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korolife · 25 days

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Blog No.003　24年5月10日

「Let's Talk About Coloring+Rendering!!」

～ The Chaos of Akehhh-style Layering w/ Colors & Values ～

ArtStreet recently released some weekly coloring contests and as someone who likes joining 'em + colorwork being the absolute joyous part in drawing for me, I got really into it!! One of them somehow won and I still have the raw .mdp file of it with most of the layers unmerged... so, I thought there might be some value in sharing my chaotic coloring progress with it. There may never be an opportunity like this ever again...

CONTENTS:

Preface・・・・・・・・・

The Linework・・・・・・

Composition + Planning・

The Render・・・・・・・

Additional FX Tips・・・・

The Layers of Dread・・・

1. Preface

I use the free software MediBang Paint, which is made by the same folks who made the aforementioned Art-sharing website, Artstreet. Although its file type extension is .mdp, it can also save as and open .psd files all the same. You can download it on their website here! I believe it's available in both PC, Apple, iOs, and Android (also on the PlayStore). ☞And here is my google drive link of my fully rendered entry's raw .mdp file. I also included a .psd version that should be accessible with most other softwares.

NOTE: I'm not sure how some layer effects will be displayed on other softwares that may have different modes (either in name or function) from MediBang, though. But I think "multiply" and "overlay" is fair game mostly anywhere with layer systems.

Either way, ↑this is just a bonus thing if you wish to see for yourself how much my MediBang cries everytime I work on something, since visuals of the rough step-by-step will be provided here as well!

At the end of this post, all of the layers' purposes will be explained...y-you'll see...

■And just as a disclaimer: I'm an instinctively self-taught illustrator who is a heavy visual learner, so there are certain terminologies or methods I do that I cannot readily explain with a concise rational 'why' or 'how's / with back-up info on color theories or formally taught techniques in art schools and the like. I mostly operate on instinct, observation, subjective preferences, and vibes, so this would just be me trying to verbalize my process (with visual aid) as a means of share-rambling, rather than actually directly "teaching" anything, I think haha You can take it as a cautionary tale too, honestly-

※I will also be going through this with the assumption that the reader has some background knowledge of the basics of digital illustration and general drawing terminologies. If you have any questions or needed clarifications, or maybe if you'd like to request any potential topics of discussion in the future like this one, please feel free to let me know!

Although art can be fundamentally "wrong" when it comes to achieving certain specific styles, structures (especially when involving realism as the standard), or general executions of intentions/themes, I am of belief that there is generally no wrong or right 'way' for drawing anything; or for doing ANY type of artistic endeavor for that matter. This might be perceived as a "bad anatomy defender" / "no need to improve, then" stance on my part, but it is absolutely not the case! An artwork is never finished, there's always room for improvementsーa galaxy's size of a room especially for myselfーbut I just think anything at all that brings you an expressive or creative outlet, joy, or peace of mind is worth pursuing, regardless of your own skill or tact and there's no shame in that. I do not wish anyone, especially people starting out with drawing to be discouraged for having their own different approaches or styles in comparison to other people's works by misconception of, "oh, am I doing it wrong?". Sometimes it's just different or an uncommon worldview, and that's not always a 'bad' thing, I think. Heaven forbid artists actually start getting creative and unique―

What I will be presenting here is simply my one way out of thousands of thousands of different possibilities. So, let's start★

2. The Linework

Equally lengthy talk of lineart is probably for a later discussion, but here is the template provided by ArtStreet for the contest + what will be colored in for today.

☞The contest has since ended, but you can still download it here if you'd like!

3. Composition + Planning

The contest rules said it's "OK to draw backgrounds", so let's go!!

I had already decided on how I want to color it early on: It will be more scenic in nature, rather than stylistic. So, there will be more focus on looking 'real' than 'aesthetically stylish'! Just so it doesn't look disconnected or too out of place, I tried to draw my additions similarly to how Mr. bowman's linework looked as much as possible.

This how I visually define "scenic" VS "stylistic" illustrations (in my head)

I tend to think about my approach with the rendering long before the coloring process, even waaay before I line my final sketch, usually. I like experimenting and mixing different rendering techniques with varying linework styles, but for this in particular, I'm simply working with what was given to me.

At first, I just wanted a "cool breeze w/ leaves flying away ahhhh refreshing~~" mood, but the space at the side of his head looked rather empty as is, even with Nessie. So I thought about putting him inside a vague...darkly-lit abandoned ruins-setting to eat up some of that space.

And with that, it's time for colors.

4. The Render

My coloring process is the lengthiest and often makes people who see me color in real-time scream in horror, but I think it's actually fairly simple and can be summarized into three nutshelled stages:

①Fill in the colors with a finalized palette of your choice,

②cry Continuously render until your arms fall off you're satisfied.

③ cry even HARDER (optional) Adjust accordingly to fit in better with other elements of the illustration, such as with the focus/subject to background. *will be explained later.

oh and btw, the word 'render' or 'rendering' tends to confuse a lot of people, artist or not. I tend to think of it this way:

・Coloring is the selection of your color range, tints, tones, and palette to use in a drawing, ・Rendering is the act (or product) of the specific set of techniques (including effects) you use with the colors/values to create illusions of depth, shadows and light, movement, warmth/cold atmospheres, etc.

But that's just how I define it with my own step-by-steps. Otherwise, I think either term is pretty much interchangeable.

Anyhoo, what do you think should this man's hair, skin, eye, and clothing's colors be?

here are some of the variations on the color picks of his outfit that rotted my brain for about 3 hours straight, like it's a 2000s dress-and-match flash game

The many submissions for the contest had many fun color combinations and interesting interpretations I personally think should've won. I saw a lot of blonde archer-princes wearing greens, browns, and blues, as a lot also went for the "forest hunter boi" vibe. But I was saddened by the lack of my favorite colors being used as the primary colorーorange and yellow. So, let's use those!!

The start of my coloring/rendering journey is never at Layer '1'.........

―Starting with what I've always referred to as "environment prep":

The purpose here is to 'set' the base colors so they match with the environment or general atmosphere.

This could mean adjusting the saturation, or spraying gradients of the BG's most prominent color on parts that...gives me anxiety the most-

As someone who tends to work with very, very bright color schemes, trying to blend it in when the illustration is meant to be scenic or 'serious' in tone without it being a distracting eyesore can be a challenge. But I just think gradients look cool lol- by doing this as my step 1 for the rendering process, it like an appetizer? It makes me a little giddy on what to do next.

Shading is usually an early step for me as well, even though I think it's a lot of other artists' near-to-final step. I tend to lean towards an abomination mix of soft shade and cel shadeーsolid enough to trace where the shadows start and end, but softened around the edges for effect.

I also tend to apply an additional spray of subtly darker shade on top of the first one? It's usually on spots where I think the light source won't be hitting as much.

※Just a side note: You may see multiple things changing around but during the actual drawing, I'm most definitely working on one area or part at a time lol. These visual aids were ripped off the raw .mdp by hiding some of the layers, so that's why different parts seem to progress all at once.

Apart from the previous 'multiply'-ing for the preliminary shadows, I add another layer of distinct shadow on there for objects or other characters that can cast shadows on the subject. In here, it's the bow and the hovering strap across his chest.

Lighting is also starting to be added as well.

One direct alteration I did with the lineart template was change the line's colors. I find it really softens them to mix better with their filled-in colors + as well as not stand out too harshly against a light-colored scenic background.

I think you now have a good idea over my hyperfixation on making sure colors are 'vibing' well against the BG lol A lot of these steps are basically just doing the same thing over and over with new layers for the sake of this purpose, really.

And after that, just repeating all the stuff we did with the character onto everything else until it's all done!

A lot of these changes are very subtle on their own, but makes all the difference in the bigger picture, I think!

Just maybe some additional finishing touches for some boom shakalaka and...that's pretty much it! You will notice that throughout the entire process, there's a lot of random little things that suddenly appear or change with seemingly not much purpose or meaning on its own. I unfortunately have always drawn in this sort of vague, quickly impulsive, directionless way since I was a child and I don't think even I will ever understand it, logically. It's mostly a... continuous string of instinctive feelings of "HEY let's do it this way, if not there's like 10 other things we can try next", is the closest I can get to an explanation of how it feels.

I don't know if it's common for other artists to think or function this way, but I do know for a fact that many people seem to be surprised and confused when they see me drawing in real time this way. Everytime I get asked 'how' I draw certain things, I say things like 'I turn my brain off and vibe with many, many layers with a broken back.' and people think it's just a dismissive joke. I-it's really not, it's literally what happens, I don't have any secret shortcuts for you-

Hopefully this very lengthy post's visual aid can help demystify some misconceptions on what "really" goes on + make my nonsensical ramblings somewhat understandable... like, with an illustrated instruction manual written in a different language using many borrowed english words, but used incorrectly haha

Anyway, the rendering stage is where the simplified steps ② and optional step ③ branch out like a fork in the road for me; I don't think one is any "better" than the other, I think doing either is simply a matter of personal preference and artistic choice.

I removed the walls to see the whole figure better in a side-by-side comparison. I like the unadjusted (L) without the wall, but with the walls in the final illustration, I think adjusted (R) felt 'right'. What do you think?

There are some things, although realistic, don't look that good as a visual aesthetic and are just downright excessive/unnecessary to add to certain types of illustrations. Then there's things that aren't possible in real life, but artistically? Looks really dang cool. Being biased for either ends of the hyperrealism and hyperstylized spectrums of styles is fine; only as long as no discrimination is involved towards people who don't share your opinions, in my opinion-

and to conclude this section, I say,

『 You go render however you wantーhellーno colors even necessary if you wish! Simple ≠ laziness, just as much as complexity ≠ skill。』

I will never stop yapping about how a lot of minimalist styles require so much more amounts of planning and effort to make sure everything is nice and clean, especially compared to mindless rendering loops like these. Mine's a maximalist hell and I wouldn't have it any other way, but I greatly envy minimalist artists that can render with just something like my step ① with so much grace and tact; not a single stray or wasted stroke!! Anyone who dismisses these types as "lazy" I will violently stuff inside a couchーwithout any potato snacks to snack on!!!

5. Additional FX Tips

Just a shorter section for some optional finishing touches tips'n'tricks used in this I frequently (ab)use☆

From the very beginning, even before I understood how to draw, it's always been a tradition to doodle around sparkles all around the place. I usually do it with MediBang's sparkle brush if I want it to look polished, or simply draw it manually using either the pen or airbrush tool for a cruder charm.

Motion blur is great, and MediBang in particular also has different types of blur effects like Gaussian and regular blurs. If your software doesn't have these effects / if you're working traditionally but still want to achieve the illusion of motion in a still drawing, you can still achieve the same effect through your linework! Try looking into incorporating action lines (commonly seen in manga and comics) into it. Otherwise, purposefully drawing something blurily to begin with oughta work as well.

Apart from the color changing from the rendering section, there's also this little effect that is achieved by duplicating the lineart and blurring it. It gives something like a...'dreamy' quality to it? The higher the blurred copy's opacity is, the more emphasized it makes everything look.

6. The Layers of Dread

At long last we've arrived... at my MediBang's repeating demise for all of eternity...

Here's a preview of what the .mdp/.psd file of this colored entry's unmerged layers looks like + how I try to validate their existence. When I work on full-sized illustrations, I tend to merge layers as I go, so this is probably one of the rare times I can show something like this without either mine or your PC dying. If you'd like to see, play around with, and toggle them for yourself in all of its............glory, feel free to download it here.

Yes

we're starting at Layer 611. Enjoy.

I will now delete my PC's copy because jfc that's one too many MBs ...and it's still eons lighter than what I usually work with on my own full illustrations from sketch to finish......。 (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`) thank you for reading this far and making it out alive, goodbye for now...

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#art blog #long post #coloring #coloring tutorial #art tips #art tutorial #digital art #digital illustration #digital drawing #digital art tips #digital art tutorials #medibang #drawing journal #drawing process #illustration #coloring practice #nessie #the loch ness monster

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halstudandruz · 3 years

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Research Purposes ~ Part 3

*Gif: Not mine; credit to @thompsonconnors

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader/ Adam Ruzek x Reader

Requested: Yes

Prompt: What happened after Adam catches you and Jay? Part 1 (18+) here /// Part 2 here

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: I used some dialogue from S6E10, but the rest of the episode doesn’t pertain

A/N 2: Wouldn’t you all be pissed if I ended up putting the reader with Ruzek 😂

You and Jay were on his couch silently eating pizza and watching Hulu. Not having said very many words to each other in the last two hours.

“I didn’t want him to find out that way.” You eventually broke the silence. Jay reached for the remote pausing the show to turn and face you as you sat up away from where you were cuddled into his side. “I mean I wasn’t ecstatic about him sleeping with Hailey, but if he would’ve just told me and been upfront about it I think I could’ve handled it better.” You admitted.

“So you wouldn’t have slept with me in other words?” He joked making you chuckle.

“Oh I still would’ve done that.” You smiled.

“I think he just didn’t want to hurt you. You know Adam. That would have never been his intention.” Jay replied.

“Well no I don’t think he did it on purpose, but I just turned around and did the same thing to him. What if he thinks it was out of spite?” You sighed.

“You don’t have any obligations to each other any more, [Y/N].” Jay shook his head.

“I know it’s hard for you to understand, and it’s hard for me to explain to be honest. You have to remember we were engaged. It wasn’t some fling. Our relationship was serious. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to have a family with him, and when it ended it hurt like hell. I know I don’t have any obligation to him, but in order to see him everyday. Work with him everyday. There has to be a different kind of respect, a different kind of… regard for each other than we have with everyone else or it won’t work.” You tried to explain.

“Then why didn’t you just tell him about us?” Jay finally asked.

“Because I don’t even know what’s going on here.” You laughed, “I mean are we just fucking? Cause if that’s the case we should be doing a lot more of it.” You pointed out, reminding him how more and more nights have ended in just a cuddle session in his bed.

“You know I’m not good with emotions and saying how I feel, [Y/N].” He sighed, “I honestly didn’t expect for this to happen. One night of fun turned into wanting you here every night. Ya know? Regardless of whether it ended in us sleeping together or you just... in my arms.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Jay, if they go up in flames and Hailey comes running to you where does that leave me?” You eventually asked the question that had been pegging you for the last few weeks.

“You know that’s not fair to ask me when I could ask you the same thing.” He replied.

“You don’t think I know that?” You questioned, head falling into your hands, “I don’t know, Jay. Okay? I-I don’t know!”

“What are you saying?” He pushed.

“I’m saying maybe it shouldn’t be this hard.” You shook your head, emotions running through you, tense silence falling between you two again. “I’m really tired.” You admitted, leaning your head against the back of the couch.

“Alright come on let’s go to bed.” He stood up turning the tv off and moving to clean your plates up.

“Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” You asked, biting at your lip and he turned to give you an incredulous look.

“Why would you think I would want that? You know I sleep better with you beside me.” He replied making you smile, body feeling just a little bit lighter.

“Yeah me too.” You agreed, helping him clean a little before going through your bedtime routines comfortably. Sliding naturally into his body once you laid down.

“Goodnight, baby.” Jay whispered into your hair laying a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Goodnight.” You said, returning a light kiss onto his chest, nuzzling further into his arms.

“Come on [Y/N] you gotta get up.” Jay tried to wake you with soft kisses across your neck and shoulder. Groaning you didn’t move, “I promise I let you sleep as long as possible.”

“Can we just get my car registered for a spot already?” You whined.

“You’re the one that said that was and I quote “testing our luck and a waste of money.”” He teased.

“I will give my life savings for ten more minutes of sleep.” You replied, sinking further back into Jay’s warm chest.

“No, no, no!” He lectured rolling away from you.

“Ugh, fine.” You grumbled pulling yourself out of his bed turning to see him lying in only his boxers, “Are you trying to provoke me?” You gestured to his body causing him to chuckle.

“If I wanted to provoke you I could do a hell of a lot better than this.” He smirked, “Plus I already got my own shower this morning so no go.” He shooed you away getting up to riffle through his dresser. Rolling your eyes you trudged to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

The ride to the district was filled with a comfortable silence, the tension from the night before gone. He put his truck in park after pulling up behind your car.

“Just so you know I’m gonna stay at my place tonight.” You informed him, reaching for the door handle.

“What? Why?” He practically whined, but a nervous tone seeped in as well.

“Because I see you all day everyday and I would like to binge a carton of ice cream without your judging eyes on me the entire time.” You joked.

“I do not judge you.” He defended.

“Uh huh of course not babe. See you in a few.” You leaned over to give him a quick kiss before climbing out of the truck.

When you got to the district Trudy whistled to you summoning you over. You stood in front of it, hands clasped together on her desk. “Goodmorning.” You stated cautiously.

“Wanna tell me why rebel without a cause looks like someone pissed in his coffee this morning?” She raised an eyebrow at you.

“No, I do not.” You replied.

“Well then just a friendly warning to step cautiously today.” She looked back down at her desk nodding her head towards the steps.

“Yeah..thanks Sarge.” You sighed moving to buzz in. You could feel the edginess when you entered the bullpen, but you couldn’t tell who else had noticed it. “Goodmorning.” You mumbled passing everyone on the way to your desk. Luckily everyone was able to work normally despite the obvious agitation in Adam’s demeanor, but per Platt’s advice you stayed out of his way as much as possible.

“Alright so we do it the old-fashioned way. Farm it off. Every beat cop and CTA worker, get every gang and tact unit across the city. If someone knows this guy, that picture’s gonna be enough to spark it. Ruzek, you run it past Mark.” Hank ordered before moving back into his office. Everyone nodded moving towards Jay’s desk to make plans. Adam moved off on his own and out of the corner of your eye you watched Hailey follow behind him. Sighing you looked back to Kevin making mental notes of the plan he was laying out to Jay.

“Alright let’s roll.” Kevin shrugged on his jacket when you heard yelling in the distance. The three of you exchanged confused glances before you easily picked up Adam’s voice.

“It’s Adam and Hailey. They’re downstairs.” You informed the two men, detouring your route to hurrying down the steps, their voices only getting louder as you made your way towards them.

“I’m not gonna talk about policing with you again!” Adam’s distinct voice carried.

“I care about you, I care about you and I-“ Hailey fought back, stopping to turn when she noticed the three of you enter the room.

“We can hear you guys in the stairwell. What the hell are you doing?” Jay asked, looking between the two. Hailey looking guilty and Adam standing at defense, restlessness clear in his frame, from more than just the conversation you were guessing.

“Nothing. It’s fine. Sorry.” Hailey cleared her throat, shaking her head.

“You cannot be having this conversation here. It’s not the time or place.” Jay warned, glancing back up the steps.

“Oh but it’s a perfectly fine place for you to stick your tongue down [Y/N]’s throat?” Adam bit back and you watched Hailey’s eyes go wide flicking between all of you.

“What?” She asked and the look in her eyes at the information pinged a feeling of jealousy deep in your stomach.

“Oh yeah you didn’t know?” Adam took a step towards Jay, anger radiating off of him.

“Watch yourself. Who do you think you're talking to?” Jay straightened his body, jaw clenched.

“I’m not scared of you, Halstead. I’m not some rookie straight out of the academy anymore.” Adam pointed out.

“All of you, cool it.” Kevin whispered harshly stepping between the two men, ”unless you want Voight to find out whatever is going on here I suggest you all get back to what you were supposed to be doing.” He ordered. Adam threw you a cold glare before maneuvering around Kevin and heading up the stairs.

“We’re supposed to be out securing an ID.” Jay grumbled stalking out of the door, Hailey following behind slowly.

“To be a fly on the wall in that car.” Kevin winced looking back to you.

“Yeah.” You laughed dryly. Starting to walk towards the parking lot.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine.” He tried to reassure you once he slipped into the driver's seat, starting the engine. Kevin knew more of what was going on then anybody else did. You and him had been partners in crime since your first day at the district and even before that in the academy. Your partnership was comfortable and he knew you better than most people. You had each other’s backs always, and even though he was best friends with Adam, who had without a doubt been chirping in his ear about his discovery the night prior, Kevin always remained neutral. So, you knew he would lay it straight for you. He found out about you and Jay the Monday after it had happened. You were pretty good at hiding stuff, but not with him. He could read you like a book.

“This is such a fucking mess.” You huffed watching out the window.

“Well I’m certainly not going to tell you you’re wrong there.” He agreed blatantly, “You should’ve been more careful.”

“You don’t think I know that, Kev? But it’s done now. He knows and I have to find a way to deal with it. I don’t even understand why he’s so mad. He’s doing the same thing with her, and I didn’t act like a jealous teenager when I found out. What he just did was unnecessary.” You sighed heavily knowing that there was more to the story. “I know he’s going through more than just this. I can tell this case is getting to him and he’s struggling and honestly it kills me that I can’t be there for him. It kills me every time I can’t help him through it. I miss him and what we had, but maybe it is for the best. But.. I don’t fucking know! How am I supposed to know?” You slammed a fist against the dashboard and Kevin didn’t even flinch. Adam was impulsive and had a short fuse, but what had happened a few minutes prior was not something Adam would do on a normal day.

“So, what are going to do about it?” Kevin asked looking over at you expectantly, but all that came was silence. You didn’t know. Did Adam still want to be with you? Was that why he was so angry or was it just a lingering reaction? If he was jealous, if this thing between you the two of you was still a possibility then what? Plus Hailey knew now. What if that pushed her in a direction you didn’t want her to go? Maybe it opened her eyes. Maybe she was confessing her feelings to Jay right now in his truck and that scared you. An uncomfortable selfish feeling radiated through your body at the thought. The unknown was starting to terrify you. The possibilities, the factors, all of it was too much and you weren’t sure how it was going to play out.

You had finished the case getting out of the district at a decent time that day. Which you were glad for. The room was starting to feel too small. You needed space to breathe and room to think. Which is exactly what you did. For hours until you came to a conclusion. You loved both of them, but in the end you knew who you wanted, who you needed.

You couldn’t keep dragging them around like this. Dragging yourself around like this. You were going to figure it out and you were going to face it head on. Walking up to his door your heart was racing. You had already made up your mind, but that didn’t mean you weren’t scared to actually face it. Taking a deep breath your knuckles lightly rapped the door. How were you supposed to tell someone you loved you didn’t want to be with them? Shifting on your feet you couldn’t help, but chew on your lip, anxiety only heightening when the door swung open.

“We need to talk.”

All Taglist:

@corebore123 @scarletsoldierrr @hehurst23 @beautiful-bunny89 @ingie @halsteadsway @malrunaway @grettiwrites @inlovewith3 @wanniiieeee

Jay Taglist:

@jayxhalsteadx @life-treatments @weepingfestivalmentality @toomuchtv95 @queen-of-arda @sofferderynnp

Taglist for series: @miranda0102 @5sos-imagine @5hundreddaysofsummer @a-f-f-a-n-c-u-l-o

#jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd x reader #Chicago pd #one chicago #adam ruzekxreader #adam ruzek x reader #adam ruzek imagine #Adam ruzek

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fakeikemen · 4 years

Text

Katara's Grief

(This is my first attempt at a meta post and I know that this has probably been already done but I just needed to get it off my chest and go on a little rant and it kinda got long so bear with me.)

A lot of the hate on Katara stems from the fact that she keeps on mentioning her mother's death at every chance she gets and invalidates other people's pain to assert that her suffering is the worst of the lot.

And even though everybody is entitled to their own opinions, I'm gonna point out why I think the aforesaid claims are not exactly correct.

First we'll take a look at; Katara's Backstory:

We know that Kya is killed in a fire nation raid and that Katara had been the last person to see her alive before she leaves the tent on her mother's insistence. Only to come back a few moments later and find her dead body. This, in itself is a traumatising event.

So yes, her mother died. Other people in the story go through far worse. You're not wrong when you say that.

But what is more important in Katara's story is the aftermath of her mother's death.

As Sokka says while talking to Toph in "The Runaway" in B3 Ep7:

Sokka: When our mom died, that was the hardest time in my life. Our family was a mess, but Katara? She had so much strength. She stepped up and took on so much responsibility. She helped fill the void that was left by our mom.

As an eight year old, she had to force herself to grow up to step into her mother's shoes and raise herself and her elder brother and simultaneously look after the entire village after her father left to fight in the war. She had to do all of it by herself.

In face of all her responsibilities, she never really had the chance to simply be a grieving child lamenting the loss of her mother. She habituated herself to caring more about others than herself (We see this trait in the entire series as she acts as the stand-in mom friend for the entire Gaang with an exception of Suki and Zuko). She ended up bottling her feelings of grief, resentment, guilt and rage deep within herself.

She had to give up an extensive part of her childhood where most children focus on figuring themselves out, to become a mature and responsible person who was working as the immovable pillar holding up the family and even the whole village not much later.

She put up a strong front to help others and pretended to be fine even though she was hurting inside the whole time.

She could never find any closure from the situation. She never got over it.

Moving on to the criticisms:

1. Katara keeps on mentioning her mother like a broken record:

Here are the number of times Katara mentions her mother's death (not sure if that's all of it, lmk if there are any others):

1. In her first scene with Sokka

Katara: Ever since mom died, I've been doing all the work around camp while you've been off playing soldier!

2. A short while after she meets Aang

Katara: Well, I just want you to be prepared for what you might see. The Fire Nation is ruthless. They killed my mother, and they could have done the same to your people.

3. A short while after she meets Haru

Katara: I lost my mother in a Fire Nation raid. This necklace is all I have left of her.

4. A short while after she meets Jet

Katara: Sokka and I lost our mother to the Fire Nation.

5. In the swamp after she sees a vision of her mother

Katara: I thought I saw Mom.

6. In the Crystal Catacombs with Zuko

Katara: I don't? How dare you! You have no idea what this war has put me through! Me personally! The Fire Nation took my mother away from me.

7. A short while after she meets Hama

Katara: We completely understand. We lost our mother in a raid.

8. Repeated mentions in The Southern Raiders episode

(Most of the episode basically)

The first mention with Sokka is in the middle of a siblings' spat where she tells off Sokka for trying to act as if he were superior when it was obvious that in the face of the gaping hole that was left by Kya's sudden death, Katara had shouldered much more responsibility.

When she tells it to Aang, she uses it as a proof that the Fire Nation is capable of immense cruelty and destruction.

The Gaang travel all around the world and meet different people affected by the war in different ways. So when Haru, Jet and Hama narrate their own stories, Katara sympathises with them and talks about Kya's death in lieu of "I understand, the Fire Nation hurt me too."

After they got separated, Aang, Sokka and Katara each had their visions and after they get back together, they all mention their visions and so does Katara.

When left alone in catacombs with Zuko, whom she considered as the face of the Fire Nation— the same Fire Nation that had her mother killed and forced her father to leave to fight in the war, she has a meltdown where she rightfully accuses him of all the bad things he's done and then breaks down while talking about how the war has cost her i.e., by causing her mother's death.

The Southern Raiders is the episode where Katara hunts down the man responsible for her mother's death. If you think mentioning Kya repeatedly in this episode is uncalled for, then I don't know what to tell you.

In all the incidents mentioned above, Katara mentioning her mother's death is a very natural occurrence is the respective conversations. She mostly talks about Kya's death to either extend her sympathy or to use it as an example of the ruthlessness of the Fire Nation.

Another fact to be noted is that 70% of the Gaang's storyline is followed via Katara from a narrative point of view. Plus, being the mom-friend, she acts as the spokesperson. Considering that Kya's death is a major event that played a huge role in shaping Katara's life and is also the source of her severe, unresolved trauma, which acts as the driving force of her story, it is only natural that she brings up this topic whenever she is engaging in a deeper conversation.

It is us as the viewers who have seen her from the start and already know about her mother's death and we see her talking to multiple people about it. Which is why it might come across as repetitive to some people.

While, Kya's death is not necessary information that everyone needs to know, Katara talking about it never comes across as a forced or unnatural.

2. Katara invalidates others' pain because she thinks she has suffered the most:

First of all, if anything, Katara is the most empathetic person of them all. As the mom-friend of the group, not only is she their constant moral support, she also helps them untangle and sort out their own feelings. She is also able to tap into issues that aren't said out loud.

Instances of Katara helping and supporting Aang, emotionally are uncountable.

She is the first one to notice Sokka's sour mood in B3 Ep4 "Sokka's Master". And even though his insecurities seem baseless, she validates him (by saying "I'm sorry you're feeling so down" instead of something like "That's a dumb thing to say") and knows exactly what to do to cheer him up.

In B3 Ep7 "The Runaway" she has the insight to understand that Toph's unruly behaviour is caused by the mixed feelings she has about her parents even though Toph's herself never talked about it.

She even reaches out to Zuko in B2 Ep19 "Crossroads of Destiny" even though she used to think of him as the face of the enemy.

But then there's The Southern Raiders.

Ah yes, that episode where Katara is extremely OOC and a total b*tch.

Agreed that she said some things that she definitely shouldn't have said. But like, she's just 14?? And has been hurting on the inside since she was 8?? And pretended to be fine just for the sake of other people?? Like, there's a limit to how much she can have her shit under control?? And she did a real good job of Sokka's upbringing and taking care of the village and taking care of Gaang on her own?? Some people out there are really willing to forget everything she has ever done just because she was mean for 5 minutes?? A traumatised 14 yo shouldn't be villianised and called toxic because she got mad and lashed out at people that one time??

But here's my take on the scene anyway:

When Aang gets to know that she's going to go face her mother's killer:

Aang: Um ... and what exactly do you think this will accomplish?

Katara: I knew you wouldn't understand.

Aang is a non-confrontational person who prefers running away from difficult situations as opposed to Katara who firmly stands her ground and is never afraid of confrontations. Katara had approached Aang only hoping that he would understand. But going by his dismissal, he obviously doesn't understand the burning need that she has to confront the man who had single-handedly destroyed her childhood. (Most people infer that what Katara means is that she thinks that Aang doesn't understand the pain of losing people. And so does Aang, I guess)

But things start getting even more tricky when:

Aang: Katara, you sound like Jet.

In all honesty, this is probably the most insensitive thing that she could've heard from anyone right then, let alone one of her closest friends. Hearing herself being compared to a homicidal maniac just because she wants to avenge her mother's killer. (No, I'm not justifying murder but there's a clear difference between homicide and avenging someone's death. And Aang may not be my favourite character but I do love him but this wasn't really a good thing to say either. And he wasn't even mentally distressed in the very least to be completely lacking tact or a filter.)

And then the situation escalates:

Sokka: Katara, she was my mother, too, but I think Aang might be right.

Katara: Then you didn't love her the way I did!

After 6 long years of Katara bottling in her dark feelings and letting them fester inside herself, she is finally letting them out and the first things she faces in a span of few minutes are outright rejection, invalidation of her feelings, comparison to a homicidal maniac and nothing akin to the unconditional support that she has provided to everybody. Her own brother tells her that he is siding with the boy who just compared her to a homicidal maniac.

Yes, accusing your own brother of not loving your mother enough is a very cruel thing to do. But both Sokka and Katara know that she doesn't entirely mean it.

But also, there is one very important factor in here:

In B3 Ep7 "The Runaway", Sokka says to Toph:

Sokka: I'm gonna tell you something crazy. I never told anyone this before, but honestly? I'm not sure I can remember what my mother looked like. It really seems like my whole life, Katara's been the one looking out for me. She's always been the one that's there. And now, when I try to remember my mom, Katara's is the only face I can picture.

Katara overhears this conversation just as Sokka had meant her to.

This dialogue lets us know that Sokka's coping mechanism has made him suppress all memories of Kya and replace them with memories of Katara in order to attain a semblance of normalcy.

Both Katara and Sokka had very different ways of coping with Kya's death. Katara pressed down her feelings and tried her best to pretend to ignore them while Sokka partially succeeded in forgetting her.

When Katara first hears these words she is shown to be crying. But if she were to remember these very words while she was justifying herself infront of her own brother and a close friend for wanting to avenge her mother, it would've had a negative impact on her.

In her rage, she would've thought: "Of course he doesn't want to avenge mom. Because he doesn't think it's worth it and that's because he doesn't even remember enough of her to be mad about her death."

And for someone who has spent each day of the last 6 years trying to fill in the shoes of her mother and experiencing her absence everyday, the idea of forgetting her mother is a ridiculous concept to her.

Her thoughts would have quickly derailed to: "He didn't love her enough to remember her."

In light of these thoughts, saying "Then you didn't love her the way I did" doesn't feel out of the blue.

No, I am definitely not justifying what she said, I'm just laying out a possible explanation to why she said what she said.

Yes, she should've apologized to Sokka for this and I think that they definitely should've had a long conversation about their mother's death and how it affected them. Between Katara supressing her feelings and Sokka supressing his memories, i don't think they ever had this conversation.

But sadly we are given neither of these scenes.

Tl;dr: Everytime Katara mentions her mother, it's with good reason and I don't think it's fair to call a character toxic when they lack a mind to mouth filter for 5 minutes and say some mean things. And considering all that Katara has done for everybody, it isn't fair at all.

Peace out!

#antis really be out there ignoring everything she does to hate on her because of two lines she said #nvm katara is one strong badass girl stan her for good grades and clear skin #katara #atla #atla meta #meta analysis #avatar the last airbender #water tribe #kya #sokka #hakoda #gaang #atla gaang #avatar gaang #zuko #aang #toph #ira's posts

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uniarycode · 3 years

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Takari Week 2021, Day 1 - Sibling Shenanigans.

Things have gotten too bad, Taichi and Yamato need an intervention. And if they pay close attention, they might learn something important.

Nah, who we kidding.

Written as part of @takariweek

In some ways, Yamato was Taichi’s closest friend. They had gone through hell and back together, forming an unbreakable bond.

That said, they had different tastes in music, TV, and basically anything. Taichi preferred to watch sports and anime, Yamato preferred dramas and cooking shows. Taichi flourished in the company of others, Yamato demurred in the presence of anyone he wasn’t familiar with.

But one pastime they could both agree on was a good old fashion round of Smash. Whenever it was just the two of them, they generally sat down, fired up the N64, and just let their preferred characters bash one out.

As they were doing until a few seconds ago when an unsightly banner obscured their view of the television. “intervention” was proudly displayed, with one ‘i’ dotted with the crest of courage and the other with the crest of friendship. The phrase was repeated in Japanese, just underneath, in case the translation caused them to miss the point.

Either end of the banner was affixed to a small wooden tripod, being gently lowered to the ground by a devious sibling.

“What’s going on?” Yamato grumbled, still mashing buttons on the control in hopes of gaining an edge. “And when did you even have time to make that?”

Hikari ignored the protestation “We’re here because we’re your family and we care about you. We hoped that time would heal this wound, but time is no longer on our side. You two will be going to college soon, and we need to break through to you before too late.”

“What are you talking about?” Taichi asked. “We were in the middle of something.”

“Smash can wait, we can’t keep putting this off.” She took a deep breath. “This may be hard to hear, but please understand, it needs to be said: You are atrocious when talking to girls.”

“What?”

“Look Taichi, you’ve already near exhausted all your high school options, if something doesn’t change, you’re going to end up alone and unloved, filling your apartment with pets for some form of companionship.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?” he asked. She solemnly shook her head ‘No’ in response.

“Can I go?” Yamato cut in. “I have a girlfriend, if you remember. We’ve been dating for years now.”

“Yes, and she still calls me to rant about it after every date.” Takeru cut. “I can only clean up your messes for so long Yamato, you have to learn how to do it yourself. Or better yet, don’t make messes in the first place.”

“Ouch.” Taichi said, casting a sideways glance at his co-captive.

“You aren’t any better Taichi,” Hikari shot, “You had seven people and eight Digimon wingmaning you on a simple phone call, and you still managed to mess it up.”

This time it was Yamato who glanced at Taichi.

“Now.” Takeru said “The first thing you need to learn is observation. If you pay attention to someone and signal that you notice when something changes. This shows you care enough about the other person to actually look at them and remember what they looked like yesterday.”

He cleared his throat, “For example, if say, your girlfriend decides to style her hair differently, you should maybe compliment the style change, instead of being oblivious. Wouldn’t you say, Yamato?”

“It was one time.” Yamato grumbled.

“Perhaps a practical demonstration would be better.” Hikari said. “Oh, Takeru, Honey, sorry I’m late, the train was delayed.”

“Don’t worry about it Babe, I’m just glad you’re here. Hey is that a new ring?”

“Why yes, thank you for noticing,” she said, bringing her hands up and giving the ring a twirl. “my BFF got it for me as an end-of-middle school present.”

“Ahh, I could tell it was someone close to you, that’s your birthstone on top right?”

“Yep.”

Takeru turned back towards his unwillingly captive audience. “See how I not only noticed the ring, remarked upon it, but also showed I remember her birth date.”

Taichi looked across at Yamato, “Do you know any of the birthstones?” A shrug was the only answer.

“You may think observation is only for what you can see, but it’s deeper than that. Any piece of information falls under observation, and if you like a girl, you will do your best to remember anything you learn about her.” Hikari said.

“Observation is really important, right Hikari?” Takeru asked.

“Very, but knowing everything can’t help if you don’t know how to use it. Which brings us to lesson two.”

“Is this whole thing just a ploy for your sister to practice being a teacher?” Yamato muttered.

“Tact!” Hikari and Takeru declared in unison.

“Tact is pretty tricky. You mostly define it by what not to do. Like not being a dumbass.” Takeru said.

“True, tact can be hard to see when done well. It’s basically about avoiding the obvious traps. For example, when calling a girl whose Maine coon died recently, you should maybe try and avoid mentions about that dead cat, unless she needs to vent. Isn’t that right, Taichi?”

“That was one time.” He protested.

“Right, right, a demonstration?” Takeru asked, pulling a magazine out from behind his back, and pretending to flip through the pages.

“Oh Honey, there you are.” Hikari said looking him up and down. She paused for a few seconds, then pulled lightly on his arm. “Say, I hear there’s a Harry Potter-themed escape room running these days, how about we go there on our next date.”

Takeru put the magazine down “Oh, what’s that? Thanks Babe.” he asked.

Hikari turned back towards the couch. “Notice how I observed the story about his favorite basketball star being caught in a scandal, and deflected toward other interests, instead of stepping on that land mine.”

“How would we even think to notice that?” Yamato grumbled.

“With observation of course.” Takeru replied. “Notice everything, even the things that aren’t being conveyed directly.”

“Being perfect might work for you Takeru, but some of us are human.” Taichi said.

“Oh, I’m hardly the only guy with a girlfriend. You just have to put some effort in.” Takeru said, “Which is as good a segue as any to topic three: Compliments.”

“I know how to give a compliment.” Taichi said.

“Do you?” Hikari asked. “So if you were at the beach with say Sora, or Mimi, or Meiko, you would be able to properly compliment their swimsuits?”

“One time!” Yamato and Taichi yelled together.

“And yet three failures. Pretty poor performance when you think about it.” Takeru said.

“Compliments can be tricky; they require you to combine the previous two skills. You need to observe someone so the compliment makes sense, but you also need tact. Something that’s a compliment to one person may be a touchy subject to another.” Hikari explained.

“Especially when it comes to appearance and body parts,” Takeru said, “and you don’t want to get too accustomed to your compliments either, keep them fresh and exciting.”

“It’s amazing isn’t it Taichi?” Yamato asked.

“So many words and I don’t think they said anything.” He agreed.

“Perhaps the demonstration then.” Takeru said, turning to his partner. “Hikari, I saw you reading to some of the elementary students today, boy am I lucky to have such a kind girlfriend.”

“Don’t mention it. I enjoy it, and I like to think they did too. Say, can you open this jar for me? It should be easy for a strong man like you.” Hikari said.

Takeru mimed grabbing and opening a jar. “Anything for you Babe, say, is that a new shirt, you look positively radiant today.”

Hikari raised her hand to cover her giggle, “I’m so glad I have such a funny boyfriend. You know this is the school uniform, I’ve been wearing it for almost three years now.”

“Huh, you’re right. I guess I never noticed, every time I look at you I can’t help but be overwhelmed by those pools of milky hazel, whenever I see them, my troubles float away and I feel like I have the strength of a thousand men. I could spend hours just staring into those wells of pure emotion.”

“I, uh, uhh, I like your eyes too?”

Takeru let out a large laugh and the pair turned back to the couch to find it no longer occupied.

“That’s no good. They’ll never learn like this.” Takeru admonished

Hikari raised her hands again, twirling the promise ring on her finger. “Do you think they noticed?” she asked.

“Them? No way.” Takeru replied, “but that’s what makes it fun. See how long it takes before they catch on.”

“What if someone else tells them we’re dating first?”

Takeru shrugged, “Just say we already told them, they just weren’t paying enough attention.”

#Digimon #takari week #takari #takeru takashi #hikari yagami #digimon tri

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apple-grass-and-smiles · 3 years

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While everyone and their mother has commented on the scene from 2x10 where Dani and Malcolm talk about Gerald and his validity as a witness in the case, I have thoughts and decided I wanted to inflict them on you.

Basically, I come down on the side of neither of them really being in the wrong, but if pushed to choose someone who is most correct, it'd be Dani. I'll explain why below in the form of a list.

Some Things to Consider/Know About the Argument:

1. That I'm only calling it an argument for the sake of ease. I think a better term might be 'debate' or 'tense conversation' because while, at least from Bright's side of things, it may have the emotional weight of an argument, it likely wouldn't if a neutral third party saw it happen.

2. Both parties are entering the conversation in good faith. Dani has historically done nothing but be kind and try to be understanding of mental health as far as we've seen. There's no reason to think that anything she said was meant to be malicious. Same can be said of Bright, who is normally very happy to explain mental health issues if people aren't speaking as carefully as they should and has shown respect to Dani/Gil/JT when it came to expertise on police work.

3. Malcolm, bless his heart, is projecting SO HARD. It is a basic truth of Prodigal Son that Bright projects on people, but this is intense, even for him. It's clear from 2x09 that he is struggling not only with how his secrets are keeping him from people, but also how his mental health makes him feel like an outsider. Those emotions are heightened during this episode and then you add in Gerald who is basically Malcolm on the surface (both people who are exceptional experts in their field, who are kept from the life they want and the things they love by mental illness/shame/secrets, but desperately want to connect with the world, despite feeling they can never fit in). Therefore, when Dani talks about Gerald, Bright is assuming she thinks those things of him too and takes them personally even though we have no reason to think she means them that way or knows that that's how Bright is interpreting her words.

An edit after initial posting: I don’t blame Malcolm for projecting. It happens to everyone and he’s dealing with A Lot. However, my view of mental health is that while it limits your agency and choices, it does not relieve you of accountability. Just because Malcolm doesn’t choose the feel a connection to Gerald, doesn’t mean he’s not responsible to try and recognize that and then take a step back and remember that he and Gerald are separate people. It’s not fair that he has to do that, but it’d be equally unfair for him to expect everyone else to automatically compensate for his mental state, especially since he has not communicated to them how deeply he’s connecting with Gerald. It’s not fair or right, but sadly that’s how mental illness works in my eyes.

4. Dani and Malcolm are coming at this argument from two fundamentally different points of view. The biggest issue here is that Malcolm's background is in psychology, which is going to be more focused on health and improving the client's life, while Dani is in a police mindset, which deals with solving the case and helping people by getting the murderer off the street. Both of these views are necessary and they're why Bright is such a valuable addition to the team, but...

5. The conversation is fundamentally about Gerald in a POLICE/COURT CONTEXT. The start of this arguement is JT saying "I think we've got a problem. Let's say Clayton did murder Rosalie, could we even get Gerald to court?" and then Gil follows up with, "And if he did testify, what kind of witness would he be?" The argument stems from them needing to consider if their suspect would end up walking because their witness wouldn't be able to leave the house. Which is definitely something they should be concerned about because part of the job of law enforcement officers is making sure that your case is solid, which means your witnesses need to be as consistent as possible.

6. Context makes it clear that no one is making value judgements on Gerald's character; they're discussing if he'd be an unreliable witness. The first thing here is that being a witness, especially in a case where you'd be testifying as the sole witness of a murder, is a) stressful, b) pushes people out of their comfort zone, and c) a skill. My dad was a police officer for the first 18 years of my life, which meant he spent a lot of time in court and fundamentally, being a witness is something you get practice at. You learn how to answer questions, what lawyers are actually asking you when they say certain things, how far you can/should go in your testimony, all sorts of stuff. Gerald, to our knowledge, has never testified in court, is scared to so much as open his door, and deals with insane amounts of anxiety on a regular day where no one comes to his home. To ask him to leave his house for the first time in 14 years to go and testify at a murder trial where he would likely be brutally investigated by opposing counsel (you could very easily make a case that he's crazy/untrustworthy/unhinged because of his agoraphobia and it'd be hard to get a jury to forget those claims) would be fundamentally cruel. No one on the team, but especially Gil/Dani/JT, is in a position to give Gerald the proper emotional and legal help to make sure that he could hold up under questioning so using him as a witness would likely mean essentially throwing him to the wolves and, by extension, tossing their case. Their job is to catch the killer and if that means going in a different direction and looking for a witness who won't struggle as much in court, that's what they need to do.

7. "Agoraphobia does not make Gerald an unreliable witness." Bright is right when he says this, but Dani is also right when she indicates in the line before that Gerald does not qualify as a reliable witness. How can this be, you may be wondering? Bright is talking about being reliable as in being trustworthy. Dani is using it to mean consistent and able to hold up under pressure. Agoraphobia doesn't mean you can't trust Gerald's information or that he shouldn't be believed. However, it would make it difficult for him to meet Dani's definition of a reliable witness. That's not Gerald's fault or anyone's fault, but it is a reality of the legal system and Dani knows how to work within that system. (Bright likely does too to a certain extent, but as an FBI agent he would have been working on a federal level, while Dani would be used to state-level stuff and those are two VASTLY different arenas. Additionally, it's not entirely clear exactly how Bright's profiling cases worked out in terms of if and when he'd testify, but he mostly likely would have been testifying as an expert witness/leaning on his psychological training more than law enforcement training when he was in court.)

8. Dani calling Gerald 'messed up', 'strange', and 'cursed' is not the most tactful, but certainly not enough of an issue to throw her under the bus. First things first, 'strange' within context of what she's saying is referring to Gerald's situation, not Gerald, so I personally don't see a reason for that being an issue since it is a strange situation. Referring to someone as 'messed up' could definitely not be a great look, but I think it really comes down to personal preference. I wouldn't mind it because I know my mental illness does make me messed up at times so I don’t mind the term, but I also know people who would be hurt by that (granted, it's not exactly one of the worst things you can call someone). Really though, it’s dealer’s choice and if it hurts you, I totally get it; this is just my opinion/POV. Finally, Dani says Gerald is cursed to never leave his house and I could argue for a very long time that she's perfectly fine to say that because both in the context of the conversation and Dani's character as a whole, that comment is her trying to be empathetic and realizing that Gerald is not at fault for how he lives his life. It could be worded better, but she means well and the intention, as long as she's willing to improve her wording if it hurts people, is what matters here. She’s aware that sometimes mental illness feels like a curse and I think that wording makes it clear she doesn’t judge Gerald for his actions.

Final thoughts and TL;DR: I really don't think either party is at fault here. They both have very valid points and pretty clear reasons to think what they do. (Malcolm probably could have used a quick reminder that everyone was talking about Gerald and not him, but that's really it.) If I had to crown a "winner", Dani gets it because the conversation was always about the legal system and she's the most in the right about that issue. Malcolm had great points as well and might have “won” if this wasn’t a conversation specifically happening in the context of police work. She, like everyone, could definitely benefit from learning more about mental health and how to talk about it, but I think she has proven throughout the show that she tries to be as kind and accepting of others as she can. This was a point where she slipped up on wording, but her points were valid.

#prodigal son #dani powell #Malcolm bright #silence emily #this whole thing is just the psych student/mental illness haver side of me #meeting up with the side that knows a lot about police work through my dad #and the two sides doing battle #so if you want to know what my brain looks like #whenever I'm put in a situation where mental health and crime intersect #this is a good summary of it #complete with more words and thoughts than literally anyone wants myself included

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a-lil-bi-furious · 3 years

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Scisaac :D

oof, thank you for this ask, and I am so sorry this took so long to respond. It’s finals season and I grossly underestimated how much I have to do 😅 But here it is, in all it's (hopefully understandable) rambling glory: Scisaac

*aggressively hits ship button*

1) What made you ship it?

I’ve been on the Scisaac train for a looooong time now. When I was first watching Teen Wolf, during my own very teen-y but non-wolfy years, I don’t think I actually started to ship them until a bit into 3A. When I re-watched the show, though, that scene in the club with “No, I mean you. I don’t want you to get hurt.” had me as done for as Isaac. (There’s this lovely gif set someone made, too, that’s just a close up on their hands during the syringe hand-off, and all the subtle, soft finger brushing makes me go feral.) Anyway, that scene was the shipping spark, but it wasn’t really what established Scisaac as an important relationship to me.

For me, the scene in the clinic with the dog (in 2x11 “Battlefield”) is what really cemented that. It’s funny, because this scene really isn’t a shipping scene, right? This is a learning moment which focuses more on resident-mentor Alan Deaton extending to Isaac the opportunity to learn how to use his abilities for something other than anger and power. And I love it so much for that! But the interaction between Scott and Isaac makes me weak. Because you’ve got Isaac--this jaded, abused kid who holds a lot of resentment and fear and accepted the bite, most likely, to feel like he had some modicum of control in his life and the strength to not feel helpless anymore, and in the end externalized all of that rage--experiencing this moment of raw vulnerability with two people who, by all counts, should want nothing to do with him. And we can talk about how that moment in the club was probably one of the first times anyone has shown genuine concern for Isaac’s well-being (and how this act of kindness was coming from someone he’s been hostile to) in who knows how long, but what about the first moment Isaac acts in compassion and tenderness? How long has it been since he considered himself capable of feeling something that wasn’t pain, fear, or that deep seated fury which swallows everything else? How long has it been since Isaac knew any language other than violence? For a moment he’s cracked open and everything is overwhelming and rather than using his hands as weapon and shield, he’s using them to heal. He cries, and for a moment he’s even startled--maybe scared. And what does Scott do? He immediately offers a point of connection and consolation (“It’s okay, I cried the first time he showed me, too.”)

Scott has this heart which is (sometimes dangerously) open and exposed. He cares and he believes so deeply in humanity and goodness that even when he’s spent weeks(?) fighting Isaac, distrusting Isaac, he’s also been worrying about Isaac. And the way Scott acts in this scene is so soft and curious as he’s standing by, watching. It’s like he’s just been waiting for Isaac to let his guard down just enough to step outside of what Derek’s been teaching him (about anger and control, just like he did Scott). And he gets this tiny little smile on his face as he watches it happen, because I can imagine he knows almost exactly how Isaac is feeling. Scott presents it differently and he often buries it down, but he’s angry too. All the time, at so many things, but he chooses to channel his energy into helping other people. And seeing Isaac, who up until this moment has mostly shown animosity and apathy, brought to tears when he learns he can take pain from others just proves to Scott that the tenderness pays off, that caring heals. Everyone is capable of kindness if they choose it, and to watch Isaac open himself up a little bit to that option--one that hasn’t been available to him for a long time--is incredibly rewarding. It just was such a warm, vulnerable, and genuine exchange between all three of them, and given how closed off Isaac is it was a significant indicator of the safety he was starting to feel around Scott.

2) What are your favorite things about the ship?

re: above, my favorite thing about this ship is how tender and vulnerable each of them can be with the other (in their own ways) and how they challenge each other in ways they both really need. Scott encourages Isaac to turn away from aggression as a solution and to focus more on others, on compassionate and peaceful forms of resolution. (It’s uhhh....a work in progress.) Scott softens Isaac in a way I think he really needs. Conversely, Isaac challenges Scott in ways he really needs. Isaac encourages him to place more focus on himself and actually attend to his needs. And also? I just think they would have fun, because Isaac = trouble and Scott 100% enjoys shenanigans more than he acts like he does. He’s a little shit at heart, and I’m here for Isaac encouraging that.

Also, I think their relationship has a good balance because they’re very different people, but I think that they have some points of relation that run deep in ways many people wouldn’t understand. For one thing, I think that Scott has a foundation of understanding for Isaac’s experience of childhood abuse and how this informs his behavior. This is entirely up to interpretation because the show never specified beyond the time Rafael accidentally(?) pushed Scott down the stairs, but even if Scott didn’t experience physical abuse outside of this incident, it’s pretty clear that Rafael is an angry, violent drunk and that the relationship in that home was toxic and (judging by his interactions with Scott and Melissa) likely emotionally abusive. It probably wasn’t always that way; it wasn’t always that way for Isaac either. The abuse that Isaac endured was different and more severe (at least in a physical sense), and whereas Scott’s dad left when he was ten, Isaac was stuck with his dad until the kanima killed him. But I think that experience of living in a home that doesn’t feel safe is something they both share. Isaac’s initial reaction seems to be to run away or retreat when he’s unsafe, but Scott’s is to make it a safe place. I could ramble on and on, but what I’m getting at is just that I think even with extremely different personalities and ideologies, they’d be able to understand each other in very specific, personal ways and help each other cope. I’m also a huge sucker for the fact that Isaac showed up on the McCall’s doorstep and that Scott’s home literally became his home--but, really, Scott became his home. And rather than run or hide when things are scary, he defends his home now (metaphorical and physical) and keeps building it up again. (And yeah, sometimes defense means beating a guy he already hated senseless over Scott not healing and then Scott probably being less than pleased about it, but it’s a learning curve okay?)

3) Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

I’m not sure what the general opinions are on this ship, especially now. But the most unpopular opinion I probably have is about Isaac’s temperament. A lot of people have a tendency to kind of take aforementioned softness and turn Isaac into a very gentle, sweet, puppy-like character, which I just don’t think is realistic. Really and truly, Isaac’s a sarcastic asshole with anger issues and not a whole lot of tact. And, though I tend to think he softens up quite a bit with Scott, I don’t think that changes the nature of his behavior, if that makes sense? I actually think part of the reason Isaac is a good match for Scott in the first place is because he’s this way. Scott has a tendency to ignore his own needs, which often means his wellbeing suffers. Isaac’s the kind of person to point out the bullshit, no sugar-coating, and stubbornly counter Scott’s attempts to excuse his own self-neglect at every turn. Isaac is loyal and caring, yes, but he’s pushy and aggressive about it. And I honestly think Scott needs a partner who won’t put up with his self-sacrifice; he needs someone who’s going to be persistent, because Scott also tends to be pretty obstinate.

In conclusion, I love them your honor.

(Send me a ship and I’ll ramble about why I do/don’t ship it!)

#ty again for the ask friend <3 #spikeface #Teen Wolf #Scisaac #Scott McCall #Isaac Lahey #Ask games #To the other ppl w asks I *will* answer them i promise...just working on an academic paper too so it'll be a bit

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eryiss · 3 years

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Summary: Forced to be sociable by his so called friends, Laxus finds himself attending a five week cooking class. An insulting and stupid idea, and one he resents them for doing. He would have thrown it in their faces, if it weren’t for the smug prick teaching the class, with his handsome face, delectable body, and annoyingly enticing way of keeping Laxus on his toes. [Fraxus One Shot]

Notes: Hi. I wrote this on my phone while sitting on the beach, so who knows how it’ll turn out. But it’s got them both being cocky, both being flirty, and both being in love, so what else could you want. Hope you all enjoy it.

Links: FFN, Ao3

Set To Boil

Or: 4 Times Freed taught Laxus a recipe, & 1 time Laxus returned the favour

Week One - Pizza

"Laxus, you need to get out more."

"Laxus, there's no reason for you not to give it a try."

"Laxus, you're an antisocial brat and you need to get out more."

Fuck them all. Fuck Evergreen for her haughty sense of self belief. Fuck Bickslow for having no tact and being and coming up with good points. Fuck Makarov in particular, for being a rude old coot who threatened to change the damn lock. And when Laxus found out which of the interfering bastards had been the one to come up with this stupid idea, then fuck them too.

It was ridiculous. Yes, perhaps Laxus had become somewhat insular as of late. Maybe his friends had been putting in more effort than him as of late, but it was important. He was newly hired in his sports journalism career, and he needed to focus on his writing.

What he did not need was a five week cooking course!

Why the hell did cooking courses even exist anymore? If you wanted to learn to cook, there was this brilliant new invention called a computer. They had hundreds of step by step recipes, none of which required Laxus to trudge through a damn rec-centre at eight at night!

Seriously, fuck them all.

He was late, too. The bus had missed his stop, and as such he was now ten damn minutes late. He was half-tempted to leave the rec-centre before he found his classroom - Ever, Bicks and Makarov wouldn't find out if he didn't use the damn voucher, after all - but then he would have to spend the next five weeks thinking of ways to pass the time every Thursday night. He really needed to move out of Makarov's damn apartment; the old bastard apparently had nothing better to do than to keep tabs on him. Bastard.

He was in front of the classroom door before he knew it, and he faulted. Dammit, why had he agreed to do this? Why couldn't the bus have gotten him there on time? Why was he nervous about this?

No; he was a grown man dammit. Fuck his nerves,

With false confidence, he walked into the classroom. Eight benches, all with sinks, ovens, cooktops, an array of cutlery and equipment, and a basket of ingredients filled the space. Five people stood behind some of the benches, and Laxus somewhat guilty slinked towards the nearest bench, at the back of the classroom.

"Mr Dreyar, I presume," A voice, deliciously smooth with underlying authority, made Laxus pause.

He looked up to see a man standing at the front of the room, behind a larger and more professional looking cooking worktop, and Laxus paused. If you were to encapsulate all of Laxus' ideal qualities in a man, his new teacher was apparently as close a person could come. Tall, obviously with some muscle, tight and sharp facial features, a little pale, and with long hair. He wore a button up shirt that hugged his form, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off a near-indecent amount of his forearms. He was quirking his eyebrow towards Laxus, and he felt ensnared by the expression.

Dammit, of course. Almost every other cooking class in the country would inevitable be taught by a homely housewife or a tedious Ramsay wannabe, but not his. He gets a stud with veiny forearms, high cheekbones, and narrowed eyes that made Laxus shiver.

He couldn't justify it, but Laxus was inclined to blame his grandfather for that.

"There's a bench up here, if you'd like to take it," The teacher said, motioning towards one of the cooking stations at the front of the room. Laxus cringed; even in school, he'd been one of the kids who sat at the back. That wasn't a habit he was ready to lose.

"I'd rather stay here, if it's all the same to you," Laxus mumbled, annoyed at himself for not speaking clearly. There was something about teachers that just… what did you call someone who intimidated you but also kind of excited you at the same time?

God, this was going to be awful.

"And I prefer it if my students arrived to my lessons on time," The teacher smirked a little, and Laxus almost stuttered in search of a reply. "And, as tends to happen with a student who shows up late on the first day, you'll likely act out further. As such, I want you close by so I can keep you on the straight and narrow," He tapped his finger on the surface twice. "This counter, please."

Though only a few steps, the walk to the counter at the front of the room was humiliating, it served to make the asshole teacher appear less hot, if nothing else. Because Laxus definitely did not like a man who knew how to be firm with him.

This was going to be hell, wasn't it?

At his assigned counter, Laxus felt a little lost. Nestled in the ingredients was a recipie - they were making pizza, apparently - and Laxus slightly found himself floundering. The cooking lessons weren't just to make him more sociable; he had no idea how to cook.

The teacher, who was looking at him from behind his work surface, sighed and approached Laxus. In his hand, he held a chopping board with what appeared to be a large mound of dough. He placed it before Laxus, who drowned down at it.

"Normally I would have taught you how to make dough yourself, but my plan's require the full hour," The teacher said, as if that was an explanation. "Rather than you lagging behind and not getting the whole experience, you should start from the same point everyone else is at. So put yourself to work and start to kneed this. It'll require a few more minutes to get to the right consistency."

Laxus looked down at the dough, grinding his teeth. Kneeding was rubbing it, right? And occasionally you punch it? That didn't sound right.

"Like this," The teacher said, pulling the chopping board towards him. He started to kneed the dough - it wasn't what Laxus thought it was - and the attraction came back with a sudden force. God dammit, why did his sleeves have to hug his biceps like that? That just wasn't fair.

The dough was pushed towards him again, and Laxus rolled up his sleeves and started to emulate what the teacher had done. The teacher didn't leave, and Laxus squirmed a little under, and found himself speaking to fill the silence.

"I ain't gonna learn, y'know," His mouth said before his brain could intercept. "Don't give a shit about cooking."

That a'boy Laxus. Turn up late, fail at a basic thing, and insult the guy's career. Real classy.

"You will." The teacher said, as if it were undeniable.

"I will?" Laxus scoffed.

"You will," The teacher repeated, smirking, "Once you realise what a good home cooked meal taste like, you'll be desperate to learn what else you can do."

"You seem awfully confident about that…" He drifted off; he didn't even know the damn guys name,

"Freed," The teacher supplied. "And I am confident. You'll love cooking by the end of it. I'm sure."

"You talk a big game," Laxus chuckled a little. He almost forgot he was kneeding the dough, but Freed looked down at his hands and grinned a little, which got Laxus to pause. Just because he was kneeding dough it didn't mean he cared; it was basically a workout. That was all, and Freed needed to know that. "If you're that sure, then I'm gonna insist you eat everything I make, no matter how shitty it turns out to be."

"So long as you don't sabotage yourself on purpose, I can agree to that."

Well, Laxus had slightly wanted to make Freed eat combinations of food that tasted like crap, but this could work. Laxus really was that bad of a cook, Freed might not be able to know the difference.

"Deal," Laxus nodded, offering Freed a hand to shake. The chef did so immediately, with a firm squeeze and… oh damn, those veins!

——

Week Two - Curry

Laxus had been right. Even putting in the effort and following the recipie as best he could, he was still a shitty cook. Unless, of course, a curry was meant to be accompanied by a waft of dark, burning smoke when you opened up the oven. Laxus coughed a little as he removed the dish from the oven, placing it on the counter top while shutting the oven door with his foot,

Freed was storming over immediately, flapping at the smoke with a dish towel and immediately turnoff the extractor fan on to suck up the smoke before it reached the detector. He had previously been working with a pink haired bastard, who was snickering at Laxus' failure. Asshole.

"What on earth did you do to it?" Freed demanded, more confused than angry.

"I followed her recipe," Laxus retorted indignantly. "Can't blame me."

"Everyone else has the same recipe and they've managed fine," Freed muttered under his breath. "Explain to me what happened."

Laxus bit down the instinct to tell Freed to choke on something, patronising ass that he was. He had made a deal with Freed the week prior that he would do what he could to make the most of the lessons, and he would enjoy knowing how to make a few meals, so admitting his mistakes was something that he would have to do. Even if it was to a smug, ego-centred teacher who Laxus could definitely take in a fight without breaking a sweat,

Maybe he should suggest some boxing lessons. Laxus had given up pro fighting the year before, but kept it up for fun. If Freed was acting like Laxus was stupid for not knowing the basics of cooking, Laxus would act like Freed was stupid when he didn't understand how to box.

Fantasising about punching Freed in the stomach - which was no doubt toned and sexy as hell - made talking through the process easier. Freed wore a slight frown, apparently not seeing anything wrong with what he had done. Laxus was about to boast that he was right, and that it was Freed's instructions that had gotten the burned pile of mush that filled the room with smoke, but Freed's expression turned to one of understanding when he looked at the oven,

"These work on Celsius, you set it as though you were using Fahrenheit," Freed explained. "You essentially nuked it."

Fuck. God-fucking-dammit!

He could have dealt with it if he was unable to do some cooking thing he'd never had to use before. But this? Misreading a piece of paper and setting the wrong temperature on the damn oven, how the hell had he managed to do that? It was humiliating! He was a grown ass adult, a retired sportsman who was forging a career to be respected. But an oven had made him look like an idiot who couldn't do anything for himself. Fucking brilliant.

With clenched fists, he rested against the workbench and leant on it with closed eyes. This was why he didn't do shit like this; he needed to keep in his lane and do what he was good at. Not cook, not have this weird hate-boner for his teacher. None of this.

"How soon after the class do you need to leave?" Freed asked, cutting through Laxus' spiralling thoughts. He frowned, but answered.

"Don't have any plans after."

"If we start again, we can have you finished ten minutes after class. That way it won't be an act of futility," Freed said, and rolled his damn sleeves up again. Thankfully he was moving around the counter, turning the oven down and fiddling with appliances fast enough to stop Laxus' eyes from lingering. "I can teach you how to spice things to your own tastes, as well. Normally that's next week, but I can advance you for your troubles."

"Advance me?" Laxus frowned. "Kinda need to be good at the basics first."

"You are, everything you said was correct. You made a small mistake that I should have noticed," Freed shrugged, walking to the counter he taught from and taking a box of ingredients to place on Laxus' desk. "I thought you'd learn better left to your own devices, and while I expect that was true, I shouldn't have left you alone. That was my mistake and as such, I'll amend it. We'll make a curry suited towards your tastes."

This was an olive branch, Laxus was sure of it. Freed had apparently noticed Laxus' shift of mood, and took the blame for Laxus' mistake. He was thankful of it, but it was still embarrassing.

Thankfully, a way of saving face had presented itself.

"I don't know if I can believe ya," He said with a small, somewhat forced smirk. "I mean, you don't have a record for keeping promises, do ya?"

"Don't I?"

"You told me you'd eat some of everything I made," Laxus shrugged, looking towards his pot of 'curry' that lay stagnant in the pot. It was grey, somehow. Food shouldn't be grey. "That was a lie."

Freed sighed, but didn't back down. He pulled a dessert spoon from one of the drawers, carefully scooped up some of the ruined mush and brought it towards his lips; damn they were pretty. He openly winced at the smell, swallowing preemptively as it got closer to his mouth. He glanced towards Laxus for a split second, who was watching him with crossed arms expectantly, and let out a resigned sigh. He opened his mouth, took in the spoon, then ate.

First he gagged, then he coughed, then he struggled to swallow. Even though Laxus had worked hard, and a small part of him thought Freed was exaggerating, he laughed at the reaction. Freed was fighting to keep the burned, disgusting food down. Once completely swallowed, he turned to Laxus with a wince.

"Delicious," He lied, trying to hide how thoroughly unhappy he was.

"If that's the case, there's plenty more," Laxus smirked, and Freed actually winced. That, of course, spurred Laxus on further. This was more fun than cooking. "Eat up, I don't mind."

Freed seemed to think for a moment, before standing up straight, rolling his back, and doing something Laxus never would have expected. He pulled out a plate and a ladle, scooped a portion large enough to fill two fully grown adults would struggle to finish no matter what the taste, and placed it on the countertop as if it was something to be proud of.

"A deal," Freed proposed. "I want to teach you one on one for the rest of the session. No distractions, no changing the subject, simply me telling you how to cook. Essentially, until you've cooked something successfully, I want your full attention."

Laxus nearly scoffed, Freed already had that. Instead, he said: "What's my 'delicious' curry got to do with that."

"If you make an attempt to distract me, to get out of lessons in some way, or continue with the mindset that this course is not suited to you, then for the rest of your time learning under me, you'll stay after class and clean everyone's dishes until I'm satisfied with the result."

Laxus winced a little. "And if I don't do any of that."

"I'll eat all of this," He motioned to the plate of ruined food. "And you may watch me do it."

Thinking for a moment, Laxus grinned. "Your funeral," He then glances at the food and winced. "Possibly literally."

Freed waved off the comment, stood beside Laxus with his new range of ingredients, and began explaining the basics of how to get a flavour you desired from your ingredients. On instinct Laxus wanted to taunt the man, suggesting the best way to get a flavour was with a take-out menu, but he managed to stop himself before the words slipped out. Mainly it was to avoid four weeks of dish washing, but also because he hasn't seen Freed like this. He was passionate when he spoke about cooking, and Laxus didn't want to ruin that.

And when Freed's arm slid against Laxus' as they moved, somehow at the same moment Freed looked at him with a genuine smile, Laxus felt shivers roll over him. This was… there were worse ways to spend a Thursday evening.

——

Week Three - Chicken Soup

"Y'know, if you're gonna make such a big deal about-" Laxus cut himself off. Holy shit.

He had been ready to blast into Freed about puntuality. Laxus had gotten to the class on time, only to see that Freed was not there. Eight minutes into the lesson, the door had opened, and Laxus was fully intending to lambast Freed about how much of a big deal it was when Laxus was late, and yet Freed was just as bad. He only stopped when he saw the state Freed was in. Because dammit, the man was drenched to the bone.

What the hell had happened to him? Sure it was raining, but Laxus knew he had a car, and surely the walk from the parking lot to the building hadn't been that bad. He looked like he'd gotten into a fight with a lake and lost.

"Everyone to your work stations please," Freed instructed, removing his coat as he walked to the front of the class. "I apologise for being late, but it shouldn't be too much of an imposition if we all focus."

Laxus was focusing. Focusing on the fact Freed's white shirt was clinging to his chest, showing off strong pecs and the taunting glimpse of a six-pack. It was a temp tight sight, and far too indecent for a classroom setting.

He shook his thoughts away. He needed to focus, because last week's lesson had proved a lot of things. One: Freed was willing to eat a whole plate full of disgusting food to prove a point, which wasn't relevant but Laxus still thought funny to think about him gagging and going green. Two: Freed was actually a damn good teacher, he just apparently hadn't know what Laxus needed from him until the latter half of the class. Three: Laxus actually could cook, if taught well. Because the second curry he'd made was indescribable, and it had tasted just as good when Laxus had cooked it two nights prior.

So, the lessons were actually working, and Laxus decided he was going to fully allow himself to be a student. Groping the teacher with his eyes wasn't going to help that, so Laxus remained quiet and let Freed explain the lesson.

To learn how to flavour things correct, they would all be making a series of different soups throughout the hour. Five basic recipes has been placed on their workspaces, and an entire array of spices, ingredients and flavourings had been scattered through the room. The point of the exercise was to follow the recipes, but also put other ingredients into their soups while doing it so that they can experiment with flavours. It was pretty smart, and Laxus felt like he had an advantage given Freed's impromptu lesson with spices the week before.

Once Freed stopped talking, they began cooking, and Laxus felt oddly confident in himself.

About ten minutes into the exercise, Freed made his way to Laxus' workstation. Wordlessly, he picked up a plastic ladle and scooped out a small amount of the soup Laxus had cooking. Laxus watched with only a small amount of anticipation as Freed brought the soup to his lips and swallowed it, and didn't focus on the flipping of his stomach as Freed smiled at him.

"It's very good," he praised, and Laxus did not preen at the words.

"Thanks," He muttered instead. "Any advice?"

Freed smiled a little at the request, placing the ladle in the small sink. "I'd use sea salt from now on, it'll bring out the flavour of the chicken more. But your instincts have served you well, it works very well together."

"Oh, thanks," Laxus mumbled awkwardly, and Freed didn't help by leaning over the table to look at Laxus' recipe, bring their faces far too close. Thank god the heat of the room has fixed the slight transparency of Freed's shirt, because knowing about the body below the clothes was tempting enough with him this close. If he could see the man's body, he might explode.

"You've put everything you've added onto this, haven't you?" Freed asked, tapping the recipe that had Laxus notes covering it. Laxus nodded weakly. "Then, if you can recreate it as it is now,I then it's time to experiment. Pick something at random to add and see what it tastes like. If it's bad, remake what you've already done."

"Anything huh?" Laxus quirked a brow. "You know you have to eat it, right? You wanna give me this much freedom after last week?"

"So long as you choose your ingredients thinking it will taste good, I'll uphold my agreement," Freed shrugged. "Though I must admit, I'd prefer not to spend the night with stomach cramps and a bucket beside my bed again, if avoidable."

Laxus barked out a laugh. "Kinda thought I'd killed ya when you didn't show up on time. What happened?"

"My car's broken down," Freed explained, looking over the herbs Laxus had added. "It took longer to get here than I expected."

"You walked in this?" Laxus glanced towards the heavy rainfall beating down on the windows.

"Indeed," Freed nodded. "Not my smartest decision."

Laxus winced a little at a roll of thunder exploded outside, apparently trying to make sure Freed knew just how stupid his decision had been. Freed didn't seem too bothered by it, though, and instead walked towards the old woman who worked behind Laxus, tasting her version of tomato soup and giving her advice on how to give it an extra kick.

The rest of the lesson continued on like that. Freed would work his way around the room, helping where he could. Laxus experimented on his soup, finding parmasean to be the missing ingredient.

Freed actually licked his damn lips after trying that. Did he know what he was doing to Laxus?

Once the lesson was over, the storm still lighting up the sky, Laxus walked to the door of the rec-centre. Freed was lingering there, wrapped up in a large red coat and clearly not looking forward to his walk home. Laxus understood that; the rain was so hard it probably would hurt to be under it.

"I'll drive ya home," Laxus said, his tone not leaving room to argue.

"What?" Freed asked. "No, that's not-"

"Didn't give you a choice, did I?" Laxus crossed his arms.

"You intend to kidnap me?" Freed joked.

"Yeah," Laxus nodded. "If you walk out in that, you're gonna get sick for no reason other than your own stubbornness. If that happens, the. Eat I can do for you is give you the recipe for this," he patted the container of chicken soup he held, "but I kinda think driving you might make more sense."

Freed considerd before speaking. "I insist on paying for gas, at least."

"Course you will, I ain't a cheap date."

The words came before Laxus could stop himself, and a flush of worry spread through him. Freed simply laughed, murmured a teasing "I expect not," and walked towards the door. He held it open for Laxus to walk through, and with a small grin, Laxus did so, with Freed by his side.

When the rain hit them, Laxus didn't care, and it certainly didn't diminish the silly smile that he hoped Freed couldn't see.

——

Week Four - Meringues

"What are you looking at, Laxus?"

Freed seemed amused as he spoke, and he walked towards Laxus' working area. Laxus had been trying to catch his teacher's eye for around a minute, with probably a stupid little grin on his face. He couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed about being caught out.

The drive home with Freed has been a long one - thirty minutes in the car; how long would it have been if he'd walked! - and they'd talked throughout. Laxus had learned that, until recently, Freed had been a professional chef for the TV show 'Sabertooth Chefs', a cooking competition watched by millions. He was off camera, making the meals that the celebrity judges claimed they had cooked to use as an example for their contestants. Apparently he quit because of a lack of passion.

That, and apparently Rufus Lore - the judge he cooked for - was obnoxious and could barely bake a loaf of bread if left on his own.

Laxus spoke about his own life. How he'd felt obligated to quit his pro-boxing career after a nasty head wound that resulted in his scar. How he was now a freelance writer who did sports analysis for some of the sports magazines and websites. Freed had seemed impressed, and claimed he'd watch out for his work.

They were closer now, and as such Laxus felt comfortable joking with him.

"I've got a question," he said when Freed was close. "You said you'd taste everything I cook, right? Well, for food, tasting something means you're experiencing it, right?"

"I suppose," Freed agreed, though seemed to know he was walking into a trap.

"Well, with meringues, you showed us that trick, right," Laxus smirked. "Where if you've made it correctly, you can turn the bowl over and the mixture won't fall out."

"Yes," Freed was wary now.

"Well, you also said for the best experience," he put emphasis on the word, "then you tip it up over your head. If you've done it right, it stays in the bowl. If you ain't, it covers ya."

"I did say that," Freed muttered.

"Well, if you're gonna experience everything I make, surely you should do it." He smirked; and pushed the bowel of mixture towards him.

Freed looked down, resignedly.

Then he perked up and reached into his pocket, pulling out a coin. He flipped it with flair and caught it, covering it before either of them could see the result.

"Heads or tails?" He requested, and Laxus chuckled.

"Heads."

Freed removed his hand, and Laxus let out a cry of triumph. He nudged the bowel towards Freed, grinning wide and ridiculous as Freed openly sighed. Laxus crossed his arms to hurry the man up, and it seemed to work.

With quick, resigned movements, Freed lifted the bowel. The thick white mixture jiggled slightly, and Freed turned it upside down above his head before he could stop himself.

And… it stayed in place.

For a moment, Freed seemed to be wincing in anticipation, before a look of triumph flooded onto his face. He turned the bowel back over and placed it on the counter.

"Kinda anticlimactic," Laxus said, picking up a spoon.

"But it means you did it correctly," Freed smiled. "You can take solace in that."

"Guess so," Laxus nodded. "Or I could do this."

With neither showmanship nor hesitation, Laxus used the spoon so scoop a dollop of the mixture up and flicked it towards Freed's face. For a moment, all Freed could do was blink, and Laxus burst into stifled laughter.

It had splattered over his lips, nose, and left cheek. Equal parts ridiculous and oddly attractive.

"Mister Dreyar," Freed spoke calmly, but he was trying to hide a smile. "I will be seeing you after class."

He turned away. Laxus snickered.

Although it was tempting to be a dick for the rest of the lesson, Laxus behaved himself. This was the only lesson that they did on desserts, and Laxus wanted to learn. That, and he felt Freed wasn't going to take his little prank lying down, so he probably shouldn't piss him off further.

When everyone else was gone, and Laxus was left alone with Freed, there was a moment of quiet. He motioned for Laxus to approach the desk. Laxus did so.

He was hit in the face by a spurt of ketchup.

It continued, splattering across his face. He gasped, and Freed apparently aimed for his mouth at the moment. It was a stupid moment, not helped by the noise the bottle was making, and eventually the spray died out.

Neither man spoke for a moment.

They both started laughing at the same time, and Freed handed Laxus a napkin to clean himself with.

"You're an asshole, you know that right?" Laxus said with mirth in his voice. "You still got the balls to want a ride from me again?"

"Is the offer still available?" Freed chuckled.

"Sure, just as long as you don't mind me getting some glue and those decorative feather things from a store on the way back," Laxus smirked. "There's a smug asshole who needs to be tarred and fathered."

"Perhaps I'll get the bus," Freed grinned, then frowned a little. Perhaps without thinking, he reached up and stroked Laxus' cheek to rid it of a remaking fleck of sauce.

They both halted, frozen for a moment, and Laxus' mind was set alight. In that moment he knew one thing for sure; he couldn't let Freed go.

——

Week Five - Solyanka

"That will be all for our time together," Freed said, standing at the front of the class. "I hope you all enjoyed your time together, and that you've all learned something. At the risk of promoting myself, I have other courses available that last longer and offer more flexibility with what you'll cook, if you want to further your culinary pursuits. If not, then it was a pleasure working with you all, and I wish you well in your endeavours."

It was weird seeing Freed using his teaching voice; the things he said weren't Freed-like. It was kind of funny.

Laxus hung back when the rest of the class funnelled out. Some of them spoke to Freed before leaving, orbits just left, but Laxus decided to hang back and wait. As he did, he pulled out a small plastic tub from a bag he'd brought with him, waiting for Freed to take note. Once everyone was gone, Freed saw him still standing at the end of his cooking surface.

"Laxus," He said, and he seemed pleased Laxus was still there. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, just wasn't ready to leave yet," Laxus passed it off as a joke, but the stopped himself. "I, Erm, well, there's this recipe my family's been making for years. Generations, actually. Just wanted to know what you think."

"You want me to critique a family recipe?" Freed frowned.

No. No he didn't. He wanted to share something with Freed that was important to Freed. It was ridiculous to think, but this old Russian dish was something he had loved for his life, and he wanted Freed to love it too. It seemed stupid now he was thinking about it, but they only really had food in common right now, and Laxus felt like it was his turn to add something to the conversation.

"It's called Solyanka," Laxus said instead of answering the question. "It's a soup. For sausages, olives, cabbage. A lot of things, really."

Laxus didn't say anything else, and picked out a pot from the cupboards to place on the stove. He emptied the contents of the container into the pot and stated to bear it up.

"It tastes better when it's not been reheated but-"

"It smells beautiful," Freed said, cutting through Laxus' backtracking. "And I'm sure it will taste just as good."

"Thanks," Laxus mumbled a little.

As they waited for the soup to heat, there was a comfortable quiet between them both. Freed seemed engrossed in the cooking - the growing scent, the occasional stirring - and it gave Laxus the chance to watch him. He had known Freed was hot from the moment he'd seen him, but he was also fucking beautiful. His hair was pulled out and flowing over his shoulders, and his expression was calm and relaxed.

Laxus was glad he had done this, suddenly. He would have regretted it. This couldn't be the end of his relationship with Freed; it just couldn't.

He went to speak, but Freed went first.

"I think it's time to take it off the heat," He said gently, as if wanting to avoid offending Laxus by telling him how to cook his meal. Laxus quickly removed the pot from the heat.

With now familiar movements, Laxus pulled out two bowls and poured them both a portion. Laxus sat on one of the stools, waiting a little nervously as he saw Freed spoon some of the soup up and take it into his mouth.

"Wow," Freed whispered. "It's incredible."

Pride bloomed inside Laxus, and he didn't tamper it down. This piece of Laxus had pleased Freed. It had made Freed smile such a brilliant smile that it was like a shot to the heart. He was speechless, and Freed spoke again.

"You're incredible, Laxus," he said with equal sincerity.

"What?" Laxus frowned slightly.

"You're incredible, Laxus," Freed repeated, smiling now. "You've made these five weeks remarkably fun for me, and I'm sad to see you go."

"I'm sad to be going," Laxus mumbled, unused to speaking honestly about these kinds of things. "These have been… the best part of my week."

"Mine too," Freed admitted, and the words sent lighting throughout him.

There had been a small part of Laxus that had thought it had been in his head. He felt like he and Freed had been steadily growing closer and closer, in a way that couldn't exactly be called platonic. It felt like this was the moment where a choice had to be made. Laxus could either hide from his feelings, as he had often done in his life, or he could take the dive. Just like he'd done when he had quit his job. Just like he'd done when he'd come to the class in the first place. Just like he should have been doing all his life.

Freed was going to speak, but the urge to act overtook Laxus and he moved before it could dwindle. He launched himself toward, took Freed by the back of the neck, and kissed him.

It wasn't perfect, but the imperfection made it better.

The feeling of the desk jutting into his hip might have been a bother, but it was nothing compared the the brilliance of soft lips moving against his own.

The lingering spice on Freed's tongue could have been a distraction, but it only added to the searing sensation flying through him.

The scent of Laxus' Solyanka might have drawn focus, but instead it nudged with Freed's cologne and created a beautiful feeling of mingled familiarity and uniqueness.

This was the type of kiss that was unforgettable.

Freed's hand was grazing the back of Laxus' neck, scratching at the usually untouched skin in a way Laxus was tempted to put at. He smiled a dopey smile, leaning further into the kiss.

When they pulled apart, breathless and smiling, they couldn't look away from each other.

"Don't know how this works with a chef," Laxus began in a whisper. "Don't wanna offend your sense of pride, but d'you maybe wanna get a bite to eat some place?"

For a stagnant second, that felt like an eternity to Laxus, Freed didn't say anything.

"I'd love that," Freed nodded a little, though his head still rested against Laxus'. "So long as you don't mind me critiquing everything?"

The joke was trumped by the honesty in his voice. Freed really wanted it!

"I can deal with that."

They shared a quiet, private smile. One that promised excitement, passion, and if Laxus allowed himself to be optimistic, perhaps a future as well.

#Fraxus #freed x laxus #freed justine #laxus dreyar #fairy tail #fanfic #writing #one shot #Word Count: 6k

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foxghost · 3 years

Text

Joyful Reunion, Chapter 95

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

Book 3, Chapter 21 (Part 5)

If Duan Ling is to think about it, Mu Qing is the one person to whom he’s done the most disservice. With every friend he’s ever made before, both he and the other party had given a part of himself, treated their friendship with sincerity, while Mu Qing is the only one he’s constantly guarded against. If they’d met when they were ten years old, they’d definitely have become the best of friends.

“Master Chang Pin said that Wu Du wants to keep you by his side, and that’s why he said your fortune made you unsuitable for marriage. He doesn’t want you to be taken away by someone else. You’re fully aware that there’s no such thing, don’t you?”

Chang Pin’s eyes are too sharp by far, Duan Ling thinks; when Wu Du said those words that night, Duan Ling truly did not expect them, and therefore Chang Pin had caught his momentary surprise. After that, Duan Ling had carefully dissected it in his head and realised that it’s something he had to declare — otherwise, if the Mus decide they want to form a marriage alliance with him, it would certainly complicate things. Who could guarantee that Mu Kuangda doesn’t have an illegitimate daughter hidden away somewhere out there?

This is only what Mu Qing is voicing aloud, so there must be more information that hasn’t been passed on. Chang Pin wouldn’t have brought up the matter of Duan Ling’s marriageability without cause, so he must have had something to talk about with Mu Kuangda that involved asking Mu Qing questions that he managed to hear him say that.

“Even if that’s true.” Duan Ling gives him a faint smile. “What’s wrong with being with Wu Du?”

That really is what Duan Ling truly believes; no matter what his future path may lead, he’s only going to walk it at Wu Du’s side. He wouldn’t keep to himself, the way his dad did. When he thinks of his father, Duan Ling would go so far as to say that he was already inconceivably strong.

At times, he could relate to Cai Yan. Though they haven’t met face to face after he returned to Jiangzhou, he knows Cai Yan’s fear and trepidation is even more severe than his own, and the only person he could hold on to, the only straw he’s holding onto at the edge of a precipice, is Lang Junxia.

But Mu Qing is feeling quite indignant on Duan Ling’s behalf, believing that Wu Du has tied Duan Ling to himself with a debt of gratitude. But since Duan Ling has put it that way, Mu Qing will stop talking badly about him behind his back. He can but nod and say, “Well, as long as you’re happy.”

Duan Ling smiles, but what surfaces in his mind is another scene altogether — when Mu Qing overheard the conversation between Chang Pin and his father, and filled with indignation, said he’s going to remind Duan Ling, Mu Kuangda must have told him not to say anything as it’d be of no use. Mu Qing didn’t believe him, said it anyway, and this is the predictable result.

I’m a tactful man — Mu Kuangda is always saying that. Duan Ling understands him very well, but alas his son is always quite blunt. Sometimes Duan Ling feels as though he’s far more like Mu Kuangda’s son than Mu Qing, and Mu Qing’s mindset is more like his own father Li Jianhong. Perhaps if they swap their dads around, everything would seem to be a more normal fit.

“What are you smiling at?”

“You’ve grown,” Duan Ling says.

“You make yourself sound so old or something.”

“When I was in Tongguan, I missed you very much.”

Mu Qing says smilingly, “Dad was so busy with the capital relocation that I was about bored to death. I was waiting for you to come back every single day.”

Duan Ling almost didn’t think of Mu Qing at all, he’s only telling him this now in an attempt to make him happy. Wu Du is someone who’d treat him well without knowing who he is, and so is Mu Qing. There’s a world of difference between these two people, however.

Outside, soft powdery snow is falling, and they huddle around a fire pan, not wanting to study at all. Duan Ling thinks he may as well give up, and tosses his books aside. He says to Mu Qing, “Let me take you out somewhere. Where do you want to go?”

Mu Qing would never imagine that the studious Duan Ling would be the one to ask to take him out somewhere. His eyes brighten at once. “Let’s go! I’ll take you somewhere!”

One must stop to smell the flowers every once in a while, and it just so happens that the estate is empty at the moment. Duan Ling quickly puts away their things and goes back to his courtyard house to change his clothes. When he comes out behind Mu Qing, the carriage is stopped right in front of the alley. Duan Ling asks, “Where’re we going?”

“You’ll find out once we get there,” Mu Qing replies and digs around in his waist purse until he finds a plaque. He holds on to the plaque and takes Duan Ling’s hand, giving his own hand warming stove to Duan Ling.

“Who’s there?”

The carriage travels for a while before they’re stopped at a guarded checkpoint. Duan Ling is about to answer, but Mu Qing gestures for quiet and reaches through the curtain to show the guards his plaque. “Me. I’m from the Mu family.”

“Young master of the Mu family.” The guard outside says, “Is it just you?”

“I’m here to see my dad,” Mu Qing says.

The guard hands his plaque back to him and lets the carriage pass. Are we going to the Secretariat? Where Mu Kuangda works? He’s always wanted to see the Office of the Grand Secretariat, and yet Mu Qing still won’t let him talk. It’s not until they pass through several checkpoints, after their carriage has taken many twists and turns, and has come to a stop before Mu Qing tells him, “Alright then, let’s go!”

A light snow is falling, and it is just past noon; everything is a bit damp. When Duan Ling puts his foot on the ground, he realises that he’s in a courtyard, and the walls are as tall as two people stacked on top of each other. It seems to be a rear courtyard.

“What is this place?” Duan Ling asks curiously.

Mu Qing doesn’t say anything. He takes Duan Ling’s hand and starts walking towards the other gate in the courtyard. Duan Ling is asking himself if this is what the Secretariat Office looks like, but that seems less likely with every step. It’s only after they get through a covered gallery and a flower garden that he suddenly realises they’re in the palace!

“The palace?” Duan Ling says, flabbergasted.

“Heheh.” Mu Qing has clearly taken Duan Ling here to stretch his horizons, so of course Duan Ling’s astonishment has made him quite pleased with himself. But he has no idea that to Duan Ling, this novel place he’s never been in, is his actual home.

Duan Ling’s head snaps through a dozen calculations, thinking he’d better not run into Cai Yan right now, but even if he does run into Cai Yan, so what? There’s no way he’d dare commit murder in the palace, would he? The idea makes him both nervous and excited.

Mu Qing looks like he’s lost. “Damn, I forgot we aren’t in Xichuan. How come the Jianzhou palace is so huge? I don’t even know where the path is.”

Duan Ling says, “Don’t panic. We’ll ask someone.”

They spy several guards standing in the winding corridor, and a warrior who seems like a captain of sorts, who’s giving the others instructions, so Duan Ling walks up to them to ask for directions. Yet as soon as the warrior turns around, Mu Qing goes pale with fear and hurriedly waves at Duan Ling while whispering, “Don’t go!”

Alas, though he wonders at Mu Qing’s reaction, Duan Ling is already within the warrior’s line of sight. The man has finished giving his instructions and has noticed Duan Ling.

He’s eight feet tall2 with straight black eyebrows and bright eyes, clad head to toe in black armour, carrying a plain black iron dragon flail.3

Wrapped up in a fur cape, Duan Ling has just come out of his classroom in the chancellor’s estate without having spent any time on his appearance. His hair is casually draping over his shoulders, running down his back, and he has the coral bracelet Mu Qing gave him wrapped around his wrist. As soon as the man sees him, he stops in his tracks, staring at Duan Ling incredulously as though he’s fallen into a dream.

Duan Ling isn’t sure what to make of that, and for a moment remains silent.

The warrior seems lost in thought. Duan Ling raises a hand and waves it in front of his face rather apprehensively.

“You’re …” The warrior says with a frown.

Blowing snow sweeps by them, Duan Ling smiles, straightening his back before he puts one fist in his palm to bow square and properly at the warrior.

In an instant, time turns backwards around them; the snow that covers the earth and sky is drawn away in a flash towards the horizon.

Time flows against the current. The yellow leaves beneath the trees in the palace gardens fly back onto their branches; flowers wither and bloom again, leaves turn yellow then green. Time fluctuates around him and countless images flash by in a blink as though he’s returned to the border, south of the Yellow River.

I live by the north sea and you the south; not even the great goose can carry my letters.

Peach and plum trees in spring breeze, a single cup of wine, sojourns, night rain, ten years beneath a solitary lantern.4

“My name is Wang Shan, Could you tell me in which palace hall the empress resides, please?”

Xie You finally awakens from his memories, and by now Mu Qing has jogged his way over to Duan Ling. He stands behind Duan Ling, and gives Xie You a shy smile. “General Xie, I’m here to … see my aunt.”

“Greetings, General Xie,” Duan Ling hastily adds.

Xie You comes back to the present in a heartbeat, but it’s to fall into an even more prolonged bout of distraction, until a single snowflake lands on Duan Ling’s eyebrow. Duan Ling seems a little lost, and a shallow furrow appears between his brows.

And then Xie You slowly raises a hand to point at the end of the corridor.

Mu Qing and Duan Ling salute immediately to thank him.

Mu Qing says, “Thank you, General Xie.”

“Thank you, General Xie,” Duan Ling repeats.

Mu Qing takes Duan Ling’s hand and runs off as quickly as he can. Still standing in the covered gallery, Xie You is surprised to find he’s momentarily dazzled, overcome with a feeling of vertigo, and his heart feels like it’s been given a dull thump with a hammer.

“That was Xie You,” Mu Qing says to Duan Ling. “Commander of a major army division. The best fighter of Jiangzhou, Defender General of Great Chen.”

Duan Ling is astonished beyond words. Did he recognise me? He probably shouldn’t have been able to recognise me. Even Wu Du and Mu Kuangda didn’t manage to recognise him, so let alone Xie You? He resembles his mother and doesn’t share his father’s features, but that’s somehow become a layer of protection for him.

“He gives off such a killing aura,” Duan Ling says. “The way he was looking at me earlier feels like he was going to kill me.”

“He’s like that with everyone.” Clearly, Mu Qing still remembers the impression he had of Xie You from a year ago. During that summer storm, Mu Kuangda had taken him to Li Jianhong in an attempt to give his son to him as a disciple. Xie You’s might has truly left a deep impression on him.

They make their way to the Palace of Eternal Autumn, only to find that Empress Mu Jinzhi isn’t there. A palace maid staying behind knows Mu Qing though, and smiles at him. “Aiya, what are you doing coming all the way here on your own?”

“Where’s my aunt?”

“She’s in the garden with His Majesty right now.”

Mu Qing asks the maid to find the clothes he keeps in the Autumn Palace, then he and Duan Ling change into them. Duan Ling recalls how Mu Qing’s aunt is Mu Jinzhi — the current empress. That is to say, if he goes over there just like this he’s going to run into Li Yanqiu. As this thought occurs to him, his heart starts beating out of his chest. He’s not even sure how things will turn out if Cai Yan and Lang Junxia also happen to be there.

Wu Du has also come to the palace. Is he here?

“I’d better …” Duan Ling hesitates, “not show my face. I’ll just watch from a distance. You brought me here secretly, and that’s not proper after all.”

“That’s fine. The empress is my aunt, and His Majesty is my uncle. What’s there to be scared of?”

“No no. I’m a bit scared.”

Duan Ling is far more than just a bit scared — to rashly rush his way to Li Yanqiu will create a situation out of his control. As he’s insisting over and over, Mu Qing says, “Well alright, we’ll just watch from a distance, that way I wouldn’t get interrogated either.”

By the time they get to the Imperial Gardens, the snow has stopped. The carved balustrades and flying eaves of the palace are outlined in an even gauze of bright white. When Duan Ling sees what’s happening in the garden, his heart does a little flip. Inside the pavilion are several tables, one person sitting behind a table facing the garden, while the crowd has left a clearing in the garden itself, with quite a few people standing at its edge.

“The one in the middle is His Majesty,” Mu Qing explains, holding Duan Ling by the sleeve, keeping them behind a pillar.

The woman next to Li Yanqiu is of course Mu Jinzhi, and to the left of the seat of the emperor is a young man with an underling behind him, while farther down the line are Mu Kuangda and two more officials.

An envoy dressed in Mongolian clothing is seated in the guest seat to the right.

“The Mongolians are here?” Duan Ling thinks of the coral beads he’s wearing — ah, that fits now.

“Today is the sixth of the twelfth month — the crown prince’s birthday.” The palace maid in charge explains to them, “The Mongolians have sent an envoy with gifts to congratulate him.”

Duan Ling nods, and sees four people standing in the clearing outside the pavilion that are not speaking to one another. They are precisely Chang Liujun, Lang Junxia, Zheng Yan, and Wu Du. Duan Ling spots Wu Du with a single glance, and Wu Du is looking extremely impatient as he stares at the scene with crossed arms.

Two Mongolians are performing a wrestling match for the crown prince. Duan Ling cannot help but remember the wrestling moves Batu taught him when they were at the Illustrious Hall. From what he’s seeing, this isn’t the first time the Mongolians have come to call on Southern Chen’s imperial family.

I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

The “eight feet tall” was a common description for “tall”. Probably about 185cm. ↩︎

The precursor to the nunchucks. They look like nunchucks, except one of the sticks is about 4x the size of the other one, with a short chain in the middle. It’s an anti-cavalry weapon. ↩︎

Poem by Huang Tingjian, Song dynasty. It was called “To Huang Jifu”, a friend of Huang Tingjian in his youth. What’s implied here is “since we met in spring beneath fruit trees and drank from a single cup, it’s been ten years of wandering alone, moving from place to place, and missing you.” ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things

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wherevermyway · 3 years

Text

why can’t we drink forever? (1/2) // minsung // 18+

one: i will only complicate you series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: lee minho x han jisung rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: creator chose not to use archive warnings, explicit sexual content past character death, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, depression, edgy cynical depressed jisung, ambiguous/open ending. word count: 5,883 also on AO3

originally posted: 20 january 2021

After being arrested for driving under the influence, Jisung learns that money can buy his way out of jail time, but it can’t buy his way out of his feelings.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable, please stop reading now.

“I don’t know how things got this way, Sungie, baby. I’m worried about you.”

A sarcastic huff leaves the lips of the young man seated in the passenger seat of a sleek, new all-white Audi. He kicks his feet up on the dash, earning a frown from the middle-aged woman driving the vehicle. The young blonde stares out the window as he fumbles around his hoodie pocket. Out comes a white pack of Marlboro Gold cigarettes and an engraved silver lighter.

“You and me both, ma,” he tuts as he pops a white cigarette up from the pack into his mouth, flicking the dial of his lighter as he takes in a deep breath. He jams a finger down on the window button, the crisp winter air blowing the grey cloud around, the acrid scent of burnt tobacco filling the car. “Guess if we knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be in the car now, huh?”

“Maybe you’d have gotten into a better university,” his mother sighs as she shakes her head.

A devious smirk curls up on the young man’s mouth as he brings the cigarette up to his lips again, taking a long drag. He knows better than to verbally respond with a cynical quip.

Maybe I’d be fuckin’ dead.

Alcoholics Anonymous sounded like a cult following: a twelve-step programme where all of its members had to follow a strict code, be mentored by a sponsor, and thank some bullshit deity to be given a new chance every day. “Every day is a new chance,” the cult leader would say at the beginning of every meeting. “May God grant us the serenity…”

“I’m Jisung, and the courts told me I’m an alcoholic, so I guess I’m an alcoholic,” the artificial blonde shrugged his shoulders, the ghost of burnt coffee still dancing on his tongue as he spoke.

The mindless cult drones spouted off a casual “hi, Jisung,” in monotonous, unenthusiastic unity as the young man sat down.

“How did you get here?” The meeting’s leader was relentless in prodding the young man. “You’re not obligated to tell us, of course,” which was a boldfaced lie, “but acknowledging your problems might help your recovery.”

Jisung brought the styrofoam cup full of lukewarm, acrid coffee to his lips and took a long sip. He winced at the taste and pursed his lips as he made eye contact with the leader. “I was abducted by aliens, man, now I’m here. Shit was crazy.”

The leader frowned, ready to interrupt Jisung.

“Nah,” the young man kicked his feet out from under the metal fold-up chair, flipping his hood over his head with his free hand. “I got drunk, went out to get more booze, then hit a tree on the way back and the cops pulled me over since my headlight was out. The internet wasn’t lying when they said all cops are fuckin’ bastards.” His quip earned a laugh from a few younger members, whereas several of the older people shook their heads in frustration.

“Please,” the leader sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s refrain from political commentary. Thank you for your,” there’s a pause as the leader clears his throat, “for your candor, Jisung. Now that we’ve introduced all of our new attendees, why don’t we move along with the next step in the meeting?”

The meeting was pointless, all of the same shit that Jisung had read about in the fliers that were handed to him with his sentencing. He had to endure twelve months of this, but it wasn’t like he was doing much else with his life, anyways. Jisung poured the last of the disgusting coffee from the cardboard takeaway box into his cup, then tossed the box into the large rubbish bin at the end of the table. One last cup of free shitty coffee before he left; it would pair nicely with the cigarette he so desperately craved.

“Hey!” A bright voice came up behind him and Jisung rolled his eyes at the way optimism dripped from the trill. He slowly turned around, taking a sip of the cold coffee in his cup. A young man with neon pink hair, probably the same age as Jisung, smiled widely as he stuck his hand out. “I’m Felix, nice to see someone here that’s about my age.”

Jisung gingerly accepted the hand and shook it twice before quickly sticking his hand back into his pocket. “Charmed. How long are you stuck here for?”

“Oh!” Felix shook his head, smile still wide on his face as he pensively looked down to his shoes. “I’m not here for… well, I’m a psychology major.”

Of course he was.

Felix tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and tapped his foot twice as he continued to smile at Jisung. “I’m also new here and was hoping I could make friends.”

Jisung shook his head, reaching into his hoodie pocket for his pack of cigarettes and familiar silver lighter. “I’m not a good influence. Don’t think I’d make good friends with someone so… nice.” He meandered a white cigarette out of the packet with a single hand, then tucked it behind his ear, lighter still tucked into his palm. “No offence, dude.”

The smile finally fell from the pink-haired man, who quickly pulled his hands from his pockets, “wait, wait!”

Jisung cocked an eyebrow at the man, biting his tongue as he felt the clawing at the back of his head, his synapses screaming a plea for him to get a hit of more nicotine.

“I don’t wanna sound desperate,” Felix ran his bottom lip under his teeth as he looked around nervously, “I just really wanna talk with someone that’s so different than me. I’ll even buy you dinner or something from the diner down the street.”

As insulting as the words ‘so different than me’ came off to Jisung, desperation was a bad look for anyone. “You got a car?” Felix nodded twice, biting his lip as he stared at Jisung. “Lead the way, psycho student Felix.”

Felix’s eyes went wide and his bright smile came back, beaming brighter than before. “It’s psychology, not psycho.”

The blonde rolled his eyes as he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and tucked it in between his teeth. “I know what I said.”

The food at the diner was mediocre at best: rubbery scrambled eggs and burgers made from frozen patties that were likely a concoction of rejected organ meat slurry and textured vegetable protein. It was cheap, but it was always good. Rich in comfort, lacking in quality: the antithesis to Jisung’s life.

Jisung hadn’t been here in two years, not since his friend turned on-again, off-again boyfriend Changbin left for university, halfway across the country. This was the place they’d come to at three in the morning after hitting up a house party, where they would drunkenly curl up with each other and swap kisses that tasted like stale beer and watery coffee.

This was the place where Changbin broke up with Jisung for the final time, Changbin citing that they wouldn’t be able to stay in contact much anymore. However, he hadn’t told Jisung that he was sleeping with someone that graduated a couple years prior and was conveniently attending the same university as him.

That night tasted like vodka and strawberry soda, the latter of which Jisung never let grace his tastebuds again.

The blonde scowled down at his orange juice, watching the ring light above their table shimmer and ripple in the liquid. He hadn’t heard from Changbin in two years, and he was as bitter about it as the black, burnt edges of the hashbrowns that stuck to his plate.

“You okay?” Felix poked his fries with a fork, bringing one to his lips as he scanned Jisung’s expression.

“Are any of us okay, psycho student?”

Felix furrowed his brows and set his fork down against his plate, chewing on the crinkled french fry a bit before he swallowed. He folded his hands together and rested his chin against the interlaced fingers. “No, like,” he shrugged, eyes shifting around a bit, “I mean it. You seem kinda distant.”

Jisung rolled his eyes up to meet Felix’s and he cocked his eyebrow. He was starting to regret tagging along with this kid he barely knew, feeling like this was less of a potential friendship and more like a therapy session. “You don’t know me, man.”

“No, but I know people.”

“You’re a sophomore psychology student, dude. You don’t know shit.”

The pink-haired man sighed, back thudding against the plasticky booth. “I guess you’re right about that. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know, though.”

“Your funeral, then.” Jisung followed suit, leaning up against the booth with a bit more tact, swinging his arm around the wood frame. “I had my first sip of alcohol when I was thirteen. Got bored when my parents fucked off to Italy on some shitty trip without me.”

Felix tilted his head up like a dog, suddenly alive with renewed interest.

“They’re only parents in blood and title.” Jisung looked down at the table, scratching inanely at a chip in the pale green linoleum. “I was raised by nannies and tutors until I was fifteen. Most parents would probably panic when they leave the house, coming back to an empty liquor cabinet. My parents? Nah, they just restocked it and told me not to drink too much at once.”

“That’s,” Felix’s voice trailed off as he looked away, milling over the new information.

“It’s fucked,” Jisung finished the sentence, then brought the plastic cup of orange juice to his mouth and took a long sip. He set the cup back down and pulled up the sleeve covering his left arm, presenting the flesh over the table. Felix visibly recoiled as he eyed dozens of scarred lines littered across the skin, some marks still relatively fresh. “Their response to this? ‘We’ll get you into therapy and you won’t do this again.’ It was always the best money could buy, but their money didn’t do shit to my brain.” He shuffled the cloth over his arm again, ignoring the look of pity Felix offered him.

“If money could buy them a better son, they would’ve traded me out, like upgrading a car on a lease.”

Felix stumbled over his words a bit as Jisung rifled through his pockets, pulling out his phone and his wallet. “You still wanna make friends with someone like me?”

It took a moment, but Felix tentatively nodded his head. “Doesn’t sound like you have many friends to begin with,” he nervously sputtered out.

Jisung cocked his head to the side and licked his teeth as he smiled. “I don’t do friends. But life’s full of surprises. Anyway, gimme your phone so we can swap contact info.”

They exchanged phone numbers and Jisung dropped a couple of bills on the table. “Don’t worry about it,” he said as soon as Felix opened his mouth to protest, “you’re a university student and I’ve got my shitty parents’ cash to burn.”

“I’ll see you next week?” Felix questioned as Jisung stepped out of his shoddy 2003 Toyota Camry.

Jisung nodded once, tipping his index and middle fingers off of his forehead. “You got it. Thanks for the ride, mate.” He slammed the door with a fake smile that faded as soon as he turned around. Sure, Felix was the antithesis of everything Jisung was, but he could prove to be a source of entertainment over the next year.

Despite being cynical and vehemently anti-religion, Jisung always said a quiet prayer to himself as he opened the door, hoping his parents weren’t home when he arrived. Today, it seemed like luck was on his side: his mother’s keys weren’t on the key rack, and his father had yet to return from some bullshit ‘business trip’ off in China. Perhaps it was Morocco or Norway; they all blurred together in a haze of indifference. All Jisung was sure of was the fact that his father had probably taken one of his mistresses away to some foreign country he was pretending to secure a business deal in.

“Everyone’s favourite fuck-up is home!” Jisung shouted in the empty vestibule, his voice echoing against the cold walls. He didn’t expect a response, so when he was greeted with a comfortable silence, he smiled to himself. He kicked his shoes off and unceremoniously tossed them into the corner by the key rack.

His heavy, heel-first footsteps echoed as he made his way towards the kitchen, pulling a bottle of wine out of a glass display cooler as he padded towards the main refrigerator. He pulled out a box of takeaway Indian curry from the night prior, setting both the box and the bottle on the marble kitchen island, shuffling his feet towards a drawer. He retrieved a fork and a wine key, tossing them onto the countertop as he pulled out his phone, pack of cigarettes, and his lighter.

Jisung opened the bottle of wine as he sat down on a stool next to the counter, tossing the cork towards the rubbish bin, shrugging as he missed. That was a problem for later, and he didn’t feel like dealing with it now. Completely ignoring the takeaway carton, Jisung grabbed the wine bottle, then took a long guzzle directly from it. He winced a bit as the flavour of fermented floral grapes perfumed his mouth with a sharp, sickly rotten scent. The bottle clattered loudly against the marble, the echoing reminding Jisung of just how alone he was in such a large house.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, bringing his phone up in front of his face, scrolling through one of his playlists until he found the right song. With a few taps, some Drake came through the kitchen speakers. Jisung turned up the volume to near max, his head subconsciously moving to the beat of “In My Feelings”. He took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it, the tip turning from paper and plant to a red, ashy ember as he inhaled.

Was he allowed to smoke in the house? Of course not.

Did Jisung give a shit? Absolutely not.

A text message popped up as Jisung aimlessly scrolled through his various notifications. He opened it, barely scanning through the entire message from his mother until his eyes stopped on a blue phone number. His eyes narrowed, poring over the entire message. “A coworker of mine offered to be a sponsor for you: Lee Minho. He’s a few years older than you, but he’s nice. Here’s his number, please reach out to him.”

Jisung sarcastically scoffed, locking his phone as he placed it back on the countertop, swapping it for the bottle of wine. He took a drag off of his cigarette, then took another long swig from the bottle. “We admit we’re powerless to alcohol,” he mutters the first step under his breath as he slams the bottle down on the counter.

“Maybe I don’t fucking care.”

Jisung woke up on the couch to the sound of heels clacking against the hardwood floor just before eight in the morning, his fingers jostling an empty bottle of scotch on the floor as he brought his hands to his face.

“Get cleaned up, please.” His mother’s voice was accompanied by bright spotlights suddenly shining directly on his face. “I’ve invited Minho over to meet with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jisung’s voice was low and gravelly, groaning as he sat upright. The world spun, his body carried by the false inertia his mind had created.

His mother trotted off to the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder. “I know you didn’t. I did it because I care about you, Sungie.”

The blonde rubbed his clammy hands against his face again, attempting to wipe the sleepiness from his eyes. He grabbed his phone off of the floor, then wobbled his way upright, the living room spinning around him in a familiar sense of uneasiness.

“You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself,” he muttered under his breath.

Somehow, Jisung managed to make his way upstairs to his room, stripping an article of clothing off with each lazy step from his bedroom door towards his personal washroom. By the time he got to the glass enclosure of the shower, he was totally stripped bare. Jisung distantly stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a gaunt and ashy doppelganger staring back at him with a pained, empty look on his face.

Instead of stepping into the shower, Jisung approached the mirror, subconsciously bringing his hands to touch his flushed face. His cheekbones were more prominent now than they were earlier in the year, dark circles painted in broad strokes under his eyes. His gaze trailed down the scars he had inflicted on his arms and on his thighs, reminders of the failed attempts to take his own life that he was now forced to carry with him, wearing each line and mark as a badge of shame.

A warm tear rolled down his face as it contorted into an expression of terror and hurt, before he took his fist and crashed it into the mirror in front of him, a spiderweb of the impact left behind in the cracked glass as he pulled his bloodied knuckles away. Some glass shattered to the floor, some still wedged in the gaps between his fingers, and Jisung stared at the crack that split his reflection into several fragments.

How he was still alive was beyond him.

“Mrs. Han, please,” a lilted, unfamiliar laugh travelled up the staircase as Jisung slowly made his way down towards the first floor. He squinted at the noise that caused his head to throb, realizing that someone unknown speaking to his mother, likely the Minho she had mentioned earlier. With each step he took towards the drawing room, the voice got louder, each staccatoed laugh more pronounced.

“Jisung, come sit,” his mother said, replacing the genuine smile on her face with a fake, ‘Vaseline-on-the-teeth’ smile. She motioned towards the empty space on the couch, opposite from the young brunette that turned around.

Jisung met his eyes and it suddenly felt like his surroundings cracked and shattered around him, like the mirror upstairs. Rich brown eyes glistened behind the black and gold browline glasses that rested against the bridge of his nose. Rose-tinted lips curled upwards in a shy smile, revealing large, rabbit-like front teeth that rested softly against his bottom lip.

“Hi,” the stranger said with a gentle wave, “I’m Minho. Resident biochemist at the pharmaceutical company your mother works for.”

As Jisung made his way over to the open spot on the couch, he squinted, refusing to break eye contact with the strange invader. It felt like he was a wild animal on display, about to be poked and prodded by zookeeper staff or by scientists in some sort of underground, off-the-books laboratory. It would fit, after all, since the man was some sort of scientist.

“I’ll let you be,” Jisung’s mother says, rising to her feet. “Maybe you should tell Minho about your little misstep last night, hmm?”

Jisung rolled his tongue over his bottom lip and shook his head sarcastically. “Go enjoy your overfilled glass of wine at nine-fucking-thirty, ma. I’ll be here spilling my guts to a stranger that gives more of a shit about me than you.” Minho winced and his expression fell from cheerful to shocked.

The men stared at each other, Jisung’s gaze layered with arrogance, and Minho’s heavy with awkward discomfort. “So,” the younger man kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, pulling a pack of cigarettes and his trusted lighter from his sweatshirt pocket, hoping to wrap up the conversation as soon as possible. “I know you work with my mother, you’re an alcoholic, and your name’s Minho.” As quickly as Jisung could take in a breath, the cigarette between his teeth was lit, and he was glaring at the intruder through the grey haze that came between them. Their eyes met again, Jisung growing more and more wary by the second. “Why should I pick you as my sponsor, when I feel like you’re just gonna snitch to my mother?”

Minho’s jaw looked like it was clenched too tight, his bottom eyelids squinted upwards as he studied the younger man in front of him. They watched each other, eyeing each micromovement the other’s face made. About halfway through Jisung’s cigarette, Minho finally broke the uncomfortable eye contact, and took a deep breath. “I’m not asking for you to trust me, or to spill your life story,” he shifted, sitting upright, “but for you to see me as a mentor when things get hard and you want to dampen your feelings with alcohol. I’ve been there, Jisung.”

Indignation washed over the younger man’s face, quickly replaced by a familiar wave of arrogance. Jisung shook his head, ashing his cigarette directly onto the floor. “Doubt it,” he tutted, licking his teeth as he nodded his head, staring at the ring on Minho’s finger. He smirked to himself, then turned his head away and up towards the ceiling. “Looks like you’ve got someone that loves you. I don’t know what that feels like; never have, never will.”

The elder chewed on his bottom lip, clenching his fist as his eyes subconsciously scanned the ring on his finger. “Had.”

“What?” Jisung turned his head back towards Minho with a look of disgust on his face, ashes falling from his cigarette.

The brunette sighed, leaning further into the couch, nervously running his thumb over his balled up fingers. “He’s the reason I turned to drinking, to fill the void he left in my heart when he died.”

Shit.

For the first time in ages, Jisung felt a slight pang of regret twinge in his abdomen.

Minho swallowed hard, almost as if he were holding back his emotions. “We were married for five years, together since high school. You’d think I would’ve known the signs, but Chan was so good at hiding things, hiding his pain from everyone.”

The ember in Jisung’s cigarette died out as he found himself enraptured in Minho’s story.

Chan was Minho’s high school sweetheart. They started dating their sophomore year of high school, both attended the same university, and they got married when they were twenty. To Minho, Chan was everything. They supported each other, making the other man stronger and gave them a reason to go on.

Minho had no idea that Chan was severely depressed, holding his true feelings to his heart. Not long after Minho’s twenty-fifth birthday, Chan disappeared, only leaving a journal behind. It had started off with an apology, that if Minho found his journal, that it was too late to save him and that Chan had simply given up. On nearly every page, Chan reiterated that it wasn’t Minho’s fault, that Chan was just too far gone beyond repair, that Minho had given him a new lease on life, but it wasn’t enough.

Exactly three weeks after Chan had gone missing, police were on the doorstep of their shared home.

“Dental records,” Minho whispered, his eyes distant and glazed over as he lost himself in the memory. “That’s how they knew it was Chan. I don’t remember much after that, but I thought that I could find the answer to why Chan took his own life at the bottom of a bottle.”

Jisung’s grip on the arm of the couch was so tight, his knuckles had turned white and they were starting to ache.

“Several bottles,” Minho continued, “several bottles and several near-death experiences waking up in the hospital later, and I still hadn’t figured out the answer. I figured that maybe I’d see him again if I drank enough. Now,” he folded his arms, tucking his chin into his chest, “I’ve accepted that I’ll never know the answer to that question, that I need to live on for him. If there’s an afterlife, maybe I’ll get to ask him myself. Until then, though,” Minho rolled his teary eyes up to meet Jisung’s uncomfortable gaze, “I just want to atone for not doing enough before. I want to help others that are hurting, you know?”

They continued to stare at each other for what felt like hours, until Jisung finally shook his head. His voice cracked as he tried to speak. “Sorry,” his apology was shockingly sincere, “I guess I spoke before I thought.”

Minho awkwardly smirked, dismissively waving his hand in between them. “Don’t worry about it. I just wanted you to know that I’ve been at rock bottom and that there’s a way up and out, as long as you’re willing to put in the effort.”

Maybe Jisung was willing to give Minho a try.

At first, Jisung agreed to meet with Minho once a week after the mandatory AA meeting he attended. It took seven visits spanning seven weeks before Jisung eventually opened up about the neglect he faced from both of his parents, the emptiness he felt from being raised by nannies, feeling like money was more important than his own life.

Ten weeks in, they started hanging out on the weekends. Their relationship shifted from mentorship to friendship, and it was somewhat a relief that Jisung finally had someone he could trust enough to call his friend.

Week fourteen was when things started to shift further. Jisung hadn’t consumed alcohol in eight weeks, and things were clearing up, slowly but surely. He had been meeting with Felix more and more, too — maybe they weren’t quite friends yet, but Jisung was at least trying.

Things were looking up for the first time in Jisung’s life.

At week sixteen, Jisung stayed over at Minho’s apartment, convincing him that he needed to watch Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. The blonde had vehemently pressed that it was, quite possibly, one of the best series of all time, animated or otherwise. After some gentle pressure, Minho finally caved, and they sat on his couch, diving into the show and into some mediocre takeaways.

They had gotten through the first three episodes and Minho finally relented that, yes, it was a good show and that, yes, Jisung was right.

“I knew you’d like it, dude,” Jisung snickered, playfully poking at Minho’s chest. The corner of his lips tugged upward into a crooked smile, and he wore Minho’s seal of approval as some sort of badge of honour.

The brunette turned away, softly smiling into his shoulder as a rush of crimson started to tint his face. “You’ve got me trying all sorts of new things, Ji,” Minho rubbed the back of his neck for a moment before he flashed his teeth at the younger man. “So much for me being the mentor here, huh?”

Jisung sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth at the nickname, trying to ignore the warmth blossoming up his face. He tried to stumble out some sort of response, but he caught himself getting lost in the way that the overhead lights shimmered in Minho’s eyes, highlighting the soft amber and warm bursts of hazelnut that erupted around his pupils. His expression started to falter, and he felt a familiar rush of excitement bloom in his chest, causing his nerves to come to life all around his body.

He remembered that this was how it felt right before he shared his first drunken kiss with Changbin, but something about this felt different. Perhaps it was the fact that Jisung was completely sober, but he desperately wanted Minho to kiss him, to want him back. However, Jisung wasn’t sure if it would have been a good idea, pondering over if Minho was really ready to start a new relationship, especially with someone he was supposed to be mentoring.

“Something on your mind?” Minho’s voice was soft as it gently guided Jisung back to the moment. “You’re kinda spacing out on me.”

“No, no,” Jisung stumbled around the words he wasn’t sure he could say, suddenly distracted by the television in the background. “I guess I was just thinking about the show.”

Minho’s head tilted to the side, concurrently lifting his brow in confusion. “You guess?”

Jisung waved his hand in between them and readjusted his posture so he was further away from Minho. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve seen it so many times, but it’s one of those shows that you watch and you see something new each time and—”

Warm fingers were suddenly on the side of Jisung’s face, pulling him back into Minho’s space. “You’re a terrible liar.” The voice was soft, yet assertive; low, but so loud. Jisung’s eyes went wide as Minho’s apartment blurred around him, his vision suddenly taken over by the sight of the brunette’s face right up next to his. In front of him.

Before Jisung could process what was happening, he was subconsciously pressing his lips into Minho’s, trying to remember exactly how kissing worked. It was years since the last time he had any practice, but it all came back to him as Minho helped guide Jisung’s face with his hands.

Minho’s tongue was soft, warm, and damp as it gently pressed up against Jisung’s lips, wordlessly pleading for entrance. Without letting his mind mill over the fine details and concerns he possibly had, Jisung parted his lips. Timidly, he rolled his tongue around Minho’s, his hands quivering as his fingers scrambled for purchase in Minho’s hair.

Unlike anyone Jisung had kissed before, this felt right, even if there were some uncomfortable grinding of teeth and awkward nose bumping. Within a reasonable amount of time, they slowly became experts at training the way the other wanted to be kissed. As if Minho could read Jisung’s mind, he would interrupt his soft kisses with gentle nips and grazes at Jisung’s bottom lip.

“Please,” Jisung’s voice cracked as Minho pulled his teeth down his bottom lip, “my neck, I…”

Minho swiftly moved his lips from Jisung’s, peppering tiny pecks against his jawline to his ear, stopping to take the blonde’s earlobe into his mouth with his tongue, grazing the tender flesh between his teeth. Jisung’s back involuntarily arched as the grooves of Minho’s teeth pulled at his sensitive skin, the sensation causing his nerves to come to life with an electrical jolt from head to toe.

The brunette chuckled, his warm breath brushing up against the tiny hairs on Jisung’s ear. He said nothing, simply moving down to press a few soft kisses to the skin just below the younger man’s earlobe. Minho’s lips were soft, gentle, only to be quickly replaced by a sudden, harsh bite into the tender flesh.

A yelp, accompanied by uncontrollable twitching, came from Jisung, who was simultaneously melting into Minho, but also pulling away. The elder’s fingers dug into the blonde’s waist, keeping him in the same position, not allowing him to escape. Jisung’s yelp had faded into a whimper, which evolved into a moan as Minho sucked the flesh between his teeth, quickly repeating the process several times in various spots along Jisung’s neck.

The moans were increasing in volume and breathiness, Jisung subconsciously, frantically rutting his pelvis into the couch. Minho must have caught on to this, letting go of Jisung’s waist to ease him down onto the couch. He pressed his lips to Jisung’s again, dancing his fingertips down to the waistband of the younger man, who was completely blissed out.

“Can I help you with this?” Minho’s voice was somehow both soft yet assertive as his palm pressed against Jisung's clothed erection.

Words eluded Jisung, verbal language suddenly turning into complex algebraic equations that didn’t translate from his head to his tongue. Instead, he groaned in affirmation as he hopelessly rolled his hips upward, finding himself pitiful that he was so desperately craving for Minho to just keep fucking touching him.

Things started to blur in a haze of wanton desire. Minho’s hand gently stroked Jisung’s cock, paying special attention to the way that his fingers and palm brushed against the head. Involuntary twitches took over Jisung as he whimpered and mewled, his shoulder blades grinding into the couch. Minho continued to nibble and bite at Jisung’s neck, occasionally whispering words of assurance and praise into his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” as he slowly dragged his hand from the base of Jisung’s cock up to his head.

“I can’t imagine how incredible you would feel around me,” as he gently thumbed the slit, rubbing precum around the sensitive head and causing Jisung to bite the back of his hand as he failed to stifle a cracked moan.

Jisung’s breaths turned erratic and he was nearly convulsing as his body started to twitch. Minho shifted his weight to his knees, slowing his strokes just enough so that he could awkwardly shift one leg off of the couch to position his head in a way he could take Jisung into his mouth.

“What are you—” Jisung started to question, until he found himself losing control of his body as Minho rolled his tongue around his cock. “Fuck, Minho!” He clamped his eyes shut, arching his back upward, hitting the back of Minho’s throat as he convulsed, his orgasm suddenly completely taking over him. “Minho,” he whined and unclenched his fists; “Minho,” he panted and opened his eyes; “Minho.” With one last breath, he was back to reality.

This had to have been the closest thing to heaven that Jisung thought he would ever experience.

Jisung had stayed over at Minho’s that night, too tired to function like a normal human. They slept on the couch together, necks crooned in uncomfortable positions all night long, bodies stiff from the unnatural firmness that Minho’s couch held. The next morning, they chose not to discuss the night prior, but they did exchange some soft kisses, until Jisung protested, mentioning that their morning breath was distracting him from actually enjoying the kiss.

Their weekends continued on like this: spending time watching a couple of episodes of their chosen programme until they got distracted and lost within each other. Nothing progressed further than handjobs, the occasional blowjob, and the one time that they rolled around naked, making out for so long and so intensely that the way they pressed their bodies together caused Jisung to come without any additional stimulation — and, hey, they liked it.

The budding relationship between them was confusing. During the week, Minho acted like the appropriate, wise mentor, with Jisung as his eager pupil. When the weekend came around, however, all bets were off. In everything but title, they were boyfriends for all intents and purposes. Every time Jisung tried to bring it up, Minho would shut down, saying that he wasn’t ready to really think seriously about it yet.

So, Jisung didn’t press. He was sure that their intimate interactions were causing conflicting emotions to arise within Minho, emotions he probably had been ignoring since Chan’s death, trying to shove them down as time went on. Even though he wanted to navigate the full spectrum of sexual experiences with Minho, Jisung remained silent until Minho was ready.

#why can't we drink forever?#skz fics #skz smut #minsung #lee minho x han jisung #han jisung x lee minho #minho x jisung #jisung x minho #wherevermyway

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commander-diomika · 3 years

Text

Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde Rating: Gen Word Count: ~2000 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Rating Will Change to Explicit in Later Parts, Opposites Attract, just two people trying to figure out how to keep the peace with each other and very occasionally succeeding

Summary: Part 2 is here, set several months after Part 1 in a Damascus safehouse. (here's Part One)

"There was another Sending from Curie’s people.” From a side-table awash with documents, Zolf fetched a piece of paper. “New workin’ theory on London, some kind of disease, rather than mind control."

Wilde frowned. “Oh, that’s much worse. Mind control magic at least implies some kind of central power system, a culprit to be fought. If it’s an illness… it might just be chaotic, undirected spread.” Wilde's eyes were shrewd. This was the Wilde that Zolf actually liked working with.

“The message doesn’t sound certain. Just a theory.” Zolf pointed out. He settled back. The couch was a threadbare number but it was comfortable enough, and this wasn’t the first evening they’d spent sitting here discussing plans and directions.

The two of them couldn’t have gotten the hell out of Cairo at a better time. Two weeks after Zolf and Wilde made their quiet exit from the Meritocrats, Aphophis disappeared, taking with him the last few loyal agents. In the ensuing chaos, Wilde pulled some strings and… appropriated significant funding for the next phase. Enough to rent a modest base of operation in Damascus, where they had been for the past few months.

Zolf wasn’t quite sure how Wilde made it all happen so smoothly. At the time he’d just thought Wilde got lucky. Though having worked together for just a few months, he was tempted to say Wilde got lucky a lot… Or perhaps he was just very good at making it seem that way.

“Ho, Wilde,” Zolf called from the kitchen, as he heard Wilde enter the townhouse.

His companion entered the adjoining sitting room, dressed almost-sensibly for the heat in a cream linen suit, a satchel slung over his shoulder.

“What you got there?” Zolf called. He had been chopping vegetables for the evening meal but seeing that Wilde looked flush with success, Zolf put the knife down and wiped off his hands as he went to join him.

His step faltered as he realised that Wilde, once again, was not alone. With him was the man Zolf couldn’t help but think of as “the interloper”.

Alfred Douglas stood just a few inches shorter than Wilde, similarly dark haired and dashing, as he followed Wilde into the sitting room and greeted Zolf with a winning smile. “Hello, Mr Smith.” Wilde had once said that he chose his friends for their good looks, and to look at Alfred, Zolf would begrudgingly agree.

Zolf had met this newcomer just a few days ago. Returning from a fruitless trip to Turkey, he was shocked to find another person at the safehouse; an old friend, Wilde said. When pressed for details, Wilde had first deflected, demurred, and then dug his heels in. It had gotten ugly.

Not wanting to repeat the fight, Zolf just nodded tightly. “Douglas.”

“Oh please, I’ve been telling you, you can call me Bosie.” Zolf, basically immune to affected charm, ignored him and repeated his question to Wilde. “What’s in the bag, Wilde?”

“Books!” Wilde replied, pointedly ignoring the pair’s less-than-warm interaction.

One by one he produced several tomes from the leather satchel with a flourish, revealing each as if waiting for applause before placing them on the low wooden table. A History of Dwarven Achievements; Svalbard, a Japanese travel guide, and one more sizeable volume. Zolf couldn’t immediately understand the title, but he could see that it was written in Dwarvish. That last one gave a small puff of dust as Wilde gently ran his fingers through the pages before adding it to the pile.

“Bosie was such a help, weren’t you dear, I would never have found that last little merchant alone. I swear we went down so many side alleys it was like a maze!” Wilde’s voice was honeyed and light again. It made Zolf feel itchy and irritable. In the months they’d been in Damascus, he’d almost gotten Wilde to just act like a normal bloody person when it was just the two of them, instead of some conversational artiste looking to make a spectacle of every interaction. Two days in the interloper’s company and he was back to the same smarmy, dunkable cad Zolf had met in London.

“The Svalbard one wasn’t exactly easy to get our hands on, either. It’s not like anyone is doing transfers from The London Library anymore.” Wilde reported as he speedily shed jacket, hat and shoes, then plopped down on the settee. Still looking overly pleased with himself, he patted the seat next to him, inviting Bosie to sit. He did so.

“How did you go with your leads?” Wilde asked, still slightly breathless from the performance he made of unveiling the books.

Zolf’s lips pursed, and he considered not answering. Even though Wilde was probably telling him everything in the long hours they spent sequestered in Wilde’s room, it still felt wrong to discuss business with Douglas here. Since he’d arrived on the scene he’d been nothing but disarming smiles and quiet interest but…

Maybe I’m just bein’ paranoid, Zolf said to himself. It was immediately followed with another thought, unbidden and unwelcome. More like bein’ jealous.

That couldn’t possibly be the case, so Zolf opened his mouth and started speaking. “I went askin’ after our initial contact with the Hephaestus lot. You know, the one that sent me on that bloody wild goose chase?” Zolf’s recent trip to Ankara had been based on that lead. He’d been looking for Garten, with no success.

“Turns out she’s not keen on explaining to me why her lead was a blumin’ fake, and the rest of ‘em have closed up ranks.” Finding something to do that didn’t involve looking at either of them, Zolf picked up Wilde’s hat off the table and hung it on the hook by the door. “Also, it looks like the whole Cult is gettin’ ready to move, if I’m honest. A lot less folks workin’ and a lot more packin’ up than I saw last I wer’ there.” He picked up Wilde’s shoes and put them by the door.

“Yes, actually, I noticed something similar at the Artemisian temples the other day,” Douglas said thoughtfully.

Zolf glared at him. Who did he think he was?

As far as Zolf was concerned, the man’s only saving grace was that his sudden reappearance in Wilde’s life made him happy. Pleasant or positive things had been in short supply, and Zolf wasn’t a monster. But Douglas had been tottering about on thin ice since the moment he arrived, and his comments were only salting the surface.

Wilde’s eyes tracked between the two of them, and with a melodramatic sigh he said, “Perhaps you ought to head off, my dear.” He threw Zolf a glance that said there, are you happy now?

“Yeh, I’ve got some things to discuss with Wilde. In private.” Zolf added, eyebrows brewing up a thunderstorm.

Bosie tilted his head, an expression of mock-hurt on his face. It was an expression Wilde made often and Zolf did his best not to explode. These two were as bad as each other and getting worse.

Wilde made an apologetic shooing motion with his hands, and Douglas did as he was bid. He gathered his hat with a reproachful look at Zolf, and gave Wilde a peck on the cheek before leaving. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Oscar.”

Wilde walked Douglas out and returned to the settee, sitting with an exasperated sigh.

It had been getting better between them, heroes with their backs against the wall that they were. It had been. For all that Wilde was insufferable when he got on his airs about “need-to-know information” and couldn’t cook and was constantly preening as though any of that even mattered… But for all the myriad of ways he got up Zolf’s nose, he was also talented. Adept at making and keeping contacts. Able to talk his way into places Zolf couldn’t even get a foot into. An incredible mind for language, information, and planning. He was useful to have around, and for that Zolf was trying his best to extend a bit of graciousness.

And for all Wilde was frustrating company, at least he was someone. Wilde had been dead right, back in Cairo. It was nice to not be alone.

A mulish expression settled on Wilde’s face. It was obvious he was getting ready to jump straight back into the argument about Douglas, but Zolf wasn’t in the mood to rehash the same angry words.

you need to trust me, Zolf

you ain’t supposed to hide things from me anymore

we’re supposed to be partners

it’s none of your business

I thought you were more careful than this

With all the tact of a glaive to the face, Zolf changed the subject.

“There was another Sending from Curie’s people.” From a side-table awash with documents, Zolf fetched a piece of paper. “New workin’ theory on London, some kind of disease, rather than mind control. But it is affectin’ paladins, so it’s not any kind of disease we’ve dealt with before.”

Wilde frowned. “Oh, that’s much worse. Mind control magic at least implies some kind of central power system, a culprit to be fought. If it’s an illness… it might just be chaotic, undirected spread.” As though a spell had been lifted, as soon as Douglas left the room, Wilde turned into a different person, sharp and incisive.

Zolf nodded in grim approval of Wilde’s assessment, moving to sit down next to him.

“She also reckons we start treatin’ it like something communicable. Isolatin’ when we’ve not been able to keep an eye on each other, so on.”

“Well, that’s not very practical for us, now is it. We don’t have the kind of operation Curie does, with the people and resources to run proper quarantine.” Wilde said, eyes shrewd. This was the Wilde that Zolf actually liked working with. “We split up all the time.”

“Still, a theory from one of the sharpest minds left on the planet. Worth giving credence to. Maybe we need to look at bringing a few more people on board.” Wilde paused, thoughtful. “How would you feel about working with James Barnes?”

Zolf cocked his head, unable to place the name for a moment. “Commander James Barnes?”

“The very same.”

Zolf’s jaw worked as he started several different sentences then abandoned them. “I mean, he’s in the Navy, ain’t he? Last I checked, that’s still under Meritocratic order.”

“Perhaps he won’t be with them for much longer.” Wilde said mysteriously. Zolf nearly called him on it. Fighting about the sudden inclusion of Douglas in their affairs, Zolf had pushed Wilde hard on his habit of half-truths and leading statements. He hadn’t gotten anywhere with it. He was starting to think Wilde might be just an incorrigible equivocator, and there was nothing to be done about it.

So Zolf simply grunted.

“So that’s a solid maybe on Barnes,” Wilde grinned. “Besides, we’ll be fine for the moment. I won’t go running off and recruiting anyone new, because now we’ve got Bosie.”

Zolf took a slow breath at this topic change. He gentled the first angry words that came to mind, and spoke. “Wilde… I know you trust him. I know you two have a long history. But in light of this-” Zolf tapped the transcribed Sending. “-I don’t know how I feel about you bringing him in on… everything.” It lay on the table next to the satchel.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Wilde said smoothly, grabbing the bag and reaching inside. “I managed to pick up one more thing.”

From the satchel he produced a much smaller item, a banged-up paperback with a bright cover.

“Ohhh it’s the second Hearts of Fire!” Zolf exclaimed. He knew a misdirect when he saw one but couldn’t contain himself. “Those are so hard to get!” He took the book-shaped olive branch from Wilde quickly, already opening to page one.

“I knew I shouldn’t have given it to you until you’d at least had a look at the Svalbard books,” Wilde teased.

Zolf considered Wilde over the top of the book for a long moment. Wilde wasn’t off the hook. Neither of them were. They would have to come back to this jagged mess of a conversation at some point, but for now, Zolf chose peace. Of a sort.

“Look, the quicker I’m done with it, the quicker you can have it. Don’t pretend like you haven’t read my Campbells. I’m not the one dog-earin’ the pages. I thought you were sposed to be a man of culture.”

“Oh, stop hounding me about it, Zolf,” Wilde said, picking up Dwarven Achievements and relaxing gratefully back into the couch. Zolf was already so engrossed he didn’t even groan.

#hank writes #rusty quill gaming #zoscar #zolfwilde #rqg #rqg fic #but seriously how WOULD you feel if your legacy was just ''oscar wilde's lover''#literal RIP alfred douglas #anyway hit that reblog button plz

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alittlewhump · 3 years

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Unbidden - Act 2, chapter 1

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Content warnings: sex work mention, one noncon kiss, minor noncon touch (suggestive but not sexual)

Morgan was deeply uncomfortable. The caravan ride had been entertaining, at least for him. Cain was delighted to have an attentive audience, and after divulging all he knew about the events currently unfolding - Diablo's corruption and influence spreading, the dark wanderer last seen heading east and his possible motives - he had expounded at length on his theories about the forces of Heaven and Hell and what moves they might make next. He also shared tales of the time he'd spent in the desert cities in his younger days, and anything else that happened across his mind. It seemed he had an unlimited capacity for storytelling. Morgan liked it, content to absorb as much knowledge as he could.

However, once they'd reached their destination, they had been almost immediately ushered to the palace by a taciturn guard armed with a very sturdy-looking spear. Cain had already slipped away, ostensibly in pursuit of an old acquaintance, but both Blaise and Morgan found themselves visiting the sultan unexpectedly.

Upon their arrival, the man, who introduced himself as Jerhyn, had actually been quite friendly. He had somehow heard about their defeat of Andariel and was eager to pay for their assistance with problems that had arisen in his city. The mercenary guild was struggling to maintain their ranks in the face of increasing demonic activity. Blaise had agreed to join them readily; working together with a group to combat monsters and demons was well within her comfort zone. Morgan was trying to delicately express his preference to work alone, but the sultan was being insistent and it was proving difficult to argue.

The problem he was experiencing was rooted in the attack the harem guild had sustained weeks earlier, prompting Jerhyn to offer the members shelter within his spacious palace. Priests of Rathma had no particular rules with regards to celibacy, but surrounded as he was now by women and men in various states of undress, Morgan found himself wishing they did. He'd never managed to grasp the allure of intimate relations. He was aware of it as a possible motivation for the actions of others - there was a long list of those - but he'd resigned himself to simply not understanding it. The guild members flocked around Jerhyn, all flashing jewels and rustling silks. It was impossible to look at the man without seeing an astonishing amount of bare flesh. Of course Morgan was familiar with the human body, had helped with preparations for some of the more involved burial rites, but this was different. It felt like an invasion of privacy, despite the fact that the display was clearly intentional. His discomfort was making it difficult to negotiate.

Blaise, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself, gazing around with frank admiration. When Jerhyn finally relented, allowing them until the morning to come to a final decision, she grinned wolfishly.

"Does that mean we get to spend the night here?"

Jerhyn smiled indulgently. "Of course, if you wish it. You may stay as long as you like. Any of the companions here can show you to the guest chambers. Please, enjoy yourselves."

Morgan stood and bowed politely before turning to leave. A heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" Blaise hissed next to his ear.

"To find an inn," he whispered back. Her grip tightened and he fought the urge to pry her fingers off of him. It would not be wise to make a scene so soon after their introduction, he reminded himself. No matter that he was already uncomfortable to start with, and it was only getting worse.

"You know it's incredibly rude to turn down an invitation like this, right," she pointed out. He... yes, he did know that, now that he thought about it. The overwhelming desire to be anywhere else was impeding his ability to remember all the rules of social interaction. He did not outwardly protest as Blaise steered him back toward the crowd of concubines. "Have a little fun for once," she said at a more normal volume, pushing him into the waiting embrace of a pale, slender young woman before turning away to mingle.

"Nice to meet you, sweetheart," the woman purred, running her hand down his chest. He tried not to shrink away from the contact. "Let me show you to your room. Don't worry, you don't have to be shy with me." She flashed him a dazzling smile.

"Thank you," he managed. She took him by the hand and led him down a staircase and up a corridor while he alternated between looking at his feet and looking at the ceilings. They appeared to be intricately painted tiles, but the details were lost on him.

Morgan heaved a small sigh of relief when she stepped into a room, beckoning him to follow with a wink. Finally, a respite. He opened his mouth to thank her for her guidance, but she muffled him with a kiss, pressing him into the doorway. He froze for a long, panicked second, torn between the desire to push her away and the lack of any adequately clothed spot on her body to push against. As she raised her arms to embrace him, that did it. He reached up to shove against her shoulder, leaning away.

"What are you doing?" he gasped.

"Showing you a good time, sweetie." He was not having a good time. She went to lean in again and he wriggled free, ducking under her arm and backing away into the room.

"Please, don't." He kept his hand raised to ward her off. She pouted.

"What, you don't like me?"

Not especially. The invasion into his personal space had been unexpected and unwelcome. "I'm sure you're... quite lovely," he said haltingly - it was more of a guess than a lie - "but I'm not... interested in... that." He gestured vaguely, hoping to somehow encapsulate the concept of physical intimacy.

A look of understanding dawned on her face, to Morgan's relief. "Oh. Oh! Sorry about that. I can usually guess. Your friend seemed pretty sure down there, doesn't she know...? Oh well, just sit tight, I'll get out of your hair." She flashed him that bright smile again as she left.

Morgan sat wearily on the edge of the bed. New places were exhausting, and he still had to figure out how to convince the sultan that he would gladly help the mercenaries as long as he was permitted to engage with them as little as possible. How best to frame it? He tested a few different scenarios in his head, starting to build a script from the pieces that seemed most compelling. It was laborious enough that he didn't notice the figure at the entrance to the room until it spoke.

"Not a lot of people turn down Meera's company. Perhaps I'll be a little more to your liking."

"Please, I just - um." He'd started to answer before looking up, and found himself wholly unprepared for the vision that greeted him. The most breathtakingly beautiful person he'd ever seen was leaning casually against the doorway. He smiled at Morgan, a flash of pearly teeth bright against the deep umber of his skin, and moved in to perch on the edge of the bed beside him.

"My name is Jemali. What should I call you?" He laid a delicate hand on Morgan's thigh. That broke the spell. Why did these people insist on so much physical contact?

"Morgan," he said, sliding away from the other man. "I don't like being touched," he added.

"You say that," Jemali smiled, edging closer, "but you've never been touched by me. I'd remember a face as handsome as yours." He reached out to caress Morgan's cheek, but he ducked away from the contact, standing and backing away.

"I don't like being lied to, either." The flattery was over the top. A particularly kind and tactful person might go so far as to describe him as distinctive, but that was just a polite way to skirt around the issue. He was ugly. That was an objective fact. There was no point in trying to disguise or deny it.

"Morgan, honey, I'm not - look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Let's start over." He patted the bed next to him. Morgan did not move. Jemali sighed. "At least meet me halfway here. I'm trying to please you. If you don't want Meera and you don't want me, what do you want?"

"To rest after a long journey." His patience was wearing thin and he didn't want any sort of company, no matter how lovely they might be to look at. "I just want to be alone."

Jemali arched an eyebrow. "You have a free shot with the finest concubines money can buy, and you don't want to take it?"

"I do not."

"You a eunuch or something?' He cast an appraising glance at Morgan's trousers.

"No."

"Well, now you have me curious." He sprawled across the bed, stretching long limbs to claim the space. "What possible reason could you have to turn both of us down like this? We aren't used to the sting of rejection, you know." He pouted.

"Is it not enough-" he closed his eyes briefly. Irritation was a loss of control, a failure to adhere to the principles that guided him. Plus, raising his voice was starting to hurt his throat. He took a calming breath and tried again. "I don't desire anyone's company. Please just accept that."

"Fine. You don't have to tell me." Jemali rolled over onto his stomach, propping his face up on his hands. "Akarat knows I could use a break anyway. So tell me about yourself, Morgan. Or don't you like talking, either?"

"Not really."

Jemali rolled his eyes. "Of course not. Just my luck, too. Stoic adventurer types are usually right up my alley, but you're going to be a tough nut to crack. I can tell. Don't-" he held up one finger to cut off Morgan's next words before they'd left his mouth, "- don't ask me to leave, because I will, but nobody's going to believe we've finished so quickly. And we're on orders from the sultan to see to you and your friend, so that means I'll have to send in someone else and you'll have to go through this all over again. So just let me sit here for... oh, an hour or so, and then we can both be on our merry ways."

"Fine."

Morgan seated himself in a plush chair opposite the bed, since the other man seemed to be making himself comfortable and he wanted to stay out of his reach. The following silence lasted for nearly a minute before Jemali's voice jolted Morgan out of his thoughts.

"So you must be some sort of wizard." Jemali was studying him, head tilted in what must have been a practiced pose. It was impossible for a person to look so thoroughly statuesque by chance. "You don't have the build to be a fighter. Are you any good? I mean, you must be, or else you wouldn't be here enjoying my company." He stretched languorously. Was he even capable of being still? "Oh, what a story! A strong, silent sorcerer, come to protect us from the clutches of foul demons! This could have been almost romantic, you know. What a waste." He splayed long fingers dramatically across his bare chest, casting his eyes up toward the ceiling.

Ah, yes, the demons. Perhaps he could get some useful information out of this encounter. "Were you there?"

"Was I there when - oh, you want to talk about that." Jemali hugged one knee to his chest, running the edge of a painted fingernail along his bottom lip. "No. No, I was lucky enough to be on a house call. Lost some friends, though." So he could be still after all. Morgan winced. Of course this lively individual had been friends with the victims. Of course the memories would be painful. He hadn't meant to distress him, even though he'd just been hoping for some peace and quiet.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he offered. The other man's lips quirked upward.

"Thanks, honey. That's nice of you to say." He gave a small sigh. "You want to know what you're up against, huh?"

"If I can."

"Smart. Now, we don't make a habit of judging our clientele, but everyone agrees there was a suspicious character who came through just beforehand. Refused to take off his cloak or even pull down his hood. Didn't want anything, just asked a lot of questions and left. Really strange. The demons showed up a few hours later."

Morgan leaned forward. That sounded like it could have been the dark wanderer Cain had described. "Do you know what he asked?"

Jemali shrugged. "Something about old myths, some sort of tomb or something. I don't know."

That would be enough to start with. He could question the sultan in the morning and go from there. Hunting for information was easy enough to justify as an individual task. If the wanderer was looking for something old, that might give him occasion to scour the city archives for information, a pleasantly solitary task. It could also be a justification for working with Deckard Cain, who clearly had some familiarity with the area. The scholar was a useful resource, he reminded himself. It was just a bonus that he liked the old man's company. Things were starting to come together.

Morgan leaned back, satisfied. The action made the collection of small pouches on his belt dig uncomfortably into his side, pushed out of place by the plush stuffing of the chair. He stood to remove them, but of course nothing could go without comment.

"What's all that?"

He considered his options. Ignoring the question seemed unlikely to work, given Jemali's persistence. A vague answer would just lead to more questions, and he didn't particularly want to get into the details of his profession. It might solve the pressing issue of privacy for the moment, but word would inevitably spread, and that could hinder his effectiveness with the sultan. Or get him expelled from the city, depending on the citizens' mood. It wouldn't be the first time. Might as well give a brief explanation.

"Potions. Ingredients for potions. Dried foods. Trinkets." He pointed at each pouch as he named its contents.

Jemali's face lit up. "What kind of trinkets? Like jewels? Oh, can I look at them?"

They were mainly jewellery. Sometimes a skeleton rose with some trappings of its former life still intact - clothes, weapons, baubles. At some point Morgan had started collecting the ones that were particularly appealing to him. The dead generally had no use for possessions. Sometimes he bartered them for supplies, which was useful enough to justify the collection. Sometimes he traded them for other, prettier baubles. To further aid him in his travels, he told himself. Nicer trinkets fetched him more supplies. But he also liked to just look at them sometimes, to appreciate their shapes and the way light played off their surfaces.

He passed the small bag to the courtesan at arm's length. Jemali upended it over the bed in front of him, spreading out the contents to admire them. Morgan, in turn, settled back in his chair and admired Jemali now that his attention was elsewhere. People didn't generally appreciate being stared at, he knew, but everything about the man was arresting. The shape and warm colour of his eyes, the smooth slopes of his skin, the slick, uniform coils of his hair. Even his movements were effortlessly graceful. His voice was easy to listen to, soft and lilting.

"Lost in contemplation of my beauty, hmm?"

Mortifyingly, he was right. "I - I'm sorry. For staring." Morgan averted his eyes. Stupid to have let himself get so distracted. He really did need to rest.

"You don't have to apologize, darling. Clearly you have excellent taste in pretty things," Jemali purred, playing his fingers first over the array of baubles in front of him and then drawing them up to frame his face. He batted his eyelashes. "You sure you don't want a little taste of this?"

"Quite sure." The threat of physical contact was enough to put Morgan back on the defensive. He shifted uncomfortably.

Jemali tilted his head. "You're a funny little puzzle, Morgan. Tell you what, let's make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I'll tell the others that you've requested to be my exclusive client. They won't bother you if they know you're mine," he grinned.

It would have been preferable for the guild to ignore him entirely, but he supposed dealing with a single courtesan would be much easier than trying to explain himself over and over. At least this one seemed to understand his request not to be touched.

"And in exchange?"

Jemali reclined fully, wriggling his shoulders into the sheets. "You let me come and go as I please. I don't have a good place here to take a break when I need some alone time. I'll be as quiet as a little mouse, you'll hardly know I'm here."

He considered. It seemed favourable, provided he could count on Jemali to actually be quiet when he needed to concentrate. But would the guild really keep bothering him as long as he stayed here? Or was Jemali overstating the issue to get what he wanted? He eyed the other man warily.

"And I promise I won't lay a finger on you without your permission," he added. That was enough to tip the scales.

"We have a deal."

"Wonderful!" Jemali clapped his hands together and sat up. "Now let's seal it with a kiss, as a matter of tradition... oh, honey, it's all right, I'm just teasing. I said I'll respect your personal space, and honestly I meant it. I'm sorry, Morgan, you don't have to look so scared."

He clenched his jaw. He wasn't scared of being touched, he just didn't want it. Especially not from someone teasing him. Of course, he should have been expecting it. Tiredness and discomfort had interfered with his usual defenses. And if he was honest with himself, so had the peaceful journey, and so had the man's unexpected beauty. He had to remember that he'd earned a measure of respect from his traveling companions, that he couldn't expect the same sort of treatment from a stranger. Especially not such a pretty one, when he was just the opposite. That was just the way the world worked.

"I am going to rest here," he said, closing his eyes and hoping he could take Jemali at his word to leave him be. That ought to end the conversation.

"You can use the bed, you know."

"This is fine."

"All right, suit yourself." True to his word, Jemali was quiet. Morgan could hear the sheets rustle as he made himself comfortable, and shortly afterward his breathing grew slow and deep. Once he was sure the other man was asleep, he finally felt comfortable enough to slip into a light meditation.

It was nearly two hours later by Morgan's count when Jemali gave a soft, almost musical sigh as he awoke and stretched. There were some quiet sounds of fabric and jewellery shifting as he arranged himself, then the soft pat of his feet hitting the floor. "Until next time, darling," he said in a low whisper, and then he let himself out.

Morgan waited a few minutes before relaxing back into a deeper meditation. The chair was actually quite comfortable, much better than the back of the caravan. There was no need to move to the bed. Tomorrow he would meet with the sultan, well rested and hopefully on his own terms. He was cautiously looking forward to it.

#my writing #story: unbidden #sex work tw #noncon kissing tw #noncon touching tw

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kaibacorpintern · 3 years

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Devotion: 3, 7, 19 + 20. 19 and 20 go together this is totally like sending 3 please and thank yooouuuu

Honda: hey man. when are you going to tell Anzu you have a crush on her

Jounouchi: what, what, waht, what, what, what, waht, what, what, what, what, what, what, what, wh

this got long, it’s under a cut LOL

3. Most common argument?

Considering how many times Anzu in the manga is like “DON’T SAY THAT!!” whenever he makes a particularly callous comment, I want to say they might get into a little snit or two every now and then over a comment that’s a little too outré for Anzu’s sense of propriety and it devolves into conversations about like, tact and tasteful jokes. If Jounouchi’s having a more cantankerous and closed-off day than usual over something that went wrong, I can also see him trying to brush off her more aggressive expressions of care as “annoying” (she isn’t annoying, but he just wants to sulk for a while) when most of the time he actually DOES appreciate and value and need her gung-ho, “let’s roll our sleeves up and fix this” attitude. The other thing is that like... Anzu’s dream is to be a dancer in New York, that’s a difficult career in an expensive city; I can see him bristling against accepting financial help from her parents and maybe being a little too tied to concepts of what it means to be a “man” like “what’s wrong with me if I can’t provide for you on my OWN” and she doesn’t have his kind of pride here. she’s like “that doesn’t matter to me. Why does this matter to YOU so much?” and they have to figure that out.

7. What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

Is it possible for Anzu to get MORE defensive of Jounouchi? LET’S FIND OUT. Also, and this is my Ideal Devotionship Scenario, is that one day Anzu looks over at Jounouchi and realizes she’s almost always liked him as a person but he’s also matured SO much and he works so hard and he genuinely cares so much about all his friends and everyone he loves and his goofier jokes do make her laugh like a hyena... she starts relying on him more as a sounding board for her thoughts and feelings, and starts hanging out with him more just one on one, separate from the rest of their friends...

But really I think Jounouchi if he realizes he’s in love with Anzu he 1) starts trying to impress her more and get her attention and 2) probably has a very specific idea of the type of guy he thinks Anzu would like, and THAT Guy uses a daily planner to keep track of things (like a nerd) and doesn’t slack off on his laundry, and is cool without being a clown, so he is, for a hot few weeks, an awkward and fumbling but exuberant mess who insists on carrying her groceries and buys a polo shirt and tries to play it extremely cool but also he’s like “so... notice anything different about me?” and Anzu is like “....your hair is..... more tousled than normal” (she’s into it) and he’s like 😭 polo shirt it’s the polo shirt i am wearing a polo shirt 😭 like Jounouchi... bro... what Anzu likes about you has nothing to do with polo shirts (this is what Honda tells him after he unpacks the whole thing over text in a state of despair) anyway he just needs to chill out a little. once she realizes what he’s doing she has to laugh a little, but she also loves the effort, it’s cute

In combination, that’s how Anzu ends up texting him at 11 PM at night like “hey i’m bored do you want to go get ramen” and he is like “absolutely, see you in 10 min” so off they go for a late night walk together, and it’s raining a little and he holds the umbrella as they talk about nothing and everything. he makes a big show of helping her step or jump over every gutter puddle. he thinks he’s being suave but she just finds it kind of adorable

Eventually one of them just comes out and confesses it, and it doesn’t take long for this to happen. Probably Anzu because Jounouchi seems like the type to worry a little over the thought of getting rejected :(

19. Who tells their family/friends about their relationship first? AND 20. What do their family/friends think of their relationship?

The first people Jounouchi tells are Shizuka and Honda, of course, and Honda is just like, delighted. He loves Anzu, obviously, but he also cares sooooo much about Jounouchi and is just kind of secretly relieved that Jounouchi is dating someone who cares just as much about Jounouchi as he does, and is good to Jounouchi and good FOR Jounouchi. I’m pretty sure both Anzu and Honda would kill for Jounouchi lol. Shizuka just wants to know that Anzu isn’t into any of the freaky magic shit from Battle City, and once suitably reassured, she gets excited about the idea of having a cool big sis <3

Anzu’s family finds him very charming and earnest. They like him. I think they trust Anzu to be responsible and have good judgment and so they’re more than happy to give Jounouchi a chance, although he is SO nervous about meeting them.

And then Yuugi... they tell him together, probably. Whether or not he has any lingering crush on Anzu, how can he begrudge his two best friends falling in love with each other, how could he NOT be happy for them? I don’t think he’s capable of being salty about it at ALL, he’s thrilled lol

Atem: by the way, jounouchi and anzu are dating now

Kaiba:

Kaiba: who?

#otp meme #devotionshipping #the n/arus/aku of yugioh #THENK YOU HEHEHE

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dimitribelikov · 3 years

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The Belikov Chronicles: The Tasha Conundrum Pt.1

✶ I was curious about Dimitri’s past with Tasha, so here’s a rewritten scene from Frostbite in his POV, but with added background of how those two met. ✶ notes : All dialogue between Dimitri, Rose, and Adrian are straight from Frostbite, chapter 13. The rest is mine, based on characters written by Richelle Mead. ✶ warnings : mild language ✶ ships : romitri, hints of Dimitri/Tasha ✶ more one-shots featuring my version of Dimitri can be found here

✶✶✶

Everything was chaos. Complete and utter disarray. Strigoi attacks like this were unheard of. I wasn’t sure what was more infuriating though, the attacks themselves or the way the Moroi would rather talk out of their asses and argue for hours instead of actually doing something about it. The meeting was going in circles and I could feel my frustration steadily growing with every new, outlandish proposal made. It wasn’t until Tasha flipped the script with her little display that I actually felt a bit of hope. No way would people get on board with her stance of fighting quickly, but it was a step in the right direction. Watching her talk with such passion, the heat of the argument alight in her eyes, it was overwhelming. She was beautiful and the kind of leader that these aimless, rich, assholes needed.

My friend was pretty amazing, I had to admit. Though despite the heated climate around me, I could help but wonder for a moment if she was my friend. Did that term still apply? Since she’d come back into my life, she’d been not-so-subtly pushing for something more. It could be easy to go along with, but something still held me back. A something that I suspected was sitting next to me at that very moment.

Thankfully, I didn’t have much time to ponder my upside down love life. Fire lit up in the audience and with it, panic erupted. I stood to my feet immediately, ready to jump into action if the arguments turned physical. It was a worry in vain, though, seeing as the entire point of the argument was the Moroi’s refusal of fighting with their fists and magic. Surveying the scene only irritated me further. No decisions were going to be made and I wanted to get away from the crowd to see if any more insights were made from the attacks. “You might as well leave. Nothing useful’s going to happen now,” I told Rose and Mason who had stood with me.

As I started to leave, I realized that my only companion was Rose. Mason was too fascinated by the scandal, apparently. As I fell in step with her, letting the sounds of the arguments die away, I realized how strange it felt to suddenly be alone with her. I last saw her at Tasha’s Christmas gathering, but that was a strained time. The memory of our kiss was still fresh and I was doing everything I could to ignore the effect it had on me. Since then, she’d been downright cold towards me. I wasn’t entirely sure why. I suppose because I canceled the rest of our lessons? It didn’t really make much sense to me, though.

Almost as if she could read my mind, Rose provided the answer herself. “Should’t you be in there protecting Tasha? Before the mob gets her? She’s going to get into big trouble for using magic like that.”

I arched an eyebrow at her, picking up instantly on the tone of her voice. Rose actually sounded jealous. Of Tasha. I had been spending a lot of time with the Moroi, but I couldn’t quite place where this newfound vehemence was coming from. “She can take care of herself,” I commented. I found myself wanting to pick at this wound more, to find out exactly what was going on inside her head. Yet at the same time, I was definitely afraid of what I might find.

“Yeah, yeah, because she’s a badass karate magic user,” Rose continued on, letting her emotions lead the conversation. “I get all that. I just figured since you’re going to be her guardian and all . . .”

That brought me to a halt. I knew gossip at the Academy traveled like wildfire, yet somehow, I always felt like I was exempt since I was a guardian. Apparently not. This was exactly what I didn’t want. I still hadn’t given Tasha my answer but it was already dictating my life. Was this the reason Rose had been so cold? Had been avoiding me like the plague? Had been all over Mason? I quickly pushed the last thought out of my head the moment it had sprung up. Mason was a good guy. I knew better than to make this about me. And if Rose had a chance for some happiness with someone deserving of her, then I wouldn’t stand in the way.

But me and Tasha . . . That was an entirely different matter. I didn’t really know how I felt about the woman still defending her political views in ballroom. We first met when I had just turned nineteen. A bunch of the royals were on a winter getaway in Aspen, Colorado. Snowmass, to be exact. It was a small enough town that made it easier to guard. Plus, there’s a Moroi run ski resort in the mountains there, just like the one in Idaho. My charge, Ivan, had a few friends going for what was sure to be a rowdy, fun packed weekend. I was working, of course, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t have a bit of fun, too.

The first night there was a small gathering in the suite belonging to a Drozdov. Tasha had been invited, though I can’t really remember why. She was clearly an outcast, not quite fitting in. I’d heard the stories, and saw the truth of them in the scar that marred her otherwise flawless complexion. Just because she wasn’t popular, didn’t mean she shied away from the conversations. She was a bit older than me, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit awkward around her. Such beauty and strength wrapped up in a “I don’t give a shit” attitude had caught my attention right away.

The topic of fighting was brought up. One of the Drozdov guys was boasting about “easy” it was to be a guardian. He’d had more than his fair share of vodka shots at that point, which made it hard to actually take offense. He balled up his fist and punched the air for emphasis.

Tasha laughed, bringing everyone’s attention on her. She set down the vodka bottle and stood up. “You’d break your fist instantly, Nik. You have to wrap your thumb like this.” She demonstrated and threw a punch to the air. This was met with whoops from the group, encouraging more. It was every bit as taboo a subject to talk about Moroi fighting then as it is now. There was something scandalous about the conversation topic and the drunken Moroi wanted to encourage more of it. I exchanged a glance with a fellow guardian. We hadn’t been drinking and I could tell that he was as amused as I was.

"You couldn’t break through a sheet of paper with that punch,” Nik laughed.

Rolling her eyes, Tasha responded, “So I don’t have the strength you do in my stick arms, but at least my bones will stay in tact.”

“The power doesn’t come from your arm.” It was me who had spoken, moving away from the wall as I approached her. I tried to push the awkwardness aside, wanting to seem “cool” in her eyes. I’d always had something of a show-off nature and couldn’t help but join in with the taboo conversation. “It’s your hips,” I told her. By now, the entire crowd had fallen to a hush, watching a very unprecedented display with rapt fascination. I got into a fight stance and slowly showed her how to rotate the hips. “Turn like this, use your back foot to put all your weight into the punch, and that’s where you get your strength. The hips. And your hips look more than capable to me.”

The loud cackle I heard belonged to my friend. “Oh Dimka! Beware ladies, he slays more than just Strigoi!”

I dropped my hands and shot Ivan a look. It was Tasha who had pulled my attention again. “Dimka?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as she studied me with curiosity.

“Just a nickname,” I answered with a little shrug.

“I like it.”

Her smile was infectious and I soon found myself forgetting about Ivan’s teasing. We dropped all notions of fighting after that, but Tasha remained at my side the rest of the party. The next evening, we even found time to sneak off together and talk the whole night away in front of a large fireplace in one of the common rooms. There was nothing illicit about it, though. She was pretty and I admired her spirit, but the more we talked and got to know one another, I found something more valuable than a vacation romance. She was someone I could be myself around. Ivan was really only other person I’d ever felt that way about. She even liked my outdated taste of music. We could talk about everything from superficial, amusing topics, to the more serious things such as Moroi politics and even her darkened past. There wasn’t an ounce of judgement from either of us. Even though we’d only known each other three days, at the end of the vacation, it felt as though I’d known her my whole life.

Tasha was a true friend, through and through. We’d kept in contact over the years, but our relationship never seemed anything more than friendly. It wasn’t until she’d showed up at the Academy for her nephew, Christian, that she started hinting at wanting more. Did I want more? The first time we had kissed had been Christmas night, after her party. It was nice, enjoyable. We know each other so well already that there was no fear, no apprehension. Kissing her was comforting, and safe.

But what was safety what I wanted? Or was it danger that always appealed to me more. When her lips had met mine, I couldn’t help but think of Rose’s kiss in the gym just days before. Every part of it was wrong, but there was no denying the passion of that kiss. While under the effects of Victor’s lust charm months before, I had grown a new appreciation for her. Of course the feel of her half naked body underneath mine would light up my dreams for years to come, but it couldn’t compare to that kiss.

There was no charm or spell to dictate us. It was driven solely by Rose’s passion . . . and as much as I don’t want to admit it, mine as well. It had set a fire inside me, making my mind beg for more. Rose was unpredictable, even by my standards, and not knowing what she’d do next thrilled me. Of course my logic had caught up and I put an end to it at once, but the truth was still there. Rose’s kiss had left far more an impression than Tasha’s ever could.

Yet my old friend had offered the perfect solution. Rose could never be, no matter how much my heart yearned for her. Tasha, however, was proposing an ending that would not only keep Rose and Lissa safe and happy, but allow me to live a dream that most dhampirs were never given. Surely I could learn to love Tasha without any difficulty, right?

Either way, I still hadn’t come up with an answer, which made it all the more frustrating to hear the topic from straight from Rose’s mouth. “Where did you hear that?” I asked her.

“I have my sources,” she replied enigmatically. “You’ve decided to, right? I mean, it sounds like a good deal, seeing as she’s going to give you fringe benefits. . . .”

My patience had just run out. I didn’t even know what was going on between myself and Tasha, and I didn’t want to have to explain it to anyone else. Least of the very girl who had tormented my mind into making this such a difficult matter to begin with. I set her with a stern gaze, hoping that she got the message that the topic was off limits. “What happens between her and me is none of your business.” I couldn’t have this conversation with Rose. Not yet. I wasn’t ready. Yet she pushed on in typical Rose fashion. She really was going to be the death of me, I was certain of that.

“Well, I’m sure you guys’ll be happy together. She’s just your type, too –– I know how much you like women who aren’t your own age. I mean, she’s what, six years older than you? Seven? And I’m four years younger than you.”

If I had wondered whether or not Rose was jealous, all doubt was instantly removed. Yes, there was a selfish part of me that took pleasure in knowing that I could get her attention like that, but I quickly pushed it aside. Rose was intoxicating, but we could never be. She’s still only seventeen, I’m her mentor, we’re both set to be assigned Lissa’s guardians. I wasn’t a total asshole and refused to mess up her life with my own selfishness. Reason upon reason stacked up against us, and I felt my control starting to slip as frustration began to seep in. That frustration only doubled when I realized it was exactly the point Rose had made in the gym. My control was always a battle for me.

"Yes,” I finally answered. “You are. And every second this conversation goes on, you only prove how young you really are.”

Shit. Ok, that was a hell of a lot more harsh than I wanted it to be. The problem was, I was feeling cornered. What I wanted was right in front of me but I couldn’t have her. I was mad at the situation, not her. Unfortunately, the more she pushed, the more she became the target of that anger.

My heart raced as I realized what I had done. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe I could still take it back and––

“Little dhampir,” a new voice interrupted. When I looked up and saw Adrian Ivashkov approach, I felt my moody emotions return. Though I wondered if I was only annoyed because he’d interrupted me, I quickly realized that wasn’t the case at all. It was lascivious look in his eyes as they swept over Rose’s body. It was gross, and I wanted nothing more than to smack the smug grin from his face. I did my best to control my expression, but judging by Adrian’s greeting as he continued to talk to Rose, I had a feeling my disgust was pretty obvious.

Was I being a hypocrite, I wondered. I was pissed off that Rose had acted all jealous over Tasha, yet here I was, wanting to explode because she was talking to Adrian of all people. No, that wasn’t it, I quickly realized. Mason was good. I would have been happier if it was him that she was walking away with. Rose deserved someone who could treat her with respect and compassion. I wished it was me, but such wasn’t in the cards. As it were, I silently seethed as I watched her leave with the slimeball, confident that she had no idea who Adrian really was.

With no where else to go, I went in search of Tasha to see if she was free yet. Though part of me suspected there was a more petty reason for suddenly wanting her company . . .

#ᴏɴᴇ sʜᴏᴛ ✶ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟɪᴋᴏᴠ ᴄʜʀᴏɴɪᴄʟᴇs #dimitri belikov #vampire academy #rose hathaway #tasha ozera #romitri

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snowdice · 4 years

Text

Little Kestrel (Part 4)[Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted, look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Logan’s statement did not appear to go over well with the small assassin. He went still and curled over into himself as though to protect his more vulnerable areas. Honestly, Logan thought agitated, Logan hadn’t threatened any bodily harm. He’d even prefaced the statement with an apology even though he didn’t feel as though he had anything to apologize for! Just like father had taught him!

Patton shot him a glare, telling him he was somehow in the wrong despite the fact that he’d been the one who was almost assassinated. Logan grumbled and returned to quietly sulking in the background while Patton cooed at the assassin, trying to cajole him out of the ball he’d wrapped himself into.

Logan did have to admit the situation was odd. He was young. He didn’t even know anyone trained assassins so young. His kingdom did have a guild of trained assassins/spies, but one couldn’t even join the military until one was of age (though they could start training at 16 with special permission) and all assassins must have at least a year of military training before being considered. It would be years more before they were sent out on actual missions.

So, where had this young boy came from? Surely, he wasn’t acting of his own volition, especially considering his age and temperament. What was his or whoever had sent him’s greater purpose? One didn’t attempt the risky act of regicide without some reasoning. Why did he only have one weapon? Most hired killers would be provided with a backup at the very least and more than likely an arsenal. Why was he acting so skittish? It was a strange attitude for a trained killer.

He had piqued Logan’s curiosity and Logan wanted answers.

“There, see?” Patton was saying. He was hand feeding more of the cookie to the assassin who looked just as startled by this fact the second time around as the first. “How about a compromise?”

Logan eyed him suspiciously. He was willing to let Patton lead since Logan was well aware of his own shortcomings when it came to tact, but his friend also had a bit of a bleeding heart. Logan refused to let him put himself at risk.

Ironically, the assassin seemed to be on the same page as Logan. His eyes tracked Patton distrustfully. “Compromise?” he echoed.

“Yes!” Patton said, unconcerned with the blatant discomfort in the room.

“We’ll ask you a question and you answer it,” Patton said. “Then you can ask a question and we’ll answer that. Then we can keep going back and forth like that.”

The assassin seemed unsure about this, but he slowly nodded. “What’s your question?” he asked.

Patton looked back at Logan and inclined his head. Logan took a step forward. “Who are you?” Logan asked. The assassin hesitated.

“Maybe a more specific question,” Patton suggested. “We’ve got plenty of time and ‘who are you?’ is a bit of a big question. There are so many different answers!”

“Very well,” Logan agreed. “Let’s start with, what’s your name?”

The assassin considered him, looking overly cautious for such a mundane question. “It’s Virgil,” he said after a moment.

“Last name?” Logan prompted.

“I-” he hesitated, looking distressed. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?” Logan asked.

And… he was curling up into a ball again. “Sorry,” he said softly. He started to cry again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, hey,” Patton soothed. “That was good.”

Logan frowned. It was not ‘good’. It had given them basically no information. “Why-”

“It’s Virgil’s turn to ask a question, Logan,” Patton said. Logan almost groaned. This was going to take forever, wasn’t it?

Virgil’s eyes bounced between them. “Why haven’t you called someone to take me away yet?” he asked.

“We wanted to ask you a few questions ourselves before getting the castle guards involved,” Logan answered.

“Are…” he shut his mouth, likely realizing he’d have to wait for his next question.

Logan considered him. “Why do you have no last name?” Logan asked.

Virgil looked away. “I’m an orphan. I don’t know who my parents were, and no one bothered to give me one.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” Logan acknowledged. “And your question?”

“Are…” Virgil said. “Are you going to torture me if I don’t answer something right?”

Patton let out a little pained exhale.

“Why would we do that?” Logan asked.

“Why wouldn’t you do that?” he replied.

“Where the hell are you from where that’s a question?”

“Why the hell should I tell you?”

“Why the hell would you be defending a place that makes you think that’s a normal question?”

“What the fuck are you even on about?”

“Okay,” Patton cut Logan off before he retorted in kind. “I think that’s enough of the question game at the moment.” He stood up and walked back over to the plate of cookies.

“He-” Logan started to grouse and got a sugar cookie pushed into his mouth to silence him.

Logan frowned around the cookie as Patton went back and offered the other cookie to Virgil. Virgil turned his head away from it. Logan’s eyes watched the assassin as Patton thought for a moment and then tore a bit of the cookie off. He ate the bite himself before offering the cookie again. This Virgil was a suspicious thing, Logan thought as the boy slowly ate a bite of cookie.

It made Logan’s curiosity itch even more, but at this rate he wasn’t going to get any answers. He polished off the sugar cookie and then walked over to sit on the floor next to where Patton was kneeling.

Virgil watched him move and Logan met his eyes. “No, by the way,” Logan thought to answer. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

Logan tried not to bristle at the disbelieving look on his face. Logically that distrust had nothing to do with Logan personally, but with whatever his experiences were before this.

Logan tilted his head at him. “Why the one knife?”

Virgil blinked at that. “What?”

“The knife,” Logan reiterated. “You were clearly here to use it, but you only have one. It seems odd.”

“Uh…” Virgil said. “I don’t know. That’s all they gave me.”

Logan nodded. “Me or my dad?” he asked. “Or both?”

Virgil clearly didn’t want to answer. “The king,” he said.

Logan nodded, and it suddenly hit him exactly what would have occurred if he and Patton hadn’t happened to be awake. Virgil seemed to see the realization on his face. He braced himself as though expecting to be struck. Logan felt suddenly nauseous, the idea of a dead father hitting a bit too close to home after…

“And the guards?” Logan asked.

“I didn’t,” Virgil rushed to say. “Just a light sleeping potion. They probably didn’t even notice anything happen.”

“Okay,” Logan said. “Good.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Virgil asked.

“We’ll hand you over to the guards,” Logan said. “They’ll figure out what to do with you from there.”

He nodded, looking small, and Logan refused to feel guilty for it. Virgil had come here with the intention of killing Logan’s dad! Logan had no reason to feel guilty about turning him in. Besides, it wasn’t as though any of them were going to hurt or kill a literal child. Dad would never let them anyway. He’d be fine! There was no reason for his sad eyes that seemed almost too big for his face to make Logan want to squirm uncomfortably.

Logan sighed. “Are you still hungry?” he asked. “We do actually have more than just cookies in spite of Patton’s efforts.”

“We don’t have any more jam though because of Logan’s efforts earlier,” Patton said sweetly. Logan pursed his lips but didn’t deny it. Instead he just walked over to where they’d stored their extra snacks.

“How about some cheese?” Logan suggested, “and perhaps some milk to drink?”

“Why are you trying to feed me?” Virgil asked.

“Because you look hungry. Are you?”

He bit his lip and nodded. They split up the cheese between the three of them which seemed to soothe Virgil’s worry of poison. He ate what they offered him without complaint and drank most of the milk.

Logan managed to squeeze a few more answers out of the boy, but nowhere near enough to satiate his curiosity. Eventually, morning came, and Logan sighed. “We should probably…” he said, “turn you in.”

The boy looked like he might burst into sobs, but he just hung his head. Another stab of that unfounded guilt shot through Logan and the frown on Patton’s face just made it worse.

“I’ll talk to my father first,” Logan promised. “He’s a kind man. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Virgil clearly didn’t believe him, but Logan knew it would be okay in the end.

“We should probably hide him before we leave though,” Logan told Patton. “Just in case.”

Patton nodded and looked around. “Closet?”

“That will be adequate,” Logan agreed. He turned to Virgil. “Those bracelets make your arms stay in place as you have seen, but I can move them at will. I’ll take your arms and guide you to the closet. You walk behind me. Understand?”

Virgil nodded and Logan picked up both of his wrists, pulling his arms in front of him and then using his grip to help the boy stand. He didn’t resist being pulled to his feet or led to the closet.

“Alright, let’s go,” Logan said. Patton had on his unhappy face, but Logan did his best to ignore it. This was the correct decision. He and Patton left his bedroom and crossed to his dad’s room. Logan knocked. He’d expected that he’d have to wake his father since it was still very early in the morning, so he was surprised when the door opened before Logan had even finished knocking.

“Logan,” Father said. “I was just coming to see you.” He was already dressed, and Logan raked his brain for any early morning appointments for today and came up blank.

“What about?” Logan asked.

“There’s been word that Lamir’s new Queen may be considering an alliance with Mocnejsi. Seeing as I knew her mother fairly well, I’m hoping I can talk her out of it,” he said.

“What should I do?” Logan asked.

Father turned back into the room. “You’ll stay here and oversee things while I’m gone,” he told Logan over his shoulder. “I’ll only be gone for three weeks and there is nothing major that will need to happen. Just make sure everything runs like usual.”

“You’re going to be gone for three weeks?” Logan asked.

“Yes,” Father confirmed.

Logan glanced at Patton who had turned to him, hands clasped and was shooting him his best pleading expression. “Okay,” Logan said, “have a nice trip.”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 5

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #character thomas sanders #adriana writes #little kestrel #birds of different feathers #implied/referenced child abuse #assassination attempt #past torture #captivity

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