#there are two people on this godforsaken earth I would die and kill for and its my little sisters

[airenyah]

what are the gayest destiel episodes you can think of?

ohhhhh i gotchu hold on (this is basically gonna end up being a list of my fave destiel episodes lmaooo)

ok so just a heads-up, i don’t really remember much from s10 onwards (a lot of those episodes i haven’t actually watched since they aired whoops) and i’m currently stuck at the beginning of s9 on my complete rewatch soooo this list focuses only on the first half of the show. i might do an update if i ever manage to finish my rewatch (and remember to post an update at all when the time comes)

ok here we go:

4x16 - On the Head of a Pin

dean calls cas “cas” to his face for the very first time

dean is all “you can't ask me to do this, cas. not this.” (about torturing alastair) and uriel is all “who said anything about asking”, but cas is all: “this is too much to ask, i know. but we have to ask it” and that is the moment that dean realizes that cas cares about him and his feelings/well-being and that’s when he demands to speak to cas alone 

and it’s only after cas tells dean he really doesn’t want dean being forced to do the torturing that Dean gives in (”i would give anything not to have you do this”)

like, it’s so obvious already how much cas cares about dean already and we’re only in s4

 cas is even starting to go down the path of disobedience (with a little help from anna admittedly, but still. he’s starting to consider it)

they’re so?? comfortable?? with each other. when cas visits dean at the hospital in the end

4x22 - Lucifer Rising

dean literally makes an angel fall in this ep, i mean come on... (the way cas shows up behind him all “you asked to see me” after dean smashes the angel statue cracks me up every single time gsdlka)

dean desperately trying to get cas to help him (bc he knows that IF there’s an angel that would help him it’s cas)

cas is too afraid though and dean gets pissed and literally breaks up with him (D: "you spineless, soulless son of a bitch. what do you care about dying? you're already dead. we're done." C: "dean-" D: "we're done!")

this is the episode in which cas makes his decision and chooses dean over heaven

5x03 - Free to Be You and Me

in the previous episode sam and dean had a fight and split up. this episode starts out with dean being pissed and annoyed and just in a bad mood in general

when cas shows up and asks for help dean is very grumpy and doesn’t want to help at first but then reluctantly agrees

throughout the episode, the more time dean spends with cas the better his mood gets (honestly this point is worthy of its own separate post, i have enough screenshots lmao)

like he’s even smiling at the end of the ep when he’s talking to cas in the car!! (except then he looks over and realizes cas has left mid-conversation again and that smile is wiped right off his face and i’m sad :( )

when they’re in that brothel dean mostly has eyes for cas, even when chastity the hooker is standing right next to him

after the brothel incident when dean is cracking up and goes “it's been a long time since I've laughed that hard. it's been more than a long time. years.” like... buddy. your crush is showing.

and the way cas smiles lovingly at dean laughing next to him

dean be like: “personal space”     also dean: *reaches into cas’s coat without hesitation* *fixes cas’s shirt and tie without hesitation*

also the funniest thing about the whole “personal space” moment in the motel is that there was more than enough space for dean to step aside and increase the distance between him and cas if he had really been all that uncomfortable but he just. doesn’t. no he just stays right where he is 

when raphael is trapped in the holy oil and threatens cas all “castiel, I'm warning you. do not leave me here. i will find you.” and cas goes “maybe one day. but today, you're my little bitch.” and walks away and dean tells raphael “what he said” like the impressed and proud boyfriend that he is

inside jokes (see here)

some more iconic quotes/moments from this episode:

“cas, we’ve talked about this. personal space”

“so, what, i'm thelma and you're louise and we're just going to hold hands and sail off this cliff together?”

“well. last night on earth. what are your plans?” “i just thought i'd sit here quietly.”

“let me tell you something. there are two things i know for certain. one, bert and ernie are gay. two, you are not gonna die a virgin. not on my watch.”

5x14 - My Bloody Valentine

hunter husbands!!

the way that dean is not in the mood for hook-ups on valentine’s day and then goes to stare at cas like That

that iconic phone call at the hospital where cas just appears in front of dean who nearly runs into him

cas be looking at sam while listing all the things people can be starving for, and then looks at dean before saying “love” 

ok i know this doesn’t have that many points but really this entire ep is great, i very much enjoy all the interactions between cas and dean in this ep

like when dean is not hungry and cas is all “you're not gonna finish that?” and grabs the plate without waiting for an answer bc they’re this married in s5 already

6x20 - The Man Who Would Be King

i mean... this one is obvious isn’t it

this ep is literally all about how cas is doing everything for the winchesters aka dean

the way sam and bobby cautiously voice their suspicions of cas to dean has the same energy as carefully breaking it to a family member that you think their partner is cheating on them 

and when they trap cas in the holy oil and confront him dean also acts like a betrayed wife(gn)

which is such a stark contrast to how sam and bobby react to the betrayal (they’re mostly just like “eh this sucks” while dean is emotionally affected)

and even in the following episodes dean is way more affected by cas’s betrayal than sam and bobby are and dean is the one who argues the most with cas (honestly, this entire arc is literally that post that’s all “how do i know dean is in love with cas? bc sam isn’t”)

ok but the holy oil scene is truly like a soap opera (i mean... “where were you when i needed to hear it?” “i was there. where were you?” and dean looking back at cas one last time before running away)

this is their first big break-up and it takes them until the s7 finale to make up

special shoutout to cas watching dean rake leaves

this ep is a LOT

7x17 - The Born-Again Identity

dean’s FACE when he sEES CAS. and then DEAN’S FACE AGAIN when “emmanuel” is all “what’s your issue?”

dean’s face all throughout that first scene with “emmanuel” and daphne, I’M

“you know, I used to be able to just shake this stuff off. you know, whatever it was. It might take me some time, but... i always could. what cas did... i just can't – i don't know why” BECAUSE YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HIM, IDIOT

the way dean interrupts all irritated when meg goes “i think we're gonna be good friends too” at “emmanuel” (jealous bf much gsdlksafd)

the way dean kept the trenchcoat just in case so he can give it back to cas should he return (which ofc he did)!!!!

7x21 - Reading is Fundamental

yet another one of those “how do I know dean is in love with cas? bc sam isn’t”

at the beginning of the ep at some point sam’s phone rings and when he says that meg (who is watching over cas at the mental hospital) is calling, dean is quick to stand up and even tho meg called sam, dean is the one who ends up having the phone call with her lmao

also dean has no chill during that phone call lmao (he’s irritated when he finds out meg didn’t call them right then and there as soon as cas woke up and he’s immediately concerned when meg says cas is different, while sam’s just standing there holding his phone out to dean, being all ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ lmao)

dean: *pissed af at cas*    also dean: *almost breaks his own neck at the speed with which he whips his head around at the mention of cas’s name and is desperate to know his location when cas calls meg after dean blasted him away with some other angels at the hospital*

ok no but then meg tells cas their location and cas zaps into the car and it’s hilarious how quick dean is to interrupt whenever cas turns his attention to meg in that scene

8x07 - A Little Slice of Kevin

dean seeing cas everywhere

when you see your best dudebro outside the window in the middle of a storm but when you get up he’s gone and you feel like crap because you could’ve made it out of the war zone together and you just cannot fathom why he didn’t try harder and you just don’t understand why you’re feeling what you’re feeling (and judging by dean’s reaction to sam’s suggestion, clearly it’s not survivor’s guilt)

dean’s FACE when cas suddenly appears behind him in the bathroom

jacting joices: the infamous boner scene (yet another example of “how do I know dean is in love with cas? bc sam isn’t”)

jacting joices pt 2: sam and dean are talking case and then cas walks over to join the conversation and there is literally no reason for dean to check cas out (see here)

during the rescue mission when cas zaps into the room and has a stand-off with crowley and then when dean finally manages to break into the room, can i just say... the way dean immediately rushes to cas (who’s ended up on the floor) and grabs him by the shoulder before he bothers to look around the room

D: “that was a bonehead move back there. you could have gotten yourself killed. why didn't you wait for me?” C: “well, i didn't get killed. and it worked” D: “and if it didn't?” C: “it would have been my problem.” D: “well, that's not the way i see it.”

the purgatory flashbacks when dean keeps insisting that cas is coming along with them back to earth and won’t hear otherwise

“i did everything I could to get you out – everything! i did not leave you.”  “so you think this was your fault?”

“look, I don't need to feel like hell for failing you, okay? for failing you like i've failed every other godforsaken thing that i care about! i don't need it!”

i know we hate buckleming but this episode, man. this episode

8x08 - Hunteri Heroici

i was gonna put this as a special shoutout but then it turned out that i had more to say about this ep than i initially thought

it’s the way dean and cas keep gravitating towards each other in the first half of the episode. no seriously, they somehow keep ending up beside each other and you start wondering “what’s personal space” (friendly reminder that this is the ep right after they’re finally back together again after purgatory)

the married energy and the bickering

the “talk to me” scene where cas finally opens up to dean (but then interrupting moose strikes)

at the retirement home dean to sam and cas: “no flirting you two” then CUT to: dean and cas sitting at a table with an elderly lady who is staring at cas with heart eyes and... lady: “you are so pretty, charles” dean: *must look at young nurse’s butt immediately to distract myself from gay thoughts*

i’m sorry but the way he smiles so widely at cas at one point when they’re talking to that lady, like, she’s just called cas a bounder and dean’s amused about that but his amusement is not in any way malicious and his face is just so full of love when he looks at Cas, it’s embarrassing really (see here)

9x06 - Heaven Can't Wait

ok so i haven’t watched this ep in like 5 years so my memories on this aren’t as fresh as with the previous eps but! it’s the way that cas and dean act exactly like exes (who are still in love with each other) in this ep

dean’s face as he’s staring at cas through the shop window

dean’s smile when he shows up inside the shop

the entire “i can’t let you do this cas” scene in the car

the infamous fanfiction gap

special shout out to:

5x18 - Point of No Return for all the bickering (“you know what? blow me, cas”) and especially  “well, cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that… i got laid.”

6x10 - Caged Heat for the pizza man and dean’s reaction to all the megstiel (like jealous bf much?)

6x19 - Mommy Dearest for the strong married energy dean and cas give off in this ep (honestly, all their bickering, it’s glorious) (friendly reminder that this is right before tmwwbk) 

7x23 - Survival of the Fittest for the “i’d rather have you cursed or not” scene

8x02 - What's Up, Tiger Mommy? for the purgatory flashbaks with that one monster calling cas dean’s angel and the reunion scene by the river with highlights such as “nice peach fuzz” and “i prayed to you cas, every night” and “i have a price on my head, and i've been trying to stay one step ahead of them, to – to keep them away from you” and “cas, we're getting out of here. we're going home” and “cas, buddy, i need you” and “let me bottom-line it for you. i'm not leaving here without you. understand?”

8x17 - Goodybe Stranger for “i don't know, dean. if he's so sketchy, then why were you praying to him?” and the entire crypt scene (yes this is a big one and yes i’m still only putting it as a special shoutout and yes it’s bc of the megstiel content this ep ok bye <3)

#there is also the late s9 ep where cas chooses dean over an angel army #then i vaguely remember 11x03 being a good destiel ep #and the s12 ep with the ''i love you. i love all of you''?? #i know people are still going crazy over the mix tape but i don't remember if the ep itself was very gay #oh and 13x06 - tombstone gets talked about a lot as well #when cas comes back to life at the end of the widower arc and dean goes from extremely depressed to happy af #15x09 was a pretty good one as well i think #and ofc 15x18 with the big ''i love you'' #anyway this was fun #i should really continue with my spn rewatch #but the thing is that i'm actually journaling and making notes #and that requires brain #and i currently just don't have the energy to make all this effort just for a tv show #who knows if i'm ever gonna finish this project #oh well #asks #anon #destiel #spn #lmk if i've missed anything (from s4-s8 that is)

[brywrites]

Date Night II

Here’s the second part to a TKOW-verse “Date Night”!

Part I | The Keeping of Words

Summary: Three years after leaving the BAU, Dr. Spencer Reid has given up chasing monsters to be a part-time professor and a full-time dad. It’s all domestic bliss - until Cat Adams turns up at the BAU.

Warnings: discussions of miscarriage, abuse

........

And so he took Cat to a roller rink. It wasn’t ice skating, but it was still skating. Walking inside with her like this was all just a fun game. Her fantasy come to life. She made him hold her hand. She kept calling him Spencie and he tried not to cringe, not to snap at the sound of it. It wasn’t a term of endearment. It wasn’t even close to the way it felt to hear Bianca say his name, to whisper my love as she ran her hands through his hair, or the way it sounded when Eliza Lou shouted daddy with the biggest smile on her face. No, any form of his name on Cat Adams’ lips made his skin crawl.

He kept trying to get Cat to slip up, but she refused to answer his questions. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she said after he asked about her baby.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” he said. “I was actually just trying to see if I could use it against you.”

Cat spun around, skating closer. “Oh, really? What about um… sex?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. He gritted his teeth as he placed his hands on her waist to steady himself. Her touch felt like burning, in all the worst ways. As she gazed up at him, he had to force himself not to look away. “Why don’t you use that against me?”

It was hard to breathe this close to her, with his thoughts moving too fast and the memories of Mexico, of Milburn coming too quickly. He had to stay calm. He had to play this game. It was the only way to keep Bianca and Elizabeth safe. He was doing this for them. He just had to think of them.

Cat pushed him away suddenly, and the next thing he knew she’d slapped him hard enough to knock him off balance. She skated away and he scrambled off the floor. “Cat, wait! Cat. Cat, wait. Cat!”

“I have spent my entire adult life reading men. I know when they’re thinking about someone else,” she spat. And of course he was. Of course his mind was on his daughter, on his wife, on the two people he would have gone to the ends of the earth for. The only two people who could have compelled him to go on this stupid sham of a date in this godforsaken roller rink. “Do you know what this was for me? I didn’t ask for one last family visit or final meal. I wanted this. And you can’t even give me the courtesy of your undivided attention. So thanks, but this date is over. You can turn off the stupid lights, boys!” she shouted.

“She’s not you,” he blurted out. Cat turned to glare at him. “Ever since you came into my life, it’s like I can’t get you out of my head. There’s some part of my brain, some part that you inhabit and no matter how good or – or kind or attractive my wife is… she’s not you.” And the words weren’t necessarily lies. There had been a time when he couldn’t get Cat out of his head, but because he was haunted by her – not attracted to her. And Bianca wasn’t her, wasn’t anything like the woman who had tried to tear him apart.

“Do you think about me when you fuck her?” Cat asked.

Lie. Lie and make it good. For the first time in a long time he thought of Maeve. Thought of Diane and the warehouse and how he hadn’t been convincing enough to save someone he loved that night. He wasn’t going to lose this time. He looked to the side, hoping the heat rising to his face would look like an embarrassed blush.

Cat laughed, and to his relief it was a laugh of delight. “Oh come on, Spencie. I’m gonna need you to elaborate on that for me.”

He closed his eyes so his microexpressions wouldn’t betray him. “I try not to. But it’s like I can’t help it. She just… doesn’t do it for me anymore. Not like you. And I know she wouldn’t be able to handle the things I – the things I want to do with you.” God, he was going to be sick.

But Cat was threading her arm around his. “If I’m a homewrecker, I want to make it official. Take me home, loverboy.”

Against all his better judgment, he agreed. Cat already knew their address he presumed, given that she’d had Lindsey bring his mother by the day they’d abducted her. They stood on the front porch of the little blue house as Spencer fumbled with the key in the lock.

“Wait,” Cat said, putting her hand on his. “Did you really mean what you said back there?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. He could feel the questioning stares of Luke and every SWAT agent.

“Prove it,” Cat said. “And make it good. Because I’m this close to letting them die.”

Reid stared at those cold, dark eyes. He had to make her believe it. He had to betray Bianca in order to save her and their daughter. Just pretend it’s her. He cupped Cat’s the face the way he had done to Bianca a million times, closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to hers. It’s Bianca, he told himself. It’s Bianca. He kissed her furiously, the way he did sometimes after they’d spent too much time apart, or she was blushing in that adorable way, or she was begging him for a distraction. The illusion was a fragile one. Anger could be mistaken for passion though, and he was so angry in that moment. He grabbed at her hair tighter, he pressed the weight of his body against her, he sucked harder at her lip. He tried to believe it, but the hand on his cheek was too warm and the hair between his fingers was too long and the tongue forcing its way into his mouth wasn’t hers.

Just when he thought he couldn’t do it any longer, Cat pulled away. He wanted to vomit, but he forced himself to swallow back the bile rising in his throat. He had to make her believe it.

It was only then that he opened his eyes and realized she wasn’t looking at him anymore. She’d opened the door, and he followed her gaze to where Bianca stood in the living room, her mouth hanging open as she stared at them.

His heart plummeted.

He yanked his hand away from Cat as Bianca wrapped her arms around herself, a look of unmistakable hurt plain on her face.

“B, what are you doing here?” he gasped, crossing the room towards her. She clutched her phone in her hand. There was a pattern of bruises, dirt, scratches across her face. A burn visible on her collarbone that he presumed was from the blank that had been fired. He ached to hold her, but she took a step back when he approached.

“Where is she, Spencer? Where’s Elizabeth?” Bianca demanded.

“Get Cat out of here,” Luke shouted at the SWAT team.

“No, no! She’s the only one who knows where my daughter is!” Bianca cried. “Cat doesn’t go anywhere until I know where she is!”

Cat sauntered into the living room, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Well look at that. You’re not as boring as I thought. You’re plucky. Did it make you mad that I was kissing your husband?”

“No.”

Cat pouted. “Why not?”

“Because there are other things on my mind. Where is she?” Bianca demanded. “Where’s Eliza, where’s my daughter?”

“You’re always so serious,” Cat groaned. “Tonight’s supposed to be fun. Like all the games Spencie and I play together.”

“You think this is a game?” Bianca said. “You kidnapped my daughter!”

“The daughter you didn’t even want.”

“What?” Bianca’s eyebrows, knit together in anger, raised slightly as her rage gave way to confusion.

“Oh please.” Cat rolled her eyes, taking a seat in the armchair. “I got the transcript of the arraignment. You’d be surprised how easy it is to bribe prison guards. You didn’t want to be a mother. But boy genius here got you knocked up. I mean, you really think he’d know to wrap it before you tap it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? He wanted to be a dad, and now here you are. Really I’m doing you a favor. You see, he’s got everyone fooled. Everyone things Dr. Spencer Reid is this nice, innocent, bookish genius who always saves the day – and has zero mommy issues, right? But he’s not. You know he said he thinks about me when he’s fucking you,” she laughed. Bianca recoiled at the words. “Does he ever get rough with you in the bedroom?”

Her face went red. “He’s never hurt me.”

“But that’s not entirely true is it? You said it yourself. He almost died in front of you. He chose drugs over you. He’s hurt you before. Maybe it didn’t leave a mark, but he’s hurt you. Maybe you know the real Spencer Reid. Just like I do.”

He bristled as she sat there in their chair, in their home, talking as if she owned the place. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t know anything about them. “Who’s the real me, Cat?” he asked.

Cat shifted her gaze to him. “The real Spencer Reid throws women against walls and hisses that he’s going to kill them. Even though you knew I was pregnant. You still hurt me.” She turned back to Bianca. “That’s right – while you painting a nursery and picking out baby names, he was throwing me against a wall and choking me. And the next day I miscarried.”

Bianca turned to look at him. The anger in his chest turned to lead, the weight of her words slamming down on him. “No. No that can’t be right. That’s not true.”

“It’s the truth,” she hissed. “Check my medical records. He might pretend to be a doting father, but he fawned over your little bundle of joy after killing my baby. He’s a murderer. Really no different from me. Or from that brother of yours.” Cat laughed sharply. “Oh, yeah. I did my research. Now that had to be fun to unpack in therapy. But it turns out all men are the same, aren’t they?”

“Bianca, I-”

“You were supposed to be different,” she said, cutting him off. She stared down at the floor of their living room. He was hurting her. He was hurting her right now. He fell back onto the couch in the living room, too tired to stay upright. “But you’re just like them. Like my father. Like Rick. Like Franklin.”

Franklin? The third name didn’t make sense. But Reid was too overwhelmed by her words to pay it much attention. She said it with such disgust and he couldn’t deny the guilt that was threatening to crush him. He wanted to sink into the floor. Had he really done that? JJ had tried to stop him but he hadn’t listened. Oh god what had he done?

“Let’s make a deal,” Cat said, grabbing the phone from Bianca’s hands. “I’ll tell you where your kid is. If you tell him exactly what you really think about him.”

Bianca closed her eyes. He could see her hands shaking. “I hate you. You’re just as bad as the others. But you hurt me. You hurt me so many times and you don’t even see it. And it doesn’t matter what I say or how much I yell at you, you’ll never see it.” He couldn’t breathe. What was happening? Where was any of this coming from? She’d only ever once spoken to him like that before. “My truth I will keep, I will not lie. You should have stayed at Milburn. It’s where you belong. Because you’re no different from any of the people you put away. You don’t deserve to be here.” She turned to stare at him. There were tears in her eyes.

And if he hadn’t known better, he would’ve assumed they meant hatred. But she’d given him a clue. My truth I will keep, I will not lie. That’s where Franklin came from. It was a line from “The Franklin’s Tale,” her favorite part of The Canterbury Tales. She’d told his mother that the day she first met Diana. It was a story she saw the two of them reflected in. Arveragus and Dorigen had a pure love based on equality and mutual respect, and when Aurelius tried to split them up, the strength of their love and their willingness to sacrifice for each other kept them together.

Bianca was trying to tell him that it was all an act. That whatever Cat was trying to do to split them up, it wasn’t going to work. Reid had to bite down on his lip to keep himself from smiling. That was his girl. His brilliant, incredible wife. He was so proud of her.

But he had to play along. “Bianca, please.”

“No. No more. I’m glad you found Cat. You two deserve each other.” She turned to Cat. “Now tell me where my daughter is, please. So I can get far away from him.” Cat typed something into the phone and handed it back. “There you go. Baby girl is alive and well. You’re welcome.”

Bianca turned on her heel and ran out to the team, leaving him stranded as he sat on the couch, staring straight ahead. Playing the part he needed play. “I win,” Cat declared. There was chaos around him as the SWAT team handcuffed Cat and Luke took off in a car with Bianca. He was loaded into the truck to sit beside Cat for the long ride back to the prison. The silence gave Cat’s words plenty of time to sink in. Regardless of Bianca’s reaction, there was a truth to what Cat had said. He’d hurt the woman he loved, and he’d done it more than once. He’d hurt so many people. And he’d caused Cat to miscarry.

He disgusted himself. It was all he could do to keep it together as Cat explained she’d just wanted to see him one last time – to make sure he wouldn’t forget about her.

She was hurting too. And maybe even scared. Her voice shook as she said, “Bye, Spencie. I really enjoyed our date.”

And then the guards were taking her away. And then Garcia and Simmons were there. “We heard you might need a ride,” Matt said. “We got Eliza. They’re both safe. We can take you to them if you want.”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

.....

He couldn’t get into that SUV fast enough. He clambered into the passenger seat, heaving a sigh.

“Rough night, huh?” Matt said, as they pulled onto the highway. Reid just shook his head.

“I thought that might be the case,” Garcia said. “Hey, boy genius. I know that you had to say some super yucky things tonight, but we briefed Bianca on it all before you went inside.”

“What? How?”

“Well, Cat had Juliette drop Bianca in the street. Cat wanted us to find her so you three could battle it out at home. The whole showdown was orchestrated – I’ll explain all the details later but to make a long story short, we figured out her endgame pretty fast. So we picked up my favorite petite poet the moment we got her location, hooked her up with a wire, took her back to your place, and told her to follow Cat’s lead and just lie as much as she had to. She would’ve made Meryl Streep proud with that performance! And then the moment Cat sent that text, we were able to swoop in and rescue little Eliza Lou from the clutches of the big bad wolf.”

“Thank you for doing all of that,” he said. “But I’m still feeling pretty horrible at the moment.”

“Is this about the miscarriage?” Garcia asked. “Because I can help you with that, too. “Cat said check the medical record and I did. She had a miscarriage, but it was months later. It had nothing to do with you. It was just a lie to throw you off. The whole team knows that, and so does Bianca.” She reached out from the backseat to put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a monster, no matter how badly she wants you to believe that.”

With that information, Reid’s heart lifted ever so slightly. It wasn’t true. And while it would take a while to shake this terrible feeling after everything he’d heard and said, that much was a relief. And most importantly, Bianca and Elizabeth were safe. That was all that really mattered. The day had ended with the two people he loved most alive and well. Everybody lived this time.

They arrived at the hospital and the three of them walked through the maze of corridors together trying to follow the instructions of the front-desk person. He’d left his phone back at the house so Garcia was frantically trying to text Bianca for her location. Just when he was about to declare that they were hopelessly lost, a door opened and he spotted a familiar face.

“Maybe we should go back?” Simmons asked.

“Oh wait! This should be the right hallway,” Garcia said. “Just one door on the left and Bianca should be there, and we can put this whole day behind us. No more lies or games!”

But he didn’t hear them. Because Bianca was walking towards him with the most perfect smile on her face. Her cardigan hanging loosely from her shoulders, bandages and sutures on her skin and a hospital bracelet on her wrist.

“I don’t know,” Simmons said. “I mean, that kiss – that kind of thing seems hard to fake.”

“Oh Matt,” Garcia sighed. “You haven’t seen them together enough. Watch and learn.”

Reid ran to Bianca and wrapped her in a gentle hug. “Thank god you’re okay. Where’s Eliza?”

“The doctors are talking with her to make sure she feels safe at home before we can see her. But she’s okay. We both are,” Bianca said, “thanks to you.

“You were only in danger because of me. I’m so sorry.”

Bianca held him tight. “This was Cat’s fault. Nobody else’s. And it’s over now. We’re safe.” And so they were. She gazed up at him and those brown eyes were so warm. So inviting. He raised a hand to tilt her chin towards him and then shifted to caress her cheek. A smile spread across her face and she closed her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her. Slow at first, as he tested the boundaries, worried about the bruises she bore. But she pulled grabbed his suit jacket and pulled him closer, so he deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of her lips and the sensation of her fingernails at the nape of his neck. She was still too far away, so he shifted his hands to her waist, carefully avoiding the places he knew she’d been kicked, and lifted her up, holding her against him as he spun her around, never once moving his lips from hers.

He kissed her with a passion typically reserved only for their bed or the sofa or up against the wall of the study late at night, kissed her like he couldn’t get enough of her. He didn’t care who saw them. She was safe. She was alive. He loved her, and he wanted the whole world to know that.

When they finally needed to breathe and she pulled away, he set her back on the ground only to pull her back into a hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you so much,” he murmured.

“I love you, too.”

At the end of the corridor, a dumbfounded Matt raised his eyebrows. “I see what you mean now.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Reid?” a nurse asked, poking his head into the hall. They both turned around. “You can come in now, we’ve finished talking with her. You’re all clear.” The relief on their faces were twin expressions as they dashed into the room together.

Elizabeth looked so small in the big ER bed and a hospital gown far too big for her, but she wore a huge smile. “Daddy, you’re here!” she said.

Reid hurried to her bedside, enveloping her in a hug. “I’m here. I’m right here.” He needed tangible proof that she was alright and to hold her in his arms seemed the simplest thing. His child was safe and sound, back with them where she belonged.

Bianca sat down on the bed and the little girl curled into her mother’s side while holding tight to her father’s hand. “You were so brave today, dear heart,” she said, stroking Eliza’s hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

Eliza looked up at her with wide brown eyes that mirrored her own. “I didn’t like the game,” she said. “Not fun.”

“We won’t play it ever again,” Reid promised her. There were no more games to win, no more villains to best. The doctor came in to assure them that they’d run a full exam on Elizabeth and had found nothing wrong. Juliette hadn’t hurt her. Bianca was given instructions to follow up if had any prolonged pain and then the three of them were on their way home. Garcia and Simmons gave them a ride back to their house, where Luke had driven Bianca’s car back to. By the time they arrived, Elizabeth was fast asleep.

They carried her into the blue house and up the stairs, tucking her carefully into bed and turning on her nightlight. Reid and Bianca hovered in the doorway just a moment longer, needing that extra space to remind themselves that their daughter was okay. They tiptoed downstairs where Bianca put a hot kettle on the stove for two cups of tea.

“You know,” Reid said, “I think Cat Adams was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?” Bianca asked.

“In twenty years, I won’t remember her name.” He stepped closer to her, lacing his fingers through her own. “But it won’t be because of Alzheimer’s. It’ll be because she won’t be worth remembering. I’ll have too many other memories – memories of vacations we took together and Eliza Lou’s birthdays and all of our anniversaries. Our life together. Our little girl. Cat won’t be anything but a blip on the radar. Hardly even a footnote in our story.”

“It’s finally over?”

“It’s over,” he assured her. “We don’t ever have to worry about her again.”

She smiled. “I’m sorry for everything I had to say tonight. I didn’t mean a word of it.”

“I know,” he said. “I picked up on that clue about the Franklin’s Tale. You were brilliant in there. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

The tea kettle began to whistle as she wrapped her arms around him. “It’s okay. We’re safe. We’re home. And we’re together.”

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her.

#criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x oc #the keeping of words #tkow

[ad1thi]

broken pieces (you and me) fit together perfectly | AU-gust Day 5: Post Apocalyptic AU

AU-gust masterlist

i think this is my biggest fill yet, and i actually had so much fun writing this so please give it some love!!

//

Adjusting to life in Wakanda isn't easy. For one thing, everywhere is a constant reminder of what they faced, what they lost. As a country, Wakanda is not terribly big, its not large and looming and filled with large stretches of land the way the US was. There is no car for Sam to get into, no expanse of road that he can lose himself in.

There is just here, and nothing else.

It hadn't take him and Jim long to make it back to the others, one of his arms slung around Jim's shoulders while the other pressed against the wound in his abdomen in some attempt to stop the bleeding. The minute he got back though, he knew.

He didn't know how, or why, or even when. But he knew. Steve was dead.

He doesn't remember how he reacted, the entire thing is a huge blank in his mind. A week after he found out, Jim visits him in the med bay, and tells him in soft, halting tones, how Sam crumpled to the ground - screaming, and how none of them could do anything. Not Natasha, not Bruce, not even Jim.

He listens with a blank tone, and then turns on his side, mindful of all the tubes stuck inside him. Jim hovers around his head, but eventually lets himself out, leaving Sam alone to his thoughts.

All said and done, it takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realise that he's not the only one grieving. It feels like something that should be obvious, because Thanos killed half the universe, because the only news that's being reported these days is of the climbing death rate, because the tragedy is impossible to escape, even in his own mind.

Yet somehow, Sam doesn't realise until almost two weeks after he's been released from Medical that Jim is grieving too. It's almost humiliating, the way he finds out.

He's on his way to the kitchen, because Princess Shuri has graciously given them use of the East Wing of the Palace even though he's certain that everytime she looks at them, she thinks about the brother they've taken from her - the brother she lost because they brought war to her doorsteps; when he hears Jim and Natasha's voices.

"Anything?" Natasha asks, and there's a tinge of panic in her voice that makes Sam pause, "You haven't heard anything at all?"

"Pepper's been trying him for days," Jim says in a resigned voice, but Sam's been a therapist long enough to detect the undercurrent of despair, "Says she lost all contact with him after he boarded the donut. There's nothing -"

Jim's voice cracks, and Sam wants to reach out and hold him. Dimly, he's aware that he should probably examine those feelings closer but Jim's started talking again so he refocuses his attention on the conversation, "..doesn't die. I got so used to him not dying Nat. I don't, I don't know what it means that we haven't heard from him. Part of me wants to hold on, because this is Tony we're talking about he -"

"beats all the odds," Natasha finishes, and there's a rustle of movement, where Sam imagines that she's reaching out and holding his hand. It stirs something ugly inside of him. "He beats all the odds, and you want to believe that he's beaten these ones too."

"Thing is though," Jim says in a dry voice, "Even if he somehow survived space again, I have no way of knowing if he survived the Snap. Thanos didn't just kill half the population on Earth, he killed half the population everywhere. Who's to say that Tony didn't die somewhere on some godforsaken planet, all alone."

Jim makes a chocking sound then, and Sam realises with rapidly growing horror that he's crying. Without quite thinking it through, his feet start moving of their own accord, and when he enters the room, Jim's head is nestled in the crook of Natasha's shoulders.

Natasha looks up when he enters, and her eyes are wet with unshed tears. She mimes keeping quiet in her left hand, her right hand running down Jim's back in soothing motions; and Sam feels like an outsider looking in on their friendship.

He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing, simply grabbing something from the fridge and walking out. As he's leaving, he can feel Natasha's eyes bore holes into his back, but he doesn't turn around.

/

Staying in Wakanda gets easier, over time. Sam isn't foolish enough to say that it hurts less, or that he gets used to how he can cover the entire country in a couple of days, but it gets more familiar - starts to feel like some semblance of home.

Jim is a huge part of that.

Once he got his head out of his ass and recognised that Jim had lost his bestfriend the same way Sam had, they started developing, something. Sam doesn't want to label, wouldn't even know what to call it even if he tried - but he's been down this road long enough to recognise familiar haunts.

He’d always been friendly with Jim, since they both joined up to the Avengers roster at the same time, post – Ultron. Steve was caught between missing Tony and furiously throwing himself into saving Barnes - and Sam, Jim and Natasha formed this unlikely but solid bond.

That’s nothing compared to what they have now: quiet conversations in dimly lit rooms in the middle of the nights, cryptic touches in the blearing light of day, comfort under covers that they never talk about again.

Sam has spent so much time being the person that people went to for help, that he’s almost forgotten how to ask for it.

Jim changes that.

“Can’t sleep?” he lifts up his head from where he’s absently blowing at his coffee to see Jim leaning against the doorframe, clad in worn out sweats and an MIT tshirt and stretches around his chest and rises up around his waist; revealing a sliver of finely toned muscle and the hint of defined hips.

Sam firmly tamps down the want that’s growing inside him.

“Me neither,” Jim continues, even though Sam hasn’t spoken, “I don’t think any of us are getting much sleep anymore.”

“Might have something to do with the fact that your clothes don’t fit you,” Sam says, in lieu of an actual response. He doesn’t feel like digging deep and exposing himself.

Jim looks down at his tee like he didn’t even realise that he was wearing it, and when he replies, his voice is thick with an emotion that Sam recognises intimately, “It’s Tony’s. Must’ve got mixed up in the wash.”

Tony isn’t in Wakanda, nor is his laundry, but Sam doesn’t call him out on it. He simply reaches out and pats on the seat next to him, and when Jim sits down – knocks their shoulders together.

Jim leans into the touch briefly, and Sam suddenly remembers how tactile Tony used to be, during the few times he would visit the Compound. He wonders how long it’s been since someone has touched Jim like that.

“I hear that Wakanda has crazy infomercials,” he says, before he does something stupid like offer to cuddle Jim, “want to see what’s on?”

Rhodey looks down at his coffee mug, and then up at Sam with an expression that Sam doesn’t want to touch.

“Sure,” he says eventually, “how bad can it be?”

It’s bad. Even worse that the infomercials that Sam remembers from his first year back on American soil, but he doesn’t watch much of it – because he spends most of the night watching Jim’s face; and resolutely ignoring the growing warmth inside his heart.

It becomes somewhat of a routine between them. Not in the regular, let me pencil you into my diary way, but more in the organic way. One of them will be stewing in silence, and the other will enter; and invariably they'll end up on the couch surfing channels.

Princess Shuri offers to get them access to american cable, but they both decline. Neither of them are ready for that yet.

Some nights Natasha joins them. Others, Bruce. Somewhere along the way, the kitchen gets stocked with popcorn and chips and crisps, and the fridge is filled with cans of various drinks.

Most of the time though, its just him and Jim.

As much and Sam loves Bruce and Natasha, these are the nights he likes the most.

It's on one of these nights that Sam finally decides to make his move. He's resting on Jim's shoulder, because they've long since foregone the illusion of space and personal space, and Jim's hand is lightly tracing patterns from where it's resting on Sam's hip.

Someone is selling a spoon that doesn't spill it's contents no matter which way you twist it on the screen, and Sam twists so that he can look up at Jim. Jim looks back at him instantly, and softly, slowly - telegraphing his every move, Sam leans up to cover the last few inches and bring their lips together.

There are no fireworks, there's no sudden and huge realisation.

Jim kisses him back instantly, the hand on his waist tightening. The kiss is sweet and chaste, and when Sam pulls back, he smiles.

Jim smiles back, and Sam thinks to himself that nothing is going to fix what Thanos broke - but maybe he isn't as broken as he thought after all.

Fin

#my writing #warfalcon #sam wilson x james rhodes #sam wilson/james rhodes #sam x rhodey #sam/rhodey #adi does AU-gust #AU-gust #post apocalyptic AU #post Avengers IW #Angst #Sam Wilson POV #Getting together #Developing relationship #rhodey and nat friendship #friends to lovers #broken pieces (you and me) fit perfectly together

[raskoolz]

Philemon

Who is Philemon?

Philemon is a figure who appears in two literary works:

Ovid's "Metamorphoses", and Goethe's "Faust".

In "Metamorphoses", Ovid narrates how Jupiter and Mercury wandered around, disguised as mortals in the hill country of Phyrgia.

Searching for a place to rest, they were turned away from a thousand homes until they were met by an elderly couple- Philemon and Baucis, who graciously invited these strangers into their humble cottage.

Philemon and Baucis had married in their youth in their cottage and have grown old together in it, accepting their poverty. To honor their guests they offered to kill their only goose. The goose took refuge with the gods who decreed that it should not be killed, and revealed themselves to the couple, saying that those around them would be punished but they would be spared.

With the Gods, they climbed into safety atop a mountain, and upon reaching the top, they saw that the entire country was flooded. Only their cottage remained, now transformed into a temple made of columns of marble and a roof of gold.

To repay their kindness, the gods granted the old couple any wish, to which Philemon and Baucis' reply was in keeping with their deep humility and reverence.

They wished to become priests and serve in this new shrine to the gods and to die at the same time as a testimony of their enduring love. And so it happened, and when they died, the gods honored them further by tranforming them into trees so that they could continue to live side by side in this way as they had in their mortal lives.

Much later, Goethe uses the old couple as a literary allusion in his book, "Faust".

In Faust, Goethe has Faust build a city on land reclaimed from the sea. In order to do this, Faust tells Mephistopheles (The Devil) that he wants the old couple, Philemon and Baucis, who live there, to move.

To Faust's ultimate horror, Mephistopheles burns the old couple's cottage, with the two still alive inside.

In 1913, during a period of psychosis, Carl Jung recounts a dream in his book, "Memories, Dreams, Reflections" in which a figure named Philemon appears to him.

Jung saw a sea-blue sky covered by brown clods of earth that appeared to be breaking apart. Out of the blue, he saw an old man with kingfisher wings and the horns of a bull flying across the sky, carrying a bunch of keys.

After the dream, Jung painted the image, because he did not understand it. During this intense period, Jung was struck by the synchronicity of finding a dead kingfisher, a bird rarely seen around Zürich, in his garden by the lakeshore.

Thereafter, Philemon played an important role in Jung’s fantasies. To Jung, he represented superior insight and functioned like a guru to him.

Philemon explained how Jung treated thoughts as though they were generated by himself, while for Philemon "thoughts were like animals in the forest, or people in a room, or birds in the air."

Jung concluded that Philemon taught him "psychic objectivity, the reality of the psyche."

This helped Jung to understand that there is something in us which can say things that we do not know and do not intend.

Goethe's Faust also made a tremendous impression on Jung and held a life-long significance for him.

He felt personally implicated by the destruction of these humble and reverent figures and felt that it was his responsibility to atone for this crime and to prevent its repetition in the 20th century.

Healing this "Faustian split"- the breaking off of man's spiritual, intuitive, and psychological understanding for the western world's rapid emphasis on industrialization and hyper-rationality would become a central theme in Jung’s life work.

At his tower in Bollingen, Jung commemorated Philemon. Over the gate, he carved the inscription,

“Philemonis Sacrum – Fausti Poenitentia”

[Philemon’s Shrine – Faust’s Repentance].

In one of the rooms at Bollingen, he painted a huge mural of the winged Philemon, essentially reproducing the painting from the Red Book.

In a letter to Paul Schmitt in 1942, Jung wrote:

“I have taken over Faust as my heritage, and moreover as the advocate and avenger of Philemon and Baucis, who, unlike Faust the superman, are the hosts of the gods in a ruthless and godforsaken age.”

What does this all mean, and why is Philemon important?

To quote W.H. Auden:

"We are lived by powers we do not understand."

Often, rather than us having ideas, it is ideas that instead have us.

The "Faustian split" which Jung warns us about, and vigilantly fought against his whole life is the tendency for mankind's rationality to fall in love with itself and it's own creations.

When we end up prioritizing specific ideologies or systems of understanding over the dignity of the individual, we risk being inauthentic, and inevitably neglect or even deny what cannot be justified by our own ideologies.

This is analogous to what happens in any tyrannical society, any dogmatic religious system, or oppresive political party/point of view.

If you need any examples of this. You need only to look around, or turn to history and you will see it everywhere you go.

You will see it in racism, sexual orientation/class prejudice, gender inequality, the holocaust, and the gulag.

If we are not careful, there is an unconscious part within each and every person that is capable of commiting horrifying actions under the justification and rationalization of any ideology.

In this sense, Philemon acts as a counter-symbol: a spiritual totem that represents the individual's consciousness/psychological awareness behind rationality.

The symbol of Philemon suggests that there are things that cannot always be grasped by rationality and logic but can be peripherally known through other means using our own individual intuition and discernment.

#psychology #jung #spirituality #carl jung #philosophy #philemon #alchemy #literature #story #transcendental #meditation #archetypes #myth #dream #reflection #journal #introspection #art #spirit #creative #text #written

[waynedunlaptheorgandonor]

here, i wrote a smutty, angsty oneshot about the most recent episode. it incorporates spoilers we have for next week’s episode too, jsyk

title: how big you can love

words: 3500

rating: m

It’s only when you’re close to death do you realize just how big you’re able to love. The magnitude of it all; the absolute infinite capabilities of your heart. They say that everyone who’s ever jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived regretted it the moment their feet left solid ground. There’s always love inside—of family, of yourself, of life—but darkness likes to disguise it as pain and grief and hatred. It’s only during the fall that its true face reemerges. You can only really know yourself and your ability to love when you’re about to die.

And it’s not that Daryl ever forgot that he loved her. Quite the contrary, in fact. His whole life lately has revolved around a continuous push-and-pull game, where she tugs herself one way, and he tugs her right on back. But that’s the thing—he’s been so preoccupied with keeping her grounded that he’s put aside the reason he’s doing it in the first place. 

Now that he’s dying, though? Now he remembers. 

Face beaten to a pulp, his leg gushing out more blood than he can stem with the pressure of his hand, Daryl lies on the floor of some rundown dusty shop that has been cleaned out for years, and feels the vastness of his love for her. 

When he closes his swollen eyelids he sees her face, smiling the way she used to in the beginning, with an unwavering kindness that he hadn’t been used to and didn’t know how to comprehend. On his bruised and battered shoulder he feels the phantom weight of her head resting on it, and the squeeze of her fingers around his bicep.

On the other side of the wall, Alpha—the monster who broke Carol’s final tether and made him lose his grip on her—is droning on about the meaning of it all. She’s nearly dead, too, and remembering just how much she loves power. But Daryl isn’t listening. He isn’t here, not really. His heart is still beating, but he’s transcended his body, existing only where his memories of her lie. 

They’re right when they say that your life flashes before your eyes, because she is his whole world.

He should have told her that. 

Should have chanted it like a mantra to her every day.

It was never the right time, and now there’s no time left. Funny thing, time. Always keeps you guessing.

At least he’s not afraid. Carol was the first to teach him that letting people in can be safe, and she’s keeping him safe now, in his final moments. 

Daryl thinks someone is saying his name; thinks there may be footsteps circling around his dilapidated form. He can’t be bothered to make heads or tails of it, though.

He’s too busy remembering how big he’s able to love.

*

Lydia’s tourniquet saved his life, the clever girl. He’s proud of her. Not because she helped him. He’s certainly grateful, but he’s proud because she has developed a love of others instead a love of control like her mother, and he knows exactly how difficult that is when someone is trying to literally beat the compassion out of you.

He’s home in Alexandria, holed up in the infirmary that has yet to recover from the giant hole Siddiq left in his wake. Trainees fuss over him with unskilled hands—people who had observed the late doctor’s handiwork, or came into the community with rusty medical knowledge from CNA jobs in their 20s, or what have you. It’s a testament to how worn down he is that he doesn’t care that he’s confined to a bed and at the whim of other people’s touch. He spends most of his time sleeping, trying to heal his battered body that is unfortunately much too familiar with this song and dance.

In his moments of lucidity, however, in between the aches and pains, he remembers how big he loves her, and he wants to ask everyone who walks by if they’ve seen her, but he’s afraid of the answer. With how they left things, and with her tendency for running, he doesn’t want to know where she ended up after he left her at the collapsed entrance of that godforsaken cave.

At night, though, he thinks he feels her thin fingers lacing between his thick ones, entwining them with a gentle squeeze. He thinks he feels his hair being brushed back, and maybe even lips pressing against his forehead. He thinks he hears soft reassurances whispered in his ear.

But then he wakes up, and no one is ever there.

*

It takes a full week for them to let him go home. A week. Seven days. And truth be told, they probably would have kept him longer, except he finally loses his patience, and gets right up on both feet, ignoring the throb in his injured leg, and walks right out the door.

He gets it. There’s a war on the horizon, and Michonne is out at sea somewhere, Hilltop has two of their members lost underground, not to mention he still hasn’t asked about Carol, and at the end of the day, no matter how well-meaning everyone is, or how concerned they are about his well-being, he knows that, first and foremost, at least right now, he’s an asset they can’t afford to lose.

He’s not gonna take it personal.

But he’s also not staying in that fucking infirmary a second longer. 

When he gets home the house is quiet, and usually quiet doesn’t bother him, but today it feels exceptionally lonely. He’s grown accustomed to the sound of RJ running around playing, with Lil’ Asskicker at his heels, but they’re with a neighbor right now. Lydia is no longer confining herself to the brig, but she’s still not feeling welcome, and comes and goes, checking on him before disappearing back out into the forest, and Daryl, who has done the exact same thing on more than one occasion, would be a hypocrite to ask her to say in one place. But even his dog isn’t here. He’s with a neighbor too. Daryl’s all alone in this big empty house.

Or at least he assumes he is. 

Leaning against the front door, shifting his weight off of his bad leg, his eyes wander up the stairs, and it takes him a good five minutes to decide if it’s time to answer the question he’s been dreading asking since the moment he got through the Alexandrian gates. 

He starts up the stairs, slowly, still sore, and they creak under his weight. He gets to the top and comes face to face with the entrance to her room and finds the door cracked open. Swallowing, he takes those last few steps and nudges it the rest of the way open with the palm of his hand. 

There’s a duffel bag. 

It’s lying open on the bed, and he can see some clothes thrown in haphazardly, and the hilt of a knife. Around the room, dresser drawers are pulled out, and belongings are scattered on the ground. She’s getting ready to run, and his stomach twists.

Entering the room, he surveys the chaos around him. He doesn’t know where she went, but assumes she’ll be back soon to finish her packing job and hit the road. Was she even going to say goodbye? 

A white-hot rage washes over him, because why the fuck does it always have to go this way? It’s always something; always him running to be by himself, or her running from herself. The two of them never learned how to sit still, but he’s sick of it. He loves her too big to lose her again.

He starts putting her things back where they belong; takes out each item of clothing from the duffel bag one-by-one, folding them neatly and laying them in the dresser drawers. Unsteady on his feet, he fights through his pain to reach down and clean up the floor. A lot of it is junk—a pair of socks with holes in the heels and toe, a lighter with no juice left, a pocket mirror with a jagged crack down the middle—but some of it is the exact opposite. Some of the stuff on the ground are treasured items thrown around in anger, like a birthday card from Henry, a drawing of Sophia made by Jadis, and several letters Daryl wrote her during her time out at sea that he didn’t realize she had kept.

He treats these items with care—uncrumpling the corners of aged paper and blowing dust off—before setting them gingerly down in a neat pile on her table. Then, when the room is no longer in disarray, Daryl takes a seat on the edge of her bed and waits.

It’s about fifteen minutes later, give or take, when she returns. She steps into her room and then stills like a statue at the sight of him, not unlike she had the day he came to confront her in that little house on the border of the Kingdom. She takes stock of her tidied up space. With a weak groan, she presses the base of her palms to her eyes.

“Don’t do this,” she says. “Just go.”

“No,” Daryl says simply, and she lets her arms fall, hanging limp at her sides. There are tears sliding down her cheeks but her face is stoic.

“I only stayed to make sure you were okay,” she says. “Clearly you are, so now you can let me go.”

“No,” Daryl says again, not unkindly or harshly, but with an air of finality that she chooses to ignore.

“Look at what I’ve done, Daryl,” she yells then. He doesn’t flinch. “I trapped two of our own. I’ve essentially brought the Whisperers to our front doorstep. I almost got you killed, for Christ’s sake, you almost died, and it would have been my fault, and I have a lot of blood on my hands, Daryl, but if I had yours? I’d rather die and go straight to hell.”

“I’m alive,” Daryl says. 

“But you almost weren’t.”

“But I am.”

“But not everyone is. Not everyone will be, once this war is underway. Anyone around me has the risk of becoming collateral damage.”

“Then you have to get yourself under control.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“How?”

“By talking to me, Carol, like I’ve said all along.”

Carol laughs bitterly, blinking up at the ceiling and shaking her head. 

“The fuck do you want me to say, Daryl?” she asks, eyes trained above her at nothing. “Do you want me to say it hurts that my son’s head was put on a pike? That the woman who did it is still walking around on this Earth without any consequences? Yeah, it fucking hurts.” She looks at him then, with a leveled glare. “Do you want me to say that the only good thing that came out of two decades of abuse was my baby that I ended up not being able to protect? Who died all alone without her mother there to hold her?”

She starts pacing, breathing heavily.

“Do you want me to tell you how I once told a scared little boy I’d tie him to a tree and let the walkers eat him just so he would leave me alone and not be around the fucking curse that I am, and yet he got ripped to shreds anyway?” 

She approaches the bed, standing right before him, wetting her bottom lip. 

“Should I tell you,” she says in a harsh whisper. “About how Lizzie killed her little sister with a knife I taught her to use, and how I took her into the yard and told her to look at the flowers while I shot her point blank in the head?” Daryl’s surprise must be evident, because she smiles humorlessly and says, “Yeah, you didn’t know that one, did you? You didn’t know that when Lizzie died she didn’t have any bites. No wounds. She was in peak physical health. But I killed her anyway, Daryl. Lord knows Tyrese wouldn’t do it. He just gave me the go-ahead and stayed in the house with Judith while I blew a child’s brains out onto the grass.” 

“Carol—”

“No, you wanted me to talk, so I’m talking.” Her whole body is shaking. “Every child that has ever been mine is dead. I am the common denominator. I am lethal, and it doesn’t matter if they’re the good guys or the bad guys—when people are around me they die. And I’m not letting you die, Daryl. I’m not.” 

"You ain't a curse," Daryl says. 

"Then why are they all gone?" Carol breathes, tears coming faster now, and all Daryl wants is to brush them away. He reaches out to her, but she takes a step back. "No," she says.

"I still wanna be here for you."

"You already tried, and look how that went. I took her from you. I didn't mean to, but I did, and you don't get to forgive me just because you think you should out of some sense of loyalty. Tear into me. Get angry. Tell me to fuck off so I can get my stuff and go."

Daryl has to resist rolling his eyes. 'I took her from you.' There she goes with that junior high playground bullshit again, like any of this has to do with if he like likes Connie. As if this has nothing to do with how deeply she's hurting and how deeply he wants to help her, because she's right, he almost died, and now he remembers how big he loves her and isn't soon to forget.

He says, "I ain't tellin' you to fuck off. And I ain't lettin' you leave."

"It's not up to you where I go."

"Then it ain't up to you where I follow."

They hover at this impasse, shooting daggers at each other. Carol wipes her face and takes a deep breath. He can see her preparing her next big polemic in order to push him far enough away that she has time to escape.

"Daryl—" she starts, but she doesn't finish her sentence, because in one swift movement Daryl gets up off the bed and into her space. He cups her face, and before she can protest he's pressing his lips to hers. 

They stand that way for a beat. Then another.

Her eyes are wide when he leans back to look at her; scared and devastated and wanting all concurrently. She opens her mouth to speak.

"Shut up," Daryl says, and kisses her again.

It takes a moment for her to respond, and when she does it feels reluctant. But then, slowly, her arms snake up the length of his torso and drape around his neck, and that's when he feels her give in. She tilts her head for him to get a better angle, and parts her lips for him. He slides his tongue against hers lazily, running his hands down her back until resting them on her hips. He tugs her forward, eradicating completely the distance she tried to put between them as they come flush together.

Breaking the kiss, Daryl rests his forehead against hers as he walks her to the bed. He lays her down tenderly, and she rests on a pillow, watching him. He climbs into bed too and hovers over her, brushing his knuckles down her cheek.

"You're hurt," she reminds him softly, noticing how he's favoring one knee. 

"I'll be okay," he says, because he really couldn't care less, but she shakes her head.

"Lie down," she says, shifting to make room. "Let me."

Daryl hesitates only a moment before settling down on his back, hoping she won't run. 

She doesn't. Instead, she leans down and kisses him sweetly, taking hold of his hand and placing it on her navel. Daryl bunches the fabric between his fingers, and then uses both hands to work the buttons undone. He makes each one come open with such delicacy that he feels like one of those people who open gifts by carefully peeling every piece of tape off and then folding the wrapping paper neatly once it's removed, because the unveiling is just as important as the prize underneath.

He helps her shrug off the shirt entirely, and she reaches around to undo the clasp of her bra. Slipping it off, suddenly she's before him, nude from the waist up. Parts of her skin are marred by years upon years of violence, but there is no inch of her flesh that he doesn't worship. He feels her up, taking time to get to know every texture of her torso, from the smoothness of her belly, to the roughness of her scars, to the tautness of her nipples as he brushes his thumbs over them, making her sigh.

"I love you," he says. She shuts her eyes and more tears dribble down the bridge of her nose.

"You shouldn't," she says. "I wish you didn't."

"Hey," he says gently. "Look at me."

With what seems like tremendous effort, she opens her eyes and meets his gaze.

"I want you to love her," she says. "Or anyone. Anyone else. Don't love me. Please."

"Not up to me, sweetheart," Daryl says, running his fingers through her hair. She leans into the touch. "I love you, and that's why I need you to stay."

"And I love you. That's why I need you to let me go."

Daryl sits up and kisses Carol long and hard.

"No," he says when he pulls away, and Carol gives a helpless sad little laugh.

"I don't know how to be better," she says. "And I can't risk you getting hurt any worse on my account."

"You don't have to fix everything overnight. Just let me help you. Please? Let's get through this together."

"I'm so angry all the time, Daryl. I'm angry and I hurt."

"I know, but lemme tell you somethin'. You don't feel that way 'cause you're a bad person. You feel that way 'cause you love so big you can't hardly handle the pain that comes with it. That's what it's all about. It's about how big you can love."

"If love hurts this bad then it's cruel to let you love me."

"Nah. 'Cause the only thing that hurts worse is not bein' able to love at all." Daryl nuzzles his head against her belly and places a kiss in between her breasts. "C'mere," he says softly, and pulls her down.

They undress each other with the same care Daryl showed with her shirt. She sheds tears all over again at all his new bruises from this latest fight, and he kisses them away, telling her not to cry. That he's okay. That he's grateful for the clarity his brush with death has given him.

He says this all without words. Instead he inscribes the messages with his lips along her collarbone and breasts, with his hand slipping down between her legs and sliding along her wet folds until he finds her entrance and presses two fingers inside her. She pants softly, running her own hands over his bare flesh aimlessly, caught up in the sensations he's provoking in her body. He encircles her clitoris with the pad of his thumb; a featherlight, rhythmic motion, while his fingers still pulse against her walls.

She cums with a shudder, crying even though he told her not to. She kisses him so tenderly, even as she expands and contracts wildly around his hand. And god is it satisfying to finally be able to give her something good.

Once she's recovered, she straddles his hips like she belongs there, and Daryl holds her gaze as she lowers herself down, making small noises as she stretches to fit all of him inside her. 

At the first roll of her hips, Daryl feels that same feeling he did on the floor of the shop; that overwhelming understanding of how big he loves her, and maybe that means it's not only death that reveals such truths. Maybe there are moments like this littered all throughout a lifetime. Not that it matters. He doesn't need revelations, he just needs her, and while she rides him like she's reminding herself of all the good parts of love, he knows that he has her. Finally, she's his.

He lets go with her name on his lips, and she swallows it with a long, languid kiss. They stay that way as long as they can, until he can no longer stay inside her. They lay side-by-side then, legs intertwined and hands lazily exploring parts of each other's bodies they may have missed.

"Go to sleep," Carol tells him when he yawns. He brushes his thumb over her lips and she kisses it.

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" he asks, and she nods. And she means it. He knows when she's bullshitting him.

"I'm scared, though," she admits a few minutes later, after he thought the conversation was over.

"That's okay," Daryl says, burrowing in closer to her, as if trying to become one. "Just as long as you stay. All the rest we can figure out together."

"Are you sure you want to love me?" she asks.

"Yes. And even if I didn't I wouldn't have a choice."

"It's hard to love this big, Daryl."

"I know, sweetheart," he says, pressing his lips to her pulse point. "But it's worth it."

#caryl #caryl spoilers #caryl fanfic #dunlap writes shit

[chaseatinydream]

treasure: brothers forever || j.yh (atz)

He could hear the screams.

It used to disgust him, the bloodthirsty screams of the monsters beyond the stone walls. With each of their roars, lead coursed through his veins and a cold fury burned in his heart, the revulsion that brewed inside him as potent as poison. The voices of the demons, he used to believe they were, and he swore he could glimpse hellfire burning behind their ash-strewn eyes.

Once, when he was younger, he hated them, was sickened by them, was repulsed by them. Every one of them were the spawn of the devil, curled horns and forked tongues hidden behind human skin and rouge that only reminded him of blood dripping from their lips. The expensive furs and beads couldn’t fool him, even if they could beguile the eye of everyone else.

Back then, he had refused to let himself be hoodwinked, to lose himself in this arena of the mind.

There was the clattering of heavy iron chains slithering across the ground, rattling and groaning as the gate before him began to rise. His fingers tightened around the shaft of his spear, feeling the rough wood under his touch, and his other hand raises his shield.

Once, when he had been a child, he pretended that he was a great warrior, about to charge onto the battlefield, ready to sacrifice his life for a noble cause.

The screams started again, vengeful and hungry for blood, bleeding with frenzied excitement. He closed his eyes against the sight before him, and took a single breath.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

He could feel the two silver rings in his hair, their comforting weight resting against his temple. Yes. He would return. He would not leave him behind.

Gravel crunched under his feet, reverberating in his ears even as the cries and hollers of the monsters grew louder, trying to drown out every thought in his mind. To him, they were nothing more than the roars of malevolent beasts of the night, hounds with glowing red eyes at every turn.

Once, when he had first stepped onto this bloodstained ground, tears ran down his cheeks, pale and bloodless with terror.

He opened his eyes, not a trace of fear in his eyes as he stared down the monsters in the stands.

“May I present you, Jeong Yunho, the undefeated one, primordial of battle and war, an all round favourite of all of our patrons, the one and only Titan!”

Once, a long time in the past, Jeong Yunho would have spat at the title, refusing to accept such a fate for himself that would turn him into nothing more than a mindless killing machine. But people grew up harsh and scarred by life, and he learned that fighting against his fate would only lead to the dead end. He was no longer that starry eyed boy who dreamed of one day seeing the sea, meeting people from all over the world, tasting the air of freedom. Dreams were nothing more than lies.

And he had crushed them all.

He raised his spear and shouted into the still air.

“Titan!”

And the crowd screamed his name.

Jeong Yunho was the Titan of Vera Cruz.

In Greek mythology, the Titans had been a race of deities, the second generation of divine beings who brought the earth into creation. They were forces of nature to be reckoned with, all-mighty and godlike, their power knew no bounds. Nothing in this world could bring them down.

Yunho didn’t like to think about his gladiator title in such a romantic, fairy tale manner, but he was determined to be just like it, if not better.

The lion opposite him snarled, baring its jaws to reveal incisors the length of his fingers, but they didn’t scared him in comparison the hidden fangs of the spectators in the stands.

His spear flashed forward without hesitation.

The massive beast leapt at him, but Yunho immediately threw himself to the side, rolling away from it. Now was not the time to think his actions through, for if he did not move the second his instinct demanded him to he would be dead in seconds. It lunged for him with its claws outstretched and Yunho felt them tear through the skin of his side, warm blood dripping down his skin.

The spectators booed, demanding him to fight back, but Yunho merely ignored them, heart pounding in his chest as he eyed the lion carefully, trying to figure out his next move. Fighting the apex feline head on offensively was nothing more than folly, and if he tried that he’d been cat food in seconds.

The lion charged him once more and he could hear the screams of the spectators in the stands rise to a fevered pitch as they eagerly awaited his death. For a moment, he felt a sense of pity for the lion. It reminded him of himself in some way, such a ferocious, primal beast tamed for the mere enjoyment of humans, forced to live and fight to death in this godforsaken arena, never to see the world outside ever again.

But then again, they were also different.

“Sorry about this.” He muttered under his breath, gripping his spear tight and staring the lion in the eye as it pounced at him, leaping high into the air. “But I really can’t afford to die here.”

He slid beneath the lion’s claws in one smooth motion, his spear arcing up into the beast’s heart.

“Brother, are you awake?”

When Yunho opened his eyes, he was in his bed once more. A wooden board underneath his back, the thatched ceiling of straw above him. There was a painful burning sensation at his left side and even half awake he could feel sticky blood seeping through the sloppily done bandages. That was how the arena treated them. Mere creatures which fought for the amusement of the wealthy.

Yunho closed his eyes once more as he sank back against the filthy ground.

Perhaps he’d get infection, but at that point, the exhaustion was too much for him to bother about it.

“I don’t know.”

He could hear Gunho’s indignant little puff of air and even through the agony, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then his younger brother was shaking him by the arm, insistent on getting him to the bed.

“Brother, you can’t keep sleeping on the floor with that injury! The healer said that if the wound gets dirty, it could become infected!”

Yunho groaned, shaking his head in refusal.

“Gunho, you know I like the floor more.”

He didn’t. The floor was hard and his bones would ache after a night on the wooden planks, at night it’d get drafty and his fingers turned blue from the cold. He dearly wanted just one night on a straw mattress, no matter how thin or worn it had become. But the bed was Gunho’s. That was indisputable.

“Hyung, you got mauled by a lion! Stop trying to take care of me, I’m a big boy now!”

Yunho almost snorted.

No, he wasn’t. Gunho was only fifteen, a mere child. Yunho, barely two years older than him, had to fulfil the role as his older brother and protector, sacrificing everything to keep his younger brother safe and alive.

The rage that used to bubble up in his chest at the thought of his parents, who had sold him and Gunho to the arena in return for a single gold coin each, no longer came. Instead, he glanced over at his brother’s concerned face and wished for just a moment that they could have at least taken Gunho with them instead of leaving him in such a desolate place such as this.

But dreams were nothing more than lies, and wishing wouldn’t get them fed.

“I’m tired.” He cut his younger brother’s lengthy explanation about infection and fever off with a curt sentence. “Go to sleep. I have a big day tomorrow.”

Gunho froze at his words.

“Yeah…” There had been a fight scheduled for him tomorrow, against another of the arena’s gladiators they had grown up with, shared rice with, been brothers with. But the crowd loved this sort of drama, the tension and emotions running wild in the air as two people or more who had once been so close fought each other to the death with their own lives on the line.

Sometimes it ended up in romance if the patrons loved the tales of two star crossed lovers. Sometimes it ended up with friendship if the audience was touched by their story of brotherhood and strength.

But most of the time, it ended in tragedy.

That was how Yunho’s previous battle had gone, at least. It was clear who had survived.

“Brother…” Gunho’s voice trembled and Yunho opened his eyes to see his younger brother quiet, hands fisted in the hem of his shirt and head bowed, one silver ring hanging from his dark hair. Yunho knew its meaning. “What if it’s me?”

Yunho paused for a moment to think about it.

What if he was forced to fight his brother in the arena one day?

As much as Yunho had lain awake each night on the floor thinking this through, listening to the soft breathing of his younger brother as he slept on the bed above him, his answer had always been the same.

“Then you need to kill me, because I can’t hurt you.”

Gunho’s face crumpled at his older brother’s declaration, twisting with guilt and unease. “Brother… That’s not fair, I can’t hurt you either.”

Yunho shook his head firmly.

“I’m the older brother, I’m supposed to protect you.” He said. There was no uncertainty in his voice and deep within him, Yunho knew it rang true. As Gunho’s older brother, his entire being was dedicated to ensuring that he survived no matter the odds, even if he had to give up his own life in the process.

“But-”

“Go to sleep, Gunho. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Yunho cut off the younger boy and turned over on the floor to face the wall. He heard his brother’s unhappy sigh behind him and the shifting of the straw mattress, before something rough was being draped over him.

The sackcloth blanket.

“Gunho-” Yunho began to protest, but his younger brother scowled at him, putting his hands on his hips.

“If you’re not going to take the blanket, I’m sleeping on the floor.”

Yunho rolled his eyes at Gunho’s determination to ease his discomfort, but something in his battle hardened heart warmed slightly, softening in a way that it did only for his younger brother. It was because of moments like this Yunho didn’t care less about his own life if it meant keeping Gunho safe. Gunho was Yunho’s most precious person in the world, and Yunho would do anything to see him happy.

“Fine, fine.” He grunted, wrapping the blanket around him. His brother finally wore a content smile and went to bed, and moments later Yunho heard the sound of light snoring. The wind was strong again today, the icy drafts whipping through the cracks in the walls and causing shivers to race down his body, he could feel his toes turning blue once again. It was going to be cold that night.

He glanced at Gunho’s sleeping form.

Careful not to wake him up, Yunho got to his feet and placed the blanket on Gunho instead.

Then he went back to the cold floor and fell asleep.

The next day, Yunho stood before the cold gates once again, spear in hand. The wooden shaft was still tainted with lion’s blood from yesterday, but he couldn’t be bothered to clean it off. It would just get dirty all over again soon enough.

Who would it be this time?

Yunho checked the shield on his forearm, ensuring that the straps were done properly to prevent it from falling off in the middle of a battle.

Did it really matter who it was?

His grip tightened on his spear, his constant companion a comforting weight in his hand. Yunho had no doubt in his abilities, knew that he was far superior than most in terms of his battle capabilities, but there was always that tiny feeling of fear deep in him that he would soon face someone better.

But what he had to do didn’t change. If it was anyone other than Gunho, he’d kill them or die trying.

If it was Gunho, he’d simply die.

He could hear the announcer outside extolling his praises, declaring to the crowd of the Titan of Vera Cruz, the undefeated one, the man who had single handedly fought a lion yesterday and won. Yunho’s fingers brushed the sticky, dried blood at his side. It hurt like hell and he desperately wanted to simply keel over from exhaustion and pain, but if he did, he knew that the match officiator would simply put Gunho in the ring to threaten him into submission.

Yunho couldn’t let that happen.

So he gripped his spear, kept his back straight, focused on his goal. He couldn’t let his opponent see a trace of weakness, lest they use it against him and defeat him in battle. The gate opened before him and he stepped forward, eyes squinting momentarily against the glare of the sun as he was deafened by the cheers that echoed around him.

“Titan! Titan! Titan!”

But there was another name being called, the chanting growing louder and louder.

“Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!”

Even though Yunho thought he had been completely prepared for such a scenario to happen, he felt his heart sink in his chest.

Reaper’s true name was Min Jaeha, a fearsome warrior in the arena who’d gained such a title because of the massive scythe he fought with. He was the same senior who had first taught Yunho how to wield a spear, the man who had snuck leftover scraps to him when Yunho lost a match and had gotten beaten up for it, the same person who had guided Yunho for the early parts of his life.

Yunho closed his eyes against the memories before they could change his deadset mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here we have your most anticipated match of the year! The fight to the death between our undisputed champion, Reaper, and our undefeated legend, Titan!”

Jaeha simply looked at Yunho’s eyes with sadness.

Both of them understood. Yunho could see his own despair and hopelessness reflected in Jaeha’s eyes, from the way his senior’s fingers tightened around his scythe painfully tight. Neither wanted to fight the other, but they didn’t have a choice.

Yunho hated his fate with a burning passion.

“Fighters, get ready!” The announcer screamed, his voice nearly cracking from the excitement. Yunho felt that same familiar feeling of guilt and terror wrap around his heart and lungs once more, except that he was so used to it now, it almost didn’t matter to him anymore.

He lowered his spear into a fighting stance, and Jaeha did the same.

The moment the official announced the beginning of the match, Yunho lunged forward with his spear, attempting to catch Jaeha off guard. The older man spun, knocking the tip of the spear to the side and swinging the scythe about, the razor sharp blade whistling dangerously close to his head. He could see a few locks of his brown hair flutter to the ground.

Yunho dove to the ground just in time to avoid getting beheaded, jabbing his spear at Jaeha’s legs. His senior was more fast, more skilled, a better fighter than he was, not someone he could beat at his current standard.

Almost crippling fear crept over him, but he forced it down violently, leveling his spear at Jaeha without hesitation.

How could he win this match?

The other gladiator leaped above the weapon, bringing the scythe down on Yunho’s head. He managed to roll away, glancing around him for anything that could help him. First blood had yet to be drawn, but if he kept up this offensive stance for much longer, he’d have his head separated from his shoulders before it happened.

The second time Jaeha swung at him, he ducked and ran for the opposite side of the stadium.

The crowd booed and screamed at his cowardice, some tossing rotten tomatoes and eggs, but Yunho ignored them all. He could hear Jaeha’s footsteps behind him, thundering against the sand of the arena floor, and he glimpsed his goal, one of the armed statues used to decorate the circumference of the stadium.

Yunho sprinted for it as hard as he could.

He didn’t know whether it was luck or simply primal survival instinct, but there was a sudden violent tugging in his chest and he moved with it, throwing himself to the side as hard as he could.

And not a second too late, because the massive scythe barely missed his head. Yunho could see the entire blade appearing right next to his head, the cruel glint of steel reflected his eyes that were filled with silent terror, and suddenly something warm gushed from his shoulder.

He had almost died there and then.

Pain exploded at the wound and his feet stumbled, he crashed into the ground and rolled to a stop before the statue. It was holding a spear too, he realised, through the hazy tint of red in his eyes. Then he realised blood was soaking through the sand, turning it black, and he could feel himself starting to get light headed at the blood loss.

Agony ran down his arm and he gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself to his knees. The limb was badly injured, the spear he had been holding lay in the sand a few feet from him. He was weaponless and completely vulnerable.

The world swayed around him and he could see Jaeha approaching him with that massive scythe slung over his shoulder, his mouth pressed into a grim line. The man came to a stop between him and the statue.

For a moment, the name Reaper couldn’t have been more accurate.

“End him! End him! End him!” He could hear the entire arena roaring for blood, the air was thick with the sound of their maniacal excitement, and for a moment, he truly felt like giving up. How could he survive, against all these odds?

“You need to always come back to me, Brother. Promise me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Yunho.” Jaeha murmured softly under his breath, so that only Yunho could hear him. His apology was sincere, genuine and true and Yunho’s determination shattered into pieces. “But I have my younger sister to take care of.”

Yunho bowed his head. He understood only too well.

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” The spectators screamed, but in that moment, it was as if everyone else had disappeared, their voices fading into the background. There were only two of them in that entire arena.

Jaeha closed his eyes, unwilling to witness Yunho’s death, and lifted the scythe.

And in moment, Yunho lunged forward, ramming his shoulder into Jaeha’s stomach.

The older man got thrown backwards by the sheer force of Yunho’s strength, right against the statue from earlier. His body jerked as he crashed into the stone, before he stopped, unmoving, hanging limp. The scythe slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground, the massive weapon as still as its master.

There was complete silence in the arena as Yunho staggered to his knees, crumpling to the side in sheer exhaustion.

And then the audience was screaming for Jaeha to move, to get up and finish Yunho, but he was the only one who could see the red running from the corner of Jaeha’s mouth.

The Reaper was dead.

The tip of spear the statue had been holding had run his senior through from the back, shattering his ribs, puncturing his lung and destroying his heart.

“I’m sorry, Jaeha-hyung.” Yunho rasped as the match official ran up to them to inspect his opponent. The official froze in shock as he saw what happened, his fingers coming away sticky with Jaeha’s blood. Then he turned around to announce the results of the match.

“The Titan is once again victorious!”

The audience, who seconds ago had been screaming for his death, burst into applause, calling his name and hollering praises.

Bile rose in his throat and he forced it down, glancing once more at the corpse of his senior, dead by his hands.

“I promised.”

And then he passed out.

When he came to once again, he was shocked to find he was no longer in his usual cell with Gunho. For a moment, panic rose in him as he whirled around in alarm, searching for any clue where he might be. Then he realised that he was shirtless, not dressed in the rags that he usually wore, clean bandages wrapped around his shoulder and side. From the sharp smell of marigold at the wounds, he had been treated. Properly treated, in fact, and suspicion stirred in him.

His damn owner wouldn’t have given a shit if he died.

He was on a straw mattress, kept miles better than the one Gunho slept on, in an empty room which he assumed was an infirmary. The air here was clean and didn’t smell of misery and defecation, but before he could ponder why exactly he was here, the door opened.

“Ahh, you’re awake.”

A man stepped in, dressed in a crisp suit with a gold topped walking stick in hand. From the make of his suit and the way with which he carried himself, this man was a rich business owner. Yunho’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you want with me?”

The man sat opposite him, shaking his head. “Is that anyway to speak to your redeemer?”

Redeemer?

The word echoed in Yunho’s head over and over again, bouncing about in his skull as he took in the severity of the word. Redeemer? As in, a man who had bought his freedom from his owner? The person who’d made him a free man?

“I saw your match yesterday. Very clever strategy, if I say so.” The man smiled a little faintly and Yunho’s heart sank as he remembered the events of what had happened. “I used to support him greatly for his prowess and I was intending to buy him yesterday… until you stepped in.”

Crushing guilt swept through him, but he couldn’t let his emotions show in front of this man.

“I apologise, sir.”

“The one you should be apologising to is already dead, so I suppose that there’s no point in your apology. I will take care of his sick sister, however. That is the most I can do for him.” The man rose to his feet once more, turning to leave the room. “Anyway, Titan, you are a free man now, so you may go as you please.”

There was a click as the door shut behind him.

Excitement overpowered every other emotion in him as the words sank in. He could go as he wished, leave this wretched, desolate place of pain and suffering, finally see the world out there with his own two eyes. He was his own man, the chains of his slavery had finally been broken, and he was free.

But then he paused.

Gunho.

How could he leave Gunho behind?

Dashing from the room, he realised that he was in the business side of the arena. He ran down the halls to the wing where the other gladiators were kept, the same thought echoing in his head over and over again as his feet slapped against the glossy marble floors.

I can’t leave Gunho behind.

Then his toes felt rough dirt once more as he entered the gladiators’ quarters, the guard at the front a man he recognised by face and had spoken to on occasion. The man smiled at him. “Congratulations, I heard you got freed-”

“I need to see my brother.” Yunho gasped desperately from his unexpected exertion, he could feel a sting from his shoulder and wondered for a moment if he had reopened his wound, but he couldn’t be bothered with it right now. The guard’s face faltered a little, his grip on his spear shifting.

“You know the drill, I can’t let anyone who isn’t the boss or a gladiator into this section…” He trailed off uncertainly, but Yunho immediately sank to his knees, ignoring the way his side twisted in pain, pressing his forehead against the ground.

“I’m begging you. Please let me see my brother.”

The guard glanced around a little desperately, clearly torn between wanting to let Yunho in but afraid of what consequences he might suffer if he was discovered. Then he quickly pushed open the gate, ushering Yunho inside the gladiators’ quarters urgently.

“Tell no one about this.” The guard whispered and Yunho slipped in gratefully, bowing to the guard as the gate shut behind him.

“Thank you.”

The guard waved him off and returned to face the outside.

He walked briskly down the hallway, the same as he had always done after finishing a match. And yet this time it was different, because he was a free man.

Or was he?

He stopped outside the cell his brother was in, fingers at the bars as he searched for Gunho.

“Brother.” Gunho smiled at the sight of his older brother, stepping to the gate. Yunho’s fingers reached for Gunho’s desperately through the bars, their fingers intertwined and Gunho squeezed tight, tears falling from his eyes. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I promised.” Yunho’s voice cracked and suddenly everything hit him all at once like a tidal wave. He’d killed Jaeha, his mentor and senior, the man who’d taken care of him much like he took care of Gunho. Fat tears fell unbidden from his eyes, and he momentarily closed his eyes to fight off the pain welling up in his heart.

Gods, it hurt so much.

Warm, thin arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. Even through the bars, Gunho still comforted him, pressing their foreheads together as Yunho sobbed against him, guilt clawing at his insides.

“It was you or him, hyung. You can’t blame yourself.” Gunho pat his older brother on the head soothingly, trying to comfort him. “I’m happy you were the one who made it.”

Yunho merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Then he felt his brother smile against his cheek.

“I heard you got freed. Congratulations, hyung.”

Yunho could hear the pride in his voice, the happiness at his brotehr’s success, but sensed the underlying sorrow running beneath. If he left, they would be separated, and Yunho wouldn’t be able to take care of Gunho like he was supposed to.

Gunho would be utterly alone in this place.

Yunho made up his mind.

“I’m not leaving.” Yunho said firmly, shaking his head. “I’m going to stay here with you.”

“What?” Gunho’s face flashed with fury for a second and he yanked himself away from Yunho, fuming with anger. Yunho flinched as if he’d been slapped across the face. Gunho had never shouted at him before, no matter how angry he was or whatever argument they had been in. “Don’t be stupid, hyung! You’re free, so go into the world like you’ve wanted to your whole life! Don’t let me drag you down!”

Yunho hated how much he just wanted to agree with Gunho. He yearned to be free, to leave this prison, to be a free man able to make his own choices. But how could Gunho possibly ask him to abandon him here?

“I can’t, Gunho.” Yunho beseeched his brother, hoping he’d understand. “I can’t leave you. You can’t expect me to walk off into the sunset while you’re still trapped here being forced to kill people everyday, and enjoy my life out there while you’re suffering!”

“Then go out into the world, make enough money to buy my freedom and come back to me.” Gunho told him forcibly, unrelenting in his words. “I’ll be waiting for you, hyung.”

Yunho paused for a moment. True, it would be a lot smarter if he simply left this hopeless place and made a fortune for himself in the world outside to buy Gunho’s freedom. That way, the two of them would be free.

But Gunho. Gunho would be alone.

“Go.” Gunho insisted, seeing the way his older brother’s resolve was weakening. “Please save me from this place. You can only do that from the outside.”

Yunho’s determination was crumbling brick by brick. “But-”

“I want to see the world too.” Gunho pleaded, grasping his brother’s hand through the bars. “Don’t condemn us to this place.”

And finally, Yunho nodded slowly.

“Alright.” There was cold fear bubbling slowly in him, fingers clutching at his younger brother’s like it was the last time he would ever get to do so. “You’ll be here when I return, won’t you?”

Gunho nodded, a single tear slipping from his eye. “I promise. I’ll be here. So go.”

With that, Gunho released his hand. Yunho’s arm fell limply to the side as he took in his brother’s face for the last time, brown eyes a shade lighter than his that always burned so bright with love and passion, the way his cheeks rose just like his when he smiled, the one silver ring in his hair that signified his first victory.

“I’ll see you soon, Gunho.” Yunho whispered, the vow leaving his lips. Gunho smiled at him.

“See you, brother.”

Yunho tore himself away from the face of his brother, forcing himself to move towards the door, each step taking him further and further from his brother.

Walking down the hallway felt strange. His steps were the same as they had always been, the dirt underfoot familiar, the spider in the corner in the ceiling was still there. And yet they were not the same, because they were his last over each patch of dirt, each corner. Already, he was bidding farewell to this place, the only home he had known his whole life.

The closer he drew to the gate, the more of it lay behind him, left behind in face of his freedom.

“I will return.” He spoke quietly, and continued saying it to himself as the gate opened before him without letting himself look back once. “I will.”

He stepped out into the light, feeling the rays touch his face, the warmth so sweet because of the freedom he now had.

“I promise I’ll save you from this place, Gunho.”

He didn’t know it would be the first promise to his brother that he had ever broken.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #mingi #san #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

[takonei]

Beta AU - Main story, Chapter 4, deadly life (Part 5)

Note of the author: This chapter was hard to plan. And very. Hard. To write. Whatever divine entity exists in this realm, please help me.

Chapter 4: Dance, dance, hanged puppets - Deadly life

...

A heavy silence settled upon the courtroom.

None of the two suspects were talking, which clearly didn't help appease the tension in the room.

Shuichi could feel his heart racing in his chest.

He kept glancing between Rantaro, Ryoma and Kiyo.

The medic's furious gaze seemed to be aimed mostly at the smaller man, for some reason, but sometimes eyed the other.

Ryoma was as stoic as ever. How on Earth could he stay calm at a time like this?

Kiyo's nervousness was faint, but definitely here.

The others didn't dare to say a word either. It felt like whoever was going to talk first would be Rantaro's next prey.

"Answer my question."

His intense gaze didn't falter.

"Who, between you two, executed Tsumugi?"

His choice of words felt unnatural.

Up until now, he kept confronting Monokuma, saying he was the one who executed Tsumugi and that there was no trial to hold.

Hearing him radically change his attitude was not something Shuichi wanted to experience again.

After a long silence, Ryoma spoke.

"Maybe I'm the blackened. Maybe it's Korekiyo."

Shuichi swore he saw Rantaro's eye twitch.

"What. The fuck. Are you saying."

"I said what I just said." Ryoma was keeping a straight face. "Perhaps I am the blackened. Perhaps it is Kiyo."

"Don't play dumb with me. You know the answer damn well. Spit it out already." the medic's grip on the podium strengthened.

The weapons maker stayed silent.

"Since our dear friend refuses to help his class..." The violinist could only watch his partner's gaze slowly shifting to the therapist. "Let's talk to you, then."

He tapped his fingers on the podium, the eery rhythmic sound of his nails echoing through the courtroom.

"What do you have to say, Kiyo?"

After a short silence, the therapist took a short breath.

"What is the point of accusing Ryoma? We would simply argue back and forth when none of us have any concrete proof."

...

The tapping stopped.

The way Rantaro was staring at Kiyo, he feared that breathing too loudly would make him the next victim.

The others seemed to feel the exact same level of discomfort.

Shuichi wanted to be anywhere but here.

The only thing that kept the courtroom not in complete and utter silence was the faint ticking of the clock's gears.

He drew a shaky breath, waiting for one of the two suspects to just talk.

"... So that's how it is." Rantaro closed his eyes.

"You two refuse to talk. And now we cannot make a decision to vote."

His voice gained back its calm. But that wasn't the usual calm Shuichi greatly missed. His voice carried a certain heaviness. It felt like he was seconds away from lashing out at the two in the most violent way possible.

"What exactly do you wish to accomplish? Nothing will make the outcome of this trial any different. The blackened will be executed by Monokuma and we will all desperately try to move on despite the continuous deaths of our friends. You two are only delaying the inevitable."

His monotonous tone sent chills down Shuichi's spine. And he wasn't even the one Rantaro was talking to.

"Is it perhaps that you two were accomplices in the matter?" he slightly tilted his head to the side. "Did you two cooperate to make this murder happen, knowing damn well only one of you will be able to escape?"

Kirumi took a silent deep breath. "Rantaro, let's think ra-"

"I'm sorry, did I ask for your opinion?"

She perked up, clearly not expecting this passive-aggressive reaction.

"This is a matter between those two traitors and me. So if all of you could be quiet right now, that would be nice."

Shuichi did the right thing by not talking, then.

The others not in the trio glanced at each other. What could they even do?

"As I was saying..." the medic turned back to the small man. "Are you two admitting being accomplices, then?"

Ryoma kept staring at him for a moment.

"... If that's how you want to put it. Then sure."

"Stop playing with us and talk."

"Do you listen to yourself for a second? What do you-"

"I want this trial to be fucking over already, is it that hard to understand, or do I have to repeat myself over and over again?"

"Rantaro, look at our situation for a minute. Do you seriously think I'm messing with you for fun?"

"Our situation is a fucking class trial where we could all die if we make the wrong choice! Is it your wish to get us executed?!"

"I suggest you take a step back for one-"

"A STEP BACK ON WHAT??"

Rantaro extended his arms. "Look at ourselves for one fucking second, Ryoma! We're all dying one by one in this miserable hellhole, and all you're thinking about is messing up this godforsaken trial! What is there to understand??"

"Rantaro-"

"I trusted you!!"

Those words echoed through the silent courtroom. Shuichi could feel himself shiver at the sudden yell.

"... I trusted you Ryoma. I really did."

Even though it was faint, Shuichi could hear a slight shaking in his voice.

The voice of betrayal.

He didn't get it, Ryoma and Rantaro were close but... That much? It was already rare to see him like this, but what sort of bond did they have for Rantaro to react in such a way?

The courtroom fell silent.

Ryoma was still looking at his friend from the other side. The violinist swore he saw him flinch at the medic's words.

"... I wish things were different. But for now, I have a duty to accomplish."

"Don't 'duty' me Ryoma. A traitor is a traitor. You betrayed me. And you betrayed each and every one of us."

Shuichi saw Kiyo taking a deep breath.

"Rantaro, that's enough."

He didn't even bother turning to him.

"Shut up. This isn't about you."

The therapist strengthened his grip on the podium. "This is about me as well. Yes, right now we are working together. So if what you want is answers on the blackened, then ask the both of us."

Rantaro blinked a few times. "Answers...? Blackened...?"

He started laughing nervously. A laugh that reminded Shuichi a bit too much of the previous trial.

"Ha... Hahahahahaha..."

The others could only watch in horror the green-eyed boy giggle to himself, for once his gaze turned to the ground.

"You know what?"

"I don't care who the blackened is anymore."

He raised his head to face Ryoma.

"I just want answers from him."

Ryoma slightly narrowed his eyes.

"If your intentions are solely for me to speak the truth, then you have lost your way. This isn't like you."

"I could say the same. Does this group mean nothing to you?"

He paused for a moment.

"... They do. And I've chosen who I'm fighting for. What about you, Rantaro?"

The medic stared at him.

"Who are you fighting for?"

There was a long pause.

"... You of all people don't get to ask me this question."

He put a hand on his heart. "I dedicated my entire existence to save people. To save my people. To save my friends. And the very moment Monokuma decided to put us through this killing game..."

"... I started dedicating my entire existence to all of you."

Shuichi didn't know if it was the calmness in his voice, the fact that those words felt natural for him to say or the deafening silence in the room, but he felt shivers hearing the last sentence.

He had heard more than enough times about his will to put an end to the killing game no matter the cost, but this time it felt... different.

"So you haven't strayed away from your purpose."

"And you, on the other hand, did." Rantaro replied. "So tell me."

"Why the treachery? Who are you fighting for who is worth more than our lives and more than the honor you swore to yourself as well?"

The weapons maker fell silent once again.

"... Fine then. Which is it?"

Rantaro raised a finger.

"Korekiyo convinced you his cause was worth more than our lives and you are willing to get all of us killed."

Then another.

"You planned this murder for a greater reason and betrayed each and every sermon you swore to me- to us."

And another.

"You two actually planned all of this together to escape and thus making both of you the blackened."

Ryoma remained steady. The two soldiers were staring at each other in complete silence.

Just the ticking of the clock.

And after what felt like an eternity, Shuichi opened his mouth to say something. He couldn't stand this tension anymore. But...

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING SAY SOMETHING ALREADY??"

"You've been silent for who knows how long, just say something!! I've been trying over and over and over to understand your intentions, why you are doing this, why you two are so stubborn about this whole case, but I've had enough!! What the fuck do you two want??"

Shuichi's heart skipped a beat, the slow realization settling in.

This... Wasn't Rantaro.

This wasn't the person who tried to help them get together. Who helped them organize themselves by groups with the motive videos. Who took care of the ill ones during the despair disease motive. Nor tried to get them to stay strong during this motive.

The person right in front of them was not Rantaro.

Now that he was thinking about it, he had seen this person once.

It was the same person holding a scalpel onto his throat back in the warehouse.

The eyes, the expression, the tone of his voice...

Was this who Rantaro truly was?

At this thought, Shuichi started feeling sick to his stomach.

The fact that Ryoma was as stoic as ever over the situation felt less horrifying, somehow.

The smaller man quickly glanced on his left.

"... Did you ever wonder why there was a clock in this courtroom?"

"Don't change the subject. Answer my question already."

"Monokuma introduced it to us when we started this trial. It was never here before. But suddenly it appeared. Why is it so?"

The violinist glanced at the giant piece of decoration, gears ticking every second. The two huge, metallic hands remaining steady.

"If you think I'm going to drop my question over a damn clock, then you can stick it."

"Monokuma never does anything randomly, does he?"

Shuichi had thought about this clock but... He never actually guessed its use.

But why bring it now?

"Besides, I noticed something quite strange about it."

The others turned to him.

No one had actually dared to say anything after Kirumi tried to. But their expressions were still the same.

The exact same worry was gnawing at them, fearing for what would happen next.

"Drop this bullshit, Ryoma. What do you want?"

"You see, the bell of the clock rings twice an hour. Once when the hour starts, and once when half an hour passes."

Kirumi frowned. "Your point being?"

"The first bell, the loud one, indicates the start of the hour. That much is not something too complicated to understand."

Shuichi slightly tilted his head to the side. Whatever point Ryoma was trying to make didn't get across.

"The second one, however, rings at 5:30 PM, 6:30 PM and will soon ring at 7:30 PM, is that right?"

This was getting confusing, much like the rest of the trial, actually.

"Y-Yeah, that's what we all have seen from the past three hours!" Kaito wanted to raise his voice but quickly quieted down.

"Except it doesn't."

He perked up. "W-What do you mean?"

This time it was bright blue eyes staring at him- which wasn't exactly less intimidating than the other soldier's gaze.

"The clock doesn't ring at half an hour. We assumed it rang at half an hour because we were focused on ourselves."

"The clock actually rings at half an hour... and 36 seconds."

Miu frowned. "How do you know that??"

"Try for yourself. It's 7:28 PM. You'll see the hand of the clock and the bell don't act up at the same time."

"And what on Earth is that supposed to mean?" Rantaro spat.

"Who knows?"

Shuichi's eyes were dead set on the clock. If what Ryoma said was true then perhaps they could try to understand the situation.

Tik.

Tok.

Tik.

Tok.

Suddenly, the hand reached 7:30 PM but...

... Nothing.

"... What? What is this?" he muttered.

* B i n g *

And just as Ryoma said, at 7:30 PM, 36 seconds, the bell rang.

He felt dumb for not noticing sooner.

The clock had always startled them all- he never realized something was wrong with it.

But what did that even mean? What was the point of making this clock ring at this exact moment?

Considering how, according to Ryoma, the clock really did ring at the beginning of the hour then...

... Why the time delay?

Monokuma was silently watching them from above.

He hadn't said anything for a long time. And yet the situation didn't seem to bother him.

"As I was saying..."

Rantaro was back to tapping his fingers on the podium.

"... Do not change the subject."

Miu hesitantly leaned forward. "Rantaro... I know you're upset... We all are but... Perhaps there is something that we have to investigate...?"

...

The medic froze.

"Tell me, Miu..."

"Have you ever watched someone die?"

She raised an eyebrow. "W-What do you mean? We've all witnessed the executions and the dead b-"

"No. Not like that."

"I meant watch someone die knowing damn well you could have done something. Or you could have done better. Just anything."

"Rantaro, I already told you." Kirumi interrupted. As confident as she tried to sound, there was still a hint of remorse in her voice. "There was nothing we could have done for Tsumugi. You don't have to feel guilty about-"

"Nothing we could have done?" he perked up.

"We could, I don't know, have guessed using your lock in the dining hall would have locked the door? We could have found another way to get to Tsumugi's lock when the fire was there? Or maybe go back even when the Monokubs were extinguishing the fire? I could have guided her to the tunnels so the exisal wouldn't get her? I could have tried to save her when she took the shot from the exisal? There is so much we could have done, Kirumi."

"There is so much I could have done."

It was faint, but Shuichi could hear his voice cracking.

He saw Ryoma looking away for a moment.

This trial was just a painful experience. The previous trial was already what he thought was the worst experience of his life, but this... Wasn't any better. Not in the slightest.

"Ha... Hahahahahaha..."

"It's the same over and over again."

"I thought the killing game would somehow be an escape to that feeling but..."

"I can't escape it. I never will."

"I've watched people die, ally or enemy, I've done autopsies, I've seen liters of blood gush out of someone and yet nothing will ever come close to this feeling."

"The feeling of a heartbeat stopping."

"I have felt it over and over, and over, and over again."

"The feeling of someone's life ending when you could have tried to help. When you could have done better. When you could have saved this person's life."

"But didn't."

"And once again, just when I'm supposed to do my job as a medic..."

"I failed her."

"I failed my mission. And I failed as a soldier."

"I failed in every aspect there is."

Shuichi couldn't see well but...

Were those tears in his eyes?

Arms crossed on the podium and head low, the green-haired teen started giggling to himself again. It was nothing like Kokichi last trial. It was an empty, quiet, and shaky laugh.

He glanced at the others- who didn't know what to do either.

Ryoma was looking at Rantaro with pity. It was almost unnoticeable, but definitely here.

Kiyo was looking away from him, allowing Shuichi to see a part of his face.

It was the most disturbed he had ever seen the therapist be.

And yet the two were accomplices in the matter. One of the two -if not the two-, orchestrated this entire scheme and organized a class trial.

"... Rantaro."

The weapons maker spoke up.

"You are right on one thing. It's that I will probably never understand that feeling you're describing. And I cannot tell you how you should feel."

"But there is one thing that I know about you, it's that you never gave up on trying to save us all. You always did what you judged was right. And you always excelled at it. You always took risks and volunteered to do the most painful and risky tasks."

"You always have been of huge help. And I don't think anyone here would disagree."

"You didn't fail us in any way."

Rantaro clenched his fists.

"What are those words even worth?"

He slightly raised his head, just enough for him to stare at Ryoma, but not enough for them to see his face.

"You are standing here as a traitor. Whatever your role in this whole fiasco is, it doesn't change anything."

Ryoma closed his eyes. "... And I'm sorry for it. But I mean what I said."

The medic stared at him for what felt like an eternity before standing back up. With a swift movement of the thumb, he swept away a tear from his red eyes, still keeping eye contact with the weapons maker.

"You should know how I feel about treachery by now."

"I do."

Rantaro stayed silent.

"Don't think I'm going to give up on this case simply because of your words. And if it means taking you down, then so be it."

"Very well then." Ryoma replied. "Do your worst."

...

After a long silence, Kokichi hesitantly raised a hand. "I've... been thinking about this clock and... I honestly don't know how to feel about it."

At least they were back on the subject. Shuichi exhaled a breath he didn't know was holding. Perhaps it was because the tension broke a little- even just slightly.

Kaito glanced at the decoration. "I was trying to think and... It's not consistent to have an alarm set at 0 seconds and one at 36 seconds. It's definitely something intentional."

Shuichi had realized the inconsistency but he never thought about why.

Miu pondered. "Perhaps... The alarms have different purposes?"

Another purpose? That would make sense, but what?

Think!

...

"I was thinking..." he started. "When did the trial start exactly?"

"4:30 PM." Rantaro bluntly replied, only sending him a quick glance. "3 hours ago."

Now that he thought about it, they didn't hear the clock ringing when they placed themselves near their podiums.

Did it have anything to do with it?

Or maybe...

"Miu, you said they had different purposes, so what if... The loud bell is simply here to indicate the time, and the second alarm is here as a timer?"

"A timer?" Kokichi tilted his head to the side. "Why would we need a timer for a trial?"

Shuichi glanced at the two suspects, both as silent as one could be.

"I don't know but... I feel like we should keep that in mind."

Kirumi pondered for a moment.

"... Is this clock the reason you two have been acting so... strange?"

The two suspects turned to her. And yet their expressions were as stoic as ever.

"After all, all you've been doing is staying silent for the past hour or so. Does it have anything to do with-"

"Ahem!"

The robotic bear interrupted the mercenary.

"I've been watching you whining and arguing for well enough time... You guys are here to investigate on miss Shirogane's tragic death..."

Rantaro slightly flinched at those words.

"... Not to babble about my glamorous decoration!"

Kirumi glared at him for a moment.

"And what the hell are we supposed to talk about, then?" Rantaro coldly asked.

The bear groaned. "You guys are not very smart, aren't you? I just told you to investigate the victim's death! That's what the class trial is for!"

"Pretty suspicious you're telling us that just as we talk about the clock, huh?" Kaito narrowed his eyes at him.

"The headmaster's orders are ab-so-lute! Now shoo! Get back to your investigation. This is getting boring!"

Kirumi slowly turned back to the others. It was clear she didn't buy any of this.

And neither did anyone else.

But Kiyo and Ryoma were still not talking.

"... Looks like we're going to have to figure it out by ourselves from what we know." Rantaro broke the silence. He opened his mouth to say something else but-

* B O N G *

The clock acted before him.

8:00 PM.

Shuichi was starting to get even more worried about the clock's use.

And the fact that Monokuma didn't want them to talk about that was definitely suspicious.

"... Anyway." Rantaro turned back to the others. "I stand my point."

"I'll bring justice to Tsumugi no matter what. She was one of us and she deserves it."

"There is one traitor among you two, and I will find out who that is."

#ndrv3 #danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 au #beta au #main story

[amphipolitan]

King’s Landing, a SanSan love story

There are memories for them here, in the bustling capital that still stands, defiant against famine and invasion and even dragonfire. They are not good memories. Memories of riot and fire, long captivity and shameful service. Yet still they both cherish these memories, these stolen moments of sweetness and something beautiful awakening amidst the pain and despair.

This is my gift to @thedropletsparkled for the Sansan Secret Santa 2019, following her prompt “Canon-era: SanSan in King’s Landing.” (It’s 1.30 AM here in Germany, so this will probably be posted long before you wake up to read it, but I hope you enjoy it no matter what time of day it is!)

This story can also be read on AO3.

There are memories for them here, in the bustling capital that still stands, defiant against famine and invasion and even dragonfire. They are not good memories. Memories of riot and fire, long captivity and shameful service. Yet still they both cherish these memories, these stolen moments of sweetness and something beautiful awakening amidst the pain and despair.

They did not know, then, how important those meetings would be, how lasting and real the love between them. How could they have known? For Sansa Stark and Sandor—the Queen in the North and her faithful consort—those days seem like shadows now, shades of different people who have long since passed away. Two people who were little more than caged animals, howling to be free.

 For Sansa Stark, King’s Landing is like a dream of beauty, a song of fair maidens and noble knights. But too soon, the dream becomes a nightmare and she is trapped, a captive of the cruel King Joffrey, with no way out.

His guardsman, Sandor Clegane, seems to stalk beside Sansa like a faithful hound. When the starving mob attempts to carry Sansa off, it is Clegane who finds her and carries her to safety. Whenever she is in the darkest depths of despair, he appears. There is a bond between them, but Sansa does not realize this until the night of wildfire, when he comes to her room and asks her to leave with him.

‘I could keep you safe,’ he promises, and part of her wants to accept this promise. But she turns him away in the turmoil of her mind, and he flees far away from this place, from the years of dishonourable service and the bitter duty to his king.

Sansa keeps this memory as the night of her first kiss, still not understanding.

She is married for the first time, against her will, becoming a prisoner twice over. There is no love in this union, and she knows that there never will be.

She remains in the city, a caged bird, until she is carried off by a darker schemer. The name of Sansa Stark must be left behind, and she passes into Petyr Baelish’s power, re-shaping her identity to fit around him.

 Sandor runs and runs until he can run no further. Until he is dying, bleeding out against a tree in the godforsaken ruins of war, and there is no friend who will even help him to a quicker death.

He curses the Stark she-wolf, curses the gods, curses the king, but most of all, he curses himself. ‘You should have taken her,’ he tells himself, over and over again, as he lies in high fever with his life’s force burning away. Better he should have taken her from that tower against her will, than that she had remained to become the property of that sneering dwarf. Better tied to him than to a Lannister.

And now they say she has killed the king, and they will surely find her and kill her. Cersei will have her burn for this. He twists in agony, remembering his own encounter with the fires of torment.

Better he should have taken her. Better he should have made her his…

Sandor barely remembers what comes after. Someone visits him in his agony, an old man with healing hands, and he confesses everything, knowing that he is about to die.

But when he awakes, there is a pleasant breeze around him and birdsong in a tree somewhere close, and his leg is in agony. It is neither the peace of the gods nor the torment of the seven hells; he is still on earth.

He is still here, but the Hound has passed away. In his place arises the Gravedigger, who does not speak and who buries the victims of war, laying them down to peace. Sandor Clegane rests.

 Sansa is married for the second time, to a man no more of her choosing than the first. On her wedding day, when she emerges with her hair shining copper-red in the winter sun and Eddard Stark’s grey direwolf sewn onto her maiden’s cloak, her new husband kneels before her in the mountain snow and pledges to win her home back, to take Winterfell in his wife’s name and make her a queen.

For a moment, she dares to hope, but months pass in the Vale of Arryn, and the knights do not march. Winter storms sweep over the high mountains, blocking the passes to the north. They could march down the southern passes to the kingsroad, but men speak of even worse storms raging north of the riverlands, with drifts of snow twice man-height burying the kingsroad from sight.

The winds howl in the night as though hundreds of wolves have surrounded the valley. Men speak of the storm in hushed voices, and even the oldest granthers admit that they have never seen its like, not even in the depths of any previous winter. A wolf winter, they call it, and shudder over their cups.

‘But we are safe in the Vale,’ they always end such talk. Their food stores are plentiful. None in the Vale of Arryn will starve, this winter. Not like the riverlands, where the war has laid waste to every harvest and holdfast. Not like the north, where war still rages in the winter snow.

No news escapes from the north now. Stannis Baratheon has gone to fight the Bastard of Bolton, the last raven from the north brought that news months ago, but none in the south know what the outcome of that battle might be. Petyr must have fitted this news into his scheme to crown her somewhere, Sansa knows, but he does not share such scheming with her.

The winds blow cold, but Sansa’s marriage is even colder. She shares very few of her husband’s delights, and everywhere she walks, Petyr Baelish’s eyes follow her, burning with a hunger she does not understand. To get away from them both, she takes over the care of her little cousin, Robert. His fits have grown less frequent, but he is lethargic and seems very ill, although the maester cannot say for certain what ails him. Men speak of him as though he has already died, as if her husband Harry the Heir is already Harry the Lord.

Sometimes Sansa dreams of a different place, a different kind of life. It is quiet all around her, a silence she never gets to experience now, what with Harry’s boasting and his knights’ feasting and Sweetrobin’s cries which grow fainter every day. Only a light frosting of snow is seen here, on this island of calm, and the cold winds blow gently across the wide river and the saltpans beyond. She does not speak, but digs quiet graves for the victims of war and famine.

Somehow, these dreams remind her of Sandor Clegane, though she knows he must be long dead by now, a shadow that lingers with her as do the ghosts of her dead family. She stalks the walls of the castle by night, and one evening she catches sight of a silhouette against the snow outside, a tall armoured man with a burned face. But he is gone in the blink of an eye, and it is only a shadow made by the guttering of a candle-wick in its lamp-holder after all.

‘A dog can smell a lie,’ he told her, when it was still summer, in a different place. It is as if he growls at her once again, in this bleak castle cradled in the snows of winter. ‘All of them are liars, but most especially Littlefinger. You know the truth. You have only to discover it for yourself.’

It is as though illusion has finally been stripped from her eyes, and she sees clearly. She knows that Petyr is no true benefactor, that he would dispose of her as easily as he did of her aunt Lysa if she ever betrays him. She knows that he is poisoning Lysa’s son, the rightful lord of the Vale.

It is the better part of a year before Sansa can gather the evidence she needs to expose him. A year of waiting, keeping her cousin from Petyr’s clutches, of enduring his presence around her. Myranda Royce finds her out, and for a moment Sansa thinks all is lost, but Myranda decides to help her. Together, they find the evidence they need, and bring it to Sansa’s husband. Finally, Littlefinger is caught in the snare of his own schemes.

On the day of Baelish’s execution, the winds are still. When his blood paints the winter snow, a wolf howls, somewhere up the mountain peak. They leave his body for the wolves.

But just as Sansa savours relief, as one of her many cages melts away, a raven arrives from King’s Landing with news that changes everything.

It is a letter from Aegon, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who should have died years before Sansa was even born. He is not dead, his letter claims. He has returned to Westeros, his rightful kingdom, and he has taken King’s Landing from Cersei Lannister. He sits the Iron Throne, and he demands that lords from all corners of the realm come to King’s Landing to do him homage.

‘We must go, and kneel before him,’ Sansa’s husband insists. ‘You must send me,’ he tells little Lord Robert. ‘Me and my wife both. I am your heir, and she is the rightful ruler of the North. If we do him homage, Aegon will lend his support when it is time to take back Winterfell.’

The other lords of the Vale add their voices to his, and Robert’s regents approve, so within a fortnight, despite the misgivings that knit in her stomach like snakes, Sansa takes ship with her husband from Gulltown to King’s Landing.

 The news of the dragon king’s sudden accession is heard across all Westeros, even on the quiet island of the monks on the wide river. For days a debate rages within the Elder Brother’s quarters, but finally it is decided that a small group of them will travel to King’s Landing to see the new dragon king for themselves, and witness his coronation.

‘You will go too,’ the Elder Brother tells Sandor, ‘and be released from your vow of silence. It is time you got a sense of what else it is we monks do in the world beyond this islet. Perhaps after, you will be ready to take your vows and become one of us.’

He nods his acquiescence. There are no enemies for him in King’s Landing now, only ghosts and regrets. The Lannisters have fallen.

 Sansa’s sense of foreboding does not ease when they approach the city. There is no harbour for them to disembark, only its remains, and they finally come ashore in a small rowing-boat. Parts of the city wall, she notices, have collapsed, and are being rebuilt with a surprising amount of haste. No such haste is shown in rebuilding the burned hovels just inside the gates. There are soldiers everywhere, displaying the dragon standard of the Targaryens alongside a golden banner.

‘What happened here?’ Sansa wonders aloud, as they make their way through streets littered with bones and begging children.

‘Word is,’ one of her knights replies, ‘that the Lannister woman turned on the city at the end. When she saw there was no escape, she sent her men out into the streets, to loot and rape as they would.’

Sansa shakes her head. ‘No. There is more than that. It feels wrong. It feels like—like it felt in those months when we were waiting for Stannis Baratheon to arrive. It feels like the worst is still to come.’

Her husband scoffs. ‘You have a woman’s heart, and you are fearful,’ he says. ‘A king must always look to his defences foremost.’

‘Before the needs of his people?’ Sansa asks, but Harry has spotted another column of knights up ahead, and is not listening.

The Red Keep is full, according to the hurried word they have with a worn-out serving-man, and so they must find shelter at one of the inns which is still standing. Sansa is secretly grateful to not be sleeping in Joffrey’s castle again, but she cannot help but notice that they are the only nobles lodging there. ‘Surely we cannot be the only ones who have arrived to do the king homage,’ she tells Harry later. ‘Surely the streets should be full of lords with their trains, and the king should not be shut up in his castle, refusing to see us. Is the war not won? Did Aegon not summon us here to witness his triumph?’

As usual, Harry will not listen to her. ‘I am going out,’ he announces, ‘to seek better cheer.’ She pulls back from him, determined not to show any hurt, but they are interrupted by a knock at the door.

It is one of their knights, and his face is grim. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, my lord and lady,’ he says, ‘but you will want to hear this.’

 ‘We must go,’ Sansa insists, after the knight has left the room. The shock of his news has hit her like a fist in the stomach, the breath knocked out of her, but she knows she must convince her husband. ‘We must leave the city before dawn, before they notice that we have gone. We can ride for Duskendale and take ship there. Please, my lord husband. Please.’

She has put aside enough of her dignity to beg, but still he will not heed her. ‘What threat is this Daenerys?’ he scoffs. ‘She will not dare to fight the rightful heir to her own family’s crown.’

‘She does not believe that this new king is Aegon,’ Sansa argues. ‘She believes he is an impostor, as he well may be. And she has three dragons! There can be no doubt of her own legitimacy.’

‘If these dragons are even real.’

‘They have been sighted.’ It is like arguing with a brick wall. ‘Where are the lords of Westeros, Harry? They are not here. They have declared for Daenerys, or they have decided to stay out of the affray, as we should too! Please, let us go back to the Vale.’

He turns as he walks out of the door. ‘No.’

 The plaza before the Sept of Baelor is almost deserted. An icy wind creeps through the gravedigger’s rough brown robes and under his drawn-up hood. They have gathered here with the begging brothers today, as is their wont, but today their mission is to convince as many as they may to leave the city with them.

They have seen enough to convince them that the war for Westeros is not over. The smell of battle lingers in the air, and the unspoken name of Daenerys Stormborn haunts the city. Some of the more defiant brothers have taken to preaching her name, decrying the destruction that the supposed Aegon brought down upon the city when he took it. ‘He is no true Targaryen, this Aegon the Dragonless,’ they cry, ‘and he is no saviour. Look to the sky for your salvation! Look to the dragon queen!’

No matter the truth or lie of these words, the gravedigger and his fellow monks are all of one mind as to what they should do. Leave King’s Landing now, while there is still time. Before the dragons dance.

The gravedigger looks to the great marble statue of Baelor, towering over all with the magnificent sept behind it. There is a lady climbing the steps, dressed and cloaked in shades of blue that make him think of the river. A gust of wind blows down the steps, and the hood of her cloak drops back, releasing a fall of long russet hair.

His breath catches in his throat, and the brother nearest him looks up. ‘Sandor?’

‘I—I’ll be back,’ Sandor mutters. After his long silence on the isle, sometimes he now finds it hard to speak without forethought. He strides up the steps, where the lady has reached the entrance of the sept, and gone inside.

It is quiet inside, muffled voices echoing softly off the marble, and Sandor berates himself for a fool. She is not the only woman in the world with auburn hair. She is far away, perhaps dead, perhaps across the narrow sea. She will never return to him.

He turns towards the eastern side of the sept, and sees a blue-clad figure kneeling before the Mother’s alcove. Softly his footsteps draw nearer, the cloth soles of his monk’s boots making no sound. She raises her head to pray, and he stops in his tracks, almost falling to his own knees in reverence.

Though it has been more than three years since their parting, there can be no doubt in his mind. She was a pretty girl, but now she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, with her cheeks flushed red by the wind and her long hair streaming down her back like autumn leaves. But it is not her beauty which leaves him stricken; it is the sadness in her faces as she prays, and the way her lips silently frame the same song she sang in the night of fire and madness.

He hesitates a moment more, and then resolves that he should go. Who is he, to disturb her prayer, to imagine that she might have spared a thought for him these three years? It is enough to know that she is alive. With that knowledge, perhaps one of his burdens can be lifted.

But just as he has made up his mind to turn and go, she whips around as if he has touched her on the shoulder. Her blue eyes are wide in shock, and she fixes him in her gaze as if afraid he might disappear.

‘Sandor,’ she whispers, and the echo falls lightly on the marble.

‘Little bird,’ he rasps without thinking.

She gapes at him a moment, and then smiles tremulously. ‘I was that,’ she says softly, drawing closer to him. She shakes her head. ‘But I will not call you the Hound.’

 From the moment she sees him, Sansa cannot trust her eyes to tell her that he is real. She keeps her gaze locked on him, and she moves closer towards him until she clasps his arm, making sure that he will not disappear into shadow and leave her alone again. Then she releases him and steps back, remembering that she is a married woman, and her cheeks heat with the thought of all that has gone between them.

‘You are a monk?’ she asks, not knowing what to say to him.

He shakes his head. ‘I have taken no vows yet.’

‘Yet?’ she repeats, sounding like a little girl in her own ears again.

‘It is a very long story,’ he says. One side of his mouth quirks up in a smile. ‘So Cersei’s hunters did not find you.’

‘Nor you.’ She looks down, and twists her hands together. ‘I always hoped—after that last night when you—after we kissed—’

‘Kissed?’ he repeats incredulously, his voice sounding back at them from the marble pillars.

Sansa can feel her cheeks turning bright red. ‘No,’ she reminds herself, ‘he never kissed me after all. That was something I dreamed. He is rightly angry at me now. I should never have said that. I let it slip from my mouth without thinking.’

‘I—I must go,’ she stammers, and starts forward.

Sandor’s face is a mask of confusion. He makes as if to grab her, but then checks himself. ‘Where must you go?’

‘To my husband,’ she replies indistinctly, and flees the sept.

 The encounter stays with him, eating at him, throwing his mind into turmoil. Something stirs below the tranquil surface of the Gravedigger. Not the Hound—the Hound is dead—but perhaps, this time, himself. Perhaps Sandor Clegane has awoken at last.

He loves her. That is what he would never admit, not before, not when he was deep in denial about the idea that the world could ever show him kindness or beauty.

If only she had not run!

He should have been softer, gentler, less threatening. But what is there to do? She is married to yet another high lord, as he had always known she would be, and he is returning to the Quiet Isle to make a lifelong vow—

If she had shown him any favour, given him the slightest indication that she wanted him by her side, then nothing could have kept him from her. He would fight a thousand men, were she waiting at the end of it all.

It is past midday, and still the monks are rounding up those who wish to leave the city. The sky grows heavy and seems to sink over the city, turning the light grey. It will snow again. The wind which snakes around the city walls has ice in its teeth.

A horn sounds out over the city, quivering away to die in the wind, leaving a hushed silence in its wake before the confusion begins.

‘Why did the horn sound? Is there an army coming? Is Daenerys coming? Will we be safe?’

Another horn sounds, and the city bells begin to ring. The streets are suddenly brought to life, as men of the Golden Company march to the walls. Sandor’s mouth is suddenly dry. It is nothing like the prelude to the Battle of the Blackwater; there is no enemy at the gates, no rioting in the streets, no ships clashing in the bay. So why does he feel as if something worse yet is to come?

Suddenly someone shouts. ‘There! Look up! Look to the sky!’

He looks to the sky, and his breath leaves him. Beneath the heavy snow-clouds, a black shadow swoops unmistakably over the city, its wings outstretched, its long neck held forward as it banks and swirls. As the city watches, holding its breath, two smaller shadows follow behind.

The dragons have come to King’s Landing.

There is a moment of calm, of anticipation, when Sandor almost believes that the dragons will fly peacefully and bring only wonder. But then the great black beast dips and circles in the sky, banking so that all can see his scaled bulk and the silver-haired woman who guides him, and a stream of fire flows from his jaws to the city walls below.

The other two dragons, the lesser shadows, begin to flame too, and chaos erupts. The houses abutting the sept are on fire. Sandor loses the other monks, and shrinks into the shadows of the sept. It has happened too fast for him to think, to have any thought in his head except to hide from the searing flames.

The flames burn brightest in the direction Sansa ran in, and his thoughts take a different turn.

‘Sansa!’ He is suddenly in the street, ducking from the flames, running the way she went without knowing where she is. Last time, he ran from the fire. Last time, he left her behind. It cannot happen again.

He runs without direction, not knowing where to go; fear drives him as much as his need to find her.

Above the fear, overriding the panic, something else calls to him. Another’s fear. The world seems to tilt sharply around him. He is trapped in a burning building, trying to unjam a door too heavy for him. He is coughing as smoke reaches his lungs. All around him, the knights of the Vale lie burned and dead.

‘Sandor!’ her terrified voice rings in his ears, and suddenly he knows the direction to go.

He does not stop to wonder at this strange bond, how he sees with her eyes and feels her fear deep in his chest. All he knows is that he must rein in his own fear in order to keep moving forward. If he stops to consider the fire, stops to hear the people screaming, he will die. Worse, she will die too.

He stumbles across an abandoned barrel of water, and stops to tear off part of his hood, dipping it in the water, before moving on. She is close. He runs down another burning street. Furnace winds buffet him from all sides, but he makes unerringly for a tall building that must be an inn.

The flames roar like the screams of the damned down in hell, and there is a clash of swords up ahead near the city wall, but he can still hear her voice, fainter now, whispering his name.

Half the inn’s roof has collapsed, and a beam has fallen down to obstruct the front door. He winds the wet cloth around his face. Most of the inn is ablaze already, and there is not much time. The heavy beam is hot, and he winds the sleeves of his robe around his hands. Anchoring himself against the wall, he pushes with all his might. He can feel her fear changing to hope, as she realizes he is there.

The beam barely moves a foot, but it is enough. She fights her way out through the gap in the door, as he pulls it open as far as he can, out of the smoke and the ash and the waking nightmare, to fall into his arms.

‘You’re safe, little bird,’ he repeats, over and over again, as she clings to him and coughs.

She looks up at him, her face streaked with tears and soot. ‘I knew you would come for me.’

He doesn’t know who reaches out first, if it’s the part of him in her or her in him, but their lips meet as the world burns, and they cling to each other in the midst of the madness.

‘If we die anyway,’ she whispers, ‘at least now you know. You know how much I love you.’

Something in him turns to steel. ‘We won’t die,’ he says resolutely. ‘I know a secret way.’

 From across the river, they watch the dragons consume the city.

They move like fugitives, avoiding the battle that still rages on the walls and in the woods. By the river, they come across another fugitive from the battle: a grey mare, miraculously uninjured.

‘We can take refuge with the monks of the Faith,’ Sandor says as he helps her mount. ‘If we can make it to the Trident, all will be well.’

‘No,’ she says, and he looks up at her in surprise.

‘I forgot,’ he growls. ‘You are a lady of the Vale now. You will return to your husband.’

‘I saw my husband die in the fire,’ she replies, ‘and I am not of the Vale.’ Snowflakes begin to fall from the laden sky, settling in her hair, and Sansa looks out into the forest. ‘We go north.’

He says nothing as he begins to lead the mare up the riverbank, but Sansa can see a crooked smile spread over his face. It is then that she knows she will wed again, and this time, it will be different. This time, she will choose her mate. She will take a man gentle and strong, a man who has braved his worst fear to win through to her side.

 The road is hard and the snows lie thick upon the riverlands, but unexpected fortune comes to the pair as they make their way north. They run across an elderly outlaw who turns out to be Sansa’s great-uncle, Brynden Tully. He brings them into the midst of the swamps, to Greywater Watch, where Robb’s still-loyal bannermen are plotting with Howland Reed to win back the North. With Sansa in tow, their plans are finally set in action, and they sail north to find Sansa’s baseborn brother Jon, the last remaining member of her family.

Once the war is won, Jon is proclaimed the new King in the North, and Sansa returns at last to Winterfell. But the castle is changed, as is Jon. The kind half-brother she once knew has grown cold, a hard man given to fits of deep melancholy. The halls of Winterfell are cold too, and the servants she knew from her childhood are all gone. Every corner and every room remind her too sharply of the family she has lost. She cannot grieve for them yet, for there is another war to prepare for. Winter has come, as Father always warned it would, and the army of ice marches south, even more dread and terrible than the beasts of fire.

When Sansa wakes one morning to see the shape of a young girl with brown hair and grey eyes standing over her bed, she imagines that it is the ghost of her lost sister come with the army of the dead, and she screams. But then the ghost throws its arms around her, and both the Stark sisters are laughing through their tears when her guardsman rushes in to find out why she screamed.

The fortunes of the Starks continue to rise. Jon makes an alliance with the dragon queen who now rules in the south, and she brings her dragons north to help fight the army of the dead. Sansa cannot help but be wary of her, thinking of King’s Landing every time the dragons swoop in the sky, but Jon seems to come back to himself in her presence, bestowing on her most of his all-too-rare-now smiles.

And as the snows steadily fall deeper and reports from the Wall become more dire, a Skagosi army marches south to Winterfell, pledging to defend the castle should the army of the dead win through the Wall.

Sansa is at the gates on the day they arrive. Their leader is a boy mounted on a great shaggy sort of goat, wrapped and hooded in sheepskin. When he draws back his hood to reveal his auburn hair in the winter sun, the onlookers gasp and whisper that King Robb has come again. But Sansa knows better: it is her little brother Rickon, long presumed dead, and she laughs as she embraces him even as she weeps for Robb. When they wheel Bran forward on a rough cart, revealing that none of her younger siblings died after all, she feels as though her heart will burst with bittersweet emotion.

Throughout all this, Sandor remains by her side, pledging himself to House Stark, becoming her personal guard. He will never march to war on his injured leg again, but he oversees the defences of Winterfell. He eats together with the Starks, talks with them, laughs with them. If they can survive the winter, Sansa knows, they might find healing and happiness together.

Unexpectedly, she comes face-to-face with her first husband, who arrives in the north along with Daenerys’s train as her councillor. In Winterfell, he agrees to annul their marriage, to make it as if it never was. ‘I am not sorry,’ he quips at her, the day the septon of Winterfell stands witness to the annulment. ‘Your husbands tend to meet with the worst misfortunes.’

‘Only those who dare wed me against my will,’ she shoots back, and to her surprise, he laughs.

‘Ah, but I see you are a she-wolf after all.’

The long night is upon them, and with the night come the dead. The fighters go in different directions to fight them, whilst Sansa and Sandor are left to defend Winterfell. Fires burn in the dark of day and night, and fighting rages on the walls. For seven days and nights the battle rages, and on the eighth day, the armies of dead withdraw. A strange light is seen in the north, and the defenders rest.

The war has been won, and soon a pale dawn breaks the long night, and scouts from Winterfell ride forth to find Jon and Daenerys. The dead have melted away, defeated by dragonfire, but the king and queen are nowhere to be found.

They will live forever in legend, but the men of the north must choose a new earthly king. One and all, Jon’s erstwhile lords bannermen proclaim one name. They will have none other than Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf, she who rode out of the southern snows to rally the north and take back her home, she who defended Winterfell through the long night, never failing in courage nor hope.

Sansa takes up the duty with a heavy heart, still mourning her brother. Winter still lies upon them, and her people need grain to survive. She arranges with her cousin, Lord Robert of the Vale, to ship food to the North via White Harbour. The years are hard, but they endure. And as the days grow longer and lighter, there is cause for celebration as the Queen in the North weds her loyal guardsman, a hero of the war.

A few moons after their wedding, a white raven is seen flapping about the turrets of Winterfell, and all rejoice at the coming of spring. But alongside the white raven, one of its smaller black cousins brings an altogether different message.

Sansa reads the message aloud to her husband and her assembled siblings. ‘I am writing directly to you, Queen Sansa, as one queen to another. I, Myrcella Baratheon, now rule in King’s Landing. We have weathered the winter, and I am summoning my leal vassals to the capital. You, however, are no vassal, but perhaps a trusted ally. I have recognized the independence of the kingdom of Dorne, where my good-sister Arianne now reigns as queen. I am prepared to recognize the independence of the north as well. I ask you to come to me, since I realize that an incursion to the north by myself might be taken as an unfriendly act. Come witness my coronation, and make alliance with the south and with Dorne. Perhaps the War of the Many Kings can finally be healed by the pact of the three queens.’

 Spring moves faster in the south, and the road to King’s Landing is a pleasant one, with life coming back to the woods and moors, and early flowers braving the frost in the hedgerows. There are still some amongst Sansa’s cohorts who fear a trick from this new queen, but they all breathe easy when finally the two queens meet and promise an end to the enmity between their houses, and pledge each other assistance in restoring order and prosperity to their respective kingdoms.

It has been years since the day of dragonfire, and still longer since Myrcella’s father ruled here, when Sansa was only a girl. The Red Keep is all but destroyed, melted and cracked by dragonfire, and Myrcella rules from a new wooden keep built upon the remains of the Dragonpit. The Sept of Baelor is one of the few buildings that survives, looking across to Myrcella along the Street of the Sisters.

Sansa and Sandor quietly ride together, taking in the streets of the city rebuilt. The new houses and shops are built upon the ruins of the old, and a sense of hope prevails above all, a sense of enduring. There are ships in the bay, and merchants along the docks crying their wares as they did a decade ago. In the city, there are cakes and bread to be bought at the bakers’ once more, and the steady ring of hammers resounds in the Street of Steel.

They ride to the top of Aegon’s Hill, and take in the ruins. It is a lonely place, abandoned to the heather and the curlew, but new flowers have begun to grow over the ancient foundations already, and they can now see the sea past the collapsed towers, beyond the cliff.

Sansa dismounts, and takes Sandor’s hand. ‘Let me show you to the beach,’ she says with a hint of mischief.

They descend the rock-hewn steps where once she was led into the power of Petyr Baelish, and walk for a while along the sandy beach below. Foam-tipped breakers roll along the shore, and a cold spring wind blows their hair back into their faces. The beach is desolate and wild, populated only by the gulls who call as they skim the cliffs above.

‘When I first came here,’ Sansa says softly, ‘I could never have imagined what I might become.’

‘I always knew you were meant to be a queen,’ her husband growls.

‘A queen consort,’ she corrects him. ‘I would only ever have ruled through my husband.’

Sandor gives a snort of assent.

Did you ever imagine that for yourself?’ she teases him.

‘Bound to a she-wolf and pestered day and night by her and her wolfish siblings?’ He gives a bark of laughter and draws her to him. ‘Not even once.’

She giggles. ‘Well, this she-wolf has something to tell you.’ She takes his hands in hers, and contrives to look solemn. ‘There is another cub on the way.’

He does not say anything, but draws her close to him, planting the lightest of kisses on her forehead. ‘I will keep you both safe,’ she hears as he holds her close, but it is a promise so soft that she cannot tell whether it is spoken, or only a thought carried on the wind.

She reaches up to kiss him, overbalances, and the tension is broken as he catches her and they both start laughing. He puts his arm around her shoulders as they gaze out to the sea together, the clear skyline broken by an old shipwreck upon one of the rocky islands along the coast. She knows, without having to look, that he is smiling the crooked smile that never quite reaches the left side of his face, but which is reflected back in his dark, fiery eyes.

They have weathered the storm and found safe harbour together, and perhaps this new day will be a little warmer than the last. For whatever comes, the Starks will endure.

#sansan secret santa #thedropletsparkled #sansan #asoiaf #shipping #fan fiction #my fic

[peri-helia]

 So Ten encountered what was very likely Satan which had been trapped by an ancient civilisation by being chained up in a godforsaken rock suspended over a black hole in a way that if Satan was ever freed from his prison, the planet would fall out of suspension ensuring that it would die. And the Beast plays on everyone’s fears and taunts them and the Doctor  literally had to choose between doing the right thing and killing the Beast or letting Rose escape and he had such faith in Rose (I believe in her!) That he knew it couldn’t victimize Rose Tyler if it motherfucking tried - that he smashed the suspension so the Beast would die and Rose, beautiful, magnificent Rose realised the Beast’s plan all on her own, with everyone else shouting her down and released Toby’s seatbelt and shot out the glass so she could send the Beast to hell, meaning that Rose and the Doctor separately, yet entirely cohesively managed to save the world and kill a primordial being from before the beginning of the universe in a two part episode

So 13 encounters a God  who plays on everyone’s fears and taunts them - who shouldn’t exist within the universe and Thirteen is tricked into releasing the other God who had been trapped by two ancient civilisations by colliding their planets into each other in a scheme that had taken generations to realise and these Gods start stalking the Earth eating people’s nightmares and she defeats them by getting someone else to conquer their fear made flesh and then reversing the polarity on a box and then putting it back where she found it in a single episode, while Yaz, Graham and Ryan hung round in the background 

#REMEMBER WHEN WE HAD QUALITY EPISODES #this is fucking me off sorry I just saw the parallel #doctor who #doctor who spoilers #the impossible planet #the satan pit #sorry I'm just so pissed #tenrose #DW spoilers #dw parallels

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans  are Space Orcs “Lions and Tigers and Bears.”

I’m trying to do writings that cater to what everyone wants. Some will be stories some will be short report style, and I might try other styles upon  request if you have an interesting idea.

Also a note, I love comments, questions, messages, and anything else you can think of. If you want to draw something, you don’t need to ask. Just do it, I would love to see what you come up with. :)

We used to think that humans were apex predators, and I suppose we weren’t wrong. Compared to the rest of the galaxy, humans are an amalgamation of teeth, claws, and the nightmares of our children, but on their own planet, humans have only survived based on their guile and pack bonding instincts. They keep animals in their home that could rip them apart if they were so inclined.

If this wasn’t enough, the humans are intent on keeping their natural predators alive despite a period of mass extinction that followed the rise of human domination. For years they have, captured, hunted, protected, and fought for the lives of creatures that would happily rip them apart.

No one really understands it, but the humans are desperate to keep these creatures alive.

Because humans can’t just pack bond with themselves, they have to pack bond with their entire planet and everything on it.

***

“So what is this place supposed to be?” Krill wondered scuttling along at Captain Vir’s feet glancing upwards at the massive gated archway.

“It’s a zoo…. Or technically it’s a nature preserve, I guess.”

“What is…. A Zoo.”

“You’ll see.”

He stopped at the counter and passed his arm under a chip reader. Krill crossed his two sets of arms, a habit that he had picked up from the humans.

“You understand you say that a lot, and I never appreciate when you do.”

“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.”

“You say that a lot too.”

“Well this time I really mean it.”

Krill sighed, but kept at Vir’s feet as they passed through the doors and into the park.

His first impression was stepping onto another world. One that was confused and didn’t particularly know what it was doing… so earth, but condensed. Hundreds of large enclosures dotted the intervening space all boasting complex contained ecosystems. A tiny slice of ocean rolled and sloshed inside one of these massive containers, while another showed the burning sand of a windswept dessert. A Burst of orange sand was kicked up into the air and swirled slowly around. The ground shifted creating a new landscape as they watched.

“Pretty cool huh, they didn’t used to do that, but now they keep tings changing to make the animals more comfortable.

“Animals?” Krill wondered nervously.

“Yep, animals.” Captain Vir responded making his way over to one of the enclosures, “It’s time you got to see a real predator.”

Then entered a crowd staring up at one of the enclosures, and a woman wearing a green vest standing atop it. The invisible force-shield glinted blue under her feet. Otherwise it would have appeared that she was just standing on air.

Below her, a massive creature prowled, pacing back and forth muscle rolling and churning under its orange and black striped hide. Massive claws glinted at its feet. Snarling, the animal showed huge glittering teeth. Krill stepped back.

“The world record for the Olympic high jump is somewhere in the ballpark of eight feet.” The woman was saying, “But the Tiger, can easily jump an astonishing twelve feet. Two men stacked on top of each other, or even onto the roof of your house.” As If in response to her words, the huge creature sprung from the ground flying through the air to snatch a piece of meat dangling from the ceiling. Its teeth glinted, as it ripped the chunk in half turning its head back to swallow, “He can bite with a force averaging 1,000 pounds of pressure per square inch.”

Vir chuckled, “Damn those things are cool, scary as hell though.” At his side Waffles, the dog, sniffed the ground licking up a stray bit of popcorn.

Krill couldn’t help but glance at the animal and her glittering teeth. Were humans stupid? He had a 100 pound predator on a leash right now, and did it bother him, no.

Then again, the tiger was significantly bigger. It ripped another chunk from the meat

Krill didn’t like this place, so he pulled the captain away and into the crowd.

That wasn’t a great idea, since he suddenly came face to face with a reptilian head….. One with no limbs, and to his horror, the creature lifted itself upwards to stare him in the eye. As if this couldn’t get more horrifying, the death noodle unhinged its jaw and hissed at him showing a massive set of fangs. He leaped back in fear caught by Captain Vir, “Mmm a cobra, they use neurotoxin you know. One bite is potent enough to kill 20 people.”

Krill stared at him incredulous, “And you still want to STAY on this planet?”

He laughed as if he was a joke and not a question.

The cobra lowered its head slithering away like a ribbon of death’s cloak.

Krill detested almost every moment of this place, the giant death fish called a shark that could practically bite a human in half, and hid within the depths of the earth’s ocean just waiting to strike fear into the hearts of men…. Which, he was reminded, took up about 2/3s of the globe

He hated the furry doom that looked sort of like a fat dog, but was, in fact, 12 feet tall could and would maul you to death, when it wasn’t sleeping all winter to protect itself from starvation at the behest of harsh winters.

Even though the stripy hallucination ponies weren’t all that scary, he wasn’t sure how he felt about their use of black and white stripes to confuse predators in large numbers. It seemed like an animal who used a mild acid trip to confuse predators wouldn’t really be worth hunting.

Then there were the tall spotted ponies who used their heads to beat each other to death because none of the human animals could be normal, no, not one. If you didn’t have death noodles, you had psychedelic ponies and neck fighting.

Oh and let’s not forget the thousands of varieties of tiny flying dinosaurs that were known for carrying diseases and feeding on the carcasses of the dead, and some of them weren’t even all that tiny. The big knife-face bird with the white and brown feathers had a wingspan nearly eight feet wide, and had the ability to chuck goats off cliffs.

The actual F***k.

There was also the stabby-tree head pony (a few varieties of these actually) hunted by humans often, but they used their tree horns to stab each other, because why the hell not. Oh and they had also been known to stomple on humans till death.

Because even the prey animals can kill you on this planet.

Don’t forget the giant bacteria lizard whose bight does not kill you because it is poisonous, but because its mouth is such a nasty place that you will grow infected ad die slowly. Incidentally, humans are the komodo dragons of the universe.

Captain Vir’s favorite animal wasn’t really surprising. The pack of fluffy grey dogs are apparently the ancestors of the domestic dog, and seeing them did not help Krill’s anxiety, because apparently they kill by going after a single beast, and chasing it to death using rather complex team working tactics to do so. One grabs the things legs, than the other tries to rip its throat out.

Captain Vir was best friends with an animal that could easily rip his throat out.

Apparently human had become friends with the wolf thousands of years ago because some idiot human thought it would be a good idea to be friends with something that wanted to eat his face.

***

Everything on this godforsaken planet can kill a human. You thought humans were indestructible, no, no they are not. Just as a small list of things that can happen to a human on their own planet (a planet which they love I might add), limbs ripped off, stompled to death, bitten in half, poisoned, eaten, ripped open, gored, suffocated, infected, diseased, pushed off a cliff, drowned, and that isn’t even a comprehensive list.

The most dangerous place in the galaxy for humans is their own planet, and they love it. They love it so much that they protect the very predators that would like to have them for a snack. And may I reiterate that they keep these animals in their houses, cuddle with them, pet them, and name them cutesy furry names like pickles, fee fee, or Senior Wobbles.

Personally, I would never keep something in my home that could easily eat my face off. Seems like an obvious desire, but apparently not….

Not to mention the embarrassment of having to explain how you got your face eaten open by Mr McDoodle Cuddlebun the fifth, but I digress there is no convincing you people.

#humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #Earth is space Ausralia

[fantasyandromancelover]

The Tale of Tales Chapter 34

After Gray and Juvia had disappeared, Gajeel, Elfman, and Romeo began frantically looking for them. Unfortunately they couldn't search long because the snow storm started almost right after they came back from mining. They were stuck in their house for quite awhile only leaving to search for them for a little bit.

"Where on Earth could they be?" Romeo asked.

"I hope that they're warm wherever they are." Elfman said.

"I never liked the idea of Juvia being left alone with that guy." Gajeel said. "He better not have done anything to her."

They heard a knock at the door. Romeo went to open it hoping that it was Juvia but it wasn't. Instead it was Erza, Natsu, and Lucy.

"Please help us." Erza said. "Our friend here is unconscious and if we don't get her somewhere warm we don't think she'll last much longer."

Though suspicious of strangers, the dwarfs let them in. They laid Lucy in Juvia's bed, covered her with several blankets, and pushed it closer to the fire place where a warm fire was going.

"Thank you for your hospitality." Erza said. "We'll be sure to repay you for it eventually."

"Think nothing of it." Romeo said.

"But what were you doing out in this Godforsaken weather?" Elfman asked.

"Well we were searching for you all actually. That is, are you the three dwarfs who live up North from the Magnolia village?"

"That's us." Romeo said.

"Why are you looking for us?" Gajeel asked.

"Well it's not really you three we were looking for. It's Juvia."

"Juvia? What do you want her for?"

"She's in grave danger. Queen Minerva wants to kill her."

"We knew that already but she's gone missing."

"Missing?"

"Yes." Romeo said. "A few days ago she went outside to look for a friend of hers who had gone to chop wood. Neither one of them came back."

"Do you suppose that they got lost in the storm?"

"Most likely."

"I think Gray abducted her." Gajeel said.

"Gray?" Erza said.

"He's some huntsman she met about two weeks ago, apparently he hurt his foot and she didn't feel right about sending him on his way without helping him. But I never trusted him."

"You needn't worry about that. I know Gray, he's cold and bitter but he'd never hurt an innocent woman. He claims that he doesn't care what happens to people but that's just an act I assure you."

"So what up with the pink haired kid over there? Is he going to be okay?" Gajeel asked pointing toward Natsu.

It wasn't until now that Erza noticed that Natsu hadn't left Lucy's side once. He just sat there by her bedside, watching and waiting for her to wake up. His black eyes filled with concern and fear, fear for her life.

"He's just worried about her that's all." Erza told them. "Though I wonder when Levy will be back."

"Levy?" Gajeel flinched. "Did you just say Levy?"

"Yes she's Lucy's fairy godmother. She led us to this cottage."

"Where is she?"

"Her wings were becoming frozen and according to her only a warm climate could thaw them out. With the last of the strength she had in her wings, she flew off to see a fairy friend of hers who's always living in a warm climate."

"What does she look like?"

"Short blue hair with daisies in it and she wore a dress made from leaves of gold and silver."

"Oh my God." His voice became more quiet and soft. "After all these years, can it really be her?"

"You know her?" Romeo said.

"You never mentioned a Levy to us before." Elfman said.

"Because I have a reputation that I didn't want ruined and I only told Juvia because it didn't change her view of me."

"Well our view of you won't change." Romeo said.

"Yeah you'll still be a brooding, egotistical jerk to us." Elfman said.

Gajeel gave the two dwarfs a death glare.

"What happened between us is none of your business alright! Now red how come you and those two are trying to find Juvia? Are you trying to protect her or something?"

"Yes." Erza said. "Because if Queen Minerva kills her then we're all doomed."

Erza then began telling the three dwarfs everything Levy had told her. About the mirror and it's plan to corrupt and takeover Minerva and how the corruption would be complete if Minerva successfully killed Juvia.

"When the storm clears we must find her as soon as possible." Erza said.

"But this storm has been going on for three days. Who knows when it will end?" Elfman said.

"We'll just have to wait and pray that the storm will end soon." Erza looked ever at the fireplace and noticed that there was no firewood left to use if the fire went out. "I'm going outside to get more fire wood."

"Are you crazy? What if you get lost?" Gajeel asked her.

"I won't go far. Trust me."

They tried to talk her out of it but Erza was a stubborn and determined woman however they were able to convince her to wait until the storm died down a litte. Elfman and Gajeel both offered to go with her but she said that they should just stay behind and keep the fire alive. She left the cottage and began searching for firewood. True to her word, she didn't go far, just close enough to where she found sticks and short logs lying around. As she began to gather them up she had the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. She checked behind herself a couple times to see if anyone was there. When it appeared that she was alone she went back to gathering up the wood only to suddenly feel someone's hand on her shoulder. Startled she punched the owner of the hand right across their face but much to her relief the owner of the hand was Jellal.

"Oh Jellal don't sneak up on me like that." She said.

"What in God's name are you doing out here?" He asked her ignoring the bruise forming on his cheek from where she had punched him. "Why aren't you at home with your grandmother?"

"I've recently taken up a mission."

"And what mission is that?"

"It's nothing that concerns you Jellal."

"Erza please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing."

"And what's that?"

"I've heard through my superior hearing that a red haired woman is seeking to destroy the mirror that contains the evil spirit. Tell me that's not you."

"I'm sorry Jellal but that would be a lie."

"Erza you promised me that you wouldn't get involved."

"No I promised that I would stay away from you, I never promised that I wouldn't help you in any way I can."

"Erza you need to stop this! Go back home to grandmother! Start a new life with her!"

"Not until I save you!"

"I don't need you to save me! Erza doing this might result in you being killed! Or worse! Doesn't that frighten you?"

"If any of that means that you will be free in the end then no it doesn't! I don't care what happens to me!"

"But I do! Don't you understand that if you die from this then I have no reason to live?!"

Erza became silent as did he and for a brief moment he looked embarrassed. As if he had said too much or revealed some deep dark secret about himself. At last Erza decided to break the silence and speak first.

"What do you mean?"

It took awhile for him to answer but eventually he spoke.

"My parents are dead, my home has been destroyed, and I've been turned into a monster that needs to kill to live! So many times I wanted to kill myself! I have attempted suicide many times but every single time I got close to doing it your face would always flash into my mind and I just couldn't do it! I couldn't kill myself! Not when you were still alive! As I learned to control myself better I began watching you and your grandmother from a safe distance. Seeing you was the only thing that kept me going. The only thing that made my miserable existence worth living was seeing you alive and well. If anything ever happened to you I know that I would never be able to go on living."

Erza was left speechless by Jellal's words. She never knew that he felt that strongly about her.

"I know can't really stop you from doing what you want to do but please Erza, I beg you. Be careful and don't do something that could lead to your demise."

Erza tried to say something but found herself unable to find the right words to speak and all too soon Jellal was gone again.

#fairy tail #fairy tail au #fairy tales #brothers grimm #cinderella #snow white #little red riding hood #lucy heartfilia #natsu dragneel #erza scarlet #jellal fernades #jellal x erza #fairy tail jerza #fairy tail nalu #nalu #natsu x lucy #fanfiction #fanfic

[jutri]

Writing Prompts

So apparently you people like my writing for some godforsaken reason (shout out to those of you who’ve already sent prompts my way || I’ll get to yours first). In light of the fact that I have more attention than I thought I would ever, I’m going to start a prompt list thingy that tumblrers do. 

How this will work is you send me two numbers from the list below with a few *optional* emojis, and I’ll write a prompt/make a headcanon for you. Be sure to specify which ship you want: Sterek, Klance, Connor/Evan(DEH), Lams, Bellarke, Choni, Bughead, Michael/Jeremy (BMC), & Malec 

:･ﾟ✧☆:✧:･ﾟ✧☆:✧:･ﾟ✧☆:✧:･ﾟ✧☆:✧:･ﾟ✧☆:✧

1: “ I need a hug. ”

2: “ You’re special to me. ”

3: “ I’m going to keep you safe. ”

4: “ Do you trust me? ”

5: “ Can I kiss you right now? ”

6: “ You’re cute when you’re angry. ”

7: “ I’ve liked you for awhile now. ”

8: “ Lets have a baby. ”

9: “ We’d make such a cute couple. ”

10: “ I want to take care of you. ”

11: “ Can we cuddle? ”

12: “ It’s lonely here without you. ”

13: “ I can’t stand the thought of loosing you. ”

14: “ Shut up and kiss me already. ”

15: “ Are you flirting with me? ”

16: “ Is that my shirt? ”

17: “ How did we get here? ”

18: “ You own my heart. ”

19: “ You’d be a great dad. ”

20: “ You’d be a great mom. ”

21: “ I want to protect you. ”

22: “ Whats the matter? ”

23: “ You’re so beautiful. ”

24: “ Did you do something different with your hair? ”

25: “ Is that a new perfume? ”

26: “ Stop being so cute. ”

27: “ You’re making me blush! ”

28: “ You’re teasing me again… ”

29: “ This is why I fell in love with you. ”

30: “ You’re the best! ”

31: “ They’re going to love you, don’t worry! ”

32: “ Oh, Are you ticklish? ”

33: “ Of course I remembered! ”

34: “ You’re one hell of a girl. ” 

35: “ We cant keep this up forever.”

36: “ You’re a monster. ”

37: “ I hate you. ”

38: “ Don’t leave me… ”

39: “ You’re a disappointment. ”

40: “ Don’t die on me– Please. ”

41: “ I never meant to hurt you. ”

42: “ Are you upset with me? ”

43: “ I wish i’d never met you. ”

44: “ I’m going to kill you! ”

45: “ Please don’t hurt me like this. ”

46: “ Thanks for nothing. ”

47: “ Don't call this number again. “

48: “ Why did you spare me? ”

49: “ You need to leave. ”

50: “ I’m sick. ”

51: “ I’m dying. ”

52: “ I wish i’d never met you. ”

53: “ I thought we were family!”

54: “ There was never an us. ”

55: “ So that’s it? It’s over? ”

56: “ Give me a chance. ”

57: “ Not you again.. ”

58: “ Leave me alone. ”

59: “ I don’t love you anymore. ”

60: “ Why do you hate me? ”

61: “ I lost the baby. ”

62: “ I thought you loved me. ”

63: “ I don’t need you anymore. ”

64:“ I can’t believe you! ”

65: “ Catch me if you can! ”

66: “ I’m fine. ”

67: “ Are you drunk? ”

68: “ Are you high? ”

69: “ We cant go in there… ”

70: “ Give it back! ”

71: “ Well this is just great. ”

72: “ Don’t touch me. ”

73: “ Not sure if you could tell, but I’m not exactly a people person. ”

74: “ This was fun— Let's do it again sometime!”

75: “ I didn’t do it! ”

76: “ I did it… ”

77: “ I don’t remember that! ”

78: “ Well that’s pretty rude of you to say. ”

79: “ Get that thing away from me! ”

80: “ You owe me. ”

81: “ Do you believe in aliens? ”

82: “ Do you believe in ghosts? ”

83: “ Are you hitting on me? ”

84: “ Why are you naked? ”

85: “ You did what?! ”

86: “ You have… Superpowers? ”

87: “ Why are you bleeding? ”

88: “ Where did all these puppies come from?”

89: “ Don’t make me come over there myself! ”

90: “ That wasn’t funny. ”

91: “ This tastes horrible. ”

92: “ This is delicious! ”

93: “ Are you mad at me? ”

94: “ Stop ignoring me… ”

95: “ I love that show too! ”

96: “ Can I borrow that book of yours?”

97: “ Lets blow this joint. ”

98: “ Let me help you with that. ”

99: “ Take that back! ”

100: “ Wanna go see a movie with me? ”

101: “ No way, that’s so lame. ”

102: “ What are you listening to? ”

103: “ I brought you your coffee. ”

104: “ Don’t fuck this up. ”

105: “ Run! ”

106: “Let's run away together. ”

107: “ I haven’t slept in four days… ”

108: “ Your turn to do the dishes. ”

109: “ Was I really that drunk? ”

110: “ Was I really that stoned? ”

111: “Give me back my phone! ”

112: “ You’re an asshole. ”

113: “ Are you cold? ”

114: “ This place gives me the creeps. ”

115: “ I swear my house is haunted. ”

116: “ Did you hear that? ”

117: “ It’s just your imagination. ”

118: “ Just how stupid do you think I am? ”

119: “ Stop being such a baby. ”

120: “ Go back to bed. ”

121: “ Are you okay? ”

122: “ I can take care of myself just fine.”

123: “ Thanks for helping me back there. ”

124: “ Since when have we ever been friends? ”

125: “ What on earth are you wearing? ”

126: “ I can’t feel my legs! ”

127: “ Stop texting me weird stuff so late at night. ”

128: “ Put me down! ”

129: “ There’s only one bed… ”

130: “ It isn’t what it looks like! Okay.. Maybe it is… ”

131: “ How did I lose it? ”

132: “ I read your diary. ”

133: “ This is awkward. ”

134: “ Didn’t you read the sign? ”

135: “ Do you think you can teach me that? ”

#writing #send me prompts #prompts #sterek #klance #tree bros #connor/evan #convan #lams #bellarke #choni #bughead #jeremy/michael #malec #gays and gals #stiles stilinski #derek hale #keith (voltron) #voltron lance #connor murphy #dear evan hansen #john laurens #alexander hamilton #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #cheryl #toni #betty cooper #jughead jones #jeremy heere

[megwritesfanfiction]

Teen Titans Fanfiction Month 2018, Historical/16th Century Colonizer AU - RaeX-ish

A/N: So OMG you guys... I am trying very hard not to be in love with this AU and multichapter it, but I am! I do... I wanna so bad! I will not be tempted!! 

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Titans. This is a work of fiction, I am not making a profit off of this.

Teen Titans Fanfiction Month - AUs - Historical/16th Century Colonizer AU @teentitansfanfictionmonth

“You’re going to get killed.”

Jason smirked, lacing up his black boots. “No, I’m going to get a better understanding of this godforsaken place and maybe,” his smirk widened as he arrogantly sat on straighter on his cot. “Find the Temple of Azarath.”

“You cannot find a mythical place,” Richard sighed from his cot. He threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the lanterns burning in their tent. “We’ve been through this.”

“The missionaries-“

“You are talking about the missionaries who were lost, starved, and tortured by the savages lurking here?” Richard questioned, giving his shoulders a little shrug. “Yea, I’m sure you can trust what they are saying, Jason.”

Jason chuckled, picking up his canteen, “I like to believe there is truth in madness.”

“I don’t think you’ll find truth from traumatized missionaries.”

“Oh, you say that now,” Jason grinned, picking up his gun and ammunition. “But I’m sure your tune will change once I find that old temple and all the gold.”

“Good sir, if you find that temple, I will eat my hat,” Richard assured, lifting his head up to cast a cocky glare to his younger brother.

Jason laughed sliding on his hat, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder.

“You realize our father is going to kill you for going there, right?”

“I’d like to think the old man isn’t going to find out,” Jason’s eyes sparkled from a mix of candlelight and mischief. He picked up the lantern. “Besides, it would be irresponsible of us to not explore our new investment.”

“We can clearly see this island offers plenty of timber.”

“Yes, but gold, Richard,” Jason’s smile curled with maddening lust at the thought of all of the riches. “Jewels, delicious spices that will fetch us thousands in England.”

“I’m not a greedy man.”

Lie.

“Nor a foolish one,” Richard told him seriously. “This island is uncharted.”

“Even better,” Jason tipped his hat down as he turned his back to exit. “More profit for us.”

Richard sighed loudly, shaking his head, “If you get lost, I’m not looking for you.”

Jason stopped in front of the tent‘s opening, pretending to consider Richard’s words. “If I find riches beyond my wildest fantasies, I’m not sharing.”

Richard narrowed his eyes at the man. “Why do I kind of hope those savages kidnap you?”

“I would like to see them try,” Jason patted the gun on his hip, stepping out of the tent.

“Don’t die!” Richard yelled after him.

Jason chuckled stepping out of his tent.

The large pit at the center of the camp roared as crew man slept, drank, and traded stories. They’d hit shore after months of sailing the ocean. As soon as the boat had touched sand, frantic missionaries emerged from the brush. They were fevered and starved, screaming about the people they’d encountered.

Though this island had been discovered by the explorer Jason’s family had hired a year prior, they’d done little with the property. The explorer discovered a group of uncivilized people as well as bountiful timber and many other potential resources. Missionaries from their church heard the news and requested to domesticate the heathens.

Surprisingly, his father agreed.

Jason never imagined that his father was interested in saving souls, but the possibility of having laborers who were familiar with the territory seemed promising.

Until, they learned things hadn’t gone as planned.

Jason stepped into the brush, placing his lantern in front of him as the sounds of the camp were overcome with the sounds of nature. His boots crunched against the tangled roots and wild tall grass as he moved deeper. The sound and smell of fresh water rushed his senses as he stepped carefully. Even with his lantern, Jason only see a few feet in front of his face amidst the tall trees and thick brush.

Following the sound of the water, he peeled back the branches revealing an open field. The wildflowers and water shimmered underneath the moonlight as he stepped toward the stream.

Jason knelt before the stream, dipping his fingers in the water. He cupped his hands taking a small drink.

Freshwater.

Good to know they had a nice water source so close.

Jason nodded, satisfied as he stood up. Wiping his hands against his pants, he walked forward a wild bush with bright yellow blooms. He carefully plucked one from the bush, bringing it to his nose as his eyes closed.

The sound of a tight string stilled his body as he slowly lowered his hand from his nose. He raised his lantern. “Is there anyone there?” Jason questioned, calmly turning his head to the sound of soft footsteps against the wet ground.

An arrow nocked against a bone bow peaked out from the leaves as the woman stepped toward him. She approached him slowly, long black hair caked with purple clay and bright grey, almost violet eyes, wide and dangerous. She wore a leather top, skirt, and a long black fur cape adorned with dark feathers. Her light brown skin was painted with white clay from the top of her forehead to a bit below her eyes and intricate patterns covered her arms and legs.

Jason slowly raised his arms, hoping she understand his act of submission. “Hello,” he spoke calmly, looking for a moment to reach for his gun. “My name is Jason Todd.”

Her head tilted, bow and arrow still aimed at him and ready to fire. “Hello,” she spoke, lips curling a little. “Jason Todd.”

“You speak English?” He whispered, amazed.

“Yes,” she answered, stopping. She stood a few feet away from him, legs in battle stance. “It was learned from the pale ones with the little leather books.”

He eyed her strangely, watching her fingers that had the arrow nocked. “They weren’t on this island long enough for you to master the language.”

“I learn quickly,” she smirked dangerously, raising an eyebrow.  

“Us?” Jason questioned, feeling a little wave of panic. “There are more of you?”

“There are many of us, but,” she confirmed. “I am only here.”

Jason felt some tension leave his body. If only he could get her to lower that arrow.

“There are more of you?” She repeated echoing his question. Her shoulder blades squeezed as her grasp tightened on the bow.

“There are many of us, but I am only here.” He could play that game as well.

“My words?” She smirked.

He shrugged. “They worked.”

“What are you doing on our island?” She questioned, eyes narrowing and smirk gone.

He was impressed with how focused she was. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“You call me Raven,” she nodded.

“It is nice to meet you Raven.”

“What are you doing on our island?” Raven asked again, her voice louder. “We have no interest or problem with your God. I advise you leave us.”

“This island is unclaimed,” he stated. “We have the right to be here.

“Your feet are on the earth of Azarath,” she explained. “This place is home to children of Azar.”

The Temple of Azarath. “We mean you no harm,” Jason insisted. She could lead him to the temple.

To the gold.

“That is what the pale ones with the little leather books said,” Ravens started, taking another step toward him. Her arrow pointed to the gun at his hips. “They had one of those as well.”

“A gun?” His eyes went to the weapon at his hips.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Gun. Your gun killed two of my people.”

“Surely, it was a misunderstanding-“

“We do not misunderstand violence,” her voice was dangerous as she sneered. “Leave.”

“You know, I heard stories about Azarath as child,” Jason spoke softly. “I heard it was a peaceful place with knowledge and beauty.”

“Our peace is not our weakness, your people-“

“They weren’t my people,” Jason pleaded. “I am not here to hurt you. I can prove it.” His hand slowly lowered to his waist, unhooking his gun,

Raven jumped back, her tension on the bow increasing as she prepared to fire.

“Trust me,” he breathed. She was the key to the treasure that kept him up at night.

Her fingers released the bow as the arrow whizzed past his cheek.

It took everything in him not to move.

“I did not miss,” she warned.

Jason smirked.

That treasure was his.

#teen titans fanfiction month #teen titans fanfiction #raven #red x #raex #robin #jason todd

[shirtlesssammy]

8x07: A Little Slice of Kevin

You’re not misreading this. We’re recapping a Buckleming episode by choice! Is it a hot mess? Yep. But does it also have literal pining!Dean, gothic romance stormy night window visions, boner scenes, roadside confessions, and badass Cas? Yep, yep, yep, yep, yep.

Then:

Where’s the angel? Also, Mrs. Tran is a bit of a badass.

Now:

At a playground (!), a small boy makes a mess with paints so his teacher takes him to the bathroom to clean up. Her eyes flash black for a moment before the two disappear inside (literally). A windstorm suddenly blasts its way through the park revealing the now empty bathroom.

Meanwhile, Dean is cruising around in Baby in a pine forest (while listening to The Animals’ “We Gotta Get Out of This Place”. LOVE.) He sees a dirty, bedraggled Cas walking on the side of the road and slams on the breaks. Backtracking, he sees nothing.

Well, nothing but a literal sign indicating there’s multiple pining situations happening. Dean then gets. out. of. the. car. to stare forlornly at his surroundings.

Later, at the cabin, Sam finds a case --the missing boy/tornado from the cold open. He notices similar happenings all over the world. They guess demons but have no clue how any of it connects.

Crowley is peak evil demon while he tortures poor Samandriel out of names. It also seems that Sam and Dean were right about the missing people. Crowley has collected them all in his dystopian sci-fi factory.

Kevin and Mrs. Tran are on the run, and she has 1000% embraced the mother of a prophet gig. She’s making holy water traps, hex bags, salt barriers, and has even hired a witch to make demon bombs. (Sidenote: This scene is the only time I hear Amy Wong on this show.) They check in with Delta Mendota via Skype. *insert gross Buckleming innuendos* She’s ready to help and is in no way, shape, or form going to backstab these two.

The brothers interview the teacher of the little boy who disappeared.

Later that night, while Sam sleeps and Dean googles “how to save an angel from Purgatory”, lightning flashes and Cas suddenly appears outside the window. He’s gone just as soon as he appears. Dean rushes to the window and stares at the rain in disbelief.

Sam awakens and wonders what Dean is doing. Dean confesses to seeing Cas outside, and earlier on the side of the road.

Dean then starts to replay his time with Cas in purgatory, wondering why Cas didn’t try harder (while beating himself up for the same reason.) Before finding the portal, Cas pulls Dean aside and thanks him, “for everything.”

For Science:

(Like, ouch. It’s little moments like this that make me really feel the profound effect Dean has had on Cas. This human, of all humans over the course of Earth’s existence, made such a lasting change in this angel.) Dean “Save the Hallmark” Winchester refuses to even humor the idea of Cas not making it through the portal.

Crowley is having second thoughts about abducting all these people, who believe they were abducted by aliens.

He tries getting them to read the demon tablet, but they are hopeless.

Meanwhile, Delta arrives at the Tran hideout with the demon bomb materials. *insert more gross Buckleming innuendos*

The next morning, Sam is discovering more missing people, while Dean hangs out in that liminal world between worlds where Cas and him meet so often, the bathroom (Lol, I typed that thinking it was going to be a poetic line, but that just sounds dirty.)

“Hello, Dean.”

Cas appears, for real this time. I’m not sure Dean’s eyes could pop out any further from his head.

Cut to Sam being all chatty and questioning about Cas’s return from Purgatory, while Dean continues to stand and stare in utter disbelief. Cas has been trying to reach out but hasn’t been at full power (Ahem, at this moment I would like to point out that the brothers still have the Enochian warding on their ribs and shouldn’t be detectable by angels. How strange that Cas can still find Dean though.) Cas has no explanation as to how he got out. Dean flashes back to their final moments in purgatory.

I love this exchange:

Benny: Aren't you guys all about faith? Castiel: Not particularly

Benny’s soul gets sucked into Dean’s arm via a spell, and Dean and Cas head for the portal. They find the portal at last, led to it by the delicate dance of a leaf. I love this! It's so pretty.

Leviathan arrive.

In the present time, Dean and Sam discuss the improbability of Cas being back with them, while Cas cleans up in the bathroom.

A story told in two gifs:

I mean, what the actual fuck, show? 

Meanwhile Linda Tran continues to be my favorite, chewing out the witch Delta for trying to change their deal. Suddenly Kevin comes running in. The salt line's been brushed away from the bathroom windowsill! Enter Crowley and a demon lackey, who were let in by Delta. Crowley zaps away with Kevin and orders the other demon to kill Linda. But Linda is ready!

Sam and Dean are busy tracking more demon omens. Sam lists out the names of the missing people and Castiel recites along and then completes it (as he watches TV). Damn it, Cas, stop being adorable. STAHP. 

Turns out, those are names of the prophets and they're written on the subway wall in Castiel's mind. Just like slayers, there's only one active prophet and the rest are potential prophets, who get activated when a prophet dies. There's a brief mention here of Chuck. The idea is set forth that Chuck died, thereby activating Kevin. (Chuck you got some 'splaining to do!) Their prophet talk is interrupted by a call from Linda Tran, asking for help.

In Crowley's latest dank industrial hideout, he swans around the table of prophets and bullies Kevin. If the other potential prophets can't do anything to interpret the tablet, they can at least die for it. Crowley brutally kills one of the women when Kevin refuses to translate the tablet, dousing Kevin with blood.

Elsewhere, Dean, Sam, and Castiel wait on a lonely highway for Linda to show up. With nothing more exciting to do, Dean flashes back to Purgatory again. They're fighting the leviathans and it's sharp and brutal and hard. Just barely, they manage to defeat them. Dean steps into the portal and reaches for Cas. They grasp hands, Dean trying to pull Castiel along with him, but the pull of the portal is too strong. Castiel slips from Dean's grasp as Dean zaps away from Purgatory. Dean jolts back to the present and asks Cas to step out of the car to talk. Dean shouts at Cas that he did all he could to get him out. He didn't leave Cas. HE DIDN'T, DAMN IT! Cas squints at him. “So you think this was...your fault?” (Me: Oh my lord these two are bad at words.)

Their confrontation is interrupted by the arrival of Linda who shows them the demon she has in her trunk. It's demon interrogation time!

Speaking of interrogation, Kevin's tied to a chair in Crowley's weird industrial dungeon. With no answers, Crowley chops off one of Kevin's fingers. After screaming in agony, Kevin agrees to read the tablet. He skims through the table of contents for things such as the “collective tapestry of the soul” and “demonic transport to the regions of hell.” (I love this.)

The Winchester-mobile and Linda drive off to Crowley's mysterious industrial pit. Sam cuffs Linda to the car (SAM) and Dean kills the demon in the trunk. Then they head for the compound.

While Crowley casually blows a pinwheel, Kevin discovers a section about sealing the gates of Hell. NOW Crowley is interested.

Sam, Dean, and Cas infiltrate the plant. Sam heads inside and encounters a ton of demons. He pulls out a jar and chucks it at the ground. It explodes and blasts away the demons. There goes their one demon bomb. Meanwhile, Dean and Cas get waylaid by a solitary demon, who knocks the crap out of Dean with a telekinetic blow. Castiel smites the demon, but staggers immediately afterward. His power is super low.

They find a locked door – behind which is Crowley - and while Dean tries to pick the lock, Cas flaps his way into the room alone. Crowley greets him with, “Which Castiel is it this time? I'm never sure. Madman or megalomanic?” They both pull out angel blades and when Crowley scoffs and questions Castiel's power, Cas goes full on angel. His eyes glow blue and he unfurls his wings. “You're bluffing,” Crowley shouts.

“You wanna take that chance?” Castiel asks (and I pause to fan myself). The tablet breaks in two, and Crowley grabs half of it and zaps away.

The next day, Sam bids farewell to Mrs. Tran and Kevin. He's sending them off to Garth. (Yessss I want to watch that show.)

While Sam and the Trans are off having semi-adult conversations, Dean flips out at Castiel, berating him for heading in alone. “Look, I don't need to feel like hell for failing you, okay? For failing you like I've failed every other godforsaken thing that I care about! I don't need it!” OUCH. There are no underlying issues here AT ALL.

Castiel tells him that it wasn't Dean's fault that Cas got left behind. Cas intended to stay behind in Purgatory to do penance. He tells Dean to reexamine the memory. Instead of Cas desperately trying to hang on, Cas actually pushed Dean away and told him to leave. He didn't want to be saved. “I didn't deserve to be out. And I saw that clearly when I was there. I planned to stay all along. I just didn't know how to tell you. You can't save everyone, my friend. Though you try.” GUH CAS

Sam interrupts because, of course. And then suddenly the world disappears and Cas finds himself in a white room. “Hello, Castiel,” a woman in a neat gray suit says. She tells him that he's in Heaven and asks him about Sam and Dean. Castiel immediately spills all the beans EVERYWHERE like a firehose of bean soup.

“Why am I telling you any of this?” he grits out. The woman in the suit is the angel Naomi and she orders Castiel to report on the Winchesters' comings and goings. The angels saved him from Purgatory and reprogrammed him for this one purpose. Castiel refuses, but is powerless to resist her as she zaps him back to the conversation with Sam and Dean. He looks confused, but doesn't remember a thing. Not long afterwards Cas walks off, looking unsettled, leaving a very perturbed Dean behind.

Boris: This post by @elizabethrobertajones makes me very happy.

Quotus Interruptus:

I hired a witch off of Craigslist

You know the rules. Casual encounters. That means no questions asked.

Are we on a spaceship?

I lie, I don't get lied to.

You can't save everyone, my friend. Though you try.

I was going to say that you look like you’ve seen a ghost, but you’d probably be stoked.

This hurts you more than it hurts me, so I can go on forever.

Thank you, for everything.

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 8x07 #a little slice of kevin #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #crowley #kevin train #linda tran #delta mendota #samandriel #supernatural season 8

[sage-nebula]

((DO NOT reblog this post, or I will just delete the post (rendering your reblog meaningless) and block you, thank you.))

So, about a month ago, I was prescribed and started taking Lexapro for my anxiety disorder / chronic severe depression.

I’ve made a few posts on this here or there, particularly because the thing that drove me to seek medical assistance was because I was in a really, really bad place. I’m good at hiding it; I spent two weeks in a constant panic state where my heart was palpitating and I could hardly breathe because of it, and I’m sure that no one at work could tell because I’m really good at keeping a chill facade. But being able to hide what I’m feeling doesn’t change the fact that I am feeling it, and the panic state was pretty much unbearable. My severe depression has made it so that I typically always lowkey want to die, but my suicidal ideation tends to be passive. I think “I want to die” but I have no intention of acting on it. But during the weeks that I was in that panic state---a panic state which didn’t even make sense to me, because consciously I wasn’t worrying about anything, it was just my body having a never-ending panic attack from the time I woke up to the time I went to sleep---started pushing that passive ideation to active. I live close enough to a train that I can hear the trains when they pass by, and I started having very strong daydreams of throwing myself in front of one because getting hit by a train would have to be better than living in a constant state of panic. That, and the sense of hopelessness and despair when I thought that the panic might never end, was what drove me to seek medication even though I’ve always been afraid of antidepressants. (Due in part to a sort of imposter syndrome, where I wondered whether I really did have a chemical imbalance, or if I was somehow just making it up.)

Well, I started taking the Lexapro, and as I mentioned in a few posts, the side-effects were not fun. At all. Actually they were pretty goddamn terrible, and I won’t get into all the gruesome details here, but let’s just say that for the first week and a half, my body seemed pretty intent on rejecting the Lexapro, or at least making me quit taking it. But I didn’t quit taking it. I haven’t missed a single dose. And I can tell you right now that I’ve noticed a difference beyond the brain fog of the first day. (Basically---and I laugh about this now---the first day I took the Lexapro I had a surprise work meeting wherein we learned how to use new admin privileges we’d been given. I didn’t know about this meeting until about two minutes after I had taken the Lexapro for the first time, which I did at work in case it gave me a seizure. So I sat through that meeting completely spaced out, learning absolutely nothing, struggling to set up my account. I know how to do the things now because in all honesty it’s not hard to figure out once you get logged into the admin portal, but jfc. It would be my luck that the day we have those permissions handed over to us is the day I tried taking my anti-anxiety/antidepressant for the first time.)

First of all, it really does work at subduing the panic state. Even when the side effects were kicking my ass up and down, my heart wasn’t palpitating and I wasn’t hyperventilating. Even that very first day, despite my doctor saying the Lexapro wouldn’t take effect for about two weeks, I noticed my heart rate slow and everything calm down. It was incredible. It made me eager to get to the next day so I could take the next dose. (Don’t worry, I’m not overdosing; I’m taking one pill at the same time each day as instructed.) I haven’t missed a dose because I don’t want to miss a dose. When I wake up each day, I can feel my heart doing light palpitations, as if it’s just waiting for me to forget so that the panic state can start again. I haven’t missed a dose because I want to keep that at bay. It’s not perfect; I can still feel those palpitations rise up sometimes, and even just a few minutes ago I was feeling it for whatever godforsaken reason. (I actually think I need a stronger dose and wish my doctor had prescribed me one, but since my anxiety and depression scores are better than they were last time, and since I’m pretty small in size, he said he wants to keep me on the low dose for now and we’ll see how I’m doing next month. I get it, but still.) But it’s far less than it was. I’m not in a constant state of high panic. The lowgrade anxiety is still lurking on the edges, but even when I feel it flare, I can get it to die down quickly enough. Hell, last week (or the week before?) I saw an ant in my kitchen, and you know what? I didn’t have a panic attack! I quickly swatted at and smashed the ant, but I didn’t have a panic attack. That’s huge for me. Similarly, last night I thought Morgan had found a dead roach (she didn’t---it was a silverfish), and again, I didn’t have a panic attack. I wasn’t thrilled to see either the ant or what I thought was a roach, but I didn’t have a panic attack. And that’s really big for me, because typically those two insects will send me into panic attacks due to childhood traumas related to them, but that didn’t happen this time. I was able to just handle it, like an adult. It was incredible.

And it’s not just with the anxiety. I think that the Lexapro is helping with the depression, too. Not so much with my low energy (that still needs a lot of work), but like . . . it’s easier for me to employ CBT now, to bat back intrusive thoughts. My suicidal ideation isn’t as frequent. And it’s like . . . over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about things. I mentioned this in another post, but to go into more detail, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I regard myself, and how I treat myself. For years now, I’ve had such a hard time seeing any good in myself. I’ve had a hard time appreciating myself, or thinking that I deserve good things. I’ve been immensely quick to tear myself down, and when I’m complimented, I’ve found it difficult to accept or believe. My intrusive thoughts are often in second-person, and it’s things like, “You should just kill yourself,” or, “you’re worthless,” or variations thereof. And I’ve been thinking lately . . . why? Why is it that my brain tells me that I don’t deserve good things? That I should feel ashamed for doing nice things for myself, or even basic, necessary things like eating? I’m not a bad person. I’m not. I might not be the best person in the world (who is?), but I’m not a bad person. I don’t hurt others, and I don’t condone other people hurting others. I try to be kind, and I’m compassionate. I’m smart, and resourceful. I help others when I can, and I’m supportive and loving toward those I care about especially. I might not be the best person in the universe, but I’m also not bad, and there are so many terrible people out there (people who do hurt others) who are nice to themselves and happy with themselves, so why shouldn’t I be? Why should I be here tearing myself down, hating myself, punishing myself when there are truly hateful people out there who like themselves and treat themselves kindly? Why should I sit here feeling like I’m the scum of the Earth when, even if I’m not perfect, I’m a far cry from some of the worst out there, and the worst out there do love themselves?

Maybe that’s not the best way of looking at things, but my basic point is that I’ve realized that all those thoughts I have about how I’m horrible, undeserving of even basic kindness from myself or others, a waste of space, stupid, worthless, completely unlovable---even if I’m not a wonderful person, on a basic level, I’m nowhere near as bad as my intrusive thoughts make me out to be. And those intrusive thoughts aren’t doing anyone any good. They’re not doing me any good, because they just make me feel bad about myself. They’re not doing anyone else any good, because me feeling bad about myself doesn’t contribute anything to society either, and it also means I’m less likely to be present for opportunities where I could make a difference, maybe. I shouldn’t be burdened by this. I deserve to like myself, I deserve to have some confidence. And that’s not arrogance, that’s not vanity, that’s just basic self-care. (And yeah, I’m kind of lowkey quoting the Fab 5 here, but let me live, they teach good lessons.) I’m not perfect, but I don’t have to be. I can still appreciate that I’m not a bad person even if I’m not perfect, and I can always try to do better.

I don’t know if it’s the Lexapro that has enabled me to think about these things, or what. I do know that the intrusive thoughts have been a bit less lately, and also that I’ve been able to more easily combat the intrusive thoughts back. (Like when I have the intrusive suicide thoughts, I can say “no,” and when I have the intrusive thoughts about how I’m undeserving of kindness, I can bat that back, too.) It’s not perfect, just like with the anxiety. It’s still there, and even over the past couple weeks I’ve had some real depressed moments / nights. (The fact that I’m so addicted to Hollow Knight at the moment is part of this; I always crave video games when I’m depressed, because they’re genuinely good for my mental health.) Maybe I do need a stronger dose, or maybe it’ll just take a little more time to sink in as my doctor has said. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’ve noticed a difference over the past couple weeks, and an improvement, and I want to keep getting better. And you know what?

I’m kind of mad at myself for being scared of medication for so long. I’m kind of mad at myself for not doing this sooner, for having to get to such a state where I could not calm my body down until I finally went and got it. I could have been improving YEARS ago. But the important thing is that I’ve got it now, and you know what? They always talk about how SSRIs can be addictive and you should wean of, but I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t know if my brain chemistry will ever be “right.” I might need this medicine forever, and I’m fine with that. You don’t say a diabetic is addicted to insulin, do you? So why would you say that about someone who needs some medication to make their brain not try to kill them each day? If I have to take a pill every day for the rest of my life, I’m cool with that. If it helps me with the anxiety and depression, I’m more than cool with that. Because for the first time in a long time I feel like I’m getting some of my fire back. It’s not perfect yet, I’m not at a full 100% yet, but I feel like I’m starting to get there, and I want to get there, I want that back. And if this medicine gets me there, I’m all for it.

So yeah. I’m not a terrible person. I am deserving of basic kindness. I deserve to get this flame re-lit, and I think the Lexapro is actually helping me with that. And if it is a result of the Lexapro, then I’m excited for it to keep helping me.

Also?

JAPAN IN ONE MONTH WOOOOOOOOOOO

(a reminder: DO NOT reblog this or I will delete it and block you, thanks)

#apologies to mobile users for the length lol #but yeah i'm starting to feel like ME again #the anxiety (paranoia at times tbh) did an incredible job putting out my fire #crushing my spirit and ruining me #and the depression helped the anxiety do this #but i feel like i'm finally rekindling that fire #after YEARS of it being out #i had a moment at the grocery store today that felt like classic ME #it was such a small thing but it felt like a power move and i could almost cry now thinking about it #idk if it's because of the medicine but if it is i'm grateful for it #i'm so beyond tired of being paralyzed by fear. i'm so beyond tired of hating myself #i want to change that #the road to recovery is not a straight line and so i expect i might relapse sometimes but #i want to keep pushing forward. i want to get better and i want myself back #and for the first time in years i've got real hope that i can do that

[gukyi]

tutor | knj

⇒ summary: competition has always been a thing at hogwarts, but not even the house ghosts could be prepared for the volcanic explosion otherwise known as the culmination of the rivalry between you and fellow top student kim namjoon.

⇒ {hogwarts!au, enemies to lovers!au (what a shocker!)}

⇒ pairing: namjoon x female reader

⇒ word count: 11k

⇒ genre: fluff and like a very very little bit of angst? actually i don’t even think it counts. just fluff.

⇒ warnings: n/a

⇒ a/n: she’s back! it’s been actual months since i last posted part of my sorted series, rip. unsurprisingly, this is an enemies to lovers au. bc i can never stop writing them. i’m sorry that i’m not sorry. i actually have another e2l jimin au in mind. great. this is just a little twist on the typical tutor au! hope u enjoy!!

Present

Third year you would never even think about fighting Kim Namjoon. Small, lanky Kim Namjoon whose glasses are too big for his face and whose words stumble over each other.

Seventh year you can’t think about doing anything else. He makes you want to chuck a big, heavy textbook at him, one from the Restricted section that’ll bite his head right off after it hits him.

Maybe then you’ll finally get some relief from his obnoxious, egotistical, infuriating presence. But for now, you’re stuck with him, stuck in this endless fucking cycle of taunting and teasing and gloating, back and forth and back and forth, because neither of you can do anything that can risk the two of you getting expelled. Gotta love being top students with their whole potentials in front of them.

“Hey, Y/N,” his snarky voice catches your attention as he spots you working diligently in the Great Hall after school hours. You know it’s him without even looking up from your textbook, can hear the thundering footsteps of him and whatever members of his gregarious possy, but you refuse to give him the time of day like this. Namjoon always has a fantastic way of interrupting your lifestyle at the exact moment when you could do with zero distractions. “How’d you do on that essay for Binns?”

Keeping your head down, you continue to furiously scribble your notes, avoiding him at all costs, not wanting to let him have what he wants: your response. Namjoon wouldn’t be asking you about your most recent History of Magic essay unless he knew something you didn’t, had some sort of leverage on you that he gets to dangle above your head.

“Shove off, Kim,” you grumble, turning your head in the opposite direction as you feel him looming over you, leaning down by your side to boast in your face.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he coaxes. “Won’t kill you just to say it.”

“A 97, alright, asshole? Satisfied?” You spit out, sick of Namjoon’s shit and his better grades and charming life. The Binns essay hadn’t been your best work, you’re aware of that much, especially considering you had written it while running on minimal sleep and the ever-persistent pressures of future aspirations. You know. The usual. No need for Namjoon to brag about his probable 100 in your face. You know you can do better. You have.

“Very,” Namjoon grins, shooting you his precious face with his precious dimples. God, how you wish you could smack them right off of his face and watch them fall to the floor, useless. “Especially after getting a 103 on mine.”

Namjoon even whips out the scroll to show you, as if you need further proof that he got a higher grade, bright red 103 and a smiley face right next to it at the top of his essay, staring back at you like a reflection in a broken mirror. You didn’t even know Binns gave extra credit, the fuck? You want in on some of that. You’re second in that class only to Namjoon.

“How on Earth did you manage to trick your way into Binns giving you extra credit?” You ask, appalled and personally insulted. “You don’t deserve those extra three points any more than I do.”

“Hey, maybe if you had gotten those three points instead of me, you’d actually have a chance at beating me in that class,” Namjoon singsongs, taunting you with no qualms. He never seems to have any of those whenever he’s around you. It’s a poor characteristic to have, quite frankly. He should work on that.

“Bask in that perfect score in History of Magic, Namjoon, a class that has so much relevance to current events,” you sneer back, not permitting yourself to lose to him, cave in. Even if survival meant giving up your last shred of dignity on this godforsaken Earth to him, you’d choose to die. “Really. It’s outstanding. My 100 in Transfiguration is shaking in its boots.”

“Never said this was a competition, Miss Y/N. No need to be bitter about our scores,” Namjoon says patronizingly, patting your shoulder like he’s fucking reassuring you of your self-worth after finding out that you got a slightly lower score than him on an essay. What a tool. “See you in Potions, hey? Don’t wait up.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” you respond, heaving a sigh as you roll your eyes, turning back to your work as Namjoon and his crew’s boisterous laughter echoes throughout the Great Hall as they leave to go play practical jokes on the ghosts or make a mess in the fairgrounds or chuck Quidditch balls at each other, or something like that.

But still, even as you finish up your note-taking for the chapter and move on to another assignment from your Astronomy professor, that bright red 103 flashes in your mind, brain stuck on it because god damnit, can’t Namjoon just give you one fucking break? Does he want a fucking prize for getting a better grade than you on a single essay throughout your entire Hogwarts career?

Scratch that. He’s already got his reward, and it’s your misery.

Life goes on, but time ticks by ever so slowly as you count down the days until graduation—until you never have to see Kim Namjoon’s face in your life ever again—that even a Time Turner would move too quickly.

Fourth Year

When McGonagall hands back your tests from the day prior and you see a shining 100% at the top of your paper, you smile. Your eager eyes scan the papers of your classmates, quickly glancing down at the red ink scrawled at the top of your page, and find that you’re the only perfect score within your view.

If this had happened during first year, you’d shrug it off, call it a fluke and just assume that you knew this single topic better than the rest of your peers, you suppose, but it’s not. You’re in your fourth year already, over three years worth of Transfiguration classes under your belt, and any student in your class would be an idiot not to realize your untapped potential in the subject. School has always come easy to you but Transfiguration in and of itself is like second nature. Like a key in a padlock, it clicks.

Humble as ever, you treat your 100% casually, like it’s no big deal, because it’s not. Not when you’ve been getting 100’s in the class ever since September 2nd of your first year with minimal battle. Another day, another test, another one hundred.

“Y/N,” your friend says as she nudges your arm, resting on the desk. You snap out of your distant haze and turn to her, eyebrow raised. “Can you explain number three to me? I don’t understand it.”

“Sure,” you say, happy to help. One thing that comes along with perfect grades (whether you like it or not) is people constantly asking you for explanations, answers, definitions, seeking the right from someone who’s never wrong. Not that you’re complaining. You love to help people. “What’s up?”

“I don’t understand the theory behind the cross-species switches,” your friend continues, scratching her head and furrowing her brows as she shows you her assessment, a big red X marking number three. “Like, I understand that the spells have to be adapted, but I don’t understand how to do that.”

You glance down at her paper before quickly letting your eyes scan over your own, comparing answers as you figure out how to explain the necessity of adaptation in cross-species switches to her without sounding like a pretentious asshole. “Well, you have to consider the scenario.”

Your friend looks at you like you’ve just grown four heads.

“Um, say… say you’re trying to give a mouse cat-like qualities,” you begin, going back to one of the example scenarios that McGonagall gave you a week or so ago. “You have to adapt the spell so you don’t screw up any of the mouse’s internal organs and kill it in the process. Or even leave it stuck in the weird in-between of mouse and mouse-cat. So how are you supposed to cater to the mouse?”

“You lower the spell’s impact since the mouse is smaller than the cat?” Your friend asks, wincing and unsure.

You snap your fingers, letting them morph quickly into some finger guns as you smile. “You got it.”

“Oh,” your friend realizes, that sweet, sweet look of recognition finally washing over her face. “Oh, I get it now. Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem,” you say happily, shrugging your shoulders. “I’m always happy to help you.”

Your friend beams in response, pleased that she’s got such a loyal pal like you to always assist with tests and quizzes and homework questions whenever needed.

It’s right then that McGonagall clears her throat to grab everyone’s utmost attention, standing up behind her desk to address the class. You turn back to face her, letting your eyes scan over all of the trinkets on her desk. You swear you see a Time Turner shining in a little box as it catches the light of the sun, but maybe that’s just your imagination. Time Turners are awfully difficult to get ahold of, these days.

“I trust that all of you had enough time to review your answers on the test and assess your mistakes,” she says sternly. Ah, your favorite no-nonsense teacher. “Some of you need not worry about this section on the theory,” she says, and your cheeks heat up when she narrows her eyes at you through her rounded glasses, curling in on yourself as other people turn to look at you, unsurprised. “And some of you need to start reviewing more and paying attention to the lessons in class. Your overall class average for this assessment was abysmal. I highly recommend seeking out extra help, either from myself or from your peers, some of which could teach you this subject very well. Most of you could use the assistance.”

The bell rings.

“Class dismissed. Miss Y/L/N, come here for a moment?”

Your friend shrugs helplessly as she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, sending you a sorry smile as you approach McGonagall’s desk with caution, unsure of what she wants from you. You haven’t done anything wrong, as far as you’re aware, and you know for a fact that she isn’t concerned about whether or not you’re grasping the curriculum, so what gives?

“Professor?” You ask, turning back to see the class empty.

“You did remarkably well on this test,” she compliments, lips curling upwards into a smile. “My only perfect score.”

Your cheeks heat up again and you can feel your ears getting clammy. Even if you’re used to doing well in her class, it’s always an honor to hear her directly praising you. Really helps with the constant desire for validation as a student.

“Thank you, Professor,” you say, tipping your head slightly.

“I do hope that you’ll consider becoming a tutor for your peers,” she says as she shuffles through her papers. “I believe you’d be a fantastic help to some of the students who are struggling in this course. I saw you help your friend. You teach very well.”

You stumble over your words. “Oh, um, that was just—”

“Consider being a tutor, Y/N. Not just for this subject, but for all of them. You are an incredibly gifted individual and your help is probably much-needed around here. I could help you arrange a schedule of sorts, if you’d like. Perhaps talk to Madam Pince?”

“I don’t know, Professor, I don’t think I’m very qualified to teach other students, I mean—” You say, wracking your brain for something to say. Tutoring at Hogwarts is a big deal, honestly, especially because the courses are so vigorous and require more than just a simple explanation to comprehend. You don’t think you have the credentials to be something of an assistant to your professors.

“You are more than qualified, Miss Y/L/N. I’m willing to give you a bit of extra credit as well, for your work outside of class,” McGonagall says, and damn, she’s good. Extra credit will always get you on board. Even if you don’t need the extra points (not with your perfect grade in her class), it’s always nice to have that backup just in case you majorly screw up a test or essay or presentation. Plus, boasting about your over-100 grades every now and then to people who bother you is kind of nice. Just a little.

“When would I do it?” You ask, suddenly more intrigued in the topic.

McGonagall beams to herself, happy to see that she’s managed to bribe you into doing this, and whips out a spare scroll, scribbling down schedules and suggestions.

When she’s finished, you’re twenty minutes late to your next class (Arithmancy, so it’s not like you’re missing anything important) and have a pretty substantial list of students and faculty to speak to, as well as a thoroughly organized schedule for the next month, at least.

Your first tutoring session begins tomorrow, right after your last class at 3PM sharp in the library.

Extra credit has never tasted so sweet.

The library is always busy the second classes let out. Nobody really wants to go back to their common rooms just yet, wanting the milk the time before curfew as much as possible away from their dorms. People scramble to grab a seat at the limited amount of desks among the bookcases before some other upperclassman hexes it to claim it as theirs for the night, but you’re in no rush. Pince knows that you’re coming.

You push open the door to the library with your shoulder, scanning for the first student you’ll be tutoring, a boy from your own Transfiguration class who apparently did poorly on the most recent test. As you do, you quickly glance at the bulletin board on the wall, glowing flyers screaming at you to sign up for the latest club, try out for the Quidditch team (even though first years never make the house team), audition for the frog choir. There’s one that has no slips of paper left to tear off, but you don’t have time to inspect it any further, wonder what on Earth could be going on at this school that so many people would be desperate to sign up for, before you have to begin the session.

The boy is loitering around by the checkout desk, books clutched tightly to his chest as you catch his eye. You reach your arm out and wave, signaling to him that you’re here.

“I, um,” you begin. “This is the first time I’ve done this, so I’m really sorry if this is kind of rough.”

The kid shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m desperate at this point. McGonagall will have my head if I fail the next test.”

You chuckle awkwardly, unable to relate but able to sympathize. “Then we should get started soon, right?”

You and the boy start to weave your way through the bookshelves, skirting through small groups of students gathering in the library to quietly gossip and books marching around by themselves, ordered to go back to their designated spot.

“McGonagall helped me set this up, actually,” you say in order to fill in the silence. “She had arranged with other teachers to coordinate and talked to Madam Pince about me formally doing this in the library, and—”

Your shoes squeak against the hardwood floor as you come to a stop in the table that McGonagall had specifically reserved for you for your tutoring, making all of the students around you wince as they turn towards the source of the noise. There’s a boy you vaguely recognize already camped out at your table, and what makes matters impossibly worse is that it looks like he’s tutoring someone too.

“Can I help you?” the boy asks as he looks up at your flabbergasted expression, a single eyebrow raised in annoyance.

“Um,” you start, unsure of how you’re supposed to deal with the situation at hand. Before you can stop yourself, you belt out a “Who are you?”

“Kim Namjoon,” the boy replies, frowning as he peers over his glasses to inspect you. He doesn’t seem very impressed, which in turn has you puffing out your chest slightly and straightening your posture. “Fourth year.”

“Well, Kim Namjoon, I—”

“Who are you?” Namjoon asks, interrupting you.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you respond, as confidently as you can muster.

“Is there a reason you’re hovering over my tutoring session, Y/N Y/L/N? If you need help with your schoolwork, you’re going to have to arrange something with me,” Namjoon says ever so rudely, making you furrow your brows in distaste.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m quite busy these days, so if you need me to tutor you in anything, you’ll have to schedule it beforehand. My apologies,” Namjoon says, clearly hoping to end the conversation and get back to whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing in your designated spot.

“I don’t need your help in anything,” you inform him matter-of-factly. “Though I do believe that you’re tutoring in my spot.”

“Your spot?” Namjoon asks, standing up with his palms pressed onto the table, doubtful look on his face. “What makes you think this table belongs to you? I don’t see your name on it.”

You’re speechless, mouth working desperately to say something in response, put whoever this kid thinks he is in his place. “Professor McGonagall had arranged that I tutor students here.”

“Sorry, Y/L/N, but you’ll have to find another spot,” Namjoon says, shrugging helplessly despite your wordless protests. “Maybe some other time.”

You can do nothing except turn to the boy standing behind you, whose eyes are wide in confusion, and smile apologetically. You glare Kim Namjoon’s way, bitter and petty and everything else a Ravenclaw should always be, and begin to search for a new place to tutor.

Kim Namjoon is someone you barely remember, left with only hazy memories of him at the sorting ceremony and perhaps in one or two of your classes during your time at Hogwarts. He’s a quiet kid, easy to overlook and disregard, because he never speaks, never raises his hand, never even looks up at people. You don’t know much about him, but you had always assumed him another harmless student who’s just letting their time at Hogwarts pass before they move onto bigger and better things.

Apparently, you were wrong.

Because now, quiet, geeky, timid Kim Namjoon has some sort of superiority complex ingrained in his mind, and it’s more than clear to you that you’ve got some competition, a sensation you’ve never had the luxury of experiencing before.

You and the boy end up camping out on the floor of the library by one of the windows, unable to find an empty table for you to do your work on. It’s out of view of whoever Kim Namjoon is and whatever he’s doing, but the only image that seems to stick in your mind as you teach this kid the theory behind cross-species switches and help him with his textbook reading is that of Namjoon’s unimpressed, judgemental face as he stares you down with his hands pressing down on your table, taking up your precious time with this stupid tutoring nonsense of his.

McGonagall never mentioned anything about another student. Especially one that’s already developed an obvious dislike for you. Not that it’s not reciprocated, or anything. Because it is.

Because this means war.

Present

As you enter the library, you quickly hex the poster on the bulletin board advertising Namjoon’s nonsense tutoring business and changing it to a picture of a couple of bright orange Kneazles, his least favorite animal. Just for good measure. You always knew Transfiguration would come in handy.

This isn’t the first time you’ve definitely tried to sabotage Namjoon’s tutoring… thing. It’s only one aspect of this ridiculously overgrown rivalry that’s settled in between the two of you. Neither of you happen to be Slytherins, but you have no problems spreading rumors and ruining each other’s posters in order to beat each other out. You don’t know how many times you’ve had to restore your posters and flyers to their original glory after seeing Namjoon deface all of them. All’s fair in love and war, except there’s no love here. It’s just war.

“Hey,” you say as you greet your tutoree of the day, a friend of a friend of yours who’s been lacking in Potions recently. She’s one of your most loyal students, not to mention the fact that the two of you both seem to share quite the dislike for a certain Kim Namjoon, making your sessions half-education parties and half-gossip fests. “Ready?”

She nods happily, and the two of you scramble to grab the last empty table before Namjoon can snatch it for himself with taunting grin on his face as he forces you elsewhere. It’s open, thank God, and you quickly take your seats so you can get down to business.

“What work do you have?” You ask, pulling out your Potions textbook and a quill.

“Uh, just some chemical problems. I have a really big Potions project that’s due next Friday, though, so I’d like to work on that, too,” she responds.

“Which you haven’t started yet, right?” You ask, an eyebrow raised.

She blushes. “You know me too well, Y/N.”

“Only because we’ve been friends for two years, already,” you shrug, taking a quick glance at her homework so you can open your textbook to some example problems that match up with the lesson.

“Listen,” she says in a much softer voice, leaning over the table to whisper in your ear. “My friend just had this awful experience with Namjoon.”

You can’t say you’re particularly surprised. You could probably count on one hand the amount of experiences that you’ve had with Namjoon that have even been somewhat bearable. “What happened?”

“You know how my friend writes in her journal, right? She’s the only kid in our year that still does.”

The girl in question rings a bell in your brain. She never lets anybody look into her journal, for obvious reasons.

“Yeah, she and that Min Yoongi kid both do,” you say, thinking of that quiet Slytherin boy you sometimes see hanging out with Namjoon and the rest of his boisterous gaggle. Every time you see them together, you wonder what on Earth could have led the universe to make them friends, because Min Yoongi seems so nice and reserved and Namjoon… well.

“Well, the other day—” the girl says as you begin to copy down the first homework problem, the answer already clear in your mind. Mental math is your best friend. That, and McGonagall. “—she spilled tea or something all over her journal and she had to lay it out on a bunch of copies of the Daily Prophet to let it dry. And then Kim just waltzes over and reads the damn thing.”

The story has you rolling your eyes in disappointment. It’s not even shocking that Namjoon has no concept of personal space nor personal belongings. After all, he’s spent the past three years vandalizing your property and breathing down your neck. But still, snooping in someone else’s private journal is rude, uncouth, and generally frowned upon. Not that Namjoon is any good at not being any of those things.

“I wish I could tell you that I’m surprised,” you say, shaking your head. “He’s always been like that.”

“Always been like what?”

You almost don’t even want to turn around to face the source of the voice, already knowing damn well who it is and why he’s there. You should have been trash talking him louder.

“We’re a little busy here, Kim,” your friend says, clearly not any happier than you in his presence.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Namjoon responds, catching a glimpse of the blank parchment in front of you, only the first problem written down, not even solved. “Should have signed up for my tutoring program, Mina. I would have had your homework done by now.”

“Because you do their work for them and they don’t learn anything,” you spit as you barge into the conversation. “You wanna know what you’ve always been like, Kim?” You ask, standing up to challenge him. Namjoon’s taller than you, always has been and always will be, but that doesn’t mean he’s any more intimidating.

“Hmm,” Namjoon says, looking up to ponder the question at hand. “Charming? Bright? Smarter than you?”

“An asshole,” you bite.

“That wasn’t anywhere near my top ten, Y/N. Your guessing game is really weak. Like you,” Namjoon comments, lips downturned.

Your hands are already curled into balls before the words leave his mouth. “You wanna see weak, Kim?” You ask, fists raised and your right hand shooting towards his chest.

Namjoon grabs it without a second thought, holding you dead in place with his hand wrapped around your knuckles, pale in anger, and he shakes his head disapprovingly. “Weak,” he whispers, staring you straight in the face. You’re shaking with fury and rage, refusing to bow down to his unforgiving gaze as you look right back into his brown eyes, twinkling with victory.

Mina places gentle hands on your upper arms, calming you down slightly as you take deep breaths, refusing to stoop any lower than you already have. By this point, any fucking dignity you have left is gone and it doesn’t even matter, because you’re a lot of things, but being ashamed of hating Namjoon isn’t one of them.

“Hope you finish your homework soon, Mina, or I might have to ask Snape tomorrow if he can double the workload, just because I don’t think that some of the kids in our class are truly grasping the lesson,” Namjoon bids the two of you goodbye, voice sickeningly sweet as he turns on his heel to leave the library. On the way out, you catch him Transfigure his poster back to its original state as the door closes behind him.

“Fucking Kim,” you mutter, body still on fire from the exchange. “I wish I could punch that fucker in the face.”

“The day we graduate, I know you will,” Mina assures you, rubbing your back as she turns her focus to the textbook problems in front of her.

You wonder what celestial body in the mass known as the universe decided to make KIm Namjoon the bane of your existence, this constant presence that you can’t get rid of, like a gnat buzzing around your head on a hot summer day. Namjoon’s no better than a damn horsefly, only every waking moment of yours is spent thinking about him, every day is a new challenge to beat him in.

There’s never a second when Kim Namjoon isn’t on your mind, and perhaps that’s the worst part of it all.

Because no matter how hard you try to get him to leave, he’ll always come back.

Fourth Year

You get over the table fiasco the day after it happens. Even though you definitely were taken aback by Kim Namjoon’s impudent behavior, you suppose it’s something you can look past if the two of you can just come to some sort of agreement and get on with your lives. No need to hold this massive grudge over a misunderstanding.

After asking around, you hear a few things about Kim Namjoon. You hear he’s good friends with that one boy who’s already in his sixth year, the good-looking one that’s most definitely going to be head boy next year. You hear that he’s also friends with some kids in the year below you, a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin, one of whom is a beast at Quidditch. He’s buddies with the Herbology whiz in your grade, the one that bounces around like there’s this constant flow of sunshine running through his veins. He even knows one of the first years, a kid you’ve never heard of but everyone else has.

Kim Namjoon is apparently friends with everybody in the school, you gather as you keep hearing things about him. Nobody knew who he was last year, but this year, everybody does, and you wonder what’s changed. What turned him from wallflower to center stage?

The problem with looking past the table incident, is that you don’t expect it to happen again. Too lazy to talk with McGonagall about arranging something different, you let it go and assume that Namjoon won’t be there the next day, and that you can tutor in peace. As suspicious as the boy is, you give him the benefit of the doubt and just hope that he won’t bother you again.

But you’re wrong.

Because the second you walk into the library you notice a flyer advertising his tutoring skills tacked right on top of yours, blocking every word on your poster from view. And with a quick turn of your head, you spot him settling down at the table. Your table. He’s smiling to himself as he chats casually with the girl across from him, who’s tugging her textbook from her bag.

The girl you’re supposed to meet up with isn’t here yet, which gives you plenty of time to either: think this whole thing through and act calm and composed as you politely ask Namjoon for the table, or storm up to him and tell him that you have every right under the sun to use this table, especially after yesterday. And, as good of a student as you are, your communication skills have always been a bit lacking.

“I’m pretty sure I get to use this table today,” you say, not really caring about what conversation you’re interrupting as you march up to Namjoon, scowl on your face.

“Ugh, it’s you again,” Namjoon says, frowning as he turns to look up at you, and honestly, how on Earth did this boy manage to befriend half of the student body? “Excuse me, for just one moment,” he says as he looks at the girl in front of him apologetically. “Can I help you with something, Y/N?”

“Could you go find somewhere else to tutor? Anywhere else?” You ask, eyes wide. “Because you were here yesterday, and I need this table to tutor my own students.”

“What, angry that you didn’t get here early enough?” Namjoon asks, pouting as he looks at you, patronizing and enraging. “That’s not my fault.”

“Can we work out some kind of schedule, or something? I don’t understand what’s so difficult about us compromising,” you say, rolling your eyes, already tired of this conversation.

“I thought you were supposed to be intelligent, Y/N,” Namjoon tsks, shaking his head. “But it’s clear that you can’t see why, so I guess I’ll have to spell it out for you.”

Your mouth drops open.

“You’re competition, Y/N,” Namjoon says, leaning over with his face barely an inch away from yours. Your eyes are stark wide as they stare into his, face frozen without a word on your tongue, nothing to get out in response. “And I don’t take kindly to competition, so you better step up your game if you want any shot at beating me.”

“I don’t want to play this game of yours,” you insist, but Namjoon just shrugs helplessly, sitting back down and turning his attention to the girl in front of him. You heave out a breath, appalled, offended, and seeking revenge. Maybe you told Namjoon that competition isn’t for you, but when you’re up against a grade A asshole and your entire reputation is at stake, well… let the games begin.

You see the girl you’re supposed to tutor as you march out of the library, footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor as you figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do next, because you can’t bear another floor session and Namjoon’s taunting. With a final turn back to the table that’s apparently no longer yours, glaring down Namjoon’s back with a scowl scrawled all over your face, you meet up with the girl and force out a smile.

“This place is too crowded,” you fib. “Let’s go to the Great Hall, instead. There’s more space there.”

Kim Namjoon deems you not only competition inside the library, but also outside of it, after a double Charms class between the fourth-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. You didn’t even realize how many classes you actually shared with him until he became an unwelcome presence in your life, but now that you do, it seems that he’s always hot on your tail.

Charms is another one of those subjects that you could probably safely call “a walk in the park”, mostly because nothing in that class is ever difficult or particularly mind-boggling. You are positive that you’ve definitely fallen asleep in the class before, and you still have a perfect grade so hey, what does it matter?

It matters when the entire class is dedicated to perfecting the Summoning Charm, a spell you mastered the second time you ever uttered the words, and right out from under you, your quill is snatched away from you as you’re finishing up your Arithmancy homework for the next two days. It’s tugged right from your hand, and you barely have time to react to its rapid disappearance before you hear a familiar laugh.

From across the classroom, Kim Namjoon is sitting, grinning wildly with a devious smirk on his face, your quill dangling from his fingers. You know you can’t go up and get the damn thing and disrupt the whole class, but luckily for you, you know another way to get your quill back.

“Accio,” you cast with your wand pointed directly at the quill in question, lips curling up into a smile as you watch it break free from Namjoon’s grasp and fly right back to you.

The best part about this? Flitwick sees.

“Did you catch that, class?” He chirps happily as he beams up at you from the stack of books he stands on. “Miss Y/L/N did it! Wonderful job, Miss Y/L/N! Five points to Ravenclaw for your perfect pronunciation and strong wand movement. Did you see it? The quill flew right to her! That’s how the Summoning Charm should be performed.”

You feel your cheeks heating up as everyone turns to stare at you, some in pride and some in envy, but the innocent smile on your face soon morphs into that of sweet, sweet victory as you turn to meet Namjoon’s eyes. He’s got a smirk on his face, almost as if to say, “Smart move” as he nods slowly to himself.

Before you know it, your quill is back in his hands as he grins proudly, twirling it between his thumb and pointer fingers.

“Mr. Kim! You too!” Flitwick declares cheerfully. “Excellent form, excellent, excellent. Five points to Gryffindor for your fantastic job, as well. Students! Watch Miss Y/L/N and Mr. Kim, as they know extremely well how the Summoning Charm is to be cast.”

It’s a good move. Almost too good, if you think about it, but playing games on your own is no fun. The more, the merrier.

“Accio,” you say back, bringing your quill back to you. Hardly a second has passed before it’s back in Namjoon’s hands.

The two of you go back and forth like this, friendly fire across the room, much to Flitwick’s delight, both of you unable to let this go. Your smirks grow wider as you cast the charm over and over like it’s nobody’s business, completely outshining the rest of the class with your little battle, only one of the war. By the end of the period, you don’t know how many times you’ve said the word “Accio,” but it’s enough for each letter to have carved a space on your tongue as you happily grin down at the quill in your hand.

Flitwick stops the both of you when class is over, keeping you back from your next lesson to do nothing but shower praise.

“You two are the brightest students I’ve seen in a very long time,” he informs you with glee. “Your performances today were outstanding. I’ve never seen two people so engaged in a lesson before.”

You and Namjoon look at each other, stuffing down your scowls and replacing them with fake smiles instead.

“I should hope that every day will be like this,” Flitwick says. “You both are dismissed.”

“Think you got the best of me, hey, Y/N?” Namjoon asks on the way out, devilish grin on his face as he looks at you. “Finally managed to beat me?”

“You’ll never admit it,” you retort back.

“That I won’t,” Namjoon nods in assurance. “But we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“What’s the last laugh supposed to mean when you could have the last word instead?” You challenge, stopped dead in the middle of the hallway as you stare at each other, each with untrustworthy smiles on your faces. Like this, Namjoon actually looks like someone whose company you might have enjoyed. Like this, there’s a little voice in the back of your brain that whispers promises of friendship, or at least, acquaintance-ship. But you shake those thoughts out of your mind, nearly scoffing aloud at the very idea of the two of you being anything less than mortal enemies.

Kim Namjoon leans in close, and he murmurs into your ear, “Better pick your words wisely, then, Miss Y/N.”

With that, he’s gone, and when you take a seat in Defense Against the Dark Arts and fish through your bag for a writing utensil, you find yourself quill-less. Almost as if on cue, Namjoon’s laughter rings through your ears.

God damnit.

Present

Visiting Hogsmeade is always your favorite part of the year. Always. Time away from schoolwork, from pressing teachers, and your very favorite, time away from Kim Namjoon’s obnoxiously omnipresent existence. You had calculated it two years ago—the odds of you seeing Namjoon on any given day at Hogsmeade is roughly 1 in 4258, a meager 0.023% of you even having to catch a glimpse of the boy. It’s the most satisfying basic arithmetic you’ve ever done. Nothing says sweet weekend vacation like the promise that you don’t have to lay your eyes on your one and only nemesis while there.

Hogsmeade is the one place where you can let your worries run free, scurry off into nothingness as you take in the scent of snow, butterbeer, and pumpkin pasties. You trust that luck is on your side, for if Namjoon really wanted to bother you while the two of you were both at Hogwarts, all he’d have to do is look a little bit harder. He’d find you. And so far, he’s made no attempts at tracking you down to terrorize you on your one weekend of freedom from his overbearing self.

Surprisingly enough, neither of you have resorted to those prank toys sold at the Zonko’s to outdo one another. Sure, your rivalry is childish and definitely worthy of a couple of fake quills and vanishing ink—at least, maturity-wise—but neither of you seem very drawn to the idea of them, and randomly bringing those nonsense tricks into the game now would just be breaking the status quo. The competition between the two of you is unnecessarily volcanic, but if there’s one thing you can agree on, it’s the fact that it is hardly based on petty tricks and practical jokes. No, you fight like real people. With words. And sometimes wands.

That is, until you somehow find yourself separated from your group of friends, and realize that you fight with snowballs, as well.

The first time, it sort of feels like someone just accidentally bumped into you, elbowed your back slightly as they’re weaving their way through the crowd. You almost make to apologize, the “Sorry” on the tip of your tongue, when it happens again. This time, there’s no mistaking the wetness on your back, damp clothes touching skin as you freeze up from the ice.

Kim Namjoon is standing by the entrance to the path that leads toward the Shrieking Shack lookout with his head tilted back, howling with laughter. You see a couple of his friends dart down the path when they notice your smouldering gaze, see how their feet make skidded footprints in the snow as they run.

Namjoon finally makes eye contact with you, but there’s no fear in his irises. He’s not scared of you, never has been, probably never will be, despite your best efforts, only grinning like he’s victorious. He’s bundled up tight but his hands are bare as they form another snowball, one you know will hit you right in the fucking noggin if you’re not smart with your next move. Either you reach down to hit him with a snowball first, or you run, desperate to wreak your revenge on him.

This is a new level of low for the both of you, you realize, having never done this before even in spite of the fact that you’ve definitely been on many a Hogsmeade outing together in your time. You had always done such a damn good job of avoiding him, pushing him to the back of your mind as you laugh with your friends as you trade Chocolate Frog cards and get Butterbeer foam on your nose. But this time, it’s different. This time, Namjoon wants to make himself known to you.

You dodge Namjoon’s next throw only barely, managing to move your head just in the nick of time as you gather up your own snowball, devious grin taking over your face as you run towards him, chasing him down. Namjoon’s smart, and he knows that you’re reckless and carefree, and so he bolts, turning down the path quickly as he follows in the footsteps of his friends. With his name on your lips, you chase him down, half-fuming, half-giggling.

It’s easy to track him down, following the sets of three different footprints to an area that you already know well enough. You keep your eyes trained on the prints in front of you, not wanting to get ambushed by a certain someone who may have taken another road.

When you reach the clearing, nobody’s there, and the footprints end.

“Stop being a coward and face me, Kim!” You shout to nobody, snowball held firmly in between your palms as you swivel around. You’re suspicious and wary, knowing that Namjoon wouldn’t lead you on some wild goose chase and make you look like a fucking idiot in the middle of the lookout to the Shrieking Shack.

Out of nowhere, a snowball comes hurdling right towards your head. You notice it at the last second, not enough time to cast a spell to deflect it but just enough to quickly move your head. It crashes onto the snowy floor behind you, collapsing into a million bits. Fuck, you forgot that one of Namjoon’s friends has an Invisibility cloak. They’re probably using that.

“Gonna hide behind a fucking cloak for this whole thing, huh, Kim? That’s low,” you shout in the direction of the source of the snowball, smirk on your face.

Crash!

Your neck and back are sopping wet, skin shivering from the dampness as you feel the ice fall off of your coat. Damnit.

“Kim!” You shriek, snowball at the ready.

Just then, two boys come scurrying out of a back path, one of them you recognize as the kid with the aforementioned Invisibility cloak. They’re giggling, but you make eye contact with both of them and they dash, not wanting to be involved in whatever battle is about to occur any longer. They’re young kids, probably no more than fourth years, but with them gone, you know it’s just you and Namjoon now.

“Found me yet, Y/N?” His voice echoes, body still hidden amongst the snowy trees and rocks.

“I see how it is,” you call back, crossing your arms over your chest in disappointment. “You’re just gonna taunt me from wherever you’re hiding and pelt snowballs at me from an unseen location instead of just dueling me like a real wizard.”

“You want to face me head-to-head, Y/N?” Namjoon asks. “Fine.”

Before you can even think about a snarky response, you feel an unmistakable thud on your head, and feel the ice dripping down your hair. It’s a small snowball, you know that much—Namjoon would never purposefully put you in danger—but it does the job and it does it well, because your body heats up in rage as you tilt your head straight up to the sky and see Namjoon casually sitting on one of the branches above.

“You asked for it, Y/N!” Namjoon shouts before jumping down, casting a wordless spell to break his fall. “Head to head.”

The first thing you do when he’s finally at your eye-level is pelt your snowball at him, watching in glee as it hits his chest and knocks the wind right out of him. Namjoon gasps slightly, but when he looks back to meet your eyes, ignited with flames, he’s grinning like a villain, dangerous smirk on his face.

Next thing you know, you have a full-scale snowball war on your hands, skids in the snow on the ground and laughter erupting from your lungs.

From a distance, the two of you might look like friends. Friends who are casually having a snowball fight in an empty clearing while on a school trip to Hogsmeade. Friends who are playfully competitive but enjoy each other’s presence regardless. From a distance, the two of you actually look like you might get along with each other.

But you can’t. You swear, you’d rather die than be the last person on Earth with Namjoon by your side, you swear that you’ll hate the kid until the end of time itself. There’s no fathomable way that you could ever get along with him, cooperate for even just one second. You’re enemies. You will always be enemies.

You’re firing at him rapidly now, snowball after snowball after snowball as you hide behind the white-covered park bench that looks out towards the Shrieking Shack, giggles bubbling in your voice as each one comes in contact with Namjoon’s body. With one final blow, you throw your largest snowball right at his torso, a loud thud erupting as it hits him, making him fall onto the snowy floor with a grunt.

Victorious laughter leaves your throat as you watch him fall, happy to see that you’ve finally fucking beat him in something, but the smile on your face soon dissipates when you notice his unmoving body. Suddenly, concern washes over your features as you run over to him. God, what did you do? The snowball couldn’t have been that strong, fuck.

“Kim? Kim, you alright?” You ask as you stand over him, nudging his still leg with your foot to see if it’ll get him up. “Namjoon?”

He’s silent, eyes closed softly, snowflakes dotting his eyelashes.

“Kim?” You repeat, leaning down as you look over him, head hovering above his. “Get up, Kim. Stop pretending. Kim!”

You’ll never admit it to him, but panic overtakes you for a brief second as you dwell on the worst thoughts that pop into your brain, that he hit his head on the hard floor, rendering him unconscious.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself as you look around, hoping nobody sees the two of you like this, with your body hovering over his as your chest seizes up in fear.

Just then, something grabs the arm that’s loitering right next to him and tugs you down into the snow. You shriek in surprise as your head hits his chest and warm laughter bubbles up from his throat.

“Got you!” Namjoon taunts happily, craning his neck down to get a good look at your speechless expression, mouth open but no words coming out. “God, you looked so worried, Y/N. Does that mean you actually care about me?” He asks you, gazing into your eyes with his own victory scrawled all over his face.

You scoff, pushing yourself off of him as you dust the snow from your arms and chest. “As if. You just scared me, ‘s all. I didn’t want to be held accountable for your death while still a student.” You’re flustered, ears burning a hot red (and not from the snow), but you stand up anyway, refusing to meet his eyes. “When we graduate though, that’s a different story.”

Namjoon laughs, getting up off of the ground and brushing the snow from his body. “I always knew you cared for me, Y/N. You’re so easy to read.”

“I am not!” You shout in disbelief, resisting the way your mouth yearns to curve upwards. “You’re just awful.”

“Salty that I finally exposed you?” Namjoon asks cheekily.

You turn to him as you walk back up to the path, towards the bustling Hogsmeade center, and push his chest lightly, nose scrunched up. “Shut up, Kim.”

“Make me,” Namjoon responds, and with that, he’s pressing another snowball firmly into your chest and running off with a cackle, giving you hardly any time to react before he’s off.

“Kim!”

Fourth Year

“Y/N!”

You whip your head around at the source of the voice, turning only to see your friend, Seulgi bounding towards you, gleeful smile scrawled on her face. It’s especially nice to see her these days, what with all of the negativity in your life (cough, Kim Namjoon, cough), considering the fact that you hardly have any classes with her.

“Hey,” you say in response when she catches up to you. You’re walking down to the Gamekeeper’s hut to camp out on the fairgrounds, wanting to spend some time away from the castle. It’s the one damn place Namjoon hasn’t contaminated.

“What’s this I hear about you and that Gryffindor kid?” She asks, not even trying to beat around the bush. You’re surprised that news has travelled so fast, but you suppose that anyone would be slightly suspicious of that Charms class yesterday. It’s not every day you see two top students battling it out with the Summoning Charm.

“Who, Kim?” You ask, feigning ignorance. You know damn well who she’s talking about, you’re just hoping that maybe, maybe she means someone else and you don’t have to get a bad taste in your mouth every time you say his name.

“Yeah, the smart kid. Some Gryffindor was telling me yesterday about your Charms class,” Seulgi says as she stuffs a small mint into her mouth. “What’s going on? Are you guys friends, or something?”

You stifle a laugh.

She gasps. “Are you dating him? And you didn’t even tell me?” Her eyes are wide as they stare you down, and you panic.

“Oh my God! Oh my God, no, oh my God. We’re not dating,” you say sternly, a sick image of the two of you being all cuddly together coming up in your brain. The very thought makes you want to vomit. “We’re not even friends.”

“But the two of you were like… playing around together in Charms,” your friend says, unable to connect the dots. You don’t blame her. “It sounds like you guys are dating to me.”

“We’re not, I swear. I don’t even like him,” you insist, to probably no avail. Seulgi doesn’t look all that convinced. “He’s an asshole.”

“Strong word there, Y/N,” she chides.

“He is! He hates me, honestly,” you tell her, shaking your head. “I don’t know what the heck his deal is.”

“Why does he hate you?” Seulgi asks, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “He likes everybody.”

“Not me, I guess. But the feeling is mutual. I don’t like him very much either,” you admit to her.

“Whatever you say, Y/N,” she hums casually, not paying very much attention to the conversation. As you walk down to the fairgrounds, she’s kicking a rock along the way. “I find the thought of the two of you hating each other very hard to believe.”

You scoff, a little flustered. What on Earth could give away any other message about your relationship with Namjoon besides “mortal enemy”? You thought you had made it clear enough that you disliked the boy. It’s not like he treats you any better, with his honeyed words and condescending tone.

“Believe it,” you say, pressing a finger to her forehead as you push her back slightly, making her giggle.

When you reach the bottom of the hill, you and Seulgi camp out on one of the crumbling park benches, wood faded from use. The stone seat is cold, the temperature moving through your robes as goosebumps cover your skin, but you settle in comfortably regardless. You’ve already finished your homework, so being out here isn’t really helpful for your studying, but it’s peace and quiet as the sounds of nature consume you.

“Hey, Seulgi, wanna see this thing Flitwick taught me?” You ask, nudging her side as you pull out a spare piece of parchment.

“I can’t believe you’re doing so well in Charms that Flitwick just casually teaches you outside lessons, but sure,” she responds, rolling her eyes as she turns to you.

You quickly fold the paper into an airplane, having mastered the technique the second time you did it. The first time, your airplane was… meh, at best. “The Ministry apparently uses something like this all of the time,” you say informatively. “They’re called Interdepartmental Memos, or something like that. But Flitwick just taught me how to create my own.”

Nimble fingers perfect the wings of the airplane as you turn to Seulgi, excited expression on your face. She motions for you to fly it.

With a soft bit of force, the airplane takes off, flying gracefully through the forest air as your eyes follow its path. Unlike Muggle airplanes, gravity does not take its toll on this one as it continues to float gently in the wind. The sight is perfect, almost too perfect, and instantly broken as you watch a hand reach out to grab it.

“Excuse me,” you say, rolling your eyes as you get up to go confront whoever decided that they would snatch up your airplane mid-flight. “Would you mind giving that back?”

“Did you make this, Y/N?”

God damnit.

“Not you again, Kim,” you say, face morphing into one with a pained expression. “Can’t you just give me one break? I feel like everywhere I go, you show up.”

Namjon shrugs helplessly, inspecting your airplane between his calloused hands. “I guess our paths keep crossing.”

You reach up to grab the plane from him, happy to have it back in your grasp. “I wish they didn’t.”

Namjoon leans down to look at you, an unreadable smile taking over his lips. “I’m glad that they do.”

Present

Namjoon’s poster is back to normal, you notice as you enter the library. To combat this, you quickly transfigure it into a lost Kneazle poster, just to bother him. You have no tutoring session after class today, seeing as you need all of the time you can get to finish this group project by yourself (because your classmates are incompetent at best), so you’re just here to jinx a couple of posters and check out some spellbooks. This potion isn’t going to brew itself.

Someone that does have tutoring today is Namjoon, because, for some reason, he feels no sense of urgency to keep his grades up (yet another quality you despise about him—how can he be so careless and still maintain the ranking of top student?). He’s sitting right out in the open with his student of choice, pointing to something in a book as he lectures the kid. You pay them hardly any attention, not wanting to give Namjoon the recognition he craves.

Still, with them being out in the open like that, it’s hard to avoid them as you go back and forth between shelves and cases on the hunt for the textbooks you need. You feel Namjoon’s piercing gaze on you with every step you take, keeping your head down as the pile of books in your hands grows taller and taller.

You spend probably about an hour in the library, skimming through textbooks to see which ones are worth checking out and getting distracted with light reading from textbooks about Dragons of the Stone Age and Wizards and Witches of the 18th Century Framed for Other’s Crimes. Shit’s interesting, man.

You’ve just checked out about five books when you hear thundering footsteps approaching you, which can really only mean just one thing.

“No tutoring today, Y/N?” Namjoon asks as he moseys on up to you.

“I’m busy today, Kim,” you quip back, keeping your answer short so as not to indulge him. “Don’t have time.”

“Grades falling?” Namjoon suggests, taking a quick peek at the books in your hand. “That’s a shame, Y/N. I would typically expect better from you.”

“You know what, Kim?” You ask, stopping in your tracks and turning to face him, scowl ever present. “You can take your expectations and you can shove them up your ass.”

“No need to be rude, Y/N, I know you’re trying hard to beat me out,” Namjoon says, patronizing smirk on his face. “You might get there, eventually.”

“God, you’re such a tool, you know that? You drive me up the fucking wall,” you exclaim, breathing out a sigh of annoyance. “I just want to… God, I don’t even know what the hell I want to do to you.”

“I could think of a few things,” Namjoon comments, making you gasp as you whip out your wand.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re casting whatever the first jinx to come to mind is, the Jelly-Legs one, aimed right at Namjoon’s face. He dodges it swiftly, but not before retaliating with his own curse, the Trip Jinx leaving his mouth as a flash of purple heads straight to you. You hold your textbook up as a shield, watching the streak bounce off of the cover and dissolve into the carpet. You’re livid.

“Mr. Kim! Miss Y/L/N!” Madam Pince shrieks from where she’s standing behind the checkout desk. “This behavior is highly inappropriate for the library! Detentions, for the both of you!”

Fuck.

To see the two top students, always on time, always polite, always active, trapped in an hour-long detention after class together would be a shocker for any teacher or student. The two of you show up to an empty classroom with frowns on your faces, wishing for the time to pass by. Sinistra’s in there, probably to watch over the two of you to make sure that you don’t get up to any funny business. You know, like hexing each other again.

“Welcome to Detention, take a sea—” She says without even glancing up from the pile of work on her desk, but she makes to look to see who the troublemakers of the day is, and her mouth drops, almost comically, when she sees you and Namjoon standing awkwardly at the entrance. “You two? What on Earth could have gotten you here?”

You and Namjoon look at each other guiltily.

“We had a bit of an argument,” Namjoon says, as if that’s any explanation.

“I never thought I’d see the day where the two best students in this school would land up serving a Detention with each other,” Sinistra comments as she stands up, gathering all of her papers in a neat pile. She walks down from where the desk is, meeting the two of you. “Well, since it’s only you two, I’m going to go back up to my classroom so that I can finish grading. I trust that neither of you will try to pull anything funny. You are Hogwarts’ best, after all.”

She exits the room swiftly, locking the door on the way out with some magic probably immune to Alohomora (though you wouldn’t put it past her if she didn’t) just to make sure the two of you stay trapped in this stuffy classroom for the next hour. That’s the beauty of being the best—teachers trust you with anything.

“Ugh,” you say as you collapse onto a desk, taking a seat on the top of the table. “Great.”

“We wouldn’t be in here if it weren’t for you,” Namjoon says, scrunching his nose up as he sits down beside you. “I was only acting in self-defense.”

“You provoked me,” you respond. “I’m just surprised I didn’t try to hex you sooner. It’s been over three years and I only tried to hex you now.”

“Well, you missed, so it’s not like you would have done any better as a fourth year,” he comments sarcastically. “Not a hexing kind of person?”

“You’re the only person I’d ever want to hex.”

“I’m touched.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes as you lean your head back, letting it rest on another desk. Staring up at the ceiling, you notice how the clouds slowly move across the vast expanse of blue through the skylights. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“What?” Namjoon asks.

“Why do you hate me? I don’t understand. What did I ever do to you?” You repeat, deciding that now is as good a time as any to figure out the mystery. It’s not like you have anything better to do.

“I don’t hate you,” Namjoon says softly, making you sit up in surprise.

You meet his eyes, swirling with brown wonder. “What?”

“I don’t hate you. I never said I did,” he says. “Why do you hate me?”

“Because I thought you hated me,” you respond, almost entirely at a lost for words. “Because you’re always so rude, and obnoxious, and taunting, and you push all of my buttons and make me want to punch you in the—”

There are many ways that Namjoon has shut you up before, with a sneer, a spell, a sentence, but never with his lips. At least, not until now.

You gasp into his mouth when his lips meet yours, but all other reasoning flies out into the courtyard at the sensation, all the parts of your brain that would typically be shouting “What the hell are you doing?!” rendered completely ineffective. You’re a good multitasker—you’d have to be to get the top spot, after all—but with his mouth on yours you can only focus on him, on the warmth that emanates from his whole body as he presses it into you. His hands come to hold your cheeks, cradle them in his palms as he lets the kiss work, eyelashes fluttering.

The second you part, your senses are finally coming back to you, and you react, albeit weakly, by pushing him away.

“What the hell?” You ask, more to yourself than to him, keeping your eyes trained on the floor. “Kim, what on—”

“I’ve wanted to do that since fourth year,” Namjoon interrupts, cheeks flushed a deep red. “You just never realized it.”

“Since fourth year?” You ask, still shaken. “You’ve been taunting and teasing me since fourth year and you think that one kiss is going to change all of that?”

“I—I should have done it sooner,” Namjoon admits, rubbing his arm awkwardly as he approaches you with a romantic sort of hesitance, one that has your heart shaking a little. “I know. I regret it.”

“I—” you begin, unable to finish your exclamation, come up with a coherent sentence. All you think about is the feeling of his lips on yours, how it made your heart thump a thousand times faster and all your worries dissipate.

“I treasure your presence in my life, Y/N,” Namjoon says. “I do. You never fail to make me smile or laugh. You’re so giving, you know. You’re sweet and grateful and you know what you want and you know how to get it. I think it’s admirable. I think you’re admirable.”

“Namjoon, I—”

“I understand if you don’t want to give this a shot,” he says, coming up to you as he takes your hand in his. “But I want you to know that I think that I’m in love with you, and that that won’t ever change. No matter what happens to us.”

God, you cannot cry in front of him, you refuse, so you furiously blink away the tears in your watering eyes. “You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You ask, voice choking. “All this time… all this time.”

“Y/N…”

“I think I love you too, Kim. I really, really do,” you admit, the words feel like a weight is being lifted off of your chest. Like with him, you can finally float.

Namjoon’s face breaks out into a smile, a warm, beautiful one, as he reaches out to press a light kiss on your forehead. One filled with promises of a better tomorrow.

You leave detention an hour later with a new outlook on life, a new boyfriend, and one hell of a joint-tutoring program, coordinated by only you and a special someone.

Third year you would never even dream about dating Kim Namjoon, but seventh year you can’t think of anything better than him by your side.

⇒ hmu with feedback or just talk to me here!

#sfwbangtan #bangtan bookclub #bangtanwriters-net #bts writing squad #namjoon fluff #bts fluff #namjoon oneshot #bts oneshot #namjoon au #bts au #bts hogwarts #bts hogwarts au #bts imagine #namjoon imagine #w: sorted #w: tutor #FINALLY!!!!! THIS HAS BEEN IN THE WORKS FOR MONTHS!!!!! #me: thrilled #i was like this close to adding smut but i'm very glad i Did Not #maybe hoseok's next weekend?? if i can get my shit together that is #unedited as per usual!!! #over break i rlly need to go back and edit all of my fics rip #clean em up a bit (a lot)