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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 3 years

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why does jean warn up to mc so quickly? ikevamp makes it clear that jean is a pretty reserved person and doesn't open up or let people in easily but he seems to let mc in quite quickly and it confuses me quite a bit.

Oh boy, where to begin with this one.

Well, I have a lot of Feelings^TM about this, but I'll try to be concise. Essentially, I think Jeanne doesn't recover in the other routes--or the general storyline--largely because he's just a lot to unpack narratively speaking. And without some pretty direct intervention, he has a hard time healing. MC’s direct intervention was meaningful because it was focused, consistent, and adapted to Jeanne’s specific needs. She also doesn’t make light of his experiences which is key; she fully understands that she can’t fathom what he’s been through. There is a very weighty respect and acknowledgement, a seriousness with which she treats his wounds that’s important.

It’s easy to make this a “why is MC nOt LiKe ThE oThEr GiRlS” but honestly that’s just not the sense I get when I look at all the information available to us.

That being said, I also just feel like every person's recovery from traumatic events doesn't really look the same? I mean Leonardo’s cptsd isn’t going to operate the same way Jeanne’s wartime/Inquisition cptsd is going to operate. Some people require very individualized healing, others will often require a large scale group effort to lift them up.

Typically people don't ever just get over what happened to them and never worry about it again, either. It's usually a process of coping; the hope is that with time you find healthy ways to deal with grief and move forward. Therapists aren't magicians, they just help people process painful experiences/thoughts. It's honestly up to individuals to find meaningful ways to implement these tactics.

Tl; dr: My contention is that Jeanne doesn’t open up or choose to stay alive because MC magically heals him, rather his recovery is a convergence of many people’s efforts and hopes that he stays alive. Gilles (he insists that Jeanne must live, asks him to promise), MC (affirms and bolsters that promise), Comte (makes a second life and recovery possible)--and in no small measure Mozart and Napoleon--all make an active effort to buoy him. As people often say, it takes a village to raise a child.

While Jeanne seems to respond most powerfully to MC’s attempts, it feels more like a product of chemistry/compatibility than it does a random cop out. There is no insinuation that only romantic love can heal; after all, MC gets close to him without any romantic intentions at first. They’re just good friends? It’s more that their feelings simply moved in a different direction after a point, which doesn’t necessarily happen all the time. Jeanne is also incredibly moved by Mozart’s love for him as a friend, Comte’s love for him as a father, and even Gilles’ love as a comrade to an extent. If anything, without their input Jeanne’s capacity for romantic love would be questionable at best.

Now, because I can never for the life of me stop analyzing, I have a more large scale outline of my thoughts below. Spoilers for Jeanne’s route:

If we look at Jeanne's life history, he has pretty specific trauma. Most of the harm he endured was a direct result of human rights violations after the war itself. He didn't enjoy fighting and killing people, but he's also very much a man that sees the reality of his position: it's either kill or be killed. His entire goal was to defeat the enemy as efficiently as possible in the hopes of ending conflict, and with his enormous resolve turns the tide. He had no innate interest in inflicting harm, or lack of control when engaging. He isn't pathological about it, and doesn’t dehumanize the other side. He was more "this was an act of necessity, but those are still human beings." So as far as I can tell he has a very strong moral compass and sense of duty, he doesn't show much delusion/confusion in that regard. (Also evident in his conversations with the young orphan boy.) Furthermore, he has been shown to have a sense of humor--cracking jokes with Gilles and boosting morale for his fellow soldiers.

His childhood abandonment is significant (he left his home because he was "not an adequate farmhand and they had no ability to feed all their children") but I don't know if I would consider it a huge trauma point for him. It seems as though he deemed it an act of necessity--not spite. It was simply the way of things, and he couldn't help his wiry constitution. You'd be surprised how common that was once upon a time, tbh... While it's certainly not right or fair, it does appear that in his perception it was the choice he made and he moved on after he became a soldier. Just focusing on what he could do, rather than everything he lacked. For people in his position, they often feel it is useless to linger on what should have been. There’s no time to linger or doubt, life hangs in the balance.

That leaves us with his time under the Inquisition, just before he was slated to be burned alive. I think this is the keystone trauma point for him, because there are a lot of moving parts to his powerlessness here. The first part is that his entire life's mission--ending the war so that people would no longer have to die and/or starve as a result of senseless violence--was just sabotaged. All those years of doing things he never wanted to do (wartime violence) and being forced to leave his family to ensure they didn't all starve, all of it treated like some kind of joke. Like he didn't sacrifice years of his life and sanity to protect a people who were happy to call him a monster and watch him burn alive. The second part is the overt gaslighting and rewriting of Jeanne's personal history (and overall French public perception) for the sake of the King's political agenda. To call him a treasonous danger to the country when he was once lauded a hero. The third portion is the actual physical helplessness of being arrested, starved, and continuously maimed for no reason beyond pure malice. While it's never right to do that to any human being, this was done to a man who prided himself on his stalwart moral code. To abuse and torture him for something egregious that he would never do (at the risk of death) is just another slap in the face to everything he is and believes in.

I just feel like the context clarifies why that period of time would be the tipping point. His entire moral code and life’s work is being called into question and swept aside, as well as his agency? He believes very powerfully in a sense of right vs wrong, what's fair and what isn't fair. Somebody else deciding that for him--and deciding in a way that is openly unfair/incorrect--further makes him lose himself and his sense of reality. A person in that situation begins to doubt if they are good or bad. His belief in god all the more pressing; if he was a good person, why would fate bring him so much suffering? Honorable soldier or not, his blade has drawn so much blood...

People often reference his stilted social skills (and I am of the belief that he is on the autistic spectrum) as a reason why he is so "people-adverse" but tbh? I don't agree. His memories before the onset of this trauma reveal that he was actually a very warm person, and that people were more than willing to fight under his banner. He had friends, and he had comrades--his country loved him. He was the picture of well-meaning civic duty. Just because he doesn’t integrate smoothly into larger social groups or adapt well to socially shifting circumstances, doesn’t mean he just hates people lmao. When people give him the space to exist within his comfort zone and don’t take advantage of him, he thrives. Compounded by that, we also have his actions in the present to further prove what is true and what isn't.

While he is stern with the orphan boy (I'm sorry I can't remember his name, damn it) there is no malice or cruelty in what he has to say. He doesn't punish the kid or do anything out of line. It may not be fair in terms of the adult level of discretion he asks of him, but the kid also didn't have a lot of options realistically speaking lmao. Same thing with MC, she and the orphan boy are nearly identical in how Jeanne treats them. He's a little rough, but the route reveals that his intentions are just a reflection of what he's been through. He truly believes that if a person isn't strong, they won't survive--because his entire life was a series of trying to be strong/reliable because nobody else would. There was nobody to protect him, and nobody to care for him went things went south. It was him and his sword against the world, and even his exceptional skill as a fighter did not protect him from the Inquisition's arbitrary torture. He has lived in a world where good acts can become absolutely meaningless, where following rules and helping people still gets you slaughtered. That's going to take a considerable toll on his mental health: where do you find the will to go on when the next second of your life could mean the devastation of everything that matters to you?

Spoilers: you don't. Or if you do, every minute of the day is a fight to stay alive. That is the point at which we meet Jeanne. Caught in the hellish whirlpool of wanting more, wanting better--but being terrified of the cost. The cost of hoping, only for his entire world to go up in flames again. It's not a small thing, in my view.

If you have any doubts as to whether or not that is the case, I direct you to literally every singular instance in which Jeanne's emotional sensibility goes visibly dark/south. When do these instances happen? When it rains, for one. And when Shakespeare deliberately starts pressing on his sensitivities: about the soldiers he was forced to kill, about the nation that spurned him, how he's truly "wicked" at heart and doesn't deserve to be happy--seconds before flames erupt for the festival. Does that really sound coincidental? I mean lmao. The rain is a painful reminder, but MC transforms that memory into something a little lighter with her bet. He has nothing to lose in her game, all she does is ask for time with him or offers him something if she loses. There's a playfulness there, a restoration of agency and ease that's invaluable to his recovery.

As for Shakespeare's deliberate retraumatization...I can't even begin to explain how damaging that event was. Shakespeare is undermining Jeanne's agency in that he--not unlike the corrupt monarch of Jeanne's era--is twisting Jeanne's beliefs to work against him. He knows full well that Jeanne doesn't feel like he deserves somebody so bright and understanding (we need to remember it's not really a luxury he's had much in life, especially after the war ended). He knows Jeanne has a tendency to impose that strict moral code on himself even more than he does on others. To reaffirm his every worst fear and lurking terror only throws Jeanne into a vicious downspiral. Jeanne doesn't reject MC out of disgust or hate. He rejects her because he literally cannot handle the concept of trying to be happy again, or of burdening her with his constant struggle to move on while he’s in the middle of a bad episode. He knows he won’t be able to stop reliving the past, that every second of his life and breath will be colored by his gruesome memories. He's trying as hard as he can to keep the intrusive thoughts quiet, to move on. But I'm not going to lie to any of you, that is incredibly difficult to do alone.

The next obvious question is, well why can't the other men help him? This isn't to say that they can't--we see how much solace Jeanne finds in Napoleon and Mozart. Even Isaac is gentle with the veteran. But there are limits to how much they can do. Napoleon is struggling with his own wartime trauma, and it's not identical to Jeanne's. Plus there’s a distinct difference in their sensibilities? Napoleon is the type to habitually seek comfort in helping others when he can't help himself, he's not as in tune with answering his own personal feelings and regulating them. (I mean just look at his new ES: he knows what he wants, but it takes a nudge from Isaac for him to go through with it.) He’s very communally reliant in ways Jeanne isn’t; Jeanne is a very private person, and typically prefers one on one from what I can tell.

Mozart is the definition of repression, and if you look at their interactions it's usually Jeanne that's smoothing over Mozart's rough edges. Mozart says as much himself: that he feels like a rotten friend because he knew Jeanne was struggling with a lot of intense trauma, but he didn't know how to unravel it without hurting him in the process. Mozart calls it personal cowardice, but honestly I just feel like they both had too much going on to be able to help each other effectively. (And Jeanne expresses this sentiment too? This idea that he's not angry with Mozart? He knows they're both carrying a lot, he's just touched Mozart cares about him in return.)

Okay, briefly unrelated, but like. Am I the only one that wheezes uncontrollably when Mozart is like "?????? Idk what it is about MC...I don't want her to be scared of me..." in his own main story in the baths. And Jeanne. IS TRYING SO HARD. NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS ABOUT HIM O B V I O U S L Y BEING IN LOVE. THE HILARITY I CAN'T DO THIS. Jeanne was like "yeah....yeah that's rough buddy.......[screams internally, give your boy time Jeanne he's fragile]"

Honestly? That's the thing about Jeanne too--he has incredible self-awareness and hyperarousal-related (I mean the PTSD kind, get your head out of the gutter) awareness to the people around him. He's very, very conscious of the fact that he is surrounded by geniuses when he can't even write his own name. Just because he has the fortitude not to lash out with his insecurities, doesn't mean he never feels stupid or inferior. And it doesn't help when there are people in the mansion who call him--a fucking war veteran from 500 YEARS AGO--nAiVe. He's not naive lmao. He just doesn't know how the world works so many years later, and it's a ridiculously steep learning curve? Leonardo and Comte are nearly 500 years old, but they lived throughout every hour of that time in a linear fashion. It is a big deal to be moved from 1430 to 1890 in the span of a second asynchronously, and then be expected to function without a hitch??? Given the circumstances he adapts well.

That atmosphere--this constant impatience with what he doesn’t understand, his inability to be caught up to speed quickly--is going to hinder his recovery lmao. He feels like a burden most of the time, and agency and freedom are crucial.

Another thing that occurs to me about the mansion's arrangement is that there is a power dynamic, just as any space with people in it has some level of hierarchy (unless you live with miraculously chill people). Jeanne is acutely aware that Comte is the most powerful being in that space, and he is not only hatefully angry at him--but likely afraid too. We have to remember that the biggest betrayal he witnessed in his life was at the hands of a monarch; it was the aristocracy that turned on him and erased the truth. Comte is openly a child that resulted from both that era and that type of lineage, I don't really blame Jeanne for being wary. He intimately knows how willing rich people are to throw normal folks under the bus to suit their ambitions/whims. Comte, while not deliberately threatening, also seems to be painfully aware of this impression he gives off. His "chad persona" as I've mentioned allows him to navigate his life in secret by necessity, but it’s actively damaging to his son. He can't reveal the truth because of Vlad's betrayal, and he's openly unsettled by what it could mean to be honest. Will they wonder about Vlad and find themselves ensnared under his mind control as Charles and Shakespeare are? Will Comte himself be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known only to lose them?? That's a risk he isn't willing to take--and that leaves him in a double bind.

What is it that they say, the truth will set you free? This is where MC and Comte come into enormous play when it comes to Jeanne's recovery. One thing to keep in mind is that most of the people in the mansion have their own traumas they're trying to carry, and I feel like a lot of them are unsure how to approach Jeanne. Or if they do, he's very guarded. It takes a lot of consistent effort to get through to him. What does MC do when Jeanne unleashes his harsh worldview on her? She's understandably frightened, but Jeanne isn't malicious (so she chases him around). In fact, he openly avoids and runs away from her--well aware that what he's done is wrong. If anything, he did it on purpose, bringing us right back to Shakespeare's verbal undoing; why does Jeanne attack her in the first place?

LMAO. He attacks her because she essentially says "oh thanks for helping me!" "I am not nice. Watch yourself." "But you seem like a nice guy to me?" "REEEEEE" Does the pattern become a little clearer? When people think kindly of him, his instinct is to shatter that illusion with an impulsive reprehensible act. When people think poorly of him or lash out, what does he do? When that orphan boy starts yelling and screaming, Jeanne is nothing but calm. He explains the situation, and offers the kid a choice, perfectly happy to be the bearer of bad news. This operates on many levels I’m sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with him being hailed a saint and a war hero only to be tortured and branded a monstrosity (and he probably thinks being a vampire is doubly monstrous). He’s more comfortable being hated because he feels it’s what he deserves in a lot of ways.

Jeanne has a lot of internalized self-hatred because of what he's done, and because of how much harm was inflicted on him outside of his control (he's Catholic and he was tortured, come on this writes itself). If I'm honest, I think that's actually the greater part of why he hates Comte lmao. Comte refuses the very concept of being cruel no matter how much Jeanne lashes out. Sure he lectures him and scolds him, but he never actively limits what's important to him or controls or harms him. Comte fully realizes the tragedy of how Jeanne's life was used by a nation in dire straits, and knows he needs time and acceptance to heal. No matter how dismal or unhappy, Comte doesn't stop--he fully believes Jeanne should have time in his life where he can really live for himself for once. But therein lies the issue, Jeanne doesn't know how to live for himself.

Which brings me to how MC and Comte "heal" Jeanne. I feel like they give him the space he needs to recover, and that's what results in his gentled temperament and happiness. Remember that so much of his main story is MC endlessly chasing after Jeanne. No amounts of his hissing or running or threatening stops her. Even if his refusals are empty of real dislike, they're enough to deter most people. Not MC. She's able to see through to the depths of who he is, and doesn't just use him for her own ends? She actively seeks to teach him (to read and write) to help him settle better in this era, she actively tries to ease his distaste for rain with a well-meaning bet, and she never gives up on him. (Actions mean so much more to him than words in general too, tbh...). Love is more easily defined by work and effort than it is by attraction.

When he has his episode at the festival, sure she's rattled; but that's because she truly believed that he didn't want to be around her anymore. When she notices he really doesn’t want to be followed, she stops like any normal person would. It’s only when she reads his notebook and sees the truth for herself (that he’s given up despite having the same feelings for her) that her determination is rekindled. She doesn't approach him fearfully, doesn't treat him like he's made of glass either. She just wants him as he is--accepts and loves him as he is. Scarred, bloody, exhausted, abrasive, terrified. She doesn't define him by how easy he is to love. That is a huge issue with traumatized people lmao. Because of their maturity, people always just assume they don't need help, or they rely on them to an extent that isn't sustainable. The second they reveal need or that they struggle, people walk away or victim blame them because it’s easier than taking them seriously.

While MC's attempts may be a little more obvious (cherishing his lily field, wearing the hair pin he gave her, careful about his gruesome injury, really listens when he talks about the horrors of his life and accepts that he experienced a level of agony/terror she can never understand, tries to express her feelings no matter his evasion) I think it's also important to consider Comte's large scale effort. I don't say this to undermine MC, I say it because Jeanne's life was defined by a complete lack of security. He left his parents to make their lives easier, he lived in a war that meant life or death any second, and his country's leader branded him a traitor which lead to his endless torture and public execution. Jeanne does not know a life in which safety is the norm. Point blank. He does not understanding going outside and not expecting the worst anymore.

Comte not only understands that level of despair, but treats it with dignity and respect. He fully accepts being hated if it means Jeanne can use that hatred to live on and find a way to heal. And most importantly, when Jeanne begins to move forward with MC and Mozart's help, Comte never once holds it against Jeanne when the truth is revealed. He's not angry, this isn't about reprisal or reparations or revenge. It's just love.

Jeanne doesn't really have a concept of this? His entire life was mostly transactional, defined by strength and efficiency. Nobody gives a damn about your feelings. You either hurl yourself at the problem or die. Nobody is going to help you or carry you or save you. While he may have had a little more support while he was in the military from his fellow soldiers, that support system was ripped away from him during the Inquisition.

One very common sentiment regarding elongated imprisonment and torture is that survival occurs in pairs. It is an undeniable fact that people need others to survive. It is the nature of who we are. Individualism has never proven to be successful, or if it is, its dividends are astronomically minimal when compared to people working together.

What does it mean to be the most reliable, steady person in the room? Usually it just means you don't know how to ask for help when you are no longer capable of maintaining that stance. Napoleon is guilty of it. Leonardo, Comte, and Jeanne all are too. It's part of why MC and Comte's capacity to see what he needs and provide as much as they can is such a big deal. That sort of consistent support (without a constant necessity to beg for help) allows Jeanne to be able to re-integrate into his new reality and find joy. Even if his nightmares and memories never go away, they are now being actively overrun by positive experiences. That's the thing about recovery, really--it tends to be more about drowning out the negative as much as possible and coming to terms with it, than it is about forgetting or never feeling it again. It’s about softening the sharp edges of pain like sea glass.

So is MC magical and randomly got Jeanne to open up? Nah, I don't think so. I think it was a series of persistence and real acceptance of who he is that made him warm up. People really seem to underestimate how deeply affecting understanding is, but that's how damage is undone. Jeanne can't really linger on the idea of his own monstrousness, his unworthiness, a lifetime of misery, when the person in front of him actively listens and cares about him. Makes him laugh and smile and lose himself in warmth for the first time.

If I'm honest, I feel like people also just...underestimate the level of traumatic resurgence that's perpetuated and inflicted by society’s standards in general lmao. This rhetorical structure in which good and bad exist in moral extremes, this idea that people should be able to recover and never experience relapses or periods of sensitivity. The refusal to radically listen to people and their problems, and make active attempts--not matter how small--to mend/ease those hurt feelings. Granted there will always be people in the world who do not want to improve, but I feel like most people want to. It's hopelessness, silence, and stigmatization that remain the true enemies of traumatized/mentally ill people everywhere. And among that population are always war veterans...

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp jean #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp meta #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp comte #sorry i have a lot of feelings about this topic kjahsflkjhsjkghfd #but yes!#i think mc being able to help him was more about her sensibility and the mental fortitude/space to be able to care about him as he needed #i don't think it's necessarily that she's SpEcIaL #trauma is a sensitive subject--especially considering he's a war veteran #but i also think it's simple and complex at the same time #simple in the sense that people really do just need consistent support and love to be able to care for themselves again #complex in the sense that support can come in so many permutations and some of them are very delicate and multi-faceted #and thus must be handled with extreme caution in some regards #anywho not that i'm any kind of expert this is just what i understand and see #also in case it wasn't clear i love him and cry every day (look away comte it's my whoring hours)#though i hope this helps??? i went off harder than anticipated lakjhglkj #thank you for the ask!!! <3333 #asks #rambles #not incorrect quotes

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hongism · 4 years

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mists of celeste ➻ 18.5

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 3.2k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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act two ➻ part 8.5

Jongho doesn’t need to be told what’s going on. He senses it before Yeosang even comes to the door, feels Yeosang’s presence outside the door, the heat of his emotions, and the slight panic that courses through his veins. He doesn’t need to be told that Mingi is having an episode because he can feel it. Which is why when Yeosang goes to knock on the door, Jongho opens it a breath too soon, and Yeosang nearly topples forward and trips over the air. Jongho doesn’t need to reach out and catch him – Yeosang stays on his two feet just fine – but he does regardless, rough hands hitting the much smaller man square in the chest to keep him from falling forward. He doesn’t need to ask, yet he does.

“Mingi?”

“Mess hall.”

“Okay. Did he hurt anyone?” Jongho has the questions memorized. No matter how many times he says them, the answers rarely change, and he knows Yeosang well enough to pick up on the emotional cues. That’s how he knows Wooyoung is fine before Yeosang even opens his mouth to tell him so.

“No, I got Wooyoung out of there before he could.”

“Hongjoong?”

“Tried already.”

“Yunho?”

“Couldn’t help.”

“Ah,” Jongho exhales, even though he already knew the answers to those questions before asking them. He’s the last resort. He always is. Hongjoong demands priority – he needs to feel useful somehow, but it always backfires and hurts him in the end. Then comes Yunho, the ever desperate healer, the arrogance that drives him to believe that he can fix everything and everyone – including Mingi. The reality, however harsh and cruel it may be, is that none of them are Jongho. None of them understand Mingi the way he does. None of them are Berserkers. It’s just a simple fact, but one that they can’t seem to wrap their minds around, which is why Jongho is always the last resort.

He pushes past Yeosang to step into the corridor. His steps are hurried but not frantic; there is no panic or worry in his bones as he walks towards the mess hall. It’s routine almost. Perhaps someone else might feel bitterness or some sort of resentment towards this system they have. Not Jongho though. He bears no hatred or thinly veiled anger about the arrangement they carry out. Part of him feels the tuggings of responsibility when he looks at Mingi. When he looks at Mingi and sees… something. Something different, something painful, something raw and broken.

When Mingi first joined the crew, the others all expected Jongho to understand him. To read him like a book and take him apart with ease. He hadn’t been able to do that at any point in time. Because he and Mingi are not the same, never have been and never will be. Jongho was raised by a loving mother and father. A mother who was a Berserker just like him, who took care of him and looked after him without any hesitation. Taught him everything there was to know about what it meant to be a Berserker. Mingi, on the other hand, was not given that luxury. His father never loved him; he loved money. Power. Blood. And that’s what Mingi gave him, because it was the only thing he knew.

The mess hall is quiet when he steps inside. Not empty, but quiet. Hongjoong stands at the edge of the room, leaning up against the frame of the entrance with arms crossed over his chest. Disappointment radiates off him in waves, but not directed at anyone except himself. Yunho stands beside him with a similar stance, although he can’t look at Mingi’s curled form. The room is otherwise empty, and that’s probably for the best. And Mingi. Mingi lies on the floor, not near the center but somewhere off to the side between a few tables. He’s on his hands and knees, back curved in a way that is painful to look at, and as Jongho draws nearer, he can see the tremble in his shoulders. He doesn’t think to ask what happened. It wouldn’t be necessary anyway. He barely notices that Yeosang is no longer hot on his heels and following his steps.

“It’s too much of a burden to put on his shoulders.”

Hongjoong doesn’t verbalize the words, but he can feel them regardless. Words that have been muttered and whispered against hot ears when they think Jongho can’t hear them. None spoken with malice or hatred. Just… concern. Worry. Fear.

“He’s so young. Why do we push this onto him?”

Because Jongho understands him. Knows Mingi better than Mingi knows himself. Feels the things he feels, even if they were raised differently and experience it differently. He understands the control, the taut thread keeping Mingi tied to sanity, and how it threatens to snap. And when it wavers and trembles — that is where these episodes find him.

“I’m the captain. I should handle this myself.”

Hongjoong doesn’t understand it. The things that he wishes to understand are things that he can never hope to grasp.

“I’m a healer. A medic. This is my job.”

Yunho fails to realize that it isn’t his responsibility. It is his job, but not his burden to bear. He sees Mingi as something broken, when Mingi isn’t broken at all. Mingi is a bird that never learned to fly, a slave without a master, a boy robbed of his innocence too young. Not broken.

Jongho hesitates near Mingi. The older man doesn’t shift or make any indication of acknowledging him. The emotions are there though, and that’s how Jongho knows that Mingi is fully aware of his lingering presence behind him.

“Mingi,” he starts, tone so soft and quiet that he can barely hear it himself. Ever so slowly, he lets himself squat down beside Mingi’s body. Heat. It radiates off him in waves. Then in the corner, concern from Yunho, the lingering taste of disappointment from Hongjoong, and nothing else. Patience is a challenging game to play, even harder when it comes to Mingi, but necessary. Thus, Jongho waits. Watches the way Mingi’s shoulders tremble from effort, the tethered thread in his mind wavering but never breaking. He’s fighting it so hard. “Mingi, can you hear me?”

“I-I… can’t. Can’t. Need. N-Need it.” His tone is desperate and fragile. Nothing like the cruel and heartless killing monster he seems to be. Mingi brings a hand up to clasp the back of his neck. His nails tear at the skin in attempts to break it and draw blood.

“No, you don’t.” Mingi’s fingers falter. He hesitates. For a moment, his nails cease their warpath on his skin.

“I want to – want to k-kill.” Mingi lifts his chin a little. He doesn’t look up quite yet, and Jongho knows it’s because he can feel the lingering emotions at the other side of the room. He is more afraid of losing control than he should be. The danger is minimal. Mingi won’t kill either of them. Hongjoong knows it, as does Yunho, and Jongho as well. Mingi is the only one who doesn’t trust it.

“You don’t want to, Mingi,” Jongho insists, letting his elbows find purchase on his knees. Jongho gets it on occasion. The sudden urgings that Mingi suffers from – the need to take control over all the emotions hitting him from all sides. It manifests itself differently for every Berserker. For Jongho, it takes the form of guilt. Brings all his wrongdoings to life and places them before his eyes in a way that’s almost tangible. He can never overcome it alone, and that fact almost makes him feel weak. Yunho’s soft hands in his hair, San’s mellifluous voice in his ears, Seonghwa’s mint-like scent that permeates his senses until the hallucinations pass, Hongjoong’s emotions hitting him square in the chest and reminding him that this is real. It isn’t violent. Emotional, yes. Painful for himself and only himself. But for Mingi, it manifests in violence. Anger and every emotion on the spectrum of rage.

Mingi’s fingers draw away from his neck, but he brings the hand down to his other arm a second later. His nails dig deep, he’s desperate to break skin, he’s burning for the red that will flow from his flesh. Jongho can’t let him have it. If he does, then that thin thread of sanity will snap. Years of progress down the drain. A hard reset. He reaches out, hand brushing against Mingi’s shoulder blades.

Mingi jerks at the touch, almost as though he’s been burned. He doesn’t verbally cry out, but Jongho hears the pained cry in his movements and emotions. It hurts every time. A small and nagging sensation that never leaves Jongho alone, one he will think about for hours if not days after this. Mingi cries out for help and support but pushes it away at the same time. Desires help but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“Mingi,” Jongho exhales as he brings his hand down on the man’s shoulder blades again. Mingi jolts at the touch, hand drawing up but not coming down on Jongho. He prepares himself for a hit and everything, but it never comes. Instead, Mingi brings his closed fist down on his own head, smacks his skull with too much force, an expression of pure anguish on his features. He’s fighting it. Jongho knows that Mingi’s mind is screaming for blood. To close his hands around Jongho’s throat and try to end it. The desire to kill… it’s not Mingi, but rather the Brute of Kebos. The monster his father created. It’s not Mingi. Jongho has to remind himself of that over and over again. It’s the only way he can look Mingi in the eye every day. His tone softens as he speaks. “They’re loud, aren’t they?”

“So loud. S-So loud. Can’t think. C-Cant–” Mingi cuts himself off, unable to finish the thought. Yunho once told Jongho that Mingi didn’t feel emotions. Just didn’t have the proper mind for it, and that he would have to be taught how to handle things. Jongho dared to tell Yunho to his face that he was wrong. Mingi feels emotions. He has them. It isn’t that his brain is wired the wrong way. It’s that he was never taught how to understand them. Mingi doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings because of that. Jongho can read him like a book, feel the heat radiating off him in waves and know what’s going through his head even if he blocks it out. Mingi’s emotions are overwhelming, even with Jongho’s resilience and restraint. All that to say – the pain Mingi is in now is enough to cripple Jongho and bring him fully to the ground. The aura is overwhelming, and for a breath of a moment, Jongho isn’t sure he can do what he’s supposed to do. The face of his mother taunts him at the edge of the room. He responds by closing his fingers around Mingi’s wrist, stopping the hallucination from blossoming as well as stopping Mingi from hitting himself any more.

“It’s okay, Mingi. They can’t hurt you here,” Jongho murmurs even though he knows that isn’t the brunt of the issue. Mingi’s wrist goes slack in his grip. For a second, Jongho thinks that the episode has passed, but then weight slams against him, and pain blooms in his chest. He falls back against one of the metal tables. Metal scrapes against metal, creating a loud and abrasive screech, then the floor disappears out from under Jongho. He doesn’t have time to defend himself. Mingi’s fingers close around his ankle, yanking back harshly until Jongho hits the floor. Pressure hits his chest. Jongho doesn’t even process it at first. Mingi’s knee stabs into his chest and pins him to the floor with little effort. However, Jongho is stronger than Mingi. They both know it. Jongho could flip their positions and have Mingi facedown on the floor in seconds. That isn’t what this is about though.

Progress.

“Mingi!”

Steps forward.

“Stop!”

Steps backward.

Yunho and Hongjoong are shouting, voices getting louder as they move closer, but Jongho manages to bring a hand up to stop them. They have zero reason to listen to him and no incentive either, especially because Mingi has one knee square in the middle of Jongho’s chest, the other pinning his right arm down, and both hands wrapped tight around Jongho’s throat. Perhaps he should be scared of what might happen next. Afraid that Mingi tightens his grip and chokes him to death. Both Yunho and Hongjoong are exuding so much fear and panic that it clogs Jongho’s senses, and if it’s affecting him that badly, then that means that Mingi is having a much worse time with it.

Yet despite having his life dangled before his eyes like this, Jongho isn’t afraid that Mingi might kill him. Maybe he’s psychotic for that, or perhaps he just trusts the fact that Mingi doesn’t want to do this that much. Yes, it has to be the latter. He lets Mingi keep him pinned to the floor, hand still raised in Hongjoong and Yunho’s direction and keeping them warded off for the time being. Mingi’s nails dig into the flesh of his throat.

Pain.

Pain, but not from the small crescents Mingi leaves in his neck.

The pain radiates off Mingi’s shoulders. He’s fighting himself so hard, fighting the instinct to kill, the urge to kill, the need to kill. He’s fighting the other part of himself, the one his father forged in blood and dark arenas. Mingi doesn’t know that he’s feeling pain necessarily; he merely knows that he’s hurting. He knows the strain hurts and burns, makes his skin crawl and itch, makes even breathing become a laborious task. Jongho lets his free hand move towards Mingi – each inch breached is slow and calculated as not to scare the man – and lays it atop the ones clasped over his throat.

“You can’t hurt me, Mingi,” he whispers. Mingi’s resolve flickers. For the briefest moment, he believes Jongho, eyes trailing over his own hands like they don’t belong to him.

“It… it hurts.”

“I know it does. Everything hurts, right? They’re loud in your head, telling you to kill.”

“Blood. They w-want blood.” Mingi’s fingers twitch around his neck. His nails dig a bit deeper, and Jongho feels them breach skin. It isn’t deep enough to draw blood, which is for the best because the second the first drop falls, Mingi will fly into a rampage.

“You don’t have to give it to them, Mingi.”

“They’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“You’ll hurt me if you do.”

Mingi freezes at his words. His hands loosen a bit but don’t move away from Jongho’s body. It’s the last thing he wants, because as cruel and heartless and merciless as Mingi is, he doesn’t want to hurt Jongho. Doesn’t want to hurt Hongjoong or Yunho. Any of the crew. He wants to protect them; he just doesn’t understand how to do that because of the war that goes on in his mind.

“I… did I not already hurt you?” Mingi inquires, gaze curious as he tilts his head to the side. “Your emotions… they – they feel – I hurt you.”

“You didn’t. Tell me what you feel.”

“I don’t know what I feel!” Mingi argues, a spike of anger shooting out towards Jongho. He can barely choke out his next words thanks to the sudden clench of Mingi’s fingers around his throat.

“What I feel. M-Mingi, tell me – tell me what you feel from me.” He’s pushing hard, and perhaps it’s too much of a burden to put on Mingi’s shoulders like this, but at the same time, it’s not enough. Mingi is caught off-guard long enough for Jongho to gasp several deep breaths of air.

“You’re… warm.”

“Does it hurt?” This is the only way Jongho knows how to communicate with Mingi. He can’t name the emotions off one by one because Mingi wouldn’t understand what any of it means, but he does know how to talk about how he’s feeling without naming anything directly.

“N-No.”

“So, are you hurting me?”

Mingi shakes his head ever so slightly. Denial. This time, he believes it for more than a second. Mingi withdraws his hands from Jongho’s neck, letting him fully breathe again, and Jongho rolls out from under the taller Berserker before he can be pinned once more. He doesn’t move because he fears having his life in Mingi’s hands. He would gladly give his life over to the man time and time again if it meant protecting the others from harm. The storm that swirls in Mingi’s dark red eyes calms for the time being. The waters are peaceful. The voices are quiet. And Mingi… Mingi cries. Not for the first time, and not for the last, but he cries nonetheless, hands trembling as he holds them close to his chest. Behind them, the panic and fear radiating off Hongjoong and Yunho slowly dissipates. It grows calm again.

Jongho draws closer to Mingi, kneeling beside him and pressing a hand again Mingi’s shaking ones. It doesn’t stop the trembling or offer any comfort in the slightest. Jongho doesn’t expect it to. Mingi doesn’t understand comfort, only the need for it. But they’ll just keep trying until they find something that works. Like what Hongjoong does next. The short captain walks towards where Jongho and Mingi are and squats down in front of ashy-haired Berserker.

“You pulled yourself out of it, Mingi,” he says, tone quiet but clear. It carries weight with it, one that Mingi picks up on within an instant.

“I al-almost–”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t kill anyone. Didn’t hurt anyone.” A smile twitches across Hongjoong’s lips, soft and gentle as he gazes down at Mingi’s slumped form. “I’m proud of you.”

The simple four words hold more than should be humanly possible, but Jongho supposes that it makes sense since he and Mingi aren’t wholly human. Mingi’s tears halt only long enough for him to offer an awkward yet grateful smile. Hongjoong eats it right up. He reaches across the gap between him and Mingi, not concerned for a second that Mingi could snap his arm in half at the slightest trigger, and drops his hand to the mop of hair atop his head. A small ruffle of the locks, fingers gently combing over Mingi’s scalp, then pulling away. Jongho wants to imagine that Mingi leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut as an overwhelming sense of peace washed over his body.

✧✧✧ a/n: surprise?? this is definitely one that was unexpected for me but i was struck with a sudden realization and plan for mingi’s character progression and how he functions as a character, and this idea wouldn’t leave me alone so i just had to write it and post it today because we’ve got regular chapter tomorrow osidjafoidj but i hope you guys like it!! i think this is the most important interim chapter and has a lot of impact on mingi’s character in the main plot sooo yee lemme know what you think!

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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evienyx · 4 years

Note

How did the staff in the palace feel about zuko ‘s Agni Kai?

The Staff of the Fire Nation Royal Palace had seen a lot in a short amount of time.

It was always interesting to work in the palace, of course. Being up close with the people who ran their glorious nation was something that people yearned for. Everyone knew it was better to work in the Fire Nation royal palace that as a laborer down by the docks, or a farmer out in the fields, or even, sometimes, a merchant in the streets. The royal palace was the most air-conditioned place, it had the easiest access to medical care, and the streets surrounding it were the most guarded ones in the whole country.

What those who worked outside of the palace didn’t know was that working in the Fire Nation royal palace was one of the most dangerous jobs one could get in the homeland (no one would ever dare say that the troops didn’t have the most dangerous jobs).

It was a thing that fresh blood in the palace learned rather quickly. It was necessary. Older members of the staff would teach them. Servants would bring in their children when they were young and impressionable to make sure that they understood. Guards would send carefully-worded letters to people they knew who were still in the Academy or at other posts that were assigned to arrive at the palace soon. Older chefs would only let the newer ones touch the food after six months of just shadowing. Everyone in the staff was at an understanding about these things.

It was just the way that things were.

A surprisingly small amount of the staff actually interacted with the royal family. The royals had their small amount of personal staff, the best of the best, and anyone else who worked in the palace just made sure that things ran smoothly. The bath staff would interact with the royals when they visited the bathhouse. The chefs would interact indirectly whenever they got specific orders for meals. Guards of certain parts of the palace would interact occasionally when a royal passed through there. Other than that, though, nothing. Younger servants who joined the palace staff with delusions of being noticed and swept off their feet by whatever royal was closest to them in age had their dreams swiftly and mercilessly crushed when they went their first half-year working without seeing hide nor hair of a single royal.

There were few exceptions.

Everyone on the palace staff knew of the odd friendship between Prince Lu Ten and Keeli, one of the girls who’d been groomed from a young age by her mother to join the palace staff. Still, though, outside of his friendship (if you could call it that, considering multiple girls on Keeli’s rotation had glimpsed the two stealing kisses in abandoned corridors) with her, the prince didn’t interact with any of the staff more than the rest of his family did. At least he smiled at a few of them if he passed them. That was far greater than most of the other royals.

Prince (General) Iroh would do the same as his son (which must have been where Lu Ten got it from). He never snapped at the staff. That automatically made him a favorite of many.

Princess Azula was on the opposite end of the spectrum, having taken very much after her own father. She barked orders and paraded around with an air of intense superiority and she burned things that were really just a hassle to clean up and replace.

Prince (Fire Lord) Ozai was worse than his daughter was, because while she was always on the brink of losing her sanity, he was completely and utterly in his right mind, and it made him even more terrifying.

(Everyone knew he was the one who killed young Chiaki and then blamed the child for destroying the painting, too).

(Chiaki had been thirteen).

(Prince Ozai had been eleven).

Princess Ursa was a bit of an odd case, as she hadn’t been born or grown up royal. She had even been born and raised in a village. Still, she had been a descendant of Avatar Roku, and that did not come with monetary perks. She was kind to the servants, thanked them more than other royals did, but she didn’t do anything more. If she saw someone being punished unjustly, she wouldn’t step in to help. As a result, no one was inclined to step in and help her.

Never let it be said that the staff of the Fire Nation royal palace weren’t petty as hell when they wanted to be.

All of the Fire Nation royals were relatively what could be expected. There was nothing strange about them, really. Some were cruel, some were kind but distant, some had their favorites, that was it. That was all.

Prince Zuko, though, was the outlier.

He skipped through the corridors, free from pressure that settled onto the shoulders of other royals in the palace, as he was fourth in line for the throne. His grandfather was alive, and his uncle was the heir, then his cousin, then his father, and then him. He didn’t have to worry about a future ruling, and he didn’t have to worry about anything that the staff did. He was in that beautiful little niche of contentment.

That should have been a recipe for disaster. A royal without any pressure to one day rule the country? He should have been arrogant, unforgiving, completely above consequence and completely above those around him.

Yet, he wasn’t.

It took a while, but word and rumors spread quickly through the staff of the Fire Nation royal palace.

Prince Zuko skipped with a heaviness to his step, but not the same kind as that of his family. It was not the kind of heaviness that came with the pressure of what was to come, the pressure to succeed.

Prince Zuko skipped with a heaviness that was foreign to the Fire Nation royal family. It was a heaviness that showed everyone that he wasn’t good enough and he knew it and he knew he couldn’t change it.

The realization first spread after a guard near the training yard let slip during a graveyard shift that Prince Ozai had burned his seven-and-a-half-year-old son across the arm and told him to sit through the pain if he wanted to prove himself as a true firebender. The story spread through the palace staff like wildfire, and they all began to take note of Prince Zuko more than they had before.

The boy moved through the halls of the palace with a sadness that no one had thought to take notice of before. One of the servants to Princess Ursa told the others when the Princess found out about her son’s injury she had him rushed off to the medical wing to be wrapped immediately. The healer who helped Prince Zuko said that any longer and a horrible infection would likely have grabbed hold. The boy walked around with his arm wrapped close to his chest for the next month, and could be heard complaining about not being allowed to train until he was fully healed.

For the first time, it occurred to the staff of the Fire Nation royal palace that maybe he wasn’t upset because he was bored, but because he was falling behind even more, and he wanted to get better and prove to his father that he could.

Despite everything, Prince Zuko continued to be strange. Though he nearly fell apart after the death of his beloved cousin, he somehow managed to still be nice. It was... odd.

Once he was the Crown Prince, that heaviness he had always walked the corridors with seemed to double down on itself. Without his mother and cousin, the two people he always seemed closest with, it seemed as if the boy had nowhere to turn. Guards from the hallways reported to the other members of the staff that the prince tried to talk to his Uncle, General Iroh, but the former crown prince was so lost in his grief that it was as if the boy was talking to a brick wall.

Still, Prince Zuko would talk to his uncle, and bring him tea, and he would tell him about his day. General Iroh would watch Zuko with an odd glimmer of pain in his eye, as if he was trying to see the boy for who he was, yet his grief-addled mind would only allow him to see Zuko for who he was not.

Then, a year after the death of his son, General Iroh left, and despite the fact that he still had a sister and a father, the staff saw the way that Prince Zuko was suddenly alone.

He should have been withdrawn. He should have lashed out at people and gotten more aggressive and he should have gotten closer with his remaining (crazy violent) family members.

Instead, he seemed to try and live as if nothing had happened.

Prince Zuko started talking to the staff more.

He would ask for the names of people. He tried to memorize them. He sent a jolt of shock through every person he asked the name of. It was surprising. He knew the names of a few guards that were frequently assigned to him. He knew the name of the seventeen-year-old girl who woke him every morning to get ready for the day.

He would sit in the courtyards and talk to the turtleducks about everything he wanted to do to make the Fire Nation better when he became Fire Lord.

He would hide out in his chambers and pluck the strings on the pipa that he had hidden in a closet near his bed.

He pushed himself in his firebending training harder than ever.

(Not that it was ever enough for his father).

He was sent off to Master Piandao one summer to learn to use the dual dao (while Fire Lord Ozai trained his daughter even harder back home), and he came back and practiced that, too.

He would pay extra attention in his lessons. He would ask more questions, and he would put that fake smile on his face, and he would pretend that everything was all right.

Then, one day, he sneaked into a war meeting.

To this day, the guards on duty that day won’t give a straight answer to anyone about whether or not they saw the young prince slipping into the room and hiding behind a curtain.

The guards outside the room, though, will give you a full version about what happened after. They will tell you about how one general proposed a plan to sacrifice new, young recruits just for glory, and how Prince Zuko jumped out from behind a curtain and proclaimed that he couldn’t do that. They will tell you how Fire Lord Ozai rose on his throne and declared that the prince must fight an Agni Kai to regain his honor, and how the prince said confidently that he would.

Then the guards who watched the prince over the next week as the duel approached would tell you about how they overheard him telling the turtleducks that he could easily beat the old general.

Then everyone would tell you about how very wrong the boy was.

It was a painful day for the staff of the Fire Nation royal palace when Prince Zuko was burned by his own father and told that to learn he would have to suffer.

The healers helped him, and about a month later he was finally, fully awake.

The messenger who had to tell the prince that he was to be banished will never speak of that day. No one else on the staff besides that lone messenger knows, to this day, that the prince was even meant to be banished.

Members of the staff recall vividly how they saw the boy race through the halls, past servants and guards, for once not greeting any of them or even smiling as he stormed to the throne room.

The guards to the throne room were shocked enough to let him through.

They were the last to see him for over three years.

The staff mourned the loss, quietly. In the daylight, Prince Zuko was nothing more than a faded memory. In the shadows, he was a name that the palace staff would drink to, together. Some were more attached to the memory of the prince than others, so no one noticed much when, during these drinks, Keeli, that old friend of Prince Lu Ten’s, would cry. No one noticed much when the stoic guard Ming or the guard that always tagged along with her, Lee, would exchange an oddly hard glance. No one noticed much when another guard, Tyne, would grip the hand of her husband, Anzo, and down her glass in one go.

The staff wondered when he would return from wherever the Fire Lord had taken him. They wondered how he would have changed.

But no one said anything, because the Staff of the Fire Nation Royal Palace had seen many, many things, and they knew that that was just the way things were. It was dangerous to be a member of the staff. They all knew that.

But the feeling that everyone got the day that the prince returned, emerging from a random door in a random corridor looking one step from keeling over, the feeling that started in their chests and warmed their whole bodies in a rush of glee, made the staff feel like, sometimes, it was worth it.

#fractures atla #ask #ask away #it got away from me again #ok so i take liberties with zukos childhood when it comes to this fic #ignore it #still this is very long #i dont know how but anyway i love the staff #like as a whole i mean #if you couldnt tell #in other news this is the 500th post on this tumblr #thats kinda nuts kinda funky kinda fresh ngl

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bafflinghaze · 4 years

Text

Original M/M Fic Recs

organised by rating 👀 I may have recommended some of these before, but they’re just so good. Like, seriously 👀 👀

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Raindrops In The Desert

Diamond_Raven | 230k, Explicit

After years of bad experiences with doms, Scott decides to stop having sex. Unfortunately, his attempt at celibacy only succeeds in frustrating himself and his detective partner Ryan, who happens to be a dom. When Ryan offers to be Scott’s dom, the arrangement seems like a good solution to Scott’s problem. What neither of them are counting on is falling in love.

Contains: caring dom/sub, friends first, mutual pining, fluff, kink negotiation, aftercare

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With Love in Mind

TuppingLiberty | 82k, Explicit

Tongue stuck between his lips, his mind goes quiet for a few precious moments as he concentrates on the polish. He sighs with happiness when he’s done, admiring his toes, wishing he could wear the color on his nails. Graeme Webster, 20, is clawing at survival the best way he can. He works two jobs, but can’t make rent. He has an anxiety disorder, but can’t afford his meds. He’s trying his best, but he needs help.

“You might be leaning on urban geekster a bit too hard.” “Okay, I’m probably going to regret asking, but ‘geekster?’” “Geek-hipster. Geekster.” Alan Garry, 30, is an app programming millionaire with a middle class background. He may be a workaholic, but he’s carved out time for the Seattle kink scene since being introduced to it in college. He sits somewhere on the asexual spectrum, and the fact that he can’t figure out precisely where bothers him more than he’d care to admit.

“It’s going to be okay, Graeme. Where do you hurt the most?” An unfortunate chance encounter brings them together, but they realize quite quickly that neither of them are willing to part again.

Contains: caring dom/sub, sugar daddy, fluff, kink negotiation, aftercare

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Collateral

LauraSFox | 93k, Explicit

Jake is young, wild, and runs with his brother's bad-ass gang. But he has a secret he needs to hide. When he is saved from a rival gang by a guy with eyes blue as the summer's sky, all dressed up in an Armani suit and moves like Bruce Lee, the walls he carefully built around him start to crumble.

Contains: sugar daddy, Romance, some violence (happy ending), first times

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And Then There Were Five

DarkSparx | 75k, Mature

Ricky is a low ranked demon who's ex husband cheated on him. Seven years later, he learns that they're still technically married, but due to demon law, he's now the property of his ex's current husband. What's more, they have two more husbands for him to meet. How is Ricky going to climb the ranks of demon society when he's suddenly thrust into a polygamist marriage that he never asked for?

Contains: Demons, Mild magical elements, M/M/M/M/M, Angst

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The School Idol's Roommate

At 12 MN | 137 Episodes (tapas), Mature

After getting his heart broken, Aki closed the doors to his heart. But his life was thrown upside down when he started living with the most popular guy on their campus.

Contains: Romance, Mutual Pining, Flat mates, Angst, Fluff

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Daz The Destroyer Conquers Prom

Fair_Feather_Friend | 8k, Teens and Up

When Melchior Gordon is faced with the prospect of either attending prom alone, or not going at all, he summons a demon to escort him.

Daz the Destroyer is not the date Melchior expected.

Contains: Demons, Cinderella elements, Fluff, Light-hearted humour

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Old World Coffee

Daniellecluck | 15k, Teens and Up

Since he was a vampire, working the night shift at a slow 24 hour coffee shop had seemed like a good idea to Aleks at first. No need for sleep meant it's not like he had anything better to do, might as well try to earn easy rent money somehow. However, some new customer turns out to be a bit more tiring than he'd like, meaning he might actually have to both care and make an effort to survive this.

Contains: Vampires, Fae, Hunters, Coffee Shop, Humour, Enemies to Friends to Lovers

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Instinctual

Only_1_Truth | 209k, Teens and Up

Inside a Werewolf pack, Omegas are prized: they calm everyone around them, like a cool sea on a hot day, making it possible for that many people with fanged alter-egos to live together. The problem is, no pack ever has more than one Omega.

Marcus Rushton lost his pack, and has been learning the hard way how impossible it is to find another one when you’re an Omega. What he’s learning even more is that a lone Omega is wrong - an aberration. A threat. Loved within packs, without one, Omegas are seen like blood in the water, and he’s already spilled enough of it whenever he’s stumbled upon others of his kind…

Werewolves can look very human, and mingle freely with their human counterparts, but Declan Fen (a resident Alpha who just found out that he’s got a lone Omega in his territory) is learning the hard way that Wolf instincts can override just about anything - even the side of him that says he should be nice to Marcus, whom he’s only just met.

Contains: Werewolves, Angst, Fluff, Modified A/B/O dynamics, dom/sub undertones

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can't turn away

carmiros (lemonlee) | 38k, Teens and Up

A love story between a college student and a bookstore owner with an absurd amount of cats.

Contains: FTM Character, Cats, Fluff, Romance, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn

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Like & Subscribe

Jay Bell | 8 Episodes (tapas), Teens and Up

Remember that hunky guy on YouTube who caught your eye? The one with the awesome pecs and killer smile? I bet you couldn't stop watching his videos. Just imagine if you had a chance to meet him and all your fantasies started coming true. There's only one catch: Between you and your dream guy is his less-than-pleased boyfriend. They say that love conquers all, but can love conquer love?

Contains: Pre-romance, Mild Angst

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Shut Up, Cinderella

Rubyleaf | 45 Episodes (tapas), Teens and Up

A grumpy Cinderella and a childish prince—what could possibly go wrong?! Cinder is a young shoemaker who just wants to do his job. The only one to support his irresponsible stepmother and stepsisters, the last thing on his mind is the prince's ball. He'd much rather stay home alone and clean...too bad his fairy godmother has other plans and drags him to the ball against his will! It's love at first sight—for Gem, the prince. Cinder just hopes to never see the obnoxious guy again. Too bad Gem is such a hopeless romantic that he searches the entire country for his mysterious guest...and winds up enlisting Cinder's help as a shoemaker to find the owner of the one shoe he kept from his crush? The pay is good, but for how long can Cinder hide his identity while pretending to help the bratty Gem? And what happens when the two start finding common ground after all? At this rate it won't be long until Cinder is hard pressed for his sanity...

Contains: Humour, Oblivious Prince, Romance, Fantasy/Cinderella Elements, Friends First

#fic rec #fic recs #original writing #long post

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froggybaek · 5 years

Text

healing - seo changbin

♛➩ genre: angst, mega fluff, a dash of suggestiveish content that lasts for .5 seconds, single dad!au

♛➩ pairing: fem!reader x changbin

♛➩ warnings: mentions of death, disease

♛➩ summary: you’ve known seo changbin since your high school years. back then, he was surrounded by proud teachers, parents, classmates, and a wonderful girlfriend; now, he only has his little bundle of joy, a cousin from australia who barely knows how to manage a microwave, and you.

♛➩ word count: 9.2k

Seo Changbin has always been an enigma.

While you hadn’t been as lucky as others in being able to claim that you had known the mysterious boy since your elementary school days, you were able to make it known to the few friends you had that you got to witness his heydays; namely the four year period of high school.

You had been in the same year as Changbin, hell you happened to share a couple of classes over those four years with him. Anytime you needed to interact with him, more so assigned projects and less actual friendship related endeavors, you would find yourself stunned with his sheer intellect and determination to get an assignment done with the highest marks possible. If it hadn’t been for his endearing persistence in your music theory class - well, you probably would’ve been gifted with a big, fat F on your final report card before graduation.

However, Seo Changbin was not only remarkably intelligent; he was also incredibly friendly and helpful to just about everyone. Some folks with sour expressions and singed hearts tried to put down his accomplishments and overwhelming popularity, making rumors that he only acted so kind because it would literally be his job in the future. Obviously they might have held a teaspoon of truth to their stingy words, but it was even more obvious that Changbin was just a good person in general.

He liked to volunteer in his very, very thin amount of spare time; there wasn’t one set space for him to go, he just kind of showed up - everywhere. One time, you had spotted him volunteering at an animal shelter, cooing at a three-legged dog while he cradled a malnourished looking kitten in his arms. Another occasion you’d seen him volunteering was after you’d visited your grandfather at the retirement center, only to enter the common area and watch with a warm smile as Changbin danced with a pair of graying women, who had been giggling like young schoolgirls.

So, that was one spectrum of the boy that most everyone knew about. Some claimed that he had to have a sort of photographic memory, since he apparently didn’t need to study all that much to ace his hardest classes; which included the terrifying likes of anatomy and advanced placement chemistry. Those who said that he didn’t study much tended to trail off and make small talk of how they thought he did producing of all things on the side. While you knew the dark haired boy had an augmented creative side, you also knew very well that anyone aspiring to become a medical student had to focus mostly on their coursework - even if they had an impeccably large IQ.

You figured that was why he was so kind, even during the most stressful weeks of school. After all, committing your future career to become a nurse or a doctor was a difficult task that would likely lead someone to deal with even more difficult people. He would have to train himself to be patient and understanding, right?

Well, you wouldn't know. For one, you weren't all too close with him to make any sort of claim about either him or his dreams. Secondly, you were veering a great distance away from anything related to the field of medicine - you just wanted a simple job that involved kids.

That isn't to say you wanted kids of your own anytime soon, you just happened to get along with the vast majority of them quite easily, and they were entertaining in themselves. Surely a teaching career wouldn't be too far off the mark.

In any case, it was easy to say that you and Changbin were miles apart - from what little you knew about him, that is.

And that gap was only made larger not even a few months after your graduation.

“Morning babe.” Mark Lee hummed as he walked into the classroom, or studio, for lack of a better term. The brunette boy carried not only his giant backpack that was filled to the brim with textbooks and art supplies, but also a handful of snacks and two cups of - honestly you weren't sure. He tended to randomly pick and choose the drinks you would share during art class, so you could never be too sure what the next beverage could be.

You offer your friend a small wave of greeting, holding a hand out to grab the black reusable bag and one of the drinks from his trembling hands while he struggled to sit down in the chair next to yours. “Good morning, glasses.”

He whined at your choice nickname for him - all the while pushing his wide glasses farther up the frame of his nose. “I - will ignore your crude and very unimaginative nickname for once, because I have some tea to spill-”

“Please, for my sanity and your own, never say that out loud again.” You murmur in a monotone voice, bringing the lid of the cup up to your lips and taking a quick sip.

Hmm... hot chocolate with marshmallows. Delicious.

“- as I was saying until I was rudely interrupted,” he continued without missing a beat, though you happened to catch how he beamed gleefully at your small thumbs up to thank him for the hot chocolate, “do you remember Seo Changbin from school? You know, the kid that got like, three scholarships to colleges in America?”

“Yeah, I remember him. Why?”

Mark plops down in his seat, rustling in his bag to dig out his art supplies before the bell rang. “I found out from Lucas that his girlfriend got pregnant maybe two or three months before our finals. She gave birth to their kid about a week ago and she uh -...” He trails off quietly, too quietly for your liking.

“What? Mark, I didn't catch that last part.”

He gulps and looks up from the depths of his heavy backpack, nervously nibbling on his bottom lip before he meets your confused gaze.

“She died during the delivery.”

————————————————————————

Finding out that someone you knew had passed away was never fun. Even if you barely knew them, just remembering that they had at some point been part of your life - that was enough to have you slumped over in your seat for the next few days in each and every class.

She had been bright and always so full of life, as much as a high school student could be, anyway. The girl had her life planned ahead for the next ten years, from schools, to parties, even to when she would get married; and she had wanted so desperately to marry Seo Changbin.

While no one had expected the pair to actually stay together for the past three years of life, they had stuck to it as best as they possibly could for a young, naïve couple. Sure, they did have their ups and downs, like the time where she and Changbin argued in the middle of lunch about how he forgot one of their date nights; but then again, what was a relationship if there weren't a few mishaps here and there?

Around the middle of senior year, rumors had started to spread like wildfire around the school. People were speculating if Changbin would go off to America for his studies and leave his girlfriend behind, or if he would stay at home in South Korea just to be with her. Others, the more pessimistic ones to say the least, pondered crudely if he would dump her and leave without another word to the foreign country for their schools.

From what Mark had told you, Changbin had been planning to stay with his girlfriend - in a long distance relationship, that is. She hadn't been too thrilled with the idea of him going alone with no “evidence,” so to speak, of their being in love. Apparently she had actually been getting ready to propose to him instead of the more common, traditional route.

She never got to propose.

Instead, she had fallen pregnant with his child unexpectedly. She had begged Changbin to stay so they both could be real parents to their child, and he had quietly agreed. By then, they had started to fall out of love, even with their unborn child resting in her belly for nine months.

And then... then she had died, leaving their newborn baby girl in the arms of a now lonely Seo Changbin.

After you figured you had somewhat recovered from the shocking news, just about two weeks later, you’d debated on personally calling or messaging the man to express your condolences. For hours you sat in the rickety chair that rested in front of your desk, staring blankly at the screen of your laptop. For hours your gaze flickered back and forth between the text box that indicated you wanted to message the man and the now empty profile of his social medias.

Once the fourth hour had passed, you gave up and stood up, stretching before you went to shut your laptop - then you thought about how you would feel in his situation.

You would wish for anyone to express their condolences, right?

Wouldn't you want to know that someone else cared, that someone else was there for you?

Then, still standing in quite the strange, hunched over position, you reopened your silver laptop and typed the first words that came to mind.

‘She was a wonderful person, you know. She would be so glad that your baby is safe with her father.’

————————————————————————

“I’m sorry, you did what now?”

“I said that I - well um, funny story, actually! I might have, possibly, maybe, perhaps... let Chenle and Jisung monitor the toddlers?”

You let out a deep sigh of pure disbelief, running a hand through your hair before you ended up losing what little sanity you could possibly have left after such a long day of work. “So... you're telling me that you let the two youngest volunteers, who are practically toddlers themselves, watch over our own toddlers all alone for the past hour?”

The brunette shifting on his feet in front of you nodded quickly, offering a nervous yet cheerful smile as if it could magically make you forgiven his less than intelligent decision.

“Mark, I know that they’re your friends and you trust them dearly, but as volunteers they aren’t allowed to be by themselves with any of the kids under eight years old.” You explained to your coworker and friend, feeling a drop of guilt when his lips turned into a classic pout and his eyes drooped from his scolding. “I won’t tell Jongdae this time, okay? Just go watch over those two and I’ll handle the front desk for you.”

He glances up at you from where he’d been staring sadly at the carpeted floor, his shining brown gaze brightening up again at your soft words. “R-really? You would take over my spot just so I don’t get in trouble?”

“You’ve covered for me god knows how many times, dude. Don’t worry about it. I’d supervise the little demons myself, but I kind of want to get some homework done while I can.” You admit with a careless shrug, moving forward to playfully ruffle his already messy brown hair. “Hurry up before he gets back and sees whatever mess they’ve probably made.”

The boy (well, technically “man,” but you couldn’t really see him as one since you were the same age and still mostly acted like willy teenagers) practically bounces on the heels of his feet, all the while showing you his undying appreciation by vigorously spurting out soft thank-you’s.

Once he shuts the white, wooden door painted with a daft excuse of a sunflower behind him and enters the toddler room, you walk over to the front desk of the daycare and slump over in the rolling chair. The material is a bit worn and not too comfortable, but it would suffice for the next couple of hours while you worked on some sociology homework that might have been a few days late.

Since it is only the middle of the day, just half an hour past lunchtime, you weren’t really expecting anyone to walk into the daycare. When the dingy bell hung above the front door let out an all too familiar, but also unexpected sound, you nearly jumped out of your skin in surprise.

Now stood in front of the front desk, just a good two feet away from you, stands a man who looks a tad familiar. His entire ensemble reminds you of a middle schooler who just found out about Fall Out Boy and Panic! At The Disco, which probably would've made you snort in amusement at any other moment.

But this man - if he was one, since he looked eerily young, somewhat similar to how you viewed Mark Lee, pulled off the all black look perfectly. His black undershirt had an odd white signa, likely belonging to a business or brand, stitched into the presumed cotton material. The man wore worn, ink colored jeans that were somewhat baggy around his legs, but not sleazily slouched; and his undershirt was tucked into the waistband, too.

Clutching onto his leather jacket, which was also, unsurprisingly, a dark black hue, was a baby. No, not a toddler or a clingy child, but a baby who couldn’t be more than a few months old - not with how small and chubby its fingers were, and certainly not with how the poor man had dribbles of what looked like milk running down the shoulder of his jacket.

“Um - hi,” you breathe out after an awkward moment of silence, offering the tired looking man a warm smile, “how can I help you?”

“I - I was wondering if-” his words are cut off by a loud wail from the baby in his arms. Squirming about with the little tot, he clearly struggles to try and calm it down, hissing in pain when it gums on one of his fingers. “Shit - no, I mean shoot - do you guys w-watch over babies?”

The raven haired man continues to try and calm the baby down, but to no avail.

“We do, don't worry... not to pry, but are you - are you a new father?” The question slips past your lips before you can overthink them, as you usually do, according to most of your friends and coworkers. When he only nods in reply, you can’t help but chuckle softly under your breath.

The rolling chair slides backwards as you push yourself up from the bottom cushion, making an insignificant ‘thump’ against the back shelving unit. You walk out from behind the desk and end up right next to the panicking father, lips curled into a sweet smile. “Can I try something?”

He glances wearily between you and his crying baby, which did make you wonder what had to be going through his head if he was so hesitant to entrust his little one with a stranger even though he had first come inside just to make sure your center also took in babies.

“... sure, go ahead.” The stranger eventually caved and gave in, carefully handing off his precious little bundle of joy off to your waiting arms.

You’d handled babies countless times since you were the one in charge of them most of the time in the daycare, not to mention when you were younger you babysat the little ones quite often. So, handling this cute, wide-eyed baby was nothing foreign to you. Gently curling it up into the crook of your arms, you swayed back and forth like a ship at sea being swaddled by gentle ocean waves.

In no time at all, the baby had calmed down, its previous wailing cries now replaced by adorable cooing. “Boy or girl?” You ask the man quietly, still grinning warmly as your gaze met that of his baby’s.

“She’s a girl - her name is Eden.”

One of your eyebrows shoots up in surprise at the name, as it wasn’t natively Korean in any sense of the word. Seeing your interested and confused expression, the man rubs one of his arms and continues, “my cousin helped me name her. He’s Australian, so he kinda only gave me English names.”

“What about her mother? Did the missus not have any say in this matter?” You tease the stranger, looking over to him, expecting to see a flushed or embarrassed grimace on his tired features.

Yet, all you see is grief.

“Eden’s mother... she died giving birth to her.”

“I - I’m so sorry, sir,” you murmur sympathetically, furrowing your eyebrows at how strange it is to know of two cases such as his own in just the span of half a year, “I... well I wasn’t close to the mother or father, but I knew of a girl who died during childbirth as well. It’s absolutely awful.”

“Damn, I knew I looked different, but I didn't think it was that bad.” He snorts dryly, his deep brown eyes flickering all across your face.

Confusion etches itself across your features. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s me, Changbin. We uh, went to the same high school,” he explains to you, watching closely as your lips fall open into a surprised ‘oh’ shape, “you sent me a message ages ago, saying that... that she’d be happy since Eden still has her dad.”

He was right - he really had changed. Physically, that is.

When he walked in, you hadn't even been able to recognize the boy who just graduated along with the rest of your class a mere eight months ago. You were so used to his freshly shaven face and smooth, shining skin with full cheeks that reminded you of a junior named Han Jisung. Back then, he had short, black hair that was in an undercut, perfectly framing his face.

Now, Changbin had stubble that only added on to his tired persona, complimenting the faded purple bags sunken under his once bright, gleeful eyes. His cheeks, once round and full like a squirrel’s, were sharp and somehow sunken at the same time.

“Thank you, by the way,” Changbin muttered, “for the message. I mostly got half-assed texts saying they were sorry for my loss. Yeah, they meant well, but - no one besides you said anything about Eden only having me.”

“She’s very lucky you know,” you begin to reply, glancing back down at the baby girl staring up at you innocently, “to have someone like you as her father.”

“Someone... like me?”

You nod at his questioning, almost conflicted tone of voice. “Of course. From what I remember, the Seo Changbin I sort of knew in high school was so intelligent that he had over seven offers from universities around the world, just for medical school. He also volunteered, like, everywhere and made it his job to make sure everyone he met was happy.”

His eyebrows furrow as if he was in deep thought, clearly contemplating your kind, comforting words.

“I’m afraid to say it, but that side of me died a long time ago.” He replies shortly, coldly, leaving you no possible way to continue to conversation without it becoming awkward.

What had happened to him?

————————————————————————

Daycares were naturally very, very loud settings. You knew that, Mark knew that, just about everyone understood that single factor when signing up to work at the decently sized childcare center just down the street of the local elementary school.

That didn't mean that you were used to it, though.

“Eden? Eden - sweetie, we don’t eat crayons.” You exhale tiredly through your nose as you pick up the brunette haired girl in your arms once again, pushing aside the twinge of guilt that strikes your heart when she lets out a pitiful whine.

It was like she knew that she was your favorite of the bunch, always whining whenever you lightly scolded her for her wrongdoings. She was only a year and three months old, but she wasn’t lacking in the intellect department by any means. If anything, she had the mind of a two or three year old toddler, constantly testing your patience to see how far you would let her go.

Whilst you carry the girl in your arms, gently hoisting her up so her rounded chin rested on your shoulder, you could faintly hear Chenle and Jisung crying out over the most recent mess in the art room. From what Jaemin had told you, Eden had literally led a pack of older children into said art room and somehow found it in herself to convince them to paint - but not on the papers laid out appropriately on the desks, no; rather, they painted on the floor and the walls.

One of the older children, a six year old called Eunwoo, had promptly explained that Eden’s babbled words were law to them. She had pointed to the paint sets, then the walls, and let out a cute giggle followed by incoherent noises of pure joy. To them, that meant ‘paint everything you can!’

How her dad never gave into her oh so persuasive babbles, you would never know - simply because you occasionally fell for them, too.

“So she’s resorted to trying to snack on blue and green crayons, huh?”

Speak of the devil.

“She sure has. She has also become the leader of the other kids, according to my knowledge.” You laugh in an exhausted amusement, smiling tiredly as you turn to face Changbin himself.

He looked as utterly exhausted as you felt, truly. Not that you particularly blamed the man, since he had just arrived back from working at the mechanics shop, which was already a good hour drive away from the daycare center. And just this morning, he had to make a run to another part-time job he had at the gas station closest to the middle school a few blocks away.

To put it simply, he overworked himself, constantly. While his cousin’s parents from Australia did their best to send him checks every now and then, they did still have their own family to take care of - and neither his parents or the grandparents of Eden felt the need to support him.

It was awful and cruel, in your honest opinion; how both families treated their son and granddaughter, like they were sticks in the mud. Changbin’s parents claimed that he disappointed them the second they found out he was going to drop out of any scholarship opportunities to raise Eden, and truth be told her mother’s own parents were too stricken with grief to even look at her.

Since he had no time at all to actually go to school, Changbin ended up taking three different jobs all at once just so he could support his little ball of sunshine. Anyone could see the mental exhaustion that seemed to just radiate off of him most of the time - well, except when he was with his daughter.

Whenever he was able to have time with her, its like he had the whole world in the palms of his hands. Changbin would give up everything for Eden with no hesitation, even his own dignity and respect.

“Alright sunshine, you need to say sorry to Miss Y/N,” Changbin cooed to his little girl as he scooped her up carefully from your grasp, his previously cold, almost haunting gaze switching into one of warmth and pure love, “come on baby, say sorry.”

Eden parted her lips, and for a split second the two of you shared a look of excitement - would she finally say her first word?

Then a bit of drool dribbled down her chin, not a single word or even a babble to show that she had heard her father’s encouraging plights.

“Ah, f-fudge... totally not a bad word. Nope.” Changbin nearly missed cursing, having sheepishly caught sight of your narrowed eyes when he stuttered on the dreaded ‘f-word.’

“Once she starts picking up on the things you say - and almost say, Eden will only repeat whatever her dear dad says,” you hum knowingly as you scooch closer to the pair, gently wiping the drool off of the brunette baby’s chin, “hey, isn’t her doctor’s appointment today? Or am I confusing it with next Monday?”

The man in question is about to reply when you unconsciously use the dainty yellow tissue just on his daughter’s chin to wipe off the string of drool that had fallen onto his stained blue shirt. When he doesn’t respond for a moment, you tilt your head up and quickly recognize the faint flush to his cheeks.

You should probably move your hands off of his chest - which... was pretty broad; snap out of it!

Without a word you step back, nearly stumbling in your sudden moment of sheer embarrassment. As if he too had snapped out of his stunned daze, Changbin clears his throat and nods. “I - erm, yeah no; it’s today. I have to take her home and give us both a quick bath before we go, though.”

You nod your head, willing your cheeks to not flush a deep red color as he talks. Why in the world has he suddenly gotten you so flustered and riled up?

“Hopefully it’s just an ear infection and nothing too serious,” he added, “I really don’t know if I can handle more bills, you know?”

Eden wriggles in his arms, slowly becoming restless. He leans down and softly kisses her button-nose, a cute action that always resulted with the baby giggling and grasping at her father’s cheeks.

“I doubt it is anything serious, Changbin. Don’t forget, a lot of the kids tend to get some sort of pesky infection this time of year.” You try to reassure the worried, tense man, offering him a gentle smile when he glances back up from his daughter to you.

He pauses for a second, digesting your reassuring words before he mimics your small smile, a sight that was rare to see from the normally stoic man. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I guess it’s just the first time jitters, then.” Changbin chuckles softly, readjusting his now yawning child so she could rest her puffy face in the crook of his neck.

“Call m- I mean, call the front desk if she does have an infection, please. We want to keep everything extra sanitized if any of the kids get sick.”

Nice save.

His chapped lips twitch into a hint of an amused smirk upon catching wind of your stammer, but he doesn’t call you out on it; thankfully enough. “I will, don’t worry Y/N. Hopefully both of us will see you tomorrow.” He hums, using his fingers to guide Eden’s hand into making a tiny wave before they leave, the glass door swinging shut behind them.

————————————————————————

Two weeks have passed since then with no call from Changbin. You were a bit worried, to say the least, constantly waiting at the front desk for the call that should have gone through days ago. Your co-workers kept insisting that it was no big deal, that maybe she was sicker than believed and had to stay home while she recovered.

“Think about it, Y/N - he’s still pretty new at this whole dad thing. He probably got so worked up about making sure Eden is recovering well enough that he just... forgot to call.”

That was what Mark had said, but you just couldn’t shake this awful gut feeling stirring in your stomach; something felt wrong. You hoped dearly that you were wrong, obviously. You hoped and hoped and hoped that Changbin and Eden were just fine, maybe taking time off if she was, in fact, sick, or perhaps her dotting dad had randomly taken them off on a trip for whatever reason. While the former was less likely considering his financial issues, it was all your fried brain could possibly think of.

On the fourteenth day of playing the waiting game, you just about caved and looked into the records so you could potentially call Changbin yourself - but then the phone rings, startling you so much that you nearly toppled out of the rolling chair you’d been sat in the past three hours.

You lunge to the blue phone, though you don’t answer it until you manage to properly compose yourself - you didn’t know who the caller was, but you didn’t want said caller to hear your hitched breath and voice tainted with worry.

With another deep breath, you recollect yourself and bring the phone up to your ear. “H-hello, this is Chen’s Daycare Center! How may I help you?”

“Uh, is Y/N working today?” An unfamiliar voice rings out in the speaker, causing you to quirk an eyebrow, since it sounded a bit younger than you expected - and pretty damn deep, too. “I’m Seo Changbin’s cousin, he’s Seo Eden’s dad. This is kind of important.”

“Actually, I’m Y/N - you’re Felix, right? Changbin has mentioned you before.”

The boy breathes out in what sounds like relief on the other line. “Yeah, that’s me! I don’t really have a lot of time, sorry, but there’s something... well, not wrong, but - ah fuck, I’m so bad at this,” Felix huffs, pausing to collect the words he needed to say, “basically, Eden is sick. I’m watching her right now while Bin is working, and no one else will pick up their fucking phone. Could you maybe come by his apartment, please?”

Eden is sick.

Changbin left his cousin home alone to watch Eden - while she’s sick.

Eden is sick.

You would really have to pay Jaemin and Mark back after today. “Of course! What’s the address?”

————————————————————————

You couldn’t believe that you were standing right outside of Seo Changbin’s apartment. You couldn’t comprehend that you, of all people, were knocking on the front door, snorting in amusement at the deep accented voice of his own cousin calling out with a, “just a second!”

In the corner of your wandering gaze, you smile to yourself at the sight of colorful chalk strewn onto the concrete wall of the hallway on the second floor. It was evident that Eden had drawn the pastel pink and royal blue flower and sharp green grass, and it was even more obvious by the straighter, less messy lines of the bright yellow sun and poofy white clouds that her dad had drawn that section of the cute little portrait.

Eden, unlike the other rather mischievous kids at the daycare center, preferred to messily draw on the walls instead of the floor. This quirky little trait even transpired at home, as well.

You turn back to the front door when it finally swings open, revealing a boy who couldn’t have been a year older than you or Changbin. Felix - yes, that was his name, if you remembered correctly.

Even though he was a tad bit sweaty and clearly out of breath, Felix’s ginger hair with slightly darker brown roots was somehow swept into a perfect swoop, his freckled cheeks a little flushed and red.

How adorable.

“H-hi, you must be Y/N,” he breathed out a warm greeting, not hesitating to let you wander inside the apartment before he quietly closed and locked the front door behind you, “uh, b-before you do anything, I should exp-”

“Eden!” You hum in pure joy as you walk over to where the curly haired girl was sat on a wool carpet, her back facing you. You hadn’t meant to interrupt the poor boy, but going a solid two weeks without seeing the little tyke had deprived you more than you thought possible. “Hey sweetheart, it’s Miss Y/N!”

She didn’t turn at the sound of your voice.

Not wanting to startle her too much, figuring she just hadn’t been paying enough attention to hear your familiar, happy voice, you bend down behind her and try again. “Eden? Hey, it’s me! I’m going to help Felix watch over you for a while.”

No movement, no nothing - she just sat idly in the middle of the living room, quietly playing with her wooden blocks.

Slowly, you tap on the little girl’s shoulder, finally managing to catch her attention. She practically whipped her tiny body around in excitement, letting out oddball gurgles of joy. Holding her stubby arms out, she wiggled and tried to stand up on her own two feet so she could climb into your arms; but you beat her to it, swinging her up with a gleeful smile and cradling her in your arms.

Now content with the giggling baby in your grasp, you turn back to Felix, your own wide smile fading slightly at his remorseful frown.

“She uh... Eden... you remember how I told you she’s sick?” He asked you softly, stepping closer so he could hold out a finger to her, the both of you watching as she clings onto him.

You nod in reply, prompting him to continue. “The doctors say that she has m-meningitis - technically it’s just bacterial meningitis, so not totally fatal, thank god.” He forced out a dry laugh, crinkling his eyes at Eden as she begins to nibble on the end of his finger. “Apparently she’s had it for a while, but by the time we caught on to it, it was too late. S-she’s already lost a majority of her ability to hear, so she’s partially... deaf.”

Oh no.

“They prescribed some strong antibiotics that are helping her recover, but they can’t help with her deafness. She won’t go totally deaf, hopefully, but she’ll have to learn sign language and will need hearing aids. Bin’s been beating himself up about not catching it sooner, so he’s been shutting down... he only goes to work and comes home to be with her as much as possible.”

“That’s why he didn’t call,” you murmur quietly, looking back down to the gurgling baby in your arms, noting the lack of a hearing aid as of yet, “how is he holding up? Besides what you just told me.”

Felix’s shoulders sag at your question, not that he blamed you for asking. From what he’d heard from his older cousin, you were one of the only other people that he talked to frequently and trusted enough to take care of his daughter. Other than himself and a select few co-workers from his various jobs, Changbin didn’t socialize much.

He also knew that you’d taken a liking to Eden quickly, and that in turn the father and daughter duo had gotten used to you just as fast; that in itself was pretty rare, for the dad, anyway. When neither Woojin or Minho had answered his frantic calls, he looked through the slip of paper that his elder had left him in case he needed help with Eden. One of them had been labelled ‘Daycare - Y/N.’

“He hasn’t been doing great, if I’m being honest,” he muttered, “he doesn’t really trust anyone other than me to be patient with Eden, especially now that she has to have someone around willing to walk her through everything again. He actually told me that he was going to call you, but he also mentioned that you spoke about being a bit flunked with schoolwork recently.”

Stupid, stupid Changbin - why, you would hit him when he returned from work! You constantly reminded him that you, or more so the center, was always on call in case he or the other parents needed anything. That was pretty much the policy, courtesy of the founder, Kim Jongdae, or as the kids called him, Chen. While the kids were the main priority and focus, it was also common knowledge that a handful of parents (especially newer, less experienced ones) would drop by for some tips or hands on experience.

On the other hand, you were a little less agitated with his lack of calls because he’d considered your own schedule - which had been pretty hectic for a hot minute, as you did tell him one day, but that didn’t mean you were totally off the handle. He knew that you adored Eden, as well as the other kids, and that you’d drop everything if it meant helping them.

“If I’d known about all of this, I would’ve come over to help...” you grumble under your breath, now going to follow the footsteps of the Australian boy as he makes way towards the tiny kitchenette area.

Felix chuckles at your mildly annoyed words, going to toss what looked to be a burnt pancake in the trash. “You know, he said that you would be pissed once you found out. Says that you have this natural motherly side to you.”

You blush a bit at his amused comment, but don’t try to argue against it. After all, you supposed that’s why you did so well in the childcare field; you just really liked kids and went with their flow.

“He also said that was part of what he found super hot about you,” he continued, a smirk spreading across his plump lips when your jaw dropped in shock, “he’s always talking about you, or Eden - or about how, and I quote, ‘fucking sexy it is watching an intelligent, kind woman taking care of his babygirl,’ course he says... other things, too, but I don't dare to repeat those words around his own kid.”

In an attempt to ignore the furious red blush heating up your cheeks, you clear your throat and hastily change the subject. “I’m guessing you needed m-my help with cooking lunch?”

Felix, thankfully, doesn’t bring up your sudden subject change, instead nodding sheepishly in response to your question. “I guess Bin didn't mention it, thank god, but I kind of... sort of... suck ass at cooking. Really, I just shouldn't step into a kitchen, it’s that bad.”

“Okay, okay - I’m not the best, either, but I can make some amazing mashed potatoes. And, by the way - pancakes for lunch is a fantastic idea, but not for babies.” You tease the younger boy as you make your way to the refrigerator, preparing to make the three of you a semi-decent meal.

The ginger flushes at your lighthearted teasing, but doesn’t choose to retaliate. Instead, he carefully takes a babbling Eden from your arms, giving you more space to properly make their food.

“We’ll go watch some SpongeBob, or something. Thanks for cooking, Y/N!” He calls out as he saunters out of the kitchen, bouncing and cooing at the brunette tucked safely in his grasp.

You laugh to yourself, lightly shaking your head as you pull out your phone to make sure you’ve got everything to make your lunch.

————————————————————————

Six hours have passed since the three of you were plopped down in the kitchenette, seemingly squished against the back wall with a pink and white backsplash. The dining table was a hand-me-down, likely purchased from a flea market, but you supposed it only made the small apartment all the more lovable.

You and Felix got along quite well, truth be told; he was almost the polar opposite of his older cousin, in a permanent state of bright smiles and bubbly, deep laughs that reverberated throughout the walls of the Seo household. He told cheesy jokes and switched between English and Korean if he couldn’t recall a certain word - all in all, he was simply endearing.

For now, though, the hyper boy was crashing in Changbin’s bedroom. You’d told him to get some rest since he’d apparently been at the apartment since eight in the morning and it was ticking closer to six at night. He mentioned having early classes the next day, hence why you’d shooed him off into the bedroom.

Eden was currently passed out beside you on the lavender colored couch, her head nuzzled into a beaten up Munchlax plushie that she insisted on carrying with her the entire day after lunch. She called him “Gyu,” which wasn’t technically a real word from your knowledge, but it warmed your heart to know that she could still recognize the name of the doll and actually speak it aloud.

Like Felix had mentioned before, she wasn’t fully deaf, more so 75% at a loss of her hearing; she could make out some words well enough, but she would definitely need to know sign language sooner or later.

Which was why you were scrolling through a plethora of YouTube videos in the early hours of the night, eyeballing and saving the more reliable looking ones to a playlist you’d made just thirty minutes ago. They all addressed the topic of hearing loss, both partial and in full, and some had guides on how to sign things such as the alphabet or more specific words. You saved tons of videos, ranging from English sign language to Korean sign language - just in case.

Invested in your journey to saving as many useful videos as you possibly could, you don’t hear the distinct sound of keys jingling on the other side of the front door, nor do you hear said door quietly opening and closing.

“Y/N?” A familiar voice tears you out of your focused state, making you jump in surprise. “What... are you doing here?”

You tilt your head up from the bright screen of your phone, flushing slightly under Changbin’s tired yet inquisitive stare. “Felix - Felix called me earlier, said he needed help with Eden.” You breathe out quietly, almost inaudibly to the curious man in front of you.

Tired as he was, he still looked absolutely stunning. On Monday’s, he’d go to work in a car dealership instead of the mechanics shop downtown - meaning that he kind of had to dress a bit better than he usually did, in terms of professionalism.

He was clad in a somewhat scruffy black suit, fitted well to his body but a tad wrinkled from his day at work. He also sported black slacks and shiny shoes with a classic red tie; although you assumed it was one his daughter had pointed out while shopping, since it was adorned with white butterflies.

“Oh - s-so he probably told you about her, erm... problem.” Changbin stuttered out, beginning to unbutton the top of his suit, not noticing how your cheeks heated up at the innocent action.

You also stutter out a soft “yes” in reply, averting your gaze as he tosses the suit aside onto the arm of a stray chair nearby, revealing a tight-fitting white polo shirt.

“I... I would’ve called, I fucking swear, Y/N... I just didn't know what to say. I mean, how fucking bad of a dad must I appear to be, not knowing that my babygirl was suffering this entire time?” His voice cracks as he curses at himself, and for a split second he steps aside to crash into the wobbly chair; but by then you’ve shot up from your place on the plush couch, your fingers wrapped around his wrist to hold him in place.

“You are not a bad dad, Changbin; far from it, actually,” you retort quickly before he can argue back, reassuringly squeezing his wrist at the same time, “please, don’t beat yourself up over this. Eden needs you to be strong right now, more than ever. You’re her entire world, she can’t lose you because you wrongly blame yourself-”

And with that, he crumbles into your arms, breathing heavily as he finally, finally lets his walls down. The man, just barely touching twenty years of life, a single dad to the most beautiful little girl in the whole world, finally gives into his emotions.

You don’t even flinch at the feeling of a tear staining your neck, or at the feeling of the raven haired man sobbing quietly against your shoulder. Opting to release his wrist in favor of bringing him into a tight embrace, you soothingly rub on the back of his white polo shirt, uttering soft words of reassurance.

Neither of you notice, but Felix had woken up by the time Changbin had first started to rant; in fact, he’d been silently leaning against the frame of the hallway when his elder cousin, who he considered his brother, crashed into your arms and started crying.

Changbin needed someone to help him heal, and in Felix’s eyes, you were just the right person to do so.

————————————————————————

Changbin was no longer an enigma, in your eyes.

You found out a lot about Seo Changbin in the following months, more than you ever would have thought you would know, in all honesty.

Like... how the Munchlax plushie Eden practically stuck to like glue used to be his, and that he even used it during and after his high school years; he would’ve kept using it, too, if it hadn’t been for the fact that his daughter had claimed it so quickly after she’d been born.

You also learned that the raven haired man had just, always been expected to go into the medical field when he was growing up; he didn't quite resent that, he simply didn’t have the same burning passion for it as he did with producing his own music.

You loved his music, too; it was so raw and real to you, especially with the tracks he still hadn’t finished since he was so caught up with working to support himself and Eden. He had three that stood out to you, although they still weren’t titled, lest you count the numbers indicating the folders they were long since abandoned in.

The first one was about falling out of love, and you could only assume it retold the story of how he had slowly fallen out of love with the mother of his child. It wasn’t as solemn as it was angry, his words harsh yet heartfelt as he wrote out how he was so, so thankful to Eden’s mother for giving birth to her, gifting him with the most wonderful little girl in the universe. He was angry that he wasn’t “better” for her, that he couldn’t love her anymore the way she had so desperately loved him.

The second one was purely all about Eden, or as he called her, his miracle. Yes, being a single dad with little to no outside support brought a shit ton of stress into his previously relaxed, simple life, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He’d poured his soul into the parts he did actually finish, and you were sure that Eden would beg him to finish it one day.

The third one was definitely your favorite, though you weren’t quite sure why. Changbin had made the song in his own attempt to rekindle his joy for producing, you supposed. He referred to two people simply called “CB97″ and “J.ONE” a fair amount, citing them as the sole people who helped him grow a love for rapping and making music; perhaps they could be reunited, one day.

Something else that stood out to you, not about his music, but himself, was that Seo Changbin was a sensitive person, for lack of a better term.

When Eden has finally gotten her hearing aids, he teared up. Then, they were turned on and he called out to her, only to have her respond with a bright “dada!” Then he full on sobbed, grappling onto your arm in the doctor’s office as his babygirl was given the chance to properly hear the world again.

He also cried when Felix had to go back home to Australia for a month so he could finish his freshman year of college - only for both of you to find out that he was going to move to South Korea for the rest of his college years. He and a friend had rented out the lone apartment right under Changbin’s.

Even now, you could faintly recognize a small sniffle that escaped his otherwise quiet persona. The two of you were on your weekly “date night,” as Jisung and Chenle called it, though you hastily insisted otherwise; not that... you would have minded if it were true.

“Hey, Y/N?” He murmured softly to you in the middle of the chilly night, his hands tucked safely in the warm pockets of his gray hoodie while you walked side by side through the heart of the city.

It was a Saturday night, so obviously the sidewalks and streets were infested with loud crowds and bright, flashing neon lights. You both were just heading back to his apartment after a night of drinking at a quaint but lively bar that one of his friends owned, not totally drunk, but tipsy enough to stick close to each other to the point where your fingers would occasionally brush against his.

“Mm, yeah, Binnie?”

You didn't quite catch how his cheeks flushed in the pale moonlight, or how his breath momentarily hitched in his throat at the nickname. “I - do you -”

“Spit it out, Binnie - if you don’t say whatever it is you wanna say now, you’ll forget by the time we get back to the apartment.” You hummed knowingly, having gotten drunk with the man before; needless to say, he frequently forgot what he was going to say mid-sentence, or he just got off topic for no real rhyme or reason.

“... I was w-wondering, d’you want to move in, with me and Eden?” He blurted out suddenly, albeit softly, nervously, with a hint of a drunk stammer to his voice.

Now, to put it lightly, you were the complete opposite of Changbin when you were drunk; even mildly tipsy. While he would cut himself off and put his thoughts aside, you tended to be very, very blunt and straightforward.

“Sure, why not? Dunno where I’ll sleep, though.” You shrugged honestly, content with the little diddy you were humming under your breath.

Your partner pauses in the middle of the moving crowd, attracting a few disgruntled grumbles and curses as everyone forces themselves to snake around your bodies on the paved sidewalk. Noticing he’d fully stopped, you turn back around to meet his doe-eyed gaze, confusion plastered on your face. “What? Did I say something?”

“Y-you actually-? You really want to mo-move in with us?” He exhaled in disbelief, his airy breaths forming into a thin, transparent puff of chilled air.

Feeling much more confident in your slightly tipsy state, you march towards him, right in front of him, actually; and nod surely. “Mhm. Is that why you were sniffling a second ago? Because you were worried I’d say no or something?” You ask him innocently, only to giggle when he gulps and nods in reply. “Wow, you must be pretty dense, Binnie-”

“W-what?”

“Cause’ I really fucking like you, and Eden, obviously - you’re really attentive and a great dad, which is like, reaaally attractive. Oh -! Not to mention Eden is the cutest baby in the whole wide world!” You say with full confidence, lips curled into a sweet yet bold grin, stretching your arms out into the cold air just to further your point.

Without warning, Changbin’s hands latch themselves onto your waist before he manages to maneuver your back against an out-of-order vending machine. His chest presses against yours and his breaths fan out onto your parted lips.

“Good, cause’ I really fucking like you too.” Is the last thing he says before he smashes his lips against yours, melding them together even though you were both in public, pressed against a vending machine of all things.

But - you could’ve cared less.

From then on it’s a giant blur of motions, the last part you remember ending with his knee rubbing up between your thighs with his hands tangled in your hair.

————————————————————————

You wake up with a soft gasp, eyelids snapping open to be greeted with the sight of closed blinds and Changbin - wait, was that... Eden, tucked in between your bodies?

Your sudden sounds cause the man opposite of you to wake up with a low groan, his eyes much slower and reluctant to open. But when they do, his lips part to mimic your surprised gasp from mere seconds ago.

“The fuck did we do last night?” His voice comes out quiet and gravely, involuntarily making your poor heart pound wildly in your chest.

“I - I think we crashed as soon as we got back.” You answer him, gesturing between your bodies as you silently point out that the both of you were still very much clothed and, thankfully, not completely naked in any sense of the word.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck we didn’t, well, fuck. Not that... I would mind, but Felix would’ve killed me since he was stuck watching Eden last night.” Changbin corrects himself with a deep blush, looking down at the sleeping form tucked neatly beneath the giant gray blanket engulfing a majority of the bed.

You giggle at how he covered up his words, sleepily smiling at the flushed man.

There’s a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes following that instance, your eyes flickering all over his bare, somewhat bloated features. He had a hint of purple bags under his eyes, though they were much better if you were to compare them with the sagging of his eyelids from when you’d first met him almost a full year ago; met again, technically. There’s a blemish or two dotting his puffed, red cheeks, but it only added to his charm. Not to mention his adorable bedhead and morning voice.

“Did you - did you really mean what you said, last night?” Changbin eventually broke the silence, opening his eyes once more to blink and take in your calm demeanor. “Y’know, with... the whole ‘really fucking like me’ thing, and the moving in with us deal.”

It’s your turn to blush at his teasing words as he recalls your mildly drunken state from the night before, a small smirk gracing his sleepy features. “Of course I meant what I said, Binnie - to both things.” You reply honestly, shifting in his bed so you could carefully tug the comfy gray blanket under your chin and over Eden’s exposed shoulder to keep her nice and warm.

“Good - that’s, really good.” Is all he says, suddenly caught up with staring at your sweet smile and pink tinted cheeks. “God, I really want to kiss you again.” He mutters, brown eyes fixated on your lips.

“I want to kiss you too.” You hum quietly, drinking in the little sunlight that manages to peek through the mostly closed blinds, the shadows casting a warm glow onto his and Eden’s figures.

He nibbles on his bottom lip for a moment, knowing that neither of you would dare risk waking up Eden just for a quick peck or a lazy morning make-out session.

You shiver in anticipation when his fingers suddenly move to your side of the bed and clamp onto one of your hands, then you’re left to become a blushing mess as Changbin brings your cold knuckles up to his lips, pressing a warm, delicate kiss to your skin.

“I’m so glad that you’re here, love.”

“I am too, Binnie. I am too.”

end.

#seo changbin #stray kids #skz #stray kids imagine #stray kids scenario #stray kids texts #stray kids drabble #stray kids fic #skz imagine #skz moodboard #skz angst #skz au #skz fic #changbin scenario #changbin fic #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst

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mikesmokelotsa · 5 years

Text

Shore Leave

The environmental readouts were nominal numbers, indicating no toxins to be found within the vicinity of Yaath, the fourth most resource-intensive restaurant within the Hades Gamma quadrant. The atrium of the spired, glistening silver purple architecture folded in a stock fourth-dimensional pattern, oscillating in between different frequencies of time, showing little hints of the space the building held, would hold, and had held, in a kaleidoscope designed by minds long forgotten to the records of The Federation Alliance. Bustling about hurriedly were many different servers, some multi-limbed, others non-humanoid, bio-mechanical, and others literally Servers, as the place was newly networked to work with any standard UniCom, making ordering a dish from the far spiral end of the galaxy as simple as thinking of it. The glittering spires, the permanent UV adjusted sun, held aloft in a permanent stasis of cold fusion, providing light but no warmth, was the proudest display of bio-diversity and hospitality in a quadrant unknown for its tolerance. The breeze simulated; it blew itself across many dining tables in the Simu-Deck, rustling the antique paper napkins on the table of an engineer, and a First Officer having dinner.

"It's multi-dimensional. A kind of temporal-spatially electrified version of what they might call obsidian on Ancient Earth. Even though there are no igneous minerals involved. I guess it's kind of a nebular quartz that appears only here in this quadrant? I've always wanted to see it." The Engineer said, wrapping their eating utensils in the paper napkins, like they'd seen in old Terran records.

"It's beautiful." Said The First Officer, placing one hand on the table, the other reaching for her glass.

"I always thought about coming here, but as a reward. Not really as a before kind of thing."

"It's shore leave. We have to have shore somewhere." The First Officer touched her UniCom, and closed her eyes. "What are you getting, honey?"

"More wine."

"It is shore leave!" The Engineer touched their UniCom, and thought about a delicious bowl of grated Zyxtium, a favorite edible mineral from adolescence.

In a flash their UniComs sent their thoughts through the networked airwaves reaching the chefs inside, whose concoctions crafted aromas that permeated throughout Yaath and into the simu-outdoor deck, the false sun beaming down on a bright, perfectly crafted blue-silver sky, that shined the constellations from your home solar system, based on your UniCom preferences. The Engineer recognized Cassiopeia, and Kolara, and C#11408-B, from their studies at Academy. The Engineer had no constellations from their own solar system, being wiped out in The Third Dirge.

"What are you thinking about, love?"

"The Future."

"Mmm." The Engineer reached for the drone delivering the food and drinks.

"It's going to be...Even more than we previously expected. It's looking like a lot more."

"That's why we plan. That's why we know that this next system is important. Uncharted new worlds are always terrifying."

"The problem is always difficult. How do we make our presence unknown to Class 5 civilizations anymore? Is this the right way even? I don't know sometimes." The First Officer looked wistfully at the projected shifting spires, the ones that reminded her of the mountains from Eden Prime. The clouds shifted into a shape not entirely unlike an elephant, then just as quickly disapparated.

"Careful. You know that Captain Kass has a plan. Why do you think we were even given shore leave? I'm sure she's on an away mission getting some vital part needed to chart this new system safely and securely."

"I'm not losing faith in our Captain, I just feel so restless. So emotional and distraught. I know on some level, intellectually I'm worth it, worth having this title, this uniform, and working directly alongside the Captain is like, trying to..."

"...Trying to describe magnetism to an organic infant."

"Quaint! But sure!" The First Officer laughed.

"I know what you mean. The few times I've been on the bridge I've felt it. That powerful sense of energy, of confidence, of love and care."

"Yes, The Captain exudes it with all her being, and it's like nobody else notices it? Or takes it for granted that She'll Figure It All Out At The End, and whenever I tell people that I worry for her, that I worry for the crew, for the ship itself, everyone thinks I'm doubting. That there's some criticism or judgment I'm making."

"When the truth is only the opposite."

"Yes!"

The Engineer drank their wine in a single gulp, while taking bites of algae-loaf, each mouth taking care to breathe in between chews and swallows. A drone wizzed by, playing a simple midi-tune, with a screen that flashed CONTINUE PLAYING??? ONLY 2 CREDITS! The First Officer touched her UniCom and thought it away. The Engineer thought it back, and bought four extra tunes to play.

"I don't doubt the Captain's plan. I know that this is our best chance really. I know it's all thought out and safe but... Whenever we enter a new system, it's the Captain who's the most vulnerable you know? They represent us all. They live and die on it."

"I've calibrated the stealth systems religiously for the last fourteen rels. I promise you, they're primed and absolutely our best chance at all of this going peacefully and promisingly."

"I know."

"I don't work next to her, but I admire the Captain endlessly. I just need you to know that even though you worry about her, I'm sure she's considered you in the full equation of things too, you know?"

"Yeah." The First Officer gazed into her glass of wine.

It reflected her augmented irises, which asked her for approval to analyze the alcohol content of her beverage. She canceled the prompt with a blink.

The Spires shifted and spun. For a second, flames burst from within them, showing a day in the future when Yaath may catch fire, or a day in the past when it did. It burned now too. The sky shifted to a super-intelligent shade of neon purple. It began to sing. The midi-drones chimed in.

MENTAL CHEMICALS

POSEIDON'S CHORUS JOINS FOR US

LOSING CONTROL INSIDE OF TIME

GUIDING FORWARD INSIDE OF MIND

DOES THIS ONE HAVE CONTROL

ABYSSAL ABYSSAL ABYSSAL

The Engineer looked at The First Officer, who leaned back in her seat, sipping her glass. She listened to the skysong, and closed her eyes. She looked beautiful, and around her glowed an aura only visible on a spectrum human eyes couldn't see. The Engineer noted to paint or draw it for her one day, as there were no words to fully describe it in her language.

"You shine when you talk about The Captain you know."

"I know, you've told me before."

"It's just very bright!"

"It is?"

"It is."

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"It was at Academy wasn't it?"

"No, I mean, when we met met."

"Oh."

"Yeah. That was a dark time, I know."

"No it's okay, I don't mind talking about it with you. You're the only one who I can really even talk about it with."

"I think about it all the time."

"What? Why!?"

"Because even though The Agamemnon was a nightmare, it was when we made it out, and when we got into that escape pod together, and that we even made it out of that place, before that madness began to take everyone."

"I don't know. I never want to think about the things I saw that day. The things Primrose did to the crew. To himself. To you..."

The Engineer held their biomechanical hand up to The First Officer's cheek. They wiped away a tear from her eye, taking her temperature, feeling her heartbeat, her mineral and nutritional readouts, the compositions of all the chemicals inside of her, they could feel the raised levels of cortisol, adrenaline and salinity dilution, probably from excess rehydrating.

"I can raise your serotonin levels, babe, if you want?"

"No, thanks though. I'd rather do it the old fashioned way." With that, The First Officer finished her wine, and leaned across the dining table, pulling The Engineer close.

They kissed.

"I'll never forget it, my love. When I saw you in that hallway, those radiation vents cooking you. The way you moved. The way you helped Augustine until the very last moment. Before they were cooked in that thing. Before you were cooked in that thing! And how I wondered and doubted and had so many doubts and mixed feelings about being a Second Officer, and every single time I think about it I think about how you deserved that credit. That is was you and your strength, and your capacity to withstand things mere humans cannot. That there's no way I would've been able to to do the same for you. I felt so small and weak and scared. I remember feeling so trapped and knowing Primrose was coming specifically for me, and the whole Artifact was just a goose chase for him to get us locked into that course into the gas giant. I want to forget about it all but I just can't, and even though I'm so afraid and embarrassed I'm still happy that I survived! That I made it out and with my sanity intact. That we both did together. No matter how many recommendations I put forward, no matter how much I suggested you get this promotion, because I outrank you, they gave me the credit. It's nonsense! It's an injustice and it isn't right! I can't even think about how much you gave to be here, to have me be here, and I think about how you're still an engineer, and how you deserve to be on the bridge with me, by the Captain's side!"

"Oh, sweetheart. You know I'd love nothing more than that, but I'm an engineer. They need me down in the depths of the ship. They need my solutions. My expertise."

"I know. You're so amazingly smart. I can't even imagine."

"I can show you if you like?"

"You're always full of surprises. Of course!" The First Officer chuckled through tears.

The Engineer reached their hand, interweaving their seven organic digits with the fingers of The First Officer. Their hands clasped together, The Engineer closed their eyes, and touched their UniCom, activating a homemade program they had been working on in between missions, just for this occasion, on one of the few planned allotments of shore leave before venturing into the uncharted Darkspace. The program began to run, and the bio-mechanical parts of The Engineer began to whirr and flicker as the information was channeled into bio-electric energy, synced up to their UniComs, united their minds in a singular vision.

They stood alone, surrounded in off grey to white. They faced each other.

Before them was a great blue sea, a vast archipelago, each floating with all manner of glorious things, some with foods from all over the universe, others with media handpicked from thousands of FedAlliance cultures, others with activities in abundance, and all within a thought's distance away. The Engineer showed how it worked, and reached down into the island, picking it up with their hand and expanding it into full scale. They were now on a beach. The sand crunched under their feet.

"I don't think sand is supposed to crunch like that!" The First Officer joked, cracking a mischevious smile. The tears fading from her face, indistinguishable from the work of the program or not.

"I'll get the hang of it eventually."

"I know you will. I can't believe you made all this yourself! This is incredible!"

"What's really incredible? Is how much time it took to get the time flux equations right. I dunno how they do it here in Hades Gamma, fourth-dimensional thinking is tough even for me."

"Time Flux? Like a dilation?"

"Yeah, but mentally induced through my biomechanics."

The Engineer reached down and expanded a small island onto the top of a table that was thought into existence.

"Here, try this."

The Engineer handed The First Officer a square that had a picture of a laser sword on it. She placed it into her mouth and saw a saga told in nine parts immediately as if she had lived it herself. Every struggle, every hope and dying wish of an ancient republic from an impossibly long time ago, and the battles made in its last dying days, and the violent but inevitable reclamation of that republic from the empire that conquered it. She watched them all grow, and die, and begin again. It was lifetimes.

"End program." The Engineer said.

The First Officer shook her head and looked up at The Engineer, who was smiling.

"Did you like it? All of that only took two minutes in Terran time. I know we've got a long way to go after this leave, and that the next mission is vital but deeply uncertain. And I just wanted to make something so that we'd have time. That's what the program is really. It's time. For us. We can see and do all the things we've wanted to in there, and it's only a fraction of the time out here."

The First Officer smiled.

"Then let's stay here."

"I want to, but I'm scared."

"You don't need to be. We're all going to be okay. You've convinced me of that now."

"It's not that I mean, I didn't even do anything!"

"You know you don't have to. You just do. By being here."

"Even though I'm not actually there, there?" Said The Engineer, with heavy hearts.

"But you are. And you will be. And you always have been."

"I love you. I cannot wait for us to be on mission together again."

"I love you too. The bottom deck feels so far away from you, even though we're still on the same ship, we're thousands of miles away from each other."

"Do you think we'll get to see each other in atmo before shore leave ends?"

"Maybe."

The Engineer got a red alert on their diagnostics screen, telling them a fusion coupling had come undone or corroded. It was the kind of problem that required manual maintenance.

"Oh no!" The Engineer cried, giving away the seriousness of their dismay.

"Go save it. Go do it, darling." Said The First Officer, knowing exactly how this played out.

"I'm not! I don't want to leave you! But if I don't look into this well..."

"Go ahead, darling. Do what you do. Save the decks. Keep the engines burning so I can guide us on the bridge. Keep us safe. And stay alive!"

"I'll try!" The Engineer said with a wink and a kiss.

"I love you."

"I love you so much."

Then The Engineer faded away in a flicker. Like a telemetry signal suddenly dropping off the spectrum. Their form leaving behind the unprojected canvas The Engineer was occupying, revealing the food, bowls, and utensils were actually unused the entire time. A side effect of Yaath's 1-1 Hard Light projection tech.

The Engineer closed their UniCom connection to Yaath. They leaned back into their chair and began to upload their program before making their way to the fusion couplers, both mouths smiling wide.

The First Officer sat at the dining table, and a midi-drone buzzed nearby. She thought at it, making it play a song she had heard The Engineer humming one day, while fixing a manifold. It was soft and sweet, and had a few harsh notes that made the melody blend with the way the sky sang, a newer tune, one that rose and shined with lucid hope, and the suns setting behind the spires, now showing a thousand different lifetimes celebrating a moment, whether it was a birthday, or a victory, or a New Cycle, or an end to a long, hard-fought war. But they were happy, and they were smiling, and The First Officer took solace in that for them, their past times were forever here.

She leaned back, and a drone refilled her glass of wine. It asked:

"Do you feel better? A standard Yaathian greeting. Hospitality planet and all.

"Yes." She said. "I'm feeling much better. Much."

She sighed, but lovingly.

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bonernas · 5 years

Text

A Song of Bobs and Berts

Part 1/7

Word Count: 2,370

Disclaimer: This is a crackfic about the different Bobsonas, based on actor Robert Downey Jr. and his questionable fashion sense. It also includes some hints on other people and things related to the MCU. For more info about the Bobsonas and their respectful creators, please check the link below!

Warnings: rated T, no Bobs were harmed in the making of this fic, mentions of (use of) drugs, swearing, I used the slur “frog eater” at one point, this is a mobster fic set in the noire genre so blood, weapons and violence might become a thing, skipped the typical homophobia and racism tho but a lot of people use roids and crystal

Summary: When Bobster Di Seta, one of Twunky Town's most feared mobsters, finds out that Boberto Laineux, brother of Bobster's arch enemy, Robert "The Bobfather" Laineux, was elected the city’s new mayor, he needs to put an end to the reign of the french mafia. To infiltrate the Laineux family and increase the sales of his own drugs, he orders his handsome underling, Steeb, to seduce the only heir of the Bobfather: Bobling Laineux, the doe-eyed billionare playboy. But just when Steeb discovers that there's more to the young mobster than good looks and sassy one-liners, their blooming romance is put to the test by a cold-blooded murder. Will the only unbribable cop of Twunky Town's police force solve this case before the city falls into war? Or will the rivalry of the two mobster clans turn everything into ashes?

A Story based on the RDJ spectrum

Chapter One - A Game of Bobs

Some people might say this is a love story. Some might call it a thriller. Most people would consider it a waste of ink and paper. To be completely honest with you, it’s probably a mix of all three. It’s the story of how I lost not only my job and my sanity, but also my glossy natural curls. It’s the story of my last case.

The year’s 1947. I was a young and ambitious detective at the Twunky Town Police Department, just recently promoted to work at vice. The two rivaling mobster clans, the Di Seta’s and the Laineux’, ruled the city with a firm grip, and the vice squad had their vision plastered with enough bribe to just clean up the aftermath of the drug wars. But not me. I was determined to not become some gangster’s puppet. I joined the TTPD to serve law and justice and not some french mafioso in a scarlet mink and a collection of ridiculous fedoras. But let’s begin with the day it all started going downhill.

The shattering of glass cut through the peaceful atmosphere, followed by a pressed “goddammit!”. Hay rustled when some of the alpacas shifted nervously, moving to the outskirts of the wide, luxurious stable and further away from the angry human and his spilled drink on the fenced patio.

“Mr. Di Seta? You need some help?” A young, blonde man appeared in the top half of one of the dutch doors, hesitant to enter.

Bobster Di Seta, head of the mobster clan, turned down the volume of his oversized mahogany radio and inhaled deeply, one time, two times. He resisted the urge to snap at his subordinate, took one last deep breath and turned around, calm and contained.

“Steeb. Yes, clean up this mess. Make sure to pick up all the shards. I can’t let anything happen to these fluffy little beasts. They cost me enough money already.”

Steeb didn’t bother to open the bottom half of the door and just casually hopped over it, his broad shoulders only one inch from getting stuck in the frame. Bobster caught himself staring a second too long at his employee carefully picking up the broken glass with long, slim fingers. The boy was as meaty and handsome as he was eager to please his boss, and Bobster had to admit that he’d like to give the boy a... promotion. For his good work of course.

“You need anything else, Sir?” The sound of Steebs voice retrieved Bobster from his daydreams, back into the barn with his whiskey spilled on the tiles and the radio silently humming in the background. He almost forgot what made him drop the glass in the first place. Bobster reached over to the small bistro table he usually took his lunch at and grabbed one of the empty crystal bowls, holding it out to Steeb and gestured him to drop the shards into it.

“Can’t have you cut your pretty fingers, right boy?”, he hummed as he placed the bowl back. Steeb, uncertain what to do with his now empty hands, shoved them into the pockets of his slacks, watching his boss strolling over to the railing that separated the patio from the rest of the stable, filled with the most exquisite alpacas in Twunky Town. He’d always wondered why someone would want to brunch in a barn filled with llamas, but he assumed you had to be somewhat extravagant to lead a mob.

Bobster let his eyes wander over the peaceful scenery, the sturdy little camelids cuddled up in heaps of hay, grooming each other or just enjoying the warm patches of winter sun that the broad windows casted on the floor. And that was when he came up with his plan.

“You heard the news already, Steeb?”, Bobster asked as he turned around and faced the nervous blonde after minutes of silence. Steeb frowned.

“Uhm... you mean the election results? Boberto Laineux won with absolute majority, right?”

“Damn right you are, boy. Boberto Laineux, new mayor of Twunky Town. No way this whole election wasn’t rigged. I’d bet half my alpacas his older brother Robert just killed all the voters he couldn’t buy. You heard of him?”

“The Bobfather? Sure did”, Steve blurted, but fell silent when Bobster inhaled sharply with a pained look.

“Don’t- don’t call him Bobfather. His ego is overfed already. Double-faced little bastard. None of my products could ever stand a chance against his Bonguettes and Crystal Crêpes, but did I blame him for that? No, I did my research, I ran tests, and put all my heart and money into a high-end designer steroid based on alpaca saliva. And what did that greedy little frog eater do? Flood the market with down-washed dumpster roids. Swoleabaisse... what kind of name is that even?!”

Steeb shifted nervously. He already heard that Alpacked, the high society’s new anabolic, didn’t sell as well as intended, the french mafia still having the upper hand in drug sales. With the Bobfather’s brother in the mayor’s office it would be even harder to compete against Swoleabaisse’s immense success. Steeb had been a part of the Di Seta clan for barely two years, but he felt like he owed them something for taking him in. A few weeks more on the streets and he’d probably been forced to sell his body for food and shelter. Seeing his boss fed up over these bad news made him quite desperate to help.

“So... what’re we gonna do about Boberto?” Steeb asked. Bobster raised a brow and flashed him a smirk.

“How considerate of you to ask what we are doing about this, Steeb”, he hummed. Slow and smooth he approached the taller man, came to a halt mere inches from his broad chest and looked up, tilting his head and savoring how the blonde’s cheeks flushed under his glare.

“Tell me, boy, if I’d ask you to help me put an end to the Laineux’ reign, would you help me?”

“O-of course, Sir!”

“And if I asked you to do so by infiltrating the french mafia and seducing Robert’s only child, would you still help me?”

Steeb frowned for a second. He had heard of the Bobfather’s heir, Bobling Laineux. Handsome, intelligent, but more interested in throwing parties and crashing venues at his father’s nightclubs than in running a mob. Steeb was well aware of his effect on other people, but he was sure that Laineux Junior was still way out of his league. “Well, I could try... I guess?”

Bobster threw his hands up so suddenly that some of the alpacas nearby startled and stared at him indignantly. “Then it’s settled. Go and meet with Maria, she’ll take care of.. well, whatever you might want to call this outfit. Get yourself dolled up and meet me for dinner at the manor for more details.” Bobster patted Steebs arm and couldn’t resist to give it a light squish. Then, before things could start to get awkward, he quickly strut over to the broad wooden stable door and slipped out into the chilly February afternoon, leaving Steeb with his thoughts and a herd of equally confused llamas.

I didn’t know it then, but young Steeb and I were at the very same venue that night. It was an open secret that Robert “The Bobfather” Laineux had every cop, starting from patrol way up to the chief, under his wing - and he made sure to keep it that way by pampering us every now and then.

And that’s how I found myself crammed between Twunky Town’s rich and famous, pompous chandeliers dangling over my head, faintly glistening in the smoke-filled air of the ballroom. With my colleagues gone the minute we entered and nothing to hold onto but my ideals and a scotch worth a months salary, I roamed through the maze of leather chairs and heavy brocade tablecloths. I found a seat at the very brink of the dance floor, slightly hidden by a huge bouquet of exotic flowers; perfect to sit all by myself and brood over my drink. At a corner table, several feet from my location, a certain young fella was about to make a move.

Steeb ran a hand through his hair for what must’ve been the hundredth time this night. Thank God Maria had used more pomade than he did all week - most of it was probably gone by now. He nipped on his drink and let his gaze drift through the ballroom again, stopping at the corner table like he did all evening.

There he sat, surrounded by a hoard of coquettishly giggling guys and gals, ruffling their opulent gowns and tinkling with heaps of colourful gems. But the young mobster didn’t need any of this. The creamy white suit, hugging his slim shape perfectly, made him stand out like a pearl in an ornament of glass beads. The colour of his dress shirt was the same deep scarlet tone as his château, and the teasing glare he shot over the brim was of the same chocolatey brown as his curls.

Goodness gracious, Steeb really was way out of his league.

But, he was here, he was all dressed up and he had a mission. Just as he decided to down the rest of his drink and finally make a move, his target excused himself and got up. While his admirers continued their chatter, he made a beeline for the bar Steeb was sitting at, casually leaning on the counter next to him.

“Hey, sailor. Don’t think I’ve seen you here before?”, Bobling Laineux hummed with a small nip from his wine, sizing him up cheekily. Steeb felt the mobster’s eyes trace every hint his navy blue suit gave away, and to be honest, it made him tingly. He shifted in his seat, signing for another drink before he faced the handsome mobster, flashing him what he hoped to be a playful smile.

“Nope, my first time here actually”, he answered. Bobling cocked an eyebrow, eyeing the tall blonde up and down a second time. Steeb felt his hands get sweaty. Damn, Bobster really set him up with the sharpest guy in town. Too bad it was all a scam.

“Well, I’d be thrilled to ask you for the first dance then”, Bobling smirked. He didn’t wait for a response, took Steebs hand and gently pulled him on the dance floor. A few other couples were already dancing around them, and they smoothly fit into the fast rhythm of the swing band.

Steeb wasn’t much of a dancer, but with Bobling, he forgot time and place. They twirled and twisted, only inches from the other guests but somehow miles away. Neither of them spoke much, small talk felt superfluous when each others company was more than enough. Long, intense glares, an occasional smirk and a hand lingering on the small of his back just a few more seconds than necessary, it didn’t take more to make Steeb feel all flustered after the third song.

The band paused and the lights dimmed slightly, a spotlight illuminating the center of the stage. Accompanied by cheers and applause, a lady dressed in emerald green joined the band. Steeb and Bobling mimicked the other couples drawing nearer, slowly swaying to the soft tunes of a ballad. Way closer than before now, Steeb caught a faint hint of Bobling’s exquisite cologne that sent shivers down his spine. He gave his beau a small twirl, and when he tucked Bobling back in, chests flush against each other and his stormy blue gaze meeting shimmering obsidian, it felt like there was no one but the two of them.

“Well, sailor. I don’t think you’ve told me your name yet.” Bobling sounded as suave and playful as always, but the soft pink that tinted his cheeks gave away his true feelings.

“Dorito. Steeb Dorito. A pleasure, Mr. Laineux.”

Oh Jesus, did his voice really sound that croaky? So much for playing it cool. Why didn’t he ask Bobling to leave bite marks on his neck straightaway? That would be way less obvious. Bobling just smiled and said nothing for a few more twirls. But when the song ended and all the other couples stopped for a round of applause, the mobster’s gaze remained on Steeb before he spoke.

“Tell me, darling, if you’d flutter with those long lashes of yours, would I feel a breeze on my skin?”

Steeb smirked. His hand gripped the younger man’s waist more tightly as he leaned in just a few inches, his voice dark and husky as he answered.

“Why don’t you come closer and find out yourself?”

Will Bobling continue to be a thirsty hoe for Steeb? Will Bobster’s evil plan succeed? Will the author get carried away by RDJs everlasting sexappeal again? Will the plot remain a wild mix of cringy crackfic and blooming romance? Will the alpacas ever overcome their trauma? Will there ever be a person, drug or location with a name not mutilated to the point where I should slap myself for writing it? Find out in the next chapter!

A/N: English is not my first language and this is actually the first piece of fiction I didn’t write in German. Therefore my punctuation and grammar might be a bit off sometimes but cc is highly appreciated!

Btw, you can also read this story on ao3!

#the rdj spectrum #bobsonas #rdj #young rdj #bobling #crack fic #a song of bobs and berts #asobab #a game of bobs #jfc will i ever stop editing this post i'm sorry guys #own post

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jokersmild · 5 years

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I still owe a number of things, but I wanted to take the time to explain my interpretation of the Joker's romantic inclinations - particularly in regards to Harley Quinn and Batman. Heads up that this is incredibly long, hence the readmore!

To understand the Joker, you have to first understand that he is completely and utterly insane. That's not to say that he doesn't follow logic or make rational decisions, simply that if normality is a spectrum with pale house, picket fence, a 9-5 job, and two pets on one side, the Joker is on the exact opposite side. He is the embodiment of chaos, and so he cannot feel 'love' or anything similar in the way that the average, mentally sound human can. Love is something that he's capable of processing - he loves jokes, he loves violence and death - but when it comes to loving creatures that are alive, what he feels would be more comparable to curiosity in varying levels. At his most curious, you have Batman and Harley Quinn. His least curious would likely be harmless animals, newborn babies, and mundane tasks. The more curious about something the Joker is, the longer he keeps it around, and the more he attempts to mold it to fit a shape he finds most pleasing.

I'm sure most of you who have read this far already know the story of how he came to meet Harley Quinn, but just in case, I'll summarize briefly. She worked as a psychologist fresh out of college at Arkham and talked her way into getting Joker as her first patient. She wanted to write a story on him to gain fame and fortune, but he ended up seducing and manipulating her, turning her into the Harley you know today. The reason he put so much effort into twisting her into something he finds pleasing is because he saw her potential on their very first meeting. The Joker is incredibly intelligent, especially socially, and is capable of picking up on the subtlest of hints. He spent (likely) somewhere around a year as he patient, testing her, prodding for minute details like her favorite colors, her hobbies, and her grades in school, and given all that time, he was able to learn enough about her past and personality to successfully get inside her head. The more she fell for his lies, the more she stretched as he pulled, the more he wanted to do more. She became an experiment of sorts, a test to see just how much he could change this prim and proper pencil skirt wearing doctor to someone like him - a murderous clown who views life as a joke. When she finally snapped and became 'Harley Quinn', he had intended to toss her aside, since his test had been a success and there was nothing more to see. But she continued to surprise him. She proved herself to be competent as a henchman where no others had before, she proved that she could match his pace, complement his theatrical appearance and mannerisms, and that she had far more to show him than he'd thought possible.

A fact worth noting is that the Joker never intended for her to fall in love with him. He doesn't suffer from any self esteem issues (in fact, it's quite the opposite as he has Narcissism), but he assumed that a woman nearly half his age would have no interest in an asylum inmate. When she first showed signs of romantic attraction, Harley genuinely surprised him. The Joker's past has never included romantic relationships (note, I mean the Joker and not the man he was before), and he never intended it to aside from his pining for Batman. He wasn't sure how to react for the first time in ages, and it was the fact that she was able to render him speechless and stunned that began his spiral into what he later realized is love. After she joined with him, after the months of pet names, hand holding, hugs, and soft kisses on cheeks and foreheads, the Joker realized that he enjoyed her company. And not in the way that he enjoyed a crying, screaming victim's, but not entirely dissimilar to the way he felt about Batman. The Joker wanted to keep her around, keep her happy (as he does so enjoy her laughter and excited squeals), and name her his number two. Once he came to that conclusion, he became ill. He knew that it wasn't 'The Joker in love with Harley Quinn', but rather, the man he was before (Jack, John, or Arthur if you please) in love with her. She appealed to what tiny scraps of sanity he had left. Harley showed him unconditional affection and kindness, she was patient with him, supportive, and an ever present source of camaraderie. Sure, she had fallen for The Joker's clowny antics, but she fell for the glimpses of sanity that only she had been able to see. The Joker worried that keeping her close would ease some of the symptoms of his insanity, that he would cease to be 'The Joker' if he and Harley remained an item. So he attempted to kill her. And when she didn't die, he learned that she was no pushover - he had turned her into something near an equal. At that point, he had little choice but to keep her close. She knew his secrets, had seen him cry of all things, and he had unknowingly given her power over him that no one else, not even Batman has. He loves her, not just his sanity, but even the Joker himself came to love Harley for her tenacity, insanity, bloodlust, and theatrics. It makes little sense why he would abuse her as he does if he loves her, but the Joker, as I mentioned, does not process love in a sane way. He continues to test her to this day, and the most common test is of her loyalty. No one is a constant in his life aside from Batman, the other Gotham Rogues shift from friend to foe in moments, and he'd convinced himself she would be the same. You could say that he's incapable of accepting that he's loved, and because he refused to believe she would stay with him, he continued to prod her in search of the button that would trigger the 'leave' response. Now that he found it and she has truly left him, he can't accept that, either. He made her, his tests are the reason she is who she is, and she will always love him. She has to love him, because his sanity will always love her. It's similar to not knowing what he had until it was gone - although he knew what he had, he simply wasn't capable of carrying the weight of love.

In Batman's case, the Joker loves him because he created the Joker. Think of it as a sort of... accidental 'Mad Love' scenario. In many of his origin stories (the Killing Joke being my primary inspiration), Batman led the Joker to the chemical vat, and his dark and brooding nature is what encouraged the Joker to take on a light and jovial one. They are day and night, light and shadow, and the Joker feels Batman completes him. A world without Batman simply wouldn't make sense (a concept he's currently struggling with here in isola), as you can't have a left hand without a right. It would just be a hand. Batman would just be a man dressed as a bat, and the Joker would just be a clown.

The main point to take out of the differences in the Joker's feelings for Harley and Batman, is that the Joker is obsessed with Batman. Their relationship is one of need. It is the stage on which the Joker's theatrics take place and Batman's stoic and determined nature shine. What he feels for Harley isn't need, but rather, comfort. He doesn't have to put on a show for her like he does the rest of the world. He doesn't have to wear the lipstick or the suit for her to see him for who he truly is. If our resident Harley wants to explain her feelings for the Joker, she's more than welcome to as I can't speak for her interpretation, but what I do strongly believe is that Harley will continue to love the Joker because he's the first person who looked at her and saw her, not what she presented. They have this in common, the ability to understand one another as no one else can, and thus they will always be connected - whether it's romantic or platonic. They claim to despise each other, and while Harley is more likely to be vocal about her hidden desire to care for him, the Joker feels the same. He's said as much to her on a few rare occasions, even though most only see his aggressive and violent behavior toward her. That's just one aspect of his emotions, and it's crucial to keep in mind that the Joker sees himself as an actor, the co-star alongside Batman, and he's nothing if not dedicated to performance. He has many faces (no pun intended), and there are as many Jokers as there are comics, movies, and shows he appears in. Each writer has their own opinion, their own ideas, and I have mine.

In conclusion, I ask that you take a moment to consider that the Joker is more than he appears. Yes, he is a serial killer and a terrorist dressed as a clown. But he is also a man whose wife and child died the day before he fell into a vat of toxic chemicals that forever altered his physical and mental state. I don't want anyone to sympathize with him - The Joker is intended to be a truly terrible and awful villain, someone who feels not a single ounce of regret, unlike Harley who sometimes feels guilt for her actions and draws moral lines. There is some small piece of who he once was deep down inside, but it's not going to surface. He will have no redemption arc. He will never be a good person. But there is, was, and always will be the potential for him to be a good partner. Whatever happens in Isola will remain a mystery until it happens, as sometimes plans go awry as muses run rampant, but I thank you for reading this to its conclusion, and for attempting to see the small flickers or goodness he shows toward Harley in rare and vulnerable moments. Because even though the Joker represents true evil and rampant chaos, even the darkest depths must have light somewhere nearby - otherwise how would you compare its darkness?

#ǝʅᴉⅎ ʎɯ uᴉ sʇᴉ IMPORTANT !!#sǝʅᴉɯs ⅎo ʇno OOC !!#[ this is so long... ]#[ also I'm posting on mobile! Formatting will be done once I'm home.]#ABUSE MENTION CW #MANIPULATION MENTION CW

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neuxue · 6 years

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 34

Everything from fireworks to Fourier transforms, because why the hell not. Oh and Mat is there. (Or is he?)

Chapter 34: Legends

Oh it’s Mat.

I have very little enthusiasm for Mat, especially this book’s Mat, but at the same time maybe it’s good to have a chapter that isn’t guaranteed to ruin me, just for a change of pace and a chance to catch my breath and regrow my limited supply of emotions.

Occasionally, the wind would blow, and a small sprinkle of dead pine needles would shake free from the boughs above

I see what you’re doing there, with your wind associated with death and release.

Mat’s clearly still a little shaken by Hinderstap, and is not particularly keen to go running into this next town. Can’t say I blame him.

This time he would plan and he would be ready. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.

Yeah, no, still not getting the cadence right here. It’s too…deliberately set up to be funny. Exaggerated. It’s like he’s being written as a caricature of himself.

Apparently it’s a woman who’s looking for him…I thought the pictures of him and Perrin were linked to Moridin’s directive to kill them – we’ve seen at least one attempt on each of them since then – but this sounds like someone who just wants to find him. Who, though? It doesn’t seem like it could be Tuon, and most of the other characters are tied up elsewhere, and none have recently mentioned trying to find Mat.

And it would probably be more efficient to just…read and find out than to try to list out all of the named female characters in the series thus far and cross-reference them against Mat’s story to figure out why they might be looking for him, wouldn’t it? I’ll leave the listing of ladies to Rand.

We’re getting fireworks as signal flares again, and I do have to applaud the ingenuity of the charactesr in this series. So far we’ve got fireworks used as: a distraction, entertainment, currency, battering ram, therapy, weapon, communication device. Have I missed anything?

Also, the red-for-danger, green-for-all-clear system brings another question to mind that maybe someone out there has an answer to: why do we continue to rely so heavily on red/green for important signalling distinctions (port/starboard, stop/go – things you really don’t want to mix up) when red-green is the most common spectrum of colourblindness?

I suppose the choice of colours predated any solid statistics on things like rates of colourblindness, and boats have the whole whistle system as well, and traffic lights have position as well as colour, but still.

Maybe it’s a chemistry thing? If red and green are the easiest colours to make in a fire or lamp or flare or light, it would make sense that those would have become the colours used for signalling when coloured lights were first used in such a way, and then it’s the kind of thing that would stick. So maybe lithium/strontium/barium/copper were more readily available, or happened to be used/discovered as colourants first?

And that was a tangent.

Meanwhile, Mat’s pulling a whole Argo here, creating false identities for the people he’s sending into the town. Okay, a reverse Argo, maybe, as that was exfiltration and this is infiltration but shhh. (Great movie, by the way, if you’ve not seen it – one of those ‘stranger than fiction’ true stories).

“Wait, Mat,” Mandevwin said, scratching his face near his eye patch. “I’m to be an apprentice gleeman? I’m not certain my voice is suited to fine signing. You’ve heard me, I warrant. And with only one eye, I doubt I’ll fare well at juggling.”

So I think by now we all know my thoughts on what ‘give up half the light of the world’ means, what with Mat being as Odin as it’s possible to be this side of actual Norse mythology…and yeah that doesn’t bode well for his juggling and knife-throwing skills, does it? Now I wonder if those skills were given to him intentionally not just as a fitting trait for a character of his archetype but to twist the knife a little in that sacrifice. Like Rand’s skill with the sword and then the loss of his hand.

(Also his skill at being a person and the eventual loss of his sanity, but we’ll just leave that one alone for the moment.)

“Aren’t I a little old to be an apprentice, though?”

“Nonsense,” Mat said. “You’re young at heart, and since you never married – the only woman you ever loved ran away with the tanner’s son – Thom’s arrival offered you an opportunity to start fresh.”

“But I don’t want to leave my great-aunt,” Mandevwin protested. “She’s cared for me since I was a child! It’s not honest of a man to abandon an elderly woman just because she gets a little confused.”

“There is no great-aunt,” Mat said with exasperation. “This is just a legend, a story to go with your false name.”

The thing is, if you take it completely out of context – as in, out of the Wheel of Time completely – there’s nothing particularly wrong with this exchange. It’s not the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my life, but it’s entertaining and a fun sort of ‘yes and’ game between characters. It builds a sense of their relationship, adds a little bit of depth to Mandevwin, presents Mat as creative and a little more fond of stories than he might admit while being a general…

But you have to completely dissociate it from the actual characters for it to work. It’s an alright scene, if it’s not about Matrim Cauthon in The Wheel of Time. If you read it as being from a different story entirely, with characters that just happen to have these names.

And that’s pretty much the problem with Mat. Other characters may see their lexicon shift a bit, or their tendency to externalise their thoughts a little more, but Mat’s been replaced with another character entirely.

I mean, so has Rand, but that’s his own damn fault.

“Too late,” Mat said, rifling through a stack on his desk, searching out a cluster of five pages covered in scrawled handwriting. “You can’t change now. I spent half the night working on your story. It’s the best out of the lot.”

I could almost give the rest a pass, because Mat coming up with false identities that make a fine story but will probably end up falling apart is not too far out of character, even if the conversation felt nothing like him – it’s not unlike what he did with himself, Egeanin, Tuon, and the others when they ran away with Luca’s show, after all – but Mat spending half a night writing up stories for each of them? I can’t make that fit.

“Are you sure we’re not taking this a little too far, lad?” Thom asked.

I think it’s meant to be a little out of character, as a way of showing how on edge he is. The fact that Thom comments on it serves as a narrative cue that this is intentionally off. But it’s too far and not quite in the right direction, so instead of helping us understand where Mat’s head is right now, it’s just…weird.

“I’m tired of walking into traps unprepared. I plan to take command of my own destiny, stop running from problem to problem. It’s time to be in charge.”

And the fact that Mat is so off in this book makes it hard for me to say anything about his actual story or character, because I don’t completely…trust any of it enough. So on the one hand I want to unpack this line, because there’s a lot there in terms of Mat’s own character arc, and his struggle between denial and acceptance of his role, and between luck and improvisation vs planning and strategy. But on the other hand, it’s hard to find any real motivation to do that when I feel like this isn’t really Mat. If that makes sense.

So actually, I’m going to do something a little out of character myself, here. I’m going to read the rest of this scene before commenting further, just to see if I can get a better sense of what’s going on from the general shape of it than from following it line-by-line.

Okay. Mat talks Talmanes through his own constructed backstory, then goes and inspects the camp and thinks about the Band and their current situation and also crossbows, and now he’s visiting Aludra so I’ll stop here for a moment before we get into that.

The bit with the crossbows comes closer to feeling like Mat again. The rest…still feels like it belongs in another book entirely. Also, weird how Mat knows two guys named Talmanes, right?

There are two main issues at play here, as far as I can figure it. The first is the issue of perception and distortion, which, broken down, looks something like this:

Jordan creates the character of Mat in his head

Jordan commits that character to writing. There’s distortion and filtering even here, because words are limiting and no writer isthatgood, and some information will not be conveyed or will be conveyed only obliquely, other things given more prominence, etc. Just like a photo is never going to be a perfect representation of an actual person, because you only have two dimensions to show something that exists in three.

Sanderson (or any reader) reads Mat. Filtering happens here because of how brains work; we’re not perfect machines that can take in every piece of information and give it equal and unbiased weight. Different things will register differently with different readers based on everything about them.

Sanderson (or any reader) creates a mental image/construct/version of Mat, adding the new information to it as it comes along – like making a sculpture from a drawing of a photo. This again is prone to filtering and distortion because of what information registers more or less strongly, how it’s interpreted, and all kinds of other factors.

Sanderson commits his version of Mat to writing, imperfectly portraying his own mental image of the character.

The reader reads Sanderson’s version of Mat, repeating steps 3 and 4.

Obviously this would apply to any character, not just Mat, but I think with Mat it’s an issue of a stronger filter/bias at steps 3, 4, and 5 but especially 4.

It’s something you see a lot in fanfiction, actually, especially in fanfiction centred on characters that can be strongly linked to a specific archetype. If you have the mental fortitude for it, check out some Avengers fanfiction sometime, and you’ll see a huge variation in how these iconic, archetypal characters are portrayed. Because they go through these processing and reconstruction steps, and so much of that is affected by each person’s own experience with or existing idea of the shape of those archetypes.

So we get into things like confirmation bias – if you have a pre-existing ‘outline’ of a character in your head based on the first impression they give, you’re going to end up paying more attention to things that fit into that outline, and ignoring things that don’t. And with these kinds of archetypal characters, it’s hard not to have that pre-existing outline unless you’ve been literally living under a rock for your entire life. In which case you have bigger problems. Also, I think with those sorts of characters, because you have this pre-existing model, your brain is more likely to essentially take short-cuts and go ‘yep, I know what this is’, whereas with characters that aren’t so easily categorised or immediately identified, you’ll rely more on the information directly presented, rather than on that outline.

That affects what you pay attention or give weight to, and that affects how you reconstruct the character in your mind, which creates an ongoing feedback loop but/and also affects how you portray the character yourself, should you ever do so.

It’s a process akin to…okay the first analogy that comes to mind is a Fourier transform followed by the addition of noise or any kind of alteration to any of the resulting frequencies, followed by an inverse Fourier transform to bring you back to something that no longer perfectly resembles the original. Because I’m a fucking nerd. In case that wasn’t already abundantly clear from everything about me.

But perhaps a more broadly accessible analogy is the game of taking a word or phrase or song or whatever and sticking it through a few different languages on google translate, and then translating the result back to the starting language and laughing and how ridiculous it ends up sounding.

(On a tangent from my tangent, I think this is part of why outsider POV can be so interesting. It’s a chance to watch this entire process take place in the minds of other characters, who essentially each create their own version of the character in question.)

Anyway, I think this is the first issue: Sanderson reads Mat, his brain goes ‘oh look, a trickster/rogue! I know what that is!’, which colours how he continues to read and interpret Mat, which shapes the Mat that lives in his head, which shapes how he then writes Mat.

The second problem, I think, is that Sanderson is somewhat aware that he’s doing this. Why is that a problem, you ask? Because it means that, while he’s not writing Jordan’s version of Mat, he also avoids committing completely to his own style of portraying a trickster/rogue. Which leaves us stranded somewhere in the middle, and you can feel the uncertainty and discomfort and tension between what he thinks he’s meant to be doing and what he wants to do. And Mat’s not the kind of character you can commit to halfway.

Okay, picking back up in a more normal fashion, hopefully (unless this next scene goes the way of the first).

Aludra’s making fireworks, Egeanin’s helping, and Mat’s trying to remember that he is a married man now.

Mat still had trouble figuring out what to call the woman. She wanted to be known as Leilwin, and sometimes he thought of her like that. It was foolish to go about changing your name just because someone said you had to

I like this, because it can be extended to a broader commentary on changing not just your name but your identity based on who or what you believe you must be. Tuon has the power, in the society in which Egeanin was raised, the society that shaped her mindset and identity and sense of self, to command that she take a new name and a new place. And that sticks even when – and perhaps even because – she chooses to remove herself from Seanchan society. She is a different person now, and the name is part cause and part symbol of that.

But it has a broader meaning here, for Mat himself and for Rand and for Egwene and for so many others. It’s the question of accepting a name or an identity that is given – the Dragon Reborn or the trickster or the Prince of the Ravens or son of battles or Amyrlin or wolf king. Prophecy and Pattern demand those roles be filled, and ask that they fill those roles, and so do they change to do so? Do they take on those names and fit themselves to those outlines, and if so is it by choice or by force?

Seems like all is not well between Mat and Aludra these days. Another word of advice: try to avoid pissing off the person who makes your explosives.

Honestly, I thought I was unqualified to give dating advice. But Mat and Gawyn and honestly the whole lot of them are really making me question that.

Then again, I thought Aludra and Mat were fine after Aludra made it clear she wasn’t interested in pursuing or being pursued by Mat once he began courting Tuon. Has he done something since then to irritate her?

“Are these the plans for the dragons?” Mat asked eagerly. He knelt down on one knee to inspect the sheets, without touching them. Aludra could be particular about that kind of thing.

“Yes.” She was still tapping with her hammer. She eyed him, looking just faintly uncomfortable. Because of Tuon, he suspected.

“And these figures?” Mat tried to ignore the awkwardness.

“Supply requirements,” she said.

So one thing I’ve been thinking about, and which this exchange highlights rather well, is why Mat seems to be the one so closely linked with and arguably credited with the weaponization of gunpowder, when in reality it’s pretty much all Aludra.

I’m curious as to whether this is just me, or whether it’s true of fandom as a whole – that gunpowder is linked and credited to Mat. Because narratively it seems like it’s set up that way – he plays with the fireworks Aludra gives him in TDR, and then there’s Egwene dreaming of him reaching up to grab a firework from the sky and knowing this will change the world, and dreaming again of him bowling with human lives as the bowling pins and knowing it’s linked to the same thing. And he’s the one who plans the battles in which Aludra’s explosives are used.

But he doesn’t actually come up with any of the ideas – he just incorporates them. She already has plans for her ‘dragons’ when she sets him the bellfounder riddle. She’s already thought through how her fireworks can be altered for various uses in battle. She doesn’t have the funding or resources, but she has the rest of it.

So I wonder if my brain has just taken the shortcut here of crediting Mat with the advent of gunpowder weaponry because he’s a far more major character, he’s the battle strategist, and he’s given all these pieces of foreshadowing and prophecy that link him to this innovation.

I also wonder if some element of it is unconscious gender bias on my part – that while I love the fact that it’s a woman who invents this, and that there’s no downplaying of the rather dark and destructive potential this has to change battle and war and the entire world, some part of me finds it much easier to associate that with a man than a woman. Something to think about, I suppose.

How would the common people react if they knew that the majestic nightflowers were just paper, powder, and – of all things – bat dung? No wonder Illuminators were so secretive with their craft. It wasn’t just about preventing competition. The more you knew about the process, the less wondrous and more ordinary it became.

There’s a great deal of truth to that.

And that, actually, seems like a very in-character observation for Mat to make. It’s something a trickster and a gambler and a strategist or general would understand: the value of knowing how things work, but also the value of misdirection and sleight-of-hand.

It’s a fitting realisation as well in a series that deals so much with the nature of information and knowledge and perception, and the interplay between them.

“This is a lot of material,” Mat said.

“A miracle, that is what you asked me for, Matrim Cauthon,” she replied, handing her nightflower to Leilwin and picking up her writing board. She made some notations on the sheet strapped to the front. “That miracle, I have broken down into a list of ingredients. A feat which is in itself miraculous, yes? Do not complain of the heat when someone offers you the sun in the palm of her hands.”

Hard to argue with that.

I do like Aludra – I always have; she’s a fun character. And a more complex one than her relatively little screen-time would ordinarily allow. As she has to be, I think; her place in the story but especially in her world is itself complex. Her innovation will change the world, and once unleashed that’s not something you can take back. Introducing gunpowder to a world is a heavy role for an otherwise bit-part character, but she’s written in such a way that it works. I do think that’s part of why the narrative leans on Mat so heavily in that regard, as a way of…offloading some of that weight onto a more central character.

“The Dragon Reborn, he can afford such costs.”

If nothing else, he’ll be relieved to be dealing with high costs in such an ordinary currency, after having had to pay such steep prices in less conventional ones – flesh, soul, sanity…

Maybe Rand could manage costs like these, but Matcertainly couldn’t. He’d have to dice with the queen of Andor herself to find this kind of coin!

I think Elayne would quite enjoy that, actually.

But that was Rand’s problem.

Honestly, Rand has well over 99 problems and I’m not even sure this makes the list. But okay.

Burn him, he’d better appreciate what Mat was going through for him.

At this point it’s all he can do to appreciate things like the fact that Nynaeve wants him to live, so I wouldn’t hold my breath.

“How many bellfounders are you going to need for this project?”

“Every one you can get,” Aludra said curtly. “Is that not what you promised me? Every bellfounder from Andor to Tear.”

“I suppose,” Mat said. He hadn’t actually expected her to take him literally on that. “What about copper and tin? You don’t have an estimate of those.”

“I need all of it.”

Okay, this is genuinely funny. Most of the credit goes to Aludra, who is written better than pretty much anyone else in Mat’s chapters so far this book. But this is great.

But then you stop laughing, and it becomes very much a sign of how non-trivial the invention of cannons and weaponised explosives is. This is not a small endeavour. This is not something that will be used in one battle and can then either catch on or fade back into obscurity. This is huge, and world-changing. A larger scale than Mat dreamed of and now he’s having to face the full reality of it. It’s one thing to see this in battle and know theoretically that this is going to change everything. It’s another thing to see it written out in figures that demand all the copper and tin that can be found on an entire continent.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Mat realised he’d probably been too curt with her. Maybe he was uncomfortable around her. A little. They’d been getting close before Tuon. And was that pain, hidden in Aludra’s eyes?

“I’m sorry, Aludra,” he said. “I shouldn’t have talked like that.”

She shrugged.

He took a deep breath. “Look, I know that…well, it’s odd how Tuon—”

She waved a hand, cutting him off. “It is nothing. I have my dragons. You have brought me the chance to create them. Other matters are no longer of concern. I wish you happiness.”

I guess I’m just confused because I thought we already did this, with Aludra telling Mat that she wouldn’t tell him the secrets that would make him blush and that she had no plans of being juggled. I sort of figured that was it. But I also thought it was just a bit of fun for both of them, while this would suggest that there were maybe a few feelings involved – just one or two, mind you – which I suppose would account for some continued awkwardness.

That and the fact that Mat has no idea how he’s supposed to behave around women now that he’s married.

Nice of him to offer a sincere apology, though. I’ll give him that.

“But it will take much time, and yet you refuse to tell me when the dragons will be needed.”

“Can’t tell you things I don’t know myself, Aludra,” Mat said, glancing northward. He felt a strange tugging, as if someone had hooked a fisherman’s line about his insides and was softly – but insistently – pulling on it. Rand, is that you, burn you? Colours swirled. “Soon, Aludra,” he found himself saying. “Time is short. So short.”

The storm is coming, and we must go north.

Mat tells Egeanin that he doesn’t want her giving the secret of these weapons to the Seanchan, but…yeah, this isn’t something you’re going to be able to control, once they’re used. And I think he still doesn’t quite see that, doesn’t quite grasp the magnitude of what this is. Which isn’t all that surprising, because it’s the sort of thing that’s almost too much to wrap your head around until it happens. It’s like trying to imagine the ubiquity and myriad uses of smartphones when you’ve only just figured out how to harness lightning.

“By the way, I nearly forgot. Do you know anything about crossbows, Aludra?”

Ha. This is such a classic ‘I know nothing about your field/profession, so I figure you do all of it?’ It’s like when my grandmother asks me to predict the weather because that’s definitely covered under ‘geology’…

She’s the closest thing to an engineer he has, so sure, why not? And your paediatrician could probably perform a bit of neurosurgery on the side, right?

Now, if you wanted to modify a handheld projectile weapon so that its projectiles exploded…

Oh hey it’s the mystery person who’s been looking for him. OH. An Aes Sedai.

OH HEY IT’S VERIN.

Haven’t seen her since she left Rand with that letter and went off to conduct her own mysterious business. What have you been up to, Verin?

How long ago was that, in this timeline? Rand’s apparently a head of the rest of them now, if he saw Mat in Caemlyn, so maybe this isn’t actually all that long after Verin left Rand in KoD.

But why did she leave and why is she here and hi, Verin!

Well that solves one problem for him: she can Travel, so he can get to Caemlyn in time for supper. Time to move the plot along.

He hesitated, eyeing Verin, forcing himself to contain his excitement. There was always a cost when Aes Sedai were involved.

“What do you want?” he asked.

GOOD. QUESTION. Yes, Verin, tell us. What exactly do you want?

She just says she’s been held here because of his own ta’veren effect. Which…is certainly possible, but almost as certainly not the entire truth.

Next (TGS ch 35) Previous (TGS ch 33)

#TELL ME YOUR SECRETS VERIN #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #The Gathering Storm

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wariskind-rpg · 7 years

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Frank Longbottom

Age/Year: 23; Gryffindor 1974 Affiliation: Order of the Phoenix Blood Status: Pureblood Occupation: Auror FC: Joseph Gordon-Levitt

TRAITS

+ humble; altruistic; responsible – impatient; overprotective; jealous

BIOGRAPHY

Despite his gentle demeanor, Frank Longbottom has a determination about him that is nothing if not bold. Growing up an only child under the strict, watchful eye of his mother and the laid back, lighthearted wing of his father, he knew both a grounded establishment and a blithe spirit as well as an old soul. The elder Longbottom’s lax personality allowed Frank to grow into a tolerant, appreciative, and sentimental man. He took life one day at a time, as it came, and appreciated what he had at face value. Frank learned to do the same.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, it was his mother’s harsh ideals that would turn Frank into the person he was to grow to be. Frank strived to make her proud. He was grateful that his career choice was one that she approved of. He kept on, focusing all his efforts on his marks, and especially his N.E.W.T.s. The only way to Frank or his mother’s happiness was to achieve the ultimate dream: to become Auror Longbottom.

Frank grew quickly, almost too quickly. Through his Hogwarts years he resented his upbringing, rolling his eyes at every suggestion and push his mother gave him. He knew that he was trying to do everything he could to be this grounded, perfect person Augusta Longbottom so wanted him to be. His efforts paid off when Frank was accepted to the Auror Academy. There, he worked just as hard, until he began to feel at home in the Auror department, growing past his fears and into his own and the war they had all seen coming for so long. Years of hard work have made Frank the perfect gentleman and Auror. After only a year with his official license, Frank was already so highly admired by everyone in the DMLE -- for his efficiency, his dedication, his near-supernatural ability to get paperwork done in a timely manner -- and his overall work ethic has made him the wizard to watch.

Still, humble Frank couldn’t help but be surprised when he was assigned protect the Muggle Prime Minister, and especially surprised to find that he was without an Auror his senior as a partner. Instead, Frank he was partnered with a trainee named Alice Prewett, whom he’d met in passing on several occasions, but never had a chance to work with. Not only did mentoring a trainee make Frank incredibly nervous, but the added pressure of recruiting Alice to the Order of the Phoenix made his already difficult job almost impossible. In retrospect, Frank can say it went very well, considering that barley a year later, she’s not only become his partner in the department and the Order, but his partner in life. Alice Longbottom has a certain ring to it that causes Frank to smile even in the darkest of moments.

Now, Frank is beginning a new chapter in his already top-heavy life, trying to balance his duties across the board. In spite of his responsibilities within the Order, the Ministry, his assignment as security at 10 Downing, and a brand new marriage, Frank is trying to keep himself stable as his dead set world is turned upside down again and again.

PLOT POINTS

I. With talk spreading of legalization of the Unforgivable Curses for Aurors on duty, everyone with an opinion is eager to tell Frank, knowing that if anyone can sway those making the decision, it’s him, and for a number of reasons. While Frank has worked hard for the recognition he gets (and deserves) in his field, the Longbottom name does come gift wrapped with an air of prestige. Being the godson of a high-ranking Auror, Atticus McKinnon, doesn’t hurt, either. Frank knows where he stands on the issue, and though he’s never used his name or connections to get ahead in his department, the time for him to use such influences may have finally come. If it means potentially putting an end to the nightmare that is this war, he’s not above using every tool he has.

II. For Frank, it was never a question of whether or not he should join the Order. What became questionable later on was whether or not he could handle keeping things balanced between the Order and his job; between the war and his personal life; between sanity and— Well, you get the idea. But for Frank, there was no choice. He would learn to balance every aspect of his life, and he would learn to do it well. Not only that, but he would pass on all he learned to those willing to learn from him. Frank knew James Potter when he was still small, and he’s been proud to watch his involvement in the Order over the last year. Mentoring him, though, still proves to be tricky, especially as the both of them wade deeper into trouble with the Dark Lord and his followers. For the first time since he started his Auror training, Frank has begun to feel like one of his many juggling pieces just might slip from his hands. The problem now is that he’s sure none of them are something he can afford to drop.

OTHER CONNECTIONS

Caradoc Dearborn: For years, Frank Longbottom worried about Caradoc Dearborn. Frank worried about his happiness, his family situation, his job, his recklessness, his eating habits, and on and on. These days, with little time and a shift in unfortunate priority, Frank is growing to care for Caradoc as a friend and ally rather than a friend and son; backing off where he needs to back off, and supporting decisions that Frank might not (or definitely won’t ever) agree with. The task Frank has given himself, though, is not an easy one.

Charlie Farley, Gideon Prewett, & Fabian Prewett: Though he grew up alongside the McKinnon children, Frank was still very much an only child, and unprepared for the culture shock that came from sharing a room with three other boys at Hogwarts. Adjustments were made quickly, though, and Frank fell into step easily with Charlie, Gideon, and Fabian, who brought out the best (usually, at least) in one another. When the boys left Hogwarts, Charlie left the country, and Frank, alongside the Prewetts, joined the Order of the Phoenix, unknowingly adding a series of heavy weights to both their shoulders and their friendship. With Charlie’s sudden return home, Frank is nothing short of relieved. Finally, they’ll have the breath of fresh air they’ve needed for years.

FATE

Frank SURVIVES the FIRST WIZARDING WAR, but spends the years following in ST. MUNGO’S.

Frank Longbottom is TAKEN.

#frank longbottom #hp rp #harry potter rp #marauders rp #hp rpg #frank #t*#tg*#tom*#om*#g*

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forbiostosaveyeah2 · 6 years

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OVERVIEW

Specie: Witch

Full Name: Vernon Beaumount

Birthday & Age: September 3rd, 1990 / 24

Level: Sorcerer

Occupation: Trainee Nurse at Sinclair Hospital

Neighborhood: Mercer Apartments, 2 bed 1 bath - lives with Salem Sinclair

Residency Status: 1 year

Sexual Orientation: Up To Player

PERSONALITY & QUIRKS

+ courteous, pioneering, humorous, & exuberant

- stingy, bossy, overemotional, & touchy

BIOGRAPHY

After finishing his afternoon errands he had lazily done that day, the witch went to visit his grandfather. In a coherent and presentable way, he stood alone in the graveyard. The rain had stopped luckily and the wind was falling on his back, drying the moisture off his clothes, and causing his hair to sway in every direction lightly. He passed his gaze over the letters written on the grave before him. Vernon Beaumont. The grave itself was simple. No meaningful quotes or decoration to mark the person under the ground as a special person. Nothing; just a body underground. He moved to sit on the curb in front of the discreet headstone. He needed to pay his respects in the only way he knew how; in the only way a person who has never met the deceased knew how. He shifted slightly in an attempt to get comfortable. Then his eyelids fell and he started to puzzle the pieces of his grandpa’ back together. The ones he remembered, anyway. The male wasn’t sure of how long it had been since the last time he came to visit. It had been such a long time. Mainly because his mother never allowed him to but also because he simply forgot. He was supposed to restore his memory more often though, not leave it neglected in the back of his mind. Especially memories as important as the man who shaped his entire character.

The lawful Vernon, grew with the utmost care and love for the human world. Perhaps it’s in his nature to be kind, an innate trait the boy grew with, perhaps it was the mere fact of his mother’s pure hatred towards the humans that led him to be the exact opposite, but the young man isn’t to be confused for an individual who isn’t plagued by the world’s sins. No, Vernon is just a man who has seen his own inner darkness, faced it, and now, does not run from it when he encounters it in others. In some ways, he had the potential to be the strongest of the Beaumont family and led their coven like his cousin, Eve, was raised to be - his intensity, drive, and brilliant visionary dreams combined with his innate leadership skills, the charisma, and the profound sense of self (including the eccentric lack of interest in conforming to what other people think) is stuff of which great, powerful witches are made of.

However, the young witch has much to learn about politics, knowing who is an appropriate object of trust and who is not trustworthy, knowing when to keep his mouth shut, and knowing when to avoid acting on impulse in order to use a situation to it’s best advantage. Fatherless at the age of eight, orphan at the young age of twelve after the murder of his mother by a rivaling coven of witches, Vernon has dealt with the loss of both his parents strangely. He searched for success and victory soon after, proclaiming if he did so, the honor would be for his deceased parents. He held strong and blocked out the pain, held his head high and said it didn’t matter. But the pain still came, still lived inside his ever present mind. The memories came and went all at once. They resurfaced and presented themselves explicitly in the back of his mind.

He recounted every smile. Every frown. Every touch and every kiss his mother gave him. During a period of his life, Vernon lost sight of himself and those around him. Alcohol, drugs, sex; he became addicted to a life he never planned for himself. He was in so damn deep that he was not so sure he could claw his way out. He had made mistakes, he’ll be the first to admit it. Too many to count, too many to repair. Mistakes that could have been prevented, that should have never happened. Luckily his aunt had made a proposition in secret to her dearest nephew, wanting him and another to follow her estranged daughter to Brakebills. Vernon was told that he was only to watch her move but he can tell there’s something more. Something beyond even his aunt’s orders. But the witch is now in a place where he doesn’t dwell on things too much, or the world’s ugliness, but instead, he searches for the light inside everyone and everything. He searches for hope. Because it is the only thing stronger than fear.

CONNECTIONS

✗ Salem Sinclair - The accident prone Sinclair son was the little brother Vernon never had - because the little brother he did have didn’t have a list of people they BOTH had to avoid. He hadn’t been the easiest friend to grow up with, but in away the two are one in the same. Vernon saw himself in Salem, and when addiction, neglect of self, abuse became of regular occurrence to them in their teen years all they had was one another. He can definitely say he trusts Salem with his life. Moving to Brakebills has bonded them further but there is an odd gleam in his friend’s eyes. One he’s seen before but won’t dare to verbalize his worries just yet.

✗ Selena Ivy - Growing in New York City as a witch had too many perks to count. The city was practically built with magic, witches there could just… Be. Vernon & Eve had two different upbringings even though they had come from the same family coven. While him and the rest of the children practiced magic in Central Park under powerful charms, Eve practiced in a secluded, dimly lit room with only two books as her company. No one knew why. Sure she had triggered her powers very early but so have others in the past. What was so special about her? Now, a secret watcher for his coven, he leads a double life in order to see that his cousin never finds her way back to her family.

✗ Angelo Viana - Vernon had always been good with his words. A sly talker, it was once his greatest strength & worked flawlessly with his classmates in high school - add underage drinking and Vernon was practically a king. So, when he first encountered Angelo, the other witch had been distraught beyond words. Honestly, he had no idea what to say or what to do except to do what he knew best. Talk. He talked for ages it seemed, about anything and anyone and everything in between because he wasn’t sure what they would’ve done if he stopped talking. He’s kept a close relationship with them now although still doesn’t know much about them. About the day they had met. He’s grown rather fond of them too but, in a relationship so close yet so guarded, what could flourish from that?

His face claim is Zayn Malik and he’s currently being played by Nina.

-----------

OVERVIEW

Specie: Vampire, Affinity to Water (Untriggered)

Full Name: Patience Gatley

Birthday & Age: March 1st, 1992 / 20 (25)

Rank: Progeny

Occupation: Server @ Safe House

Neighborhood: Mercer Apartments, 2 bed 1 bath - lives with Troy Hale

Residency Status: 28 days

Sexual Orientation: Up To Player

PERSONALITY & QUIRKS

+ persuasive, simple, youthful, & alert

- prim, desperate, indulgent, & asocial

BIOGRAPHY

There’s something spine-tingling about someone who could kill, maim, and destroy, but chooses to do good. If you think about it, it’s actually why most villains are more lovable than heroes in books and they’re not lovable only because they’re flawed, powerful, cunning or charming, but also because they are not just black and white; they are an entire color spectrum. They’re real, like us. We don’t relate to the hero’s brawny way of dealing with things. We don’t always do the right thing. We don’t flash sparkly teeth and we don’t trust, no, we lie, we betray, we fume, we keep secrets, we get selfish. We relate to villains because they’re inherently part of ourselves. They reflect the complexities in our mind, because like them, we constantly have urges to overthrow logic and sanity. Like them, we have weaknesses. And at the end of the day, as much as we love villains, we hate to see them conquer, because we feel that them winning shows that the bad side within us has the power to corrupt. And this side, ranging in diversity, is the one Patience Gatley has fought with for most of her life. Because she knew if she glimpsed into it just one bit, let it consume just a fraction of her pure soul, she knew it would consume her whole.

Daughter of a prestigious Baptist pastor, she was to have the life of her mother when she reached the age of maturity. Marry an upcoming pastor, birth children to please her husband and the Lord, and be the best wife she could be. But Patience always had an eccentric taste, a wild imagination that couldn’t be sustained by living a life of commands and pleasing only others, never herself. So she ran away from home at a tender age of sixteen, a distant relative giving her shelter until she was to become of age. She left her one true love behind but was keen on keeping in touch, sending letters daily; a back-and-forth action that lasted until the two wed on Patience’s eighteenth birthday.

After a week or so of morning kisses, breakfast in bed, and nights full of pationate sex, Maven’s job came knocking at their door, taking Patience with it. He was a witch hunter coming from a long line of same-minded relatives in the trade; an insane secret that he had told her very early on in their relationship. And to some degree, she understood his line of work and didn’t bother to feel burdened by it. But they were married then, she wanted to spend her days with him on their couch, not seating outside on their porch hoping for him to come back alive. In the end, that’s exactly what she did. Until Alistair’s job came looking for her in order to get a little pay-back for her husband’s many fatalities.

No matter, she has learned not to blame herself nor anyone else for her outcome. She can only blame her maker, a woman who took her humanity just to avenge her husband; at least she thinks it’s a woman; the night in which she was bitten comes as a blur, making it hard to decipher specific details. Meeting a vamp she has met along the way has led her to conjure up enough willpower to remember some pieces of the night she was bitten, but very little and not enough to find out just exactly came after her. A little obsessive over the matter, Patience’s sole purpose now is to find out who her maker. Why? Closure… Maybe? She’s not sure. But in reality, it’s only to distract her from the real problem. Her thirst and her inability to think of her husband in any way aside from draining him of his blood. She has kept her distance, made sure to never cross paths with him, but sooner or later, they will and she has no idea what will happen then. Will they hug and kiss in bliss or will her hidden fangs be Alistair’s downfall?

CONNECTIONS

✗ Alistair Gatley - How is one supposed to avoid the person who once held your heart so tight and close to their own? Who didn’t necessary mirror your emotions, but they understood them so much you never felt you even needed to speak? But for once, their romance lies only in Patience’s lap. She sees him almost daily, and everyday she’s tempted to just running into his arms and fuck the consequences. But her control of her bloodlust isn’t up to par with her standards, considering her vampire partner has had to hide three bodies Patience couldn’t ungrip her fangs from.

✗ Troy Hale - The Hale vampire wasn’t her first choice, surely wouldn’t have been her last. But after getting a lead on the woman who turned her, she needed someone stronger than her. Like kindred hearts however, Patience f e l t it in her heart Troy would be the perfect person for the job. Could she end the life of her maker? Her nature has been distorted beyond measure, she no longer recognizes herself at times. Strangely though Troy’s company soothes that part of herself, reminding her that this life was forced upon her and she’s simply doing the best she can.

Her face claim is Zoë Kravitz and she’s currently open.

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OVERVIEW

Specie: Witch

Full Name: Salem Sinclair

Birthday & Age: November 25th, 1994 / 23

Level: Favoured Soul

Occupation: Trust Fund Baby

Neighborhood: Mercer Apartments, 2 bed 1 bath - lives with Vernon Beaumount

Residency Status: 1 year

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual

PERSONALITY & QUIRKS

+ understanding, diligent, charismatic, & frank

- vain, bone-idle, belligerent, & indiscreet

BIOGRAPHY

tw: suicide mention

He leaned forward slowly, very slowly as if he was giving the man a glimpse of a chance to escape what was about to come, or perhaps to make sure his motive and the man’s were in harmony. He sighed in contentment, his arms tightening around the blonde’s waist as he captured the man’s lips with his. Somewhere in the endless spinning of eternity that one, tiny, fraction of a second where their lips met was entirely lost. The night was more than memorable. Salem needed someone to remind him not jump too high into anything. Because that night was not memorable. It was life-changing. And through most of the young man’s life, “life-changing” was anything but foreign to him. It was life-changing when his mother divorced his father only to marry a woman two weeks later. It was life-changing when his mother, after going to South Korea with her newly wedded wife, came back to her son with a surprise; an adopted daughter. But it was definitely life-changing when he had a dream of his mother pulling the trigger of the gun set against the temple of her head the night before her suicide.

Salem Sinclair nestled his chin on the man’s shoulder and sighed. Born and raised in New York, New York, Salem always had always had an eerie feeling at the tip of his toes that he was different. Not in terms of his sexual orientation or even his mother’s marriage. In fact, his childhood had been pretty normal. He watched the same generic television shows his classmates watched, hung out with his neighborhood friends, and had the same mind most seven year old children had at that time. But there were instances where a déjà vu moment turned into more than just a repetitive feeling. Visions and dreams of the possible future had been a curse and a blessing given to Salem by an ancestry unknown to either him or his immediate family. That’s why he decided to take on an auction guest’s outlook on life. For them, every moment, every opportunity, every event is treated like their last, like life or death, like do or die.

They’re all like rebellious teenagers, dreaming as if they’d live forever, living as if they might perish the very next minute. Especially for that moment when their desirable treasure comes on the stage. Never once in his life had the man felt important, significant in a oh-so large universe. Empty and worthless, Salem took every opportunity he got to feel something - anything. In high school, Salem fell dangerously in love with any guy who would just notice him. A simple “Hi!” would send the poor soul head-over-heels. He hated himself for having a shallow-thinking mind and for being so sickly optimistic. But he couldn’t help himself. Salem craved, and still craves, attention from men, the embrace, the warmth that comes with being in close contact with another being. But apparently, everything around him seems to mock him in derision of failure.

Salem has now taken the role of the many men he has slept with. Cold, distant, and abrasive. But inside the polished shell he has created, exists the same old self-conscious man who desires nothing more than to be in peace with himself others. To add to his early “mid-life crisis”, the visions he had once lost have started to pace back into his mind, digging themselves in and creating a home deep inside his head. And with a mission to keep watch of the shunned witch, Selena Ivy, they have now turned somehow more eerie than usual, as if he his eyes have been fogged with ignorance. Salem feels he will finally receive the answers to questions he had kept bottled up for many years.

CONNECTIONS

✗ Vernon Beaumount - They are yin and yang, night and day, what Salem lacked yet Vernon would make up for. What Vernon didn’t have the guts to do, Salem would step in and do the dirty deed for him. A balance they have kept since they were mere children, Salem will follow Vernon till the depths of the Earth. He was the first to tell him he wasn’t a freak for his visions, Vernon not only led him to back to his coven to train him but also personally helped him overcome his visions. But Salem still is the little younger brother Vernon never had. As they watch over the Ivy witch for their coven back home, Salem’s not sure if the efforts will pay off in the end. His “dreams” have only gotten worse and the deaths of a few selected has crossed his mind.

His face claim is Daniel Sharman and he’s currently being played by Cinnamon.

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