after being tested by the Ring in FOTR? Idk my Galadriel lore is still underbaked, like dying Easy Bake Oven baked.

the weird punishment for isildur being all daydreamy is like.... his friends had like nothing to do with him and their captain was like “oh GOOD WORK, CINDERSLUT, you ruined me FINE SHIP” and banished all his buddies like???????????

#long post #rop negativity #rings of power #i'm sorry #lotr

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thehorrortree · 8 months

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Deadline: March 31st, 2024 Payment: $10 Theme: Stories thought of as "the artfully weird" in any genre, ideally from authors from Orlando but will publish from anywhere While we prefer writers with a connection to Orlando or the greater Central Florida area, Olit will accept quality writing meeting our aesthetic and criteria from writers anywhere around the world. What do we mean by aesthetic and criteria? We’re glad you asked. Olit seeks the following: Genres: Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, Hybrid, Artwork, Photography. Send us all kinds of stuff. We love the artfully weird. Strong preference for Orlando based writers/submissions about Orlando and surrounding areas. We aim to focus primarily on publishing marginalized voices. LGBTQIA+ is a big plus with us. BIPOC voices will always be uplifted here. Disabled? Incarcerated? Low income? Other marginalized voices? Please send us your work. If you do not consider yourself marginalized, your submission is still welcome at Olit if it meets our other criteria. Our aesthetic is best defined as gritty with grace, fast food parking lots in the middle of the night, the underbelly of a tourist city the locals know by memories. We want quality writing with heart and teeth. Give us words that bite back, stories full of verve, and the poems you wouldn’t let Grandma read. We are not the Academy/highbrow lit scene. We are indie and intellectual, raw yet polished. Send us only your best. We welcome simultaneous submissions. We would never ask you not to submit your work to more than one place at a time. Any lit journal still doing that should be banished and left behind. Please send us only previously unpublished works. We welcome multiple submissions. Have a short story perfect for us? Looking to publish some poems at the same time? That is fine with us, but please submit them as separate submissions. Please only send one submission per genre until you hear back from us on your existing submissions. We do not believe in charging reading fees. It’s hard enough to be a writer without being nickel and dimed. Reading fees also create a barrier to publication for many marginalized voices, which is why Olit will never charge writers to submit. We believe writers deserve monetary compensation for their hard work. As a small literary startup, we are unable to offer a big fancy bankroll. We are only able to pay contributors $10 (PayPal) for publication at this time. If nothing else, 10 bucks will get you a few days of coffee drinking/loitering at your favorite coffee shop or a Chipotle burrito. We hope to offer a more substantial payment in the future. Submission Length: Olit will consider fiction and creative nonfiction of up to 5,000 words. We also like flash pieces in these genres. When submitting, please send only 1 long piece or up to 3 flash pieces of up to 700 words each. For poetry, please send us up to 5 poems of any length. Please send submissions along with a short third-person bio through our Submittable link. Send questions to [email protected]. If your work is selected for publication, Olit retains the first North American serial rights to publish, produce, reproduce, distribute, and market your accepted submission. All other remaining rights revert to the author upon publication. If the work is published again, we ask for a credit line indicating that the work first appeared in Olit. We look forward to reading your work. Submittable Via: Olit's Submittable.

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intercoursefluids · 2 years

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PTDWHAH Chapter 8

Marinette sighed as she felt the Liberty set sail again.

She was temporarily living on the ship after a few too many “accidental” run-ins with Adrien.

Even now as she was lying in Luka’s bed waiting for him to come back below deck she could tell it was him. As was the case the last 7 times they had to dock somewhere else.

Marinette was getting close to shoving him in the Seine herself if he wouldn’t stop following her.

She honestly shouldn’t have been surprised that he had gone back on his word of leaving her alone if she gave back the ring, he looked far too pleased with himself when he suggested it.

“Marinette! Look what I found at the market!”

A whirlwind of Kagami came into the room, shoving a shimmering necklace in her face.

That was another thing, since Marinette had finally found a proper team, the animalistic habits of all of her team's kwami’s had started manifesting in the holders.

Chloe was constantly working in her garden, taking the saying ‘busy as a bee’ to a whole new level, Kim and Luka had taken to sun bathing, Alix was very easy to startle now and always running all over the place, Nino liked to climb things all of a sudden, also had suspiciously good hearing, and Kagami…

Kagami really liked shiny things.

A shiny screw she saw on the ground?

It was now in the giant chest Luka got her to keep her things in.

Pretty rock outside?

That was going in the chest too, doesn’t matter what it is, if it sparkles she wants it.

Longg was living his best life with it too, sleeping in the chest at night and bringing Kagami little knick knacks he found to put in with the rest of their treasures.

“Look at it Marinette! It’s so pretty! Look, when you turn it this way it turns purple but if you turn it this way it turns green!”

Marinette smiled up at Kagami from where she was pinned against to bed, it was nice seeing her so excited.

Wait a minute…

“Kagami? How did you get on the boat? I don’t remember you being onboard when we set sail?”

Kagami snaps her gaze away from her new necklace, passing it to Longg to put in the chest.

“I wasn’t, I was on the bridge when Liberty passed under and jumped on.”

The way Kagami simply doesn’t care sometimes scares Marinette.

“I- You know what, nevermind. I need your help with something anyway.”

Leaning over the edge of the bed Marinette grabs the notebook she had stored under there full of lyrics she was trying out.

“I want to try to write a song or two for Ladybug, or well, what it was like for me to be Ladybug. I already know how I want the lyrics but I am having trouble with the tempo and stuff like that.”

Passing the notebook over to Kagami, Marinette lays back down, humming and trying to find a melody that felt right.

Marinette rolls over, burying her face in Luka’s Her pillow as Kagami rustles around behind her.

“Okay, come sing while I try to find a piano melody for this. We start slow and go from there, you lead.”

Marinette sighs, taking a drink from her water bottle before standing next to Kagami to sing.

It sounds shaky at first, Marinette’s hesitance getting the best of her until Kagami frees up one of her hands and pinches her.

Marinette’s resulting glare does nothing, Chloe (Who also was not on board when they set sail) only snorts when she comes into the room, heading to the drums and slowly edging her way into the music.

Marinette’s voice doesn’t really get louder so much as more confident, when Luka and Juleka join as she nears the end of the lyrics, Anarka standing in the doorway and nodding her head with a proud smile also helps.

She finishes with a smile as the song ends, looking around the room at her friends.

“Please tell me some either got that on recording or was writing down what was being played. I might cry otherwise because that was beautiful and I loved it.”

“I gotcha Mars Bars. I did both.”

Nino raises his phone up from his place he had been banished (Juleka’s bed) when he proved to be completely useless in helping Marinette.

Marinette gives him a thumbs up.

“I told you not to call me that, it sounds like a candy. Good job recording though.”

Anarka snorts, moving over pat Marinette on the shoulder.

“Nice job, lass. Best practice some more so you have it how you want. I’ll call the rest of ya’ up when foods ready.”

Luka clapped, bringing everyone's attention back to him as Anarka leaves the room.

“Alright, let's run it again, everyone do what you did earlier. Nino, you ready with the blank sheet music? I know how fast you are at it and we can keep running this so you get everyone's parts.”

Nino nods, pulling out some more papers with a very dramatic flourish.

“Okay, go.”

Tag List:

@Multi-fandom-shipper13

@How-to-fuction-properly

@Mrfluffles300

@Hammalammadamdam

@Corporeal-terrestrial

@Mep-kittyjustkillme

@Bookwalmartav

@Wolfy-kat

@its-maemain

@vroomtaka

#maribat #ml x dc #marinette x damian #maridami #dc x mlb #PTDWHAH

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mfmilligan · 1 year

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Every Little Banished Thing 2/2

Katriona,

After everything you said in your last letter…I don’t know how to respond. I can see now why you’ve hated me all these years. I didn’t understand why you couldn’t just be a kid like me. You were the only other kid in my life, as Mother kept me away from everyone else my age. She always said I must associate with my rank only, that even the children of lords and dukes weren’t worthy. She made everything…so not normal.

Anyway, you were there because life in the castle was your only hope. And I made everything an unbearable hell for you. I wonder now how you could have spared my life when you must have had (probably still have?) all the hatred for me in the world. Even doing this much for me, keeping me informed, keeping me safe…

I don’t know how I could ever repay you,

Live a kinder life. Then I’ll know, whatever else happens, the choice I made in the forest that day was the right one. You may have been the bane of my existence…but you never tried forcing me to compromise my morals. Not like your mother.

This might be a silly request, but things are so tense and claustrophobic here in the castle and I can’t help but ask. Please, tell me a little about your life with the orcs. I’d like to know what it’s like, living with them on the orchard away from everything.

Take care,

Katriona,

The orcs work me to the bone. But you know what? Despite not loving waking up at the crack of dawn and being sore all the time, it’s great helping them in the orchard. It’s peak harvest season now, so there’s fruit to collect almost every day. We keep enough for ourselves, but everything else we take to market. There’s a pretty little town three miles away called East Glen and that’s where we sell our wares. I inspired the orcs to make a song we all sing to attract customers. These days, we draw a small crowd for our voices alone. The orcs tease me all the time about the girls who come and smile at me. Say I should take one of them out to dance. But I’ve never been great with others my age. Consequences of living with Mother’s restrictions. And living in a grown-up’s world from an early age – I know you’d understand that.

I’ve written to you about Lief and Crog, who run most everything. But there’s also Snoutfair, Trott, and Renn, who are the main harvesters. And Glib and Morrow are the masterminds behind our various ciders (and two of the biggest jokers I know). If you ever have the chance to leave the Castle, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to them all. Lief especially would approve of you. He may be an orchard farmer now, but he has the heart of a mighty warrior. He’s actually been training me for proper fighting with fists, staffs, and swords. I’ve still said nothing about my true identity, but I think he can sense something. The first day he tossed a staff my way, I swear, the look in his eyes had me convinced that he could see right through me. Almost.

Funny – none of them asked who I was or how I got here. Though it seems this forest is a popular spot for runaways. They must have assumed I was another village stray, especially with the disguise you gave me.

You’d be happy here. You could eat all the apples you want. You could breathe. I hope you have the chance to come out here – perhaps by the time you arrive, I’ll be good enough to beat you in a swordfight! I don’t know whether or not seeing me would make you happy…but at least you’d be out of that gloomy place. And you could get your revenge by humiliating me in a duel.

You said Mother tried making you compromise your morals. If it’s not too much to ask, what happened?

Take care.

I’m glad your life has taken a happy turn. It’s impossible to say when or even if I could go past the Blighted Forest anytime soon. The Queen has intensified security after an attempted assassination by the western kingdom. But I should like to meet the orchard orcs. And never in a million years could you hope to defeat me in combat, though I’d love to see you try.

It is not too much to ask. In fact, I’ve been wanting to speak about this to someone. Anyone.

It was the day that the ball for your 20th birthday had been announced to the kingdom. After the Queen finished addressing the masses, she turned to me and said, “We need to talk” and took me to her chambers.

“Katriona, you’re sworn to serve your monarch’s every command. Correct? Any deviance would be considered an act of high treason.” When I affirmed this, she said, “Then what I’m asking will be a straightforward matter.” She held out a dagger to me.

“What must I do?” I asked.

“Kill my son.”

“On what grounds?”

“Does it matter?”

Of course, it did. Guards are forbidden from killing anyone unless that person poses a clear threat to the kingdom. Or in instances of self-defense. And I’d never killed anyone before.

“Unless he has said or done anything to warrant such measures, I cannot follow this order in good conscience.”

“Good conscience, bad conscience, makes no difference to me. It must be done.” She turned her back to me, looking toward the covered mirror. “It must happen tomorrow morning. Pretend you’re taking him out to the Blighted Forest for a picnic. Kill him and hide the body. But be sure to bring back his heart so I know the deed is done.” She gripped both of my shoulders and smiled. “I sense I won’t be the only one grateful for his absence.”

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” She paused before adding, “My men found your parents in a stinking hovel last week. I suppose you’re too busy to know much about their lives. They’re both critically ill with the grip. Castle doctors would do wonders for them. If you do as I ask, I might be persuaded to permit your parents the care they so desperately need.”

The following morning came. You were spouting your usual insults at me all the way into the forest, never once suspecting a thing. I was angry at you, of course. But I was also angry at the Queen for using my parents against me. And I was worried about their health. All these thoughts left me speechless, and you soon grew bored of my silence. By the time we stopped walking, you were just happy to sit back and eat.

That’s when you offered me bread. No matter how many times I told you I wasn’t hungry, you kept insisting, saying things like “Look, I’m not trying to poison you”, “Mother starves your lot enough – you need strength”, and “Be human just once”. In that moment, I thought Maybe I can do it. If I let the last ten years with this brat get to me, I could. If I could live knowing that I was a murderer, that I killed someone for no reason whatsoever, my parents could survive.

I didn’t even feel the tears rolling down my face until you asked why I was crying.

You know the rest. I showed you the Queen’s dagger and told you about her order. I sent you off with a warning, a map, and a last-minute disguise. After hunting a deer, I carved its heart out and brought it back to the castle. And here we are.

It’s wild how different everything is. You especially. You don’t seem as bitter as you once were. Everything I’ve told you – I’m surprised that I’ve let my guard down this much. But I would never have done that if you remained the same prince I’ve known these last ten years. You’re changing. I’m not sure who you are. I’m not sure what I think of you anymore.

All I know is that I’d like to see the day when you finally got to taste a fire-pink apple and know whether you could hold your own in a sword fight. And I’d like to see you not sulking in silk in the marble halls, but happy in homespun in the orchard. I want to know the new Joon face to face – not just on paper.

Take care…

You need to leave.

Last night I went to the Queen’s chambers to look at the mirror and I saw her talking to it. A voice from within talked back. And now I know why she wants you dead.

You’re to be the first man in nine generations to inherit your family’s magic. As soon as you turn 20, you’ll come into your powers. And, according to the mirror, you’re destined to dissolve the monarchy if you aren’t stopped now.

Like I said, that was last night. But this morning I found the magic mirror smashed. The Queen is gone and the Guards at the gate say she went alone into the Blighted Forest.

She’s coming to kill you herself.

If you still have my map, use it to find your way to Lakehaven. It’s a metropolis on the other side of the Dragon’s Collar – if you’re fast, you can make it there in three days. It’s the perfect place for you to disappear.

I’ll do what I must to stop her. Don’t worry about me – just get to Lakehaven and let me know when you’re settled. You know I’ll keep you safe.

Be careful.

Katriona,

The falcon arrived suddenly. No doubt you’ve written to warn me about Mother. But I don’t have time to read it. I’d rather spend my last moments writing to you.

I have tasted the fire-pink apple. It was everything I dreamed it would be. Crisp, airy. Sweet.

Then it showed me my destiny.

I was lying in a glade. Inside a glass coffin. The orcs wept for me. Their tears and anguished faces frightened me. Then there you were, looking like one of those knights from the hero stories I used to adore. You were by my side, but you too were sad. You reached for me, but the glass kept us apart. And I couldn’t move.

The vision ended. I lay powerless on the forest floor and the old woman who gave me the apple walked away, laughing.

I know this poison. Mother used this many times for her political intrigues in the past. The poison hits you hard at first, but then you feel fine for about two hours. Then convulsions and death.

Katriona, you’ve done me more good than I deserve. I can never hope for your forgiveness for the last ten years. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done and said to hurt you.

Perhaps this is the justice I deserve.

I wish we could have met and known each other as we are now. You said I seemed different. But I’m not the only one. You, too, are changing – or maybe it’s just that you’re sharing more of who you really are.

Funny – I’ve never seen you happy once in the ten years I’ve known you. Much of that was my fault, of course. But even disregarding all I’ve done, have you ever had occasion to smile at all in your life?

Please come to the orchard and live with the orcs. I know they’d welcome you with open arms. You can’t keep living in that castle the way you have. You deserve peace: the chance to put aside your sword, cast off your armor, and just be. Perhaps when they’ve recovered, you could bring your parents out here, too. The fresh air and good fruit would do wonders for their health.

I suppose by the time you get here, I’ll be in the ground. I won’t ask you to visit my grave. I’ll be happy enough knowing this wonderful haven is here for you.

I gave the falcon a note to tell you to come here. I’ll leave this last letter for you to read when you arrive.

Please…break free of Mother, of the castle. Of everything unnatural about that world that taught us to be hard.

If I lived a kinder life before the end, it was because of you and the orcs. I only wish I could have lived long enough to see you and I become true friends.

Yours,

Joon

#snow white #fairytale #fairy tales #fairy tale retelling #grimm fairy tales #grimm #creative writing #writing #fantasy #short story

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you-have-been-frizzled · 2 years

Note

First question what is the moon wake festival

for anyone confused this is for the kotlcopedia

the Moonwake festival is what made Narvi one of the well know villages in the neutral territories. Nervi is know as a place of peace and celebration when it was once a place of nothing but survival

for a couple decades at the beginning of the Gold area the council decided that they would try and see how banishing every child that didn’t manifest before the age of 16. they ended up banding together and creating their own village that they called Narvi. when the council finally stopped banishing talentless they had a celebration on the full moon that was eventually called moonwake festival.

over time the Narvi split and more where created by other bannished elves but the festival continued to be held. it became came to be a place of gathering once a month, so everyone could know where the others where and they could see their friends from other villages. there would be dancing music and everyone would bring food to. those that could only bring a few veggies or just some meat scraps would put them in a massive pot to make soup because that way everyone could have something to eat without having to worry.

the festival will last a few days and a lot people will camp at the village while others will just stay for one night. the village will be decorated in sparkly dark blues and a few Flashers will create balls of light that will float around lightning up the entire village. most dress in the nicest clothes they have that for some incudes human clothes. while mainly Elves will take part in the festival because of multi species villages there where also Goblins and Gnomes. Ogres sometimes take part but because the distrust of them stretches even to the neutral territories especially after the plunge it’s rare

there will be vendors mainly from the Vagary market will have moon and star themed wears up for trade. clothes, bags, jewelry, dishes, silverware, soaps, childrens toys and little treats and drinks will all be up for trade. sadly not everyone can trade for these thing even for something as simple as a necklace.

a newer tradition is giving the children colorful power and letting them fight with it. when the older kids join in it quickly turns into a all out war. there where sides and each color had their own hide out and every child ended up covered in the powder and there’s not ever a determined winner.

@geraldtheanon your ask about ancients is literally going to be the history of this village because idk what else to do

#thanks for the ask!#keeper of the lost cities #kotlc headcanon #❄️winter strom❄️

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nickgerlich · 1 year

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Imagine This

Amid all the talk about the US and other nations possibly banning TikTok, the states and universities already doing so, and worries about national security, no one has raised the $64,000 question: What would life be like without it?

At the personal level, that’s an easy one. I seldom if ever use it, and could easily live without it. But what about those people who spend multiple hours each day on it, those influencers relying on it to push their content and to make money, those businesses doing likewise? Now you’re starting to step on toes.  

But there is such a place on this orb that has gone without TikTok for three years now: Hong Kong. And it’s not because this special administrative region of China banished the social media app or anything. No, TikTok deselected itself from the region entirely. There was a new national security law that went into effect on 1st July 2020, which allowed police to request user data without a warrant.

Whoa. That’s serious stuff. And think about it. This caused TikTok to blink hard enough to pull its service entirely. Compare this to how hard it has defended itself to Congress.

While TikTok had not become quite as ubiquitous there as it is in the States today, it was still a powerful medium. Pulling the plug meant that local businesses and influencers had to start all over on other platforms, like Instagram. I’m sure it was very disruptive, but at the same time, it’s not like there weren’t other social media sites to while away the day for casual users. Can you say infinite scroll?

While we are pondering a city that has already gone without TikTok, let us now consider the extreme: a place with no social media whatsoever. I know. It’s hard to imagine. Heck, we wouldn’t have much need for this class, because digital marketing could be tucked away into other courses.   

All we have to do is turn back the clock 21 years, to when Friendster launched, followed by MySpace (2003) and Facebook (2004). Sure, there were a few feeble attempts at what could loosely be called social media before then, like Classmates, as well as the many discussion boards and listservs. But that’s like saying the Blackberry was a smartphone. Close, but no cigar.

For most of my students, that would be a time when they were mere toddlers. In other words, you have only known a time when social media was present. And that is a big part of the reason why you are called digital natives. You have known nothing else.

Now imagine it all gone. That’s like asking an old timer like me to imagine life without television. Of course, I can imagine life without landline phones, because we did away with those in recent years. But television? No way.

Were we to do away with all social media, meaning all the usual suspects as well as YouTube, because that is as much a social platform as any of the others, our lives would be very different. We would plausibly have a lot more free time, or at least time to do other things. You know that Weekly Screen Time thing that Apple sends to its users every Sunday? Mine is bad bad bad.

We also would not have to be concerned about the effects of social media on young girls, which research has shown has serious negative effects. Think self-esteem as well as fears over their location being revealed.

Furthermore, the culture of narcissism that has blossomed during the social media era would be put back in its box. We would have to resort to other ways to admire ourselves. We’d have to find other ways to get that dopamine rush that comes with getting online affirmations. Maybe we’d have to join softball or bowling leagues, choirs, acting troupes, whatever in order to get the attaboys and attagirls that we all crave.

I also see how my social media behavior has changed in recent years, most notably since COVID and a highly contentious election. Today, I consume social media for entertainment. I post one, maybe two, items a day, but always steer clear of engaging people in conversations that will likely require multiple comments back and forth. If this sounds like an argument, you would be right. I have better things to do. Or, as I say to myself every day, “I do not suffer fools gladly.” Repeat after me.

But while it might be fun to consider a world without social media, I’m not so sure it would be as great as we might think. Consider our ability to stay in touch with people from the many chapters of our lives. At the tender young age of 25, you may not think that to be much, but add four decades, and suddenly you have many chapters with many players. I do not want to imagine the rest of my life without all of those connections.

And then there are the limitations of physical geography. In a world without social media, we are limited to knowing people with whom we could come in actual contact. But thanks to Facebook, et al., we can meet many new people, and sometimes even make friends or find spouses. It’s a lot harder to do that if you just hang out at the same old bar.

We would also have to revert to old information sources to stay on top of the news. My feed is carefully curated to local and national media so that I have all the news that’s fit to print, along with long-read features from reputable magazines. I would miss that, and in many regards, my life would become more complicated without it.

Finally, what else would I do during fits of insomnia? I know. Experts tell us that we should sleep in total darkness, and the light emitted by our phones will only make us more awake. But I read to get sleepy. Without all the scrolling or autoplaying of reels, I would have to do what I did in the Stone Age: Turn on the lamp and pick up a book or magazine. I’m pretty sure that’s quite a bit worse when it comes to all that light.

Yeah, I can imagine a world without TikTok, if only because I am not particularly engaged. But when it comes to social media, it, like so many other changes we have discussed this term, has already left the station. And maybe, like Ozzy Osbourne, we’re going off the rails on this crazy train.

It’s just that I don’t know that I want to go back to the station. 

Dr “The Media Sells It And You Live The Role“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

#marketing #socialmedia

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nixalegos · 1 year

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the wheel of fortune : how well / badly does your muse take setbacks on their goals ?

He sat, pondering, grumbling. Brooding. Patterns that should have been constant were in utter freefall. Dependable sources were drying up and old contacts were suspiciously silent on these matters. How could it possibly be, that an entire continent hidden by magic for ten thousand years, loaded with more ruins, relics, and secrets then they'd ever seen before was so utterly totally UNPROFITABLE? Yes, sure, technically he was making gold hand over fist, but anyone could do that. There was a market for anything if you had the scruples to acquire and the audacity to sell at the right place and time. He picked up his half empty glass and roiled the wine still inside it. It was obvious he was going to have to take a personal loss this month to keep his Eyes paid if the records and displayed projection charts were true. It wasn't an unusual price to keep contracted agents on a payroll since the loss of Shadowhold on Draenor, but it was no less an aggravating scenario. Still, it was nothing to get upset about, he told himself as he sipped at the potent liquid. It was just gold. Just a resource. Recoverable, generative, ignorable. He could not banish his scowl about it anyway. Without a way to take the edge off he was going to be in a sour mood all day. "I'm going to make this everyone elses problem."

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bonniebird · 3 years

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Anthony x Reader

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It had been a pleasant surprise when you had attended the market with your sisters. You had bumped into Anthony who had been escorting Eloise and Penelope Featherington.

Your sisters wasted no time in sweeping them up, they liked to listen to the things Eloise had to say. Though if your father knew he would be furious. Eloise was almost banished from the house the last time he had invited the Bridgertons for dinner.

Anthony had walked with you, enjoying the brisk coldness. He bought everyone a hot drink and when he offered to buy each of your sisters an ornately shaped biscuit with icing like they’d never seen before, they had crowded round him with adoring faces and eached thanked him. You had laughed as he became flustered at the flock of girls around him. He joked that he should be used to it, seeing as he had his own sisters, but confessed that he was glad to not have so many as you did.

He offered to have you and your family over for dinner later that week. You assured him that you and your sisters, and our mother would be there. But that your father had a business deal that he couldn’t wrangle. Anthony had smiled and assured you that he would drop by your father’s firm. He had a good relationship with your father’s new business partner and perhaps he could smooth things along.

One the morning of the dinner Anthony had burst into the room and disrupted his mothers rush to arrange the dinner party. ��Has anyone else read what Lady Whistledown has written of late?” He asked in an irritable voice.

“Has the postman been?” Daphne asked. She spotted the paper in her brother’s hand but Eloise snatched it up first.

“Though Mr Bridgerton claims to have no plans to marry, it is clear that he has quickly building feelings for (Y/N) (Y/L/N). He was seen spoiling (Y/N)’s many sisters earlier this week and rumor has it the families are trying to smooth over any distaste between them. Could a courtship be in the works?” Eloise read loudly.

“Well… I’m sure that (Y/N) won’t be paying any attention to this.” Lady Bridgerton said quickly as she took it from Eloise.

“Hopefully nothing else will happen between now and dinner.” Anthony said quickly as he left.

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #bonniebird

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angstymdzsthoughts · 3 years

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Sect leader wcz after wwx dies protecting JC

Wwx returns as a ghost. Not at the age he died, mind you, but at the age he qas when he came to Lotus Pier. He's small and happy and WCZ weeps. He keeps asking where his mom is, he clings to everyone and laughs in ways WCZ hadn't heard in years.

No one has the heart to banish himm what would be the point, he doesn't hurt anyone.

Well, not in the beginning.

The more time passes, the more quiet spells happen. Long moments when the child looks into the distance with a gaze too old for his face. When WCZ hugs him and he is surprised, when he's suddenly cold towards his shidis

Truth is, wwx never got a soul cleansing ceremony, nor did he die a death to be proud of

He turns resentful. He turns resentful and starts to haunt them

WCZ has to watch his child die again, and it doesn't hurt any less the second time

Wei Wuxian dies and all of Lotus Pier mourns. Cangze Sanren returns for the funeral and then tells her husband that she would not be returning. Jiang Cheng falls apart in guilt. It is revealed that the second young master of the Lan sect had been courting Wei Wuxian and is heartbroken. Wei Changze feels numb to all of it. His son is dead and the world is dull and colorless now. He can find no joy and no warmth.

And then his little boy comes running up to him and hugs his legs one day at the market. Wei Changze had thought he had finally lost his mind to grief, but everyone else reacted to Wei Wuxian, so clearly he was not the only one. The two of them made quite the spectacle that day. A sect leader sobbing on the ground while a little ghost clung to him and asked what was wrong.

Things got better after that. Wei Wuxian was both there and gone at the same time. Little Wei Ying was a soothing balm oh everyone's hurt hearts and he thrived under the attention everyone lavished on him. Wei Changze was only truly happy when his son was by his side. He treasured every laugh and smile his sons spirit gave him.

Then he received a letter from his estranged wife. Cangse Sanren told him to put their sons spirit to rest and warned him that only heartache and misfortune would follow if Wei Ying lingered too long. Wei Changze had thrown her letter in the fire, enraged. She leaves him with nothing and then tells him to get rid of their son?! She doesn't know what she's talking about! Maybe she would understand if she actually came home and saw Wei Ying- heard his voice and laughter and could see how happy he was- but she let her stubborn anger at him stop her.

As if her words had left a sour note in the air, Wei Ying began asking for her the next day. Wei Changze didn't know how to reply to him. He didn't want Wei Ying to feel like Cangze didn't want to be here because of him. He told his son that she had a very important night hunt and will come home soon.

Things began to slowly decline after that.

Wei Ying smiles less. Hides away more often. His laughter becomes rare. People start having nightmares. Accidents begin to happen around Lotus Pier. He tries to talk to Wei Ying but things just get worse.

Jiang Cheng is injured one day. Wei Changze doesn’t react well and yells at Wei Ying.

“You just love him more!” Wei Ying yelled through his tears. “You want Jiang Cheng to be your son!”

Wei Ying runs away and between one blink and the next, disappears, before Wei Changze can do something to comfort his son. That night at dinner all of the food in the kitchen had spoiled and rotted.

#Reply #Jiang Sect Leader WCZ #Wei Wuxian #Character death #Wei Changze #MDZS

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btsydtrash · 3 years

Text

Euphoric Endeavours [8]

vampire bts, poly ot7 x uni student yn

(AN: Hi, all! This story is actually already posted on AO3. But! I want to try and grow a little community on Tumblr, too. So, I decided to post it on here. I have almost 50 chapters of this story up over there, so I’ll slowly be adding them onto here too. I hope that you like it!)

also, i don’t have a tag list, but if you follow/put notifications, you’ll get alerted. tysm loves!

find me on twitter word count: 4.9k

(angst / smut / fluff / gore)

TW: alcohol, implication of sex (barely)

Chapter 8 - ‘Proximity’

Scowling up at the bright lights overhead, you ask, “Why are we in a market at ten thirty?”

Taehyung shoves the trolley in your direction, a touch too hard because Namjoon has to stop it before it hits you, a disapproving glare being sent his way, before he lets you take the reins. “Hush, young Padawan. Our fridge is nearly empty.”

Pushing the trolley ahead, you ask, staring at the bubbly blue-haired artist, “And, what does that have to do with me, exactly?”

“Did you want to eat tonight?” Yoongi asks, with a dry look. “If so, be quiet and push.”

You sniff at his attitude, and say, “Can I sit inside the trolley instead?”

The blond looks you up and down, before he asks, derisively, “Can you fit?”

You hit him in the chest with a low curse, to which he snorts at. “Aish! I haven’t put that much weight on, have I?”

Yoongi hums, but says nothing else, suddenly intrigued by his phone.

Dick.

Intuitively, Namjoon puts his hands on your waist and hoists you into the front of the trolley, letting you get comfortable. You let out a squeak of surprise at how easy it seems for him to manage your weight. He was big, sure, but... You didn’t realise how strong he was. He takes off his scarf and wraps it around your neck. He ducks down a little, eyes glittering under the lights, and he asks, kindly, “Better?”

“Much,” you reply, sound muffled by the soft cashmere of his scarf. It smells like him, masculine and something woodsy. You duck your head, suddenly shy, avoiding the sight of his sparkly dark orbs. “Thank you.”

He winks at you, easily, before rising up to his full height, and you feel your heart pound at the size difference between the two of you. He’s just so... big.

“What’s on the list?” Namjoon asks, turning to look at Yoongi, who has taken to pushing the trolley, while Taehyung bounces across the aisles, scanning the products for the things they need. “What are we missing?”

Yoongi pulls out his phone, pushing one-handedly (and you’ll be damned if you ever say that he makes for a hot image) while he scrolls through his phone, and says, “Beer.”

“Of course,” you laugh, tilting your head back to survey the blond. “A bunch of boys, the first thing you need is beer.”

“Well, the first thing on the list is condoms, but I thought I’d ease us into that,” Yoongi remarks, with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

You balk at the nonchalant tone of his voice and he grins, small but showing a bit of his gums, and you feel your chest seize up at the sight of it.

Namjoon tuts. “Hyung, that’s not funny. Don’t tease YN like that.”

“I’m not lying, look!” He holds up his phone and just as he said, the first thing on the list in Jin’s fancy handwriting is ‘condoms’. Without your permission, you eyes track the size next to it but you banish the thought from your memory, averting your eyes to the scarf around your neck. Yoongi continues, “Jin’s first addition, condoms. Second, French hand cream that I can't pronounce. He’s weird.”

The four of you spend the next hour and some change speeding through the aisles, peals of laughter echoing through the supermarket as you all collect the products on their list. You even get to grab some snacks for yourself, on the boy’s dime, of course. They don't even bat an eyelid.

Yoongi lets you hold his phone, the weight of the device different to yours own, and you trace your finger down the ridges of his phone case, thoughtlessly pushing at the back of the case when it pops out of place. “Careful. There’s something important in there.”

You look up at him, curiously. He swipes the phone from you and pushes the back out further, completely dislodging it, to reveal a polaroid hidden in the back of his phone. He holds it out so the both of you could see it.

it was a picture of the seven of them, taken some time ago, by their more youthful expressions and natural dark hair color. They looked like they might have been in middle school. You feel your heart skip a beat at the sight of the picture, a sensation that only intensifies at the warm look in his eyes as he surveys the picture over your shoulder.

He puts the case back together and hands it back to you. He says, meanigfully, “You’re holding my heart in your hands, so be careful, YN.”

You take his words to heart and nod, earnestly, before turning to the rest of the boys and you ask, trying to lighten the feeling in your chest, “What are we having for dinner tonight?”

“I wanted spicy lamb skewers,” Yoongi proposes, with a cute smile. Spending time with you seems to have slowly melted the ice around the aloof composer (he had mentioned briefly that he studied music alongside being a DJ and a rapper in the underground hip-hop scene and something about that image made you want to see him in action, on stage, enchanting the crowd) and now, he seems comfortable jjeering and giggling alongside the rest of you. “And you, YN?”

“I’m good with anything meaty. Spicy sounds good too,” you answer. You get out of the trolley once the four of you had gotten three-quarters through the list, needing the extra space, much to your dismay. You liked being babied by them. “Taehyung!”

The blue-haired artist perks up at the sound of his name. “You called, Cutie?”

You ask, staring up at him, “What are you craving?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, glancing behind you briefly, before his usual gleaming smile overtakes his face and the strangely tense moment passes. “Anything YN wants, I’ll eat happily.”

The four of you decide on what to get, and upon reaching the meat aisle, Namjoon and Taehyung decide to race.

“First one who gets everything needed for dinner wins,” Yoongi explains the rules, handing the two other men empty baskets. “The loser… Pays for everything.”

Taehyung gasps, “How steep!”

Namjoon snorts, blinking down at the blond, “Woah, you know I’m only getting paid minimum wage, right, hyung?”

“You guys live in a luxury apartment,” you state, bewildered. “Why do you even work? Don’t you have rich parents or something?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Taehyung says, cheekily. “Alright, alright. Let’s start.”

Taehyung and Namjoon drop low, as if they were racers gearing up for a world-class competition, and on Yoongi’s command, they shoot off, grabbing the first clumps of healthy red meat they can land their hands on.

They needed to get seasonings and the side dish ingredients, so you weren’t expecting them back for a few minutes.

Quietly, you ask, “Yoongi?”

He’s relaxes against the trolley, the picture of nonchalance, as he replies, softly, “Yes, YN.”

You pick at your sleeves and ask, bashfully, “Why do you guys want to spend time with me?”

He lets out a muted chuckle and asks, tossing you a sideways glance, “Hasn’t Taehyung given you the ‘friends’ speech yet?”

“He has, but…” You trail off, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

He fills in the gap, knowingly. “But ‘it doesn’t make sense’?”

You nod, diffidently.

He plays with his fingers, turning around and resting his elbows on the edge of the cart’s handle, looking away and out at the rest of the grocery store. You cast a side-long glance at the composer and you latch onto every word falling from his pale pink lips. He says, “You’re fun to be around. As strange as that sounds coming from me. You make Tae happy, and Jin likes your personality. Hoseok thinks you’re interesting. I appreciate your smarts. Even Jungkook thinks you’re adorable. There’s no reason not to hang out with you.”

Fighting the urge to flush at the barrage of compliments, simply not expecting them to come from the blond, you clear your throat before you remark, offhandedly, “The seven of you are some of the most popular faces on campus. You have a surplus of people to hang out with, if that’s what you wanted to do.”

He says, dark eyes catching your own in a penetrating gaze. “And people treat us like celebrities, like we’re untouchable and that just isn’t who we are.”

“So…”

“You treat us like we’re human,” he answers, spotting Taehyung’s bright hair, flopping as he barrels down the aisle, grin boxy and eyes crinkled. “You make us feel human.”

Taehyung and Namjoon drew, deciding to go dutch on the cost of the shopping, and the four of you lug the dozen bags into the trunk and back seats of Taehyung’s car. Once you arrive at the complex, the concierge helps you get all the shopping bags up into their apartment, leaving after Yoongi hands him a healthy tip.

The three of them perk up, as if hearing someone in the distance and Namjoon calls, excitedly, “Jin-hyung!”

The sound of pattering feet echoes through the apartment as the eldest makes his way down from the second floor, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt (the casual clothes clashing with his natural magnetism sends you reeling), and he claps, enthusiastically, upon seeing you.

“YN! Nice seeing you again! I’m glad Taehyung has finally stopped keeping you to himself and decided to share,” he says, happily. He puts his hands on your shoulders and guides you into the living room. “Go entertain Jimin while we pack away everything.”

“J-Jimin?”

The one of the seven you had yet to meet yet. A mop of pink hair greets you from the floor of the living room, as the boy, no, man, sits cross-legged, playing a game on the console, staring up at the impressive wide-screen TV, seemingly ignorant to everything around him.

“Hyung, please I’m almost beating the level. I’ll go wash up in a second,” he mumbles, slamming his finger down on the game pad in his hands. He’s wearing a grey fleece and some sweats, with bare feet poking out of the end of them.

He looks like the definition of cosy.

Rubbing at your elbow, awkwardly, you ask, curiously, “I- Uh… What game are you playing?”

At the sound of your voice, Jimin snaps his neck to look at you, spotting your decidedly not-male form and he shoots up, only to slip on the foot of his sweats and collapse onto his ass.

“F-Fuck,” he curses, rubbing at his bruised ass. “Ouch…”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, moving to try and help him stand up.

He jerks away, as if he had been burned, and he says, “No- No, it’s fine. I, uh, I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll- Let me… I need to wash my face.”

He disappears into what you assume is a downstairs bathroom before you can even respond, and you hear the water running distantly.

“Hyung, hyung, hyung,” Jungkook sings as he hops down the stairs, dressed all in grey, with black sock on his feet. “Did you get me the snacks I- Oh… Noona? What are you doing here? It’s kind of late.”

You rub the back of your neck, surprisingly awkward at the sight of Jungkook in his home clothes, and explain, “Taehyung- he, uh, picked me up and kind of, well, kidnapped me?”

His eyes widen in surprise before he asks, “Really?”

“No, I’m kidding,” you say, laughing at the concerned mar of his handsome face. “We were supposed to be studying, but instead we ended up going to the supermarket.”

“Aish, hyung shouldn’t have done that, you saw all our embarrassing things,” he says, cheeks pinking.

“Shaving cream and razors is hardly embarrassing,” you tell him, face twisting in enjoyment at seeing his obvious embarrassment. Contrary to his bulky appearance, he’s surprisingly easy to rile up. You feel a little sadistic doing it, but you can’t help but tease him. “But… Seven boys do seem to go through a surprising number of contraceptives.”

“Aish!” He covers his rapidly reddening ears. “They’re not for me!”

“Safety first, Jungkook. You should use them,” you suggest, playfully, enjoying how squirmy he got when you teased him.

It’s then that Jimin joins you both, the collar of his shirt damp with water, smelling of mint and he does seem more fresh-faced, his upper lip and cheeks are slightly reddened with aggravation.

Jungkook looks closer before letting out a snort. “Did you just shave, hyung?”

“Quiet, brat!” Jimin curses, kicking him in the butt, then he drops to the floor to join Jungkook. “Move over, I want to carry on with my game.”

“Can I join?”

“Sure, noona,” Jungkook replies, making space for you on the couch. “Don’t sit on the floor, it can be a little uncomfortable if you aren’t used to it.”

“Kiss ass,” Jimin teases under his breath, nudging Jungkook’s shoulder with his own, before turning to you with a curious expression. “I haven’t gotten to meet you yet, but I’ve heard a lot.”

You hold out your hand and after staring down at it, strangely, Jimin clasps his own around it, to shake it lightly. His palms are surprisingly cool against yours and you give it a cursory squeeze.

“Good things I hope,” you reply, smiling slightly. “YN.”

“Jimin,” he replies, eyes crinkling. His face is wonderful, just like Young-mi said, when he isn’t zoned out and seemingly angry at nothing. His cheeks puff up, his eyes practically disappear into half-moons, and he tilts his head slightly, shrinking in on himself. Your heart pounds at the sight of him, brain snapshotting his visage without your permission

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” Taehyung says as he walks in, swatting at your hands so you’re forced to let him go. “Cutie, come help me make dinner.”

“But we were just about to start playing,” Jungkook whines, making puppy eyes in your direction.

“Enough, maknae,” Taehyung commands with a dismissive wave, before he returns his eyes to you, staring intently. “Don’t you wanna come and help me out?”

You ask, eyeing him distrustfully, “Can you even cook?”

“You wound me,” he says, putting a hand over his heart and he sends you a dramatically pained expression.

Jimin snorts. “Taehyung, I wouldn’t eat your food if you paid me.”

“Ha ha ha,” Taehyung laughs, pointedly, before jabbing Jimin in his back with his elbow. “So funny. Come YN,” he says, reaching for your hand and hoisting you off the couch.

“If YN’s cooking, then I want to help too,” Jungkook grumbles, obstinately, moving to stand.

Jimin huffs and does the same. “Might as well join in, then, shouldn’t I?”

Yoongi, Jin and Namjoon are already dotted around their kitchen, doing different jobs regarding the food. Jin’s eyes practically bug out in his head. The handsome man grouses, “There’s barely enough space for us four and now you’ve brought the other three munchkins? How are we going to do this?”

Yoongi snorts. “If you’re complaining about height, then why don’t the trees of the group kindly exit?”

Jin contemplates that for a moment before he asks, lips quirking, “Then how would you survive without my amazing cooking skills?”

“I’m sure we’d manage, hyung,” Jimin snarks, with a brazen grin. He ducks into the cabinet and says, absently, “YN, why don’t you pass me some veggies from the refrigerator?”

You twist on your heels to approach the silver fridge, missing the look of panic that overtakes Taehyung’s face.

“No!” Namjoon shouts, startling you nearly out of your skin. He clears his throat, before putting his hands on your shoulders, leading you away from the fridge. “How about you use those dexterous fingers and keep chopping up the carrots? I’ll take my hand off otherwise. I’ll give Jiminie the veggies.”

“Suuuure,” you reply, eyes narrowing but you occupy Namjoon’s space and carry on with his job.

You don’t see the sharp smack that the five men deliver to Jimin’s head in chastisement. The absentminded pinkette flushes around his collar, ducking his head in shame.

It strikes you, then, that someone is missing from the bunch, and you ask, “Where’s Hoseok?”

“He should be on his way home from work,” Jin tells you. “He teaches dance at a rec centre in the city. Usually kids, but he’s recently taken on choreography work for a dance group.”

“That’s… impressive,” you reply, surprised. “I didn’t know he had a job.”

“We all do,” Jungkook informs you, face twisting in bewilderment. “Why’s that so surprising?”

“Just that, well, you live in such a nice apartment,” you explain, feeling strangely shy. “I didn’t think you needed to work.”

Namjoon rubs the back of his head, awkwardly. “The building belongs to Jin’s Dad, so we get to live here rent free.”

The eldest shrugs at your look of shock. “But we don’t rely on our parents for anything else. We wanted to live as independently as we can, while we’re able to.”

You don’t understand what he means by that, but the seriousness in his eyes brings you to a halt.

The seven of you work around each other, laughing and giggling as you go, and within half an hour, with team-work, you are getting the food transplanted into the living room area. Jungkook materialises a table and sets it up with enough space to allow the seven of you to sit around comfortably.

Hoseok walks into the apartment just before the boys started eating, and you hear him kick off his shoes loudly, making gleeful noises in the back of his throat.

“Is YN in here?” He asks, as he enters the living room. He perks up at the sight of you, and he grins “I thought I could smell you.”

“Smell me?”

“He’s kidding,” Namjoon says, tossing the dancer a hard look. “Obviously, not a very good joke.”

“I saw your shoes,” he explains, with a playful wink. He gives the boys all fist-bumps and high-fives, before he presses a quick kiss to your cheek, surprising you at the skin-ship. The other boys seem just a shocked, but he doesn’t give an explanation, simply stepping away with flushed cheeks, you guess from the change in temperature and rush upstairs.

Jungkook asks, “Did you have a good day, hyung?”

He nods, taking off the cap and running a hand through his sweat-slick hair. “I’m gonna catch a shower. Don’t wait for me, eat up.”

“I don’t like eating without you, hyung,” Taehyung grumbles, pouting. The dancer laughs, mussing up his hair and passing him by, rushing upstairs to clean up.

When he returns, pink in the cheeks and fresh from the shower, the seven of you are well into the meal, tissues piled from where you have all wiped your fingers and chins of the sweet-spicy noodles and sauce, empty skewers piled on a plate in the corner of the table.

“Nobody saved me any skewers?” He asks, appalled. “I feel betrayed.”

Namjoon pulls a whole pile from behind his body. “Eat these quickly. I had to practically kick Yoongi to keep him from them.”

“This is why you’re my favourite, Joonie,” Hoseok sing-songs, taking the plate and nudging in between you and Jungkook. “Move over Kookie.”

“Careful of YN’s drink,” the youngest chastises, lifting your beer in the air and handing it to you over Hoseok’s damp head. “Drink up, noona.”

You thank him with a smile and go back to sipping your drink, washing down the mouthful of well-seasoned, tasty meat. “I don’t think I ever asked. What are each of your majors? I know Jimin and Hoseok dance, and that Taehyung is an art major. Yoongi majors in music. But the rest of you – I’m not sure.”

Jin grins, but the gesture lacks his usual fervour. “Business admin and finance.” You shudder, and he nods, grimly. “Painfully boring, but I had to do it.”

“Why?”

“My Dad is CEO of Kim Construction Conglomerate,” he explains, with a shrug. “Eventually he wants me to join the company to aid my older brother.”

You lean forward to catch his hooded gaze. “Is that what you want?”

He shrugs into his drink, taking back the beer and wincing, as if the taste was bitter on his tongue. You know from your own sips that the alcohol is on the sweeter side, so you think that the truth is making him grimace. You drop the subject, not wanting to overstep, but you reach over to give his hand a light squeeze in comradery. He seems surprised by the gesture but he gives you a soft smile of acknowledgement.

“Applied linguistics and English literature,” Namjoon explains, lips pulling up in a shy smile.

“A book nerd,” Jimin tacks on, unhelpfully.

“A book connoisseur,” Namjoon corrects, flicking the pinkette in the forehead. “I’m glad to be graduating next year, because all these assignments are suffocating me.”

You nod in understanding before you ask, “Do you have a big collection of books?”

Hoseok scoffs around a mouthful of meat and grouches, “If you saw our room, you would recoil. There’s barely any room to walk around, let alone dance. It sucks.”

Namjoon’s cheeks pink, from the alcohol and from the chastisement. “Sorry, hyung.”

“I’d like to see it,” you say, suddenly. “The collection, not your room. I- I really do love reading.”

“She’s an anthropology major,” Taehyung says, by way of explanation. “She’s probably more of a babbling nerd than you are, hyung.”

Both you and Namjoon toss the blue-haired artist dark looks, but he simply grins, stretching out on the couch languidly, like a cat.

Jungkook glances at you, and says, mutely, “Cinematics and photography. I want to be a director one day.”

“Film-making? That’s so interesting,” you gush, happily. The alcohol is making your head swim and you are loosening up, giggling more freely, letting your eyes linger, wander, observe with a glassy gaze that only comes from intoxication. “What kinds of movies?”

“I just want to make something meaningful,” he mumbles, softly. The tip of his nose has blushed red, the apples of his cheeks are painted the same colour. “If I can make only one person feel something, I’d be able to die happy.”

“Our Jungkook doesn’t take to alcohol well,” Yoongi explains, teasingly ruffling the maknae’s cherry red hair. “He tends to get morbid quickly. Or, intensely self-reflective.”

“Neither do I, apparently,” you mumble, resting your head on Jungkook’s shoulder. “I usually drink a glass of wine once every other week. Before bed, or when we watch a movie. Stuff like that. I’ve never been a fan of beer but this,” you hold up your third can in victory, “tastes spectacular.”

The boys chuckle at your behaviour, and Jin lets out a gentle coo of “Cute.”

“Weren’t we supposed to be doing something tonight?” You ask, pushing your glasses into your hair and rubbing your eyes, brain swimming. “I feel like there was something to do.”

“We wanted to see you,” Yoongi tells you, eyes lingering on the cute way you are blinking, sluggishly. “Isn’t that something worth doing?”

Jungkook rests his head on the seat of the couch, eyes closed, content in letting you use him as a pillow, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his knee that you catch in your periphery.

You point in the dancer’s direction, accusingly. “You saw me yesterday!”

“All of us wanted to see you,” Namjoon corrects, grinning brightly.

“I don’t even know him,” you mumble, gesturing to Jimin, who pouts heavily.

“And you wouldn’t have ever known of me if you didn’t come over,” he complains. “Everyone else has fun stories about you, YN, but me. It’s not fair.”

His cheeks are pink all over, splotches of joy exploding across the expanses of honeyed skin.

You can’t help but lean forward, entranced by his aura, and you whisper, “Why are you all so inhumanly attractive?”

Jimin giggles, putting both hands under his chin and bats his eyelids, playfully. “Why? Falling for me already?”

You shake your head, exaggeratedly, from side to side, and reply, “Nope! Not my type!”

That was a partial lie – you don’t have a type. You liked pretty things, handsome things, unique things. They were all those things combined, so your vagina, at least, was very interested.

He looks scandalised, brow puckering and his mouth twists in irritation. He doesn’t know why hearing that from you twists at his chest so much, but it does. He grumbles, “If I’m not, then who is?”

“I dunno.”

Hoseok leans forward, intrigued. “C’mon, sunshine. Who, out of all of us, would you date, if you had the chance?”

“If I had the chance?” You scoff, draining the can of beer in your hand and Yoongi hands you another without thinking about it, cracking it open and watching it foam with glassy eyes. “You mean if I deigned it worth my time to date you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he says, dismissively, a strangely determined gleam in his eye. “Tell us. Which one of us you’d date.”

You close your eyes, and your mouth moves before your brain can properly engage with it. “Yoongi.”

The table explodes in noise.

“What the hell!”

“No way! Hyung? Why?”

“Me? Seriously? Should I be flattered?”

“I’m not your type but he is? That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Are you kidding me? When you have someone that looks this good right in front of you?”

“Wow, YN. Your taste is low. I’m surprised.”

“His personality is closest to my ex-girlfriend,” you tell them with a shrug. “Nonchalant and moody on the surface. Awfully sweet on the inside.”

Namjoon asks, a strange twist to his lips, “You like girls?”

“I like the person,” you explain with a sigh. “Their genitals don’t really matter to me until we get to bumping uglies.”

Taehyung and Hoseok nod as they chorus, “Same.”

Yoongi dips his head. “Me too.”

Jimin makes his head into a flower once more, fluttering his fingers under his chin. “Me three. Or, four, I guess.”

“My exes have been… interesting to say the least,” you say with a humorous laugh. “For example, my last girlfriend, Yoonji. She dumped me, because I wasn’t ‘emotionally available’. What even does that mean?”

“You didn’t pay enough attention to her,” Jungkook grumbles, seemingly rising from the grave, eyes blinking open to stare down at you. “Did you take her for granted?”

You gape at him, throat clenching over nothing. “No… I was always there for her when she needed me. If she wanted me to turn up outside her dorm at three in the morning because she went out and got drunk, regardless of if I had a nine am class the same day, I did. She always would say that I wasn’t doing enough and I- ugh, you know what? Forget about it.”

You toss your drink on the table, pushing it away from you in frustration, the memories welling up in your mind and making your eyes sting. You hadn’t cried since you broke up all those months ago, promising Young-mi that you’d only spend the weekend licking your wounds, crying into your tubs of ice-cream (dairy, you recall the pain you were in for the rest of the week because of it), and when you went to class the following Monday, you were fine.

That’s what you had been telling yourself for the nine months.

That you were fine.

“Noona, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Jungkook mumbles from your side. You can feel the awkward tension of the other boys staring at you, the weight of their eyes on you makes you want to curl up.

Unthinkingly, you glare at him, icily, but upon seeing his chastised puppy dog look, you sigh.

He flinches away as if you’d moved to strike him when you reach up and the gesture makes you feel guilty. Softly, you soothe, “It’s okay, Kookie. I know you didn’t mean it.”

You pat his curly hair repeatedly, until the tense line of his shoulders melts away, and he relaxes into you. In a bold move, he wraps his arms around your middle, cuddling you close. Contrary to your anti-skinship rule, feeling his cool arms around you makes you feel overwhelmingly safe, not uncomfortable.

“Wow, Jungkook is being awfully brazen tonight,” Yoongi remarks. “Mere moments ago, YN said she would be my girlfriend and now he’s moving in on her so shamelessly. I ought to beat him.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say hyung sounds jealous,” Jimin remarks, playfully.

Yoongi sniffs, draining his beer, glaring at the pinkette over the neck of the bottle. “Jealous? What do I look like being jealous over our youngest bunny?”

Namjoon laughs, the sound loud enough to surprise you, and when you stare at him in surprise, his cheeks pink. “Yoongi-hyung usually isn’t so vocal about his feelings.”

The composer’s cheeks flush even darker at his assertion, and he curls into Namjoon’s shoulder, hiding his face from your line of sight. “Stop teasing Joonie, otherwise I’m going to hide all your Ryan toys.”

“You have Ryan plushies?”

Namjoon’s reddened cheeks are answer enough and you demand to see at least one.

The laugh that paints your voice is bright, like a splash of vibrant paint, perfect and unique – just like you – and you miss the way the boys’ eyes linger on the curve of your lips, a heap more intrigued than they logically know they should be.

- end -

Masterlist / Chapter (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (6), (7), (8), (9), (10), (11), (12), (13), (14), (15), (16)

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