#its so annoying to see you run in a circle trying to justify calling someone an ass for doing literally nothing wrong | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

strangledeggs · 3 years

Text

Strange Nostalgia For The Future – or: Death By A Thousand Taylor Swifts – or: This Is Pop?

Holy shit, when did this article get to be over 8 pages? Sorry everyone, Tumblr isn’t letting me do a cut, so this is just going to clog your feed for a while.

This began as a long-form review of Dua Lipa’s album “Future Nostalgia” with comparisons to the styles of a variety of other pop artists, but has since turned into something much broader and more nebulous. Call it my (incredibly subjective) attempt at defining a current “state of pop music” as it stands in the year 2020.

I’ll admit, I have a bias here, so I’ll lay that on the table: I didn’t particularly care for Dua Lipa prior to the release of “Future Nostalgia”. Actually, if I’m being completely honest, she didn’t really register on my radar until the album’s release, and so I didn’t hear any of her earlier songs until I spent a few minutes on Youtube scrambling to remember who she was and why this release was supposed to be such a big deal. I came up relatively empty-handed, with “New Rules” having more interesting production than anything in the way of a vocal hook and “Be The One” sounding blandly forgettable.

But music journalists were spinning this narrative that “Future Nostalgia” was Dua Lipa’s big moment, her “disco” album, her album full of “bangers” (yes, I know, that’s an archaism at this point, but what am I going to do, call them “vibes”?). We’ve seen hype like this before (at least I have), so we should always take some time when an album arrives with this much fanfare to ask that crucial question: is it justified? Does it live up to expectations?

I’m going to answer that question, but before I do, I want to take a step back and place that music journalism narrative within a broader music journalism meta-narrative that has been slowly gaining traction over the last decade. About 7 years ago (so around 2013), I wrote a guest article for the (what I assume is now defunct) blog Hitsville UK on another meta-narrative called “rockism”, by which older listeners and journalists tended to use to justify their dismissal modern pop music through the glorification of (and comparison to) the canon of rock music. This was not a unique article – many music journalists were writing about this same phenomenon that year; it will likely mark some sort of watershed moment in music journalism. Frequently contrasted with the meta-narrative of “rockism” (not so much in my own article, but definitely in others’) was a countering meta-narrative named as “poptimism”. It’s basically what it sounds like: an optimism that current pop music could be just as good as music of the past, or even better. This was, of course, already known in a lot of mainstream music journalism circles, but it did cause a bit of a stir in independent music journalism, especially since it seemed awfully hard to deny; then-recent examples of indie stars like The Weeknd and Frank Ocean* aspiring to make genuinely great pop music seemed like they were making a pretty good case for the poptimist outlook. Plus, as a new generation of music journalists raised on hip-hop began to cover the genre more seriously, it soon became clear that, given the crossover-laden history of rap, they would have to take pop music seriously too.

Needless to say, poptimism gained a lot of traction as a new paradigm, until it became the default outlook of music journalism by the middle of the decade. It has, as far as I can see, yet to relinquish its grip, and that’s not such a bad thing; arguably, a lot more women, queer people and people of colour have had their music taken more seriously since the shift. Before we get back to “Future Nostalgia”, however, there’s one more piece of this puzzle I want to put in place: coinciding with those early years of poptimism, pop itself hit a bit of a turning point in the year 2014. This was, of course, the release of Taylor Swift’s album “1989”.

What was so special about “1989”? It’s still a bit hard to answer that completely coherently, but it clearly changed the pop music landscape in meaningful ways. For one, it demonstrated that the overcoding of global pop music made at the hands of big-name producers was not just an approach reserved for the “born pop star” figures of Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Taylor Swift, formerly a country singer with pop leanings, now went headlong into Max Martin-penned chart-topping smashes, and just like that, she had become deterritorialized. It was a huge success, and, interestingly, one of the first albums that got a lot of independent music journalists (and me) to take her seriously despite being her most overtly commercially-driven. I think this speaks to the power of poptimism in 2014 from two angles: for the journalists, the lesson seemed to be that if someone is already doing something near-enough to mainstream pop and then breaks through with a mass-appeal hit, why not see this as a kind of fulfillment of artistic intent? And for Swift, if you’re already doing something near-enough to what’s playing on pop radio, why not go all the way with it and sacrifice your country “credibility” for the ability to have hits beyond the genre-specific? “1989” marked a turning point at which pop music, formerly seen as something people “sell out” to make, became something you “sell into”, erasing a specific, localized identity that could be exposed as a construction anyway and replacing it with the ambition to conquer the ears of the masses.

I should clarify here, however: there are two possible conclusions one can draw from poptimism. The one I just documented, that pop music as a global/commercial phenomenon can be great and should taken seriously by music journalism, is the more frequently-taken interpretation, but it’s not my preferred one. I would rather the alternative view, which is that most music that people have tended to hear the last several decades, whether marked by the seal of “pop” or not, has been pop music. Rock is a form of pop. So is country, so is hip-hop, so is jazz, folk, metal, etc. We can distinguish between, say, the commercial radio pop – which I’ll from this point on designate as “Pop” with a capital “P” – and the pop tradition, but everything descends from pop tradition in the end, and Pop is just one more subgenre among many, albeit by definition the most popular at its given moment. Seeing that this is pretty indisputably true (and if you don’t believe me, you a) haven’t been reading my blog for long enough and b) have some serious research to do), we might as well take Pop as seriously as any other form of pop and subject it to the same criticisms, while simultaneously adjusting our criticisms of other pop subgenres in relation to our new appreciation of Pop. Who created the texture of this Pop song? Does this metal song have a hook? Is the phrasing in this hip-hop song conducive to its overall rhythmic feel? And so on, and so on.

I prefer this approach because it doesn’t necessarily assume a supremacy of one genre so much as level the playing field to allow for a more robust and less prejudiced criticism. It also doesn’t let listeners off the hook, as many (non-critics/journalists, most likely), given the opportunity raised by the previously-detailed interpretation of poptimism, would lazily slip back into listening to Top 40 radio without attempting to seek things beyond the charts; this alternative interpretation challenges us to try and hear the similarities between Led Zeppelin, Rihanna, Young Thug and The Clash while recognizing what each do uniquely. Unfortunately, it seems like the former interpretation has won out, at least for most audiences, and we now have a listener-base that, instead of keeping their ears peeled for next-big-thing indie groups like Arcade Fire as they might have circa 2008-2012, is content to wait for an already-famous star to drop the next “1989” crossover smash**.

This brings us back to “Future Nostalgia”, the latest in a line of Pop albums that seem primed to vy for that coveted position. There is, however, a bit of a gulf between “1989” and “Future Nostalgia”, and it’s not just because the moment of “1989” and poptimism has already happened. It’s also not because Dua Lipa isn’t “crossing over” from any outsider genre like Swift did with her move away from country – if anything, Dua Lipa is doubling down on her Pop ambitions here by putting them up-front and trying to make this album as blockbuster-signalling as possible. The biggest gulf is the musical one: compared to “1989” (and, I should add, a slew of other blockbuster Pop albums from the last decade, which I’ll get to discussing soon enough), “Future Nostalgia”’s songs are oddly lackluster.

Let’s start with the good, though. On my first listen to the album, I wasn’t completely baffled that critics were hearing something momentous in it. There are absolutely (again, sorry) bangers on this. Ironically, the two that stood out to me immediately were two that I later learned weren’t even released as singles, which might speak to the marketing team’s inability to judge the quality of the music they were handling here. “Cool”, easily the best thing on “Future Nostalgia”, rides a sort of bouncy warping of the riff from Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” as Dua Lipa gushes about how she just can’t control herself in front of her lover; it’s sweet, both lyrically and musically. “Love Again” (no relation to the Run The Jewels song) is perhaps the album’s most explicitly “disco” song with swelling strings and everything, and expresses a similar sentiment to “Cool”, though perhaps from a more reluctant angle: “God damn,” Dua Lipa sighs in the chorus, sounding simultaneously annoyed and amused, “you got me in love again”.

The songwriting on “Cool” and “Love Again” also happens to be some of the most basic on “Future Nostalgia”; the beat loops, albeit with some nice flourishes and rhythmic quirks, and Dua Lipa cycles through a few simple melodies, the catchiest always winding up in the chorus. “Love Again” is practically a blues song with its AAAB-repeat phrasing. I highlight the virtues of this simplicity because it throws much of the rest of the album into a stark contrast and exposes its greatest weakness: many of the other songs on “Future Nostalgia” feel fussed-over and patched together out of pieces that don’t always fit, as if the several writers*** involved in these songs weren’t in the same room when the track was finally put together. The album seems to be a case study in throwing everything at the wall and not bothering to consider whether it will stick. And yet it seems to have a small army of critics defending it, even going so far as to call it the pop (or at least Pop) “album of the year” – which has me wondering exactly what all the hype is about.

“1989” has something that a lot of other blockbuster Pop albums since its release do not: a personal touch. Taylor Swift worked hard prior to that album at building her brand as a confessional singer-songwriter, and even with the big-name productions and radio-primed hits, she maintains that image: one of her biggest “1989” hits, “Blank Space”, explicitly addresses her (supposed) romantic history and relationship to the media. Elsewhere, she does some fantasizing about classic movie archetypes and the impulse to drop everything and run away from it all, strongly reminiscent of her past work. It’s not as easy as it might sound to pull off this kind of thing, and I think Swift deserves credit not just for the excellent musicality of the songs she put her voice to, but the consistency of the strong personality she built across her career (with misstep “Reputation” sticking out as the glaring crack in the portrait).

So I won’t compare “Future Nostalgia” to “1989” beyond the initial poptimism narrative it bolsters. No, “Future Nostalgia” isn’t particularly personal – its mode seems to be more in line with what Robyn was already doing a few years before Swift, anticipating a poptimism that would effectively result in her deification over the course of the 2010s. Similar to Robyn in her “Body Talk” series, Dua Lipa seems to approach “Future Nostalgia” with a kind of assumed confidence as a dancefloor queen – more celebratory than confessional.

The celebration, however, proves to be pre-emptive; “Future Nostalgia” lacks two crucial things that “Body Talk” had in spades. The first is a general willingness to experiment. Robyn’s albums were packed with silly throwaways, but some of them stuck, and the best are featured on the collected version of the album, from the Snoop Dogg collaboration “You Should Know Better” to the cybernetic-pop-anticipating “Fembots” to the sassy “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do”. The title track of Dua Lipa’s album demonstrates a little bit of adventurousness, but it unfortunately flops, arriving in the form of awkward half-rapped verses that aren’t fun enough to leave a lasting impression. The only other potential outliers are the aforementioned “Cool” (which just happens to sound less disco than the rest but is otherwise a fairly standard, if well-written, pop song) and the album’s absolute nadirs, “Good In Bed” and the closing ballad “Boys Will Be Boys” (we’ll get to that in a bit). Otherwise, the album carries its aesthetic pretty consistently between tracks, giving little impression of any desire to experiment.

The second missing element is the consistency of the songs themselves. When Robyn’s songwriters toss her, say, a pseudo-dancehall song, they commit to it, making sure there are no weird melodic/harmonic/rhythmic hiccups and that the pieces fit together. And unfortunately, the majority of “Future Nostalgia”’s songs are full of exactly those kinds of hiccups and disjointed structural assemblages that leave me scratching my head. A lot of it’s subtle to the point that I can almost understand other critics missing these details, but I pick up on this stuff fast, and once I hear it, I can’t unhear it.

A lot of it’s in the phrasing; too often, Dua Lipa will go for a quick succession of staccato notes in a chorus when a simpler, slower phrase, or maybe just silence would have worked better (see “Break My Heart”, or the post-chorus of “Future Nostalgia”, in which she sings the 100% non-credible line “I know you ain’t used to a female alpha” – side note, has she even listened to top 40 radio in the last decade?). “Physical” is almost fun until you realize that the phrasing, melody and harmonic structure of the chorus would fit perfectly into any godawful Nickelback song.

Actually, “almost fun” is one of the phrases that I feel best describes so many songs on this album. Too many of the tracks set up something great only to follow through with some baffling songwriting choices. The second track in, “Don’t Start Now”, disrupts an excellently-phrased verse and infectious bassline with a chorus awkwardly parachuted in from what sounds like a 90s house song. The more in-character post-chorus that follows can’t help the song recover once you realize that it’s nowhere near as endearing as the original verse melody. That half-assed rapping makes a re-appearance in the bridge of “Levitating”, which is otherwise perfectly acceptable. If not for that moment, “Levitating” would come close to being the third pick of my favourite songs here, although you can’t fool me, Dua Lipa: I know that chorus is just a sped-up re-hash of the Jacksons’ “Blame It On The Boogie”. “Pretty Please” is also fine, funky and subtle, displaying some restraint on part of the songwriters and producers for once – though there’s also nothing about it that jumps out and grabs me. Besides the two standouts, is that the best I can hope for on this album, a song where nothing goes horribly wrong? At any rate, it’s better than the bland, shameless Lily Allen rip “Good In Bed”, which also features an utterly confounding “pop” sound effect in the chorus replacing one of the mind-numbingly repeated words.

There are some exceptions with regard to singers that can make use of this kind of disjointedness. Ariana Grande’s “Sweetener” walks a thin line, but it often pays off. See, Grande is a singer’s singer, at least by Pop standards; she’s known for crooning, for belting, for singing her lungs out. But she also wants to be a Pop icon to young people right now, and that means staying up-to-date in her production and songwriting. The trouble is, one of the most popular genres with the kids these days happens to be trap, which doesn’t exactly lend itself to Grande’s showboating vocals, favouring short, choppy phrasings and half-mumbled half-singing mixed almost low enough to blend with the music. So she compromises: some of the songs on “Sweetener”, such as the title track, have verses and choruses that feel as though they’re pulling in opposite directions, with Grande getting an opportunity to flaunt the long high notes in a percussionless section before dropping into those staccato bursts that suit the heavy 808s of trap. Despite it being more drum’n’bass/R&B throwback than trap, a similar dynamic is at play in Grande’s biggest hit from that album, “No Tears Left To Cry”. Unlike Dua Lipa’s lurching song structures, Grande’s feel intentional and thematic; the songs aren’t always bulletproof, but I feel like I learn something about her by hearing the tension of styles she’s struggling to stretch herself between. All I feel like I learn about Dua Lipa from the messiness of her songs is that either her, her songwriting team, or both are very confused about what goes into an effective pop song.

Of course, Ariana Grande is also operating in a slightly different mode than Dua Lipa in the first place: whereas Dua Lipa is engaging Pop radio in the recent tradition of satisfying formulaic hits like those of “1989”, Grande has one foot (or maybe even one and a half?) in the parallel tradition of R&B. While the two traditions frequently mix and crossover on the radio, they represent very different approaches to music whose distinction might provide some insight into why some of what Dua Lipa is trying to do isn’t working.

To put it simply, the basic unit of what we’ll call traditional pop is the song, and the performer of the song is meant to convey the essence of that song as a relatively unwavering whole – the performer is effectively the conduit for the song, which reaches the listener through the medium of the performer. The singer has some room to “interpret”, but once a given interpretation is found to be effective in its “hook” potential, it’s typically kept as part of the formalized song, written in stone, more or less.

R&B, true to its roots in “rhythm and blues” and, before that, jazz, essentially reverses this. Songs are present in R&B and not necessarily unimportant, but they typically become conduits for the performer’s own expressiveness. In this setting, the performer’s “interpretation” is actually the most important ingredient, as the performer’s style is effectively the product, the listener’s focus. This places greater emphasis on experimentation with phrasing, melody and other aspects of a song, as well as the potential differences between multiple recordings and performances of that song.

These two paradigms have consequential implications for singers of songs operating in a given mode. A traditional pop singer, for example, is going to be more likely to defer to the song as-written in their performance of it for a recording. An R&B singer, by contrast, is more likely to improvise, often delving into explorations of how to make their voice a more expressive instrument – in many cases, actually, it can be a matter of making their voice more like an instrument, full stop. The notes aren’t sung to express words so much as they are sung to express pure sound. Vocals can vary wildly in rhythm, giving off phrasings that might normally be considered unnatural, but, if placed artfully enough, can re-shape our expectations of pop music in the first place. These aren’t ironclad rules, by the way – the genres cross over frequently and the lines are often ambiguous. But I think defining the differences here can at least help us understand the split in the approaches of, say, Taylor Swift vs. Janet Jackson.

Arguably, the biggest R&B star in the world at the time of writing this remains Beyonce, and with fairly good reason: her powerful voice brings a lot to what are often already well-written songs. Take note here: something like “Formation” (which I have previously written about in my article on hip-hop’s inheritance of the post-punk legacy) or even “Drunk In Love” probably wouldn’t fly in the realm of Pop. Tracks like these are mainly embellished not necessarily with flashy songwriting or production flourishes (although they can have those too), but with Beyonce’s vocal interpretations of them, sometimes approaching something more like rapping than singing****. Note also: vocalizations in this context are given a certain freedom, a license to be weird within a certain range of acceptability. Need I remind you of “surfboard, surfboard, / Grainin’ on that wood”?

My point here is that R&B singers are playing by different rules than Dua Lipa. This isn’t just me arbitrarily deciding that what she’s doing isn’t “R&B enough” – you can here it in her approach. My criticism of her awkward phrasing is based largely on the fact that it doesn’t sound like she’s doing it to “experiment” with the songs she’s given. She repeats these phrases exactly the same way each time, as in the chorus of “Break My Heart”, just so you know it’s intentional. If she is, in fact, improvising, the songs aren’t very suited to it and her attempts are mostly unsuccessful; they become hooks that highlight their own weaknesses rather than bold forays into new rhythmic territory.

The most interesting part of “Future Nostalgia” is, by far, the backing music. Even when Dua Lipa’s singing and hooks fail, the production shines through (even here, though, there’s a caveat with regard to the last two tracks). Consider the sublimely gauzy vocal(?) loop at the beginning of “Levitating”; the sweeping disco violins of “Love Again”; the finger-popping funk bassline of “Don’t Start Now”; even the Justice-lite bass synths in the chorus of the otherwise by-the-numbers “Hallucinate”. “Physical”’s best aspect is, in fact, a small countermelody running in the background of the obnoxiously bland chorus.

This is where I can most understand what got music critics hyped up on this album in the first place: superficially, at least, it sounds pretty damn good. But I suspect the willingness to overlook its other obvious faults stems from a tendency among “poptimistic” critics to treat singers as interchangeable in a system they perceive to be dominated more by “sounds” than by music proper. In fact, the singer is a real make-or-break point in much of modern pop music (Pop or otherwise), likely due to the focal point they occupy; a great singer can occasionally salvage a terrible song, while a bad (or even just mediocre) singer can easily bring down the most well-constructed powerhouse hit.

A case against valuing “Future Nostalgia” solely on the basis of its production: the last Pop album I remember listening to where the production outshined the songwriting was Billie Eilish’s “WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP WHERE DO WE GO?” Eilish’s songs aren’t bad, and are frequently even good – but I was surprised at how conventional, or even “traditional”, most of them were. “Bad Guy” and “All The Good Girls Go To Hell” are basically jazz songs. “Xanny” and “Wish You Were Gay” (the most lyrically immature, it must be acknowledged) are pretty standard singer-songwriter fare. Others tend to play to a type: either sleepy ballads (“When The Party’s Over”) or, the most interesting songs on the album, the hip-hop influenced minimalist pieces (“Bury A Friend”, “You Should See Me In A Crown”).

But of course almost all of these songs are transformed in part by some rather astonishing production. No one who’s heard “Bad Guy”’s synth-squiggle chorus would mistake it for jazz, and the chorus of “Xanny” squirms in a shroud of distorted bass that pull back when you least expect it – hardly typical sonic territory for most singer-songwriters. Even the already-powerful “Bury A Friend” hits harder than it might have without the surging crunches it’s afforded in the production.

My point, however, is not that the production is what makes this album – it doesn’t, at least not entirely. The production is roughly half of what’s interesting here. The other half is comprised by two things: the fact that most of the songs are fairly strong already (though I think Eilish could lose a few of the ballads and come out better from it), and the fact that Billie Eilish also happens to have a very distinct vocal style. Actually, that last part alone is probably the selling point for most people: Eilish’s eerie half-whispered delivery plays more of a role in constructing her album’s overall dark mood than the production. It has its limitations, and I wonder what her future will bring in terms of her ability to move beyond the role she’s effectively typecast herself in, but it has something on Dua Lipa: it has personality.

So vocal style is important, but that’s not all: as I mentioned, Eilish’s songs are also consistently stronger than Dua Lipa’s, even when both are at their lyrical worst. Sure, “Wish You Were Gay”’s self-absorbed whining about unrequited love and sexuality sounds exactly like what you’d expect to come from a undeveloped teenage singer. But the lyrics are the only thing wrong with that song; take those away, and the melodies and instrumentation sound pretty damn great. The same cannot be said for the overblown dollar-store balladry of Dua Lipa’s execrable “Boys Will Be Boys”, which, despite projecting an ostensibly more “progressive” outlook than “Wish You Were Gay”, falls flat on its face anyway. And I’ll take an Eilish ballad over “Good In Bed”, which sports an obnoxiously repetitive chorus – static, plastic, it sounds like a strained smile looks, desperately trying to convince you that this is fun, right?

“But wait,” you might say, “pop music is supposed to be fun! And isn’t that what most of ‘Future Nostalgia’ aspires to? Shouldn’t we forgive Dua Lipa for some of her mediocre songwriting if her goal in making us dance is at least a defensible one?”

And the answer is no, because Pop is already full of music more fun than this. The way I see it, there are several ways in which one could make music more fun than “Future Nostalgia” (better songwriting being one I’ve already discussed to death here), but I’ll wager that a fairly reliable method is that frequently employed by Lady Gaga: do something musically outlandish and downright weird.

“Bad Romance” is the obvious lodestar here, but Gaga’s career is full of the absurd: just take pretty much any song off of “Born This Way”. Even the “normal” songs like “Yoü and I” (at least pre-“Joanne”) come across as weird by virtue of being placed next to something like “Electric Chapel”. And all this is done in the service not only of raising eyebrows, but in the name of fun. Even some of Gaga’s weaker efforts like “Venus” (or many others on “Artpop”) have a winking slyness to them that lets you laugh along with her. It rarely feels like she’s “serious” when she’s singing about love, sex, or dancing all night, but she gets you dancing anyway.

“Future Nostalgia”, by contrast, has few attempts at any kind of weirdness, and those it does have fall flat. I’ve already mentioned the cringe-y pseudo-rapping, but the spoken-sung pre-chorus of “Physical” is just as embarrassing, bringing the song’s momentum (its second-greatest virtue) to a screeching halt with an awkward phrase that feels totally unnecessary. And then there’s that sound effect on “Good In Bed”. These moments detract from the album because they feel half-assed, like Dua Lipa never bothered to commit to the bit she tacked on. And aside from this, “Future Nostalgia” remains pretty conventional Pop – she’s not exactly reinventing disco here, just emulating it for a new generation with mixed results. If only she could pull a “Heartbeat” or “Love Hangover” out of her bag, but the album is so radio-oriented that the songs rarely reach the 4-minute mark even when they find a groove worth hanging on to. It’s as if she mistook the law M.I.A. ironically lays down at the end of her biggest hit for sage advice: “Remember: no funny business!”

There is one more aspect of the poptimism that helped propel this album in the eyes of critics I have yet to discuss: the paradigm’s coinciding with the recent wave (is it the fourth? I’ve lost count) of popular feminism. This was significant for Taylor Swift at the moment of “1989” because it allowed for interpretations of songs such as “Blank Space” to reach beyond a simple commentary on her stardom and discomfort with media coverage, branching out into a more expansive reading of the song as representative of the ways in which women in general are demonized for their past relationships. Feminism, as a cultural framing device, was crucial in shaping listener perceptions not just of “Blank Space”, but of many other songs on the album. It also helped to launch a whole wave of emerging and returning Pop artists’ albums and singles that traded in similar (vaguely) politically-charged lyrics.***** In the years that followed, a veritable opening of the floodgates would happen with regard to public feminist consciousness-raising, culminating in specific incidents such as the #metoo movement.

For the record, I think this was largely good. I’m under no illusion that “1989” is in any way a politically radical album, but I think the return of pop feminism has generally had a net positive influence in getting pop artists of all kinds of re-think their music’s relationship to gender politics. That being said, there are two things I resent about its lasting impact. The first is the kind of forced extrapolation of songs that bring up gender in any way into “feminist” anthems when they’re largely about relations that have little to do with the matter. One case in point might be Dua Lipa’s pre-”Future Nostalgia” hit “New Rules”; inexplicably, I often see fans trying to make the song’s lyrics out to be some kind of political diatribe about the cruelty of men to women or something like that, when in fact it sounds more like a typical “bad relationship” song, the kind that have been on the charts for decades by now.

But the other thing I’ve come to dread from pop-feminist Pop is the inevitable half-assed “message songs” that seem designed to cash in on using feminism as a signifier that an otherwise apolitical artist is still hip and knows what’s up. Whether through “New Rules” fan encouragement or her own hubris, Dua Lipa has regrettably chosen to end “Future Nostalgia” with such a song: “Boys Will Be Boys” (no relation to the significantly better-written song of the same name by Stella Donnelly). I don’t really want to write a lot about this song because part of the problem with it is that it’s bad in a lot of boring ways, but I do think it’s significant that it was singled out by several other critics (even those who liked the album) as the album’s worst song by miles. I’m hoping this shows a change in perspective here, as critics get harsher about flops like this one, and hopefully the eventual end result from this pushback is that Pop stars will stop trying to convince us they’re “real feminists” with empty songs like “Boys Will Be Boys” that are tacked on to the end of their “bangers” album as a kind of placating afterthought.

So a number of critics have indeed placed too much stock in this album: contrary to the feeling you may have gotten from my relentless criticisms here, “Future Nostalgia” isn’t necessarily bad, but I wouldn’t call it “good” either. It sits in a mid-tier of Pop albums over-enthusiastically pushed out during this era of high poptimism. It’s not the next “1989”, or “Lemonade”, or “Body Talk”, or “WHEN WE ALL ETC.” It’s just a mediocre album with a few great songs that were somehow never released as singles.

Is the inflation of “Future Nostalgia”’s reputation a sign of poptimism’s imminent bust? Are we entering a period of critical groupthink and gradual decay? These questions are too big to answer here, or perhaps at all for now (likely we’ll know the answer for sure in another decade). But I want to end this on a positive note by singling out a singer I haven’t mentioned yet as perhaps the greatest Pop artist of the last 20 years: in all these comparisons, I never got around to bringing up Rihanna.

On one hand, much of the poptimist revolution in criticism has involved taking the studio albums of Pop artists as seriously as their counterparts in other genres. On the other, Pop has never really stopped being a singles genre, and few have demonstrated this better than Rihanna. This is not to deny that she’s released some totally listenable, or even great, albums in her own right: “Talk That Talk” and especially “ANTI” stand as excellent records that came along relatively late in her career. But, well, raise your hand if you’ve actually listened to, say, “Good Girl Gone Bad”. Now raise your hand if you know “Shut Up And Drive”, “Don’t Stop The Music”, “Disturbia”, and, of course, “Umbrella”. See what I mean?

Perhaps I could blame “1989” again in part for this shift in focus from Pop singles to Pop albums. It’s pretty remarkable, after all, that the album is as consistent as it is, and I think that might have caught a lot of critics who were expecting otherwise off-guard. I think another problem, however, resides in the dominant mindset among critics in the first place, the idea that albums are the more valuable art form, the standard by which greatness is measured. Even I find myself incapable of breaking free of that format of evaluation – I’m much less likely to seek out more of an artist’s stuff based on a few great singles of theirs compared to if I hear an entire album from them that I like.

This might be slightly unfair of us critics, but there are workarounds to help correct this bias. One of those workarounds is the compilation. If an artist can make an album’s worth of great songs, but they happen to be spread across a number of their otherwise-mediocre albums, they can still win favour by collecting all (or most) of those gems in the same place, a “greatest hits” collection being the most common******. This seems like a pretty reasonable way of enjoying singles-oriented artists for those of us who are still stuck on the old album format.

But compilations have also never been as popular to review among critics as studio albums (I don’t know, maybe many feel like it’s cheating to collect the best stuff in one place?) and, as stated, it seems like poptimism’s paradigm shift has only reified the bias towards albums by putting more weight on Pop artists’ studio albums than before. Further, as compilations have started to die out (since anyone in the streaming age can assemble their own “greatest hits” playlist that will have all their own personal favourites on it), recent Pop artists often aren’t even given the chance to be evaluated at their best in a compilation format. I wonder if this is also a contributing factor in the hype surrounding “Future Nostalgia”; though it would probably be better remembered for its singles which could be collected on a later “Best Of Dua Lipa”, the fact that such a collection is unlikely to materialize pushes critics towards trying to sell listeners (and themselves) on this being Dua Lipa’s “definitive statement” and reason to take her seriously as an artist simply because it’s the most consistent thing she’s released so far.

Regardless, Rihanna is a model artist in terms of being a singles-oriented Pop singer deserving of a great compilation. If someone were to put it together, I’m fairly certain it could rival Madonna’s “The Immaculate Collection”, the former (basically archetypal) gold standard for a Pop artist’s greatest hits. Imagine hearing “Umbrella”, “Work”, and “We Found Love” all in the same place, uninterrupted by the inevitable string of lesser artists’ hits you’d inevitably hear if that place was the radio or some poorly algorithmically-generated playlist. My concern is that with the death of the compilation and shift in the expectation for the Pop artist’s studio albums to be their defining moments, such an album will only ever exist in an unofficial capacity. Which is fine, I guess – if you hate pop canon. But I don’t, so I patiently await the return of a collective memory for singles that extends beyond the radio and the playlist.

*Interesting to see how these examples have aged.

**Don’t get me wrong, I like “1989”! But its potentially negative influence will be detailed further as I continue.

***This isn’t a criticism of songwriting teams in general – certainly great songs have come out of the modern collaborative approach to pop songwriting, and I’ll get to those soon.

****And of course there’s a whole other conversation to be had about the ways in which hip-hop and R&B, formerly more separate genres, have been in the process of merging for the last two decades as performers in each have realized how much their interpretive approaches have in common.

*****It should be noted that this trend started several years earlier in “underground” and “indie” scenes and only just made its way into the Pop mainstream around 2014, but that’s a discussion for another article.

******Actually, even if an artist has only one great song, multi-artist compilations can step in to help. But since I’m focusing mainly on the respective cults of personality of specific Pop artists here, I won’t get into those. I should also add that Pop is by no means the only genre in which this happens: there are definitely so-called “classic rock” artists who I wouldn’t bother listening to outside of a compilation of their best stuff (Queen, for example).

#Music #Music criticism #Pop music #Dua Lipa #Future Nostalgia #Rihanna #Billie Eilish #Beyonce #Taylor Swift #Robyn #Lady Gaga #Ariana Grande

5 notes · View notes

plaidstiel-wormstache · 4 years

Text

Our Vices - pt1

A/N: Spoilers for s15. This is a two parter, and I’m pretty proud of it as a whole! Warnings: SPOILERS for s15, mentions of supernatural violence, death, angst, relationship difficulties, domestic troubles, fluff Characters: Dean, Sam x Reader, Donna, Doug, mentions of Jessica Moore Word Count: 1902 Summary: Set after s15 e3 - Dean and YN worry about Sam and convince him a hunt is what he needs, but words are said, feelings are hurt and things aren’t right between the couple. Another hunt might just fix that. Might. Beta: @wi-deangirl77 answers for my sanity, me FINALLY posting this. Thank you for going through this too many times and encouraging me to do my best.

YN was already in the kitchen, bacon sizzling in the pan. “Morning,” Dean said as he entered, headed straight for the freshly brewed coffee. “Hey,” YN answered wearily. Dean paused as he reached for two mugs, looking over at her, the dark circles under her eyes. “How is he this morning?” He asked. “Same, tossed and turned, I had to get out.” Dean hummed, thinking, handing a mug of coffee to her as she offered the spatula to him. As they traded places, YN stayed close, resting against the sink. “He’s barely been outta that room. I don’t know what to do.” She confessed. “Yeah, it’s taking a toll.” Dean agreed. “It’s taking a toll on us all,” YN turned to face Dean, “And I get it, we all handle it differently, but-“ “He killed Rowena, YN, she was in his arms, looking into his eyes-” “I’m not arguing that-” “Different to what we’re used to’s all I’m saying.” “I get it. I do.” YN sighed and rested back against the sink, “I can’t fathom the mental rings you run around yourself on making that decision, but Dean... he’s not talking to me, not to you, no one. I’m worried about him.” “I’ll have a word.” “I’m scared-”

Sam woke with a start, looking over to the other side of the bed as he sat up, pulling both hands through his hair then down his face. The nightmare was so real, he’d killed YN so easily, and it made him sick. Sick at the thought he could get satisfaction from the power that had surged through him in his dream, sick that he didn’t feel anything when he’d killed YN... then killed Dean. Sam didn’t know if he wanted to see YN, be wrapped in her warm embrace, her easy love, soothed and comforted, or if he wanted to hide from her, like she’d see what he did, that he enjoyed it. He pushed himself off the bed and padded out to the kitchen, finding Dean and YN in there, voices low, standing close, heads together. YN was the first to look up, breaking apart from the older Winchester.

“Morning,” She offered. “You weren’t-” “Yeah, started breakfast, couldn’t really sleep,” YN said, cutting Sam off. “I slept great, thanks.” Dean interjected, already feeling the mood of the room shift. YN went for the coffee machine as Sam approached, filling her mug and handing it to him. “Thanks,” Sam mumbled, frowning as she left without a further word. “She okay?” He asked Dean, staring after her. “Are you?” Dean countered. Here we go again, Sam thought, he’d just rather have time to himself, try and sort through his thoughts. He left the bench for a seat at the kitchen table, sitting with his back to his brother. “I’m just saying-” Dean began over the sound of plates, and the scraping of a pan. “I know what you’re saying.” Sam interjected. Dean planted the plate of bacon down on the table and sat down opposite. “You barely leave your room anymore, man. You need to get out, clear your head.”

***

YN played interesting games, always had, but they infuriated Dean, even her turn for I-Spy annoyed him. She was too smart, too educated, and she flaunted it. “A fuckin’ indicator? How the shit was I ever gonna get that?” “Cause you use one, oh that’s right you d-” “Okay, come on.” Sam tried to cut in. Dean jabbed his finger into the centre panel, jamming the radio on, then flicking to the tape deck, turning the volume up on his latest find, an old cassette of Van Halen live in concert. “Dean!” YN whined, a smile on her face when Sam glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, can’t hear you!” Dean called out, too loud when Sam turned down the volume, “Come one, man!” “Can we just focus on the case?” Sam asked, making both Dean and YN sigh and sit back in their seats. “Of course we can, Sam, what’ve you found?” YN questioned, jabbing a finger into Dean’s shoulder when he wobbled his head. She knew he was pulling a face while mouthing an impression of Serious-Sam. “Well, there’s this discrepancy here,” He said, handing the iPad back to YN to look over.

***

They had checked in at a motel on the border of town, spent the day shaking down the local police, questioning witnesses, and chasing down dead ends when they all finally called it a night, returning to the motel after a late dinner at the only bar open. Sam had climbed into bed and fallen asleep almost immediately, while Dean and YN moved around the room getting ready for bed, sharing thoughts on the case, but soon both were dead to the world. YN stirred in the middle of the night, feeling something wasn’t right, she listened for a while, listened to the man she loved whimper and whisper. Then he woke, sitting up and curling over.

“Another nightmare?” YN asked, eyes barely open as she reached for Sam’s back, circling it with the palm of her hand. He turned toward her, shifting down the bed, dipping his head to her chest, curling into her, his arm on her stomach, hand over her heart, feeling the rhythm, the life beating through her. YN let the broad man tuck himself close, like a child snuggling up to its mother, the closer: the safer. Trailing patterns over his shoulders and brushing soft fingers through his hair, she felt his breath over her chest beginning to slow from the frantic panting he’d done in his sleep. “You called out for Jess in your sleep, again.” She whispered after a minute. “She was right there, I could touch her, reach her, but I couldn’t...” Sam choked on his words. “Sweetheart, the last thing she saw was you. You trying to save her.” YN cooed. “Trying and failing.” Sam sobbed. “No, baby, she saw you trying.” Sam’s breath caught as he sniffled. “Jess… the last thing she saw- she knew, was you were there. She knew you were trying to save her, and in that thought is a bit of peace.” YN pressed quietly, crooking her neck awkwardly to press her lips to his hair. Sam’s hand shifted from her chest to her rib cage and he pulled her tightly into him, holding her.

Dean had woken to the murmuring coming from the other bed, he knew Sam struggled; fifteen years and all the shit they’d gone through, it was a miracle they weren’t psychopaths or worse. But unlike Dean, Sam couldn’t find a way to justify their decisions, the deaths that surrounded them, Dean knew he was lying to himself when he explained it away at night, Sam’s brain just wasn’t wired like that.

“Tell me how you met Jess?” YN whispered into the night, her fingers still lazily stroking through Sam’s hair. “A fr-- we met at a party.” Sam quietly explained, the pain in his voice evident. “What was she studying?” YN prodded. “Educational psychology, she wanted to be a teacher and double as a counselor.” “She sounds like she had it figured out.” “She did, she was so… every decision she made was like, she knew what she wanted to do, she was topping the secondary teacher education class and... she just knew exactly what she was going to do, where she wanted to work, she had it all planned out.” “Where did she wanna work?”

Dean smiled to himself as he listened to the two, he was happy Sam had someone to talk to about all that. He wouldn’t have even known Sam was having nightmares if YN wasn’t around, he doubted Sam would even open up to him about Jess. But Dean also couldn’t help but wonder if YN knew Sam was going to propose to Jess, if she knew Sam had been ready to settle down if it hadn’t been for his big brother pulling him back in. What would YN think if she didn’t know and Sam told her?

“You were both so lucky to have each other, to share a love like that.” YN breathed, her fingers stilling in Sam’s hair. He frowned against her breast and tilted his head up, trying to see her face in the dark. YN’s eyes were open, her stare fixed on the ceiling. “You know I-” Sam began, but her eyes quickly found his and she interrupted. “What we have is so different, Sam,” Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb running back and forth over his temple, “No love is ever the same.” YN looked over his face, his nose and brow standing out in the street light filtering through the dusty, torn, woolen curtain. He blinked and then craned his neck, reaching for her lips, pressing a brief kiss to them when she raised her head. When she lay back, he stretched out and followed her, pressing his lips to hers once more, holding her in that moment for longer, hoping that his thanks was without judgement.

Dean could feel the tension in the air, thick and uncomfortable, and when he heard the hard breath only noses made when they were pressed against another’s face, he was plunged into a situation he never wanted to be in. At the next telltale noise of lips breaking apart, he did the only thing he could think of. He groaned loudly as he pulled the blankets up further, “If you two are gonna fuck, you’re gonna need to get another room.” He rolled onto his front and pulled his pillow over his head. He could hear the slight sound of one of them snorting a laugh and just like that the tension melted like ice under boiling water.

***

It was a tough hunt, not just physically either. When it became clear it was a couple, they managed to catch them, but they weren’t expecting one to be a human. They weren’t expecting him to try and explain it away, for her to promise she’d never hurt anyone again, for him to sacrifice himself to try and save her. It was tough. And it didn’t become apparent that they’d handle it in their own ways until they got back to the motel room.

“Well… that sucked but, hey, job well done!” YN congratulated as they dropped the bags back in the motel room. “How can you be happy at a time like this?” Sam accused. YN froze, the smile faltered on her face, “Cause if I’m not happy, then I’m wallowing in something dark, and that’s a deep well I can’t fall down.” “Well, it’s messed up. It wasn’t a job done well.” He pushed. “Sammy, leave her be.” Dean tried, “She meant well-” “Meant well? We just killed a couple of kids... for what? Cause she was forced into that life? He was trying to help her best he could?” Sam burst. The smile disappeared, her shoulders slumped, the weight of the world back to rest upon her. Her eyes began to brim, her gaze dropping with the first tear. “I’m just... I’ll...” she stammered as she picked up her bag and left the room. “Nice one, Sam.” Dean chastised, heading for the bathroom, slamming the door. The shower clunked to life, pipes squealing, the water hitting the curtain. “I just...” Sam sighed, he didn’t know what he wanted. But he ruined it. Ruined her.

Part 2

If you like this, you might like my other works - Master List

@gabby913 @ohmychuckitssamanddean @grace-for-sale @mogaruke @kristaparadowski @blacktithe7 @babypieandwhiskey @mrswhozeewhatsis @feelmyroarrrr @atc74 @notnaturalanahi @rockhoochie @whispersandwhiskerburn @waywardjoy @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @butiaintgonnaloveem @manawhaat @mandilion76 @notnaturalanahi @percywinchester27

If you’d like to be added to my tag list follow this link

#sam winchester #spnfanficpond #sam winchester x reader #reader insert #dean winchester #supernatural s15 #spoilers #donna and doug

53 notes · View notes

lalainajanes · 5 years

Note

Hi! idk if you're still taking prompts but can you do one where klaus and caroline are coworker's who are always getting into heated screaming matches during team meetings and everyone who works with them is just used to it, but the new girl is like wtf??? and then later finds out that they're actually married and don't hate each other?? thanks!! your writing gives me life

Obviously I could not resist fluff day! For Step Two of @klarolineshippersclub 12KCXmas event!

With Friends Like These

The office is deserted – its 7 PM on a Friday – so Caroline’sstartled by the sound she hears coming from the hall. It’s a staccato series oftaps. Heels, eating up the distance quickly, and she rolls her chair back,grabbing her phone from the corner of the desk just in case someone’s bleeding.

She’s about to go and see what’s happening, when Kat barrelsin. Her eyes are wide with what Caroline suspects is glee, her hair a wildwindblown mass of curls. Her jackets only half buttoned and she tosses asideher purse, rushing towards Caroline. “You will not believe what I just heard!”

Caroline lets herself be shaken, taking another confusedlook at Kat’s dishevelment. “Did you run from the bar? Thought you were goingto try to seduce the new guy.”

Katherine looks offended. “Try? Please. Mason’s a sure bet.He’ll keep until next week.”

“Wow,” Caroline drawls. “Something came up that’s kept youfrom guaranteed sex? Must be big.”

Katherine lets go of her, tossing her hair over her shoulderand letting out an irritated huff. “Yeah, yeah, mock me. We don’t all get to scheduleregular freaky married sex.”

It takes a fair amount of willpower not to tear her eyesaway and Caroline lifts her chin stubbornly. Katherine might know far too many details about her and Klaus’ sex life butthat was only because Caroline gets a little over share-y when tequila’sinvolved in a girl’s night out. Klaus is shameless enough not to care, evenwhen Kat’s comments get overly pointed. If anything, he leans into it, lets hishands linger and does his best to make Caroline blush. Caroline is working onbuilding up the same aplomb in the face of Kat’s suggestive smirks and taunts.

“You seem to do just fine in the freaky sex department,” shesnipes back.

Katherine grins, slow and very pleased with herself. “Ireally do.”

Caroline groans, walking over to the couch that lines onewall of her office. “I do not want to have this conversation with you.”

Her dry spell is hours away from ending and she’s really looking forward to it.

Klaus has been gone for ten days, dealing with inspectionsfor the new hotel the company is opening in London. Caroline’s team is busy puttingtogether room concepts so she hadn’t been able to justify taking the time awayto accompany him.

She likes phone sex as much as the next girl whose husbandhas a hot accent but it got old after a few days. She misses having a warm bodyto roll into at night; the way he wakes he scrapes his morning beard againsther shoulder when she grumbles about the alarm.

“Someone’s cranky!” Katherine sings. She circles Caroline’sdesk, helping herself to the bourbon that’s stashed in the lowest drawer. “Mynews might not help you.”

Oh joy.

Caroline slouches low, letting her legs flop ratherungracefully, “And yet, you rushed all the way back here to tell me about it?”

“It’s just too hilarious. I couldn’t not.”

Katherine’s sense of humor is a weird thing, an acquiredtaste, so Caroline braces herself. “Alright, hit me.”

“Uh uh. Let me set the scene.”

“And people say I’m dramatic.”

Kat ignores the complaint, lifting the bottle high. “There Iam, in the ladies room…”

“Taking off your panties so you could stuff them in Mason’spocket?”

“Please. Like you’ve never used that move.”

Caroline could honestly say she hadn’t (Klaus likes toremove her lingerie himself) but Katherine’s already continuing her tale. Sheperches on the edge of Caroline’s desk, wiggling in an effort to getcomfortable.

So it’s not going to be a short story. Caroline presses herlips together, holding in a sigh, glancing at the clock. She’s supposed to grabKlaus from the airport at eleven and she’d planned go home and change intosomething easier to remove beforehand. Hopefully Katherine can resist the urgeto embellish too extensively.

“I’m minding my own business, about to flush, when I hear afamiliar name.”

“Yours?”

“Nope, yours. Preceded and followed by some very colorfuldescriptors.” She pauses expectantly, eagerly watching for Caroline’s reaction.

Only to be disappointed when Caroline shrugs, emitting onlya dismissive, “Somehow I’ll survive.” The last time she’d really been overlyconcerned with other people liking her she’d owned pom poms.

Katherine, however, isn’t finished.

“Really? Even when I tell you that our little bathroomgossiper had very complimentary things to say about your hubs?”

Her hands curl into the couch’s cushions, a teeny flare ofjealousy flaring bright.

She’s an only child and she gets a little possessive, okay?Klaus is into it. He’s also no stranger to getting growly and shooting murdereyes and staking a claim and, since he’s got a bajillion siblings, he doesn’t evenhave the same justification for being bad at sharing.

Those incidents usually result in an immediate need forprivacy (or the reasonable facsimile found behind a locked office door or thebackseat of a car). The next day they’ll sleep in, there will be hickies on herthighs and scratches on his back, and they’ll eat dessert for breakfast.

Honestly, Caroline kind of loves that particular ritual,knows very well that Klaus does too.

“Not everyone thinks Klaus is awful,” Caroline points out.

“Because most people are dumb and lack my excellent taste.”

Caroline eyes the bottle, seriously considering chugging abit and just calling a cab when it’s time to collect Klaus. She really doesn’twant to be drunk for their reunion but, if Kat doesn’t hurry up and get to apoint, it might be her best option. “I love you so I’m going to ignore the factthat you kinda just called me dumb.”

Katherine scoffs, “You’re not dumb, just dickmatized.”

It’s probably a good thing she’s not drinking because shewould have choked. Caroline’s laugh sputters out, grows in volume, and she hasto cover her mouth when it becomes hard to control herself. Her eyes water alittle as she finally manages to stop giggling, “Yeah, I’m totally tellingKlaus that you said that. He’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Literally the only nice thing I’ll ever say about him isthat you’re far more bearable and less uptight than you used to be. I creditthe regular orgasms.”

She and Katherine had been hired at about the same time and,in the beginning, hadn’t gotten along overly well. Kat now headed The MikaelsonGroup’s marketing team, was a wizard at luring in celebs and influencers andmaking their hotels a coveted destination. Caroline had worked her way up torun a design team. It’s how she’d met Klaus (and they’d butted heads too in theearly days) coordinating with him and his architect minions.

“I, too, am a big fan,” Caroline admits. “Though, honestly,you should really give cuddling a try. Totally relaxing.”

“Ew, pass.”

It’s an argument they’ve had before.

“Anyway,” Katherine says, so loudly that Carolineinstinctively glances towards the door. “Back to my story. Greta Martin thinksyou should stop being a total bitch to Klaus in meetings. Oh, and she’s alsoplanning on banging him.”

Caroline sits up, now outraged. “I am not…”

Katherine cuts her off, “You have been a little snippy thisweek.”

Only because Klaus has been baiting her.

“That’s just how we are. He pokes, I prod. He’s annoyinglysmug, all ‘oh, aren’t I the cleverest?’ and I like to knock him down.”

“Verbal foreplay is your thing,” Katherine says, adding aknowing nod.

She throws her hands up, collapsing back again. “Exactly! Mymarriage is freaking great and if that…”

Again, she doesn’t get to work up to a proper rant. Superannoying.

“That’s the best part!” Katherine crows. “She has no ideayou and Klaus are married! Talk about dumb people.”

Well, that’s mollifying. Slightly. Caroline will just haveto make things clear. Plans begin to form. She discards the racier ones (unlessGreta proves to be unwilling to take a hint). She twists her wedding bandabsently, “How has she not noted the rings?”

“Forget the rings. How she hasn’t noted Klaus’ doofybesotted face whenever you walk into a room is the bigger issue. Maybe sheneeds glasses?”

Maybe Caroline will get her assistant to shoot Greta anemail detailing the company’s excellent insurance coverage on Monday.

She hears the bottle clink and she shakes off her mentallists, shooting Katherine a glare. “You know, it would have been easy for youto clear up her misconceptions in that bathroom.”

Kat’s brows rise and she shoots Caroline a look like she’ssaid something totally insane. “And deprive myself of prime workplace drama?Please. You know how bored I get on Wednesdays when I have to sit in those dumblegal meetings.”

Caroline’s displeasure must read on her face because Kattosses her a bright smile, leaning forward and offering the bottle. Her toneturns placating, “Oh, relax, Cupcake. It’s harmless. You’ll probably forget allabout this little snafu over the weekend.”

Caroline’s does have big plans.

“Maybe,” she allows grudgingly. She stands, straighteningher pencil skirt. “Speaking of, I should go home and make myself pretty.”

“You’re going to do that gross airport make out thing, aren’tyou?”

Caroline smiles, not trying to hide the slightly mockingedge to it. “Usually, yeah. But Elijah’s not a guy who tolerates a scene.”

She relishes the freezing of Katherine’s body, the wideningof her dark eyes. Her hand flexes, looking for the bottle that had recentlybeen clutched there.

Caroline withholds it, setting it down and out of reach.

She’s not entirely sure what had gone down at the Christmasparty last year (Katherine was way better at keeping secrets no matter how muchliquor was applied) but she knows Kat’s red lip had been rubbed off and Elijah’svest had been buttoned incorrectly when she and Klaus had met the odd couple atthe elevator bank.

Kat had twitched a little at the mention of Elijah’s nameever since.

She adopts her sweetest expression, “Maybe the legalmeetings will be more exciting when Elijah’s leading them in person, hmm?”

Katherine’s mouth opens. Closes. She wiggles her toes to gether heels back in place before hopping off the desk. “I need to…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, stalking out of the office.Caroline watches her go, both satisfied and bursting with curiosity. A speechlessKatherine Pierce? Caroline never thought she’d see the day.

She makes a mental note to tell Klaus, to wheedle until heagrees to pump Elijah for info. She didn’t often get bored at work, not whenshe could just pop into Klaus’ office and poke around in his projects. But hehad another trip on his calendar next month.

She won’t turn down a little in office entertainment whilehe’s gone.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #12KCXMAS #Klaroline Shippers Club #Anonymous

76 notes · View notes

skswriting · 5 years

Text

here kitty, kitty

Rating: T Pairing: Jimin/Jeongguk Words: 8719 Summary: “Hi sweetie,” he coos, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position so he doesn’t spook the cat off, “Wow, you’re so cute, where did you come from?” Jimin extends a hand, making small come-hither motions with his fingers as he tuts with his tongue, trying to coax the cat to come to him. The cat meows at him, scratchy and almost pitiful, before it slinks slowly towards him. “Aw that’s it, there we go, I’m not scary, am I?” AN: I stopped posting on tumblr as I was posting to ao3 my bad lol

day one)

Jimin is sad. Not in an I just want to curl up in my bed and never leave kind of sad, but more of a my day didn’t go as planned and also Jeongguk is ignoring me kind of sad. Said boy hadn’t been at school earlier that day, which was weird, not only because Jeongguk never missed school but also because Jeongguk would have told him and Taehyung if he wasn’t feeling well. But as it is, his phone is almost mockingly devoid of any texts from Jeongguk, except from the last one sent the night before: an innocent and adorable good night text that still has Jimin smiling softly.

Jimin sighs, dropping his phone back in his lap as he lets himself fall back against the grass, staring up at the sunlight flittering through oak leaves. He had been trying to study, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from wandering to the younger boy time and time again. It was frustrating. He wasn’t going to pass algebra at this rate.

A sound has Jimin twisting onto his side, eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what had made it and where it came from. Some of the shrub branches that separate his yard from his neighbor’s shake sporadically. Jimin figures it’s just the rabbit that likes to eat all of his neighbor’s lettuce. He goes to lay back down when a little head pokes out of the shrub and it is most definitely not a rabbit. It’s a cat; a fairly large one at that, with pretty red fur (Ginger, Jimin smiles, thinking about the cat he’s been obsessing over in Neko Atsume). Its ears are entirely black, however, the only discoloration on the beautiful cat.

“Hi sweetie,” he coos, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position so he doesn’t spook the cat off, “Wow, you’re so cute, where did you come from?”

Jimin extends a hand, making small come-hither motions with his fingers as he tuts with his tongue, trying to coax the cat to come to him. The cat meows at him, scratchy and almost pitiful, before it slinks slowly towards him.

“Aw that’s it, there we go, I’m not scary, am I?” he continues to coo, lowering his hand so the cat can tentatively sniff his fingers once it’s close enough, “Aw you’re such a pretty kitty.”

Jimin holds his breath as the cat sniffs at his fingers and then smiles once the cat nudges its head against his palm to make Jimin pet it.

“You’re so friendly, do you belong to someone? I don’t see a collar, are you a stray? Aw, but how can you be a stray when you’re so pretty?” Jimin giggles, scratching the cat under its chin.

To his surprise, the cat lets out a long purr, eyes shutting as it steps closer to Jimin to try and get Jimin to pet it more. Jimin feels like he’s radiating with happiness as the cat steps into his lap, patting at Jimin’s other hand like it wants Jimin to use both hands to pet it.

“Oh my God you’re so precious,” Jimin squeals as the cat curls into his lap, purring loudly and looking content as Jimin rubs its head and runs a hand down it’s back.

That’s how Jimin spends the majority of his afternoon, back cramping up from having to sit in one position for so long and fingers chilled from the crisp breeze. But his lap is warm, and the cat seems happy with all the attention Jimin is lavishing it with and it makes Jimin forget about Jeongguk, if for a moment.

Jimin comes back to himself when his mom slides the patio door open loudly to call out, “Honey, it’s dinner time!”

The little bubble they’ve created is popped and Jimin startles, which startles the cat who digs sharp claws into his thighs.

“Ouch,” Jimin jerks his leg back and the cat scrambles out his lap to stand a few feet away from him, “Damn that hurt.”

Jimin gets to his feet, knees popping as he stretches his legs out and the cat sits down, tail swishing lightly behind it.

“I have to go now,” Jimin tells the cat, like it can understand him, “Have a good night, find somewhere warm to sleep, okay?”

The cat meows at him and Jimin blinks, surprised at the response, before he smiles and reaches out slowly to give the cat one last pat. He’s still smiling as he steps up onto his patio, but turns around when he hears another meow, less scratchy but still pitiful. The cat is sitting at the base of the steps, staring widely up at Jimin, like it’s begging him not to leave.

Jimin’s heart strings tug and he feels bad, crouching down and reaching out towards the cat. It hurries towards him immediately, bumping its head against Jimin’s hand before weaving its way between his legs.

“Stop making me feel bad, I have to go inside now, it’s dinner time,” he tells the cat, who, of course, doesn’t listen to him and continues to make figure eights between his legs, “Kitty, stop, I’m going to fall, and I’ll squish you. Do you want to get squished?”

The cat meows and Jimin laughs, grabbing the cat softly to get it to stop moving so he can stand up easier.

“Jimin!” his mom calls, “Quit messing with that cat and come wash your hands! We’re not going to wait for you all night!”

Jimin laughs, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be right there!” before he turns back to the cat he still has in his hands, “I’m going now.”

The cat meows at him, reaching a paw out and snagging onto Jimin’s pant leg with one of his claws, almost like it doesn’t want him to go. But Jimin has to go, he could hear the irritation in his mom’s voice.

“Go home now, okay?” Jimin gives the cat’s head one last final pat before he gently extracts its claws from his pants and steps back. He makes a slight shooing motion with his hand, but the cat sits down on the steps instead and watches Jimin slide the door open before sliding it close.

As Jihyun exasperatedly pulls Jimin away from the door, Jimin can see the cat watching him intently, yellow eyes glinting in the faint patio light. He almost feels guilty.

It’s almost eleven and Jimin is sneaking down the stairs, masterfully dodging the squeaky step he’s learned about from years of raiding the fridge. Except tonight is not a raid the fridge night, it’s a I’m a soft person and I’m worried about this random cat night.

Jimin, smartly, doesn’t turn the patio light on as he slides the door open, using the dim light of his phone screen instead. He’s afraid that even the flashlight of his phone would be too much, and he takes shaky steps out into the cold, shining his phone around as he tries to catch some hint of ginger.

“Are you still out here?” he calls softly, standing in the middle of his patio as he slowly turns in circles, “Here kitty, kitty.”

He makes soft sounds, hoping to attract the cat if it’s still hanging around, a blanket thrown over his arm. When it becomes clear to Jimin that the cat still isn’t around he sighs, before bundling the blanket up on one of the patio chairs.

“In case he comes back and gets cold,” Jimin says to himself, like he’s trying to justify what he’s doing.

He feels a little silly, standing out in the chilly night in shorts, setting up a blanket bed for a cat that’s not even his. He’s always had a soft spot for animals, stray or otherwise, but there’s just something about the little ginger cat that had tugged on his heartstrings. Maybe it had been how desperate the cat had seemed for affection. Regardless, Jimin lingers on the patio for a few more moments, making soothing clicking sounds with his tongue in hopes of drawing out the cat. When his backyard remains still, he goes back up to his room, stealthily shutting the door behind him.

He’s going to plug his phone in to charge when he sees the notification light blinking blue. A text.

from: jeonggukkie ♡

ah i hope i didn’t worry you today hyung!

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i got sick this morning and couldn’t come to school :(

Jimin breathes out a sigh of relief, all irritation at the younger not having texted him flying out the window. Hopefully, one more day of rest and Jeongguk would be back to being his bright and annoying self. Jimin really missed him.

to: jeonggukkie ♡

aish, you kid i was worried for nothing

Jimin proceeds to send Jeongguk a flurry of angry emojis, which gets him a laughing and eye rolling emoji in return.

from: jeonggukkie ♡

always so dramatic hyung i bet your day was really boring without me huh

Jimin smiles as he flops onto his bed, bringing the screen closer to his face. The contact photo of Jeongguk smiles back down at him and it makes Jimin feel a little bit closer to him, a little bit better.

to: jeonggukkie ♡

you wish. i actually had a pleasant day without some brat stealing my lunch

to: jeonggukkie ♡

are you coming back tomorrow?

to: jeonggukkie ♡

not like i care, just gotta prepare myself for the bullying

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i bully you out of love hyung :(

from: jeonggukkie ♡

but im not sure yet, i guess we’ll find out in the morning

to: jeonggukkie ♡

better get some sleep then even though im sure you napped all day

from: jeonggukkie ♡

if i didn’t know any better id think you were telling me to go to bed because you dont like me :(

from: jeonggukkie ♡

good thing i know better

from: jeonggukkie ♡

good night hyung i hope i see you tomorrow

Jimin inhales sharply, rolling over to squash the squeal he lets out into his pillow.

to: jeonggukkie ♡

night brat. get better soon

Jeongguk replies with a heart emoji and Jimin is positive he smiles the entire night in his sleep.

day two)

Jeongguk doesn’t make it to school the next day and Jimin is sad, but less sad than he was the day before. He’s texted Jeongguk a few times throughout the day but had only received a good morning text. He supposes it’s better than the radio silence he received the day before.

Even though he’s preoccupied with thoughts of Jeongguk, he also can’t get the ginger cat out of his head. He’s worried something could have happened to it the night before. Though it didn’t have a collar or any kind of identifier, it didn’t look like a stray or outside cat and he’s afraid if something did happen, it wouldn’t know how to defend itself.

But he doesn’t have to worry for long, because when he gets home and passes by the patio doors he can distinctly see a ginger blob curled up in the blanket he had set out the night before.

Jimin is smiling widely when he slides the door open slowly, so as to not disturb the cat who is sleeping peacefully, curled up tight into a ball and nose tucked slightly into the blanket. Jimin’s heart squeezes as he crouches down near the chair and calls out to it softly.

“Hi kitty, kitty,” he croons and the cat rumbles in its sleep.

Jimin laughs and softly pats at the cat’s head. The cat makes a soft noise of surprise and uncurls. It seems to awaken more fully when it sees that its Jimin whose petting it.

“I’m so glad to see you’re alright,” Jimin smiles sweetly and the cat closes its eyes and begins to purr when Jimin scratches behind it’s ears, “I was worried about you last night, but I see you like this blanket.”

Jimin spends the better part of an hour just cuddling with the cat, having picked it up and sat in the chair five minutes after having stepped outside. The cat seems utterly content, its head laying on Jimin’s chest and kneading softly at Jimin with one paw, its tail thumping against the back of the chair rhythmically. Jimin takes a selfie with the cat at some point and sends it both to Jeongguk and Taehyung.

Taehyung of course spams him with heart eyes and question marks and Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Jimin tries not to let it get to him and shoves his phone back into his pocket. When he turns back to look at the cat, he can see that the cat is already lazily looking up at him.

“Sorry, did I disturb you?” Jimin coos and the cat blinks at him, “I sent a picture of us to my friends. Taehyung is in love with you, of course, but that’s to be expected. Taehyung loves everything furry with four legs. Jeongguk though…”

Jimin pauses. The cat makes a soft, almost chittering sound, like he’s encouraging Jimin to continue talking and even though Jimin feels ridiculous talking to a cat, he supposes talking about it will make him feel better.

“Jeongguk’s been sick the past two days,” Jimin murmurs and the cat blinks at him, “and he hasn’t really been talking to me. I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining but it’s just… Jeongguk doesn’t not talk to me, you know? Well, you don’t know, you’re a cat, but Jeongguk is supposed to be annoying me every waking moment and he’s not and… God, I sound so petty, don’t I? I just miss him, I think. Maybe if he doesn’t come to school tomorrow, I’ll go visit him. He’s probably really sick and I’m here complaining that he’s not texting me.”

Jimin lets out a laugh that sounds more like a huff, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair, staring up at the sky. The cat’s purring is nice and steady, its weight warm against Jimin’s chest and despite the Jeongguk situation, Jimin can’t help but smile.

“I see why people get therapy pets,” Jimin says, running a hand down the cat’s back and it stretches, letting out a yawn and laying its arm across Jimin, paw brushing against his neck.

It’s comfortable, cuddling with the cat, but Jimin knows he has to study for his history test in a few days or he’s going to fail it. With a heavy heart, Jimin shifts, cradling the cat in his arms as he stands up. The cat startles in his grip, eyes flying open as it watches him. He smiles as he sets the cat back in the blankets, fluffing it up a little around the cat, before petting it one last time.

“I have to go now, I’ll see you later.”

The cat gives a pitiful meow as Jimin steps away and Jimin feels awful, but his history grade isn’t the best and he needs to do well on this test. Jimin turns back to uselessly tell this to the cat, because how is the cat going to understand what he’s talking about, except the cat isn’t in the chair. Jimin’s eyebrows furrow and he turns back to the sliding door to see the cat sitting beside it, watching him intently.

“You can’t come inside!” Jimin says, scandalized, putting a hand over his heart for a dramatic effect, “My mom would skin me alive if I let a cat in!”

The cat meows again, batting at the door, eyes big and round. Jimin can feel his resolve crumbling, staring at that cute, fuzzy face. Really, what can an hour or two hurt? His parents will never know.

“Fine,” Jimin hisses and the cat perks up, “But only for a little bit! When my mom gets home you have to go back outside!”

The cat meows, seemingly in agreement, and Jimin shakes his head. He must be going insane.

Jimin is sitting on his bed, the cat curled up in his lap and sleeping soundly, his history book propped up on his knees and his notes spread beside him. They’ve been sitting like this for hours, despite a few heart pounding moments when Jimin’s mom had come home and he waited to see if she was going to check on him. He was relieved when she had merely knocked on his door and apologized for being late, telling him dinner would be ready shortly.

“Speaking of dinner, you must be hungry,” Jimin considers the cat in his lap, whose ears twitch in recognition of being spoken to but keeps its eyes shut, “After we eat I’ll see if I can find something for you, but then you have to go, okay?”

The cat lets out a deep sigh and Jimin rolls his eyes, “Brat.”

Jimin shuts his book and sets it to the side before he slides further down on his bed, so he’s resting comfortably on his back. The cat digs its claws into him to prevent itself from falling off Jimin’s stomach and Jimin winces. When he stops moving, the cat crawls further up his body, laying itself on his chest and nestling its head in the crook of his neck.

Jimin can feel the smile on his face and he lays a hand on the cat’s head. The purring starts up almost instantaneously and Jimin’s smile grows wider, as his own eyes shut in contentment.

His cat nap is interrupted by a knock on his door and Jihyun pushing it open slightly to call through the crack, “Hyung, it’s dinner time.”

“I’ll be right down,” Jimin tells him groggily, patting at the lump on his chest as his door clicks closed, “Okay, here’s the deal. Don’t be a nuisance while I’m gone. If my parents hear you, they’ll throw you out and then they’ll probably throw me out. Do you want both of us to be homeless?”

The cat doesn’t even acknowledge Jimin, just stands and stretches, claws digging into Jimin’s chest as it does so before it hops off to curl up beside Jimin’s pillow instead.

“Is that all you can do? Sleep?” Jimin scoffs, but he reaches out to scratch behind its ear all the same.

The resounding purr he gets in response makes Jimin smile and he practically skips down the stairs, sliding into the dining room on his socks.

“Hi mom,” he kisses her cheek and she blinks at him, eyes drooping a little in exhaustion, “Oh man, you look haggard, long day?”

“Don’t be a brat,” she responds, reaching out to pinch his cheek good naturedly and he laughs.

Jimin takes his seat near his dad and is opening his mouth to ask how his day went when his dad sneezes. And then sneezes again. And then again.

“What’s wrong?” his mom asks, setting her cup down with a worried look.

Jihyun fetches a tissue for their dad and his dad sniffles, “Feels like allergies. Were you playing with that damn cat again, Jimin?”

Jimin sinks down into his seat as he nods guiltily.

“Ugh,” his father groans, wiping at his nose as he clears his throat, “Go change your clothes and throw them in the laundry. Make sure you wash your hands too.”

His dad sneezes again as Jimin takes the stairs two at a time, opening the door slowly to see the cat curled up near his pillow, asleep. He frowns, slightly, feeling bad for his dad. He had forgotten how bad his dad’s allergies were. He’ll have to get rid of the cat soon and clean his room thoroughly so his dad won’t be able to tell.

Jimin helps his mom wash the dishes and watches his dad like a hawk. Even though his parents don’t really go into his room, he doesn’t want today to be the start.

The problem with the layout of their house is that the stairs are completely visible from the living room, where his parents spend a majority of their time. It’s basically impossible for Jimin to sneak the cat outside without them seeing, meaning he’ll have to wait until they’re in bed and asleep and risk it then.

Jimin is lying on his bed, on his stomach, face buried in the cat’s belly. The cat looks annoyed and has a paw pressed against Jimin’s shoulder, tail flicking slightly and hitting Jimin’s other shoulder, but otherwise doesn’t try to move away from Jimin’s affection.

Jimin cuddles with the cat until he hears his parent’s bedroom door shut. He knows his mom usually has to go to the bathroom, though, five minutes after lying down and so he waits for that.

It’s nice to just lay with the cat, soaking in the slightly forced affection. The cat’s eyes are closed but Jimin can still see the rigidity in its spine, the instinct to flee the moment Jimin goes too far. Jimin smiles into the cat’s stomach and shifts slowly, the cat’s eyes popping open to watch him as Jimin shifts onto his side so they’re facing each other.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Jimin explains, smiling, and the cat blinks at him, “I’m going to have to put you outside soon. I forgot my dad was allergic to cats.”

The cat lays its head down and Jimin hears his parent’s bedroom door creak open, then the light clicking on in the bathroom.

“I decided I’m going to visit Jeongguk tomorrow if he doesn’t come to school,” Jimin says, eyes drooping a little and when he widens them to stay awake, it looks like the cat has shifted closer, “Gotta make sure the brats okay and drinking plenty of water and I can bring him his homework.”

The toilet flushes and Jimin pushes himself off the bed, the cat watching him intently. Jimin taps the home button on his phone to see a good night text from Taehyung, but nothing from Jeongguk. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and turns around to see the cat stretching before it jumps off his bed and trots to the door.

“Ready to go? Are you already tired of me?” Jimin teases and the cat meows lightly in response.

He hears the bathroom door shut with a quick click and the quiet padding of his mother’s feet as she goes back to bed. Jimin waits for a few heart beats, listening to see if the house has truly settled, before he scoops the cat up into his arms.

“Be quiet,” he tells it, hunching in on himself, like that would disguise the bright red fur currently curled up in his arms.

They make it downstairs and outside without a hitch and Jimin smiles as he sets the cat lightly on the patio.

“Thank you for hanging out with me today,” Jimin coos, scratching the cat behind its ears and it purrs under his fingers, “I’ll- I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The cat meows at him, licks at Jimin’s hand, and then darts down the stairs and away from Jimin. Jimin blinks at the cat’s sudden departure and his hand stays suspended for just a few more seconds before he fully grasps the situation.

“Maybe it really was tired of me,” Jimin laughs, but the thought makes his chest hurt. Jimin has always got too attached too easily.

When Jimin finally lays down to go to bed, he still doesn’t have any texts from Jeongguk. Jimin sighs and buries his face in his pillow, realizing it smells strongly of cat, and groans as he succumbs to the fact that he’s going to have to wash all of his bedding tomorrow.

day three)

from: jeonggukkie ♡

ah, i slept so much today

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i know its late and youre probably (hopefully) asleep

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i just want to say that im tired of being sick and i miss you

from: jeonggukkie ♡

even if i don’t make it to school tomorrow im coming to your house

from: jeonggukkie ♡

maybe we can share germs and get sick and die together

from: jeonggukkie ♡

isn’t that romantic hyung?

from: jeonggukkie ♡

regardless of the circumstance, ill see you tomorrow hyung

Jimin blinks blearily at his phone, the screen dimmed as low as possible but still searing his eyes as he’s just woken up.

“This kid,” Jimin tuts, voice hoarse from sleep, “Ignores me all day just to blow my phone up at night.”

to: jeonggukkie ♡

keep ur gers to youself

to: jeonggukkie ♡

brat

from: jeonggukkie ♡

always so pleasant and grammatically correct hyung

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i bet you have drool on your cheek

Jimin subconsciously wipes at his face and growls when he realizes what he did.

from: jeonggukkie ♡

did you dream about me hyung? ;)

to: jeonggukkie ♡

you wish

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i do

from: jeonggukkie ♡

i don’t think i’ll make it to school today, but i’ll see you after okay?

Jimin can’t stop the little jump his heart gives and smiles dopily at his phone, letting it fall onto his chest. He’s really missed Jeongguk.

Taehyung keeps poking at Jimin’s cheek, “What’s had you so happy today?”

“Nothin’,” Jimin dodges, but knows Taehyung knows better, “I just got to spend some quality time with Ginger yesterday.”

“Ginger? Did you fall in love with an exotic dancer Jimin? You know that’s not her real name, right?”

Jimin rolls his eyes and slams his locker closed, jiggling the door handle to make sure it closed properly, “No, Tae, I did not fall in love with an exotic dancer. I decided to call the cat that’s been hanging out around my house Ginger, because of its fur.”

Taehyung practically lights up at the mention of the cat, “You have to let me and Guk come over sometime soon to play with it!”

“Of course, if Jeongguk ever gets over this damn cold,” Jimin rolls his eyes, adjusting the strap of his backpack to better settle the weight. Normally he doesn’t have a lot to bring home, but he swung by all of Jeongguk’s classes today and picked up the homework he had missed, so he wouldn’t fall behind.

There’s a quick flash in Taehyung’s eyes, almost like a trick of light, and Jimin stops for a second to look at him.

“What?” Taehyung asks but it’s gone, whatever it was, and Jimin shakes his head.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I gotta go though, I’ll text you,” Jimin grins, before he starts jogging towards the school entrance.

“Tell Jeongguk I said hi!” Taehyung calls knowingly after him and Jimin can’t hide the blush that graces his cheeks when he turns around to stick his tongue out at Taehyung.

Jimin putters around his house for the fifteen minutes he waits on Jeongguk, feeling a little upset. Ginger hadn’t been lounging on the back porch when he got home, and it had thrown him off, searching for red fur for a few minutes before giving up.

He’s straightened the magazines on the coffee table five times before there are three short knocks on the front door followed by two long ones and Jimin grins, knowing it’s Jeongguk. So, when he throws the door open and does in fact see the younger boy standing there, he can’t stop himself from throwing himself into his arms.

There’s a beat of silence, where Jimin realizes what he’s done and feels the embarrassment well up inside him like a geyser.

“Oh god I’m-”

Jeongguk doesn’t give him time to apologize, instead wraps his arms just as tightly around Jimin, “I missed you too, hyung.”

Jimin smiles, before he lets himself nuzzle into Jeongguk’s chest, taking the time to just really bask in Jeongguk’s presence; it had only been three days, but Jimin had really, really, really missed him.

Jimin pulls back first, though it’s obvious how reluctant either of them are to let go, “C’mon, get inside, don’t want your cold getting any worse.”

Jeongguk smiles, a bit guilty as he steps inside and toes off his shoes, “Smells like you. Familiar.”

“Don’t say things so boldly, brat,” Jimin smacks at Jeongguk’s bicep, trying to fight the blush he can feel rising on his cheeks, “Are you hungry? I think we have a little bit of japchae left. I also picked some of your homework up today. I can try and help you, if you-”

“Hyung,” Jeongguk cuts across him, reaching out to wrap sturdy fingers around Jimin’s wrist, eyes boring hotly into the back of Jimin’s head, “I appreciate all that, but can we just lie down for a while? I’m still kind of tired.”

“Of course,” Jimin smiles gently at Jeongguk, hoping his pounding heart isn’t as loud as he hears it in his ears, “Let me get a few drinks, go on ahead upstairs.”

Jeongguk nods, a small heart shaped smile pulling at his lips, before he takes the stairs slowly. Jimin knows Jeongguk isn’t feeling well still because he always takes the stairs two at a time.

By the time Jimin has grabbed two sprites and a small snack, Jeongguk has made himself comfortable in Jimin’s bed, curled up on the outside edge with the blankets pulled around him, leaving space for Jimin on the inside.

“Glad I wanted my bed to smell like you today,” Jimin quips and Jeongguk is quick to return with a, “You love it.”

Jeongguk turns his head to watch Jimin set the things in his arms down on the desk beside his bed, before he pats almost childishly at the spot he left for Jimin.

“You’re such a baby when you’re sick,” Jimin teases, as he crawls over Jeongguk to lay beside him, “Let me lay on my back, yeah?”

Jeongguk barely waits for Jimin to get comfortable, letting Jimin tuck the blankets under his feet just like he likes before wrapping a tight arm around Jimin’s waist and burrowing his face in the crook of Jimin’s neck.

“Missed you hyung,” Jeongguk mumbles, lips brushing against the column of Jimin’s throat, “Just a small nap, okay? Then I want to hear all about how you’ve been.”

Jimin smiles, letting the arm under Jeongguk curl around his neck so he can thread his fingers through Jeongguk’s hair. Jeongguk hums above Jimin and Jimin can practically feel the tension in Jeongguk’s body melt as they lay there, the little puffs of breath against his neck evening out until Jimin is sure Jeongguk is asleep.

Jimin shakes his head good naturedly, turning his head to press a quick kiss against Jeongguk’s forehead.

“A big, sleepy baby,” Jimin amends, before getting more comfortable himself and letting his eyes drift shut.

With the way the last few days have gone, Jeongguk up and disappearing and not responding to texts, Jimin half-expects Jeongguk not to be there when he wakes up.

The solid weight against him is reassuring and Jimin is smiling before he even opens his eyes, finding that instead of Jeongguk lying on Jimin, Jimin is now lying on Jeongguk. Jeongguk has one hand shoved up Jimin’s shirt, his palm flat against Jimin’s spine as his fingers press into the skin lightly, his other hand tucked behind his head and propping it up slightly.

“You drooled on me again,” Jeongguk croaks, voice still thick with sleep and eyes dark and clouded as he peers down at Jimin.

Jimin snaps his mouth shut and moves his head to see that there is in fact a drool puddle where he was laying. He groans and rubs at his cheek to rub the dry spit away, before rubbing at the wet spot. He doesn’t know why he expects that to help, because it doesn’t.

“Shit, sorry,” Jimin’s voice is just as gruff from their nap and he turns to see how dark it is outside. The sun is just setting, so they couldn’t have slept for more than an hour and a half.

“’S fine,” Jeongguk sniffs, the hand on Jimin’s back slipping up higher until his fingers are kneading at Jimin’s neck, Jimin’s shirt rising up his stomach, “I kind of anticipate it by now. You usually drool when you sleep.”

“I do not,” Jimin protests, letting his head flop back down on Jeongguk’s chest. His ear lands right on top of Jeongguk’s heart and the steady beating of it is almost enough to make up for the few days he spent missing Jeongguk.

“You kind of do, hyung. But it’s okay. It’s cute.”

Jimin snorts and they fall quiet, Jeongguk continuing to rub at the tension Jimin didn’t even realize he was carrying in his shoulders. Jeongguk’s fingers are deft and Jimin fully melts against Jeongguk, eyes slipping closed as Jeongguk’s fingers work wonders, and he’s powerless to stop little ah sounds from coming out of his mouth.

The way Jeongguk is rubbing at Jimin’s neck has Jimin’s head tilting back, eyelashes fluttering as Jeongguk works at his muscles until Jimin is practically putty in his arms. Jimin lets out curse and from how close they are, Jimin can feel the smile that flits across Jeongguk’s face and when Jimin opens his eyes, he realizes just how close they are.

The thing about being in love with your best friend is that sometimes you can’t help but think that moments are more than they actually are. With as close as the two of them are, all Jimin has to do is tilt his head forward just a smidge and they’d be kissing, the one thing Jimin has dreamed of doing with Jeongguk since Jeongguk turned fourteen.

And because Jimin thinks the moment is more than it actually is, he’s imagining the look in Jeongguk’s eyes; how soft of a brown they are in the setting sun, looking like they’re twinkling; how wet his lips are from licking them to keep them moist; the little dent of his scar on his cheek that Jimin likes to poke sometimes to make Jeongguk wrinkle his nose.

He just wants to kiss Jeongguk and it looks like Jeongguk wants to kiss him. Except Jimin knows he doesn’t.

“We should probably do homework soon,” Jimin mumbles and just like that the moment is over, Jeongguk groaning loudly and letting his head thump drop roughly onto the pillow as he dramatically throws his arm out and pushes Jimin away.

Jimin laughs with a hallow feeling in his chest and is the first to move, pushing the blankets off him as he slowly and creakily climbs over Jeongguk to stand on still asleep legs. Jeongguk crosses his arms and pouts up at Jimin, who cracks open one of the sodas and takes a swig.

“I’m sick, hyung, are you really gonna make me do homework?” Jeongguk asks, voice tilting in a teasing tone, and Jimin raises an eyebrow at him.

“If you don’t wanna fail you will,” Jimin says simply.

Jeongguk takes the opportunity to throw a five second tantrum, thrashing around on the bed and making pitiful noises, before he kicks the blankets down by his feet.

“Hey, don’t mess up my bed because you’re a brat,” Jimin chides and Jeongguk continues to pout, even as he pushes himself up into a cross legged position, “You don’t have too much to do. Mainly just revision so you don’t fall behind, but apparently you have a chemistry test next week?”

“Fuck,” Jeongguk curses lightly, as Jimin digs into his backpack to bring out everything to give to Jeongguk, as well as his own school work, “Did anyone happen to take notes for me? That would make it easier to catch up.”

“Um… I wasn’t able to catch any of your classmates to ask; I haven’t seen Yugyeom, because I think he’s still visiting his grandparents? And, I don’t know any of your other friends to ask, sorry…” Jimin frowns slightly, not having thought of asking any of Jeongguk’s classmates for anything to help.

“Hey,” Jeongguk catches Jimin’s wrist and Jimin startles, glancing down at the earnest looking boy, “It’s okay, you did a lot for me hyung, this is really helpful. Thank you.”

Jimin gives Jeongguk a waning smile and Jeongguk sighs, tugging Jimin down to sit beside him on the bed.

“You’ve taken chemistry already, right? You can help me review some things I’ve been struggling with, can’t you?” Jeongguk asks and Jimin can’t ever say no to Jeongguk, even though he himself struggled with chemistry when he took it.

“I can try, but I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Jimin tells him, “But I have a history test I have to study for too.”

Jeongguk nods and stretches to grab his drink, sitting next to Jimin’s on the bed side table. Jimin rolls his eyes when he sees that Jeongguk’s shirt is balled up halfway up his back, no doubt from the way he tosses and turns when he sleeps. He pulls the hem down for Jeongguk, smoothing his hand across his lower back to even it out.

“Untidy,” Jimin tuts and Jeongguk rolls his eyes when he straightens back out.

“Leave me alone,” Jeongguk whines, playing up his sick card, before settling back against the wall, “Quit bullying me and help me study.”

Jimin acquiesces, sliding up beside Jeongguk to look at his textbook better, “Only because you asked nicely.”

Jimin doesn’t understand what happened. One second, he’s testing Jeongguk on random elements on the periodic table and the next Jeongguk is sneezing. Jimin turns to ask if he’s okay when he sees… something… twitching on top of Jeongguk’s head, before Jeongguk throws himself off Jimin’s bed and out of Jimin’s room.

“Guk?” he calls, but doesn’t get a response, “Guk, are you okay?”

He follows after the younger boy, figuring he’s head to the bathroom in his sick state.

Jimin knocks on the door and calls out softly, “Guk, are you in there?”

Jimin blinks when what sounds like a quiet meow reaches his ears, and knocks again, “Jeongguk, answer me.”

“A min-meow. Give me… give me a minute,” Jeongguk calls out weakly, which does nothing to soothe Jimin’s nerves.

“I’ll be right here,” Jimin calls back, and sits down beside the door.

He keeps expecting to hear Jeongguk dry heave, or even throw up, but it’s quiet. That’s more worrying to Jimin than anything and he draws his knees up to his chest, waiting in silent terror as he waits for Jeongguk to emerge. He’s afraid the worst has happened, like Jeongguk having passed out in the bathroom, or Jeongguk bleeding from somewhere, or… or Jeongguk having been kidnapped by aliens or something. It’s absurd and Jimin realizes this, but he can’t help but be afraid.

“Oh, honey, is everything okay? Is Jeongguk in there?” Jimin’s mom ambles up the stairs, confused at seeing her son sitting by the bathroom.

Jimin nods, worrying at his thumb, “I think his illness flared up. He got really pale and I was afraid he was gonna pass out. I… I don’t think he has though and I don’t hear him throwing up, so maybe he just got light headed all of a sudden.”

She looks concerned, “Let me know when he gets out. I’ll make him something to settle his stomach.”

“Thanks mom.”

When Jimin’s butt begins to grow numb from the angle he’s sitting in, the door creaks open slowly and Jeongguk emerges as he turns he light off. His face is absurdly pale, all color drained from his cheeks, but he doesn’t seem to be bleeding and he hadn’t been kidnapped by aliens, so.

“Are you alright?” Jimin asks softly, rising to his feet and cupping Jeongguk’s face in his hands, tilting his head down to look at him, “What happened?”

Jeongguk’s hands are shaky as he grabs at Jimin’s elbows, “Can you call my mom and have her come pick me up? Please?”

“Of course, Gukkie,” Jimin says softly, starting to guide Jeongguk back to his room, “Here, lay down, okay? I’ll call her right now.”

Jeongguk nods pathetically, eyes closing the moment his head hits Jimin’s pillow. A weak groan leaves his mouth and Jimin feels panic surge in his chest as he calls Jeongguk’s mom.

She’s very understanding and appreciative on the phone, thanking Jimin for letting Jeongguk come over even though he’s still sick. She mentions that Jeongguk had been complaining the past few days about not having been able to see Jimin and he turns away from the bed so Jeongguk doesn’t see him blush, though Jeongguk hasn’t opened his eyes since he laid down.

“Your mom will be here soon, okay?” Jimin says softly, brushing Jeongguk’s bangs off his forehead, “Just try and relax. Do you want anything?”

“Will you lay down with me?” Jeongguk asks, and when he opens his eyes, he swears Jeongguk’s eyes have changed. They’re slits, like snake eyes, but then Jeongguk closes his eyes and Jimin realizes he must have imagined it.

“Of course, let me just tell my mom you’re doing okay.”

Jeongguk sniffles but doesn’t argue and Jimin quickly exits his room to trot down the stairs. His mom is in the kitchen, pouring tea into a cup, and smiles when she sees Jimin.

“Is Jeongguk out of the bathroom? Is he feeling better?”

Jimin shakes his head, “He looks just as bad. Is there enough tea in there for me to give him some?”

“Yes, here, let me get the sugar for him.”

Jimin smiles, not surprised that his mom knows how Jeongguk takes his tea. He pours some of the tea into another cup and thanks his mom when she sets the sugar container down on the counter near the cup.

After stirring in two spoons of sugar, Jimin tells his mom, “Jeongguk’s mom is on his way to pick him up.”

“Okay. I’ll wait for her. Go give Guk his tea.”

Jimin nods and sets off for the stairs, taking them carefully. Jeongguk is awake, surprisingly, when Jimin gets back in his room.

“I brought some tea for you. Do you want to sit up and try to drink some? See if it’ll settle your stomach or something?”

Jeongguk shakes his head and makes grabby hands at Jimin and Jimin rolls his eyes, making Jeongguk pout. But Jimin is weak for Jeongguk, so if Jeongguk wants to cuddle, Jimin’ll cuddle him.

Jimin carefully climbs over Jeongguk and settles beside him on his side. He slides one arm under Jeongguk’s neck as Jeongguk curls up on his side, face pressing into his chest and fisting a hand in Jimin’s t-shirt. Jimin makes a face at how sharp his nails feel and makes a mental note to tell Jeongguk to clip his nails later but stays quiet for the time being.

Jimin can feel Jeongguk’s little puffs of breath through the thin cotton of his shirt and it raises goosebumps along his arms. He lets out a heavy sigh as he threads his fingers through Jeongguk’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He convinces himself that the honest to god purr Jeongguk lets out was just a very convincing sigh and tries to chalk up all of Jeongguk’s weird behavior to his illness.

Jeongguk mumbles blearily into his shirt, mouth stretched down into a frown and a little bit of sweat beading along his forehead. Jimin kisses Jeongguk over his bangs, nuzzling against him slightly.

“Warm, hyung, feels nice,” Jeongguk mumbles, pressing himself into Jimin as far as he can.

“Good,” Jimin says softly, trying not to upset Jeongguk with any loud noises, “Relax just a little while longer, your mom is going to be here soon.”

“Don’t wanna go, miss you,” Jeongguk whines and Jimin grunts in an effort to say perched up over Jeongguk as Jeongguk tries to knock him down, “Don’t wanna leave.”

“You’re sick, your mom is gonna pick you up to take care of you make you feel better. It’s okay,” Jimin says placatingly, smiling when Jeongguk still whines, “Don’t be a big baby.”

“Stay here, have you take care of me. Like that better,” Jeongguk offers instead.

He’s practically wrapped his entire body around Jimin at this point and Jimin would really like it, if it wasn’t because Jeongguk was so sick.

“Hush now, your mom should be here soon.”

Jeongguk quiets down and Jimin resumes massaging his scalp. He doesn’t know how long they lay there, maybe ten, fifteen minutes, but he startles when the doorbell rings.

“That’s your mom,” Jimin whispers to Jeongguk and Jeongguk makes a sound into Jimin’s chest, “C’mon, let’s get you downstairs.”

Jeongguk is a lump, limbs heavy as Jimin helps him to his feet, slinging one of Jeongguk’s arms around his neck and wrapping one of his own around Jeongguk’s waist to help steady him. At the last second, he grabs Jeongguk’s backpack.

“Fucking… fifty pounds of muscle… stop working out so damn much…” Jimin grunts, completely flabbergasted that Jeongguk could even put that much muscle on, huffing and puffing as he lugs Jeongguk down the steps.

Jeongguk drags his feet, arm tight around Jimin’s neck as he struggles to stay upright. Jimin and Jeongguk’s moms are standing at the base of the stairs, Jeongguk’s mom’s arms open and ready to accept her son.

“Poor baby, I told you not to go out today. Just couldn’t stay away could you?”

Jeongguk folds in on his mom and she laughs, rubbing at his back as she turns to the door, “Thank you for letting him come over, and for taking care of him until I got here. He didn’t… say anything weird, did he? He’s a blabber when he’s sick.”

Jimin shakes his head, “No, he was actually pretty quiet. He didn’t throw up or anything, just got really pale and whiny. Do you want to swap me Jeongguk for the backpack?”

Jeongguk’s mom quickly passes him back, obviously thankful to not have to carry heavy-boned Jeongguk. Jeongguk groans into Jimin’s ear before pressing his nose just below the lobe, breath hot and heavy.

“Hyung,” he whines, holding tightly onto Jimin.

Jimin flushes but tries not to let either mom see, just starts walking Jeongguk down the steps and down the sidewalk. Jeongguk’s mom’s car is parked by the curb, still on and running. It doesn’t take long for Jimin to get Jeongguk to the car, or even in it, but getting Jeongguk to let go of him is another story.

“I don’t wanna leave you hyung. Left you for days. Missed you. Pet me.”

Jimin laughs at the nonsense coming out of Jeongguk’s mouth but pats his cheek regardless. Jeongguk nuzzles into his palm, seemingly content with the little bit of affection.

Jimin leans back and Jeongguk tries to follow, but Jimin pushes him into his seat and softly closes the door. Jeongguk’s mom is standing beside him when he takes a step back and he willingly accepts her hug.

“Thank you, deary,” she leans back and pats his cheek like he had just done to Jeongguk, “I’ll have him message you when he feels better. Thank you for being such a good… friend.”

She smiles at him and Jimin smiles back, albeit a little confusedly. Why did she say friend like that?

Jimin’s mom is frowning a little when he gets back in the house.

“I hope you don’t catch whatever Jeongguk caught. I saw you guys napping earlier, close proximity like that is a great way to catch whatever anyone else has. Go wash your hands. Wash your bed sheets while you’re at it. Let me know when he’s feeling better, I’ve missed him.”

“You and me both,” Jimin mutters as he goes back to his room, before groaning and realizing that this’ll be the second time in two days that he’s washed his bedding.

“Stupid cat. Stupid Jeongguk.”

day six)

Jimin doesn’t hear from Jeongguk for a few days, but Ginger does come back. It’s weird; Jeongguk disappears and Ginger appears and vice-versa. He would laugh if he wasn’t so worried about Jeongguk.

“I talked to his mom, apparently his fevers spiked but- hey, stop looking at me like that he’s fine.”

Ginger’s tail flicks, happily curled up in Jimin’s lap who, in turn, is curled up on a patio chair. Jimin had stopped letting Ginger up in his room because his dad’s allergies had been acting up, much to the cat’s chagrin. The first day Ginger had shown back up Ginger had sat the door and meowed for literally an hour, but Jimin had held steadfast. Ginger had been pissed, choosing to lay in a chair opposite Jimin, but Jimin had just laughed as the fickle cat ended up in his lap twenty minutes later.

“I’m getting worried though,” Jimin murmurs to the red lump, nuzzling the top of the cat’s head, “it’s been almost a week and he hasn’t been getting better. He should probably go to the hospital soon, shouldn’t he?”

Ginger sighs deeply and Jimin giggles, cuddling the cat closer to him, “At least I have you for now, don’t I?”

Ginger rests its head on Jimin’s chest in response.

day seven)

Jeongguk shows up to school, cheeks still a little peaked but his eyes shining. The absolute relief that floods Jimin’s system is ridiculous, but he doesn’t stop himself from hugging Jeongguk tightly.

“Hi, hyung,” Jeongguk says softly in Jimin’s ear and Jimin hums in response, arms tightening around Jeongguk, “Missed you.”

“Ah-hem,” a deep voice tuts and physically forces them apart, “Make way for Jeongguk’s first best friend.”

Jimin laughs as Taehyung bodies his way between them, hugging Jeongguk in Jimin’s place.

“First best friend, huh? Who brought me my homework when I was sick? I don’t think I was delusional enough to think it was you,” Jeongguk teases and Taehyung pulls back with an affronted look on his face.

“Excuse me, you know how easily I get sick, mister. I couldn’t afford to deprive everyone of my face just because you are selfish and went and got yourself “sick”,” Taehyung nags, but there’s something in the way he says sick that doesn’t sound right to Jimin.

Jeongguk laughing in Taehyung’s face distracts him though, and he smiles when they make eye contact. It feels good to have Jeongguk back, it feels right.

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late for class,” Jimin interrupts before the two of the can start bickering again.

day twenty two)

Jeongguk is lounging on Jimin’s bed, a book open on his lap but it’s obvious he’s not actually reading. He’s glancing at Jimin, whose watching his backyard intently.

“Hyung, stop worrying,” Jeongguk says again, for the hundredth time, “Ginger will turn up.”

Jimin frowns, turning away from his window, “I haven’t seen Ginger in two days, sue me for worrying.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look up at him, tapping a rapid beat against the edge of his book, “The cat will show up, don’t worry.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Jimin worries his bottom lip and Jeongguk finally looks up, frowning at Jimin’s frown, “I didn’t see a collar on him and he looked taken care of, but what if he actually is a stray? What if he gets hurt?"

“Hyung, come here,” Jeongguk drops his book uncaringly on the floor, in order to reach out to Jimin and wrap a hand around his wrist, “I’m serious come here.”

Jimin lets Jeongguk pull him towards him and down, wrapping secure arms around him. He tucks Jimin’s head under his chin, one hand laying reassuringly on Jimin’s back and the other rubbing at the tense knot on Jimin’s neck. Jimin sighs, letting himself go soft on Jeongguk.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Jeongguk apologizes and Jimin’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Sorry? For what?”

“Just… for getting sick and kind of ghosting you,” Jeongguk shrugs, but Jimin feels like that’s not what he’s actually apologizing for.

“It’s okay Gukkie,” Jimin says and he can feel Jeongguk smile into his hair, “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

Jeongguk sighs as he drops a kiss onto Jimin’s crown and Jimin wonders if Jeongguk truly is okay, “Me too, hyung. I’m sure you’ll see Ginger soon…”

Jimin is sitting quietly in class, minding his own business of not paying attention to the math teacher, when he hears it: a quiet whisper that seems to echo between his ears…

#bts #bts fanfiction #park jimin #park jimin fanfiction #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook fanfiction #jikook #jikook fanfiction #rating: t #skswriting

27 notes · View notes

malacodaus-blog · 5 years

Text

Old Blood

||@exmortum|| AKA Happy Birthday Cae

Prompt:

Sat opposite her, between them on the cherrywood surface of his desk lay a duralumin case on its side, the locks still tightly in place. It had been there since she had entered his office, innocent despite the disastrous contents safely nestled in the plush lining. Leather encased fingers laced together, the heels of palms resting on the polished surface just a twitch or two away. The rest of him appeared as ever; composed, posture straight, but for the tilt of the head. Across the sable tinted lenses of his sunglasses flashed the lights held in generations' old crystal. Behind the shades, his gaze was intent upon her.

‘ Tell me, Ms. Sherawat. . . what would you do for the sake of loyalty ? No, ’ rumble interrupted the query, the smooth expression of calm undisturbed by the undercurrent of danger in freezing waters. ‘ What would you do for the sake of your life ? ’

The metal brief case lodged like a barrier between Jessica and Wesker. An enigmatic little mystery box posed as the center piece of his desk. She could guess the contents but only he could reveal the answer, for certain it was why he called her here. A golden evening glow bathed the desk and office in warm light. It glinted from the windows and kissed Jessica’s throat, a final farewell of the day. Wesker’s office proved to be what she expected, simple but decadent. A minimalistic statement of class and taste. Not hollow or for show; Crystal glasses, art pieces running in the millions, books smelling of warmed leather, polished wood. Wesker appreciated true quality, not money spent for the sake of itself. His clothes were designer for comfort, and durability, to put forth the best appearance. Wesker expected that everything in his vicinity preform to standard. Jessica has stepped from chaotic streets into this den of organized papers, composed into stacks for efficiency. She’d find such skilled artistry nowhere else.

His focus burned holes into her, his gaze nipping like frost bite. In a torrent ocean, a riptide, Jessica was placid. Legs crossed at the knee, the pointed red toe of her heel drawing calm circles. Her posture remained open and inviting, hands on either arm rest of her chair, expression gentle and softened, unchallenging, patient. To his question she hummed, head cocking in thought. A single auburn coil of hair brushed along the collar of her pea coat. Jessica braced her chin against her white silk gloved hand and then smiled, slight and wiry.

A half-dozen handlers had asked this exact question before him. They didn’t use the same words of course, but the gist, the intention, the heart of it, was there. It wasn’t the question that mattered. The words were but a facade meant to draw her attention, so she could stutter over them and reveal all the more of her hand. No, the question was a thin veil for something far more sinister. Life or death, loyalty or betrayal, the binary dichotomy of her career. This was the relationship of agent and handler. No it was quite obvious: Wesker was threatening her. Her comfort was that if he truly wanted her dead, she would be, there was an angle here. He was looking for something out of her.

The answer he wanted, the correct answer, the ‘I’ll do anything, please don’t kill me’ and the ‘I’m loyal to the end.’ Were the wrong answers, not because they were lies but because they were not true. What a beautifully crafted catch-22 he presented her with. In the original story the logic was simple. Only the insane would fly bombing missions but an insane person cannot fly. If one applies for insanity to escape the missions however, they admit fear in the face of death, which is a hallmark of sanity. Ergo, to apply for insanity is to admit to being sane. Only the insane would work for Wesker but Wesker doesn’t want someone insane working for him. To try to leave, however, would be for Jessica to admit her sanity and yet to stay would be to admit her insanity. And if she was sane and if she was reasonable, the kinda person that would balk under pressure, then he’d have no more use for her because those were not the traits of a good agent. And then she’d be killed. So the obvious, easy answer —the lie— was the wrong answer. Because the sane feared death and the insane were not good agents. Jessica wondered why they had to play cat and mouse. She was content to work with him for now, it was Excella they both hated. The enemy of my enemy is not my enemy, after all.

Jessica inhaled, thin breath through her nose, eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Not a tick on the clock had passed in the ensuing silence of his query. Wesker sat across the desk as unmovable as a statue, man hewn from marble and spun gold. Jessica’s forefinger traced the line of her jaw, eyes running over his form. Broad shoulders, strong arms, hardened and tight jaw. Beneath those glasses were unseen eyes, the windows of the soul folded in shadow. At a glance he appeared as a man, but if she peeled away the layers— what would she find?

All her handlers were the same. Men of importance and power, charged to keep her in line, no matter what. One liked to belittle and threaten her and another tries to seduce her, cruel or sweet words, all twisted to the same end. Control. Wesker controlled everything. He controlled Excella, he controlled TRICELL, and its employees, and the labs that developed the viruses. Hell, he probably even set the AC in the office. Strong, functionally immortal, intelligent, Albert Wesker was the perfect human being. His files from UMBRELLA said as much. What power he did not have he hungered for. It was in his DNa, his upbringing, nature and nurture intertwined to produce a ruthless man that will stop at nothing. He would not trip over Jessica, no, if she fell in his path he’d crush her beneath his boot heel and she was not afraid to admit she’d be helpless to stop him. All her other handlers she watched crash and fall, hoist by their own hubris. They underestimated her, doubted her skill, when they thought they were the seducer, she seduced them— not many knew to watch her mouth and her hands.

Behind the glint of those sunglasses, molten gold in the light, Jessica saw no expression. Cold and unfeeling, his chuckle echoed in a hallow chest. If she took her fingers to his pulse would she hear a heartbeat? Or did the progenitor take that from him too. He knew of her four years in Umbrella, the last generation of agents produced from their programs— she supposed that made them somewhat related. Perhaps in an extended metaphor, she could consider herself an adopted younger sibling, or a niece. If he was the beloved golden boy then she was the black lamb, which marked two families she had estranged.

There were other kids in the program with her. Nine others to be exact, some as young as ten and barely reaching her hip. A couple were boys older than her. They all shared one thing in common: they escaped Raccoon City before the missile hit. UMBRELLA scooped them up like prize fish at a Carnival game. There were more than them initially but Jessica suspected they weren’t up to standard and thus were terminated. They all had ‘strong’ genes. They were healthy and attractive kids, intelligent. Jessica’s parents were wealthy and talented — and bait for blackmail— so the scientists cooed that she was an excellent candidate. No, they weren’t as good as the originals —the fabled Wesker project— but in a pinch they’d do. But she recalled their first two weeks together, huddled scared in a common room of a white washed facility. The young ones were terrified, the smallest cried for her mother every night. The first day soldiers shaved their heads, dunked them into ice baths to scrub them raw, and scientists poked and prodded them with needles and instruments. For a time it was them, together. Then they identified something special in Jessica, or Captain Rodriguez did, as he said, not many sixteen year olds walked out of Raccoon City. The others were shuffled off and they handed her over to the Captain. They told him to break her, and so he did.

It’d been almost a decade but she remembered him like it was yesterday. He was a gangly man in his early-fifties, all hard muscle and scar. A black curled beard hid his face and he always wore an olive green cap over his ice blue eyes. Captain Rodriguez served for twenty-five years as a US Army ranger. He spent ten of those as an instructor. In military training there were pesky things called rules meant to insure recruits weren’t injured or killed. These annoyed the Captain, they prevented him from testing his trainees and helping them reach their full potential, in his eyes. That was what he told Jessica, at least. He had a year to produce a combat ready agent prepared for military operations, covert espionage, and UMBRELLA’s dirty work. They wanted a loyal, tough agent to carry on the legacy of UMBRELLA and its philosophy. She was to be the final testimony; the best of the best. To that end they tested her vitals at every turn and mapped out her DNA. All while Captain Rodriguez forced her to her limits.

Those same scientists and executives told her that power was in the gene pool. Humanity was a potential untapped, evolution had stagnated in the digital age with the touchy-feely attempts of modern medicine that ensured that everyone could survive and reproduce. Only those with good genes should have the right to spawn they said. Power could unify the human race, perfect it. UMBRELLA sought to cull the herd, a few lives lost here and there, nothing compared to the greater future ahead. That was how they justified Raccoon city. A few lives lost, an accident but a reasonable price for the research and data. For the betterment of mankind, the city burned. Jessica’s potential was excellent, a little more time and they could perfect her too. It will be interesting to see how she responds in real combat.

“No”, Rodriguez would growl, head ducked so his eyes were hid beneath his hat brim. “Its not the genes that make a soldier, but the spirit.”

Those old fools, he’d say, trapped in their labs. They couldn’t see pass the numbers on their data sheets. Only later did Jessica wonder if the reason the scientists were so interested in her was because they had nothing better to do. UMBRELLA was dying and their funding was drying up, might as well harass some teenagers. Rodriguez never tried to convince her of the bullshit the executives fed her, probably why she never swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. The Captain told her two things: One, the mission comes first; Two, the enemy is the one trying to kill you.

“I am trained to put my feelings aside,” Jessica said, “And to complete the mission. Whatever it may be.”

The scientists of UMBRELLA had read Jessica’s genetic code and liked whatever they saw. They tried to use it to predict her future. If they had laid out a deck of tarot cards, they would have had more success. Jessica once dreamed of following her parent’s footsteps: she’d be an actress like her mom or an executive like dad. And if all those plans failed, she had Daddy’s money to fall back on. She believed in destiny, and perhaps that’s why she once thought Terragrigia and Raccoon City were inevitable, caught in the cogs of progress and evolution. That men like Albert Wesker exemplified the machine, unstoppable.

She could not see beyond those black shades, nor to the weathered hands under his gloves, or hear the heartbeat in his chest. Jessica did not know the full story of his birth and resurrection, only the hearsay of the rumor mill and what scraps she garnered from the enigmatic man. He was the ur example, everything the scientists wished she had been. The success story, the one that took his inheritance and ran. Quite the prodigal son, Albert Wesker. Then again, genetics and virus and all, he was still a man. It want the inhuman capacity of his muscle fibers or his super speed that impressed her, not even his intelligence, it was his spirit. Even if a scientist cloned him to the exact detail, they could not replicate him. Jessica cared not for his cause or his business, nor his desire for power. paths. For the first time in her life Jessica didn’t care who held her leash, only that he didn’t tug so hard. She’d come along. After all, now was a time for patience. If he needed to be stopped, someone with equal might would get in his way. It wasn’t the strong that survived --survival of the fittest did not mean survival of the strongest, but the one that could best suit its enviroment-- but those who adapted.

Their genes could not predict their fate. Jessica was certain, nonetheless that they’d be dealt the hand they deserved. She was calm but she was not complacent, she had her own path to walk. Her parents didn’t decide it, UMBRELLA didn’t decide it, Rodriguez didn’t decide it, and Wesker didn’t decide it. That path did not cross over Wesker’s. Because Jessica saw Raccoon City burn, watched the missile strike and felt the shockwave from miles away. Politics crushed buildings and shattered glass. It happened on Terragrigia too. Monsters ravaged the streets but the true demons sat in plush offices and debated the PR. She had come to terms with her mortality. Jessica once feared death, now she respected it. Her hands were blood stained and the damn spot would not wash out. She had no self-righteous vindication to hold her back, only the quiet apathy of a woman tired of all the games.

The only question is,” Jessica said, and here she leaned forward, arms bracing on her knees. The mask and the lies, the little petty quirks of an actress melted from her frame, she sat before him as raw as she’d ever been. Her eyes found the reflection in those sunglasses and looked beyond. Cold steel and burning gold, the slightest upturn of cocky smirk across painted red lips.

“What is it that you want me to do?”

#‘Jessica’ ❥ IC #‘TRICELL’ ❥ 2005-2009 #‘And a she-wolf; that with all hungerings’ ❥ Jessica #‘That old adversary’ ❥ Wesker #exmortum #*blows smoke from gun*#Consider this my thesis as to why eugenics is bullshit

1 note · View note

killingmebtob · 5 years

Text

Vindictive: Ruins and Dead Ends [Part Two]

Collaboration between Chi and Sara

Author: @killingmebtob // Sara

Title: Vindictive: Ruins and Dead Ends

Characters: BTOB and Reader B

Summary: There’s always a reason behind each and every action but how far can a reason justify ones actions?

Author’s Note: Part Two is here! Sorry it took a while but I hope that you’re all excited for it. Please do let us know how you think the story is going. Enjoy~!

Part One || Part Two

---

“What’s with the deep frown?” I asked as I set down the mug I was drinking from. Across the room, Minhyuk was sitting on the couch reading what probably was a text message on his phone. It was a Saturday evening and we’ve both agreed that I’d be staying over at his place for the whole weekend so that we could unwind. The expression on his face was on the opposite spectrum of unwinding. I plopped down on the couch beside him when he didn’t respond and rested my chin on his shoulder. “Hey,”

“Huh?” He mumbled before glancing at me. With a small smile, he sighed, shook his head, and kept his phone.

“You okay?”

Minhyuk nodded, “Yeah. It’s just work.”

We stared at each other for quite a while. Somehow, I had a feeling that it was more than just work. I couldn’t figure out what it was but he was often a little out of it. I’d find him chewing down on his lip while he’d be staring into the distance. There have been a couple of times when I had to say his name repeatedly before he snaps out of his trance. The dark circles under his eyes said a lot too. I knew that there have been nights when he couldn’t sleep well.

“Are you sure? You can talk to me about whatever it is, you know that, right?” I offered.

The corner of his mouth pulled up to one side in an attempt to smile. “I know. Don’t worry. I’m okay. It’s just the case…,”

“…and your mom,” I sighed as I reached out for and held his hand. “Has there been any news from the detective in-charge of finding her assailant?”

“No,” he huffed. “The longer time passes, the colder the trail gets,” Minhyuk lowly and darkly uttered.

It’s been over a month since his mom was admitted to the hospital. The detective speculated that his mom was most likely robbed while she was on her way home and after taking her belongings, the culprit assaulted her and left her for dead in one of the alleyways in their neighborhood. Luckily, she was found by a neighbor who immediately called for help.

It’s still clear to me how distraught he was that day. He was informed by the person who found his mom about the incident while he was on his way to work. Minhyuk had called me after that. It was the first time I heard an extreme amount of panic and worry in his voice. It broke my heart and the memory of that time still breaks my heart today.

I ended up calling sick that day just so I could be there with him at the hospital. There was a bit of relief when the doctor said that she was going to recover. Well, her body was going to recover. The sad news was no one knew when or if she was going to wake up. Everything was uncertain. It still is.

I know it kills him inside every day to see his mom in such a state while the culprit was probably out there somewhere doing who knows what. He had repeatedly expressed his intent to help in finding the person but the captain was firm about his decision to keep Minhyuk away from the case. The captain’s reasons were he has personal relations with the victim and he was loaded with the Reaper case.

A pout formed on my lips at the heavy atmosphere that dawned on us. So, I tried to change the topic.

“So… Is the FBI agent still getting on your nerves?”

Minhyuk scoffed, “Yeah, but it’s nothing. I just get annoyed when they keep on suggesting bizarre theories about the Reaper’s identity.”

“Oh. So, getting fed up with the feds?” I joked, trying to lighten his mood before sighing. Softly, I said as I squeezed his hand reassuringly, “I know there’s a lot of pressure around you right now, especially that the captain seems so adamant about the reaper case being a huge step in your career when you close it. And your mom’s condition is adding to that. But whatever it is that’s in your mind, whether it be work or just anything, I’m always here to lend you an ear,”

I could feel cold sweat building on my forehead as my throat was starting to run dry. My heart was thumping loudly in my ear as I stared at the scene in front of me.

Blood was pooling on the floor. The deep, dark red liquid felt like it was sucking me in and the only thing stopping me from falling into it was the body on top of it. The corpse was facing away from me but I knew that it had a slit on its throat, which was the reason for the pool of blood. I could also see familiar lacerations on the shoulders. They were similar to the ones I’ve seen and studied for quite a number of times.

Just as I was about to reach for the body, I froze at the feeling of the tip of a blade being pushed against my back. My heart hammered even more against my chest. I shut my eyes, scared for my life, while I did my best to stand still. I don’t know how long I kept my eyes closed but when I opened them, I was disoriented.

There was no blade pushing on my back. There was no pool of blood on the floor. Instead, I found myself on the bed staring at a digital clock, with the text 2:28 glaring back at me, and an arm loosely draped around my torso. I screwed my eyes shut as I took in the realization that it was just a dream. I tried to calm my heart by taking deep breaths but it wasn’t working.

Deciding that I couldn’t easily shake off the dream, I carefully peeled away from Minhyuk’s hold and replaced my spot with a pillow. He was in deep sleep, probably exhausted from his work and everything, and I didn’t want to wake him up. I made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

The dream kept on replaying in my head the whole time.

“I think I’ve been spending too much time studying the case,” I uttered before taking another gulp from the glass. Ever since Gia sent me the message regarding the body being identified as Damien Dee, I’ve spent quite a huge chunk of my time trying to learn more about him. It wasn’t that easy given my limited resources.

The word resources rang in my head as my eyes flickered to the laptop left on the coffee table. It was Minhyuk’s. He had left it there when we arrived at his house earlier.

‘Open it,’ the devil in my mind was tempting me. Everything I needed would be in there—private details about the case, investigation reports, police records, and just about anything else that I have no way of accessing without his help. Those files would probably make up everything that was lacking in my own study of the whole case.

I bit down on my lip, contemplating if I should open it. I have an external drive in my bag that I could mount into the laptop to copy the files while he was sleeping.

But I shook my head and tore my gaze away from the device. “Don’t be stupid. You need to do this on your own. Besides, going behind his back to investigate after you said that you’d stop is bad enough,” I whispered to myself while heading back to the bedroom.

It was difficult to fall asleep again because of the guilt that was starting to brew inside my chest once more. I started to wonder if helping him was worth all the guilt and the consequences. I kept on thinking of how disappointed he would be if he finds out that I’ve been going behind his back. Not just disappointed but maybe even betrayed.

I couldn’t help but think back to a couple of days ago.

“Where are you going?”

I turned to my left to see Peniel looking up at me before his eyes darted to my bag then back to me again. I was hoping that he wouldn’t ask because I had no proper excuse.

“Uh,” I uttered. “I just have to meet with someone… for… an article,” I lied and I knew I did a terrible job at it. The amused smile that tugged on his lips annoyed me.

“Then shouldn’t I be coming with you?” He asked a bit smugly. “I mean, I am your partner,”

‘Temporary partner,’ I thought to myself as I forced a smile. “It’s fine. You can just—”

“Okay,” he suddenly beamed. “I’m coming with. I don’t think the chief would also appreciate it if you left without me. He’d also probably ask me and if I tell him your excuse, he’d wonder and then question you when you get back,”

I pursed my lips in annoyance. It’s one of the things I’ve learned about Peniel over the past few days. He’s insistent. It is a good characteristic but in some cases, it’s not.

“Okay, fine. Just…,” I heavily sighed and shook my head at his triumphant smile.

Getting a cab was a bit difficult and took some time. Well, compared to trying to ignore my partner’s questions, hailing a cab was way easier. After I had given the address to the driver, Peniel started bombarding me with questions again.

“So, where are we going?”

“Just some house,” I mumbled.

“What house?” He pressed even more, causing me to shoot him an annoyed glance. “I mean… I should know, right?”

“Just… A house. I need to talk to the caretaker,”

“Is this related to the folder that I saw on your desk the other time?” He asked and I stiffened at the mention of the folder. I was about to deny it but then he nodded. “Okay, okay. I see,”

The rest of the ride was silent. I was thankful that he stopped asking questions because it gave me some time to think. I know I shouldn’t have brought him with me but he did have a point. I’d be in deeper trouble if the chief questions me.

“This is it,” I sighed as we stepped out of the cab. We stared at the tall gates that separated us from a pristine white bungalow. The place screamed rich and wealthy.

“Wow,” he mumbled. “I know that there are rich people here but…”

“Yeah. Welcome to the upper side of Sunshine City,” I chuckled before ringing the buzzer.

I was swaying on the balls of my feet as we waited. The longer we stood there, the more nervous I became. There were so many what if’s in my head. What if the caretaker doesn’t believe us? What if the police are planning to search this place too? What if I run into Minhyuk here?

I snapped out of it when Peniel nudged me. I turned to him just to see that he was pointing to an approaching lady who had her hair pulled up into a bun. The person was wearing simple clothes and she even has a duster in her hand. She looked like she was around her late 50’s.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” She kindly spoke.

“Uh, yeah,” I nodded as I licked my lips. “I’m a consultant for the police department and he’s my associate. We just have a few questions regarding Mr. Damien Dee’s situation,”

“Oh,” her eyes widened before she nodded. She made quick work of the gate. “A detective and his team came here the other day. A handsome man, that detective,” she shared as she let us through.

I did my best not to sigh in relief that she let us in. Not just that, there was a low chance of us running into Minhyuk here. Peniel and I trailed behind her as she led us to the house.

“That was easy,” he whispered. “Given that you just brought me to the house of a homicide victim,”

I could hear the surprise that he was trying to hide in his voice.

“We just got lucky that the detective came before us,” I mumbled, feeling terrible.

We quickly settled ourselves on one of the couches in the living room. The caretaker offered to prepare drinks for us but we refused. I did my best not to let my eyes wander the interior of the house but Peniel was doing the exact thing that I was trying not to do.

“Wow,” he even mumbled.

I slightly shook my head at him before focusing on the caretaker. “I’m sorry that we bothered you at this time. You must’ve been working,”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. You said you had some questions?”

“Yes. Are you familiar with the Reaper case?” I questioned and she nodded. “Before his body resurfaced, did Mr. Dee mention anything about going to any social event?”

“No. He never says anything about his daily activities,”

“You didn’t find it strange that he went missing for a long time?”

“Mr. Dee was the kind of man who would rarely drop by his home. I didn’t think much of it because it wasn’t the first time that he disappeared for days. Before, he would go on long trips without letting me know so I thought that it was just another one of those instances,”

“I see,” I sighed. “Usually, the victims of the case are those who were tried at court but Mr. Dee didn’t have any case which required him to undergo trial recently. I’m thinking that it could have been a personal vendetta of the Reaper against him. Do you know if he got into any argument or fight recently?”

With a frown on her face, she shook her head, “Mr. Dee lives an extremely private life. He doesn’t share anything personal about himself.”

“Do you know anyone else who we can ask about him? Any family?”

The caretaker shook her head once again. “I’m afraid there is none. He never spoke of his family nor did he display any photo of them. But… there might be someone you can talk to. I can’t remember his name but he used to work for Mr. Dee as his secretary. If you can find him, then he might have more answers to your questions,”

“Very well. Do you mind if we search around the house? His office, perhaps?”

I was chewing on the inside of my cheeks as I sat in a coffee shop situated on the ground floor in one of the many buildings in the city. I’ve been here since I got out of work at 5 pm and I’ve seen so many people walking past the turnstiles and out of the building. However, none of them was the person I’ve been looking for.

Back when Peniel and I were in Damien Dee’s house, we found a photo of a group of people hiding in one of the drawers of his desk. It was the only thing that we found useful because everything else, like his laptop, was with the police. The photo was of a group of 10 to 15 men and that photo was enough for me because the caretaker was able to point out who used to be Damien’s secretary.

With a face, finding a name was as easy as 1, 2, 3. Peniel was surprised that I managed to find the person’s name by the time we were back in the city. His words rang in my head,

“Are you sure you’re a writer and not some kind of undercover detective?”

I remember chuckling and shaking my head before indulging his curiosity. I explained that I used to write news and reports about crimes in the city. That was where I started with my current company. With that line of writing, I had to learn how to get into crime scenes and how to work my way into finding people based on faces and descriptions. But it wasn’t just that. Ever since I was young, I’ve always had an interest in crime scenes and police work. Most of my interest was thanks to my dad who worked as a chief police officer.

My mom was against my interest. Well, she used to be fine with it. I could remember her smile every time I would say that I wanted to be like my dad. But things happened.

Being part of the police force also meant being on the frontline of danger. It meant making enemies in every corner of the city.

I couldn’t help but bite down on my lip when I recalled that day. I was on my way home from school and from miles away, you could hear the blaring sirens of police cars. I didn’t have a choice but to walk by the commotion because it was on my usual route home. Seeing that the police were present, I was hoping that I could get a glimpse of my dad at work. The way he was so passionate about his job made me look up to him greatly.

As I was walking by the police tapes, I noticed how terrible the officers looked. Some were shaking their heads while others looked lost. I did my best to search for my dad through the crowd but I wish I didn’t.

He was seated on the ground, his back resting limply against a car. His eyes were opened but they were devoid of anything. Three bullets were lodged into his chest; his white polo stained with his own blood. It was a sight that I thought only happened in movies. It never seemed real until it happened to me.

They said it was a thief that did it out of panic but a panicked thief wouldn’t shoot a cop thrice on the chest, especially in a public place. I knew that it was something else but no one really ever found who did it. The case was left to turn cold over the years.

My life quickly changed after that. My mom started packing up, saying that we needed a new life somewhere far from our hometown. That was what led us here to Sunshine City. The moment we stepped foot into the new city, she immediately forbade me from taking up anything that would gear me towards a similar career path as my dad’s. The desperation in her eyes as she repeatedly convinced me was still clear in my head.

Despite the unfortunate event that happened and her constant pleading, my interest never died. In fact, it burned even greater but it wasn’t enough to push me to not follow what my mom had wanted. So, I settled for second best: a writer who focused on criminal cases—specifically homicidal ones.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I checked my watch. It was now a couple of minutes after 7 in the evening. It’s been a long time since I talked to anyone about what led me to my job. Part of me still regrets following what my mom wanted, especially now. If I did what I wanted back then, then maybe it’d be easier for me to conduct an investigation about the reaper because I have the resources I needed. It was no use crying over spilt milk now. I just had to make do with what I have.

At around 7:30, the person I was waiting for finally walked past the turnstiles. I quickly grabbed my things and rushed out of the shop. Even if I was a bit far from the turnstiles, I knew that it was him based on the photo.

“Hey!” I called out as I did my best to catch up to him.

He turned, eyes wide with surprise. His head turned from side to side to check if I was referring to him. The man even pointed to himself. When I nodded, a question mark was clearly seen on his expression.

“Uh,” he mumbled when I stopped in front of him. I noticed that his eyebrows furrowed. “Have we met somewhere?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I shook my head, wondering why he said such a thing.

“Ah. You just seem familiar,” he mumbled. “Uh… Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Are you Seo Eunkwang?” I asked and when he nodded, I started explaining to him the same things that I said to Damien Dee’s caretaker. I was hoping that he’d let me ask him questions but the moment he heard the name Damien Dee, he stiffened and averted his gaze.

“I…I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m sorry but I can’t help you,”

“Please,” I pleaded but he was stubborn too.

Eunkwang kept on shaking his head while walking away. “I’m sorry but,” he once again shook his head. “I’m sorry,”

With that, he left me standing in the empty lobby of the building’s ground floor. I ran my hand through my hair out of frustration. Based on what had just happened, it would probably take me a while to get Eunkwang to talk to me about Damien. The way he suddenly started pushing me away at the mention of his name made me wonder about what kind of employee-employer relationship they had back then.

Over the next few days, I kept on trying to get him to trust me enough to talk to me. I did my best to chat him up, even walking alongside him when he leaves the building. By Friday, I was exhausted but I didn’t stop. I needed answers and details and he was the only one who might be able to give those to me at the moment.

“I’m sorry but I really can’t help you,” he shook his head, obviously tired of me following him around and asking him to talk to me.

“You can,” I pleaded. “And honestly, you’re the only person who can help me at the moment,”

Eunkwang earnestly shook his head and started walking away again but I rushed ahead of him and blocked his path.

“Look. I’m not with the police department. I’m not a consultant. Okay? I lied a few days ago. I’m actually a news writer but what I’m doing has nothing to do with my job. I…,” I sighed as I chewed on my lip. I felt terrible admitting to him that I lied.

“I could call the cops on you for that,” he stated but there was no threat in his voice. It was just like he was stating a fact.

“I know. But can you just at least hear me out? I’m not doing this for fun. I’m as serious as the police and the FBI when it comes to this case,”

Eunkwang thought about it for a moment before he nodded.

I huffed, thinking of how I could properly explain myself. “This Reaper case has been going on for a long time. I’ve been doing my own investigation about it about two or three years after the case was opened. The detective in-charge is my boyfriend. The only reason why I’m doing this is him,” I admitted. “I know that I may be getting in the way. I know that I may also be putting myself in danger. But I want to help him. I want to help him get this case closed. I can see how tired he is and it worries me greatly. If I can find something that he can’t, an angle or a hidden clue, then that may be a big help for him and his team.

“There’s just something about this case with Damien Dee that makes me feel like I can help him—that I can find something that he won’t. Can you please help me?” I wanted the ground to eat me up when I realized how desperate I sounded.

The man before me heavily sighed. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions but you have to promise me that you won’t say that those answers came from me. I’d much rather not involve myself in this case,”

#btob #btob imagines #btob scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #eunkwang #minhyuk #changsub #hyunsik #peniel #ilhoon #sungjae #vindictive #vindictive: ruins and dead ends

6 notes · View notes

feelingsdusk-writes · 6 years

Text

The time to let go

(For the Peter Hale square.)

The damn creature is laughing.

Well, Peter thinks he (she? them? it?) is laughing. For one, the dark-skinned being’s facial features are nothing like a human’s, so he’s assuming that the horrifying widening of the mouth that’s showing too many and too sharp teeth is actually a smile. For two, the sound that’s coming from it, is at the same time shrill and deep and everything in between, as if more than two voices are speaking at the same time, the same exact words, in unison. Peter doesn’t like what that implies.

(Boy, did Disney get it wrong, by the way.)

And Scott is trying to talk to it.

Peter doesn’t regret many things in his life, but in the cases he does feel regret, the sentiment is strong, deeply and excruciatingly so. The clumsy way he handled the Paige matter, dismissing his own concerns and suspicions about Derek’s fishy behavior back then and the way he let Talia step over him even though she was the one that gave him the position of enforcer, are the most recent fine examples of that. Biting Scott McCall is rapidly climbing up to the very top of those.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Scott wails, expression earnest.

Also, right now, he’s regretting coming back to life altogether.

Why? Why? Why did he choose to come back? Ah, yes, Gerard. And his damn self-preservation instincts, because Peter has never known when to let go. But why didn’t he leave? Because being contrary and seeing their frustrated faces isn’t making up for the inconvenience anymore. He should have left to greener pastures a long time ago… especially since he’s caught some whispers of sending him to Eichen House as of late.

The creature lifts its hand to mockingly pet the little boy’s fox ears and Peter instantly becomes tense like a coiled spring, ready to jump in. There are warning shouts all around and Peter wants to scoff, because if warnings worked on that thing they wouldn’t be in this situation.

“You can relax,” it says, making a shiver go up Peter’s whole back, and, well, excuse him, but not happening. “I’m not going to hurt him.” Again, excuse him if Peter doesn’t trust… How can he be so stupid? Why is that stupid, stupid, stupid boy trusting what it says? Even his less than brilliant nephew hasn’t relaxed! The sheriff and the Argents (both of them, father and still healing daughter) are still pointing their guns at it! Peter doesn’t know where the rest of the pack is, but he’d bet his life that they wouldn’t trust that thing either, dammit. “But I thought we could play a little game.”

When a fairy says that, you better tense.

When a fairy says that while they smile with sharp shark/piranha teeth, you better be scared.

When a fairy says that while they smile with sharp shark/piranha teeth and two serpentine tongues come out from in between those aforementioned teeth, you better prepare your testament.

“What kind of game?”

Oh, for the love of…

“You want to play then, good,” it says and Peter wants to bash his head in the nearest flat surface. “It’s very simple, actually. I let pumpkin go and he has to choose who he trusts the most. Whoever he chooses wins a special reward, and the others lose. If he doesn’t choose anyone, everyone loses.”

“I thought he didn’t remember anything?“ Sure, concentrate on the important things, Scott, Peter thinks, nevermind asking what’s that special reward… and more importantly, what’s the punishment for losing. “How is that fair?”

“He doesn’t,” the thing nods, petting the ears again. The kit grumbles and swats at the hand like a kitty would at someone annoying. Everyone’s breath catches but the thing just laughs. “But I’m not unfair, the memories are there, deep down, so he’ll choose whom he instinctively trusts the most… which can be no one at all. Have you all been good?” It enquiries mockingly.

There’s a pregnant pause and the thing cackles. After the nogitsune and baby Argent’s very near death, Stiles has been avoiding everyone. Be it because they truly wanted to give him space (or they justified it like that anyway, in Peter’s very uncharitable opinion) or because they wanted to give him a wide berth, no one has been close to him these past few weeks. Peter, being the persistent bastard he is, has been tracking him down out of boredom just for the fun of bickering with him, but…

“We’ll play,” Scott says.

Peter regrets, he regrets so much. Damn the faery court’s rules that state that only the alpha or the alpha’s chosen representative can talk. Scott’s very own brain is about seven years old right now and sporting fox ears, claws, teeth and tail.

“Excellent!”

Peter hates Deaton with the heat of a thousand burning suns right now. Damn him for suggesting making a deal with the faery to heal Stiles and rid him of the nogitsune’s taint. If Peter wasn’t so estranged from the pack… If he had heard about this beforehand he would have…

“Wait! You didn’t say the rules! Can we call him? What’s the reward?”

The thing sets Stiles down, steadying him, before setting his dark beady eyes on Scott and smiling. “Oh, my bad,” it singsongs disturbingly as it lets go. “Whoever he choses gets to keep their life, the rest, well. And if he doesn’t choose anyone, everyone dies and this adorable pumpkin will be the court’s pet,” it finishes as faery guards fill the clearing.

They’re screwed. Completely screwed. Peter’s is going to find a way to haunt Alan Deaton into an early grave for this, because when he was thinking about greener pastures he didn’t mean this . He ignores the incredulous shouts and checks the clearing for an escape route so that, when Stiles inevitably chooses his father, maybe he can slip out in the commotion…

Small hands pat his leg and he looks down surprised to find the hopeful eyes of the kit fixed on him. Stiles makes an up gesture, wanting to be picked up and he obliges even though everything in him feels like jelly at having dodged the bullet, so to speak. There are shouts and angry voices right beside him but he can’t quite hear it above the ringing of his ears.

(He’s going to survive.)

Then, Stiles jerks in his hands suddenly and looking in his eyes, he knows that the boy has just remembered everything. Peter’s hairs stand on end as energy starts to concentrate on Stiles, and he just knows this whole thing isn’t going to end well as the faeries do the same.

(Or maybe not.)

If he hadn’t been right in the middle of it, Peter would have said that the colorful explosion was magnificent.

(For a moment he wonders how different his life would have been if the fire never happened.)

—

Peter wakes up with a shout and then starts choking. There’s poison in the air and he doesn’t recognize where he is. He falls from the bed coughing, his lungs burning horribly. He forces himself up, tumbles to the nearest window and tries to open it, only for the wood to burn his hands. The crackle of fire reaches his ears. Like lightning, memories flood him and his whole body convulses in protest, in horrified denial.

It can’t be.

Is this his particular and very personal hell? Whatever he’s done in his life, even killing Laura, doesn’t warrant this kind of punishment. He doesn’t deserve to relive this night. He doesn’t. Peter isn’t a good man, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

He won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him struggle and despair and hurt and fail. For once, he’ll accept what’s coming even if only to be a contrary bastard and not give them the satisfaction of doing what they want him to do. According the time the clock in his table is showing, it will be at least two hours until everything goes to hell (oh, the irony), and Peter is going to wait for it calmly, in peace. He closes his eyes.

He must have nodded off (probably the effect of the wolfbane in the air) because the next thing he knows is that there is a child spewing profanities right beside him and shaking him.

A child with fox ears, claws, teeth and tail. Stiles. He startles, shaking off the sluggishness that still lingered. Whatever Stiles is painting on his arm helps clear his head too.

“PETER! I swear to God, you bastard! Wake up, come on! The mountain ash is gone but I can’t do anything about the fire! You have to help me get them out!”

It’s not hell or a dream.

He raises, pulling the kit with him as he does so, and takes off running to locate and wake the rest of the family. He knows that Stiles won’t obey if he tells him to wait outside, so he doesn’t even try.

Derek and Laura arrive just as he’s pulling the last one out of the house. Derek screams and Peter doesn’t have to investigate much to know why. Kate Argent is pinned to the very first tree in the yard, making wet gurgling sounds as her own blood chokes her. Peter can’t find it in him to feel sorry for his nephew, and if that makes him a bad person, well, tell him something he doesn’t know already.

He drops to the floor as his legs start to tremble. He nearly just let go. He nearly lost everything again without even fighting it. He can hear the kids crying but he can’t deal with it right now, not when he can’t even breathe properly himself.

“Breathe,” Stiles says as he climbs into his lap. Peter’s arms circle him tightly before he can even think about it. “Breathe, Peter. Come on, listen to my heart.”

And Peter does, burying his head on the crook of Stiles’ neck. Talia is saying something but he doesn’t care. Kate emits another gurgle and Derek cries harder, Laura trying to console him, but that sound is like music to his ears, helping his heart calm.

—

Destroying the Argents is a balm to Peter’s soul. If he hadn’t been so out of his mind (an omega or very nearly one) the first time he went after them, he’d had chosen this route of revenge. Why kill them if he can make sure they suffer for many years to come? Or in Gerard, Kate and their hunter’s case, make them suffer through two weeks of imprisonment, interrogation and then sitting powerless as the matriarch was forced to execute them for their crimes. Kate was especially satisfying because she suffered two weeks with minimal pain relieving medication before being condemned to die.

“Psycho,” Stiles says rolling his eyes as he goes back to complete his homework, bored out of his mind. His ears even flicker in irritation and Peter’s bloodthirsty expression turns fond and amused.

“Kettle, meet teapot,” Peter drawls, remembering what Stiles did to Eichen House, and the kit sniffs but doesn’t resist as he pulls him into his lap, scenting him thoroughly.

Laura chooses that very exact moment to enter into his study without knocking. She scrunches her nose at the sight but very wisely keeps her mouth shut. Well, she’s not completely stupid then, congratulations Talia. But then again, even the sheriff has given up on saying anything after one day Stiles dragged him aside. He’ll probably never know what Stiles said to his father that day because he did something to make the room soundproof, but whatever he said did the trick, because the man never said anything about it again.

(Stiles is his anchor, his pack above pack. He won’t let anyone take anything from him without fighting ever again.)

“Derek wants to talk to you,” Laura says.

“Mmhm,” he answers raising an eyebrow. “And why isn’t he here then?"

“Please, uncle Peter?”

Derek has been going to therapy for a year now. He started talking again not so long ago and his frame is not so gaunt anymore. A vicious part of Peter wants him to suffer for as many years as Peter did for his stupidity first and then his betrayal. Laura too, to be honest, even if the only way he can hurt her now is by not helping Derek. Another part of him remembers that Derek suffered for years in their original timeline and that he killed Laura for her transgressions. Besides, if he’s just, in this time they have done no such thing. He sighs and Stiles rubs his chin on his arm.

“You shouldn’t meddle, Laura.” She purses her lips, obviously trying to contain a tirade about Derek just being a kid and many things he has heard before and he continues before she can even get a word in. “When is his therapy session?” She gapes. “Well?”

They still haven’t decided what to do about the Nemeton or the alpha pack, and they don’t know exactly how this whole time travel thing happened. Stiles is pretty sure that it was the result of the combination of his protective magic, the fairy’s powers and Peter’s desire to see what would have happened if there had been no fire, but Peter himself doesn’t really care about the how, so long those fairies don’t come back to finish what they started. Peter has everything he wants and needs, he thinks absently as he rubs his cheek on Stiles’ unfairly soft hair, so maybe it’s time to let go now.

#teen wolf bingo #teen wolf fics #my writing #steter #teen wolf

9 notes · View notes

prettylittlesestras · 6 years

Text

these are what they call hard feelings

“Ouch!” Beca yells as she’s jolted awake from a dead sleep by a magazine flying from across the room and landing on her face. She removes it and sits it down slowly on her nightstand without even opening her eyes, fighting the urge to launch it back where it came from. She rolls over and opens her eyes to see Amy frantically searching for something she must’ve lost in their mess of a room, tossing things from one side of the room to the other, and leaving a path of clothes, schoolwork, and empty Chinese takeout boxes all over the room like the aftermath of some sort of bedroom tornado.

“What the hell, Amy?” Beca is (justifiably) annoyed about being woken up by a flying book at ‘much-too-early o’clock’ on a Saturday morning. “What did you even lose, and do you really think throwing all of this crap from one place to another is going to help you find it?”

“I signed up to retake my stupid history midterm today, and I can’t find my notebook to take with me. I don’t know why they expect an Australian to learn American history, anyway. It’s ridiculous, really,” Amy mutters without looking up or stopping on her path of destruction.

Beca walks over to Amy’s desk and slides a heap of clothes off to the side to reveal the slender red notebook that had been ever-so-slightly poking out from the side of the pile. She throws it at Amy and hits her square on the back of the head, but the other girl doesn’t seem to mind. She runs the few steps over to Beca and squeezes her so hard that Beca’s seriously afraid her eyes might pop out of their sockets.

“Thanks, Mitchell, you’re a life saver,” Amy all but yells as she runs from the room and bounds down the stairs and out the door. Beca feels her stomach growl, so instead of trying to comprehend all that just happened in the first three and a half minutes of being awake, she heads downstairs to grab some breakfast. As she descends the staircase, she hears the other girls’ loud chatter in the kitchen, and she knows she’s in for a heck of a day if they’re this rowdy before 9am. She takes a deep breathe and blows it out slowly, readying herself for the copious amounts of human interaction she’s about to have to deal with.

As she enters the kitchen, she’s greeted with the sight of Chloe flipping pancakes on the griddle, Stacie taking a tray of bacon out of the oven, and Emily scrambling a pan of eggs over the stove. She’s surprised to see just the three other girls in the house considering the volume of the discussion she heard from the top of the stairs.

She sits down at the counter in her usual spot and notices the steaming mug (her favorite mug) full of coffee in front of her. She takes a long sip from the cup, careful not to burn herself, but eager to get the coffee into her system. Even after only one sip, she can feel the warm, caffeine-filled drink traveling through her body. Beca always compares the first sip of coffee in the morning to someone injecting liquid sunshine into her veins; it’s makes everything a little hotter, a little brighter, and just better in general.

She knows Chloe must’ve heard her coming down the stairs and filled her cup before her feet even touched the kitchen tiles, and for that she is eternally grateful. She’s also grateful for the fact that the girls are busy tending to the breakfast, unable to make conversation with Beca before she’s fully awake. Beca looks up to thank Chloe, but Chloe’s knowing eyes are already staring back at her. Their eye contact breaks when Chloe’s phone starts ringing in the living room. As she’s darting into the other room, she yells back, “don’t let my pancakes burn, Becs!”

Beca vacates her seat at the bar to stand behind the griddle. She’s never been much of a chef, but she doesn’t think preventing a pancake from burning should be all too difficult. As usual, she was wrong. When she starts to smell an acrid, burning smell emanating from the griddle, she flips the pancakes to find them burnt to a crisp. She decides to chuck them into the trashcan and ladle on some fresh batter before Chloe can notice.

Chloe returns and with her come those knowing eyes, not believing Beca’s tricks even for a moment. “Look, Becs. All you have to do is wait until you see those little bubbles in the batter,” she instructs as she steps up behind Beca and places her hand around the hand that Beca is using to grasp the spatula and guides the spatula under the pancake, tossing it into the air and letting it fall back onto the griddle, “and then flip.”

She releases Beca’s hand and walks away with a smug look on her face but not before giving her a firm, playful smack on her butt, blushing Beca’s cheeks instantly. She has to take a few deep breaths to calm herself but for a different reason than this morning. This time it’s because of some weird feeling that seems to have risen up into the pit of her stomach. Had she had the guts to call it what she knew it was, she would have called it a butterfly, but for now, it seems more like some kind of annoying little moth. At least that’s what she tells herself as she breathes deeply, in and out, trying to make whatever its go away.

After breakfast, Beca heads up to her room to work on a new mix for the Bellas. The only way she ever learned how to cope with the things she was struggling with growing up was to throw on a pair of headphones and drown out the world, and it seemed to work before, so why start trying something different now? She falls into her desk chair with a thud, begging for something to take her mind off of Chloe. She starts the music and lets her brain drift into auto-pilot, her fingers so familiar with the keys that she could mix in her sleep.

There’s always been something about Chloe. Something different. Beca’s always explained it away as her having a strong admiration for her best friend. She’s kind and strong and empathetic and beautiful and has the voice of an angel, but whatever. Anyone could see those things, and it would be dumb, stupid even, to not take note of them and admire them.

Sure, maybe she things did end with Jesse because she would rather hang out with Chloe than him, but that has more to do with what she realized were her lack of feelings for Jesse, not any sort of feelings for Chloe. And sure, maybe Chloe does flirt with her sometimes, and maybe it does give her the same sort of feeling she used to get in the beginning with Jesse. The same feeling she felt this morning. But Chloe could flirt with a rock wall and make it blush, and, after all, it still doesn’t mean anything.

When her mind snaps back into reality, she listens to what she’s mixed so far and deletes it without hesitation, the confused and panicked state of her brain not lending itself to free-flowing creativity. She decides to take a midday nap, sleep being the only truly effective way to turn her brain off. She climbs into bed and drifts off to sleep rather quickly, for the first time relieved that Amy woke her up unnecessarily early.

For the second time in one day, Beca is jolted from her sleep, awoken by another unidentified flying object hitting her in the face. It doesn’t take long to identify what the object is, one of Beca’s favorite shirts. But it isn’t Amy who woke her up this time, it’s Chloe.

“Wake up, sleepy head. I can’t host a party full of a capella nerds without my co-captain.” Chloe rummages through Beca’s closet until she finds a pair of black leather pants, rips them from their hanger, and throws those at her as well. Only when Beca starts to protest the flying clothes does she get a good look at Chloe. She’s wearing a blue flowing blouse and a tight black skirt. Whatever words were on their way out of Beca’s mouth fall to the floor (along with her jaw). She thinks she may have never seen someone so beautiful in her life. Actually, she feels her brain headed in that direction, so she stands, grabs her clothes, mumbles something incomprehensible, and heads to the bathroom, hoping her thoughts will vanish if she’s not looking at Chloe. They don’t. But she does compose herself enough to go back into her room, grab her shoes, and arrive downstairs just in time to see the first of the Trebles arriving.

The party goes on like a typical college party (with slightly more singing), and Beca is feeling a strong buzz when someone suggests playing truth or dare. Not being the kind of person who enjoys revealing personal details about herself to others, Beca would usually forego the game, but tonight she decides to participate. The Bellas and the Trebles gather around in a circle, some people on the couches and chairs, and others taking a seat on the floor. Most of the dares are pretty harmless. Someone dares Jessica to shotgun a beer, and she does so (surprisingly) with ease. Jesse dares Amy to drunk dial Bumper, and laughter takes over the room when she calls his cell phone and his mom answers. Things don’t take a turn for the serious until it’s Stacie’s turn.

“Okay, Becs, truth or dare?” Stacie asks with a sneaky smile.

Still not wanting to reveal any major truth about herself, Beca chooses ‘dare’.

“Okay. I dare you to kiss Chloe.” Stacie looks proud of herself for her dare, and Beca sets a mental reminder to punish her for this later. When Beca turns to Chloe who’s been sitting beside her the entire time, she raises her eyebrows and shrugs as if to say ‘I’m cool with this if you are.’

Beca leans in to kiss Chloe, and if it had been anyone else, it would have been a peck on the lips that she laughed about and never thought about again. But not this time. Their lips couldn’t have been in contact for more than one second, but sparks shoot through Beca’s lips like a shock of electricity. She can feel her cheeks turn red, and she’s embarrassed. She's embarrassed because everyone else in the house is staring at her and Chloe, hooping and hollering. She’s also embarrassed that that little kiss felt like no other kiss she’d ever experienced. Like electricity. Like pure energy. Like she wanted to do it again.

The game dies out after a few more rounds, and Beca is grateful for an escape. She heads to the kitchen and takes a shot of whiskey and then heads upstairs to her room with a beer. She opens her window and sits in the window sill to drink her beer, hoping that the cool air would help her cool off and the beer would help her forget. Neither is working, and with the shot of whiskey having pushed her further into tipsiness, Beca shuffles to her bed to sit down. She grabs her phone when she feels it buzz in her pocket.

Beale (12:33am): Where’d you run off to? I haven’t seen you in a while

Beca thinks about not responding, but the whiskey has other thoughts.

Beca (12:34am): jsut needed to cool off and get a break from the party. ill be down in a few

Beca hopes Chloe will forget about her and enjoy the party. She knows she can’t be around her right now. Not after one too many drinks. Not after that kiss. She won’t let herself do something stupid. Not after all this time of being careful to hide her feelings.

Beca chugs the rest of her beer and lies back onto her bed. She fishes her phone back out of her pocket and stares at the screen, her fingers moving without the consent of her brain.

Beca (12:41am): its liek even when im drunk i cant stop thinking about you

Beca has flashes of clarity, and she tells herself to stop, wills her fingers to halt, but ‘Drunk Beca’ takes over and sends the text anyway. Chloe responds surprisingly fast.

Beale (12:41am): I can't stop thinking about the kiss

‘Drunk Beca’ has a mind of her own, and no matter how hard and for how long Beca has tried to keep her feelings at bay, nothing seems to matter in this moment. The alcohol gives her enough confidence to send the riskiest text she’s ever sent, one that could reshape her relationship with her best friend in one of two ways: the way that Beca might actually possibly have wanted it to be all this time, the way that would fulfill those little thoughts and fantasies that she’s never let herself admit that she’s had about Chloe since that day at the activities fair, or the way that ends their friendship. The way that turns everything she’s ever had with her best friend upside down and sends their friendship to a screeching halt. But she doesn’t have the clarity to weigh the options, typing the text and sending it without hesitation.

Beca (12:42am): what if I found you and kissed ypu for real this time?

Beca gets up from her bed and heads toward her door, not waiting for Chloe’s response. She’s not drunk enough to not be scared of things going south after Chloe sees the text, so her first instinct is to flee the scene, but her brain stops when she opens the door.

As she flings the door open, she sees Chloe standing on the other side. Chloe rushes into the room, pushing the door closed with her foot as she grabs both sides of Beca’s face with her hands, their lips being drawn together like magnets. Their lips touch, and the electricity is back, shooting through Beca like lightning in a thunderstorm, starting at her lips and streaking its way through her body to the tips of her toes. They fall back onto the bed, their lips never losing contact. When they both need a break, their chests heaving from lack of oxygen, they lay there together. Not talking, not needing an explanation just yet. Just happy. They both drift off to sleep accidentally, and when Beca wakes up the next morning, she’s not scared. For the first time in what feels like forever, she feels lighter. Free. She looks over and sees Chloe still sleeping beside her and thinks maybe, just maybe, she could get used to this.

#bechloe #bechloe week #and sliding in just under the wire yet again is meeee #bechloe week 2018 #beca mitchell #chloe beale #pitch perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction #my fics

22 notes · View notes

alittlestarling · 6 years

Text

Welcome Home, Good Hunter

It’s the Avvar AU no one asked for and the thing I’ve been yelling at @rhetoricalrogue about for months now, honestly. Currently I have a few parts planned and more to come. Featuring Vincent Trevelyan and Rosalind in a “what if Vincent were Avvar and Roz were inquisitor?” AU.

Part 1: Fallow Mire

“Herald, watch your step,” Cassandra held a hand out as Roz’s foot slipped into the muck for what felt like the millionth time. It was hard to see the pathway through the swamp; not for the first time, Rosalind Marlowe wondered exactly who would settle down in the Fallow Mire. Rain had assaulted them with an annoying consistency since they had made camp along the borders, there was more water than land anywhere she stepped and, of course, the residue from a plague as well as the dead rising gave this place little charm.

“Thank you,” Roz shot a quick, grateful smile as she shook the peat and mud from her boots. Armor felt strange to her despite having been decked and dressed in it since waking in the dungeon in Haven. The last few months had rushed past in a blur of faces, battles and all eyes upon her as she made choices that she never wanted to be part of.

True, she had participated in rebellion (Leliana and Josephine had gently asked her not to disclose that piece of information to anyone looking to join their ranks), but even with the unsteady legs the rebel mages had stood upon, they at least were fighting for freedom. Yes, saving the world was important too, but Roz only felt shackled again, caught in a web that she knew she might never escape so long as the mark remained on her hand.

It crackled and sparked to life in the dim mist, the sickening green tingle running up her fingertips. Strange magic and an even stranger lapse in her own memory left her searching, seeking answers that always seemed just out of reach. Not to mention the looks people gave her. Some were caught in reverence, bowing and scraping and called her Chosen by the Bride of the Maker; others watched with wariness, tense and uncertain, as if she might spring forth a demon in disguise.

Perhaps it was better they remembered she was a mage and that she should be feared. In the end, though, it left her feeling more lonely than satisfied.

Cassandra had never swayed after their first attempt against the Breach, steadfast and faithful beyond words. Not many others had looked upon her the same way. Varric had this way of watching from the corner of his eye, as if mentally taking notes, sometimes narrating under his breath, but never getting too close to her. Blackwall was polite and uncertain, strong on the field but the wandering Warden hadn’t opened up much since joining their party.

“You really do take us to the nicest swamps, Rosebud,” Varric quipped from behind, “though I don’t think I care so much for the undead.”

“Perhaps you’ll have to write a strongly worded letter to the bog,” Roz snorted, shooting the dwarf a small smile. “Find some good words to use to describe this place. Damp, squelching, muddy-”

“An ever-constant fear of stepping in water and summoning the dead?” Varric added. Roz brushed back a small piece of damp hair off her face with a shake of her head, pausing only a moment to keep an eye on the shore nearby.

“Whatever magic’s afoot here, it’s not good.” Was it the rifts? Or perhaps someone else had harnessed something deeper and darker to bend and twist to their own will? The beacons in the bog didn’t give her a good feeling either way, not when she sensed it wasn’t the only one.

The world was filled with more magic, wonder and dread than Roz could have ever possibly imagined. Had she been told only a year ago that this would be her life, she would have laughed. But now stepping through dangerous territory, fighting off bandits and undead alike had become normal, along with the magic that swirled and surrounded her.

“Another broken home,” Blackwall tilted his head towards yet another run-down building in the distance. “Poor sods. I’ve seen plague, it’s not pretty.” Roz could believe it, wrinkling her nose against the putrid scent of death and decay that permeated the air around them.

Her own mind wandered to charred bodies, those broken by the fires set in the Circle and the people she had lost when they ran for freedom. How many bodies made anything she did worth it? How many deaths could be justified for the cause of seeking a life free from the Chantry and the Templars?

Shaking herself from a familiar spiral, Roz wiped rain from her face and kept them moving forward.

Magic was calling to her, a shift in the air drawing her closer to it. The mark offered an unfamiliar tang in her mouth, a strangeness that felt so unlike her own power that she’d nurtured and lived with almost her entire life. That was a force she knew well, a vast warmth that glowed and smoked like embers in her chest. The magic she could taste felt like the mark and she knew before they’d reached the strange green glow that there was another rift.

“Well,” Varric frowned at the stitch that glimmered green against the sky, cursing under his breath a moment. “Looks like the one in the valley, doesn’t it?”

“Not fully closed,” Roz sighed from the ruins of the house they’d paused in, eying the improperly sealed rift with irritation. Her hand sizzled at the thought of opening it, the magic already tugging to the stitch, the mark given a mind of its own when they got close to these when they were in the field. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

“Wait-” Cassandra had an arm flung out before Roz could move further ahead, running straight into Cassandra’s armored arm before slowing down. A gesture and Roz turned her attention to the shadows. Solid, strong and far bigger than she was, the stranger made no move forward to attack when Roz became visible.

“Is he friendly?” Varric intoned under his breath, the question they were all asking. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the wilderness sometimes, especially when they had yet to run into the Avvar who had apparently caused all this trouble and fuss.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We need to close this. Properly.” Magic surged in her fingertips, wild and free as she stepped forward, lifting her hand to rip apart the veil. It struggled against her attempts, harder to control and contain, but she grit her teeth and let out a snarl as the world exploded in a green haze and demons burst into the world.

Roz held her staff, magic channeled within it, focusing the raw energy that raged within her. She was a wildfire, a clean burn that surged forth with spells and stabs of burning, bright energy. Fighting had never come easily to her; she had focused her own skills into herbalism and learning how to hone healing as an art. It helped in hiding evidence of her darker dealings, developing poultices to keep scars closed and healing. She wasn’t graceful in a fight nor did she have the brute strength that came with a warrior’s body.

Cassandra and Blackwall could dive into a fight, clashing metal and steel against their enemies, drawing forces to them to slash and hack away with brutal precision. Varric picked off stragglers, keeping them from getting too close, his line of sight always seemingly clear, despite his height. Despite only being grouped together for a few months, they worked rather well as a team. Roz alternated between savage bursts of flame and cool, shimmering barriers to protect as the dead rose from the peat bog around them.

All it took was a moment when her attention turned away, focused on setting a mine below the feet of a corpse near Varric, that she nearly missed another one ambling towards her; first slow, then fast, tripping over it’s feet momentarily in anticipation of slicing into her. There was a brief should from Cassandra, but before Roz could turn to face the creature, an axe sailed just past her, landing with a dull thud against the head of the creature.

There was no time for her to do more than react, instinct shooting flames into the mist at the sudden arrival of, what? Friend? Foe? Neither?

“Hold, I come in peace!” The fire bounced off a barrier, the figure light up a moment as all the breath left Roz’s lungs. Dark hair clung to his face, a smattering of scars along his face and one hand up, the other clutching the twin axe close to him. Another flash of green light and she noted, without looking too closely, that he was undoubtedly Avvar.

Roz swore internally. Of course, two would appear when they were in the middle of battling a rift.

“More demons!” Cassandra bellowed and Roz shifted her attention quickly from and then back to the stranger.

“If you intend to stay, then help fight them with us.” Roz called out, muttering a prayer under her breath. A glance to her side and she couldn’t help her eyes widening as lightning and blue energy surged along the axes in his hands.

“Hakkon guide your blade, Herald.” And the fight was on.

“Be careful, Rosalind,” Cassandra was eyeing their new friend with caution and wariness. Roz couldn’t blame her, not when he had arrived at just the right moment and found himself among those his people were trying to fight.

“Not my people,” Vincent clarified when the rift was closed and all eyes fell upon him. “I’m not of that clan, lowlander.” He was a little gruff, despite his earnestness to help, watching them all with a relaxed gait that still held coiled concern in each step. He may have helped, but he didn’t trust the companions he’d found himself amongst.

That is, everyone but Roz.

There was...something there. A tug not unlike what Roz felt when she grew close to rifts. It didn’t feel quite so severe or strange. As though there was a force calling to her, drawing her in when she got close. Intoxicating and strange and filling her with a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt since she left the Circle.

“I don’t bite, Lass.” Vincent hadn’t even looked up from the fire he was tending to, blowing across embers before the steady flow of magic turned them into bright, glowing flames. The warmth felt good; she had used magic on her clothes and the others earlier, drying the dampness from her armor

Rain continued to fall outside, puddles forming at the cave entrance and mist rolling inside. Roz couldn’t help herself – she was desperately curious, a million questions already forming in her head. “Yes,” she huffed softly, shifting from foot to foot, as though uncertain. Sit? Stand? But a glance from him followed and his gaze was warm, open and she could see the same curiosity echoed back at her.

“So,” Roz began, sitting down on a nearby log, rubbing her hands together before the fire. “If you’re not with the Avvar here, where are you from?”

“My clan is from Stone-Bear Hold,” Vincent answered, lifting his gaze from the fire to meet hers across from him. “My home is in the basin, along the mountains to the northwest.”

“You’re a ways from home,” Roz noted, “why are you here?” She paused, adding quickly, “I mean, I know why you’re here-here, but why are you in the swamp?” No one, certainly not anyone in her group, would have come here willingly. Not with the rain, the undead and the threat of strange beacons in the dark.

Vincent tilted his head to the side and for a moment it felt like his gaze was boring straight through her. As though he could truly see her, Rosalind, not the Herald of Andraste. Her cheeks flushed and her heart thumped in her chest but she didn’t drop her gaze, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Here, among the undead and the peat, this man sat before her and it felt like nothing else seemed to matter in that moment.

Maker, what a lovely man he is.

“I was looking for you.” Her heart hammered with an odd uncertainty at the intimacy in his words. Cassandra’s warning to be careful echoed though as Roz swallowed hard.

“Me?!” But her alarm was short-lived, realizing a half-second after she’d spoken that he obviously hadn’t been looking for her; rather, he had been seeking the mark and the woman behind it. Her silly fantasies that had cropped up effortlessly were wiped from her brain, flushed now more out of embarrassment than pleasure.

Silly, foolish, of course he seeks the mark, not you, you dolt.

Shifting along the log, gaining her composure again, she stared at the fire to collect herself, adding her own magic into the mix.

“Herald of Andraste, you have made quite the commotion in the world.” If he had noticed her strange shift, he said nothing of it. “I almost wouldn’t believe it unless I’d seen it with my own eyes,” and his tone dipped, low and soft, “but you can heal the sky. How does that work?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Roz murmured with a small sigh. That was the mystery of it all: more than just how she had gotten the mark, but the why continued to plague her.

As if it knew they were speaking about it, the mark sizzled in a sharp contrast of green against the warm firelight. Roz gave a soft hiss, a frown creasing her brow as she fought off the sudden wince that followed. Instead, she clenched her hand into a fist, all but willing to light to stop. It does with an abruptness as Roz adjusts her gaze back to the lowlight around them.

Vincent watched her, curious and almost concerned by the looks of it. “Does it hurt?” He asked gently. Roz shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant.

“Sometimes. It’s more of a sting these days, annoying but not terribly painful.”

Roz rarely talked about how the mark was affecting her and very few people asked. Josephine had often shown concern and sympathy when they were together in Haven but everyone else seemed to comment in passing and were far more intrigued in how it worked and how useful it would be to them and the world around her, not for her, the person. The shift in tone and the soft gaze across the fire felt odd to her as she busied herself with the folds of her shirt, gently warming the fabric to continue to keep herself dry.

As if sensing the discomfort, Vincent didn’t seek to fill the silence or push the subject. Roz was grateful for that as she glanced back up to him, watching him shift before the fire. It was only through subtly watching a moment that she caught the half-wince, the little grimace when he moved.

“Are you hurt?”

Vincent, for all intents and purposes, tried to wave it off without fussing. “Just a few scratches, nothing serious. I’ve lived through worse.”

Roz scooted over towards him, a frown on her face as she reached out. Gently, gravely, she asked, “May I? I can help.” There was a moment, a longer pause before Vincent gave a sharp nod.

Despite her training, healing had never come quite as easily. Yes, she could find ways to use blood and make it work in her favor, but the healing arts were stiff even after practicing for the last few weeks on the road. The magic within her stuttered awkwardly a moment as her hands reached out, resting along his clothed chest. He took in a sharp breath, eyes wide and apologies fell from her lips.

“Sorry, sorry, I know, healing isn’t my strength but I’m getting better at it.” Letting the cool, blue magic wash over Vincent, Roz tried not to linger in silence long. “Give me an herb garden and I can create a poultice for almost anything. Or tea, I can do tea, too,” She gave a nervous little laugh, pulling her hands away when she was finished. “This is just a necessity of traveling, I suppose. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Vincent murmured, looking oddly winded, eyes fixed still so intently on her. The crackle of the fire was the only noise between them for a long moment as Roz shifted away again, aware how close she had gotten to him.

“So,” She tucked a leg beneath her, adjusting to sit as comfortably with a little distance between them, “you’re a mage? I saw what you did, with the lightning and your axes.” He nodded and Roz continued, asking the questions that burned from within. “But you use martial weapons as a focus? How did you learn to control it?”

Her teaching had always told her a mage outside the circle as dangerous, an apostate without any clear control or careful watch on their powers that could leave them open to hurting themselves or others. And the fear of possession and abominations had often been spread as a tale of caution for all who lived within the circle walls. Yet she had watched him during the fight, impressed with the strange mix of physical combat strength that blended with magic that crackled and fizzed in the air around them. There had been control and power without either outweighing the other and that had surprised her more than anything.

“A spirit of Patience taught me to use this gift.”

Her shocked silence followed this statement and he glanced at her with genuine confusion. “What? Is that not how you lowlanders do it?”

“Hardly,” Roz gave an incredulous laugh, half-curious, half-hysterical at the notion that anyone would willingly taken on possession when they were taught from an early age just what a demon might do. “You’re talking about being possessed. That’s a dangerous thing to us.”

Yet you have offered the same. Hypocrite.

The voice at the back of her mind was bitter and judging and she ran her hands along her arms where she knew scars remained from the rebellion. It was the only way to stay safe, she reminded herself, the only way she could ensure they made it to the conclave alive. Regardless of what had happened, she had done what she needed to survive. No one knew this, but Roz wasn’t going to divulge anything to her companions, not even this strange and handsome Avvar.

“Mages are a conduit to the gods, Lass,” Vincent interrupted her thoughts, leaning forward, “it’s a sacred duty we perform when we use our gifts. Spirits help us learn to channel that.”

“Don’t let anyone from the Chantry hear you saying that. Or a Circle mage, for that matter.” Roz shook her head, her magic flittering to stoke the fire once again. “I didn’t learn how to use my magic from spirits, that’s for certain.”

“How old were you when you began to learn with your gift?” Vincent asked and Roz realized he meant that genuinely. Magic to him was a gift, something that hadn’t been tucked away in a tower for years at a time and feared. It was simple and extraordinary and a lump rose in her throat fast. She swallowed against the sudden emotion, dropping her gaze away, afraid she might cry if she thought about living that life too hard.

“I was six when I came into my abilities. I accidentally lit my older brother’s eyebrows on fire.” That had been a sight - Matthew with no eyebrows, smoke floating in the air and the pair of them caught between amazement and, after a moment, horror at what had happened. “He was fine but my mother and father were swift to do what we necessary.”

“Necessary?”

Roz nodded. “Within a week, I was packed and off to Ostwick Circle with Templars to accompany me.” Her memories from home often felt fuzzy, a piece of a life she couldn’t quite grasp. Now and then she missed it, the sensation of home but that had faded with time when her family had ceased communications with the Circle. “I miss Matthew the most. I hope his eyebrows grew back in properly.” The comment was light but her heart did have a certain ache when she tried to picture her big brother, uncertain these days if they shared the same eye color or whether their laugh sounded the same.

“You didn’t stay with your family? Why?” Vincent looked horrified when she glanced up again, his own brow creased deeply with a glower of someone who hadn’t grown up in her world. “You were a child, you shouldn’t have been taken from them.”

“Magic exists to serve man,” Roz recited by heart, “never to rule over him.” When he looked even more bewildered, she went on. “Mages are inherently dangerous with magic and must be watched. Whether you believe it or not doesn’t really matter; we have been taught we need to stay locked away for the safety of ourselves and others.”

“That’s backwards thinking,” Vincent voiced and Roz couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. Bitterness prevailed in her tone though as she stared at the fire again.

“Perhaps, but like I said, it doesn’t matter.” The fire had begun in Kirkwall and now it spread across Thedas with a force that almost gave Roz hope for true, real change for all of them. Alderis had given her hope for such a thing; he paid for it, but that flame still burned brightly within her chest.

“Change had to come with a battering ram and we’re still picking up the pieces.” Uncertainty still remained and Roz could feel it whenever they’ve visited with folks across the map. “I hope to build something better than before with those pieces. Not everything was broken, but enough of it needs to be destroyed completely.”

“A lofty goal,” Vincent murmured with a little nod of his head. Roz shook her head, closing her eyes with a small yawn.

“Yes, and one I doubt will come easily.”

“Then I pray the Lady will guide you to your goal.” Genuine was a hard thing to find these days, especially among those who tried to wriggle their way closer to Roz. But that’s exactly what she saw when she gazed over at Vincent. Her heart thumped again in her chest when he smiled at her and she prayed to Andraste Herself that he didn’t notice the flush that reappeared along her neck.

“Well, first I need to rescue my soldiers.” It was better to change topics, she thought, careful not to lean in too closely as she added, “What can you tell me about the castle in the swamp?” It wouldn’t hurt, she told herself, to enjoy being around him for a moment. Even if he were to leave them in the morning, his help had been a necessity. It didn’t hurt either that his smile gave Roz butterflies.

It’s a harmless daydream. I doubt I’ll see him again after this.

#dragon age: inquisition #dragon age fanfic #fanfiction #da fanfic #my writing #rosalind trevelyan #vincent trevelyan #verse: welcome home good hunter #oh god this is the first thing i've written in ages #dragon age au #there will be more parts eventually

10 notes · View notes

snarktheater · 6 years

Text

Ready Player One — Level Two (Chapters 26-27)

“I figured it out later that night, a few hours after Shoto left my stronghold.”

See, when I said that Wade making a mistake in the search for the Jade Key didn’t prove the book understands character flaw, I didn’t think the book would literally have Wade go back to having a random, convenient epiphany for the next step in the Easter Egg hunt. This book is the gift that keeps on giving, in that I rarely have to go very far to elaborate on my arguments: usually, all I need to do is turn the page.

The epiphany, by the way, happened because Wade was randomly folding the wrapper the Jade Key came in, and suddenly remember there’s a scene with a unicorn origami in Blade Runner.

The moment I said the word “unicorn” aloud, the wrapper began to fold on its own, there in the palm of my hand.

…Okay, sure. That’s nice, I guess.

From this, Wade decides that the “test” mentioned on the Jade Key must be the Voight-Kampff test from Blade Runner. The book also exposits to us what that is, and what Blade Runner is. And while the book does mention the movie’s based on a Phillip K. Dick novel, I’m not getting the impression that Wade has read it. I mean, it doesn’t even mention at any point (in this chapter or anywhere in the book) the phrase “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”

Anyway. There’s a convenient re-creation of the Tyrell Building from Blade Runner as part of the OASIS standard planet-building kit, meaning that building (and the Voight-Kampff test located in it) can be found on any number of planet. Do I really still need to call attention to the fact that the planet-building tool apparently contains hundreds of other assets similarly taken from existing properties, or have I made my point clear enough about the death of originality in this book yet?

So, Wade goes to the closest planet that features one such replica, Axrenox. It doesn’t matter what that planet is. Actually, not much of anything matters. I mean, the book spends a whole paragraph telling us about how Wade hopes nobody will steal his ship while it’s parked on Axrenox, but—spoiler alert—nobody will. I’m calling attention to it because it’s the second time Wade has expressed worry that someone would steal his transportation method, and the second time nothing comes of it. At some point you have to ask if someone’s not projecting a little too much. And I don’t mean the fictional character here.

Speaking of things that don’t matter: writing a good action scene as Wade goes through the replicants that guard the place. Because, yes, the planet-building kit includes guards in the building too.

The next ten minutes played out like the climax of a John Woo movie. One of the ones starring Chow Yun Fat, like Hard Boiled or The Killer.

Shitty writing aside, I want to point out that the book really shows how much it understands Blade Runner’s theme and central message by…treating the replicants as disposable mooks in a John Woo movie. Like, sure, they’re constructs in a video game, but still. Good job.

Speaking of not understanding the point, remember how the clue was like “take the test”? Yeah, if you know what the Voight-Kampff test is, you might have gotten a little enthusiastic there, since that test is meant to ascertain the ability to empathize with others. Which would be hilarious to see Wade Watts take. Sadly, no, the test only acts as a gateway to a 3D recreation of a video game that Wade has already mastered.

I honestly feel like it’d be insulting to you if I were to recap what happens next in detail. It’s a game. Halliday dropped a hint at it in his will video, which is mentioned to justify Wade being a master at the game. There’s another case of the book using romaji to transcribe the title of the game in Japanese, even though, again, that name is just English words written with Japanese characters and phonotactics. There’s still no tension; I mean, we literally go from Wade explaining the rules of the simulation and how he can’t leave to…

I managed to clear all eight levels of the game in just under three hours.

Oh, sure, after that he tells us how he got close to dying at one point. Like…thanks for telling me I should have been worried in the time you skipped.

At the end of the trial, he gets to choose a giant robot from fiction from a list (some of which already crossed out due to being picked by the Sixers).

I stopped cold when I saw Leopardon, the giant transforming robot used by Supaidaman, the incarnation of Spider-Man who appeared on Japanese TV in the late 1970s. I’d discovered Supaidaman during the course of my research and had become somewhat obsessed with the show. So I didn’t care if Leopardon was the most powerful robot available. I had to have him, regardless.

Okay, so, I just rambled about the romaji, so I won’t do it again here, though you should know it still annoys me. But I will say I’m pleasantly surprised that Wade actually made a decision derived from passion for something. I was starting to wonder if that would ever happen.

Anyway. Wade gets a toy replica of the Leopardon, and with that, he’s now cleared the Second Gate, and receives a hint to the Crystal Key’s location, in the form of a logo of a star inside a circle. This sounds like a pretty generic symbol, but Wade recognizes it. Probably because, if you look it up, it is actually distinct enough:

It just so happens the book describes it really poorly:

Then a symbol slowly appeared in the center of the screen: a glowing red circle with a five-pointed star inside it. The points of the star extended just beyond the outer edge of the circle.

The book skips over Wade leaving the Tyrell building, by the way. I guess the guards only prevent you from entering? I don’t know, because the book won’t tell me. Once he’s back on his ship…wait, I’ve gotta point this out:

And thanks be to Crom, the Vonnegut was still parked right where I’d left it, its cloaking device still engaged.

I already mentioned the ship would not in fact get stolen, but…“thanks be to Crom”? This isn’t even something he’s done until now. It’s just a random reference out of the blue.

Back to the plot. The red star and the image I just showed you are from a music album, 2112 by the band Rush. I don’t know anything about them, but the album is apparently about…

a time when creativity and self-expression have been outlawed.

So…like this book’s world, then?

Wade somehow knows exactly which lyrics on the album are relevant to finding the Crystal Key: a passage about the “Priests of the Temple of Syrinx”, because there’s a planet Syrinx somewhere in the OASIS with a temple in it. And by “a temple” I mean 1024 copies of the city described in the album’s supplemental material. Because copy-paste is an excellent substitute for good ideas. You know, between this, the planet with hundreds of copies of Halliday’s hometown, the planet with hundreds of copies of that text adventure game, and oh, the fact that the game’s planet-building tool contains hundreds of licensed assets. I mean, you can make the technology to run a lifelike VR simulation, but procedural generation and original art assets are both out of reach?

No, I will never stop being angry about this. It’s lazy writing and lazy in-universe, and it heavily undermines the idea that the OASIS somehow dominated the market. I mean, think about it: right now, the videogame market’s latest trend is Battle Royale games. The first game that managed to put the genre where it is is Playerunknown’s Battlegrounds, but because it lacked any original assets—and was frankly shoddily made because it was rushed into early release in order to be the first out—it was easily outdone by Fortnite, a game with a more competent team and actually creative people working on it, specifically because the concept alone isn’t going to make a game win on the market (and it also makes for very weak ground to sue people for copyright infringement once they beat you, Bluehole).

A concept can be replicated—don’t ever believe the myth of the indispensable lone genius, i.e. Halliday in this case, there’s always someone else, or a group of people, who can replicate your idea and probably improve on it while they’re at it. So I cannot for even a minute believe that there isn’t someone who couldn’t make the OASIS, except, you know, better. Hell, that’s what IOI should do, instead of investing loads of money into a contest to take over the OASIS with a very low chance of success.

Ahem. I’m getting off-topic, aren’t I? Well, that’s okay, because the actual action is as stilted as usual. Wade lands on the planet, and I guess IOI didn’t attempt to leave people to guard it or anything so he’s all alone. He finds the temple mentioned in the song, and figures he has to make an offering at the altar. Luckily, he instantly knows what other lyrics of the album are relevant, and they lead him to a secret cave behind a waterfall. If you think I’m rushing through the scene…barely. It takes him a paragraph to search the cave, for instance. The book’s as uninterested in this as I am. Which…you know, it shouldn’t be.

What does he find in the secret room in the secret cave, you ask? An electric guitar. It’s another reference to the album, but also, it’s stuck in a stone.

I grinned at the absurd Arthurian image of the guitar in the stone. Like every gunter, I’d seen John Boorman’s film Excalibur many times, so it seemed obvious what I should do next.

Yes, really. Apparently Arthurian legends are no longer widely known and the only reference Wade has is a specific movie adaptation of the mythos. Because that makes sense.

So Wade gets the special guitar, and it turns out he knows how to play it (in the OASIS, that is), and he’s randomly inspired to play the song 2112, even though there isn’t really anything prompting him to do. But it’s lucky, because it makes another clue show up:

The first was ringed in red metal The second, in green stone The third is clearest crystal and cannot be unlocked alone

Had the Sixers played the song and discovered this message? I seriously doubted it. They would have pulled the guitar from the stone and immediately returned it to the temple.

Yeah, so, because Wade played the guitar for no clear reason, Wade now has an advantage over the Sixers. Thanks, author puppetmaster! It’s not like giving characters a clear motivation to do what they do is difficult or useful to reinforce the book’s verisimilitude!

I mean, for real. Would it really be so hard to say Wade just…felt like playing the special guitar before he offered it at the altar in the table? It’s really not that hard.

Also, what the fuck is up with that hint? No, really. Now Halliday wants to encourage cooperation in his contest? Don’t you think it’s a little too late? Also, why do that at the last stage? Does that mean multiple people will get the egg at the same time…by design? That’s not gonna backfire at all.

Anyway, Wade returns the guitar to the temple, and when he puts it on the altar, it turns into the Crystal Key as planned.

my score on the Scoreboard increased by 25,000 points. When added to the 200,000 I’d received for clearing the Second Gate, that brought my total score up to 353,000 points, one thousand points more than Sorrento. I was back in first place.

As a hint for the location of the Third Gate, Wade only gets a stylized A. It’s actually the symbol of Halliday’s avatar Anorak—and of his castle. Because of course he has a castle in the OASIS.

the castle was impregnable and always had been. No avatar but Anorak himself had ever been able to pass through its entrance. But now I knew there must be a way to enter Castle Anorak. Because the Third Gate was hidden somewhere inside.

You know, Halliday making his own impregnable location inside of his own game explains a lot about why the OASIS is so permissive towards griefers. It was made by one.

Speaking of griefers, now that someone else has found the Crystal Key, guess who made an impenetrable dome around Castle Anorak? Yep, it’s the Sixers! And yes, there’s an artefact that lets you create a literally impenetrable barrier around a location in the OASIS. Again, who designs this?

The news of this soon reaches the gunter and clans, who all converge on the planet Chthonia, even though, you know, they don’t have the Crystal Key yet. But in spite of being in a really bad spot, Wade decides not to give up this time. I mean, it’s not like the Sixers having the exact same advantage (exclusive access to the Third Gate) didn’t make him fantasize about committing suicide three chapters ago or anything. That’s character consistency right there.

Yes, I’m still bitter that the book went there.

I began to formulate a plan. A bold, outrageous plan that would require epic amounts of luck to pull off.

Well considering how the rest of the book has gone, I’m not exactly on the edge of my seat here.

So Wade emails Artemis, Aech and Shoto the location of the Second Gate and the Crystal Key, and prepares to put the rest of his plan in motion, while the book attempts to end “Level Two” on a cliffhanger.

Once I was sure all three of them had received my message, I initiated the next phase of my plan. This was the part that terrified me, because I knew there was a good chance it was going to end up getting me killed. But at this point, I no longer cared. I was going to reach the Third Gate, or die trying.

I did say “attempts to”. I mean, this is the first time Wade actually has a plan, and the “reach it or die trying” has sort of been his MO so far. But hey. Nice attempt.

#ready player one #ernest cline #book reviews #ya books #young adult #books #young adult books #ya #reviews #book #book review #review #st: ready player one

10 notes · View notes