when i tell you i’m CLINGING to these words from chapter 2 @wackus-bonkus-maximus
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Hello, recently discovered you art (thanks to a new Kaveh and Alhaitham obsession) and it’s gorgeous. Would you mind if I asked what brushes/tools you use for your art? The black line art you one is so nice.
Hello tysm hehe 🫶🏻🫶🏻
So for program i use photoshop and sometimes procreate. Also heads up that I use sm brushes on 1 drawings and use different brushes on the next drawings coz i like experimenting so i intend to forgot what brushes i specifically use for some pieces ☠️
For linearts i use this brush but i modified it heavily on procreate n photoshop so it will act like gel pen
For procreate, i commonly use same brush set as photoshop (i’ll link them bellow) and 6b pencil brush from procreate (its a very good textured brush 😭☝️) and hard round brush that i modified w noise texture
For photoshop,
the brush set that I constantly use is from these packs (sometimes i modified them a lot it always change a lot sometimes)
*my friend gave me marco’s brush but u have to purchase it w his course vid to get the brush set
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bewitched (m)
summary: bakugou has always loved you.
pairings: bakugou katsuki x f!reader, hawks x f!reader (nsfw)
genre: characters are aged up, 20+, pro heroes au
warnings: allusions to cheating, angst, porn w/ lots of feelings, shower sex, kinda subby bakugou, he’s basically lovesick n soft for u, keigo is a good birdie, he would never do this irl
length: 3,518
notes: hello! my first bnha fic, please be kind <3 please let me know what you think! i’ve been so obsessed w/ jjk & bnha recently skdjkjf. send help
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It comes down softly at first. The droplets whispering against windshields, ghosting across bare arms, a trick of the light. Then a pause, like the darkening clouds are reconsidering their decisions. There is no wind, no anger in the way it pelts down, darkens the concrete. Like resignation, like relief. It soaks bone, sends most civilians packing as they duck under awnings and flee into shops in anticipation of a short-lived flare.
But it is summer, and the rain is welcome as a remedy against the oppressive heat. Many onlookers merely move their belongings closer to avoid the stream, gaze out glass windows longingly. Some find inspiration, others find peace.
You stand in the middle of it all, drenched and unmoving as you watch your lover wrap his arms around his secretary, and you wonder whose mood this pathetic fallacy is expected to reflect as you look across to meet familiar eyes.
He, too, mirrors your stance. Clothes sodden, yet the nature of its designs only lends to plaster themselves closer to his skin. His irises are that bright, burning red. He is not fizzling, heated against the affair before him. Instead, his gaze is trained on you.
There is no fury, no sadness, no emptiness. His gaze is not hollow, it is instead strangely warm. Your chest squeezes, tightening in the way you experience when you read a novel laced in tragedy, that welling feeling of anguish and sorrow.
His hands are shoved in his pockets, and though his eyes remain fastened to you, he makes no step to move closer.
The sky lightens, a thin streak of sun peering through in a solitary beam. The sounds seem to press close again, like a bubble popping in your ear.
The summer storm is tempered as quickly as it appeared, the sound of life—laughter, the splashing of sneakers drowning in newly formed puddles—and the lingering smell of renewed earth and the chirping of birds as they shake off their wings to take flight.
Water drips silently down the pair of gorgeous wings before you. They flutter briefly, flicking off the thin layer that pooled on its surface, before unfurling to fold over her. He pulls her closer, separating only every so often to breathe.
Shameless, is all you think plainly. And you are—ashamed. That feeling catches you by surprise, breath caught in your throat as the feeling expands, takes root in your lungs. It is that hindsight, that disappointment—at yourself—that has you lowering your eyes.
He is still looking at you, even as someone squeals and a crowd gathers, pushing and shoving to press close, stays rooted to his spot, watching you, even as the couple finally break apart, dishevelled—she adjusts her pencil skirt, re-buttons her blouse; he runs a hand through his golden locks, fixes his half-open shirt—and Hawks’ chuckle rings across the street, one arm braced around her waist as he signs autographs and takes photos. She is glowing beside him, all smiles and shrill laughter. Her nails, perfectly manicured and sharp, digs into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. He likes it.
You stifle a dry laugh. Turning on your heel, you disappear into the thickening crowd.
He himself is being pawed at, hands fawning at his exposed arms, clutching at him like he is fresh off the conveyer belt.
He waits until he can no longer discern your retreating figure before bearing a half-smile at the crowd. He takes the pen that is shoved into his face, and he begins signing autographs.
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Time and experience have tempered his constitution. He has accepted his flaws, worked on them until he could proudly stand on the same stage as his—friends. Because that is what they are—these people that have helped him grow, comforted his trauma, stayed with him despite it all. What else could he call them but the very things they are—they are the pillar of his strength. Because of you, I learned I could be strong for the things I care about.
He is not number one. He has no need for such a title, no need for such a goal anymore. He is no longer the brash, easily angered teenager that charged for the strongest.
“I don’t care what they call me, what rank I am, or what they think of me. I only want the power to protect these people. That’s it.” He thinks back to your words.
You are not often solemn. You laughed a lot, the slow-appearing crinkles to the corner of your eyes a physical testament to your innate joy. You liked to take delight in the ordinary things. Perhaps that is what drew him to you—that strength. To shoulder the burden of your chosen role in this society, to have the bravery to smile amongst the suffering.
There was always an unbidden heat that surged in his chest when he thought of you. That odd feeling of a knot tying itself in his stomach when his skin brushed yours. When you fell from the height of a skyscraper, half-conscious from defeating a new breed of nomu, his heart stuttered and leapt in halting beats to throat as he split from his team, their screams for you ringing in his ears, the rush of badump-badump closing in rapidly, pushing his beaten body to its limits, faster, faster, faster—please! Who was he praying to at the time? He was begging anyone who was listening to give him that push—the gap was too big, you were too far, he was too tired, too useless, too broken—he slammed into you with enough force to compel blood up his throat.
He spat it to the side quickly, not bothering to wipe himself clean before he turned to you. The first thing he registered was warmth. You were limp in his hold, on the edge of passing out, exhaustion lining every curve of your face. Your lips quirked, eyes closed.
“Hurts like hell,” you slurred. “Falling from heaven.”
He stared at you, blinking the blood from his lashes.
And then he threw his back and laughed. It was a full-bodied, uproarish laughter. The type that rumbled from his chest. He shook, though he was careful not to jostle you, and you managed a quiet chuckle.
The adrenaline faded from his body, and he hiccupped as he slumped onto the concrete beam behind him. The ice receded from his veins.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he murmured. It was a quiet plea. Don’t do that ever again, is what he really wanted to say, but how could he? This was the occupational hazard of your shared line of work. This was the risk. His eyes burned, half-lidded as he held you closer.
You couldn’t lift a single limb on your body, so you lean into him.
“No promises.”
It was enough. Your voice was raspy, drained, but there was a sincere lilt to it.
He wanted to say something more, then, but first responders arrived and whisked you separate ways before he could gather his thoughts.
He regrets it, to this day. Perhaps if he had said something then, said something sooner, the scene would have played out differently.
He does not have many regrets, have long resolved to move on from his past and mistakes. “What a useless emotion,” you once told him. “Don’t wallow. Mourn and move on. Do better. That’s what you owe. That is what you are owed.”
But this—this he will always regret.
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He finds you on the roof of your penthouse.
“I like it. Being able to see everything from up here.” The first time he’d peered over the edge, he’d been enlisted for furniture rearranging. You handed him a beer, beckoning him over, jerking your head to the scenery below. And it was—breathtaking. You were breathtaking. He hadn’t even bothered to entertain a cursory glance. It was summer then, too, and the evening breeze was light as it brushed your locks back. Lights began to flicker as the sun dipped lower into the horizon. He briefly considered making a similar move.
But moving was a hassle, only further proven by the efforts of today, so he dismissed the thought quickly, taking another swig. He was sweaty, a layer of grime a film over his skin from the manual labour he’d been voluntold for most of the afternoon. It was petty work compared to his—their—day job, but it was still a strangely refreshing workout.
“What are you feeling?” His steps are muted, voice faint. It carries on the back of a shallow gust.
You don’t spare him a look, staring into the distance. You’re sitting, one leg thrown casually over the ledge, the other pulled to your stomach. He’d made an off-hand comment once about adding some railings, but you’d rolled your eyes and pushed him playfully.
Pussy, you called. He chuckled. Like we don’t experience enough life-threatening dangers on a regular basis, he snarked.
All the more reason, then, you shot back. He fell silent then, the pulsing in his throat returning.
He could never really read you. Eyes are the window to the soul. He scoffs internally. Whoever said that must’ve known it was a load of bullshit. Your eyes never said anything. But his—his said everything he couldn’t, and more.
You hum. “Would it be cliché if I said I wasn’t surprised, only disappointed?”
“No.”
“Then I’m disappointed. I had hoped, I suppose, that he would choose differently.”
He tastes the words that I would be enough between, and the sigh of to change him that escapes your lips.
“You knew who he was when you went into this,” he says quietly. No judgement—he is not reminding you of your poor decisions, rather striking a conversation in the same manner one would inquire about the weather.
Quant, you think. And a few years ago, you would have added out of character. But now it is not so—he has grown into himself well.
You tilt your head back. He leans against the wall, arms crossed across that well-built chest of his, shirt straining against the muscle. He’s so tall now—so much taller than anyone had expected him to be. That wild, unruly blond hair of his has remained the same, appearing spiky but soft to the touch. And his eyes—they are gentle but retain the ferocity he is well-known for.
“Yes,” you say after a while. “That is why I am not surprised. But these feelings won’t just disappear overnight because of this.”
He’s quiet for a while, those crimson orbs of his trailing over your expression. You don’t know what he finds, but he must understand your position because he nods.
“I’ll wait for you.”
This—this is a surprise. Somehow, he always manages to surprise you.
“After all this time?” You ask softly.
“Always,” he says quietly.
He leaves, and when you return to the house, you pick up the keys he left on your counter. Twirling them on one finger, you smile to yourself.
Thank you. You know he knows.
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“I tried to be the person you wanted me to be,” he says.
“I tried, I really did. But this is who I am, who they made me. I can’t change. I’m sorry,” he says.
He says a lot more, you think, but you’ve long since stopped listening. He knows these are only flimsy barriers that excuse his behaviour. He knows he is not this person. He is not broken, he is worthy of much, much more. He just needs to believe it. They took everything from him. That is what he thinks, how he lives. Like he has no real purpose.
Instead, he is stopped, wings flaring as you reach for him. You smell familiar, and that ache in his heart deepens. He will forever regret losing you, but you deserve more. He is not good for you, and he is not your responsibility. His growth is his obligation. Perhaps, when he is ready, he will find you again.
But by then, he thinks, burying his face into your shoulder, you will have already chosen differently.
“I love you, baby bird. I will always love you,” he presses these words against your neck in a soft whisper, voice cracking, like a prayer, he tries to sear his truth into your skin. He tastes salt on his tongue.
And, between it all, he traces I’m sorry.
You squeeze him once.
You know.
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“Hey.”
You’re uncharacteristically shy, cheeks puffing in that sweet smile of yours.
That sharp, familiar warmth blooms in his chest at the sight of you perched on the arm of his leather couch. You look comfortable, relaxed, like you—belonged here, his mind supplies helpfully.
He steps out of his boots, unbuckling his support items and setting them on the counter to clean later. He’s a little worse for wear tonight, shoulders tight from chasing rogue villains the past few hours. The tension seeps away steadily, though, the longer he drinks you in.
You look good. You always look good. Gorgeous, even more so when you’re tired and dirty, covered in blood and dust and debris. It’s been so long since you patrolled together, pulled to opposite ends of the city the past few months.
“Hey,” he says back.
“Shower?” You take his hand.
He trails behind you, nearly tripping over in his haste to follow, failing to register your words in time. This must be a dream, he decides. And he will play along, as he always does in these fits of delirium. He will hold you and have you and love you in ways he cannot begin to describe, and then he will lose you as dawn breaks and he wakes to an empty bed. But he falls anyway, does it over and over until he feels like he will go insane from the sheer longing. He is addicted to you.
You haven’t spoken, not really, since that night on the rooftop. So you, being here, without any prior warning, touching him, smiling at him, leading him to his fucking shower—this must be a dream, right?
You push open the door to his bathroom. It’s big, he’s always been meticulous about his health, and enjoys his fair share of long soaks and hot showers.
He realizes a beat too late that you’re undressing him. He exhales sharply when you tug his shirt off, but before he could say anything, you murmur, “You smell like caramel. You always do. It’s just a little stronger than usual.”
“Oh.” He sounds a little breathless, a little strangled. Unlike him, but he has never really been anything but himself with you. He’s still discovering new sides to himself, it seems.
Oddly enough, he’s the farthest thing from embarrassed as he steps out of his pants and boxers. He’s flushed, but the heat that floods his veins is nothing short of delicious. It makes his head spin, makes him lean into your touch.
You strip quickly, tossing your costume fabric aside his for laundry. He sucks in an audible breath at the sight of your nude body. Beautiful, he wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he reaches out with a shaky hand to thumb the smear of grease on your cheek.
You smile, pushing open the frosted glass doors and pull him inside.
The temperature is perfect. He likes it hot on days like today, muscles relaxing as the water washes away his fatigue.
“You know me so well,” he says.
You push him under the stream, water cascading between the two of you. His locks flatten under the pressure, falling over his eyes. You run a hand through his hair, pushing it back as you press yourself flush against him.
“Yes,” you answer. “I do.”
And then you kiss him. A low purring echoes through the space. Ah, it’s me, some part of him thinks absently. He opens his mouth instantly, tongue lapping at yours, arms coming around to hold you close. He can distinctly feel the way your perked nipples rub against his pectorals. He can taste you. And you are sweet, so sweet and the lewd sounds of your make out reverberating in the room so vividly he knows this is not, in fact, a mere conjuration of imagination after all.
He loathes to part from you, but he does. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring him to reality. He looks at you searchingly, beseechingly. If you are here, you can only be here for one reason.
“I’m sorry I took so long. I’m sorry, I know it must’ve been painful. I’m here now, I promise I’ll never leave again,” you say, cupping his cheek.
His breath catches. His eyes flutter shut.
“You promise?” He sounds so small, so weak. Vulnerable. He would’ve hated that, once, but he is no longer that person. Today, he can accept he is weak for you. Always has been. And that’s okay, he thinks. He doesn’t have to be strong all the time.
“Yes. I promise, Katsuki.” You press your forehead against him, standing on your tippy toes.
He kisses you again, swallows your dreamy sigh, one hand on the back of your head, the other crushing your body against his. He wants you close, needs you close. Needs to feel you, this is real, right?
“Yes,” you whisper, and he realizes belatedly that he spoke aloud. “This is real. I’m here. I’m right in front of you.” You take his hand and press it against your upper rib cage, where your heart beats. Fast, like the wings of a hummingbird.
He can’t help it. He takes you against the wall, so pent up from years of pining he can hardly think, rutting into you like a teenager in heat, feeling like he’s a virgin again, every trace of your skin so new, he maps them out first with his eyes, then his hands and mouth. He slows down when you call his name in a haze of pleasure, takes the time to worship you, find what makes you tick, watches your expression raptly as he rolls his hips, as he tweaks your nipples, palms your ass, litters a necklace of freshly bloomed violets on your collarbone.
He’s panting your name, you’re murmuring praises in his ear, tugging at his locks and biting down on his shoulder and he cums so hard his vision whitens.
The two of you slide down, his legs giving out in the aftershocks, until he’s sitting on the floor of his shower and you’re curled up on his lap.
The water is—miraculously—still hot.
You lay there for a while, and he catches his breath between lazy kisses, enjoying the way your hands roam his chest languidly.
Finally, he stands, letting you down reluctantly to actually clean yourselves. You giggle at the pout that forms when your feet touch the ground once more.
You wash his hair, massaging methodically as he dips his head back to let the foam drain. He takes great pleasure in this, at the way you spread a generous amount of body wash on your palms and begin scrubbing the grime from his skin.
He jolts forward, letting out a low groan as you squeeze his flaccid cock teasingly. He glances away, eyes half-lidded, at the heated look you give him when his cock hardens immediately.
“You underestimate how easily you turn me on,” he says plainly. Not a hint of embarrassment. And why should he be? You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love it,” you murmur.
You rinse him off before turning. His length presses against your ass, but he makes no move to seek anything further, focused on washing you.
Satisfied, he turns off the water.
You step out, toweling each other off. He pulls you to him, inhaling deeply. He likes that you smell like him now.
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Afterwards, you are tucked in close, covers pulled up and he’s buried his face in your chest, bare legs tangled.
Perhaps it’s the novelty, the feeling of finally, but you can’t get enough of one another. You wake each other multiple times throughout the night, clawing at each other, ripping his boxers and your—his—shirt from each other until you were pressed tightly together, bare, a thin sheen of sweet already coating your bodies.
A thin strip of moonlight peeks through the cream curtains. He gazes up at you, thinks everything in his life has been leading up to this moment. That warmth swelling again, as it always does, so intense it has him arching his back. You touch his cheek, smiling. Something lands on the side of his pillow. Ah. You lean down, lips warm as they kiss away his tears.
“I love you, Katsuki.”
He closes his eyes.
Thank you.
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So... Jade x Raven DUO magic when?
Ah! I’ve been waiting to write this for a while, and since @raven-at-the-writing-desk mentioned getting a similar ask, I decided to continue her story.
Raven’s Part 1 is here. My story is Part 2!
...But Only One to Let Go
The courtyard was packed with loitering students; some studying, others lounging on the grass. It was a place of solace for most students, to not have to think about the worries of their classes and tests. But not for much longer.
Jade was sitting on a bench in the center of the courtyard, a notebook and pencil in hand. He was sketching the flora of the courtyard, although his eyes were not on the page. While his hand moved effortlessly across the paper, his gaze lingered on the students. Every once in a while, he would scribble a note to the side of the latest thing he had drawn.
Perhaps another interesting note to tuck away for future use. No wonder there was a wide berth around his bench.
“J-Jade Leech!”
An almost eerie silence fell over the courtyard as the loud chirp rang out. A petite girl with long, black pigtails stomped up to the Octavinelle vice dorm leader. Jade’s gaze shifted to her, placing his pencil between the pages of his book and closing it shut. His narrowed eyes took in her flustered cheeks and clenched fists. A piece of black paper seemed to be crumpled up in her hand.
“Oya, oya, Miss Raven.” He said, pulling his features into a polite smile. The same conciliatory mask he was so used to slipping effortlessly over his more piercing and inquisitorial stares.
Even within the courtyard's silence, the other students felt a rush of relief. His attention had turned to her. But even then, they watched with bated breath.
“How may I be of assistance today? I was not expecting you to come to me of your own accord like this.”
Jade shifted to one side of the bench and patted the seat next to him. An otherwise kind gesture, but that would entail getting even closer to him. Raven shook her head. She was fine where she was, shouting at him from 10 feet away.
“I assume you received the grade from our midterm exam as well.” Raven huffed, waving the scrunched up paper in her hands before crossing her arms. “I can’t say I’m pleased, and I’m quite certain you’re not either.”
Jade’s smile slipped for only a moment before he gathered it back up. He cocked his head to the side, his thin-lipped smile curling up even further. “Who knows?”
“Wha- what does that mean?!” Raven sputtered. “You’re saying you’re fine with the C that Professor Crewel gave us!? I for one will not stand for it.”
She pointed at him with a steady finger. “We’re going to retake this test and if that means I have to force you to….. I- I will!”
With a light chuckle, Jade stood up, brushing eraser debris from his uniform as he did so. In only two steps, he was looming over the young Crowley, a wide grin showing off his dagger-like teeth. “Fufu, perhaps you should calm down, Miss Raven. If you continue on your little rampage, you may bite your tongue.”
“Calm d-”
Although she was already flustered, Raven’s face turned a brighter shade of red, one mixed with both anger and embarrassment. She clenched her teeth, trying to stop herself from striking his chest with her fists. ‘Can’t let him win.’
Jade let out another chuckle, amused by Raven’s resistance.
“Since you require a partner for this portion of the exam,” he said, curling his knuckles under his chin, “I suppose I cannot say no. Ah, I sincerely cannot leave a helpless creature in need.”
Much like the start of their most recent partnership, Jade extended a hand towards the bird, a literal offering of his help. “I’m sure you’ll be able to return the favor someday. Shall we adjourn to the training field?”
In a moment of deja vu, Raven’s eyes focused on his black gloves. How snugly it fit around his fingers, how cool it was to the touch when she had grasped it last. She wanted to forget her frustrations and take it once more.
With a deep intake of breath, Raven gave a pout, crossing her arms once more. She would hold her ground, not get lulled in by this siren. “... Yes, we shall. But as equals.” She spat his own words from the examination back at him. “There won’t be any favors or pay for this.”
Jade chuckled as Raven turned on her heel and promptly headed towards the gymnasium.
“As you wish.” He breathed to himself as he followed her.
The courtyard quickly filled with the buzzing of muted conversation after they left. The witnesses left behind whispered to each other about the scene that had played out. It wasn’t often that Jade Leech himself was at the center of potential gossip, after all.
Raven found herself waiting at the training field alone.
“I’ll only be a moment late.” Jade had said. “There is something I must retrieve first.”
A moment had turned into 20 minutes, then almost an hour. Raven did her best to hold back tears of frustration. She felt foolish, thinking he would be there without question, to care for his grade just as much as she did.
Of course he wiggled out of this when he could, the slippery little eel. ‘I did not shake on it, so he didn’t deem it necessary to actually show up.’ Raven’s thoughts steamed as she kicked her sportswear sneakers. ‘That uncultured, underhanded, untruthful…. slimy-’
“My apologies for the tardiness,” Jade’s voice rang out. While she had been simmering in her own thoughts, he had arrived. And he seemed to carry a large silver orb about the size of a basketball. He had also taken the time to change into his athletic uniform, his usually buttoned up attire replaced by a long sleeve shirt and a half-way zipped up tracksuit.
Raven tore her eyes away from his exposed collarbone to the thing in his hands.
“Where have you been and… wh-what’s that?”
The mer-eel chuckled, tapping a few buttons on the orb before responding. The silver surface started to flicker blue and Raven could hear a light whirr as it powered up.
“A new artifact from the students of Ignihyde.” He explained. “Ever since their successful projection mapping during Halloween, there's been talks on other possible uses of the technology.”
“It came to my attention about a month ago that a few of them were working on what they called a Battle Application Droid. I had no need of it then, so I merely put that piece of information to the side at the time.”
“It took a bit of convincing to retrieve this from the Ignihyde students who have been completing the prototype, but in the end they knew what was good for them, fufu.” Jade’s chuckle was remorseless, only filled with amusement.
Raven almost thought to ask who the poor mob was that had found himself under Jade’s thumb, but thought better of it. Jade would most likely not give a straight answer, anyway.
“... So how does it work, then?”
“Essentially, we should be able to engage in a mock battle with holographic enemies.” He turns his attention back to the ball and inputs more on the keypad. “Ignihyde has access to the cameras of the school since they help maintain security. They also manage the servers where we upload all the videos from Dorm Leader battles and exams. Based on their algorithms, it should give us a randomized battle.”
Satisfied with the scenario he set into the orb, Jade hit the largest button on the side and rolled it out into the field.
“W-wait! Why’d you just-”
“We may need to stand back, Miss Raven.”
Jade threw an arm out in front of the bird and pulled her back a few feet. His hand clutched at his magical pen in his dominant hand. Seeing him prepare, Raven grasped her magical quill as tight as she could.
There was nothing else she could do at this point. No time to prepare, no time to back out.
The ball beeped a countdown in the middle of the field before erupting in a wave of blue light, sending a bright blue shock wave through the partners.
“Kh-” Raven flinched with grit teeth, using Jade's arm to shield her eyes from the light. She gripped onto his sleeve until it dimmed, and only then did she chance a look at their surroundings.
Her beak dropped open. They were in the coliseum.
'Well, no, of course we aren't.' There was a light blue haze over what should be the stone slabs of the arena, as well as moments of static. But otherwise, it was an almost flawless holographic replica of the coliseum.
Ignihyde’s projection mapping had grown, no longer needing physical objects to display images. 3D holographic projection had arrived.
“Be prepared.”
Jade’s voice seemed so far away to Raven in that moment, but it snapped her back to reality. Facing them from across the field were two faceless students, magical pens raised.
“... Th-they cannot actually hit us, right?” Raven’s voice twittered from behind Jade’s arm.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Jade said. “If you would like to stay standing there and test that, Miss Raven, then be my guest. However, I would prefer to come out of this unscathed and am unwilling to experiment, fufufu.”
“Wha- You-”
A light chortle before Jade quickly pushed Raven away to the side as he jumped in the opposite direction. Right where they had been standing only a second prior, a pillar of blue fire erupted. The flames crackled as it burned up the sweet digital oxygen.
Despite the close call, neither felt the heat. The simulation really was only an artificial emulation, after all.
“Seems like this should be quite easy to defeat.” Jade’s eyes glinted, the Ignihyde blue of the digital landscape dancing off of his olive and gold irises. “Especially knowing it cannot harm us.”
“We need to think like it can harm us, Jade…!” Raven squawked out from where she had tumbled onto the ground. “Otherwise, what is the purpose of this training?”
“I do believe it is for you to get a better grade, is it not?”
“YOU-”
Raven caught herself. There she went, falling into his rhythm, ready to bite back at the merest provocation. Professor Crewel’s words rang in her ear again.
“Your coordination could use much improvement. You were yapping at one another for almost the entirety of the battle.”
He wasn’t wrong then, and even now she could see them falling into the same pattern. Her fingers gripped her quill even tighter. What was it about him that caused her to act this way?
…
“Miss Raven!”
She had pulled her attention away from the scenario for only a second, but that was all it took for the simulated opponents to take advantage. A large ball of water was hurtling towards her—
—and was intercepted by a column of real leaves and wind, slamming down to the ground like a wall, just in time for the digital water to hit it and disintegrate.
“Fascinating.” Jade muttered, racing over to where Raven was pushing herself off of the ground. “For our physical magic to be able to intercept the holograms… Fufufu, this is much more technologically advanced than I expected.”
He glanced down at the smaller student, flashing a mocking grin. “Eyes open, my dear. I won’t always be there to save you.”
He turned his attention back towards the virtual opponents.
“Now is the time for our counter-attack.”
It didn’t take long for the two of them to find a rhythm, to defeat wave after wave of artificial enemies. Although smart and biting quips were still thrown out from time to time, their wordless communication was their impenetrable defense—whenever one was targeted by an enemy, the other was on hand to assist. While one prepared their stronger physical attacks, the other parried incoming attacks.
Seamless unity.
The sun had started to set on Night Raven College, and the two were almost out of breath. Six waves of faceless blue students they had fought, and it was taking a toll on both of them. Their uniforms were a mess with dirt and grass stains, the crystals of their pens were both getting cloudy.
This was the last round dictated by the orb.
This last enemy was relentless, its speed faster than the others. Almost before either could react, it would send fireball after fireball downrange, keeping both Raven and Jade on their toes.
“Tch!” Jade growled, jumping out of the way of yet another blue ball of flame. “Relentless…”
He paused to catch his breath, gripping his pen. “Miss Raven, we need to settle this quickly, we should—”
“Watch out!” Raven shouted, pulling Jade towards her and onto the ground. A blue swirl of leaves from the other AI barely grazed the top of their heads.
A moment as they realize the position they were in. Jade had fallen, propped up on his hands, hovering over her. Half a heartbeat passed—
Jade rolled onto his back, panting and holding back a chuckle. Raven shook her head, trying to will away her fluster. Now was not the time to be thinking of how close that was.
“Eyes open, I won’t always be there to save you.” She shot at him, the same words he had mocked her with before.
Jade sat up and eyed the two opponents on the other side of the field, warily. From the looks of it, the two mobs were preparing a powerful spell, a duo…
He pushed himself off of the ground and reached his left hand out for Raven. With another light and exhausted laugh, he spoke.
“I’m pleased to know that you have my back when I require it, Miss Raven.”
A warm sensation emanated from Jade’s hand, one that Raven could not describe offhand. But it compelled her to take his offered hand this time, a static of magic crackling as the two of them touch. Another wave of blush scrawled across her cheeks. She gripped the quill in her other hand.
“Sh-shut up, Jade, I’m only doing this because I have to.” Her temperamental defense mechanism rising once more.
Jade would have let another laugh escape him, but as the two of them connected by both touch and words, he could feel a second wind surge through him. In almost an instant, his exhaustion melted away.
His heartbeat grew louder every second, and he could sense the magic radiating from his core to his pen.
His gaze fell on the artificial students.
‘Give no quarter.’
An immense pillar of water crashed down where the opponents had stood. Despite their distance, the water from the attack splashed all the way back to the two weary students. Jade gritted his teeth with determination.
The second strike materialized three large pillars of water dropping the AI to the ground, their magic concentration lost.
Jade’s eyes glittered with malicious glee as he swung his magical pen a third time, covering the other half of the field in a destructive wave of water. The digital enemies flickered under the pressure and disappeared—
—Quickly followed by the rest of the projection. The simulation was over.
“Well,” Jade said, wiping the sweat and dirt on his brow with his equally dirty sleeve. “I suppose this is a day well practiced.”
Raven nodded, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding during his ultimate attack. “Yes…”
…
“Jade…?”
“Yes, Miss Raven?”
“... Y-you can let go of my hand now.”
“Fufufu, of course, as you wish.”
Jade untangled his fingers from hers and gave a light, polite bow. He made his way to the center of the field to pick up the prototype B.A.D., wiping off the battle residue with his shirt.
Raven stared off after him, proud of the difference their day of practice made.
They would be ready for the makeup exam. No doubt about it.
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𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝟑
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒𝟕𝟑𝟖
𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝟑
You slurped on the small carton of strawberry milk you had recently bought from the vending machine, your back was against the tree as you stared up at the sky. Some of the leaves were brushing against the wind and falling towards the grassy floor.
You knew that Tohru had invited you to sit with her during lunch, but you couldn’t bring yourself to forcefully put yourself into her life after one dinner meeting. The family was odd. They seemed dysfunctional yet connected in some way, you questioned the reasoning behind your thoughts. It didn’t seem like Tohru or Yuki lived with their parents, and you highly doubt Shigure is one either. You gnawed at the tip of the straw, Tohru looked like she was the only one keeping them together.
You were a bit envious. She seemed so happy and carefree, almost as if her problems were solved by simply being nice to others. You couldn’t understand her. Perhaps she didn’t want to bring up her own problems so she could stay happy. You tapped your pen against the paper as you heard the sound of your straw sucking up nothing but small droplets at the bottom of the carton.
“The eagle would think that if they tried their hardest to convince God, they could unite the other zodiacs,“ you bit your tongue at the memory. What a joke.
“Why are you looking at me with those eyes. . . You. . .” She gripped onto your hair tightly as she brought you up to her face, “Who the hell do you think you are? I hate the look in your eyes.”
“Bring my daughter back to me!” She screamed.
You wondered if it was possible to rid yourself of those memories. It seemed like so long ago that you left the household and chased after a part-time job. You were lucky to have attended the middle school of Kaibara in order to transfer into the high school section.
You dropped the carton onto your side and pushed your knees towards your chest. You wanted to know what your family is doing at this moment, would they still be mad at you? Was it worth finding them again? Did they want you now? You leaned your forehead against your knees, your face covered by your body as you clutched your hair, your sharp nails digging into your scalp.
“My poor wife, she’s been suffering every since that spirit came to the house after the death of our daughter.” He pulled at parts of his hair as he spoke with the businessman, “we had to lock up that room because it was haunted. My wife still opens it once in a while to pray though.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. . . Have you contacted a shaman to take care of the spirit?”
“Not yet, my wife is insisting that God can take care of the spirit. The first week she wouldn’t stop crying, I feel bad for her, I’ve been trying to comfort her every single night but she keeps wailing.”
You pressed your nails against the wooden door, your teeth gritting in annoyance and frustration. Your throat was coarse and you were in desperate need of water. You breathed heavily before sliding down the door and falling to the ground.
Why are you talking about me when I’m right here?
Why are you lying to him? Father?
You gasped as you snapped back into reality. You gripped your chest tightly as you tried to stabilize your breathing. Underneath your nails were smears of blood while you quickly packed your things. You lifted your hand to see the wretched color staining your hands. Your breathing becomes heavy again and your stomach clenches itself.
“Damn it!” You punched the tree roughly, the coarse bark ripping the outer layer of your skin. The pain sparked a sense of adrenaline, while the feeling of disgust was still coursing through your body. You huffed before quickly leaving to attend your next class.
“I hate their voices.” You mumbled, kicking a medium-sized rock towards the other side of the concrete as you stared at the ground. No matter where you go to hide, memories resurface like the sick feeling in your stomach.
“Is something wrong (L/n)-san?” You halted your steps and turned around, seeing the same grey-haired friend accompanying you by your side to class. From afar you spotted the micro-banged student glaring at you but you decided to ignore her.
“Not really.”
“You were glaring at the floor pretty intensely.” You flinched before pulling your eyes away from him to focus on somewhere else but him.
“Sorry then.” You scoffed, clearly displeased as your mood has been spoiled. The two of you silently tread through the school to your next class. What luck, you had the same schedule.
Yuki eyed you quietly before speaking up.“Would you like to exchange numbers?”
The air seems a bit tense and awkward, “what for?”
“We’re friends aren’t we?”
“W-Wha? O-Oh, mhm. . .” You fumbled around in your bag and took out your cell phone. A small charm was dangling off of the side, it was a small white rat keychain with a single sakura flower. When Yuki took out his phone he had the exact same keychain.
“What a coincidence,” he smiled “we have matching keychains.” Your cheeks felt hot as you quickly unlocked your phone, “they didn’t sell any bird ones. . .”
“Hm. . . I got mine from Honda-san, I’ll be sure to find you a bird one too then.”
“Y-You don’t have to! It’s really embarrassing.” You held out your phone screen which displayed your number, “hurry and put it in already.”
He raised an eyebrow at your statement to which you quickly pulled your phone back as your cheeks felt even hotter. “I-I-I didn’t m-mean it like that! Quickly! Put my number in your phone!”
“Yes yes. . .” He sent you a text to notify you. You opened up his contact and started to fill out his name, from above you, Yuki noticed that he was the only contact in your phone. He wondered why your phone seemed so blank despite you saying you had a job, did you simply answer any calls you were given or did you not use your phone?
“Do you not have anyone else on your phone?” He asked.
You clutched your phone to your chest as you flinched, “I-Is that bad?”
“No no no, I’ll just give you Honda-san’s number too so you can talk to us anytime.”
“I-Is that fine? She wouldn’t mind right?” He shook his head.
“I’m pretty sure Honda-san would be more than happy to talk to you more.”
You turned your eyes away from him in order to type in her number. “Why are you guys being so nice to me?”
“Hmm. . .” Yuki stared at the ceiling in thought.
After he had come home that night, Tohru asked him about whether or not you had a phone to talk to her with. She seemed really insistent on gaining your friendship after you had talked to her during the after school clean up session.
She mentioned how you would silently help her during class like picking up her fallen items, which Kyo only described as being generally nice, but Tohru seemed to have other thoughts. Yuki didn’t know whether or not Tohru saw something within you which sparked her interest in you, but part of the reason why he wanted your phone number was to talk to you outside of school without having Akito finding out about other people coming into the Sohma family’s home.
“She was happy to have another friend.” You parted your lips to say something only for them to close momentarily.
“I-I see. . . Thank you then.” You typed in her number and also changed her contact.
“Now you have two people in your contact.” He smiled. “Are you feeling better?”
You realized that the whole reason for him asking you about your phone was to distract you from your sour mood. He continued to smile at you, almost as if he was trying to communicate some sort of idea to you. He really was quite kind-hearted.
“Yes. . . You wanted my number to cheer me up didn’t you?”
“Mhm,” Yuki slid the door open to the classroom for you, “it seemed like you needed a distraction.”
“Oh, thank you Sohma-san.” You held your cell phone close to you before making your way to your desk.
“Ah! (Y/n)-kun!” Tohru waved at you from her desk as you hooked your bag onto the side. “How was your day?”
Perhaps there is something more underneath the surface, Yuki thought. He watched as you interacted with Tohru, slightly hesitant as you tried your best to keep the conversation going. With the way you talk to Tohru, it seemed like you were genuinely trying to make friends.
You threw your bag across the room and flopped onto your bed. You felt the poking sensation from one of the loose pens and you tossed it behind you. You breathed out a sigh of relief as you smothered your face against the soft, cool pillows. You flipped yourself over so that you laid on your back.
You felt so tired after school and your shift ended. Physical Education did a number on you when it came to running laps. After the experience you had during lunch, you needed to blow off some steam during PE. You found that it was a bad choice considering the fact you had to work at the cafe for the rest of the day. You were quite drowsy when it came to serving customers today. You made a mental note to write in your journal but for now, you will rest in bed until you regain your strength and energy.
The sound of a ding interrupted your moment of peace. You groggily picked up your phone and saw that you had two new texts from Tohru and Yuki. You swiped in order to view the full messages.
“(Y/n)-kun!! You should join us for dinner!” Tohru sent you a photo of the table full of food, you wondered how they obtained so many ingredients to cook so many dishes. Did they have a party?
“(L/n)-san, Honda-san is begging me to text you to join us for dinner, will you be coming? Our cousin came over.” You typed a response to Yuki first.
“Sorry, I’m just feeling exhausted tonight. Please Tell Tohru-kun I can try to come over the weekends.” He starts to type a response, the three dots appearing on your screen.
“That’s fine, are you doing okay after PE?” He types quite fast actually, it feels weird having someone to text with and you were glad knowing that Yuki has always tried to make some sort of conversation with you.
“Just a bit tired.”
“Just a bit? I heard you ran a bunch of laps and tripped halfway.” He sent a cute rat emoticon.
You fumbled around with your phone, “really? You remember that part? Whats with the emoticons?”
“It was funny. Honda-san uses a lot of emoticons, I thought it would be fun to try it out.
“Oh, I see. I thought you were going to eat dinner with everyone else?
“Our cousin accidentally broke the table and we’re waiting for Honda-san to come back for another dinner.” You stifled a chuckle. “We spent a lot of time cleaning up and she hasn’t come back yet. Kyo is thinking about getting take out.”
“Does Shigure-san know you’re texting someone?”
“Nope, I’m texting you behind a book.”
“You’re quite sneaky for someone who is suppose to be a good student.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Another rat emoticon. “For someone whose quite fast at running, you sure do trip a lot.”
“Shut up,” you sighed, “just a little clumsy.”
“Right,” he sent a rat emoticon with a question mark. “Are you feeling better though? You seemed down during lunch.”
“I’m fine.” You continued to tap against the screen, your eyes slowly drooping downwards in exhaustion, “you shouldn’t have to worry about me, we just met.”
“It feels as if you’re still bothered by something, but I won’t press on it too much. Since Honda-san isn’t back yet, what is your favorite animal?”
“. . . An eagle? I guess a white-tailed eagle is interesting.”
“I heard that the Crowned Eagle is strong. They’re also a bit clumsy when it comes to flying, reminds me of you.” You pressed your lips together.
“What is yours then?”
He sends another cute rat emoticon. “I think it would be a bit obvious.”
“Cute.” His texting paused for a moment after your text and you think Tohru-kun came back home. “Did Tohru-kun come home?”
“Oh, yes she just did. Our cousin is cooking again and she says it would be hamburger.”
“I see, that’s nice.” You sighed before sitting up from your bed.
“Have you eaten?”
“No, not yet.”
“I can bring you food in a bit if you would like, our cousin made extra.”
Your eyes widened before you furiously started typing, “You really don’t need to visit me you know.”
“It would be a good way to escape this chaotic family for a bit, it’s also nice to talk to you.”
“Then. . . If you don’t mind.”
From the Sohma household, Yuki smiled and hurriedly finished his meal. He was slightly pleased to know that he was able to come over to your house. Although you had recently met barely a day ago, he was curious about you. Tohru looked over at him and grinned.
“Are you going over to (Y/n)-kun’s house?”
“Yes I am, she says she didn’t have anything to eat but is tired, do you want me to give her something from you?” He responded.
She only waved her arms around to dismiss the idea, “no no, just tell her I said hi!”
“Then I will.” He packed up the food and waved the rest of the family a quick goodbye as he made his way to your apartment.
Kyo turned to the door in annoyance before scoffing, “don’t you think it’s weird he’s interacting with that other girl?”
“What do you mean Kyo-kun?” Tohru asked.
“Think about it, they just barely met and he’s coming to her house already? Sheesh.” He flipped himself onto the floor, “don’t you think it’s strange?”
Tohru stared at the closed door, her hand up to her lips as she thought about your interactions with Yuki.
She didn’t know much about you other than the fact you sat next to her in class, but there were moments when she could see the look in your eyes that she sees every day when Yuki is there with her.
Your eyes looked so sad.
When she sees you in class, you always fidget with your fingers underneath the desk, or how you would tap your pen against paper whenever you encountered a puzzling thought. When you talk to her, you sound like you’re forcing yourself to come up with a conversation. She couldn’t forget the look in your eyes when she saw you. You would tighten your fists like the way Yuki clutched his left arm, the two of you would divert your attention away and space out at times as well.
That day, when you both stayed after school, she felt something towards you. A desperate cry for some sort of love underneath the facade you held, yearning for something that was never there for you, reaching out for a distant dream in hopes of a cure.
Tohru gripped the edge of her shorts as she wonders if you had a similar past to Yuki. Your eyes looked as if you were constantly on watch and anxious, yet it held a hint of loneliness and sadness hidden behind your sharp irises.
Maybe the reason why you got along so well was because of something in the past.
“I know that, Kyo-kun.” She mumbled. “But she looks like she really wanted friends.”
“You came here quite fast.” You peered from behind the door, seeing Yuki hold up a bag of food.
“You should know that we’re both fast runners in the class.” You reached out to unlock the chain and opened the door.
“S-Sorry, my room is a bit messy right now, we can eat over here.”
He looked around the room, seeing a lack of photographs or any sort of decorations hanging on the wall. When you opened the door to the rest of your apartment, he was greeted with the scent of lavender and camellias. Interesting choice of flowers. Your bed was still quite messy despite your efforts to bring yourself to clean up, there were some books spread across the ground and he noticed the piling laundry basket in the corner of the room. You were wearing a simple white button-up and one of your favorite pants.
“My room is gross, sorry.” You apologized again, trying to stack the books onto your shelf as he sat down on the wooden floor.
“No no, my room is like this too.” He continued to admire the interior of the room, despite it being a small apartment it seemed very cozy. “Does it always smell like lavender in here?” He commented.
“O-Oh, yes. My coworker said it’s supposed to help with sleep and relaxation.” Once the books were neatly stacked you walked over to the miniature kitchen. “I only have green tea with me, will you be okay with that?”
“That would be fine, thank you for having me over.” He smiled while you turned away from him, your cheeks becoming warm as you turned on the stove with a filled kettle. You struggled with tying the back of your apron, your arms extremely sore from overworking yourself earlier. You groaned in frustration as you continued to try to tie a knot behind you while exerting yourself.
“I can get that for you.” You flinched as you felt his hands tightening the strings and pulling them together, looping them into a bow before stepping back. “Are you normally this tired after work?”
“Customers can be hard.” You huffed, pulling out a separate bowl and your wooden whisk. “They ask for a lot from us and it’s difficult when you’re just a student.” When the kettle was getting to the boiling point, you poured the water into the bowl and set your whisk inside. “It’s the only job I currently have which pays enough for rent.”
You pulled out a packet of ground matcha and sifted it into the bowl. Your fingers were delicately working at the tea while Yuki admired you from the side. As you vigorously stirred the mixture in a zig-zag motion, you looked over your shoulder to see him still smiling at you.
“W-Why are you smiling?” You poured the matcha tea into two cups and set them down onto your wooden tray.
“No, I was just impressed by your skills. Did you learn that at your workplace?”
“O-Oh, I did. I learned quite a bit from working there.” You carried the tray towards the table and set them down while Yuki sat across from you. “Is your family going to be okay with you being here?”
He shook his head, “I’m pretty sure our cat is happy knowing I’m out of the house for a while.” By cat, you assumed he meant Kyo.
“I see, do you dislike him?” You awkwardly avoided using his last name considering the fact that he and Kyo came from the same family, and you weren’t quite ready to even say his first name.
“Dislike is far, it’s more like I hate him.” He brought up the cup to his lips and took a small sip, “everything he does makes me angry.”
You unwrapped the food and admired the careful packeting of it before digging in with your chopsticks, “is there a reason why you hate him?”
He set the cup down, “hmm. . . It runs quite deep.” He peered down at the small air bubbles which sat at the top of the tea. “You could say that I’m a bit envious of him.”
“It must be hard constantly comparing yourself with him then.” You bluntly said, cutting a piece of the hamburger and chewing on it, “but, don’t you have good qualities as well?”
“Well, it’s hard to say.”
You hummed. “You’re kind and mature Sohma-san,” you picked up your own cup and brought it to your lips to drink, “I don’t think anyone would simply come over to your house and give you food.”
“Other than Honda-san of course.” You giggled slightly but coughed to drive his attention away from the sound. He continued to drink his tea while you ate.
You silently eyed him, realizing now that he had long eyelashes. You could see how some could mistake him for the wrong gender, but you wondered how a boy such as him is blessed with so many great qualities. You stopped chewing, instead, biting on your inner cheek when you realized how attractive he was. Even his eyes were much prettier than yours. They were the right shade of grey and they held kindness and innocence within them.
You frowned as you thought about your own reflection. Your heart sinks to the ground as you felt yourself wanting to leave this place. The cold air of your room sunk into your bones as the chills ran down your spine.
“I hate the look in your eyes.” She sneered.
Yuki quickly set his cup down and reached over to you, “are you okay? You’ve gone pale.”
You instinctively retreated back slightly, your eyes widening as you stared at him. His hand twitched before he pulled himself back. His eyes reflected your own while you cowered in fear. You could feel the beads of sweat beginning to form on your neck as you adjusted yourself.
“Yes, I’m fine.” You peered up at the clock on the wall, “it’s getting late. You should start going home.”
There was an awkward pause of silence growing between the two of you.
“Sorry, if I offended you.” Yuki pulled himself off of the floor. You bit your lip as you watched him pack his own things to leave, feeling guilty for your own actions. As he was beginning to turn towards the door, you quickly stood up and grabbed onto his wrist.
“A-Ah, umm. . .” He stared at you while you struggled to form coherent words, “I-It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to drive you away, I-It’s fine if you want to stay a little longer if you want to though.” You mumbled.
You looked up at him with your (e/c) eyes, “I’m sorry.”
He reached out to pat the top of your head, “then, I’ll stay for a bit longer. Let me call Shigure-san about this.” He excused himself from the room and went out to the hall to phone Shigure.
You breathed out a sigh of relief before cleaning up the table and going to wash the empty cups. As you scrubbed the surface with soap and water, you wondered if you had driven him away from you. Your heart felt heavy seeing his hurt expression pull away from you.
You knew all along that you weren’t the best at making friends.
This encounter was starting to make you feel paranoid, your hands starting to freeze up while the burning sensation of the water unfazed you. You were starting to worry that Yuki might not want to be your friend anymore after this. The way he stared back at you with those hurt eyes made you want to crawl into your nest and bury yourself into it. You blinked away the small formations of tears at the corner of your eyes.
You winced when you realized you have been running your hand under boiling hot water for too long, the skin turning a bright red color. You gasped when you stared down at your hands, your stomach feeling sick as your body began to tremble, your eyes focusing on the darkening color.
Her nails dug into the surface of your hand as you began to feel your skin split, the crimson liquid oozing from your skin. You tried to grab onto her hand to pull her away with the little strength you had. You could feel yourself being roughly thrown back into the room, the thick fluid smearing onto the cold floor as the door slammed shut.
You tightly shut your eyes as you blindly ran past Yuki towards the bathroom. His worried glances followed your figure as you made your escape.
“(L/n)-san, are you okay?” You fumbled with the cabinet trying to unlock it but to no prevail, your breathing became heavy as your body almost collapsed onto the ground. Your hand couldn’t find the lock at all and you were starting to feel woozy.
You felt the feeling of his hand grasping onto your shoulder gently, “(L/n)-san, you burned your hand, is your medical kit in here?” He gently knocked on the material and you nodded in response, your eyes still closed as you tried to calm your breathing.
You should hear him unlock the cabinet, his hand reaching out to pull on the medical tape and wrap the material around your fingers as you breathed a sigh of relief. Although it was dark, you felt comfortable at the moment. Your fingers twitched as he carefully wrapped it around your hand.
“Did you burn yourself while I was gone?” You frowned as you nodded again. You felt him rip the end of the tape with his nails before tapping on the back of your hand.
“You can open your eyes now (L/n)-san.” You cracked open one of your eyes and saw the slightly clumsy wrapping made by Yuki. Slowly, you brought your hands to your chest, feeling your heartbeat beginning to calm down.
“I’m sorry for troubling you tonight Sohma-san.” You said.
He only responded with his gentler voices, “you don’t need to apologize. Are you scared of something?” He asked.
“The color. . . Red.” You whispered, almost inaudible as Yuki had to take time to process your response.
“Does closing your eyes help you?” You mumbled a short yes.
You thought he would judge you based on this childish fear, but he seemed to stare at you with those kind grey eyes of his. It seemed unrealistic to have someone as caring as he was. You almost wanted to pinch yourself to see if you were simply dreaming.
“Would you like to go back to your room? I can stay for a bit longer here.” You gave him a short nod and he held onto your hands, careful not to apply pressure onto the surface as he guided you back into your room.
“Do you need help with that?” He pointed at your still tied apron.
“No, I’ll try to do it myself, I’ve troubled you enough.” You tried to reach the knot but with every single movement from your joints sparked a burning sensation. You hissed at it but Yuki grabbed onto your hand and pulled it away.
“It’s okay to ask for help (L/n)-san.” He tugged onto the end of the knot and slowly pulled off your apron before you could even protest.
“Don’t you feel bothered?” You mumbled. “I’m causing you so much trouble and it's a hassle to do these things don’t you think? We barely know each other and here you are at my house.”
“Not really.” He started to fold the material, “it’s not really a problem at all.”
“You don’t seem to want to ask for help either, Sohma-san.” He grew silent before he guided you towards your bed, forcing you to sit down on the sheets as he stood over you.
He brushed the side of his hair back, his eyes avoiding yours. “Did you know all this time?”
You reached out to his hands with your bandaged ones, pulling on them as you leaned forward, feeling the cold sensation on top of your forehead as you closed your eyes. Yuki could feel the heat trailing to his cheeks as he felt you brush yourself against his hand.
“We’re similar, Sohma-san.” You could only hear the small audible hum coming from above.
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Holy Hell: 3. Metanarrativity: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship? aka the analysis no one asked for.
In this ep, we delve into authorship, narrative, fandom and narrative meaning. And somehow, as always, bring it back to Cas and Misha Collins.
(Note: the reason I didn’t talk about Billie’s authorship and library is because I completely forgot it existed until I watched season 13 “Advanced Thanatology” again, while waiting for this episode to upload. I’ll find a way to work her into later episodes tho!)
I had to upload it as a new podcast to Spotify so if you could just re-subscribe that would be great! Or listen to it at these other links.
Please listen to the bit at the beginning about monetisation and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to message me here.
Apple | Spotify | Google
Transcript under the cut!
Warnings: discussions of incest, date rape, rpf, war, 9/11, the bush administration, abuse, mental health, addiction, homelessness. Most of these are just one off comments, they’re not full discussions.
Meta-Textuality: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship?
In the third episode of Season 6, “The Third Man,” Balthazar says to Cas, “you tore up the whole script and burned the pages.” That is the fundamental idea the writers of the first five seasons were trying to sell us: whatever grand plan the biblical God had cooking up is worth nothing in face of the love these men have—for each other and the world. Sam, Bobby, Cas and Dean will go to any lengths to protect one another and keep people safe. What’s real? What’s worth saving? People are real. Families are worth saving.
This show plugs free will as the most important thing a person, angel, demon or otherwise can have. The fact of the matter is that Dean was always going to fight against the status quo, Sam was always going to go his own way, and Bobby was always going to do his best for his boys. The only uncertainty in the entire narrative is Cas. He was never meant to rebel. He was never meant to fall from Heaven. He was supposed to fall in line, be a good soldier, and help bring on the apocalypse, but Cas was the first agent of free will in the show’s timeline. Sam followed Lucifer, Dean followed Michael, and John gave himself up for the sins of his children, at once both a God and Jesus figure. But Cas wasn’t modelled off anyone else. He is original. There are definitely some parallels to Ruby, but I would argue those are largely unintentional. Cas broke the mold.
That’s to say nothing of the impact he’s had on the fanbase, and the show itself, which would not have reached 15 seasons and be able to end the way they wanted it to without Cas and Misha Collins. His back must be breaking from carrying the entire show.
But what the holy hell are we doing here today? Not just talking about Cas. We’re talking about metanarrativity: as I define it, and for purposes of this episode, the story within a story, and the act of storytelling. We’re going to go through a select few episodes which I think exemplify the best of what this show has to offer in terms of framing the narrative. We’ll talk about characters like Chuck and Becky and the baby dykes in season 10. And most importantly we’ll talk about the audience’s role, our role, in the reciprocal relationship of storytelling. After all, a tv show is nothing without the viewer.
I was in fact introduced to the concept of metanarrativity by Supernatural, so the fact that I’m revisiting it six years after I finished my degree to talk about the show is one of life’s little jokes.
I’m brushing off my degree and bringing out the big guns (aka literary theorists) to examine this concept. This will be yet another piece of analysis that would’ve gone well in my English Lit degree, but I’ll try not to make it dry as dog shit.
First off, I’m going to argue that the relationship between the creators of Supernatural and the fans has always been a dialogue, albeit with a power imbalance. Throughout the series, even before explicitly metanarrative episodes like season 10 “Fan Fiction” and season 4 “the monster at the end of this book,” the creators have always engaged in conversations with the fans through the show. This includes but is not limited to fan conventions, where the creators have actual, live conversations with the fans. Misha Collins admitted at a con that he’d read fanfiction of Cas while he was filming season 4, but it’s pretty clear even from the first season that the creators, at the very least Eric Kripke, were engaging with fans. The show aired around the same time as Twitter and Tumblr were created, both of which opened up new passageways for fans to interact with each other, and for Twitter and Facebook especially, new passageways for fans to interact with creators and celebrities.
But being the creators, they have ultimate control over what is written, filmed and aired, while we can only speculate and make our own transformative interpretations. But at least since s4, they have engaged in meta narrative construction that at once speaks to fans as well as expands the universe in fun and creative ways. My favourite episodes are the ones where we see the Winchesters through the lens of other characters, such as the season 3 episode “Jus In Bello,” in which Sam and Dean are arrested by Victor Henriksen, and the season 7 episode “Slash Fiction” in which Dean and Sam’s dopplegangers rob banks and kill a bunch of people, loathe as I am to admit that season 7 had an effect on any part of me except my upchuck reflex. My second favourite episodes are the meta episodes, and for this episode of Holy Hell, we’ll be discussing a few: The French Mistake, he Monster at the end of this book, the real ghostbusters, Fan Fiction, Metafiction, and Don’t Call Me Shurley. I’ll also discuss Becky more broadly, because, like, of course I’ll be discussing Becky, she died for our sins.
Let’s take it back. The Monster At The End Of This Book — written by Julie Siege and Nancy Weiner and directed by Mike Rohl. Inarguably one of the better episodes in the first five seasons. Not only is Cas in it, looking so beautiful, but Sam gets something to do, thank god, and it introduces the character of Chuck, who becomes a source of comic relief over the next two seasons. The episode starts with Chuck Shurley, pen named Carver Edlund after my besties, having a vision while passed out drunk. He dreams of Sam and Dean larping as Feds and finding a series of books based on their lives that Chuck has written. They eventually track Chuck down, interrogate him, and realise that he’s a prophet of the lord, tasked with writing the Winchester Gospels. The B plot is Sam plotting to kill Lilith while Dean fails to get them out of the town to escape her. The C plot is Dean and Cas having a moment that strengthens their friendship and leads further into Cas’s eventual disobedience for Dean. Like the movie Disobedience. Exactly like the movie Disobedience. Cas definitely spits in Dean’s mouth, it’s kinda gross to be honest. Maybe I’m just not allo enough to appreciate art.
When Eric Kripke was showrunner of the first five seasons of Supernatural, he conceptualised the character of Chuck. Kripke as the author-god introduced the character of the author-prophet who would later become in Jeremy Carver’s showrun seasons the biblical God. Judith May Fathallah writes in “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural” that Kripke writes himself both into and out of the text, ending his era with Chuck winking at the camera, saying, “nothing really ends,” and disappearing. Kripke stayed on as producer, continuing to write episodes through Sera Gamble’s era, and was even inserted in text in the season 6 episode “The French Mistake”. So nothing really does end, not Kripke’s grip on the show he created, not even the show itself, which fans have jokingly referred to as continuing into its 16th season. Except we’re not joking. It will die when all of us are dead, when there is no one left to remember it. According to W R Fisher, humans are homo narrans, natural storytellers. The Supernatural fandom is telling a fidelitous narrative, one which matches our own beliefs, values and experiences instead of that of canon. Instead of, at Fathallah says, “the Greek tradition, that we should struggle to do the right thing simply because it is right, though we will suffer and be punished anyway,” the fans have created an ending for the characters that satisfies each and every one of our desires, because we each create our own endings. It’s better because we get to share them with each other, in the tradition of campfire stories, each telling our own version and building upon the others. If that’s not the epitome of mythmaking then I don’t know. It’s just great. Dean and Cas are married, Eileen and Sam are married, Jack is sometimes a baby who Claire and Kaia are forced to babysit, Jody and Donna are gonna get hitched soon. It’s season 17, time for many weddings, and Kevin Tran is alive. Kripke, you have no control over this anymore, you crusty hag.
Chuck is introduced as someone with power, but not influence over the story, only how the story is told through the medium of the novels. It’s basically a very badly written, non authorised biography, and Charlie reading literally every book and referencing things she should have no knowledge of is so damn creepy and funny. At first Chuck is surprised by his characters coming to life, despite having written it already, and when shown the intimidating array of weapons in Baby’s trunk he gets real scared. Which is the appropriate response for a skinny 5-foot-8 white guy in a bathrobe who writes terrible fantasy novels for a living.
As far as I can remember, this is the first explicitly metanarrative episode in the series, or at least the first one with in world consequences. It builds upon the lore of Christianity, angels, and God, while teasing what’s to come. Chuck and Sam have a conversation about how the rest of the season is going to play out, and Sam comes away with the impression that he’ll go down with the ship. They touch on Sam’s addiction to demon blood, which Chuck admits he didn’t write into the books, because in the world of supernatural, addiction should be demonised ha ha at every opportunity, except for Dean’s alcoholism which is cool and manly and should never be analysed as an unhealthy trauma coping mechanism.
Chuck is mostly impotent in the story of Sam and Dean, but his very presence presents an element of good luck that turns quickly into a force of antagonism in the series four finale, “Lucifer Rising”, when the archangel Raphael who defeats Lilith in this episode also kills Cas in the finale. It’s Cas’s quick thinking and Dean’s quick doing that resolve the episode and save them from Lilith, once again proving that free will is the greatest force in the universe. Cas is already tearing up pages and burning scripts. The fandom does the same, acting as gods of their own making in taking canon and transforming it into fan art. The fans aren’t impotent like Chuck, but neither do we have sway over the story in the way that Cas and Dean do. Sam isn’t interested in changing the story in the same way—he wants to kill Lilith and save the world, but in doing so continues the story in the way it was always supposed to go, the way the angels and the demons and even God wanted him to.
Neither of them are author-gods in the way that God is. We find out later that Chuck is in fact the real biblical god, and he engineers everything. The one thing he doesn’t engineer, however, is Castiel, and I’ll get to that in a minute.
The Real Ghostbusters
Season 5’s “The real ghostbusters,” written by Nancy Weiner and Erik Kripke, and directed by James L Conway, situates the Winchesters at a fan convention for the Supernatural books. While there, they are confronted by a slew of fans cosplaying as Sam, Dean, Bobby, the scarecrow, Azazel, and more. They happen to stumble upon a case, in the midst of the game where the fans pretend to be on a case, and with the help of two fans cosplaying as Sam and Dean, they put to rest a group of homicidal ghost children and save the day. Chuck as the special guest of the con has a hero moment that spurs Becky on to return his affections. And at the end, we learn that the Colt, which they’ve been hunting down to kill the devil, was given to a demon named Crowley. It’s a fun episode, but ultimately skippable. This episode isn’t so much metanarrative as it is metatextual—metatextual meaning more than one layer of text but not necessarily about the storytelling in those texts—but let’s take a look at it anyway.
The metanarrative element of a show about a series of books about the brothers the show is based on is dope and expands upon what we saw in “the monster at the end of this book”. But the episode tells a tale about about the show itself, and the fandom that surrounds it.
Where “The Monster At The End Of This Book” and the season 5 premiere “Sympathy For The Devil” poked at the coiled snake of fans and the concept of fandom, “the real ghostbusters” drags them into the harsh light of an enclosure and antagonises them in front of an audience. The metanarrative element revolves around not only the books themselves, but the stories concocted within the episode: namely Barnes and Demian the cosplayers and the story of the ghosts. The Winchester brothers’s history that we’ve seen throughout the first five seasons of the show is bared in a tongue in cheek way: while we cried with them when Sam and Dean fought with John, now the story is thrown out in such a way as to mock both the story and the fans’ relationship to it. Let me tell you, there is a lot to be made fun of on this show, but the fans’ relationship to the story of Sam, Dean and everyone they encounter along the way isn’t part of it. I don’t mean to be like, wow you can’t make fun of us ever because we’re special little snowflakes and we take everything so seriously, because you are welcome to make fun of us, but when the creators do it, I can’t help but notice a hint of malice. And I think that’s understandable in a way. Like The relationship between creator and fan is both layered and symbiotic. While Kripke and co no doubt owe the show’s popularity to the fans, especially as the fandom has grown and evolved over time, we’re not exactly free of sin. And don’t get me wrong, no fandom is. But the bad apples always seem to outweigh the good ones, and bad experiences can stick with us long past their due.
However, portraying us as losers with no lives who get too obsessed with this show — well, you know, actually, maybe they’re right. I am a loser with no life and I am too obsessed with this show. So maybe they have a point. But they’re so harsh about it. From wincestie Becky who they paint as a desperate shrew to these cosplayers who threaten Dean’s very perception of himself, we’re not painted in a very good light.
Dean says to Demian and Barnes, “It must be nice to get out of your mom’s basement.” He’s judging them for deriving pleasure from dressing up and pretending to be someone else for a night. He doesn’t seem to get the irony that he does that for a living. As the seasons wore on, the creators made sure to include episodes where Dean’s inner geek could run rampant, often in the form of dressing up like a cowboy, such as season six “Frontierland” and season 13 “Tombstone”. I had to take a break from writing this to laugh for five minutes because Dean is so funny. He’s a car gay but he only likes one car. He doesn’t follow sports. His echolalia causes him to blurt out lines from his favourite movies. He’s a posse magnet. And he loves cosplay. But he will continually degrade and insult anyone who expresses interest in role play, fandom, or interests in general. Maybe that’s why Sam is such a boring person, because Dean as his mother didn’t allow him to have any interests outside of hunting. And when Sam does express interests, Dean insults him too. What a dick. He’s my soulmate, but I am not going to stop listening to hair metal for him. That’s where I draw the line.
Where “the monster at the end of this book” is concerned with narrative and authorship, “the real ghostbusters” is concerned with fandom and fan reactions to the show. It’s not really the best example to talk about in an episode about metanarrativity, but I wanted to include it anyway. It veers from talk of narrative by focusing on the people in the periphery of the narrative—the fans and the author. In season 9 “Metafiction,” Metatron asks the question, who gives the story meaning? The text would have you believe it’s the characters. The angels think it’s God. The fandom think it’s us. The creators think it’s them. Perhaps we will never come to a consensus or even a satisfactory answer to this question. Perhaps that’s the point.
The ultimate takeaway from this episode is that ordinary people, the people Sam and Dean save, the people they save the world for, the people they die for again and again, are what give their story meaning. Chuck defeats a ghost and saves the people in the conference room from being murdered. Demian and Barnes, don’t ask me which is which, burn the bodies of the ghost children and lay their spirits to rest. The text says that ordinary, every day people can rise to the challenge of becoming extraordinary. It’s not a bad note to end on, by any means. And then we find out that Demian and Barnes are a couple, which of course Dean is surprised at, because he lacks object permanence.
This is no doubt influenced by how a good portion of the transformative fandom are queer, and also a nod to the wincesties and RPF writers like Becky who continue to bottom feed off the wrong message of this show. But then, the creators encourage that sort of thing, so who are the real clowns here? Everyone. Everyone involved with this show in any way is a clown, except for the crew, who were able to feed their families for more than a decade.
Okay side note… over the past year or so I’ve been in process of realising that even in fandom queers are in the minority. I know the statistic is that 10% of the world population is queer, but that doesn’t seem right to me? Maybe because 4/5 closest friends are queer and I hang around queers online, but I also think I lack object permanence when it comes to straight people. Like I just do not interact with straight people on a regular basis outside of my best friend and parents and school. So when I hear that someone in fandom is straight I’m like, what the fuck… can you keep that to yourself please? Like if I saw Misha Collins coming out as straight I would be like, I didn’t ask and you didn’t have to tell. Okay I’m mostly joking, but I do forget straight people exist. Mostly I don’t think about whether people are gay or trans or cis or straight unless they’ve explicitly said it and then yes it does colour my perception of them, because of course it would. If they’re part of the queer community, they’re my people. And if they’re straight and cis, then they could very well pose a threat to me and my wellbeing. But I never ask people because it’s not my business to ask. If they feel comfortable enough to tell me, that’s awesome. I think Dean feels the same way. Towards the later seasons at least, he has a good reaction when it’s revealed that someone is queer, even if it is mostly played off as a joke. It’s just that he doesn’t have a frame of reference in his own life to having a gay relationship, either his or someone he’s close to. He says to Cesar and Jesse in season 11 “The Critters” that they fight like brothers, because that’s the only way he knows how to conceptualise it. He doesn’t have a way to categorise his and Cas’s relationship, which is in many ways, long before season 15 “Despair,” harking back even to the parallels between Ruby and Cas in season 3 and 4, a romantic one, aside from that Cas is like a brother to him. Because he’s never had anyone in his life care for him the way Cas does that wasn’t Sam and Bobby, and he doesn’t recognise the romantic element of their relationship until literally Cas says it to him in the third last episode, he just—doesn’t know what his and Cas’s relationship is. He just really doesn’t know. And he grew up with a father who despised him for taking the mom and wife role in their family, the role that John placed him in, for being subservient to John’s wishes where Sam was more rebellious, so of course he wouldn’t understand either his own desires or those of anyone around him who isn’t explicitly shoving their tits in his face. He moulded his entire personality around what he thought John wanted of him, and John says to him explicitly in season 14 “Lebanon”, “I thought you’d have a family,” meaning, like him, wife and two rugrats. And then, dear god, Dean says, thinking of Sam, Cas, Jack, Claire, and Mary, “I have a family.” God that hurts so much. But since for most of his life he hasn’t been himself, he’s been the man he thought his father wanted him to be, he’s never been able to examine his own desires, wants and goals. So even though he’s really good at reading people, he is not good at reading other people’s desires unless they have nefarious intentions. Because he doesn’t recognise what he feels is attraction to men, he doesn’t recognise that in anyone else.
Okay that’s completely off topic, wow. Getting back to metanarrativity in “The Real Ghostbusters,” I’ll just cap it off by saying that the books in this episode are more a frame for the events than the events themselves. However, there are some good outtakes where Chuck answers some questions, and I’m not sure how much of that is scripted and how much is Rob Benedict just going for it, but it lends another element to the idea of Kripke as author-god. The idea of a fan convention is really cool, because at this point Supernatural conventions had been running for about 4 years, since 2006. It’s definitely a tribute to the fans, but also to their own self importance. So it’s a mixed bag, considering there were plenty of elements in there that show the good side of fandom and fans, but ultimately the Winchesters want nothing to do with it, consider it weird, and threaten Chuck when he says he’ll start releasing books again, which as far as they know is his only source of income. But it’s a fun episode and Dean is a grouchy bitch, so who the holy hell cares?
Season 10 episode “fanfiction” written by my close personal friend Robbie Thompson and directed by Phil Sgriccia is one of the funniest episodes this show has ever done. Not only is it full of metatextual and metanarrative jokes, the entire premise revolves around fanservice, but in like a fun and interesting way, not fanservice like killing the band Kansas so that Dean can listen to “Carry On My Wayward Son” in heaven twice. Twice. One version after another. Like I would watch this musical seven times in theatre, I would buy the soundtrack, I would listen to it on repeat and make all my friends listen to it when they attend my online Jitsi birthday party. This musical is my Hamilton. Top ten episodes of this show for sure. The only way it could be better is if Cas was there. And he deserved to be there. He deserved to watch little dyke Castiel make out with her girlfriend with her cute little wings, after which he and Dean share uncomfortable eye contact. Dean himself is forever coming to terms with the fact that gay people exist, but Cas should get every opportunity he can to hear that it’s super cool and great and awesome to be queer. But really he should be in every episode, all of them, all 300 plus episodes including the ones before angels were introduced. I’m going to commission the guy who edits Paddington into every movie to superimpose Cas standing on the highway into every episode at least once.
“Fan Fiction” starts with a tv script and the words “Supernatural pilot created by Eric Kripke”. This Immediately sets up the idea that it’s toying with narrative. Blah blah blah, some people go missing, they stumble into a scene from their worst nightmares: the school is putting on a musical production of a show inspired by the Supernatural books. It’s a comedy of errors. When people continue to go missing, Sam and Dean have to convince the girls that something supernatural is happening, while retaining their dignity and respect. They reveal that they are the real Sam and Dean, and Dean gives the director Marie a summary of their lives over the last five seasons, but they aren’t taken seriously. Because, like, of course they aren’t. Even when the girls realise that something supernatural is happening, they don’t actually believe that the musical they’ve made and the series of books they’re basing it on are real. Despite how Sam and Dean Winchester were literal fugitives for many years at many different times, and this was on the news, and they were wanted by the FBI, despite how they pretend to be FBI, and no one mentions it??? Did any of the staffwriters do the required reading or just do what I used to do for my 40 plus page readings of Baudrillard and just skim the first sentence of every paragraph? Neat hack for you: paragraphs are set up in a logical order of Topic, Example, Elaboration, Linking sentence. Do you have to read 60 pages of some crusty French dude waxing poetic about how his best friend Pierre wants to shag his wife and making that your problem? Read the first and last sentence of every paragraph. Boom, done. Just cut your work in half.
The musical highlights a lot of the important moments of the show so far. The brothers have, as Charlie Bradbury says, their “broment,” and as Marie says, their “boy melodrama scene,” while she insinuates that there is a sexual element to their relationship. This show never passed up an opportunity to mention incest. It’s like: mentioning incest 5000 km, not being disgusting 1 km, what a hard decision. Actually, they do have to walk on their knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting. But there are other moments—such as Mary burning on the ceiling, a classic, Castiel waiting for Dean at the side of the highway, and Azazel poisoning Sam. With the help of the high schoolers, Sam and Dean overcome Calliope, the muse and bad guy of the episode, and save the day. What began as their lives reinterpreted and told back to them turns into a story they have some agency over.
In this episode, as opposed to “The Monster At The End Of This Book,” The storytelling has transferred from an alcoholic in a bathrobe into the hands of an overbearing and overachieving teenage girl, and honestly why not. Transformative fiction is by and large run by women, and queer women, so Marie and her stage manager slash Jody Mills’s understudy Maeve are just following in the footsteps of legends. This kind of really succinctly summarises the difference between curative fandom and transformative fandom, the former of which is populated mostly by men, and the latter mostly by women. As defined by LordByronic in 2015, Curative fandom is more like enjoying the text, collecting the merchandise, organising the knowledge — basically Reddit in terms of fandom curation. Transformative fandom is transforming the source text in some way — making fanart, fanfic, mvs, or a musical — basically Tumblr in general, and Archive of our own specifically. Like what do non fandom people even do on Tumblr? It is a complete mystery to me. Whereas Chuck literally writes himself into the narrative he receives through visions, Marie and co have agency and control over the narrative by writing it themselves.
Chuck does appear in the episode towards the end, his first appearance after five seasons. The theory that he killed those lesbian theatre girls makes me wanna curl up and die, so I don’t subscribe to it. Chuck watched the musical and he liked it and he gave unwarranted notes and then he left, the end.
The Supernatural creative team is explicitly acknowledging the fandom’s efforts by making this episode. They’re writing us in again, with more obsessive fans, but with lethbians this time, which makes it infinitely better. And instead of showing us as potential date rapists, we’re just cool chicks who like to make art. And that’s fucken awesome.
I just have to note that the characters literally say the word Destiel after Dean sees the actors playing Dean and Cas making out. He storms off and tells Sam to shut the fuck up when Sam makes fun of him, because Dean’s sexuality is NOT threatened he just needs to assert his dominance as a straight hetero man who has NEVER looked at another man’s lips and licked his own. He just… forgets that gay people exist until someone reminds him. BUT THEN, after a rousing speech that is stolen from Rent or Wicked or something, he echoes Marie’s words back, saying “put as much sub into that text as you possibly can.” What does Dean know about subbing, I wonder. Okay I’m suddenly reminded that he did literally go to a kink bar and get hit on by a leather daddy. Oh Dean, the experiences you have as a broad-shouldered, pixie-faced man with cowboy legs. You were born for this role.
Metatron is my favourite villain. As one tumblr user pointed out, he is an evil English literature major, which is just a normal English literature major. The season nine episode “Meta Fiction” written by my main man robbie thompson and directed by thomas j wright, happens within a curious season. Castiel, once again, becomes the leader of a portion of the heavenly host to take down Metatron, and Dean is affected by the Mark Of Cain. Sam was recently possessed by Gadreel, who killed Kevin in Sam’s body and then decided to run off with Metatron. Metatron himself is recruiting angels to join him, in the hopes that he can become the new God. It’s the first introduction of Hannah, who encourages Cas to recruit angels himself to take on Metatron. Also, we get to see Gabriel again, who is always a delight.
This episode is a lot of fun. Metatron poses questions like, who tells a story and who is the most important person in the telling? Is it the writer? The audience? He starts off staring over his typewriter to address the camera, like a pompous dickhead. No longer content with consuming stories, he’s started to write his own. And they are hubristic ones about becoming God, a better god than Chuck ever was, but to do it he needs to kill a bunch of people and blame it on Cas. So really, he’s actually exactly like Chuck who blamed everything on Lucifer.
But I think the most apt analogy we can use for this in terms of who is the creator is to think of Metatron as a fanfiction writer. He consumes the media—the Winchester Gospels—and starts to write his own version of events—leading an army to become God and kill Cas. Nevermind that no one has been able to kill Cas in a way that matters or a way that sticks. Which is canon, and what Metatron is trying to do is—well not fanon because it actually does impact the Winchesters’ storyline. It would be like if one of the writers of Supernatural began writing Supernatural fanfiction before they got a job on the show. Which as my generation and the generations coming after me get more comfortable with fanfiction and fandom, is going to be the case for a lot of shows. I think it’s already the case for Riverdale. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the woman who wrote the bi Dean essay go to work on Riverdale? Or something? I dunno, I have the post saved in my tumblr likes but that is quagmire of epic proportions that I will easily get lost in if I try to find it.
Okay let me flex my literary degree. As Englund and Leach say in “Ethnography and the metanarratives of modernity,” “The influential “literary turn,” in which the problems of ethnography were seen as largely textual and their solutions as lying in experimental writing seems to have lost its impetus.” This can be taken to mean, in the context of Supernatural, that while Metatron’s writings seek to forge a new path in history, forgoing fate for a new kind of divine intervention, the problem with Metatron is that he’s too caught up in the textual, too caught up in the writing, to be effectual. And this as we see throughout seasons 9, 10 and 11, has no lasting effect. Cas gets his grace back, Dean survives, and Metatron becomes a powerless human. In this case, the impetus is his grace, which he loses when Cas cuts it out of him, a mirror to Metatron cutting out Cas’s grace.
However, I realise that the concept of ethnography in Supernatural is a flawed one, ethnography being the observation of another culture: a lot of the angels observe humanity and seem to fit in. However, Cas has to slowly acclimatise to the Winchesters as they tame him, but he never quite fit in—missing cues, not understanding jokes or Dean’s personal space, the scene where he says, “We have a guinea pig? Where?” Show him the guinea pig Sam!!! He wants to see it!!! At most he passes as a human with autism. Cas doesn’t really observe humanity—he observes nature, as seen in season 7 “reading is fundamental” and “survival of the fittest”. Even the human acts he talks about in season 6 “the man who would be king” are from hundreds or thousands of years ago. He certainly doesn’t observe popular culture, which puts him at odds with Dean, who is made up of 90 per cent pop culture references and 10 per cent flannel. Metatron doesn’t seek to blend in with humanity so much as control it, which actually is the most apt example of ethnography for white people in the last—you know, forever. But of course the writers didn’t seek to make this analogy. It is purely by chance, and maybe I’m the only person insane enough to realise it. But probably not. There are a lot of cookies much smarter than me in the Supernatural fandom and they’ve like me have grown up and gone to university and gotten real jobs in the real world and real haircuts. I’m probably the only person to apply Englund and Leach to it though.
And yes, as I read this paper I did need to have one tab open on Google, with the word “define” in the search bar.
Metatron has a few lines in this that I really like. He says:
“The universe is made up of stories, not atoms.”
“You’re going to have to follow my script.”
“I’m an entity of my word.”
It’s really obvious, but they’re pushing the idea that Metatron has become an agent of authorship instead of just a consumer of media. He even throws a Supernatural book into his fire — a symbolic act of burning the script and flipping the writer off, much like Cas did to God and the angels in season 5. He’s not a Kripke figure so much as maybe a Gamble, Carver or Dabb figure, in that he usurps Chuck and becomes the author-god. This would be extremely postmodern of him if he didn’t just do exactly what Chuck was doing, except worse somehow. In fact, it’s postmodern of Cas to reject heaven’s narrative and fall for Dean. As one tumblr user points out, Cas really said “What’s fate compared to Dean Winchester?”
Okay this transcript is almost 8000 words already, and I still have two more episodes to review, and more things to say, so I’ll leave you with this. Metatron says to Cas, “Out of all of God’s wind up toys, you’re the only one with any spunk.” Why Cas has captured his attention comes down more than anything to a process of elimination. Most angels fucking suck. They follow the rules of whoever puts themselves in charge, and they either love Cas or hate him, or just plainly wanna fuck him, and there have been few angels who stood out. Balthazar was awesome, even though I hated him the first time I watched season 6. He UNSUNK the Titanic. Legend status. And Gabriel was of course the OG who loves to fuck shit up. But they’re gone at this stage in the narrative, and Cas survives. Cas always survives. He does have spunk. And everyone wants to fuck him.
Season 11 episode 20 “Don’t Call Me Shurley,” the last episode written by the Christ like figure of Robbie Thompson — are we sensing a theme here? — and directed by my divine enemy Robert Singer, starts with Metatron dumpster diving for food. I’m not even going to bother commenting on this because like… it’s supernatural and it treats complex issues like homelessness and poverty with zero nuance. Like the Winchesters live in poverty but it’s fun and cool because they always scrape by but Metatron lives in poverty and it’s funny. Cas was homeless and it was hard but he needed to do it to atone for his sins, and Metatron is homeless and it’s funny because he brought it on himself by being a murderous dick. Fucking hell. Robbie, come on. The plot focuses on God, also known as Chuck Shurley, making himself known to Metatron and asking for Metatron’s opinion on his memoir. Meanwhile, the Winchesters battle another bout of infectious serial killer fog sent by Amara. At the end of the episode, Chuck heals everyone affected by the fog and reveals himself to Sam and Dean.
Chuck says that he didn’t foresee Metatron trying to become god, but the idea of Season 15 is that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all their lives. When Metatron tries, he fails miserably, is locked up in prison, tortured by Dean, then rendered useless as a human and thrown into the world without a safety net. His authorship is reduced to nothing, and he is reduced to dumpster diving for food. He does actually attempt to live his life as someone who records tragedies as they happen and sells the footage to news stations, which is honestly hilarious and amazing and completely unsurprising because Metatron is, at the heart of it, an English Literature major. In true bastard style, he insults Chuck’s work and complains about the bar, but slips into his old role of editor when Chuck asks him to.
The theory I’m consulting for this uses the term metanarrative in a different way than I am. They consider it an overarching narrative, a grand narrative like religion. Chuck’s biography is in a sense most loyal to Middleton and Walsh’s view of metanarrative: “the universal story of the world from arche to telos, a grand narrative encompassing world history from beginning to end.” Except instead of world history, it’s God’s history, and since God is construed in Supernatural as just some guy with some powers who is as fallible as the next some guy with some powers, his story has biases and agendas. Okay so in the analysis I’m getting Middleton and Walsh’s quotes from, James K A Smith’s “A little story about metanarratives,” Smith dunks on them pretty bad, but for Supernatural purposes their words ring true. Think of them as the BuckLeming of Lyotard’s postmodern metanarrative analysis: a stopped clock right twice a day. Is anyone except me understanding the sequence of words I’m saying right now. Do I just have the most specific case of brain worms ever found in human history. I’m currently wearing my oversized Keith Haring shirt and dipping pretzels into peanut butter because it’s 3.18 in the morning and the homosexuals got to me. The total claims a comprehensive metanarrative of world history make do indeed, as Middleton and Walsh claim, lead to violence, stay with me here, because Chuck’s legacy is violence, and so is Metatron’s, and in trying to reject the metanarrative, Sam and Dean enact violence. Mostly Dean, because in season 15 he sacrifices his own son twice to defeat Chuck. But that means literally fighting violence with violence. Violence is, after all, all they know. Violence is the lens through which they interact with the world. If the writers wanted to do literally anything else, they could have continued Dean’s natural character progression into someone who eschews the violence that stems from intergeneration trauma — yes I will continue to use the phrase intergenerational trauma whenever I refer to Dean — and becomes a loving father and husband. Sam could eschew violence and start a monster rehabilitation centre with Eileen.
This episode of Holy Hell is me frantically grabbing at straws to make sense of a narrative that actively hates me and wants to kick me to death. But the violence Sam and Dean enact is not at a metanarrative level, because they are not author-gods of their own narrative. In season 15 “Atomic Monsters,” Becky points out that the ending of the Supernatural book series is bad because the brothers die, and then, in a shocking twist of fate, Dean does die, and the narrative is bad. The writers set themselves a goal post to kick through and instead just slammed their heat into the bars. They set up the dartboard and were like, let’s aim the darts at ourselves. Wouldn’t that be fun. Season 15’s writing is so grossly incompetent that I believe every single conspiracy theory that’s come out of the finale since November, because it’s so much more compelling than whatever the fuck happened on the road so far. Carry on? Why yes, I think I will carry on, carry on like a pork chop, screaming at the bars of my enclosure until I crack my voice open like an egg and spill out all my rage and frustration. The world will never know peace again. It’s now 3.29 and I’ve written over 9000 words of this transcript. And I’m not done.
Middleton and Walsh claim that metanarratives are merely social constructions masquerading as universal truths. Which is, exactly, Supernatural. The creators have constructed this elaborate web of narrative that they want to sell us as the be all and end all. They won’t let the actors discuss how they really feel about the finale. They won’t let Misha Collins talk about Destiel. They want us to believe it was good, actually, that Dean, a recovering alcoholic with a 30 year old infant son and a husband who loves him, deserved to die by getting NAILED, while Sam, who spent the last four seasons, the entirety of Andrew Dabb’s run as showrunner, excelling at creating a hunter network and romancing both the queen of hell and his deaf hunter girlfriend, should have lived a normie life with a normie faceless wife. Am I done? Not even close. I started this episode and I’m going to finish it.
When we find out that Chuck is God in the episode of season 11, it turns everything we knew about Chuck on its head. We find out in Season 15 that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all along, that everything that happened to them is his doing. The one thing he couldn’t control was Cas’s choice to rebel. If we take him at his word, Cas is the only true force of free will in the entire universe, and more specifically, the love that Cas had for Dean which caused him to rebel and fall from heaven. — This theory has holes of course. Why would Lucifer torture Lilith into becoming the first demon if he didn’t have free will? Did Chuck make him do that? And why? So that Chuck could be the hero and Lucifer the bad guy, like Lucifer claimed all along? That’s to say nothing of Adam and Eve, both characters the show introduced in different ways, one as an antagonist and the other as the narrative foil to Dean and Cas’s romance. Thinking about it makes my head hurt, so I’m just not gunna.
So Chuck was doing the writing all along. And as Becky claims in “Atomic Monsters,” it’s bad writing. The writers explicitly said, the ending Chuck wrote is bad because there’s no Cas and everyone dies, and then they wrote an ending where there is no Cas and everyone dies. So talk about self-fulfilling prophecies. Talk about giant craters in the earth you could see from 800 kilometres away but you still fell into. Meanwhile fan writers have the opportunity to write a million different endings, all of which satisfy at least one person. The fandom is a hydra, prolific and unstoppable, and we’ll keep rewriting the ending a million more times.
And all this is not even talking about the fact that Chuck is a man, Metatron is a man, Sam and Dean and Cas are men, and the writers and directors of the show are, by an overwhelming majority, men. Most of them are white, straight, cis men. Feminist scholarship has done a lot to unpack the damage done by paternalistic approaches to theory, sociology, ethnography, all the -ys, but I propose we go a step further with these men. Kill them. Metanarratively, of course. Amara, the Darkness, God’s sister, had a chance to write her own story without Chuck, after killing everything in the universe, and I think she had the right idea. Knock it all down to build it from the ground up. Billie also had the opportunity to write a narrative, but her folly was, of course, putting any kind of faith in the Winchesters who are also grossly incompetent and often fail up. She is, as all author-gods on this show are, undone by Castiel. The only one with any spunk, the only one who exists outside of his own narrative confines, the only one the author-gods don’t have any control over. The one who died for love, and in dying, gave life.
The French Mistake
Let’s change the channel. Let’s calm ourselves and cleanse our libras. Let’s commune with nature and chug some sage bongs.
“The French Mistake” is a song from the Mel Brooks film Blazing Saddles. In the iconic second last scene of the film, as the cowboys fight amongst themselves, the camera pans back to reveal a studio lot and a door through which a chorus of gay dancersingers perform “the French Mistake”. The lyrics go, “Throw out your hands, stick out your tush, hands on your hips, give ‘em a push. You’ll be surprised you’re doing the French Mistake.”
I’m not sure what went through the heads of the Supernatural creators when they came up with the season 6 episode, “The French Mistake,” written by the love of my life Ben Edlund and directed by some guy Charles Beeson. Just reading the Wikipedia summary is so batshit incomprehensible. In short: Balthazar sends Sam and Dean to an alternate universe where they are the actors Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who play Sam and Dean on the tv show Supernatural. I don’t think this had ever been done in television history before. The first seven seasons of this show are certifiable. Like this was ten years ago. Think about the things that have happened in the last 10 slutty, slutty years. We have lived through atrocities and upheaval and the entire world stopping to mourn, but also we had twitter throughout that entire time, which makes it infinitely worse.
In this universe, Sam and Dean wear makeup, Cas is played by attractive crying man Misha Collins, and Genevieve Padalecki nee Cortese makes an appearance. Magic doesn’t exist, Serge has good ideas, and the two leads have to act in order to get through the day. Sorry man I do not know how to pronounce your name.
Sidenote: I don’t know if me being attracted aesthetically to Misha Collins is because he’s attractive, because this show has gaslighted me into thinking he’s attractive, or because Castiel’s iconic entrance in 2008 hit my developing mind like a torpedo full of spaghetti and blew my fucking brains all over the place. It’s one of life’s little mysteries and God’s little gifts.
Let’s talk about therapy. More specifically, “Agency and purpose in narrative therapy: questioning the postmodern rejection of metanarrative” by Cameron Lee. In this paper, Lee outlines four key ideas as proposed by Freedman and Combs:
Realities are socially constructed
Realities are constituted through language
Realities are organised and maintained through narrative
And there are no essential truths.
Let’s break this down in the case of this episode. Realities are socially constructed: the reality of Sam and Dean arose from the Bush era. Do I even need to elaborate? From what I understand with my limited Australian perception, and being a child at the time, 9/11 really was a prominent shifting point in the last twenty years. As Americans describe it, sometimes jokingly, it was the last time they were really truly innocent. That means to me that until they saw the repercussions of their government’s actions in funding turf wars throughout the middle east for a good chunk of the 20th Century, they allowed themselves to be hindered by their own ignorance. The threat of terrorism ran rampant throughout the States, spurred on by right wing nationalists and gun-toting NRA supporters, so it’s really no surprise that the show Supernatural started with the premise of killing everything in sight and driving around with only your closest kin and a trunk full of guns. Kripke constructed that reality from the social-political climate of the time, and it has wrought untold horrors on the minds of lesbians who lived through the noughties, in that we are now attracted to Misha Collins.
Number two: Realities are constituted through language. Before a show can become a show, it needs to be a script. It’s written down, typed up, and given to actors who say the lines out loud. In this respect, they are using the language of speech and words to convey meaning. But tv shows are not all about words, and they’re barely about scripts. From what I understand of being raised by television, they are about action, visuals, imagery, and behaviours. All of the work that goes into them—the scripts, the lighting, the audio, the sound mixing, the cameras, the extras, the ADs, the gaffing, the props, the stunts, everything—is about conveying a story through the medium of images. In that way, images are the language. The reality of the show Supernatural, inside the show Supernatural, is constituted through words: the script, the journalists talking to Sam, the makeup artist taking off Dean’s makeup, the conversations between the creators, the tweets Misha sends. But also through imagery: the fish tank in Jensen’s trailer, the model poses on the front cover of the magazine, the opulence of Jared’s house, Misha’s iconic sweater. Words and images are the language that constitutes both of these realities. Okay for real, I feel like I’ve only seen this episode max three times, including when I watched it for research for this episode, but I remember so much about it.
Number three: realities are organised and maintained through narrative. In this universe of the French Mistake, their lives are structured around two narratives: the internal narrative of the show within the show, in which they are two actors on a tv set; and the episode narrative in which they need to keep the key safe and return to their own universe. This is made difficult by the revelation that magic doesn’t work in this universe, however, they find a way. Before they can get back, though, an avenging angel by the name of Virgil guns down author-god Eric Kripke and tries to kill the Winchesters. However, they are saved by Balthazar and the freeze frame and brought back into their own world, the world of Supernatural the show, not Supernatural the show within the show within the nesting doll. And then that reality is done with, never to be revisited or even mentioned, but with an impact that has lasted longer than the second Bush administration.
And number four: there are no essential truths. This one is a bit tricky because I can’t find what Lee means by essential truths, so I’m just going to interpret that. To me, essential truths means what lies beneath the narratives we tell ourselves. Supernatural was a show that ran for 15 years. Supernatural had actors. Supernatural was showrun by four different writers. In the show within a show, there is nothing, because that ceases to exist for longer than the forty two minute episode “The French Mistake”. And since Supernatural no longer exists except in our computers, it is nothing too. It is only the narratives we tell ourselves to sleep better at night, to wake up in the morning with a smile, to get through the day, to connect with other people, to understand ourselves better. It’s not even the narrative that the showrunners told, because they have no agency over it as soon as it shows up on our screens. The essential truth of the show is lost in the translation from creating to consuming. Who gives the story meaning? The people watching it and the people creating it. We all do.
Lee says that humans are predisposed to construct narratives in order to make sense of the world. We see this in cultures from all over the world: from cave paintings to vases, from The Dreaming to Beowulf, humans have always constructed stories. The way you think about yourself is a story that you’ve constructed. The way you interact with your loved ones and the furries you rightfully cyberbully on Twitter is influenced by the narratives you tell yourself about them. And these narratives are intricate, expansive, personalised, and can colour our perceptions completely, so that we turn into a different person when we interact with one person as opposed to another.
Whatever happened in season 6, most of which I want to forget, doesn’t interest me in the way I’m telling myself the writers intended. For me, the entirety of season 6 was based around the premise of Cas being in love with Dean, and the complete impotence of this love. He turns up when Dean calls, he agonises as he watches Dean rake leaves and live his apple pie life with Lisa, and Dean is the person he feels most horribly about betraying. He says, verbatim, to Sam, “Dean and I do share a more profound bond.” And Balthazar says, “You’re confusing me with the other angel, the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you.” He says this in season 6, and we couldn’t do a fucken thing about it.
The song “The French Mistake” shines a light on the hidden scene of gay men performing a gay narrative, in the midst of a scene about the manliest profession you can have: professional horse wrangler, poncho wearer, and rodeo meister, the cowboy. If this isn’t a perfect encapsulation of the lovestory between Dean and Cas, which Ben Edlund has been championing from day fucking one of Misha Collins walking onto that set with his sex hair and chapped lips, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing here. What in the hell else could it possibly mean. The layers to this. The intricacy. The agendas. The subtextual AND blatant queerness. The micro aggressions Crowley aimed at Car in “The Man Who Would Be King,” another Bedlund special. Bed Edlund is a fucking genius. Bed Edlund is cool girl. Ben Edlund is the missing link. Bed Edlund IS wikileaks. Ben Edlund is a cool breeze on a humid summer day. Ben Edlund is the stop loading button on a browser tab. Ben Edlund is the perfect cross between Spotify and Apple Music, in which you can search for good playlists, but without having to be on Spotify. He can take my keys and fuck my wife. You best believe I’m doing an entire episode of Holy Hell on Bedlund’s top five. He is the reason I want to get into staffwriting on a tv show. I saw season 4 episode “On the head of a pin” when my brain was still torpedoed spaghetti mush from the premiere, and it nestled its way deep into my exposed bones, so that when I finally recovered from that, I was a changed person. My god, this transcript is 11,000 words, and I haven’t even finished the Becky section. Which is a good transition.
Oh, Becky. She is an incarnation of how the writers, or at least Kripke, view the fans. Watching season 5 “Sympathy for the Devil” live in 2009 was a whole fucking trip that I as a baby gay was not prepared for. Figuring out my sexuality was a journey that started with the Supernatural fandom and is in some aspects still raging against the dying of the light today. Add to that, this conception of the audience was this, like, personification of the librarian cellist from Juno, but also completely without boundaries, common sense, or shame. It made me wonder about my position in the narrative as a consumer consuming. Is that how Kripke saw me, specifically? Was I like Becky? Did my forays into DeanCasNatural on El Jay dot com make me a fucking loser whose only claim to fame is writing some nasty fanfiction that I’ve since deleted all traces of? Don’t get me wrong, me and my unhinged Casgirl friends loved Becky. I can’t remember if I ever wrote any fanfiction with her in it because I was mostly writing smut, which is extremely Becky coded of me, but I read some and my friends and I would always chat about her when she came up. She was great entertainment value before season 7. But in the eyes of the powers that be, Becky, like the fans themselves, are expendable. First they turned her into a desperate bride wannabe who drugs Sam so that he’ll be with her, then Chuck waves his hand and she disappears. We’re seeing now with regards to Destiel, Cas, and Misha Collins this erasure of them from the narrative. Becky says in season 15 “Atomic Monsters” that the ending Chuck writes is bad because, for one, there’s no Cas, and that’s exactly what’s happening to the text post-finale. It literally makes me insane akin to the throes of mania to think about the layers of this. They literally said, “No Cas = bad” and now Misha isn’t even allowed to talk in his Cassona voice—at least at the time I wrote that—to the detriment of the fans who care about him. It’s the same shit over and over. They introduce something we like, they realise they have no control over how much we like it, and then they pretend they never introduced it in the first place. Season 7, my god. The only reason Gamble brought back Cas was because the ratings were tanking the show. I didn’t even bother watching most of it live, and would just hear from my friends whether Cas was in the episodes or not. And then Sera, dear Sera, had the gall to say it was a Homer’s Odyssey narrative. I’m rusty on Homer aka I’ve never read it but apparently Odysseus goes away, ends up with a wife on an island somewhere, and then comes back to Terabithia like it never happened. How convenient. But since Sera Gamble loves to bury her gays, we can all guess why Cas was written out of the show: Cas being gay is a threat to the toxic heteronormativity spouted by both the show and the characters themselves. In season 15, after Becky gets her life together, has kids, gets married, and starts a business, she is outgrowing the narrative and Chuck kills her. The fans got Destiel Wedding trending on Twitter, and now the creators are acting like he doesn’t exist. New liver, same eagles.
I have to add an adendum: as of this morning, Sunday 11th, don’t ask me what time that is in Americaland, Misha Collins did an online con/Q&A thing and answered a bunch of questions about Cas and Dean, which goes to show that he cannot be silenced. So the narrative wants to be told. It’s continuing well into it’s 16th or 17th season. It’s going to keep happening and they have no recourse to stop it. So fuck you, Supernatural.
I did write the start of a speech about representation but, who the holy hell cares. I also read some disappointing Masters theses that I hope didn’t take them longer to research and write than this episode of a podcast I’m making for funsies took me, considering it’s the same number of pages. Then again I have the last four months and another 8 years of fandom fuelling my obsession, and when I don’t sleep I write, hence the 4,000 words I knocked out in the last 12 hours.
Some final words. Lyotard defines postmodernism, the age we live in, as an incredulity towards metanarratives. Modernism was obsessed with order and meaning, but postmodernism seeks to disrupt that. Modernists lived within the frame of the narrative of their society, but postmodernists seek to destroy the frame and live within our own self-written contexts. Okay I love postmodernist theory so this has been a real treat for me. Yoghurt, Sam? Postmodernist theory? Could I BE more gay?
Middleton and Walsh in their analysis of postmodernism claim that biblical faith is grounded in metanarrative, and explore how this intersects with an era that rejects metanarrative. This is one of the fundamental ideas Supernatural is getting at throughout definitely the last season, but other seasons as well. The narratives of Good vs Evil, Michael vs Lucifer, Dean vs Sam, were encoded into the overarching story of the show from season 1, and since then Sam and Dean have sought to break free of them. Sam broke free of John’s narrative, which was the hunting life, and revenge, and this moralistic machismo that they wrapped themselves up in. If they’re killing the evil, then they’re not the evil. That’s the story they told, and the impetus of the show that Sam was sucked back into. But this thread unravelled in later seasons when Dean became friends with Benny and the idea that all supernatural creatures are inherently evil unravelled as well. While they never completely broke free of John’s hold over them, welcoming Jack into their lives meant confronting a bias that had been ingrained in them since Dean was 4 years old and Sam 6 months. In the face of the question, “are all monsters monstrous?” the narrative loosens its control. Even by questioning it, it throws into doubt the overarching narrative of John’s plan, which is usurped at the end of season 2 when they kill Azazel by Dean’s demon deal and a new narrative unfolds. John as author-god is usurped by the actual God in season 4, who has his own narrative that controls the lives of Sam, Dean and Cas.
Okay like for real, I do actually think the metanarrativity in Supernatural is something that should be studied by someone other than me, unless you wanna pay me for it and then shit yeah. It is extremely cool to introduce a biographical narrative about the fictional narrative it’s in. It’s cool that the characters are constantly calling this narrative into focus by fighting against it, struggling to break free from their textual confines to live a life outside of the external forces that control them. And the thing is? The really real, honest thing? They have. Sam, Dean and Cas have broken free of the narrative that Kripke, Carver, Gamble and Dabb wrote for them. The very fact that the textual confession of love that Cas has for Dean ushered in a resurgence of fans, fandom and activity that has kept the show trending for five months after it ended, is just phenomenal. People have pointed out that fans stopped caring about Game of Thrones as soon as it ended. Despite the hold they had over tv watchers everywhere, their cultural currency has been spent. The opposite is true for Supernatural. Despite how the finale of the show angered and confused people, it gains more momentum every day. More fanworks, more videos, more fics, more art, more ire, more merch is being generated by the fans still. The Supernatural subreddit, which was averaging a few posts a week by season 15, has been incensed by the finale. And yours truly happily traipsed back into the fandom snake pit after 8 years with a smile on my face and a skip in my step ready to pump that dopamine straight into my veins babeeeeeeyyyyy. It’s been WILD. I recently reconnected with one of my mutuals from 2010 and it’s like nothing’s changed. We’re both still unhinged and we both still simp for Supernatural. Even before season 15, I was obsessed with the podcast Ride Or Die, which I started listening to in late 2019, and Supernatural was always in the back of my mind. You just don’t get over your first fandom. Actually, Danny Phantom was my first fandom, and I remember being 12 talking on Danny Phantom forums to people much too old to be the target audience of the show. So I guess that hasn’t left me either. And the fondest memories I have of Supernatural is how the characters have usurped their creators to become mythic, long past the point they were supposed to die a quiet death. The myth weaving that the Supernatural fandom is doing right now is the legacy that will endure.
References
I got all of these for free from Google Scholar!
Judith May Fathallah, “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural.”
James K A Smith, “A Little Story About Metanarratives: Lyotard, Religion and Postmodernism Revisited.” 2001.
Cameron Lee, “Agency and Purpose in Narrative Therapy: Questioning the Postmodern Rejection of Metanarrative.” 2004.
Harri Englund and James Leach, “Ethnography and the Meta Narratives of Modernity.” 2000.
https://uproxx.com/filmdrunk/mel-brooks-explains-french-mistake-blazing-saddles-blu-ray/
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Lockdown
Authors Note: I am a British writer and luckily enough I have never actually had to experience something like this happening. I cannot imagine what it must be like. There is reference to the ‘shooting’ during the fanfiction, therefore, I do not blame anyone if they differ from reading this. Nothing is graphic and if anything it only gets mentioned for a small portion and there is no one hurt either. I would really like to do a part two. Let me know if anyone is interested.
Summary: It was just a normal day in Beacon Hills. Y/N and her friends were going about her business when a gun threat disrupted the balance of things. Strangers and potential foes grew closer as their lives hung in the balance.
Warning: Gun Threat, Swearing, Adult Language and Themes
Pairing: Reader x Stiles Stilinski
Word Count: 3,787
“You can not tell me that you didn’t just see that look he gave you?” Jackson brushed up against my side as I tried to jot down the new notes that Coach was terribly transcribing on the chalk board. I mean was that even spelt correctly, how did this man become a legal teacher?
“It is probably just in your head Jackson.” I counter.
“No he is seriously giving you the stink eye. What is McCall’s problem?”
I shrug him off as he is up to his typical shit stirring mode. Jackson and I are neighbours and long-time friends. Since I was nine, we were barely ever apart, we shared our biggest secrets with one another. Mine was that I am the daughter of two illusive demon hunters. I am the only person who knows that he has been pretending to be someone who he is not. Jackson has been in a secret relationship with Ethan. Deep down Jackson was a sweetheart. A sweetheart who cannot control his mouth or fists but Ethan and I are working on that.
“Come on Y/N!” He bumped my arm which made my hand jerk and my notes start to resemble that of Coach’s horrible penmanship. If there is one thing that I hate, its when my notes are not written one hundred percent perfectly. I slam down my pen and turn abruptly in my chair to face Jackson, which sparks some attention from the brunette boy on the table in front. He did not fully turn his head around which was lucky for me as my cheeks immediately go red from embarrassment.
“What is your problem Jackson?” I enquire, nostrils practically flaring which only invoked a chuckle from my best friend.
“Take that chip off of your shoulder and listen to me would you.” He countered as he pushed a note into my hand. “Read this and tell me you wish I left you to copy down that gibberish from the board.”
I huffed and started to carefully unfold the piece of paper. Coach didn’t really care if we showed up to the lesson, let alone if we were actually listening. I read it three times before I actually registered what the words were telling me.
Hey Y/N
If you could would you be able to meet me in the west stairwell after 3rd period?
You look really pretty today, btw
“Jackson, who is this from?” The boy shrugged and dropped his head to focus on the words coming out of Coach’s mouth. “Don’t pretend like you care about what he is saying” I gesture to the shaggy haired man “now tell me at least who you got this from.”
Jackson pointed to Lydia who was not at all aware of the two pairs of eyes on her as she casually scribbled in her journal. “But I have no clue who had the note before her. It was probably that McCall.” He sneered. I exhale disappointedly, as much as Scott was a nice guy and all, I don’t want this to be from him. I do not have anything against the guy, he is just not someone who I would want to be interested in me. He seems to always be around trouble, and that is something I cannot be involved in.
“Why don’t you just go and see who it is. I will go with you and if it turns out to be McCall, I will rescue you.” He gave my hand a slight squeeze for reassurance and gazed down at my notebook. “By the way what did you get for number four?”
I laugh a little too loud which causes the brunette to turn around and give me a quick glance that I couldn’t translate in time before he was facing the front again. Again, my cheeks flared, the same way that they do every time his eyes meet mine. I shake the thought away and turn back to my friend. “Jackson, did you think this was a test the whole time? Number four is literally asking you to write down your height.”
_____________________________________________________________
I was packing my stuff into my bag as the bell rang. “So, are you going to meet this mystery person?” Lydia enquired as I put my water bottle into the slot at the side of my bag, looping the strap over my one arm.
Lydia and I do not really talk, but considering she was my only lead on who this note could have been from, I bit the bullet and spoke to my lab partner. As we were filling the beakers with corrosive liquid, I came straight out with it. “So, about this note you handed to Jackson for me? Do you know who it was from?”
Lydia shook her head, a little startled that I asked her a question that wasn’t ‘can you pass me the pipette?’ “No, to be honest I can not even say who had passed me the note. When I looked down from the board it was just there lying on top of my journal. I am sorry Y/N, I wish I were able to help more but I honestly wouldn’t be able to say who gave it to me.”
I was a little discouraged by only knowing what I did during first period and it was now third. I was meant to meet this person in only a matter of minutes. Lydia and I continued to talk throughout the class. She was really nice to talk to, but I could sense that there was something about her that wasn’t normal. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something.
“I have no clue if I am going to go or not.” I admit, letting the anxiety slip in. It would be hard enough for me to go through with it even if I knew who it was I was going to meet up with. This person said I was ‘pretty,’ for all I knew this could be a joke. That’s all I needed, I was already the girl with all the ancient supernatural protection runes all over my person and possessions. My mum and dad are hunters, and I have been brought up in a world where I cannot go anywhere without some protection. The salt and holy water in my bag is proof of that.
“Well, I hope whoever it is, knows how amazing you are. If he doesn’t, he will have me to deal with.” She bumped my hip with hers and waved as she left the lab.
I picked up the last item on the table and turned to leave the classroom when I was knocked onto the floor, landing hard on my butt. At first, it felt as though I had walked straight into an invisible force field. Little had I registered that it was a person.
“Oh shit!” It was the brunette from this morning. ‘Dammit’ I thought. I could already feel my cheeks start to turn red. Why did this always have to happen. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to; I wasn’t looking where I was going.” The brunette boy bent down to help me up from the floor.
I brush off my jeans once I am back on my feet, avoiding making eye contact with the boy in front of me. He too looked really nervous as if this incident was his worst nightmare. “I- it’s o- okay.” I stutter. Really voice, of all the times you want to fail me, it’s now. “I w- was just going.” I try to walk past him when a blaring siren started ringing throughout the school.
Panic flashed across my face and his too. Everyone’s worst nightmare, a gun drill. The siren was one hundred percent recognisable. “Get down!” The brunette boy threw himself at me as I yet again landed flat on my backside but with him on top of me this time. We were both frozen for a couple of seconds, my eyes locked on his and it might sound girly, but I could literally lose myself in them.
Finally, he lifted himself up off me and slid underneath one of the tables. I copied and mirrored him under the table in front of his. “I’m sorry, I thought I saw someone walk past the window inconspicuously behind you. I just panicked.” His eyes searched my body, the way that I was now hugging my legs, resting my chin on top of my knees. “Oh God, did I hurt you?” Fear flooded his face at the thought that he may have caused me any pain.
I shake my head. “No.” I whisper. “I’m okay, thank you.” My hand instantly goes to play with the locket that hung around my neck.
“What’s that?” His eyes caught my fingers tracing the metal details.
I freeze. “What’s what?”
The brunette flicked his head towards the chain that was between my fingers.
“Oh, it’s a necklace my dad gave me, to protect me.”
The boy smiled. “That’s cool. My dad gave me a baseball bat to protect me.” I felt the corners of my lips rise into a slight smile.
“I bet you wish you had it now?” I enquire.
The boy sniggered. “If only a bat was an equal match.” I knew what he was on about. A bat could not compare to a gun. “Wanna know something funny?”
“Something funny would be great right about now.” I could feel my foot start to twitch the way that it did when my mum and dad were out on a hunt. Total and utter uselessness. I was a sitting duck.
“My dad once told me that I am always at the centre of some drama.” He let out a sigh. “That wasn’t really that funny was it?”
I shake my head but smile. “Your dad seems like a smart man.”
He smiled and raised a hand to ruffle his hair. God why did he look so good when he did that. “He has to be, I mean he is the sheriff.”
“You’re the sheriff’s son?” I question my eyes went wide in shock. I had heard a lot about this boy. He was best friends with Scott McCall and his dad is right, he always seemed to be in trouble.
He smiled beautifully if that were possible during a terrifying circumstance. “Yeah, you didn’t think it was a coincidence that I am called Stiles Stilinski and there would be no relation to Sheriff Stilinski?” His smile and baffled tone made me smile back at him. “It’s not as common as most surnames. I mean what’s yours?”
“Winchester.” I reply.
“Now that is not a common surname.” He leaned out from under the desk with his arm stretched out. I took his in return. “Nice to meet you Y/N Winchester.”
“You too Stiles Stilinski.” My eyes locked onto his and our hands clung to each other. It felt like we had been holding hands for hours, completely frozen in each other’s gazes.
Suddenly there was a loud pop that rang throughout the building. This tore our hands apart finally. I retreated under the table and moved my legs back up to my chest, creating a shield. Stiles did the same but did not take his eyes off me. I started gripping onto my locket as my breathing became more rapid. I was normally better at threats, my parents dealt with the supernatural world. They battled ghosts, demons, vampires and even werewolves and yet a civilian with a gun going around the school, finger on the trigger, changed me into a nervous wreck.
There was this scuffling noise and suddenly there were arms around me holding me tight. “Shh, its okay Y/N.” Stiles was holding onto me, trying his best to soothe my breathing down. “Breathe with me okay. Copy me. Y/N, you need to look at me.” His hands were either side of my face as he whispered to keep our location a secret. “You can do this. Ready?”
My eyes locked onto his, tear stains running down my cheeks. I watched him attentively as he took each breath. I copied never losing eye contact with those light brown eyes. “That’s it. One more time okay?” His thumb caressed my cheek as I nodded. My breathing finally falling back into place. I take my last breath and let it fall. “That’s it.”
I thought now that my breathing was back to normal that Stiles would release me, but he didn’t. He held his grasp onto my body and did not look away. “Are you okay?” He whispered, his voice getting caught in this throat. Part of me wanted to say yes, to pretend that I was this tough girl. But the boy had just seen me during a panic attack. Me saying that I was not okay wasn’t going to come to be that much of a surprise. I shake my head.
“It’s okay not to be okay sometimes.” I went to wipe a tear that was falling from my cheek but Stiles was there before I got a chance. “Do you want to know a secret?”
I nod, dropping my legs from my chest. “I’m afraid of a lot of things. My friends and I, we face a lot of scary things and for most of it, I feel like I will die. But the thing is, we could die. But that could happen any day and at any time. I believe that we live through the scariest moments in our lives so that we can tell people about them.”
“What was the scariest moment in your life?” I ask, my voice all croaky from holding back the tears.
“Well apart from this one?” He pauses as he gathers his thoughts. “The scariest moment in my life was the day that something possessed my best friend and it led him to almost commit suicide.” I gasp, shocked by what he had just confessed.
“What happened?” I have dealt with possessions before, that wasn’t the part that shocked me.
“Well we went on a school trip and there was something supernatural that had possessed my friends, they were driven to madness. Scott picked up a flare, he was covered in gasoline, it was all around him.” He broke off as his voice cracked. “I walked over to him and held his hand and the flare. I told him that if he needed to do it, then we were both going to go. I was and always will be by his side.”
I took his hand this time and I felt him jump. “I had no idea. I am so sorry that that happened.” Stiles was staring at our entwined hands.
“But the other scariest moment in my life was when I wrote you that note.” I felt a sharp thump to the chest. I was so stupid, how did I not know it was the cute boy who sat in front of me in practically every class that we had together. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.” I respond. Stiles had not lifted his head since our hands connected.
“Were you going to come and meet me? I mean obviously before all of this happened.”
I stop and think. Was I? I hadn’t given that moment another thought since the siren went off. It felt like days ago I had been handed the note. “I don’t know.”
“Oh.” Stiles’ tone was defeated and sombre. His grip on my hand also weakened the minute my response registered. “I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just thought that if I was going to take a jump and finally try to ‘make my move’ as they say.”
“Stiles, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture-“
“It’s just you don’t like me. I get it. I actually get it a lot.” His head dropped and he tried to pull away. I feared that he was going to leave me alone under the table and return to his own.
“No stiles it wasn’t that-“
“Is it cause I’m weird looking? Dad and Scott say I look a little odd.” The boy was rambling.
“No you’re not weird looking-“
“Then it is because of the way I talk isn’t it?”
“No it-“
“It’s my clothes then isn’t it? I dress in a lot of tartan. You know some people say-“ I grab the boy, placing a hand behind his head I pull his lips towards my own. Stiles’ eyes widened the second my lips connected to his. But soon enough his hands drifted from his side and tied themselves in my hair pulling me deeper into the kiss. It was as if Stiles had come alive once we kissed. Our lips moved in time with each other almost as if they were made to do this and only this. The shy boy became more confident and definitely more dominant as his tongue lightly brushed my bottom lip. I let his tongue meet my own, and his moan vibrated against my mouth.
Our bodies moved in sync with each other. My one hand entwined in his hair while the other draped down his back. His were on my hip and the back of my neck as we both pushed ourselves closer together if that were possible.
When I broke the kiss, his pupils were wide in surprise and desire. “Why did you stop?” Stiles questioned, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“I would have met up with you Stiles.” I whisper into his ear. When I pull my head away from his neck his eyes were wider than they were when the kiss broke apart. “But maybe next time, you should author your notes, perhaps?”
A cheeky grin spread out across his face as my words registered. “Wait, does that mean I forgot to say it was from me, that you’d be meeting me.” I nod as the boy put the puzzle pieces together. “I am an idiot.” The boy slapped his own forehead at his carelessness. “Can I ask you another question?” I smile and nod. “Can we do that kiss again? I really liked it.”
The smirk on his face was enough for me to give into his charms. Before I could lean in, Stiles had grabbed me by my hips and pulled me onto his lap. I hooked my arms around his neck and allowed his lips to connect with mine, his hands firmly on the space between my hips and my ass. It was a bit of a squeeze under the table, the top of my head was rested on base of the table. I was aware that I may have gum in my hair because of this, but I didn’t care. Hearing his moans as my hands trailed from the back of his neck and down his spine was enough for me to crumble within his arms.
Stiles’ lips drifted away from my own but instantly connected into the crook of my neck. This time it was my turn to let out a moan. “Stiles.” I sighed when he hit the right spot and began to suck on it with his hot breath spreading across my skin.
Both of us jumped apart when we heard a cough from the front of the lab. There stood Scott McCall. I was just thankful that it wasn’t Coach or any other member of the School Faculty. I looked back at Stiles who for once didn’t seem happy to see his best friend. “Not exactly what we were taught to do during a school shooting, Stiles.” He nodded towards me “Y/N, Jackson is worried about you, he said you were not answering your phone.”
Stiles detangled me from his lap and helped me to my feet in front of the table rather than being under it as we had previously been.
I pulled out my phone and funny enough there was sixteen missed calls from Jackson and twenty-two messages from him as well as a couple from my own father. Not cool Jackson do not get my dad involved in this.
“What are you even doing out in the open, Scott?” Stiles grilled. “There is a school shooting going on you know.”
“Dude that ended about twenty minutes ago, your dad came arrested the guy. The teachers announced that we could all go home. I was on my way home when Jackson came up to me and asked me if I had seen Y/N. When I told him no, he went into panic mode and started running up and down the corridors.”
I felt my phone vibrate in my hands, Jackson again. “Hello?”
“Oh my God. Thank God you’re okay. Are you still in the school? Where are you? I will come and get you and take you home.”
I look up at Stiles who held onto my hand and gave me the sweetest smile. “Jackson I am okay. I think I am going to get a ride with someone else. Thank you for always looking after me. I love you.”
“It’s my job. Who are you with so I know you are safe, put them on the phone?”
I hand the phone over to Stiles who takes it apprehensively. “He wants to make sure I haven’t concocted some excuse to avoid listening to Taylor Swift in his car, again.”
“Hello?”
“Oh my God, Stilinski? What are you doing with Y/N?”
Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear and places a hand over the microphone. “I don’t think he is too happy that you’re with me.” I laugh and he put the phone back up against his ear. “Jackson I will look after her, I promise. Enjoy Taylor Swift though. I really like the one she sings with Ed Sheeran.” He pulls the phone back and hits the end call button on the screen.
Scott looks questioningly between the two of us. “So, what is going on between you two. Is this going to be a normal thing now? Am I going to have to write up a schedule for who gets Stiles during the week?”
Stiles slaps his friend’s back. “You still got me. But now she has me too, only she gets more kisses than you. I mean we could add more kissing sessions when we are together if you would really like?”
“I think I will pass.” Scott announced.
“Good because there would be no competition.” Stiles twirled me so that I was now pressed against his chest and laid another kiss on my lips. When he pulled away, his head was bent down to mine, eyes locked on my own. “You ready to go home?”
Part 2?
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FF VII - Tseng Headcanons | #1
A/N: No one asked for this, (at least I don’t think anyone did?) But I was in the mood to write some fluffy Tseng so I hope you don’t mind!!
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
Tseng isn’t much for affection, but he does shows his appreciation in a number of ways only he’d think of. Sometimes it’s in the form of complimenting you either by intelligence or physical means (I.e. “you’re very beautiful today,” or “That’s an intelligent observation y/n.”, helping you out of sticky situations, helping you get back on your feet after financial trouble. It’s all professional in a sense, but that’s just who Tseng is in general
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
Tseng’s friendships are all built up from colleagues, so you’d most likely would have worked with him to get a bit closer to him as a person. As a friend, he’s usually your more honest, straight-to-the-point man who will tell you as it is. He’ll give the best advice, and someone you could always count on in times of need.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
Not much of a cuddly guy. In fact, the first time he’s ever experienced cuddling was when he was with you, how you nestled into the crook of his neck, eyes shut as the room went silent. He’ll be unnerved about the whole deal, but he won’t push you off. He’ll just let you sleep in his arms until you wake, but he’ll be a bit awkward through your nap. Since he would have no idea where to place his hands without waking you.
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
Tseng is all business. He’s not planning on settling down. If he somehow ends up in a relationship with you, the plans for a family, children, the whole-white picket fence idea is still just as slim.
When it comes to cooking, he’s more of the bland-type cooks. He doesn’t put his heart and soul into it like many others, so food just ends up being subsistence to stay alive, that’s it. Many of his meals are simple and easy, and he won’t make dinner a huge deal.
However, when it comes to cleaning, this guy is your man. Not obsessive about it, but he’ll make sure everything is neat and orderly. The type to have his linens pressed every day, to make sure every pen has a spot on his desk, drawers organized unlike you’ve ever seen. Being clean and orderly is part of his job, so his apartment will look better than a five-star hotel.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
He would be straight to the point about it. Discuss issues the two of you have been having, going over why. He’s not going to give you nonsense to worry about and have an emotional turmoil over it. If it’s time for a break up, he’ll be the one to give out the news with a quick fashion.
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
Tseng is committed in the job, not relationships. There’s a hard chance he’s going to propose, even slimmer? A big marriage. If you happen to capture his heart, he’ll probably request the wedding to be small, perhaps elope just to keep it out of the public’s eye. He’s personal and private, and making huge deals out of something he doesn’t fully understand is a no-go.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
He’s a gentle guy when he wants to be. Emotionally more so. He’ll try to understand your side of things, getting a full picture on all your problems and concerns and even opinions on his own matters. It’s not a normal occurrence when he opens up about anything, so when he does, enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t happen for a while.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
Hugs? He won’t do it. But if you happen to grab him long enough to get a hug, he won’t push you off necessarily, but he’ll be awkward when you part. Maybe a light red would dust his cheeks, but he’ll try to regain his composure as he’s walking away.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
Tseng probably could go his whole life without saying the word “love”. He’s the type of person to say it either too late, or not at all.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
Tseng rarely gets jealous, if at all. He’s understanding in that sense, and won’t allow himself to let his emotions hinder him in any way negative if he can help it.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
His kisses are usually soft, and careful. He lacks experience in that department, so he relied heavily on you to lead the way. But his favorite? He won’t admit it, with his persona and all, but he tends to love when you give him a simple peck on the cheek. Sometimes in public, his ears will warm up to a crimson, and he’ll straighten out his tie as if the peck wasn’t worth anything, but later on, he’ll place his fingers where your lips met, and the sweetest memory will cause his lips to curve just a little.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
Tseng is pretty straight-forward when it comes to the smaller humans, he tries not to be awkward, but he tends to not understand children as well as he should. He treats them much like adults, which sometimes works in his favor as the children will come and have their questions answered without fluff and lies embedded in them.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
Tseng is up bright an early, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves, inspecting his appearance, making sure it’s overall well done and tidy. Followed by a quick breakfast and finally one last check with his suit before he leaves. It’s usually fast paced, and it follows a very strict routine (one he’s had since he started working), so have fun waking up by his alarm every morning at five am.
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
Nights are much different. Usually it’s time to wind down and relax from the stress of Shinra when he returns. He still maintains his usual stoic and professional manner, cleaning, setting out his suits to be taken to the cleaners, prepare for the next morning to repeat the process all over again. But when it’s all said and done, he’ll sit on his love seat to relish in the day, and you’re free to sit next to him. Fitting yourself right in the crook of his neck as you take a moment to rest. (Again, cue awkward cuddling questions)
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
Tseng will be the type to reveal things through actions slowly. The little things like how he organizes his desk, how he writes in silence when you pop into his office for a quick surprise, the barely noticeable smile when you make him dinner or give him a snack he hadn’t ask for. He’s not an open person, so to understand how he works requires the utmost dedication on noticing small details.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
Anger is sparse. Cool, calm and collected is his mode of operation.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
Tseng has the sharpest memory in the Turks. He’ll remember every important detail about you whether you tell him or not. Reading people is his forte, so he’ll notice the tiniest things before you even do. Like how you take your tea/coffee, what your favorite pajamas are to wear to bed, the particular brush you use for your hair. He’s just as interested in you as you are him.
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
His favorite memories of you would have to be the most simplistic ones. The times where it’s peaceful like having a dinner with just the two of you, or taking a nap together on the couch/bed. It’s some of the most mundane moments, but some of his favorite to remember through the turmoil he experiences every day.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
Tseng doesn’t believe in being protected. He’s the shield if it ever comes down to it. Have you seen how protective he is with Rufus Shinra? Same things apply to you. He wouldn’t dare let a fly hurt you, and if someone happens to come after you, Tseng would be a formidable opponent indeed.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
Everyday tasks are done in order under a schedule. It’s hard to be pulled out of routine when he’s done it so long, so he most likely won’t stop unless he has to. Other things such as anniversaries, gifts, important dates? He’ll remember them, written neatly in his calendar, but he won’t make the biggest of deals about them.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
Previously, I mentioned his mind is on par with remembering everything, but only if he puts it on his calendar. If he doesn’t write it down somewhere, this poor boy will literally forget the next day.
When you’re trying to sleep, he has to check his alarm has been set, two, three, five times. The glare of his cellphone as he makes sure the alarm has been set.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
Tseng prefers things polished and pressed. From his suit, tie, hair, skin, everything is cleaned and prepped prior to leaving for work. It’s not that he wants to be conveniently attractive, it’s just a part of his job.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
If you were with him for a long time, yes. If it was only for a few years, he’d be upset over it, but he wouldn’t cry nor grieve properly. It’s a part of the job, he says.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
Tseng gives off health-nut vibes somewhat. He’s not incredibly obsessed, but he tends to choose things that are healthy and keeps his body well.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
In general, messes. If there’s a way to get him irritated and unnerved, messy areas will do the trick. ESPECIALLY in his home.
In partners? He’s not a fan of those who are overly confident, especially if they don’t have the means to prove it.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)
Unbeknownst to most, he’s restless. Moving constantly at night all hours. Having to even go as far as moving to the couch or bench to try and sleep there. A few hours later he’ll move back to the bed, but he despises the idea he can’t get a normal night’s rest.
TAGS:@watermeloncavill @moonlighttreetops
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The Colour of Our Voices [5]
Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6
➜ Words: 2.8k
➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Angst, Slice of Life, Broadway!AU
➜ Summary: He wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. But the instant Jimin came into your life and pulled the curtains back, you couldn't hide backstage anymore. You were no longer merely a phantom of the opera.
cr.
The day has finally arrived.
Jimin opens the door for you and follows.
“You’re going to do great,” he reassures in a soft murmur.
“We’ll do great,” you correct and he grins.
The both of you enter the room and it’s a familiar scene. There are people pacing around the room, singing while making wild gestures, trying to round out their sound and warm up their throats. These beautiful people are getting into character, aiming for the main role of Cosette or Marius. It’s obvious that they went to salons to get makeovers, nails done, face full of makeup, clothing fresh from the laundromat.
But unlike the last audition, this time you have someone with you. You’re not so scared with Jimin by your side. And he’s close enough, avoiding being hit by the people theatrically swinging their arms, that his shoulder brushes with yours.
“Are these auditions really always this...extravagant?”
“It’s all for show,” you tell him, reminded of the stranger’s words from last time. “Don’t be intimidated.”
He hums and nods while the pair of you take a seat. “Should we intimidate them then?”
You burst out laughing. “How would we do that?”
“We’ll dance.”
You giggle even louder and he gazes at you with his own smile. “I’m pretty sure security would escort me off the premise for scaring everyone.”
“You’re not that bad,” Jimin emphasizes. “But I’m kidding. All you have to do to intimidate others is start singing. You’ll blow them all out of the water so fast, they’ll leave without even trying.”
Usually, you’d get flustered from his praise. Maybe you’d even feel greasy from the way he butters you up so excessively, but at this moment when the nerves are beginning to ebb at your mind, you appreciate it.
Jimin’s your personal cheerleader.
“What do you want to do after?” he suddenly asks, pulling your thoughts away on how your palms are getting clammy and tearing your eyes away from the beautiful girl across the room who’s gracefully flipping through a script.
“What do you mean?”
“For dinner, silly.” Jimin’s eyes light up, crinkling when he smiles. “What do you want to eat?”
“I’m fine with anything.”
“Oh c’mon.” He nudges you gently. “You gotta have a better opinion than that. If we do well during the audition, then it can be a celebratory dinner. And if we do badly, then it’ll be like comfort food.”
Another laugh comes spilling out. “How about fried chicken then?”
Jimin snaps his fingers. “You read my mind. We’re always on the same wavelength, aren’t we? But whose apartment are we going to tonight?”
Neither of you want to leave a mess or the smell of greasy chicken wings to linger in your home to haunt you for breakfast. So an intense game of rock-paper-scissors begins — one where you lose and Jimin’s throwing his arms up into the air doing childish fist pumps before he throws his arms over you and gives a triumphant hug. Jimin rubs his victory in your face, making you laugh while being smothered by his affection. You don’t notice some of the stares in the room.
Jimin continues talking about nonsense that doesn’t matter, keeping you from thinking too hard and getting nervous. He’s doing it on purpose to distract you and knowing so puts you even more at ease.
But you’re on your own when he gets called in first.
“Good luck, okay?”
You clasp his hand, squeezing. He smiles softly and nods. Jimin stands, fingers still tightly on yours until he has to let go. You watch his backside and the door closes.
You hope he does well — he’s practiced and prepared lots, and even wanted you to choose his song for him. He said it would make it more meaningful, so you picked the song ‘We Kiss in the Shadow’ from The King and I, another Broadway show you once watched when you were young.
It was perfect for him, and you memorized the lyrics as well.
Trying to keep your composure, you shut your eyes, tapping your finger against your bag. You envision Jimin inside the room, in the center of the space with faceless judges, singing.
You murmur with him. “We kiss in a shadow, we hide from the moon. Our meetings are few and over too soon.” He’ll be just fine. You believe in him, his gift, his personality, his likability. “We speak in a whisper, afraid to be heard. When people are near, we speak not a word.”
You’re humming to yourself and soon enough, after ten full minutes, the door opens again.
You stand, coming to grab his hands and search his expression. “How’d you do?”
“Fine.” Jimin smiles, and suddenly your own name gets called on the list.
The timing is poor.
It’s too sudden. You haven’t even asked him on the details of his audition. You’re unprepared, disoriented. But Jimin helps you grab your belongings and he fixes the collar of your shirt, then urges you forward with a grin. “You can do it.”
You nod, taking a deep breath and following after the lady.
It’s like last time — exhausted faces lazily watching you, their pupils flickering while their bodies are slumped in their uncomfortable chair like they’ve been encased in ice. But it’s fewer people than last time. There are two producers, a music director, a casting director, and a writer.
You approach the group of them with another deep breath, handing out your application package of headshots and resumes.
“Hello, my name is Y/N L/N.” You stand on the tape that’s been put in the center of the room, and you offer your best smile.
“Hello Y/N,” the lady off the left of the table says as she lances at your application. “Today, you’re auditioning for…?”
“The role of a factory girl, so part of the female ensemble.”
“Alright then.” She jots something down. “Can you tell us anything about your experiences? It doesn’t have to be on Broadway either, any experience you have with musicals.”
You nod vigorously, clearing your throat. You’re more prepared than last time, and it helps to know that there’s someone waiting for you on the outside who is praying and hoping for your success as much as you were doing for his.
“I performed at my local theater since I was ten. I also went through a theater company school and I moved to New York shortly after on my own. Currently, I’m working as an intern for the production of Phantom of the Opera here in this studio.”
There are more hums. The man in the center looks up and puts down his pen. “Is there a reason you haven’t performed since graduating? It looks like there’s been quite a bit of a time gap since your last on-stage performance.”
“Oh, um….” You rack your brain before you scrape by with an excuse. “I had some family issues in the past several years. It prevented me from performing, but now I’m ready to again.”
There are understanding nods and you take a sigh of relief.
The woman asks, “What song will you be singing for us today?”
“When Will Someone Hear by Martin Guerre.” You head over to the pianist in the corner, handing them the sheet music before you stride back to the center of the room.
Your palms are getting clammy, the world is starting to spin. You swallow hard.
“You can start when you’re ready,” the bored producer states in a monotone.
You inhale another deep breath. You can do it — there’s only five of them watching. It’s not too bad.
You try to imagine that it’s just Jimin watching, so you give a signal to the pianist and the notes begin.
“W-When will someone hear? All I know is fear.” It’s off to a bad start, your voice cracking, going out of tune, though you quickly stead yourself.
But it’s happening again.
You put your hands behind your back, hiding the tremor. “A-And now I see the loneliness of losing all you trust. Day has turned to night. Stone has turned to dust. And now I need to find the words. When will someone hear?”
Your voice goes quieter and quieter against your will. This isn’t how you practiced. This isn’t what you prepared. This isn’t how you wanted this to go. But you feel so out of control.
Time is moving too quickly — and it’s happening in front of you. Your body won’t listen.
Your eyes divert, unable to hold consistent contact with theirs when you feel your face drained of blood. Their scrutiny is too much. Your heart is pumping so fast, you can feel it all the way up to your throat and it clogs it, keeping the proper notes from streaming out.
“Love that once was close. Faith that once was clear. Now all I've known and all I've loved is all I have to grieve.”
Your face twitches. Your mouth goes dry. You’re so dizzy, you might throw up.
The spotlight is too much to handle.
“All that I've begun. All that I believe is just another broken dream. W-When will someone hear?”
You’re choking over your own singing. The notes are smothered. And you want to cry, especially when you can see it in slow motion — the man raising his hand to silence the pianist, the instrument fading away, the opportunity slipping from your fingers.
They can’t hear you the way you want them to.
“I-I’m sorry,” you apologize immediately. “I got so nervous, I—”
“It’s alright.” The woman offers a sympathetic smile. “Thank you for coming in today. We’ll give you a call to let you know the outcome in the following week.”
You would have preferred that they laughed at you, that they told you to get out. The kindness, the pitied looks, acting like you have a real chance — it’s mocking. It hurts.
You leave the room, holding back tears. Jimin meets you half-way and reads your expression with his brows scrunched, lips lopsided. You exhale a staggering breath, shaking your head, and you tell him directly—
“I did badly.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” he murmurs but when you shake your head again, the two of you merely walk out together in tense silence. Jimin glances at you a few times. “I didn’t do too great either,” he admits with a self-deprecating smile. “When they asked for my name, I got so nervous, I accidentally said Bark Jimin.”
“What?”
You turn to him.
“Bark Jimin,” he deadpans and sighs. “Can you believe that?”
You laugh. It bubbles out without you realizing. Then you wipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling hard. Jimin puts an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his chest. It’s warm in the cold night.
“Why do I keep messing up, Jimin? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” he answers, able to see a cloud emit from his lips into the chilly air as he speaks. “There’s definitely nothing wrong with you. Some things we succeed in, some things we don’t. But it’s always a learning experience. They’ll always be a next time, right?”
You’re comforted by his presence, by his words.
The pair of you are in this together. You’re not alone in your successes or failures.
“So you up for some fried chicken?” he asks and keeps staring. “Hmm?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmmm?!” he increases his volume, decreasing the distance between you two even more until your foreheads are almost bumping against each other’s.
“Yes!” You laugh and Jimin shifts away again, satisfied since he was waiting for that smile.
The both of you go off into the night together.
//
It’s the first time that you don’t feel so bad about messing up an audition.
They’re rare and hard to come by and when you fuck it up, you often go through the stages of grief, feeling like you’ve reeled back to square one, making you question all things. But you bounce right back with Jimin right here.
He’s your partner in crime who motivates and comforts you. He walks in sync with your footsteps — never does it feel like you’re racing, that you’re trying to catch up to him.
You’re in this crazy madness together.
You tie your garbage bags, hauling them out of your apartment with your arms straining from the weight. The door shuts behind you as you lug it down the hallway, but then there’s a sudden shout of your name.
It comes from a smooth, very familiar timbre.
“Y/N!”
You turn around, catching the brunette walking down the wall, having turned the corner where the stairwell is. His eyes light up. They shimmer in the corridor lights and he approaches with his hands dug in the pockets of his trench coat.
It takes too long, so he runs to you, meeting you the entire way.
“Did you get a call?”
“No—”
“I got the role!” he exclaims happily, jumping up and down, cheeks nearly bursting from his enormous smile. Jimin pulls you in for a hug, giddy laughter spilling from his chest. “I got the role for Les Mis!”
You feel your heart drop to your stomach — your blood runs cold — you’re shell-shocked.
“R-Really?”
“Yes!” He pulls apart from you, but his hands are still placed securely on your shoulders. He might get a noise complaint for how loud he’s being, but he doesn’t care. “They told me I got the role of Jean Prouvaire.”
“Wow—”
“He’s part of the Les Amis de l’ABC or whatever that means, well I know what it means but it’s not important right now. Listen, Y/N, the character is a shy poet, loves flowers, and is a bad dresser. A good fit for me, right? Except for the bad dresser part — or at least hopefully they don’t think I’m a bad dresser. I only get around one line and I get shot two thirds of the way through, but this means I get to make my Broadway debut! My Broadway debut, Y/N!”
He’s rambling, so eager and excited.
You muster up a stiff smile that cracks at the corners. But he’s too caught up in his own world to notice, to read your expression, see the way it turns sour.
“T-That’s great, Jimin. Congrats…”
You can’t mean it sincerely. You can’t find it in you to be truly happy for him.
He lied to you — he didn’t do poorly in the audition. Not if he got a role.
“I’m so excited, Y/N! I couldn’t have done it without you. They said my singing really sold them.”
Your jealousy and envy make you feel ugly. Jimin makes you feel ugly.
“—wanting this so badly—”
It’s not that you blame him for failing the audition — that was your fault and yours only. But suddenly, you can’t fathom why you were hoping and praying so desperately for him to succeed when he obviously didn’t need it. You should’ve prayed for yourself.
Why did you think his accomplishments would be your own — you’re both different people. Why you were wasting your time — you should’ve spent it on yourself.
Why do you put your heart on your sleeve?
You’ve made a mistake. A horrible mistake.
“—guess I won’t have to work as an intern anymore!”
You thought you were in this together. But you’re not. You can’t believe you could’ve been so stupid. Jimin was never walking in sync with you. The two of you were never even on the same path, on the journey together. You’re not friends, not even colleagues, just neighbors at most.
Strangers who happen to live next to one another.
He’s gotten what he wants from you. He just wanted you to teach him how to sing, and now he’s finally better than his teacher. He’s succeeded. While you’re still stuck here. For the past year.
“They told me to come in next Monday—”
Jimin’s voice drowns in and out. You’re no longer paying any attention. You’re merely watching his delighted grin, his rosy cheeks that threaten to burst, how it almost breaks his face. You wonder when his smile became so damn irritating to look at.
“—I’m actually performing on stage on Broadway.”
You self-sabotaged yourself. All those nights spent with him, teaching him, you should’ve used to practice yourself. You should’ve worked harder instead of being so concerned about him. You were so wrapped up in Jimin that you neglected your own career.
And now he gets to pour salt all over your wounds. He gets to rub it in your face.
“My parents are gonna be so stoked to hear. They can finally be proud of me—”
You failed to realize...
“I can’t believe I’m actually performing on stage on Broadway, Y/N. I came here just two months ago and I already have myself a role.”
Jimin was your rival this entire time.
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Hand Touches
Squeee hand touches and Adrienette!!! Cutest thinggg everrrrr!!! And I loveeee the fluff lolololol. Anyways, I hope you guys like this chapter <3. Lemme know what you think :)?
AO3
For once Marinette was early to her class, sitting in her seat and doodling a new sketch for her latest dress idea. Alya had yet to arrive so she was currently at their desk alone, occasionally peeking up at the door to see if her best friend had arrived yet. Sketching and then resketching the sleeves of the design, she barely registered the sound of someone sitting next to her. Not looking up from her notebook, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration, she gave a hello to Alya, “Hey, Als!”
“I’m not Alya, actually,” the voice chuckled next to her, causing her to squeak and jump up from her seat. Marinette blinked wildly into the glimmering, emerald eyes of Adrien Agreste. His hand came up to rub at his neck and he looked at her from underneath his lashes sheepishly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“N-no! Startle me?! You?! Pfft, never,” she waved him off with an awkward laugh, glancing off to the side nervously, “I was just expecting you to be Alya.”
Her gaze was drawn over to the reporter who was standing by Nino at the front of the class. Their eyes met and Alya gave her a wide smile and a thumbs-up before turning back to her boyfriend.
“Yeah, she actually asked me if we could switch for the day. She mentioned something about it being her and Nino’s anniversary. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, no! Of course I don’t!” Marinette rushed to reassure him. She watched with relief as Adrien smiled gratefully at her before turning back to his notebook. Wrenching her gaze away from his face, she looked back at her own journal. Her fists tightened as she glared at Alya who was currently sitting in the row in front of her. She was going to kill that girl. She knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t even close to their anniversary.
Mlle. Bustier walked in and Marinette breathed out a sigh of relief when she began speaking. Maybe now she could focus on the class in front of her and not the boy next to her. Their teacher’s hands clapped together as she drew the attention of her students, “Alright, class! Today you’ll be working on a worksheet regarding the latest chapters of our book with your seatmates. I hope you all have done the reading!”
Or maybe not... Marinette sighed mentally.
She was startled from her haze by an elbow nudging gently against hers. Adrien was staring at her with a wide grin and she felt her face flame up before he even spoke, “I’m glad we switched today then! I get to work with the smartest girl in class!”
If her face was crimson before it was now the shade of a tomato as her heart flipped wildly in her chest. It took all her effort not to crash out of her seat onto the floor and just squeal. Instead, she merely squeaked out a tiny laugh, “T-thanks.”
“You’re welcome!” Adrien’s grin seemed to grow brighter.
As Mlle. Bustier began to pass out their worksheets, Marinette sucked in a deep breath, summoning up all her courage before speaking, “I’m glad I’m working with you too! You’re the smartest guy I know,” she giggled, hesitating before quickly nudging his own arm with her own. Her face morphed into a wide, awkward smile that she hoped seemed natural.
He merely chuckled, scooting closer to her as she squeaked quietly. He leaned down to look at the worksheet on their desk, the scent of his peppermint shampoo brushing against her nose as he did so. Marinette was lost to the world for a few minutes, her only thoughts based around a world filled with peppermint and an Adrien that she could cuddle with.
“What do you think the answer to number 1 is?”
His voice startled her from her daydream and she blinked at him in confusion, “Um, A?”
Adrien’s head threw back as he laughed, “Marinette, there aren’t any multiple-choice questions on this worksheet. Do you want to actually look at the question this time?”
The smirk that was aimed at her seemed so reminiscent of someone she knew, that she had to physically shake off the sense of familiarity and lean down to actually look at the worksheet. Though her cheeks flamed with embarrassment she read the question over. The answer was pretty obvious, and it seemed like the rest of their responses would be just as easy to write. Mlle. Bustier was just doing a simple reading check.
Her pencil hovered over the page as she spoke, “I think it’s asking about what we just read for chapter 14, remember when th-,” Marinette looked over to Adrien which was a mistake. He was a lot closer than she had expected. Their noses almost brushing together when she turned to face him. She choked on the rest of her words, smothering a loud gasp when he reached over and plucked the pencil out of her hand, their hands briefly touching before he was writing.
“That look good?” he slid the paper over to her after he was finished.
“Yeah, that’s perfect,” Marinette’s brow creased before she turned to look at him, “How did you know what I was talking about though? I didn’t finish my sentence.”
“I did the reading too, you know,” Adrien laughed with a wide grin, “Besides I figured out what you were talking about when you said chapter 14.”
Her cheeks lit up with embarrassment, “Oh,” but then she looked at him with confusion, “But why did you take my pen? You have your own, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but yours was closer. Sorry,” he smiled sheepishly before bringing it up to his eyes, “And it’s also much cuter. What are these, little strawberries?”
“Yes,” she sighed, “Now can I have my pen back, please? I don’t know if I have another one.”
Adrien gasped in mock-offense, “You mean you don’t have an extra?! Marinette what would happen if it broke?”
Regardless of his teasing, he gave her the pen back, their hands brushing against each other again, and he was totally going to kill her if he did that again. She watched with disappointment, however, as he slid away from her to reach back for his own pen.
Great, you just had to mention how you needed your pen, Marinette scowled to herself, already missing Adrien’s presence. Letting out an audible, quiet sigh, she leaned over the worksheet, writing down her answer for the second question. At least now she didn’t feel completely useless.
As she read the next problem, Adrien eased back next to her. He seemed to be much closer this time, their thighs bumping together when he finally got settled, “Getting started without me?” one of his eyebrows rose as she looked up at him.
“N-no! Y-you just did the first question so I thought I would work on the next one!” she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, feeling almost faint. Did he have any idea of what he did to her? How could one boy be this oblivious?!
Adrien grinned boyishly, leaning down to read over her response to the question, “Great answer, Marinette! That’s exactly what I would have written.”
She chuckled once nervously before helping him to work on the next problem. Soon, they had finished their worksheet and the two leaned back, watching as the rest of the class continued to work. Marinette’s gaze was drawn to the clock. 10 minutes. Just 10 more minutes with Adrien and then she’d never get to experience this again. She sighed quietly to herself. Maybe it was for the best, though. Who knows how much attention she would pay if she sat next to Adrien all the time.
“You know, it’s pretty nice back here. I can still see the board clearly and I don’t have to deal with Chloé making googly eyes at me.”
“Yeah?” she smiled shyly up at him.
“Definitely,” he tapped the back of her hand twice as he beamed at her, “Plus I get to see you without having to crane the back of my neck.”
Marinette giggled giddily, feeling almost dizzy with the rush of excitement his words brought on, “W-well thank you for being my seatmate for the day, Adrien.”
“You’re welcome, Marinette,” he grinned rather crookedly at her right before the bell rang. Watching him pack his bag up dreamily, she waved him goodbye as he slipped it over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow, Marinette.”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” she sighed happily as he left the classroom, still waving after he was long gone.
“Well?” Alya smirked, sliding into her seat with a wide smirk.
Marinette squealed, throwing her arms around her neck, “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Alya! You have no idea how amazing that was! He touched my hand like seven times!”
“Oh my god, girl! That’s awesome! You need to tell me everything that happened! I want all the deets,” Alya hugged the girl tightly to her.
“Walk me back home and I’ll tell you everything. Plus you’ll get a pastry for your troubles,” she winked at her best friend, putting on her own backpack.
“Deal!” the reporter giggled as the two gossiped their way to the bakery.
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The animal curse strikes again! Remember Riddle? This time w/ Vil as a Cat! Don’t rush yourself w/ this, take as much time as you need 😁
3,476 words later I enjoyed this way too much
Another Animal Curse - Vil Schoenheit
An early Saturday morning, and here lies Vil in front of his cauldron with another experiment. He hums as he reaches for another vile and pours a little into the pot seeing it change to a lighter blue color. He lightly nods as he turns his head towards his work.
"Now, that's something new." He picks up his pen as he scribbles what he added and the effect of his new potion. He crosses his arms as he catches another look.
"This is different than usual." He mumbles to himself.
He goes back to his book of notes and flips back a few pages scanning to see other effects with this ingredient. He shakes his head before looking up at the bookcase. A few seconds of scanning, he walks over, grabbing one of the many potion books he has.
His fingers glide through the pages. He slides his thumb through and opens the book to a random page. He brings his free hand up to his mouth as he reads the page.
"So, that color change will have." He mumbles to himself and stops while he turns the page.
He places the book on his stand, where his notebook laid and stared at the cauldron. He knew the potion needed another item. The only problem was what to finish it off. He eyes the shelves knowing what each ingredient will do. Change of color, a musty smell, a more vibrant smell, but he knew the components wouldn't fit.
He shakes his head in defeat as he goes to his other side table filled with different ingredients. He knew he was in a pickle. All these items would mess this up. He starts picking up item after item examining it before putting it back. His head shakes each time he eyes an item.
Running a hand through his hair, he lets a sigh out, wondering if this would be a dud. Vil soon recalls what Divus also told them, 'Everything you make can't be perfect, it's a lot of trial and error.'
"Well, it doesn't hurt to try." He spoke. He stared at his potion as he randomly grabs a vile. Another deep breath and he opens it as pours half of the liquid.
A small smoke pops out with an odd smell. Vil inhales the scent. A hint of sweet. He furrows his brows, trying to remember the smell. He stirs for a minute seeing the change starting to take effect, a lilac color.
He writes the color change and writes, 'an odd fruity smell.' He nods to himself and picks a ladle up, pouring a cup in a class.
"It's too early to find someone," Vil holds the glass up to the light seeing it a little hard to see through. He nods, remembering to add that to the notes. "Cheers," Vil speaks aloud and takes a gulp.
+
You lean back the chair as you stare off into space. An early morning for you on a Saturday. The recollection of Vil saying he wanted you to attend a little adventure today was exciting, but asking you to get up at 9 AM on a Saturday wasn't your thing. Especially if you didn't fall asleep until 3 AM.
A sudden smell of coffee filled your nose made you get back to yourself and look up to see Rook placing a cup in front of you. You nod smiling towards him and notices Epel walking over with a bowl. They both sat down in front of you, and everyone stayed quiet.
You furrow your brows and look around the room in confusion. Vil was not around. Nowhere to been seen. He was always first at the table, the first to greet them and the first to speak in the morning.
"Where's Vil?" You question sending a concerned look towards the two.
Rook stopped before taking a sip of his coffee, and Epel was in mid-bite. They both look around the room like you did and gaze towards each other.
"Overslept?" Epel asked.
Rook shook his head before turning towards you.
"He doesn't oversleep, he's probably in his second office, experimenting." Rook takes a drink of his coffee and places it down on the table. "He should be finishing up if he did it early in the morning." Epel nods and continues to eat in peace as you stare at them. They may find this regular, but at the same time, you had a bad feeling.
After an hour of sitting at the dining table, a few other students slowly started to join them in having their breakfasts. The three of you never said a word, only eyeing each other.
You knew they had the same thought. Where is Vil? Your hand gripped your third cup of coffee and took another sip. You were both annoyed and worried. Shaking your head, you stand up abruptly, with Epel and Rook following. You all took your plates to the kitchen before you speak when it's the three of you.
"So, are we gonna check on him?" You turn towards them, and Rook sighs.
"Maybe we should." He spoke. "He's never this late to breakfast." You nod as you take the last sip of your coffee and places it in the sink.
The three walk out and down the hall towards Vil's room first. Rook knocks first and silence. Rook shakes his head and Knocks once more, but louder. After a few seconds, Rook opens the door and walks in to see Vil wasn't around.
"He's not here," Rook spoke, turning towards the other two.
"His office, maybe," Epel spoke. He turns down the hall and continues to walk. You let a sigh out, following Epel.
You stayed quiet as you walked to the other office. Epel didn't bother to knock and opens Vil's office right away. Again, no one. The three of you let a groan out before turning to each other.
"So, his second office?" You asked.
"We passed it along the way we would have heard him." Rook folds his arms across his chest, thinking. "He wouldn't have left the dorm. He would have informed one of us."
"An emergency meeting with Crowley?" Epel shook his head.
"Again, he would have asked one of us to attend," Epel informs and looks around the room. "He hasn't been in this room either. Everything is in its place."
You run a hand through your hair, wondering where Vil could be. Even the other two were thinking. You try to remember all the places Vil could be, but he's never there at this time of day. Then the voice of another student breaks the silence.
"Um, excuse me, I was walking down the hall, and I heard a shatter in Vil's other office." Rook and Epel look up towards you, confused.
"There," You didn't bother to finish as Rook take off out of the room and towards the other office. You and Epel rush after him and stops in front of the door.
Staying quiet, you all listen quietly. There was no sound. You all knew Vil had this room off-limits to everyone unless invited in. You were about to say something before a thud happens, and Rook took the initiative to swing the door wide open.
Staring inside the room, no one was there. A wave of concern fell. The room was a mess. Vile's on the ground and his stand on the floor with the book on the ground.
The three of you walk in one by one, examining the room. Epel picked the book up, brushing any dirt off, and Rook lifted the stand back up. You sigh and squat down and start to pick up the vile's that were still in tack. You were about to reach for the farthest one before a sudden shadow reaches for it moving it away from you and making you freak out.
You pull your hand away, squealing. You fall back, dropping a vile or two before the others look at you.
"What is it?" Epel asks.
"Something is in here." You spoke. You shake your head, getting your composure. "Something grabbed a vile that I was picking up."
"You probably imagine it," Rook spoke, walking around the cauldron. He bends overreaching for a few others.
You shake your head and start to place the vile's in their correct locations until hearing Rook scream. Both you and Epel turn over towards Rook, who now laid on the floor.
"What's wrong?" Epel asks, raising his eyebrow.
"I hate them, get that thing out of here!" Rook says, shaking his head.
"Huh?" You tilt your head and look toward Epel, who shrugs.
All you heard was a sudden hiss and something running across the floor and behind a desk. "The hell was that thing?" You asked.
"You're scared of a little thing?" Epel asks. Epel didn't bother to answer your question and walk over towards the desk.
"Watch out it'll attack you." Rook pushes himself up, watching him.
"I'm still confused." You said.
"It won't bite if you handle them with care," Epel spoke.
Epel kneels behind the desk and another hiss. Epel stands up, holding a lilac kitten by the neck. "It's only a kitten."
"Cute," You smile and look around the room. "But, how did a cat get in here?"
Epel looks at the kitten for a second and proceeds to touch his head. The kitten goes to push the hand away, but Epel pulls them closer and scratches their neck. The cat calms down and starts to purr.
"Now that we found out what happened, we should maybe clean this up before Vil comes back," Epel spoke.
"It's probably a student." Rook sighs, shaking his head.
As the two talked, you look around the floor. It was until you spot a book with claw marks. You pick it up, looking at it to see multiple pages were scratched out. You flipped open to a perfectly good page to see Vil's handwriting about past experiments. You furrow your eyebrows and carefully move past the pages to see the most recent potion.
"The cat almost messed Vil's notebook up." You spoke, walking over. You read what he wrote the ingredients and the side notes.
'Blue changed to light blue changed to lilac.
An odd fruity smell.
A thic-'
The notes stopped there. The marking of the pen scribbled down the page, and that was it. You stare at the page before looking at the cat. You look back down at the notebook, and it finally hit you.
"Oh, no." You spoke aloud.
"What?" Rook asks.
The cat's ears twitched. The second it spotted you with the notebook, the kitten mewed and jumped away from Epel and over towards you. Another mew from the kitten and places their paws on your pants leg. You all watched as the kitten pulled away, staring at you.
"That meow is adorable." Epel chuckles, smiling. Another mew and the cat jumps, clawing into your clothing and climbs up your shoulder and mews again.
You look down at the book and back at the kitten on your shoulder. "This?" You motion to the book and a mew. You stared at the kitten for a long while and got pawed you turn your head towards the cauldron. "I thought so." You mumbled.
"Do you speak cat?" Rook asks, raising his eyebrow.
"How are we gonna fix this?" You ask, not listening to Rook. A mew comes from the kitten and the paws on your chest.
"That's Vil, isn't it?" Epel asks, seeing the scene unfold.
"God. He turned himself into a cat?" Rook runs a hand through his hair. "Divus isn't here to fix this mess."
"That means we're on our own," Epel informs them and walks over towards the cauldron and looks inside. "So, this is the potion that changed him into a cat."
"Yup." You spoke. "Luckily, Vil has everything he did here." You motion to the book.
Rook looks over the other shoulder reading the items. "This helps us in attempting an antidote."
While you and Rook talk about what to use, Epel walks over to a cabinet, grabbing a large vile. He stores a little of the potion before labeling it. "Alright, let's dispose of this potion and start. Vil has things to do."
"Right." Rook helps Epel, and you walk over all the ingredients and start pulling out the ones that would help.
Another mew comes from Vil, and you turn your head towards him. "What?" He mews and reaches his paw towards one side on the table.
You place the item you had in your hand down and start to reach for one of the containers. Vil hisses while you hover your hand across the table. You take a deep breath and randomly pick up something.
"Which one do you want this one?" You show him the container before hearing a meow. "This is going to be a long morning." You mumble under your breath as you shake your head.
Vil paws your face before butting his head against your face. You look his way as he mews quietly towards you. You didn't know why, but a sudden blush comes across your face. You laugh lightly and shake your head.
"You're so adorable as a kitten." Vil mews and you hear him growl lightly. "Right, we need to fix your mess."
+
Two hours, it's been two hours, and the three of you haven't gotten the right potion to turn Vil back. Epel grabs another book from the case and flips through the pages trying to find anything that can help. Even if it's to speak to animals that would help.
The whole time you three went to make a potion, Vil would meow and hiss. Vil wouldn't even try any of the finished products. Rook puts the ingredients back where they were while you stare at the Vil, who was curled up on his table, sleeping.
You all took a break from this mess. You stare at the notebook in your lap. You've stared at the notebook s you wonder why the potions won't work. You reread the page once again, even though you knew this by heart.
"We're running low on ingredients, if we don't fix this soon, he'll be stuck like this until Monday," Rook spoke.
"I found nothing." Epel sigh shaking his head. "Crowley may be the best choice to help us."
"Vil kept saying no." You run your hands through your hair, letting a groan out.
"We tried everything. We can't do it." Rook sighs.
You look back down at the notebook and start reading the ingredients out to them. The two stay quiet as you finished.
"Maybe," you lightly shake your head, trying to think of anything. "We follow what he did."
"Make a small batch? That can work." Rook looks towards Epel, who closes the book in his hands.
"It's better than giving up." He nods and places the book back and walks over.
The three slowly go step by step, examining the potion as they add each item. They made sure to check the notes periodically. Now, they have a blue color in front of them. Rook adds the next ingredient, and Epel slowly stirs, seeing the color change to a lighter blue.
"What's the next ingredient?" Epel asks. You furrow your brows and look down at the notebook.
"That's it." You spoke.
"No, it's not," Rook says, examining the potion. "It's not finished." He grabs a cup next to him, taking a little liquid out. "This wouldn't do anything." He takes a slight sip and shakes his head. "It's too bitter."
"We're missing something," Epel says, looking at the color. "His notes state it changed to a lilac color."
"It doesn't state any other item." You spoke.
"No wonder why Vil declined our potions." Rook sighs.
"We don't have enough to try every item here," Epel spoke.
"I know." You sighed reads the previous pages that were scratched up.
"I think we have extra in the storage," Rook says. "We just have to use them wisely."
"Right, we'll get them. Y/N stay and watch Vil." Epel says.
"Will do." You nod and lean back into the table.
The became quiet once the left. You let another yawn out, and you shake your head. The coffee was finally leaving your system. Right now, all you wanted was a nap.
You glance over towards Vil, who was still asleep, and you shake your head. "I love you Vil but damn you got yourself fucked" You spoke.
You push yourself away from the table and turns your body to the pot. You kept your eyes focused on the color of the potion. What would change this color to lilac? You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.
The sound of Vil meow makes you glance over towards him. You didn't realize he woke up. He stared at you with his head tilted slightly. You shrug towards him and looks back at the cauldron.
'If I was Vil, and I was here, how would I choose the next item?' You think this through. For all you know, Vil didn't see what he grabbed.
You look at his stand where the book laid, and you hum softly to yourself. "If this was where Vil was standing." You mumble softly to yourself.
You stand up and takes a deep breath. You stick your hand out and stop. Being shorter than Vil, you look up to see he would have grabbed something from the top. A mew comes from Vil, and you look at him. Nodding, you eye each vile and each container.
It's a good thing that Vil asked to help stock his potions here. You eye the amount of each vile until seeing three that were used. You got to grab one, but you stop yourself. You turn to look at Vil, who was staring at you.
You nod towards him and pick the first vile that you grab. "So, you grabbed one without looking." You spoke to him. You run your finger across the glass and shows it to Vil.
Vil reaches and places a paw on your hand. You let his paw guide your hand to the table, and you put the vile down, letting him take a look. A few seconds later, Vil meows towards you.
You brace yourself as you pick it up. Slowly, you open it and hold it over the potion. A half liquid vile stood in front of you. You take a deep breath and slowly pours the rest of it in.
A small smoke pops out with an odd smell. You scrunch up your nose. You glace towards Vil who was sniffing the hair. "Pineapple and," You breath in the scent once more. "Cherry, no banana, that's a weird smell."
You shake your head and slowly stir to see the color finally change. Lilac. You sigh in relief and nods. "Thank god. Now, let's fix you."
You walk over to the side and grab a large container and look at Vil. You see that he was already nudging over a few ingredients to you. You didn't bother to question as you start adding little of each item he gave you.
Vil sits close, watching you mix the items. You bite your life hoping this would work. You shake your head. Vil was showing you. He's always right about this. Taking a deep breath, you look back over towards Vil.
You turn around, grabbing a glass and pours a little into a cup before turning back around towards the table. You grab the said antidote and slowly drops a little liquid into the potion. The color suddenly changes to clear. You grin, knowing it worked.
Vil mewed, and you look at him. "You're right, we did it." You smile. "Now, we can change you back."
You reach for a small lid and pour some of the liquid into it. Vil looks down at the antidote and back towards you. He was hesitating. You were confused and about to say something. Vil moves towards you and puts his paws on your chest, looking at you. You watch him, and he lightly pushes his head against your chin and mews.
"You could thank me when you come back you know." You lightly chuckle, with a blush on your cheeks.
He mews softly and goes back towards the lid. He drinks it and looks back towards you. You smile and grabs him and puts him on the floor. You watch him walk a little further away, and in seconds, Vil was back the way he was. You sigh in relief. You give him a warm smile only knowing later that you would give him a piece of your mind of experimenting on his own.
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Observers - 44
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
Warnings:None
With your voice what it was, you took a few days to recover and you spent that time avoiding Sherlock to appease John as you coped with all the emotions that had come up. It wasn’t hard, Sherlock was focused on the case and both he and John speculated about the involvement of whoever this Moriarty person was in hushed whispers when you were out of earshot. At this point, you didn’t have the energy to be curious and instead let them be, opting to spend the time drawing by the window or down in your flat. Days seemed to meld into each other and before you knew it, John was tentatively approving you to go back to a somewhat normal schedule.
At the end of the week, you went back to work intending to make up for the missed time to Annie by working the entire day without pay and found that, as usual, Mycroft came in and sat in your section. You could feel him looking you over as you moved to finish serving a couple of other patrons before coming over to greet him, “Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes. How may I help you today?”
He gave you a soft smile, “Just tea for me today, (F/n)… You know you can drop the formalities. It is good to see you back. Your injuries are healing well I take it?”
You gave him a wide grin, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Yes, quite well and I know, Mycroft. I just enjoy greeting you that way so very much. I’ll be right back.”
He chuckled softly, watching you skip away to get what he’d requested of you. You got someone to cover the rest of your section before returning to sit down across from him as he noted, “You look nice today. I see you’ve been shopping.”
You blushed lightly with a nod, “John insisted I get a work outfit that fit me properly.”
You felt pretty today, funny how a change of clothes could do that. You were wearing the same simple outfit as before, a white button down and black trousers, but your pants now hugged your waist nicely and the button down had a more feminine v-neck then the one you had had before. You’d also gotten a little fancy with your hair and covered the bruises on your neck expertly.
You had only been chatting with Mycroft for a few minutes, mostly about the case, when Sherlock walked through the door looking for you. You gave him a little wave, motioning that he should come over, and he did, glaring daggers at Mycroft the entire way. You greeted him warmly, “Bonjour, Sherlock, What are you doing here?”
Mycroft smirked at him, “Yes, little brother, what are you doing here?”
He narrowed his eyes at his brother suspiciously as he flatly stated, “I could ask you the same thing,” and then turned to you, his expression softening, “I need to speak to you alone for a moment.”
You tilted your head at him and then looked to Mycroft politely, “Would you mind, Mycroft? My break is nearly over as it is.”
He shook his head, “Go, my dear, he will behave like a child for the rest of the day otherwise.”
You let out a soft giggle, making Sherlock’s fists clench, “That is very true. Shall I see you tomorrow?”
He gave a small nod, “You shall. Goodbye, (F/n).”
Fed up with the situation, Sherlock pulled you away as you called, “Au revoir, Monsieur Holmes.”
You let him lead you to the other side of the café, as far away from Mycroft as possible, and slid in across from him when he picked a cozy booth, “What’s up, Sherly? I hope you aren’t going to make it a habit of showing up at my work simply because you're bored.”
“You don’t seem to mind when Mycroft does it,” he stated flatly, pursing his lips unhappily.
Your lips twitched up in a smile as you teased, “My, my, is the great Sherlock Holmes jealous?”
He didn’t respond, working his jaw slightly, and you brushed your hand across his knee, making his eyes snap to you curiously, “Sherlock, I have no interest in your brother, certainly you can see that. Not to mention the fact that he hardly has any interest in me either. If anything, we are friends and even that is a stretch. He acts the way he does when you are around because he knows it bothers you.”
He was still pouting and you sighed, getting up to sit next to him and cautiously lean your head on his shoulder, “You may come to visit me every day if you’d like. I would gladly give up my time with Mycroft for time with you… but I warn you it’s pretty boring. Now would you please tell me why you’re here before I have to get back to work?”
He seemed satisfied with this, as well as your little display of affection, and a hesitant expression crossed his face before he leaned his head lightly on yours, murmuring, “I brought you something.”
You pulled away from his shoulder to look up at him in confusion and he reached into his jacket, producing a new set of art pens and a single teal daisy before hurriedly shoving them into your hands. You let out a surprised giggle, putting the daisy behind your ear as you ran your hands over the pens, and then looked up at him with a questioning frown, “W-Why? You don’t have to buy me things just because John said to treat me right…”
He tucked the daisy more securely behind your ear, letting his fingers stroke down the curve of it as his thumb traced along your cheekbone, and softly explained, “I couldn’t help but notice your pens were running low and I knew you were planning on replacing them when you had enough money, but based on the amount you draw, the fact that the final two you have left from your old set are both running low on ink, and your average weekly wages… you were going to run out long before you could afford them. I’ve saved you from having to wait.”
Your breath caught softly as the skin under his fingers warmed, a fact that he noted as it made his heart flip. You flashed him a giddy grin before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, “Thank you, Sherlock. I really appreciate it.”
He was glad to see you genuinely happy, hoping that it could distract you from the sadness he noticed in your eyes, and let a tiny smile tug at his lips despite rolling his eyes at your little public display of affection. In truth, it had been the only way he could think of to improve your mood that didn’t involve an overt touchy-feely type moment and he could write it off in his mind as a practical gift for both him and you in that he could avoid the feelings as well as your inevitable annoyance at running out of pens. Your phone buzzed, notifying you that your break was over and you needed to get back to work, and you sighed, “I have to go… Would you like me to get you anything? Coffee? Or maybe a biscuit?”
He had watched your expression go from happy to flat and almost dejected and didn’t like it one bit, catching your wrist as you got up to straighten your apron, “Come home with me.”
You tilted your head at him as you frowned, “I can’t, Sherlock. I already skipped out on Annie last time I worked.”
“I need you for an experiment.”
You rolled your eyes, “Can you get John to do it? Just don’t tell him what you're doing. By the time he realizes-“
“It needs to be you.”
You sighed, trying to hide the excitement over what it could possibly be that was bubbling up inside you, and firmly tried again, “Sherlock, I can’t. I’d be happy to when I get home but for now, you’ll have to wait. I’ll bring you some tea and a croissant.”
He made a small face but nodded, watching you leave the table to get it for him, and then locked eyes with Mycroft across the room. His eyes narrowed when his brother gave him an amused look with a teasingly raised brow as if to say ‘I saw all that just now’ and he was about to retaliate when you returned with his tea.
“Stop allowing him to antagonize you, Sherlock,” you hummed softly, setting it in front of him, “Enjoy your tea and then go home. I’m sure there is some way you can annoy John for entertainment until I’m finished.”
“I’ll wait here.”
You blinked a few times, processing that, “Are you-”
“I am perfectly capable of waiting, (F/n). Don’t ask pointless questions.”
You rolled your eyes and went back to your work, glancing at him occasionally, and after about an hour, it because very clear that he was not, in fact, capable of waiting. He was certainly trying... but failing, rather like a cat that wanted attention. When he ‘accidentally’ spilled the small bowl of sugar cubes you’d brought for his tea across the table and the adjacent floor with a small crash, you came to clean it with a hiss, “Quit making a mess and go home.”
“Only if you come with me,” he insisted and you gave up, “Fine. I will go ask Annie if I can leave… again.”
He gave a smug smirk as you swished off to find Annie and came back with her trailing you, a look of guarded curiosity on her face. She offered him a small smile, “May I ask why exactly you need (F/n) to come home with you?”
Deducing a number of things from her in a blink, he decided to answer honestly, “I intend to conduct an experiment that will allow her to begin painting again.”
You gaped at him for a moment, “That’s what this is about? I’ve given up, Sherlock! I can’t dwell on something that’s never going to happen again.”
Both he and Annie ignored your protest and she gave him a small approving grin, “For that, Monsieur Holmes, you may have her. I wish you success.”
Tags <3:
@team-free-sherlock @multifandom-ramblings @madshelily @severusminerva @yes-but-theyre-my-dorks @smitemewiththysherlock @not-fandom-addicted @unknownwonder @deducingdevil @aviien @mrsfrankensteinsworld @lolamurphy @bakerstreethound @musical-doll-x @protectteamfreewill @delightful-pirate @lilcutekittykat @broke-and-overwhelmed @adri1ii @turtle-at-the-disco @fanfictionsilove @chasedbyhowlingwolves
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deja vu
I’m sorry for being so inactive but heres a decently long Spencer x reader because I’m obsessed with Spencer right now. Also I wrote about half of this on my phone so if there are grammatical errors I am sorry. Also I’ve never seen this gif of Spencer so that’s why I put it. It doesn’t really have anything to do with the story.
Warnings: a little angst but fluff ending
Word count: 1.8k
“I love you, Y/n,” Spencer confesses.
You smile and reply, “I love you, too.” At those words, Spencer gently connects his lips to yours. You respond with a kiss, equally soft. Almost as if you’ve been waiting for this moment for years, you deepen the kiss and card your fingers through his hair. Spencer’s experience surprises you as his mouth lowers to your neck. The soft kisses on your neck cause you to moan. Missing the sweet taste of his lips, you guide him back to your mouth and lean into him. Unbuttoning his shirt, Spencer-
Snapping out of your dream, you pant heavily as you try to get your bearings. “You did not just have a dream about Spencer,” you think with your head in your hands. Spencer Reid. Your nerdy coworker who you only see and will always see as a brother. He’s your brother, right? Then why did that dream feel so right? Even the imaginary feeling of your hands in his hair felt good. Oh and his lips. Just the thought of them made you melt. You didn’t realize you spent so long sorting out your feelings until your usual alarm goes off. You turn it off and force yourself to get out of bed. You slip out of your pajamas and hop into the shower. Stepping out of the shower, you went through the rest of your morning routine, going through the motions, still distracted by your confusing feelings. Did you like Spencer in that way?
Walking into work, the first person you saw was, of course, him. Before he could try to talk, you pulled out your phone and pretended to be deeply invested when you walked briskly past him. You could feel his confused and maybe even hurt, look on his face as it burned on your back but you urged yourself to carry on. At your desk, you searched for the drawer that held your piled-up paperwork, from all the impromptu cases. Unfortunately, Spencer sits across from you and it took all your effort to prevent yourself from gazing up at his adorably concentrated face.
When you felt your strength diminishing, you popped up from your chair and walked to the bathroom. You go to the sink and wash your hands obsessively.
“What’s wrong with you and Spencer?” a voice asks you. Startled, you jump back and turn to see JJ.
“Nothing’s wrong, J.” you reply shakily, trying to sound convincing but knowing she could read through your lie.
“Just tell me what’s wrong, Y/n” she pleads patiently.
“Nothing, everything is fine!” you snap. Slack-jawed and taken aback by your sudden rise in temper, JJ starts toward the door. You quickly apologize,“I’m sorry, JJ,” Sighing, you continue, ”I’ve just had a bad day. I didn’t mean to lash out.”
JJ softens and responds, “It’s okay. Just know that if anything’s bothering you, you can always talk to me.” She gives your arm a soft squeeze before leaving the bathroom. You sigh at the thought of dealing with your inner conflict about Spencer and walk out of the bathroom.
Strolling to your desk, you find Spencer staring at you, causing you to quickly look the other way as casually as possible. When you sit down, Spencer opens his mouth to speak when you pull out your phone and dial a number. Luckily she answers immediately and you ask, “Hi, Erica, Do you want to go to lunch?” After a couple moments, you reply, “Okay, great! I’ll see you in half an hour.” You hang up and quickly go to your paperwork. Hoping Spencer would get the message that you were busy, you continue your work.
When twenty minutes of silence pass, you set down your pen and close the case file. Before Spencer could get a word in, you pop out of your seat and grab your purse. Turning your back to him, you exit the BAU which leaves Spencer less confused and very much hurt.
You arrive at lunch early, so you get a table and wait. Only a couple minutes pass before your friend sits across from you. “Now don’t get me wrong, I am very grateful for finally getting lunch. But why, today? Whenever I try to set something up, you turn me down for Spencer.” You involuntarily cringed at his name. She picks up on it and asks, “Is there something wrong with you and Spencer?”
“No, it’s nothing.” you deny vehemently before she could dig deeper.
But it’s too late since she begs, “Please, Y/n, I’m your best friend. Tell me what’s wrong. Also, you can’t keep anything from me.”
Finally giving in, you sigh, “Fine, I had this dream that Spencer and I were together.” Erica raises her eyebrow, still not understanding the weight of the situation. “The thing is, I liked it. The entire day, I thought it was just the dream, but now I realized I do like him, but I don’t think he likes me back.”
“Why not?” she asks in a motherly tone.
“Because Spencer’s not like that. He doesn’t develop little crushes. He probably just sees me as a friend.” you convey sadly.
Erica rests her hands on yours and assures, “Y/n, you are the smartest, funniest, most beautiful girl I know. And by how much you talk about him, I know Spencer likes you.”
“You really think so?” you ask uncertainly.
“I know so. Besides, even if I’m wrong. it seems like you and Spencer have a strong enough bond that you can overcome it.” Erica affirms.
Entering the BAU, you had a new burst of energy since you knew what you had to do. You were playing through how you were going to tell Spencer when you saw him talking to a new agent. At first, you tried to brush it off as friendly conversation, but when she not-so-subtly touched his arm, you couldn’t deny it. Strolling back to your desk, you couldn’t deny the damper their conversation put on your mood. You didn’t have enough time to recover as Spencer sat down in his desk.
He started, “Hi Y/n,” But before he could finish your name, you whirled your chair around to fave your computer, which ultimately caused him to stare at your back, quieting him. A part of you felt bad and knew that you should be mature, but you couldn’t help it. Whenever you looked at him, you thought of his soft lips passionately kissing yours. And whenever you heard his voice, you couldn’t help but hear: I love you.
Being the newest agent on the team, you luckily had the least amount of paperwork to catch up on which allowed you to finish quickly. After turning in the files to Hotch, you grabbed your purse and headed out.
In all the goodbyes, there was one you heard distinctly. “Bye, Y/n.” his voice cut through the others like a blade. To prevent starting anything with him, you wordlessly wave goodbye as you open the doors. Entering the elevator, you see everyone still working, but him. Spencer’s staring at you and even from the distance, you could see the hurt in his eyes. You thought of running out of the elevator to hug him, but your feet couldn’t move and the doors closed.
Spencer’s POV
“Why was Y/n ignoring me,” Spencer inquires to himself as he stuffs his things into his bag “Did I do something wrong? I mean, she didn’t even want to eat lunch with me. Or she coincidentally wanted to go to lunch with her friend. Maybe I’m reading into this too much,” he mutters.
“What are you talking about, kid?” Morgan questions confusedly as he nears the doors out of the BAU.
“It’s just that Y/n has been ignoring me all day,” he explains. “I feel like I did something wrong, but I don’t remember what.”
“Maybe you should ask her,” Morgan suggests offhandedly as he texted Savannah on his phone.
“B-but I can’t.” Spencer stutters.
“Why not, kid?” Morgan shoves his phone into his pocket, suddenly interested in Spencer’s situation.
“No, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not that.” Morgan raises his eyebrow, prompting Spencer to elaborate, “I just, I don’t know what I’d say.”
“Just ask if she’s okay.” Morgan advises and as he starts to walk away he mutters, “I’m sure it’d land a date with her.”
Spencer snaps his head up and asks,“What’d you say?”
“Nothing, see you Monday, Spencer,” Morgan tells and walks into the elevator so Spencer couldn’t see his sly grin. Spencer looks at Morgan suspiciously as the elevator doors shut. He grabs the last of his things and leaves, knowing what he had to do.
Your POV
Hours after leaving work, you hear a knock on the door. It was too late for any delivery, so assuming it’s a neighbor, you swing open the door. Unbeknownst to you, a sad, worried Spencer stood right in front of you. “W-what are you doing here?” you stutter.
“I’m here to ask what’s wrong. You’ve been acting weird all day,” he asks with a concerned look on his face.
“I’m fine, j-just go home before it gets too late,” you try to convince him. You keep avoiding his eyes until Spencer finally had enough. As he steps into your apartment, he grabs you by the hand and makes you face him. A gasp uncontrollably escapes your mouth, causing you to look down. Spencer places his other hand under your chin and makes you look him in the eye.
“Y/n, just tell me what’s wrong.” he pleads desperately. You see the hopelessness in his eyes and you break.
“I- I’m sorry Spencer. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, b-but I had this dream about you a-and we...we were” you couldn’t let it out. You couldn’t bear to actually say the words so you release his hand and walk further into your apartment.
“What did we do?” Spencer asks patiently, closing the door as he follows you inside.
“W-we were saying we loved each other. Then we s-started kissing which turned into making out a-and I’m sorry, Spencer, I didn’t know I-I thought about you that way, but I don’t know anymore a-a-and I’m sorry because I care about you too much to ruin our friendship because of this. So let’s just forget about it.” you ramble almost incoherently.
“It’s okay, Y/n,” Spencer comforts while rubbing your shoulder soothingly.
“What?” you ask quietly, tears still glistening in your eyes.
“It’s okay because,” Spencer sighs before confessing, “I like you, too.”
“Y-you do?” you stutter, not believing what you were hearing.
“I was scared that you found out and that was why you were avoiding me,” he admits honestly.
You soften and apologize, “I’m sorry for ignoring you all day. I guess I was afraid to ruin our friendship.”
“Don’t be b-because,” Spencer stutters. “I love you,” he confesses.
You smile and reply, “I love you, too.”
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DAY6 Fic: My Heart Wanders
Pairing: Brian x OC (Fluff)
Word Count: 4,043
“I’ll be there any minute, bro” Jae said on the other line before hanging up the phone.
He let out a sigh as he put his phone down on the table and started spinning his pen, thinking how is it that they’ve got so many things to do when the new semester has just started.
He was already drowning in his thoughts when his nose caught a familiar smell. He looked at the lady who passed by him and seeing her back figure made his heart do a flip; that wavy long hair that moves smoothly as she walks, and those curves that make him want to drape his arm around them. With mouth agape, he mustered up some strength to move, or speak at least. But just when he was about to, the lady turned to greet someone from the table not so far away from him and realized she was not who he thought she was.
He let out a sharp breath and snuggled to his seat. He bit his lower lip and took a glance at her. She was smiling brightly while talking to someone, her friend maybe, across her seat. Her eyes scanned the place a bit and saw his eyes pinned on her. She unconsciously pouted and shrugged it off as he ran a hand through his hair.
He arched his forehead as he thought why of all days, it has to be today—their supposed to be 5th anniversary—that he saw a lady that reminds him so much of her. He once again took a glimpse of her, and coincidentally she saw his eyes darted on her again when she lifted up her head to talk to her friend. Her eyebrow raised in query but decided to not mind.
“Brian, I’ve been texting you. Why weren’t you texting back?” Brian composed himself as Jae took a seat across him with forehead creased. “Yeah, right. I knew it. I knew it. Cut yourself some slack, bro. C’mon let’s go. We’ll hang out with Jinyoung and the others today.”
Brian scratched the back of his head as his lips formed a thin line. Before getting up from his seat, his eyes unconsciously looked for the lady again. To his surprise she was already gazing at him, eyes full of curiosity. He took a deep breath and let it out before leaving the place.
For hours, he’s been thinking about the lady—who she is, what she’s like, what her name is, and such. He’s been thinking about her, too—how she is, if she’s happy, if she’s moved on. He’s been thinking about her and the lady that reminds him of her. Maybe it was just the hair, her perfume and her smile, nothing more and nothing less. But he’s wrong. He found this out when he saw her entering the room in one of his classes, introduced herself as a late enrollee and sat beside him.
He tried not to mind her or to even take a glimpse of her. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with her. But the odds seem to be against him when the professor announced about a 2 month-long project to be done by pair—and he was paired with her.
They were given with the question “What is the best way for people to live?” and it’s up to them on how they’re going to present it—whether do a report, a poem, a drawing or painting, a song or anyhow they want it to be done.
When the class was dismissed, he immediately stood up and grabbed his bag to get out of the room. “Hey!” a sweet voice exclaimed but he didn’t bother looking back until he felt tender fingers gripped his wrist.
“Lily…” she offered a hand to shake but he just looked at it. She narrowed her eyes on him and took his hand to shake it. “Mr. Kang, right?”
He pulled his hand back and looked at her blankly. “Brian”, he uttered before turning around to leave.
“Are you like playing hard to get or something?” With that being said, he turned to face her again, unsure of what she meant. “At a coffee shop 2 days ago, weren’t you looking at me? Not just once, not just twice, but thrice.” His eyebrows furrowed. Before he could even take a step to turn away, she spoke again “They said that when you caught someone looking at you once, it’s a coincidence. And twice might still be but thrice is intentional. Were you interested? And you’re like acting cold right now to make me feel you’re not to get my attention?”
He scoffed. “Dream on”
He became grumpy all day. Even the way she talks is like her. As much as he doesn’t want to get involve with her, she’s been persistent on talking to him. She’s her partner in a project, of course. But it might be more than that.
Eventually, Brian gave up. He couldn’t do anything about it anyway since they need to start doing the project. “So… what are we gonna do? How about like a documentary?” Lily asked and Brian just shrugged. She pouted and Brian’s gaze landed on her lips. He took a gulp and looked away while Lily sighed.
“Are you just naturally cold or you’re just putting up an act?” Brian lazily put his gaze back at her as her forehead creased “Or you became like this because something happened; something changed you” Her lips formed a thin line and her eyes narrowed before she continued “Like… a past love” His jaw clenched and she smirked “Bingo!”
It irritates him so much how many things remind him of her. He just wants to forget her but fate seems to be playing with him—making him meet someone who resembles his past love so much.
She took a glance outside the coffee shop and smirked. As if a light bulb appeared on the top of her head, she took her bag and gripped Brian’s wrist, making him stand up. Confusion was plastered on his face as she drags him out of the place.
“W-wait!” Brian took a step back, afraid to get wet from the rain but Lily was thinking otherwise. She held his wrist again and started running. Brian hurriedly pushed a button on his car key remote to open his car. She immediately put her bag inside, took Brian’s and put it in, too.
Brian arched his eyebrows when she closed the door but she just smiled widely. She took his hand and ran. His gaze shifted from her bouncing hair to her hand that is holding his. If I loosen up and let her be in my life, will I be able to forget you? He slightly shook his head and decided to let her be so he started running with will.
They started dancing in the rain, running and trying to catch each other. She finally saw him laugh and she felt her heart skipped a beat and her cheeks heated up but she brushed them all off.
As days passed, they’ve drawn closer to each other. “How about, you know, let’s just explore things, observe people and realize for ourselves what’s the best way to live, and make something out of those experiences?” Brian suggested
“Do you play instruments?”
“Yeah, I can play the guitar and piano”
Lily smiled and took Brian’s hand and led him to the music room. “Tada!” she exclaimed with a big bright smile plastered on her face while shaking her hands with her arms stretched. She once again held his hand and made him to sit in front of the piano. She tilted her head, motioning Brian to play.
His eyebrows hid beneath his hair when he raised them in hesitation. He softly let out a breath as he raised his hands and put them above the piano. When his fingers met the keys, everything became nostalgic. He closed his eyes and started playing and unconsciously he started singing while flashback of memories played on his head.
“They say a few drinks will help me to forget her but after one too many I know that I’m never.”
His chest started to ache as remnants of his past love continue to play a show in his mind. He was so indulged in singing when a soft voice joined him. He slowly opened his eyes only to see hers darted on his.
“And my mates are all there trying to calm me down ‘cause I’m shouting your name all over the town. I’m swearing if I go there now I can change your mind, turn it all around.”
When Brian stopped playing, there was a few seconds of silence. Lily shrugged her shoulders as her thumbs found their way on the back pocket of her pants. “So… what’s her name?” Brian looked up to her and saw her biting her lower lip, avoiding eye contact “You know… that past love of yours who made you cold towards people”
“Angel”
She pouted before swallowing the lump in her throat. The way he said her name was soft, and love was evident. “Wow. So was she like a literal angel? Like someone who descended from heaven and hid her wings?”
“Yeah”
She pressed her lips together as she asks herself why there is a pang on her chest. Oh, I’m not dumb. Yeah, I like him. She became interested the moment she caught him taking glances. She was just curious that she started bothering him and made him talk to her. But being with him 6 days a week, and it’s been 2 and a half weeks now, made her fondness of him grow.
Later that day, she found out from one of Brian’s friends that she resembles Angel so much. That must be the reason why he kept on glancing at me that time. Although it hurts, she thought she could make him forget her.
Few days passed and they became even closer to each other. Brian couldn’t deny that he’s also fond of her. He doesn’t know if it’s just because she reminds him of Angel or it’s because she’s the reason why he could laugh like before again.
One Friday night, they decided to meet up to see the town’s festival together. Her lips curved immediately when she spotted Brian waiting for her. He looks so manly. Lily smiled to herself as she thought he’s serving a boyfriend look. She ran to him and grabbed his hand. Brian made a lopsided smile as he shifted his gaze from her bouncing hair to their hands. Why does she love grabbing hand and wrist so much? Is she even aware? He let out a soft chortle as Lily continued to drag Brian along in the crowd.
When Lily finally decided to slow down, she realized she was holding his hand. Just when she was about to let it go, Brian intertwined their fingers. “We might lose each other if one of us let go” Brian uttered as his gaze roamed around the crowd. ‘Just this once’ Brian thought as he felt her fingers moved. She took a gulp and quickly composed herself.
They had so much fun that night. They played and laughed a lot. Brian offered a ride but Lily insisted to walk so he walked her home. They were goofing around when a speeding car passed by. Fortunately, Brian was fast and pulled Lily, her head on his chest and his arm on her waist, the other hand on her wrist. His forehead was creased as his eyes followed the speeding car. He looked down to see if Lily was okay, only to find her looking up at him. Lily noticed how his strong expression changed when his eyes found her. Their faces were just few inches apart from each other’s. Brian’s eyes shifted down to her lips before pulling his gaze back to her eyes. She swallowed a dry lump in her throat as her eyes fixed on his lips for a few moments, too. That’s when Brian lost it. He leaned to close the gap between them and crashed his lips softly on hers and she responded. It lasted for a good three seconds. She softly smiled and murmured her thanks for walking her home before she entered her house.
Monday came and Lily’s blood was on a rush. She didn’t know what to do or how she should act around him. Is she the only one overthinking about what happened last Friday night? Was she the only one who couldn’t sleep for three days because of that three-second kiss?
‘Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.’ She chanted repeatedly in her mind but when she bumped into someone’s chest and saw the face similar to the face she kept on thinking and seeing in her mind for the past days, she turned back to escape—escape from something she doesn’t know. Why am I walking away?
She thought her heart just stopped when an arm caught her and made her turn. “Where are you going? Class will start soon” he tilted his head to their classroom’s door. It doesn’t seem to bother him. She gulped and cleared her throat “Uhm, nothing—no—nowhere. I just thought I forgot something.” She showed a tight smile before she shuffled her feet towards the door.
Fortunately, their lesson made Lily preoccupied and she was finally able to act normal around him. But what’s ‘normal’ like for both of them? Is Brian playing with her hand while he’s lazing around in the music room included? Or him pulling Lily closer to encircle his arm around her waist? She knows they’re not but she didn’t protest.
As days passed, things that weren’t normal became normal: back hugs, casual intertwining of fingers and even pecks at random times. They haven’t really talked about it. They don’t know what they are, what they have, they just go with the flow—with their feelings; with the moment; with the mood.
“What was she like?” Lily asked Brian’s friend who just came back from Thailand one day. Apparently, he’s Angel’s best friend.
Bambam’s eyebrows raised in confusion as he processed Lily’s question “Ah! You mean, Angel?” Lily, with lips pressed together, nodded. “A literal angel, man. She has a sweet and nice voice. She’s super kind yet really fun to be with. She eats a lot, like really. Her curves are deceitful because she eats more than I do and Brian really loved seeing her enjoy eating. She was the one who encouraged Brian about music. She was the one who made Brian dance in the rain. She was—“
“What are you guys talking about?” Brian who just walked out from the kitchen butted in as he put down a bowl of chips on the coffee table. He sat beside Lily and planted a soft kiss on her shoulder.
Bambam, with mouth agape, just stared in confusion because Lily said she’s not ‘Brian’s girl’ but the latter is acting all lovey-dovey with her. That’s when it hit him that the two have something but aren’t really a ‘thing’.
She swallowed a bitter lump when she realized that the memories they’ve made were memories of Brian and Angel. “Nothing in particular” she slightly beamed at him.
She tried to not mind. She convinced herself that maybe if she’d try, she’d be able to replace Angel in his heart until she overhead Bambam and Brian’s conversation few days after.
“You’re fully aware that she can never be Angel, right?” Lily clenched her fist as she put it down just when she was about to knock on Brian’s door. “Jae and Wonpil told me what you’ve been doing and both of them aren’t blind to not see that you’re seeing Angel in Lily.”
“It’s not like that, Bro”
“What? You mean when I saw you tie Lily’s hair in a bun? And not just like any other bun but Angel’s favorite kind of bun? Or when you tried to play with it, trying to braid it? When I heard you telling her to eat more and suggested Angel’s favorite food? They’re all not what we’re thinking? You’re not just seeing Angel in her but you’re turning her into Angel”
Lily’s shoulders were moving up and down fast as she tried to calm her breathing. She tried to gulp but her throat was so dry.
“Tell me, when you hug her, is it because you just want to hug her or you hug her because you miss Angel? When you snuggle yourself on her shoulder, isn’t it because she smells like her?” Bambam continued and Lily couldn’t take it any longer when she heard Brian replied “I don’t know”
“Is Brian with you?” Jae asked on the other line of the phone hours after. She took a glance on her wristwatch and saw it’s past 11 on the evening already. She heard faint voices of Brian’s friends on the background, Wonpil’s, Sungjin’s, Dowoon’s and even Bambam’s. There was a bitter taste on her tongue, or must be her imagination. She cleared her throat before answering ‘no’ to Jae.
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. No. Nothing. But just in case you get a hold of him, could you please contact me?” She heard Sungjin and Bambam’s voices talking. She heard Bambam explaining what happened; that Brian wanted to be alone after their talk about Angel.
“Okay” she said almost whisper before hanging up the phone.
She massaged her temple as she tried to take the heaviness on her chest away. She wanted to be alone, too but she couldn’t deny that she’s worried about him. It’s almost midnight.
She walked around the town for almost half an hour until she found him sitting under a street light post, near an alley. She stopped for a moment as she admired how the rays of light shone upon him like he’s some angel. Angel. She bit her lip before she decided to take a step.
“Bri…” she called softly as she kneeled down in front of him, patting his face “Bri? Bri?”
Brian’s forehead furrowed as he felt a pang on his chest. Bri Bri. An image of Angel flashed in his mind calling him ‘Bri Bri’ playfully. He hastily grabbed Lily’s wrist and pulled her for a kiss. “Angel…” he whispered, more like a plea.
Lily didn’t know what tasted bitter, is it the alcohol from Brian’s mouth or her tears running down her face? She softly pushed Brian’s chest and stood up, fished her phone out of her pocket and texted Jae.
Brian woke up the next morning with a headache. He rummaged for his phone and checked his inbox.
Record what you’ve composed and send it to me. I’ll practice the song on my own. See you next week.
Brian dialed Lily’s number as he struggled getting up but he couldn’t get hold of her. He tried texting her but she didn’t respond. He still doesn’t know what the lyrics for their project will be. Every time they go to the music room, Lily would just hum along to Brian playing the piano while writing on her notebook. Brian didn’t even question her and just trusted her. But he’s so confused right now as to why she suddenly texted him that. It was a cold demand. And aren’t they going to practice together at least once? He’s going to play the piano in class and not just a recorded one. Will they be able to pull it through?
When he went out of his bed room, his friends welcomed him with shooting daggers in the living room. Sungjin was kind enough to explain everything and he couldn’t help but murmur curses.
He tried to contact Lily, find her and talk to her but there’s no dice. She wasn’t even at their class. He tried to roam around their school, asked every single person they know but he’s still clueless.
The day of the deadline for their project came but Lily is still nowhere to be found. Their classmates were already presenting and Brian couldn’t focus on whatever’s happening in the room.
“Mr. Kang? Mr. Kang?” their professor called out but he didn’t hear a thing. Someone tapped his shoulder and motioned him to look in front. “It’s your turn.”
He looked around before standing up. He didn’t even wonder why their professor didn’t ask anything about his partner. What is he going to do now?
He sat in front of the piano and took a breath as their classroom’s door opened. Lily stepped in and their professor just nodded and motioned her to stand in front. She didn’t even bother to land a gaze at Brian.
“Mr. Kang? Please start”
Brian’s gaze lingered at Lily for a few more moments before he finally touched the keys and played. He didn’t know what will happen. All he knows is just to play what he has composed. He was a bit startled when he finally heard Lily’s angelic voice. Everyone was listening intently and others were nodding as they agree to the lines of the song.
The song talked about living a life without regret; doing things that you want, expressing yourself as much as you want to; taking risks even if it’s scary; treasuring memories, making the painful ones into lessons and stepping stones to be stronger as you enter life’s harder levels; not blaming anyone to what you’ve become; not hating even if you’re hurting nor hold someone responsible of what you’re feeling; giving love even if you’re breaking; forgiving so you could live life free from burden; even if it’s hard, you gotta see the light in every dark night; let go if you got to even if it would hurt you; accept things that you can’t change; be grateful in every little thing and say sorry if you’ve caused someone in pain.
The room was occupied with loud applause from everyone. Lily just beamed faintly as she walked out of the room. The professor didn’t seem to mind but Brian did. He didn’t even bother to make an excuse as he dashed out of their room and called Lily. He was expecting for her to run or walk fast but she looked back and waited for him.
“Uhm…” He bit his lower lip and licked it as he was trying to find words to say
Lily smiled to him “It’s okay. Just don’t let your heart wander to somewhere it doesn’t belong.” She caressed his cheek and studied his face “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just don’t say sorry and say that you regret everything. Because I treasured every moment with you even if those memories were just a remake of memories of Angel and you.” Her voice cracked and a tear escaped.
Brian held her hand on his cheek “But sorry I hurt you”
She nodded with a smile and painful laugh afterwards before pulling her hand away and tiptoed for a kiss “Farewell” she beamed before turning her back as Brian just stood still as he watched her walk away.
Brian couldn’t deny that he’s hurt, too. It was so foolish of him to let his emotion drive him. He didn’t just lose Angel but also Lily. He should’ve made sure of what he’s feeling first. He wanted to keep one but he lost two. He didn’t want to be a jerk. His selfishness ate him and he just didn’t know what he could do.
He’ll just try to live like Lily’s farewell message to him; take Lily’s advice through that song that talks about the best way to live. Everyone has their own views and opinion but he wants to take a shot on this one.
Next time, I’ll be careful not to make my heart wander to where it doesn’t belong. I’ll make sure to love someone for who she is not because I see someone in her for who she’s not. I’ll make sure to pour my emotions and affection to her because that’s what I feel for her and not just because I miss someone who she resembles.
“Farewell…. Is it?”
[A/N]: Please read. Huhu
I didn’t mean to make Brian a jerk in this story. It’s just that, this story is inspired from the song Missing You by Teen Top
Lily is the one who suggested that song and is also the reason for the Better Together story (Brian x Reader) ; I don’t take requests but she’s an exception and those mutuals on twitter who helped me with the scenes with my previous works
I actually wrote a song! But I formatted my phone last month and lost it. And my mind is really dry and couldn’t make another one. So I just described it.
Sorry, I made this kinda rush bc this is kinda long overdue. I really want to publish this before Lily’s vacation ends (and that’s two days from now). So from the festival scene till the end, I didn’t really put much thought on them anymore and Im sorry. I wanted to put more feelings into them tho but if I don’t do it today, I don’t know when I’d be able to bc I’d be busy with thesis; that’s why there are also a lot of plot holes.
We have different views in life. And as much as I want to justify, explain and elaborate every point I made there (the description of the song), I need to do something. If you have a different view, I accept and respect it.
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