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absolutebl · 4 months

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Best & Worst BLs of 2023

My Top 15 BLs of 2023 are (in order)

1 Our Dating Sim

Korea Viki

Nerds in love, deadlines, gaming, teasing, pining tiny idiots, casual affection, linguistic oops, ADORABLE. If you haven't watched this, it's a must. A perfect short form KBL, an office set reunion romance featuring geeks that really suits 8 eps with no fluff and no chaff. Just comforting and yummy.

I adored every aspect from the casting to the pristinely simple premise to the quietly smooth execution. Sure it’s low stakes, but that makes it high domesticity and extremely warm and gentle. This is a fuzzy blanket of a story - a cozy BL. It lives in my rewatch pile and you know what’s best about it? Every single episode is in that pile. There’s no skipping with this one, it might be good natured and calmly sweet but it’s tight and the pacing is excellent.

Also recieves my 2023 award for best giggle.

2 I Cannot Reach You

AKA I Can't Reach You AKA Kimi ni wa Todokanai

Japan Netflix

Kakeru is silly and a little simple, but not frenetic or overly camp about it. He is earnest, and genuinely wants to keep Yamato in his life which means giving a romance (and gayness) a fair chance. We watch him realize his affection and what form it can take in a truly authentic way.

This show was impossibly kind to both of its lead characters and I felt almost honored that I got to watch something so lovely and rare play out on my screen.

Also wins the best thirst award.

These were the 2 BLs that got 10/10 from me in 2023. The rest of these got 9/10 from me.

3 My School President

Thailand YouTube

GMMTV gave us a classic high school set Thai BL with tropes like messy boys singing their feelings that made this one Love Sick for the modern age with all the gentle sweetness and pining ache, but none of the dated damaging tropes or issues. Who let my BL be this wholesome and funny? My favourite GMMTV BL offering to date. And yes, I've watched them ALL.

Received the Namgoong award for best wingman 2023.

4 I Feel You Linger in the Air

Thailand grey

IFYLITA is an exquisite BL, from filming techniques to narrative framework. Steeped in history and family drama this is an elegant and classy BL. The main couple (both as a pair and individuals) were excellent, particularly Bright (Yai) whose eye-work acting style is a personal favorite of mine. It's a marker of how great it was that it's so high on my list despite the ending which was very much not what I wanted.

Additional accolade, sexiest moment of 2023 - (the oil scene).

You could try to fight me, but you'll have no grip.

5 Kiseki: Dear to Me

Taiwan Gaga & Viki

The plot is totally ridiculous and slightly unhinged. There’s a gum-ball machine of cameos, elder gay rep, great chemistry from all pairs (everyone is queer), and a KILLER side couple. It involves all the tropes under a very offhand framework of gay mafia gangs + food = love. As a result Kiseki is a poster child for Taiwanese BL, and I happen to love Taiwanese BL. Bonus? They also managed to END IT WELL, which we cannot expect from Taiwan.

Best side couple 2023!

(thank goodness Taiwan made this list!)

6 Jun and Jun

Korea Viki

A delightful office romance about an ex-idol who joins cubical life only to find his new boss is his first love. With a snappy (sometimes even raunchy) script, enjoyable sides, a pretty as peaches cast, and descent chemistry this show made up for in style what it lacked in substance. I like fluff. I loved this. I smiled every moment I was watching.

Best flirting 2023.

AKA "the tongue knows" award

7 The Eighth Sense

Korea Viki

This one is a bit chewy and sticky and less perfect than most KBLs. It’s got a bit of an age gap, country boy/city boy, stellar acting, complex characters, and leads with great chemistry and tension. This isn’t in the KBL bubble, there’s sharp edges and lots of triggers. For a BL the darkness of the content left me feeling unsettled (which is the only reason it didn't get a perfect score) but it has a glorious ending and that counts for a lot.

2023's most likely to appeal to non-BL watchers.

8 Unintentional Love Story

Korea iQIYI

The lead, Gongchan (maknae of B1A4) is a fucking GIFT, who carried this show. He was luminous with extraordinarily expressive eyes, which he used to carry a killer plot and challenging role. Forced into a totally understandable betrayal, falling in love despite himself, put into a corner he can't get out of, the AGONY, the eyes EMOTING at us in PAIN. Driven by external conflict, social tension and pressure this story seems simple but it's actually refined and quite complex. I loved this show.

Best story structure 2023.

9 My Personal Weatherman

AKA Taikan Yoho

Japan Gaga

This is classic yaoi of the kind that really only works from Japan. Basically: boys who fell in love in college end up living together but both are so repressed they actually don't realize they're in love. It's high heat is well done, but it leaned into the "why don't they just talk for fuck's sake?" which is exacerbated by the fact that they're already fucking. Sure is sexy tho.

Best use of props 2023 for the shower of sheets.

10 Our Dining Table

AKA Bokura no Shokutaku

Japan Gaga

Lonely salaryman and talented cook gets accidentally adopted by a college kid and his little brother. It’s a quiet & cozy little parable of found family alleviating loneliness. It's lovely & sweet with the romance beats used to build a family relationship, not just couple intimacy. Special.

First prize for domesticity.

11 Laws of Attraction

Thailand iQIYI

This is a great gay suspense thriller with several solid couples, fun plot, killer characters, queer rep, and a happy ending. It’s tons of fun and I had an absolute blast watching it.

Charn wins my favorite character of 2023.

12 La Pluie

Thailand Viki

This BL takes to task the fated mates trope and what it means to have love chained intimately to predestination. It’s about how faith in destiny before choice diminishes the authenticity of emotion, relationships, and connection. This is a high concept to examine through the lens of a BL. With good chemistry and decent acting all around, plus some excellent high heat and representation of consent and a few other rare tropes, this one has to (like it’s sibling show My Ride) earn high marks.

Most interesting concept 2023.

13 The New Employee

Korea Viki

So good, SO QUEER, so soft, a near pitch perfect office BL with conflict derived from that setting. Also found family and a lesbian bestie. This is what I wanted from this new crop of office set KBLs ALL ALONG. Rainbow rice cakes forever!

Best overall queer rep from Korea.

14 Step By Step

Thailand Gaga & YouTube & Viki

This was Thailand’s answer to The New Employee, and everything I loved about that show I loved about this one. This was an office romance between stern boss and sweet subordinate that felt more authentic to an office environment than previous Thai BLs of this ilk which added tension to the narrative and character development.

Chot wins best queer character 2023.

15 Love Tractor

Korea iQIYI

Most of this country-set BL had me feral for the beautiful broken city boy and his hot young farmer. Hyung romance, puppy/cat pairing, open frankness meets jaded reserve, language play, water hose frolicking, only one bed = all my favorite silly tropes.

Biggest "he so pretty" gasp of the year award.

10 Worst BLs of 2023 (that I watched)

My Blessing

My Universe: Casanova Begins

Boyband the series

Cafe In Love

Chains of Heart

Hit Bite Love

Only Friends

Senior Love Me

The Luminous Solution

The Promise

Yes, you read that right. I know I'm against the flow but I really did not like Only Friends. Everyone's taste is different.

However I DNFed faster and more BL's this year than ever before, so that means my 10 worst probably aren't quite reflective...

10 Probably Actually Worst BLs (I dropped 'em)

My Story

The Day I Loved You

Beyond the Star

Crazy Handsome Rich

Dinosaur Love

House of Stars

Mr Cinderella 2

Love Bill

Stormy Honeymoon

The Star Always Follow You

Codicils in General

I only carefully track/watch Thailand, Taiwan, Korea, and Japan. Other countries are not fully represented.

My Numbers

So my spreadsheet chronicled 138 BLs that finish airing in 2023.

101 = watched & reviewed

2 = still in the docket (WDYEY2 & Love Syndrome III)

15 = CNF (could not find)

20 = DNF (which also accounts for how few very low scores I handed out in 2023 as opposed to previous years, I just stopped watching). Speaking of which...

Ratings spread

(# of stars. #of BLs given that rating)

0 (see the DNFs instead)

2 - IT'S DEPRESSING they killed the gay, save yourself

7 - I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM WATCHING AND NEITHER DOES IT

7 - FATALLY FLAWED but still basically BL, however… do we want to support this kind of behavior?

9 - WATCH IF YOU HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO but don’t expect much, it’s a total hot mess

17 - WORTH WATCHING BUT FLAWED probably around the ending or in narrative structure/cohesion or censorship

14 - RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS i.e. isn’t quite BL, convoluted, not strictly HEA, too short/long, or chemistry issues

30 - RECOMMENDED some concerns around tropes (like dub con) or story structure but still satisfies as BL

13 - ABSOLUTELY RECOMMENDED probably a few pacing issues or one flaw

2 - HIGHLY RECOMMENDED faithful to tropes, happy ending, good chemistry, few flaws, high rewatch potential

(source)

#Best BLs of 2023 #Worst BLs of 2023 #Top 15 BLs #Our Dating Sim #Korean BL #I Cannot Reach You #Japanese BL #Kimi ni wa Todokanai #My School President #Thai BL #I Feel You Linger in the Air #Kiseki: Dear to Me #Taiwanese BL #Jun and Jun #The Eighth Sense #Unintentional Love Story #Our Dining Table #Bokura no Shokutaku

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violetashfall · 5 days

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Clumsy Boy.

Where Carl is a wreck...

┊ ➶ ｡˚

!basically fem reader (No physical disc) - 3rd person!

Pretend Warnings;

Cringey

Carl is a complete loser in this !!

Got some notes at the end of the fic, just me complaining...

Carl Grimes had gotten significantly more uncoordinated after he lost his eye… his depth perception was not what it once was, and paired with the headaches and brain fog, his clumsiness only got worse.

He took offence to the way his eye deceived him, looking so insulted whenever a water bottle hit his lips before he could part them, how forks kept knocking against his teeth when he tried to take in food.

One person who always witnessed his struggles was [name], she couldn’t help but notice his stumbles and the empty grasps he made whenever he missed whatever he wanted to hold.

His clumsiness was ever-present in how close he got to her while talking and walking, always finding himself a few many steps too close. He tried to make it seem casual, he totally meant to stand foot-to-foot with her–He didn’t even notice when the rim of his sheriff’s hat hit against her head–and when he took those very slow steps back, they were so inconspicuous he might as well have been a ninja…

But of course, Carl was lying to himself, he looked like Bambi learning to walk on ice whenever he was with the poor girl who kept falling victim to his wobbly brain.

But [name] found it sweet – Carl looked so flustered when he accidentally wavered too close, how his lanky arm bumped into hers when they walked… his coordination skills only got worse when the sun came out, blinding his only good eye and making his foggy brain ache further.

It was how he ended up in such an awkward situation: He hated ladders with a burning passion now his mind was constantly dizzying. He had to climb one at the lookout post during the summer day, clinging close to the rung bars - focusing on not getting too woozy. [name] stood at the top, looking over Alexandria with her hand extended for him to take - the one he missed as he clambered to the top with the fear of a tiny puppy - for such a strong boy, he was acting like a kid terrified of heights, throwing himself into the lookout with zero grace and little self-preservation left.

[name] couldn’t dodge him quick enough when Carl tumbled into her, the crown of his head harshly knocking into her chin - making [name] freeze as the force drove her to bite her tongue. When Carl felt the clunk on the top of his head it was already too late, eye-level with [name] once his legs were fully straightened, already taking a tripped step forward and already hanging off her to stop his fall. Their noses hit each other and worst of all, their lips ungainly brushing together.

[name] pushed herself back and forced him upright in a split second, hearing his thick boots thudding against the floor as he stabilised himself. [name] fell backwards raggedly, tripping on her shoelace - his clumsiness was infectious apparently. Not only did [name] feel her sore teeth and hammering chin, but her lips were also buzzing like his had zapped an electric current through them. Her nose wrinkled at him, pure perplexity taking her face as she stared–

“Jesus, Carl!” She exclaimed like a bruised child, She was a bruised child; tasting that pinprick of blood that pipped out her bitten tongue, knowing she’d get a purple mark on her chin from his thick skull colliding with it. The one day he didn’t wear that stupid sheriff's hat… at least it'd cushion the blow.

Carl looked down at her, eye shot open and brain paused in a deep drowning feeling of mortification… and an upcoming migraine. “I’msorry–” His words spilt so fast they were incoherent, hands extended yet frozen by his sides - he had practically just attacked her–Thrown himself at her like she was a lake and he needed to hide from the wasps swarming his head–and it didn’t even work! His brain burned, lit ablaze by the thoughts in his head telling him he was an idiot, asking himself why it was always her.

“You sneeze on me yesterday and now break my jaw?” She whined dramatically, grumbling and pouty, cupping her chin and instinctively touching her lips. She gawped at Carl who's face was burning scarlet - not only had he been weird with her for months, hindering his progress with her at every turn by stepping on her toes or stabbing her with his fingernails when trying to hold her hand–something he was so embarrassed by he was timid to try again, especially after she began figuring out what his murderer name would be after he finally killed her–He had also just ruined his chances further by attacking her with his gracelessness.

“--I didn’t mean to,” Carl cringed at himself, heart pounding in his chest as he kept inwardly begging for the world to swallow him up right there, partly wanting to glare at her for bringing up when he sneezed on her - he had begged her to forget about it, he just wanted her to think he was cool. “Both times,” He muttered, “Any of the time–All of it.” He spilt, moving towards her with stumbled steps and fumbling arms. He tried to help her up - thanking god he at least held her hand with more ease this time.

He couldn't believe himself, he wasn’t awkward, he was outspoken and smart - but Jesus, he did not act like it... especially now, staring at her apologetically with a tight grasp on her upper arm as if she would flee if he let go, but in reality, it was to stop himself from falling to his face without her support, he felt dizzy.

“You’re fine,” [name] said, side-eyeing him as he helped her stand, feeling his hands shake against her. She usually found his clumsiness endearing, but she was startled this time, so much to process about that split second interaction. One thing [name] could tell was how by that tiny grimace on his face - one clouded by the most dorky, cringed, expression ever - that he was at the start of a migraine, and so was she if the pain in her chin radiated any further through her skull.

She started hoping their mistaken kiss would turn him into… well, just a Carl who didn’t keep colliding into her… but he wasn't a frog, and she was no princess, she scowled too much for it.

"You are fine? Right?" She asked, brows furrowing as she inspected his expression, seeing his jaw tight and eye squinted. "Just, Just a headache." He said, shaking his head and diverting his face further, not exactly wanting to look into her eyes when he was so mortified.

[name] huffed, Carl was back to his normal stubborn denial now, just with some extra embarrassment - he knew damn well she was about to tell him to take his painkillers, he'd give her that look as if to say 'Don't baby me' - he wasn't a child who needed to be reminded… but he couldn't bring himself to look at her after that colossal fumble, still flushed and awkward from basically kissing her. "I'm fine." He repeated, voice holding tenseness, something about how [name] stood quiet for a few seconds too long made him know she'd be teasing him soon enough for the massive blunder... he just wanted to get over it... and maybe smirk and kick his feet while thinking about how her lips briefly felt against his.

"...Why are you smiling?" [name's] brows furrowed further, watching Carl who held an expression mixed with pain, mortification and somehow cheekiness... his mind somewhere else for a moment.

Carl's eye widened when she called him out, looking at her as his tiny, dopey smile fell and got replaced with blabbering lips, "Shutup." He grumbled - getting ripped away from his lovey thoughts - about to let her hand go, yet he couldn't bring himself to, palm stuck to hers like glue, wanting to hold it too much to let it go.

(A/N) I hate writing in 1st / 2nd perspective so I just didn't... the use of [name] is pretty robotic but, hey... I have no defence. I kinda wanted to make this a 'neutral pronoun' fic but got pissy that my WiFi wasn't working so I didn't...

I just wanted to try writing fanfiction.. This was supposed to be a bot, and probably will still be. I didn't capture his character because I made him a dorky whump - I was in a silly mood!!

So yeah, first fanfiction, I felt like a completely stereotypical teenage girl writing this and I don't mind it.

#carl grimes x reader #Carl is a loser in this because I said so #carl grimes fanfiction #carl grimes x fem!reader #WHAT AM I DOING I CANNOT #He prolly has brain damage poor boy i will braid his hair #twd x reader #carl grimes fluff #twd fanfiction #carl grimes oneshot

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minisugakoobies · 9 months

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Paradise | JJK - Fourteen

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: smut, neighbors to lovers (not quite friends but not quite strangers), slow burn, love triangle, Stripper!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: drinking, references to blow jobs that happened like 60 seconds before the chapter starts, Jungkook's a bit possessive, Jin's a bit jealous, mentions of pregnancy, references to sex, 2021 AMAs Jungkook is the wedding visual, special guest stars Woosung and El Capitxn

Word Count: 7.5k

Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me

Summary: That sexy man on stage - the one currently giving your friend the lap dance of her LIFE - is your super shy neighbor, Jeon Jungkook?!

A/N: Happy two years of Paradise!! 🎉 Two years ago today, I posted the first chapter of what was going to be a five-part series. So to say I can't believe we're here is really no joke!! Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, reblogged, sent me asks or DM'd me about this series - this is all because of you! 💜💜💜

Unbeta'd as usual. Please don’t be a silent reader, I’d love to hear from you! Taglist is open. 💕

Previous Chapter ♦️ Paradise Masterlist ��️ Next Chapter

Turns out that impulsiveness looks pretty good on you.

Or so you think to yourself, catching your reflection in the mirror of the men’s room as you leave Jungkook to collect himself after giving him the best blow job of his life (your words - although, based on the look on his face as you’d swallowed, you might not be far off).

You hadn’t planned on dragging him into the bathroom like that, but upon seeing him walk out onto the terrace in that grey belted suit, looking like an absolute dream, well, you simply could not help yourself.

You also hadn’t meant to tell him you missed him last night. But you had, because you did. God, when had you turned into this - this massive simp? It was only yesterday morning that you’d woken up in Jungkook’s embrace. You’d barely spent 24 hours apart - so why were you so desperate to get back into his arms?

Of course, none of this matters right now. There are only minutes to go before the ceremony begins, and you need to pull your head out of the clouds and get back to Jennie and the others. Starting by escaping the men’s room sight unseen.

“YN!”

Or not.

As soon as you close the door, you hear Jin’s voice calling to you. He’s standing at the other end of the little hallway, near the entrance to the reception room.

“Hey,” you reply, trying to be the most nonchalant you’ve ever been in your life, as if you weren’t just gagging on Jungkook’s dick in a public bathroom.

Jin smiles as you approach, but there’s a gleam in his eye that makes you nervous, and you’re so busy trying to come up with a valid excuse for why he saw you emerging from the men’s room that you apparently forget how to walk, trip over the hem of your gown, and crash directly against his chest.

“Easy, tiger!” he laughs, arms locking around your back as he helps you stand back upright. “I’m used to ladies throwing themselves at me, but only you’ve taken it literally.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re pretty sure he’s not lying about fighting off admirers, given that he looks like a supermodel in his crisply tailored tuxedo. His bowtie is a little crooked thanks to being squashed by your face during your ungainly landing, so you gently fix it, and Jin thanks you with a soft grin.

“I left my glasses at home, so tell me - did I just see you leav-” Jin suddenly stops in the middle of his sentence, his gaze drifting over your shoulder. “Oh. Nevermind, I see.” He takes a step back, arms falling from your waist.

Another hand slips into yours.

Jungkook didn’t wait very long before following you out of the restroom. He squeezes your hand as you glance at him, but he stares directly at Jin, nostrils flaring slightly, eyes narrowed, lips pursed tightly as if - as if -

Oh, shit.

“You left this behind, jagiya.” Jungkook turns to you, his face shifting into a softer expression as he produces your clutch like some sort of trophy. You must’ve left it on the counter. “Did you want me to hold it during the ceremony?”

Your brain is lagging severely at the moment, trying to process two major facts at once. Fact one: Jin obviously realized that you were with Jungkook in the bathroom. Fact two: you completely forgot to tell Jungkook that Jin would be at the wedding. Which, given the events of the last 24 hours, it’s understandable that it slipped your mind, but this isn’t how you’d expected to officially introduce them. And he doesn’t exactly look thrilled to run into him now.

On top of that, Jungkook has asked you a question. And is now waiting for an answer, while Jin watches in polite silence.

“Um. Yes. Sorry, yes, can you keep an eye on it for me?”

Jungkook nods, tucking the clutch into his jacket and patting it lightly. “Of course,” he says, nodding solemnly, as if you’d just asked him to protect precious goods and not a cheap bag full of tissues and mints.

Jin clears his throat lightly.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Jin, this is Koo- Jungkook. Jungkook, Jin.”

Of all the ways for these two to meet, this might not be the most embarrassing, but it’s definitely up there. There’s still a bit of Jungkook’s taste lingering on your tongue as the two men shake hands, Jin wincing slightly.

You try to quickly fill Jungkook in. “Jin’s the best man.”

“Sure am.” Jin grins.

“He and Yoongi grew up together,” you add, ignoring Jin’s little interjection, knowing that Jungkook didn’t miss it based on the way his jaw flexes violently, as if he’s gnashing his teeth.

“Nice to meet you, Jungkook. That’s quite a grip you have there.” Jin slides his hands into his pockets. “YN’s told me a little about you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Jungkook replies, inclining his head slightly. His hand returns to yours, fingers locking firmly. “Wish I could say the same, but YN never mentions you.”

You try to control your face as you look at Jungkook. What did he just say?

Jin just grins wider. “So… she said you’re a dancer?”

“Yeah, I'm a dancer. But I’m also an artist,” Jungkook replies, chest puffing out slightly.

“Yes! You should see his work, Jin. He’s an incredibly talented painter,” you add, and the corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a smile. “I might actually have a photo on my phone…”

Jungkook doesn’t give you any time to check. “Y’know, I think I’ve heard of you. You’re a cook, right? I think my halmeoni watches your show.”

If Jungkook intended that as a jab, Jin shows no sign that he felt it. “Well, technically, I’m a chef. And a restaurateur. But yes, I do host a successful cooking program - actually, it’s about to be turned into a series for a major network.”

“Right. So like I said. You cook.”

Jin’s the one twitching now, his eyebrow rising slightly at Jungkook’s blasé tone. But rather than looking annoyed, Jin looks amused. Meanwhile, Jungkook is still glowering. You, though? Your smile feels a little strained as you try not to react to the snarky shots being fired off around you. Jungkook seems more rattled than you’d expected by Jin’s presence. You’ve never heard him talk like this.

“You’re right, I do cook a little,” Jin laughs. “I’d like to think I’m pretty good at it. But YN could tell you, since I’ve cooked for her a few times.” He glances at you, the sparkle in his eye you’d noted earlier back and twinkling a little too merrily for your comfort. “From what I remember, she’s been pretty satisfied every time.”

And you’d thought this couldn’t get any more awkward than running into Jin post-beej. How silly of you.

Jungkook’s fingers grip yours tighter. “And yet not satisfied enough to ever bring it up. Huh. Sounds like it was kinda forgettable.”

Jin’s eyes flicker to yours questioningly and you cringe, still struggling to come up with anything to say that could make this conversation less tense. At this point, you’d be better off wishing for the ground to open up beneath you, as useless as your brain is being.

Jin coughs. “Anyway, YN, Yoongi asked me to tell you to tell Jennie that the officiant is running a little late. Nothing to worry about!” he adds hastily upon seeing your concerned face. “Just caught in traffic. But on his way.”

Great, another thing for Jennie to stress out about. “Okay. I’ll let her know.”

Guests are starting to fill up the rows of chairs on the other side of the glass wall. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Lisa heading towards you, waving your bouquet. Thankful for the interruption, you stretch out your hand.

“Come on, we’re cutting it close on time!” she announces. “Hey, what happened to your lipstick?”

“Uh…” Rather than answer, you opt for escape, tugging on Jungkook’s hand lightly to urge him to follow you. “One sec, Lis. Come on, Jungkook, let’s find you a seat.”

“See you at the altar!” Jin calls behind you, and you wince, feeling Jungkook stiffen momentarily.

There’s an empty chair on the end of a row on the bride’s side. Jungkook folds himself into it, placing your clutch delicately on his lap.

“Um, so, we already took photos earlier, so I’ll just come find you after the ceremony.”

“Okay.” Jungkook chews on his bottom lip, nodding.

An unsettling feeling comes over you. Should you apologize for not telling him about Jin? Or say something about what just happened in the hallway? What did just happen, anyway?

Through the glass, you can see Lisa waving, pointing at her watch. Shit. Whatever happened, you’ll just have to talk about it later.

As you turn to leave, Jungkook grabs your wrist. He threads his fingers through yours, pulling you closer to him, until his lips brush your cheek. “See you soon, jagiya.” He gives you another soft smile, sunlight sparkling in his eyes. The angry scowl from the hallway is nowhere to be seen.

Your head is a mess as you follow Lisa. How had you not mentioned to Jungkook that Jin would be here? Damn, maybe he was right - maybe you really never talk about Jin.

Both men had warned you when you started dating them that they could get competitive. Apparently that meant passive aggressive disses and weirdly possessive behavior. If this is how the two of them are going to behave, you’re in for a long day.

A small room cordoned off from the rest of the rooftop restaurant has been turned into the bride’s waiting room. Jisoo’s doing a last pass on Jennie’s makeup when you arrive. She takes one look at you and reaches for a tube of lipstick sitting on the makeshift vanity.

“Babe, what happened to you? You look stressed.”

Rosé hums in agreement. “I expected you to stumble in here looking more satisfied than that. You dragged Jungkook away at lightning speed!”

“Pucker up,” Jisoo orders you, and you obey, letting her fix your lips.

“Mmm, well, I found her talking to both Jungkook and Jin in the hallway, so maybe that has something to do with it?” Lisa pipes up, eyebrow raised.

“Oh shit, did something go down?” Rosé asks, a little too excited for your taste.

“Well, actually,” you start to say, then shake your head. This is the last thing you need right now. This day is too important to be derailed by your love life. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Oh, but Jin did say that the officiant’s running a little late, Jennie. He’s on his way, so there’s no need to panic, but the ceremony might start a few minutes later than planned.”

“Oh, see, Jennie? I told you there was no reason to worry - now you’re not the only one who’s late!”

“Jisoo!” Lisa hisses. Rosé covers her mouth to suppress her giggles.

Jennie, who has been sitting silently since you walked in, inspecting her appearance in the makeup mirror, lets out a strangled sound that’s a cross between a laugh and a wail, and buries her face in her hands.

“Girl, please do not make me fix your makeup again,” Jisoo pleads as she crouches next to Jennie. You pull up a chair next to her and sigh, rubbing Jennie’s arm lightly.

“Ji’s lame attempts at humor aside, how are you feeling?” you ask.

Your best friend is absolutely radiant in her white gown, dark hair tumbling in gentle waves down her back as she turns to you.

“I’m still okay. I know things were a little… dramatic yesterday, but really, I’m okay today. You guys don’t have to keep asking me how I’m feeling.” Jennie clasps your hands, giving you a soft smile. “I’m excited and I’m nervous but more than all of that I’m ready to marry the love of my life.” She pauses. “I think maybe I should use the bathroom again, though. I guess I have some time.”

“I’ll help you,” Lisa volunteers, gathering Jennie’s train and following her out of the room.

You’re quiet until the door closes behind them. “Okay, was anyone else expecting her to freak out about the ceremony starting late?”

“She’s keeping it together, somehow,” Jisoo shrugs. “I think she’s still a bit in shock, honestly. But she’ll be okay.”

“She’s fine, as long as no one mentions anything about the you-know-what,” Rosé informs you, crossing her arms as she glares at Jisoo.

“You don’t have to censor yourself when she’s not in the room.” Jisoo rolls her eyes.

Your friends fall into their usual bickering, but you’re too deep in your thoughts about Jennie to bother telling them to knock it off. Maybe Jisoo’s right and she’s still adjusting. Just another reason to try to stay focused on her and make sure everything goes perfectly for her and Yoongi.

It’s the least you can do for your friend, after the day she had yesterday.

Yesterday

Friday morning brings you a sweet surprise. You weren’t expecting to wake up with Jungkook in your bed. He spent most of the night making you forget all about Taehyung’s joking offer to drop to his knees at your promise to help him, doing such a good job that you’d almost forgotten your own name, too. You’d figured he’d slip out in the middle of the night after you’d fallen asleep.

You were wrong. He’s still here, all messy bedhead and sleepy eyes, laughing quietly about alarm clocks and wrapping you up in his arms. He follows you like a puppy as you start your morning routine - into the shower, back into your room, and then into your kitchen - and honestly it’s no wonder that you decide to take the day off to spend it with him. The thought of repeating yesterday and hanging out with him all day is too tempting to refuse. Even though you’ll see him pretty much all day tomorrow at the wedding - look, if he’s down for it, then why not?

And then somehow the universe decides that your day has only been maybe a solid eight out of ten so far and decides to kick it up a few more notches, by offering you a possible life boat off the sinking ship that is your job.

Hey YN!

I know this is ridiculously fast, but my company has an opening, and I think you’d be great for the job! Long story short someone unexpectedly quit yesterday, so now we have a position we need to fill immediately. I hope it’s okay, but I’ve given your name to our VP in charge of hiring and she’d like to bring you in for an interview! She asked me to reach out and see if you’d be all right with coming in next week - I know that’s fast, but this is for a new project that’s being rushed to production so we really need someone to crunch some numbers ASAP!

Let me know if you’re interested!

Best,

Wendy

As if that’s not enough, Jungkook offers to help you practice for the interview, and suddenly you can’t see through the hearts in your eyes. Could he be any sweeter? You thank him, and he kisses you, and you melt, lost in his warmth.

Jungkook’s voice brings you back to reality. “How many more emails do you need to answer?”

“Um…” you stare at your laptop. “Let me just respond to Wendy and then I’m done.”

“Cool.” Jungkook stretches. His t-shirt rises with the motion, his Adonis belt briefly visible, and you know he’s caught your stare when he smirks. You quickly turn back to your computer, but he just wraps his arms around your shoulders, catching you in a back hug.

“I’m gonna go home and take off these dirty clothes,” he murmurs, teeth nipping your earlobe. “Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be waiting.”

“Fuck,” you breath. Jungkook laughs, obviously pleased at the effect he has on you. He’s such a tease sometimes. You’re trying to figure out how to flip the tables on him when your ringtone starts trilling.

Be still, my heaaaaart…

“Oh god, I bet that’s my boss, wanting to talk me out of taking off.” You frown as you check the screen. “Shit, it’s Jisoo. I gotta take this.”

“Hey, do you have a second?” Jisoo’s voice comes through a little strained. And loud. She’s talking over some sort of high-pitched wailing. It takes you a minute to figure out that it’s a person’s voice making that sound.

“Ji! What’s going on? Wait, what’s that sound? Is that Jennie? Is she crying?”

“Yeah, that’s Jennie. She’s - she’s had - well,” Jisoo sighs. “Look, I’m over at her place because I wanted to treat her to a manicure today because I know she’s been too busy to schedule one and you know how she gets about her nails so I thought it would be a nice surprise but when I got here - oh, you know what, this is not important to the story, why am I telling you this?”

“Just get to the point, Ji!”

“I’m trying! I’m sorry, it’s been a big morning and - what?” There’s a muffled conversation happening suddenly, and you stare blankly at your computer as you wait for Jisoo to return. You don’t know what the hell is going on, but you don’t like any of it.

“Just ask her to come over!” you hear Lisa say in the background. Lisa’s at Jennie’s, too?

“I was getting to that!”

With a frustrated sigh, you try to get Jisoo’s attention. “Okay, okay, I’m coming over!”

“Do you mind? I know you have to work-”

“No, I’m not working today, I….” You pause, knowing that Jungkook’s just in the kitchen, likely able to hear everything you’re saying, not wanting to embarrass yourself by admitting that you took the day off just to be with him. “It’s a long story, I’ll explain when I get there.”

You don’t end up explaining anything once you arrive. That’s because as soon as Lisa opens Jennie’s door, she greets you with a tiny white stick bearing two little pink lines. Rosé is right behind her, beaming from ear to ear.

“Oh my god.”

“I know!” Lisa grins, throwing her hands in the air. “Baby Min, coming to you soon!”

You frown, glancing over Lisa’s shoulder. “Where is she?”

The sound of Jennie’s crying gets louder as you approach the master suite. When Lisa stops outside the bedroom closet, you grab her arm.

“Before I go in there - are those happy tears or sad tears?” You’re pretty sure you already know the answer, but you need to know what to expect.

Lisa grimaces. “Somewhere in the middle, I think.”

Jennie’s curled up beneath the hangers of clothing stuffed into the closet that she shares with Yoongi. She’s wearing one of his oversized hoodies, sniffling into the black material as Jisoo, smushed into the corner beside her, carefully untangles herself.

“Tag, you’re in,” she says, taking the hand you offer to pull her to her feet.

There’s not a lot of room for you but you squish yourself in as best you can, and immediately tuck Jennie against you. Jisoo closes the door behind you.

“Hi, babe.”

“Hi,” Jennie’s voice is wavery and small, so far from her usual confident, cheerful tone, that it hurts your heart. “Did they tell you?”

“I saw.”

Jennie settles against you, hiccuping slightly through her tears. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I know.”

Jennie has been mapping out her and Yoongi’s future pretty much since the day they met. They both want to start a family, but Jennie insists that they enjoy their honeymoon period first. And she’s determined to make tenure at the school where she teaches before taking time off to have kids. She wants to have it all, but at her own pace and on her own terms. Which means timing everything out so meticulously. So carefully.

Gently, you brush a lock of hair from her wet cheek. “So… do you know how…”

Jennie sighs. “Pretty sure it was the night of my bachelorette party. I came home and Yoongi asked how it went and um, I kinda couldn’t stop talking about my lap dance.” Your friend’s face flushes at the memory, and you bite back a grin. You’ll have to tell Jungkook he left a lasting impression. “And Yoongi… well, you know how he gets competitive sometimes?”

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter.

“Yoongi gave you a lap dance?!”

“God, I wish I’d seen that,” Jisoo says from the other side of the closet door. “I’d love to know if he’s got moves.”

In all your years of friendship, you’d never known Yoongi to do more than a simple side-shuffle whenever Jennie would drag him onto a dance floor. The thought of him performing an erotic lapdance is too much for even your overactive imagination to conceive.

Jennie just smiles to herself. “Believe me, he does.” She glances at you shyly. “He’d kill me for telling you this but… you don’t think Jin choreographed his routine all by himself, do you?” she laughs, referring to the night Jin danced for you, and your brain breaks a little trying to picture Yoongi doing the same moves.

The closet door flies open.

“I’m gonna need to hear every last detail about that,” Lisa proclaims.

“Same,” Rosé adds, and Jennie laughs for the first time since you arrived. She sits up, dabbing at her face with the sleeves of Yoongi’s hoodie.

“Ugh, my face is going to be so puffy tomorrow.”

“No, it won’t. We’ll take care of you,” Jisoo promises, already on her feet. “I’ll go raid your kitchen for supplies. Do you have any cucumbers?” She’s gone before Jennie can answer, Lisa scrambling behind her.

“Anyway… we always use protection, but you know how they say it’s not 100% foolproof? Yeah, turns out they’re telling the truth.” She stares at her sweater paws, suddenly forlorn again, and you give her a tight squeeze.

“I’m sorry, babe. I know this is… a lot.”

“Yeah. And I just…” You don’t say anything, just wait patiently until she finds the words she’s searching for. “I just feel like a failure. You know? Like, it’s so stupid, but…” She shrugs. “I feel like everything’s ruined now.”

“Oh, Jennie, no!” Wrapping both arms around her, you sigh. “Accidents happen. That’s life! You can make all the plans you want but you can’t control everything. There’s chaos everywhere! And even if you do your best to avoid it, sometimes it gets through. And it’s not always bad! I mean… look at me and Jungkook. He came out of nowhere. I didn’t plan to start dating him and Jin at the same time. I didn’t know it was gonna get serious. I thought…” you trail off, realizing you’re making it about yourself. “Sorry, this is not about me.”

“No, it’s ok, finish your thought. Tangents and diversions are good right now,” Jennie informs you.

You bite your lip, weighing your words. “Back when Jin and I met, when you introduced us, I just thought… this is it. This is my chance to have what Jennie and Yoongi have. Something real. Something safe and steady.”

Jennie nods, encouraging you to continue.

“And then Jungkook… he’d always been so close but I’d never gotten to know him. He came in and opened my eyes to another possibility. To something exciting and different and - and passionate, and, oh god, I sound like a shitty romance novel, don’t I?” Burying your face in your hands, you laugh.

“No, go on!!” Rosé says.

“I’m just trying to say - plans don’t always work out. But that doesn’t mean you’re a failure. And sometimes, the unexpected can be exactly what you want. Or need.”

Jennie sighs, and you can feel her relaxing against you for the first time since you sat down beside her.

“I hear what you’re saying. And I’d like to believe that. It’s just… really difficult for me to accept that I’m not always in control.”

“That’s a fucking mood,” Jisoo says, returning from the kitchen with a mug of tea in her hand. Lisa carries a bowl of some sort of cucumber concoction, and the two of them settle on the floor outside the closet.

Rosé scoots across the carpet until she’s close enough to take one of Jennie’s hands. “Back to your chaos, if that’s what we’re calling it. Is it too soon to ask you what you’re gonna do?”

Jennie groans, pulling the oversized hood over her head.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

“I just want to get through the wedding,” Jennie states, voice muffled by the soft fabric. “I’m getting married tomorrow! And I don’t want anything to - to ruin it. Or make things weird, or more stressful than they already are. I mean, fuck, I think my halmeoni is already upset that we’re not doing a traditional wedding. Imagine if she finds out I got knocked up before marriage!”

“Okay, then we’ll make sure no one finds out tomorrow.” Lisa glances at everyone and you all nod in a wordless pact. “We’ll do whatever it takes to make sure your day is as perfect as you’ve planned. You know we will!”

“Does Yoongi know?”

Jennie peels her hood back to look at you. She shakes her head.

“I took the test this morning, after he left for work. I’ve been so busy lately that I didn’t even realize I was late until today! Ji was the first person to find out when she showed up, and then she called the rest of you.” She pauses, fiddling with her sleeves again. “I think I’m going to wait to tell him until after the wedding. We’ll need to have a serious talk, and there’s too much going on right now.” She glances up. “Is that - do you think that’s okay?”

Once again, she seems lost. This time, when you go in for a hug, Rosé joins you.

“Babe, you can tell him whenever you’re ready! It’s your body.”

“Yeah, but we’re in this together…”

“And you’ll be in it together still, no matter if you tell him today or tomorrow or next week.” Jisoo declares. She holds the mug out to Jennie. “And we’ll be here too.”

“Yes. Maybe this is good chaos. Maybe it’s bad. It’s up to you to decide how to react - how to move forward. Whatever you decide, you know we’ll be by your side the whole time,” you declare, your sentiments echoed by the other girls.

Jennie blows lightly on the steaming drink. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you guys,” she says, choking up slightly, and everyone else starts talking at once.

“You deserve the world!” Rosé coos.

Lisa shakes her head. “We’re the lucky ones, babe, having you in our lives!”

“How’m I gonna depuff your face if you keep crying?” Jisoo tuts.

You just rise to your feet, laughing. “Come on. Ji said something about manicures earlier. Let us pamper you today, so you’re ready to knock Yoongi off his apparently very talented feet tomorrow.”

NOW

The officiant is only a few minutes late, and the ceremony goes off without a single hitch. You and the other bridesmaids join the groomsmen flanking Yoongi at the altar. In addition to Jin, there’s Yoongi’s brother Geum-jae, and two of his friends from work, Yi-jeong and Woosung.

As a string quartet plays the wedding march, Jennie walks down the aisle, beaming more brightly than the sun, and you catch a glimpse of Yoongi’s face, bearing such an openly reverent expression that it makes your eyes flood with tears. The officiant begins his speech, and Jennie and Yoongi stare at one another as if the rest of the world has fallen away, with nothing left but the two of them and their love.

Watching them almost feels like you’re intruding on a private moment, so you turn your face to the rows of guests, searching without thought for Jungkook, smiling when you find him already gazing your way. Your chest nearly buzzes as warmth spreads there, matching the glow in his eyes.

Because Jennie and Yoongi chose to take photos before the ceremony, there’s no cocktail hour after the ceremony. Instead, everyone is seated for dinner. The happy couple sits at a table for two on a small dais in the front of the room.

There are no tables large enough for the entire wedding party. There are also no seating arrangements for all of you, either. Jennie had worked very hard on the seating chart for all of the guests except the wedding party. (“You guys figure it out. I’m tired.”) So you quickly claim a seat at one of the two empty tables left open, with Jungkook taking the spot next to you on one side and Jisoo the other, with Rosé next to her.

As the wait staff brings out the first course, you slide your chair a little closer to Jungkook. “Hey. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you that Jin would be here.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Jagi, it’s ok.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure it is,” you reply. “That was not the way I wanted to introduce the two of you. It was, uh, not ideal.”

Jungkook’s silent as he sips his water. He works his bottom lip between his teeth again, and you wish you could see inside his head, could get some sense of what he’s thinking, because sitting here waiting for him to say something makes your stomach churn a bit.

Finally, he sighs, reclining back in his seat as he looks at you. “I’m sorry if I made that uncomfortable. I wasn’t expecting to see him.”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t mention he was part of the wedding. Truly, it slipped my mind.” Repeatedly. You bite your lip, struggling to figure out what to say. This doesn’t have to be a thing, but you also don’t want them at each other’s throats all night. “But there’s no reason it has to be weird or ruin the night. Because I’m here with you, Kookie. Not him.”

Your pulse begins to pound. It’s like you’ve just laid your heart on the line. Jungkook’s furrowed brows relax, doe eyes blinking slowly as he absorbs your words.

“Is this seat taken?”

You turn to find Jin standing with a hand on the empty chair across from you.

Jisoo lets out a tiny “Yessss, game on,” and you covertly kick her under the table.

“Uh, I think Lisa is going to -” Glancing around, you don’t finish your sentence as you spy your friend sitting with the groomsmen. Oh, right. Lisa has her eye on Yi-jeong, having basically all but explicitly called dibs that morning when she saw him in his tuxedo. You can’t really blame her. “Nevermind.”

“Please, join us,” Jungkook offers, gesturing to the table. He says it so kindly that you can’t help but gawk at him in surprise. He doesn’t meet your gaze, but his palm rests on your thigh, rubbing lightly. Reassuringly.

Your heartbeat returns to normal as Jin smiles. “Thanks.”

Despite the ceremony being so modern, Jennie and Yoongi opted for more traditional dishes for dinner. For several minutes, there’s mostly an easy silence over the table, as everyone enjoys the janchi guksu and banchan in front of them, only the noise of clinking utensils filling the air. Well, that and the sound of the servers running back and forth to the bar, trying to keep up with drink orders.

Jisoo, as usual, is the first one to break the silence.

“Okay, Jin, professional opinion on the guksu?”

Jin chews thoughtfully for a few minutes. “I think they went a little heavy on the spicy soy sauce in the broth, but the noodles are just as tender as the ones I make. Oh, but you’ve had my noodles, YN, what do you think? Do they compare?”

All eyes focus on you, including Jungkook’s. You swallow quickly. “Um, I think these are just as good! And I really like the broth, to be honest.”

“You do like it spicy,” Jungkook murmurs under his breath, quiet enough that only you can hear him, and when you glance over, you’re met with that teasing smirk of his. It’s back again. For some reason, that’s more comforting to you than Jungkook’s hand on your thigh. Your heart does a somersault. It’s getting a real workout tonight.

“You know, I never really thought about it, but it must be hard for you to eat in public. People are probably always asking you for your opinions on their food, or tips on how to make it better,” Rosé says.

Jin shrugs. “Comes with the territory, I guess. I’m not gonna complain if people value what I think - and I’m always happy to help anyone improve their skills.” He swirls his wine glass before taking a sip. “But I suppose there can be a downside, too. Sometimes I just want to enjoy a meal without being asked to provide a full critique.”

“I can understand that,” Jungkook replies. Again the other heads at the table swivel.

“You can?”

Jungkook nods. “Yeah. Like, right now, I bet you’re all expecting me to be the first on the dance floor, right?” He laughs as everyone suddenly becomes very interested in their meals. “It’s okay. That’s how it is whenever I’m out with friends. I can’t just sit at the bar and have a drink. And I definitely can’t just sway with the crowd. Everyone expects me to show off.”

“I mean, I’m definitely hoping to see you turn up,” Rosé confirms, and Jungkook laughs again, gesturing at his point being proven.

“Sure, that sounds annoying. But outside of going out with your friends, how often are you in a situation where you’re asked to dance? People stop me everywhere. When I’m out shopping. When I’m on a plane. I even once had someone ask me for deglazing tips while I was at a funeral! It’s not quite the same as being asked to do the robot at the club.” Jin shakes his head dismissively.

Rosé mumbles, “I thought you weren’t gonna complain…?”

The two men eye each other for a few seconds as you hold your breath. Then Jungkook huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s not the same. That sucks, dude.”

You exhale, settling back in your seat.

Jin just hums, eyes darting back and forth between you and Jungkook before he speaks. “I suppose it’s just a small price to pay for being so successful.” He tips his wine glass back, emptying it. “Where are the servers hiding? I need a refill.”

“See, this is one of the benefits of being a financial analyst - absolutely no one wants to talk to me about what I do,” you grin.

“That’s because no one understands what you do,” Jisoo declares.

“She’s right.”

“Thanks, Rosé.”

Jisoo points her spoon at Jungkook. “Okay, but real talk, you are going to dance tonight, aren’t you? You wouldn’t deny us a show!”

“Ji, we just had an entire conversation about this!” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Can you not?”

“What? I’m just saying! The man is a born performer. Right?”

She looks at Jungkook, who nearly chokes on his wine in his haste to answer.

“Uh. Yes?”

“Right. So there’s no way you’ll leave us disappointed.”

“Let me get this straight - if Jungkook doesn’t dance for you, you’ll be disappointed?” you ask. “Hold on while I call Jimin and Taehyung real quick. Wait, sorry, I mean Min and Tae.”

“All I know is suffering,” Jisoo sighs.

“Oh, relax, Kitty Cat,” Rosé giggles, nearly doubling over at the confused look on Jin’s face.

As Jisoo loudly laments her choice of friends, Jungkook bends towards you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Don’t worry, jagi, whether or not I dance here, you can still have a private performance later. I’d never deny you.”

Heat works its way through your body as you shift in your seat, squirming slightly from the low rumble of his voice and the promise laced within. There’s a sudden prickling at the nape of your neck, that nagging sensation of someone watching you, but when you follow the feeling and glance over at Jin, he’s staring at his empty wine glass.

The tapping of a fork against stemware draws your attention to the married couple’s table. To your immense relief, Yoongi and Jennie had decided to nix the best man and maid of honor toasts, opting to say a few words themselves. Normally, Jennie does all the talking for the pair, but to your surprise, Yoongi rises to his feet, and the room falls silent.

“Jennie and I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for coming. It means the world to us that you took the time out of your busy lives to celebrate with us.” He glances down at his bride, who smiles back, and Yoongi’s gummy grin gets bigger than you’ve ever seen it. “As you all know, Jennie and I have been together since our first year of college. We’ve been through so much together - college, grad school, finding jobs, losing jobs, moving from apartment to apartment - but we weathered it all, because we always had each other.”

Jennie’s cheeks are wet as she smiles at her husband. Yoongi takes her hand.

“Jennie, I don’t know what life has to throw at us yet, but I want you to know that I’m never worried, as long as I have you by my side.” He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, and there’s a chorus of awwww’s from the guests, including yourself. Jisoo rolls her eyes, but they’re already spilling over with tears, and you poke her in the side as she laughs.

“Here’s to you, my love. And to all of you with us here tonight. We can’t thank you enough for your love and support. Geonbae!” He raises his glass.

“Cheers!” his brother shouts, and the cry is echoed around the room as everyone raises their glasses to the couple.

Just when you think you couldn’t be happier, once again you feel a hand slip into yours, pressing palm to palm, fingers threading through. Jungkook doesn’t say a word, too busy clinking his drink against everyone else’s, but his hand tightens around yours when you look at him, and you feel as though you could float right through the ceiling if it weren’t for his strong grip.

To think that you nearly hadn’t asked him to come here with you. What a mistake that would’ve been. Thank god you’d ignored the constant fear and doubt in your head and listened only to the steady sureness of your heart.

You’re getting better at it.

YESTERDAY

After you coax her out of the closet, you and your friends turn Jennie’s apartment into a mini spa, trying to help the bride-to-be relax. By mid-afternoon, as everyone is giving each other manicures, you realize that the window on your day with Jungkook is swiftly closing, so you text him to let him know you won’t be coming home any time soon.

Not long after that, the door to Jennie’s apartment opens, and Yoongi walks in, trailed by Jin.

Jennie greets her fiancé happily, hugging him with her hands held straight out so as not to smudge her pretty new pink tips. “You’re home early!”

“Couldn’t focus. Decided to call it a day.” As ever, Yoongi seems completely unfazed to see you and your friends at his apartment. Sometimes you wonder what it would take to ruffle him. Probably something extreme like the zombie apocalypse. “Figured I’d grab my stuff and then get some dinner with Jin.”

Although they weren’t holding to every tradition, Jennie had insisted that they spend the night before the wedding apart. So Yoongi would be crashing at Jin’s tonight.

Jin nods at the sound of his name. “By ‘get some dinner’, he means ‘take advantage of his friend’s restaurant and score a free meal.’”

“As if you weren’t the one who offered,” Yoongi drawls, ignoring Jin’s squeaky chuckling.

“Sounds good, baby,” Jennie smiles as Yoongi presses a kiss to her cheek before he shuffles down the hallway towards their bedroom. “Do you guys wanna get some takeout?”

While Lisa, Rosé, and Jennie argue about what they feel like eating, Jin catches your eye. “Hey, you got a second?” He jerks his head towards Jennie’s kitchen. Rising from the couch, you follow, closing the door behind you.

“What’s u-oh!” Your question becomes an exclamation when Jin suddenly pulls you in for a hug, long arms wrapping around your waist as he holds you tight.

“Just wanted to get you alone,” he says, nose brushing yours as he smiles. “Hi.”

This is where the butterflies should come in. Standing this close to this incredible specimen of a man, this paragon of perfection, would normally send them flittering through you. Shivers should be running down your spine. Any number of excited reactions should be happening right now.

Right.

Now.

Except… they’re not.

“Hi,” you echo, grinning a bit weakly. Jin doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong with your smile, locking his hands behind your back.

“I heard you got some good news today.”

Your eyes widen as your stomach goes into freefall.

“You know?”

How? How on earth could he know about Jennie being pregnant?? Shit, did Lisa leave the pee stick out somewhere? Jisoo told her to put it -

“Of course I know! It’s my show.”

“It’s your show?” What the fuck does that mean??

Jin honks in delighted laughter at your obvious confusion. “The interview Wendy emailed you about - that’s for my show! The one Nosh picked up?”

The room tilts as gravity returns your stomach to normal. “Oh! Oh, wow!” Of course. The new project Wendy had referenced - it was Jin’s cooking show! “Wait, so we might be working together?”

“Yes! Er, maybe! I don’t know how closely or whatever, but basically, the Nosh execs told me Wendy’s firm is responsible for budgeting and figuring out revenue streams and - and that’s really all I remember, sorry.” He laughs. “Most of what they said went straight over my head, to be honest. But I spoke to her on a conference call today and she told me they had an open position for the team that’s assigned to my show, and she’d asked you to interview.”

“Wow, that’s really…” you trail off, lost in thought. “Isn’t it… the other night at the networking reception, weren’t you saying it might be a travel show?” You have a vague memory of Jin telling you what he wanted to do with his show if it got picked up by a network.

“That’s right. I pitched it as an exploration of local delicacies that often get overlooked by tourists. I’ll be going around the country, visiting tiny, off the beaten path restaurants and bars, and learning how to make their favorite dishes.”

Traveling for work. That was one of the perks Wendy had rattled off when she’d given you the sales pitch for her company. So, if you got this job, did that mean you’d be traveling with Jin?

Your mind is already wandering, thinking about what this new job might entail, when Jin brings a hand up to cup your face. His thumb traces your jawline.

“Wouldn’t it be amazing? You and I, on the road together. Me, discovering new meals to cook for you…” His voice drops, a low murmur meant only for you to hear. “Maybe picking up some new dance moves to show off…”

He rolls his hips slightly, jostling you right out of your tumultuous thoughts.

“Doesn’t that sound good?”

“It does,” you reply, mouth moving on autopilot, not waiting for your head to decide if it agrees.

“I know I haven’t had the time to take you out properly, and I’m sorry for that. But this is my chance to show you that I’m still in this.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I like you. And I’m hoping it’s not too late for me to say that.”

If this were a romantic movie, the music would swell now, strings soaring as he tips your mouth towards his. It’s a perfect moment, lush lips caressing yours, sweet and unhurried, lingering like he doesn’t care if anyone else walks in.

It’s a perfect moment, for sure. Just, not for you.

“Jin,” you begin, stepping out of his embrace, “I need to tell you something.”

A/N Pt. 2: To be continued!! (Sorry, the chapter was getting a bit long and this felt like a natural stopping point… what do we think so far??)

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years

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Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 1: Moonstone]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a (newly widowed) daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

This series begins approximately 1 year before the events of Season 1, Episode 8.

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, truly unhinged flirting, low-level witchcraft, mentions of death and violence, some sexual references.

Word count: 3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

He changes every room he walks into; he drags your eyes to him like the sea swallows anchors.

You’re lacing up the back of Helaena’s gown—a rose gold color, free-flowing and feminine and delicate, just like she is—when the prince enters her chambers. You know it’s him without needing to look; you would recognize the rhythm of his steps anywhere. It’s a terribly intimate thing to know about a person you’ve never properly spoken to.

“Aemond!” Helaena chirps, beaming, opening her arms to embrace him.

With abruptly shaky, ungainly hands, you rush to finish lacing the dress and then retreat to the other side of the room. You busy yourself with reorganizing Helaena’s vanity as she climbs onto her tiptoes to throw her arms around Aemond’s neck. He is not one for sentimental displays of affection, but he tolerates this for her sake. He has a soft spot for her. When you steal a glimpse of them, Aemond’s glacial blue eye lands on you and then darts away.

“Come, brother, sit with me,” Helaena says excitedly, pointing to her table surrounded by four chairs. Aemond yanks one out and plunks down, swinging his boots up onto the table. He has positioned himself so that you are standing on his good side, so that he could watch you if he wanted to. Surely this is a coincidence. “How was your sparring with Sir Criston?”

“Satisfactory. How are the insects?”

“Oh, let me tell you!” Helaena produces a large wire cage from under the table. Aemond smirks as if he’s trying to figure out how life brought him to this moment. You have been Helaena’s lady-in-waiting for a full month now, and her younger brother is a constant fixture of her routine. At first, he appeared about once a day; now, it’s at least thrice. Sometimes he materializes for seemingly no reason at all, makes a few unurgent inquiries, does a lap or two around the room, and then leaves as unceremoniously as he arrived. Now, he listens politely as Helaena describes each tiny captive creature to him in excruciating detail: the beetles, the crickets, the butterflies, the saintly praying mantis. Once or twice, Aemond seems to glance over at you. It’s hard to tell for sure because you’re committing your full faculties to not staring at him. It is sort of working. You tug at the moonstone pendant you always wear—the one your mother gave you—trying to distract yourself.

“Lady Mormont,” Helaena says. Now she has the praying mantis in her hands and is letting it creep back and forth across her knuckles. “Is there any wine?”

You bring the pitcher to the table and fill two jeweled cups with a sleek, dark, red liquid like blood.

“Thank you, my love!” Helaena trills as you serve her first. She grasps the massive cup with both hands like a child. You aren’t sure how Hightower and Targaryen flesh melded to create something as blameless and benign as Helaena, but you’re certainly glad that they did.

You offer the prince his cup while peering demurely down at the table, determined not to look at him, petrified that once you begin you’ll never be able to stop. He doesn’t take it. You wait, and wait, and wait, holding the cup in midair. Helaena slurps her wine, breaking the laden silence. At last, your eyes meet Aemond’s; and sure enough, then you’re trapped there. It’s only a second or two, but it feels like a lifetime. He’s so beautiful it hurts, it quarries empty places into your bones that scream to be filled. The prince smiles victoriously and plucks the cup from your hand.

“And one for you too, I think,” he says in his low, commanding voice.

“For me?”

“Yes, you.” He takes a swig of his wine and pulls out the chair on his good side. Helaena watches, half-amused and half-puzzled. The praying mantis is now perched on her shoulder, pondering the scene with bulging, unnerving green eyes.

You pour yourself a cup and sit reluctantly beside Aemond. He studies you like you’re a painting or a sculpture or a tapestry, taking in every line and shadow. In truth, it is not ordinarily in your nature to be reserved; you are a Mormont, you were raised to be bold and courageous and self-reliant. It is something you’ve always been proud of. It is the reason why Queen Alicent thought you’d make an excellent companion for Helaena. And yet…here with the prince…you aren’t sure what he wants from you. You so desperately don’t want to disappoint him.

“I know you,” he says at last. In the meantime, Helaena has fetched a deck of playing cards. The praying mantis is still hovering vigilantly on her shoulder. “You’re Lady Y/N Mormont. But that’s what everyone calls you. That’s what my dear sister and my mother and all the people of the court call you.” He gestures with his cup, like he’s referring to the entire world outside of this exchange, this moment. “What am I going to call you?” He considers this…and then his eye flicks down to your pendant. “Moonstone,” he decides. His gaze is mischievous, baiting. And immediately, you realize what he wants. This is sparring, just with words instead of blades. He is giving you permission to be bold. He is giving you permission to be exactly who you are.

“And what shall I call you?” you reply. “Lanky Boy? Eyepatch? Silver Hair?”

Helaena covers her mouth with her hand and winces. No one ever mentions the prince’s maiming in his presence…although you’ve heard plenty of people mutter about ‘Aemond One-Eye’ behind his back. Miraculously, he is not offended. “Just Silver,” he says with a sly, crooked smile. “It’s sharper, it’s cleaner. It could be the name of a sword.”

“See, this is why you frighten people. Because you say deranged things like that.”

“Do I frighten you?”

“No,” you say honestly. He doesn’t. Sometimes it frightens you how much you want him, but that’s all.

Aemond seems to like this. His smile becomes a grin, toothy like a dragon’s. “Come. Play cards with us.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, please, won’t you play?” Helaena pleads. “It’s so much better with three. Three is a number of power.”

“There, it’s decided, you cannot refuse your lady,” the prince says. He deals out the cards with precise, powerful hands. “Tell me, Moonstone, how did you come to King’s Landing? You were married to some Hightower, were you not? Some distant relation. Very distant. Practically a nobody.”

You nod as you collect your cards and plot your next move. “I married Axel Hightower almost exactly one year ago. My father arranged it, he and Axel’s father had met while fighting in the Stepstones as young men and kept up correspondence.”

“Yet this was an ill-fated union, I gather. How did your husband die?”

“He was leading a trade mission and his ship sank in the Sunset Sea, gods rest his soul.”

“My condolences. How tragic. And not even a body to lay to rest?”

“The currents are terribly rough there. They found a few pieces of the wreckage and that’s all.”

“Do you still mourn him?” Aemond asks, and observes you with particular interest.

You debate this for a while before you answer. “I…regret that he lost his life and that his family is deprived of his company. But I wouldn’t say that ours was any great love story.”

“But you did fuck him,” Aemond says. Helaena blanches and gapes at him, scandalized. He shows the palm of his right hand in contrition. “Forgive me.”

You are delighted to prove that you aren’t rattled by his question. “Of course, as was required.”

“And did you find pleasure in it? He wasn’t a brute to you, was he?”

“Not a brute,” you say. “There was some pleasure in it.” You smile roguishly at the prince. For once, he seems caught off-guard; he doesn’t know where you’re going with this. “Not as much pleasure as I might have found with a different sort of man, perhaps.”

“Hm.” The prince shifts in his chair and clears his throat. “No children?”

“None,” you agree softly. This is a bit of a sore subject; to be married for nearly a year without conceiving does not bode well for your ability to bear children, a prerequisite for most advantageous marriages.

The prince pivots. “So he bored you, this Axel Hightower. He couldn’t keep up with you.”

“He was pleasant enough. We spoke about the weather and the price of wheat, things like that. Though I did quite enjoy cheering for him during tourneys.”

“Tourneys!” Aemond groans.

Helaena giggles. “He hates tourneys. Though he’d have wicked luck if he ever tried them.”

“They’re frivolous. They’re for cowards who can’t prove themselves in a real battle.” The prince lays down his cards on the table. You and Helaena follow suit. When he sees yours, his mouth falls open. “What…?”

“Not used to losing, Silver?” you tease.

He laughs, incredulous, immeasurably pleased, his eye glinting. He seizes all the cards and reshuffles them. “So you weren’t in a hurry to return to Bear Island after your husband’s untimely death? Well, who could blame you.”

“My father didn’t want me back.”

The prince’s brow furrows as he deals out the cards. “That seems unlikely.”

“He has eight other children and a brand new wife who’s my age to keep him occupied. He’s barely aware of my existence these days, I assure you.”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says gently.

“Don’t be. It’s not him I miss, nor Bear Island. There’s nothing for me there anymore. My mother…” Fleetingly, instinctively, you clasp your pendant and then drop it. “She died six months ago. In childbirth. They lost the baby too.” You feel your throat tightening, burning…and then you compose yourself. The prince is watching you intently. “After Axel died, his father wrote to his cousin the queen and asked if she had any use for me, and she thought I’d make a fine lady-in-waiting because…well, you know…” You nod subtly to Helaena.

“Because you’re a Mormont,” the prince says, strangely proud. “Because you’re steady and tough and pragmatic and worldly.” Everything my sister is not, he means.

“Exactly.” Wine is sipped. Cards slip from one hand to another. Helaena’s praying mantis is now on top of her head, stepping carefully over her snow-white hair. The servants come in to light the fireplace for the evening and then vanish again, but not before casting wide-eyed, wary stares at the prince. He mystifies them. He terrifies them.

“And so you find yourself here, in our service,” Aemond muses, passing you a card. “Can I ask you just one more impolite question?”

“You can ask her anything,” Helaena murmurs dreamily, and you both turn to her. The praying mantis bobs idiotically on her head. You hate her insects, though you try not to show it.

“Yes,” you tell the prince when you recover.

“What do you think of my loathsome half-sister Rhaenyra Targaryen, plotting her life away up in Dragonstone?”

You ponder your cards. “I feel sorry for her. That she is so maligned, that King Viserys’ affection for her has brought her so much hardship and acrimony and judgement. But she is the king’s choice. There is no denying it.”

Aemond is disappointed in you. “Her heirs are bastards.”

“Of course they are. Everyone knows they are.”

“And yet you don’t find that to be disqualifying?”

“I don’t think it really matters,” you confess. “The king chose Alicent Hightowner as his mate and companion—despite her distinct lack of silver hair or affinity for dragons—and yet their children are no less Targaryens. If Rhaenyra chose Harwin Strong, what is the difference? Her children are equals to you. They are half-Targaryen and half-not. And as far as I can understand it, their right to the Iron Throne passes uninterrupted through their mother.”

“So you support the Blacks and believe Rhaenyra should sit the Iron Throne.”

“No,” you reply simply, and that’s the truth.

“Why?” the prince asks, searching your face. “Because you still feel some helpless, blind allegiance to my mother’s house? Is it really as banal as that?” Are YOU as banal as that, he means.

You shake your head. “I don’t think the nobility would ever accept Rhaenyra. I don’t think the common people would either. Thus she can be no true queen.”

Now the edges of his lips curl into a ghostly, luring smile. “To challenge her claim would mean war.”

“War resulting from this particular dilemma, I fear, is inevitable.”

“And this doesn’t horrify you? Doesn’t make your blood run cold?”

“No,” you answer. “Battle purifies us, it renews us, just like fire. The worthy will survive.”

He looks at you for a long time before he speaks, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace. “This is dangerous, Moonstone. You are beginning to intrigue me.”

“Just beginning?”

The chamber door flings open and Aegon staggers inside. He has dark racoonish rings around his eyes and his hair is in disarray and he is obviously, pathetically drunk. “There you are!” he cries when he sees his brother. He leans against a marble column so he doesn’t fall over. “Mother is looking for you. She says you are supposed to dine together tonight. She wants to discuss a Baratheon marriage…or was it a Lannister marriage? Some sort of marriage, that’s for sure. To a woman. A human woman. A very wealthy and well-connected human woman.”

Aemond sighs as he places his cards on the table face-down. “Yes, it’s always about a Baratheon or Lannister marriage. Or an Arryn marriage. Or a Stark marriage.”

“Well, hello there, Lady Mormont!” Aegon says, noticing you for the first time. He waves from where he is propped against the column. You bow your head civilly in reply. You’ve heard plenty of gossip about Aegon since arriving in King’s Landing, although he’s never done more to you than make a few unsavory jests. You rebuffed them as rudely as you dared to.

Aemond’s eye scans the two of you and then narrows. “Does he bother you?”

“Hardly,” Aegon objects. “When I bite, she bites back.” He snaps at the air like a rabid dog.

Aemond chuckles. “As she should.” He stands. “Don’t clear the table,” he orders you with mock sternness. “I’ll return after dinner. We have our own little tourney to finish here. I’m coming back.”

“As you wish,” you say, realizing that you miss him already.

When he passes the column where his brother stands, Aemond halts. “You will not harass her,” he says darkly. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword. He towers above Aegon, dwarfing him.

“I certainly won’t,” Aemon hastily agrees. He appraises you, gives you a nod of approval—of acceptance—and spins around to follow Aemond out of the room, lurching and grabbing for walls to steady himself against.

“Now, back in the cage, my love,” Helaena informs her praying mantis as if it were an unruly child. She unlatches the miniature metal door and places the creature inside with the other six-legged captives. Then she asks you: “Is it too warm in here? I know we Targaryens like it hot. But you’re from the North. Perhaps you are sweltering. Perhaps I am torturing you.”

“No, I like the heat as well.” In truth, you’ve been too preoccupied to notice it.

“Good, that’s good. Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.”

You startle. Her words hit you like a fist, like lightning. A cold sweat breaks out on your skin; a shudder claws its way up the rungs of your spine.

But when you ask Helaena what she means, she doesn’t remember saying it at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Long after nightfall—after Aemond wins two card games and you both conspire to let Helaena win the last, after the prince retires to his own chambers, after you fetch the princess’s nightgown and brush her long white hair and accompanied her to say goodnight to her children, after the Red Keep has fallen quiet under the rising full moon—you sneak unnoticed out of the castle and into the godswood. You take only a small bundle of items with you: a candle, a piece of flint, a dagger with a hilt shaped like the roaring bear of House Mormont, other secrets as well. You walk until you find the heart tree, where the Old Gods can hear you even here, so far from the wild North.

You don’t know if you truly believe in magic, but it makes you feel close to your mother. She gave you these spells, and she gave you knowledge of the Old Gods, in the same way that she gave you the moonstone pendant strung around your neck.

You place the candle—vivid red, the color of passion and willfulness and fire and blood—on an exposed, ancient root of the heart tree and light it by striking flint against the dagger blade. Then you wait until melted wax drips down the candle and seals it to the root. With the small dancing flame, you burn three things to ash: the feather of a dove, the petal of a red rose, and a tiny piece of parchment with two words written on it in red ink: Moonstone, Silver.

“I don’t ask for him to want me,” you murmur to the nameless Old Gods. “I don’t ask to change his heart. His heart is his own. But if…if he does want me…in the same way that I want him…” You close your eyes and clasp your hands together in prayer. The night wind tears through your hair. In the starlit quiet, you can hear the distant rumbles and screams of dragons. “Let us find a way.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #hotd imagine #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine

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ozzgin · 9 months

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Ok, could I just say I LOVE how you write for your Baki characters, they're always a treat 🥺✨️

May I request another prehistoric reader, but when they revived her along with Pickle, she just looked so roughed up that she looks like the definition of surviving

What could cause such scars? Well they wouldn't have to wait long since turns out she's like really clumsy, like "nearly losing an eye by tripping on air and onto a metal pole" clumsy

Pickle just has to be by her side every time to catch her before she actually lose something

I love the idea! I can definitely picture it, thank you for the suggestion and the kind words!

Baki Headcanons: Prehistoric! Clumsy Reader

Featuring Pickle and his challengers and one tough looking reader that turns out to be just extremely clumsy.

The men scan your features with a cautious defensiveness. Here you are, standing tall next to Pickle, with a similarly toned body yet peppered with scars and old wounds. Assuming you have the same survival skills as Pickle, what could you have possibly fought to leave you with such extensive damage? The air is tense as they analyze the possibilities. A T.Rex? It was your main source of food. Multiple of them? Entire packs of ancient elite predators? Were you the main hunter of the pack, taking on challenges that left the other humans scurrying away in fear?

It doesn’t take too long for the mystery to solve itself. The first one to pick up on it is Baki, who just happened to be visiting the enclosure. You’re in the middle of a playful scuffle with Pickle when you decide to impress the newcomer with your signature move. You extend one arm and twist your body slightly, as if gaining traction. Pickle can immediately tell what is about to happen and growls at you, but it’s too late. You swing, and the fist lands in your own face. Baki gasps in shock and you blink a few times in order to process the succession of events. Good Lord, you’re just clumsy. Terribly so.

Now, they have to admit, being this dangerous to yourself and making it this far is rather impressive. Whether in a good or a bad way is another story. The major force of reason in your life seems to be Pickle. Whenever possible, he’s there to stop your ungainly displays. He’s lifted you from the ground more times than he could ever care to count. Truth be told, he does enjoy the fact that you’re this dependent on him. Outside of your clumsiness you’re quite capable and he likes to have one area where he can prove himself as a partner to you.

It’s almost like you and Pickle crawled out of a slapstick comedy. The men are nearly temped to fabricate their own scenarios to check whether you come out unscathed. They’d rather not upset Pickle more than necessary, however. And witnessing your lack of coordination first-hand has also awakened a similar worry towards your safety.

Before they know it, they’re stopping mid-conversation to check on whatever shenanigans you’re up to, ready to interfere. Retsu will silently interrupt your failure and pretend nothing has ever happened, sparing your embarrassment. So does Katsumi, after having a good laugh about it. He finds you extremely entertaining and always compliments your gift of getting into trouble.

Jack doesn’t like to make his empathy known. He’ll ‘accidentally’ step in front of you moments before you’re about to crash into a wall. He just so happens to hold the edge of the barrier right before your head collides with it. Move along, there’s nothing to see.

With Baki there's always a 50% chance he'll fail miserably together with you instead. He's about to stop you from tripping and in doing so his chin hits the pavement at the same time as you. Thankfully Pickle has two hands.

Even Yuujirou is forced to comply with the unspoken rule. He’s been told repeatedly of the importance you and Pickle hold from a cultural and scientifically perspective and he doesn’t disagree with it. Depending on his mood he will laugh at your misfortune or arrogantly scold you, but either way he will prevent your injury. He’s also secretly impressed by your durability.

#baki #baki the grappler #baki hanma #baki headcanons #baki x reader #pickle baki #pickle x reader #prehistoric reader

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maxwell-grant · 2 months

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Thoughts on the master of fear, Scarecrow? Also, fave design, he has so many good ones (second BTAS, his trading card one, mistress of fear, Gaslight,, fear for sale, the Arkham Games etc)?

Hey so, do any of you remember Batman Live? It was this really fun, extravagant stage show that touched on a lot of Batman hallmarks and was generally a really fun time as far as I recall. I went to the São Paulo premiere with my family, and I was a little too young to really recall most of it now, but some things I definitely remember like the huge Joker hot air balloon made of performers in bodypaint, or the comedy sequences in the Iceberg Lounge. The one thing that stuck with me the most was when the Scarecrow showed up. Batman goes to Arkham Asylum and the entire comedy camp tone drops dead, as he walks in and finds all these bodies in straightjackets hanging from chains, and the doors open as The Scarecrow walks towards him in stilts, summoning loud smoke eruptions that are poisoning and weakening Batman as he leers over him. That part actually did scare me as a kid, and it was probably the first time I had any kind of feelings on Scarecrow imprinted in me.

I was introduced to The Scarecrow as this uniquely horrifying villain who could terrify through presentation alone. I didn't particularly understand what the fear gas was, I was too taken with that ungainly thing up there with the stilts and all those people turned into cadaverous decorations, lurking from the endless halls of the asylum, who towered over everyone and placed Batman into a writhing breakdown with a few gestures, and never appeared again until the cast roll, completely absent from the rogues gatherings after. Granted, of course that's because the stilts prevented him from joining the fight scenes, but that helped to reinforce his mystery. He wasn't someone Batman was going to punch back, no no, the Scarecrow simply vanished as soon as he was done with disarming Batman, and you'd just have to pray for that unfathomable creep to never show up again.

And I'd say this might be part of why I've never been too big on the fear gas, in part because I was first enraptured by a version of The Scarecrow who clearly didn't need it that much, or at least, could do much more besides it. The Scarecrow is, I'd say actually one of my top 10 DC characters, half of that on the basis of his designs, but he's a character who tends to really, really struggle under a lack of cohesion and being subordinate to his gimmick, much more so than the other rogues. The fear gas is a good gimmick, but it is just that, a gimmick, and one that's usually reliant on how far can the story push the horror and the visuals to at least make it effectively scary for us, otherwise it gets incredibly boring very fast, and it's not even a gimmick exclusive to him since so many other characters have similar mind control/illusion abilities/gadgetry at hand (and to say nothing of Hugo Strange, who first used fear gas and who quite frankly kicks the Scarecrow's ass in terms of quality storylines, although Hugo does that to most of the other Batman villains too)

The Scarecrow has become the go-to character for hallucination sequences / revisiting character traumas, which frequently makes him less of a character and more so a convenient plot device, a problem heightened by the larger issue here that is his inconsistent motivation, or lack thereof. He lacks the kind of "breakout" stories that his fellow major Batman villains have had that usually cement an ongoing characterization, and his most famous/celebrated appearences in mass media don't really do much to combat the assertion that he is shallow and weak and whose only asset is the gas (namely, his boss fights in Arkham Asylum, which are all about the fear gas hallucination scares, and his role in Nolan's Batman, which is very fun, but also purposefully plays him up for ridicule and lack of depth next to the other villains)

These days, the Scarecrow is a tedious pip-squeak. His schemes lack verve, his cruelties stir little in the way of frissons. Haunted by cliché to an even greater extent than the other rogues, he’s often brought low with a single sock to the jaw delivered by Batman, or by finding himself on the receiving end of his own fear-inducing concoctions. He often acts as a pawn in the hands of bigger, badder third parties. He’s ostensibly a stand-in for the figure of the reductive, smug and hypocritical psychologist, nicely bundled up for the audience to humiliate in effigy - TheMindlessOnes's rogue review for Scarecrow

In "Nothing to Fear" it is explained that Jonathan Crane has always had this "thing" for scaring people. (Just as Snidely Whiplash had his "thing" for tying women to railroad tracks, I suppose.) But this is a wan kind of motive. One senses sadly that the real motive for the Scarecrow's behavior lies in the writer's need for someone to do something reprehensible. At the root of the matter may be a difficulty in sorting out the Scarecrow's ends from his means, with a consequent confusion between the goals the Scarecrow intends to reach and the tactics he employs in reaching them.

As a psychologist specializing in phobic disorders, Crane knows how to induce fear and trembling in his victims. But this tells us nothing about what the Scarecrow wants to accomplish. And without a sense or statement of what those goals are, the writer will be tempted to substitute means for end and make the Scarecrow's goal simply the scaring of people. Usually his actions are woefully underexplained - Dreams in Darkness' review by Toonzone

You might think that I'd be advocating for the Scarecrow, then, to disregard a need for a motivation and become as unknowable and horrific as possible, to recapture the awe I felt at his Batman Live self, but no, not at all. For one, I don't think the best version of anything is necessarily the one that made the most impact on me as a kid. Two, there have been some attempts over the years to remove Scarecrow from the toxin or seriously amp him up as a threat, and frankly, most of those have only made the character dramatically worse and more boring (I don't remember the name, but there was a Batman story a while ago where he goes on a big scary killing spree with no toxin just to prove he can and it was fucking terrible). Three, and the big one here, is that this pretty much forces you to get rid of Dr. Jonathan Crane, and I think that does a disservice to the character's potential. I think that's giving up on trying to make him work as a character and I don't think you have to do that.

My preferred characterization for Crane is one that emphasizes his nature as a scholar turned supervillain. The cold and misanthropic and neurotic nerd professor who spent most of his salary on books and took to terrorizing the city as a costumed criminal in part because he wanted money to buy more books. Who takes off the costume mid-crime spree to school his henchmen on specifics of brain chemistry, who gets revenge on those that wrong his students or even employs them as henchmen, still the same guy who thinks there's nothing wrong with firing a loaded gun in a packed classroom as a demonstration. Far less interested in human connections than he is in human reactions, things that can surprise him or that he can catalogue or research or write about. Someone who's not a sadist for sadism's sake, but who doesn't really see you as a person so much as he sees a test subject. I like Crane as a snarky humorous heel who thinks of himself as amoral and mature while doing horribly immoral and childish things, the Herbert West or Rusty Venture of Batman villains (James Urbaniak is definitely the voice I'd pick for him).

My preferred kind of motivation for him is something along the lines of how he's portrayed in most of Kings of Fear, where he puts Batman through the wringer in part as an attempt to get to him and cure him once and for all, or issues #4-5 of The Batman Adventures where he induces city-wide illiteracy in part as a protest against the city's failing education. In Gothtopia he makes all of Gotham hallucinate their perfect ideal lives, eliminating the crime rate but causing the suicide rate to spike up in return, and yes it does turn out to be the set-up for a really generic "fear gas everyone with blimps and make everyone twice as scared" pay off when his involvement is revealed, but I always thought Scarecrow being able and willing to do that, to create these huge and even benevolent-seeming social experiments, as an idea with legs. Fear State was frustratingly halfway there, with the initial set-up of Scarecrow pursuing a theory for fear-based social upheaval, but on top of not being very good, it also wound up that he was just doing the same old thing again and had Batman call him out as someone who just wanted to gas the city and make everyone scared again and never changes and does anything different, which seemed like Tynion defeating his own purpose of trying to make a defining Scarecrow story and address his lack of one, completely failing to address the why the character has that kind of problem and upending itself for meta commentary before doing anything interesting.

Even Kings of Fear, easily the best Scarecrow story of the past decades if not outright ever, kinda ends in a bit of a cop-out where The Scarecrow has to be wrong ("Even when he's telling the truth, he's lying, and even when he's right, he's wrong", Gordon tells Batman to reassure him, to nullify the past 5 issues criticizing and tearing into Batman from every angle imaginable), and he has to be a sadist who just wanted to fuck with Batman and uncover his worst fears because it's what he does. Why does Scarecrow want to unravel people and wrench their worst fears into the surface? Because he's a sadist who gets off on it? I guess that's the canon answer most of the time, but it's such a boring, weak one. Because he wants revenge on the world / bullies? Still weak, done better by other villains even. Because of an unspeakably traumatic childhood that taught him the world was ruled by fear and therefore driving him to become it's master? Okay, but it still doesn't actually answer what he wants to get out of doing what he does.

We know that Jonathan Crane was a fragile youth routinely terrorized and abused by others and plainly traumatized by his experiences. We know that he is learned and brilliant and given to introspection and fantasy.

From this base it is not hard to imagine Crane turning into a man fiercely devoted to solitude and study and capable of a murderous rage when his privacy is violated. It is possible, in other words, to imagine him as a reactive force, in the mold of Freeze, systematically terrorizing and destroying anyone who crosses him but rarely wanting to start trouble himself.

Or we can imagine him as a mercenary, a specialist hired by others for nefarious purposes, but who is not himself strongly motivated by particular rages or desires.

But if the Scarecrow is going to remain a sadist and a sadist only—if he is going to be moved only by the psychotic desire to harm others—we ought to be made to feel the seductive power that sadism has over its practitioners; we should be made to feel and appreciate the hot and sour joy that comes from the purposeful humiliation of another - Dreams in Darkness review by Toonzone

It's kind of a frustrating pattern in a lot of his stories where he gives a reason for doing something, and it turns out to be a cover for yet another sadistic fear gas attack, but his cover reason was a more interesting motivation for him than what he actually was going for. A villain who mainly just gets a kick out of hurting people and concocts bullshit excuses and reasons to justify said hurting? The Joker does that already, but the Joker always clearly states what he wants and has all those ways to make cruelty for cruelty's sake entertaining. If that's all The Scarecrow is also, no wonder he's going to be so incredibly lacking most of the time (nevermind the fact that he's never going to be the guy most infamous for gassing Gotham City).

Yes, he may be sadistic and cruel, he may enjoy what he does too much, and maybe there really isn't any kind of realistic explanation as to why a man would dress up as a scarecrow to commit terrorism and spray innocent people with chemicals to make them terrified, but refer to the guy he's fighting. "Realistic" is the wrong term. The issue here is less "why" the Scarecrow does what he does, and more what is he hoping to get out of it. Granted, this is less of a concern if you're playing The Scarecrow as a figure of horror, someone who's not even really human underneath that outfit. But I think that locks away much of his versatility. The Scarecrow needs Jonathan Crane, and I think there's good stuff to like about that awful man.

I like Jonathan Crane the sardonic pragmatic scientist who still embraces his hopelessly ridiculous life, a guy who's not nearly as above it all as he'd like to be and has wants and needs moreso than he really likes to admit. I like him as a book lover, as a fan of horror, I like him as the kind of guy who'd send fan mail to Elvira and break out of Arkham just to catch a Halloween parade and guest star in a Scooby-Doo movie for a change. I like him as someone who'd have a decent working relationship with the other rogues and pal with the Legion of Doom and get into a physical spat with Riddler over a chess game. Someone who custom-makes his own outfits and equipment, who makes scythes out of animal bones to fight Batman with, who picked the scarecrow motif in part because it was a term of derision his colleagues used on him.

Who pours himself over his research as he records his theories in a tape recorder, the kind of guy who grouses at having to clean another cell because he's getting annoyed at his test subjects killing themselves, seriously guys the cleaning supplies for this batch were as fresh as they could be, and the iguana amygdalas I used should be stopping your neocortexes from overreacting this strongly. Subject #3 over there got over his fear of centipedes yesterday and he hasn't screamed all morning, I'm gonna need the rest of you to stop being such babies, okay?

It must be terribly liberating for Crane, to transcend mere ugliness and become inhuman. Of all the rogues, he’s easily the one who takes Batman’s “I need a disguise; I shall become a beast of the night” schtick and runs with it the farthest - TheMindlessOnes's rogue review for Scarecrow

And that's for Jonathan Crane, man of science. The Scarecrow, however, is not science, he is unreason incarnate, and to me what most makes The Scarecrow work as a Batman villain has nothing to do with "they both use fear as a weapon", I always thought that was a bit shallow of an angle to pursue (most, if not all, the villains rely on fear, it comes with the whole "crime" thing). The two have a stronger connection via the costume, the theatricality, the becoming a creature of the night angle. None of the other major Batman villains are going into their costumes the way The Scarecrow is. They have their personas and varying degrees of division between them and their "real selves", but few of them are wearing outright identity-separating Halloween Monster Costumes with separate names and personalities they can dip in and out of at their convenience.

And I'm gonna interrupt myself to answer your second question. I couldn't pick just one design, so counting the Batman Live one above, I picked 10. These are not in order and they're not necessarily how I'd design him, I'd say my actual favorite Scarecrow designs are fan-made, but if I was going to pick out of "official" material these are the ones I'd go for. It's time for:

(Left-to-right: George Pratt's Scarecrow pin-up, Phil Jimenez's Scarecrow design, Ed Natividad's concept art for Suicide Squad)

(Left-to-right: His TNBA design by Bruce Timm as drawn by Luciano Vecchio, Alex Ross's design for Justice, and Tim Sale's Scarecrow)

(Left-to-right: Kelley Jones' design for Kings of Fear, Jeremy Raapack's design for Legends of the Dark Knight #25, Scarecrow's design in Happy Halloween, Scooby-Doo!)

*cough*, anyway: Most of the other rogues with their signature suits or masks or body distortions don't tend to have closets full of different variant Batsuits and scarecrow costumes to choose and devote to their cause and ideal, that they sit at night tailoring on how to make scarier or more loaded with weapons, that they might even have conversations with, things that sit in their closets waiting because both of these brilliant men, men who have (or at least had) different civilian lives, men who could stop doing this at any time, who both decided that becoming a Halloween monster prowling the streets to inflict terror is a necessary, even productive use of their time.

And I think that's the key word I want to end here, productive. I think The Scarecrow needs to be more productive. Because even if he's not aware of it, he is achieving progress via his research, and there is one way he's proved his ideas: Batman walks out of every fight they have stronger. Every encounter they have is a test that Batman resists and walks out of more able to cope with his own traumas, or at least, better able to resist them being weaponized against him. I always wanted to explore the idea that Crane is genuinely convinced he's doing people a favor or at least achieving something via all these horrible Scarecrow campaigns, and one thing he has achieved is that Batman is never not prepared for chemical attacks or assaults on his mind, Batman resists ungodly trials of willpower and determination and courage, in part because he has to deal with the Scarecrow pumping terror juice in his brain semi-regularly.

The fact that Crane loses and gets beaten up and has to retry schemes again and again and kill people and join the costume parade just to lure Batman is fairly inconsequential to him, so long as it gets results. He's not interested in dissecting Batman's brain or being more like Batman, that's Hugo Strange's thing. Hugo Strange needs Batman to be fearless, allmighty and perfect, where as Jonathan Crane wants nothing more than to unearth and study the fears and kinks in the armor, the dead last thing he wants is a perfect man. Hugo Strange wants to crawl naked into the mask of the great and terrible fascist and never come out, where as The Scarecrow wants to crack open all the masks in the world and feast luridly on whatever seeps out.

Batman isn't just the ultimate trial against his fear-ruled worldview (or even affirmation), and he isn't just a breakthrough waiting to happen: he might be his greatest success as of yet. A case study on the success of exposure therapy, proof of potential medicinal applications for his formula, the greatest guinea pig of all time because he won't die no matter what you pump into him, you name it. So what if all those other people couldn't stomach the procedure, so what if those precious innocents are too weak and stupid and useless to not get in the way of research, it's clearly worked wonders for those who could take it.

And if the future belongs to men like Batman, if all of these superheroes and supervillains are the way things are going to be like forever, if the future is Bat-shaped and as vast and uncertain and horrible as the forces shaping it, the future needs to be prepared. The future needs to grapple with it's past and face it's greatest horrors and become stronger for it. There is no such thing as overcoming fear, there is only living with it, embracing it, bowing to the primordial instinct that knows the answer before you do. Mankind grew and developed it's intelligence and tools out of fear, fear of the bigger predators out there, fear of the other cavemen, fear of starvation and death and everything they couldn't understand and master until they learned to fear it. What better knowledge to pass along than fear? And who is better qualified to teach about fear?

Maybe Crane isn't just another monster with a grudge, maybe he isn't another costumed revenge killer, maybe he isn't just a power-tripping sadist bully out to torment others because he can, and maybe he isn't a hopeless traumatized madman who destroyed his professional and personal life in a monstrous quest to satisfy an obsession ruling his soul.

Maybe he is a sane response to an insane situation. Ever heard that one before?

#replies tag #superheroes #batman #dc comics #scarecrow #the scarecrow #jonathan crane #gotham city

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welcomingdisaster · 1 month

Text

revenant

maedhros & nerdanel | t | ao3

The first sound he remembers is a woman’s voice. It is soft—there is sadness in it, at first, before it is overshadowed by an artist’s precision, sentiment giving way to craft.

“Yes,” she says, “quite right, for the shade of his hair; only it has been finer, and curled less. He was not quite so tall—his memory betrays you there. I would have him brought down perhaps half an inch. His eyes—”

The first touch he remembers is a calloused hand on the side of his face, a caress along his cheek. Fingers gently pulling back his eyelid. A glimpse of a marbled ceiling, columns decorated with sculpted stone flowers, all white. He can feel her lean over him. Can see her hair. Fine and brown, very slightly curled. Almost red.

“The shape is right,” she says, “and the eyelashes. But I do not remember them so pale.”

The first scent he remembers is hyacinths, and then rock dust. Wind tickles his skin. He turns his head and sees her, bending over him. Her face is unwrinkled, her lips pale, cheeks a little pudgy, eyebrows and eyelashes a chestnut brown.

“Are you awake, Maitimo?” she asks.

He nods.

Some cloud flits over her features at that, some grief, some doubt. Old hurts hang in the air between them. Then she quashes it. Speaks, now, to him. “Say something.”

“Something,” he echoes.

She smiles. Her voice carries the same dispassionate notes of a craftsman. “He would answer me so,” she says, “yes, quite right on the sense of humor. But his voice had not been so raspy.”

He swallows. Reaches to feel at his own throat. “I smoke,” he says, “it’s a bad habit.”

The woman turns away from him. He cannot see whom she speaks to. “I do not remember him smoking,” she says.

They change his height, and the texture and curl of his hair, and the glint of his eye. But itch for tobacco never leaves him.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The woman is his mother. It is not usual, he is told, that she had been there at his rebirth. But he had not been able himself to speak for any adjustments that need be made to his body, for he does not remember what it had been like before

He walks with her through the white city, made of marble clean as bone. Low domed cathedrals, tall gleaming towers—statues, all white, of elves and not-elves. Here is one of an elvish woman hewing stone; here is another, of a star-crowned king. The inhabitants of the city are a stark contrast to the buildings, dressed in silks so bright in color they seem to be distilled light. To his eyes there is something a little comical to them.

A child’s drawing, he thinks. The background left untended to, but the principal characters colored in.

(It swims before his vision then, briefly; dark inch lines drawn onto parchment, sketches of lairs and fortresses, filled in by a child’s hand with cheerful watercolor. He leans towards the memory, but cannot touch it.)

“You made me too tall,” he tells his mother, half-laughing, “look, no one is as tall as I am. Everyone is staring.”

“None of that,” she tells him, “you are just how you were meant to be, Maitimo.”

He does not feel made-right, made-well. He feels huge, ungainly, his limbs too long and his shoulders too wide.

They walk along the dirt road. Grass begins to cover it, here and there. Plainly horses and carts rarely come this way; only single sets of footprints, so light they barely leave behind a path.

His mother’s house is carved out of the side side of a hill some ways away from the city. One big room in the center, tall domed ceiling, skylight carved into the very top of it, where the peak of the hill must be. Under that light there is a block of white marble, chipped in four places but indistinct. A chisel lays atop it.

Little coal-stove, in the corner. Scattered dishes, clean but disorderly. Half loaf of bread and a little jam, black currant. Hard cheese.

One wall unfinished. Three walls of wood, and one of dirt.

Seven chests in the corner by the dirt wall, stacked atop each other. Seals on the latches of the chests, like eight-pointed stars with one point broken off.

Two rooms branching off, dug-out and reinforced with oak-wood. They are dark, and he cannot tell what they are without stepping inside.

“This is yours,” his mother tells him, of the right. He hesitates a moment, then goes. Sees the bed in the corner, wide and soft, hanging tapestries. There are four robes for him, in same bright silks everyone else had worn. Green as the first leaves of spring. Lilac, shimmering slightly even in the darkness. Bright, pretty coral-pink, decorated with embroidered leaves in yellow and purple, slightly raised and pleasant to the touch. Sky-blue, with patchwork clouds.

“They were yours once,” his mother tells him. “Long ago.”

His own robes, he notices, are a mottled grey. The color of a spider-web, he thinks, of dust. “How long?” he asks.

His mother shuts her eyes, as though counting. “Seven thousand years.”

He has some vague notion that in the damp clothes spoil, especially in so long a time. That moths eat holes in sleeves. That seams come apart. But when he asks she looks at him oddly.

“Nothing spoils, here,” she says, “do not be silly.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They eat. There is one chair at the wooden table in the corner, so his mother brings a stool from the workshop to sit on. The jam is sweet and sour, just how he likes it. The bread is perfectly soft.

“Why do I not remember this?” he asks, pulling at the sleeve of his new, blue robe. “Why do I not remember you?”

His mother hesitates.

“You burned,” she says, “you burned and there was not enough left of you to put such memories together. You’re right handed, dear.”

He switches his knife to his right hand.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

She leaves him to rest and to gather himself. He wishes for smoke. Walks around the perimeter of the bedroom she’s given him and looks over every item.

A writing desk, prettily carved from dark oak, scratched with use. Pleasant, beneath his fingers. Familiar. Atop it—

A crystal ball, cold and heavy in his hand. A little light trapped within it, iridescent purple-red. He brings it up to his face and blows hot breath onto its surface. Sees age-old fingerprints on the smooth surface, there and then gone again.

Parchment, most of it blank. A few notes, scattered here or there on the papers, in beautiful, looping script, though he can make no sense of them. A snatch of a poem, rhyming turning eyes with burning skies, a note to procure radish-seed. Starred, and underlined—write to Elemmíre, Káno cannot play at the lilac-bloom festival—exile. A half-written apology, unaddressed, for a slight he cannot even begin to guess at.

He picks up the quill, and dips it into the inkwell. Feels scratch of the parchment under his touch as he writes:

Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

Three lines, neatly underneath the first. His hand is nothing like the hand of the first writer, his letters sharp and distinct and lonely where they ought to touch, ought to loop, ought to overlap. Maybe this is his mother’s writing, he thinks.

Though she had not seemed one for poetry, nor for ambling, awkward apologies.

Shelves. Books on history, on poetry. He runs his fingers along the spines and knows he has read them—can summon even the memories of the opening stanzas and chapter-headings. How odd, to remember these but not his mother. A flute, silver and black. Candles.

The bed is certainly his, for it is over-long. There is one blanket on it, a light thing of shimmering purple silk, and—he laughs to see it, then thinks he might weep—a little stuffed lamb, with cotton sewn onto its back to make fluff. He lifts it to his face, and breathes deeply.

It smells of sleep, of rose-soap, of tears. Its name dances somewhere just out of reach. It is not mine, he thinks, I gave it to…

But he cannot finish the thought. He sits, holding the little sheep in his lap. His fingers twitch.

Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He does not mean to sleep. He is not sure he does, truly. Only that he is waking. With his left hand he is holding the little sheep to his chest. His right hand is bound, above his head. His shoulders are stiff and ache.

He sinks his fingers spasmodically into the lamb’s fur. Shakes.

Yanks his hand down, expecting to feel the chain bite at his wrist. There is nothing, because his hand is gone, because—

Because.

Sits. Stares at two hands, clenched around the stuffed lamb. Too tight. Strangling it, poor thing. Poor thing.

He breathes in deeply, smelling again the rose-soap, the tears. Outgrew it, he thinks. Gave it away, gave it to—

There is a longing in his chest, like half of him missing. The burned half, he thinks. He shuts his eyes and tries to picture it, but nothing comes. Somewhere in the other room he can hear a faint clinking, a shuffling, steps. An image swims in his mind, an elf; dark-eyed, dark-braided, pouring liquor, mixing herbs and honey.

For some while he lies and holds the lamb, listening to the movements outside. Then the soft light of the crystal ball becomes oppressive, and he rolls out of bed. Feels the cool wooden floor under his feet. Slips outside.

If he is disappointed to see his mother in the main room, standing by the little oak table and mixing tea, he knows better than to show it.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They breakfast outside. Pomegranate, a day past ripe and a little soft with it. Honey. Crumbling cottage cheese.

He notices for the first time how far they are from the city through which they had passed. There is a dirt road, half-covered in grass and little-tread. No one passes by them.

In the light of day he can see how their blood runs together. The sun freckles them the same. Bleaches his mother’s hair into a shade resembling his. He sees the square angles of his body in her big, calloused hands, in the set of her shoulders. But that is to be expected, he supposes. She made him. Shaped him, out of whatever he had been before this.

He expects she might speak of who he had been, but she does not. She sits and eats, sits and watches him. He cannot think of something to say, and follows her example.

“You want something to do,” she says, as they stack their plates.

“Yes,” he says. In that she knows him. Already he feels too idle, too stagnant, caught without a purpose.

She takes his plates. She gives him a shovel. A hammer. A chisel. She brings him back inside, and bids him dig.

“Here?” he asks, running his fingers over the dirt wall.

“Yes,” she says, “there is a lot of work to do, Maitimo. We will have a hall, and five more rooms. The hill ought fit them.”

He drives his spade into the dirt. Mostly clay, he thinks. It’ll hold well.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They work in shifts; first he digs and his mother takes the pile of dirt and carries it out. Then she digs, and he lugs dirt.

After some time his shoulders begin to ache, new muscles responding to unfamiliar work. It is a pleasant ache, the shape of it familiar. It is almost odder, he thinks, for his back not to hurt.

The work is mediative. They do not talk during it, beyond the exchanges necessary to the work—“give me that” and “rock, I think,” and “steer leftwards.”

When the sun falls pink-orange through the skylight they cease their work. She hands him a broom to sweep the last of the dirt off the wooden floor. Gathers up the spade and the chisel, and washes them.

They walk together out of the hill, and bathe in the river. The water is warm. When it sprays out onto his face he opens his lips and tastes it, almost sweet with its clarity. When he dives it whips his braid around his face.

They return.

She goes to ship at the square of marble. He goes to his room. Shoves down the ever-present craving for tobacco. Sits at the desk. Reads by the light of the crystal ball, old books of poetry.

He is not surprised he knows every line.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Neither of them sleeps. In the morning they resume they work again, digging the tunnel. He starts to leave the door open, when he goes to empty the pile of dirt, knowing he shall return to it soon. She closes it, each time. He does not ask why.

The rhythmic movement of the shovel becomes second nature. Around it all thoughts cease. All that is left is the motion, the sound, the heft. He does not notice at first he is putting words to it.

Thumpthump. Thump-thump. Thumpthump.

Káno can-not play. Káno can-not play. Káno can-not play.

It is odd. He has read better poetry.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

On the fourth night he sleeps again, and dreams of the scent of burning tree-sap and screams, of dark soot staining his hands, of a woman that falls and screams, and screams, and screams. Wakes clutching the lamb to him and calls out for a name he cannot recall again.

For breakfast she poaches eggs. Cracks them each onto upturned plates with suns painted on. Swirls the water around the pot to as twisters turned inside out. Clink of the teaspoon against the black edge of the pot. Then the eggs go on, one by one, and turn around.

“Your father used to do this,” she says, “I never cooked. Only the bread.”

He holds out a hand. “Let me,” he says, and she steps aside. He picks up the spoon. Swirls eggs.

“Good eggs,” she says later, when they sit and breakfast on the grass.

He tears off a chunk of his bread-crust with his teeth. Chews. “Good bread,” he says.

The patterns of leaves dance over her arm. Shadows, in the sun.

“Right hand, Maitimo,” she reminds him.

He moves his fork. Takes a bite of egg, and feels the yolk on his tongue. “Are you angry with me?”

“I do not mean to be,” she says, which is answer enough. She must see it on his face, because she puts down her fork and looks at him. “It was all very long ago.”

He nods.

She reaches over to lay a hand on the side of his face. She has not touched him, since the first day, and now she strokes his cheekbone. “I wanted you,” she says, “I begged for you.”

He shuts his eyes. There is soot on his hands. The ocean is angry, horribly angry with him. “Did I burn,” he says, “aboard a ship?”

She stares at him.

“I cannot say,” she says. Then, more forcefully: “my Maitimo might have, I think.”

He leans into her touch. It does not last long.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He expects the summer to pass, but it never does. The sun rises at the same time each day, and does not go down for a long time time. They eat sliced peaches and flaky pastries and spinach-wraps and perfect fall apples, goat milk and sour bread, carrot stew, eggs made in a startling variety of ways, candied flowers. He learns where the food comes from; once every twelve days a young elven girl comes, carrying covered baskets on her head, and his mother takes them from her and tucks them into the dug-out place beneath the hill, where the earth and the ground-water keep them cool.

(He wonders why it matters. Nothings seems to spoil here. She could leave them in the heat, he thinks, and they would be fine.)

Sometimes the girl brings them letters. Some seem formal, rolled into official-looking tubes and sealed with wax. Others are clearly hastily written, scrawled on one scrap of parchment or another, sometimes with sketches on the back.

Usually she will open them at the table, and name the relation who had written to her but not the contents. “My sister in law,” she will say, or sometimes, “my father,” or, once or twice, “your cousins.” Sometimes it is a patron in Tirion that writes.

One morning a letter arrives sealed with dark blue wax, an address scrawled along the edge she reads but does not voice aloud. She tucks it into her inside pocket and does not speak its sender, ignoring his curious eyes.

They dig.

As they go further they must pull up more and more rocks, must navigate around sandy areas that fall when touched. His shoulders no longer ache with the work. Indeed he grows so used to it that it is odd not to do it, that it begins to pull at him to spend time idle.

During the nights she chisels away at the marble slab, working by moonlight, and he reads, or else goes to swim in the river. At first she is wary to let him go alone, but after the third time he returns unwavering at dawn she stops tracking him.

The marble begins to take shape. An animal, he thinks. A four-legged thing, bent low to the ground.

“Did you make the statues in the white city?” he asks her. It is night, then, or perhaps the first note of morning. The moonlight is gone. He has stopped reading, but she has not finished her carving.

“Only the good ones,” she says, half-laughing. It is not a joke.

He picks up the pan. Stokes the fire, to make breakfast. Picks up the knife, unthinking, with his right hand. In the faint light his own hand is pale as marble. Carefully carved.

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After some time he begins to call the little lamb Káno. The odd nights when he comes to sleep he holds it to his chest. Through his nightmares the scent of rose soap never fades from its cotton sewn fur, and he begins to tell reality apart by it.

There are the snatches of his dreams, the screams, the song, the slow grinding of war-axes and the rattling of fortress doors. There is the icy forest, the kind that doesn’t truly exist in real life because winter does not exist, and snow does not exist, and one does not dash madly between ice-covered pines chasing the prints of bare-footed children. Then there is the smell of rose soap, and the softness of the cotton under his cheek.

(Sometimes he thinks Káno is in the next room, clinking around, humming under his breath. But that is an odd thought, because Káno is a stuffed lamb.)

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“We are done digging, for now,” she says. The state of done digging should naturally follow the state of digging, but he has somehow failed to realize it is possible. But there it is, the tunnel. Five rooms branching off. “We must now go for wood.”

She gives him an axe. He looks down at it, and sees the dusting of red clay on the head first as blood, then as rust.

(Nothing rusts, he reminds himself. Rust is an idea in his mind with no real-world equivalent, like rot and ice and decapitation.)

They walk together along the overgrown dirt road, pulling an ass-drawn cart behind them. Not towards the city, this time, but away from it. The path fades, and fades, and fades, until there is nothing left but her intuition.

The wood is ancient, and untouched, pines tall and dark, their trunks many times the width of their shoulders. He reaches out and lays his hands on the bark, feeling its dark, deep ridges.

“The tree will bleed,” he says, “when we cut it down.”

“Yes,” she says, “so it will.”

She takes his hand, and draws it up to touch the deep green needles on a lower branch. When she begins to pray he knows the words, and echoes her. Together they ask for leave from Yavanna; together they promise to take no more than their due, and to pry the seeds from the pinecones of the fallen tree and plant them.

Then she makes the mark, and he begins to chop.

Some part of him expects soft yielding flesh under the axe-swing, expects gore, expects blood spray over his upturned face. Instead his axe hits hard wood, and only yellowish pine sap springs up around the cut.

It is long work, to reduce a living thing into material. First the tree must fall. Then it is cut again, to be rid of the thin branches for which they have no use; then again, to fit on the cart. Then they collect pinecones and twist them open, shake the seeds out and bury them in the dark soil, beneath the layers of dry pine-needles. Carry water from the river to drown them.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It is dark when they make their return. His body aches in new ways with new work. Pine-sap clings sticky to his hands, his green robes. He wants to chase the dew gathering in his lungs away with smoke.

“The river,” his mother says, and he nods. But the water cannot wash the sap from him, and he goes to bed with his hands still stained.

He will not touch the stuffed lamb, except with the back of his wrist, to knock it from the bed. It stares at him plaintively from the floor, and he pities it.

“I am sorry, Káno,” he says, “but if I touch you you will be ruined. You are made of soft things, and shall not be washed clean.”

In his dreams there is a little boy, bright eyed and loud. He plays the flute, the same silver flute on the shelves, and laughs, high and bird-like, twirls in pretty mother-of-pearl court robes. When he reaches out to touch this child he sees his hands are covered in blood, that he has stained everything; the boy and the flute and the mother-of-pearl, and nothing is merry.

Then he stirs, half-wakes. Slips back down into his dreams. Now there is a figure above him, amber-eyed, more fair than any elf he can remember laying his eyes on. He has an axe in his hand, stained with red clay, and he raises it and hews off his right hand.

Oh, he says, unbothered, well, don't worry about it. I've still got my left.

But tree-sap keeps pouring out of the cut on his wrist, spewing in messy, sticky arcs, staining the other elf’s gold-beaded hair and his cheeks and his lips and his eyelashes, and he will drown, he will drown.

When he wakes there is no smell of rose-soap to cling to. He curls up on himself and thinks he must have come from a different world, a worse world; that he is a stained and broken thing forced into a clean body. He does not belong here, he knows.

He wonders what it would be, to go back. Wonders if he’s scared of it.

Then he slips outside, and bids his mother good morning, and sits trying to clean his hands. Chops spinach into fine little slivers; beats it with cheese and with eggs, pours it into the pan to cook. Watches the edges crisp up, fine bubbles forming on the surface.

His mother stirs sugar into tea. He misses someone so fiercely he feels his chest a hollow, empty thing. They slip outside to breakfast. The sun greets them, cheerful and warm.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They chop the wood into boards, long to accommodate the hallway, wide. His mother has a better hand for it, at first, but he is quick to learn. The first days they speak of nothing but craft.

When they sit polishing the wood the sap has nearly come off his hands. Perhaps he has grown new skin, and the sap has flaked off with the old.

“Who will live there,” he says, “in the new rooms?”

She looks up at him. Her sleeves are hiked up, the board in front of her gleaming bright in the sun. “Your brothers.”

He has thought so, though he could not have voiced it.

“There are five,” he says, and knows it to be a question. He thinks she nods. “Who is next, after me?”

For a moment she hesitates. “Tyelkormo,” she says, “if he is granted to me.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He touches the edges of the eight-pointed star on the sealed chest. The broken point. She sits behind him and reads one of her letters. He can see another still-sealed underneath, the one she had not announced to him.

I have five brothers, he thinks. I am one of six.

It does not fit. Shoes too small in the toe, pinching uncomfortably.

For the first time he can remember he feels angry, truly and properly. Kicks at the lowest of the chests, then yelps in pain at his foot. Tyelkormo, he thinks, Tyelkormo, Tyelkormo. Who can need you? Who can want you?

The woman who is not his mother looks up from her carving, but says nothing. He will tell her, he thinks, when their work is done.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

But he breaks. The secret is too heavy on him; he cannot take it. They sit, and polish boards. It is an endless task.

“Maitimo,” the woman who is not his mother says, “hand me the sponge.”

He hands her the sponge. “I am not he,” he says, quite casually, “they brought the wrong soul back, and put it in your son’s body. I am another creature, and I think an evil one.”

“Oh,” she says, “and why is that?”

“There are evil things,” he says, “in my mind. I know not this land, but another. I dream of ice and bloodied hands and scared children.”

For some time she turns from him. He is sure she weeps. He would touch her, but it is not his right. He looks down at the board, working his brush in random patterns.

“Against the grain, Maitimo,” she says.

He turns his brush against the grain. They do not speak of it again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He likes to run his hands along the polished wood. Likes to press wood-braces into the soil. Likes the neat sharpness that they give the tunnel, the way it begins to take the shape of the house.

“Did you do the same for me?” he asks, as they hang up curtain-doors.

“Yes,” she says.

“There was a different home,” he says, “where the chest is from. The bed is from. K—the lamb.”

“Yes,” she says.

For some time they work in silence. He braces the doorframe, and she hammers in the nails. Then they switch.

“What are you carving?” he asks. “I thought it a sheep.”

“No,” she says, “only an elf hiding under the wool.”

He nods. She nudges him, to step aside. There is a little window on the other side of the room, the sloping end of the hollow hill. She measures it, for a frame. Writes numbers on the inside of her arm in charcoal.

She taps him on the elbow as she passes him, beckoning him to follow. Outside they trim the wood into shapes to fit. He holds, she saws. Then she has them switch, so he may get the practice.

“I have gown too used to solitude,” she says, as they brace the corners of the window-frame with metal. “I have no words left. I thought it would be easier, to speak to you.”

He looks up. For the first he sees the weight of her own neurosis on her, the weight of her pain, her fear, her loneliness. For the first time he thinks she might touch him, if she remembered how.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Six thousand years,” she says. “You spend dead nearly twice the time you spent living. But I lost you sooner, of course.”

They carry the window frame inside. They fit it.

It will have a good sill, he thinks. Perhaps Tyelkormo will like to sit on it, and watch the birds.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It looks like a proper house, with the last of the boards fitted to the floor, to the walls. The woman who could be his mother tells him that there is not so much left to do; only to make make the bed frames and the shelves, fitted to each of them. Only to open the chests and lay out what she had saved, of them.

“Saved from what?” he asks.

She looks up at him, as though surprised he does not know. “The building was torn down,” she says, “the king’s body was inside.”

She makes a gesture with her hands, first twisted together then falling. Tower. Splat.

Do people die here, he wonders, or had the king been simply waiting to be born?

“Tyelkormo will want hounds,” she says, “on his bed frame. Likely in the house, too.”

So he sits, and whittles hounds. They turn out crooked, their noses too long. She has him try again, and that is better.

Káno cannot play, he thinks, the repetition of a song stuck in his head, Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“I cannot tell,” he says, setting a book of insect sketches next to a fox-skull on his brother’s shelves, “if I know him.”

His maybe-mother turns to look at him. Her face is drawn.

He touches the bone. It is familiar, at least. Smooth. Oddly delicate, for what it is. In places the smooth surface has peeled off, and it is porous. He could hold it in his hands and squeeze the barest bit and watch it crumble.

“Sometimes I think I am your son,” he says, “but that something wrong has clung to me, as the tree sap has. Some other world I saw, in death, that lingers upon waking.”

She takes his hands. Holds, around the fox skull. Her fingers do not touch the bone.

“Do not leave me,” she says, “do not go there. Promise me, Maitimo.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He tosses dumplings into broth, one after the other. She sits across the table from him. Her eyes follow their fall.

“I have not told you everything,” she says.

You haven’t told me anything, he thinks. But that is unjust. She has told him how to chisel stone and chop wood, how to polish floorboards, how to whittle hunting-hounds, how poach eggs.

She reaches past him, across the table. Picks up the parchment sealed with blue wax.

“I didn’t want to give you this,” she says. For a moment she holds it close to her chest, so that he cannot help but suppose the ending of the sentence will be so I won’t. Then she holds it out to him. “It is for you. You were betrothed.”

“Oh.” He reaches for the paper. He cannot tell if that seems right. If it is true of him. “Perhaps I was.”

“I am not sure,” she says, “how serious you were about it.”

An old instinct almost calls him to argue. To cry, I will, I will, after—

But after what?

He breaks the blue seal. Twirls open the paper.

The handwriting hits him with a note of such intense familiarity he cannot see the meaning of the words. His head swims.

The first time he remembers weeping is in the kitchen, holding a piece of parchment to his chest, and it is over the slopes of his lover’s letters. Behind him the fire crackles. He feels his chest cave in.

Maedhros, his lover writes, I grow tired of waiting for you to call to me. If you have gotten it into your head that it is your righteous duty to crawl into a ditch and die, speaking to none, we shall have words...

Maedhros does not make it past that opening line. He shakes with the clarity of the voice in his mind, its low, musical quality, its sardonic lilt. How well he can sense the desperation behind it. I know you, he thinks, I love you.

The woman in the room with him steps closer. She looks at the letter, but her eyes do not move to read the words.

“I never learned it,” she says, “some last defiance of your father. As though if I did not speak it it could not touch me.” There her voice breaks, her pale face flushing. "What do you think of that, Maitimo? Me lobbing one last insult at a long-dead man, and hurting myself by it?"

Of course, Maedhros thinks. It is Sindarin. He knows it, though he cannot say how. He’s thought in it, now and then, without noticing. Perhaps if he had spoken more he would have used it.

He lowers the letter, and looks at the woman who had once been his mother. In the shadows here she seems as white as marble. How odd, to think of her, all alone, beating the shape of sheep’s wool out of stone with a chisel. To think of her hollowing out the hill to make room for him. To think of her clawing him back from the dead. To think of her carving herself out of loneliness and defiance and love and anger.

Well-made, she called him.

#my fic #maedhros #nerdanel

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soraviie · 1 year

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they told you to go and you did.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader ━ navigation

━ about: heavy angst ━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ c/w: mention of mental illness, implied emotional cheating, falling out of love, smoking

━ previously posted on soraviii

NAMJOON: If you'd still talk, you'd ask him if "disappointment" is the right word. It's not pain. It's actually hard to describe what is this familiar pang, the stab that almost feels like a bruise made yesterday. It's not pain. It's the sad realization in your heart of hearts that this would happen eventually. It's a disappointment because once, just this once you allowed yourself to believe it'd be different. And you were wrong. Or rather you were right all along. He's just like that and you're you and the rest is a story that writes itself.

Picking yourself up is hard work, hence perhaps why they call it falling for someone. Falling is not a threat, people fall all day long but a fall from the last step of stairs no matter how scary is not lethal but falling in love, unlike a blunder through the dark, is getting up into a skyscraper and then placing all the trust that the other person will provide a mat big enough to cushion the fall. But he had pulled your safety net away. You'll rebuild yourself, from scratch if needed but some part of your trust in all people will forever be cracked. If a forever person becomes temporary...it's a bizarre, ungainly feeling that unevens your footing and makes for many, many quiet afternoons spend in the company of your lonesome, staring out through the windows and thinking was it always meant to end like this.

"You were supposed to be there," you breathed out, shaking. Out of anger, out of cold, who knows.

"And I said I'm sorry," he growls back, shoving the laying laundry into the washing machine.

"Sorry? "Sorry" is not going to cut it! For weeks - weeks! - I've asked you, I begged you to be there! It was one of the most important events in my life!"

"What do you want me to do here?" Namjoon asks, exasperated and the wrinkle between his eyebrows mars his features into someone...unrecognizable. A stranger almost. Since when have you had to beg to be heard?

"I don't know," you reply truthfully but slowly something in your gut begins to work. Why are you feeling like the villain? You shouldn't be.

You shouldn't be is the chief thought.

"Do you even care about me?"

"What?"

The look in his eyes...you know, you just know, he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand this profound feeling of being tired. Being proven right that, in the end, you will always have this - begging to be heard and understood and it's tiring. It's draining the soul right in front of his eyes, ones which do not see the obvious.

"Do you even care about me?"

He scoffs.

"Take a walk so you clear your head and don't ask stupid questions."

In hindsight, a very small part of you is grateful. The comment was cruel and cut like the end of a sharpened knife but it gave you a leeway. It gave you the thought that if you had to go, you didn't have to come back.

And it's like a bit of fresh air after that. Dizzying, confusing, the feeling of being lost in a way never leaving but you're finding your legs so to speak. You didn't owe him anything, there is no legal law that would force you to explain. You walked right out. A walk to never return, a walk to self re-discovery. You eat what you like, you go where you like and when you feel like dying because there your lover is not on the other side of the bed, you turn around and pretend he was never there.

He was after all rarely there, to begin with.

Right or wrong, who cares, you could just leave and while you're alone, at least you don't have to beg. At least, you understand even if it's yourself.

YOONGI: Lillies, as Yoongi finds out, are not long-lived flowers. They fall most often in clumps of petals. Not elegant and refined like those in drawings but dropping almost half of themselves in one swift move. In one second, losing nearly all they had, remaining then barren and partly lifeless. He didn't know enough about flowers to know when exactly are they pronounced dead. But he'll be here. He'll be here because he's done nothing else but watch them shed, clump by clump.

"I told you," he'd said with a smile of all things. A cold, mirthless smile but still. "I told you it'd be hard, that you wouldn't be able to handle it."

"That's...that's not it all," you deny and maybe you hadn't been lying. All he knows is that the fear had gripped him so hard he couldn't even breathe then.

"No, it is what it is," he'd cut back sharply, decisive, leaving no room to argue because if you'd argue you'd do the same magic you'd done when he first fell in love, he'd listen and do everything exactly how you want it. He didn't want to listen at that moment, he'd just wanted to be angry.

"Then go, just go. Go back 'cause I know you want to."

Tears rose on your waterline and suddenly he felt like a bad guy which in turn, of course, made him more vicious.

"You're being cruel," you breathed faintly. "You're just being cruel."

He scoffed harshly.

"I'm just being honest. Face it, you can't handle being with me," a pause. Critical hit. Cruelty for cruelty's sake. "You can't handle much at all."

And if he had even a little bit of a brain left he'd see the change. The exact moment where you fell out of love with him and it happened just then.

You took a step back, breathed in exactly once, calmly, sombre even.

"Okay," is all you said and unbeknownst to him, that would end up as the last thing you'd say to him. "Okay" is what could kill love - a supposedly unkillable thing.

The flowers are what he brought to ask for forgiveness which would not be granted. There was no next time, no do over, no apology. You'd been long gone when he wisened up to his own words and now he has a vase of old Lillies, wilting on his desk. He reaches to straighten one of the last petals but in its frailty, it just falls. It falls down, down, down and lands on his desk. He puts his hand away. The clock ticks away.

"Okay," he mutters to himself and then sinks into silence.

JIN: "They're my parents," he says for the thousandth time, driving half-blind through the dark.

"So what?!" you exclaimed. "They don't get to say all those things about my family. About me!"

"And I already told you, I warned you that they...they would be like that! They're old! Different."

"That's not being different! That's being a dick."

His eyes glinted and you flinched. You'd never fought with Jin before. Not like this certainly. But whenever you thought of forgiving him, it all came back even clearer. How he just stood there, silent, staring at his plate like a small boy would when they called you a gold digger, your family nothing but mud-trodden scammers. The spoilt rotten apple of the bad seeds. And your lover, your boyfriend, your one true fairytale prince had bowed his head in compliance.

"Careful," he growls, hands tightening around the wheel. "Mind your tongue."

He could slap you and it'd be less bitter.

"Did your mother mind your tongue?" you asked sharply, suddenly yanked harshly forth as he drove a foot through the brakes.

"I'll give you this one last opportunity," he spits and it awakens a heinous part of yourself. Or rather it extends. It extends from the scenery of not even an hour into the past, when you'd sat by the dining table listening to one hurled insult after the next. His father had been "the others", his mother and now he himself. It's him vs you. And that's...

...that's just not someone you could ever touch without shuddering in hate.

"One last chance to stop throwing a fuss. To stop disrespecting my family and myself."

"I can't disrespect it," you open your mouth, weirdly proud. It's cathartic to hate at times. "It would imply I've held any this evening."

His jaw makes an audible sound when it clamps shut. You'd hurt deep, you'd cut it where it hurts. Good, so had he.

"Get out," he hisses, clearly fighting hard to reign in his temper. "Get out of my car now!"

You do and afterwards, he speeds off, tires screeching against the cement road, fumes, in time, evaporating into the atmosphere. You touch the necklace, his gift, on your neck. Feels more like a chain now. You take it away, frown and allow yourself to think.

Gold diggers, scammers, evildoers and nothing but lowlier of the low they had said into your face. You remember your own mother's face, proud and happy, then tired after working long hours just to put food on the table. She'd be heartbroken about this, she'd cry.

And no one could ever make your mother cry. Guided by a sudden impulse you throw the necklace away and it glistens once under the streetlights.

Jin's car disappears over the horizon and despite lingering, you see no point in going after it. You could go home.

The thought fills you with comfort.

You could just go home.

Your mother picks up after one ring.

"Hey, I'm just letting you know, I'll sleep over, is that okay?"

Your mother's voice comes frazzled but she attempts to make it soothing. No, she should never meet those people. Those people who would hate her without a reason, who raised a son you fell in love with. Past tense.

"Of, course, it's okay," then, softly, cautious. "Did it go awry? What about your boyfriend?"

You glimpse over your shoulder. JIn is long gone. There's nothing but the dark so you turn and walk the opposite way.

"There's no boyfriend anymore," you reply, cooly but even so few, traitor tears rush into your eyes and it gets hard to breathe. "But I still got you."

"The porch lights will be on," after a moment she explains kindly and you nod. "I'll be waiting."

HOSEOK: "I just think...this will be the best of us."

That's really all you remember. At the time, the words fell distant like coming from another room. His damn present, a simple present you'd saved over the course of the summer was burning against your leg, distracting you, maybe saving you in a way. If you'd heard a flaw he had named as to why would you deserve to suddenly be broken up with, you didn't remember it. He'd been doing so well, being so good, practising and making history and you loved him so much you just wanted to make him smile. He'd been so stressed. So empty and removed. And when you heard his call, his tentative invitation to a restaurant you thought must be destiny, he must be thinking it too, you needed to be closer together. Reality... the reality was as always much different than you imagined in your head.

You'd sat politely, being really good, not quite listening due to the bracelet sitting in your pocket like a carcass, but you hadn't made a fuss. Should you have? Or did you do the right thing?

Whatever should or should not have happened will take place in the multiverse, in the infinitude of other more pleasant realities, this one was yours.

"You should cry," your friend suggests, with a frown of worry. But you can't hear her also. Flinging the pillows left and right, you try to find the damn thing. The receipt is nowhere. You couldn't have just flung it into the trash, right?

"Honestly, fuck this guy."

Right, fuck Hoseok. But when you remember him, you don't suddenly learn how to hate him. That was...that went against everything you knew.

"Just please go," he pleaded, you'd open your mouth to at least give him the bracelet. It was after all a present. Why had you been so hyper-focused about it? You can't remember that also.

"Just go. Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

But what it did have to be? What did you do? Or not do? What was so wrong with you that he kicked you away?

"He left you for his career," your friend scoffed. Her pride was your pride and vice versa but at the moment you couldn't even appreciate her indignance. The receipt was gone. You did not have it. And as such the bracelet, his bracelet, the one you worked so had to buy for your own money, could not be ridden of.

"Plain and simple. You were distracting him, whatever that means. What a prick."

You had not thought the same then and you didn't think it now. Coming to a stand you wonder how long will it take to unlearn someone. Hoseok must have learned it quite quickly. He'd not even spared you a glimpse as you stood there, with the bracelet in hand, suddenly turned into a parting gift not one of gratitude. If he saw it, he hadn't cared. And so you went, as he asked, clutching the bracelet in your palm. Hoseok must be a quick learner, you reckoned, leaving the bracelet to lay on your nightstand table.

JIMIN: "Already back?" a neighbour, a smarmy twenty-something who thinks he's just the thing because he has a couple of tattoos on his arm, asks. You light up the cigarette already put between your lips and scoff in his direction.

"Yeah. Now quit hanging around in the stairway, you look like a predator," with that you enter your apartment. It's disgusting to smoke indoors, that you admit, but right now it was time to think and smoking for some reason made your head clearer. Navigating through the dark, you stumbled out into the balcony, breathing out a sigh of relief. Flicking the ash into the makeshift ashtray you thought and thought and thought.

"When?! When will you be ready?!" he'd practically screamed. You hated when people raised their voice and he knew that but he still did it. A fact you wouldn't forgive anyone but this was...Jimin and he'd been the exception for a long time. Longer than he should have.

"I don't know! When we got together, I told you I'd be difficult! I'm...ill!" recalling how your lip had wobbled, you sneered to yourself. One cigarette down but you bought a new pack so there was plenty.

"Stop using that as an excuse!" he'd snarled, fists curling out of anger. You had thought then that if he truly wanted to marry you, he'd stay true to his word to be understanding. Of understanding that your mind did not always work the same way most people were used to, it did things, often ones you couldn't grasp full control of, like fear, fearing everything and most of all being yelled at for this very same fear.

"It's not an excuse!" you shrieked. "It's the answer! When someone has a cold, do you reprimand them for coughing? Why is this illness any different?!"

You were objectively hard to love if mental illness was easy it wouldn't be an illness. You required work, work done by yourself and by your partner and you had told him that, you'd told him fair and square, come clean with all that you were and Jimin had promised to love you all the same. He was, it seems, a beautiful kind of liar.

"You won't ever be ready," he'd continued, a hard scowl warping his features. "You know why? Because you hate yourself so much you can't even wrap your head around the idea of not self-sabotaging yourself for once."

And it was the truth. Objectively speaking. But you didn't mind the truth. It could be harsh and unapologetic but you could swallow it down, just not cruelty. Anything but cruelty. Coming from the one man on earth you thought could not be cruel. See what you meant by beautiful? Beautiful, convincing, angel of a liar.

"And I can't handle it anymore. I can't handle your..." he raised his hands out of frustration, letting the fists rise to his own chest and shake there before it happened.

"You're just too much. So just go away because you're just too much for me."

Pushing the bud of the cigarette against the glass jar, you put out the last light on the balcony. It's dark now and you sit, arms crossed, still thinking. You know what to do, you'd done it plenty of times before but...you just thought, you assumed, had the delusion that..he'd be the one, you know. That he'd be...different. But the nature of liars is to lie, you suppose.

TAEHYUNG: It is sad and horrifying to realize that you're becoming one of those couples. Those couples that do not talk, that sit on the bed silently and sullenly, waiting for it to be over, couples who did not touch each other, who forgot each other's bodies, voices and minds. Those couples who you always looked on with pity, wondering to yourself why didn't they just break it off. What was the point?

But the point was that, of course, once upon a time you loved Taehyung and you think he loved you too. You almost saw him, the younger him, the one that charmed you with the promise of timeless romance only to let the very same time deteriorate it away. As you walked up to the cafe, you saw him there, laughing with a friend you did not know he had. They're both laughing in fact, clearly enjoying their time and you can't help but feel like a creep, like an onlooker peeking into the lives of a happy couple even if it's your boyfriend sitting there. He'd brought them flowers. You don't remember when was the last time he'd given your flowers. The promise was every Wednesday, the reality was sometimes after the first six months, anniversaries after two years, never after five.

He pulls the chair closer to the friend. You saw the other person's blush in the candlelight and then with even more horrifying realization, you grasp that you're the other person. The one brushed to the side when they're of no other use.

"Those are pretty flowers," you reckoned, mostly just to start a conversation. An ice breaker for a lover, strange isn't it?

"I guess," he offers a non-committal grunt.

"Should I meet you after work? We could go somewhere?" you almost sounded hopeful then. How naive.

"Don't bother," he says, not quite even looking at you, more so focused on the mirror to fix the tie the other other person was twirling between their fingers. "I'll be busy and late tonight. Just go home."

Standing on the street and passively watching your love slip away, you figure you'll do just that. You won't be one of those people, you thought, standing straighter and leaving the window side, you won't cry yourself to sleep, you won't find someone else's scent on his shirt, you won't have your heart any more broken. You'll just go home.

And Taehyung was not home anymore.

But it's okay, you tell yourself, stumbling unsteadily through the neon-lit streets, you'll find a new one. You'll be okay.

JUNGKOOK: You used to love his jokes, his confidence, his assuredness that you were meant to be. But after some time, you don't quite know when, it stopped being funny the way he brushed off your worries, always so assured that in the end, it'll work out. That no matter what you'll forgive him anything.

You stopped loving his jokes.

And you stopped loving his confidence.

And you stopped loving him.

You just wanted for him to listen but he was so smug, so assured that you wouldn't leave. You just wanted for him to listen just once.

But he never did.

"If I'm so horrible, then just leave," he tossed over his shoulder, tugging harshly on Bam's leash. "Just leave!"

But he did it first, slamming the door behind and dragging Bam with him.

Maybe it's selfish, really childish, quite unhealthy but in a way also victorious. You drag your clumsily arranged suitcase, stubborn. You miss him. But a him that's not even here. Can a person die while still living?

But even if it's selfish, childish and unhealthy, it becomes easier with the next step. You're just leaving, just going. You still miss him, you miss Bam and others, and all the funny toys on his shelves, and his kitchen towels and the laughter on Fridays and movies on Mondays but even more you miss yourself. The street is long and you wonder where you'll end up next, once upon a time, it brought you to Jungkook and now it'll take you away from him. You can find plenty of sadness about it but not enough regret to turn around. Whoever's fault it was, even if it truly was a fault, it doesn't matter now. It's over, it was good for a while and now it's over. You're free to go where you want and so is Jungkook and when enough time passes you know you'll wish him nothing but the best.

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green-eyedfirework · 8 months

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One of the many, many dragon AUs lurking in my docs.

-----------------------------

Dick wakes up to pain. The memory of pain, and the throbbing hyperawareness of too-sensitive skin, like he stayed too long in the sun. He shifts, and his skin feels stiff, but it doesn’t prompt the shrieking agony that Dick remembers distantly, so he weakly pushes up on an elbow and blinks open his eyes.

Gleaming, golden light dances around him, glittering like he’s inside a jewel, and Dick is lying on fur so soft that it barely irritates his painful skin. His clothes—well, that is a cause for alarm, he’s wearing what looks like a cotton shift and nothing else, not his boots or belt or pack in easy sight and—

Dick raises his head to take in the full enormity of where he is, and is unable to comprehend it before a blur of scales and claws slams into him.

There are claws raking across his skin, flashes of burning-throbbing-pain dancing up and down his chest, and he can’t breathe. He only realizes he’s flat on his back when the dark scales filling his vision disappear, and he can see the cave’s shadowed ceiling.

There’s a low, rumbling growl cutting over familiar high-pitched squeaks, and it’s enough to make Dick snap upright again.

It’s the big dragon. The orange-and-black one. Incredibly, the massive cave only makes him look bigger, his scale dwarfing the piles of—of gold and jewels and trinkets and luxuries piled high around him. He has a much, much tinier dragonet in each wingclaw—one orange and black, just like him, and the other mostly gray with a head of yellow-orange scales.

The third dragonet—all black, the one from the egg Dick rescued, scampers free from behind the bigger dragon’s legs and makes a beeline for Dick. The large dragon’s growl sounds louder, but the dragonet plows into Dick—ow, ow, fuck that hurts—and Dick curls protectively around him before anything else can happen.

The big dragon’s eye narrows. A puff of smoke comes from a nostril. Dick clutches the pile of wriggling limbs tighter, and ignores how each movement sparks fresh pain in his trembling limbs.

The last time, he got flamed alive. He’s not sure how he’s still breathing, why the skin down his arms is the pink of newly healed and not the black-white-cracked-red of dead. He’s shaking so hard it feels like he’s been dumped in snow, his heart pounding in his ears, his body warring between the desire to run and get away from danger and the sheer, terrifying certainty that it won’t make a difference.

The two dragonets escape the big dragon as well and shoot for Dick, flying ungainly and essentially collapsing on top of him. Dick ends up on his back again, biting through his lip to avoid shouting at the fresh wave of pain, but staying perfectly still as the dragonets crawl over him and curl on top of him.

They’ve left his face free and Dick can see the moment the big dragon appears into view and bends down. Dick stops breathing, eyes screwed up, but at the lack of heat he opens them. The dragon is close enough to touch.

:Enough: comes the snarling echo as the dragonets all hiss :Get off of him, now.:

He delicately catches a dragonet with a wingclaw before lifting them off of Dick. The dragonet protests bitterly, shrieking in affront, but the big dragon ignores them and picks another one off.

It takes Dick a startlingly long moment to realize that the dragonets are his. They’re—they’re his babies, his eggs, and no wonder the dragon attacked him if he thought that Dick was—Dick lowers his gaze to the remaining dragonet in his arms, and up to the large dragon.

:Idiot human: broadcasts loud and clear into his head. The dragon looks supremely unimpressed. :Where did you think the egg came from?:

“You could’ve just explained that,” Dick croaks out, because the dragon had flamed first and not asked any questions.

:I don’t explain things to egg-stealers: the dragon bristles in outrage, stirring all three dragonets into hissing, and Dick can’t help the instinctive reaction to curl up at the weight of fury.

No flames. No heat. Dick cracks open an eye, and when he doesn’t see imminent sign of attack, uncurls further, loosening his grip on the black dragonet.

The dragonet doesn’t care, he merely pushes further into Dick’s grasp, like an indolent cat.

:Grant: comes the echo inside his head. The large dragon lifts the left wingclaw, and then the right. :Joseph. Rose. And my name is Slade.:

“They’re nice names,” Dick dares to venture, “and nice children.”

Slade gives him the flattest look he’s ever seen a dragon wear. The two dragonets in his grasp are struggling in impotent outrage. Grant is nearly blanketing Dick, sprawled out with a sense of smug satisfaction. His siblings aren’t pleased.

The squeaking grows louder and Slade snarls—the sound is loud enough to reverberate in Dick’s bones. :He is not your mother: Slade snaps, :I don’t care what Grant told you.:

#my snippets #sladick #dragon au #poor dickie is lost and confused #he's been parent trapped #too many ideas not enough coherence

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billyharringson · 29 days

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@wrecked-fuse gave me brain worms with a drawing of Eddie and Jason post gym workout and I ended up writing a silly little Munver drabble.

Eddie felt like he was dying. Why the hell had he agreed to this again?

He looked down at the clock on the treadmill. Shit had he really only been running for 10 minutes? He really was out of shape.

"How are you holding up Munson?" Jason called, far too chipperly for Eddie's taste.

Eddie's response was a desperate weeze, gripping the front of the treadmill to stop from wiping out. He could only imagine how long Jason would hold that over his head if he did.

"That's what smoking all those cigarettes does to you." Jason was grinning as he walked over to him, leaning on the console. "Come on sweetheart, 5 more minutes, you can do it." They were close enough now that noone else would be able to hear the endearment but it was still enough to make Eddie blush.

Or it would have if his face wasn't already glowing red from exhaustion.

He tried to swallow, nodding his head and doubling down.

"Atta boy." Jason said, before reaching forward and upping the speed.

Eddie shot backwards with a shriek, landing in an ungainly heap on the floor. Jason's cackle filled his ears as he climbed to his feet.

"Okay asshole, that's it. I'm done." Eddie hissed, the venom in his voice slightly undercut by the way he was still struggling to breath.

"Aww c'mon Eds. Fifteen more minutes. I've just got the chest press to do."

Eddie's resolve crumbled the way it always did when he was faced with those blue puppy dog eyes. "Fine, but I'm not doing anymore exercise."

Jason's face lit up, like he was genuinely happy that Eddie was staying with him. "Okay cool, you can be my spotter then."

He said before settling onto the machine.

It took perhaps two reps before Eddie realised that maybe the gym wasn't so bad after all. Watching the way Jason's arms bunched and his pecs flexed as he did each rep, the sheen of sweat on his smooth skin. Eddie suddenly felt like he might have a second wind, perhaps after this his boyfriend would be up for a different sort of workout.

He didn't particularly care that he was staring. He could play it off to the other gym goers that he was simply very invested in being Jason's spotter. From the way Jason's cheeks were beginning to flush, and the way his arms were starting to tremble, his boyfriend knew exactly what Eddie's intense gaze meant.

"Eddie." Jason whispered a little while later, letting his arms drop to his sides. "Can you..." He swallowed, licking his lips as he shuffled on the seat. "Can you stop staring at me?"

"Nope." Eddie replied, eyes following a bead of sweat as it trailed down Jason's stomach and into his shorts. "You asked me to spot for you, that's what I'm doing."

Jason readjusted his shorts as casually as possible but Eddie still caught him. "I uh... I think I'm going to hit the showers."

"Great idea, cherub." Eddie said, following after Jason as he practically sprinted towards the showers.

#stranger things #fanfic #eddie munson #jason carver #munver

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absolutebl · 6 months

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I Cannot Reach You - Kimi ni wa Todokanai REVIEWED

This image perfectly captures how I feel about this show. You ready? I wasn't.

I Cannot Reach You

AKA I Can't Reach You AKA Kimi ni wa Todokanai

Japan 2023 - 8 eps 20 ea approx 2.5 hours

Themes, main tropes & archetypes: friends to lovers, tsundere/sunshine, self acceptance, self worth, high school BL, live action yaoi, soft romance, kindness

Rating? 10/10

Yeah, it happened again in 2023.

Adapted from a manga.

The moment I finished binging this show I was thinking about writing about it and re-watching it. This is a sure sign that I adored a piece of media.

This is a wonderful BL.

Truly well executed, with smooth filming and lovely acting, both of a simplistic style that felt slightly more Korean than it did Japanese. It reminded me a little bit of Seven Days and a little bit of Takara and Amagi, and since these are my two favorite high school JBLs obviously I was bound to adore ICRY.

But what it reminded me of more than anything was Cherry Blossoms After Winter.

Odd for JBL and KBL to be so closely linked.

Like CBAW show, ICRY is classic live action yaoi.

Like the MOST classic of CLASSIC.

All the JBL tropes. I mean look at that image above? It's rooftop assignation, kabedon, and a handhold ALL AT ONCE.

There was also multiple runnings of the gays, surprise kisses (one on a bridge), and shoulder leans.

There is even a “seme looses control to desire” scene which leads to dub con. There is an abject apology after but still - you’ve been warned.

The premise is: smart sporty hot (and hella gay) Yamato has a long standing crush on his silly sunshine sweetheart bestie, Kakeru. Yamato is also stiff, self isolated, shy, and has only ever really managed to get along with Kakeru. I love this kind of pining seme so damn much, it probably biased me.

Unlike most uke, Kakeru starts to slowly figure out that his best friend is in love with him by ep 2 (let the chaos bisexual identity crisis commence).

So do some of the friends around them.

The story thus revolves around Yamato trying to unsuccessfully suppress his desire, and Kakeru trying to figure out if he can return Yamato‘s affection.

This biggest barrier is actually Kakeru's feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness (when compared to Yamato). But this is tempered by his genuine kindness which forces him into act with integrity around his dear friend's love and strive to fix everything (even himself) to prove worthy of it - whether he can ultimately return it or not.

Kakeru's struggles are pitted against Yamato‘s repressed need that keeps bubbling over and figuratively (sometimes literally) attacking Kakeru with romantic, emotional, and physical intensity.

Quick pitch:

This classic friends-to-lovers BL is everything Japan does best. Angsty. Emo. Aching. Driven by real thirst. Yamato is deeply in love with his childhood bestie, Kakeru, and has been for ages, unable to hide his ungainly damaging high school need. He wants Kakeru in every way possible and it oozes off of the screen. Kakeru is silly and a little simple, but not frenetic or overly camp about it. He is earnest, and genuinely wants to keep Yamato in his life which means giving a romance (and gayness) a fair chance. We watch him realize his affection and what form it can take in a truly authentic way. This show was impossibly kind to both of its lead characters and I felt almost honored that I got to watch something so lovely and rare play out on my screen.

I’m not gonna lie, I dithered over whether to give this a 10/10 and nearly didn’t. But there is nothing wrong with it AS A BL.

And it's so GOOD to ALL of its characters and they are so good to each other. It's quiet and because of its goodness it will get overlooked, but I LOVED IT.

It's not one of those that BL outsiders will get and you must like Japan's style to enjoy it. But I'm in it. It's for me.

What am I hung up over? Even the kisses are good.

10/10

I CAN'T RECOMMEND IT HIGHLY ENOUGH

Welcome to a very elite club. I gotta change all my best of lists now.

I am sorry to tell you how difficult this show is to get hold of. It deserves a much wider distribution. As of Nov 2023 I do not know where to legally find it internationally with eng subs. Please check the comments for updates.

It's on Netflix in some countries!

Try to find it, you won't regret it.

(source)

#my favorite JBL of 2023 #best of the year?#Japanese BL #I Cannot Reach You #Kimi ni wa Todokanai #JBL #Japanese bl #live action yaoi #adapted from a manga #this is what i want from japan #it's just so good and so good to it's characters and they are so good to each other

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breannasfluff · 1 year

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Dropped Feathers

The first time Legend meets Wild, the kid nearly takes his head off.

The Chain comes through a portal near a particularly ugly stable and it’s the easiest place to start.

The group draws glances, but Legend wanders around the edge of the building, drinking in the new landscape. It’s here he bumps into a stranger, whose sword is out as he spins and points at Legend’s throat.

“What the hell!” He jumps back, wings puffing up in an unconscious threat display. Is it a bandit? Someone who means harm?

The stranger tilts his head but then puts his sword away. “You startled me.”

“I startled you? I’m not the one waving swords in people’s faces!”

The kid winces, but the wary, calculating look in his eyes doesn’t fade.

By the time they wrangle out that the stranger is Wild, a new hero to join them, Legend’s planted him firmly in the same category as Warriors: a loner.

Wild’s addition changes little of the group’s makeup. Wind and Sky, the two seabirds, stick together on the ground and glide happily alone. Twilight follows Time around like a lost dog, always eager to follow orders. Warriors prefers his alone time.

Four chatters enough to be multiple companions on his own, although Time and Twilight are the only two who indulge him on a regular basis. Legend likes Four’s company; if only it just came with a little more silence.

Despite his prickly attitude, Legend is a fairly social bird. Because of the attitude, it’s a rare indulgence.

Hyrule likes pairs and is perfectly happy to latch into Legend and stay there. Legend, for his part, delights in someone he hasn’t driven away.

Wild goes Warriors route of sticking to himself, but unlike the captain he doesn’t look happy about it. It’s closer to the feeling Legend has when he wants to join in with the others but holds back.

Twilight and Time make an effort to include the newest hero, so he’s not without chances to bond. He just…doesn’t take them.

When they preen in the evenings, even Warriors allows Time to help him with the feathers he can’t reach. Wild turns down help from all of them, including the captain’s offer.

Unable to reach all his feathers, the slightly dingy blue dull further. He can fly just fine but Legend catches Time throwing concerned looks in his direction.

“Aren’t magpies supposed to be social?” Legend stands, hands on his hips, blocking Wild’s path of slinking away to his own corner to eat again.

“Not up for company,” comes the mumble. His wings hunch into his back, making him look even smaller.

Legend isn’t falling for it. “C’mon, even Warriors eats with us and he loves his own company a little too much.”

“I heard that!”

The veteran ignores Warriors jibe.

Wild just shakes his head and edges around him. “Another time.” Then he ducks past and scrambles up into a tree, bowl still balanced in one hand.

“Let him go,” Time calls. He doesn’t look happy about it.

Wild continues to avoid the group, avoid preening, and thrashes through the air like an ungainly chick. Sometimes he’ll slide in behind someone and his flight stabilizes. Then, almost like his attention slipped, he ducks up or down and resumes the constant flapping.

They fight monsters and switch eras. The faint hope on Wild’s face dies as they enter another unfamiliar realm. His wings are getting rattier every day. Time tries both gentle and commanding, but Wild climbs a tree faster than Time can follow. A cloud of dirty feathers falls in his wake.

Time stands and glares are the pine for a long time.

Hyrule, gentle, attentive Hyrule, is taking an interest in the newest hero. Legend can’t help the slight jealousy as attention shifts away from him. Hyrule is a pair bird and Legend is the other half of that pair. While he might like some more social interaction, he won’t give up his closest friend.

Mostly, Hyrule watches Wild and Legend watches Hyrule. Soon, Legend is watching the champion, too, just to see what’s so fascinating.

It’s how he notices what Hyrule already saw; Wild attempting to preen and plucking ruined feathers. The shake of his fingers gets worse each time.

The feathers, poorly cared for, are coming out too fast for a molt. It’ll start affecting his flying soon.

Time stages an intervention when it becomes clear Wild isn’t going to give in on his own. He sits the champion down and explains how they understand worries about trust and safety. There’s no shame in accepting a little help from time to time.

Wild’s glare only grows with each word. “Don’t touch my wings.” Then he stalks off.

The intervention is a failure. Time grits his teeth and snaps for Twilight to come spar with him. The fury of the mock fight takes even the hawk off guard.

Read the rest here!

#lu wing bois #lu wing au #lu legend #lu wild #lu hyrule #lu time #breannasfluff #wb legend #wb hyrule #wb wild #hurt/comfort #linked universe #linkeduniverse #my writing

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minisugakoobies · 9 months

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Paradise Chapter 14 - Teaser | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: smut, neighbors to lovers (not quite friends but not quite strangers), love triangle, Stripper!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Teaser Warnings: reference to blow jobs

Teaser Word Count: 859 (actual chapter TBD)

Disclaimers: None, other than obviously I don’t own BTS - they simply inspire me

A/N: Helloooooo… sorry it's taking so long for the next update. Here's a little peek at how the chapter begins. Can you believe we're coming up on 2 YEARS since this started?? 😳 Wild. Thank you for hanging on! 💕

(This chapter is still in progress, so this is subject to change!)

Paradise Main Masterlist 💜 Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

Turns out that impulsiveness looks pretty good on you.

“YN!”

Or not.

As soon as you close the door, you hear Jin’s voice calling to you. He’s standing at the other end of the little hallway, near the entrance to the reception room.

“Hey,” you reply, trying to be the most nonchalant you’ve ever been in your life, as if you weren’t just gagging on Jungkook’s dick in a public bathroom.

“Easy, tiger!” he laughs, arms locking around your back as he helps you stand back upright. “I’m used to ladies throwing themselves at me, but only you’ve taken it literally.”

Another hand slips into yours.

Oh, shit.

On top of that, Jungkook has asked you a question. And is now waiting for an answer, while Jin watches in polite silence.

“Um. Yes. Sorry, yes, can you keep an eye on it for me?”

Jin clears his throat lightly.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Jin, this is Jungkook, Jungkook, Jin.”

You try to quickly fill Jungkook in. “Jin’s the best man.”

“Sure am.” Jin grins.

“He and Yoongi grew up together,” you add, ignoring Jin’s little interjection, knowing that Jungkook didn’t miss it based on the way his jaw flexes violently, as if he’s gnashing his teeth.

“Nice to meet you, Jungkook. That’s quite a grip you have there.” Jin slides his hands into his pockets. “YN’s told me a little about you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Jungkook replies, inclining his head slightly. His hand returns to yours, fingers locking firmly. “Wish I could say the same, but YN never mentions you.”

You try to control your face as you look at Jungkook. What did he just say?

#bts x reader #bts scenarios #bts smut #bts imagines #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #fic: paradise

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 1: Afternoon Light]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

A/N: Not me pulling a Tom Brady by announcing my retirement only to immediately un-announce it. 😂😂 I regret to inform you that I am apparently incapable of not writing fanfiction. I had no ideas for a grand total of 1 week before this story showed up and possessed me entirely against my will...and then I fell in love with it. I’m still working on my book, but I had to get this out of my system too. I hope you enjoy it. 💜 I’ll tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to! 🥰

@elsolario @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @flowerpotmage @thewitch-lives @tempt-ress @padfooteyes @teenagecriminalmastermind @chelsey01 @anditsmywholeheart @heliosscribbles @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @tillyt04 @cicaspair418 @fan-goddess

He’s thrusting into you, but you’re miles away: a speck of an island in the Mediterranean Sea, the glimmer of an unnamed star.

His rhythm is clumsy but never rough. He smells like wine and sandalwood, lavender and bleak perspiration. You moan when he expects you to. Your body moves with his, compliant, complicit. You roll your hips and tug at his white-blond hair, corollaries of ecstasy you wish you felt. You’ve learned to feign pleasure convincingly. Aegon will stop if he thinks you’re not enjoying yourself, and you need this to be over. What do you want me to do to you? he’ll ask, cerulean eyes drunk and muddy, words slurred, body repositioning. Do you like it this way? How about this? You can’t bear his curious consideration, his invasive hands. You don’t really like it any way. You’ve grown to accept that. You’ve had time to get used to the idea.

The air is sharp with the mineral ether of sex. Spots on the sheet beneath you are wet, clinging, cold. When Aegon kisses you—sloppily, carelessly—your lips and tongue follow his, willing him to finish, your eyes squeezed shut as he gropes your face with ungainly fingers. And at last, it’s done: he shudders, groans, flops down beside you on the mattress.

“Well done, wife,” Aegon pants. He gives your disheveled hair one absentminded stroke and then gazes up at the canopy, cloth embroidered with green roses and spiraling gold dragons. He yawns, his eyes dipping closed. The rise and fall of his bare, glistening chest is slowing.

“Aegon?”

“Hm?” He is inconvenienced; he is already half-asleep.

You roll onto your side, turning towards him. Aegon feels the mattress shift. Reluctantly, he rouses himself, sighs, swallows the rest of the wine in the cup he left perched on the nightstand. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

“About what?” He peers at you, groggy and half-listening, stray beads of red wine like blood on his chin. “Oh, yes. That.”

That. What he means is three miscarriages in one year, all early, all excruciating beyond words, all destructive to both the body and the soul. “You have no idea how hard I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry yourself, wife,” he says, yawning again. He always calls you that—wife—with a vague, impersonal fondness. Aegon doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t seem interested in remedying that. He doesn’t see it as something to be remedied at all. He attempts to set his empty cup back on the nightstand and doesn’t notice when it tumbles off and clanks against the floor. He burrows beneath the blankets like a hedgehog. “We’ll get it right eventually.”

Eventually, you think with horror, as you are left alone in the candlelight; Aegon plummets into sleep and is silent except for his snoring. How long will I have to do this?

Twelve months of marriage and you are no closer to fulfilling your purpose here. You are told what to eat, when to sleep with your husband, how to lie still afterwards so his seed can take hold, which saints to pray to. You are offered tender-voiced morsels of advice until they feel more like palms cracking across your face than gifts. Every second of your existence is consumed by the desperate need for Aegon’s heir, for the Greens’ future. And each time you lose a pregnancy, the clock starts over again.

How long can I do this before it breaks me, kills me, drives me mad?

~~~~~~~~~~

When a northern pike glides through cool rippling currents, yellow perch and bluegills scatter; and that’s exactly what the courtiers do to you. It’s a bit like living inside a glass bowl: people press their palms to the arched walls and stare like you’re a captive animal—a leopard or an elephant or a white bear from the Arctic—but they don’t speak to you. None of them know what to say. There are whispers flying, women in gowns and men in tunics gossiping about how last night was the first time the prince returned to your bed since your most recent miscarriage. The tentative speculation can begin again, glances at your waistline and delicate inquiries about your health. Bets are placed on whether you will at last produce an heir this time: boy, girl, white-haired or not, early, late, alive, dead. The clock has been reset.

You do not allow anyone to see your pain, your desperation. You have no true friends here. You are allied with the Greens, yes, but that does not mean they are your friends. The Duke of Hightower, chief advisor to the king, was insistent that you bring none of your ladies with you from your homeland; and so the women who attend you are English, polite but not particularly devoted, dutiful but not reliably discreet. He wanted no weak links, no chess pieces that he could not entirely control, no loyalties that ran deeper than his ambitions for Alicent and her children. Now, the Duke of Hightower is fiercely disappointed with you. He’s losing his ability to hide it.

As you traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace—an island, a lone cloud roaming across a clear sky—Prince Daemon, smirking and wolflike, stalks into your path.

“Hello there, Navarre,” he says, circling with one hand on the hilt of his sword, his strange deep-set eyes flicking all over you. He likes to call you this, a reminder of where you came from, of why Aegon married you: for an alliance, for advantages in the inevitable civil war when King Viserys dies, for heirs intrinsically linked with the Continent. You were one piece of a far grander design. Helaena was married off to Castile, you were brought west from Navarre, and thus the Greens gained supporters in the Iberian Peninsula. Helaena has given birth to one healthy son so far, and by all accounts has found great happiness in her new life across the Bay of Biscay. Daemon never tires of drawing attention to the fact that you have yet to fulfill your half of the bargain.

You bow your head swiftly, without conviction. “Prince Daemon.”

“My, that’s quite an extravagant gown. What have you got hidden under it? Your father’s famed archers, perhaps? Gold coins and steel daggers? I know what Prince Aegon would want under his skirts.” Daemon grins. “Lady Joanna Montford. Or is it Mountford? You must forgive me, I’m always mixing up the details.”

“I’ll defer to your better judgment, you have far more experience with whores than I do.”

He offers you a single rose, dyed black. “I regret that I did not have the opportunity to properly express my condolences after your most recent loss. It’s become difficult to keep up with them, they’ve grown so numerous. I’m sure you understand.”

You take the rose; untrimmed thorns bite into the defenseless flesh of your fingertips, but you don’t let it show on your face. “Only one from you? Your wife sent me a dozen.” They were red, the color of Navarre’s flag; though the resemblance to blood did not escape you.

“Yes, it’s true, her heart remains rather tender, much to my chagrin.”

“And yours remains nonexistent.” You pluck onyx petals from the rose one by one and toss them to the floor. Courtiers watch this, chattering spiritedly.

Daemon is still grinning. He has won. It never matters what you say, what you do; until you give Aegon a son, in every interaction Daemon walks away the victor. “I hope you enjoy the rest of this glorious July afternoon. And I hope you enjoy your evening as well. And the evening after that, and the evening after that…” He prowls closer, his voice dropping low and sinister. “And all those countless, blundering, long evenings you’ll spend under your mortifying drunk of a husband.”

You rip away from him—not his hands, no, even Daemon would not deign to touch you in front of an audience, but from his suffocating antipathy—and continue on your way to the royal stables, courtiers dispersing in your wake like startled doves. The cobblestones of the palace gardens are weather-beaten and craggy as you sail over them, warm summer wind in your hair, the hem of your gown dragging. Herbs and spices grow high and vivid green: angelica for digestion, feverfew for headaches, St. John’s wort for melancholy, betony to ward off evil spirits, chamomile to bring sleep, rosemary to quell nightmares, pennyroyal to induce a woman’s monthly blood. You have the opposite problem. All you seem to be able to do is bleed.

Inside the royal stables, the world is reduced to hushed subtleties: hooves thudding against straw, nickers and huffs, the swishing of tails, cascading sunlight dotted with whirling planets of dust. You drift by each of the stalls, inhaling the scent of horses and mid-summer. King Viserys promised you an Andalusian, brought by ship all the way from your homeland, for each child born to you and Aegon; alas, none of the animals housed here are yours yet. There’s Sunfyre, an Akhal-Teke, small-boned and shimmering gold. There’s Caraxes, a temperamental blood bay Arabian, and Syrax, a Marwari, cremello with blue eyes and delicate ears that curl in towards each other. Tessarion is a dappled blue-grey Percheron, young but gaining height and brute force each day. Jacaerys and Lucerys have Marwaris like their mother, Baela and Rhaena own volatile Arabians like their father. Joffrey is still riding a slow, potbellied pony; little Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya cannot ride at all yet. Every time you blink, it seems, the Blacks have added another child to their ranks, another inheritor to carry their claim forward. Your stomach sinks beneath your skin and scarlet ropes of muscle, a basket full of rocks.

You stop at the last stall, twice the size of any of the others. Vhagar towers over you. She is an English Great Horse, and the largest one that anyone can remember knowing of; her coat is a dark, lustrous brown, her massive hooves feathered, her muzzle sloped and velvety when you lay your palm against it. She lets you do this, as she always does; more than that, you think, she welcomes it.

You remove the letter from your bodice, your true purpose for coming here. You want to read it where you can be alone, where there are no prying eyes to report back to King Viserys, Queen Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, Aegon, Daemon, Rhaenyra the Crown Princess. You must keep your composure, your dignity. It’s all you have left.

You unfold the letter, your gaze skimming across your mother’s words, the slopes and summits of her letters heartbreakingly familiar, her fears loud through the ink-and-parchment silence. You expected this, and yet the weight of it stacks up in your ribcage like the splintered wreckage of a ship.

Think, my love, the Queen of Navarre writes. Think of everything you do, see, say, and feel. There is something that is poisoning the children inside of you. Do not trouble yourself with court gossip or bitter rivalries. You cannot serve your husband’s family—your family, now—if your attention is divided and your heart heavy with doubts. Shut yourself away from all things impassioned. Commit yourself to prayer and needlework. Purify yourself, dear daughter, prepare yourself in body and soul. God answers the cries of those who have won his favor.

You crumple the letter in your fists and then rip it to pieces, not out of wrath but so that nobody else might read it. The fragments flutter away like autumn leaves. You cannot resent your mother for her cushioned reprimands. She means well, but she cannot hope to understand; she bore ten children, eight of whom lived past the cradle, with no exceptional difficulty. Your father has taken mistresses on occasion, but not until years into his marriage, and regardless of his dalliances your mother remains his confidant, his greatest desire, his heart. Your life is nothing like hers. Your future has become something you didn’t know existed. You feel as if you have stumbled into a mirror, a duplicate world where everything is the same but the wrong way around. Where is your own satisfaction? Where is your soulmate?

There are footsteps, and you spin to see Prince Aemond standing in the doorway. He immediately turns to leave, and this is unsurprising; he never speaks to you, rarely looks at you, glides out of rooms as you come into them. You had once hoped to befriend him before his aversion to the notion became clear. He is palpably disinterested in you. But this afternoon as warm golden sunlight spills down on him, for reasons you cannot fathom, he hesitates; and now he’s waited too long, it would be rude for him to flee so obviously from you. Slowly, Aemond walks into the stable. He is so much like Daemon, though lighter: not in color but in gravity, his steps quieter, his hands graceful and precise. You’ve never seen him without his eyepatch. The Blacks call the cause of his maiming a sparring accident, the Greens call it an ambush, King Viserys doesn’t call it anything; perhaps he has forgotten it completely.

You expect Aemond to demand to know what you’re doing here, to scold you for jeopardizing your health with unnecessary excursions. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,” he says instead, his voice whisper-soft like pattering spring rain, like a leaf of lamb’s ear threaded between your fingers. “I hope my brother has been…kind about it.”

“He’s very kind. He doesn’t mention it at all.” Not once has anybody said those three words to you: I’m so sorry. They lift a million pounds from your shoulders, an eon of stones from your belly. “In fact, no one speaks of it with me. They speak in my direction, they tell me what to do differently, they assign blame…but no one has any interest in what I have to say back. No one asks me what it feels like to…to…”

It shocks you, knuckles to the gut: your breath hitches, your lips tremble, you swallow down tears like poison. It’s humiliating, this display of helplessness, this shattering of regal poise. You shield your face with both hands so Aemond cannot watch you war with yourself. And surely he is repulsed by you, this prince who has been mutilated and unavenged and overlooked since childhood. You have never known anyone as self-possessed as Aemond Targaryen. He endures all of life’s trials without emotion, without weakness. He must be appalled that you cannot do the same.

Yet when you are at last confident that you will not weep in front of him, you lower your hands to see that Aemond has silently obliterated the space between you. He is close enough to touch, his palm pressed to Vhagar’s monstrous neck. He’s looking at the horse, but he is listening to you. “She likes you,” he says gently. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

You’ve never been in such proximity to Aemond before. He’s taller than you remember; his eye is watchful and intent, a paler shade of blue than Aegon’s, more clear, a river rather than a sea riotous with storms. When you inhale, you taste pieces of him: leather, musk, the smoke of a blacksmith’s forge. There’s an abrupt weakness in your knees and ankles that you pretend not to notice. “Most of my friends have hooves these days.”

“I never see you go out riding.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

For an instant, his brow knits with confusion, and then he remembers. Horseback riding is thought to be calamitous for pregnancy, and your chances are slim enough already. “But that’s something that you once enjoyed, back in Navarre?” You flinch when you hear the name of your homeland, a reflex, Daemon’s taunts ringing in your skull like church bells. Everyone knows that’s what he calls you. “Forgive me, perhaps that word has painful connotations now.”

“It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it.” And that’s true: it’s not a dagger but a murmur, a musing, a dream. “Yes, I used to love riding horses. And dancing, attending hunting expeditions, reading poetry, plucking olives from the trees…my brothers and I would even knock swords together sometimes in the courtyard.” You smile wistfully, then lose it like a gull feather on waves. “And now I don’t do anything.”

“What brings you happiness here in England?”

“Nothing,” you reply, meeting his gaze for the first time. He studies you, his eye blue like the mid-summer afternoon sky, searching. And suddenly, you’ve never felt more interesting, you’ve never felt such raw hunger to unearth everything you’re built of. You skate your palm down Vhagar’s face and confess quietly, shakily: “I always thought I would teach my children to ride horses.”

“You will someday,” Aemond insists.

“When you’re little, five or ten years old, you dream about growing up and all the miraculous things you’ll be. And then you finally become an adult and you meet the rest of your life and…and…” You don’t like it. “It’s so different from what you imagined.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, soft and mournful.

“But I’ve interrupted you,” you say. “You came here to take Vhagar riding, I’m sure, and now you’re caught in my little web of nostalgia and self-pity. Please, accept my apology, and don’t let me delay you any further.”

“I was planning to go riding,” Aemond admits. He’s wearing a black leather messenger bag, you notice for the first time. He pulls at the strap that hangs from his right shoulder self-consciously. You have never seen Aemond betray any sign of self-consciousness before this moment. In many ways, you have never seen him at all. He asks you pointedly: “What if I took Vhagar out walking you accompanied me?”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Not riding,” Aemond says. “Just walking. We’ll lead her down to the edge of the forest, let her stretch her legs a bit and eat some of the fallen apples. You’re allowed to walk, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” You stare at him, perplexed. You almost ask why he would offer to do such a thing, why he would feel inspired to raise your spirits. But you don’t want him to change his mind. You point to his messenger bag. “What do you have in there?”

“Parchment. Quills. A bottle of ink.”

“What do you write? Battle plans? Letters to marriageable foreign noblewomen?”

“Poems,” Aemond confesses in a whisper you can barely hear, not looking at you.

“Could I read some of your poems?”

“No,” he says immediately, startled.

“Never mind. It was wrong of me to ask.”

He doesn’t reply; he just fetches Vhagar’s halter from the hook on the stable wall, black leather studded with sapphires the size of ladybugs. She allows Aemond to place it on her without any resistance. He attaches the lead chain—heavy silver links—but he doesn’t need it. Vhagar follows him out of the stables, her colossal hooves drumming like distant thunder, her jet black mane whipping in the wind. Aemond matches his pace with yours as the three of you cross the emerald green field that separates Westminster Palace from the tree line of the forest.

After strolling for a while—Vhagar chomping on apples, you stepping gingerly over felled branches and gnarled roots—you and Aemond sit beneath a sprawling cedar that blots out the sun, its limbs like the wings of a dragon. He recounts myths and legends of England, things that Aegon has not thought to share with you once in the past twelve months, weeks of which you spent in bed bleeding out his would-be children: King Arthur and Beowulf, Robin Hood and the Rollright Stones, Saint George the guardian of the royal family. And as Aemond speaks, at some point you stop hearing him and start seeing him, everything that brought him here, everything that will happen next.

Once upon a time, King Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra his successor. She was his only surviving offspring, the last vestige of his cherished wife Aemma, dead in fruitless childbirth and cold in her tomb in Windsor Castle. The king then promptly remarried and fathered four more Targaryens, closer to afterthoughts than assets in his eyes: Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Rhaenyra is still the king’s favorite, and is much loved in Northern England, where her mother hailed from. She has the support of Scotland as well. Her marriage to their Crown Prince Laenor Velaryon was meant to consolidate the two nations under one ruling family, one flag. To reinforce this alliance, her uncle Daemon wed Laenor’s sister Laena. But then Laena died, and Laenor did too, and all those tragic pieces fell together for Rhaenyra to get what she evidently wanted all along: Daemon in wedlock, in her confidence, in her bed. Her sons with Laenor will soon marry his daughters with Laena, and each new white-haired child she produces with her uncle gives the Blacks one more dynastic pawn to play in the game of thrones.

The merchants of Southern England—the Duke of Hightower foremost among them—are aghast at the thought of Rhaenyra’s ascension. No woman has ever successfully ruled England, and she is sure to be malevolently influenced by her uncle-husband. The Pope will not sanction their incestuous union, nor those of their children, though this does not daunt the Blacks. They will make a new order here in the British Isles; they will not play by the Continent’s rules. In reply, the kingdoms of Western Europe—to varying degrees of zealousness—support the Greens and the coronation of Aegon II upon his father’s death. King Viserys is in fine health now, but that could change at a moment’s notice: with a fall from a horse, with veins darkened by infection, with a vial of poison, with a resurgence of Plague. When the king is dead, Aegon must have every possible advantage to offer England, including a clear line of succession. This was supposed to be your role. This has become your greatest failure. Yet here under a hundred-year-old cedar tree outside Westminster Palace, Aemond makes you forget that for a while.

Hours later, you are back in your bedchamber when your husband arrives to fuck you. That’s a crude word for it, but that’s exactly what it is: something he does to you, not with you. You gulp down a cup of your apple cider, the drink you like best here in England, not as thick and bitter as ale, not a poor imposter of the Continent’s red wine. It is bright, sweet, sometimes vaguely minty. It makes you think of spring and summer, of rebirth. It fills you with the undying ambition to bear fruit of your own.

You turn to Aegon, who is yanking off his white shirt with his back to you, his hair in disarray, his pores sweating out wine and indifference. He crawls into the bed on all fours, slapping himself lightly across the face, forcing himself to stay awake until the act is done.

And you think, for the very first time: I wonder what it would have been like to marry Aemond.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfic

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