#i cannot for the life of me fucking find any other nick drawings i fucking know i have more but my folders are so disorganised i gave up

[gncrezan]

happy valentine's day najam!! 💕 love u so much, you always make my days so bright, i hope you enjoy that same brightness today

HAPPY VALENTINES QUILL !!!!! hope you had a good day, i love you MWAH !!!!!! using this ask like last year as an excuse to post various nickmancing content i've accumulated over the years do not mind me (buttonkenzie sneaking in but still)

#once i get my trillion tasks out of the way. i will become insufferable on your ao3. prommy. #mostly old regency au from when i was rewatching bridgerton #quill tag #please also note their stupid 90s-retro justice and fortitude sweatshirts #i cannot for the life of me fucking find any other nick drawings i fucking know i have more but my folders are so disorganised i gave up #there's one of nick cowering behind kiran when rosy is coming up to him and theyre like #'he's using me a barrier. i didnt do this but im obligated to protect him bc i love him. please dont fire me' #bhattarai is also the last name im thinking of keeping for non-mb thoughts that steal nick + laila away from their original setting #'this is my nick wiseman fanart' -> two years later 'this is my oc nikhil bhattarai' #i do like the last name wiseman so much though i just want to distance whatever im doing with them with mb. its not truly mb anymore #like it is when i want it to be. I CONTAIN MULTITUDES! #but thank you for the ask again quill LOVE YOU!!!!! #nik wiseman #agent kiran

[wincore]

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff 

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of. 

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low. 

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours. 

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget. 

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore. 

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume. 

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type. 

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises.  If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts. 

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself. 

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask. 

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it. 

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it. 

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.  

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily. 

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year. 

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately. 

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one. 

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt. 

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover. 

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours. 

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth. 

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words. 

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.  

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table. 

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad. 

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back. 

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing. 

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters. 

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs. 

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.” 

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can. 

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off. 

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating. 

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know. 

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young. 

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.” 

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling. 

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung. 

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses. 

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention. 

Inviting him somewhere. 

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure. 

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more. 

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter? 

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.  

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him. 

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.” 

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.” 

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.” 

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts. 

You’re disappointing. 

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose. 

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps. 

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask. 

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you. 

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue. 

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.” 

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you. 

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families. 

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe. 

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard. 

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them. 

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out. 

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up. 

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt. 

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart. 

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it. 

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him. 

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak. 

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.  

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time. 

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional. 

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love. 

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved. 

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding. 

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either. 

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next  meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple. 

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action. 

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t. 

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days. 

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.” 

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by. 

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers. 

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever. 

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout. 

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!” 

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?” 

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this. 

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose. 

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond. 

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—” 

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder. 

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him. 

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too. 

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again. 

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling. 

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you. 

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care. 

 “Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there. 

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally. 

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer. 

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand. 

#kim doie perfect man bye #doyoung x reader #nct x reader #nct doyoung scenarios #nct scenarios #nct imagines #doyoung imagines #nct fanfic #doyoung fanfic #nct angst #doyoung angst #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 angst #nct college au #moonwrites #okaaay idk what this is either #if you get annoyed midway thru the fic you are perfectly valid <3 #i will literally never write smth like this ever again 🤡🤡🤡 #if you notice inconsistency in character no u dont #(i had to fix up some earlier inconsistencies but it gave more inconsistencies maybe i should give up writing for good)

[g0dspeeed]

Liar, Liar

For @constantzeigarnik

"V unabashedly flirting with Viktor, just laying it on real thick for the ripperdoc, and Viktor just not being prepared for it in the slightest."

“Liar, liar.”

The words came out in a tired sigh with a voice that hopefully sounded as indifferent as V intended.

The pair was laid out on the hood of Panam’s latest wheels, eyes closed, and cold drinks in hand. After helping the Aldecaldo get the ride from a locked storage yard, V had offered to relax beneath the shade of a highway overpass while they waited for the client to arrive. Panam accepted without a second thought. Between the two of them, a break from daily survival in Night City seemed in order.

Supposed to be chill.

Just two friends sippin’ on a dry afternoon.

No worries.

No stress for an hour.

That was before their present conversation, one that V was trying desperately to avoid.

“Yeah, I’m the liar here,” returned Panam. “And Night City is family friendly. At least I’m not the one in denial that my ripperdoc has the hots for me.”

V turned to shoot her friend a dark look. The nomad smirked as the warning fell flat. Despite V’s best efforts, Panam could see right through her: She was absolutely fuckin’ right.

“Think ya’ got it all wrong,” V maintained in a cool tone.

“Oh, do I?”

V cringed.

“Only met the guy one time,” Panam said. “Felt like a third wheel between the two of you eye-fuckin’ each other. Almost walked outta there see what that psychic girl was sellin’.”

A new warmth began stinging V’s cheeks and Panam frowned at her friend’s lack of response.

This was new territory. Seeing V react this way was beyond strange. One of the most capable people Panam had ever met was turning red over a man. Borderline bizarre. Truly, the entire conversation was out of the norm.

“Shit,” muttered Panam. At her best efforts at being soft, she added, “Don’t feel bad, V. The guy’s stacked like a fucking truck.”

At that, V finally let her guard down. She grinned as Panam gently shoved her shoulder.

“There she is. Just let that denial fade away-”

“Fuck off.”

“What the hell are you afraid of?” asked Panam. “Rejection?”

V looked at her energy drink, swiveling the liquid around before relenting.

“I mean, yeah, kinda.”

An eye roll and a heavy groan came from the woman beside her.

“Yeah okay,” said Panam. “Like he’d reject a woman half his age, much less a badass like you. V, I saw it for myself. The guy thinks you’re hot. Caught ‘im lookin’ at your ass. Not only that, he cares, like genuinely cares about you, which says a lot for people like us. Next time you see him, just lay it on thick and be done.”

V scrunched her eyes shut at her friend’s advice. Just talking about openly pursuing Viktor Vector made V’s stomach twist into knots. As much as she was the badass that Panam knew her to be, for V to explore an actual romantic relationship outside of ‘eye-fucking’ and the occasional one-night stand with some rando from Afterlife was not something V was familiar with. Her days were chaotic. Her lifestyle was that of constant motion. Viktor, in all his edginess, was stable, consistent, and secure. Also, she enjoyed the subtly they shared, the skirting around the topic of their flirty friendship, or whatever it was, from the safety of fleeting looks, suggestive undertones, and the occasional wink.

Then again, if V were honest with herself, it never seemed to be enough. V couldn’t deny that each time she left his clinic she wanted more. Craved more. More time, more privacy, more touch. She was her own worst enemy in all of those categories, always the first to shy away, to change the subject, to wander off.

“Worst case scenario,” breathed Panam. “He’s not interested in dating someone younger. Or just wants to be friends. That’s fine. Whatever. Should that happen, you delta outta there, lay low for a few weeks, find a new doc, and move on.”

“I can’t just delta out of his life,” groaned V. “He’s been my ripperdoc since I came to Night City. He’s also one of my closest friends-”

“Ok, then suffer. Fuck! Just do something. You’re killing me with this in between bullshit.”

Hours later, their conversation from under the overpass played on repeat inside V’s head. Panam cannot sugar coat anything. She might be physically incapable of doing that. Her words came straight from the heart and that’s what made what she had to say so sincere.

That is at least what V was telling herself as she steadily made her way down the steps to Viktor’s clinic, hands clammy, and body keyed up.

Part of her hoped that he was out or tied up with a patient. Maybe he would tell her to come by later.

She scoffed.

What a stupid thought. She was too quick to forget how often he invited her to stick around if he were operating, how she would wait at his workbench or nap on his crusty couch in the back. Sure enough, she could hear the man whistling below, the cheery sound echoing to where she hesitated. She swallowed.

With a final deep breath, V summoned up the bravery to walk through the metal gate.

Hunched over his operating chair, Viktor appeared to be wiping down between appointments, his rich voice humming along to some song in his head. V watched for a moment, taking in the serene sight before approaching the ripperdoc.

“Surprised you’re not watching a match,” she said.

The humming stopped. His head cocked at hearing her voice.

Without turning he responded, “Aren’t any on right now or you know I would be.”

The rag was tossed down and Viktor shifted to look at her.

V’s stomach flipped. His blue button-up was stained with a dark, oily substance all over the front. The top buttons were either missing or dangling from bits of string, leaving the shirt partly undone and exposing his undershirt. V’s eyebrows furrowed as she noticed a small crack that cut in the corner of his glasses just above a small nick on his cheekbone.

“You look-”

“Like shit?” he finished with a grin.

Viktor crossed his arms, drawing V’s attention to his thick biceps in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Bet so,” he continued. “Someone brought in his friend after a run in with the Tyger Claws, all blood clots and broke teeth. The gonk was scared out of his goddamn mind. Took a toll just to sedate ‘im.”

His smile had turned into a smirk, something confident and full of swagger as he told his story. He wore it well, mastering the balance found only in seasoned residents of Night City, of those who earned their street cred by way of blood, grit, and never backing down. V’s lips pursed at how his eyes looked to hers past those dark lenses.

Here would be the part where V ran away, ran from opportunity, from her feelings. He dared to look at her the way he did in that moment, so smooth, so confident. The man had to know. Viktor had to recognize how he affected her, had to notice how her eyes appreciated his physique, how her complexion warmed when he touched her. His frame had turned to face hers, all broad shoulders and aftershave.

She could step back.

Look away.

This was where she could coolly suppress her attraction and change the subject.

But not today.

“Here,” she said warmly.

V stepped close to the ripperdoc, shrinking the gap between their bodies as her fingers gently plucked the man’s glasses from his face. Viktor blinked in surprise and swallowed as she studied the damaged lens with a critical eye, her own smirk pulling at her full lips.

“Gonna need new ones, doc,” she told him.

Next, V carefully folded the glasses and slid them onto the collar of her top. Viktor’s eyes tracked her movements before quickly glancing away. Ever the gentleman.

“But don’t worry,” continued V. “The rest of you I can remedy.”

He chuckled.

“The rest of me?”

V looked up. She nearly gasped. For Viktor to wear those damn shaded glasses was a sin. The bluest blue that V had ever seen, his eyes were deep like ocean water. There was longing in them. Desire. He adored V for standing so close and showing such concern for his wellbeing. Christ, she could get lost in those eyes if he kept looking at her like that.

To answer his question, V tugged at the hem of his soiled shirt. He stiffened.

“Are you tryin’ to say that you like being covered in… whatever this is?” she mused.

“Well, no-”

In a near whisper, V begged, “Then come on, Vik. Let me play doctor for once.”

Fuck.

The way she was looking up at him with that smile, those bedroom eyes, leaning close like that with her fingers tugging on his shirt and talkin’ in that sweet, sexy voice.

Who was Viktor to deny her?

He sighed out a ‘Fine’ and nodded in agreement. Consent confirmed, V went to work. V’s fingers moved to undo the remaining buttons of his shirt, but Viktor stopped her hands. His own hands were warm, a little rough with scars and callouses on the tips and knuckles. In response to V’s questioning look, Viktor grabbed his shirt and ripped the buttons loose with a jerk. They pattered at their feet.

“Trash,” he stated as he slid his arms free from his shirt. Like the buttons, it went airborne and landed in a nearby biohazard bin.

“Hey now,” warned V with mock annoyance. “I said let me play doctor.”

“Oh am I being a bad patient?” returned Viktor.

To his surprise, V placed her palm at the center of his chest. Her fingers flexed gently against his undershirt, making Viktor’s heart race. She then gave a gentle shove.

“The worst,” she teased as Viktor let her push him back into his own operating chair.

Even if he wanted to, there was no way that Viktor could hide his smile. He was at a loss. What in the world had gotten into V? Not that he was complaining of course, but he was so used to waiting. The flirting, the winks, all those playful innuendos had been going on for such a long time. By now, Viktor simply accepted that she wouldn’t push it further, that their friendship or whatever they had, consisted of only those teasing moments. Nothing more. In the end he believed that V didn’t want anything deeper with the ripperdoc. And that was fine. A bummer, but fine. Didn’t feel bad about it. Didn’t resent her. She was younger, a wild one who made a hobby out of recklessly injuring herself doing God knows what in the city. The man wasn’t new to women or intimacy, and with a woman like V he thought it best to let her set the terms, especially considering that she was after all his patient. A patient who ate his food, slept on his couch, completely ignored his work schedule, and called him ‘pretty boy’ on the regular. A patient no less.

So imagine how fast his heart was racing as her fingers softly cupped his cheek, at how her body leaned in close as she inspected the small cut beneath his eye. Viktor tried his hardest to look off into nothingness rather than at her breasts. Tried to ignore how delicious she smelled. Was she wearing perfume-

“Breathe, Vik,” she mumbled. “Can’t have my first patient black out on me.”

She fucking winked and that goddamn smirk of hers graced her lips.

“I, uh,” he began. He laughed, a bit too nervously for his liking. “I’m sorry, just, just distracted. It doesn’t hurt that much, ya know.”

“How’d he get ya?” asked V.

To Viktor’s disappointment, V stepped away from the chair and walked towards his workbench. He didn’t miss how her hips swayed or how she bent over to grab his medical kit in a nearly exaggerated manner. The way she looked into his eyes while she straightened, all slow and sensual with those curves of hers, went immediately to his dick. He swallowed.

“Um,” he said stupidly. “He, uh, headbutted me. With his head.”

“Ouch,” she replied.

Before she returned to the flustered ripperdoc, V shimmied out of her bomber jacket and tossed it on his workbench. A tattered crop top pulled against her skin as she shook out her dark hair.

Viktor had the decency to rest his hands in his lap to shield the effect that the merc had on him.

Her tongue wet her lips as she fished through the kit for what she wanted. The glance she shot in his direction proved that there was no innocence in the act.

What the fuck was happening?

That question repeated itself over and over again in his mind as she again bent closely towards his body to apply a Q-tip to the wound, offering another delicious view of her ample breasts.

“Can I get some feedback, doc?” she asked quietly.

Viktor swallowed, his mouth dry like sand.

“Yeah, kid,” he replied lowly.

V paused her work to truly look at him, to gaze into those gorgeous eyes of his. Then, all calm and collected, V perched herself next to him at the edge of the operating chair. Viktor allowed her some room as she cupped his cheek with her other hand, her breasts resting on his torso as she leaned into him. Her thumb ghosted his skin, tempting. Teasing. Viktor ignored the urge to press against the throbbing hardness in his pants. The cut long forgotten, his attention was caught up in V’s eyes, the warmth of her skin, her smell, the sultriness of her voice.

“Do you want me?”

Her mouth was so close to his. The warmth of her breath tickled his skin like static. Viktor’s eyes shut in anticipation as V slowly drew herself to his lips.

He felt nothing, but heard the soft tear of paper. Viktor’s eyes fluttered open, brow crinkling in confusion. V had sat up and was unwrapping a small bandage, her eyes fixated on the task while he gaped at her. When it was open, she reached out and carefully applied the bandage to the cut on Viktor’s cheek.

“All done,” she stated in a chipper tone, a wide smile stretched from ear to ear.

Viktor smirked.

“Oh yeah?” he questioned. “Think you’re hot shit giving this old man a heart attack?”

“Think I gave you more than that, pretty boy.”

Her eyes flickered to his lap and back to those ocean eyes. Viktor sat up in the chair, his hands not budging as if his life depended on it.

“You never answered me,” said V, the playfulness gone from her voice and replaced with a feeling that Viktor found it hard to describe.

There was no mystery, however, to how he felt in hearing it. His heart melted at her words, at how the game was finally over and that she, beautiful V, wanted to know if he wanted her. A stupid question, really, but an important one all the same.

“Ah V,” he said with a sigh.

Panic alit her eyes like fire, but it was quickly doused as Viktor took her by the hand.

“Of course I do,” Viktor replied earnestly. He gave her hand a small squeeze. “I’d be a fuckin’ liar if I didn’t.”

For whatever reason, Viktor saw V blink as if there was something odd in what he said. The moment was short and quickly forgotten as V embraced him so hard that the pair fell back in his operating chair, his arm wrapped around waist and his lips pressed into her hair.

#viktor vector #cyberpunk 2077 #im tired af #ripperdoc

[wolf-and-bard]

Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”  

#the witcher #witcher #jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x jaskier #yenskier #I'll reblog with ao3 link later #ficlet #my writing #fluff

[florencwrites]

all is fair in love〚dreamwastaken〛

in which clay cannot help but desperately promise himself that she will remember him

part 2

"She doesn't know my name, George." A frustrated sigh escaped his lips, almost closer to a huff than a sigh, honestly. His left hand ran over his face, a slight tremble detectable in his movements. His other hand held his phone close to his cheek, both the other sides of the line staying silent.

Hesitation on his breath, George spoke up again, leaving a few seconds for his response, just offering some time for his friend to calm down. "She will, Dream."

"You don't know that." The blonde immediately retorted, rolling his eyes at his friend's pathetic attempt of making him feel better. "Doctor said it could take years."

"Dude, you've been in love with this girl for years, when she didn't even know you existed at all," Sapnap interjected, somehow trying to relieve the tension by cracking a light joke. "I'm sure it'll work out again."

"Took her years to like me back." Clay chuckled, "I was obsessed." His mind was clouded by pictures of her, of them together. When they were just little kids, littering the streets for hours trying to find an agenda. Their teen years, how he hadn't been able to muster up the courage to ask her to prom, for years in a row. Her cheeky smile, expressive eyebrows, and those eyes he loved that much, those eyes that had been shut closed for days now. Fuck, he ran another hand over his face, up through his locks, he would never let her out of his sight again. Not when shit like this happened when he wasn't around. He'd never forgive himself for it, never let himself live it down. His eyebrows folded in agony, once again entirely overtaken by the idea of her not getting better, never becoming her old self anymore.

"Oh, we know, Dream." A slight chuckle breathed through his words, "She's so cute, Nick, AH! She let me hold her hand!" He mimicked his friend with a higher tone of voice, the brit quickly joining in, "GEORGE! She added me back! I'm so pathetically in love with her, George."

"I hate you guys." His voice sounded meek, soft, vulnerable. He loved them with all his heart, always knowing how to lift his mood, how to comfort him when he needed them to. "Thank you, for -uh- everything."

"Yeah dude, of course." Nick's smile was shining through his voice, audible even through the wacky discord call. George kept silent, but it was clear; they'd always be there to help him get through whatever it was, for however long it was needed.

It took three months, two weeks and several days for him to get her to smile again, a few more days after that for a laugh, God knows he could use it. The glint that once occupied her gaze had now retaken its deserved place in her eyes again after all, her eyebrows finally dancing with her expressions once again. A few days ago, she'd even let him hold her hand while they watched TLC on the tiny little television in her hospital room. He'd bugged her about buying her a bigger one every time he came by, which was practically every day, now that he thought about it.

His friends understood that he couldn't join their streams as often as before, they still offered him a spot in their Jackbox lobby every time, and Wilbur took it to himself to make sure he was never left out of the script, even if he bailed on them more often than not. It killed George especially, to see his friend like this, barely eating, sleeping all the time he wasn't spending sitting by her bed. He realized he'd never worried more about anyone than he did about Clay those hazy months. His own channels were suffering greatly, too, but that wasn't even close to being on his mind.

"Hi there." Clay waved slightly, wiggling his fingers nervously as he opened the door to her room. His eyes glanced to hers, a faint smile on her features as she muttered out a greeting. His gaze flickered through the room. He remembered first coming here those weeks ago, the deadly white walls that caged him into his own mind, the panic that wouldn't leave his veins, no matter what he did. He'd sat there for hours, the nurses having to send him home every single day. The lack of personal items making him greatly uncomfortable. Gradually he would take more and more decorations into her room, starting with some flowers, bringing in several stacks of plushies a little later. George, Nick, and Darryl had decided to get together and get her a Switch, naturally, Darryl had convinced them to get the new Animal Crossing for her. Clay decided to throw in some Mario Kart, more for himself than his comatose girlfriend. Then, the news broke on Twitter, and the drawings flooded his PO box, the one he now apparently shared with her. Pictures upon pictures hung on her walls, he even went as far as getting her Christmas lights above her bed, some photos of their childhood, too. At this moment, her eyes had yet to see the light of day since her accident, he did it all in complete silence, perhaps a small part of him didn't just do it for her, but to calm his own nerves a little, too.

But now, she was back. She played his dumb games with him, joked about his awful stubble, and thus, let him hold her hand, too. God, how he had missed the warmth of her fingers with his, anytime she'd let him touch her, shivers ran through his body; goosebumps covering the entirety of his skin. She'd loved the games they had collected for her over the course of these months, playing them daily. And even though she had no idea who these incredibly attentive people were, she knew she cared about them greatly. She'd asked Clay about them several times, even going as far as recording a short voice memo, thanking them for everything they'd done for her and Clay together.

"How've you been?" His mellow voice made her senses tingle, familiarity had settled for a few days now, anytime he spoke she'd get flashes of warmth, radiating through her abdomen. He didn't know this, of course, because what if it was nothing? What if she just set him up for heartbreak once again?

But he, he didn't care. His heart ached for her when they were together, but even more so when they were not. He couldn't help but feel pity for himself some of these days, realizing how pathetic it must look for everyone around him, how often he had sat beside her bed without a single affirmation of recognition, of progress. How often he had interrupted his friends' calls, absolutely heaving with sobs, weeping for it to end, for it all to end. How often he had sat down on the freezing tiles of his shower, trying to drown out his thoughts, especially after the days he wasn't able to drag himself out of bed. The days he had wanted anything but to stay confined to his fucking sheets, the days all he wanted was for her to softly whisper his name, exactly in the way she used to do. The way she'd done when he was playing with her, fucking around, she'd whisper his name in the most loving way he had ever heard a woman do. Her voice was a song he couldn't get out of his head, no matter what melody was playing in the background; she was all that was ever on his mind. All he wanted was for it to fucking end.

That changed, of course, the day she'd finally awoken from her outrageous slumber, the day her pupils met his. Nothing but confusion and utter fear laced in them, he was so thankful for any form of life, he hadn't even noticed what her eyes were really telling him. Her melodic voice filled his ears, bound to echo through his head for the rest of the day, the least. "I've been better."

"That's good, that's good." His toothy smile subconsciously earned her one, too. "You, uh, you watched that show I mentioned?"

"I did!" Her fucking smile made all of it worth it, all his pain and suffering, all he had endured. It had always been just about her and her fucking smile, all along. Since they were children, he reckoned, he hadn't cared about anything as much as he cared about being the one to tug up the corners of her lips.

A hearty chuckle left his lips, his hand slowly hovering over the side of the bed as he finally wrapped her hand in his again, this time her being the one to interlock their fingers. He smiled. "You said," He dropped his head as a giggle escaped him, "You always used to say how you'd give your life to be able to watch it again, like -uh- like it was the first time."

A low hum vibrated through her chest as she tried to hold in her snickers. "You're telling me I almost went braindead for fucking Teen Wolf?" She burst out in hiccuped laughs, trashing her legs around imperceptibly under the scratchy hospital covers. "I need to get my priorities right this time around."

His stomach tightened at her words, she'd always told him about how much she hated that stupid show, but for some reason he always caught her coming back to it any time she felt even the slightest nudge of sadness. Braindead. She was minutes away from being braindead, unsalvageable. His eyebrows furrowed, and he was sure to be subconsciously squeezing her hand a little too much. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to break the unspoken barrier he had set for himself; don't let her see you cry. "Hey, hey, hey. I'm still here."

She tugged at his hand, offering him her other one as well. He took it, obviously unable to refuse any contact she offered him. He hung over her body a little as he held both of her hands, she pulled his far most one delicately, silently asking for him to stand. And as soon as he did, she pulled him down in a hug, completely engulfing the entirety of his body in hers, only their clothes and the uncomfortable sheets separating them. She wrapped her arms as tightly around him as she could as his soft sobs slowly started filling up the room. The silence was overwhelming, only his whimpers there to break through. Her eyes welled up, too, she'd lie if she said they didn't. He was holding her, wrapping his arms underneath her back, not planning on letting go anytime soon. "I'm still here, Clay."

"Are you?" He muttered against the hoodie she was wearing, his hoodie he had given to her when she'd first woken up and complained about feeling like a lab rat in her stupid gown. He had stupidly told her he would marry her even in her blue-ish hospital gown, which was the most adoring, beautiful thing a man had ever told her, especially would she have recognized him at that time. Alas, he was just a man in her room, nothing more nothing less. "Are you really?"

"I-" She stumbled on her line, completely sure of what it was he was fronting at. "I will be." She decided, "I will be soon."

"I'll wait for however long it takes." His shuddered breath made the hairs in her neck stand up straight against her skin. She closed her eyes, her face still plastered in the crook of his neck, his cologne taking over her senses, his warmth being able to make her feel safer than she had ever felt before. Her voice hadn't ever sounded as painfully vulnerable as it did that second, "It wouldn't be fair -you, for me.." A heavy breath. "It wouldn't be fair for me to expect that from you."

He hushed her gently, another sniffle leaving his nose immediately after. "All is fair in love."

#dream #dreamwastaken #dreamteam #dream team #dteam #dream smp #dreamsmp #georgenotfound #george #sapnap #nick #minecraft #youtube #mcyt #fluff #smut #oneshot #one shot #imagine #blurb #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #love #amnesia #twitch

[ziracona]

hey zira, what are your hot takes on all of the fo4 companions?

Haha, I don’t know how hot they are, but I can give you a speed run! (Also I am very excited to get this. FO4 was the first open world game I ever played and just the concept of that and the hugeness of the world and branching story & sudden feeling changes towards me in companion characters totally blew my mind, & it still lives rent free in my heart).

Ada, Old Longfellow, and Strong I /still/ haven’t maxed despite having too many hundred hours to want to list on this game—the former bc they were DLC, Strong because honest to god I left him at a nice settlement and then completely forgot about him and remembering that I am the energy in this Ryan O’Flanagan video but abt leaving my super mutant in a tiny settlement alone. I will get there! To max affinity I mean. But anyway, I don’t truly know those three, so my takes are incomplete. So far though, I really like Ada. She is a good girl just trying her best. Fucks me up I can tell her to self destruct. Even though I feel sure she would ignore me, I cannot imagine ever saying that to her. It was really sweet she was willing to forgive the Mechanist and move on with her life. A good girl. Longfellow I am maxing rn (was last time I played anyhow). I enjoy him. Gruff grumpy old man but he seems quite decent and I like his idle banter and when he sings to himself a lot. Seems like he’s had it rough. Strong I liked. He’s wild, and I loved how insane meeting him was, and am worried about him eventually understanding poetry and how that might mess up his sense of world understanding. But he’s a chill dude in his own way and I am glad they gave us at least one nice super mutant.

For the companions I actually do know like the back of my hand, the speedrun:

Nick Valentine: Best man on earth. One of two fictional characters I ever called husband. I would die kill or live for him. I want to be 1/4th the man Nick Valentine is. One of the best characters ever period and I adore literally everything about him. It fucked me up early in game where right after he offered to basically risk destroying his mind to help a stranger look for her son, he asked me how I was doing. First character in the entire game to do that. His first companion dialogue is abt how you’re doing TuT. The man is very kind and forgiving and fair, but knows when the draw the line and take no shit. Emotionally mature, kind, caring, longsuffering. Incredibly damaged and broken by life, but holding on and living kindly and to help others anyway. One of the four most marryablen fictional men I’ve ever seen.

Preston Garvey: Brave, kind, sweet man. I would defend him with my life. He really just wants so bad to make the world better and life has been so hard, but he’s still trying. A beautiful and underrated companion and I would throw hands for him on sight. I adore how he whistles. A true and gentle and loyal friend. Take him to Quincy and let him get his justice it’s what he deserves. People who hate him because he tries to get help helping civilians in that game are weak. I love him so much... please give him enough time to reach max affinity he’s so worth it.

Deacon: *To the tune of You Are My Dad* You are my friiiiend! You’re my friend! (Boogie woogie woogie). Initially, he pissed me off bc he lies all the god damn time, but after we got close enough he actually trusted me, he stole my heart and I would also die for Deacon. He’s a really good person who thinks he’s shit because of who he was on his past. Also him 🤝 Preston: massive survivor’s guilt. They should be friends. Poor Deacon has been the last member of the Railroad like four times, and it’s awful. Help him. Give him love and support. He’s one of my all time faves. Also, Railroad hands down best faction and if you kill them for any reason other than like a walkthrough route video and I ever get the chance I would 100% clock you in the face as hard as I can, like going for losing teeth, and feel no guilt. I know it’s a game and that’s wrong, and I’d be wrong, but I’d still do it. Also, Ryan Alosio (his VA) saw me do cosplay for Deacon once and told me it was great and it filled me with even more love. Anyway Deacon is great. Also, his whole “There are other organisations out there. And, in time, I'm sure they're going to spoon-feed you their own patented form of bullshit. Ignore the verbage and look at what they're doing. What they're asking you to do. What sort of world they'd have you build and how they're going to pay for it.” Is one of the like, two most iconic quotes in all of FO4 & just super good in general.

Hancock: Hardcore badass man but also a good dude and a champion for the people. Man really puts his money where his mouth is and you gotta respect that; another favorite companion for sure. Big fan of the way he stabs a guy for you upon meeting, and is a cool leader who organized his crime and does a decent job actually leading. He works hard to help people and bites back hard. Social justice advocate, dangerous man about town, not afraid to cosplay a revolutionary war hero 24/7 & u gotta respect the no fucks given attitude. A chill dude. Like that he fights the institute, hates the Brotherhood, helps the Railroad, and is friends with Nick. He’s legit af. Also, his VA gives a different answer every time someone asks him about the voice he did for hancock and they’re funny af.

Piper Wright: A cool spunky lady. Lois Lane on the case, kicking butt, and taking name. She’s nice but also hardcore and smart, supportive, fun. A good person. You always get points if you like Nick (which most companions do), and they’re good friends. She’s funny and I love her. A good heart.

Codsworth: He’s great. He’s family. He’s like my...weird brother. Getting to max affinity is heartwarming and also makes my heart go :’-] . Great early-game companion bc he kicks ass and doesn’t need stims to heal. I love getting called by my name and think that was a great feature (well, my PC’s name). He’s a wonderful funky little robot dude and I am so glad he likes me.

Dogmeat: Amazing. A good boy. Doggo of the year. His actor deserved the game award she won. Cute, full of love, and plays with a teddy bear if you give him one. 100/10z

Cait: I like her a lot. She’s been through so much shit, and it makes sense she is how she is. I like they actually gave her an emaciated and messy (though still pretty) design, since she is a drug addict. And that they make her main quest about taking that seriously and wanting to get help, and that she’ll call out the player if they fuck around and do drugs in front of her after she gets rehabilitated. Her relationship to the PC if good is really sweet, and I am a fan. I like that while she’s not sympathetic to synths and thinks they aren’t people, she forgets that every time Nick walks into a room and is like “Oh hey Nicky : )”. She’s a good girl who has been through a lot and still needs time to heal and find herself, but she’s making great strides.

Robert Joseph MacCready: Human disaster (loving). Homeboy a goddamn /mess/ but I love him. He tries so hard to be cool. I love he makes you pay him to come with, then chickens out and gives it back lol. A fool ball of anxiety and bad decisions and what he thinks brovado is. I wish he, Preston, and Deacon would quit fighting, bc I am always like “ :’-] </3 Boys Please” when they swap out, but I love them just the same. He’s doing his best, he’s just stupid and a fool. Like Philip J Fry. Keeping his goddamn soldier toy, which somehow is listed as junk instead of sent to Misc with quest items where it would be fine, safe?parylizes me with fear. I’ve lost 2 hours of gameplay reloading an old save bc I accidentally lost it.

X6-88: A more complex one to answer about. He’s bad, but like, I’m pretty sympathetic to how he got that way. He was created in a lab and had his emotions mostly dragged out of him in intense psychologically damaging training so he would be a weapon and view himself as an object. I was relieved he chose me over the institute even if he wasn’t a fan of the chocie, and think that means there’s a lot of hope for him. Wish he’d chill the fuck out and quit intimidating civilians for 6 god damn seconds, but I like him. I bring him fancy lad snack cakes home from travels all the time, bc Synths are supposed to like them. Really like that he’s the /most/ sympathetic companion towards Danse in Blind Betrayal, even though he should not be programmed for that, and Danse hated him and made it clear any time they interacted.

(EDIT) Curie: I FORGOT HER BABY IM SO SORRY. I like Curie a lot, despite the fact I temporarily forgot she existed. I stg I thought she was in here. Uhhh, okay. Curie: like her character and personality, HUGE un-fan of both the way her desire to get a synth body is to be ‘more real,’ as if Codsworth isn’t a fully realized person while the same robot type she is, instead of just like. Because it would make her happy. ALSO hate how much of a Born Sexy Yesterday she is, even intentionally in not-determinate affinity talks. It’s gross. But her herself, I like a lot. She’s my daughter and I will protect her. She works at The Castle right now as their on-site medic.

Paladin Danse: I know I’m gonna take heat for this but honestly? He didn’t do much for me. I like that he looks and sounds kinda like Buzz Lightyear, and that’s fun, but idk at all why people think he’s so hot. He’s very boring & generic looking to me. Like you’re valid! Taste all be different. But he doesn’t do it for me personally in looks or personality. I don’t at all like, hate him. Or even dislike. Tbh I am fairly neutral on him. It was funny making affinity with him though. Every other companion I had maxed, I liked more and more with each affinity talk. They’d be like “So my dad was a minuteman and died and I want to honor him” or “I just want to really feel like I’m a person, for real, myself, and I am glad I met you, because the good we have achieved together is ours, even if I can’t be sure of anything else,” or “My brother threw the cultural minorities out of our city for clout bc the rich citizens were all racist, and I tried to help—I snuck them food to the unsafe ruins they set up in for weeks, but eventually, they just vanished, and I still bear immense guilt and self-hatred over not having stopped that.” And Danae’s would be like “One time a buddy of mine got kidnapped by super mutants. They turned him into one of them, and they’re all abominations, so I killed him and it made me really sad.” And I was just like “...Oh danse. I really wanted to like you more. But what the fuck.” His relationship to Haylen is sweet though. And ofc I saved him in Blind Betrayal. I blew up the Prydwin so he’s safe now too, and he lives in the garden by my house and tells me how glad he is we’re friends, and I’m p into that. Overall, my feelings on him are not strong at all though.

Porter Gage: Not a fan. Like, I appreciated he helped me kill the old boss, sure. And bc I owed him for that, I went to max affinity to see what there was to him as a person. And like, as far as raiders go, he was okay. But he wasn’t deeply sympathetic, and he’s a slaver, and if you try to liberate the slaves he and the others own, he /will/ turn on and attempt to murder you immediately, no matter how close you were, so he made his choice, and it was to be a bad person and an asshole to the last. Really enjoyed the VA’s work a lot on him tho.

And there you have it 👈👈😎. Thanks for asking!

#ask #anonymous #fallout 4 #fo4 #god I love them so much. I was really proud I kept all the OGs too. everyone but Gage. who had to go but it’s his own choice and fault 🤷🏻‍♀️ #GOD far harbor was a good dlc. it’s like the main quest choice again but way more condensed and twice as f ked up. my poor MC had only #come to terms just before with all the lives she took & started healing #doing bad things she did not want to do & knew he would know about and think less of her for doing. but she did them. 😔 bc of course she did #then she had to choose between letting the dude she loved be hurt in a way he wouldn’t recover from & torpedoing her relationship to him by #she loves Nick and if it’s him or her it’s always gonna be her #I was SUFFERING. a lot. but I also loved it #don’t come into my inbox and clown about liking Danse please or Gage. idc at all #like you are welcome to your opinion I’m not gonna try to convince you /not/ to like him. plz do me the same courtesy & respect my right to #have an opinion u may not like

[saintheartwing]

Jeremy Spoke In Class Today

Author's Note: I've had this story idea in mind for years. Today, I finally wrote it out. So...trigger warning. The follow content isn't for the faint of heart. The story you're reading is going to contain violent imagery. Harsh depictions of violence and death. I write this story not to make you disgusted, but in inspiration from a very famous song about this very subject matter, and as a warning to all who may be on the verge of becoming their own Jeremies.

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"I want you to tell me what happened."

The air is sultry, choking the life out of those that sit in the room. It's quiet. Still. Uncomfortable. Every single person that's been in this room has to tell him what they saw. It's just them and the cop. The cop is trying to go easy on them, he speaks quietly, softly, carefully. There's a social worker just to his right, in case any of the children start to cry.

None of them have yet. That's good.

Right?

The first interviewed had blood splattered all over his right eye. It doused his glasses, his black jacket, a splotch falling on the dark blue undershirt he wore, with the "meh" looking cartoony face atop it. His black hair is slicked up in a scythe, his skin paler than usual. He's quiet and somber as he speaks.

"I would…see him drawing in class. Stuff he'd taken from home."

Dibbun Membrane kneads his hands together in his lap. His breathing is shallow, but he speaks all the same.

"Drawing pictures of mountaintops, with him on top. Lemon yellow sun, arms raised in a "v"." Dib confesses as he bits his lip, and looks down at the desk. If he closes his eyes, he can still see them, and see himself. He sees himself peering to the left, looking at Jeremy. Jeremy, who's got so little hair that the kids tease him for going bald so early. Jeremy, who has the kind of fat, sort of ugly nose. Who's got small ears, and a kind of skinny frame. Dib can see him, drawing at his desk, drawing himself as king of the mountain.

And the dead lie in pools of maroon below.

"I know he talked about…how his dad didn't pay attention to him. We had that in common." Dib goes on. "I'd bring it up to him too. My dad can't even remember exactly when my birthday is. The last time we ate out together as a family was when it was my birthday last year. My sister's having her's coming up soon, then it'll be mine. Every other meal, there this…robot. It asks us in our Dad's voice if we love him, and we gotta select "yes" on the screen before it lets us have our food." Dib confesses. "So I told him "How sad is that? I've had a dad replaced with a TV screen that keeps asking for love and can't show it"."

"What did he say?" The cop wants to know, though, deep down, he really isn't sure he wants to.

Dib sighs. "He said "Yeah. Sucks. But I'd rather have that than a Dad who IS there…and even though he's looking at you, he isn't seeing you". That's what he told me. His Dad never actually talked to him. Doesn't ask ONE question about how his day or week's gone. And his mom's no better. She doesn't care. She's only there every once in a while, she's always working, like…some kind of lawyer, I think. She's some kind of lawyer. And then there's the birthday gifts."

"What did he get?"

"A card and a little check." Dib sighs. "I know a lot of kids who'd love that, but there's never any parties. And they don't even put anything in the card. Not even their name. He showed me that too when he showed me the check. I think he used the checks to save up for that…for what he brought in to class." Dib murmurs as he rubs the back of his neck, feeling the air choking his throat again. "So his dad isn't paying attention, and his mother doesn't care. So what does he have left? Isn't it sad when I'M his only real friend and we're only really…like, we just talk sometimes at Recess or lunch. That's…wow. I mean…just…" He trails off.

There's silence for what seems like ages. Then he speaks up again, and says the same thing the other boy said, the one with the bad black hair, the green skin, who didn't have a nose or ears.

"Then one day he attacked Ms. Bitters."

"He attacked a teacher?"

"We all remember picking on the boy. Zim especially. He was a…what's your term? Lightweight? Pathetic. As Torque Smacky put it, a "harmless little fuck"." Zim goes on. He's wearing his normal dark maroon shirt, three small stripes across it, dark pants, boots, gloves. He looks oddly…cold. He's usually smug in class. Or frowning. His face is different. It's almost expressionless. It is as if he's trying to comprehend something but can't.

"How did he attack Ms. Bitters?"

"We had no idea we'd unleashed a lion." Zim goes on. "He was yelling at Torque. Torque had insulted him again. Jeremy actually does something Zim approves of, and kicks him squarely in the face. It's glorious, his nose is broken on the spot." Zim nods firmly. "Torque begins tearing the kid's hair out as they tumble about on the ground, and Jeremy, in turn, begins biting Torque wherever he can. Ms. Bitters slithers her way onto the playground and everyone turns silent. We had all been cheering and jeering, laughing, pumping our fists into the air, the cry of "Fight, Fight, Fight" stops at once. Zim sees her forcibly lift Torque and Jeremy off the ground. She shakes them, first Jeremy, then Torque. She's turning to Torque to admonish him after she's got Jeremy in one hand, but it isn't a good grip, and he breaks free, and then it happened."

"He bit her?"

"He bites her on the chest." Zim rests his hands on the desk he's sitting at, faint dust motes wafting through the air about him as he speaks. "I've never seen her look so…astounded. Jeremy is screaming. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you", and he punches her in the face, and her glasses shatter. The skies are all cloudy and it looks like it might rain, and she just stares at him. Zim can SEE the slowly building rage. She's going to kill him on the spot. It was amazing. I'd never seen such raw fury in two human faces before."

He almost sounds…intoxicated. Impressed.

"I was just…astounded by it. He gets hauled off, by his arms, into the school. He's got detention for a week. We find out he even got a paddling from Ms. Bitters, and as he walks by me in the hallway a day later, I look down and see his pants have been ripped. Ms. Bitters had been paddling him so hard that morning that she tore his pants and he can't go home to get new ones. So I laugh. I sing that human song, "I see Paris, I see France, Zim can see your underpants". Something like that."

The green-skinned child rubs his cheek. Not two hours ago, blood was dripping down it, splattered over his left eye to drizzle down his cheek and onto his shirt and his arm. Jeremy's blood.

"He hits me with a surprise left hook. He almost breaks my jaw. MY jaw." Zim speaks. "I had no idea humans could hit so hard."

"…it is a mortal sin."

Sara can barely bring herself to speak. She's from a very Catholic family and she commonly dresses as a nun. She's been clutching her rosaries and fumbling with her words and she won't look the cop in the face.

"He's done a mortal sin. You cannot ever, ever, EVER do such a thing. I don't understand why you'd damn yourself to Hell like that, he-his…his head. His head!" She murmurs. She grips the rosaries so tightly, her knuckles whiten. The cop almost thinks they're going to pop right out of the skin. "There was…yellow stuff. Not just…not just the blood, and all that pink but…yellow stuff. Wh-where does the yellow stuff even come from?"

"I understand this must be very difficult for you to talk about." The cop tries to say, Sara feeling the tears springing to her eyes.

"So much of it." She murmurs. "So much of that…yellow stuff. And…and the yellow stuff, it…it got all over the blackboard. They will never erase that. We will never, ever forget this." She whispers out.

"Did Jeremy ever talk to you or anyone else in class about his problems at home? Did he ever talk to anyone about being…mad? Or very angry? Or sad? Did he ever bring up weaponry?" The cop wants to know. Nick has that…odd expression on his face. He, like Jeremy, is missing a good chunk of his head. His skull needed surgery, his brain, like Jeremy's, exposed. But he has a polymer plate from the surgery, his brain is still intact. It isn't in pieces, splattered in splotches like a Pollock painting. Nobody's sure how Nick got the injury to his head, evidently there was some kind of drill that got stuck in his skull, and he had to be rushed to the hospital with a probe removed from his cranium. It's a miracle he can talk. But his smile is unholy. He's…

Laughing.

"Jeremy hardly ever spoke. But Jeremy spoke in class today! Jeremy spoke in class today!" Nick laughs. His smile is horrifying, his laughter sends chills down the cop's spine. "Spoke in…spoke in. Yeah…spoke in class today."

He knows he won't really get much else out of him. The cop dismisses him. He's the last child to be interviewed. Ms. Bitters remains oddly silent. She's waiting outside to be called in, but hasn't said a word. When it finally is her time to speak, when he asks her what happened, her voice is creaky and croaky and she seems miles away.

"I've never, ever had this happen." She takes off her glasses, rubbing them on a hankerchief in her pocket. "Ever. This sort of thing never happened in my day."

"When did you realize he intended to do what he did?"

"He said he had something from his parents that he had to give to me. He'd left it in his locker, he said. He walks out of my room. Five minutes later, he's come back. I don't see what's in his pocket. I should have realized something was wrong. Nick starts….laughing. Just this creepy, foul, laughter, and then, THEN as he raises his arm up, pulling his hand out of his pocket, he says "I've got what I came for." He puts the gun in his mouth, and then his upper head vanishes, and everything's all red and pink and…some…yellow stuff."

She can't say any more. The room is dead silent, and still. It's gone cold, too, as the pitter patter of rain turns into a low roar against the windows. The cop doesn't say anything as Ms. Bitters once again cleans her glasses and then looks out the window.

"It just got…everywhere. I didn't think that somebody could small could have so much blood in him. He's still standing upright for a good…twenty seconds. And we can see parts of his skull have flown up into the ceiling tiles. Then one of them falls out, and when it hits the ground, he collapses, and his blood is pooling out, and it's soaking into Dib and Zim's shoes. And that's when I hear Sara screaming, and Nick is laughing, and he keeps saying "Jeremy spoke in class today". Over and over and over…"

The boy's parents are being informed of what's happened. Neither of them have any explanation for how Jeremy got hold of a gun. They didn't even seem to be aware he even HAD been being paddled at school. Evidently Jeremy was supposed to tell his parents of his punishment. Whether he did or didn't isn't known, but the cop is fairly sure Jeremy did. They just weren't really listening.

The crime scene is a mess. Jeremy's desk even more so, scattered pictures lying inside, with the boy atop a mountain, arms raised in a "v", and the dead lay in pools of maroon below.

How do things get so bad that you resort to this? Why did nobody speak out? Reach out? Could anything any of the children have stopped this with some kind words? Or perhaps it really was all on the fault of the parents?

The cop doesn't know.

The children, however, do. Or at least…Dib does. And he'll remember what happened that day, and take it to the grave. He will never forget the way Jeremy's head vanished in the flash of the gunfire. The splattering of blood on his glasses, the bone fragment that shot up, up into the air, and plunked off his desk and onto the floor below. He can't forget that horrible, insane laughter from Nick. How Zim looked so...stunned. Almost broken.

Dib wonders if Zim's ever actually seen a dead body before in his life. Dib had, when his mother died. This was different.

He's not going to forget. Not ever.

He will always remember the day Jeremy spoke in class.

And he's going to have a little talk with his father. Before it becomes his turn to talk in class.

#horror #drama #invader zim #Zim #Dib #school #tragedy #Pearl Jam #fanfiction #fanfic

[delectablyalicee]

Nick Jonas’s New Assistant (Part 5)

Part One  Part Two  Part Three  Part Four

You get a call one day, someone asking you to fill a personal assistant job. They give you little information as to who for, but when you found out, things get a little more interesting.

I set my phone down beside me on the counter and start the coffee, just as I have done almost every day for 6 months. Again, I cannot let this get to me. I love my job, I love being Nick's assistant and allowing it to get any further than professional will just completely ruin everything, and I can't let that happen. I just need to stay focused on what we have planned for the day and continue on like normal... I just wish that was easier than it is proving to be.

As the coffee brews I lean against the counter, grabbing the planner from my bag and looking through it. The meeting this morning with Paul is to discuss schedule changes, so I want to familiarize myself with what is already going on. Before I know it, a small beep comes from the coffee maker and I turn to see the coffee pot full. I need this, not only am I running on barely any sleep, but this morning was just a little...much. I grab two coffee mugs from the cabinet and fill mine, as I am adding in the cream and sugar I hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, they are a little slower than normal, giving me a second to take a deep breath. I've got this. I am okay, and things are fine. I let the breath fall past my lips and grab the empty mug beside me, filling it and leaving it black before turning to nick with a smile and handing it over. He takes it but doesn't smile back. His mouth opens as if he's about to say something, but I stop him.

"I don't know what you're about to say, but it's fine. In fact, I hope you had fun, we have a long day, so a little relief is always good." I try and let the words come out as confident and smooth as I can, even adding in a small joking tone, pushing back every bit of hurt inside of myself. I don't want him to think I can't do this. I'm keeping it professional whether either of us like it or not.

He sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. I think he gets the hint that the subject needs to be squashed because he just sits at the bar stool across the counter from me and stays quiet. I continue to look over the planner a little bit before the sound of Nick's voice finally breaks the silence.

"It's 9:25"

I look up at him. 6 months I have been here and for 6 months every time I look at him, every time our eyes meet I fall just that much more in love with him.

This is so fucking bad...

Thankfully, before I get a chance to say or do anything I hear the front door open, immediately taking my mind off of Nick and to focus on whoever is at the door. It's Paul. He greats us both with smiles and I walk over to meet him half way, we hug tightly before walking back over toward the kitchen, Nick stands, and they hug as well before we all make our way into the dining room. This is usually where we have our meetings. I love this room of Nicks house. There are huge windows lining the walls, allowing for the beautiful natural light to wash over the entire room. I come in here just to relax a lot of the time, it has a weird calming effect.

We sit down and thankfully get right to work.

"Sorry we have to skip right to the boring stuff," Paul says "but I have another meeting in about an hour"

Fuck, that I was not hoping to hear. The less time I spend alone with Nick right now the better.

"It's okay, I totally understand" I say with a smile, opening up the planner and laying It out in front of me.

The meeting is quick, Paul was only there for about 30 minutes before he had to head out. Nick and I both say our goodbyes to him and find ourselves alone once again. I know we have no lunch plans so this is the perfect time to slip out, even If it is a little early, and get everything I need for Joe's party tonight. So, as soon as Paul is out the door I start packing up my things.

"You don't have any lunch plans you would need me for, and I still need to pick a few things up before tonight, so I am going to head out, if that's okay?" I ask, as I am sliding my purse strap on my shoulder.

He looks at me for a second, quiet.

Ugh, I fucking hate this.

"Yeah, that's fine." Is all he says, turning to walk away from me. I grab him gently on the arm to stop him, he turns to me and I can see the hurt plastered on his face. This is killing me.

"I still have to get a dress, and a present. It's nothing fun you would want to tag along for. We have dinner at 6:30 with that magazine editor, I will be back way before then, I promise." I let sincerity coat my words. I am trying to show him that I am really okay, that this is all really okay.

He smiles with a nod and I step forward, so I can wrap my arms tightly around his body. Relief washes over me when I feel his arms engulf me in his usual, overly tight hug. We hug all the time, but this hug I have never been more grateful for. We sperate and I flash him a smile before stepping out the door, George waiting patiently for me outside.

George and I have also become close during my time working for Nick. We spend a lot of time in the car together, alone and with other people. He has a gorgeous wife named Louise and 3 of the cutest kids I've ever seen. I love the mornings when he picks me up and I get to see a video of his daughter singing the ABC's or his son showing off his newest drawing. Anytime I am stressed out from work or just life in general he always has a way of calming me down. So, when I got into the car and was quieter than normal he knew immediately something was up.

"Everything going okay?" he asks, turning toward me. Whenever we are in the car alone I always sit up front.

I tell him about a lot of my problems, but this one needs to stay between me and Nick, so I just give him a small smile and nod. "Yeah, I'm okay, life is kind of crazy right now, but It's okay, really. I appreciate you asking though." I speak sweetly and with confidence, needing him to believe I'm okay so he doesn't continue to ask questions.

He must have believed me because we continued the ride without another question about me. We spoke about his kids being on spring break, and how he and his wife have a date planned for tonight, so he won't be driving Nick and I later. It was honestly such a relief to have my mind taken off of everything that was going on that I barely even noticed when we pulled up to the clothing store. It was one I have never heard of, but it looked beautiful from what I could see.

"My wife told me to take you here, she said they have beautiful dresses." George says with a smile, sliding out of the car. I grin at him, "Well she is beautiful, so I am certainly going to take her word for it." I say, making my way out of the car as well.

I told George he didn't have to come in with me, but he insisted, he told me his wife wanted to facetime, so she could help me pick out my dress. We have met a few times, she is such a sweet woman, so I'm not surprised she wanted to help. We spent a few hours picking out the perfect dress and jewelry to match. It sounds weird, but it was just so much fun. My mind was so occupied that I didn't spend any time at all worrying about Nick and I really needed that.

After shopping, George dropped me off at my apartment. It has been weird not talking to Nick for this long, even when we weren't together were usually texting. I really meant it when I said we had gotten close, he is my boss, and I do see him that way, but we just click together so well that he is also honestly my friend. Unfortunately for me, he's my boss and my friend that I am falling madly in love with.

#nickjonas #nick jonas #nickjonasxreader #nick Jonas x reader #y/n #love #fluff #fallinginlove #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #jonas #jonasbrothers #Joe jonas #Kevin jonas #Frankie jonas

[invertedeidolon]

The Longest Library #3: Griffin & Sabine by Nick Bantock (Or, Eidolon again talks way too much about previous relationships, also, pretty art!)

(This is a series in which I attempt to read and review all (or most of) my library of 297 books.)

Rundown: Postcard artist Griffin Moss gets a weird letter from a weird lady who can apparently see what he's drawing telepathically. They form an ill concieved bond over it. The story is told in colorful postcards and envelopes you can open and then read the mysterious things inside. 4.5/5 for calling me THE FUCK OUT and having some BOMB ASS ART.

I can't give it a full 5 because not everyone is going to have that experience when they read this. It's just going to look very strange and floaty and things won't make very much sense. This book hits close to home with me because it heavily echoes (more like yells about) my first long distance relationship. I'm not really able to see this book through any other lens, so that's what my commentary is mostly about.

So for the part that ISN'T about that stuff though: The art is amazing. Even though it's made by one person technically, both fictional artists have their own, distinct style. Let's be real: The art and the interactivity is the main draw of this book. There are envelopes inside with letters carrying a myriad of little details: Griffin uses a typewriter for his long-form letters, and bits where he's crossed out typos or added in letters with pen, or that Sabine's correspondence is something I now recognize as someone who uses quills or manual dip pens. The inconsistency in the color of her writings suggests she's using a homemade ink, brownish in color, slightly too watery. Maybe it's even watered down watercolor and not even ink at all. They've also made the background of her letters and cards a rich dark gray, while Griffin's is a clean, sterile white.

"Will you explain to me about those geometric paintings you did at Art college? I want to understand their hidden language of color and shape. It's so alien to me."

So this is about the fourth time I'm reading this book since I first got it, and now that I have to write about it, I'm noticing so many more details. Here the line "It's so alien to me."is written in smaller, slightly more rounded letters. The ink is much darker here too, suggesting she wrote this slowly, thoughtfully. What a detail!

Anyway that's it for the objective bits of the book, the rest is entirely subjective from here on out.

"The phenomenon that links us has taught me much about you, yet I am ignorant of your history."

My years and years of suffering emotional abuse set me up to be able to read and predict what was going on in your head perfectly, as well as respond in the most helpful ways with eerie precision, yet I am ignorant of your history, and who you really are (because you use such obtuse floaty language and metaphor. Who were you really? Suffering, but that's about all I could tell.)

"Why doesn't this alarm me as much as it should?"

Because we're already "in". And I "feel safe" to you because I've been trained to be the least offensive, most placating being in the universe. If I could build a business model on conversational comfort, if I could sell my goddamn empathy like the capitalist machine really wants me to, *I'd be so rich*. It would be like, a step down from therapist. Anybody want a virtual friend for like an hour? Gimme 20 and we can watch stupid videos or I can calmly talk you through bread making. It's okay, you can cry. GOD PLEASE LET ME JUST SELL MYSELF SAFELY, I WAS MADE FOR THIS GODDAMNIT.

"I want to hear everything. Write in detail. Tell me all about yourself. I demand to know - please."

This is like fucking CRACK to those with a suppressed self. An unwitnessed self. "Someone who's interested in ME, and won't yell at, ignore, or dismiss me for talking! Holy fuck I love you!"

"Finally I knew who you were. I counselled myself to be cautious and find out what you were like before revealing myself fully."

Sabine at this point is to the reader who I was to Him. A weird mythical creature, the non-human monster of your lonely adolescent imaginings, who is intimately aware of your secrets, "I've been watching you" it says before introducing you to a wondrous world free of the pains of living, where you actually feel loved and all is well forever and ever. Except I wasn't as inhuman as I wished to be.

"Occasionally I'd come home to a re-enactment of The Battle of Britain in the front room. [...] My entrance would make no difference to their dogfight, but when one of them accidentally (and inevitably) knocked over a pile of books, they'd stop instantly and unite to examine the extent of the damage."

The whole 'making light of a not-great home life because it was your normal for so long that you still haven't learned that you need to be horrified about it' thing. As well as passing it off as something funny. Thankfully this character's parents (SPOILER?) get literally run over by a truck and he gets sent to live with his mom's step sister who is really good and lets him ditch school to become a potter's apprentice and eventually go to art college. He never really deals with the grief when the step sister dies, OBVIOUSLY.

"And hearing that my existence eased your pain made my heart race. We have found one another, and I give thanks."

Hearing that my existence wasn't going to be punished but instead, made someone happy? Fucking HEROIN. Downplay it a little with grateful gentleness, I don't want to be punished for being presumptuous or for seeming like I like it too much. If I like things too much they get destroyed, hard.

"My kinsmen are responsive to me - but there is no one to reach my heart, and you who are so far away, have been closer to me than any man on the Islands."

This is something I remember. So far all they've done is shared eachother's life stories and gushed about how close they feel now. She (like my past self), has confused the feeling of 'finally, a witness! they're witnessing me! I've been Seen!' with the feeling of attachment. Of course she would feel infinitely more attached to this man. She's witnessed his most private moments as a creator for a good portion of her life. It's been a mainstay throughout her adolescence through adulthood, so of course an unwarranted sense of intimacy is going to be attached to this mysterious figure. The whole thing wrapped up in a dream like sense of mysticism.

"I remember your first erotic drawing; I was trembling from head to foot by the time you'd finished. Was that Sarah? No don't answer; I'm only teasing."

...Unless? (Man the implications hurt to think about. I REMEMBER THIS FEELING. This author has unintentionally called me out. I wonder how much of Sabine’s writing is actually calm, or if she’s reigning herself in almost constantly?)

"I was finding it hard to get over the idea of there being other men in your life when I reached the part in your letter about my erotic drawings. I stopped being jealous. We were lovers and I hadn't realized it. The drawings weren't of Sarah; they were of you."

ow ow ow ow ow ow JUST SAY IT ow ow ow ow, Also, I REALLY wanted her to be like 'bitch that looks nothing like me, what the fuck', but instead she's all like "So you've been making love to me ten thousand miles away - how tantalizing." URGH. TOO CLOSE, TOO FAST. DISENTANGLE YOURSELVES NOW. GRIFFIN GET HELP.

"I had failed to understand how unhappy you are. You cover up with jokes and a front of being self-contained. I'm worried for you."

EVEN SHE SEES IT, GET HELP.

"When you found me, I thought my loneliness had gone for good. I was kidding myself. I desperately desire your company. I haven't talked to anyone in three days. I was sure I was going to start seeing your pictures like you see mine. I've tried so hard. [...] How can I miss you this badly when we've never met?"

BECAUSE YOU MISS HUMAN CONTACT AND YOU DON'T HAVE ANY FAMILY LEFT YOU NERD, GET HELP. DON'T HANG IT ON ONE PERSON WHO IS TOO FAR AWAY TO HELP YOU IN THE WAY YOU NEED.

"Island magic works on island souls. You and I will heal eachother."

ANTIDEPRESSANTS MAYBE UUUUGGGGHHHHH

"I've started to hate this city, this country, all these stupid fucking people [...] I finally snapped. [...] I want to know what you look like."

*HEAVILY RECOILS*

"Why, my kindred spirit, are you prepared to settle for a postcard of my face? If you wish to see me, why not come here? What is there to stop you - you're clearly unhappy where you are. Come."

Yes. I offered and I offered and I offered. What's to stop you from just fucking TALKING TO ME instead of DISAPPEARING OVER AND OVER AGAIN. and then COMPLAINING THAT YOU'RE SO HURT AND LONELY. I'M LONELY TOO. WHEN I HAD THE MONEY YOU DIDN’T TAKE MY OFFER FOR ME TO COME SEE YOU, SO WHAT THE FUCK IS UP KYLE?

"Foolish man. You cannot turn me into a phantom because you are frightened."

This kind of sentiment is what lead to the breakup. This feeling of being large, and dark, and slighted. Being real and supernatural. Make your choice. Say REAL words instead of just flagellating yourself. Do I exist to you?

"If you will not join me, then I will come to you."

Unfortunately, Sabine has what I definitely did not: Mobility, the ability to make things real. She had a job and money and her own life and the ability to travel. I had a shitty little shared room in my parent's house where I spent most of the time partially starved and dodging devils in one form or another. Many many times I wanted to spontaneously show up and give him the closeness that he needed. But I couldn't. And he wouldn't take my words. He wouldn’t take me.

3 down, 294 to go.

#thelongestlibrary #griffin and sabine #nick bantock #origin1 #wri1

[fvckyouimaprophet]

Salty Asks! 1, 2, 5, 11, 19, and 22! Am I supposed to send you a fandom with these? Idk. Pick whichever one you feel like talking about!

1. What OTPs in your fandom(s) do you just not get?

Harry Potter: Dramione. I’m aware they basically Drarry but heterosexual, but they nonetheless rub me the wrong way, and I feel like so many of the fics involving them have Draco using literal slurs! Also, Harmony because they work really well as friends. They moment when they dance to O Children by Nick Cave is such a pure friendship moment.

Glee: Brittana. Brittany was the equivalent of a child, so it just always felt very weird to me. I feel like they wanted her to be quirky, but she just came across as stuck at six years old, and yikes.

Riverdale: Barchie. I’m sorry. I just find them really boring. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Star Wars: Reylo. TROS just didn't need to happen like that. We didn’t need to redeem him, and they didn’t need to be a thing!!

Marvel: Stony. This is mostly because I can't see past Stucky. But I also I just feel like I cannot picture Tony Stark as bisexual or queer or anything other than straight. I know this is controversial, but I just can’t.  🙈

The L Word: Shane and Carmen. Listen, I know this is queer woman blasphemy. But the writers wrote Shane so that she’s just a chronic cheater, and it feels impossible to get past that. She treated Carmen awfully. Plus, Sarah Shahi is great, but it was painful to watch her try to be Mexican.

2. Are there any popular fandom OTPs you only BroTP?

Nuna (Luna/Neville): Listen, I love them so much as friends, but they just don’t vibe as a couple. They’re the perfect examples of outcasts finding each other and bonding.

5. Has fandom ever ruined a pairing for you?

You probably were wondering why Klaine wasn’t up above. Well, it’s here. The show ruined them too, of course, starting in season three. But I used to love Klaine in season two! The first three Glee fics I wrote were Klaine, and I think to date my longest Glee fic is an abandoned Klaine fic (~70K).

But I have never seen any other fandom fight over ships the way that Glee did. It was just stressful, and it made me turned off to the ship and the show.

11. Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

Harry Potter: Lavender Brown and Cho Chang. Of course, the writing with Cho is racist—of course. I want to acknowledge that and not minimize it as a valid reason to be frustrated with her character. However, I feel like both of them (and Ginny to a lesser extent) are hated because they’re women and love interests.

Buffy: Dawn Summers. I actually really related to her growing up, and I felt like she’s a good portrayal of a younger girl who goes through a lot of trauma and needs to adapt. She’s funny, and she just gets slammed for getting herself into trouble and needing attention, but frankly with her life, she turned out remarkably okay. I also have a million problems with Xander, and I refuse to acknowledge that they get together in the comics, but I really appreciated (in an older brother sort of way!) the moment in the last season when he bonds with her over feeling helpless.

Buffy (again): Riley Finn. This may be my most controversial take. Listen, I don’t love him. And I think he wasn’t the right match for Buffy, and he definitely has issues he needs to work through. But considering that one of her boyfriends was a horrifying stalker and the other big ship was ruined by a really bad writing choice involving attempted rape, Riley gets more shit than he deserves. He also was super manipulated by his professor, and that clearly messed him up. When you see him with his wife later on, he seems to have gotten the therapy he needed and be much healthier. 

Mad Men: Pete and Betty. Neither are good people, but you know what, they're really fucking fun as characters. Also, Betty deserved so much better than she got.

Friday Night Lights: Julie Taylor. Okay, she definitely had her moments where I got frustrated with her. But much like Dawn, she's just a teenage girl, and a lot of the hate definitely stems from that.

19. What is the one thing you hate most about your fandom?

Broadly, I feel like there’s a push toward sanitized art that frustrates me. I don’t think that a piece of art needs to let you know that something is “bad” when they depict it. I think art can show something that’s morally reprehensible and not have it be explicitly condemned without condoning it.

There certainly is art that shows bad things and condones it, but I don’t think that it’s a given with every piece of art.

I’m especially seeing a weird wave of artists getting cancelled for dealing with AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL topics in complicated ways. There was a whole wave of comics people who wrote autobiographical graphic novels dealing with CSA, incest, and other topics, and they were told they were basically evil for depicting it and that by drawing the art, it made... them... pedophiles?

Listen, it’s just... let people deal with their traumas in complicated ways. Understand that just because a show or a book or a comic doesn’t explicitly have another character say, “Why, this is evil!” that the creator doesn’t necessarily agree with it.

There’s plenty of good art that gives you a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach without telling you that you should feel that way. Trust that it’s intentional. Approach art in good faith.

22. Popular character you hate?

Glee: Blaine Anderson. In my rewatch two or three years ago, I will say that I didn’t hate him, just disliked him. I think fandom amplified my feelings while I was watching, but I certainly still found him annoying. Sorry to all my followers who like him!

Angel: Fred Burkle. She was a nerdy boy's wet dream, and she never felt like a character to me. It felt like a weird wish fulfillment fantasy on Whedon's part to have her end up with Wesley (before dying of course). I love Amy Acker and think she did what she could with the role, but I think there was no salvaging the character. Everything from her voice to the way she held herself felt like the vague outline of a shy, nerdy girl who every incel nerd jerks off to.

Breaking Bad: Jesse Pinkman. I want to clarify that I'm not in the fandom. I actually didn't like Breaking Bad and thought it's a pretty empty show barring a few episodes and scenes. Everyone found him to be a softie who Walt manipulates, but frankly, I think he's just as shitty of a person as Walt, and I found him so annoying. I think without fail the worst episodes of the show are centered around him (thinking about the episodes where Jesse’s a cartoon version of a depressed person and has a giant party at his house), and it's where it's most clear that their biggest problem with writing was giving any actual soul or depth to their main characters.

#sirdorkalot #ask #long post

[faean]

Adamance of a Dragon

Collaborator: @i-am-here-with-fanfic.

Rating: T+; Language; Puns; Depictions of Violence and Blood

Word Length: 4,723 (Got Carried Away)

Chapter 8 (2/2)- Show Me Your Will; Pleased to Meet You 

         ---

         “I have not had a real fight in ages, and it appears I will have to wait some time more.”

         While that upset a few villains and gave me an opening to disable them, I was beginning to tire. Eraser Head had taken down many enemies, and when I joined him, many more fell.

         But we are only two people. His Quirk usage had fallen drastically, and I had to counter it by increasing my own. I was skilled in hand-to-hand combat, thanks to Aria’s training, but my strength lied in ranged attacks with my magic and right now, I was running low. My plummeting into the fountain did not do me any favors, either.

         I could not reach any of the sources of water nearby to replenish my strength, unfortunately, due to the enormous, beak-faced, exposed brain villain that was plaguing my every move. He was much too strong for me to face without considerable magic, but he also did not seem very keen on taking me out. He only kept me separated from Eraser Head, which was fine by me, especially once my little clover, Tsuyu, and Mineta popped their heads above the shoreline and observed the ongoing battle.

         Foolish, really. 

         Their mere presence could shift the entire battle and, while Tsuyu is certainly capable of handling herself, Midoriya’s double-sided Quirk and Mineta in general would only make things that much more difficult for Eraser Head and myself. We can barely keep up our efforts, and there are still a few genuinely dangerous villains on the playing field.

         “Final boss.” I heard Eraser Head say as the villain covered in hands rushed him. I had thought he would be able to HAND-le him (probably should not be making puns in the middle of a fight), but the brain villain turned his attention to them.

         It was not until now that I began to feel…

         Anxious.

         Eraser Head’s elbow was destroyed, the hand covered villain toying with him as the brain villain made his way towards them.

         “Oh, by the way, hero. I am not the final boss.”

         “Umbra!” I shouted without hesitation, triggering the creation of an intricate magic circle of shimmering silvery black light in front of my open palm, roughly two feet in diameter. Several tendrils of inky shadows shot forth to intercept the falling hand of the brain villain.

         And it was just in the nick of time. I had barely managed to stop the villain from slamming Eraser Head into the ground, and a few more tendrils snaked through the air to enwrap more of the villain. He fought against it, forcing me to pour more energy into the spell to prevent the tethers from snapping. His strength is simply absurd, and it appears natural, considering his Quirk is currently erased.

         I struggled to keep the villain immobilized, digging in my heels and flapping my wings to try and give myself some leverage; however, the few remaining low-level villains rushed me. Reflexively, I took a deep breath before exhaling a scorching blast of fire around me, careful not to damage my tethers. A broken circle of molten earth surrounded me, the villains unconscious (and covered in burns of various degrees).

         Turning my attention back to the-

         “Mierda!” I yelped, unintentionally slipping into Spanish as the hand villain began to disintegrate…

         Decay…

         My tethers were crumbling to ash and pain shot through my right arm as the spell was broken. The magic circle shattered; the shadowy tendrils that were left faded into an inky mist.

         And my vision turned the same shade of black.

         ---

         Re…ow…y…tle...ragon…

         ‘What… happened?’ I thought, my head fuzzy and body still numb.

         Rest now, my little dragonling…

         ‘Rest… That sounds…’

         My eyes snapped open as my breath hitched, the reality of my situation settling in. I was trapped under dozens of tons of rubble. Ironically, the only thing keeping me from being crushed were the several pieces of rebar that jutted from my body and were embedded into a large slab of concrete that loomed over my exhausted form.

         Right leg, left arm, my abdomen, and several throughout my wings. Fortunately, there was not a lot of blood loss, which also meant that I must not have been out for long.

         Only for a few. Rest. They do not need you…

         Rolling my eyes, I just mumbled a string of swears directed at her, most of which were in Spanish (‘much more creative’, mis abuelos would say). My little spiel ended with ‘Qué te den’ before I heard an airy chuckle that faded away.

         Sighing, I stared into the darkness, well, dimness. While it was pitch black underneath all this rubble, I did have some form of night vision; not strong enough to see clearly, but it sufficed. Either way, it did not quell my rising anxieties. I have no idea where I am, and once my adrenaline wears off, I would surely go into shock and perish before I could get any help.

         And that is assuming any one can find me, or if any one survived. With just a single punch, that brain villain sent me soaring. The sheer force of my impact was enough to bring down the building that I was now trapped in. To top it all off, I was magically exhausted, using up the last of my energy to prevent my bones from being pulverized. Even if I got out of here, I could not heal myself, and I would not last long enough to get to Recovery Girl.

         Which would be pointless, anyway, since her healing uses a person’s energy to do so and I have next to none.

         I was fighting to stay conscious at this point, the constant dripping noise of the rain lulling-

         ‘Wait… Rain! Of course, I was being too daft to notice!’

         The USJ has a ‘Squall’ zone that is designed to emulate a rainstorm. I only need to get a steady stream to me, and then I could replenish some of my strength. Without a moment to lose, I gathered every ounce (or should I say gram?) of strength left in my body and propped my free leg against the slab of concrete above me.

         I pushed with all I had left, letting out a guttural shout as I fought for my life, but it did not budge. Panting heavily, my leg went limp.

         That was my only shot.

         It was not enough.

         My brain began to cloud.

         Pain began to set it.

         My breathing became uneven.

         ‘Think. Come on, Faian. You have spent years training your body and Quirk, but that means nothing if you do not calm yourself and do what you do best.’ I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing.

         My Quirk, my magic, my person, was dwarfed by the others at the college. I lacked the same experience and skill they had. I had to work infinitely harder to contend, and I only made it so far by honing the one thing that triumphed over raw power every. Single. Time.

         The mind… as cliché as that sounds.

         I became unchallenged in analyzing, predicting, strategizing and, most importantly, adapting. I got my provisional license just months before my twelfth birthday; felled villains wanted by the State of California and beyond; overcame my own depression and grief; and…

         I have a promise to keep.

         I will not be bested by some fucking rocks and a villain with a god damn hand fetish!

         Summoning strength straight from the very depths of my being, I drew the last breath I would draw underneath this rubble.

         ---

         “I am the great grandson of Quetzalcoatl, and you villains made the fatal mistake of tampering with a dragon’s hoard!!!” I roared with renewed vigor, the downpour coalescing around my battered form.

         I flew towards the villains before me, easily sweeping many of them away with a torrent of water, freezing it as it crashed into a towering building, nearly toppling it. If any attempted escape from within the ice, not only would they end up in a comparable situation I just escaped from, but they would have to deal with the tons of jagged ice, too.

         Ducking beneath a futile attack, I turned and slammed a villain into the ground with my tail before raising my hand towards the sky.

         A magic circle of swirling water appeared above me, and the rain slowed to a stop. Snapping the fingers of my raised hand, the circle pulsed as the rain collected into a massive bubble that spanned over a block and swallowed the tops of many buildings.

         With a wide, and possibly unnerving, grin, I thought ‘Aquae’.

         The magic circle pulsed once more before evaporating and the sphere of thousands of gallons of water descended with enough speed to break the sound barrier.

         Entire buildings were reduced to nothing as I leveled the area. Admittedly, I may have gone overboard (that is like the third intentional pun I have made in a life or death situation, today!), but it felt oh so good to fight in my element (fourth).

         Literally.

         I am a water dragon, first and foremost. While I may add the moniker ‘fire’ before it on occasion, it is only to reference my skill in fire magic (technically, I cannot naturally breathe fire I do with water, but my prowess with the element allows me to do so, requiring about as much magical energy as creating a candle flame). Of course, I would be even more of a force if I could draw strength directly from the sea, but give me a lake or a rainstorm?

         Well, I think it obvious what I can do.

         Although, none of that would matter if I was still stuck in the collapsed building. Drawing from the depths of my being, I was able to summon enough strength to let loose a mighty, spiralized water breath attack that essentially liquified everything in its path. With the rain falling directly on me, I was able to pull myself off the rebar, seal my wounds with ice, and recover my strength.

         Without any more villains in the surrounding area, I began my trek back to the center of the USJ. Being reinvigorated, my senses began returning to normal, although it would still take some time. “Coincidentally”, my hearing and sense of smell were beyond average, and I could rely on those quite easily. Even with all the rain and wind.

         Fortunately, that was all I needed to discover that Kouda and Tokoyami were nearby. Although, I did briefly think about how I should have been more careful before attacking.

         My worries were dashed when Tokoyami told me that they had heard the building collapse and that most of the villains had rushed to it. They were trailing behind and picking off any stragglers, not getting too close since they did not know what had happened. Thankfully so, too, since they were behind a building not even a block from the edge of my attack.

         “I see. The situation has only become more depressing.” Tokoyami stated after I recounted what had happened.

         “Indeed. And I would like to apologize for, well, that.” I gestured to the massive hole behind me. “Either way, it is reassuring that you two are safe. Perhaps our other classmates are as well.”

         The two nodded, but before another word could be said, several more low-level villains appeared, shouting for more to converge. I took a step forward, spreading my wings to guard my companions before letting loose another spiralized water breath attack; however, I was quickly brought to my knees.

         Kouda was soon kneeling beside me, steadying me as I violently coughed, blood splattering the floor and staining my lips. Tokoyami and Dark Shadow took to defending us while I recovered.

         ---

         “Forgive me…” I rasped to no one, limping my way across the USJ.

         I had left Tokoyami and Kouda behind in the Squall Zone, trying to return to Eraser Head and the others. Naturally, the moment I left the downpour, my strength began to fade again (can you hear my eyes roll?). I could not bring myself to fly, and my senses were beginning to dull once more, making me more susceptible to surprise attacks.

To make matters worse, the ice on my abdomen melted and my wound began steadily trickling blood. I was only able to fully heal the holes in my wings before I left the storm, barely managing to at least properly seal the hole in my arm and leg, and the entry point in my lower back, but the exit on my front was still open. With no other choice, I kept my tail tightly wrapped around myself, nearly halting the bleeding.

         And if that was not enough, I could barely even speak! I hurt my throat and taxed my lungs when I used my water breath to escape from the building, but using it again shredded my windpipe. While that is a small price to pay for going well beyond my limit, attempting any major magic now would likely result in my death.

         Well, it would be more akin to every atom in my body dissolving and being reduced into a puddle.

         Fun, no?

         *BOOM*

         There was a massive, well, I do not know. Obviously, it came from where I was initially sent soaring, but there was no one there who could possibly create such a ruckus singlehandedly, not even the brain villain. Bakugou, maybe, but it did not sound like an explosion.

         Unless, of course, there were two of those brain villains, or someone of the same caliber. Which must mean that All Might final-

         “Why the hell do you look like shit, cat eyes?” A certain blond’s voice came from behind.

         Which was hastily followed by the ‘manly’ voice of Kirishima. “You can’t just say that, Bakugou! It’s not manly criticizing someone’s appearance! But, why do you look so beat up?”

         Ignoring Bakugou’s discontented huff, I answered, my hand on my throat as I croaked out “Technically, he had asked that, and technically, my eyes are reptilian.” Bakugou attempted a “menacing” step forward but Kirishima blocked him as I continued. “I took a heavy hit protecting Eraser Head and ended up in the Squall Zone. Needless to say, it took a toll on me.”

         “Woah… A villain did that to you? But you’re so manly! I mean, Mister Aizawa even-”

         “Shut the hell up, shitty hair.” Bakugou interrupted (naturally). “If you fought alongside Aizawa, then you must damn well know just what those pathetic villains’ weaknesses are. Tell me so I can kick their ass, unlike you, cat eyes.”

         I looked into Kirishima’ eyes. They were filled with genuine worry, but there was a spark of determination. Bakugou’s had an ominous glint in them, desperate for a fight. I thought carefully of my answer, knowing that if they faced the same power I had, they would face Death.

         “Knowledge is not something I enjoy sharing for free… but be warned. If you falter in your endeavors, no amount of skill nor talent of your own will save you. Be wary… and accept that on the battlefield, there is no such thing as fair. Your only solace is that villains fight not because they have something to gain, but because they cannot risk losing everything.”

         I nearly toppled over with another coughing fit, blood caking the hand that covered my mouth. Kirishima practically lunged at me to help, but Bakugou just said ‘some help your scaly ass was’ before rushing towards the battle. I gave Kirishima a look and he paused for only a moment before following after him.

         ‘They will need help…’ I thought as I struggled to straighten myself.

         ---

         After a short detour to the lake, I recovered enough strength to fly again, cautious not to use any magic to worsen my condition. I now stood on the outskirts of the main battle, staying near the shore; however, I had a choice to make as Nomu turned towards Bakugou as he was restraining Kurogiri.

         Within an instant, Bakugou sat next to the trio of Todoroki, Kirishima, and Midoriya; All Might was in a defensive stance as he stood halfway between the villain’s extended fist and a wall with his arm bruised and shirt torn; and I stood with my claws deeply embedded in the forearm and elbow of the creature, using my limited strength to hinder its fearsome blow.

         Slicing through flesh and bone, I destroyed Nomu’s arm before leaping back towards my classmates, my strength spent as I fell at their feet. It did not do much, as the beast regenerated the damage I caused almost instantaneously.

         “These are kids, and you didn’t hold back?” All Might questioned as he panted.

         Shigaraki did not hesitate to respond. “I didn’t have much choice. He was threatening my companion. Besides, these kids are no angels. The plain-looking one? He tried to kill me with a maxed-out punch. And the one with wings? He nearly incinerated some of my men and just viciously shredded Nomu’s arm.”

         Reflexively, I shouted “In America, we call that a Sunday barbecue!” before clutching my throat and hacking up blood for the nth time. It did earn me a mortified look from my little clover and Kirishima. Bakugou smirked and Todoroki very nearly smiled, though.

         “Hm… What kind of “heroes” do something like that? You think you can get away with being as violent as you want if you say it’s for the sake of others. Well, you know what, All Might? That pisses me off. Why do people get to decide that some violent acts are heroic, and others are villainous? Casting judgment as to what’s “good” and what’s “evil.” You think you’re the Symbol of Peace?”

I very nearly interjected again with ‘No, he is so very obviously the Emblem of Order,’ but the pain in my throat (and possibly Kirishima’s hand on my mouth) prevented me from doing so.

         “Ha. You’re just another government-sponsored instrument of violence. And violence always breeds more violence. I’ll make sure the world understands that once you’re dead.” Shigaraki finally finished, and All Might said what we were all thinking (probably, I was thinking of what pun to make once Kirishima removed his hand… I think the blood loss is getting to me).

         “You’re nothing but a lunatic. Criminals like you; you always try and make your actions sound noble. But admit it; you’re only doing this because you like it. Isn’t that right?”

         “I thought that was a left hand on his face…” I muttered as I rose to my knees, but not quietly enough considering Todoroki coolly (not counting that one, too easy) told me to ‘Please stop…’ before raising his voice to speak to everyone else.

         “We’ve got them outnumbered.”

         My little clover replied. “And Kacchan found the mist guy’s weakness.”

         Kirishima quickly followed up with “These dudes may act really tough, but we can take ‘em down now with All Might’s help. Heh. Let’s do this.”

         “Don’t attack.” All Might ordered. “Get out of here.”

         Of course, his demand was met with some resistance from Todoroki, but he was adamant about it.

         “I thank you for your assistance, but this is different. It’s gonna be all right. Just sit back and watch a pro at work.”

         “But you’re too hurt. You’re bleeding. And you’re almost out of ti—” Midoriya quickly stopped as All Might gave a thumb’s up and I rolled my eyes.

         I mean, really? Can no one piece it all (might) together from his flubs?

         Either way, that is not important now.

         “Nomu. Kurogiri. Kill him. I’ll deal with the children… Let’s clear this level and go home.”

         ---

         “Now for a lesson. You may have heard these words before, but I’ll teach you what they really mean. Go beyond! Plus Ultra!” All Might bellowed as he sent Nomu hurtling out of the USJ, breaking right through the domed ceiling.

         In the ridiculous timespan of under a minute, All Might defeated the greatest foe on this field. There were exclamations from us about All Might’s terrifying tenacity and sheer strength, but as the dust began to settle about him, almost unnaturally converging on his towering form, he continued.

         “I really have gotten weaker. Back in my heyday, five hits woulda been enough to knock that guy out. But today, it took more than 300 mighty blows.” He turned his attention from us to the remaining two villains. “You’ve been bested, villains. Surrender. We all want to get this over with quickly.”

         Shigaraki began to unravel, his neck looking like what my throat feels like, and All Might’s taunting only pushed him further into despair. I folded my outstretched wings behind me, having used them to keep the five of us from being blown away.

         My classmates deemed the battle won, but the look on my little clover’s face gave a vastly different thought. Sighing, I thought ‘Plus Ultra, I suppose…’ before forcing myself to my feet.

         Fighting everything in my body telling me to collapse and drift away, I trudged over to All Might, drawing to my full height and extending a wing in front of him despite how my muscles ached and my soul screamed.

         “I suggest you heed his words,” I rasped out, my voice sounding almost reptilian, “lest you incur a wrath not of this world.”

         I fought back a shuddering cough, my tail tightening around me as I struggled to stay standing. That is when All Might, Aaron’s father, placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. He seemed to stand taller, and there was a fire in eyes, but behind that fire, I could see his doubts.

         There was no fathomable instance in which we will survive if they attack now, but we had to convince them otherwise.

         We just had to stall a little longer.

         “What? Are you scared?”

         I followed it with “Do you truly believe you can face us?”

         Shigaraki continued to panic, and it seemed we just might pull this off…

         “Shigaraki Tomura! Please, do not fret. Look at them. All Might has definitely weakened. Nomu’s attacks were successful. And the boy can barely stand. They’re on their own. The children appear to be frozen in fear. And, look, our underlings are recovering. We likely still have a few minutes before their reinforcements arrive. If you and I work together, we can do this. We haven’t missed our chance to kill All Might.”

         Kurogiri was not wrong, and Shigaraki began to compose himself.

         I slightly turned my head towards All Might, my shoulders falling. Not meeting his eyes, Aaron’s eyes, I whispered “You are more than just a symbol. Do not act when they rush us, just… Give them my regards. Aria. Aaron.”

         I focused back on the two villains before us. “My heart beats not for me…”

         ---

         “Don’t you ever do something so reckless, again, Faian!” Aria exclaimed in English as she helped me sit up, handing me a canister of saltwater. “Aaron’s message was already concerning enough, then I get here and have to fight my way through a bunch of thugs to get to my son! Who happens to be bleeding from his stomach and sounds like he smokes fifty packs a day!”

         Before I could respond, she turned to All Might, who was somewhere in between his muscular form and a skeletal one (no surprise there), she continued in English. “As for you, I swear. You haven’t changed in all these years! You’re almost as bad as my kids…”

         Finally, she turned to Midoriya, switching to Japanese and saying “I take it back. You’re as bad as them.”

         Finished with reprimanding us for our actions, she let out a tired sigh. “I’m just glad you’re all safe, now.” She wore a weary smile, and her glistening eyes brimming with tears held such warmth and love.

         “Mom… Thank you.”

         “Midoriya, Nadal, hey!” We heard Kirishima shout as he ran towards us.

         His concern was warranted, but there was a tension in the air when Aria’s eyes went wide as he got closer, and All Might fully transformed into his skeletal frame. Fortunately, a wall of dyed cement rose up, blocking him off as Cementoss reassured him that the pros can handle this.

         Honestly, the rest of the day was a blur. Midoriya and All Might were snuck out to get the medical attention they need, and Aria helped me into the school bus after I had answered a few questions for the police. I returned to the campus, changed into my casual clothes with her help, grabbed my bag, and she drove me home. She practically carried me in, complaining about how she was getting old (to be fair, I weighed well over 200 lbs. because of my mutations).

         Before she kissed my cheek goodbye, she ran the bath and dumped a container of sea salt in it for me. I heard the front door close as I eased (more like flopped) into the steaming water. A contented sigh escaped my lips as I sank beneath the water’s surface.

         After what might have been a few hours, considering how I fell asleep under the water, I got out and dried off. Changing into my pajamas and not bothering to dry my hair, I lazily strolled to my plush bed and buried myself beneath the mountain of blankets and pillows, curling about a few. I let the exhaustion in my bones lull me to—

         “Pleased to meet you, my little dragonling.”

         “¡MALDITO CARAJO!”

-----

Had a lot of fun with this chapter and got a little carried away, admittedly. Hope you heathens enjoy. Be on the look out for tomorrow’s Holiday request!

Beta Reader, Collaborator, Co-Writer, Grinch: @i-am-here-with-fanfic

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #bnha oc #mha oc #Faian Nadal #Aria Granchester #Aaron Granchester #Midoriya Izuku #Asui Tsuyu #All Might #Kirishima Eijirou #Todoroki Shouto #Bakugou Katsuki #Eraser Head #Thirteen #Aizawa Shouta #enjoy you heathens

[talk-quirky-to-me]

Personal Heater

Alright, what a ride! That was fun. What better way to learn to write characters than by just... writing one-shots about them? That’s right, no better way. Anyways, for the final day, have some more loose prompt interpretations and even more pining fools. (@shigadabiweek)

ShigaDabi Week Day 7 – Space.

Word Count: 1543

———

Shigaraki Tomura doesn’t like being touched.

Dabi doesn’t think it is a secret, but it is a truth which doesn’t need to be voiced, to be spelled out to newcomers. It is a truth easily noticed if you take a minute too long looking at Shigaraki. Perhaps it is a consequence of his quirk, or of his upbringing, or just the kind of a person he is; in any case, Shigaraki Tomura doesn’t like being touched.

And Dabi – well, Dabi may be a criminal, and he may well be an asshole depending on whom you ask, but he isn’t about to go invade his boss’s personal space just because he happens to be a tactile person. He has some sense of self-preservation, firstly; but above all, he doesn’t want Shigaraki to hate him any more than he already does.

(And that, he’s pretty sure, is a decent amount.)

***

Dabi hates him.

It’s not that hard to pick up on, really – not for Tomura in any case. Not for Tomura, because Tomura spends all too much time sitting at the bar and looking. He doesn’t look at Dabi specifically, of course – why would he? – but if Dabi happens be a tad easier to notice than the others, what with the stapled skin and the turquoise eyes, well, then it’s entirely his fault. If he didn’t want Tomura staring, maybe he should have chosen a look which doesn’t draw gazes quite so strongly.

And the point is, Dabi hates him. It’s not the jabs which tip Tomura off, not the deadpan maybe-jokes probably-insults, because he is like that with everybody. It’s the fact that Dabi... touches people. A lot. Dabi walks up to Magne and throws his hand around her shoulders nonchalantly as he intrudes on a conversation. Dabi tugs Kurogiri on the sleeve as he asks for a drink, which is in itself an entirely unnecessary action. Dabi forces Toga in a chair before she goes out in public, for god’s sake, and styles her hair into a braid so she wouldn’t be recognised – a really good braid at that.

Dabi touches people. A lot.

Just not Tomura.

(Which is absolutely fine, for the record. It’s just an observation. Tomura likes making those.)

***

Dabi’s pretty sure it’s a decent amount – Shigaraki’s hatred towards him, that is – because he isn’t fucking blind. And also maybe because he looks at Shigaraki a little too much. But it’s justified, really. He isn’t sure how yet, but he’s sure that it is.

Anyways, the point is that he isn’t blind, and he knows that Tomura stares at him, occasionally, except his stares are a little too dark. It’s not that all Shigaraki’s stares aren’t unsettling – they are, what with red eyes and scarred eyelids – but Dabi thinks he’s got his own brand of darkness directed at him from the vague direction of the bar. He notices it, sometimes, out of the corner of the eye, when he’s trying to arm wrestle with Spinner or when he leans against Twice’s shoulder as they chat, and he feels himself shiver.

It’s mainly because he doesn’t understand what brought this on.

It’s also a little because he doesn’t like the idea of Tomura hating him.

But that’s childish, and he hasn’t been a child for a long, long time. He’s used to hate.

So he keeps his distance.

***

Dabi keeps his distance very deliberately, rarely approaching Tomura unless it’s on League’s business. Tomura thinks he should be happy – he should like the idea of being feared, hell, even hated, because he isn’t doing any of this to be loved. Instead Tomura just finds himself... irritated.

Not mad. Not upset, definitely not upset at all.

Just irritated.

After all, it’s Dabi’s right to touch whomever he wants to touch and stay away from whomever he wants to stay away from. Tomura certainly can’t order him around when it comes to this, can’t tell him to walk over and grab his arm like he would do to Mr Compress or even to Mustard, just so Tomura can see what all the fuss is about. Because they’re fussing, that’s what their doing, the rest of them, especially when late autumn rolls around and they tug on Dabi’s sleeves and snuggle up closer to him and tell him that he’s pretty much a human equivalent of a hot water bottle.

It’s not like Tomura even wants to see what they are on about. He isn’t curious.

He’s just a little cold.

***

Dabi doesn’t get cold, but the others sure do.

And their hideout isn’t really a stellar example of good housing – the windows aren’t exactly insulated, and the brick walls tend to lose heat too quickly. So Dabi may not get cold – on the contrary, sometimes he runs too warm – but that only means that he becomes a portable radiator to just about everyone around him as soon as the temperatures start dropping.

Everyone but Shigaraki, of course, but that should go without saying.

Toga wraps her limbs around him like a little monkey and refuses to let him move for a couple of hours after she comes back from a raid in a nearby shopping mall. Spinner – as someone whose own thermal regulating is as terrible as expected given his quirk – barely leaves his side. Magne lingers suspiciously close, laughing sheepishly when Dabi sighs and tells her to just cling onto him like others do.

Honestly. He has thought of many uses of his quirk when he got it first. Keeping a bunch of villains warm was not one of them.

(But then, he isn’t complaining).

***

Tomura is sitting at one of the tall chairs at the bottom floor one night and staring at the wall opposite. Most lights are dimmed, Kurogiri has already gone to bed as has most everyone else, and that leaves just Tomura and Dabi who’s lingering in the corner with some stupid book he nicked from a shelf in a bookstore a couple of days back. Tomura is shivering and trying to pointedly not look in his direction.

To not think about the space between them.

To not think that it is all too much space.

Dabi gets up and shuts his book with a thud, and Tomura doesn’t jump in place, of course, but still feels his breath hitch in surprise. He turns around to glare at Dabi, and Dabi cocks one eyebrow up in that perfectly infuriating manner he has as he walks by him. They hold each other’s gaze – a silent challenge, a competition Tomura wants no part in but knows it’s too late to pull out now – and Dabi stops in front of him, a few feet back.

“You going to sleep at all today, creep?”

“Watch your own sleeping habits.”

“So harsh,” Dabi chuckles, waving his arm around. Tomura can feel the heat radiating from his body – even like this, even with the space between them – and finds his body leaning forward, almost instinctively.

Tomura thinks that he doesn’t do instincts – not like this, not because of some embarrassing feelings and low temperatures – so he figures he might as well make it seem like he means it.

He leans forward some more and grabs Dabi’s arm.

For a second they are both quiet.

Then, Tomura says,

“You’re warm.”

***

Then, Dabi says,

“And you’re freezing!”,

because he can’t think of anything else to say, and Tomura’s skin is dry and cold against his own. Shigaraki’s pinky is hovering carefully above his forearm, but Dabi finds himself completely unafraid for no good reason, as if a single motion of the man in front of him cannot end his life the next instance.

He finds himself completely unafraid and he thinks, well, when have I ever done things halfway?

Running away from home? Dye your hair and burn your skin so nobody ever finds you.

Seeking revenge on your father? Join the most feared villain organisation in Japan.

Getting murdered by Tomura Shigaraki?

Might as well do something to deserve it.

***

Tomura doesn’t realise, not at first, not for too long a moment, that Dabi pulls him into a hug.

But then, there are arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he’s pressed to a warm chest, and he needs to be extremely careful not to grab onto Dabi’s shirt with all five fingers to – what? Pull him closer? Push him away? – but Dabi doesn’t seem concerned about possibility of death at all. Instead, he smirks – Tomura can feel his smirk more than he can see it – and murmurs, just above his right ear,

“Should’ve told me you need a personal heater, boss.”

Tomura thinks that he should probably kill him, because Dabi can, and probably will, be completely insufferable about this.

Tomura also thinks that is it an absolutely ridiculous thought because he cannot kill him. Not Dabi. Not now, not ever.

And, when Tomura allows himself to relax into the hug, to lean a little closer and close his eyes and rest his head against Dabi’s shoulders, he thinks that maybe, just maybe he has misjudged.

Maybe Dabi doesn’t hate him quite so much after all.

***

(And maybe, after all, Shigaraki Tomura isn’t quite so averse to touching. Dabi sure hopes so).

#shigadabiweek #shigadabi #bnha #boku no hero academia #tomura shigaraki #dabi #my hero academia #mha #fanfic #my writing

[letterboxd]

Making Waves.

“I live in Florida, my cat’s in the movie. It is incredibly personal.” Waves writer and director Trey Edward Shults opens up about his filmmaking process, reveals the movies that made him fall in love with cinema, and gushes about fellow A24 alum Robert Eggers.

Trey Edward Shults doesn’t want to spoil Waves. We don’t want to spoil Waves either. To even begin to describe its unconventional structure would be a spoiler. We’ve said too much already. Just know it’s a sweeping melodrama that solidifies Shults as one of the defining American voices of the decade.

The coming-of-age family drama centers on brother Tyler (Shults regular and breakout star Kelvin Harrison Jr., pictured above) and sister Emily (Taylor Russell), their relationships and struggles with each other, their parents (Sterling K. Brown and Renée Elise Goldsberry), and first loves (Alexa Demie and Lucas Hedges). This is Shults’ third collaboration with A24 after his DIY debut Krisha (set in the same family house as Waves, and similarly playful with its aspect ratio), and the polarizing horror It Came At Night.

While its structure hasn’t worked for everyone, Waves has captured the enthusiasm of many Letterboxd members in a profound way. “This is the coming-of-age movie to end coming-of-age,” writes ActionTomasello. “The less you know of it, the better it is going into this one.” It’s been added to the popular ‘You’re not the same person once the film has finished’ list, and the film’s soundtrack, collected into this Spotify playlist by Letterboxd member Ella, is one of the most-mentioned contributing factors to its success. Writes Nick: “A soundtrack that’s meant for a specific group of people that I’m a part of. It feels too perfect how someone made a film filled with songs from Kanye, Frank Ocean, Radiohead and many others. It feels like one long, sad, fucked-up music video.”

But no Letterboxd review currently beats Jack’s heartfelt letter to Shults: “Your film has moved me to better myself, to love, and to meet my emotions head on. Thank you.” (He also put it in his top five of all time.)

We caught up with Shults to learn how Waves was conceived and executed, and investigate which films have hit him the hardest.

Taylor Russel as Emily in ‘Waves’.

You often draw your films from your personal experiences and you’ve described Waves as autobiographical. Can you go into some detail about which life experiences fed into this film? Trey Edward Shults: Where to start? In broad strokes, I was a wrestler and tore my shoulder in the same way as Tyler. The relationships between Tyler and Alexis and also Emily and Luke are inspired by my girlfriend and [me] in the good moments, bad moments, and everything in between. Their parents are inspired by my parents. I live in Florida, my cat’s in the movie. It is incredibly personal, but I had a huge collaboration with Kelvin, and then as more actors came on it got more collaborative, so it really started from this personal place and grew out of that.

How do you reconcile your relationship to your own suffering with the fact it’s become your livelihood and commodity? It’s very strange. When we recreated events in Missouri I think that was the furthest I’ve ever gone. That shoot was an all-consuming dread and I broke down, it was very hard. I would question: “Is this healthy? Is this right?”, but I came out the other side happy I did it. It was cathartic. My mom and my step-dad are therapists and I would be a total mess without them, though I’m not in therapy right now. Working through these movies is a bit of therapy.

I’m trying to make personal things that I hope connect with other people, especially this movie. Going through life and getting to the other side of it and having perspective informed me a lot. Whether it’s just tonally or pacing-wise, I wanted the film to spiritually feel that way.

The film’s photography is remarkable, especially the first act, when you have your fullest frame. Can you take us inside how you executed some of those spinning 360-degree shots? For the car shots we took out the middle console of the truck and put a slider that went from the backseat to the front. Basically, the dolly grip and I were crammed down hiding behind the car seats and the grip pushed the camera from the back to the front. Drew [Daniels, the director of photography] was in the car behind us with a remote, so he’s operating the spinning and I have a monitor in the back. That way I could talk to the kids in the car and I also had a walkie so I could talk to Drew.

A lot of the dynamic camera stuff was a case-by-case scenario, sometimes it was just running behind our steadicam operator or just hiding and letting them go and play. We wanted the camera to be purely motivated by where our main character’s emotional state of mind was, so it’s all coming from them, but then we also wanted to figure out the technical shit and make it feel to the actors that the camera disappeared and we’re not even there. So it was an interesting balance getting there. It’s a second skin for us and we know exactly what we’re after visually, but let’s disappear and let the kids play and we’ll adapt to them.

Since our name is ‘Letterboxd’, I feel obligated to ask you an aspect-ratio question. Can you share with us how you built this intuition to change at will—did you have films you saw that you feel did this well? That’s a good question, because this one really felt like it was building off what I did with Krisha and pushing it further. I do remember The Grand Budapest Hotel came out right before I started Krisha and it had the three aspect ratios to separate [its] time periods, which was really cool to me. I think I got really excited about using aspect ratio to echo the character’s state of mind. That was the goal with that, especially for Tyler’s trajectory.

The soundtrack is getting some acclaim. Do you have any songs you wanted to fit in but couldn’t find the room, or couldn’t clear the rights for? I realized there were so many songs I wanted in it, but the movie told you what works. If you tried to force it on, it didn’t work. It started with the writing and it worked its way organically. The final soundtrack is pretty close to what was in the script though I think a few changed along the way. We got incredibly lucky that we got everything we wanted. I don’t know how we did it. It was a long process and our last song didn’t even clear until after Telluride and Toronto.

Trey Edward Shults and Sterling K. Brown on the set of ‘Waves’. / Photo: Monica Lek

There are shades of Chungking Express, Magnolia and Moonlight in the film’s DNA. What were some other films you watched or recommended to your cast and crew as preparation? Funny thing is we didn’t do a lot of movie-watching for preparation. Drew and I lived in the same house so we’d always have a movie on. We were watching The Story of Film a lot—the giant anthology series and study of the history of cinema, incredible. What we watched would totally range, it could be things like Ordinary People and Raging Bull, to The Tree of Life and I Am Cuba, to Boogie Nights and Punch-Drunk Love. We would take inspiration from anything, even a film like Yi Yi. It’s a completely different cinematic approach.

Yi Yi might just be the best film about family, so it’s a good start (Lulu Wang also mentioned it in our recent chat with her about The Farewell). That’s the thing exactly: even though Waves is made in such a different way, I think spiritually they’re sprawling tales of family. That’s one of my favorite movies. For the cast, we didn’t actually talk about movies that much. It was more about Florida, music and the character dynamics and all that good stuff.

Which movie scene makes you cry the hardest? One that just popped in my head is Dancer in the Dark. When Björk escapes in her head doing these musical numbers and it leads to the end, to the most devastating thing possible, it broke me. That movie’s rough, man. That’s not one I could watch and have good cries or something. I can’t rewatch it because it’s utterly traumatizing. I was probably crying for hours after it, I felt dead.

Which film makes you laugh the hardest? The most recent film that made me laugh the hardest is What We Do in the Shadows. I saw it for the first time on an airplane sitting next to a stranger and I think they thought something was wrong with me. Then I got home to Florida and showed it to my girlfriend, and her brother came home and we watched it again. It never got old.

Who was the most relatable coming-of-age film character for you? It’s hard because when I was a teen I was obsessed with sports and then it was music. I’m trying to think who I related to the most. Man, I don’t know. Nothing is coming to mind. Shocking.

What film do you wish you made? I’ll go with There Will Be Blood. It’s the first film that popped in my head.

What mind-fuck movies changed you for life and why? There were three that I saw pretty close together at a young age: Boogie Nights, A Clockwork Orange and Raging Bull. I had a digital cable box in my room, so I would sneak and watch a lot of things that my parents didn’t know I was watching. They just rocked my world. Until that point it was all Aliens and Terminator and every big action movie, so then when I saw those films it was like “this is what movies can be! What the hell is this?”.

I remember with Raging Bull I didn’t actually enjoy it. I was like, “This isn’t Rocky but I can’t stop watching.” It’s like a trainwreck and I’m fascinated but I don’t know if I like it, then I was obsessed with it and it’s one of my favorite movies now. Boogie Nights and A Clockwork Orange felt like a bigger vision was at work. It wasn’t just something made out in the ether, it was a specific singular vision and I cannot stop looking at it.

Sterling K. Brown in ‘Waves’.

What’s the most overlooked movie from A24? Shoot, I wish I could look at the catalogue right now. I’m just gonna go with The Spectacular Now because I just watched it again on the airplane and I thought it was really beautiful. It’s a good one, man.

Lastly, it’s time for best-of-decade lists. What’s the greatest film of the 2010s? When we interviewed Robert Eggers, Waves was his first choice. Shut up, come on! Oh my god, Rob’s the best. I will say that The Lighthouse is my favorite film of the year, without a doubt. I’m obsessed with it. I could gush about him for hours. He’s not just one of the greatest young filmmakers, he’s one of the great filmmakers working now. Honestly though, for my decade number one I gotta go with The Tree of Life. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time so I would put that at number one, and then The Lighthouse is close to it.

‘Waves’ is distributed by A24 and is playing in select US cinemas now. Photos courtesy A24.

#trey edward shults #waves #waves movie #kelvin harrison jr. #krisha #it comes at night #film director #director #drama #aspect ratio #filmmaking #filmmaking process #cinematography #a24 #a24 films #a24 movies #robert eggers #the lighthouse #florida #florida films #american drama #coming of age #telluride #tiff 2019 #letterboxd

[ishipbullshitso]

Gone PT. 3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402030/chapters/41027336

Read here ^^

Enjoy this craziness

"Just go," she pleads. He watches, pained, because he knows what he has to do. Throughout his whole life, he never thought he would ever have so much compassion. He can't do it, he simply can't. Her eyes are pleading as she holds onto her child, whispering comforts in his ear. The boy never deserved this, to be raised into this kind of life.

"I can't." He hears the men close in on his position and if he doesn't act fast, they will all die. This was a suicide mission, but they have no idea who they are fucking with. He lifts her wretched body and holds her up. He pushes them out the door, pulling out his gun with his free. He shoots down the three men outside of the door with ease. He pushes the woman and her child through the street, using cover when needed. The men are everywhere. Hope is beginning to run out.

He squeezes his eyes shut, perplexed. Her hands cups his cheek ever so softly and he looks at her.

"It is okay," tears streak her eyes as the baby cries, "you cannot save everyone."  They're closing in again, but his hands are shaking and his ears are attracted to the sounds of their footsteps. He drops his head into her hand.

"I have to." His voice isn't strong enough. She kisses his dirt smeared cheek. She, then, places the baby in his hands, her body folding in the loss.

"Get him to safety. That is how you will honor my death." He begins to say her name, but she already scuttled to the middle of the streets. The flashlight of their guns are trained on her and he has to make a decision. Now.

He clutches the baby against his chest and runs. At the end of the street, he hears the shots. He doesn't cry, he hasn't in a long time, but damn it if this isn't the closest he has been in a long time. The colors in his vision blur and his feet are bruised from the constant movement, but he doesn't stop until he reaches the building. He unlocks it and quickly closes it behind him. The baby in his arms, this child, is not his. The boy peers at him with bright eyes and the amount of angst filling his body makes him buckle.

The baby reaches out and grabs at his necklace, dried tears staining his precious face.

"I'm sorry," he says. The child does not answer.

He failed.

"I saw him," T'Challa screams in the midst of gunfire. The adrenaline rushing though his veins keeps his feet moving, despite the gouging pain in his calf. He thinks for a split second that leaving the suit behind was a bad idea, but quickly shakes off the thought. If he was going to find his man, it would be without the title and the power.

"What do you mean?" Shuri screams back, confused.

"He looked me right in my eyes and shot me." T'Challa runs behind a wall, a gun in his hand. He usually doesn't prefer guns, but it is not like he has anything else going on.

"He shot you!" T'Challa darts the corner, shooting the people behind him. Another bullet grazes his left arm and he hisses, but all of the men have fallen. The air is silent again and he finally breathes again.

"He saw me, and he looked like he was going to say something, but then he shot me in my leg."

"I am coming over and we are-"

"No Shuri. N'Jadaka shot me there on purpose, I know he did. He ran off with these men and didn't shoot me until I was trying to catch up." Shuri releases a heavy breath, but says nothing more. T'Challa feels almost feels relief that N'Jadaka is even alive.

"He obviously is telling you to stay away. You need to come back home." The streets of Ethiopia are strangely empty and he realizes that this is, in no way, done. His brain focuses on N'Jadaka, his need for him overpowering the sense of danger.

"Not without him!" The wounds are already beginning to heal, except for the leg. He shot him enough to keep him down long enough so that T'Challa couldn't catch him.

"I don't want to be the one to say it, but he is not the same boy you loved anymore." For a second, T'Challa considers it. N'Jadaka left him, left Wakanda, to join these men. T'Challa was simply lucky when he landed in Ethiopia, meeting with the diplomat, who told him that he is here, working with a group of men known for overthrowing countries and killing off the children. After that, Shuri researched them and helped track them down tonight. The chance that N'Jadaka is working with people that had similar goals to his is not far off, but T'Challa saw it. The fear. N'Jadaka is scared for him.

"Look more into the group."

"Brother-" he turns off the communications, not needing to hear any more. He knows what she is going to say. Everyone else in the world may think that N'Jadaka has turned rogue again, but T'Challa knows what he saw.

He saw the same person who is scared to say that he loves him. The same person who is scared to be the reason he dies.

"What are your ideas on children?" It was another day out in the streets of Wakanda. The markets are thriving and it is such a relief to get a break from the Outreach Program. N'Jadaka was the first person who he had in mind to join him on this supposedly relaxing day. Beside of him, he feels N'Jadaka tense up, and he fears he hit a sore spot. An apology is about to escape his lips, but Erik shakes his head and breathes in deep.

"I like kids. I just never thought I'd get the chance to with the take-over-the-world shit I was into. I know they change everything and I wasn't prepared for how much they can really change things.." Since their friendship has grown, N'Jadaka has become so much easier to read. His hands are clenched. T'Challa assumes it was something that had to deal with N'Jobu. He places his hand over N'Jadaka's instinctively, and draws it away just as fast.

"I am sorry."

"It's all good. Nothing you would know about anyway."  N'Jadaka flashes his gold incisors, but it's forced. For his sake, T'Challa forgets he asked. "Would I go back the cell if I tried to steal some fruit?"

"N'Jadaka no-" but the man is already darting down the street to the stand and T'Challa has no choice but to follow after him.

T'Challa distantly thinks that N'Jadaka would be so good with children, considering he acts like one.

"Who is he?" The bald one asks, swinging. "We told you not to get anyone else involved." N'Jadaka takes the hit, spitting out the blood that comes from the blow. He smiles though, wide and crazed, almost wanting more. This is the the Killmonger that they asked for. The blood crazed killer. He added six new scars onto his body just today, but that's from the ones who he saw before him. Inevitably, there are more. They are getting closer to the goal.

"I didn't tell anyone shit. How was I supposed to know the damn King of Wakanda would come after me if I disappeared? That's almost common sense." It earns him another hit, but it's not as bad as the first. That hit was just for his mouth. He takes it though, this time swallowing the blood. The metallic taste soothes some suppressed hunger for blood. He almost misses this. Almost.

N'Jadaka leans against the wall, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lights one up, eyes attracted to the blood that soaks into the paper.

"That means we all have a problem then." Shit. N'Jadaka blows out a puff of smoke, uncaring for all of the other men in the room. Fuck them. He's got a mission to do.

"Let me do it. He was always my kill." The man turns and shoves the gun into his chest, right where T'Challa stabbed him a long time ago. N'Jadaka doesn't back down from the challenge, even when he hears the click of the gun. They really think they can scare him.

"Why should we trust you?" N'Jadaka laughs and it distracts him long enough for N'Jadaka to flip the gun back on him. His face drops, angry, but he just flips the mechanism off and hands the gun back. Everyone else in the room just watched the interaction, but not without their hands ready if N'Jadaka would have fired a shot. Trust is not a thing that this group does.

"If I wasn't arrested for trying to overthrow Wakanda by myself, that nigga and everyone he loved would be dead. Nothing would make me happier than to watch him die."

"Then why didn't you do it earlier?" He shrugs.

"It would be too easy. There is no satisfaction in him dying if I can't see it happening." The man, his pale skin a contradiction to the rest of the country, doesn't answer. He stares, waiting for any bullshit to show, but N'Jadaka gives nothing away. Finally, he tosses the gun.

"Show me he's gone and we'll finish what we started," he leans close, enough that no one else can hear, "don't forget why you're here."

N'Jadaka nods and scans the rest of the room before walking right of the door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

T'Challa hasn't been able to sleep since. He could just go home, leave it alone, and hopefully not find N'Jadaka dead in another classified file. His heart is tugging him a million different ways, but he won't leave without getting what he came for. If he leaves now, he may never find his love again. He spent so long trying to divert Erik from this previous life of violence, but something has shifted him back. What changed?

The bed is nothing like what he is accustomed to, not that it makes any difference. It doesn't change the fact that all his mind can think about is how N'Jadaka could've been in this exact same place Bast knows how long ago, staring at the ceiling in sleeplessness like him. He just misses him. T'Challa hears something outside of his window and shuts his eyes, waiting.

The window opens and he hears the mouse-silent steps towards the bed. The mechanism of a gun clicks and T'Challa snaps his eyes open, hands moving to force the gun out of his hands. The man is already on him, hand around his throat tightly and forcing him more into the bed. The king rolls out of the assault and grabs the knife on his nightstand. T'Challa attacks, ready, but the man diverts most assaults. He does nick the base of his neck, forcing the man to back away.

"T'Challa." And if that doesn't make him stop. With his free hand, N'Jadaka takes off the mask, and takes a heavy breath. T'Challa doesn't feel like he can breath or do anything.

"I was faking your damn death and you always gotta fight something."

"You.." T'Challa reaches for him, but N'Jadaka doesn't copy the action. Hurt, he draws his hand back.

"I don't have time for the sappy shit. I have an hour to be back with proof that you're dead."

"You left, N'Jadaka." T'Challa finds his voice, hating the amount of hatred he had laced within his name. N'Jadaka just looked at him for what felt like forever and T'Challa thinks that maybe he has gone back to who he was. N'Jadaka swallows everything down and walks up to T'Challa, drawing him closer. He touches their foreheads.

"I had to."

"What is going on? Let me help." The fear is back. Erik draws away completely.

"You can't help me. Don't you realize they'll kill all of us!" N'Jadaka realizes he said something wrong and shakes his head violently. "I told you to forget about me." T'Challa catches the mistake and there is so many questions unanswered. Instead, he just wraps his arms around him, squeezing as tight as he can while he can.

"You knew I'd find you," T'Challa comments, "one way or another."

"I shouldn't have left that damn letter." N'Jadaka holds him despite this, away from the sight from anyone who could be watching him. There is no way to tell if they followed him here, but he did cover his bases. "Let me do this. Once you're dead to them, you can go back to Wakanda and they won't know you're alive until it's too late."

"No. I'm with you, no matter what you're in." N'Jadaka laughs incredulously.

"You're an fucking idiot," but it sounds more like an endearment.

"For you. How much time do we have?" T'Challa doesn't let him answer, drawing their mouths together.

War can wait for a little while longer, just this once.

#t'cherik #killchalla #i honestly do not know what i am doing this chapter #i kind of suck at writing action so I chose a shortcut #more stuff is coming tho

[runningwolf62]

SURPRISE IT’S UPDATE TIME! It’s so bizarre being writing this at the same time Larry is because there’s like this weird overlap, we’re like ships passing in the night he’s finally caught up to my time and now is about to pass me.

Anyway, there’s some lovely art in here and a reference to a blog that actually exists, @ask-potoo-firestar. Art belongs to @lavendersongs, thank you for your amazing contribution to the Warrior Cats fandom and for giving me permission to include references to it in this fanfic.

Beep.

Larry curls up deeper under his blankets.

Beep.

He covers his head with his pillow.

Beep.

Fine, he’ll crawl out of his nest and see what had happened, maybe Nick was in trouble again, that Godot guy seemed to have a grudge against him for something.

u ok?

Only Nick texts like that.

haven’t seen u in few days

u alive?

Larry almost fires something back before thinking better of it, Nick had far too many people around him die to joke about that.

Yeah I’m fine, and you usually don’t see me for awhile.

yeah but u had a rough time

Larry hesitates before deciding to just call Nick. The phone rings a few times before Nick answers.

“Hey Larry,” he greets him, Larry can hear voices in the background, he thinks one is Maya, the other is young and high so probably Pearl.

“Hey Nick,” Larry runs a hand over his jaw, aw gross he’d ended up with that scraggly beard, he never looked good with that, he needed to go shave, “you in a crisis?”

“No?” Nick has the gall to sound offended, “I do not only call you during crisises!”

“Mmm might wanna check you phone bill there Nicky Boy,” Larry teases him, his voice is rough, he should haul himself out of bed and start putting himself back together.

“You want to talk about having a crisis you sound like you’ve been on a bender,” Nick fires back, Larry frowned and groused at him.

“Don’t be an ass Nick, I’ve been taking a week off, chilling and relaxing before I remake myself! You called while I’m still in the cocoon man!”

“That metaphor started strong but you took it somewhere very weird,” Nick replies, Larry laughs roughly.

“Alright, alright, you’re the one who texted me,” Larry points out, wrapping his blanket around him like a cloak to hide his shame from the world and stay warm from the chillier October day. He crossed to his laptop to open his resume, he’d need to update it and he might as well do that while chatting with Nick rather than sit around feeling shitty about it.

He chats with Nick, and Maya and Pearl when they demand a chance to chat with him. He interrogate Nick, or tries, but he doesn’t know what’s up with Godot either, other than he’s got one hell of a caffeine addiction, came out of nowhere and claims to be from hell.

Given half the stories Larry’s heard about Nick’s cases he’s tempted to believe it.

“Maybe you ought to have an exorcism performed,” he teases, he’s on speaker phone now and he’s sure they can hear him typing away as he adds his latest job to the long master list of jobs he’s held, “Maya, Pearl, can you do that?”

“I’d have to exorcise the entire Prosocution’s office!” Maya bemoans, Larry grins as she outlines everything she’d need to do to Nick.

“Maybe you should, it sounds like it has a few too many demons over there even before this guy,” Larry muses, saving his resume and opening Fanfiction.net. His stomach drops and his jokes trail off. There’s several messages from XxWolfDragonxX. Shit, he’d just dropped off the map after talking to the guy daily.

He immediately types a response, assuring the guy some stuff just came up, he got fired from work, etc. but he’s doing alright. He misses a question Nick asked him until he repeats his name.

“Larry.”

“Sorry, what?” He tosses the message to WolfDragon off, his friend is probably off work it’s well after six for him.

“I asked what were you typing?”

Larry glances at his messages and then at his minimized programs. “My resume.”

He refreshed FF.net and got a message from WolfDragon.

Man it’s fine, life happens! It’s just good to hear from you again. I’m sorry for all the shit that keeps happening to you.

Again I’m so sorry, and yeah, it’s just been that kind of year.

Do you have a discord? I have something to show you but I don’t think ff.net will send it.

Oh? Uh yeah actually, one second let me find my ID number.

It takes him longer than he should be tosses the information to Wolfdragon. After a moment he gets a friend request on Discord, from a XxWolfDrgonxX surprising absolutely no one. The avatar is a gray anime wolf with yellow eyes snarling, which also doesn’t surprise Larry though he wonders where it’s from.

However he’s still on the phone with Nick, so he accepts it and turns away from the computer, “so what are you all up to asides from calling me?” He hears Pearl giggle and Maya’s voice in the background, they’re moving away, “how are they Nick?”

“They’re good,” Nick sounds happy and Larry can’t help but hurt even as he’s happy for him.

“We’re probably going to do a few things today before they have to head back,” Nick’s chair creaks audibly, “do you have plans for Halloween?”

“Uh, not really?”

“Do you want to come over to the office and hand out candy with me?”

“People come to your office for candy?”

“Surprisingly yes,” Nick sounds equally baffled by this fact, “so, are you in?”

“Do you want me to bring anything?” Larry asks, glancing at his Discord occasionally, where he can see WolfDragon typing. “Beer, Soda, popcorn and terrible horror movies?”

“Popcorn and let’s go with lighthearted movies,” Nick suggests, and Larry wonders if Pearl will be there. He’ll bring soda then, just in case. That or Nick’s gotten to be more of a scaredy-cat since their last Halloween movie festival.

“Have you seen that one cartoon thing that everyone raves about?” Larry’s seen so much art for it for Inktober so he needs to actually sit down and watch the show obviously is what that means.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, I’ll find it, it’s some kids show but everyone who’s seen it loved it,” Larry sends a quick message to WolfDragon while Nick talks.

You sure are dedicated to your brand.

It’s who I am

Furry.

WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS THAT?!?

That’s Potoo Firestar you fool

I want to hate it but I’m laughing too hard, it’s amazing.

“Larry are you okay?” Nick asks, and Larry can’t answer, he’s wheezing at the damn Potoo Firestar, he cannot believe WolfDragon got his discord just to send him this, and that it’s somehow made him feel so much better.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he wheezes, and clicks the link that WolfDragon sends him to this person’s blog, “just saw something funny.”

He hops off the phone with Nick promising to see him on Halloween and bring candy and popcorn and the cartoon he’s seen everyone drawing if he could just remember the name.

He spends the next hour teasing WolfDragon on Discord for his avatar and username, all the while scrolling through this blog, which WolfDragon has dubbed “the only pure Warrior Cats blog”.

It doesn’t take long for him to agree though he does have a few questions.

So I miss all the discourse but I also miss blogs like this?

Listen man, some people are still stuck in the can cats be gay discourse?

Seriously?

Yeah, like sure the Erins just made a mistake making some tortoiseshell cats toms. OR they made several trans icons.

I can’t believe Tigerstar was transphobic.

Firestar made the first call out post

“OP is literally a Transphobe and murderer but go off I guess.”

Scourge: *goes the fuck off *

Listen, he wear dog teeth on his collar he can do what he likes, I’m not gonna be the guy to try and stop him.

Oh you do know they made Scourge and Firestar half-brothers right?

THEY WHAT

Yeah they have the same Dad

Oh shit I’d heard that theory but I thought it was just a fan theory

Nah they confirmed it. Also Tallstar was super gay for him

Like canonly gay or the fandom has shipping goggles glued on

Like so canonly gay that the publisher calls them good friends

What?

One of the authors says Tallstar’s heart always belonged to his Jake, but the publishers say they’re just good friends

What’s better than this, guys being dudes.

You’d probably like Tallstar’s Revenge actually, there’s a lot of your fic in it

Seriously?

Yeah man, like leaving the Clans to discover yourself the themes of forgiveness and parents and family there’s a lot of good stuff in there

I guess I’ll have to read it then.

Yeah, that blog I linked you even did fanart of Jake and Tallstar

Oh my god.

Did you find it?

Not yet, but I’m looking.

FOUND IT!

THAT’S IT

Okay that is gay.

Much like my fic.

Now I gotta man.

He did just lose his job but Larry’s got some money saved from his last paycheck and the commissions. What the hell. He makes a note to buy Tallstar’s Revenge next time he’s at the book store, and gets up.

Thanks for this.

Of course!

Is this the best way to contact you, or should I howl out the window?

Haha

FF.net or Discord works I’ll probably review your fics on FF.net still but we can chat here

Larry grins and tells him he hopes he has a good evening. He needs to clean himself up and try and rejoin society.

He showers, shaves, and pulls himself together. He also draws Wolf as a Potoo and sends that back to WolfDragon which is obviously loved, if the fact he turns his avatar into it was any indication.

-

Larry spends Halloween crashing on Nick’s couch, Maya and Nick fighting over candy while he snags some and occasionally slips a piece or two to Pearl. The kid’s clever and smiles shyly at him every time he does so.

They do settle down to watch the cartoon though Maya grumbles at points about how she wanted to watch the Steel Samurai Halloween Special.

They enjoy Over the Garden Wall though, even if it sends the girls diving to hide behind Nick at one point from the Beast. He lets Nick comfort, while he cleans up some of the trash into the popcorn bowl which he sets to the side, making sure it will not be grabbed by mistake by someone hurrying to give candy to trick-or-treaters.

He’s honestly astonished at the number that turn up at the office, until Nick says he thinks Mia used to hand the candy out, which makes sense. It’s tradition now. And Nick must’ve gotten paid because he’s got the good candy and he’s letting kids take handfuls.

He doesn’t touch that stuff only the bag Nick bought for them to share and the stuff he traded Pearl for because she didn’t like nuts in her candy. Said they got stuck in her teeth which Larry felt was a valid reason to not like them.

He tells himself that means they have protein as he pops a handful in his mouth. While Nick’s busy with some teens at the door and Maya’s tucking Pearl in on the couch he sends a message to WolfDragon.

Happy Halloween.

Technically it’s November, and I didn’t grow up in America

Spoilsport.

WHY ARE YOU AWAKE?

Work

Work can suck my dick, it’s what- oh

It’s six in the morning

You’re going to work

Yup

Listen, I don’t need your sass

It’s not sass I just woke up Writer boy

Don’t you sass Wolfman

Tell me you at least watched terrible werewolf movies in my honor

I did not.

Watched kids cartoons instead.

Warrior Cats Authors

There was an actual child in the room!

Ah what’s being introduced to fear at a young age?

Trauma I believe, and the kid’s had enough of that

You’re a good guy you know that, don’t let people tell you otherwise

“Texting a girlfriend?” Maya’s teasing voice made him jump, she wasn’t peering over his shoulder yet but she might’ve been. She might’ve seen the teasing and… no, she was looking at his face.

“Nah, just a friend,” he shoves his phone back into his pocket, she and Nick are both staring at him intensely now, he’s not sure why but they are.

He swears he sees Nick counting to three but he’s not sure why that happens either. He and Maya share a look, and Larry feels himself tense more.

He looks to Nick, whose eyes pierce him as he looks at Larry, “I thought you said you were taking a break from dating.”

“I am!” Larry insists, careful to keep his voice low, glancing to Pearl because however much they want to interrogate him he knows they’ll kill him if he wakes her.

Nick and Maya look confused again but it’s not his fault they can’t accept that he’s just friends with some people. He’s not even into guys anyway!

He shakes his head and grins at them, “glad to hear you think I have that much game though Nick.”

Maya smothers a laugh, while the edge flows out of Nick’s eyes and a smile takes its place, “you keep getting girls to date you somehow.”

“It’s that I have an artist’s soul,” Larry pulls himself up and rests his hand over his chest, grinning at the two of them.

“I went to art school too you know,” Nick points out, relaxing and smiling.

“And who taught you all those tricks for backgrounds?” Larry fires back, he’s always been the better artist for backgrounds and forms, Nick just had more practice with human anatomy. Nick huffs and shakes his head.

“I showed you how to draw men’s jawlines, ‘cause you only paid attention when the model was female-”

“Nick I’ve accepted my heterosexuality and horndog ways will be my downfall,” he fires back which obviously takes his friend by surprise, Maya too, “hey, I can have some self-awareness you know.” He glances over at Maya, “Nick, Edgey and I are allowed the common sense of one person but we have to share and Edgey came back and took it all from Nick.”

“Excuse me?” Nick looks so genuinely offended and Larry laughs, shoulders shaking.

“You took some back, TSA wouldn’t let him take it all with him.”

Maya’s grinning and apparently not taking sides as he and Nick begin to playfully jab at each other about who has more common sense, and it’s nice to be able to talk about Edgey again without Nick’s anger, to have him laugh as he talks and recounts stories from elementary school to Maya is worth the few bits of his dirty laundry that Nick airs.

They end up on the other couch, Maya curled up on Nick’s one side, Larry on the other; with jackets draped over themselves as make shift blankets.

“Larry?”

“Yeah Nick?”

“Who were you texting earlier,” Nick’s not judgmental now but he is obviously curious, maybe hoping that in his exhaustion Larry will let something slip.

And he does.

“He’s a guy I met online, we talk about like books and stuff. You wouldn’t understand, you nerdy lawyer.”

Nick laughs softly as Larry slumps against him, “that so?”

“It is,” Larry lays his head back against Nick’s shoulder, “very so.”

-

They wake up in various states of aching and trying to hide it, all of them trying to deny they’re getting old while Pearl buzzes around the office. Larry wonders briefly if she’s gotten into the Halloween candy for breakfast.

He checks his phone and there’s a few messages from WolfDragon.

You still there?

Don’t eat too much candy, aren’t you doing NaNoWriMo this year?

Larry only barely manages not to curse in front of Pearl as he realizes that he’s going to have to write his first 1667 words with one hell of a crick in his neck.

#Ace Attorney #Potoo Firestar is a gift and you can quote me on that #Larry Writes Warrior Cats

[trillhouse-lh]

Threat Incapacitated (Zombieverse)

>It had been nearly a year since the outbreak. It had come suddenly, without warning… those in high-density areas, particularly those living in cities, had suffered the most casualties. One or two shamblers were no problem… hell, even a GROUP of them provided little issue, unless you were some sort of idiot. But in large numbers? That was a different matter. All it took was one bite, and you were fucked. >But Bryson was one of the lucky ones. For the first time, he had been glad to live in the outskirts of the city… as soon as the scope of the outbreak became clear, he had wasted no time in gathering supplies and fleeing. While many had opted to flee towards other cities for protection, Bryson had a different plan: stay off the grid. Keep to rural wooded areas where there would be less people and, therefore, less zombies. >Which isn’t to say he hadn’t run into problems along the way. As bad as the shamblers were, the REAL threat were other survivors. Many had become desperate for survival, willingly killing and stealing from others without hesitation. Others were far more reasonable, but unfortunately for them Bryson fell into the former category. He was more than willing to earn a group’s trust and then, when they least expected it, butcher them without mercy. He knew this was harsh, but it was the only reason he had been able to survive thus far. Besides, he’d always been a loner.

>Bryson was not a particularly strong man, but he was clever, deceptive and, above all else, patient. He always waited until the time was right before making his move. And now, he had discovered quite possibly his greatest find yet: a car. An honest to God, fully functional car. Once again, fortune had shined upon the middle-aged man. >That said, there was a small issue… a VERY small issue, in fact. Bryson was not the first person here: a young boy made his way in and out of the auto repair shop, carrying out supplies and packing them into the car. He would be easy enough to deal with, of course, but for all Bryson knew there could be MORE survivors inside… hell, he’d bet his life on it. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old; surely there was no way such a young child could have survived this long on his own.

>The most unusual thing was the boy’s appearance. He wore a white helmet that even at a distance Bryson could tell was little more than a toy, topped with a red beacon and two antennae-like protrusions. It looked like he had a bandolier of some sort strapped across his torso, and perhaps most notably the entire right side of his body looked… wrong, to say the least. It was red and heavily scarred… perhaps he’d been burned. Either way, Bryson didn’t care. He wouldn’t make a move until he knew just what he was dealing with. >Bryson waited until the boy went inside again, then quickly bolted towards the building. He had gotten used to moving both quickly and quietly, and he was able to dart around the side of the building without being seen. He crept his way along to the back, looking for any way to get a handle on the situation.

>His answer came in the form of a row of windows along the back wall. They were high up, perhaps fifteen feet or so, but once again lady luck favored the man: amongst the wood pallets and dumpster were several empty oil drums and a decommissioned vending machine that, combined with his considerable height, would be JUST enough for him to peek through the windows. >Even empty the oil drum was quite heavy, but he couldn’t risk dragging it across the concrete… that would make far too much noise. He gently set it beside the vending machine and carefully climbed onto it. He nearly lost his footing, but was able to grab onto the vending machine for support just in the nick of time. >He let out a grunt of effort as he climbed atop the vending machine, then got to his feet and looked through the window. To his relief, there was nobody else inside… a car had been left on one of the lifts, no doubt abandoned mid-service as the mechanics fled for their lives. And now, with the boy struggling with a particularly heavy box of supplies, Bryson figured it was time to make his move.

>Bryson darted around to the front of the building, ducking down behind the car and out of the boy’s line of sight. Thankfully, the door had been left unlocked, and his face fell slightly as he looked inside. Though the key had been left in the ignition, there was a box strapped onto the seat and what looked to be makeshift wooden leg extensions secured to the gas and brake pedal. He could only assume that the boy had crafted these as a way to actually DRIVE the car, given his short stature. Bryson cursed under his breath; he’d have to remove them before he could make use of the car.

>”Wh-who are you?” >Bryson bolted upright, quickly drawing his handgun and aiming it at the intruder. It was the boy, of course… he stood a distance away, trembling and glaring right at the man. Now that he had a closer look, it was clear just how fucked up the kid actually was. Even mostly concealed by his tattered clothing, Bryson could tell that the entire right side of his body was severely burned. The crazed look in his exposed left eye left no doubt that this boy had seen some shit. >”I-I said, who are you?!” The boy repeated in a demanding tone, apparently unfazed by the gun pointed at his head. “State your name, rank a-and assigned s-starship.” Bryson cocked an eyebrow. >”The hell you on about, kid…?” >”Are y-you not with Starfleet?” The boy asked. The man’s brow furrowed as he realized that the bizarre child before him was completely out of his mind. He let out a short laugh and holstered his weapon.

>”…Yeah. Yeah, I am. And you are…?” He asked, figuring it best to play along with the child’s nonsense for now. Besides… he had to admit it was pretty amusing. >”I-I am Second Officer Robert Loud o-of the Starship Epsilon.” The boy stated. Bryson smirked. The boy had fallen right into his trap, introducing himself first so he would know the proper means of doing so. “N-now, I won’t say it again,” Bobby said, “State y-your name, rand a-and assigned starship!” >”Right, sorry. I’m… Captain Bryson Howard of the Starship… Detroit.” Bryson said. “At ease.” Bobby’s eyebrow raised slightly in surprise. >”I… I have not heard of a starship by that name…” The troubled boy mumbled. >”We’re, uh… we’re new.” Bryson said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Bobby frowned and gave a small nod. >”I-I see. My apologies, captain… one cannot be too careful in this hostile world.” He said. “It would seem much h-has changed in my a-absence. A-are you s-stranded here as well?” >”Er… yeah… crashed here a few months ago. Damnedest thing.” Bryson muttered. “Pretty nice ride you got here, Robert.” He added, resting a hand on the car.

>”…Yes, finding a craft in such condition was fortuitous indeed.” Said Bobby. >”I’ll bet. Anyway, I’m afraid I’m going to be… commandeering this vessel.” The man said with a smirk. Bobby frowned. >”I c-cannot let you do that,” The boy said. “I have need of it. You are more than welcome to a-a-accompany me if you wish, but I will not relinquish o-ownership to you.” >”Yeah, see, that’s kind of a problem… I’m something of a loner, you see.” Bryson sneered. “And I’m a captain. That means you gotta do what I say.” Bobby narrowed his eye. >”…Tell me, captain.” Bobby’s tone grew stern. “What is your serial number?” Bryson sighed. >”Uh… 90210. Satisfied?” He scoffed. Bobby’s suspicious expression suddenly shifted to a furious glare; he quickly drew the toy gun from his thigh and aimed it right at the man before him.

>”That is NOT a valid Starfleet s-serial number,” Bobby hissed. “Y-you’re one of THEM, aren’t you?! A r-r-reptilian!” >”Well shit, ya got me.” Bryson chuckled, shrugging in defeat. “Either way, I’m taking this… so be a good little boy and fuck off, alright?” But Bobby didn’t budge; he flicked a small switch on the side of the toy, not taking his eye off the man for a second. >”Ph-phaser set to stun…” The boy muttered. “Step away from the craft. You have five seconds to comply.” Bryson simply let out a loud, booming laugh. “…Four seconds.” Bobby said. >”Uh oh, looks like someone’s pissed.” Bryson laughed. “What ever will I do?” >”Three seconds.” >”Ooohhh, PLEASE, officer! Don’t shoot!” Bryson pleaded, holding up his hands in mock fear. >”Two seconds.” Bobby said, ignoring the man’s taunts. Bryson rolled his eyes; quite frankly, he’d played around more than enough. Now the shtick was just getting old. >”Alright, fuck it.” The man huffed, reaching for his pistol. The kid was living on borrowed time as it was… may as well speed things along, right?

>No sooner had his fingers touched the gun than a shot rang out, and Bryson felt a sharp pain in the left side of his chest. He looked down to see a red spot spreading across his shirt… he’d been SHOT. >”Th-the fuck…?!” Bryson wheezed, his punctured lung beginning to fill with blood. He looked up to see Bobby standing there with his gun in hand, a faint wisp of smoke billowing from the barrel… and then, he spotted it. Jutting out slightly from the funnel-shaped opening was the barrel of a handgun. It wasn’t a toy at all. >Bobby lowered the gun slightly and pulled the trigger again. Bryson cried out in pain as the next bullet pierced straight through his knee, dropping him to the ground. >”Shit…!” The man hissed, quickly reaching for his gun again, but a third shot blew off half his hand. He screamed in agony, coughing up blood from his collapsed lung. >”Subject would not comply,” He heard Bobby say. He looked up to find the boy walking towards, him, seemingly unfazed by what he was doing… he simply stared down at the man with the same wide-eyed gaze as before. He raised the gun again, this time pointing directly at Bryson’s head. The man’s eyes went wide with horror. ”…Use of non-lethal force d-deemed necessary.”

>”N-NO, PLE-“ Bryson was silenced by a single shot through the forehead, spattering Bobby’s shirt and face with blood. He didn’t seem to notice, or care… he simply watched with a stoic expression as the man slumped over, dead. >”…Threat has b-been incapacitated.” Bobby muttered. Then, Bryson’s body twitched; the child let out a frightened yelp and emptied the rest of the clip into the dead man’s head, reducing it to little more than a scrambled mess of blood, flesh and chunks of brain. He stood breathing heavily as the body finally went still. Bobby swallowed, taking a moment to compose himself before fishing out his tape recorder from his pocket. >”O-officer’s Log… s-s-stardate 4503.2. Encountered a hostile native of th-this world… use of non-lethal f-force was deemed necessary. An entire p-power cell was needed to stun target… either reptilians have g-grown resistant to nadion particles, or my ph-phaser is in need of recalibration. For now, I am resuming the mission. S-second Officer Robert Loud, signing off.” Bobby stopped recording and looked down at the corpse lying before him. “D-do not worry… the immobilization should w-wear off within the hour.”

>And with that, Bobby resumed loading his supplies into the car. It didn’t register within Bobby’s mind at all that he had just brutally killed a man: all he saw lying there was a stunned reptilian. He didn’t notice that the man’s body had begun to attract flies, nor the giant pool of blood spreading out from beneath it… not even when he stepped through the puddle as he got into the car. After all, he was a proud officer of Starfleet… he would never use lethal force unless there was absolutely no other option. >Bobby got into the car, strapping himself into his self-made ‘piloting frame’. He turned the key and, once the engine had revved to life, drove off; after all, he couldn’t waste any more time than he already had. >The mothership was out there somewhere, waiting for him.

#trillhouse #zombieverse #zombie au #sin survival #bobby loud #bobby jr. #greentext #fanfiction #fanfic