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softluci · 3 years

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aggressive affection (round two!)

[ part two of this, with the now dateables. guess which one(s) i have a crush on—i am actually so embarrassed because i'm getting shy trying to write this, but it's a must that i put this into the universe. if you want to read this first, rather than the one with the brothers, here is the preface: ]

i’m not sure if this is something unique to younger people, but i am one hundred percent sure that younger people do it a lot, just going off of the behavior of my friends and i. (i’m gonna tell you now that this isn’t entirely sfw, so minors dni please and thank u)

but i’ve found that it’s pretty common for friends to be, like, aggressively affectionate with one another, for lack of a better phrase. if not aggressively affectionate, then just really flirtatious, often for no reason, and it is still meant entirely in a platonic sense. some examples of this that i have experienced include, but are not limited to:

“i’m gonna eat you,” “do u wanna make out,” “just remember, no matter WHAT happens, i will ALWAYS wanna make out with you,” “i have literally wanted to fuck all of you at some point,” “let’s have sex,” “stfu before i kiss you,” [points to lap] “is this seat taken?” “every day i’m like, ‘wow, [name] is so cool, we should make out,’” and so on and so forth.

so you can imagine the fun i’m about to have.

dia

you—why did you—look.

dia is a very nice, social guy; very smiley, you guys get along great, that's great!

he is still very much a demon (the prince of them, in fact) and very much not one of your friends from the human world, no matter how much he wants you to treat him as such.

you should've known better.

he'd invited you to the castle for tea and a nice chat—a regular occurrence between the two of you so that he could see how you were doing, how the program was going, talk about lucifer, play catch up; nothing out of the ordinary.

he complimented you on your performance thus far, telling you about how well you've done—which was just standard kindness—so would you like to explain to the class why your immediate response was, “so kiss me then,” ?

he was totally fine with it, but he was also very confused, so it was only fair that he pulled you into his lap to get a better understanding of what you meant. if you do the math, it adds up, i swear.

luckily, you don’t even have to explain yourself with this one because it seems like he already knows. this is good because, given his proximity to you at that moment, you wouldn’t have done a good job explaining yourself anyway.

“is this how you talk to your human friends?”

it was a simple question, with a simple answer, it’s just that you were nose-to-nose, and his eyes were hooded all of a sudden and his hand was cupping the side of your face so, naturally, you had some difficulty forming words—fortunately, you managed to nod instead of embarrassing yourself by trying to talk.

“and do they ever do what you ask?”

again, it would’ve been foolish of you to try and speak, so you just shook your head. you were doing a surprisingly nice job of maintaining your dignity, well done! this is nice compensation for the fact that you seemed to forget you were dealing with the demon of demons, but he was kind enough to remind you—

“well, i’m not one of them, so i’ll do as you say. you don’t mind, right?”

do you have a saving grace with this man? meh. he doesn’t want to do anything in front of the others, but he can literally go somewhere private with you under the guise of wanting to talk. it’s not like anyone is gonna tell him he can’t.

barbatos

you don’t make any sense. you watched black butler know that he’s the scariest person in the devildom, why did you think you could do this? he might be a menace not too far underneath that professional exterior, but that doesn’t mean you have to fuck around and find out. or maybe that’s exactly what that means.

all he did was bring you tea. he saw you sitting in the castle’s library doing schoolwork—dia offered to let you study there to enjoy some quiet that you wouldn’t have gotten at the house, and because you aren’t one to forgo such a kind gesture, you accepted.

he set it down on the table in front of you, much to your surprise.

“oh, thank you! you really didn’t have to,” you said, looking up at him from your seat.

“nonsense,” he started, smiling softly, “you’ve been working hard.”

you, for whatever reason, took this as an opportunity to pretend barbatos was one of your human friends.

“you shouldn’t say that unless—”

that’s all he let you say. what you were going to say was, “you shouldn’t say that unless you plan on making out with me.” trouble was, he already knew that. you must have forgotten who you were talking to.

before you could finish, his hand was under your chin, and his other hand was resting on the arm of your chair, effectively caging you in, and effectively keeping you from looking away.

his smile went from benevolent to teasing meaning you got the menace you wanted, as he asked,“unless what?”

he took more joy in your flustered state than he would care to admit, but he’d recently learned that you had an affinity for trying to catch people off guard, so he thought it was more than fair to do the same to you—as a treat, for him.

that said, it’s no surprise that you had to endure relentless teasing, him asking you what you wanted from him, why you were so shy all of a sudden, telling you not to be shy and that he wouldn’t bite, unless you asked nicely. what? he liked how warm your face made his hand.

“what’s wrong? don’t you want to kiss me?”

okay. that was the last straw. you never even hinted that you didn’t wanna kiss this man, and here he was, making assumptions about you as a person.

you, in your infinite confidence and assertive nature, said, “i—i never said i didn’t want to.”

and you know what, you really showed him because even though he laughed at you, even though he made a show of taking off his gloves, even though his hand moved from the arm of the chair to your thigh—even though he took every necessary step to remind you that he was in control, you still got what you wanted. and then some.

your only saving grace with him is the fact that he breathes professionalism and he’s always busy. when he isn’t busy, however. well.

simeon

you goddamn heathen. oh, you fucking freak. simeon has a reputation to uphold, you can’t treat him like one of your heathen little human friends, which means you can’t just say whatever pops into your head when you’re talking to him, which means—you should really learn to take compliments normally.

simeon is a nice guy, and he likes you a lot, so it only makes sense that he compliments you whenever he can. in other words, he dishes out anywhere from one to four compliments whenever the two of you are together. he can’t help it, he just thinks you’re neat!

the fact remains that you chose to be a menace to the angelic persona he is supposed to project at all times.

it was a simple compliment. he enjoyed spending time with you, and he told you so, just telling you that your presence was a pleasant one.

your response was actually normal—it was a simple, “i like being around you too!”

in a way, this is simeon’s fault, if you think about it. he could’ve just said, “thank you,” and kept it pushing, but instead, he said, “really?”

why would he think you didn’t like being around him? that was unacceptable, so, really, what choice did you have but to give him the most solid affirmation he would ever hear?

“of course! every day, i’m like, ‘wow, simeon is so cool, we should make out,’ you know?”

what you were expecting was for him to blush and laugh it off, call you silly, and maybe pat your head for good measure. that was a reasonable thing to expect, albeit that is not even close to what you got.

since you were being so casual, simeon figured that he could—that he should—do the same. it was only natural that he stop being a model angel for a little while, right?

oh, don’t look so flustered, it’s not like you’ve never been backed against a wall before. how many times has a demon done this to you? it’s only fair that an angel gets a turn.

“actually,” he started, lips already brushing against yours as he spoke. “i don’t know. would you mind showing me?”

if you are, understandably, too flustered to function, he will gladly make the first move, don’t worry, but if his first move happens to be taking your bottom lip between his teeth instead of kissing you, well… there’s not much you’re going to be able to do about it, so you may as well just enjoy.

i mean, you tempt an angel, and you get what’s coming to you—that’s all there is to it.

similar to barbatos, you will only be safe from this man when he’s in public or around a few of the others. if you’re alone with him and in private, he’s already under the impression that he doesn’t have to be an angel with you, so find joy in the side of him you’ve uncovered.

solomon (derogatory)

you two deserve each other, really. both of you are public enemies. he was just as terrible as your friends from back home, except he was always walking the line like a tightrope. he was always on the verge of making his teasing into a reality, and to be quite frank, you were starting to get fed up—and you were right to be. but this is what you get for being a dirty solomon enjoyer.

all of his empty threats and demands about kissing you, his lingering touches on your lower back or waist or thighs, his dumb little smirks on his dumb little face, his occasional bites wherever you were vulnerable, his habit of putting his hand around your throat for fun (or so he says)—those all came with the territory. he hasn’t had a friend to tease in ages (he can’t do it to asmo without it immediately turning into an hour long event), so you get it all at once, congratulations!

don’t look so upset, he’s an attractive guy, so this is still a win.

now, all of that said, you were hard pressed to find an opportunity to catch this man off guard, but once you got your chance, you latched onto it exactly as you should’ve.

the two of you were in his room, studying (“studying”) for an upcoming exam. he was sitting in a chair, and you were on his bed a few feet away. you needed something from your bag, which was on the side of his chair farthest from you, so you decided to walk by him to get it, like a normal person. look at you, acting regular for once.

evidently, that was a mistake. as soon as you were in front of him, his hand was on your waist, and you were pulled into his lap.

you turned to look at him, eyebrows raised and everything, and he seemed to have an explanation ready to go, paired with one of his signature smiles.

“i was wondering when i’d get to bother you again.”

this was your chance—probably the only chance you’d get in a while, so it made sense that you took this opportunity to be heinous, even though you were in a rather compromising position.

“either sleep with me or leave me alone.”

you did it. for a moment, you had him. the surprise plastered on his face was enough gratification to last you a lifetime, however fleeting it may have been. unfortunately for you, he had a wonderful recovery time.

before you could fully enjoy the look on his face, it was gone, replaced by a more sinister expression that almost made you regret your decision.

for what it’s worth, you didn’t have to see that menacing look of his for long because he turned you away from him to press your back into his chest. if that makes you feel any better.

“i’ll never leave you alone,” he hummed, teeth already grazing your neck. his hand moved from your waist to your inner thigh, slowly separating one leg from the other. “but you already knew that.”

you didn’t have a saving grace with this man before, and now you never will.

#COME GET YALL JUICE!#i acc considered doing an sfw platonic ver with luke as a bonus but then i got tired #also didn't want anyone to see his name and freak #anyway #it's acc not funny how shy i got writing this BYE #how do people write smut omg #literal gods good lord #obey me #obey me!#obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me dia #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #obey me undateables

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lunarthedragon · 4 years

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Bards are Knives and Arrows, Not Sunshine and Daisies

Written mostly from excitable inspiration from a previous post of mine here. Wrote this mostly in my free time at school so bound to have mistakes.

Read on Ao3: here

Oxenfurt University was a school of prestige. Only the best of the best went there to study; which really just meant rich kids or the exceptionally, exceptionally talented. It was a haughty establishment, encouraging space-minded men to keep their minds in space, asking questions no one actually cared to ask in the real world.

That was its reputation, anyway. What the common man or woman might say when asked what they thought of the establishment.

To a degree… they weren’t wrong. The main classes did contain quite a few children of wealth, but that was only the surface. Every old, near ancient, organization is bound to have bones in its closet, and Jaskier was intimately associated with those very bones in Oxenfurt University.

He attends classes, studying the seven liberal arts, bettering his craft, but somewhere along the way he had been noticed. He isn’t sure what it was that drew the Chancellor’s eye to him. He likes to think it was his angelic voice, but he suspects it was his innate talent of talking himself out of trouble. It was a very impressive skill, and it had gotten him an invitation to the “Society of Foxes.”

Jaskier had no idea what a Society of Foxes was supposed to be, but he had assumed it was an elite club. Oxenfurt University had quite a few of them, but Jaskier had never been invited until then.

He’d gone without hesitation, meeting the head of the Society, Anatol, far after the sun had set.

This was when he had been introduced to the dangerous, but invigorating life, of a Bard, and he never looked back.

+++

Jaskier was a marvelous minstrel. He loved to sing and dance and keep people entertained, but he was also observant. He could tell when a room began to shift and the mood of his songs needed adjusting. He knew who to focus on in a tavern or party if he wanted to get the most coin out of them.

“Your honest enjoyment in this work will make you a better Bard,” Anatol had assured Jaskier when he’d first joined their Society. Anatol was an unremarkable man. Not short or tall, not strong or skinny, not dark or light. He wore nice clothes, sure, but he wasn’t much of anything. He had sharp eyes, though, like he’d seen far more than a regular minstrel should ever have seen.

“I thought Bards were just a myth to keep the nobility entertained,” Jaskier says, suspicious and not entirely sure if he’s being hazed or not. “You know… they hire a bunch of performers and try to figure out who the Bard must be? Like a game?”

“To them, it is a game,” Anatol nods, his eyes hardening even further. “Until the actual Bard that has been spying on them for months slits their throat without anyone being the wiser.”

He’d been told he would be hired for some of the most dangerous parties, where the nobility made a point of keeping an eye on their performers and drunkenly trying to declare who the hidden spy must be. A performer might even get executed right on the spot, if a noble was certain, or drunk, enough.

Jaskier would have to ensure that performer wasn’t himself.

But there was training for that.

Jaskier continued with his courses at Oxenfurt University, but in the evenings and sometimes late into the night, Jaskier was in the belly of the school, slipping into hidden corridors and rooms, learning how to twist his words in just the perfect way to get the results he wanted.

Learning every poison imaginable and how to concoct them.

Learning how to wield, sharpen, maintain, and hide a seemingly infinite variety of knives.

Learning how to shoot an arrow near perfect every time.

Memorizing important nobles all over the Continent.

It was grueling, exhausting work, but through it all Jaskier thrived. He complained, sure, but he always managed to find time to write songs, to play his lute for his fellow Bards, to crack a joke and make his peers laugh off their nerves.

They called him the Laughing Fox, most of them got silly nicknames like that, but he was still proud of it. He felt like he was part of something bigger. Not a bigger cause, no. The Society of Foxes, and likely most Bard schools, weren’t associated with anyone. They did as they pleased and their Bards could go off and do whatever they wanted and would always be welcomed back.

They were a family, in a way, looking out for their own kind. They were competitive, sure, and they were literally taught how to murder people without detection… but every family had its quirks, right?

Well, Jaskier loved his quirky, murderous family very, very much. He doubts his blood parents would have ever approved, if they’d been alive, but he never really cared about any of that anyway.

He had a family and he was happy.

+++

Until he wasn’t.

Jaskier was a fidgety man, and eventually the walls of Oxenfurt University felt more imposing than they felt welcoming. He was suffocating within the stone, the horizon a tempting siren’s call.

It came as no surprise to anyone when Jaskier announced he wanted to travel the world. “You could never sit still for long,” Anatol nods, before giving Jaskier a warm farewell hug.

“Aw, Anatol,” Jaskier coos, hugging his mentor back, “You were always like the strange, senile uncle I never wanted.”

“Off with you, heathen,” Anatol responds, swatting at Jaskier as he laughs and flees.

Wojciecha, one of Jaskier’s fellow Bards who had trained alongside him and garnered the title Sharpened Fox during her time perfecting her capabilities with bladed chains, accompanies him to the edge of Oxenfurt territory. Jaskier knew for a fact that those very lethal chains of hers were hidden under her flowing, flashy sleeves, but that was only because he knew her so well. No one else would be the wiser.

Wojciecha, or just Sharp for short, was a tall, dark-skinned woman with severe eyes, long dreads, and not a musical bone in her body. She was a spectacular dancer, however, and often slipped through parties, gaining information, with ease, her flashy clothes and movements distracting any man or woman that suspected her.

She was also significantly taller than Jaskier, which he once felt was a strike to his masculinity. Nowadays, though, he just felt lucky to count her among his family.

“Careful of monsters,” Sharp says as they walk.

“I’ll stick an arrow in their eye and run, if needed,” Jaskier assures, waving off the woman’s concerns.

“I still don’t understand what you hope to gain from this little adventure of yours,” Sharp grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“Hopefully something more substantial than ‘little’,” Jaskier huffs, looking forward along the path.

“Is that what the men and women you sleep with say before you take off your pants?” Sharp smirks, her smile as cutting as her name, and Jaskier shoots her a displeased glare.

“I wish to see the world,” Jaskier answers Sharp’s original consideration, “And, if I really must have a more specific, beneficial goal to everything… I wish to increase my reputation across the Continent. More and more people of power will invite me to perform, Jaskier the Greatest Minstrel, and then I can rob them of all their secrets.”

“And maybe a few hearts?”

“I am not THAT promiscuous, you know.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah, I am…”

They share a laugh and continue walking. Eventually Sharp stops and wishes him a proper good-bye before heading back to Oxenfurt University, leaving Jaskier alone to continue on his grand journey.

+++

Jaskier had not lied when he told Sharp and the rest of the Society of Foxes that he wanted to better his reputation as a minstrel to increase his success as a Bard, but that had not been the entire truth. There was a selfish part of him, the fantastical part of him that lived in his music, that wanted to make just as much coin as a minstrel that he did as a Bard.

A paying job for a Bard usually came from nobles or those with a lot of money to their name. Information wasn’t cheap on any day, and the nobility were willing to pay out their asses if they could get even a little dirt on their rivals.

Thus, a Bard could make a hefty amount of coin if they were consistent enough. A Bard couldn’t be too present, though, for threat of being found out, but still it was a very prolific, if seedy, business.

Jaskier wanted that kind of financial security to come from just his music alone. He wanted people to speak as highly of the Greatest Minstrel, Jaskier, as they did the frightening Laughing Fox.

It was an optimistic dream. It was a foolish dream. But Jaskier didn’t care. He was a great Bard, but he had always been called to his lute and his lyrics more than his knives and his bow.

This was a selfish journey he was embarking on, and he didn’t have enough shame in his body to feel guilty about it.

+++

Bards know monsters. Maybe not the monsters in fairy tales or nightmares, but rather the most terrifying, destructive monster of them all: Man.

Wild monsters, without souls or a care for anything but themselves, were born that way. They had no choice in the matter. Still dangerous, and needing to be eradicated at times, but blameless for their nature.

Man, though? Humans? They had souls, but some actively chose to ignore theirs. They were born with the capacity for greatness and love and compassion, but chose a darker, colder path instead.

Bards knew these monsters. Bards fought these monsters with their own, twisted games. Bards toyed with the remnants of these monsters’ souls to get them to do what they wanted.

Bards knew a few basic facts about wild monsters, too. Just enough if they were travelling on the road and needed to get away, but they were hardly experts. No, that was more of a Witcher’s expertise, not a Bard’s.

So, Jaskier stuck to what he knew. He performed every chance he got, but he knew his situation was going to be bleak for quite some time until he got his feet firmly on the ground. Knowing that, he kept his eyes and ears peeled, collecting secrets, and selling any information or service he could.

He had a mask for in-person meetings, of course, he wasn’t a fool.

It still wasn’t much. Without the direct contracts through the Society of Foxes, he had to begin building his own contacts out in the world. He was tempted to invest in business cards, honestly. Or a nice pamphlet.

Still, he made a decent amount of coin with the information he gathered, along with one or two assassinations here or there. Jaskier was never a fan of blood or murder, but he knew how to work with both when it was required of him.

He even helped a tiny village struggling with a bandit problem. He was rightly proud of that one.

He was complete rubbish in a proper fight. He could bob and weave, but he could hardly throw a punch or square off against a child, much less a fully grown attacker. He wasn’t ashamed to admit his short comings, because he was fully aware of his capabilities in stealth.

No one ever saw him coming.

“I wonder if there is a song to be written here,” Jaskier had wondered aloud, standing alone in the middle of the bandit camp, the bandit leader face down in his cot, an arrow through the back of his skull. Scattered all over the camp were corpses, painstakingly dispatched without a single person ever being made aware, until every, single bandit was dead.

Jaskier looks around the bandit leader’s room, searching for inspiration, but nothing comes. He always had trouble writing songs about himself that weren’t mournful, after all.

“They didn’t seeeee,” Jaskier attempts anyway, under his breath, digging around for some of the villagers’ possessions. “Didn’t see the fox cominggggg. Didn’t seeeee… Didn’t see their death risingggg.”

Jaskier cringes at the words and shakes his head. No, likely nothing worthy of performance would be coming of this.

He drops the stolen possessions he finds off at the village center in the dead of night, mask in place, then slips away to sing at their tavern and get completely boo’ed into silence.

+++

At most taverns Jaskier performs at he is boo’ed and heckled out of the building, or at least into a corner. At a few he is ignored. At far, far less he is applauded.

He knows how to read a ballroom, he realizes with more and more clarity the more he travels. People come to a noble’s gathering expecting music and finery, and often don’t even applaud the performances anyway. The musicians and entertainers are, for the most part, background noise. It is what makes it so easy for a Bard to work in secret.

Taverns, though… taverns have opinions. Sometimes they don’t want music at all, but more often than not they are just going to lay it out, very clearly, exactly what they think of your performances.

Jaskier has always been less successful performing in taverns, but that point is hammered home when taverns are the only venue that will currently take him. Nonetheless, he perseveres on, learning what works and what doesn’t. He gets better, has a few more cheers, but still people boo.

He tries to think of what he can do better. What he can adjust and perfect to assure more success. He has made changes to how he performs, but perhaps it is his subject matter he should be updating.

He has… no idea how to even begin to do that. But, he figures, inspiration will hit at precisely the right time it must.

+++

Bards don’t much believe in Destiny. It isn’t like Destiny wronged Bards in some way, it is more like Destiny ignores them and none of them have time to worry over it.

There weren’t many “Destinies” that took place with a bunch of spies.

“Destiny is a powerful mistress,” Anatol had said once, momentarily distracted from his class lecture when he’d been distracted by questions. “But… she may only garner power if we give it to her. What happens, happens. Do not put weight to it and you will live well.”

Anatol had always been a very straightforward man. Not rough, but he didn’t mince words, either.

Still, despite most Bards not putting much thought in Destiny and what she wanted, Jaskier found he quite liked the romantic element of it all. He’d written a few poems and songs about fate and Destiny before, but even he didn’t think it had much sway over his very life.

And then Geralt of Rivia had entered his life and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

+++

Bards had no reason to gather information on Witchers. Witchers had no human enemies for Bards to sell that information to, and Witchers had no major affiliations with anyone that might make them a target.

Also, they never showed up at parties, which could make things difficult for most Bards.

But, with Jaskier struggling to find new material for his songs, and still with that incessant itch to go out into the world and experience as much of it as he could, he had decided Geralt of Rivia was an exception.

It wasn’t like Jaskier wanted information on Witchers or Geralt specifically to hurt them. He mostly wanted information on monsters and the hunts themselves. He thought that was very reasonable!

But, clearly, Geralt did not share the same idea. He clearly didn’t want Jaskier following him around, that much was obvious. Jaskier wasn’t blind or stupid, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. But, he was also a very, VERY stubborn man.

He offered to be Geralt’s barker, even, to hopefully sweeten the deal. Better his name and reputation through these new songs.

Still Geralt wanted nothing to do with him.

So, Jaskier being such a very, very stubborn man, had followed the Witcher anyway.

The man in the tavern had claimed they were being terrorized by a devil of sorts and Jaskier was frightened, but mostly intrigued to see what such a monstrous beast must look like. Except Geralt claimed devils didn’t exist and suddenly was getting nailed in the head by a tiny cannonball.

A sylvan, Jaskier will later find out. The people are being threatened by a sylvan with a slingshot. Talk about anticlimactic. How was Jaskier meant to write a glorious ballad from that?

The Bard just narrowly dodges a tiny cannonball aimed at his own head. He had been being a bit more boisterous and louder than was necessary, but he thinks that the projectile was completely unnecessary, and he swiftly answers in kind.

A throwing knife is removed from its hiding place and let loose in one swift move, knocking the slingshot out of the sylvan’s hands where he hides in the bushes. The muffled, angry cursing Jaskier hears only makes him smile. Served the bastard right.

It doesn’t look like Geralt noticed Jaskier’s incredibly helpful move, however, as he prowls around the plants, looking for the best place to pull the sylvan from his hiding spot. “Get back, minstrel,” Geralt orders sharply, not looking back at him, and Jaskier pouts but does as he’s told.

“Very well, very well, but if anything happens—”

The sylvan charges at that moment, running at Geralt with a furious cry, and Jaskier instinctively pulls out another throwing knife. He need not worry, however, as Geralt swiftly pins his attacker down with only a minor tussle.

Jaskier watches at a distance as Geralt angrily interrogates the goat-man, but not before some… interesting banter. He tries not to outwardly cringe at what Geralt must assume is witty insults.

A dick with balls? Really?

He, unfortunately, does not notice the shadowy figure moving off to the side before a sharp pain erupts on the back of his head and the world goes black.

+++

Jaskier wakes up before Geralt does, the both of them sitting on the ground, back-to-back, with their hands bound together. They appear to be in a room built out of stone. Either that or a cave, but it seems a bit more charming than just a cave.

Ah, the story was getting more interesting! Jaskier would have to be more excited about that once he stopped being terrified for his life.

What had even happened?

Jaskier tried to get a look around, eyes frantically searching out a clue as to the current predicament. He spots his lute sitting atop a table on the other side of the room, along with Geralt’s swords. Beside them is Geralt’s belt of… potions? Jaskier doesn’t know what he keeps on there. Along with… a lot of knives. Just, a pile of knives. All likely taken off Jaskier’s person.

Oops. Maybe shouldn’t have thrown that first one at the sylvan. Tipped them off to the rest…

There isn’t much else to notice in the room, unfortunately, so Jaskier begins shifting around, feeling out his bonds. They are too tight to wriggle out of, but he could always break his thumb if absolutely necessary and slip out. It was a last-ditch effort, but Bards were taught plenty of ways to escape captivity, along with plenty of healing techniques for afterwards.

The thumb trick is Jaskier’s least favorite, however, because it leaves him unable to play his lute for a few days of recovery.

It doesn’t look to be necessary, however, as he realizes their captors didn’t take all of his knives. His rings are still in place and he easily clicks the side of one to snap out a tiny blade and begin sawing at the ropes.

When Geralt stirs, then awakens, Jaskier is about halfway through the ropes.

“Ah, lovely, you’re awake,” Jaskier hums in fake pleasantness, leaning back to nudge Geralt’s head when it sways too much. He can feel the Witcher’s hair smack the back of his head when he shakes his head out, clearing it.

“Where…?” Geralt begins, but doesn’t finish, likely realizing Jaskier can’t surely know where they are.

“No clue,” Jaskier answers anyway, “I am working on getting these ropes off of us, however, but if you have some Witchering magic you could use to speed things up, this would be the time to do that.”

“This is the time that they kill us!” Geralt snaps viciously, yanking at the binds and growling furiously when nothing happens. “How are YOU supposed to get these off?” Geralt demands after a few more attempts, sounding furious.

“Ah, quite simple, really,” Jaskier chirps, masking his fear with cheer, and taps Geralt’s fingers carefully with the small blade on his ring. Geralt makes a noise that sounds like it could be surprise but is mostly confused. “My mother was always very invested in my safety, you see,” he shrugs, then goes back to sawing the ropes.

It wasn’t a lie… His mother had always been a worry wart, and technically the ring was from her. The modifications, however…

He doesn’t get much more time to work on their escape, unfortunately, because right then an elf, of all things, comes charging in. They both get kicked quite a few times, Jaskier being reminded of just how much he hated fights, and his precious lute is shattered.

Dreadful adventure. Really. Worst in the world…

Jaskier tries not to cry at the sight of his ruined instrument.

It certainly doesn’t get better when Filavandrel arrives and lays out, in no uncertain terms, the mistreatment that has been set upon his people. It makes Jaskier’s muscles go loose in shock, his eyes haunted as he listens.

He’d thought…

Well, he’d thought a lot of things, but he was here to learn truths of the world, wasn’t he? And what a way to start his journey.

Jaskier remains mostly quiet as Filavandrel and Geralt speak. He knows when it is crucial for him to stay quiet, and now is one of those times. It takes a lot not to say anything, however, when Geralt starts talking about his resolution in being killed. Thankfully, that doesn’t play out. But it’s a close call that leaves a pit in Jaskier’s stomach.

They’re freed, actually freed, by the elves, Filavandrel himself taking his knife to their binds. He releases the Witcher first, of course, then pauses as he sees Jaskier’s wrists. “It would appear we did not take all of your weapons,” the elven king says sardonically, then snaps off the remainder of the ropes on Jaskier’s wrists.

“My mother was always very invested in my safety,” he says to the room as a whole, rubbing his wrists as he stands and flicking the blade in his ring back into hiding. The elves all give him unimpressed glares while Geralt ignores him, going to fetch his gear instead.

Jaskier clears his throat and hops after the Witcher quickly, beginning to pick up knife after knife from the pile on the table, assessing them then slipping them back into their hiding places.

Geralt has long finished being ready to go, swords and gear back on his person, and he and the elves all stand in silence, watching as Jaskier keeps picking up blade after blade, the weapons disappearing swiftly on his person, and he only looks up after he’s almost done. He glances around at all of the stares, flushing in embarrassment.

“What? My mother—”

“Was very invested in your safety,” Geralt interrupts, arms crossed and irritable-looking. Jaskier only offers him a sheepish grin, then finishes hiding the last of his knives.

+++

With a new lute, gifted to him from the elves, Jaskier composes his greatest hit, “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.” Geralt won’t stop glaring at him, but Jaskier doesn’t much care. It isn’t ready for a performance by the time they get back to the tavern and Geralt is paid his coin, but Jaskier knows it will be a hit when he is finished.

The morning after they return, just before the sun has fully risen, Jaskier finds Geralt saddling up Roach, clearly getting ready to leave.

“So!” Jaskier says cheerfully as he steps towards him, his lute on his back and a bag on his shoulder. He’d left the bag in the tavern before, too rushed to catch up with Geralt to go up and get it, but he has no intention of forgetting it again. “Where to next?”

He’s looking at Geralt’s back and he sees the man’s shoulder sag with a deep, unhappy sigh. The Witcher takes a few seconds to probably question his life choices before he says, without looking back, “There is no next. Not for you.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt! You can’t possibly expect me to just back down now? After just one adventure? I’ve only had a taste, a singular glimpse, at the greatness that is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!” Jaskier is grinning, not deterred at all, even when Geralt finally turns around and glares darkly at him.

“There is no greatness, minstrel,” Geralt gruffs and Jaskier thinks this is the most he’s heard him talk to the Bard before.

“I beg to differ,” Jaskier shrugs. In just one mission Jaskier had seen a side to Geralt of Rivia he doubted anyone else ever had. The man was gruff and intense, sure, but… “You are a good man, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his face and tone taking on a more serious feeling, and the other man watches him with a blank expression.

In all honesty, Jaskier is worried. In a way he probably shouldn’t be for a man he’s only just met.

Geralt is far too flippant about people’s general disdain towards Witchers. He acts like it doesn’t matter, doesn’t affect him, but there’s no way that can be true. No one can go through life completely unaffected by constant cruelty. No one. Not even a supposedly emotionless Witcher.

Especially a supposedly emotionless Witcher, who punches supposedly harmless minstrels when they so much as utter the word “Butcher.”

Geralt isn’t immune, and Jaskier knows it, but he hadn’t grown worried until their return trip from the elves.

He’d made a flippant comment, complimenting Geralt’s reverse psychology while dealing with the elves. Geralt’s “go ahead and kill me” schtick had seemed so convincing! Jaskier had been impressed by his acting capabilities and thought it necessary to let Geralt know that.

Except Geralt wasn’t responding to the compliments. He wasn’t looking at Jaskier at all.

Jaskier’s heart had very quickly jumped into his throat.

He still wanted information. He still wanted material for his songs. He still was in this for completely selfish reasons.

But now there was an extra layer. He’d offered to be the Witcher’s barker because he’d hoped it would win the man’s favor. He’d intended to write a song or two for him, it was no skin off his bones, and it would hopefully win him fame and fortune.

The boost to Geralt’s reputation would have just been a nice extra. Jaskier would have claimed it was all on purpose, then moved on to bigger and better things.

Now, though… Now Jaskier’s bleeding heart was demanding he do more. Demanding he not be only selfish.

Geralt really was a good man and he deserved more than the distrustful glares he got from everyone he ran across. He deserved to have people know all his good deeds, even if they had to be a tiny bit altered to be more thematically appropriate for a minstrel’s song.

“You won’t need to worry,” Jaskier continues, cheerfully, as he approaches Geralt when the man doesn’t respond. “I may be rubbish in a fight, but I can pull my weight on the road.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums and it sounds very suspicious.

“Yes, really,” Jaskier huffs then sets down his bag. It is filled with clothes and perfumes and oils, which he pushes aside as he pulls out a folded-up device. Geralt eyes it, still suspicious but edging on curious, and with a flick of Jaskier’s wrist the device snaps out and takes the rigged shape of a recurve bow.

Geralt’s brows have risen, watching as Jaskier next pulls out a modest, leather quiver with a few arrows rolling around in it. He holds up both – bow and quiver – and beams at Geralt proudly. “I can catch food, no problem,” he announces and Geralt’s brows lower, then one arches upwards.

“You? Preparing food?”

“Well… catch, definitely,” Jaskier mumbles, arms lowering and the quiver bumping against his leg. Geralt gives him a bland look. “What? Skinning them is disgusting!” He knew his limits. Was that so bad?

“Why do you have a bow in your bag, minstrel?” Geralt questions, sounding exhausted and resigned. He likely was beginning to realize he wouldn’t be losing Jaskier so easily.

“Because—”

“If you say it’s because of some protective mother I will drag you back into that tavern and leave you there,” Geralt snaps and Jaskier stiffens, eyes widening, before he clears his throat and glances down at the bow.

He couldn’t very well say he was a trained spy and assassin, now could he? He highly doubted the man who hardly trusted a minstrel would ever trust a Bard. Luckily, though, a good Bard always had plenty of stories at their disposal.

“I had to hunt for my family when I was younger,” Jaskier eventually sighs, glancing away like he’s wrapped up in a memory. “I caught, my father skinned, my mother cooked.”

“And the knives?”

Jaskier looks back at him, head tilting. “Now that one IS my mother,” he smiles, half-joking, and Geralt keeps staring at him. When the silence stretches on for too long Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Glare as much as you like. You aren’t getting rid of me. Your adventures are the best muse I’ve ever had!”

Geralt keeps staring for a long while, weighing his options, weighing Jaskier’s usefulness, weighing a lot in his head. Jaskier attempts to wait without squirming, but he still ends up tapping his fingers over his bow’s grip.

“You will do as I say,” Geralt suddenly says, making Jaskier straighten up. His voice is gruff with authority and warning. “If I say run, you run. If I say stay, you stay. If I say shut up, you shut up.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s going to be all that successful with those orders, but he can give it a shot. “Alright,” he nods, a smile pulling at his lips. Geralt narrows his golden eyes at him in disbelief, but Jaskier doesn’t let it deter him.

“Should we stop for breakfast first, though? You certainly got out of there quickly,” Jaskier continues, jabbing a finger back at the tavern and inn, but Geralt is already turning away and pulling himself up onto Roach.

The man grunts, noncommittal, and Jaskier pouts as he hefts his bag back onto his shoulder. He flicks the bow, clicking at a hidden button, and it folds back into itself so that Jaskier can hang it on his belt, the quiver hanging beside it.

Good fashioned Bard gadgets. It was amazing the doodads and contraptions the Society of Foxes had been able to get for Jaskier, and he treated his bow with such delicate care because of it. Even if it was dreadfully dull in design…

He follows after the Witcher as the man begins moving, chattering away about nothing, and giddily looking forward to his next adventure.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #bitcher #Dragon Age Bards #BAMF Jaskier #fanfic #my writing #hope you all enjoy!

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oghoneytryst · 5 years

Text

wild card.

request: best friend!harry and y/n are drunk one night and stuff gets spilled where they’re both in love with each other

where an innocent game of UNO with tequila and a twist makes harry and y/n’s night go wrong

a/n: hi. this is my baby. i love her a lot. pls treat her well.

this is also quite long, so I guess save this for later and read during that sweet spot in your life where you have all the time in the world. thank u enjoy.

----------

Insensible to how the night will progress, y/n admits that the aftereffects quickly following a tequila shot’s persuasive innocence rather impresses her.

“That,” she blurts out, “looks downright disgusting.”

Y/n breathes in the retched smell, leaning on the cheap granite with her weight pressing down on her forearms. Her eyes wander over the islands of accidental spills scattering across her kitchen counter – alcoholic puddles have gone to waste. Harry, positioned over his mess of a workspace, stands confidently tall on the opposite side.

“Oh, shut up!” he retaliates, throwing half of a lime at her ebullient figure.

The citrus bounces against y/n’s skin, right beneath her collarbone. She emits a gasp of shock from the cool sensation, but still manages to trap the small fruit to chuck it back at her best friend.

“Asshole!” she laughs. Never should she have teased Harry over his ability to recreate the infamous drinks he has downed in foreign countries. Peering down at the failed concoction before her, y/n bites down on her tongue and prevents any smartass remarks from sliding right off.

Well, alright, one more can’t hurt.

“I don’t think you’re making this right,” she says, ignoring whatever metaphorical daggers might possibly impale her best friend’s fragile ego.

Harry, in turn, sticks out his tongue. “You don’t even know what I’m making,” he remarks, picking up the blender to examine the poison inside.

“Sure, I do. It’s some drink you had in . . . Belgium.”

“Brazil,” he corrects, “but close. Your geography skills are truly remarkable, d’ya know that?”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. I-Have-A-Net-Worth-of-70-Million, but we don’t all have the privilege of expanding our education through continent-hopping on our private jets.”

Harry lowers the blender. His brow furrows, staring quizzically at his friend, then asks, “70 million? Really? Is it really that low?”

The two share an instant look of amusement; sparkling eyes and wide-open mouths. The kitchen walls echo with their wasted laughter. A drawn-out “Wowww” vibrates from y/n as she soaks in the Cheshire man’s conceited joke. Harry has to assure her over and over that “I’m joking, I’m joking!”

A couple minutes pass by. “You’re making a right mess of my kitchen,” y/n points out. “Are you planning on cleaning all of this up?”

“Of course,” he promises, then mirrors her position: leaning on the cheap granite, weight pressing down on his forearms. With a wide countertop anchoring right between them, Harry inches closer, cautious with his effect. “You don’t peg me as some sort of animal, do you?”

His beautiful features are even more inviting up close. Despite the friendship that blossoms through every year, y/n finds that Harry evolves with intimidation. Perhaps it is that charming charisma of his that grows with his every new love affair; either way, the stench of his alcoholic breath and the dirty stubble of his chiseled face – it has her drooling at every reunion.

“Of course not,” she breathes out, instantly catching onto her mistake when Harry’s face scrunches from the smell. “Ah . . . shit, sorry.” She laughs. Yet another invisible cloud of stench attacks her best friend, and all that she can do is cower behind the shelter of her hand in embarrassment.

Harry chuckles. “It’s alright. My breath is just as retched.”

Her hand pulls away from her toxic mouth with his assistance. His thumb finds leisure and softly caresses her knuckles. Y/n is almost dumbfounding in her lost stare, but her brain throbs from the bewildering thoughts nesting inside.

For one, she admires the way her hand disappears in his own; the inked cross sways back and forth to a calming rhythm on his soft skin.

Furthermore, there is a glimmer always present in his green eyes; kindness and serenity and comfort interconnects to craft the universe within.

Finally, his trademark that mesmerizes this lifetime and the next to come. She falls in love with his silent smirk, drowns in his prominent dimples that she imagines has captivated the world.

It is this and a plethora of other wonders that has her lost amongst a sea of hopefuls. There are a countless number of hearts that beat for him: a simple, extraordinary man. Unlike them, she will never be brave enough to tell him so.

It can’t be more of a clichéd nightmare to live in: reserving her most passionate desires and suffering in the presence of her unattainable best friend. A tragic fate, she admits, that graces her in the most torturous way.

“Um...” y/n blinks, settling back into the reality of the night. “So, are you going to finish whatever it is you’re making, or what?”

Harry chuckles, releases her hand and straightens up. “It’s already done. Besides, I thought you said it looked downright disgusting.” He puts his long legs to use and takes a single step toward the kitchen sink. From a rack adjacent to it, he pulls two wet glasses left to dry and returns to set them down on the counter.

“Oh, well I did, but that just makes it all the more interesting! Plus, you’ve wasted about half of my liquor cabinet, so I’m hoping that this will at least make for a memorable experience.”

“Well, in that case,” Harry, proud and tall, pours even portions of his concoction into their respective glasses, “bottoms up!”

Y/n smiles and accepts the glass from her cheerful friend who radiates with self-fulfillment. She normally doesn’t take risks with strange potions, knowing that the contents can very well end up surging back up her stomach and on her living room floor. Be that as it may, she knows that harry is prideful. She will do anything to see that charming smile of his, even if the painful realization hits her: a smile is all that she can wheedle out of him, despite wanting so much more.

With a delicate shake of her head, she raises the glass in sync with her eyebrows as to say cheers! The drink burns in her throat, but she downs it in a rush, hoping that it will loosen her up for the long night to come.

“No, you fucking didn’t!” Harry exclaims, 67 minutes having happily ticked away. Joyous tears pool in his eyes, fits of giggles bouncing off the living room walls.

“I swear, I’m not kidding,” y/n chimes in, downing another swig of her beer.

Needless to say, Harry’s magic potion did not sit well with her. As deliciously relieving as it had been, y/n had been wary of its powerful effects. Like creator, like creation, she had recited in her hidden thoughts prior to Harry suggesting the two relocate to the couch in the living room.

Since then, there have been silly story exchanges, and one of y/n’s has brought Harry to the brink of amusing insanity.

Y/n leans an elbow against the back of the couch and elaborates. “In my defense, I had a lot to drink that night. We had planned to go out and celebrate, but most of us ended up getting plastered at the pre-drink, so we just stayed at Sophia’s place. I think she was a little pissed at us, though. She really wanted to shag someone that night.”

“Not like you would’ve let that happen anyway,” Harry accuses, grinning at his friend’s shock and confusion. He licks the taste of retched beer from his lips and explains. “C’mon, we both know you’re incredibly clingy when you’re wasted. One second apart from Sophia and you would’ve cried more than when you’d thrown your phone out the window.”

“Hey!”

“I mean, seriously, y/n? Airplane mode? How do you manage to come up with that logic?”

Y/n simpers and sinks deeper into the cushions. “I was drunk!”

“All I’m saying is,” Harry laughs, blanketing a single hand over his squinty jaded eyes, “I’ve had my fair share of drunken mishaps, and never once did I think to throw my phone out the window with the intent of having it turn into an airplane.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose you’re not as imaginative as moi,” y/n teases, raising her shoulder to meet with her chin.

“I’m sure that’s the word you’re looking for.”

“It is. And also!” Y/n pauses, forcing her mouth to keep closed as a hiccup ripples through her body. “I’m not clingy! I may be affectionate sometimes, but as far as I’m concerned, I am currently riding on Shit-Face Avenue and have not clung to you once. Have I?” She shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

“You haven’t.” Harry shrugs, leaning against the back of the couch. “You could though, if you wanted to.”

Y/n stiffens. She blinks away the images that rise to the surface of her lingering eyes. As intoxicated as she currently is, the suggestive remark does not go unnoticed. In fact, if she doesn’t know any better, she can be right to assume that her best friend is implying a dangerous journey into uncharted territories.

Yet, having been friends with him for so long, she has caught onto his antics, especially those deriving from alcohol consumption. He claims her to be the clingy one, but there is no denying the overly affectionate, touchy man that overpowers him in such powerless situations. She has experienced it before, although it has never gone farther than his arms around her, and a sloppy peck on her face.

She’s never allowed it to go further.

“Anyway,” she trails off, breaking through the creeping silence that she isn’t aware had sneaked its way in. “I didn’t realize my mistake until the next morning, when my phone was already shattered and the damage had been done. So, it goes without saying that I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t get super wasted and expect your equally intoxicated friends to stop you from throwing your phone out the window.”

Harry laughs. “Y’know, if you didn’t want your drunk alter ego to post anything embarrassing on your social media, you could’ve just deleted the apps altogether,” he suggests. “Join me on my cleanse.”

“Oh, please.” y/n scoffs. “You’re acting all high and mighty as if you’ve deleted Twitter off of your phone.”

“Alright.” Harry raises his hands in surrender. “Sometimes I’m curious as to what’s going on in the world. Sue me.”

“For all of your 70 million? Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Oi!” Harry giggles. He takes out the pillow supporting his back and chucks it at his best friend. “Alright now.”

“Seriously though.” Y/n shoves the pillow back into his grinning face. “That would’ve been good money to have when trying to get my phone fixed. Damned thing was so expensive in repairs that I couldn’t even afford it.”

“Then how’d you get it fixed?”

“I didn’t. It cost less to just replace it. Or rather, pretend that it had been stolen so that my phone company could replace it for a lower price.”

For such a casual conversation, Harry’s sudden intrigue grows with this new information. He sits upright, tucks the decorative plush pillow behind his back, but never leans against it. Instead, he faces y/n with a single beer bottle in his hand and an expression that depicts the rusting gears turning in his brain.

“Wait, so...” Harry pauses. He points at the slim device laying face-down on the coffee table. “That’s an entirely different phone?”

“Yeah?”

“But it’s the same number.”

“Right.”

“But then...” Another insightful pause. Harry licks his lips and continues, “Your messages and stuff. From your other phone. Did they transfer or are they—”

“Gone,” y/n finishes for him, perplexed at his perplexity. He is behaving rather strangely, almost as if he has hesitance – as though he will say too much. She’s not too sure what exactly it is about her phone that stirs so many questions out of him.

“Pictures, messages, even my contacts. My phone company deactivated the other phone, but everything on it is inaccessible anyway. They said that it’s possible to just take out the SIM card and put it in a new phone, but since I already went along with my stolen-phone plan, that solution is out of the picture. So, I’m just taking the blow, but it all works out. I had gotten rid of contacts that I don’t talk to anymore, and I got my old contacts from other people – I got yours from Sophia – and I felt very refreshed overall. There’s a lot of losses though. Lots of memes that I have to scour the internet to find again.”

“But . . . but like, you’re still receiving messages and stuff, right? After switching phones?”

“Well, yeah, I hope so. That’s the whole point. Why?”

Harry shakes his head dismissively. “Jus’ wondering.”

It is a very casual way for him to disregard the curiosity brewing in the air. It has potential for success, if not for y/n’s investment in his every thought, especially with those that concern her.

“Harry,” she warns. In a split second, she imagines herself handling the glass bottle by its neck, sticking the other end in his face as a threat. She fortunately resists to do so when picturing the toxic-liquid spilling out and infesting her couch cushions.

Y/n squints her eyes. “Why are you so interested in the pivotal and precise details of my phone?” She leans closer to him, fighting the grin that tickles her lips. She tilts her head and executes a strange yet inquisitive expression. “What are you hiding?”

Harry can’t withstand the giggles from bubbling out his throat. He brings his hand up to y/n’s nose, and pinches it between his index finger and thumb.

“Squish.” He chuckles, which causes y/n to let out a symphony of snickers, and soon he finds his own face heating up with vivacious amusement.

“No, but really,” says y/n after composing herself. “What’s up?”

Harry prims his smiley lips and blinks up at the pasty ceiling. “The sky.”

“Harry!” y/n laughs. It swells her heart to hear him so happy and entertained; his glee multiplies alongside his hyena laughter. Yet, she’s impatiently itching under her skin, desperate to know whatever secret it is that he is hiding.

It takes a few ticklish kicks of her sock-clad feet rumbling against the side of his legs for him to raise his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright!” he gives in, and traps her impatient ankles with his large hands. Her limp legs settle over his thighs, one of his arms drapes over her shins. “I was jus’ wondering cos’ I might have gotten drunk one night and I might have called some people on my contacts list.”

Y/n raises her eyebrows. “Did you call me?”

Her best friend thinks on it for a short moment. He chews at the inside of his cheek, tips his head from side-to-side, internally at war with himself. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember. Did you get a call from me?”

“I don’t know. It depends. When did you get drunk?”

“Erm . . . that night it had been August. Nick’s birthday party. What ‘bout you?”

Y/n allows a few seconds to pass for the information to absorb. She then sinks further into the cushions and slaps a hand over her eyes in realization. “August. Sophia’s actual birthday.”

“Oh. How unfortunate,” Harry monotonously replies, but the infliction of his tone near the end of his sentence gives him away. There is a laughter that he is trying to suppress.

“No, you’ve got to be joking!” y/n groans, unveiling her face. “You’re telling me that you drunk called people and I missed it?”

“No. I mean, I might not have even called you that night. As far as I’m concerned, Mitch might have been the only one who received a voicemail.”

“There were voicemails?”

“Not really. Mitchell’s the only one who didn’t pick up.”

“This sucks.” Y/n pouts, chugging down the small amount of beer left in her bottle, and discards the glass vessel on the coffee table.

“Aw, lovie, it wasn’t anything. Just a drunken mistake. It’s just me slurrin’ on some words that don’t make sense.”

Y/n smiles. She rubs at her left eye as her right hand sluggishly points in his general direction. “Not your lovie,” she mumbles, and reaches out her arms to him. He doesn’t react to her response, but complies with her affection and scoots closer. Her legs bunch up to her chest, his left arm encircling halfway across her waist. She wraps her flimsy arms around his broad shoulders, and loudly whispers into his ear, “And any entertainment is funny entertainment,” then snuggles her head into his left shoulder.

Harry laughs at the sudden shift in ambience. He’s not sure if her statement has made sense, but he’s not sober enough to puzzle over it. “Remember when you said you weren’t clingy?” he whispers, presses his cheek on the top of her head, with little fuzzes of her hair sticking to his skin.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, scratching at his belly. His stomach instinctively shrivels up from the tickling sensation, but following his short fit of giggles, he settles back into the moment. Limbs entangle, hearts softly beat next to each other, and a million unspoken words paint the entire room.

She wants to stay here forever. She knows very well that once the moment is over, he will be off to another place, somewhere lightyears away. It’s like a nervous tick of his: never being able to stay still. Touring nonstop for five years most likely encourages this behavior, and he’s lucky enough to have the money to escape whenever he wants.

And though it is a blessing – to have so much control over his life – she can’t help but feel sad for him. She doesn’t know if he ever thinks years ahead into his future, but in case he doesn’t, she does it for him. She imagines him falling in love with his one; the person that he will share his private stories with and create a new life with. Whoever it is that earns his devotion is who y/n empathizes for, because certainty is not always in Harry’s vocabulary.

Commitment and settling down is not something of ease for him when considering all that he has been through. The heartache. The pressure of a million watching eyes. The loneliness. He’s not the same boy he used to be – he even said so himself. Though he is who he is for the better, y/n still mourns for that lost part of him. She wonders if he will ever settle down, or if he will continue to move at a pace that is impossible for anyone to keep up with.

Any moment longer and y/n will begin to tear up from her own overthinking. She’s grateful for the scare that Harry gives her when he spots a small red packaging on the coffee table.

“Ah, sick!” he exclaims. He snakes his arm from around her waist, discards his beer bottle on the coffee table, and reaches for the card game. “You had Uno this entire time and didn’t think to tell me?”

Y/n loosens her own grip as he takes the cards out of their packaging. Her arms slip from shoulders and rest on her lap. “I didn’t peg you as an Uno enthusiast.”

“Of course. Bet I’d kick your arse,” he says, winking at her deviously.

“Oh, I bet you could.”

Harry whines while shuffling the cards in his hands. “C’mon, y/n! Just a couple games.”

“It just seems incredibly underwhelming right now.” She shrugs.

Harry doesn’t response right away. Instead, he sifts through the deck, and mischievously smiles. Suddenly, y/n is worried.

“Let’s make it more interesting then,” he suggests.

“...Interesting how?”

“We play as normal,” he explains slowly; his thumb slides the cards into his opposite hand one-by-one. “Except when one of us puts down a wild card,” Harry slaps the distinctive black card face-up on the table, “the other person has to answer a question.”

“A question?”

“Yeah, and not some bullshit question like what’d you have for breakfast? No, it’s got to be a question asked with the intention of spilling a secret.”

Y/n’s eyes pry open a little more at this. She sits up straighter, tucks her legs under her weight, and shifts uncomfortably. As close as she is with Harry, there are still many things that he does not know about her. It all ranges from simple adolescent mistakes, quarter-life crisis thoughts, and of course, the big lottery secret.

“I’m definitely not drunk enough for that.”

“Then we’ll spice it up some more,” Harry offers with persistence and determination. “Every time you have to pick up from the deck, you have to drink. It’ll loosen you up. Sound good?”

No. It doesn’t sound good to her. It sounds like an extremely messy route to a destination undiscovered, one that y/n fears will have the potential to damage their friendship. It isn’t so much for the mere possibility that she will slip up and admit her admirable feelings for him. Rather, it is for the truly riveting secrets that he threatens to get her to confess. Everything and anything that he feels curious enough to ask about will be available to him with just the slap of a single playing card.

As incriminatingly frightening as this is, y/n can’t help but wonder about his own little devious secrets. There is no dismissal of the mysterious aura that crowns over his cryptic mind. Harry is the single most unreadable person that she has ever met. As much as she knows him, she doesn’t. He keeps as much of his life as private as can be, and for good reason. He’s a clever man, one that can be described as a great, undefined question mark.

It is all so tempting. How is she to possibly say no to a peak into his baffling mind?

Once she mumbles out a quick “Sure” in confirmation to his twist, the two set out an agreement of rules: only pick up once from the deck to save a few brain cells, dropping a plus two on top of another plus two creates a plus four and so forth, a reverse is basically like a skip, and please, no fucking train.

“And whoever gets Uno, the other person finishes their drink,” y/n announces. She grows giddier over the game by the second.

Harry smugly grins at her. He shuffles the deck to make sure the colors rightfully scramble from the last game that y/n and her guests have played. “For someone who wasn’t too sure about the game,” he deals out two hands of seven cards respectively, “you sure are getting a little cheeky.”

Y/n innocently shrugs. She scoops up her cards and faces away from Harry to keep him from cheating. She deflates at the sight of her hand – a few green, a couple blue, some action cards here and there – nothing entirely exciting. In other words, no wild card. She masks her disappointment with her most impressive poke face, and challenges Harry by raising her chin up confidently. “What can I say? I might get a little competitive when I’ve had a few drinks in me.”

By the time that Harry gathers up his own cards, he reaches and flips over the card at the top of the deck. A yellow 0. “Is that right?” he wonders aloud. He has already caught a glimpse of his hand and has the seven cards neatly compiled into a small deck in his hands.

“Most certainly.”

“Well then, Ms. Competitive, would you fancy starting us off?”

Y/n narrows her eyes. “Does that mean that you don’t have anything to play?” she asks, placing down a yellow 2.

“It means that I’m trying to be a gentleman and let you start the game.” Harry puts down his own card – a red 2. He smiles cheekily. “But I guess you’ll never know now, huh lovie?”

Y/n searches her hand and grumbles. “Damn it,” she whispers under her breath. She grabs ahold of her choice of drink while hugging her cards protectively to her chest. She takes a good and lasting sip. It burns terribly, almost hard to swallow, which makes her wonder if perhaps this game isn’t going to be as enjoyable as she once believed. She can, however, feel a stiffness in her shoulders relieve itself. She trudges on, one arm stretches out to grab from the deck. When she peers at her new addition, she involuntarily lets out a cheer. “Aha!” her hand slams down a vindictive red +2.

Harry locks his jaw, his tongue swipes amongst the inside of his bottom lip. He nods understandingly, a crooked smile stretching unevenly on his face. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, eh?” he asks rhetorically, all set to pick his poison from the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” y/n replies, watching him suffer as he downs his drink, a few seconds longer than hers in celebration of the double pick-up. “I’m only playing the game.”

“Yeah, right. ‘f course.” Harry sets his glass down and picks up two cards. Y/n is about to make another smart remark, but she misses the twinkle in his green eyes prior to him smacking down his choice of card.

The first wild card of the night.

Y/n freezes. Her jaw slowly unhinges; she blinks at the black card practically sparkling in the dim lighting. She must be color blind. It must be another red card, or maybe it is a misplaced blue, but the oval shape divided into quadrants is a little harder to ignore.

“What the fuck?” she exclaims, glares at Harry, who sits with his shoulders raised to his ears, a shit-eating smirk plasters his not-so-innocent face. “No way,” y/n shakes her head, “you cheated.”

Harry’s shoulders drop. His mouth squishes a U-shape. “Wh – how would I cheat? I’m only playing the game.”

Y/n rolls her eyes when he throws her own words back at her. “Yeah, well, your strategy is shit.”

It’s true to her, at least. As the owner of the card game, she has played a handful of times. She has figured out her own strategy to success. To her, playing the wild card is the last move a player should do to ensure victory. However, in this moment, this ideal might not entirely work out in her favor. There is nothing more that can confirm that than when she finds herself in defeat, awaiting Harry’s torture.

Harry takes a moment to ponder, strokes his chin in an evil manner before coming to a halt. From the low chuckle that escapes him, y/n knows that it cannot be good for her.

“Y/n,” Harry declares, savoring the syllables on his tongue. “Which one of my exes did you like the least?”

It takes a second for the question to seep through to her brain. Her thoughts already cloud, so she’s uncertain if the inquiry is entirely terrible. “Are you serious?” she retaliates, corking up a single eyebrow at him. “Out of all the questions that you’re dying to ask me, that’s your most pressing one?”

Harry chuckles with mock amusement. “We’re starting off easy, baby. I hope you know that this isn’t the last confession I’m getting out of you tonight.”

Y/n shakes away the flutter in her heart from his endearing pet name. It is quite easy to pretend that he says it with significance – that it is real. “If it’s so easy, then don’t you think you could have asked me this whenever? Not through a conniving card game?”

Harry scoffs. “Sure, like you would’ve told me the truth. You’re always on about Harry, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Bullshit. It’s just the two of us singles now, spill the tea, sista!”

More giggles erupt from y/n. It’s hard to concentrate and Harry’s subtle slang doesn’t make it easier to focus. Before she knows it, the name, “Kendall” is running off her tongue.

“Kendall?” Harry repeats, sinking the information into his brain. “Why?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Oh, c’mon, y/n! You have to elaborate on it! You didn’t think much about it. Why her, eh?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “She’s just the first one who came to me.”

“This game isn’t fun if you lie, y/n.”

“But I’m not—” Y/n pauses. She catches the knowing and burning look on his face. Her act isn’t fooling him, so she sighs, and proceeds to create a quick web of reasons as to why this ex disinterests her from the rest.

In her brain, it is simple, but when she tries to string it into comprehensible sentences, she finds it a little more complex.

Maybe it is because Kendall makes her feel inferior with her high-class model status. Of course, that doesn’t entirely separate her from his other model exes. It has to be because of something in association with that: her undeniable beauty and impossibly unmatchable body type. The way her waist pinches effortlessly, her long legs that can stretch for miles. Y/n has seen the orange boots of hers that fit right over her entire leg, the same ones that she imagines herself uncomfortably drowning in.

Maybe it is the on-and-off relationship that she’s had with Harry. It is an unexpected romance that begins in 2013 and randomly pops up every other year. She remembers his trip to St. Barts, as well as the pictures from the yacht that had been leaked. They cling onto each other, groping, touching, kissing – an intimacy that strains her. He’s introduced her to his mother, perhaps as his girlfriend, when he’s only ever introduced y/n as a friend. Despite their relationship not working out, the two still get along. Their friendship remains.

And maybe, just maybe, it is because she can’t seem to find any sensible reason to dislike her at all. There must be a reason Harry remains her close friend. It may be that one has to know Kendall to understand Kendall, and though y/n hasn’t dug into the depths of her mind, she has met her once or twice. And once or twice, she had been kind, she had been cool, and she had been distastefully perfect.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s because you two seem kind of different.” Y/n shrugs. She nests the sharp branches of her thoughts back into the shadows of her mind. “Just a weird pair, is all. Satisfied?”

“Sure.” Harry nods. He has the faintest ghost of a smile. “Blue,” he says, continuing on with the game as though the tension in the air is unnoticeable.

A couple more rounds pass them by. Though y/n manages to win both games, she declares it a loss seeing as though she hasn’t been able to cop the holy grail wild card. Harry, on the other hand, has tested their friendship with a lucky +4.

It is clear that Harry is using this game for his own personal and informative gain. He pries for answers that always linger in his head, ones that he assures y/n are normal for best friends to share, but never once has she given him the satisfaction.

That is, until now.

“What’s your biggest kink?”

It throws y/n off for a second, especially when the tequila shot is slicing down her sensitive throat. It is an invasive question that not many expect from him, but it’s obvious that alcohol clouds his better judgement. “Excuse me?” she remarks, blinking profusely. “So much for being a gentleman.”

He can’t seem to keep a straight face. His cocky energy radiates at her fluster, so what can she do but get it over with and answer his question?

She begins rather shyly, knowing right away which specific sexual pleasure it is that drives her over the edge. She then learns to embrace her driven taste that, to her dismay, has not yet occurred. In her head, she can’t control the images from sneaking up on her, pushing her straight off the cliff. She can’t tell if the incredulous smirk that Harry has on is due to his shock and satisfaction from her confession, or because he can also imagine himself in such a fantasy with his own partner of choice.

Despite how in-depth and personal y/n goes on about the fiery flare that burns in her stomach, she will never tell him that it is him and his body that she imagines discovering hers, and that it has never been easier to fantasize than with her personal choice physically in front of her.

Even now, as they start a new game, the obvious shift of tension does not dissipate. A hotness still lingers in the air, but the two friends pretend to be fools for the sake of their friendship. Whether the cracks are crumbling or the cement is stiffening, neither are too sure of.

Y/n picks up her cards, prepares herself for disappointment despite her latest victory. What calls attention to her dull eyes ignites a sudden spark that has been missing. The wild card stuffs between her red 7 and red skip, and it parallels the most beautiful sight that she can ever recall envisioning in her short and simple life.

She can’t let the opportunity slip away. It no longer matters to her whether she is the one who calls the infamous Uno phrase at the end of this round to claim another reign. Harry cannot slither his charismatic magic to the deck any longer, as she assumes he’s been doing considering his unfathomable luck with wild cards.

She is the one with the power of the first turn. She is the one who isn’t thinking clearly, slaps down the familiar black card in all of its glory, and cheers to herself with a silent seizure of celebration.

And Harry is the one who stares in shock, baffled by the turn of events.

“Hmph.” His lips purse to the side in an awkward manner. He wonders how he can swivel his way around this predicament. “Right, and I’m the one with the shit strategy?”

His comment on her impulsive play does not rain on her gloating parade. Instead, she bounces her leg up and down, scouring for a question that will leave him with nothing but his vulnerability. Harry has accepted his fate; he leans back on the couch in anticipation. He eyes the vodka bottle on the table and wonders if it will do him any favors.

Y/n takes some time to scheme. With her prior hand of colorful cards, she had a million questions storming in her brain at lightning speed. Now, she draws a complete blank, with the towering beanstalks and sunflowers mowing down to an empty, dying field.

In such a desperate time of need, a single question rises. She hesitates and wonders if she really wants to know the answer. She wonders if her goal is to inflict pain upon herself – is it a pleasure that she cannot control? It is the only solution in the midst of seconds ticking away, Harry’s impatience growing.

Harry. He sits and basks in the glory of her uncertainty. Chances are that he anticipates a seductive retaliation to his over-the-line inquiries. This possibility might be more fun since that is what he is trying to get out of this game: fun; enjoyment; entertainment. A good story to reminisce, but nothing more.

“Are you in love with someone?”

If there has ever been a person capable of flustering Harry up to the point of complete bewilderment, y/n effortlessly earns that title. No promotional interview has ever stumped him as much as this single moment does now. Though he usually stutters and responds to questions vaguely without even really answering them at all, he knows the solution to all of the media’s curiosity. He is careful to not reveal too much, as some things are meant solely for his knowledge. He holds no obligations to share his secrets, and he holds no true obligations to spare y/n an answer. It is easy for him to simply walk out of the game as a sore loser; a coward of a man whose word holds empty.

The reality of it is that he does have an answer. He’s sure that he does, but there is a hesitance that lingers when he considers if he is truly being honest with himself. For once, he does not know himself as well as he thinks he does.

“Don’t answer rhetorically,” y/n adds, pressing on amid the silence she causes. “Don’t say your mother. Or Mitch or Stevie Nicks or something like that. Just . . . do you love someone?”

Harry’s smile diminishes. In its place: a hauntingly emotionless appearance. He is far gone in his own thoughts, and y/n worries that she has broken him. “What’s the question then?” he asks, allowing y/n to breathe and choke all at once. “Do I love someone, or I am I in love with someone?”

His allusion to the contrast quite honestly fazes her. She doesn’t bother to notice the divided significance that the two phrases have. Pining the two under the perfect spotlight unveils a stark perspective that makes her question her own emotions. Does she love? Or does she fall in love, down a smothering abyss that reaches no definite end? Is she sunbathing on the moon, or is she hurtling through the infinite depths of space?

It is a simple request for clarification, but she wonders if Harry tortures himself enough with notions of love to make such a separation between two very similar things.

“Um,” y/n pauses – this is a second chance. She can retract her statement and avoid the heartbreak that may follow one of his answers. “In love,” she answers instead. “Are you in love with someone?”

She expects him to think on it. She expects the pressure to deflate from his lungs in a shaky breath. She does not expect him to be so certain over something so confusing and undefinable.

“Yeah,” he answers, tops his sentence off with a nonchalant, cherry-sparkling shrug.

“Who is it?” she presses on, already accepting the discomforting ache.

“I’m not telling,” he says. There is no offense to his tone, but she knows that there is a secret he is protecting. She does not know why he is protecting it from her.

“Well, you have to give some kind of an elaboration,” she persists, and subtly clears her throat. It burns with the sensation of emotions closing it up. “Is it . . . are they like,” y/n exasperatingly exhales. She slumps her shoulders in defeat. “This person . . . are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“But not entirely?”

“It’d be pretty embarrassing to be entirely in love with someone who I’m not even sure is in love with me back.”

Y/n grimaces. How can they not?

“Okay, so, you’re in love with this person, but do you think . . . y’think you would ever stop everything for them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like . . . slow down. You’re young, H, and you’re just starting to reach the peak of the mountain. And once you’re at the peak, there goes the stars. Who knows what else after that? You can’t see it yet because maybe you don’t want to, maybe you like not knowing what’s next. But that person that you love, or are in love with, or whatever it is, do you love them enough that you’ll settle for just the clouds? And not the high ones, I’m talking about the really low ones that few people get to touch and maybe even die trying to—”

“Y/n,” Harry whispers. He leans closer to her trembling, broken down frame. “Why are you crying?”

His firm hands grip onto her shoulders. He tries to comfort her, concern sketches into every precise detail on his face. He has momentarily forgotten about the game; his cards are discarded, facing up on the coffee table for any prying eyes to see. He’s not sure where everything went wrong, but the puzzle is the least of his worries if he cannot get this single piece to fit.

Y/n sniffles, absolutely humiliated by her own pity party. Once so optimistic, she blames the alcohol that drowns her in unexplainable sorrow. “You can’t ask me that,” she replies and wipes away at her eyes. “I’m the one with the wild card.”

“Y/n—”

“Just answer the question so we can finish this stupid game, Harry.”

Harry frowns. This poor construction of a façade that y/n hides behind is so heartbreaking. She forces a brave face, but he knows now more than ever that she wants to fall apart. Maybe if he weren’t here, she actually would – but in his presence, she keeps her chin up, lips pursing, and awaits an answer to spite the wetness on her cheeks.

“It’s hard to answer,” he says quietly, never once breaking the contact with her glass eyes. “I don’t think I can know until it happens. You know that looking too into the future is hard for me.” Y/n nods and absorbs every single word. “I don’t think you’re supposed to know when you’re in love. But this is my life, y/n. I can’t slow down. I can’t run away. It’s different for me.”

“So, you wouldn’t try?” she asks, which coaxes a shrug out of him. “Not even for the person that you’re in love with?”

There’s no response from him, but that alone is enough of an answer.

“Okay,” y/n croaks out, settling back into her gaming stance. “Green.”

To their sharing dismay, the game continues. Harry drops a green 4, y/n combines a green skip with a red skip and a red 0. While her sniffles resemble torpedoes to his ears, he feels powerless to do anything about it. He feels worthless, and sort of dirty, sitting on her couch, pretending as though she isn’t having the absolute worst time of her life, all because of him.

It’s uncomforting. It’s wrong. She has this pain and it is strong, so strong that it impacts him severely. He senses a burn in his nose. He tries to focus on the numbers and figures on his cards, but his vision blurs. He dabs at his jaded eyes, clears his throat, shakes his head, but all of his thoughts revolve around her distress.

“Uno,” she calls in a rush, impatient for the game to end. She imagines the following events to transpire: she excuses herself and goes to bed; Harry lets himself out, locks the door with the key hidden not-so-cleverly under her doormat; he climbs onto a plane and leaves for somewhere far, far away, in another part of the world where the beauty of torturous pain cannot follow him; they remain friends, but there is something different between them, something unspoken, something that just cannot be fixed. They are friends, but they are not the same friends as before.

She can’t possibly imagine the +4 that he smacks down over her discarded yellow 6 after downing the rest of his drink. It’s impossible – how does he win so much in life and in a silly game?

“Fucking plus four,” y/n whispers under her breath. She sets her cards down with her bottom lip quivering as she reaches for another choice of poison. What stops her hand right over the glass bottle is Harry’s own devouring hers. He puts her actions to rest as the world, for one miniscule moment, stops entirely.

“What do you,” Harry pauses, searches for her eyes. He’s begging for some compliance; his universe collides with hers. “Do you have feelings for me?”

Y/n closes her eyes. She shuts them tight, pulls her hand away from his protection, and wishes that he wouldn’t touch her again. “You can’t ask me that.” Her lip curls as she refuses to answer.

“Wh – what do you mean I can’t? It’s my turn—”

“No,” she argues. She blinks her eyes open and roughly brushes the tears away with the back of her hand. “You can’t ask me that, please, don’t ask me that.”

Harry wants to retaliate. He almost demands an answer from her, but one sight at her in ruins, and he has no choice but to back off. “Fine,” he says, “but I still get to ask a question.”

Y/n sits up straighter. The frown on her face transforms into a cold, hard stare. “Fine.”

“Would you kiss me right now if you had the chance?”

Y/n seems to have a lack of concern for his question, but her interior screams in agony. Oh, how the night has progressed, but one ounce of courage intertwines her vision with his, and her answer is very clear.

“No,” she answers honestly. It isn’t the response that he expects.

Still, he keeps his ground. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be another drunken mistake that you regret in the morning.”

Before he has the chance to react, y/n is already reaching for her drink, and sips it straight from the bottle.

“You wouldn’t be,” he musters out after she licks the remnants of alcohol from her lips. “I’d still remember it in the morning, and I wouldn’t regret it. And I wouldn’t regret anything that happened after that, too.”

She doesn’t know what he wants from her. She’s damaged beyond repair, and quite frankly, she’ll never look at her beloved Uno the same way again. This isn’t how she once pictured her night to turn out, and now she wants nothing but for it to end.

Y/n swallows. She picks up her cards, then counts four from the deck to add to her hand. “What color?” she asks, and leans down on her nervous knees that bounce up and down.

“Y/n, can you stop this for a second? Can we just talk? Please?”

Y/n doesn’t want to talk. In fact, the plea makes her brain pound again the confinements of her skull. “You know,” she rubs her eyes, and throws her card across the table, “I quit. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She stands up from the couch and faces away from Harry so that his eyes can burn into her back. She increases the distance between them, preparing herself to fall apart once she makes it to her bedroom.

“Wait,” Harry says, standing up with her discarded pile. “But you picked up a wild card.”

“Harry, I’m done playing.” She waves her hand, not bothering to spare him a glance.

“Alright, then just ask me!”

“What—”

Y/n emits a gasp when her whole body forcefully turns around, pressing gently against the wall. She feels his hot and toxic breath hugging her skin, two hands firm on her shoulders.

“What the hell?” she asks, struggling to push him away.

“You don’t need a stupid card game to ask me what the voicemail said, so just ask me.”

Y/n stops her movements. Her puffy eyes stare up at desperation in its purest form. “Voicemail? But you . . . you remember calling me?” she asks, thinking back to their earlier conversation about his drunk antic. “You left me a voicemail?”

“Ask me what the voicemail said, y/n. And I’ll tell you.”

She’s at a loss for words. Her mind feels as though it cannot comprehend a single thing that swims through her eyes and ears. His face, so marvelously structured, the most beautiful face she’s seen. He’s so pretty and he’s so vulnerable to her, but she’s not sure if she wants him to be.

“What did the voicemail say, Harry?”

Her best friend huffs. This is the point of no return. “From what I can remember, it erm, it went something like, hey y/n...”

“Hope you’re having a good time, wherever you are, not too sure, doesn’t really matter. I’m on a . . . I don’t know, a roof, sort of? A balcony, sorry, I’m safe, don’t worry. Um, I’m pretty drunk right now. Nick doesn’t know when to stop with the tequila shots. Anyways, yeah, I’m plastered. And on a balcony. And I’m looking at the stars, and the moon, wow, it’s like so bright. And I’m looking and I’m thinking where is y/n? Why isn’t she looking at the moon? Then I say to myself, oh, right, she’s not here. And I dunno, that sucks. It sucks when I realize that and it sucks that you didn’t pick up your phone.

I don’t know. This is just . . . ergh. I don’t know even know what ‘m saying anymore. I can’t think right now, all of this is coming off as word vomit, but I can’t think, but I’m still thinking. And I’m wondering why do I feel so sad that she’s not here? Then I tell myself, you stupid bloke, it’s cos’ you love her. And then I remember. Right, that’s right, I love her. I love you. In love with you, I mean, cos’ I’ve always loved you, even when you’re being annoying and even when you don’t pick up your phone.

...Ah, shit. I just . . . I just realized what I’ve done. Shit. That’s not good. If you can just . . . ignore that last part, please, I’d really owe you one. But um . . . I know I’m drunk, but the tequila is dissolving the gate in my brain and it’s letting all of this stuff out. So, the stuff’s been there, it’s just . . . yeah, it’s not cos’ I’m drunk. I’ve always wanted to kiss you and stuff. But, if you uh, if you listen to this, maybe we can talk about it. If you want. But if you don’t, then just, I don’t know. Ignore me, I guess. Pretend it never happened? Sounds good. Alright. Shit. Goodnight, lovie.”

Harry paraphrases his drunk rant as much as he can. He leaves out the pauses of hiccups and laughter, the um’s and erm’s, the spontaneous profanity. He recites to her the most important parts, she ones that she needs to hear. Or rather, the ones he needs her to hear. By the time that his revelation comes up, y/n already has hot tears streaming down her sensitive cheeks.

“So . . . it was you,” he says, bold enough to reach up and wipe away the tear that drips under her eye. His hand hovers over the side of her face, cupping her there soft and tender. “That was your question. I remembered everything I had done in the morning. I didn’t regret it, cos’ at least then I knew whether or not I was embarrassing enough to be in love with someone that didn’t see me the same way.”

Harry bites his lip. For the longest time, he had reason to believe that she had rejected him. She had ignored something that she hadn’t even known she had been ignoring. Time is now incomprehensible. It feels to him like a Mardi Gras parade of flinging daggers, striking him from every different direction.

“I’m tired,” y/n says. In the most delicate way, she reaches into the space between them and pushes his arm away. The bubble that encloses their innocence for each other now shatters, shards of memories and confessions prickling the very air they breathe, suffocating their lungs until there is nothing more to suffer over.

He stands frozen. He watches her trudge away, inching farther and farther, and he knows that it will be over. Because of him, there is a possibility that even something as simple as friends is off the table.

“Stop walking away from me,” he demands. She hears the strain in his voice, the perfect crack that, if pushed any further, can temporarily damage his vocal cords. He’s tired. He needs rest; she doesn’t know what she needs, but of course, she puts him first. She puts his health over her own, his wellness over anyone else’s. He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to. He has reached the end of the sentence – the very period that no comma, no semicolon, no pause or break or continuation can ever overpower.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she says, not bothering to wipe away the sorrow fallen on her cheeks. She can’t hear him – almost as if he doesn’t exist and never has. It is so easy to pretend, so that’s what she does. It makes the rest of her journey to her bedroom that much simpler; it also makes it that much harder to ignore the sound of her front door opening and closing, fumbling and locking, until a sonder silence snuggles next to her for the hours to come.

part two

#honeytryst

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gzw1689 · 7 years

Note

For that anime ask thing you posted a week or so ago, if I can ask multiple simultaneously, then #4, #7, #9, #23, #29, #30, #37, #38, and #40. If I can only ask one, then I guess #4.

This ask is in response to these questions.

I’ve gotta admit, I found some of these questions kind of tricky, but I suppose all of them have an answer that’s hopefully satisfying.

This goes against my usual way of doing things, but I also decided to use a lot of Western names (with a few exceptions) when talking about the anime. I don’t really know why, I guess I just felt like it.

I put it under a “Read more”, since it ended up getting pretty long. Here goes.

4: If you could make a spin-off of any anime, what would it be?

The way I understand the question is this: what if I could make a spin-off myself?

Hmm… I don’t know. To me, that almost sounds like writing fan fiction, and I’m not sure if I’d really want to do something like that. Even though I like fiction writing, I don’t really feel the desire to extend the universe of any of the series that I like with my own contributions. At any rate, I think I’d really need to improve as a writer before I’d even be confident enough to do such a thing.

If I had to choose one though… This is probably going to sound kind of odd, but Welcome to the NHK. I have a story idea in my head that I kind of liken to a Canadian take on that series’ premise (though I think it still has a lot of developing to do; like, years even), so if that idea could be taken as a spin-off of the series, then sure, maybe. I think the series kind of fits with my current writing style too, so I suppose that works.

7: Have you ever watched an entire anime in one sitting?

I’m not sure if it was one sitting, but I distinctly recall watching Puella Magi Madoka Magica for the first time until like 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning. I might have taken breaks during the earlier episodes, but by the time I got near the end, I was really hooked and had to know what was going to happen next.

I think I’ve probably done this with other series too (especially when I was first getting into anime; these days, I usually feel like I need a few breaks in between), but that one is probably my most vivid memory of doing something like that.

9: Name an anime character you absolutely hate

I thought this question would be difficult, but it turns out it’s not. These next few paragraphs may seem a little out of character for me, because I don’t think I usually get so fired up about something like this.

Sora from No Game No Life. Almost four years of watching anime (and three years since I’ve watched that series), and for me, he has always been the definitive answer to questions like these.

I think it was about the second episode when he started to get on my nerves for how smug he is about how much of “genius gamer” he is (quotation emphasis mine). Then I think it was around the fifth episode when it really went into hate territory, where–if I remember correctly–he starts harassing and intentionally humiliating Stephanie (who was the character I probably felt most inclined to identify with at the time) for his amusement (and I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to find it funny too).

Every time I see that smug smile of his, I want to punch him in the face. I’m sorry. But I’ve never found any other character that pisses me off as much as him.

23: What is the most times you’ve re-watched an anime?

If we’re only talking series, according to my AniList profile, I’ve re-watched Madoka Magica twice (which, now that I think of it, maybe isn’t all that much).

If we’re counting movies too, I’ve seen Kimi no Na wa, the 1995 Ghost in the Shell movie, and a few of the Kara no Kyoukai movies that many times as well.

29: Has an anime’s fanbase ever made you hesitant to watch an anime?

This was a bit tricky. Usually, I don’t think I really look into the fanbase of an anime much before I watch it. When something like this happens, I think it’s usually due to something having a massive amount of positive hype surrounding it, and fearing that I’ll be disappointed. In cases like these, I like to wait until the hype dies down a significant amount (or I’m just less surrounded by it) before I start to get into it.

For a non-anime example, I can think of The Dark Knight. My peers were calling it things like a masterpiece or the greatest movie of all time, and the sheer excessiveness of the praise sometimes made me think that I’d be disappointed if I set my expectations too high. When I eventually watched it though, it did end up becoming one of my favourite movies.

Here’s the thing. When I go into any piece of media, I like to do so with as few expectations as possible. I don’t even really expect it to be “good”, whatever that means. I just want to be able to meet the thing on its own terms, no baggage or preconceptions about it. That said though, I realize my experience of it will be influenced by my own past, values, opinions, and so on; so based on that (rather than preconceptions about the work itself), I’ll decide how I feel about the experience. Of course, this can be hard to do with some works, but in cases like those, I try not to let any preconceptions influence me too much.

Sometimes I do think something is really artistically well put together, and I really like it. Sometimes I might find something kind of silly, yet still find it entertaining in its own way, and that’s fine. Sometimes I might even find something that I think is “good”, but that I just find boring or that I don’t really care about. That’s always an interesting experience, because I think people tend to think that we all naturally like “good” things, but I find that’s not always the case.

Anyway, I digress.

To finally answer the question, when I try to think of it in this way, Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann is probably the closest candidate. Before I got into anime or even learned what the series was, I could see some of my peers quoting it on Facebook. When I found out what it was, I saw so many of its fans talk so passionately about it and how much it means to them. I think one or two of my friends who watch anime were really into it, too. I had to give it a few weeks for my expectations to settle down, but I finally watched it at one point.

As for what I thought about it… I don’t know exactly what it was, but I didn’t really care for it. I think a lot of it had to do with the style. I found the hot-bloodedness of it all exhausting rather than energizing, and I didn’t really like how the characters yelled so much of their dialogue (I felt the same way about Kill la Kill). I guess I just couldn’t really get past that on my first (and, so far, only) viewing.

I think there were other things that I didn’t like about it substance-wise, but it’s been so long, so I don’t think I can really go into any detail about it.

30: How many anime episodes is ‘ideal’ for you?

Hmm, this question could be answered in a number of ways.

In terms of storytelling, probably however many episodes it takes to effectively tell the story. Some work with just 12 episodes (eg. the aforementioned Madoka), and some work with more (maybe something like Welcome to the NHK, which is based on a novel, and whose adaptation could probably have been very different if the episode count was different).

On the other hand, there’s some that maybe feel rushed with only 12 episodes (like Tokyo Ghoul’s second season), and some might feel padded and stretched out when they’re given more (arguably, Your Lie in April).

In terms of myself (as in, what would I prefer to watch?)… Usually anything that goes above 26 episodes feels like too much for me. For example, I’ve still been kind of holding off on watching both Fullmetal Alchemist series, even though I have them on Blu-ray, haha. I think anything under maybe 70 or 80 episodes is something I could possibly get into though; I’d just need to gather the motivation to get through some of the longer ones.

On the other hand, anything above 100 episodes is probably off the table for me. For example, I would probably never start something like One Piece or Naruto just due to the sheer amount of episodes there are.

Something like the Monogatari series might be an exception to this, in a way. That also has a lot of episodes, but I think their separation into distinct seasons (and, perhaps, the fact that I got into it early in my anime-watching “career”) makes it easier to digest.

37: Name a popular anime you love

To be honest, I don’t really know what counts as “popular” when it comes to anime. I get the impression that some of the anime based on long-running shounen manga like One Piece and Naruto are considered the mainstream stuff (maybe because their localizations saw very wide distribution? I dunno), but I don’t think I really know many people who like those ones.

And going to an anime club, anime conventions, and seeing what people talk about online, I find it kind of hard to tell what’s considered most popular.

Based on what I can tell though, Madoka is probably the prime candidate for something like this, but maybe that’s just because I hung around quite a few people who are really into it. I’ve talked about that one so much already though, so I want to pick something else.

Maybe Love Live! Sunshine!! could count. Whenever I go to something anime-related, Love Live! culture is pretty visible and audible, whether it’s in the clothing and accessories people wear, the visuals they use in general anime presentations, or music playing at an event.

I’m not sure if I’ve talked about it on this blog much, but while I wasn’t really that into the original Love Live! anime, I really liked Love Live! Sunshine!!. I think it was because, especially in the latter half of the first season, the themes it incorporated–the worries about being a creative person in a world where there’s so much competition, the issues that can occur due to lack of clear communication–really resonated with me on a personal level. I don’t know if it can really be considered a “good” series (for example, I’ve been seeing quite a bit of negative criticism about it–particularly when it comes to how they handle the characters–some of which I find understandable), but I love it nonetheless.

38: Name a popular anime you hate

The only one I can think of is No Game No Life. I can tell it’s at least somewhat popular, since I still see people walking around with “I❤人類” shirts at anime events every now and then. I’m not exactly sure if I “hate” it per se, but I can say for certain that I disliked it.

Other than what I’ve already said about Sora earlier, I wasn’t really into how the series mostly revolved around Sora and Shiro basically winning everything, and how the series presented it as so easy for them. From what I remember, quite a bit of their winning involved a lot of loophole abuse (ie. “the rules never said anything about this, so we’re allowed to do it”). In quite a few cases, the way the world responded to this felt kind of implausible to me. On top of that, it made them come across as kind of underhanded, unethical, and condescending (not sure if that’s the right word; but from what I remember, they seemed to like making their opponents feel stupid for not thinking about the same things they did), which was really irritating to me.

There’s also this quotation I found on TVTropes when I looked up the page for “Loophole Abuse”:

“In No Game No Life, one of the Ten Pledges everyone in Disboard is bound to states, ‘Being caught cheating during a game is grounds for an instant loss’. Sora quickly realizes this means that if the other person can’t prove that you’re cheating, you can cheat all you like and get away with it. Of course, he’s not the only one who realizes this.”

The show seemed to go out of its way to make Sora and Shiro look cool for doing things like this, so I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be rooting for them. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t do it.

40: Thoughts on live-action adaptations?

As a whole (including Japanese-made ones), I guess I’m kind of indifferent toward them, and I’m generally not really that interested in watching them. I am a little bit curious about the new American Ghost in the Shell and Death Note ones though, just to see what the filmmakers did with them.

As far as American/western live-action adaptations go, I honestly don’t really expect them to be that faithful to the source material, especially if they’re adapting to an American setting for an American audience. I actually think it could potentially be interesting to see how taking the same premise and putting it into a different setting (like America) could change things.

From a lot of peoples’ responses to these adaptations though, it sounds like they don’t turn out very well to say the least (though I wonder if that has more to do with the execution of a lot of these adaptations, rather than the very idea of setting them in or adapting them for America), but I have yet to see and judge for myself.

Of course, I suppose I’d probably feel very differently if it was an adaption of something that I really care about. Like for example, if someone adapted Fate/Stay Night for an American audience and significantly changed the very substance of it, I think it’s possible I’d be really upset about that. I probably wouldn’t be able to watch it without constantly comparing it to the source material, likely unfavourably. And if such an adaptation becomes a major part of the mainstream cultural consciousness, and the more niche consciousness surrounding the Fate series (and, consequently, likely confusing people even more), I’d probably get really annoyed by that, haha.

So in the end, I guess it’s just a matter of me not really being affected very much by the whole thing.

Well, I guess that’s it. Thanks for asking, this was fun to write! I might just end up doing the other questions too, like you said. :P

#b1689q answers #sejinpk

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bang-exo-tan · 7 years

Text

The Omega’s Secret

Warnings: None

Chapter 1:

“Miyeon… Hello~?! Earth to Do Miyeon!” The shuffle of ballet flats against the wooden floor of the old building couldn’t have been audible. That is, it was inaudible to anyone who didn’t have hearing like a wolf. “I swear! She never listens to me,” the high pitch voice complained.

“Cut her some slack, you know how she gets when she’s worried.” The sound of basketball shoes that followed the second voice was a clear contrast to the ballet shoes, and against the wooden floor, it gave a god awful squeaking sound that made you want to scream.

You sighed as the squeaks and shuffling began to echo throughout the corridor causing your head to pang as your brain tried - in vain - to isolate the sounds. “I do listen. It doesn’t mean I have to obey.”

“That’s right, she still thinks she’s not going to be an omega,” the first voice from behind you teasingly whispers while giggling.

You quickly turned on your heels and looked at the two entities, one of which hasn’t seemed to quit following you since you were eleven years old (an inside joke between the two of you), and the other who has been your best friend since you were six. “Why are you guys following me anyways?”

“Today’s the day you find out isn’t it?” Your friend, Yomin was poking her index fingers together and looking around at nothing in particular. Trying to avoid eye contact you had guessed.

She was wearing her favorite outfit, or one of her favorites. It become hard to keep track of how many ‘favorites’ she had. But it looked cute on her. It was a simple A-line, short sleeve black dress with small white stars on it. She wore a gold bangle and her black ballet flats with it, and her hair was in loose brown curls that flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Simple yet pretty that’s always what Yomin had been, simple and pretty.

Of course, they knew you weren’t looking forward to this day. Everyone had known that today was the day Miyeon, daughter of one of the lowly houses would find out her ‘status’.

“Omega this, beta that, alpha… whatever!” You ranted to no one in particular with your arms flailing all over the place. “I’ve always hated this kind of mess.”

You felt a hand on your shoulder and looked over to your left. Amber had changed from her basketball shoes to her vans tennis shoes because she knew how sensitive your hearing was and you were grateful for that. “I know you hate it, but it won’t change anything. If you’re an alpha, you’ll still have your sensitive and submissive side,”

“Even if your submissive side is really hard to find,” Yomin had whispered earning a hard hip bump from Amber.

“If you’re an omega,” Amber continued, “you’ll still have that side that will stand up to people who are hurting others and you’ll be a disobedient omega too. And if you’re a beta… well… then we’ll have the same status. It’s nothing to worry about or pay attention too.”

Amber was always a contrast to Yomin to the point that it was comical. While Yomin was hyper, Amber was mellow. While Yomin was silly and a little ditzy, Amber was deep and philosophical. This trend continued with their looks as well.

Though they were both beautiful in their own way, Yomin was girly and Amber was a tomboy. She much preferred shorts and pants over skirts and dresses. Her outfit was no different. She wore baggy basketball shorts that made her look shorter than she actually was, her hair was cut short in a pixie style, and she wore t-shirt that accentuated her waist (though waist accentuation was probably not what she was thinking of when she had gotten dressed that morning).

“I know it’s just…” you sighed as you sat down on a bench with Yomin and Amber squishing you in on either side like a sandwich. “I just don’t want to hear it.” You looked over at Amber with desperation in your eyes, “I really don’t want to do this.”

“I know. I know,” she said as she began to rub your back soothingly. Without even thinking about it you laid your head on her shoulder.

“You’ll be okay,” Yomin said as she rubbed your hair. “The hard part was over last week. All you have to do now is walk in that room, hear your status, nod your head and run back out here to us. Piece of cake!”

She was right, last week was much worse than this, but this was a close second. It was 9 days ago, when you had to have your physical exam to find out your status.

Physical exams were the absolute worst! The poking, the prodding, the pain, the nurses saying ‘We have to do this to find out, just relax’. You hated it. Not to mention all the comments you got about your body.

Yes, you were overweight. It would take a dummy to not be able to see that, but you didn’t understand why everyone seemed to feel the need to tell you - to your face you might add – what their opinion was of your ‘not so ideal’ body type. After the torture session was over, you remember running over to Amber’s house and bawling your eyes out, so much so that Amber became so worried, she had to call Yomin over.

“I don’t want to hear what people will say when they find out.” You explained as you felt an arm comfortingly go around your waist. Now you had Amber’s hand rubbing side to side on near your shoulders and Yomin’s arm snaked around your waist. “You know what they’ll say,” you reminded as you turned your head to look Yomin in the eyes.

Yes, you knew all too well what was going to be said when you found out your status.

Weak, poor, lower class, worthless, that was what had always been said about your family. Just because you didn’t live in the territory your whole life and just because your family wasn’t the strongest after joining the pack, you had to hear about it since you were six. You weren’t ashamed of your family. Far from it! You were proud. Your mother was loving and your father worked hard every day for his family. Also, there was your little brother Jungkook.

You were so excited when he was born. When a toddler gets a baby sibling, it’s the equivalent of getting a living, breathing baby doll. Though you got in trouble when you were five and you tried to stuff him in your toy box because he had been crying too much. Yes, you were proud to be in your family. Other people couldn’t see that though, all they could see was the family who – although their alpha worked to the bone everyday – couldn’t find their way up the social ladder.

Also, being late to find out your status wasn’t helping with the social advance either. Your little brother, Jungkook, had found out his status two years ago when he was 16, and you had to protect him from all the stares and side comments. But it had taken you until now, twenty-two years old, to find out your own status.

Everyone in the pack had to take a blood test starting from sixteen and every three months afterwards until that blood test came back positive. In the blood test they would check white blood cells, and potassium levels. When these levels were elevated, it meant that the person was ready to have their physical exam. After the physical exam was complete, they were ready to hear their status within the pack, which was given slightly ceremoniously by the pack counsil. Jungkook found out with his first test, the same could be said for Amber and Yomin was seventeen when she found out.

“Do Miyeon, the alpha. She thinks she’s all that! Being an alpha from that low class family.” You imitated a high pitched and ‘proper’ accent that most of the older women at your University seemed to use. Alpha, that would give you the same status as Yomin and your younger brother. “Do Miyeon, the omega. It figures! That family was already weak anyways!” This was something you really didn’t want to hear. Omegas are supposed to be pretty and dainty and well… they’re supposed to obey. And even you knew that getting ‘Do Miyeon’ to do what she was told was an absolutely impossible task. You’d have a better time telling the Earth and the sky to switch places. “She’s a beta? Ha! She can’t even be submissive! Well at least she’s not an alpha.”

“Being a beta isn’t that bad,” Amber sighed.

“N-no! That’s not what I meant…” you stuttered as you turned to Amber. You were worried that you had hurt her feelings but she had her signature smile plastered over her face. “I just mean that, no matter what status I am, someone is going to say something bad about it…”

“We’ll be here though, don’t worry!” Yomin reassured as she looked to her left and down the corridor. She relinquished your waist and her eyes narrowed. She let out a puff of air that almost sounded like a growl.

You looked up to follow her eyes and there in the corridor stood an old woman. She looked very prim and pompous with her chest puffed out and her head held high. She was wearing a pink blazer with a white collared shirt underneath, a tan pencil skirt, nude heels that should have been way too high for someone her age to actually be able to stand in, and a pearl necklace with matching earrings and bracelet.

The old woman looked down the hall and you automatically stood up.

“Amber , Yomin..” you turned back to look at your friends with tears in your eyes. Amber was already standing, probably bounding upwards when you did.

“You’ll be okay,” Yomin said as she stood up and gave your head another little pat.

“Do Miyeon,” the old woman gestured to the doors she had just come out of.

You started to turn and walk toward her as you were spun around and pulled into a hug. “Amber.”

“We’re not leaving this spot until you come out,” she reassured as she pulled you out of the hug and stared into your eyes. She put her forehead to yours, “No matter what, you’ll be the same. I won’t let anything happen to you okay? I’ll protect you.” She wiped your tears away from your eyes as you hear the old woman clear her throat.

“Do Miyeon, come now. We don’t have all day,” the old woman growled.

You reached down and grabbed Yomin and Amber’s hands and squeezed. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered.

You walked to the old woman and she looked you up and down, shrugging afterwards apparently unimpressed with what she saw. “They will see you now,” she said as you were gestured inside.

You took one last glance to your friends before you walked through the doors repeating the words they had said in your head. ‘You’ll be okay… I won’t let anything happen, I’ll protect you…’ You took a deep breath and jumped as you heard the doors close behind you, “Here we go.”

#theomegassecret #bts wolf au #wolf bts #chubby oc #bts fanfic #bts au

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jesterlady · 7 years

Text

Absolutely feel free to skip this one because it’s very long and very spoiler-y.

How can I explain Farscape? No, I'm not going to do the Mean Girls thing, it wouldn't do it justice. I think what makes Farscape so special was that it wholly embraced its scifi-ness and yet somehow managed to invert most of the tropes therein, in such a way that still managed to make it seem ground breaking and yet completely scifi. One of the ways it does this is the fact there's only one human on this show. John Crichton is our guide to the universe and the eyes through which everything is filtered (totally making him like the companion on DW, lol) but the show is a big melting pot of alien. Even the aliens that are humanoid or look human have very specific cultures, physiology, mannerisms, and values that make them completely alien. It's a bit shocking to get used to. Before I watched Farscape the only thing I knew about it was that it was extremely popular and made with Muppets in Australia. In fact during the first episode I got all confused because all along I'm been assuming John Sheppard from Stargate Atlantis was Crichton, whoops. The first episode itself didn't immediately make me fall in love but it didn't take much more than the first half of a season to make me completely involved, in a good way or a bad way. Like I said, this show doesn't play by humanity's rules. Crichton may be the lead of the show and he may influence them all in huge ways, but these are incredibly different creatures with extremely different morals. One of the very first episodes deals with three of the characters cutting off the arm of the Pilot in order to secure maps to their home worlds. I was so pissed off and I kept on being pissed off through the whole episode and you know what...they don't apologize or realize it was wrong and they weren't influenced by the alien bad guy like I thought at first, in fact, in the end scene D'Argo even says he'd do it again. He was attempting in his own way to make it up to Pilot, but he wasn't backing down. I fretted and fumed about it for a while and then started writing fic in my head to fix it, but the episode brings home an important fact. This isn't Star Trek, these aren't people, this show does things differently, and the main characters might not always be likeable. John and Aeryn both bring up the incident later when they're being accused of something to remind everyone that that they were the ones who were a. psychotic about reaching home and b. not exactly careful about treating Pilot well, but that's all you get on that front. So, yeah, it's an interesting show to get used to. The cute little Muppet is a dirty, greedy, rotten old man who betrays them countless times and constantly deserves to get spaced. When Chiana joins the crew later she's like a little alien street rat who uses her body and whatever else she can to get by, but even though the only thing alien looking about her is makeup, her physicality is so incredible. The actress just makes her move and stand and be alien, it's amazing, she's like a living puppet on strings. It's not the greatest budget on the planet and the special effects weren't amazing, but using the prosthetics and the puppets, actually made it really cool. I love shows set in Australia, they just don't care if they reuse actors a bunch or if everyone speaks with an Aussie accent, they just focus on making their show and trust it to deliver what the budget can't. It's very inspiring. And like I said, it turns things on their head. Our lead John Crichton is so very Southern and he's all action hero and all, but he's also a scientist, an astronaut, incredibly smart, peculiarly fitted to understand space and learn to live with aliens. His plans are insane and they always work even though they require a lot of improvisation along the way. He's a pop culture machine, always spitting out references, which we get, but the aliens don't. It's always a joy to wonder what he'll say next and what new nickname he'll give someone. Now, he's got a reason to act crazy. Literally just being shot to the other end of the universe and living among aliens would do that, but then he is hunted by Crais, Mr. Head Peacekeeper, and then gets the most wanted tech in the universe, wormhole knowledge, encoded in his brain. So literally everyone wants to capture him and when he does get captured, he's tortured and then turned into Mr. Nosferatu Scorpius's pet science project, up to the point of having a chip in his head and then neural clones. Imagine living with your worst enemy in your head. I mean, it's no wonder Crichton is insane. To be honest, I love Insane!Crichton, he's hilarious. But...it's torture to watch at the same time. At the end of S2, when they're desperately trying to get the chip out and each time it doesn't work out, I was audibly begging the invisible showmakers to please let him get the chip out. Of course the torture didn't end with the chip, why would it? What is most torturous and most wondrous about the show is John and Aeryn's relationship. I mean, talk about a romance for the ages. They're never fully together it seems, they're never actually apart, but it doesn't feel like a 'will they, won't they' type of deal. They are bound by astonishingly amazing chemistry and it just builds and builds until their UST is enough to make you explode. But even that's all backwards because they have sex like first thing in the first season, and then it's never a thing really. But they talk and talk and talk and work well together and protect each other and look at each other and sometimes even cuddle in Pilot's den. Now Aeryn is stiff and bred for war and was taught love was a weakness. She is an outcast from her people and adrift amongst the very people she was born to kill and hate. It's difficult, oh yeah. All through S2 she's just fighting it like crazy. There's this whole 3 parter where John actually gets married to and has a baby with some Princess but he'll never live long enough to see his child and Aeryn is off freaking out while he's being held hostage in this situation. At the end...do we get a beautiful reunion? Nope, we get them both knowing that they're compatible and smiling. Finally, finally when she does admit she loves him, he's being taken over by the evil clone in his head and he ends up killing her. Oh, and then when she's brought back to life by Zhaan (so sad Zhaan died like that. I mean, it was beautiful, but I hated that she was gone) Aeryn admits to John she loves him but she won't be with him because Zhaan gave her life for Aeryn and Aeryn won't risk feelings because it would get people hurt. Trope annoyance alert! I hate the whole 'I love you but I won't be with you because I would lose focus and it would hurt more if one of us died' bits. You're gonna be worried about him anyway, honey, you might as well enjoy the fun part of love. Anyway...S3 was all sorts of fun and angst. Because they twin John so now there's a copy and an original. As soon as they didn't resolve that by the end of that episode I knew there was going to be angst about it, I spent like 10 episodes analyzing everything they each did and trying to figure out who was the copy and who I should root for to live and be with Aeryn. By the way, they never reveal who the copy is. So I will never know if John Crichton actually died in the Uncharted Territories. This show, this show. But what they did was actually really clever and interesting. They split the crew up for most of the season on two ships. One Crichton on each. So they got to develop some interesting storylines that way. Of course, as soon as Aeryn ended up with one of the Crichtons on Talyn, you kind of felt he was doomed. Red shirt alert! Another trope not inverted but held for maximum angst. Because of course she and that John got together and it was beautiful and perfect and wonderful. Then in a dramatic two parter, that John finally unlocks the wormhole tech in his brain and gets rid of the Scorpius clone living in his head while with Aeryn in beautiful, tangible love so...naturally he dies of radiation poisoning. It wrecks Aeryn, she finally opened up and then she had to grieve so she clams right the hell back up. I mean, I knew it would happen, but I was so sad for the other Crichton because he's been on Moya missing her like hell and the saddest moment in all of Farscape (apart from Zhaan and D'Argo's deaths) is when he runs up to the transport pod with the cutest love struck look on his face, so anxious to see her again, and she just cuts him. Oh, it breaks my heart to think about it. Of course, then they have to work together and it's obvious they both still care. I get it with her, but I'm just like 'girl, you have the best opportunity in the world, to watch the one you die and still be able to have exactly him.' They've both had to watch each other die at this point. At the end of the season she leaves and he tries to stop her but she can't deal and he lets her go because they freaking toss a coin to see who wins that argument. Wow. Of course, magically (this whole bit is kind of silly) he finds out she's pregnant after she goes! (Neranti is just weird but again, a delightfully non human element of the show that they just stick in.) So next season when they get reunited and she's finally figured things out a bit, but she still can't tell him the whole truth or if the baby is even his (weird alien gestation alert) and so he decides he can't trust his heart to her. Ack! Then she's working on building his trust back up and he's taking drugs to dull his feelings for her. I am usually with Crichton on their relationship stuff cause she's so bad at (unused to) it but this time I was about ready to smack that boy. I was clutching a pillow and yelling at the screen for him to say no to drugs for so much of that season. Turns out it was all a ploy to protect her and the baby from Scorpius (which is also silly) but then as soon as she called him on it they started a secret relationship and it's going to be fine but she gets kidnapped and tortured and he breaks all hell and makes a deal with the devil to save her and they accidentally start an interstellar war and the Scarrans are going to attack Earth and Crichton collapses the wormhole that would let him go home again and then the baby is his and he proposes and they kiss and are happy and happy and happy and then they get shot and turned into crystals and the series ends... Yeah, this show ends every season on a cliffhanger and they got canceled. I actually only found that out at the start of S4 when I started to question if it would be okay. I freaked out and googled it and found out they had a miniseries to wrap things up. Heart quieted at that point, maybe it was knowing that the story would continue on, but actually the ending wasn't so bad if it had ended there. I could have happily pretended the last two bits didn't exist and that it ended with them getting engaged and having a baby and defeating the Scarrans. I don't know. What I do know is that there was a miniseries that wrapped things up really well, completing the arcs and wrapping up the wormholes and the Peacekeeper/Scarran war and resolving John and Aeryn perfectly, giving them the happy ending they deserved with marriage and baby. Not to say that everything ended happily because D'Argo died and I don't like that at all. He kind of asked for it, resolving things with Chiana and Jothee like that. Now, bits of the show that were weird and involve all of that. D'Argo and Chiana get together in S2. It was a bit weird and out of the blue if you ask me. Not that they couldn't be together, but I feel like it was fairly obvious that D'Argo and Zhaan were really heading somewhere and then it just...stopped. D'Argo and Chiana were not an obvious couple and she's all innocence and sensuality and little girl (D'Argo always felt a bit like her dad to me). D'Argo is all honor and loyalty and commitment. Now...D'Argo has been searching for his son Jothee for the last two seasons and they finally reunite at the end of S2 and it's so beautiful and gorgeous, but all hell breaks loose and they have to fight a war and all that and in the chaos Chiana and Jothee sleep together. WHAT? Chiana's been freaking out about D'Argo preparing to ask her to marry him, but geez. It's another example of how the show is not afraid to make its characters do things that aren't likeable and aren't human, but still, that one threw me. I feel like there were so many other ways they could have gone with that. I would have really liked to have had Jothee join the show and have him and D'Argo really struggle with getting to know each other again and, if they weren't meant to be, Chiana and D'Argo could have plenty of relationship issues without that huge betrayal. Maybe Jothee and Chiana could even end up together but only after proper development. But instead, they did that. Jothee leaves and we don't see him again until the miniseries. D'Argo forgives Chiana but they don't get back together until the end of S4 and then things get all good between them in the miniseries and then, naturally, D'Argo dies. John and Aeryn name their baby after him! Sob! But like I said, the show wrapped everything up pretty well and they were extremely good about pacing, really, about telling a deliberate story with plenty of room for natural development along the way and making sure every character and relationship and story arc got fulfilled. The only thing I felt like got dangled and forgotten was from S3. Stark, I have a special place in my heart for Stark, not sure why. Boy is legit crazy and sane at the same time. Him and Zhaan could have been nice. But they do this whole thing with him being on Talyn while the crew is split up where he finds out what Crais and Talyn are up to and there's this whole menacing threat to Crais and then when he leaves, he encodes a message for Crichton on his mask and when John starts to listen to it, it gets interrupted and we never hear what Stark wanted to say. Even when Stark comes back, it's never referred to ever again. It might have become a moot point because Crais and Talyn sacrifice themselves for everyone at the end of that season, but I still feel like it was a pretty big thing to just leave hanging like that. So...I can't describe Farscape and what it means to me. The show completely wrapped itself in my insides and won't let go. I just want to watch it over and over again and I wish there was more and yet I'm so glad it ended the way it did. This show lived and breathed naturally and it wasn't afraid to make bold choices, assuming its audience's intelligence, and yet it entertained. The episodes Crackers Don't Matter and John Quixote are so hilarious. Every bit where John interacts with Harvey in his brain is so amazing and funny. The acting is flawless, the writing brilliant, the creativity boundless. This show is submersive, you can't help but be drawn in and caught up in the plight of the living ship Moya and her crew. Found family is one of my favorite things and this absolutely encapsulates that. I remember reflecting in S1 that I didn't think they could ever all be a cohesive whole because everyone was so different. That never changed but even the unlikable characters (Jool started out so so annoying but I actually really grew to like her) and the people who did things that made you angry, somehow they're still a vital and amazing part of a family and they fight for each other, they're trying to survive. They're caught up in a galaxy's machinations and politics and wars, and mostly what they want to do is go home and protect each other. They have to do horrible things along the way. They don't always win. There's a truly awful episode where they go back in time and end up causing the slaughter of a bunch of nuns! I mean, wow. But in the end, you root for them and you will die rooting for them. All the different interactions are important. Obviously John and Aeryn are the heart and soul, but Aeryn's relationship with Pilot is so touching and tender. Crichton and Chiana have this slightly sexual but yet not, brother and sister relationship that could be weird yet never is. John and D'Argo's epic, bickering bromance is a thing for the ages. It's just beautiful. It's like Crichton, a plague that has ruined my life.

I watched 4 seasons and 1 mini series in 14 days. It was perfect because I was on vacation for the first 10 days and I actually really took my time, feeling like I had the time. I started it casually, but it quickly consumed everything. I lived and breathed Farscape for those days even when I was doing other things and I made sure I did other things. My hands were shaking, my heart was racing, I clutched pillows and yelled at the screen, and I did happy squee flailing and monkey dancing around my living room on more than one occasion. This show is not casual, it is a lifestyle. I am so glad I was not watching it while it was on air because having to wait even a microt for between seasons would have been horrible and too much. It is such a blessing though, the perfect sci fi show. It's not a perfect show like Leverage is literally perfect and I would never change a thing about it and it's not fluff and happiness and comedy like Parks and Rec is perfect, but it is everything a scifi show should be and it has all the ingredients necessary to make it absolutely one of the best shows I have ever seen. 10 out of 10 recommend. Make sure you have some time because binge watching is so necessary with this one but do it, do it, do it.

#farscape #text post #spoilers

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