Light cone art so powerfully homoerotic someone (me) furiously pumped out a 6k word fic in 2 days. They're going to kill me. 🔗 : AO3

Extensive notes/ramblings below!

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I have not recovered from the mental power I had to pool to write this lmao I couldn't do anything at work except figure these two out and why Aventurine looked so BESOTTED but the absence of the little white dots in his eyes in the light cone and in the leaked models made him look like there's such an edge to him (someone on twitter pointed out that he has no light in his eyes!) and it really fanned the flames like what the fuck is this GUY ON and why is it directed at Dr. Ratio LMAO (I mean why not Ratio is so pretty)

So then I thought, there is NO WAY Ratio is going to react surprised or scared for Aventurine he's going to be ANNOYED lmao. There are possibly 2 more chances in that cylinder before it's 100% in there and I was looking at the probabilities on Wikipedia and I was laughing at myself at how a gay ship was going to make me STUDY probability when I hated this type of stuff in university and I was like yeah Ratio will probably be like hey, you can't stop there, and pulls twice lmao

And I was thinking they would make eyes at each other homoerotically while doing so because wow sexual tension so potent you can taste it through the screen in the LC art and everything just went from there I really cannot get over how Aventurine seems so... sooooooo in love with Ratio and in my head Ratio is like this man is insane what is he on but he gets a taste of that and it's like wow it's actually a little good but Ratio is also cautious so he won't ride that wave too hard but Aventurine looks really down bad for a man who seems like he doesn't care

So initially I really wanted to wait until Aventurine came out before I start my hyperfixation train because we know so little about him other than key facts I have formed in my head-- -he's perpetual smiler (confirmed by a leak of the loading screen blurbs) and like, idk from his design it just suits him and even in his voice cameo with Topaz his VA sounds like they are smiling while they are talking ALLL the time idk at least I got this one right -mr gambling gambler who is very self-assured about his luck, mr smug man. when I wrote he'd win 99.9-0.1 he believes this and if he dies I think to him it would just mean his time's up for realsies anyway and whatever idk man is not very sane -there's some really weird leaks and I'm not sure if it's confirmed but he was invited to be a Masked Fool which made him ALLL the more interesting for me because as a Sampo Mr Scammer fan it doesn't mean if he joins the Masked Fools he wouldn't be able to amass money but this guy seems to really like the thrill being an IPC senior manager provides then which is like this guy is a lives fast dies young kinda guy -I HC from that neck tattoo he could have been an indentured servant (cough slave cough) or a prisoner of some kind, but eitherway it says he wasn't privileged in any sense of the word but the way his character design is so decked out in rings gold watches and even a bracelet it means he's climbed very far, so he is an ambitious man, lots of "material pleasures" as Dr Ratio puts it in my fic and he still wants more. That kinda guy makes for a very intense lover imo very "I get what I want" type, and I really wanted to balance that with his attraction to Dr Ratio and how he doesn't want to drive Dr Ratio away with his crazy but he's also very horny... Anyway I also totally underestimated his height difference with Dr Ratio I really should have pulled up that leak of them side by side but ahh being a short king dom top is so cute on him

As for Dr Ratio I really cannot see him top unless Aventurine power bottoms why but he's so "diligent" in all aspects but I see him being a pillow princess in bed

I also feel a little bad that I wasn't able to write more bickering between the two of them but I also feel like the normally talkative Dr Ratio keeps HIGH HIGH walls around Aventurine because it's hard to tell what this guy is thinking so he's thinking so hard trying to make sense of it all and he says little as not to give away anything that might be wrong

I feel like adding "all is fair in love and war" in Latin omina iusta sunt amore belloque was a little gratuitous but I also want to subtly sprinkle in that Aventurine is so obsessed with Ratio, so down bad for him, that he reads stuff about Dr Ratio a lot enough to come across a translation of the quote and I'm like no yeah way Ratio can deal with crazy-eyed Aventurine saying/declaring love while he's still computing the electric exchange they had so he's definitely like picking up on Aventurine's obsession/infatuation with him and he's like NOPE DON'T SAY IT and would rather kiss him to shut him up than hear it lmao

I honestly despaired at how I was going to start closing the scenes because it was like nighttime and I wanted to finish it already because they're killing me, so like, making Ratio fall asleep while Aventurine pours his heart out (I asked a friend who read it what he thought Aventurine said and they got it spot on so I figure it was conveyed properly on my end and I was really proud of this bit) seemed like a cute way to do it. The narration lied, Dr Ratio heard it but he got selective hearing and totally did NOT want to reply/acknowledge it. Poor Aventurine, but it's not as if he won't try again

I have waaay more ideas about them and I wonder if I can hold off until Aventurine releases or we get more crumbs idk but I want to write some kuudere Ratio (with a bit of tsun hehe)

Special mentions other than the lightcone art that fueled me: this art from Twitter that and this post that kinda made me think long and hard...

[I am once again giving you an unrelated fanfic. Have some Modern married Xiyao.

Potential CW: poor anger coping skills?, very brief mention of suicidal ideation in internal dialogue. It's an errant thought and he doesn't actually mean it]

Jin Guangyao is upset. What's more upsetting is that he doesn't know why he's upset--this lack of information rankles him more than the feeling. He's used to feeling badly. That's how life is. But without a name, there is nowhere to file it away neatly. It is easier to ignore the sharp sting of a newly noticed cut than this fucking awful malaise that has apparently decided to settle over him with no rhyme or reason like he's some stupid idiot in an artsy French film, slowly choking down filtered cigarettes on some rusty balcony against a sunset or something.

That's not what he does. He is efficient. He is useful. And when he is like this, he is not.

And he still doesn't know why. And the fact that he cannot categorize and escape this has the ennui sliding slowly into a slow boil of tooth grinding fury.

Had it been the morning traffic? The fact that the library had emailed to inform him of a delay on his inter-library loan? The fact that his overpriced coffee was just a tiny bit burnt? The fact that Zixuan had taken a sick day today and so had not brought the soup his wife had promised Jin Guangyao for lunch? It shouldn't be, because these are all so horrifyingly trivial.

He has a tension headache beginning to string itself along his temples. He hates that the receptionist has a perky goodbye ready. He hates that the sun is shining so brightly. Then, he hates that the shadows of the clouds when they pass make things look grungy and dull. He hates that there is a flap of leather from his steering wheel that has peeled up in the back from his picking and he can feel it rubbing against his index finger as he stares, white knuckled and unblinking into the brake lights ahead of him as this bubbling pique crescendos as slowly as one of Xichen's beloved classical music pieces.

In fact, one is playing on the radio, softly, just within hearing range. The quiet, shrill edge of violins makes him want to kill something. Maybe himself. There's a bridge coming up in half a mile. He, very sanely, presses the button on the dash that turns it off instead of doing any of those things. The thought of Xichen has a voice of reason suggesting that he might meditate, while trapped here, 10 minutes from home.

Instead, he jabs a button on his fancy, stupid steering wheel with this thumb. An attentive computer noise beeps. The sudden noise in the relative silence of the car makes him dig his nails into the leather. "Text A-Huan," he snaps.

"Okay! What would you like the message to be?"

Jin Guangyao is going to find whoever programmed this faux-friendly robot voice and make them watch him drown their entire family in a toilet. "I. Hate. Everything."

Beep. "Okay! Your message reads; 'I hate everything'. Send?"

"Yes, send," he seethes before it can fully finish.

There is no plan to this. None at all. He just needs something real to sink his metaphorical teeth into. A reasonable anchor to reality to tell him whether or not he's being stupid and terrible for no reason at all.

Even though he already knows that he is.

The response returns in 43 seconds. Jin Guangyao had been counting. The cheery beep sounds just as the very stale green light turns yellow ahead. He presses the gas. "One message from A-Huan."

The light blinks red while he is only 1/4th of the way through the intersection. The lead car of the adjacent left turners beeps and he bares his teeth at her because he isn't fucking invisible, he's in a high profile gold Lexus and she had definitely seen him fucking coming. He stabs the button that makes the car read him the message.

"'Oh no. Bad day? Want to call? Blue heart emoji'," the female robot voice chirps in a butchery of his husbands words and no, no, he does not, because, at this point, it would simply be a minute long sustained scream of rage over literally nothing at all. He should have kept it to himself and found a quiet place to throw rocks at a wall or something until he wasn't such a repellant time bomb.

He does not reply because if he hears that robot voice again, he's going to commit vehicular homicide. And being arrested would not calm him down.

Finally, traffic parts and he pulls into his driveway--he notices how the bush on the side of the house's branches are creeping up to scrape the window of the kitchen and makes a mental note to send a curt text to the landscaper about his pruning habits. Why are they paying him several hundred dollars a month to let a stupid bush get unruly enough to damage the paint on his window trim?

When he slams his door shut, he hears a loud CLACK that announces that he has just closed his seatbelt in the door and lost the last tenuous thread of his temper. Heaving the door back, he plants his other hand up on the black plastic next to the window and smashes it shut again with all of his strength. Repeatedly. CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK--Chunk.

Breath hissing between his teeth, he jerks his suit jacket straight, loosens his tie and stalks to the house. The garage door groans to life behind him. Xichen had been watching.

Perfect.

He's nowhere to be seen when Jin Guangyao slams through the backdoor like a vicious thundercloud, which is good and probably intentional, because it allows him to wrestle off his shoes, jacket, and tie in privacy. This does nothing to release any pressure, because it must be intentional wrestling--controlled and confined so he doesn't pop off a button or rip a seam or scuff the shining black leather. Now he's seething in their immaculate, state of the art kitchen, hating how the cold tile feels against his black dress socks and the fact that it smells like tea. Which is stupid. Because he likes tea. But not right now.

Stop being a piece of shit, he snarls at himself. You've already probably fucked up the car and Xichen doesn't deserve this. He balls up his fists so tightly that the bright pain from his nails sinking into his palms leaks up his arms. Be better.

He has no idea how to do that because he has no idea what is wrong.

Reason says to steer clear of Xichen until he can get a hold of himself and behave like a fucking adult. And in the early days of their relationship, he would have. He had. Whenever he got like this, he would shut down or not have inflicted himself on Xichen at all with a smooth lie, and no amount of prying would get anything useful out of him because he would not be a bother. There had been Talks. Long, extensive Talks about trust and love and wanting to take care of him. He had even believed some of them. That's how they can be married, now, years later--Xichen knowing just how close he is to this at all times. How thin his veneer of manners and pleasantries actually is. (He can't truly know, though, can he. If he knew how much none of it makes sense, there is no possible way someone as kind and intelligent as him would choose to stay.)

Xichen would purse his lips if he said this out loud; somewhere between exasperation and sad fondness. Jin Guangyao doesn't tell him, anymore. Most of the time because he doesn't actually think this.

This is not most of the time.

Yes, reason says that he should suck it up and become a human being before burdening Xichen.

But his husband has long, cool hands and soft eyes and a brilliant mind that can solve any problem just by holding it and maybe he just wants to be small and angry and ugly and pathetic and selfish in the comfort of his own home while someone reminds him that there have been, in fact, good things that have happened in his life and he had been, at one time, happy--believe it or not.

And if nothing else, it compounds his streak of bad decisions.

The smell of tea intensifies when he reaches their room. The curtains are drawn. It renders the deep, dusty blues of the bed spread and the armchair black and the aged gold accent pieces muted, except for where the warm light pouring from their open bathroom door paints them bright again. Xichen sits on the edge of their bed in the soft, expensive loungewear Jin Guangyao got him for his birthday last year, one ankle on his knee, watching him with eyes just as soft as he had been expecting. A mug of tea is tucked into his hand and a plate with round, lumpy shapes sits by his hip. Beside that lays spread out the absurdly oversized and absurdly soft heather gray shirt that Nie Huaisang had gifted to him as a joke but was, in fact, one of Jin Guangyao's guilty pleasure sleep shirts.

With his perfect voice and his perfect logic and his perfect way of being the only good thing on this entire, worthless planet, his husband says, "I think you need to scream into this pillow."

'This pillow' is, in fact, one of theirs, dark blue with a thread count that was higher than any savings he ever had in college, perched on a bundle of blankets that is the perfect size to throw himself upon like a sulking romance heroine. He hates it. Hates that this is known, that this might help.

So he fucking does it. He deliberately stalks around the bed, climbs up, smashes his face into the pillow and screams as loudly as he can. With every single ounce of rage in his body, curling him up like the shriveling of a raisin in fast forward, like the curling of a scorpion tail, like throwing up, wringing every last scant molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.

When the sound peters out and he has to drag in another breath, he curls tighter, the claws of his hands reaching over the top of the pillow to fist in his hair. It presses the plush of it firmer over his face and bites it until his teeth ring with dull pain, and his jaw aches and his head throbs and his eyes sting. His scalp burns from the pull on his hair and his throat is raw and tight.

Tearing himself away, finally, he gasps in a gulp of cooler air. Xichen has turned so he is now cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching him with a mix of calm and understanding sympathy. "Lay down?"

There is a ragged, hollow hole in him that still has scraps of rage clinging to it like disgusting lichen--but the visceral, all consuming hate seems to have been absorbed by his pillow. So he lets himself roll sideways, eyes closing. Xichen gets off the bed--Jin Guangyao assumes, wearily, that he's putting down the tea mug and hopes that he uses a coaster--and then returns by knee walking up the bed to his side. Then, those cool hands he had been hoping for pick open the tiny hard buttons of his shirt. Each pop releases a a tension across his skin and he feels that he can breathe easier with every one.

Jin Guangyao can hear him breathing, slow and measured, through his nose and thinks that it's probably the most comforting sound that he's ever heard in his entire life--now that he's willing to be comforted. Able to be. The reminder of Xichen's continued existence is the only sound he will ever need to be calm again.

The button up is abandoned in favor of undoing his belt--breath, more of it, infiltrating him deeper and deeper--popping the button on his slacks, tugging them down his legs in a warm slide. The quiet clink of it being tossed somewhere. A closing quiet as Xichen leans in and presses his smooth lips to his forehead. Then the corner of his eyebrow. Then the bridge of his nose. Different points and planes of his face like he is unlocking a combination that will open him up and allow him to purge the rest of the awfulness that lingers.

What it mostly is is exhaustion, now. "A-Huan," he groans--whines. Ugh.

Before disgust at himself can settle in, his husband takes this as the invitation for what it is and kisses his mouth, gentle and slow. Jin Guangyao moves his mouth back, halfheartedly, mostly parting his lips to allow him access to do whatever. But all he does is kiss him chastely. Lovingly. He tastes like green tea. Then, Xichen murmurs against his lips, "Would you like a bath?"

He vents a negating grunt, lolling his head back and forth. Baths are so much work. Even when Xichen offered to wash his hair or read to him or even join him, you still had to keep it hot, you had to endure cold when you left, get yourself dry. Too much change, too much sensation and movement.

He should be shaking himself awake. He should be apologizing for his terrible, pointless mood. He should be trying to kiss him back, love him back, pay him back. Thank him.

Xichen merely lifts his hands and presses the heels of his palms into the hinges at Jin Guangyao's jaw, inexorably grinding the tension out of them. Jin Guangyao allows himself to melt. When those cool fingertips slide into his hair, he lets them tug him upright, so Xichen can slide off his button up and slip him out of his undershirt. He shivers against the chill of the bedroom air, but he doesn't feel a surge of utter hatred for the sensations so, well, that's something. In no time, Xichen has coaxed him into the oversized shirt, removed his socks and bundled him up against the padded headboard, tucked into Xichen's side.

Jin Guangyao allows this. He allows himself to allow the blanket to be tugged up over his bare legs, Xichen to tuck the warm mug of steaming mint tea into his hands, and wind his fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep, shuddering breath before sighing it all out. Xichen's fingers rub soothing circles across his sore scalp.

"Open?"

He cracks one eye to see a cookie hovering at mouth level. It's too dim in the room to properly tell what kind it is, but because Xichen has been perfect in literally every other way, he simply obeys and bites down. Browned butter and sea salt and semi-sweet chocolate ooze across his tongue and the instant spike of sugar satisfaction warms his chest. Jin Guangyao chews with utter contentment, swallows, and opens his mouth again.

"Good?" Xichen's amused voice vibrates warmly through his chest as he indulgently feeds him another bite.

"Mm. Very. Did you make them?"

"I did, earlier today. I just got lucky with the timing." His nails scrape oh so gently across his scalp. "How are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Jin Guangyao blinks up at him and his sweet, kind, ridiculously gorgeous face that is graced by a light smile and a gold edge light from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Being terrible."

"You're never terrible."

"I was today. I think I fucked up the car."

Xichen chuckles, smile crimping to a knowing press. "I saw. It won't be a big deal. We'll deal with it later."

"...Thank you."

"Of course, A-Yao. Do you still hate everything?"

"Mm-nn." He snuggles down deeper against his ribs, looping an arm around Xichen's warm waist. He has the best husband in his arms, his dark-sweet scent is in his nose, chocolate on his tongue, and 1000 count sheets against his skin.

What is there to hate?

I read ur breeding kink with Jaehyun and I just woke up in a sweaty heated mess from the dream it left me with. Like uk how Jae is so in love with children? omg just him desperate to have a child and constantly fucking and i-

a/n: so i saw this AGES ago in my inbox but i didnt answer it because i had this idea and only finally just put it down (sorry). *clinks a glass* TO JAEHYUN AND A GODDAMN BREEDING KINK.

warning: lots of fucking, lots of overstim, breeding kink, 2k

Okay so everyone knows Jaehyun has a soft spot for children and to him, the thought of having his own kids one day is such a dream. He can’t help but vividly picture you, walking around with a hand on your stomach, carrying his child looking so glowy and pretty.

He’s probably mentioned it earlier on in your relationship, believing that you’re ‘the one’ for him; the one who makes him truly happy and want to be better as a person. He promised to care for you, to watch you advance in your own personal goals and to cheer you on from the side lines.

After being together for a few years, the talk of having your own child would come up almost every night while you lay cuddling in bed, “Do you think about it?” he asks, his voice in a cautious whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Having a child with me.”

“Of course I do Jae. I want to… just not right now.” you tell him, not wanting to bring a child into your lives in the midst of your busy individual schedules. You wanted to offer your child all your attention not anything half-assed.

“But one day right? You’ll give me a baby?” he murmurs in the darkness of the room.

“Definitely one day.” You mumble back, your lips forming into a soft smile against his chest.

A couple of months later and the two of you had made it back to your apartment after a long night out on your 4-year anniversary. That night when you made it to your front door, Jaehyun could no longer keep his hands off of you. Kissing you all over your face and neck, as he grips onto your waist, pulling you into him; digging his fingers into your skin. “Fucking beautiful and fucking mine, aren’t you?” He whispers, watching the way you squirm underneath him tangling within the sheets and almost sliding off the bed. He pushes himself into you, filling you with his incredible hardness as you groan, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him tightly into you. Your hips snap up to meet his, moving up and down on his cock, sending pangs of pleasure through your feverish body. “Can’t wait to see your tummy grow.”

He doesn't mean to say it, not wanting to pressure you into anything but the words slip off his tongue as he struggles to stay sane feeling your walls wrap tightly around him. All your gasps and soft whimpers echo in his ear and the sound of his cock wetly plopping out of your hole continue to drive him further into his fantasy. “Fuck baby, tell me to stop.” He chokes out, his teeth clenched and gritting against each other as he scrambles to get the words out.

“W-What, why?” You don’t want for him to stop and you’re confused at his sudden halt.

“If you don’t,” he grunts loudly, his hips snapping forward into yours, “I’m afraid I might put a baby in you.”

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against your shoulder, his breath heavy as he attempts to restrain himself. You let out a quiet gasp, involuntarily clenching around him and he draws in a sharp breath. He tries to slow himself down, thrusting into at a lazy pace to prevent himself from coming inside; but not completely – as it would’ve felt like pure torture for him.  

You bring your fingers up to his soft curls, tugging at them gently to bring his gaze up. Jaehyun whimpers softly but he looks at you, his vision hazy as he tries to focus only on your face and not at the feeling of your walls surrounding him.

“I want you.” You whisper, watching his brows furrow in confusion.

“What?” he asks, unable to comprehend your words.

“I want a baby with you.” You repeat.

Jaehyun nods, his nervous expression from before turning into a devilish smile. That was his breaking point.

***

It all happens rather quickly, Jaehyun being very impatient after learning you were also ready for the next step. The pills are the first thing to go; letting your body take his sperm and work it out naturally. He takes all the little opportunities of free time he has to make sure your filled with him.

On late nights when he’d come home after practice at ungodly hours, you’d be woken up by him in bed, his soft kisses planted around your body causing you to stir from your sleep. On mornings where he had more time to stay at home, you’d both be in the shower; your front pressed against the cold tiles as he drives himself into you.

He’d take you anywhere and anytime he could, desperate to finally have a child with you.

On a particular afternoon, Haechan and Mark had come around, sitting outside on the balcony of your shared apartment. You could see them through the glass screen, separating the balcony and the indoors as you focused on the cleaning the dishes in the sink. Jaehyun took you right there and then. You felt his erection poking at the back of your ass, “Jaehyun, we have friends over,” you warned him.

Instead, his hands ran over your stomach and down your pants as you groaned quietly, cursing yourself for not bothering with panties because of your slack sweatpants. “We can be quick.”

Without wasting time, he had placed the head of his cock at your pussy, rubbing it back and forth a few times between your wet slit before he eased into you. It slides in easily, and in one smooth motion he buries himself to your hilt. Your hands reach for the counter, struggling to keep balance as your ass moves back to meet him. His hands find your hips, moving a little faster, thrusting a little deeper. You kept your focus on the boys outside, watching them laugh and talk to each other, oblivious to the scene unfolding behind them. You took a hand off the counter, reaching down for your clit, desperate to relieve yourself quickly. Without any time lost, your legs buckle and you cum, spraying the floor as Jaehyun shoots his load deep into you.

The two of you stood there, his cock softening as you caught your breath. Jaehyun’s first to notice Mark getting up from his seat, quickly pulling out of your pussy and drawing a long string of cum out. He swiftly pulls his pants up and you do as well, leaving immediately when you see the grey fabric beginning to stain dark by the mess flowing out of your pussy. Jaehyun ducks down with a paper towel, forced to quickly clean the mess on the floor as Mark walks in.

***

Again and again he would beat into you, the slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of your wet pussy loud in your ears, along with the frantic creak of the bedsprings, the banging of the headboard against the wall. “Going to make you full of me princess.” He hums, his body going suddenly stiff, ramming you deep as you scream feeling his fingers claw into your breasts. Your pussy feels crammed with cock, and you can feel him throb hard, shooting his semen into you. You cry out with him, and then shortly after cum too, thrusting your hips up at him in a spasm of release as his seed pours into you. You arch your back clawing at the bedspread as you tremble beneath him, the blood roaring in your ears.

It’s not even minutes later before he flips you over, “one more time baby,” he whispers dragging your body closer to his to align himself again and drive forward.

A few days later and Jaehyun had bought home a pregnancy test, bouncing around excitedly as he waited for you to check. Both of you were sure that night had done it, but as they say, things never go as easy as you want. You sit back against the tiles as you think of how to tell him, it’s negative. Jaehyun doesn't take it well, dashing back to the store for another test, believing the first one was just a mistake. When you test it again you can only sigh, “Jae it’s not broken, it’s negative.”

He tries his best to keep hide his disappointment, taking it as a challenge instead. “We just have to try harder.” He grins, picking you up from the bathroom floor and taking you back to the bedroom instead.

He eases into you slower, knowing your still sensitive from the relentless fucking over the previous few days. “Just have to try again.” He murmurs, more to reassure himself as you nod. You hum quietly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you whimper and fight against the burning in your thighs stretched widely against the sheet.

Jaehyun goes gently at first, choosing to drive himself further into your hilt rather than going in quickly. He’s thrusts are thorough, moving in long strokes against your walls tightly. You can hear him grit his teeth as he urges his self-control, struggling to adapt to a slower pace. He drops onto his elbows, his face centremetres away from yours as you feel his heavy pants at your cheeks.

“It’s okay,” you comfort him running a hand against his back, “it’s okay.”

His hips move a little faster as he grunts louder, his body moving forward with each thrust as you squeeze around him, “Take it all princess, all of it.” He whispers, pushing into your hilt as he feels himself shoot.

You’ve never seen him so desperate, it scares you a little but it also makes you feel a little nervous, worried how his mentally doing. He doesn't like to share much about how he feels, afraid to scare you. You try to shift under him, his arms trapping your head from turning and his body pushing closely into yours, “J-Jaehyun?” you whimper.

He lifts his head at your call, moving again to push himself deeper into you, letting his remains leak inside and mix with your juices.

“M-making sure.” He grunts, pushing your shoulders down as he moves his body up towards the bedframe “just in case.”

He doesn't stop after that; taking only a quick break preparing himself for another round. You squeal at the sudden loss of his cock inside before he begins pounding back into you suddenly, your nails digging into his skin as you hold onto him. Your body trembles underneath him from the intensity and you moan as you feel him shoot into you again.

“Stay still.” He coos, stopping you from moving away. It feels like your pussy is flooding, your walls struggling to clench weakly around him.

You watch as he adjusts the pillow underneath your head, planting soft kisses over your face and neck. His cock twitches inside you with every movement and you jerk everytime, “Stay like this for a while,” he murmurs, wanting to make sure he had done everything possible.

“You’ll get tired like that.” You pout, worried his arms wouldn't be able to hold his weight for a long period of time.

“I can take it.” He whispers, leaning his cheek against your shoulder as he shifts to keep his weight off you.

Your eyes begin to droop and you can feel his heavy breaths calm down against your neck. With a hand on his back, you use your free hand to stroke his hair, his exhales becoming softer and softer as time passes.

Jaehyun lays quietly in your embrace, his cock softening inside you. “I think we did it,” he whispers, his voice low and only barely audible. You feel his words vibrate against your body and with your eyes closed you give a soft nod in agreement.

The Wanton Song

Summary: How do you broach the topic of sex with the 90-something super soldier you've found yourself dating? That's the reader's question. Luckily, she and Bucky are no strangers to awkward conversations...

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem!enhanced! Reader

(Reader can see bits and pieces of the future in visions and understands all languages)

Warnings: SMUT, tiny bit of angst, lotsa fluff, maybe some past dub!con if you squint

Author's note: Wow... here I am posting smut on the internet. Never thought that would happen. Tmi, but I'm married, so I have a good amount of sex 🙀 and I actually had a great first time, but some people don't, and that's what I tried to represent. That, and CONSENT!!!! Consent is sexy, y'all. Safe, sane and consensual all day every day.

As always, the reader's name isn't stated so that you can read as a self insert, but I've written so much at this point that I refer to the Reader as Violet in my own mind.

*************************************************

 Life has been going swimmingly these past few months. Better than ever before in fact, or at the very least, better than in a long time. She’s still a fugitive, living life looking over her shoulder, but now she has a steady job, a steady paycheck, and oh yeah, a steady boyfriend. Those three things have never aligned for her before (especially the last one). Overall, she’s pretty happy. But, because she’s her, there’s still a question niggling at the back of her mind.

 The transition from “you’re my only friend” to “we’re together now” went smoothly, helped in part by the fact that Barnes had been at that particular juncture the whole time. From the outside looking in, the only major changes have been the addition of those three simple but very key words and an upping the anti in the cuddles department.

 Speaking of cuddles, that’s a very mild term for what’s going on these days. It starts out innocent enough. The usual location is on the couch at one or the other’s apartment. There hadn’t been much distance between them since that first time where they ended up talking more than watching the movie playing from her laptop, but now, the space is nonexistent. As a general rule, within the first ten minutes, her legs somehow end up over his lap or in some way intertwined with is. The intention is always to pay attention to what’s on the screen but, well, when you’re that close, it would be rude not to snuggle up. And, when the other person looks that damn kissable, it would truly be insulting not to take the plunge.

 Now, considering the angle, one of them has to lean in. Otherwise, it would be awkward. That generally determines who, somewhere from two to ten minutes later, is on top of who. Of course hands wander, and even though it’s understood that the word “no” can be employed at any time and immediately obeyed (not to mention the copious amounts of “Is this okay”’s being asked), she can’t remember a time either of them have said it.

 If she had to attach a term to what comes next, it would be ‘dry humping.’ And then… nothing. It always ends far too soon, leaving her flustered and with her heart racing. At first she thought it was because he simply didn’t want her, but, well, there’s certain physical signs that point to that not being the problem. Her next guess was that he’s simply being respectful. Well, as sweet as that is, she’s ready to get on with it. She’s only human after all, and as such, has needs. Sure, she could take care of them herself, but if she had to guess, he’s experiencing those needs too, and from what she’s heard, it’s more fun to take care of it together.

 The only issue: how the hell do you bring something like this up, especially when the person you’re bringing it up with grew up in a much more repressed era than you did? She’s been debating it for the past week, and despite having multiple visions, none of them have given her that key insight into what to do.

 Finally, she decides to just say it. They’ve made a point to be honest with each other, and it’s probably best to get it out of the way. They’re adults, after all. They can have this discussion. She’s going to come straight out with it.

 “Hey, can I ask you something? It’s kind of personal, and maybe a little uncomfortable.”

 “Sure, Doll.” The response is immediate. “Fire away.”

 Glancing up to make sure they’re not at a pivotal scene in tonight’s movie (they have a system; at his place, watch something he grew up with, at hers, something made literally anytime after 1945), she spits out the whole sentence in one breathless go. “Are we ever going to have sex?”

 It feels like a branding iron where his arm is still wrapped around her shoulder. Still, it’s comforting. At least he’s not moving away.

 “I gotta admit, that’s not the question I was expecting. What brought this on?”

 She shrugs, carefully keeping her eyes trained on the wall behind his head instead of on him.

 “Nothing in particular. Just…” is there a delicate way to put this? “...I think things are going well between us, and sometimes when we’re together… I’ve noticed that there’s a physical response.” She’s really hoping that’ll suffice, because she can’t think of a good way to say “I can feel that you’re hard when you’re on top of me”.

 “Oh.”

 Apparently, her meaning is indeed clear enough, because he removes his arm from her shoulders. She’s about to apologize (all the while mentally berating herself) when his hand closes over hers.

 “I’m sorry about that, Doll. I’ll try to stay calmer.” Wait, that’s not- “It’s just an issue guys have. Don’t think it means you have to do anything that you don’t want to, because I would never-”

 “I know you wouldn’t.” Without thinking, she cuts him off. “And I want to.” It feels like she’s sitting in a sauna, she’s so flustered from this conversation. “But only if you do, and I understand if you didn’t-”

 “No.” It’s abrupt, cutting her off. A definite answer that leaves no room for questioning. “No, I do. I just-” He clears his throat. “-I didn’t want to bring it up, in case we weren’t on the same page. “ This seems to be a recurring theme, so far. “And it’s not a must. If you change your mind-”

 It’s pure instinct. There’s no thought involved as she closes the gap between them, this time with her on top, and presses  her lips against his. The response is immediate and enthusiastic. She considers just going on, not putting a stop to things, but realization hits that, although overall she’s ready for this to happen, she’s not ready for it to happen tonight. There’s still things she needs to take care of. Most importantly, protection.

 So, gasping for breath, she pulls away. “I’m calling for a rain check, but if after that, you still think I’ll change my mind-” she pushes back her hair and forces herself to take a deep breath. “-then you may just be beyond help, Barnes.” If the chuckle is anything to judge from, she’s made her point.

_________________________________________________________________________________

 Wow. Bucky thinks to himself as he exits out of the browser tab on his phone. That’s enough internet for one day. Too much, actually. He knows that it’s the information superhighway, but good god, no one needs THAT much information. He really needs to be more specific with what he googles… or less… or just not at all.

 He’d never admit it (and really, who the hell is gonna ask him anyway), but he spent the last hour looking up how to have sex. He’s engaged in the act before, yeah, but it was seventy years ago. Plus, it used to be this huge taboo thing that you suspected was going on behind closed doors, but no one (not even the married couples) owned up to it. If you were ever found out, there were severe consequences. As a man, he didn’t have to worry as much, but if whoever the woman was had her dirty laundry aired… oh boy. She’d be a pariah, a “scarlet woman”, unfit for marriage or to even give the time of day. That led to limited encounters, and, well, it just seemed smart to brush up on what information is out there. As it turns out, people have written a lot about the fine art of love making. Unfortunately for him, most of it is absolute garbage. Some of the positions he just read about (because at that point, the article was like a train wreck; he badly wanted to look away, but he couldn’t) don’t even sound possible, much less pleasurable. He’s all for society being freer, but good grief!

 He’s halfway through a bottle of straight vodka (it won’t have any effect, but he’s hoping maybe the alcohol will travel to his brain and sanitize his eyeballs from most of the shit he just read) when his phone rings. Great. He’s always happy to talk to her, but right now… wow. It’s gonna take him some time to recover, so he hopes she doesn’t need him to say much.

 “Hey, Doll.”

 “I am so fucking pissed off right now.” That sounds promising.

 “At what?”

 “The city of Bucharest, my apartment, the landlord, whoever the fuck did the plumbing in this building! God!” She’s clearly out of breath, so it takes a minute before she can speak again. “I’m sorry, Buck. It’s just that I came home from work, and one of my neighbors told me the entire sixth floor is under a good inch, inch and a half of water.” Wait-

 “How-”

 “I don’t know. Busted pipe. It’s leaked down onto the fifth floor, so I’ve got about fifty other pissed off people for company.”

 “Jesus.” 

 She chuckles harshly. “Yeah, we could use him right about now to perform a miracle. This is a shit show, and I haven’t even told you the best part.”

 “So the spontaneous flood wasn’t the highlight of your day?”

 “I fucking wish! So, naturally, I tried to call the landlord, along with basically everyone else. Get this: since it’s after five o’clock on a Friday, he’s not gonna do anything. Told us collectively to suck it up! And of course, when there’s a leak, they have to cut the power…” He’s starting to see a pattern here.

 She sighs. “I really needed to get that off my chest. How are you?” Still slightly weirded out by the information overload, but feeling a little more steady now that he’s got a good catastrophe to concentrate on. However, that’s probably not the best answer to go with.

 “Better than you are.”

 “What, the sky isn’t falling where you are?” He chuckles.

 “No, it’s right where it’s supposed to be.”  Which reminds him… “But since it seems like you’re short a functional home, why don’t you just stay here until they sort things out?” He’s got a couch that, while it doesn’t have anything on an actual bed, he can manage to sleep on for the next few nights. Or maybe they can share his bed. He shakes his head. That thought needs to be put to the side, even if it’s meant in the most innocent way possible. Of course, in case she decides to cash in that rain check…

 “Yes. I mean, that would be great, if you’re sure.”

 “I’m sure.” Actually, he can’t think of a better way to spend the weekend. The plan was to meet up either Saturday or Sunday, possibly both, so this isn’t that far out of the ordinary.

 “Okay, but just a warning: They’re not letting us go up to our floor in case there’s been electrical damage as well-” That’s smart. If the pipes are in that bad of condition, who knows what the wiring looks like. “-so all I have is my purse, backpack, and what I wore to work. No toothbrush or pajamas, or anything like that.”

 “That’s alright. All you have to bring is yourself.” He’ll have to look, but he’s pretty sure he has something in his closet that’ll work okay for her until she gets the all clear to go into her apartment. Plus, there’s a laundry mat just around the corner, not to mention a pharmacy.

 “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” 

 “Not a problem.” He glances at his bedside clock. Five thirty-four. It takes roughly half an hour to get across the city by bus, so… “I’ll see you around six fifteen?”

 “See you then.”

 As soon as the line goes dead, he springs into action. First thing’s first: make sure there’s no dirty clothes, old dishes, or trash laying around. That takes all of five minutes. He should probably check that he does indeed have something she can wear so they won’t have to fumble around later. Tshirts are pretty universal and… yes, he has a few pajama bottoms that have a drawstring waist. How much time does he have left? The phone screen lights up, giving him his answer. Twenty-seven minutes. More than enough time to run around the corner and pick up a few things.

 His intention is to buy the basics: spare toothbrush, deodorant, hairbrush, maybe a different shampoo than his three-in-one body wash (it’s convenient for him, but she might prefer something designated for hair specifically). But, well, there’s quite a few aisles, and he gets sucked in. Does he need to buy razors, or is that rude, like he thinks she’s hairy? What about aspirin? How often do most people get headaches? He honestly can’t remember. 

 By the time he realizes that he really needs to get a move on, his basket is full and he has no idea what aisle he’s on. Desperately, he looks around, and his eyes land on… huh. So they just have them out in the open these days. Last time he was in the market for that, he had to beg a married friend to make the purchase for him. He briefly wonders if he’ll need to produce proof of marriage or something similar, but pushes the thought to the side. It’s the 2000s. He can probably just go up to the register and pay, and no one will give him a second look. But there’s just one problem: which brand? He should google… suddenly remembering his adventure from earlier today, he decides to just go with his gut and pick one. There. Now, he needs to pay and get the fuck out of here because there’s only ten minutes left, and he’d rather not have these out in the open, in case she thinks that’s the reason he’s asked her to stay over. If it happens, great. If not… well, he’s made it for the past seventy years. What’s a few more?

___________________________________________________________________________________

 She was still pretty shaken up when she arrived at his apartment, carrying her backpack and purse, slightly damp from the drizzle of rain now covering the city. But immediately receiving a long hug, being instructed to make herself at home, and hearing the offer to take a shower so she could warm up did a lot to restore her good mood.

 It was one of the sweetest thing she’s ever experienced in a lifetime where most people have showed her their worst, going into that bathroom and finding a new toothbrush, stick of deodorant, nail clippers, hairbrush, and even shampoo. That and Barnes bashfully informing her that, “I’ll stay in the living room until you’re done. Take your time.” She almost suggested that he just join her in an attempt to broach the subject they left off on two nights ago, but thought better of it. She’s just started to strip when a knock comes from the other side of the wall.

 “Sorry. I just remembered that I forgot to give you a change of clothes. Can I leave them outside the door?” A smile forms on her face.  

 “Sure. Go ahead.” No one’s given this much thought to her comfort or boundaries before. Yet another reason she knows this is the right decision.

 She doesn’t stay in the shower for long, just enough time to wash and stop shivering. After toweling off and brushing out her hair, she cracks open the door. Sure enough, a worn but clean tshirt and pair of pajama bottoms are waiting for her. The familiar scent of the laundry detergent he uses envelopes her as she dresses and, at long last, leaves the safety of the bathroom.

 True to his word, he’s still sitting on the couch, thumbing through a book she gave him some months back (he’s missed so many feats of literature that have made their way into pop culture; today’s choice is The Hobbit because, while it was out before everything happened to him, he’s never read it) when she emerges. Just in case he’s so absorbed that he hasn’t heard her, she repeats his gesture from earlier and knocks softly on the wall.

 “Hey. I’m out. You can have your apartment back.”

 “Hey.” That smile always makes her feel slightly unsteady on her feet. “Find everything okay?”

 “I did.” She settles into the place next to him. “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to go out and get supplies.”

 “I know.” He nods, hand closing around hers. “But I wanted to make sure you had whatever you needed.”

 They chat for a while about their days, discuss what they should do with the weekend ahead, even throw out ideas for dinner. The entire time, she’s trying to figure out the best way to bring up that she’d really like to finish what they started the other night. However, by the time he’s left to grab some sort of takeout, she’s still no closer to an answer.

 Fortunately, their dates usually follow a pattern. Food, a movie, and then the not-so-innocent cuddles. This time, he’s on top of her when she feels the tell-tale sign that he’s as fired up as she is, so she suggests,

 “Do want to maybe move to somewhere more comfortable?” His already dilated pupils grow even larger, and he nods.

 “Yeah. That sounds like a plan.” She waits for him to roll off of her and head towards the bedroom before she grabs her purse and, digging around inside, grabs one of the foil packages she bought after their last date.

 It’s only once she closes the door behind her, shutting them into an enclosed space with a bed (not to mention it’s pretty damn clear what both of their intentions are), that nerves get the better of her.  He takes a step towards her, and she leans up to kiss him, but he ducks his head out of the way.

 “You’re shaking.” His hand ghosts over her arm, making it obvious that, by comparison, she’s practically vibrating on the spot.

 “Sorry.” She chuckles nervously. “It’ll pass.”

 “It’s alright.” As he says it, he meets her eyes. “We can stop. Nothing has to happen.”

 “I know.” She nods, swallowing hard. “But I want it to.” Their lips briefly meet before he pulls away again.

 “Let me ask you, just before we get started, is this-” He stops short, eyes darting from her face to the wall and back again. “...have you… before?” Oh. “Not that it matters, not to me, I just wanted to know so that-”

 “I have.” She nods, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “Once. I was eighteen, and-” It was awful. She’d been seeing the guy for a few months and he kept whining about her not putting out, so she decided to get it over with. He went in dry without any warning, and when she asked him to stop, give her a second to adjust, he told her he couldn’t. She was bleeding and in pain for days afterwards, and to top it off, when her period was late, she thought that, even though he’d pulled out, she was pregnant. That turned out not to be the case, but it, along with the fact that she usually doesn’t stay in one place for very long, has put a damper on her ever wanting to do that again. Except for now. “-it wasn’t a great experience.”

 “I’m sorry.” On instinct, she searches for the judgment in his face, the disgust. It’s nowhere to be found, only genuine sympathy. “I’ll do my best to make sure this time is better. That is, if you’re still up to it.”

 “I am.” Not waiting for a reply, she wraps her arms around him and starts trailing kisses up his neck towards his ear. “I am. I trust you.” She hears his breath catch, but before she can comment, he’s hoisted her up and is carrying her in the direction of the bed.

 As he sets her down, she pulls him on top of her, letting her hands wander over his sides, up his back. After a few moments, she feels his fingers move from her hips to toy with the hem of her… his.. shirt.

 “Is this okay? Can I take this off?” She starts to nod, but remembers just in time that he’s so close, they’d butt heads.

 “Please.” She expected to feel exposed once she was at least partially undressed, but instead she feels… adored. His eyes are roaming over her newly exposed skin, though his hands have respectfully returned to her waist. In a moment of confidence, she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra. There. Now she’s completely shirtless.

 “You’re so beautiful.” The flush from her cheeks is spreading down her neck, but she still smiles.

 “Care to make things even?” It’s brief, but she catches the look of hesitation.

 “Sure.” Before she can offer to do it, he shrugs his shirt over his head, revealing to her, for the first time, the entirity of his metal arm. She must look for a moment too long, because with a shrug, he informs her, “I can put my shirt back on. No big deal. I know there’s some scarring…” That’s not going to fly. She needs to reassure him, make him feel as desired as he’s made her feel.

 “Or if you want to stop-” She stands and, after briefly making eye contact, places a kiss on the most prominent scar.

 “Don’t you dare think that way for a second.” They’re flush against each other, chest to bare chest. “Not for one.” Slowly, she slides her hands from his shoulders down to his waist, hesitating just over the button. “Is this okay?” Another shakey breath.

 “Yes.”

 Going forward, it’s much less awkward. The rest of their clothing is shed, and soon they’re back to their previous position; on the bed, with him on top of her. She feels his fingertips brush the inside of her thigh and gasps.

 “May I touch you?” She nods.

 “You’d better.”

 It’s gentle, more of him feeling her out than anything else. Still, she can’t help but think this is infinitely better already than last time around. Suddenly, he pulls his hand away, and it takes all her effort not to whine at the loss of contact. Before she can ask if something’s wrong, does he want to stop, he’s flat on his stomach, head between her legs.

 “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

 “What-” Her breath catches as it becomes infinitely clear what he’s doing.

 Again, she’s expecting pain when, after several minutes he eases a finger into her, but at this point, she’s so wet that there’s absolutely no difficulty.

 “Are you okay?” She nods.

 “Don’t stop.”

 The process is agonizingly slow, he’s so intent on his task. When, finally, he pulls away, she’s so close that she can almost taste it.

 “Do you still want to-”

 “If you don’t stop asking me that, I’m gonna slap you.” It’s a joke, and she thinks he knows it, but just to be sure, she siezes his hand (the metal one, which is usually cold but has now warmed from being held close against her body. “I’m ready, so long as you want this too.”

 “I do. You wouldn’t believe how much.” Yeah, she thinks she would. “Just give me a second.” Perfect timing. He rolls off of her, which gives her the opening she needs to grab the packet she managed to hide under the pillow while he was… otherwise distracted. When he returns from digging inside the wardrobe, she holds it up, only to realize-

 “Oh.” He’s got one as well. “Seems like we both came prepared.”

 He chuckles. “Just in case, although that wasn’t why I asked you to stay.”

 “I know.” She nods and pats the space next to her. “Not why I said yes either, although I can’t say I’m disappointed.”

 He returns to the bed and drops his packet onto the nightstand. “Save this one for later?”

 “Definitely.”

 There is a bit of discomfort once he starts to push inside her, but it’s not painful. Just… overwhelming. Slightly embarassed she asks,

 “Can you wait a second? Please?”

 “Of course. Are you alright?” She shifts her hips slightly, making them both groan.

 “Fine. You can move now.”

 She may have only done this once before, and she has no idea what his experience consists of, but as she hits her peak mere seconds before he does, gently coaxed over the edge, she can’t help but think some things are better the second time around.

 “I love you.” It’s whispered against her neck as, once she cleans up and returns to bed, she settles herself against him.

 “I love you too.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

 The first thing he thinks when he realizes that he’s not alone in bed is that HYDRA’s found him. He’s being activated. His eyes shoot open although apart from that he doesn’t move a muscle, and that’s when he recognizes the person next to him. It’s her. She’s here.

 The events of last night come back to him all at once, and he feels a smile forming on his face. It’s been a while, and in any case, it would be wrong to run a comparison, but what they shared, the pure intimacy of it both physically and mentally was incredible. Maybe he should feel a sense of shame. That’s what he was taught growing up. But instead he feels… peaceful.

 That is, until her eyelids flutter and she rolls over, shifting the covers so that he gets a good view of her still naked body, and with it, the bruises on her thighs and hips. Bruises unmistakably left by his fingers. Dammit. He’s done the last thing he ever wanted to do: he’s hurt her.

 “Good morning, sleepy head.” She yawns, the teasing words muffled. “It seems like we overslept.”

 His mouth goes dry, and all he can manage to choke out is a simple, “Yeah.”

 She frowns, sitting up slightly, and lets out a small groan. “You alright there, Bucky? You look a little off.” The late morning light only serves to highlight more marks he’s left, this time on her shoulders, neck, and breasts. Stubble burn. Hickeys. Why the hell was he so rough? At the time, he thought he was being gentle, but obviously he’s just as much of a monster as Bucky Barnes as he is once the Winter Soldier takes over.

 She’s still staring at him, brow furrowing in concern.

 “Fine.” He clears his throat and begins to sit up. “Stay here. I’ll make you a cup of tea, maybe some oatmeal.”

 “Alright. Don’t be gone too long.”

 Her words follow him out of the room, and into the kitchen. Fuck. He should’ve known better. 

Maybe once upon a time, he was a decent man, one who could be with a woman like  her and not do her a disservice. But now, it’s clear that he falls short in every way. In an act that was supposed to be pure pleasure, a way of communicating how much they mean to each other, he’s hurt her.

 “I trust you.” The words from last night ring in his ears. He shouldn’t have let her. It’s pretty damn obvious that, even at the best of times, he can’t be trusted.

 “Tell me what’s going on.” Even with his enhanced senses, he still jumps in surprise as the unexpected words come from behind him. He turns around slowly, not wanting to startle her. She’s standing there, clad in only one of his shirts, arms crossed over her chest (now bearing his marks), staring him down.

 “Nothing.” He shakes his head.

 “Bullshit. I had a vision of you staring off into space, and here you are, jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” At another time, her choice in phrases would make him chuckle, but right now, he can’t muster it.

 “Last night-” Her eyes widen, but she stays silent. “I hurt you.”

 “No, you didn’t. Not at all.”

 “I did.”

 She frowns. “Bucky, I think I’d know if you’d hurt me, and I’m telling you, I’m fine.”

 “Doll, look at yourself!” He reaches out to take her arm, but immediately freezes. “Go in the bathroom and take off your shirt. Take a good look in the mirror and then tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

 “Alright.” Her jaw clenches, and she marches off in the direction of the bathroom. A deep sickness gnaws at the pit of his stomach and, completely worn out, he sinks into a kitchen chair.

 Not thirty seconds pass before she walks back into the room, this time completely undressed.

 “Tell me you’re not talking about a few love bites.”

 “And bruises! You may not have noticed, but they’re in the exact shape of my fingertips.”

 “Oh my god!” She shakes her head. “It’s a sex injury. A minor one at that! If you didn’t heal so damn fast, you’d probably have nail marks all over your back!”

 “That’s not the same thing.”

 “How is it not the same thing?”

 “I’m a monster! And you’re not.”

 She takes a determined step towards him, and he leans as far back as the chair will allow.

 “Bucky, you are not a monster, and I am not afraid of you.”

 “Then you’re stupid.” He hates himself for his sharp words, but she needs to take this seriously. Underestimating how dark, how evil he can be, is a mistake. A deadly one.

 “Hey!”

 “Don’t you get it?” Without any input from his brain, he stands. “They could find me, and with a few words, I could stare you dead in the eyes as I murdered you! If you were my mission, I wouldn’t even hesitate, and you’d be dead before your body hit the floor!” Her mouth falls open, but she immediately closes it again. “This isn’t something that can be worked through with some patience and a positive attitude! I could kill you!”

 “So could a million other things!” Her voice rises in volume, and before he can contain it-

 “But they’re not in the bed sleeping next to you!” He’s shouting at her. God. Everyone is right. He’s beyond saving.

 A few tense seconds pass before she looks up at him, a steely look in her eyes.

 “Look, I get it. I know what you could do to me.” As she speaks, she pulls out a chair and sits. “But I could also get run over when I cross the road, or the room could fill with carbon monoxide while I sleep. I could have an aneurysm and drop before anyone knows what’s happening.”

 He opens his mouth to tell her the likelihood of any of those things happening is far lower than the chance that he’ll hurt her, this time in a major way, but she holds up a hand, silencing him.

 “I’m gonna be cautious, but I’m also not going to live my life in fear that the ceiling is going to collapse or nuclear war is going to strike, or that someone is gonna turn up and say the magic words that make you go cuckoo for cocoa puffs-” What? “-and I just realized you’re too old for that reference.”

 “That’s another thing-” He’s about to remind her exactly how big their age gap is, that although he’s physically close to her age, chronologically, he’s closer to the age of her great grandfather, but she lets out a sudden groan of frustration, and that makes him bite his tongue.

 “Oh, fuck off, Barnes! If you’re about to start in on how you’re too old for me, then I’m not gonna wait for you to go full Winter Soldier before I kick your ass!” Out of all things, that’s what snaps him out of it, makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance they can make the best of things.

 Smirking, he asks her,

 “You think you could kick my ass? Really?” It must be the breaking point for her too, because she snickers.

 “Of course. It’s the little bitches you have to watch out for.”  That’s it, he’s laughing, nearly doubled over, and from the looks of things, she’s in much the same state.

 “You’re something else, you know that?” He asks between stilted breaths.

 “I think we both fit in that category, Pal.” Her smile fades, but only slightly. “Bucky, if you really want me to go, if that’s what’ll give you peace, then I’ll do it, but I meant what I said. I trust you.” Never. He’ll never want her to go, he’s sure of it. Well then, that only leaves one option.

 “I know what we’re doing today.” It’s an abrupt segue, but it’s the only thing he could come up with on short notice.

 “And what’s that?”  The microwave dings, reminding him that he needs to stir the oatmeal, and he pushes past her.

 “Sit down and have your tea. You’re going to need all your energy if I’m gonna show you how to use a gun.” If she’s staying, then at least he can teach her how to defend herself beyond the basics she already knows.

 “So I guess this means you’re keeping me around for a little while longer?” It’s spoken like a joke, but he turns to her, meeting her eyes to drive the point home.

 “Yeah, Doll. As long as you want me."

I was reading your unpopular opinions post and saw your buccellati is an incompetent capo without integrity point which is an interesting take! Would you mind explaining your thoughts to me?

I have hinted this in previous posts but time to compile them in a long one. However, do keep in mind integrity as a capo is different from that as a person. Sometimes they overlap: Polpo was corrupted as a person (a personification of greed) and that greed leaked into his integrity as a capo. As we see his own zone is in shambles during the opening of VA and probably what inspired Giorno to decide Passione needs a better leader. For Bruno, he is actually a kind person, but he doesn’t make the best leader.

So by *integrity* I will use the meaning of “being whole and undivided”, or said in a better way “how much do your decisions or ideals conflict?” So a person would have low integrity if his decisions really go in conflict with his stated ideals. Integrity is befuddled with morality plenty of times, but I want to make the case that it is separate: integrity only measures how much the actions of a system conflict with its core values. Morality comes into play when these conflicts have real consequences on people’s lives.

I’ll also compare Bruno with Risotto, because I see Risotto as a better leader and I want to illustrate by contrast. LONG POST AHEAD

So to start, why is Bruno inefficient? I think his inefficiency as a capo comes from his inherent kindness. It’s a bit like that part in Black panther, where the now dead king says: You are a good man, and it’s hard for a good man to be king. As a capo you have to prioritize your own team; because that’s why they are willing to sacrifice for you in the first place. So sometimes to be efficient you have to take decisions that to you as a *person* may be morally appalling but they’re needed for the greater good of the team. If you think about it murder doesn’t sound okay... but you can justify why Bucci Gang had to commit plenty of murders with regards to their team goal of getting up in the ranks. Or that it is just work assigned by the boss, and so on.

When it comes to Bruno we see him unwilling to harm citizens. Yeah I know he used this guy’s body in his fight with Giorno, but could be the Vegeta effect: at first the author makes us see this guy as bad bc he’s a villain and his personality suddenly changes a lot after he’s baptized as a good guy. I feel mangakas do change small details about characters as time goes on; overall their personality is constant but there are slip ups. Also Bruno may consider those that take drugs to not be worthy citizens... But overall Bruno is okay with torturing a 15 year old boy bc this boy is linked to the mafia by killing Luca, but he’s not okay with sacrificing a 15 year old  girl bc she didn’t choose to be thrown into the mess the boss made. That’s a kind decision, and Bruno really acted like a father to Trish; but that’s a dumb and inefficient decision with regards to his team. As Fugo said, they had done plenty of vile things before, so what’s special about abandoning another girl? You can’t endanger the whole team that has served you and put their life on the line, and then just quit and tell them go do whatever, follow me or not, I don’t care.

In my opinion, one thing people don’t talk about leadership, is that when shit hits the fan the leader is someone that is willing to shoulder the responsibility. A team-member can be relieved from the stress of making a hard decision if they say: my capo made me do it. You can’t be blamed if you are a mindless machine that follows orders. And that’s what keeps you sane in morally grey situations where the answer is not obvious. The leader on the other hand, in return for all the power and the willingness of each team member to be his pawn, has to shoulder the burden of the hard decision as well as its moral blame. He has to live with the fact of being the hand that pulled the trigger, and be the ONE to take the decision that no one else wants to take (bc it’s a mentally taxing thing to do).

So you can’t have a capo like Bruno who cannot take hard decisions, but instead unloads that burden on their team: think for yourselves. Definitely makes sense for the team to be self-sufficient on their own, but the capo sets the team goals, so if you area capo, in a hierarchy, you can’t have every member doing their own thing bc it will lead to chaos. You can’t unburden the decision of “following the capo or not” onto Narancia, bc he didn’t sign up for it. He signed up to be a follower and Bruno just changed the terms and conditions (more on this in a moment). Deciding to betray the boss was a capo-level decision, getting on that boat was a capo-level decision, and Bruno the capo just throws that decision burden away and onto his teammates; you pilot your own plane now I don’t care I never trained you and it was out of the blue. (Don’t come with the argument of maybe they all wanted to be capos one day. Sure, but you don’t train fledgling capos on a life and death situation of betraying the boss! It should be a gradual process, not throwing in the towel so your members have to pick up your slack. Bruno highhandedly dissolved the Bucci Gang as a team with no warning and on the worst situation possible for all his members-- when shit hit the fan his answer was to prioritize this stranger girl instead of his own team.)

Inefficiency is linked with lack of integrity bc if your actions conflict with your core values you won’t get much done. A good capo (different from a good person) would have set some capo core values, as well as core goals for his team, and would disclose those to his team members. There’s a contract between the capo and the team member, with terms and conditions; the member follows and sacrifices for capo’s vision because of tangible benefits that come from rising up the ladder. Sure, in many cases people follow for reasons that are not in the “contract”: we have Narancia following bc he respected Bruno, Abbacchio has a one-sided crush, etc. But the reason they were all elated when Bruno became capo is that all members knew they would have power and other benefits coming from them raising in the ranks of Passione. They trust the capo to stay true to the disclosed values and goals, because TRUST is of the essence.

Now what does Bruno do? He has a different contract with the newcomer Giorno, which he doesn’t disclose to the other team members. It’s not smart to play favorites, especially if you have nothing to justify this preference with regards to what the other team members know. We slowly see signs of distrusts or at the very least anxiety appearing in Bucci Gang; Abbacchio and Fugo question why Bruno trusts Giorno so much. It eventually culminates with Fugo breaking away, because Bruno has no integrity as a capo.

In the boat scene, Bruno prioritized his personal trauma and feelings: Trish reminds him of himself and his complicated relationship with his father. But your personal feelings should not come above your capo core values. (There are core personal values and core capo values, and you cannot mix them up as you please). Other members also have had shitty lives and personal feelings, but they don’t deviate from the team values bc they trust their capo won’t either. Why should Bruno’s feelings be special? Fugo rightfully asks why Bruno suddenly changed their contract, for a girl they don’t even know. And Fugo is right; Bruno betrayed his trust, along with the team’s trust: he didn’t uphold the contract and didn’t disclose his real intentions and core values to them. Not only that, but Fugo is made out to be a coward for not getting into that boat, but how could he follow a capo that no longer has  integrity? Fugo did the logical thing: his capo who he trusted broke his trust for a stranger, changed the contract, and no one even knows what the new contract is. What are the new core values for the team? What are the new goals? Bruno can’t even lead well anymore, and slowly everyone starts seeing Giorno as more of a leader (Narancia in the fight with Squalo and Tiziano). Because Giorno’s core values and actions align: he has integrity. Why would someone smart like Fugo follow a now chaotic leader like Bruno, who doesn’t even care how much the team has sacrificed for them and breaks their trust as if it were the right thing to do.

Compare that to a team like La Squadra, and it’s sad we don’t see more of their interactions. But from what we see, it’s telling that no one defected, unlike in Bruno’s Gang. And I doubt it’s bc these men were more friends or buddies than Bruno’s Gang. I’m willing to bet they have their own subgroups, and some severely dislike one another. But they stick together bc Risotto’s integrity has a leader has trickled down to his own team: they trust that Risotto will make the hard decisions when the time comes. And they trust he won’t betray the trust and sacrifice they have put into this.

Unlike Bruno who has favorites, it seems Risotto treats his men equally, since he divides the pay among them. It also seems the team clearly knows their core values and goals, otherwise they wouldn’t be so secure in following their leader. You can’t just follow blindly, if the leader doesn’t prove himself that his actions do align with the values he has disclosed to you.

As an example of Risotto putting his team’s values over his own personal feelings: Sorbet and Gelato’s death. We know he’s Sicilian and stereo-typically so at times. In the backstory, the murderer of his cousin is punished by law, but Risotto still kills him... bc blood is a family issue. You have to take honor in your own hands and inflict punishment. Mafia is a bit like family too, so the boss killing two of Risotto’s men has caused harm and humiliation to the entire team. No one will persuade me that Risotto’s initial reaction wasn’t to bust down Diavolo’s door (once he found him) and make him pay for the blood he spilled from his “squadra tree”. But he kept those feelings down, he swallowed the humiliation, bc seeking personal revenge on Sorbet and Gelato would be the foolish thing to do. It’s what Risotto the man would do, but now what Risotto the capo should do. He made the decision to bear the humiliation himself, as the capo who didn’t avenge his fallen men, and it took courage to say: “forget about those two, as if they never existed”. He swallowed both his Sicilian and capo pride in that statement. And he probably stays up at night thinking on how he would want Diavolo to pay through his nose.

In fact, La Squadra didn't’ defect again until Trish appears and they have a real chance at taking down the boss. And even then, Formaggio brings up the financial benefits of being the new leaders of Passione: it’s not just about the humiliation of having Sorbet and Gelato killed, but there are clear financial benefits to them following Risotto this time, and that’s worth sacrificing for. And Risotto doesn’t just up and change his terms and conditions as he pleases, so that makes their men feel secure. You can be angry all you want at Prosciutto killing an entire train, but if you’re need a team partner, would you want Bruno who will change his mind bc one guy on the train reminds him of his dad, or Prosciutto who to protect his own team is willing to kill an entire train? I think a lot of courage in Bucci Gang comes from the inherent virtues in his team members: Narancia is loyal by nature. In La Squadra, since even someone like Melone has “team virtues” it probably comes from the way the leader inspires them all and the kind of environment he has created. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather take the team that guarantees no one will abandon my ass in a mission, bc the capo has high integrity.

On a tangential note, I do believe Bruno is kinder than Risotto; I feel Risotto is more just than he is kind. But maybe for a leader it is more important to be just then, because too much kindness will get you into contradicting the core values you set up for your team.

Uchiha Therapist: Part II

Synopsis: Yandere! Madara x Reader x Yandere! Sasuke

[Name] is a struggling post graduate psychology student who has more on her plate than she can handle. Between her practicums to gain work experience and writing reports, to trying to maintain a decent lifestyle and look after her own mental health, there is little to no time left to work an actual paying job. Yet, money is essential for survival. So,  she does the next best thing that has been trending recently to assure a good paycheck; she becomes a sugar baby. The only thing is, [Name] is unaware that she’s become sugar baby of the Madara Uchiha, the notorious CEO of Uchiha Corporation. She is also unaware of the fact that she’s the therapist of his nephew Sasuke Uchiha, who has begun treading over the professional boundary of a patient, and has started developing an abnormal fixation for his therapist since she seems to be the only one who actually understands him.

Warning: Although this story will come to contain yandere themes that can be triggering or uncomfortable to read, there are no yandere themes present  in this chapter. It does have mentions of negative and tiring thoughts that may be triggering. Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional and any yandere or other toxic behaviours that may be present in the future, know that I do not condone such behaviour.

Word Count: 4.1K

–

Story start; A day in the life of Madara Uchiha

It was no surprise really, when the ticking of the clock seemed to become louder with each passing second, and the loudness of it in the agonising silence started to grate on Madara’s nerves. The unforgiving light of the desktop screens in front of him that he worked on constantly in his office, were beginning to hurt his eyes; it left them feeling dried up and sore. The enormous piles of paperwork that were stacked on his desk, and a few more piles on other parts of his office, was the work he had yet to do. Although Madara spent the majority of his time cooped up in his office – some would go as far as to say that he lived in it or was married to it, more and more work simply continued to pile up.

Madara had been employed into the CEO role for the Uchiha corporation for about five years now. In saying so, he had been trained to take over the company and become a diligent, intelligent, intimidating worker– and other adjectives used to describe him, since his toddler days. Growing up with rigid rules and strict parent(s) who had unrealistic high expectations and standards laid out for their children to achieve, came hand-in-hand with his side of the family. It would be unfair to claim that all Uchiha forcefully pushed their children beyond humane capacities.

Granted that their family overall did strive for the best, but mostly in their own capabilities. While achieving excellent results was a driving factor, everyone was encouraged to give it their all because it was the value of hard work that mattered the most. Whether that was an individual working their hardest to overcome their depression and learning to live a better life for themselves, or someone who wanted to be a surgeon and then being expected to commit wholly to their studies – the standard for each person differed; there was no set limits. Madara was satisfied as long as everyone did their best to achieve their own goals and kept up with their well-being. Madara was like this because it was the life he wished he would have had, rather than the one his father and older brother had forced him into.

Having to grow up in the environment that he had, he had missed out on many experiences that were the bare minimum for the majority. Certainly, it had made him stronger mentally and emotionally to the point he was now; at least, that was what he thought. Perhaps, that thinking was the foolish part of him that he was not aware of. Having to grow up in the environment that he had, any sane person would have lost a part of their sanity in one way or another.

Returning back to the original point that the author wanted to explain before she saw the opportunity to introduce a little bit of Madara’s back story, while Madara was more than accustomed to the demanding duties of his work, it did not mean it made it any easier. The lack of sleep and proper nutrition was slowly beginning to affect his health. What would be many hours at work he could get through robotically made him hate his work even more now; it was beginning to become unbearable. The words on the paper he had to read through to decide whether to sign them or not were beginning to blur.

Madara let out an exasperated sigh as he picked up his cup of mocha from beside him and mindlessly gunned down the last few remaining sips. He tossed it carelessly in the bin that was beside his desk, before moving the paperwork away from him and laying his head on his desk.

The sound of his office door opening was heard, and before the person entering had even spoken, Madara felt a vein pop on his forehead out of annoyance.

“Don’t,” he ordered sternly. He could not spare a single bother to even lift his head up to acknowledge the person who had entered.

While Izuna truly did feel bad for his older brother and often took on much of his workload in order to support him, seeing him act so childish and feeling a bit deflated was funny. It was even more entertaining when he rubbed the salt in his wound.

“Big bad Uchiha-sama defeated by mere paperwork? Wait till I leak this to the media to get some money and start a scandal,” he remarked chuckling.

Madara groaned in response, and this time, he did lift his head up to address Izuna as he spoke. “Don’t start unnecessary crap Izuna. You and I both know the bastard will use whatever he can against me.”

At the mention of the ‘bastard’, whatever signs of humour was lingering on Izuna’s face were wiped away. The raven-haired pressed his lips in a thin line to affirm his shared distaste of the bastard that Madara had mentioned.

“You know I would never do that Aniki. I’ll always be on your side,” Izuna spoke seriously, as he sat down on the chair opposite of Madara, and settled a box of food on his desk. Instantly, Madara grabbed the box and pulled it towards himself. When he opened it to reveal a few pieces of inarizushi, his eyes lit up. He gave Izuna a sincere smile, although it was etched with a tinge of exhaustion.

“I know Izuna, if no one else, I know I can always count on you and you can always count on me. For that, and everything else you always do to support me, I will always be grateful to have such a caring little brother,” Madara said grinning. The slightly over-the-top complement had seemed to embarrass Izuna the way Madara had intended to because now, the younger male of the two was housing the colour pink on his cheeks.

“W-Whatever,” Izuna retorted scowling, as he snatched a piece of inarizushi from the lunch he had bought for Madara as a way to get his revenge. While this action did in fact displease Madara, he chose not to comment on it since he needed to be on Izuna’s good side for what he was about to ask.

Madara took one bite out of one of the inarizushi, and nodded in satisfaction at its taste, before he focused his gaze onto Izuna.

“I need you to step in for me this Friday night. I have somewhere to be,” he said nonchalantly. Well, he hoped he sounded nonchalant as to not raise any suspicion. But he knew that the way he had spoken was the tone he used when he wanted to hide something. Barely anyone would be able to notice it, however Izuna was not just anyone. And no matter how much he had wanted to hide it, Izuna had definitely noticed it.

Izuna furrowed his eyebrows. “Again? You needed me to step in last week too. I don’t mind, but it’s not like you to do that. I mean, I’m glad that you seem to be doing something other than work because you work way too much but I’m just curious… Wait, you aren’t doing that sugar baby thing again are you?” He accused, narrowing his eyes.

Madara’s shoulders tensed at Izuna’s accusatory tone. However, before he even had the chance to defend himself (lie his way through more like it) Izuna continued to speak.

“Nii-san, I understand how you feel but that’s not the way to handle things. If you want to settle down, there are women in our clan that will be suitable for you. Or if you need to, we can arrange therapy for you so you have someone confidential to talk to–” Izuna began to ramble, and Madara growled.

“Izuna I don’t need to settle down with a clan woman. And you and I both know no therapy we attend will be confidential because of that bastard and the elders–” Madara started to hiss. However, before he could continue, there was a knock on his office door, causing both of the brothers to freeze.

In the midst of their banter and serious talk, both had seemed to have forgotten they should have been keeping the volume of their voice to a minimum. Usually, both Madara and Izuna were proactive about discussing secrets and making sure no one was eavesdropping and whatnot. However, seemingly both seemed to be so exhausted that it must have slipped their minds. Now, they could only hope that they had not been overheard, and if they had been, whoever it was, would keep whatever they heard to themselves.

“Madara-sama may we come in?” A familiar voice inquired. Both brothers looked at each other as if they were deer caught in headlights before they managed to calm themselves down. Then, they sat back in their seats in a way that would lead one to assume they had been discussing very important business.

“Come in,” Madara responded stoically. Now, he was no longer the merrier man who allowed himself to be expressive in a vulnerable way like he was with Izuna. Now, he was the unshakable Uchiha CEO, who kept others onto the edge of their seat.

The door opened to reveal Shisui and Itachi. Once the two had entered, Itachi who was behind Shisui, made sure to close the door behind them.

Shisui wore his usual friendly smile on his face as he greeted his superiors (who were nearly the same age as him and Itachi), while Itachi had a neutral expression. He merely nodded as a greeting to acknowledge both Madara and Izuna. He knew that while both brothers held nothing against Shisui or even him, there was a sense of discomfort and mistrust amongst them because of how they were related. It was at times like this that Itachi was reminded of his position in the clan – the position that he absolutely hated. If it was not for him and his damn status, then people around him would not be kept at an arm’s distance like he was; Shisui would be in a position in the corporation that he was more than experienced for, but did not get due to Madara’s and Izuna’s distrust in anyone that was close to him.

“Here is all the paperwork to extend our links into the art industry with the Yamanaka corporation. The discussions surrounding the contract for our joint collaboration was a success,” Shisui confirmed, as he handed all the paperwork over to Izuna, who began to skim read through it already.

Madara nodded in acknowledgement. “Good work you too.” And in response to this, both Shisui and Itachi nodded back.

Generally speaking, that was meant to be the end of the conversation and a sign for them to excuse themselves, unless Madara would hint that he needed them to stay to assign their next task right away. However, as Itachi went to leave, because he did not want to overstay his welcome and be around Madara and Izuna for more than what was necessary, Shisui had grabbed onto his arm to prevent him from leaving. This action was not missed by Madara or Izuna, and they both raised an eyebrow at them.

“Was there something else you two needed?” Madara asked.

“Forgive us for overstepping our boundaries but we could not help but hear,” Shisui started, and right away his words caused Madara and Izuna to tense. Itachi’s eyes widened as he realised what Shisui was about to do and he instantly shook his head, while trying to pull his arm out of his best friend’s grip.

“Shisui, you’re overstepping your boundaries don’t include me onto your schemes. They hate me enough as it is and if Father finds out–“ Itachi started whispering in panic. However, Shisui gripped his arm tighter to give him reassurance which made him silence himself.

“Shisui I encourage you two to think twice before saying what you’re going to say,” Izuna warned in a low tone, and narrowed his eyes at the two. While his threat would have scared anyone else, Shisui stood his ground and continued to give them a bright grin.

“We heard about Izuna-san prompting Madara-sama to seek therapy but having concerns around that given the nature of some people in our clan,” Shisui started. Near the end of his sentence, his voice had lowered to signify to them that he understood their concerns. However, that was not what annoyed Madara. What annoyed him was that not only his brother, but now other members of his clan were suggesting he needed therapy. For some reason, that assumption really ticked him off.

“Even though it may not seem like it, we care about your well-being, both of us do. We have no intention of saying anything to you know who, especially considering we’re in a similar situation.”

Izuna raised an eyebrow. “Really? Are you now? I wonder what he could possibly have against his star son who was groomed to do his bidding,” Izuna accused. At this, anger flooded Itachi. He was going to growl at Izuna but one look from Shisui prevented him from lashing out in any way that might be detrimental.

Izuna looked pleased for having getting underneath Itachi’s nerves.

“As you may know, Sasuke is in therapy right now,” Shisui started and Madara scoffed.

“I actually did not know that. Good to know the members of our own clan are keeping secret from us,” he accused, and this caused Shisui to sigh exasperatedly.

“Well, we’re not keeping any secrets since we’re telling you about this, and it’s a sign of trust because Madara-sama, just like you, if there’s nothing else, Itachi cares the most about his younger brother,” Shisui explained, narrowing his eyes. At this, Madara’s eyes flickered to Itachi who tensed under his scrutinizing stare. Then after exchanging a look with Izuna, both brothers refrained themselves from making any further accusations and signalled Shisui to continue. The mediator between the two parties sighed in relief.

“We have managed to find a therapist who will assure confidentiality of her clients no matter the threats. We did… threaten her so we could sit in with Sasuke during his sessions to assure it went according to what Fugaku-sama wanted. But she refused to allow that unless Sasuke consented to it. I know, you may not believe us so what you do with this knowledge is up to you. We only ask that you don’t inform Fugaku-sama of what we’ve told you in mutual agreement that we will not discuss anything we overheard here. I will just leave the therapist’s contact details here,” Shisui said, as he settled a small business like card with contact information on Madara’s desk.

Then instantly, he bowed before he grabbed Itachi once again, and forced them to hurriedly leave the room.

“We’ll be taking our leave now. I wish you the best.”

As Shisui shut the door behind him after they left, Madara mindlessly took the card Shisui had given him and shoved it into his pocket as Izuna watched him.

"Will you–”

“One more mention of me needing therapy and you’ll regret it.”

The moment Shisui and Itachi were out of the suffocating atmosphere they had experienced with Madara and Izuna, and were at a safe distance where no one was around to hear the young prodigy go off, Itachi went off.

The glare he gave Shisui was cold and vicious, enough to have made a mama bear protective of her cubs freeze over. Internally, Shisui started to pray for his funeral and he sweat dropped.

“Geez, your glare is so cold and vicious a mama bear protective of her cubs would freeze over,” Shisui remarked light-heartedly, trying to improve the mood. However, he had simply succeeded in making Itachi’s glare harden.

“I know you can be impulsive Shisui and like to live ‘life dangerously’ but what you did back there was downright foolish. Our relations are sensitive enough as it is and they don’t trust me because of my parentage. You know we have to cautious around them or Father will–”

“Or your father will beat us up with the stick that’s always up his ass, yeah yeah I know,” Shisui said and scoffed. “But I know better than anyone that you hate being your father’s marionette nor do you deserve that. That’s precisely why we should risk it and try to be on Madara’s and Izuna’s good side because they at least won’t manipulate your strings without your own knowledge.”

“I can’t afford to take that risk. Sasuke has enough to deal with already. If not me, then it’ll be him and I, I can’t allow that. I won’t let them do to him what they did to me. He’s still an innocent child–”

“An innocent child? Itachi do you hear yourself? Sasuke is twenty-two years old. He’s not a child anymore nor is he innocent. He wears his own scars, and as much as you don’t want to hear this, you need to. He doesn’t need you to hold his hand and coodle him. He’s his own person, he can look after himself. The problem isn’t him, the problem is you. You’re the one who refuses to move on from your past and insist on destroying your own happiness thinking you’re some sort of saint who needs to sacrifice himself for the rest of us, when you’re just human, like all of us. Honestly, Itachi you need to get out of your own head and stop letting Sasuke or your dad influence how you want to live your life. Maybe I should’ve kept [Name]’s contact information for you,” Shisui scolded.

Although his words were harsh and cut deep, what mattered to Itachi was how Shisui cared about him so much. Despite not being entirely blood related, Shisui acted as an older brother to Itachi and was probably the one who knew him the most. Unlike many other members of their family, Shisui did not kiss the floor Itachi walked on due to who his father was, suck up to him, or have unrealistic expectations from him. He treated Itachi how he needed to be treated; a normal person. And when Itachi felt himself beginning to spiral, it was always Shisui who kept him grounded and brought him back to reality. He did not voice it often, but he was grateful for Shisui always sticking to his side.

Just like how now, he had given Itachi the desperate reality check that he needed.

Itachi looked at Shisui and smiled at him.

“You know what Shisui, don’t feel too bad about giving her information away to Madara. I’m sure I can get it from Sasuke,” Itachi responded, looking upwards at the ceiling.

Shisui froze for a few moments as Itachi kept on walking ahead of him. Then, he snapped out of his trance and ran after Itachi.

“Wait after all these years, that was all I needed to say to make you admit you have serious repressed issues going on and need to see a counsellor?” Shisui began, but he received no response from Itachi. If anything, Itachi sped up so Shisui would not be able to catch up to him, causing the later mentioned male to run after him.

“Wait Itachi, answer me! Hey, you bastard, I said answer me!”

____________

Friday Night

“Did you not like the food that is prepared here?” Madara asked, after [Name] had entered his penthouse, and made herself comfortable by sitting on the floor behind the coffee table in his living room, with her legs folded. Prior to her arrival, she had told him not to have anything prepared because she was bringing what she quoted “the food of the commoners.”

Even though Madara was traditional in many ways, the interior of his penthouse was modern. For that reason, he found it strange that [Name] had chosen to sit the way she had, and was planning on eating on the coffee table rather than the dining table.

His eyebrow twitched as he awkwardly went beside her.

“Wouldn’t you rather eat at the dining table?” He enquired in last hopes that she would at least eat at the dining table. Said female grinned widely, and patted the empty beside her.

“And give into traditions of the hungry hippos of the capitalist world? No way. Every choice I make, I want them to know how much I hate them,” she said grinning, and Madara scoffed at her response in amusement, as he finally gave in and sat beside her.

“If you say so. What did you buy?” He asked, eyeing the big obnoxious yellow W that was on the paper bag.

“Wcdonalds.”

“And you can afford to buy this?”

“The money you sent me for our first date was more than enough to buy this…  amongst other things as well,” [Name] began in a murmur as she turned her head towards Madara. “You know you don’t have to pay me that much. I don’t think I did anything worth the amount you sent me.”

Madara raised an eyebrow because he never had anyone complain about that before.

“You have an issue with how much I chose to give you?” He asked incredulously.

“N-No, I just think that I didn’t do anything to earn that much,” she tried to argue.

“I enjoyed your company, so I paid what I saw fit. It’s disheartening to have you question the worth I saw in you,” Madara reasoned. Admittedly, his tone was a bit icy which made [Name] wince inwardly. Rather than elaborating on it any further since it was a topic he was evidently not open to discuss, she let it drop and steered the topic of the conversation in another direction.

“Have you ever eaten Wcdonalds before?”

Madara stared at her for a good few seconds before he shook his head, causing [Name]’s grin to return to her face.

“Well you’re in for an experience. Care to guess how much it was?” she said, as she slid over a paper bag over for him. Then, as she unwrapped her burger, and bit into it Madara’s eye twitched.

“$60? Don’t you need cutlery to eat? The kitchen is right there–”

“Wrong, it was $20 for two meals. And don’t worry about the cutlery, you can eat the food without it. The purpose of this is to be convenient, meaning no cooking, no dishes required, so no cleaning afterwards either. Here, try some of these fries with ketchup,” she prompted. Albeit being a bit hesitant, Madara did as she said and tried the combination. Admittedly, it was a bit too greasy for his liking, but he still enjoyed it.

“It’s good. Anyway back to what I was saying before,” Madara started, and slid closer to [Name] until he was pressed against her side. Tenderly, he brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear to get a better look at her face. [Name] found herself beginning to feel flustered as Madara leaned closer to her.

“If you did think you lacked in your performance that much, you’re always welcome to step up your game and do what you think you must to earn your paycheck,” he suggested, before he left a light feathery kiss just behind her ear. “After all, the purpose of our meeting was to be intimate. I was just lucky enough that you’re compelling just as much as you are beautiful.”

“Y-You think I’m b-beautiful?” she inquired shyly.

“Of course.”

“W-Well, I think you’re beautiful too.”

Madara’s lip twitched upwards in amusement. “You think I’m beautiful?” He asked, copying her words from before.

[Name] smiled sweetly at him. “Of course.”

“I’ve never been called beautiful before,” Madara pointed out chuckling, as he shortened the distance between their faces. [Name]’s eyes had widened momentarily, before she closed her eyes and began to follow his lead. However, just as Madara’s lips brushed against hers, and she was about to deepen their kiss, Madara pulled away.

[Name] blinked multiple times in confusion before what had happened sunk in. She saw Madara staring down at her with a wicked smirk on his face, and had it been possible, steam would be coming out of her in embarrassment.

“We should eat. Wouldn’t want the food you bought to go to waste,” Madara remarked. His smirk widened when [Name] pouted at him. Then, when her stomach rumbled loudly to signal her hunger, she was left feeling more embarrassed, but dug into her very much needed dinner.

Okay, here we go again, hope y’all ready.

Slashers dealing with their S/O having a mental break down pt.2 in which I’m a horrible person and Bubba baby I’m so sorry.

TW: self-degradation, mental trauma, mental break down, depression

Michael Myers (OG):

♦ The very moment the infamous Shape of Haddonfield had spared your life on that fateful Halloween night you knew that your existence would get a whole lot harder.

♦ You’ve read Doctor Loomis’ book, it created a clear image of this being before you in your head, this devil, who took people’s lives to satisfy some gross urge inside himself, some repressed emotions, some perversion, who knew.

♦ Yet as the man with the devil’s eyes moved into your house and you got to spend time with him, willingly or not, you learned there was more to him than the psychiatrist claimed. It was hard to tell what exactly you saw in him, it might’ve been pure Stockholm syndrome after being forced to stay indoors for a week just after meeting him, but you grew a bond with this murderer.

♦ It clearly wasn’t love, but rather adoration, maybe friendship, it was impossible to decide, really, somehow you doubted there was a title for what you two had, so you just decided to call it a voluntary hostage situation.

♦ It was stupid and Michael just sighed heavily through his mask when you’ve told him about the name, but it was SOMETHING.

♦ And you needed a lot of somethings to deal with him, with who he was and what hiding you at your place made you. 

♦ You’ve suffered sleepless nights because of it, all too aware what was going on when Michael was gone, noticing all the missing knives, the axe from your shed, the rope, even the blade from your lawnmower. You’d stand up in the morning only to find his bloody coveralls on the top of your dark clothing, ready for washing, while he was walking around in your ex’s pants.

♦ But even though your mind told you of all the atrocities this man committed, you couldn’t pull away from him. Something keeping you in place and you feared it was the anxious awareness that if you betrayed him, he’d know, he’d find you and he’d end you in a heart beat.

♦ Each day your sane mind told you to call the police and get under witness protection, get away from this soulless monster, start anew and once you’re old and already satisfied with the life you’ve led, you can write a book about it and live the rest of your days in luxury from your sales.

♦ But it wasn’t that easy, because the twisted part of your self was attracted to this now familiar danger. His body, his touch and his voice, only sounding for you, dark and raspy, making you tremble whenever he called out your name.

♦ You craved his dark affection, his toxic touch and those piercing eyes gazing into you with a primal possessiveness to them. He had marked you his way too many times.

♦ And within the walls of the house you used to feel at home in you felt lost, starring into the pool of red beneath your feet, still shuddering from what happened, your gut clenching at the realization that it had been the second time, too.

♦ He killed someone in front of you. 

♦ Yet this time you felt nothing, an empty, raging void sucking your heart in, as you zoned out of everything, not even able to think, an empty husk.

♦ There was some distant sensation, something dark pulling forward, a part of you tried to push it away, but it was weak and as you heard the floor boards behind you creak, it lost.

♦ “Michael… Can you… kill me?” you asked, voice devoid of emotion, cold and distant, lost, without purpose and sitting before a window you didn’t notice his reaction, the way his body stuttered, head tilting and brows furrowing under the mask. He never had it in him to take it off in front of you for longer than a minute.

♦ And you noticed it starring back at you, unmoving and that brought a tired half-smile towards your pale face, a breath of a broken laugh leaving your chest, but not mouth, giving your body a single shake. 

♦ Of course he wouldn’t take it off, why would he, for some stupid play thing like you? You were too stupid to even understand why he wore it in the first place, with his looks he could have anyone he wanted, but he settled for you, why? You were pretty sure it was only because you hadn’t annoyed him that much when he tried to kill you, he just thought you were simple and stupid, perfect to use and throw away once he got bored, but now you wished so hard that he’d get it over with and move on.

♦ “Michael, I’m tired.” you murmured, and if listening to your words your brain let the wave of exhaustion wash over your face, body and soul, letting that one feeling go, your hands grasping at your hair, again blind to the twitch in his hands.

♦ “I’m grateful that you let me live then and… I adore you in a way I guess, though don’t ask me why, I don’t really understand myself.” you didn’t see him, but heard his footsteps, coming closer, but slowly, almost hesitantly. But you were sure he was just mocking you for being weak in front of him, drawing out your anxiety, the other feeling that slipped through the iron curtain your mind had set.

♦ “I just can’t handle it anymore, I know I’m pathetic, a coward, but I’ve been bearing with your… tendencies for so long… I’ve accepted you because there’s some fucked up part of me that wants to be with you but… I can’t handle being your toy, Michael… not anymore. I have feelings, too many of them, and they just… “ you didn’t get to finish, as The Shape pulled at your shoulder harshly towards him. 

♦ His throat clenched when you didn’t even make a sound, your tired, blank stare welcoming him instead. “Please, Michael. I can’t risk everything for someone who can never care for me.“ you spoke still, the darkness in your heart leaking, drop by drop, filling you to the brim as you smiled still, letting tears run down your cheeks. And at the angle he held you at you couldn’t even see the anger his eyes conveyed, but you could sense it. “I know this isn’t your fault.” And all too suddenly it was gone. “But I need you to let me go now. You’ll find someone better, prettier, maybe smart enough to give you enough stability to take get rid of this mask… Because god, you know I’m just a dumb little thing.” you huffed a laughter and yet he was still, unmoved, just like he always was, so you risked it, grabbing his hand and pushing your neck into it, anger overtaking your eyes. “Just fucking finish the job, Myers.” you cried, closing your eyes the moment his fingers tightened around you neck, squeezing tight. 

♦ And the feeling of relief in your gut was just sickening.

♦ Yet as you waited for your pipes to close, for a snap of your neck, for the stinging pain of his knife, nothing came. Instead your head spun with the sudden sensation of both of your cheeks being grabbed, painfully, but almost gently.

♦ You dared to open your eyes and froze instantly.

♦ “No.” Michael spoke from above you, digging his nails into your soft skin, his expression fixed into pure rage and you gulped. “You’re mine.” The growling of his voice made you tremble, eyes tearing up once more, landing on his rough fingers. “And you will be till the day I die.” He pressed his forehead against yours, his blue eye making your very souls shiver as it’s gaze connected with your own, letting you soak in the pure obsessiveness of it’s nature.

♦ And you nodded gently, struggling to catch air, clawing at his dark shirt in a desperate attempt to ground yourself to something, anything.

♦ And for once, Michael reached out to you without the intent to harm, pulling you into his chest and sitting still, letting you steal just of tiny bit of his emotion.

♦ And you whimpered in joy, realizing just how horrible of a person you were.

Bubba Sawyer:

♦ You didn’t mean to scream.

♦ Or at least not at the person you did.

♦ Both Drayton and Nubbins looked at you appalled, as their sweetest family member let his head lower, taking in your words.

♦ This whole day was horrible from the start, you waking up with a headache, no motivation, the old man calling you down to trick you into feeding grandpa, then Nubbins came, insisting on showing you his knife and attempting to cut you with it, much to Drayton’s disapproval. 

♦ You’ve been walking around irritated as all hell the whole day, but once dinner rolled on, everything was just too much. Four screaming, kicking people were shoved towards the table and sat down, much to their protest, muted by the duck tape around their heads.

♦ Then Nubbins decided that it would’ve been a great idea to rip the gags off! With a knife! Laughing maniacally through the whole thing and the screams that mixed in with it soon after really didn’t help your migraine, neither did the ceremonial smashing heads in with a hammer, as Drayton missed on purpose to scare the poor, poor girl that was chosen to be first.

♦ And of course somebody had to wiggle out of the rope and hold a knife to your back, not realizing that you could, in fact, defend yourself by grabbing a plate and smashing it in his face.

♦ Then there was that chainsaw, oh, it was family, alright.

♦ Family of loud, annoying noises swearing to rip your poor brain to shreds, because there were no pain killers ANYWHERE in the house, of course there wouldn’t be! Drayton took them almost every day to ease his back pains, even though everybody knew damn well he was just tense and needed to find somebody to massage him, because neither you nor Nubbins would do it and Bubba… was a wild card.

♦ The poor boy.

♦ He just caught you at your worst moment, when you were about to tip over, having noticed that you were agitated the whole day and babbling to you in his sweet, darling voice, asking if you wan”ted to go rest.

♦ And that high pitched series of noises was enough for you to raise your voice.

♦ “CAN’T YOU FUCKING SHUT UP?!” You shrieked, not even pointing the complaint at him, but with the whole situation, it landed right at his heart.

♦ And you were god damn heart broken the moment you realized what you’ve just done.

♦ “Oh no…” he shook slightly, eyes focused on the ground as you stood up from your chair and fretted towards him. “Bubba, baby, I’m so sorry I-I didn’t…” you started, reaching out towards his masked face, but his sudden hold on your hands stopped you, making you look up at him in worry.

♦ He was pouting, but in that way that let you know he was angry and this time it was your turn to hang your head, pure shame flooding your heart.

♦ Bubba’s big, meaty and incredibly warm hand shifted to somehow fit into yours and with annoyed grumbles he pulled you to follow him and you did, ignoring Nubbins singing about you being in trouble.

♦ The big man brought you to your shared room and lightly pushed you onto the bed, making you exhaust a small huff as you hit the springy mattress. You sat up and to your shock you found Bubba kneeling down in front of you, lips still pouting, but head forcing it’s way onto your lap with a dissatisfied whine.

♦ You immediately started stroking his head, giving him small kisses in the process, calming him down as you explained your day to him, hoping he could forgive you.

♦ And when he took his boots off and climbed on the bed with you, pulling your small frame into his strong arms, you felt your whole body soften and tears ran down your cheeks, your whole being getting pulled into the worst crying fit you’ve ever had, even as a baby.

♦ And being the sweetheart that he was, Bubba was soon joining you in your messy love confessions and needy attempts at cuddling, which just ended with you sitting up, legs wrapped around each other’s waists (which was mostly just Bubba’s body making your disappear, like a true magician) and falling into a fit of crying, kisses and mumbling.

♦ When Drayton finally came to check on you, you were both asleep, eyes red from all the crying, but grinning like damned fools even while deep in dreams, hugging as much of each other as you could.

♦ And somehow three hours later your migraine was just a thing of the past, your new found motivation leading you to stand up and make everybody a tray of cookies.

♦ They deserved it, those beautiful bastards.

fox rain | three

→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. namjoon) → genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst → warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid namjoon is (oh and like... ant gambling rings??) → words: 15.7K → a/n: this is late by a month and my whole life is a joke. i hope this makes you laugh bc i made namjoon extra dumb for y’all (for no extra charge. suck it, chipotle.) also: check bio for other chapter links for now!

— • masterlist | prev | three | next • —

“This can’t be my fucking life. Can it?” you say to your own reflection, curtains of despair dripping from every inch of your visage. Your reflection stares back, the same dead eyes twitching imperceptibly from the lack of caffeine in your system. At this point, you wouldn’t be sane enough to be surprised if your parallel self would reply, perhaps with some scathing remark about how you were slowly losing your grip on your life. Not that it would be unwarranted, anyway.

After Hoseok’s explosion the other day, your weekend doesn’t exactly feel as exciting as it usually is. Of course, your mood is still a vast improvement from last week when you were out of commission for most it after your mental breakdown. Although, it doesn’t erase the fact that you’re still knee deep in shit and that you have no idea how you’re going to face Hoseok and Jimin the following Monday.

Damn. You could really use some coffee.

The day seems to be in much better spirits than you, and it would be a waste not to let the universe’s good mood try to make you feel better as well. There is a coffee shop just a block away, and maybe you could take a walk in the sunshine afterwards to help relax the dread consistently knocking at the back of your mind. It’s a little bit optimistic, but it’ll have to do.

Shrugging on a thin cardigan over some other semi-decent clothes, you step out of your stuffy apartment with a spring in your step. You didn’t bother with any of your usual morning ritual, seeing as how you don’t plan on meeting with anyone you know from university anyway. So what if your landlady Mrs. Park sees the bird’s nest on top of your head? Who is she going to tell? Her gang of old auntie friends all hate you already for wearing a “TRANS RIGHTS” shirt in front of them, so it’s not like you’re vying for their acceptance.

Other than your less than friendly neighborhood aunties, there are better old people to hang around anyway. Nearby the coffee shop, there is a senior home where you used to volunteer during your spare time until your other commitments forced you to give up your spot to some other benevolent soul. Since you have been meaning to visit the grandmas and grandpas there when you got some free time, you suppose it would be nice to talk to kind ol’ Ms. Kim today and listen to her recount her many youthful adventures (which is, more often than not, a euphemism for her various sexcapades in the 70s.)

The senior home is closer to your home than the coffee shop, so you choose to stop and gaze at the plain-looking white building with its neatly trimmed bushes and white picket fence. It looks out of place in the neighborhood, with its very suburban and Americana design, but you know it is only because the owner of the establishment had gotten her inspiration from Forrest Gump. She has a crush on young Tom Hanks, and you honestly can’t blame her for it; that man… he is a Man, with a capital M.

You’re in the middle of debating whether you should buy your coffee first before visiting the seniors when you hear a distant shout coming from within the house. Alarmed, you take a step back, almost falling on your ass and onto the sidewalk. You pause, tilting your head to try and peak over the fence and through the large windows that showed the reception area within. You recognize Hana, the receptionist, sitting by her desk in her usual green scrubs, her head bowed over a book as if the sound had not fazed her in the slightest.

“Am I crazy? Am I starting to hear things?” You wonder aloud, still staring at the innocent-looking home. Has the universe had enough with your lacklustre existence that it has caused you to hear nonsense? Is this only the beginning of your slow descent into madness?

You don’t have to fret over your sanity for too long because moments later, the shout repeats itself. Like the previous one, this one sounds just as pained and anguished, though you aren’t sure if it was a male or female who had screamed. For all you knew, the person might have either stubbed their toe or gotten a knife stabbed through their chest; it’s not like you spend time distinguishing the subtle nuances of tormented screams. However, you are more certain now that it had come from within the home, even though Hana has yet to react to the chilling noise. She flips to the next page, tired eyes squinting at the small text.

You are stuck at an impasse: do you go inside the home despite the possible danger of entering a secret cannabilist society of which your acquaintance has been initiated to, or do you turn around and go home where it is 100% more likely for you to survive the next 24 hours?

The choice becomes apparent to you, however, when a tall, lanky boy bursts out of one of the doors behind the receptionist, with his arms piled to the ceiling with dinner plates on the cusp of making their way to the floor. Even through the window and behind a fence, you can tell that he is in dire need of help, which Hana does not seem likely to extend. The mess of legs makes a beautiful display of himself, his lower limbs flapping about aimlessly as his body contorts to try and keep himself and the plates balanced.

Finally, after what feels like hours of torture watching the poor volunteer make a fool of himself, he manages to steady himself, his legs crossed together like he’s trying to hold in his piss. Carefully, he squats down, placing the plates on the floor in front of the receptionist desk. For a moment, you feel as though you should be applauding, for whatever reason.

Now without dishes obscuring his face, you can make out the identity of the flailing giraffe man. He turns, fingers combing through his distinctly colored hair––

Oh god. It’s him. You gotta get out of there, fast, before he recognizes you. Maybe if you run quickly enough, then maybe he won’t notice you when he looks out the window around.

“Ha,” the universe laughs, clapping their asscheeks to the rhythm of Ludacris’ Move Bitch Get Out Da Way™️ with a smirk. “Cute of you to think your life isn’t basically a 20-year long trainwreck in motion.”

Inevitably he turns around, his eyes immediately locking on your face despite being half-concealed by the fence. He looks confused for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish until he lights up, recognition flooding his features. Even though you cannot hear him clearly, you just know that he said something stupid, judging by the way Hana has finally looked up from her book to stare at him weirdly.

Please don’t come out and greet me. Please just let me wave at you awkwardly and for you to stay where you are. Please don’t go out and talk to me––

Your prayers go unanswered once more as he sidesteps the wall of plates, his hip just barely grazing it and almost causing it to tumble down. The pile sways precariously from left to right, miraculously staying put as he rushes out to greet you. You can only imagine the mess he’d have to clean up if it did, shards of cheap porcelain left behind in his awkward, fumbling wake.

Luckily (or unluckily for you), he makes it out of the senior home in one piece. He crosses the short path to the fence in two inhumanly long strides, slamming the fence door open with a wide swing. It smacks loudly against the railing, the hinges making a pained groan as it looks to be at the inch of its life––literally. You vaguely remember replacing the screws on it just before you left over six months ago… Surely you hadn’t done such a shoddy job? Although, you know that simply can’t be true. After all, you’re dealing with none other than destruction incarnate himself, Kim––

“Y/N!” Namjoon greets happily, his dimples deeper than you remember. You swallow heavily, trying your best not to sweat under his overly enthusiastic gaze. God, you should’ve gone straight to the coffee shop when you had the chance.

Nothing like facing disaster head-on, as they say. “Hey,” you reply half-heartedly, though the walking inflatable tube man doesn’t seem to mind your lacklustre mood. He grasps your hands for a shake, swinging your entire body up and down with the care of a man who does not know his own strength. You, his unfortunate victim, are left to suffer through his artery-bursting grip.

“Oh god, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Not that I’m not normally happy to see you at university, but––” He speaks so quickly that it’s hard to keep track of the specific contents of his sentences, so you can only hope that your unenthused nods will be enough to placate the bumbling buffoon. You resign yourself to a fate similar to the bobbleheads on the dashboards of those white suburban soccer moms.

“Wait, hold on.” What on earth..? You are full on gaping at the piece of work on top of his head, not even pretending to be polite as you try to process what is in front of you. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

You know from old Facebook photos that Namjoon has natural black locks, though you can’t say that his wacky hairstyles were also inborn. Ever since you have known him, he has always dyed his hair a sandy brown color, complimenting his tan skin. Now, however…

“You mean the weird blue streaks?” Namjoon says, rubbing a few strands thoughtfully. His hair is a walking disaster, and this is coming from someone who has seen what Kim Seokjin has done to his clients. (There’s a reason his Yelp reviews are terrible… He deserves negative stars, if you’re being honest.)

“Did you lose a dare or something?”

“Uh… Kind of?” He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I had meant to change my hair color to something more exciting, so I asked the kids at the daycare and they suggested blue. Problem is, the seniors said they preferred my brown hair but I already promised the kids so… Here we fucking are,” he says in one breath, appearing as though what he said was obvious.

“So your solution was to compromise… by coloring half your hair blue, like some botched version of Death the Kid?”

“Exactly!” He beams, glad that you understand him perfectly.

Oh my god… He’s… No words are coming to you right now, but you get the picture.

The thing about Kim Namjoon is… he’s not… bad. Or dumb, for that matter.

Okay, not the best compliment out there, but it’s true. You’ve known for as long as you’ve been a university student, and your first meeting is certainly one for the books. You wouldn’t exactly consider him a “friend,” and an acquaintance is a bit of a stretch on most days, but he’s a nice guy. He’s eccentric in the most positive way, and not at all in the same chaotic and evil way that Seokjin is (for which you are thankful for.) It has always been a bit tricky to get close with him, as his head is always so far up in his work that it almost feels like he’s being reclusive on purpose.

If you ignore the fact that he has that odd propensity to volunteer himself in any job on the face of the earth (with him being unqualified 9 times out of 10), it is easy to see why people think so highly of him.

He is a scholarship student with a 4.0 GPA, is the youngest candidate to ever receive the university president’s yearly public commendation, and has already released two reputable mixtapes with high praise from critics nationwide. He’s nothing if not a prodigy, and he’s amassed a hefty following for his accomplishments. As a music major yourself, it’s hard not to be a little starstruck with him if you’re being honest.

Most of all, you remember the first song that you had ever heard from him: Moonchild. You still can’t quite believe he let you hear one of his many masterpieces when the two of you had just been total strangers. The lyrics had been so heartfelt, so intimate, that you felt as if you were intruding on his personal space or something. But he had let you listen, let you take a peek at what goes on inside that nebulous brain of his. When he does things like that, it makes it easy to understand why people might think your love poem might be about him. He’s just so… easy to admire.

The poem isn’t about him, but. It could have been, in some other life. (Or maybe it is.)

(Was.)

(Will?)

Regardless, you still have to convince him otherwise. You just simply aren’t ready for that type of development, much less with him. Despite all his good sides.

Thus, Kim Namjoon leaves you at a standstill. Why do you feel so fucking weird about harboring this idol crush on him? How can he be so dumb and so smart at the same time? He has blue fucking hair for crying out loud! He’s causing you cognitive dissonance just by existing, and it’s giving your meagre amount of brain cells a workout.

Oh shit, have you been ignoring him? You were totally zoning out this entire time, haven’t you?

Somewhere around the time you were having your mini mental breakdown, Namjoon’s mouth had stopped moving, giving you an expectant look. Oh shit. He probably asked you something. Embarrassed and unwilling to give away that you had not processed even a single word out of his mouth, you nod and give him an approximation of what you assume is a friendly smile.

For a second, you think that you might have gotten away with it when Namjoon’s face breaks out into an enormous grin. He grabs you by the shoulder and envelops you in an chokehold-like embrace. You let out a wheeze, clawing at his biceps with your remaining strength to try and prevent your untimely death due to asphyxiation. “Namjoon..?”

He lets out a shriek at a higher octave than you thought a man of his size was capable of. Somewhere out there, a dog probably perks up at the supersonic sound. “Y/N, I knew I could count on you! Thank you so much for agreeing to help me with the elders for Zombie Tea Time!”

Now that caught your attention. You pause in your squirming to fix him with a confused expression. “I’m… I’m sorry? What did you say?”

His smile never falters. He presses his cheek against yours, rubbing it happily with a hum. In any other scenario, you might have fainted from how adorable he was being, but seeing as how all your blood is still trapped in your upper extremities from his vice hug, it is difficult enough trying to remember how to stay alive.

“Every Saturday, the senior home hosts this event called Zombie Tea Time where the old people all get to have their faces painted with fake blood and all the volunteers have to pretend to be innocent civilians trying to get away from them!”

The more Namjoon speaks, the more you feel your sanity dripping out of your ass like diarrhea. “Ex. Excuse me? Say that again?”

“Yeah, it’s a new thing the volunteers are trying out this month,” Namjoon says, finally (finally) releasing you from his hug. You don’t know if your flushed cheeks are from embarrassment or a stroke. “Like I said, we’re a bit shorthanded today, so I’ve had to wash the plates from breakfast AND pretend to get eaten by senile zombies. It’s… a lot.”

“Oh, I can tell.” You grimace, patting him on the shoulder empathetically. You freeze. “Wait. So that’s why you were screaming a while ago?”

“Huh?” Namjoon pauses, before his face does something funny where it looks like he’s either going to sneeze or take a shit. Thankfully he does neither, but instead reaches his hand around his back like he has an itch he needs to scratch. He makes a pained yelp, plucking something out from his asscheeks and pulling out what appears to be––

You stare at the object in his palm. “Are those… dentures?”

“Hmm…” Namjoon stares at it, too tired to be disgusted. He just nods his head sagely. “Must’ve been when I was too slow to dodge Mister Lee’s lunge. I was beginning to wonder why my ass felt like it was being eaten out.”

“Please, never say that sentence to me ever again.”

“Yea,” he agrees, sighing faintly. He pockets the teeth much to your horror, patting it gently like he hadn’t just placed a pair of dentures in his fucking scrubs. He dusts off his hands, his lips pursed so that his dimples stand prominently on display. You barely contain yourself from sinking your finger right into their hypnotizing abysses.

He looks at you hopefully. “So… Uh. You said you’ll help me?”

Oh right. You fucking said you’d help him fend off a hoard of virulent old people in face paint.

You look to the right, where the coffee shop is just within sight. Sweet, sweet caffeine, tantalizing you with its saccharine presence, dangling its wretchedly addictive power over your head. If you breathe deeply enough, you think you can smell the coffee beans from here.

You turn back to Namjoon, and you can physically feel the weight of his hopeful gaze on your shoulders. Your defenses have never crumbled so quickly in your life. Fuck him and his stupidly handsome ass.

You sigh, resigning your fate to eternally being whipped for a pair of pretty long legs and size B man titties. “Let’s fucking do this, I guess.” Easier said than done, but you already have one foot in elephant shit, so might as well submerge your whole body as well.

You follow Namjoon closely, having to take two extra steps for every one step that he takes. He crosses the reception area quickly, sending energetic finger guns at Hana which unsurprisingly goes unrequited. You take the more inconspicuous route and wave shyly at her, intimidated by her even after you have long since stopped working here. She levels you with one of her infamous hundred yard stares, lips turned downwards as she appraises you.

“You’ve decided to come back?” she asks, leaning back on her chair with a huff.

Namjoon is in the midst of trying to once again carry all the plates in his Play-Doh arms, so you’re a bit distracted when you shake your head in response. “Uh. N-no, Namjoon just asked me to help with the dishes, that’s all.”

“That’s a shame,” Hana says, no trace of disappointment in her voice whatsoever. She returns to her book, buzzing open the double doors to let the two of you pass. She flicks her hand lazily at the commotion happening behind her. “Better hurry back in there. The seniors are getting antsy.”

The doors open automatically, and you almost topple over when you are immediately bombarded with the terrifying symphony of old people hollering obscenities at frantic volunteers trying desperately to get away from their gnarled clutches. The hoard hasn’t noticed the two of you yet, and you fear to wonder what type of horrors that you will have to face once you step through those doors. You absolutely refuse to die on this hill, not when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet.

“I don’t think we’ll die,” Namjoon says, as if he can read your mind. You look at him skeptically.

“You think?”

He clears his throat. “I can’t promise we’ll come out of this unscathed, though.”

He takes a tentative step forward, the pile of dishes wobbling dangerously on their perch. You are quick to steady the leaning tower of Disa(ster), managing to transfer half of it into your own arms. You grunt, adjusting your stance so that you do not accidentally lose your grip. “Dude. How the hell did you get all those plates out here in the first place?”

Namjoon stands up straighter, the weight significantly easier for him to manage now. He smiles cherubically back at you, eyes crinkling cutely. “Oh, I was literally on survival mode and trying to stop lil Mrs. Sun from gnawing my leg off. The elders can smell fear you see, so they were definitely going to climb on top of me like World War Z and probably kill me.” He pauses, deep in thought. “Although, I think I dropped a plate or two while I was escaping, so watch your step!”

He says all of that with the same eagerness as man who is about to do something crazy, like jump out of a plane or walk a tightrope over a 100 ft canyon. Though, you have to admit that this entire scenario feels like it is on the same calibre.

“Is it me, or are the old people here 10 times crazier than I remember when I volunteered here?”

“You used to work here?” Namjoon says, amazed. “Oh, I didn’t know that! I only started a week ago when some other person resigned due to mental health issues or something.”

“You sure that this place isn’t the cause of their mental decline?” You say it like a joke, though you mean it seriously. Maybe the universe had been looking out for you when decided to get out of this place.

“Hmm… Maybe. Although, we only received this shipment of old people fairly recently.”

Pause. Rewind. “S-shipment?” you repeat, staring at him wildly.

Like the lovable airhead that he is, Namjoon fails to notice your astonishment and instead takes the first brave step forward through the double doors. He tilts his head towards the hallway, gesturing for you to follow him. The plates rattle dangerously from his movements. “C’mon, we gotta get these plates cleaned before the lunch crew comes to take over their shifts!”

Walking to the kitchen is easier than you thought, especially after you take into account the fact that all the old people completely ignored you and chose to only attack Namjoon, for whatever reason. You like to think that it is because the seniors still remember you back when you were still volunteering here and that they hold some semblance of endearment for you, but Namjoon begs to differ. In fact, he screams out his hypothesis as to why you have been left unharmed, all while two older women climb his back like demented crabs.

“Y/N! I think they can’t attack you because you’re in civilian clothes! They only attack scrubs!” Namjoon says, swatting away one of the women off his back with a surprisingly coordinated headbutt. She shrieks as she falls, landing on all four legs like a cat would do. She hisses lowly at you, before scuttling off to somewhere unseen.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” you wince, watching Namjoon unsuccessfully trying to spin quick enough to dislodge the remaining senior.

Namjoon perks up when he catches a glimpse of his attacker’s face, giggling and appearing as if he isn’t currently being assailed by a senior citizen. “Oh, Ms. Kim! I didn’t see you there. I love the zombie make-up you got going. Who helped you?” He looks at you, as if imploring you to compliment her as well.

“Uh. Yes. You’re looking very… yellow.”

Ms. Kim snarls, baring her teeth. “It’s the jaundice,” she says.

Not wanting to stand in that hallway any longer, you carefully place the plates back on the floor before you gently unclamp the old lady’s talons from Namjoon’s poor biceps. You wince, feeling the length of her nails and knowing that Namjoon is going to have some nasty scars.

You tell him so, but he only shakes his head. “Nah? I think they’d be pretty neat! Battle scars are cool right?”

You grimace at him. “If that’s… what you think, then sure.”

After grabbing your plates and hurrying after him before the elders make note of Namjoon’s survival, the two of you share a sigh of relief as you both slowly start piling them into the dishwasher. The task is menial and repetitive, and despite what Namjoon’s earlier chattiness might have suggested, he is quiet while he works. The silence is not as awkward as you feared, and honestly the peace is a welcome respite after all the chaos that you had to endure in such a short period of time. Although, silence has never been a good friend to your overworked mind, as it allowed you to stew inside your own head for much too long––and you have found in your 20 years of existence that it is probably for the best that you are not left without external stimulation for too long.

But here you are, forced to do exactly that. You would have engaged in some conversation with Namjoon to stop yourself from getting in over your head, but you are afraid of what sort of embarrassing topics might spew out of your mouth if you do. Heaven forbid that you start geeking out on him about your unhealthy obsession of collecting miniature glass horse figurines––that is a secret best kept between yourself and the tentacle monster under your bed.

You begin reflecting on the events from the past two weeks, replaying them second by agonizing second and ruminating on the state that your pitiful young adult life has become. The more you allow these memories to simmer, the more you slowly realize the weight of the accumulated stress that has long since made you hunch over like a goblin.

Hoseok and Jimin’s argument comes to the forefront of your mind, the unexpected heat coming from both of them confusing you to no end. You still don’t know the source of their ire towards one another, but what baffles you the most is how you could have missed it in the first place. Sure, you had thought they were at least more than acquaintances; one does not simply challenge a near stranger to a dance off in the middle of a library three times a week, for more than two months and counting. Friends might have been a stretch, though you can’t say you’re familiar with how their schedules look like outside your tutoring sessions together.

The question is though… should you interfere? Normally, you would have stayed far away from anyone else’s drama––you just aren’t the type of person to stick their noses in other people’s business. Yet somehow, you feel as if your poem was the catalyst to this violent chain reaction, that you have inadvertently caused the foundation of a precarious building to explode and bring the whole thing crashing down. To think that your silly love poem for a boy who hardly knows that you exist has become the center of so many people’s lives… the entire thing is giving you a headache.

Speaking of headaches… you should probably confront Namjoon about the poem as well. It is probably best that you plan your approach better this time, seeing as how your two previous attempts have been anything but stellar. Namjoon can’t be that difficult to convince, right? And even if he does see right through you, he doesn’t seem like the type of person who would laugh cruelly at you in the event that he figures out that you are the author. Not like Seokjin, at least. Luckily no one is like Seokjin, the fucking rat bastard that he is.

(In the distance, Seokjin has the sudden animalistic urge to slip anthrax in your milk tea the next time he sees you.)

You glance at Namjoon from the corner of your eye, definitely not ogling the way his arms flex as he loads the final couple of plates. The breath catches in your throat when you realize that some time while you were busy swimming in your junkyard of a brain, he had rolled up his sleeves up to his forearms, displaying his god-like veins for the eyes of the deplorable (you) to feast upon.

Your mouth feels dry, even though other parts of you feel more moist than you remember. Oh god, now is not the time to remember how hot this fucking nerd is.

Despite the fact that your biological clock is screaming “HORNY HOUR” at your monkey brain, Namjoon continues to be thankfully unaware of your internal panic. He closes the dishwasher door shut, clicking it on with a relieved sigh. He gives you a megawatt smile and makes your heart leap into a somersault, probably knocking around some vital organs along the way.

“Thanks so much for the help, Y/N! Couldn’t have done it without you!” he cheers, clapping you roughly on the shoulder. You wheeze under the impact, waving away his concern despite feeling like your lungs have probably slipped out of your asshole.

“It’s no problem, Namjoon…” you sigh, gazing sadly as Namjoon begins to do a final sweep of the kitchen before inevitably going to sign off for the day. You know your window of opportunity has already closed, and if you had not spent so much time staring at his beautiful man tiddies, you are sure you could have been a little more productive with him. Curse him and his damn chest.

But now, at least you’ll have more time to think of how to approach him and bring up the poem when you aren’t, like, seriously decaffeinated and on the cusp of a heart attack. You are about to bid him farewell with your tail between your legs when his hands cup your cheeks, catching you off guard.

You splutter incomprehensibly, arms flapping about like a fish out of water. “Wha––?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention! After my hours here at the senior home, I have the afternoon shift at the daycare center near our university and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

If Namjoon’s cool, large hands holding your face like a delicate flower had caught you off guard, then his sudden invitation only exacerbated the furious blush blooming across your neck like a rash.

So what do you say?

“Meep,” is what you say, like the verbose poet that you are. Y/N, renowned campus poet, has the vocabulary of a five year old.

“Is that a yes?” Namjoon smiles, letting go off you in favor of looping his gangly arms around your waist. Another unflattering noise escapes your throat at his proximity and his firmness. “That’s so great! The kids love seeing new faces, and I bet they’d love to have a pretty girl around instead of plain ol’ me all the time!”

You gape at him. Did he just say…

“P-pretty?”

“Yea, sure!” Namjoon says, his stupid grin still on his stupidly handsome face. He does not appear to be embarrassed at all by his brazenness, which is starting to make you think he is either a well-seasoned flirt or just plain oblivious to the implications of his own words. Knowing him, you wouldn’t put it past him that the latter might be the reason.

Compliments and unintentional flirting aside, you really did not feel up to another harrowing experience with Namjoon at one of his other volunteering stunts. You are but a woman in clown shoes, and even the most seasoned clowns must have their rest.

“Listen, Namjoon… I don’t think I can go with you. I have to go, uh,” you pause, your hamster brain working a mile a minute. “Water… my dog? No, I mean… feed my plant.” You cringe, mentally slapping yourself.

Namjoon, the sneaky bastard, hits you with his strongest and most potent puppy dog eyes in his arsenal. It was super effective! “Please, Y/N? I won’t take too much of your time! Just play with the kids for two hours and I promise to leave you alone!”

C’mon, Y/N. Focus. Are you the type of woman to break down her defenses for the wilful fancies of any man? You’re made of stronger stuff than this. Surely you can look him in the eye and tell him straight to his face that you would prefer to go home and rest on this beautiful Saturday than go frolicking with a bunch of snot-nosed children––

“Oh, sure. Why the hell not?” you say, like the dumb fucking idiot that you are.

Namjoon’s dimples deepen even further. You glare menacingly at them, knowing full well that they were entirely the cause of your weakness.

“Thank you so much, Y/N! The kids will really appreciate your presence! C’mon, we haven’t got time to lose!”

Namjoon does not even give you the time to fully comprehend your own pitiful existence before he nearly tugs your arm out of its socket as he maneuvers you to the local daycare just a few minutes away from the senior home. You don’t get to say your farewells to any of the seniors or your old work colleagues, but it might be for the best… You will need all the sanity left in your body to survive the rest of the day with Namjoon.

On the bright side, that means you’ll have the chance to talk to him about the poem, though you’re still hesitant to do so with how badly your previous stunts had ended up. But then again, when else would you get another good opportunity to talk to your crush acquaintance about this? You suppose you’ll just have to wait and see what happens next, and hope for the best.

You have been at the daycare for almost three hours now, and there are still no signs of you ever bringing up the poem. You might as well sign your last will and testament with the macaroni art supplies currently decorating your body, making you look like a morbid pasta dish monster from hell. You hope to god that the sticky stuff all over your skin is just cheese… White, rubbery scented cheese…

“Ain’t this fun?” Namjoon calls out from somewhere, presumably under the mass of ten or so toddlers all climbing him like a tree. You are caught in a state of déjà vu as the children start feasting upon any exposed areas of skin that their kid-sized incisors can find.

You just wanted to talk about the fucking poem for fuck’s sake! Instead, you have to deal with thirty 2-foot children and one 6-foot manchild during one of your only free days in a week.

A miniature demon tugs your sleeve, forcing you to tear your eyes away from Namjoon’s slow demise. You bend down to the little gremlin’s height, mouth twitching upwards in what you hope is a somewhat decent smile. Judging by the kid’s unimpressed face, you doubt it.

“Yes?”

“Miss Y/N? Can you tell your boyfriend that Jake peed in the ballpit again? Aera slipped on the puddle and now she’s crying and disturbing the younger kids.”

Record scratch, freeze frame. Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that. Out of all the things the kid had said, you are sure that his implication that you were Namjoon’s girlfriend should not have been on the top of your list of priorities, and yet here you are, your cheeks as flushed as a baboon’s ass.

“He’s not––We’re not––” you stammer, waving your hands as you try to explain to this unenthused six year old that what she said was entirely impossible. “Namjoon is just a friend!”

You turn to look for the man in question, desperate for him to back you up when you realize he is no longer there. Confused, you leave the huffing child in search for him. You leave the main playroom and search the nearby nurseries, the kitchen, the bathroom… all of them with no Namjoon in sight. Just so you can cover all your bases, you decide to check one of the supply closets too, not really expecting to find anything except––

“Namjoon? What the fu––fudge?” You quickly correct yourself, noticing that not only is Kim Namjoon inside the cramped broom closet, but he is also surrounded by five other children huddled around what appears to be a series of tupperwares connected together by plastic straws.

Namjoon hastens a glance at you, before refocusing his attention back onto what he deems to be more important. He nudges his shoulder against the smallest of the bunch, stage whispering into her ear. “Jihyo, did you bet the three lollipops on Ant #3?”

Jihyo shakes her head, looking mildly offended. “Oppa, do you think I’m dumb? I bet all of my chocolate bars on Ant #6.”

Namjoon whistles lowly, impressed. “All-in? You’re one smart lady.”

You clear your throat. “Namjoon.”

Namjoon has the audacity to hold a finger up to silence you. “Give me a sec… Okay, Seungcheol. You said ten hard candies for Ant #2?”

“Namjoon. Are you seriously running a gambling ring in a daycare?”

He peers up at you, smiling sheepishly. “I’m, uh… Teaching them about capitalism.” He deposits the candy bets into his pocket before starting the timer on his phone. The children begin to cheer raucously, little fists pumping up as they watch their bets race towards a slice of cake.

“I can’t believe this,” you groan, wanting nothing more than the earth to swallow you whole.

Eventually, Namjoon exits the closet, gently closing the door. The shouts of the children become muted immediately. When you gaze inquisitively at him, all he does is shrug his shoulders. “What? Secret clubs allow people to explore their interests.”

At this point, you don’t really want to argue anymore. And so, the hectic day goes by, full of running after the children and occasionally having to reel Namjoon in when he does something bordering on negligence. The parents slowly start filtering in by five in the afternoon, most of whom pat Namjoon affectionately on the back and thanking him for his stellar daycare service.

“Oh, Namjoon! My little Jihyo absolutely adores you! She hardly wants to leave whenever I come to pick her up.” Jihyo’s mother smiles, slipping a small tip into Namjoon’s waiting palm. The little shit pockets it, bowing graciously at her.

“All in a day’s work, madame. I just love children, you know?” he says, sighing dramatically.

From behind her mother, Jihyo gorges herself on her prize winnings, shoving a whole packet of M&M’s into her mouth. She swallows them quickly when her mother turns to bring her home.

“I hate this,” you say to yourself, smiling through the pain.

“Oh, before I forget!” Jihyo’s mother dashes back inside, startling you. She approaches you, grasping your hands in hers and shaking it wildly until you can hear your joints pop out of their sockets. “Your name is Y/N right? Thank you for taking care of Namjoon, too. It’s so nice to see that he’s finally snagged a girl as pretty as you.”

It is a testament to how dead inside you truly are by how nonplussed you are by their unfounded accusation. At this point, they could congratulate you on your recent engagement to Namjoon and you probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

“Thanks.” All in a day’s work of being a madman’s little bitch for the day.

After the last child is taken away, your Saturday finally ends. There had been no poem discussion and no progress made; only your respect from one of your long-time crushes being whittled away like the soaps on those ASMR channels until you are left with useless cubes of Irish Spring scented granules.

On your way home, you pass by Seokjin sitting languidly on the bench outside the coffee shop that you had originally intended to go to this morning. The closed sign greets you impetuously, and your wounds are salted further by the sheer presence of the most annoying man on the planet.

Seokjin sips on his venti iced Americano, Gucci sunglasses tipped downward on his nose. An odd, high pitched windshield wiper sound escapes his lips, and you belatedly realize that he must be his version of laughter. “Y/N. So nice to see you. I’m guessing that you just came out of a… fishy affair?”

You grind your teeth, flexing forward with the intent of hitting the rat bastard. Fish crackers fall out of your hair in clumps from your movement. “I’ll eat your toes if you say another word about this.”

You say that, but you know that there will be photos of you out on Facebook by the time your head meets your pillow for the night, as you hear the telltale sound of a camera shutter go off as you limp sadly back home.

The following Monday, you resolve to talk to Namjoon during your History of Music class together.

Now normally, you would never subject yourself to sitting near Namjoon in class. No, it is not because of your debilitating crush, nor his eccentric personality, nor something unexpected like insanely toxic body odor (which he does not have, by the way. He always smells alarmingly like cotton candy.) In fact, nobody likes to sit near Namjoon, made apparent by the two row radius of empty chairs around him. As much as everyone adores and idolizes him for his talent, no one can stand his propensity to overachieve like the infuriating know-it-all that he is. His hand is perpetually up in the air, begging to be picked for recitation, always with something profound to say.

“Sir, I don’t think your notes are correct. From my research, that type of music would not have existed until the 1600s––”

“Namjoon,” your professor seethes, Powerpoint clicker clutched tightly in his fists. His left eyebrow twitches concerningly as he tries to calm his breathing. “I would prefer it greatly if you do not question the actual expert in this area, is that okay with you?”

Yeah. He is definitely not someone you’d want to sit beside.

Though, he really makes it hard not to want to be around him. Despite all the imperfect parts of his personality, Namjoon always looks like the cover model of what a perfect college boyfriend should dress like. Terrible dyejob aside, his hair is slicked back in a fashionable way, revealing his beautiful forehead for all of humanity to behold. He is wearing a fitted graphic tee under a denim jacket, with loose brown slacks that look good on his endlessly long legs. To top it off, his signature wire-frame glasses sit daintily on his nose, making him appear as smart as he is.

You are suddenly reminded of the true scale of your crush on him as sweat begins to build on your neck and down your backside. How the hell are you going to approach him now that you are perfectly aware of how good he looks? It is people like Kim Namjoon that remind you of this universal truth: attractive people only exist to cause the less fortunate to forget how to use their basic motor skills.

Focus. Remember how much of a crackhead he was last Saturday? Okay, retain that information. Remember how fucking stupid he is, and this will be much easier on your heart and your loins.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way to where he is seated, right at the front of the class. It is a long way down the auditorium to where he is, and you can feel the stares of a few of your classmates as you make the treacherous journey right into the proverbial lion’s maw. You do your best to ignore them, quietly sliding up next to him and waiting for him to notice your presence.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that he is jotting something frantically on a notebook, a mess of words in more languages than you can speak decorating every available space on the smooth white pages. At the top of the paper, you can see what might be a tentative title for a song, perhaps? You can’t be too entirely sure, as Namjoon is part of so many clubs and organizations that he might as well be writing next week’s lunch menu for the cafeteria.

(Highly doubtful as Namjoon has a reputation for allowing inflammable things to catch on fire, but you wouldn’t put it past him to at least try and apply for a culinary position.)

It seems that Namjoon is too immersed in his writing to greet you himself, so you have to be the one to steel yourself and strike a conversation with him instead.

“Uh. Hey… Namjoon?” Smooth like butter. Seokjin would be proud.

Namjoon doesn’t reply. He keeps scribbling along, humming something indistinct under his breath.

You clear your throat. “Namjoon?”

No response. Again, “Hello?” You wave a hand in front of his face. His blinking slows for a second, but he continues to ignore you.

Starting to get pissed off, you huff quietly to yourself before bringing your palm backwards and slapping him upside the head. “HEY PANINI HEAD! YOU FUCKING IN THERE OR WHAT?”

That manages to bring him out of his headspace, thankfully. “Huzzat?” Namjoon jumps, cradling the back of his neck gingerly as he stares at you, confused. Recognition filters through his eyes as he realizes belatedly what had just happened. He blushes slightly. “Oops.”

“Oops is right. Were you really going to ignore me for the rest of the class if I hadn’t slapped you?”

Namjoon shrugs, grinning in that cute goofy way that he does. “Sorry. ‘M not used to people sitting beside me, is all. Glad to have a friend in this class though! Have you always been in this class?”

“Yea, but I usually sit in the back.”

Namjoon nods, turning back to his notebook. “Sorry for ignoring you. I really didn’t mean it. When I’m in the middle of writing, it’s kind of hard to get me out of my own brain. Plus, this draft is due in two weeks and I’ve scrapped three pages worth of lyrics already… I’m kind of in a panic right now.”

You peek over his arm, trying your best to decipher some of his words. Your interest is piqued, always having wanted to see his draft notebook ever since that first time he showed you Moonchild almost a year ago. “Lungs have capsized… I am drowning in my own body… Wow, those are some dark stuff.”

“You think so?” Namjoon squints at his own messy handwriting. “I got inspired by the fish in the aquarium I volunteer in. I’m actually excited to go back there, because I want to play it for the fish and see if they like it.”

“Isn’t it better to play it at the daycare of senior home so you can actually get… human feedback?”

Namjoon gasps, hand to his heart, offended. “How dare you assume that fish can’t give quality feedback!”

“Right,” you cough, raising your hands in defeat. How dare you, indeed. “Sorry.”

Namjoon sniffs, closing his notebook just as the professor walks in to start the class. “You better be. The fishies get really offended when people say stuff like that.”

The professor begins the moment he sets down his things, so you know you won’t have time to bring up the poem, not when Namjoon is already starting to fall into his overachieving know-it-all student persona. You tap him lightly on the shoulder, gaining his attention.

“Hey, I have to ask you something later after class. Will you stay behind for a few moments?”

“Sure,” Namjoon replies cheerily, flipping on his laptop to start taking down notes. He stops in his tracks before gazing warily at you. “Hold on. If this is about the fishies again…”

You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, so you sigh instead. “No, Namjoon. This isn’t about the fishies.”

Appeased, Namjoon returns to listening attentively to the professor drone on about dead musicians and their impact on musical culture. You hardly take any notes, still nervous about talking to Namjoon about the poem. What would be the best way to approach the subject, you wonder? Your previous attempts with Seokjin and Hoseok had featured a lot of yelling and arguing, and you would prefer not to leave a bad impression on Namjoon of all people. Additionally, you don’t want to know what arguing with Namjoon would entail, because you have a strong feeling that any debate with him will only leave you second guessing your entire existence with how good he is at flipping the subject. Or, you could always kick him in the knees, but that would be like overpowering a baby––you’d be a monster for taking advantage of him.

The short one hour lecture flies by quicker than you would like. To your surprise, Namjoon only interrupts the professor twice, so you suppose that’s a win for everyone else.

“Alright class. Please remember that the research paper regarding 17th century music is due on the Friday before your break,” your professor says. He points a stern look at all of you, and maybe you’re imagining it, but somehow you feel like he pauses just a second longer when he passes his gaze over you. “And please, try not to send your paper to the entire student body to air your secret little crushes like a bunch of lovestruck idiots.”

Your ears turn an unflattering shade of red as most of the students chuckle at his little joke, all of them probably not knowing that the lovestruck idiot was just a few seats away.

“C’mon, Namjoon.” You sigh, shrugging on your backpack as you wait for him to finish packing up. Namjoon watches you curiously, brows furrowed.

“You seem dejected. Are you having trouble with class? Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“N-not… not really,” you say, shaking your head. “Can we talk about this outside? People for the next class are starting to come in.”

Namjoon follows you dutifully from behind, and you can hear him bid his farewells to a few giggling freshmen as the two of you exit the lecture hall. They coo openly in his presence, with one of them bold enough to compliment his fairly generous bosom, her fingers twitching as if she is only one push away from grabbing them by the fistful.

You walk towards the small cafe near the entrance of the building, grabbing one of the empty chairs and gesturing for Namjoon to sit across from you. He does as you say, confusion still gracing his handsome features.

“So, will you tell me why you’ve called me out here now?” Namjoon asks. Before you can respond, however, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a half squished sandwich. He offers you the less crushed half, like the gentleman that he is, but you find it hard to accept when you feel like your stomach is turning inside out with nerves.

“Umm… How do I say this…” You groan, leg bouncing so incessantly that the poor table begins to shake. Namjoon doesn’t even try to stop his other sandwich half from sliding over, instead giving you a concerned glance.

Fuck it. Better to rip the band-aid off in one swoop, right?

“Y/N––?”

“Namjoon, are you aware that people think someone wrote a stupid love poem about you?”

His previously open mouth clamps shut, then. He stares at you in confusion, a dollop of mayonnaise hanging off his jutting chin. “What?”

Panicking slightly, you’re quick to continue your train of thought, probably to your own detriment. “NOT that the poem is about you, by the way. Well, it could be? No? I DIDN’T WRITE IT!” Pause for heavy breathing. “A-anyway, that’s not the point… I just wanted to ask if you were… umm… aware of it. Yeah. That’s it.”

Ohhhh my god. You stupid idiot. Fuck fuck fuck fuck you fucking stupid piece of shit ass tit fuck what other swear words are there oh yeah FUCK!!!

In the midst of your personal mental beatdown, you fail to see Namjoon’s genuine look of confusion, his head tilted to the side as he watches your face turn red. He chews on his sandwich thoughtfully. “Uh? No? I’m not aware? I really have no idea what you are talking about, Y/N.”

You finally stop swearing at yourself. “Wait, really?”

Namjoon nods his head. “Really. What poem are you talking about?”

“Please tell me you’re joking. I don’t really like being teased; I get enough of that from Seokjin.”

“No, I’m serious!” Namjoon raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t joke about something that is clearly giving you distress.”

“It’s not causing me distress!” You screech back, voice cracking from your tone going up a pitch. You clear your throat. “Um. Wait. So that means you haven’t heard about the huge rumor going around about a love poem being about you?”

He shrugs his shoulders, lips pursed. “Not a clue. Am I supposed to?”

Huh. You stare at the imbecile before you, his previously handsome looks starting to look less appealing by the minute. Is this shithead for real? Did you really spend hours worrying over how you would approach him about the poem, only to find out that he has no clue what you’re talking about? Like, how is it even possible for him not to know? You can’t even spend a minute doing anything without someone bringing up that stupid mistake of a poem. How the hell did you ever have a crush on him?

“Pardon? Did you say crush something?”

“Oh shit,” you curse, slapping a palm to your mouth. Did you fucking say that out loud?  

“Sorry,” Namjoon swallows thickly, a large bite of his sandwich visibly going down his gullet. “I was chewing too loudly so I didn’t hear you properly.”

You heave a sigh of relief. Okay, maybe being an idiot has its benefits.

“It’s fine. It wasn’t anything important,” you say, already arranging your things to get up and leave. If Namjoon is oblivious to all the poem shenanigans that have been circling campus, then who are you to inform him? All you can hope now is that he remains ignorant of the poem at all, and chalk it up as a success in your book. It’s not like he’s going to be curious to find out more anyway––

“Wait! Don’t go! You’ve piqued my interest now. I wanna know what you were talking about,” Namjoon pipes up, leaning his lanky body sidewards so as to block you from leaving. You halt in your movements, surprised by his sudden inquiry.

Sweat starts to form in the middle of your back at his earnest curiosity. “I––it’s nothing, Namjoon. I was just messing with you. Don’t worry about it.” You laugh nervously.

“I don’t think you were?” Namjoon rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t have been so adamant to call me out here just to be joking.”

“Listen, I really have to go. I have another class soon and I wanna grab lunch before I––”

“You said something about a poem.” He remains undeterred, pulling out his phone. “And it’s about me? Well, not about me, if that’s what you’re saying…”

“Hold up!” You snatch his phone out of his hands, holding it behind you to keep it from his reach. Even though you know his inquisitiveness is not his fault, it doesn’t stop you from wanting to punch him square in his cute little nose. Hell, you don’t recall wanting to fight anyone as much as you do right now.

(Seokjin sneezes somewhere in the distance, feeling offended for whatever reason. “Y/N should only be punching me,” he thinks to himself as he dumps way too much purple dye on this poor lady’s head.)

“Why are you being so weird right now? Give me back my phone!” He pouts at you, not at all knowing that your resolve is already quickly crumbling before him.

“I…” You gulp, foot tapping restlessly as you try to think of what to do. “Okay. Fine, I’ll show you the poem. Just… don’t read too deeply into it, okay? It’s just a stupid thing that got too many people excited over nothing.”

“Sure,” Namjoon nods his head, acquiescing quickly. “I don’t really like paying attention to much of the rumors and trends that happen on campus. I just want to see what this poem is all about.”

“Just… don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, returning his phone to him. You direct him to the university confessions group page, watching as his fingers fumbled with his keyboard. Eventually, he gets to the post (pinned to the top, forever mocking you for your stupidity) and reads the short piece in record time.

There is a pause where neither of you speak. You know he has finished reading it from the way he has started to scroll down to the comments, though he quickly jumps back to the top when you glare at him to stop. He leans back into his chair, closing his phone and stares at you expressionlessly.

You click your nails across the coffee shop table as you observe him suspiciously, his lack of response making you more nervous. “Well?”

The left side of his mouth quirks up––but not in a way that might suggest glee or satisfaction––and he stays frozen like that for a bit. You have the sudden urge to wave your hand in front of him to check if he’s fine, and being the type of person to submit to your urges, you do as you please.

Thankfully, he snaps out of it, blinking quickly as if he’s forgotten that you were there. He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. The poem, uh… How do I put it…”

“What?” What on earth could he have a problem with? Does he genuinely think the poem might be about him? “If you’re starting to think that the poem may be about you––”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Namjoon opens his phone again, peering at the poem questioningly. “I was just going to say that this poem is a lot less impressive than you were hyping it up to be.”

Excuse me??????? He did not fucking just say that.

“You did not just fucking say that,” you verbalize, glowering at him. You can feel the fumes start to steam out of your ears, but Namjoon remains oblivious (as per usual) to your emotions. He just hums, shrugging his shoulders with his nose upturned in the air, as if he had just smelled something horrible.

“It’s just… the meter is all messed up… Like, I’m all about free verse or whatever, but I can tell the author is trying waaaay too hard to keep whatever rhythm they had going on in the first verse.” He scrolls through the poem some more, before stopping somewhere in the middle. He shows you one of your favorite verses with a look of something akin to disdain. “And what’s up with all the moon references? That theme is so overused.”

“YOUR MIXTAPE LITERALLY HAS A SONG CALLED MOONCHILD! THAT’S WHY PEOPLE THINK THE POEM IS ABOUT YOU!” You explode, spittle flying everywhere from the force of your shout. A group of freshmen sitting nearby jump up in surprise, though most of the older, more dead-eyed college students do not even bat an eye at your spectacle. This university is full of cuckoos, is what they are probably thinking.

The biggest cuckoo of them all looks at you defensively, frowning somewhat irritably. Namjoon continues, “Yeah, but I used the moon in my song in a classy way! I would be offended if someone would write this poem for me after being inspired by my song.”

Is it possible for blood to boil inside your veins? Because you’re really starting to feel heat trail up your back up to your neck, causing you to see nothing but red and the tantalizing vision of your hands around his neck. Easy, Y/N. You can’t afford anger management therapy; you have a tuition to pay.

In all seriousness though, you cannot take this any longer. You have suffered long enough while having to follow Namjoon around like a bitch for two days, and if karma still wants to use the strap on you, then she’s going to have to do it some other day because you cannot physically stand being around Namjoon for another ten seconds if you can help it. And this is coming from someone who is around Kim Seokjin at least twice a week, so it is obvious that your patience and sanity is truly at its limit.

“I’m done.” You are barely able to keep yourself from slamming your head against the table. Instead, you stand up hastily, chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. You shoulder your bag quickly, waving at him without even turning to face him. The sooner you get away from him, the better. “You can think what you want. Just live your life, man. I’m done.”

“Okay? Well, have a nice day, Y/N!” Namjoon calls out a cheery goodbye, though his tone obviously still sounds confused even as you walk further and further away from him, a trainwreck of a human being. You resolve to yourself to call Hana the next morning to ask her to slip some opened sweets into his jean pocket so the ants at the daycare might climb out of their shelter to bite him in the balls.

How did you ever have a crush on that bastard? I guess that mystery will have to remain… unsolved.

Unluckily, your mood does not improve after lunch, nor do you calm down after your next class either. In fact, you are still steaming when you arrive to your tutoring session with Hoseok, so much so that you have completely forgotten to be worried about him after the events of last Friday.

(Record scratch, freeze frame. Pause. What the hell happened last Friday again? Your overworked brain cells can only handle one stressful event at a time, so you suppose that problem with Hoseok and Jimin will have to be solved another day.)

Hoseok, the caring boy that he is, also forgets to retain his moodiness from Friday’s argument when he spots you looking like you were about to pop a blood vessel at any moment.

Hoseok sits hesitantly in front of you, even placing his textbooks gently onto the table as if any sudden sounds might cause you to self-combust and splatter your guts all over the library floor. The only thing really keeping you from doing exactly that is because you wouldn’t want poor Jungkook the library assistant to have to clean up your mess.

“Umm… Hey, Y/N. You okay? You look kind of… red.” Hoseok says carefully, smile twitching on his face.

The suddenness at which you slam your hands on the table causes not only Hoseok, but also Jungkook who is three whole bookshelves away, to jump up in surprise. The former makes a terrified scream to accompany his leap into the air, staring at your frantically with his fists held up in defense.

“AHH? Y/N, what’s going on––”

“SHUT UP!” You point a finger menacingly at him, making him shriek once more. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding audibly. “YOU FUCKING KNOW WHAT, HOSEOK? I’LL WRITE THE NICEST POEM IN THE ENTIRE WORLD FOR YOU, OKAY? YOU DESERVE IT! FUCK WHAT ANYONE ELSE THINKS! I’M A GOOD WRITER AND NOTHING KIM NAMJOON SAYS WILL CHANGE THAT!”

Hoseok’s mouth opens, agape. He doesn’t know how to respond, not quite understanding what you were saying in the first place. A lot of angry words spilled from your lips in such a short amount of time, and Hoseok was more impressed with your flow than anything. Were you a rapper, by any chance?

Unaware of Hoseok’s musings, you huff loudly to yourself, slamming open your lecture notes and shoving them aggressively towards him. “ALSO, I TOOK THE LIBERTY OF WRITING A REVIEWER FOR YOUR MIDTERM! PLEASE READ THROUGH THEM IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS!”

“Umm… Thanks?” Hoseok says, not really sure which part of your loud declarations he is specifically thanking you for. He sneaks a glance at the front desk, thankful that it is only meek little Jungkook in charge today and not the cranky older librarian who already has a personal vendetta against you and your tutoring group for being public nuisances (not that she was unjustly pointing fingers, of course).

Your mental collapse aside, the rest of his tutoring session goes smoothly, with Hoseok still walking on eggshells around you just in case you might feel like exploding again. You know, for fun or something. Although, he does end up asking if he can leave a few minutes early, saying something about a paper due at the end of the week. The excuse doesn’t make you bat an eye until Jimin arrives for his own session, his grin faltering when he sees his hyung not there to greet him with their usual dance battle in the library.

“Ah… Guess Hoseok-hyung really is still mad over what happened…” Jimin sighs, slumping into his chair. He thumbs his textbook thoughtfully, tongue sticking out like a puppy.

“I’m sure it’ll blow over soon,” you say hopefully, though your heart isn’t quite in it either. Coughing awkwardly, you pluck his textbook out of his hands, desperate to talk about something else other than your crumbling interpersonal relationships. You pause at the page, however, before staring incredulously back at Jimin.

“Jimin.”

“Hmm?” Jimin is still listless, head pillowed by his arms on the table. “What?”

“This is a book on differential calculus. I’m supposed to teach you about writing academic essays.”

“Oh yeah,” Jimin sighs, closing his eyes. “I stole that book from some freshman on the way here. The English textbook I usually bring is with Taehyung right now.”

You pause. Actually, now that you think about it… “Jimin, do you actually even go to this university? What the hell is your major, even?”

“Wha-?” Jimin yawns, fanning his mouth with his hand. He blinks sleepily at you with a big, doofy grin. “Sorry, I played MapleStory for hours last night and I haven’t gotten much sleep. Can I just sleep during this session? I’ll still pay you or whatever…” he trails off, stretching like a cat under a patch of sunlight. Before you know it, the soft sound of Jimin’s snoring fills the silence.

Thankfully, Monday ends without much more commotion. You may have come out of this experience a little bit more broken inside, but hey! That’s what character development is all about, babey. You are just glad that Tuesdays are usually your quietest days, as you only have two classes to worry about. It is also one of the days when you have Creative Writing with Sera, who usually manages to rope you in to get greasy fast food after class. Despite the traumatic experience that particular class has indirectly inflicted upon you, your usual zeal and excitement does not diminish in the slightest. After all, writing will always be your first love, so there isn’t any way some silly poem mishap will make you detest it.

Hopefully nothing else will go wrong, because you aren’t so sure your sanity can take much more of a pounding.

(Fwip. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of karma putting on her strap.)

“Alright class, see you guys on Thursday. Don’t forget that we have a quiz at the beginning of class on Thursday, so please don’t be late.” Professor Puth says, his eyelids blinking out of sync. You hate to be someone who assumes what other people do during their off days as it is none of your business, though the perpetual cloud of marijuana that clings around him can only do so much to mask what his recreational activities might be.

“Dude, I think Prof Puth is finding Nirvana soon,” Sera says loudly, earning the giggles of a few classmates nearby.

“I’d be surprised if he could even find the exit of this building,” you snort, just as the man in question trips over air and nearly faceplants on the ground. Like the model students that you are, you both pretend to be busy doing something else, leaving some other poor soul to help your professor.

Two girls that you vaguely remember from somewhere approach Professor Puth. They are quick to help him straighten up, if his groaning and gasping are anything to go by. He thanks them gruffly and waves them off, but the girls seem adamant to stay put.

“Professor, I have a question…” One of the girls asks, nervously tugging on her ponytail. Her friend giggles surreptitiously beside her, urging her to continue. Their odd demeanor causes signals to go off in your brain, telling you to stop and listen. You tug on Sera’s hand, halting her from leaving.

“Wait. I wanna hear what they’re gonna ask,” you mutter, ignoring Sera’s complaints about being hungry. She can wait for her McNuggets for another five minutes, no matter how much she pretends that she’s starving. You had seen her eat two whole burritos before coming into class today.

Professor Puth raises his brow. “Yes? What do you need?”

“We were just wondering if you could… tell us anything about the identity of the author from that poem?” The girl manages to get all of it out in a rush, cheeks flushed as her friend nods fervently beside her.

“Yea, Prof! We’ve been dying to know! The suspense is killing us, knowing that the mystery author is in one of your classes!” The other girl continues, glittery excitement practically exuding out of her in waves.

Professor Puth sighs, leaning heavily on his desk. He appears about as done as you feel. “Listen… You can badger me all you want, but there’s no way I can tell you. Privacy laws prevent us from sharing information like that without prior consent, even though that student in question might have accidentally sent her assignment to the entire school.” You might be imagining it, but you think Professor Puth points you with a knowing look. You gulp, hastily bowing your head and pretending to fiddle with your phone.

“Aww, Prof! It’s been days and the university hasn’t shut up about it! Surely one of the theories on who the author and muse are must be true, right? You can tell us that, at least.”

You can’t bear to keep listening any longer, though Sera has started to become more interested in the conversation as it progressed. “Wait, wait… I wanna hear the Prof’s opinion,” she says, grinning despite your nails digging crescents into her arm as you try to pull her away.

“No can do! Remember, I have your freshman Halloween pictures saved on a harddrive, and you wouldn’t want me to accidentally send that to the entire student body as well, would you?”

That manages to snap her out of it. Quickly, the two of you leave the lecture hall and away from possible discovery by your poem-frenzied classmates. You are also relieved to be able to breathe in fresh air once more, after being stuck in that class surrounded by liberal art students for two hours. You always do feel a little bit more relaxed after class with Puth, although that might just be from all the secondhand drug use.

Perhaps the fumes really did dull your reflexes, as it takes a while before you realize that Sera has been nudging your shoulder.

When you finally glanced at her, there is a sneaky grin on her face: never a good sign. “So,” she begins, a singsong quality in her voice

After having been her friend for long enough, you have become adept at telling what Sera is going to say next. Call it intuition or whatever, but you like to think of it is a self-defense mechanism. As much as she is your friend, she does love digging into your personal life like it is the cover story of some shitty tabloid. You have to prepare yourself to be interrogated.

“You’re going to ask about the poem, aren’t you?”

Sera rolls her eyes, like you shouldn’t have even asked. “Duh, of course I am. What else would I want to talk about?”

You shrug your shoulders, pretending to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you could have asked ‘Hey, Y/N! How’s your mom been? Have you been eating and drinking well?’ You know, like a normal person.”

“Well, firstable, your mom is literally my friend on Facebook and I saw her go out to that bougie high tea place with Jennie’s mom the other day, so I know she’s fine,” Sera says as the two of you round a corner, heading closer to the parking lot where her car is. “And secondable, you don’t fucking drink water, because you like pretending to be a dehydrated piece of jerky.”

“I just like drinking apple juice, okay? Water is weird,” you say defensively, kicking a pebble as you walk.

“Nah, you’re weird,” Sera counters, ever the creative debater. She remains undeterred, however. “So. Any updates on the poem situation or am I going to have tickle the details out of you?”

You groan, pushing her away from your sensitive sides. “Please don’t… I have no upper body strength and I won’t be able to push you off!”

“That’s the point.” Sera laughs, pinching your cheek. She snatches her hand away, only narrowly escapes getting bitten by you. “Why don’t we skip my torture methods then and go straight to the juicy bits? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!”

“What if nothing has happened since I last saw you?” You grumble, miffed that she really isn’t letting it go. You just want to have one relaxing day, is that too much to ask?

Apparently, it is. Relaxation is a rare commodity these days. Sera snorts, patting you condescendingly on the back. “Nonsense. You’ve got that post-mental breakdown glow around you. You look absolutely radiant with stress!”

The conversations pauses for a bit when you make it to the parking lot. You don’t have to walk too far, as her car is parked relatively close to the exit, which is just another display of how lucky Sera often is in comparison to you. While your unfortunate plebeian ass is busy drowning in shit, Sera is off somewhere aboard a yacht, getting a massage from some Instagram thot.

She hops into the driver’s seat, waiting for you to put your seatbelt on before backing out with one hand on the wheel. “McDonalds?” she asks, though it is pretty much a given that is where you are going. The last time you both tried diverging from your usual hang out spot, you got intense food poisoning from eating at Chipotle. Sera came out completely fine though, that lucky bitch.

She continues her questions on the drive there, and you relent by telling her most of what has happened to you over the past few days. You gloss over the argument between Hoseok and Jimin, not really wanting their spat to suddenly go viral on Facebook as well. Everything else, however––

“Wait, so you talked to Kim Namjoon? The Kim Namjoon? The Namjoon that you had an embarrassing crush on during our first year?” Sera laughs maniacally, almost driving off into the wrong lane. Luckily, you are quick to latch onto the wheel, saving the two of you from becoming roadkill.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, but Y/N! That’s literally so fucking funny!” Sera’s laughter has simmered to a giggle, despite the fact that she is still trying (and failing) to furtively glance your way when you hit a stoplight. “Is he like how you remember? God, do you remember how you were after you first met him? All starstruck because your senpai showed you a draft of his single? ‘Oh, Sera! He has the most amaaaazing flow! I’m going to suck his di––’”

“Shut up!” You whine, slapping her in embarrassment. “Believe me, that crush has died, along with any respect I may have had for him. Men are scum, and I’m going to only date girls from now on.”

“Fine by me! More dick to suck for me, I guess.” Sera teases, whistling innocently. Bold of her to assume that there is any innocent or pure bone in her body; you’ve seen her thirst tweets and no amount of holy water can cure the disease that your vision must have sustained.

“I just want the rumors to die down… It would make my life way more bearable.” You murmur to yourself, sliding down your seat.

Sera is silent for a while. The McDonalds is just within sight, so Sera waits until she has finished parking before she turns to face you fully, uncanny sincerity in her expression. It unnerves you how serious she is, not when you know that this is the same girl who would snort sugar packets if you bet her $5. She places her hands on your shoulder, fixing you with a meaningful look.

“Listen, Y/N. I know all of this is tough right now, but I’m sure it’s going to be alright, okay? The rumor is going to die down soon enough, and everything will be back to normal. Stay strong for now.” Her voice is soothing, sympathy dripping from every word. As mortifying as it is to admit, the tears flow down your cheek effortlessly; perhaps it is the consequence of having to bear this burden on your own for so long without anyone actually telling you that it’s going to be alright.

“Thanks… I think I needed that,” you say after a while, sniffling just a bit. Sera grins fondly at you, wiping your tears.

“No need to thank me. I may be a chaotic shithead, but I’m also your friend.” She unbuckles her seatbelt, gesturing for you to do the same. “C’mon, let’s go in. I’ll even share my nuggets with you.”

Despite her best efforts at comfort, you still feel a little bummed. You allow yourself to wallow in your self-pity for a bit, as McDonalds is a prime location to feel shitty about your life choices anyway. The heart attack inducing food, the barely hygienic facilities, the minimum wage high school employees… Nothing else screamed “I’d rather be dead but it could also be worse” quite like Mickey D’s often did.

You wait by one of the booths while Sera goes off to order for the both of you, leaving you with her phone and other belongings. She promises to let you eat four out of the twenty nugget pieces, which is asking a lot considering who you are dealing with. Sera could probably eat sixty nuggets if she so desired, but only stops herself so she can be physically well enough to continue being a thot. Chasing men all day requires physical fitness, or so she says.

When you go to place her things on the other side of the booth, you notice that Sera had accidentally left her phone unlocked. You can see that she had been previously looking at one of those popular forum sites for your university, where most of her repertoire of gossip is usually sourced from. You aren’t usually the type to frequent those types of pages, with good reason too. That exact forum is the reason of your current stress, where your most private thoughts and feelings were revealed for all to see. Any sort of positive opinion you might have had for that site was immediately dashed the moment that cursed poem was released into the wild.

It kind of pisses you off that Sera still uses that forum despite knowing how much anxiety it has caused you, but then again, there is only so much you can expect from her. Her appetite for drama and chaos is her way of life, her only other hobby aside from writing. You also vaguely recall her saying that she gathers inspiration for her short stories from some of the more outrageous posts made by your fellow schoolmates.

In the end, curiosity gets the best of you as you stare at the open webpage, tantalizing despite the murkiness that lies within. Oh, lighten up. It’s just a confessions page… Besides, you also kind of want to see what people are saying about your poem, and whether the commotion might have died even slightly over time. (Unlikely, but you remain hopeful.)

“Let’s see,” you murmur to yourself, sneaking glances at the counter to see if Sera is close to ordering. She appears to still be next in line to order, so that might give you enough time to read a few of the comments on the post. It doesn’t take you long to find the original post either, since Sera seems to have been perusing the same thing just beforehand.

“Typical Sera...  Sympathetic in the streets, a nosey bitch in the sheets.” You snort, scrolling quickly through the comment section. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, except for a few overenthusiastic responses from a couple of people who have bombarded the forum so much that it takes you a few moments to navigate past their thread. You catch a few words here and there, mostly the names of the seven possible muses and not so much the names of any of the possible authors. Honestly, you are more than happy with these turn of events, perfectly content as long as your identity never sees the day where it becomes associated with that disaster piece.

You sort the comments by popularity, wanting to know what everyone’s biggest guesses are. You want to remain hopeful, but as the results start to load, the wave of nausea that suddenly hits you may have been the first warning signal that you should probably stop before you read something that you will regret.

posted by u/SeokjinGod [3d ago]:

[+103, -4] i’m really hoping that kim seokjin is the muse of the poem!! has anyone seen the ads for the new play he’s staring in? he totally looks like the lead actor in a romantic comedy ^^

➾ [+54, -69] psh. that idiot, the muse? PLEASE anyone who has ever worked for kim seokjin KNOWS that it’s physically impossible to form a human connection with that man

➾ [+2, -1] lol seconded

posted by u/namuwuchild [1d ago]:

[+88, -3] WAIT why am i not seeing kim namjoon’s name more often T_T he deserves more love!! stream moonchild or else i’ll bite your ankles

➾ [+1, -6] lol i miss when namjoon used to do actual hiphop… fucking hippie dippie go fuck a tree and some crabs while you’re at it

You sneak a look over your shoulder. Sera is at the front of the line, reciting her orders while the harried employee has to quickly punch in the inordinate amount of food items. Okay… While no one’s looking, time to downvote a couple of these and maybe report some of these assholes… No way in hell are you letting anyone think Moonlight Sonata is about either of those Kim idiots. You would honestly rather out yourself than let anyone think they are worthy of such public displays of love and humiliation.

You are just about to close Sera’s phone and vow never to set foot on social media ever again when the next post catches your eye––the first one where you actually see your name. In fact, your name is generously sprinkled a number of times in this one specific thread.

“Wait a second…” You squint at the top of the thread, reading out the username of the original poster. Is that… Is that your name?!

“User Y/NKook… Oh my god!” You shriek loudly, almost dropping the phone from your sweaty palms. It must be the same person who had organized that merchandise booth in the cafeteria the other week! The number of upvotes on the post isn’t making you feel any better.

posted by u/Y/NKook [3h ago]:

[+98, -5] idk why you noobs are even trying… intellectuals KNOW that y/nkook is real and i won’t take no for an answer… give me my childhood friends to lovers fic RIGHT NOW because this slowburn has been going on for years now and i can’t stand it!!!

➾ [+11, -0] omg op do you know them personally?? how’d you know that they were childhood friends?? i go to the same drama class as y/n and jungkook but they never sit together… are you sure it’s them??

➾ [+20, -1] of course!! they’re even neighbors… besides, haven’t you heard what his nickname is? his friends call him moon eyes for a reason! they say that y/n is the one who gave him that name ^^

You feel your eye twitch, disbelief flooding your senses. Why is this weirdo shipping you with Jungkook? You guys haven’t even spoken properly since elementary school… How does this dude know who you are? Are you being stalked? You whirl your head around, scanning the restaurant for any suspicious people who may or may not be following you. Is this what celebrities feel like when they get shipped with their friends? You feel a sudden surge of respect for them, unable to grasp the situation that you are in. God, you really hope Jungkook hasn’t read any of these.

You go to switch Sera’s phone off, feeling less accomplished than ever before. Maybe it is best to save yourself the anxiety of seeing your world fall apart and try to delude yourself into thinking that the past two weeks have never happened at all. However, there is a certain appeal to reading things that you know you should not, like watching a car crash and unable to look away. The urge to keep scrolling and gaze upon your own personal hell is hard to stop when you have already gained momentum.

“One last post, then I’m done…” You are hard set on that promise, not wanting your apprehension to destroy your peaceful afternoon completely. The next post on the forum greets you with a high upvote number, sending a lick of fear to run down your spine at what you might find. Please don’t be about Y/NKook, you pray helplessly. Little did you know, there are worse things to worry about other than being shipped with your friends.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [1h ago]:

[+154, -5] hey guys i’m back again with another update! so i’ve managed to shorten the list a bit since last time i posted, and i’m 100% certain that kim seokjin is not the muse! sorry, gamers… our prince is in another castle it seems. worry not, though! that only helps our search better and shortens the list. on the other hand, the authors list has also been edited! turns out that neither jodi nor melody is the author, as they both submitted poems about something else. if you are interested to see the updated lists for both muse and author, please head to my profile and look for the original post titled “Mystery Moon Author & Their Mystery Muse” :-)

You have never clicked on a profile as quickly as you did in that moment. Not even a notification from UberEats could make you move that fast.

Lo and behold, the post that started it all is right at the top of the user’s profile, with the significantly shorter list that they had promised. Sweat begins to build on your temples when you realize that the authors list has decreased to seven names, with your name still obstinately sitting at the end of the lines. When will your suffering end?

There is still something that doesn’t sit right with you, however. As you peruse this user’s profile some more, you feel as if there is something weird about it that you can’t quite place. You never did like using this forum, so maybe you are just not used to the layout of the website? What is it about this user’s profile that is making your stomach coil with nerves?

Wait a second… Why is there an edit button beside their profile picture?

“Y/N! I’m back! Sorry for taking so long; I think I ordered too much again. You’re fine with BBQ sauce on your nuggs, right? That’s all I asked for––” Sera had been happily chirping away, sliding into the bench across from you before finally noticing your stoney face. She pats her face, rubbing her cheeks in confusion. “What? Do I have something on me?”

“How fucking dare you!” You hiss, slamming her phone on the table. Unfortunately, you had accidentally locked the phone in your anger, showing only a black screen.

Sera flinches backwards, bewildered. Her eyes flick to the screen and then to you. “Huh? I thought you liked BBQ sauce on your nuggs? I mean, I can ask for sweet and sour sauce if you want…”

“Unlock your phone right now and explain to me why you have triceratops’ profile logged in.”

Your words begin to click in Sera’s mind. Her face grows pale, her body unconsciously sliding further into the booth to hide from your glare. “U-uh… Haha, what on earth are you talking about..?”

“Don’t even try to lie, Sera. I saw everything, and I honestly don’t know if I’m madder that you betrayed me or that I was stupid enough to believe that you were my friend.”

Sera splutters incomprehensibly at first, waving her arms in panic as she tries to save her ass. “I––! You––! It wasn���t like I––”

You lean forward, peering at her coldly. “Oh yeah? What wasn’t it like? It wasn’t like we were friends?”

“No, of course not! I mean,” she backtracks, tongue-tied. “We are friends! It’s just… I made that post before I knew you were the author and I originally sent the poem to just a couple of people because I was so impressed, and I just wanted to––”

“Hold on,” you interrupt, holding up a finger. She squeaks, staring at you fearfully as you slowly get up to your feet. You cry out, “You were also the one who released my fucking poem to the world?!”

“Anna ou––” Sera whimpers, slapping her palm to her mouth. She lowers it, whispering ruefully. “I… didn’t mean to say that…”

“Oh, so you were meaning to lie to me even more?” You seethe, ready to burst into flames.

The poor McDonalds employee who had come to deliver your order to your table seems too frightened to approach the two of you, her arms shaking both with fear and the weight of five orders of 20 piece chicken nuggets. “Uh, is this a bad time?” The girl asks, eyes darting away from your heated glare.

Instead of answering, you grab the tray from her hands and dump the contents on the table. Sera squawks pitifully when a few of the nuggets fall to the ground, though she absolutely yells when you start chucking them at her head like tiny oily cannonballs.

“What the fuck––Dude stop!” Sera has her arms up in defense, shielding her face from your fiery attack. The sound of you ripping open a BBQ sauce packet has her straightening up, however. “No, not the BBQ sauce! Anything but that!”

“Give me one reason why I should show you mercy.” Your hand is poised to pour the sticky sauce all over her white Valentino bag, ready at a moment’s notice.

“Please, Y/N! I’m really sorry!” Sera jumps out of the booth, and goes on her knees. She clasps her hands together, shaking them frantically. “I really didn’t know it was you at first!”

“Well then, why didn’t you fucking take the post down the moment you did know it was me? I thought you were my friend!” You clench your fist around the BBQ sauce packet, causing some of it to spill onto her bag. She makes a desperate noise.

“I just… I like the attention?” She knows this is the wrong answer, judging by your unimpressed expression. She sighs heavily, head bowed in shame. “Look, I’ll fix this, alright? I genuinely didn’t do this wanting to hurt you… I just got so caught up in the clout that I didn’t really think about what would happen if you found out!”

“‘If’ I found out, huh…” You echo, more disappointed than angry now. You slump back into your chair, taking care to grab the napkins and cleaning the sticky mess on your skin as best as you can. “You really were going to continue doing this for as long as it took, huh?”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.” Her voice is soft, repentant. It doesn’t do much for your sympathy, however.

“Fuck you, honestly. If you really are sorry, you’ll fix this mess as soon as possible.”

You reach for your bag, your movements jostling a few more nuggets to tumble to the floor. You don’t bother saying goodbye, not wanting to see if Sera is doing her Crying Face Emoji impression to try and soften you up. Not this time. This time… you don’t think your feelings can recover after this.

You have read enough stories about heartbreak and longing, but you don’t think any of them top the experience of losing a friend you realize you never even had.

The next morning, there is a new post on the forum from user triceratops.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [0s ago]:

[+0, -0] Hello, friends. I think I’ve found the author.

It’s Lee Sera.

Yanderes: A Question of Sanity

*slaps hands down on the table*  Okay, no more holding back!  This is a topic I’ve been really eager to want to touch on for a while:  How insane must a character be in order to be considered a yandere?

I will say this outright: I personally have always viewed yanderes as the type of character that do display at least a little bit of insanity.  That’s just how it’s always been for me.  I attribute this to how yanderes will display behavior that ranges from obscure/mildly unfavorable to downright horrifying.

The google definition of sanity is:

The ability to think and behave in a normal and rational manner; sound health

So yeah sounds like it’s perfectly reasonable to say that yanderes lack some sanity.  But believe it or not when I started to think more about this…the question became less of HOW insane they are to me and more of WHY are they insane.  And…is it possible for a yandere to be completely sane?

Just a fair warning to start, this post is going to be very strange and rather inconclusive.  I know several of my posts are like that (where I’m just kind of throwing ideas out there and seeing what sticks), but this one for whatever reason just really stumped me.  It’s been rewritten about TEN times in my head now, so it’s gotten to the point where really, I just need to start writing this down.  Sometimes the ideas come together a little better when I actually start typing.  That being said, I won’t be surprised if this post still ends up lacking cohesion and sense.

So there were so many ways I tried approaching this topic.  At this moment in time, I’ve decided to settle on attributing a yandere’s lack of sanity (whether small or large) to three different traits: passion, loss of composure, and level of delusion.  With that, you might already be able to spot a problem (or rather two) right off the bat with using these traits to gauge one’s sanity.

1)     Passion

Google’s definition of passion is: strong and barely controllable emotion.

I think it’s pretty safe to say that a lot (if not all yanderes) display an excessive level of passion;  They literally become overwhelmed with their love for their S/O.  That’s often what brings about their rather…unnatural behavior. And a person who is consumed with passion for something may not always be using their head to think things through.

But while I think yanderes are passionate, it’s not necessarily appropriate to say that passion=lose of sanity.  Think of all those romance films where the character is about to be offered a super cushy job for instance in some upstate city, but he has to make the interview in time to get it, but the love of his life is leaving on a plane at the same time and he has to choose between riches/fame and his dream job, or chasing after his soulmate even if it means 5 more years of paper pushing!  You get the idea I think.  Basically LOTS of normal people show feats of passion.  And not just regarding love either.  People can be passionate about work, art, volunteering, films, fandoms, etc. (basically anything).  Passion can make us choose to do something that’s either unusual or even against common sense, but it’s so common that I don’t know if it’s really fair to say that passion is a cause for insanity at times.  

2)     Loss of composure

Google’s definition of composure is: the state or feeling of being calm and in control of oneself.

Again, seems like a good thing to connect to a yandere.  Yanderes can become very insecure when they feel they are losing their S/O to someone else, or sometimes just whenever they’re not around their S/O.  Plus, anime/manga has the advantage of giving us a wide range of facial expressions.  There are three in particular that are pretty common to see in a yandere character:

The deep longing “lovesick” look (courtesy of the queen here herself)

The “crazy eyes” (Kiss him not me manga)

The “dark look” (Hadashi de bara wo fume manga)

It’s pretty common for these instances that right beforehand, the character looks completely calm/normal/composed.  But when the topic of their beloved is brought up, they can’t help but let their inner most desires leak out in a manner that appears…we’ll say uncomfortably exaggerated to other characters around them.  The “lovesick” look may either be constant or rare depending on the yandere and how open they are about their love.  But it’s an opportunity for them to gush and show how enamored they are.  The “crazy eyes” may also pop up in this case.  Both the “crazy eyes” and the “dark look” may appear from a character (sometimes out of nowhere) when things are also not going their way.

This is MUCH better portrayed in anime/manga (where the term yandere originated from anyway, so it makes sense) because their facial expressions lend to properly showing when a character well…breaks character?  That can be more tricky sometimes in live action (by just relying on the actor’s face I mean).  But here, I have the same problem with using “lack of composure” as a criteria for insanity as I did with “passion.”  Normal functioning people can show “lack of composure” in their everyday life.  If you have a test coming up and you’re getting nervous, you can lose your composure.  If you are walking through the park at night, and you hear strange sounds and become startled, then you can lose your composure.  Simple things like this make it hard to say lack of composure= lose of sanity.

3)     Level of delusion

Google’s definition of delusion is: an idiosyncratic belief or impression that is firmly maintained despite being contradicted by what is generally accepted as reality or rational argument, typically a symptom of mental disorder.

WOW that’s wordy XD But on the bright side, we finally have a criteria that actually IS linked to insanity.  If a person is ranting about how there are flying teacups hiding in your walls plotting your downfall, and refuses to believe otherwise…pretty safe to say the person is “not all there.”  Yanderes can display different levels of delusion.  I guess the tamest level would be…they perform an action for the BENEFIT of their S/O, under the impression that as long as it’s for the S/O’s benefit, the S/O will forgive and/or praise the yandere for their feats. The reason this can be a delusional thinking of the yandere is because it depends on what exactly they are doing. The methods they use may not be considered moral (and the S/O may not like that).  Actually this happens (I think more than once) in the comic “Cheese in the Trap.”  Regardless of whether or not you consider Jung as a yandere, basically there are conflicts between him and his S/O over the methods he takes to help her.  There was one instance with a scholarship that yes she REALLY needed, but she hated how he helped her get it once she found out what happened.  And no one was physically hurt in this instance, it was more that the tactic Jung used with rather underhanded (and Seol thought this was wrong).  An example of an EXTREMELY delusional yandere would be one, for instance, who refuses to believe his S/O does not love/want to be with them despite the S/O constantly telling them “no,” saying they already have someone they love, or that they’re even already married to someone else.  Bonus if they think the S/O is sending them “secret messages” that they want to be together with the yandere :P

4)     Might need some different/more criteria

So while I feel the three traits I mentioned definitely relate to yanderes in some way, I’m not so sure if they are the direct cause of the more insane side of a yandere.  This could just be another instance of me overlooking something obvious honestly.  Because first I have to ask if these three do work together to show that yanderes lack just enough sanity, then I have to ask if these three are ALL prevalent in some form for all yanderes.

If the criteria does work, then what if these traits are removed from a character?

If you removed any evidence of passion, loss of composure, or level of delusion in a character, do YOU think you would have a more difficult time labeling the character as a yandere?  Let’s say someone was able to successfully create a character who clearly states they are in love with the S/O, and displays yandere behavior…but I guess is completely straight-faced/stoic throughout the entire story?  No intense displays of passion (via facial expressions or speech), no loss of composure when confronted or their plans don’t work out, and a COMPLETE grasp of whether what they’re doing is right or wrong and understanding how the other characters view their actions.  That to me…almost sounds like a sane person who is simply DELIBERATELY pursuing someone in a more unusual manner without getting caught up in their emotions.  

Does this still sound like a yandere to you?  Honestly, this may be a case where the audience would strictly have to look at the character and the story as a whole to make a proper judgement on that. Maybe it doesn’t sound like a yandere on paper, but it actually works better in execution than expected.

One reason I wanted to ask myself this question is because I like the idea of REALLY manipulative yanderes (especially those who err more on the villainous/antagonistic side).  Now yanderes are by no means dumb, and insanity also isn’t the same thing as stupidity.  But I think someone once brought up the question to me once “If a character is a little TOO manipulative and good at keeping in control, would that make them too sane to be a yandere?”  Something like that, and I think the purpose of the question was to lead into how some villains might not really be in love with the S/O if they’re able to play the mastermind to simple get someone under their thumb.  Fair question honestly.

There’s also protagonists in romantic manga/anime that I’ve come across who make statements or do some rather odd behavior when either wooing or interacting with their S/O.  Naruse from Namaikizakare is one such male protagonist who has a stoic face like…90% of the time regardless of what he’s saying/doing.

Here’s his usual face (and yes, what you think is happening in this image IS indeed happening- the dynamic between these two is both adorable and hilarious, just trust me on this)

And no, he’s NOT a yandere. Just trust me on this.  Some of the things he’s done might sound yandere on paper, but you see him in action and he’s really not a yandere.  He’s actually a sweetheart (while still being an impossible brat at times).

 *breathes a sigh of relief*  Ah, that felt good.  Sorry again if this didn’t really come together neatly, especially at the end here. Still, it was nice to get off my chest, and this was fun to write!  This is definitely a topic that I’d consider revisiting someday.  If anything, I hope I made at least enough traction to get other people’s two cents in here.  Sometimes these posts might be better for just kick starting discussions rather than bringing closure.

And if I managed to ruffle any feathers with this, just remember the 3 rules :P

Vocatus

8 I sat sobbing on my kitchen floor. Literally, sobbing. My throat was tight and my cheeks were soaking wet. I tried to hide my red eyes with my hands, uncontrollable tears drowning me like they had been doing for the past ten minutes. “WHAT HAPPENED?” I heard Mo burst through my front door. “I HEARD YOU CRYING WHAT HAPPENED?” He ran into the kitchen, though I didn’t reveal my face to see him do it. I could just tell he had by the sound of his footsteps, and the groan he emitted once he realised the reason behind my tears. “For fuck sake, Ren.” He tutted. “Are you crying over the slug?”

He was referencing the slug on my kitchen floor, which now had a circle of salt around it. I moved my hands off my face finally, and tried to explain myself. “I didn’t know what else to do.” I blubbered. “I didn’t want to drop it out of the window, because it would fall to bottom and get hurt. But-but I can’t just leave it here in my kitchen. I don’t want to hurt it but I don’t know what else to do.” “It’s just a slug, Ren.” “But I don’t want to kill it.” I heaved through tears. “Look how confused it looks! It’s stuck in the middle and-and it knows the salt will hurt it but I had to kill it and I don’t… I don’t want to.” I always did that. I’d just break down over the tiniest thing. It wasn’t always slugs. I’d killed a slug in my kitchen a couple of months beforehand and I hadn’t shed a single tear. This was just something that happened to me, occasionally. I’d just start crying over the most ridiculous things, without any good reason behind it. Mo knew this about me, knew that I’d have sporadic breakdowns like this. He knew it wasn’t a big deal. “Well, it’s done now. So… I don’t really know why you’re crying.” “I don’t know either.” I blubbered, probably crying even more. He folded his arms and just stared down to me, he might have even started tapping his foot at one point, just waiting for me to pull myself together. Because I always did. I’d have these moments and then I’d get back to normal. I’d go a couple of months being completely emotionless, and then something else stupid would happen and I’d cry again like a complete fool, and the cycle continues. Mo knew not to baby me, to cradle me and ask if I was okay and walk on eggshells. He knew he just needed to let me get on with it. I sniffled away my final few tears, then Mo offered his hand and pretty much dragged me back to my feet, still shaking his head at me. “I got bloody worried.” He continued to whine. “I thought something bad had happened. It’s a bloody Friday afternoon, why aren’t you at work?” “There was a leak, or something.” I shrugged, wiping away at my damp cheeks. “We got sent home.” “COOOOOOL! Alright, we should do something. I’m not working.” “Sorry, I’ve got plans.” “What you up to?” I didn’t really know how to explain my plan. I didn’t know how to word it without sounding slightly insane. Well, Mo, on Monday night I got really drunk with some random guy with curly hair, and we agreed we would be in a fake relationship so that our families don’t bother us over Christmas, no biggie, so I’m going to meet him to see if he’s still feeling as mentally unstable in the light of day whilst he’s sober. I debated telling him for a moment, until I thought about the onslaught of questions that would accompany that story, and decided it wasn’t the time. “Um, nothing major.” I choked over my lie. “Just uh… seeing an old friend.” “Alright. Do you need a lift anywhere?” “I’m not going anywhere on your bloody scooter.” “Don’t be mean about my moped!” He complained. “We both know I would fall off and die, so we’ll give it a miss.” I’d once gotten on the back of his ridiculous scooter, and the second he revved up the pathetic excuse for an engine, it jolted me right off and I ended up on the pavement. I didn’t trust the thing. “Alright, well I’ll leave you to it.” He began making his way out again. “So if I hear you crying again later, shall I predict that you’ve come back home, seen the dead slug, and gotten all upset again?” “Probably.” “Okay, well, I won’t come to your rescue then.” “I appreciate it anyway, Mo!” I yelled as he walked away. “I’m a hero!” He called back, and then slammed the door. I looked down to the slug again momentarily, exhaling my sorrow and then rushing out of the kitchen as a way of avoiding looking at it for any longer. So taking into consideration the leak at work, and the crying over the slug, my day was off to a pretty weird start, and I knew it was only going to get weirder. 9 I looked up to the bar where Harry worked, glancing through the glass windows and taking in how nice it looked in there, and then looking up to the sign. Vocatus I couldn’t believe I was there. I couldn’t believe any of this crap had happened and I definitely couldn’t believe how excited my mum had sounded when she replied to the idiotic text Harry had sent from my phone. “Oh god.” I whispered to myself. “Okay.” I let myself in, seeing the place was more or less empty, but it was barely even midday, and I figured that was why. I was just about to get further proof. “Sorry, Love.” The boy behind the bar started. “We don’t start serving til five.” “I’m here to see Harry.” I slowly approached. He looked up to me, taking in my appearance, probably trying to figure out how I was linked to Curls. I was still trying to figure that out myself. I got to the bar and smiled awkwardly, looking at the boy who had on a tight white shirt and black suspenders, his reasonably long hair being pushed back with a thick black headband, the very beginning of a beard growing from his skin. “HARRY, SOMEONE HERE TO SEE YOU!” He bellowed. “So how do you know him? Secret girlfriend? Obsessive one night stand? Family member?” “None of the above.” “Just a friend?” “I suppose so.” “Well, I’m Louis.” He held his hand out across the bar. “Harry’s manager.” “Nice to meet you.” I took his hand. “I’m Ren.” “Good to meet you, Ren.” He nodded, smiling. “Alright, since you’re a friend, you want anything? I make a mean Sex On The Beach.” “I’m alright, thanks.” Harry appeared from a side door behind the bar, dressed in similar attire. I could see his tight black jeans, his tight white shirt done all the way up to the top, and his hair scraped back in a bun. He seemed extremely astounded seeing me. “Well, this is a surprise.” A smirk grew on the corner of his mouth. “I figured we needed a little chat, you psychopath.” He appreciated the joke, putting down the glass he had been cleaning amongst its collection behind him, turning to Louis. “Can I take my lunch?” He asked. “Take as long as you need.” “Cheers, man.” He lifted a small section of the bar and sidestepped so he was on the same side as me, flicking his head towards a seated area near the window, tall tables and tall seats. He wandered over and sat down, and I followed swiftly behind, sitting across from, noticing the way he cracked his neck before he relaxed, looking at me with this shy smirk and low eyes. Neither of us really knew where to start. This wasn’t a situation I had found myself in before, so I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to say. I just kind of stared at him, hoping he would be able to find the words, something that was hopefully sane. “Sorry about the other night.” He grinned. “Not much sleep and plenty of alcohol. I had a moment of madness.” “That’s an understatement.” “We don’t have to go through with it.” He continued. “I know it’s insane, and I’m sorry. We can forget I ever said anything. You can forget I even exist, if that helps.” This was my opportunity, my chance to just say, yeah, let’s forget this ever happened. This was my one shot at walking away from the boy and potentially never seeing him again. For some reason, that wasn’t a shot I wanted to fire. “I’m… I’m kind of willing to go through with it.” I breathed. “Really?” “If I was to text my mum now, saying, actually I don’t have a boyfriend… Shit… I’d be in for a world of questions when I get home. They’d probably think I’d been dumped because I’m such a mess. So… too little, too late, Curls. I’m willing to go ahead with this, if you are.” He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, the proof of that was written all over his face as his questioning gaze gripped at me from across the table. I just hoped he would keep running with this streak of insanity, because I really didn’t want to have to text my mum and say I didn’t actually have a boyfriend. That was the only way Christmas could get any worse, trying to answer her questions. All she would think was that I’d briefly had someone in my life, and that they’d broken up with me because they could see every little thing that was wrong with me in the same way she could. I crossed my fingers under the table, waiting for his reply. “I’m glad you said that.” He huffed. “I really want to go ahead with it. I just thought you wouldn’t want to.” It seemed we were just two people who were as insane as each other. But more than that, we were two people that really just needed a break. Of course, the idea was fuelled on madness, but it would help the both of us, even if it was just a temporary fix. “Alright. So… I guess, you’re my boyfriend.” “Before that!” He stopped me. “How old are you?” “Twenty-one.” “Okay. That’s fine. I told myself anything under twenty I’d say no.” “How old are you?” I asked, finally getting some basics. “Twenty-three.” “Oh. Yeah, that’s okay.” “So yeah… I guess maybe I am your boyfriend… In a way.” He chuckled. Once again, I was lost for words. A part of me just wanted to be like, okay, done, see you later. But even I knew it wouldn’t work like that. “So… should we… I have no idea.” I blurted a laugh. “How does this work?” “Why are you asking me like I know?” A huge grin widened his lips. “Well it was your idea! You must have some kind of… plan? Or something?” He leaned back in his chair, pinching at his bottom lip and trying to think up some kind of logical plan, or even a start point. I just watched him as he did, smiling to myself as I watched the cogs working in his head. He seemed so different to how he had on Monday night. There was no denying he still gave out those good vibes, but just the mere contrast of the free boy with the long flowing hair I had met a few days previous, to the boy in his work gear, with his hair up and his thinking head on, was a contrast with such a huge presence. Maybe he wasn’t so different, maybe it was literally down to the fact we didn’t know each other. He’d just seemed so familiar to me the other day, when we had been drinking all evening and conversing so naturally. It had been easy to forget in that state, that we didn’t actually know one another. “Well, obviously we need to get to know each other a little bit.” He sighed eventually. “So let’s start with some basics. My name’s Harry Styles.” “Florence Valentine. Please don’t call me Florence though.” “Valentine? I bet February the fourteenth was a fun day for you at school.” “Given it’s also my birthday, yeah, I was pretty much a walking joke.” “You were born on valentine’s day?” He gawped. “Yup.” I tutted. “When’s your birthday?” “June twelfth.” “And you work in a bar?” “I do. I’ve worked here for almost two years. What do you do?” “I work for the shopping centre in the city, taking complaints. It’s kind of like a call-centre. People ring up and complain and I deal with it. Tedious.” “Do you live in the city?” He asked next. “I do. You?” “Yeah. I have my own place.” “Me too.” I smiled. Suddenly we both ran out of questions, wondering what other kinds of basic facts we needed to cover. It wasn’t like we thought our parents were going to quiz us or anything, it was more kind of to be on the safe side, so if they asked any questions, an answer wouldn’t be a shock to either one of us. If we were going to do this, if we were really going to do this, then we had to do it right. Suddenly, Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head and lolling his head back. “This… This is so fucking stupid.” He hollered. “This is insane and I’m so willing to go through with it and I have no idea what’s going on.” “HARRY!” Louis called from behind the bar. “YOU WANT A BURGER?” “YEAH, THANKS! You want one?” He directed to me. “I’m okay. I’m not that hungry.” “Not that hungry?” He puzzled over my choice of words. “TOMMO, MAKE IT A BIG ONE, WE’RE GUNNA SHARE!” “ROGER THAT!” “Might as well start acting like a couple, right?” He raised an eyebrow to me. I was a confident person, had been for as long as I could remember. I had my demons, like everyone else, but I was really good at ignoring them. I knew how to hold myself and how to talk, how to act and I was good in situations where a lot of people would fall flat. But Harry put me to shame. I knew this would help the two of us in this bizarre situation we had created for ourselves, but I was still a little awestruck by his nature. Even the way he sat and spoke was just filled with this exuberant assurance. It was seriously impressive. “Do you think we can pull this off?” I swallowed. “You know those really shit couples?” He began. “The ones who argue, or the ones who just don’t seem well suited?” “Yeah?” “Have you ever looked at one of those couples and thought… nah, they’re not in a real relationship. It’s fake.” “No.” I chuckled. “Exactly!” He pointed. “We could come across as the worst couple on the planet, and people are still going to buy it. Don’t fret.” That was an extremely valid point, one that would have never crossed my mind unless he had pointed it out to me. I didn’t want us to come across like we were a bad couple, of course I didn’t, imagine how crazy my mum would go if she thought I’d gotten myself into a bad relationship. I was just comforted by the fact that no matter what happened, it would never, ever be anyone’s natural instinct to question if our relationship was real or not. Because what kind of mad people would put themselves in a fake relationship, right? The more I thought about it, the weirder it got. “Okay, I’m going to mention this now, just to get it out of the way, because this is what’s confusing me the most.” I sighed. “Okay…” He trailed. “It’s just… the kissing aspect of it. Where do… What do… Do we… I don’t know.” “I thought about this.” He sat forwards. “And obviously, this is only if you’re comfortable with it. We do… just little pecks on the lips. That’s it. Because I was thinking, and I don’t think I’ve ever fully kissed a girl in front of my parents anyway, know what I mean?” “True.” “So if we just do little pecks on the lips, that’s totally natural.” “What if it’s not natural though? We barely know each other, what if we like… tense up?” “We’ll practice.” He shrugged. “We’ll practice?” I cried. “You’re not that revolted by me, are you?” The tone in his voice and the raise of his brow proved he already knew I wasn’t revolted by him. I didn’t imagine a girl had ever been revolted by him. “Of course not. This is just all… so weird.” “We’ll make sure it’s not by Christmas. We’ve got a month to get used to each other.” If we flowed as well as we had done on Monday, we wouldn’t even need a month. By the time Tuesday morning had rolled around and we were sat on the docks together, it almost felt like me and Curls had been friends for years. “Okay.” I nodded. “Then what? Do we just… pretend we broke up in the new year?” “Yeah. Then we’ll wash our hands of each other.” He smiled. “I do have a question though.” “I probably don’t have an answer.” “Well I’m going to ask you anyway.” He spoke. “This is just for our families, right? I mean… any friends in the city or anything, they’ll just think we’re friends. Do we keep the lie just within our families, and not tell anyone else?” “That sounds perfect to me.” I mulled. “And you’re not worried about slipups? A friend saying something to the wrong person and this all going tits up?” “No. None of my friends have any contact with my parents or my sister. We’re fine.” “I was just thinking it could get really complicated. Lying to some people and not others.” I wasn’t sure what would make this situation more complicated. I’d kind of thought this would all be a pretty simple process, and by the time January came around I could pretty much forget about the whole thing. It was already a lot more complicated than I had bargained for. “Okay, so how do you think we should do it?” I exhaled. “Well, we still keep it as simple as we possibly can. Maybe mention that… you’re seeing someone? Nothing official, but just to keep up appearances. So if anyone ever sees us together or like… if either of us post something on social media or something… we kind of have our tracks covered, on both ends. Keep it as simple as possible so no one asks questions.” “So when I leave, and your manager asks who I am, what are you going to say?” I grinned. “I’m gunna act all coy.” He shrugged. “For now.” Sitting there, realising that now we had all the basics pretty much figured out, this was going to be easy, because Harry was easy. I couldn’t see myself not getting on with him, I couldn’t see us arguing or struggling with one another. It was early days, but I knew that unless the boy started bursting out opinions that made him a real arsehole, which I couldn’t see happening, then we’d be okay. It felt like it was going to be easy. It really did. “Okay. I’ll start planting the seed.” I tweaked my brow. “Start dropping your name to a few people.” “Nice.” He smirked. “Is it weird that I’m finding this fun?” “I’m genuinely really buzzing off this.” Harry said with shock in his eyes. “I feel very devious.” “I never get to feel devious.” I added. “I know! If anything, we owe this to ourselves.” “We do. We really do.” I nodded. As much as we were kind of joking around, in a way, I felt like I did owe it to myself. I needed this. The thought of going to see my family and having them just lay low a little bit, for my mum to think I was making progress. If there was just one less thing for her to critique me on, I was happy with that. My parents weren’t going to give me a break, so I had to find some way of giving myself a break. Harry was my way of doing that. “Okay. Well… Nice to meet you, girlfriend.” He smirked. 10 Harry’s lunch went on a little longer than we both originally planned. We’d ended up trying to squeeze out as much information from one another as we physically could, just sticking with the basics and chatting freely, coming to terms with one another, figuring out the small things. We talked about school, and delved into our families, and therapy, and work, and our lifestyles. We even spoke about habits of ours, like how my defence system would shoot up in certain situations, and how Harry would bite his nails if he was nervous. Just small details that made me feel like I knew him. I was grateful that it did seem like the two of us got on. I couldn’t imagine how impossible the scenario would be if we didn’t. We’d agreed to meet up again the following weekend, our schedules clashing thanks to our jobs, but the next Saturday he was completely mine to divulge, and I was actually kind of excited for it. Friday evening seemed to have rolled around pretty nicely after such a productive day off, and I was amidst my usual Friday night routine. Watching some shit detective show and discussing it over the phone with Niall, my body stretched across the entire sofa. “I’m telling you she did it.” I huffed confidently. “SHE DID NOT!” He cried down the line. “Daniel did it. Watch him. Watch him confess right now.” We sat in silence for a short while, waiting for something to happen, waiting for one of the two characters on screen to own up to their crimes. “I’m confused. They’ve literally got like two minutes to wrap this whole thing up.” Niall puzzled. “Are you sure this is the last episode?” “Yeah! I checked on the guide! It said penultimate episode.” “Are you shitting me, Niall? Penultimate means second to last.” I groaned. “Really?” The truth dawned on him. “Yes.” “Well, I did not know that.” “Clearly you didn’t.” The credits began to role with absolutely zero of our questions being answered. Once again, Niall Horan and his stupidity had been an absolute waste of my time. “Well, it’s only ten. You wanna go out or something?” He asked. “Nah, I think I’m just gunna get an early night.” I realised suddenly, that I had a bit of an opportunity here. “I’ve um… I’ve got a date tomorrow.” That was the first seed, planted. I heard a loud gasp on the other end of the line. “A date? With who?” “A boy.” “And what’s his name?” “Harry.” “Like the prince.” “Like the prince.” I giggled. Niall had only worked at our place for a few months, and on the first day where he started ranting on about how much he loved The Beatles, and I knew we were going to be friends. He was boisterous and loud and fun. Everyone loved Niall. “Where did you meet him?” Shit. We hadn’t discussed that part of our lie quite yet. Shit. Because this was complicated. I didn’t think I’d want to tell my parents we had met at therapy, because they’d probably judge him. But maybe Harry would, maybe Harry would like to tell his parents where we’d met, let them know he was making some kind of progress with his sessions, maybe not the obvious kind, but in different ways. This was definitely a part of the lie that we should have discussed straight away, and yet we hadn’t said anything about it. I decided to keep it as simple as I possibly could. “He works at some fancy bar. Gave me his number. Printed on some fancy card and everything.” “Smooth bastard.” Niall tutted. “Maybe I should invest in a card.” And that was that. Lie, told. Seed, planted. I couldn’t really believe how easy it was. Not only was this fake relationship fun, devious, and helpful… It was damn easy. I’d kind of predicted that there might be some downsides to this deal, but I hadn’t stumbled across any yet, and I was loving it. “I’m gunna get some sleep then. See you Monday.” I yawned. “Good luck with the date. Night, Ren.” “Night, Niall.” I hung up the phone and turned off the TV, remaining lead with my face squished against the cushion in silence for a while. I heard faint footsteps above me, proving that Mo was in. I debated going up to see him but changed my mind really quickly. It wasn’t that often I let myself have an early night on a Friday, I always found some sort of distraction, whether it was just going and spending time with Mo, or going out drinking. I usually took full advantage of my weekends, but it felt like the day’s events had worn me out. I was even more tired than I would have been if I’d actually done a day’s work. As I lay there, not being able to find the energy and move to lay down on my bed, my mind went back to Harry. Back to our agreement. I was attempting to write a mental list of things we still needed to outline, because I’d barely mentioned it to someone and I’d already stumbled across a question I couldn’t answer. We both needed this to run as smoothly as possible. I budged so I was lying on my back and picked my phone up again, running through my contacts, hovering my thumb over his name for a few moments, debating whether I should text him or if I should just wait until I saw him the following weekend. I bit the bullet. Me: Oi, boyfriend, where did we meet? I felt nervous about sending it, and even more nervous waiting for a reply. Because I didn’t want to feel like I was bothering him. I didn’t want him to start getting annoyed, because I knew I didn’t give off those good vibes that Harry did. What if he didn’t like me? What if got sick of me before Christmas even came around? Holy shit. Suddenly I was praying that there was some way to un-send a text, which was a sensation I had grown familiar with over the years. This was just another one of those times where I was cursing technology. We’d come a long way with that shit, but not far enough. Then, my phone beeped. Curls: Hi girlfriend! I was thinking we should just say you came into the bar. Me: That’s literally what I just told my friend. We’re so similar. This is why we make such a good couple. Curls: I can see us going all the way, girlfriend. I was honestly grinning like an idiot, cooing over my phone like he was actually my boyfriend. It was absolutely ridiculous. He was just nice to talk to. I liked the way we seemed to bounce off each other. And I liked that it didn’t seem like he was already sick of me. Me: See you next weekend, boyfriend. Curls: Miss you already. I giggled, locking my phone and dropping it on my stomach. I knew we were going to have fun.

you seduced and i was seduced

title: you seduced me and i was seduced  pairing: sebaek length: oneshot (2K+ w) rating: nc-17 genre: smut, canon warnings: swearing, slight bondage, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, fingering 

a/n: based on this 

junymeon tells everyone that sehun claimed everything in the dorm as his. sehun doesn't deny it, especially when it came to baekhyun. 

aff / ao3 / lj  

or read under the cut down below !

Sehun.

They all pick Sehun when the MC asks the question.

“if snacks in the fridge were gone, who is the first person you’ll think of as the culprit?”

The members all simultaneously agreed it was the maknae. Sehun nonchalantly agrees rather unapologetically as he picks himself as well. Junmyeon laughs, saying how Sehun claimed everything in the dorm is his. A teasing smirk tugs at the corners of the maknae’s lips as he looks to a certain hyung.

“Yeah. Everything, mine.” He quirks a brow as he says the last word, as if to emphasize his point.

Baekhyun eyes slightly widen, taken aback and confused at the younger’s sudden suggestive look. For a moment the elder’s smile falters, his breath hitching in the back of his throat, he subtly glances around to see if anyone noticed it. No one seemed to be phased by the maknae’s actions, so he quickly composes himself before anyone can notice his change in behavior  and awkwardly laughs it off along with the rest of the members.

The car ride back to the hotel is somewhat quiet. It’s late at night and most of the members are already drifting off to sleep. Baekhyun’s sitting in the back seat, sandwiched between the maknae and Chanyeol; there was a vague tension in the air, Baekhyun could feel it. He was still confused as to why Sehun gave him that look while he was talking earlier.  The soft brushing on his the side of his clothed thigh by hand that’s not his own is what breaks him out of thoughts. He slightly flinches and looks down at his leg and at Sehun's hand ever-so-slightly resting atop his thigh. Baekhyun swallows hard and wills himself not to look at the other; he can feel his heartbeat pick up and there’s an uncomfortably warm feeling where Sehun’s touching him. He betrays his own will and quickly glance up at the younger who’s looking outside the window with a bored expression his face. Baekhyun’s mouth feels dry as he swallows again.

Since when did Sehun have this effect on him?

“I’m so tired,” Chanyeol yawns, stretching out his long arms as he practically drags his tall body through the elevator doors and into the dimly lit hallway. A yawn escapes Baekhyun’s mouth as well as he nods, following after the taller to their shared hotel room when a warm hand grips onto his arm. The contact immediately makes him feel hot inside, he knows exactly who that hand belongs to.

“Sleep with me tonight, hyung,” Sehun says lowly, as if he didn’t want to wake anyone in the quiet building. There was a certain tone in his voice, Baekhyun didn’t quite know what it was, but it ran down his spine like a hand ghosting down his back and his body reacted in a way he didn’t even know how to handle. Dark eyes pierced through Baekhyun as he wracked his brain for a reply, he felt so incredibly vulnerable under the younger’s stare. 

“A-Aren’t you rooming with Junmyeon-hyung?” He mentally slaps himself at his nervous tone. 

What’s wrong with you? 

Baekhyun wanted to shake off the younger’s hand, he knew he could. Sehun wasn’t even holding that tightly onto him, but the way his eyes were fixed on the elder’s, it was like he was like had control over his body. His usual sassy self is gone; he would usually have a witty comeback ready, but right now, under the younger’s stare, it was like he forgot how to speak.

“He went to over Yixing-hyung’s room for the night.” Baekhyun watched as the maknae’s eyes glanced down at his lips before reverting his attention back to his. He wondered if he just imagined that.

“Come on, hyung. I’m gonna be lonely.”

Sehun’s voice comes out cute and whiny, his pink lips forming that adorable pout he does whenever he has to aegyo for fans but it’s the glazed look in his eyes and the possessive hold on his arm that tells Baekhyun the younger doesn’t exactly have the most innocent intentions. Sehun’s eyes look almost black from the way his pupils are blown wide, the elder almost shudders at the look. He doesn’t know if he’s just overanalyzing the situation, he convinces himself he is because it’s too much for him to even process. Since when did the younger even feel that way toward him? Sehun steps a little closer and Baekhyun wants to step back, but his mind is so blank and his feet feel like they’re glued to the floor. You could practically cut the sexual tension in the air with a knife. The smell of the younger surrounds him, it’s almost intoxicating. He feels almost lightheaded, fluttering his eyes as he tries to stay sane at the smell of the younger’s cologne and body heat radiating off him. He doesn’t know why his heart is pounding in his chest, they had shared rooms together before. This was just Sehun, the cute little maknae they all knew and loved, but over the years Sehun had grown up.

It all happened so fast.

The way the younger towered over him, the way his shirts hugged his broad shoulders and chest so nicely, the way his large, teasing hands  rested on his body whenever they stood next to each other during ments in between songs at their concerts. Sehun doesn’t miss the way the shorter tenses up when he leans in to talk into the elder’s ear.

“Come on, hyung. Be a good boy and come with me. I promise I’ll behave.” A teasing smirk tugs at the corners of Sehun’s lips, his eyes still locked onto the elder’s. Baekhyun watches Sehun’s tongue dart out to wet his lips and he can feel his stomach churning.

Baekhyun could feel himself physically and mentally giving in, as if his body wasn’t even his anymore, as if somehow, he was under some kind of spell.

Sehun definitely does not behave.

No way did Baekhyun ever think his night was going to turn out like this. He thought he was going to go back to his hotel room, take a nice hot shower and go to sleep after a long day full of schedules.

But no.

Instead he’s in the most embarrassing position ever-  face first into the plush comforter of the freshly made bed as a large, rough hand clamps down onto the back of his neck, holding him in place. His arms are aching from the black leather belt keeping them in place behind his back and his lips feel like they’re about to fall off from excessive biting from trying to hold in the embarrassing sounds threatening to spill out of his mouth. Sehun’s three fingers are deep in his tight entrance, stretching him open while Baekhyun pants into the sheets. Tears form at the corner of his droopy eyes as the maknae teasing brush against his sensitive bundle of nerves.

“S-Sehun-”

“You’re so cute, you know that hyung?” He pushes his digits deeper into the ender as if to emphasize his words.

“I’ve thought about this for so long, fuck,” he breathes out, “Always imagining what it’d be like to my name coming from your pretty little mouth as I fucked you into the bed. You’re such a tease, you know that?”

Baekhyun’s body hurts.

The need to come undone is so, so intense- his throbbing cock is brushing up against the white sheets, beads of white leak from the red, swelling tip. His body grinds down onto the bed to get more friction, but the younger’s strong grip on his thighs stop him from moving. His shoulders are burning from his arms being held together so tightly by the Sehun’s belt behind his back.

“Se-Sehun,” Baekhyun pants against the bed.

“Beg for it, hyung. Go ahead, beg for it.”

Hot tears stream down Baekhyun’s flushed face when Sehun properly fucks into him. Strong, rough hands are bruising into the soft flesh of his hips, it’s almost painful, but Baekhyun’s mind  is so blank, caught in the haze of lust  and all he can think about is how Sehun’s girth and how it’s stretching him open.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you baby?”

Baekhyun can almost hear the smirk in his voice. A helpless whimper escapes through his parted lips when the younger runs his hands up and down his naked torso. He bends down to press a trail of soft kisses up the elder’s back, mumbling a husky ‘mine’ as his teeth sink into the unmarked skin.

“I wanna see you wrecked, hyung. Fuck you so good ‘til you couldn’t walk next the day, you’d like that wouldn’t you, baby?”

Baekhyun lets out a shaky moan as he frantically nods his head, jaw slacked and eyes clenched shut.

“You’re mine, hyung.”

The elder’s body feels like he’s on fire as Sehun rocks his hips into his tight entrance while one of his hands are Baekhyun’s nape, holding him down.

“Only I can touch like you.”

The only sounds in the room are the lewd noises of skin slapping against skin and the occasional needy whimpers coming from the elder.  Baekhyun knows these walls are paper thin, he also knows Minseok and Jongdae are in the room next door. He hopes to god they can’t hear anything or he’d practically die of embarrassment.

“Only I can see you like this.”

A surprised, broken shriek rips from the back of the elder’s throat when Sehun hits against his sensitive bundle of nerves.

“T-There-”  Baekhyun sobs, tears flow out from his eyes and drip onto the sheets.

A breathy stream of ‘sehun sehun sehun’ spills from his mouth as the younger continues to rut into him, hitting the spot over and over and over again.

“Say you’re mine, hyung. Say it for me.”

Baekhyun didn’t know how he got himself into this situation.

One day he was teasing the cute little maknae about his obsession with chocolate bubble tea and now he was getting pinned down onto a bed, made into a humiliating writhing mess in a room right next where the other members were probably sleeping.

“I-I’m yours- nghh!” the elder choked out, the words almost caught in his throat as the younger grabbed onto the belt that bound his arms together and yanked it back so Baekhyun was forced into a painful arch as his head was lifted up from the bed and up into the air.

“You feel so fucking good, hyung.” Sehun’s thrusts are not kind as he continues to hold onto the elder’s arms, forcing his upper body off of the bed as he hit into his prostate hard and deep.

Baekhyun’s lungs are on fire.

He’s desperate for air, choking and gasping for it in between sobs and broken moans as Sehun rocks into him with such a frantic pace.

“Why are you so quiet, hyung? You usually have so much to say,” Sehun says huskily, a hint of smug amusement in his voice, “Don’t you wanna let our precious Minseok-hyung and Jongdae-hyung know how good you feel?”

Baekhyun would hit him right now if his arms weren’t bound together. The maknae grits his teeth as he fucks into the elder’s pliant body. Baekhyun suddenly comes- body seizing up in burning pleasure as he throws his head back, jaw slacked in a silent scream, cheeks stained with tears as he chokes out the younger’s name. His hands are frantically searching for something, anything to grab ahold of, as if trying to grab ahold of his sanity that left him with the hot ribbons of white that released onto the sheets. The sobs that come of the elder’s mouth are so helpless when Sehun continues to rotate his hips, rutting into him, helping him through his climax. He coaxes whimpers from Baekhyun’s parted lips with the rotation of his hips. The elder sucked in a sharp breath, panting hard as the younger continued thrusting into sensitive post-orgasm body.

“S-Sehun- ah!- I-I can’t-”

Baekhyun was so tired, he didn’t even know how long it had been but it felt like hours. His body was hypersensitive now, anywhere the younger touched him, it burned. Every thrust, every move of his hips had him seeing white, had him gasping for air, had him searching for anything to alleviate the pain in the pit of his stomach. His sanity was hanging on by a thread and with every thrust the younger was this much closer to cutting that single thread. Every single one of the elder’s whiny moans shot straight down Sehun’s dick, running down his spine in a wave of pleasure and he never wanted it to end.

“Fuck,” he says through a clenched jaw.

His hands find purchase on the other’s waist, roughly kneading into the supple flesh and soft skin. Baekhyun’s trembling with each hit into his prostate and Sehun’s relishing in the way the elder clenches down on him.

“Are you gonna come again for me, hyung?”

“C-can’t-” The elder can’t even bring himself to form coherent sentences at this point.

“Yes, you can,” the maknae growls, “Come for me, hyung. Go ahead.”

The elder’s body tenses up, eyes clenched shut and tears rolling down his red cheeks while he forces out a choked sob as his body goes through his first ever dry orgasm.

Sehun’s thrusts become more erratic before hitting his own climax, coming into the elder with a grunt of his name.

“I can’t believe I actually have bruises from your fucking hands,” Baekhyun huffs at the amused maknae.

Sehun chuckles, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, hyung. Didn’t mean to.”

“Yes, you did, little shit…” the elder mutters under his breath, “How am I going to hide these from everyone while changing?”

The younger shrugs. “Don’t hide them.” Baekhyun can hear the amusement in his voice and that smug look on his face makes him want to beat the younger up.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re such a brat, I’m sleeping with Chanyeol tonight,” he says before stomping off.

The maknae immediately wipes the smirk off his face at the sound of Chanyeol’s name and furrows his brows together in concern as he runs after his new boyfriend.

“Wait no, hyung I was just kidding!”

Smoke & Mirrors: Seventeen - Gray

Prologue |  Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 | Ch10 | Ch 11 | Ch 12 | Ch 13 | Ch 14 | Ch 15 | Ch 16 | Ch 17 |

Read on ff.net and ao3

"Why'd you choose 'Smoke and Mirrors' as the code word?" Cana asked Rufus as she watched the pair intently. Both Gray and Natsu's expressions had glazed over, their eyes closed gently.

"Hmm?" Rufus looked up, "Oh, that? It's a saying I heard somewhere. Means something along the lines of concealing the truth of a situation. Ironic huh?"

Loke chuckled. "How long will this take?"

"No clue. Depends on where Natsu landed in Gray's mind." Rufus began tidying the books scattered over the table. "Who knows which memories he's wandering through."

"So you couldn't have directed Natsu in any way? Made sure he reached at least the right set of memories?" Lucy asked.

"The mind doesn't work that simply." Levy answered with a sad smile. "We'll just have to wait and hope for the best."

Rufus nodded.

"I wonder where he is now."

~

Though the darkness hadn't receded to the edges of his vison like last time, Natsu could feel that he was standing against a brick wall. Though he knew it was a memory, the cold which seeped through his shirt felt very, very real. He was about to speak when a familiar voice broke the silence.

"Natsu?"

It was as if there was some sort of force telling Natsu exactly what to say. "It's alright, Snowflake, I'm here." He could sense Gray in the darkness but couldn't see him. What I couldn't give for some light right now!

"Why can't I see you?"

"You can. You have the control here."

Moments later the room filled with light, and for some reason, to Natsu it seemed like the light was emanating from himself. Between where he and Gray stood lay still body of Gray from the memory.

This must have been where they kept him…but why am I here? The trip to that one river side memory was one thing, but this, this isn't what I need…

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"If you want to call it that." Natsu replied calmly though he was on the verge of panic himself.

"…but that is the real me?" Gray prompted.

I assume so. "Uh huh!" Natsu replied in a matter of fact tone, "You look a little worse for wear, don't you?" He chuckled. The quip had come to him despite the situation, though he wasn't sure why, there was nothing about it which was good or funny.

"Shuddup!" Gray snapped back.

"He wouldn't have wanted you to end up like this." I didn't want you to end up like this. Natsu gestured at Gray's prone body between them.

"Aren't you him?"

The hope in Gray's tone made Natsu's heart clench. Then as quickly as he found himself in the memory in the first place, he was sucked back into the darkness. When the darkness subsided Natsu was leaning against the wall of Gray's cell again, this time though, he was sitting.

Natsu flashed Gray his signature grin. "Long time no see…" Though it was mere seconds since Natsu had seen Gray, Gray looked thinner, and the number of bruises and cuts had increased since last time. It felt like the right thing to say.

Gray rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

Natsu glanced at Gray's body on the ground in front of him. Something about the sheepish look on Gray's face told him that him being here, back in his consciousness was in anyway an accident. The still full foot plate sat in the corner of the room. "...that was, and is an extremely dangerous way to get me here."

"Nahh," Gray shrugged, "I'll be fine, they aren't going to let me die, not while I still have the information they want."

"Who knows if they are even equipped to save you?" Natsu retorted worriedly. Did you really do this Gray? I knew you were an idiot, but this is taking it to a new level of stupid!

"Natsu. They won't let me die." Gray retorted pointedly.

Knowing that this was only a memory, and that there was no way to change what had happened now, Natsu sighed. "Suit yourself, I-"

"Shush!" Gray whispered, "listen…"

Natsu did listen. The conversation going on in the hall told Natsu everything they'd already concluded about the initial cause of Gray's memory loss. Then as the sound of footsteps drew closer the darkness tugged at Natsu's vision once again. When the light came back to him Natsu was sitting on the far wall from Gray. The latter was staring right at him but this time he seemed to be staring through him, like he didn't see him at all.

"From what I know of the Kakusareta Omoide, once it has been cast I will be able hijack it to my own advantage. Instead of them being able to take the information I have on E.N.D., I will force Natsu and E.N.D. from my mind. Lock him away for good."

The guilt and pain in Gray's expression mirrored Natsu's own feelings in that moment.

He forgot me to save me.

Natsu had had his suspicions since he'd worked out the connection between Gray's experience and E.N.D., he'd just never wanted to truly accept it. It meant Gray's words were less of a surprise, but that didn't make the metaphorical punch to the gut any less painful. Knowing the truth was one thing, but seeing the lengths that Gray went to protect him, hearing those words in Gray's voice, it was more than he wanted to deal with.

"If it will save Natsu, I'll do it. Even if I'll forget his existence. Anything is better than the alternative of them finding him. Of them making me hurt him"

Within second of Gray finishing his words Natsu felt a slight shift in his surroundings. Though he stayed in the same place, Gray slumped against the wall, while another Gray appeared. Another memory.

"You know this plan of yours is very stupid?" Natsu stared at Gray incredulously.

"Is that really the first thing you're going to say to me?" Gray chuckled.

"It is!" Natsu replied defiantly. You deserve it.

"…but I get to see you again!"

Natsu could see in Gray's eyes he knew what he was doing to himself was wrong. "Even for that, look at yourself Gray. You're as thin as a rake, you are, if possible, paler than usual and don't even get me started on your injuries!" Natsu swallowed, "You could die if you keep this up. Anyway, as stupid as it is, I wasn't talking about that one."

"Ohh…"

"You're really thinking of doing it, aren't you?"

"As far as exit plans though it's as good as it's gonna get. I don't have the physical strength to break out, so using Kakusareta Omoide to my advantage is the best option we have. My mental strength is what's kept me alive so far. That, and Natsu, and you."

Natsu waited with baited breath as Gray opened his mouth to speak again.

"I've known you too long now to believe my fantasy that you are really him."

Natsu felt a jolt deep in his stomach. I am him! Natsu wished he could yell, but instead replied with a nod, "I see your logic." He didn't confirm or deny Gray's theory. There was no point, he'd never have believed him in a million years. Natsu sighed, he knew what he was going to say next. "Do you really think that they will just let you go once you are no longer useful? They are more likely to kill you then let you go once you've served your purpose, or failed to do so."

Gray ran his hands back through his hair, the pure panic Natsu saw in that small action scared him. "Ughhh! I need to get out! I need to see him again, I need to see all of them."

"We know the why Gray! What about the how?" Natsu prompted. "I know you have a plan, but have you really thought through how you are going to hijack the spell?"

"I don't know!"

Natsu waited in silence. Praying that Gray had a better answer than that.

"I. Don't. Know!" Gray put his hands to his face, the pads of his palms pressing against his eyes. "I don't know…" his voice was barely a whisper now, "…but I need to get out of here."

"You do."

"Natsu! I'm stuck in my own head talking to some crazy part of my consciousness which is masquerading as my best friend. Judging by your choice of Natsu, right now it seems my mind is the only part of me strong enough to keep me going – hijacking the Kakusareta Omoide spell is the best option we've got."

"I understand that Gray but once you've put the first part of your grand plan into action…what then? How will you get out?" Natsu stared intently at Gray. "Once they work out that you've tampered with the spell to your own advantage there will be no use for you. After nearly a year of containment and torture, do you really think they'll just let you go?"

"They will. Killing me won't serve any purpose apart from them having a body on their hands. It will be easier and cleaner for them to let me go."

"Fine." What!? Natsu couldn't believe what he'd just said.

"Will you help me though? I won't be able to rework that spell without your help."

Natsu swallowed. He was going to say it anyway, or at least his voice would. He knew now that this charade was all a part of Gray's mind trying to keep him sane. He was just watching the scene through the eyes of Gray's concerned consciousness. "Of course."

"Thank you."

"If you see him again…" Natsu whispered sadly, you won't know who I am.

"I know." Guilt tugged at Gray's chest as he glanced up at Natsu. "You're crying, Natsu."

"So are you."

As he was sucked back into the darkness, tears continued to leak from Natsu's eyes. Though he had always known deep down the reason that Gray had been taken from them and the reasons for the broken shell of a man who returned. It had taken until now for him to realise just how much Gray really cared about him, and in that way, possibly, just how much he cared about Gray too.

Natsu wiped the tears from his cheeks as he landed back in the cell. This time standing opposite Gray, with the memory Gray lying motionless between them.

"I still think you're crazy!"

Gray shot Natsu a glare.

It was such a Gray thing to do that Natsu almost laughed. "You know how the Kakusareta Omoide spell works."

Gray nodded. "Yeah, for them to get my memories they need to replace them with something else. I shudder to think."

"For you to reverse the spell though…to lock away those memories." Natsu prompted. Gray needed to say it himself.

"I need to sacrifice something. To lose something important to me." Gray never brought his gaze from Natsu's face. "Good news is, the spell chooses for you."

"Good? I wouldn't call that good! There's no telling what it will take!" Fear laced Natsu's voice. "It could backfire on you so easily. Any doubt in the process of trying to counter the Kakusareta Omoide spell could take more than just Natsu from you, or worse..."

"There is not much else I can do. Not much else that matters to me to lose though. Not in this context."

To this, Natsu stayed silent. Though he wanted to scream at his friend, to shout. Your life Gray, your whole life!

"I can't let them find out about Natsu. I can't let them find out that he is E.N.D.. Them knowing I'm an Ice Demon Slayer is bad enough."

"It gives them all the more reason to find out the truth about who E.N.D. really is. Especially as you're the only one who can kill E.N.D. apart from Zeref of course."

"All the more reason for me to forget him all together. What I don't know they can't make me use against him."

"I know, but you're taking a huge risk!"

"For him." Gray mumbled through the hands he'd clasped to his face. "It's worth it."

"If this works you won't even know who he is!"

"That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make if it will save his life!" Gray yelled, his breath coming in uneven, panicked pants.

"Will he forgive you for it though?" Natsu knew it was the wrong thing to say before the words had left his lips. He knew they weren't really his words, but here, coming from something that looked like him, knowing how Gray would take the comment, it was worse. His fears were confirmed, as Gray, with slouched shoulders and his head low, sank to his knees. Violent sobs wracking his thin frame.

Natsu didn't get to see how the memory ended as he was tugged roughly back into the darkness. He needed more, all this had proved so far was just how much Gray was willing to sacrifice for him. That fact, something he knew very well already.

As the light illuminated a different, much cleaner, environment Natsu felt sick to the stomach. This time he wasn't watching the scene as himself.

This must be a physical memory, not just a memory of something his mind fabricated to keep him sane.

Natsu stared up into the beady black eyes of a beefy man with thick arms and an even thicker neck. He could feel as deep rooted fear crept up his spine and back down again before settling somewhere in his stomach. Through that fear, however, Natsu could feel something much worse. Something which Natsu himself dreaded he'd feel in Gray's mind. Especially given where he sat, looking up at Gray's captor through his friends' own eyes.

The sheer determination he could feel thudding in Gray's heart was enough to make him want to yell 'Smoke and Mirrors' right then and there.

He didn't want to experience it. He didn't want to feel each lash of the whip, he didn't want to feel the punches on already bruised and aching skin. Natsu didn't want to. Not just because of the pain, but because of the question that suffering would shake to the surface.

Maybe Gray did tell them everything after all?

In that moment, after the whip came down over Gray's guild mark and his friend's agonised screams filled his ears, Natsu knew he wouldn't have blamed Gray if he had.

Let's Switch it up!

So us you probably all know I like Nintendo products. There are couple of reasons for that, but I think nostalgia has a lot to do with it. I liked playing games like Contra or Mario in my younger times, because those games were simply fun. Nintendo still has some great ideas when it comes to game designing. I think Splatoon is one of the prime examples here.

(You’re a kid, you’re a squid now!)

For those of you that don't know about what game am I talking now Splatoon is a team based platforming arena shooter about squids. Oh and paintball... You win by covering map with your team colour, and by turning into a squid you can swin in your paint for higher movement speed and longer jumps. If this very brief explanation doesn't seem exciting for you it's okay, because I really think you need to play it or extensively watch to understand. This whole bizzare concept for a game came from young team of game designers in Nintendo. In the world of really violent shooters like Titanfall 2, Doom or Battlefield the non-violent route seems risky to say the least. Nintendo is known from this high risk high reward move or in other words cheese.

(Triforce... cheese joke...)

Nintendo's whole bussines relies on three fundamentals let's call this a Triforce for humour purposes.

Zelda

Link started his adventure on Nintendo Entertainment System with Legend of Zelda and it quickly proved everyone that he is here to stay. There is something magical about all those games starring Link. Maybe it is everyone's dream for the grand adventure where you save a princess. You know the one that takes place in a kingdom far, far away. You just pick up a sword and charge into unknown. Is it safe out there? Of course not and that is why you have a sword. Maybe it is the fact that Link is just another random noname boy and he simply believes that what he is doing is right. By the way this is courage App... back to the point. I know that this seems like a typical  story in typical world by lazy writer, but I don't know it just works. It is simple and it is fun.

Mario

Platformer about a plumber who saves a princess, but in Mario defense those games actually have very little story to it. This game is all about precise jumps and last second decisions. Nobody actually cares who Mario is, why he is here or why the hell he has a mustache. He just is here to beat King Koopa and his minions and free princess Peach from her prison. Ridiculous? Of course it is, but again this a game about story. Everyone plays Mario for great level design and interesting mechanics or power ups. Thanks to the succes of the first game Mario became an icon for Nintendo. So much so the company venture into other genres with him like kart racing or RPG. He even was briefly considered as a playable character fo Splatoon and thank Jim they went with squids. Mario is on the front line for gaming not just for Nintendo.

Gimmicks

Wait, what? Yes, I think that trying to be as innovative as possible with every product is the fundament of Nintendo and it is the most important one for them. It is at the same time a blessing and a curse for them. I mean just look at the Wii succes versus Wii U failure. Yeah the marketing for the latter was just so painly bad that it is hard to even comprehend, but it is also showing the mentality of Nintendo “Play big or don't even bother”. They create hardware that relies on some new interesting idea and then they will try to build a game that use it to its fullest potential. Most of the times this approach really works and we receive a well balanced gameplay that is just fun to play around. The problem appears when N will try to reinvent a wheel and gameplay will suffer because they refuse to use schematics that simply work. Nintendo is Nintendo biggest enemy in this situations.

(That was actually very good)

Okay so with all that in mind let's talk march 3rd and the upcoming release of Nintendo Switch. Brand new hybrid of handheld and stationary console which was, for a very long time, known under a codename NX. As, hopefully, you can see the premise is simple but actually really exciting. Play your games on a TV and when you need to leave your home just snap Joycon's on the console and take your game with you. Even the click sound is something that still sits in my head and does not want to leave. I don't know this console just spoke to me when on october 20th this clip saw the light of day. It was awesome till like 5 minutes after the clip realeased. It went only down for me after that.

(My excellent hype versus time line)

I think the biggest problem for me is the attitude that Nintendo presented after that. They simply refused to say anything about their shiny new console until January 12th. They didn't want to comment on anything, not even a confirmation that Skyrim would be ported for the device. Why would you show gameplay of a game if you aren't ready to acknowledge it will be on your console. You could say that they wanted to avoid drowning in sea of mud that is christmas, but for me this just shows that you don't believe in your product. You don't have anything new this holiday season so why in the hell you go silent? Okay so maybe this is just my gamer ADHD speaking. Maybe the January presentation will be awesome and it will be all fine.

(I feel kinda meh..)

Well... yes and no. The price is actually quite nice and of course the games are actually really interesting. Of course we already knew a lot about Breath of the Wild and it actually looks really good from gameplay perspective. There is of course new Mario game which looks really weird and awesome at the same time. The hat throwing in particular seems like a mechanic that can provide really hard and really satisfying manouvers. Splatoon is coming back with some more splatting and while it looks like just more of the same it is fine, because this game is just that good. Of course Nintendo wouldn't be itself if it didn't introduce something entirely new to the table.

(Arms a new IP)

Arms is game about putting on some boxing gloves and stepping on a ring to fight 1on1 with some absurd enemy. Oh and your character is also absurd just to let you know. I mean the over stylisation is fine, because at this point you just don't expect anything else from Nintendo. Not to mention that they are the company that actually can deliver when it comes down to simple fun from gameplay. So actually while Arms may as well seem really stupid it can actually work pretty well.

(Series of mini games.)

1-2 Switch is actually series of mini games that tries to show off what an actual hardware can do. In most cases you don't even need to look on the screen to play. There are games like cow milking, wizard fight, cowboy quick draw... Simple stuff that will entertain your guests for like an hour and it will be put back to the box and never shown again. In their defense Wii Sports is on the second place when it comes to copies sold, but it also was bundled to Wii for a very long time. 1-2 is not budled it is a stand-alone product with MSRP 49.99. This is a lot I don't care how many mini games are there.

(Those are of course included in base console, but additional cost...)

I think this is the problem I have with Switch the cost is low, but not as low to reason day one/year one purchase. It may seem like there is a lot games coming to Switch now in March, but no. Mario will be released in holiday season. Arms will be month or two after Switch and the same goes for Mario Kart. Splatoon 2? Summer 2017. Of all that games only Zelda and 1-2 Switch  is coming day one. No, wait Bomberman R... wait no... Do I want to count it? Well early adopters sure as hell will need to do it because there is nothing else they will be able to do with this device.

(Wii U got crap for too big controller. How is it any different?)

There will be no video apps available for them at launch and before you ask. No, not even Youtube. Meaning that you are either happy with Zelda or will use Switch as shiny statue on your shelf. I don't expect Zelda to suck as the matter of fact I can safely claim this will GOTY for 2017, but some choice would be nice. Surely we can compromise I mean Wii U had some awesome internet browser and almost everything worked there. There is only one small exception for this Nintendo Switch will not feature aa internet browser on launch. If and when it will appear remains a secret. Not that you could use internet on the go. Switch will not have sim card slot for 3G or something like that. So maybe let's turn to third parties, indies of this world.

(The indies)

So there will be World of Goo on day one, great. Except people that would want to play this game already did on other devices. We have Binding of Isaac great game that will debut on march 17th, but wait currently only for NA region. Despite claiming on the presentation that will not be region locked we still need to jump through hoopes of company own regional politics. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't sometimes pissed on Sony for the very same thing, but I swear Nintendo is worse. We also have Shovel Knight great game... here actually have a list and sort by date here. It seems like a lot but keep in my mind that most of those are just rereleased products. Please don't exactly believe people saying something along the line of “X game is amazing I bought it on y, z and t, and I will buy it for Switch”. I mean maybe believe them, but are you seriously consider them sane? For comparison PS4 here, and of course sort by date and look at day one/month one anything after that is pointless.

(JoyCon)

Remember when I said that the biggest enemy of Nintendo is Nintendo? I think the villain strikes again. Aside the horrendous accessory prices for Switch. Single Joycons that presumably are perfect for a grown-up. Like hell they are... There is the problem of power. There is reason as to why specifics about GPU or CPU can be found only in rumours and leaks. Official specifications here basicly says “Yes, we have a GPU here.”... Well I hope so. The internet got mad about Mohammad Alavi comment "No. F*** no. No you're not going to be able to fit Titanfall on it. That's the same Zelda from the Wii U [laughs].". This is Respawn Entertainment senior designer saying no to prospect of porting TF2 to Switch. Just to let you know they did exceptional optimisation for PS4 in my eyes. You receive nice 60 FPS and I swear sometimes I blinked and missed the load times for couple MP matches. The amount of work needed to downgrade a game like this so it will work like this is absurd and not worth the money. AAA developers would need to create games specifically for Switch and they will not create games for a platform that doesn't sold well. It didn't sold well because people are not especially keened on buying Nintendo only exclusive device... I mean I have Wii U, but I am not entirely sane... exactly... So the playerbase will stay low and... You see where I am going here? Okay, but you could say Wii and try to shut me down this way.

(Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii)

Well the whole premise of motion controls simply worked for everyone. Gramma, granda, mother, father, uncle, three year old sister, that cousin that hate games. Pretty much all of them know how to swing a tennis racket or play golf using Wiimote. The stereotypical housewives played Wii Sports to stay fit and it was a perfect sell. I mean if there was one thing that nerds don't do is exercise. So no I don't think Switch even remotely compares to what Wii have to offer. Not to mention that those housewives does not have any reason to buy a new shiny box. At this point I am fairly convinced that Nintendo hardware would endure atomic bomb, napalm strike, Cyclops laser beam, dropping from 100 meters and Hugh Jackman.

(That’s right!)

As always only time will tell if Nintendo is a genius or they will need to live through another generation of weak sales. I wish I was wrong. I wish that Switch will be a great game changer, but at this point I think there only be one true game changer. Pokemon. If there ever was a franchise that literally moved consoles and people bought a device only to play one game it is this one. It would also need to come with the news of killing New 3DS. It is possible, but when?

1981

(( Cleaned up thread with @everyheartbesure​ ‘s Albus. This took place within a week or two after the Potters and (allegedly) Voldemort were killed. ))

Calleo,

I’m afraid I have a troubling problem of a most sensitive nature.  While the rest of our world is taking the time for much-needed celebration, I find I may have made a grave error.  For too long, I have withheld trust from those I used to confide in, believing myself capable of holding secrets I felt no other should have to carry the burden of.  Worried, as I’m sure you can understand, that regardless of intentions, the world was in too dangerous a place to take the risk of people being compromised–of delicate information leaking into places and minds it ought not be.  

But now, my old friend, I have many great doubts about what others find such cause for celebration in.  Something, though I cannot be sure what, is simply not adding up in my mental calculations.  Somewhere, I must have dropped a decimal or shifted a digit, because I cannot understand how such a great and terrible man his disappeared so thoroughly.  The Potters, though undoubtedly skilled, did not have the support or preparation to end this war single-handedly, and with no body and not even a wand… I have to wonder if Lord Voldemort was even there at all that night, or if Mr. Black did the deed himself.  But where he might have gone, if he were not vanquished…

And of course, little Harry.  I believe I have made him as safe as I am capable, but I do not have the expertise you do and I do not know if my paranoia has simply put a child in the way of avoidable danger of another form. 

I do not know if you have any information that can help me, as I certainly have not been freely sharing with you these last years, but I hope, if you are willing, you can take the time to tell me if I have simply gone mad under all of the self-imposed pressure.  And, though I never have found the time to read the main body of your work, I am now holding out hope that there may be something within it that could aid me now–that could give me a clue as to what could have truly caused this respite.

Please forgive me for my long silence until now.

-Albus

He sent the letter away as a small flock of sparrows–a nod to their very first correspondences, and sat back to wait.

Calleo had been severely tempted to open with, “That does sound like you, yes,” but, as he continued to read the letter the temptation to put too much levity into a reply quickly faded.

He had, of course, known full well about the celebrations, the fall of that petty thug who’d been going around calling himself a Dark Lord for the last decade or so, but he had also assumed they’d found a body as confirmation that the man was dead.

No body was–alarming, to say the least. More than enough to raise a whole hell of a lot of red flags  in anyone who could stop celebrating for two seconds to realise that there was an entire body and wand missing and enough to cause someone who had been working in the Ministry’s Archives, largely dealing with the Dark Arts and everything to do with them since 1912 to stop cold and re-read what he thought he’d read several times to make sure he’d read it correctly.

The reply was sent as the seven, cheerfully hopping magpies that, by now, Albus could likely put back together with very little focus required. Still, they were complicated and secure enough that anyone intercepting would have a good deal of difficulty with it.

Albus,

Any grave error made here is on the part of the Ministry, to nobody’s surprise I’m certain, and on the part of those so mindlessly celebrating the death of someone when no body or wand was retrieved from the scene of where he was last known to be present.

Very few things these days cause me to come to a screeching halt in a manner of speaking.

That did.

There are various forms of magic, typically either straight Blood Magic or Blood Magic mixed with other high level curse work, that could result in–it’s difficult to describe without going on for several pages which I’ll likely do anyway, but a ‘partial death’ is the closest I can think of to condense it down.

None of it is legal, none of it is widespread, and all of it has horrific physical and psychological effects on the person using it; apart from–it’s more that–the thing here is–(he must be dictating)–when someone dies normally, regardless of the method, the end result is the spirit being severed from the physical body.

If the spirit isn’t intact when the original body dies, however…there is, of course, the possibility that he was not present and it was Black’s doing but considering how utterly brutal Crouch’s too-late crackdown came and how many people were swept up in his nets that should not have been, I have my doubts, especially if Black hadn’t been branded like the rest of the “Dark Lord’s” (the quill had, evidently, detected heavy, dripping sarcasm, adding the appropriate punctuation to convey it) chattel; they did check for that before kicking him off the island and into Azkaban, yes?

As for the child, one of the pictures in the Prophet– (his dictaquill must have attempted to convey a long delay in dictation)

I don’t need to ask if it’s assumed that Voldemort, forgive me, I won’t be using his self-granted titles, it gives him a level of legitimacy that he genuinely does not deserve, used a killing curse.

Partially because I suspect it’s one of only three curses he ever learned how to use effectively and partially because I both know its cast pattern and a cast pattern burn well enough.

The troubling part is that a cast pattern burn happens when a spell backfires, as you’re well aware, but it should burn the one who cast it not the intended target. If it was a backfire, something deflected it from him and onto the child.

And that loops back to what I mentioned earlier in this letter.

There is no blocking death in that form apart from using a physical barrier, but it can be cheated.

Have you, by any chance, seen his face? Relatively recently, of course, and if the answer to that is yes it would be useful to have that description, though I already have suspicions. If every siren that just went off in my head is accurate, he was there, and isn’t dead; as to where he’s gone, I’d have no idea specifically.

That said, if I am correct–and make no mistake, as much as I do enjoy being correct, there are times when I would prefer it were not the case–the part of him that was in Godric’s Hollow was dispatched beyond the veil.

The REST of him could be damn near anywhere attached to whatever took his fancy when he did it.

(There is an entire blank page of parchment. The quill is taking silence literally, it seems.)

The main body of my work, at least the one that’s most known by those who know where to find it, is on the Cruciatus Curse and its various  modifications, all of which make it exponentially worse with longer lasting damage and more than occasional death after a minute or so; there are other, older, and frankly more Unforgivable bits of magic I’ve written about as well. I use one of them for landscaping.

HE clearly never read any of them, nor did any of his followers.

That’s not a complaint, as an aside.

I have written–a bit about what I suspect is going on here, but nothing extensive as the various books that detail it detail it well enough.

Astarte’s wands, my blackthorn piece is from him if you recall, used a modification of one of the rituals; he called it 'soul binding’ to the wand but it’s Blood Magic at its base.

I’d write the word down, but it gets automatically flagged and redacted, even more creative spellings of it–Level Seven works, it’s only this department’s senior and head allowed down there; there used to be a book in the Restricted Section, of all places to put a book like that, Magick Moste Evile, that mentioned them but did not go into detail. It specifically stated that it would not go into detail.

There are several texts that are not all that difficult to obtain from various sources that do, however.

Now and again, a book comes across my desk that’s less clever spellwork that makes an inanimate object seem alive and able to converse and more has roughly fifty percent of a person bound to it, can actually converse, is technically alive, and will try to push you out of your own mind so it can have a body again. I knew a few of them when they were properly alive, not surprisingly.

At this point, I just carefully disconnect them from the book and for awhile was just throwing them into an old teapot until it got too noisy and the teapot ran out of theoretical room; they’re all in the back of the Brain Room as I wasn’t entirely sure if it was strictly legal to technically kill them or not and I certainly wasn’t going to ask in this political climate.

They already think we’re all a touch mad down here and I haven’t got the time or energy to make, “May I kill this teapot full of partial souls or should I get a larger teapot?” sound even remotely sane.

And I’ve just realised I ought to have said that AFTER telling you that you haven’t gone mad because now I sound at least a bit mad and telling you that you’re not might actually come off as the blind leading the blind.

At any rate, you’re not mad (and neither am I, for the record); something isn’t right and I very much doubt that he’s fully dead.

That all said, there is nothing to forgive; I am more than aware of how you often work and keenly aware that very few would want to give people like me any information that might end up assisting the sorts I often get lumped in with.

Please don’t presume there is any bitterness in that last statement. I know how what I work with is viewed, how I’m viewed by proxy, and I know that the vast majority of the people who use the same sort of magic as opposed to studying it are viciously cutthroat and can’t be trusted as far as you could throw them without using magic.

I am nothing if not self-aware.

We should, perhaps, discuss it further in person.

The last thing either one of us needs is Crouch’s myopic tunnel vision focusing in this direction; I have no doubt he would go to any lengths he thought he could get away with to silence such talk.

I also haven’t got the time or energy to deal with the mess that would be and, I suspect, neither do you.

- Calleo

Calleo,

I do wish you had simply said I was mad and left it be. I might have believed you, and it would have offered me a great deal of comfort. What you are suggesting…

I do not know the details of Black’s case. I admit, I was deeply fond of the boy, and I had little interest in paying close attention to the aftermath of his betrayal. I don’t believe he was marked–he would not have been a particularly effective spy if he had been–but he was the only one in the position to do the damage that was done.

As for Voldemort’s face, I have not had the displeasure if viewing it recently. I did see him up close many years ago, and already, his association with dark magics had warped his features. Though the red eyes may have been an intentional, if unattractive, aesthetic choice, I have heard from others that he had taken on particularly snake-like features in recent months–pale and sickly and as though evil had been personified. I’m afraid I cannot offer a more precise description than that.

What you are speaking of is beyond anything I have intentionally researched. Splitting the soul… This is far graver than I ever could have hoped. It paints a grim future for us all.

I believe you’re right, yet again. It is time to leave my office before the self-pity drowns me where I sit. Perhaps I should come to join you for further discussion, though of course not at the Ministry.

Wherever you choose, I will come.

-Albus

He didn’t bother with any cheerful transfiguration or charms work this time. Solemnly, he asked Fawkes to deliver the message, leaving it neatly in Calleo’s lap. Then, when his companion returned, he only found the energy to stroke the bird twice before hiding his face in his hands in shame and exhaustion. There was so much more he could have done for Tom before any of this happened, if only he’d had the foresight.

Fawkes was certainly an unexpected delivery bird! Still, he’d always been friendly and he was a combination of colours that Calleo found relaxing.

It also usually meant things weren’t–well. When the letters came as sparrows, at the very least it was an indication that Albus was generally himself even if there was a concern over something.

When an actual bird showed up, especially Fawkes, it was almost never a good thing

Albus,

False comfort now would make it worse later, assuming I’m correct. I’d imagine the Ministry will be caught with its trousers down for the third time in a row because why would they bother to change now?

I don’t know much about Black myself, apart from his name and the fact that it looks like Crouch decided a trial wasn’t necessary which sets a terrible precedent.

If he was the only one who had the ability to find them, it’s still very possible he let Voldemort in; if Black had cast that killing curse, I doubt it would have ‘backfired’ in the way it appears to have backfired. I still don’t know why the pattern burn landed on the intended victim and not Voldemort and I definitely do not like the fact that they didn’t find a body yet have declared him dead.

That doesn’t sit right.

The thing about looks and dark magics is that they only warp one’s looks for two reasons. I’d like to think they haven’t warped mine too terribly much beyond always looking like I don’t get nearly enough sleep, which I don’t.

The most common reason is it simply being a side effect of an unchecked addiction; you can see examples of that scattered all over Knockturn, but they typically don’t have their eyes go red or look necessarily inhuman.

Personally, I think they just look a bit ill and in need of a good scrub.

Most changes that happen due to an uncontrolled addiction manifest in behaviour and psychological health. You see a lot of sudden aggression with little to no warning, paranoia, and the sort of anger that’s based in fear, which is usually where the aggression comes from.

Not only does the magic feed off of strong emotions of that nature, it’s easy to manifest them as the Ministry’s idea of treatment for that sort of addiction is either execution or Azkaban and many would prefer the former to the latter, so they’ll go out of their way to ensure anyone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement feels they need to use lethal force.

The second and most uncommon reason can be found in several of the texts I hinted. Performing the ritual once will cause some visual side effects but nothing that looks much beyond a standard addiction or possible illness, but if you’re doing multiple splits and not splitting the split to make more and are splitting yourself again, you go from having 50% of your soul intact to 25% to roughly 12%, and so on.

The few I’ve known at 50% are unpleasant enough. In fairness, they were unpleasant at 100% as well, which is telling.

Someone who keeps slicing it in half repeatedly would be unpredictably dangerous after two or three rounds and very likely completely mad at anything beyond that. Whether they remain that way depends on how large the piece used in the resurrection rituals (as opposed to simply possessing someone else’s body and kicking them to the back seat of their own mind) is; could be anything from something utterly inhuman looking to someone who looks fairly ordinary.

I’ll pull the texts; nobody looks twice at anything I do anymore anyway and the assumption is always that I have strange reading habits or am working on a project. I can grab one of three I know if you’d like to examine one of the things in person; they do often wiggle their way past standard Occlumency, but I doubt you’d have any trouble adjusting defenses slightly to keep them out.

It’s incredibly obscure, viciously awful magic that most people wouldn’t even be aware of, let alone know exactly where to look to find how to do it–and those who do find it can often not manage to get through even reading the full ritual to the end.

My house is probably the safest place as I know damn well nobody can eavesdrop here. The security wards won’t bother you; you’ve had a key for decades anyway.

- Calleo

Included with the letter is a small, unremarkable, unevenly cut piece of raw black tourmaline that has been turned into a portkey.

Albus found himself feeling more than a little ill, contemplating what Tom may have done to himself. He’d always been a bit worrying, but despite his tendencies toward keeping people at a distance and delving deeply into dark magics, he was a well-reasoned young man. Albus hadn’t agreed with any of the ideas Tom supported since he was in his youth himself, but he at least argued them well at first. He seemed almost more of a political activist than a terrorist.

He gathered what information he had handy about Voldemort and the recent war efforts, then went ahead and took the portkey. He hadn’t let himself into Calleo’s home before, but it was far from the first time he had been there, and he was sure he could make himself at home to wait, should he arrive earlier than he was expected.

The portkey had been set to go directly to Calleo’s living room, bypassing the short hallway from the front door and that one book that always seemed to have a habit of lunging at anyone who walked past.

Very little in that room, or in the house in general, had changed over the years and if the majority of the old wallpaper hadn’t been almost completely obscured by shelves containing various books, artefacts, and miscellaneous nonsense that had, at some point, caught Calleo’s eye it would have appeared much more dated than it did. They were all heavily warded in a way that suggested the spell work was there for the protection of anyone in the room and less in place for protecting what was on the shelves.

Wood floors, at least, were relatively timeless.

If Calleo’s sofa and the one chair that sat off to the left of it had changed at all over the decades, it certainly wasn’t evident due to the fact that both were mostly covered with various loudly coloured and patterned quilts.

Calleo had been somewhere in the house when Albus arrived, mostly evident on account of him walking into the room a few seconds after his arrival. While he didn’t technically audibly say something along the lines of, “You look absolutely terrible,” the brief pause in his movement and the accompanying look Albus got for a split second before Calleo’s usual warm smile appeared likely said it clearly enough.

“I’d like to apologise to you in advance,” once he was close enough, Calleo laid a hand on Albus’ shoulder and steered him toward the sofa, “for a lot of things but chiefly for the fact that I’m about to go on about topics you likely never had any desire to learn the details of and will speak about them as though we were discussing what I finally wanted to replace the mostly hidden wallpaper with.”

On the coffee table in front of the sofa there were four books stacked (one being the common and easy to find Secrets of the Darkest Art by Owle Bullock), one book off by itself and under a whole hell of a lot of heavy warding (curiously, despite it not moving at all, it still somehow appeared to be struggling to break free rather violently),something that looked a lot like a vaguely unsettling stone paper weight, and a seemingly random book with a blank cover that gave them both a cheerful, “Good evening, gentlemen!”

“So, apart from the texts that detail those rituals–disarmed, by the way, the books, that is, figured you wouldn’t be all that keen on doing that yourself all things considered,” he offered a small, almost apologetic smile. “It’s up my street anyway, and I’m familiar enough with these four that I could probably do it in my sleep.”

“At any rate, apart from those, I’ve brought one currently forcibly silenced horcrux of someone I knew while he was alive and one of the slightly more mad–” Calleo paused and looked at the object next to the book on the coffee table that appeared to be little more than a stone paperweight, “–apologies, you’re much better off than you used to be but still the most prone to unpredictable mood swings than the others–” his attention turned back to Albus, “–victims of certain irreversible forms of Transfiguration as they can often seem extraordinarily similar if one doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

“Both of them can hear me perfectly fine and are able to observe their surroundings; the horcrux can speak rather loudly and audibly when he wants to, which he often does, mostly to swear at me or anyone else willing to put up with it in two different languages. The other one can as well, but unless you purposely open up a connection using either Legilimency or Mensrapere–this one prefers the latter but will tolerate the former–you can’t hear them and all most people notice is an unsettling feeling that they’re being watched.”

“A lot of ‘haunted’ Muggle items are one of those. I’ve got six on my desk at work, and have never been successful in convincing the Wizengamot to let me kill them citing murder is murder and somehow evidently worse than leaving someone trapped in that state of relative immortality for what would amount to eternity without outside intervention.”

“Technically,” Calleo sighed, “a horcrux is similar in that regard with the significant difference being that the person who makes a horcrux very much did it on purpose and that it’s based in Blood Magic and not Transfiguration. When it’s the offshoot of Transfiguration, it’s not possible to do it to yourself, someone else has to have done it and if they’re dead, their victim is stuck.”

“This one,” he leaned forward to pick the horcrux up off of the table, “is what’s left of Victor Achleitner; I doubt anyone would mind if I destroyed it considering the other half of him was dispatched in 1944 but, I kind of want the book and he kind of still has four of mine squirreled away somewhere and I just haven’t had the time to drag the information out of him. Fully intend to reunite him with his other half once I’ve got them back, however.”

“I’d imagine,” Calleo began, turning the book over in his hands a few times and speaking as casually as he might if it were a little more than a copy of the Prophet, “that you can probably feel the difference between this and,” a nod toward the paperweight, “that without me having to let this idiot,” the book got a less than gentle knock on the cover and was now seething more than enough that it was obvious even under several layers of containment and silencing charms, “start talking and subjecting either of us to his unpleasant personality. I might have also told him you’d be visiting to make sure he was in a properly terrible mood so the difference between them all was more striking.”

“And that one,” Calleo set the horcrux on the arm of the sofa, leaning forward to pick up the book with the blank cover, “is an old book with some clever charms work on it that makes it seem as though it were alive; the longer those sets of charms get to run and the more conversation they’re exposed to, the more alive they seem. This one is from 1832, completely innocuous as it’s essentially a talking cookbook that can answer questions about itself, its author, and the recipes inside of it, and can give the impression that it’s sentient or at least alive–until you talk to it long enough or ask it something that requires complex thought and it runs out of responses that make sense.”

“Fairly easy to confuse the three if it’s not something you’ve studied extensively and it becomes dangerous if you mistake a horcrux for clever charms; the larger–in the sense of how much of someone’s soul is attached to it–they are the more capable they are of kicking you out of your own mind. Most of them will purposely come off as incredibly charming and play the victim toward someone who doesn’t recgonise what they are, and once they’ve managed to build enough of a trust with whoever they’re speaking with they’ll go from 'speaking’ to you inside your own mind to taking it from you. That’s the easiest, least bloody, least complicated, and most direct path to what amounts to resurrection.”

“He can’t do that,” Calleo nodded toward the paper weight, “but he can talk to you that way; in the case of those, it’s no different than speaking to anyone else via Legilimency.”

“You know, Albus,” He set the other book on top of the horcrux, likely just to annoy it further and turned to smile at Albus, “all of this is exactly the sort of thing I was so elated you never wrote me about, never asked about, and never wanted to discuss because it’s all anyone else ever wants to talk to me about.”

“I don’t even need to think about it anymore, it’s all just sort of automatic explanations. Probably what I deserve for carving out such a horrid little niche for myself though. Regardless,” somehow Calleo didn’t seem at all put off by any of it, “it is my horrid little niche and what I don’t already know I can typically find out or form a solid enough working theory from what I do already know and conversation on the topic.”

“So, if you’ve got questions, I’ve more than likely got answers. Can’t guarantee you’ll like the answers, but there’s a decent chance that I have them.”

Albus froze for a second, when Calleo came toward him then didn’t stop, then made contact. As though he were a deer in wandlight. But then the second passed and his brain resumed mostly-normal functioning. As odd as it was to be touched like that, it was hardly the first time Calleo had done so. Still, rather than conjuring his own chair, which, after his hair had turned entirely silver, Albus had found he could do without drawing complaint and he had since taken to doing in almost every situation, he simply sunk into the blanket-covered couch he was directed toward with a sigh. It had, truly, been a horrible week, and if Calleo had spotted the signs of it so quickly, there was little point in attempting to disguise his exhaustion further. Especially in the face of the sort of discussion that was likely to come. 

Despite all of his deep research into a great number of topics, Albus took great pride in the fact that his knowledge of the dark arts was still fairly superficial. He had avoided speaking with anyone on the topic in any great depth for the majority of his life, after that summer when he had fallen head-first into a great many dangers he had since kept himself firmly away from. And now, here he was, on the sofa of an old friend, preparing to delve into the deepest, most alarming and revolting, of dark arts.

He didn’t like it, but despite his horror, Albus stayed where he was and he listened. Because this was important, and self-imposed or not, he had a duty. He even listened to Calleo’s summary of the ministry’s confusing and worrying stance on these objects, which he would have to look into and try to do something about, and to his intentions to destroy the horcrux in his possession at some future point, which he would not attempt to prevent. There were many people who Albus would have tried to persuade to show mercy, feeling that he had some responsibility to guide them in positive moral directions. Calleo was not one of those people. Which was good because Albus was not in a good place for providing guidance.

He could certainly feel the difference between the objects, but he examined the magic surrounding each object with a critical eye, just to be sure he remembered.

“I know. I wish I didn’t have questions. I taught him. Tom was under my care for seven long years and I cannot help but feel as though I have failed both him and all of Britain for allowing this to happen.” He closed his eyes and took a slow deep breath.

“But alas, I do. You mentioned the possibility of multiple horcruxes. I can hardly imagine, and yet I can imagine far too well. Tom always was so sure of himself–so fascinated with symbolism and the power of numbers. Do you think he would have gone so far as to make three? One would be hard enough to track, and as the numbers rise… I don’t suppose there’s an easy summoning ritual to gather the pieces before they can do more harm?”

Calleo knew the kind of reaction that entire explanation would get. On some level, he always did when talking about any aspect of what he studied to most people on account of most people not having whatever disconnect Calleo’s mind had that let him detach himself from what it was and view it under a neutral light while explaining it.

He had been of the opinion as long as he could recall that the most prevalent issue with the Dark Arts was the fact that so few people knew how most of it worked, they just saw the after effects of the magic itself or what it did to those who used it without knowing how it worked and, by proxy, how to handle it with relative safety.

The trouble with changing that view in anyone was that it had a tendency to be steeped in centuries of what amounted to fear of the unknown and, stripped back to what it was, the majority of it were only charms apart from the places it branched into Blood Magic, Potions, or Transfiguration.

When approached the same way as any other powerful magic, there was little to fear so long as one remained respectful of what it was capable of doing in the wrong (or right, depending on your stance) hands. In the wrong hands, it was a twisted, ugly, unpredictable, malevolent thing that could only hope to be viciously addictive and destructive and that turned those who used it into a physical manifestation of what it was. That was what most people’s exposure to the Dark Arts ever was and what the most prominent uses of it that made a mark on history were.

Calleo would argue both that those people were unchecked addicts who were more in need of being taught how to manage their addiction and use it safely as addiction was never truly gone and less in need of being thrown into Azkaban or pushed to the edges of Wizarding society; the latter especially was exactly how people like Voldemort were able to gain the followings that they gained. Those who feel abandoned or hated by society will often cling to anything or anyone that offers them a sense of acceptance and belonging, after all and, when that comes bundled with an additional offer of striking back at those who’d cast them out it had a strong tendency to be an irresistible draw.

Still, Albus wasn’t there to get into a debate about that. Not this time, at any rate.

This was also the second time he’d used the name Tom instead of Voldemort and it caused Calleo to stop and think for a couple of minutes, “That odd kid who told you he could talk to snakes? He worked at Borgin & Burkes for a while, I think; only noticed because he was one of the few things in Knockturn that wasn’t largely incoherent. Had a strange cadence to his speech. A lot of pauses in there wouldn’t normally be pauses but, held up against the sorts of people one usually finds in Knockturn, he was pleasantly normal or could at least act it.”

“You can’t control what other people decide to do with their lives, Albus.” For someone who had just been casually talking about the rituals behind splitting one’s soul into pieces, Calleo’s tone easily shifted from the same one he used at work while explaining a particular piece of magic to something significantly more gentle.

“When you get someone who ends up having an interest in the Dark Arts and ends up left to their own devices in terms of how they go about learning them and from whom, they often do go off the rails despite anyone’s best efforts.”

The smile he offered was a strange mix of a little bit sheepish and little amused, “I did for a bit, and I had relatively formal education in it. That was a good–probably twenty years before you knew me. Don’t remember most of it, to be honest, just that it was…unpleasant and terrifying. It’s difficult to break free of it with a support system and next to impossible if you’ve surrounded yourself with people and things that feed it and encourage it.”

“Not an excuse, of course, it never is but, at the same time, it also–is what it is. Most people just end up quietly self-destructing but now and again you get one that manages to lash out spectacularly.”

At least this most recent one hadn’t really had a chance to spread much beyond Britain. Calleo had the sense not to say that out loud, if nothing else.

“And you taught him Transfiguration, Albus; you weren’t even his head of house! Even if you had been, it still falls back to the fact that it’s just not a realistic possibility to be able to control what someone else does. You can give someone all the information or support in the world but if they’re not willing to listen to it or accept it, there isn’t anything you can do.”

Well, you could use the Imperius Curse but that was generally frowned upon.

“A bit like how I could spend the rest of the ni–frankly, the rest of my life--explaining to you how none of this is your fault and your response would be to listen politely, nod, and tell me ‘Interesting theory, but also, it’s definitely my fault’ with a completely straight face as if you hadn’t heard a single word I’d said,” Calleo said that with all the affection one would expect to find present when speaking to someone he’d known for nearly half a century.

“It is a possibility, yes.” Back to the wildly unpleasant topic of horcruxes, “Slim one, but definitely one. Don’t think I’ve heard of anyone doing it multiple times before, once is usually painful enough on multiple levels that they don’t want to or are too afraid to do so.”

It wouldn’t do to admit that it would be highly interesting to meet or, even better, speak at length with someone who had done multiple splits, despite how dangerous it would also be to meet such a person.

“If it’s numbers he’s fascinated with, I’d disagree with three if only because I don’t–like that number for some reason; same with six, nine, or anything where threes are doubled or, worse, tripled. Threes in odd numbers of the worst sort of threes.” Calleo blinked a bit owlishly. That much he hadn’t  intended to say out loud as there was never a way to say it that didn’t come off as irrational.

“Numerology falls under the blanket of Divination,” he never had been able to fully remove the audible eye roll from his voice whenever that topic came up, “for the most part and I’m not sure either of us wants to look at the numbers that might be considered by someone who’d decided certain numbers were luckier or more successful than others.”

“Apart from my personal dislike of the number three, it would be a possibility; that number is typically associated with people who believe themselves to be almost superhuman or bringers of change,” Calleo shrugged. “The rest of its aspects don’t fit him though at least, not as Voldemort. Upbeat, youthful, generally happy, a lot of inner peace–not even close.”

“Four has a strong association with self-control and stability and he clearly didn’t have much of that.” Four had clearly been dismissed out of hand.

“Five is more of a fancy way to say 'probably a successful Alchemist and way older than any of you’, and he’s a great deal younger than both of us in addition to not being very successful.” Another dismissal and, with the way Calleo was talking, he hadn’t noticed the number steadily increasing.

“Six is–” before he could finish that, he all but dissolved into laughter for a few seconds. “Trust me, it’s not six. Nothing associated with healing, unconditional love, and nurturing would be anything he’d land on. I should probably mention that these numbers include the original bit that would have been left in the body the Ministry didn’t find.”

“Seven is one that even Muggles consider lucky overall and has its associations in someone who is curious and tends to like to dig up a lot of obscure, strange things but are only decent at relating to other people on a superficial level; usually sees them as means to an end and prefers their own company because nobody else could live up to their standards. Still,” another shrug, “it is considered a lucky number outside of Numerology.”

Calleo waved his hand at the horcrux on the sofa arm dismissively and it disappeared and made some passing comment about being tired of listening to it rant at him and it was either that or he was going to sit there talking while carefully ripping the soul off of the book and shoving it into the tackiest mug he could find in his kitchen; nice to be able to send things right back to the office like that.

“Eight is interesting though and–what are we down to?” He stopped talking again to make at least a cursory attempt at doing the math. One horcrux was fifty/fifty. Two were–well, the horcrux itself would always be fifty percent of whatever was left–twenty-five percent, then twelve percent at three, six percent at four, three percent at five. What the hell was half of three? One and a half percent at six, three quarters of a percent at seven.

“Well, at eight, he’d be down to having about, ick, three odd numbers. Point three-seven-five. Three and five both have some aspects that he’d likely find desirable and it does include that 'lucky’ seven. At any rate, the luck of seven aside, eight based on its shape alone represents what amounts to immortality, a mind of one’s own, and the ability and will to endure anything. That one would be my guess, if it wasn’t seven based solely on all the strange fixation of luck around that one.”

“If he did die at least once with that little left the upside is any piece he’d use, assuming he doesn’t try the possession of someone else route first which would probably keep him at that point three-seven-five, would make him significantly more human than he was when he was first killed. That’s a depressing thought.”

More accurately, it was a horrifying thought but that isn’t where Calleo’s mind had gone, evidently.

His tone went strangely and suddenly cold, “Nine is still locked in a tower of his own design as far as I know and there isn’t a comparison there anyway. Talent versus a tantrum from everything I’ve seen from the angle I usually see that sort of thing from.”  

As Calleo continued, his voice went back to its usual,“ From nine–it does go up digit by digit but the stronger ones, so to speak, jump to eleven, twelve, then twenty two and none of those seem terribly likely.”

“Two things bother me about that eight, however,” sometimes just listening to Calleo was enough to make his mind seem like it ran in the infinite loops of an 8, “the first being that I’d guess anyone doing multiples would stop noticing the negative side effects of that ritual after the first two or three, which leads to the second thing: The more you carve it away, the less human you’d become–and the more unpredictable and likely violent you would become.”

Calleo sighed at Albus’ last question which, for a moment, seemed to be his only response, “No more than you can easily summon an intact person with Accio, which is to say, not particularly. If you knew what he’d attached them to, you could easily summon that object but not the other way around. If he’s got a fascination with symbolism, it might at least narrow down what sort of objects you’d be looking for. It’d be incredibly surprising if all of them weren’t heavily cursed and designed to incapacitate one way or another as the latter would make possession easier.”

“On the other hand, that’s looking at it from the perspective of how I’d do it if I were mad enough to consider chopping myself up into pieces; his thought process might have been entirely different and, admittedly, I don’t know what the thought process of someone who’d done it more than once would be beyond incoherently dangerous.”

“Yes,” he confirmed sadly. “That Tom.” Albus had guessed the strange way he spoke was due to continued, frequent use of parseltongue–a sort of accent. But he hid most of it when he decided he needed to sound important to his followers, as he had done when speaking to professors during his later years at Hogwarts. 

Calleo was right, of course. Albus had been about to nod. And he certainly didn’t believe anything that might absolve him of guilt in this situation, no matter that he could see the logic in Calleo’s argument. And despite how deeply touched he was by the kindness that drove him to say it. But rather than following through with his nod, he simply hummed thoughtfully and let Calleo continue speaking, as he generally seemed content to do until he was interrupted.

“I believe it was Arithmancy and magically-powerful number that he would be more inclined to base a decision like this in. I can’t be sure, of course. He did hold Divination in abnormally high regard, as far as I could tell,” he cut in before he could get too much farther.

Then, as Calleo went up through possible numbers and their connotations, Albus grew paler, worry and a bit of despair growing behind his eyes. There was very little chance of him successfully locating six or seven–or, heaven-forbid, eight–random objects. 

“Eight pieces, do you think? Or eight horcruxes? I don’t know if he would have counted the part of his soul still inside his body.” He couldn’t even bear to consider more than eight at the moment, though losing so much of his soul did explain the loss of rationality and coherence in his plans over the last years.

“Tom was collecting trophies even before he knew about magic. He may have been bright enough to use objects that nobody would think of and hide them well, but… I don’t believe he was sane enough. I think… Most likely, he would have wanted significant items, placed in significant locations. Still, that doesn’t narrow things much. I was hardly his trusted confidant in his school days and I have had few chances to even speak to him since.”

He put his face down into his hands, looking unbelievably weary, and stayed hunched over like that for a few long breaths before straightening back up.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fully understand how someone who had to work in a shop in Knockturn wouldn’t end up in a mindset of, ‘Yes, they all deserve this’; I only worked at Flourish & Blotts until I ended up at the Ministry and some days…” he shook his head, “not a real excuse of course, but I could see having to work there snapping someone who was only holding on by a thread to begin with.”

A muttered, “It’s just pattern recognition and lucky guesses” when Divination was mentioned but, Calleo didn’t push that topic further.

“Well, it’d be eight including the original one he was carving off of, which would mean if the original piece was what got kicked into the afterlife he’d be down to seven. The thing is, no matter how razor thin it became, it wouldn’t ever be destroyed entirely–apart from misusing Nihilus or using Excidium, of course–it’s worth keeping in mind that he is still a person.”

“May very well be a twisted, violent, unpredictable person, but still a person; I don’t like that narrative of only monsters do that sort of thing because that’s simply not the case, it further alienates someone who’s likely feeling that way to begin with, and creates this false sense of security that it can’t happen again because only a monster would do that and the monster was killed, imprisoned, or whatever was done with it–and that’s dangerous.”

Calleo listened carefully, both because it was an interesting topic to him and because he wanted to take care not to miss any little detail that might be important. “It narrows it down more than you’d think; if there were aspects of history he was fascinated with, or certain colours, certain places, certain object types, or if they might be objects that held personal meaning to him it could narrow it down a great deal. It’s helped by the fact that most people like him want their soul kibble found by someone because, at some point, the body they have is going to die and they’re going to need to find another one so they’d want the remaining bits relatively easy to find. I’d bet actual Galleons that at least one or two of his branded followers know where at least one is.”

When Albus buried his face in his hands, Calleo as he often did in those cases, rested a hand on his shoulder, not entirely removing it as Albus sat up again. “Maybe you weren’t, but people like him like to talk about themselves, it’s just a matter of finding if anyone he’d ramble at alive, mostly sane, and willing to talk.”

“I’ve known a decent amount of people like him over the years, and I can tell you this: They’re all extremely lonely people at their core. They will talk to anyone they believe will listen and won’t rat them out–and some become so confident in their own skills they believe nobody would dare say a word.”

“Do enough poking around in the right markets with the right people, and you’re bound to find interesting information here and there or–well, if I do enough poking around in the right markets with the right people,” Calleo shrugged lightly and moved the chattering cook book back to the table.

“You don’t need that kind of stress and I work with those people on a regular basis; they’d be more likely to speak with me directly than they would to you or even to me knowing I’d be reporting that information back to you–so they simply won’t know that part.”

“And don’t!” Calleo held up a hand, anticipating an objection or three dozen, “Tell me that you’ll take care of it on your own. Maybe you will eventually but right now? Right now you need to not–do that thing again when you work yourself into a trench and get stuck there. I’m not giving you that ‘on your own’ option this time, you had it last time and right now you look so entirely exhausted and miserable that it really is taking a massive amount of self control to not pull you into a hug, no matter how brief.”

“Take some time off,” he smiled gently. He remembered full well that that advice was likely not going to go very far; it hadn’t worked the last time Albus had gone and done the entire Ministry’s job for it, at least. “It doesn’t have to be months or years, even a few weeks would help, just some time off to do nothing but unwind a couple of ticks; let me deal with the groundwork of where to begin searching, and I do have things that branch outside of your usual channels; there are a good many people who avoid you because they’re still bitter about how the last war ended. That sort of thing is part of my job anyway, and they’ll talk to me, especially if I word it in a way that catches their interest.”

“You take a week or two at someplace unplottable. I’ve got a few suggestions if you can’t think of any offhand.”

“You’re at one of them!” That got a laugh! “And the other is kind of a back door into the Archives’ lower level; the director before the last director put in a flat so she could avoid having to leave work and also avoid having to talk to people. Has a stairway that leads right up to ground level, and I’ve got the keys for it; they wouldn’t let you out onto Level 7, so no worries there.”

‘Soul kibble’ earned him a brief, weak laugh. It wasn’t might, but there could, evidently, still be bright spots in the world, even after such great failure and with such looming potential doom. It was a good reminder.

After a moment of touch, Albus looked up gratefully, giving Calleo his full attention again as he resumed.

As difficult as it was to let go, Calleo was genuinely competent, and Albus knew he wouldn’t offer to help if he didn’t intend to follow through. The prospect of pursuing this problem with his friend by his side rather than doing it all alone was appealing. And reassuring.

“If it’s taking so much effort, do go ahead. I’d hate to have you distracted by something so trivial.” Assuming it was brief, he might even draw more from a hug, in that moment. He’d likely even bring himself to hug back with some enthusiasm, for a moment.

“It’s hardly an opportune time for a break, but perhaps I will excuse myself from the castle for the winter holidays. Scottish winters are hardly doing me any favors at my age.” And there had been so many academic concerns he’d been putting off in favor of handling political problems. He would truly enjoy a chance to ignore recent events in favor of meeting with some of the rising scholars in Japan he’s been meaning to reach out to. Or even visiting some old friends.

“Alas, it never seems to be a good time. Christmas abroad, however… I’m sure my deputy could handle the handful of students who stay behind for a few weeks. I will look into it. And I believe I will take you up on your offer of assistance. You make excellent points, and I do trust you to take care of yourself while making such dangerous inquiries. Will you at least keep me updated about your findings?”

“I’d like to amend one of my statements despite the fact that it might have gone unnoticed: When I said some become so confident in their own skills they believe nobody would dare say a word, I don’t mean about things that are horrible. More, if they have gone off on the sad, tattered, and largely self-inflicted disaster they turned out to be, I won’t say a word about that.”

“No problems betraying trust in the business, intelligence, or political arenas, but I don’t like to make that sort of thing personal. If I’m part of the scavenger hunt for the remaining parts of someone’s soul with the intent of them being destroyed or dispatched, I–” Calleo blinked and paused for a moment, “–that is the intent, correct? We’re not doing something with re-binding rituals or glue or anything, yeah? Anyway, if it is that, I’ll go about assisting that destruction professionally.”

He tilted his head in a vaguely bird-like manner, “It’s the perfect opportune time for a break, considering you and a handful of people who also decided the Ministry was next to useless and to do the entire Ministry’s job only to have Crouch prance in like the pin striped vulture he is and declare that the Ministry had saved the day yet again! That’s at least worth a four day weekend.”

“You’ll have to let me know what you think of any of those scholars though, I’d maybe recommend visiting old friends if you’d have to make a decision between the two–whatever you do just promise me you’ll at least try to relax and not worry about anything going on back here.”

“And it’s no effort at all!” That may have sounded a bit more cheery than Calleo intended, “That sort of information could be valuable in countless ways. Best part is, since I wouldn’t trust the Ministry to be at all competent? That’ll reel at least four I already had in mind thirty seconds ago without argument!”

“Will I keep you updated?” Calleo repeated with a laugh, “You’ve just given me implicit permission to write or visit as often as there are updates of any kind, and the kind of updates weren’t specified!”

“Albus, you will be kept updated to the point that you’ll at least be tempted to tell me to stop writing every couple of hours or at least stop sending owls to breakfast or, if not that, at least a bit curious as to just who in the hell I’m actually talking to.”

Calleo smiled broadly and, this time, lazily threw an arm around Albus’ shoulders. “We’ll start with updates now, because I spend a good deal of time in Denmark and both of the current iterations of Germany. The general feeling I got from some of HIS former–employees–started out as what I can only describe as mild amusement, a brief period of interest and then, by about ‘77, a very distinct and almost hostile disdain for Voldemort and his followers.”

“Tempting to try the legislate ‘Voldemort out of being able to function’ there route but that also feels like it’d land me in an unpaid second job if I did, and that sounds like it’d eat up a lot of my already limited spare time. It’d also be blatantly obvious, probably startle MACUSA, and--not really a good option overall.”

Absently, Calleo scratched the side of his head and paused speaking for a few seconds as he fished something out of his hair, “I’d wondered where I lost that!” He held out a copper hatpin topped with a setting that contained several small pieces of black tourmaline and lapis lazuli. “Must’ve fallen out then got left behind! That happens more often than you’d think when I wear it up!”

“Do you ever hide small things or quills in your beard so you can pull them out in front of students often enough that they think that your beard is a liminal space? I’d definitely do that if I had a beard.”

Calleo started to say something else along those lines when the conductor came back from its short break and switched Calleo’s train of thought back onto the correct set of tracks.

“Oh! Right, the–sorry about that, I don’t keep hatpins in my hair ordinarily. Now, then, it might be safer to aim at financial and always seeming to know what they’re planning and possibly take a few warning shots at making it socially humiliating to have it known you have views that agree with Voldemort.”

“Which shot would you prefer I take first?” He grinned, “If you haven’t got a preference I might go two, three, then one but two, one, and then three could likely work just as well.”

“I’m sure that is our only realistic option,” Albus confirmed, though he didn’t look happy about it. It was a minor relief, though, to hear the clarification that his friend was still willing to aid the world in preventing atrocities. He did wonder sometimes. Idly and infrequently.

“I will try, but I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my talent for relaxation in recent years. It may take some practice to recover the skill.” He smiled wryly, then rubbed his ear and leaned back more comfortably against the couch. 

“Despite your misgivings, I’m certain to find the constant communication more comforting than not in this case. It is an incredibly important task which I am unable to complete unaided, which I’m sure you know frustrates me. Hearing from you will allow me to feel as though I’m in the loop.”

He leaned into Calleo for a moment, resting a hand on his leg to let him know he was comfortable with the touch continuing. He smiled weakly through the diversion of the hat pin, not bothering to respond to the question about his beard since he was sure Calleo would continue without an answer. Which he did.

“I think two, three, and then one will work as well as any other approach, assuming I followed correctly and by that you mean you will target financials first, then social concerns, then possible legislation. I doubt legislation will do much good before the general mood has shifted to favor views opposing Voldemort’s ideals. And, legislation is the one thing I would be better suited for than you.”

“A paper trail could be a bit much or dangerous down the line. I don’t know–quite how to ask this without coming off as weird..er..than usual but I will preface it by saying it’s something I frequently do with people I need to remain in close and silent contact. It’s typically temporary, and everyone has their own little space, as it were.” He tapped the side of his head, “At the moment, it’s only Lagraff, Aldig, Koggot, and Braxford that have what I like to joke is a permanent flat in my head.”

“Instant and silent communication, and I’ve long since learned how to make it work over great distances as well!” Calleo’s smile was almost playful, “And I’m completely housebroken and don’t go snooping about as I have no interest in what's going on in someone else’s head. It’s never always on, and the other four would have no idea you were even in there unless I told them, which I wouldn’t as they’re not involved. You won’t even know I’m there until I start talking.”

“And Occlumency’s always been a basic job function; I’ve had nearly seventy years of building it up and fine tuning it and am completely confident in saying it would be an entirely secure method of communication–er–the Legilimency part, that is.”

That was a lot of rambling in an attempt to not seem completely awkward, which may not have worked at all. Then again, there may not be a way to not-awkwardly suggest someone have a seat inside your mind to make communication faster and easier.

“If it makes it less frustrating for you, do feel free to consider me–uh–hm,” Calleo paused to think, “an extension of you. For the most part, I’ll simply move as you move and move what I can move in the same direction, but I answer to you privately. I know you’re not fond of giving up control, and I do appreciate the significance of even a small piece of it being turned largely over to me.”

“Publicly, I may have to appear a bit distant, though I doubt I’ll be able to make a good case for even neutrality in the Archives after the way I dealt with it a few years back; if I’m lucky, I’ll be largely forgotten or thought of as irrelevant. If not, I’ll just make enough noise to keep the focus on me and not the other Archivists.”

“Regardless,” he smiled at Albus, “completely regardless of how I may have to present myself publicly, I am entirely yours in this. Financial aim will be easy,” the smile broadened into a strangely proud and somewhat sharp grin. “I spent years–close to twenty–tracking down any living relatives and in a few cases it had to go to mutual business associates as one or two entire families had been simply exterminated.”

“What that got me was a strong reputation of someone who honors a contract; when they died, the ones I had the contracts with, everything sold or given to me under those contracts needed to be returned to their family–if any were left. I managed to rebuild several very, very strong ties to incredibly skilled Goblins. If anyone can cause financial chaos for those who still support him, they can.” His statements were almost clinical in nature, but the excitement to do something that wasn’t managing a weird and terrible library was evident in his eyes.

“Especially since one of his intended platforms was to make life…difficult for them again! Goblins have long memories, as they should.”

“The social aspect!” Now his grin was back, matching the excitement that lit his eyes. If one arm hadn’t been draped across Albus’ shoulders, he might have actually clapped.

“That is going to be so, so interesting; I’ll aim for nobody actually being killed and it’s very difficult to die of embarrassment. Should be easy to tie it into the financial aspect. If nobody wants to do business with you because of your views on things, it becomes embarrassing enough that even if they still buy into it privately they’ll be hesitant to be public with it and I am already enjoying this.”

“Where legislation is concerned, that is almost certainly your strong point and you have the political capital to spend, so I’ve got no arguments there. I can, if you’d like, get you tie-ins to the contacts I have just to make sure you’ve got strong enough strings to pull when it becomes necessary to give them a good yank, though it may be best for me to set those up so they don’t know it’s you directing it all.”

“Some of them are still a little–let’s call it bitter; most of them will work with me and the ones who won’t I’m–not sure what to do about them yet, but I’d reckon we’ve got a few years to figure it out!”

He gave Albus a small squeeze, taking care to make sure it didn’t make him feel trapped on the sofa. “Regardless of how long it takes him to rebuild, if he wants continental Europe, I fully intend to make it my priority to see that he has to fight for every tiny scrap of it and aim to make it not worth the time, effort, and losses to attempt.”

“And if that doesn’t work out all that well, I’m amazingly skilled at causing chaos–not–you know, war level chaos, the sort that one doesn’t even notice from the outside; those types of people will eat their own, so to speak, if they become frightened enough that they’re being targeted.”

“I know the Unseen Market well enough to navigate it in my sleep, Albus!” If it were possible for a person to be almost vibrating with excitement, Calleo was that person.

“There are so many avenues that will be so easy to cut off because of all the years I spent making connections others kept telling me to avoid. Have you worked closely with Goblins before? In a situation where they’re not wary of your motivations? They are brilliantly and efficiently cutthroat and I know exactly which partners of mine to contact to get it started!”

“Don’t mistake, they’re not going to kill anyone–and neither am I–physically, just financially and socially.”

“You just take a holiday, here, somewhere else, anywhere, there’s no rush on anything you’d need to do here and what you’ll likely end up having to spend that political capital on will be better spent once any base support that kid,”  Kid. Not especially the way one would expect to hear someone use in reference to Voldemort but, in fairness, Calleo was roughly forty years older than him, “has left is a smouldering heap of embarrassment and financial ruin. It’s going to take a few years to get it to a point that it’s usable in that regard.”

Everything Calleo was talking about was so delightfully intricate–the exact kind of social maneuvering and manipulation and elegant design that had so entranced Albus in his youth. Had he been alone when such longing struck, he might very well have hidden his wand and taken a sleep aid. As it was, he simply closed his eyes for a moment, took a long, deep breath, and tried to remind himself of every reason he wasn’t allowed to trust himself with fixing the government. No, it was much better to leave Calleo to handle this–to leave this to someone who could be trusted to continue thinking of the people he was moving into place as people rather than simply puzzle pieces.

He ended up looking rather pained, until he worked his way back to the start of what Calleo had been saying. Then his eyes opened suddenly. 

“I’m afraid we’re going to need to take a step back and slow down, just a hint. What kind of bond, exactly, are you proposing?” He couldn’t handle a direct feed of all his friend was doing to fix this. Frequent reports would be one thing, but constant communication of the sort he was now imagining would be another thing entirely. Very likely, Albus would start to actually treat Calleo as an extension of himself, as though he were little more than a game piece. And he could not allow that to happen. Not at any cost.

“I do trust you. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of handling this independently. As much as I enjoy being in charge,” he offered a small, amused smile, above all his inner turmoil, “I am capable of letting go, especially when others are more capable than I. And there are methods of communication that neither leave a paper trail nor require we take up residence within each other’s minds. Perhaps it would be prudent to examine those before leaping to whatever, specifically, it is you’re suggesting.”

 “Oh, nothing binding; it’s not a business contract, after all. Just–a key, more or less, and don’t mistake,” he smiled brightly, “If I’d rather not have someone in my head at any given point, I’m more than capable of putting up an ‘out to lunch, try back later’ metaphorical sign.”

 “It’s just easier, over distance, where owls aren’t practical and information needs to be exchanged quickly, to use legilimancy; and only legilimancy. I swear, I’m not going to use it to wake you up in the middle of the night and ask you want the difference between a raven and a writing desk is or anything equally frivolous and there’s no bond involved, if you don’t want to talk, you don’t answer–and vice versa.

 Calleo nodded, “We can discuss other methods certainly, especially if you’re not comfortable with legilimency; it’s just what I’m the most used to using so it’s something I don’t have to think about–pun intended–to resort to using. You wouldn’t see anything I wouldn’t want you to see, all you’d see would be things related to work and an occasional chat.”

 “Speaking of, it’s SO useful for silent conversation that makes other people you’re negotiating with think you’re far too clever to try and pull one over on! That IS business that would be relatively useful here.”

Likely a good idea to be prudent though,“ Calleo kicked his feet up to rest on his own coffee table again. It was his own house, he could do what he wanted in his own house! "You’ve always been good at that you know, tempering–to put it politely–me when my mind gets away from me and starts proposing ideas that may not be the best course of action. HA! And, Merlin, if you were accidentally just hanging about in there and taking a look around, you’d probably run into so many things you never wanted to know about me!”

 “Anyway, it’s good to have someone around who’s able to act as a stopgap,” his smile faded somewhat, but didn’t disappear, “I’d like you to keep in mind that you know this situation better than I do. Just give the leash a yank if you think I’m getting too out of line.”

“I know the people I need to contact, where to have them go, what to have them say, and to whom to get things started; I know where I have to move in the same capacity but it all comes back to you. Not entirely you, I’m not going to even suggest it’s all on you, you don’t need that kind of stress and whatever they do falls back on me as I know how these things work; you need to, for now, remain completely separated from it all to keep the Ministry from poking around where it needn’t be poking around.”

Calleo gave Albus another little squeeze, “I can move as swiftly or as slowly as you’d like. If nothing else, I am exceptionally adaptable!”

“What the Ministry doesn’t know won’t hurt them but if anyone has to fall on the proverbial sword, it’s going to be me.’

 Calleo’s smile returned, this time more warm than playful, “What you need are people around you who can help keep you from thinking you need to be the one to plan, execute, and accomplish those plans; it works better with groups you trust, you know. Two now is a good start, but it’d be a good idea to pick a few more people with highly specialised skill sets eventually.”

 “And maybe for nobody else it comes back to you directly, but it does for me; don’t mistake, though, if I think you’re making a misstep, you’ll hear about it and likely hear about it with a mountain of evidence.”

“AND a holiday. A holiday first while I get information gathering started and you relax wherever it is you choose to relax; if you travel, send photos, if you stay here expect to be mildly fussed over if you start looking like you’re having a rough time.”

 Albus was also extremely capable of keeping people out of his head, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist every scrap of information he might be offered.

He reminded himself that he had successfully avoided taking over the world for many years now, then quickly thought it over again, more rationally. "Alright. I will take all of that under advisement.”

It was more difficult than it had any business being, to adjust to the idea that this wasn’t entirely his responsibility, even if he was leading things. I don’t believe such a measure is necessary at this point, but after I return from my holiday,“ he smiled, a little bit sadly, "we can implement legilimancy-based communication. You’re right that there will be quite a few advantages inherent to that method.

"I would like to say that your calm confidence in both of our abilities is remarkably reassuring. Especially your confidence in your ability to knock me back into line. I don’t even doubt you.” He leaned more firmly into his friend for a moment.

“When are you planning to begin taking moves?”

 "Great! It does make things a lot easier when trying to run silent, as it were; and I will want to hear all about your holiday when you get back!” Anyone listening in at this point might have just assumed nothing more than two old Wizards having a perfectly normal conversation.

“And try not to worry, I’m not a horribly loud presence, despite my outward personality; I wouldn’t be noisy living in a flat with thin walls, and I tend to treat others’ minds the same way.”

Calleo positively beamed at the compliment that might have seemed utterly mundane to someone else, “And it’s actual confidence; learned long ago that trying to pass off arrogance as confidence never works out long term.”

 “You’re good enough at pulling me back into line,” he snickered, “I mean, the long hair doesn’t help in escape attempts either. Reckon the same applies to that impressive beard of yours too! Ah—” Calleo regained his composure, “but it is a good thing to know. I never care to work alone for that reason. It’s easy to go a bit off if you haven’t got anyone around to talk you down.”

“I have no doubt that you’ll do very well with this and I’ll have no trouble turning to you for advice or to discuss tactics.”

 As Albus leaned more into Calleo, Calleo pulled him closer, “Oh, Lagraff, Koggott, and Aldig started about a half hour ago. Lagraff’s excellent with the economics of things–and he’s my personal accountant–Koggot gets on well with those in the Unseen Market, and Aldig is positively amazing where politics are concerned; if anyone can make it politically embarrassing to have even a passing association with Voldemort, Aldig can.”

 “Between Aldig and Koggot, they’ll have enough in place within a couple of months so Lagraff can start cutting off economic roots; at the moment, he’s simply a,” Calleo’s smile broadened, “buyer for a private client.”

“Figured I’d start small then have those three how many of the Goblin based business and banks he can get to fall in line.”

“And once that’s done,” Calleo had started to absently braid Albus’ hair, much the same way he used to when they were younger, “that’s when I step in, call in a few favours and where I have no political capital, I’ll make it–or find it, one way or another.  I’ll have a better idea of who and where to target first after hearing back from Aldig and Koggot.”

He sat silently for a while, letting Albus relax and still absently and loosely braiding his hair. It wasn’t the nicest topic, of course but, avoiding such things only made them worse in the end.

 Calleo finally spoke again, “I’ve got this, I promise you that and I also promise that if I think I’m slipping or need additional or reallocated resources,  you’ll be the first person to know.”  "You focus on, first and foremost, you, then on the school, THEN the UK at large; I don’t think I can bring in anyone from the continent without MACUSA losing its mind but I could see if it would be possible for Lagraff to convince at least a few of the Goblins at Gringotts that they really don’t want to keep accounts on these people, and assets can be frozen on a whim.“

 "I know this is difficult for you, Albus” reminiscent of few times in the mid-to-late 1940s, Calleo turned just enough to give his friend a perfectly friendly kiss on the side of his head, “it’s not all that hidden, but I am impressed and proud of you for realising that you’d only run yourself straight into the ground trying to do this yourself.”

“And don’t worry, I never fire the first shot so it’s always self defence in the eyes of the various Law Enforcement departments.”

 “Yes, I suppose it is.” He ought to have learned that lesson decades ago and stopped working alone so frequently himself, but he was grateful for the reminder. 

Hearing him lay out his plan–explain that it was already in motion–Albus was rather suddenly jealous of his network, regardless of how much effort Albus had put into purposely keeping his individual power in their community low. Then, of course, he had the realization that with them working together, Calleo’s network was his by proxy. And perhaps, that combined with what remained of the order and with his other connection and reputation… they might actually be able to make things work. 

“It is. You know me well. Shockingly well, some days. I will leave things in your very capable hands.” And he would trust all the reassurances. There was no good reason not to. 

Albus smiled and squeezed Calleo’s hand for a moment before shifting to put an inch or so between them. “I think I may stay for a moment. A better word might be hiding, but I believe an old man is allowed, on occasion.” And he did stay, not revisiting the unpleasant topics of war criminals or political maneuvering, for nearly half an hour, before he stood again to make his excuses. 

“And now, the school is calling. Always things to be done, you know. I wish you luck. But I do have a holiday to plan as well.” He smiled again, the sadness creeping back in, though it was certainly less prominent than it had been when he had first arrived, and again, took Calleo’s hand for a moment. “I know you know, but you shouldn’t get too set on handling things alone either.”

  “That does tend to happen after a few decades here and there if one is paying attention properly. It’s probably less fair to say you don’t hide it well than it is to say I’ve had to learn to be an almost paranoid level of perceptive for so long that it’s second nature.”

“And, make no mistake, it is often a paranoid level but, then, it has to be.” The smile he offered had a vague hint of sheepishness to it but, it was a smile nonetheless. “One often gets used to doublespeak, as it were, or needing to read between lines someone else would never tell you are there; missing even the smallest thing can have catastrophic results personally and professionally, and if you’re incorrect, the worst you typically end up as is a bit mental–but still alive.”

“The thing is is,” the sheepishness disappeared and melted into something that held the glint of a razor blade, “my dagger collection is made up of the ones I’ve pulled from my own back over the years.”

“If it’s hiding, I’ve been hiding since somewhere around 1916! I couldn’t do half of what you do even a fraction of the time; dealing with other people face to face is exhausting. There’s a good reason I bothered the appropriate offices for years to get them to give me a permit to make this place unplottable and I can sum it up with, ‘Unscheduled visitors outside of office hours stress me out even more than unscheduled visitors during office hours’.” He did, however, manage to not drift back to unpleasant topics for the duration of the conversation. One of the benefits of living in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by Muggles was that there had been, for all intents and purposes, no recent war anywhere near the place; it was all pleasant and quiet, even if the only reason had been that the Muggles weren’t allowed to know what had been going on.

“Does the school actually call?” Calleo tilted his head slightly, “It feels like that’s something it might actually do, which is mildly disconcerting.”

He smiled and not so much laughed as he did make an amused sounding little huff, “I know better than that; if I fall out of contact with either of those three for too long where personal business is concerned there’s a good chance someone under four feet tall will come looking for me and levitate a rolled up copy of the Prophet to go upside my head with for not answering in a timely manner.”

“You’ll have to forgive me in advance if I try to keep you away from needing to deal with some of the–sorts of people I’ll end up dealing with eventually for as long as possible. The ones I wouldn’t classify as dangerous are also the ones who are going to require a little,” Calleo paused, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it that didn’t make him sound horrible and eventually gave up and offered a resigned sounding, “persuasion, if only verbal, to even be willing to talk to you. The ones who owe me favours, which I will get from them one way or another, are more a matter of whether or not they’re currently aware that they owe me and have for at least the last four decades.”

“They’ll come around largely on account of me not intending to give them an option otherwise. If I can’t be charming enough, I can certainly be stubborn enough!”

“The rest are the sort I’ll likely have to take the route of falling in line with being on the, it’s not really an opposite side, yet is at the same time; the ones that need to think I find you to be the problem, not Voldemort.”

“Do try not to worry, though!” He perked back up, smiling brilliantly again. “You’ll know exactly who they are and what they say word for word; if you like, you’ll be able to hear and see them as well, should you want to be able to piece their words together with their tone and actions directly.”

“Finessing!” Evidently, it took Calleo’s mind a few minutes to catch up with the rest of him, “That was the word I was after! Persuasion sounds a hell of a lot more aggressive than I ever get.”

“It does, on occasion, though I’m being slightly less literal at the moment.  Generally, it’s only the wards or the elves who notify me directly that my presence is needed.” For instance, were students performing illegal magic in the corridors, or if the school were under attack, the wards would alert him. Thankfully, that was not the case now.  He didn’t think he could summon the energy to alert the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and coordinate the fallout from that at the moment. “This, thankfully, is much more of a pressing memory of obligations.  A nagging urge to continue keeping things in order, moving along as planned.” He smiled back, more than used to the way goodbyes could be drawn out by now.

“Ahh, keeping track. So few take the initiative to properly track their debts these days, assuming that others forget with time as they do. Yes.” He smiled wanly. “Yes, I’m sure you are more than capable of reminding. And finessing.

“I have full faith in you,” he reminded the both of them yet again. “And I’m sure I will get by just fine without direct memories, unless you find them particularly informative in a way a simpler retelling cannot be.

“I’m sure I will be hearing from you soon, my friend. When I do, I will be sure to inform you in turn of the progress I have made in planning my holiday.” He clasped Calleo’s shoulder fondly in an unusual affectionate gesture, then smiled yet again in a way he could only hope reassured.

I don’t usually post this late, so if you’re reading this early tomorrow morning please share it.

Reality is a funny thing, isn’t it?

Some people chose to live in it. We call them normal people. Sane people. They don’t require anti-psychotic meds, padded walls, restraints, electroshock therapy or any of the other paraphernalia of the asylum to get through their days. They manage because they are fully engaged with the here and now.

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Other people embrace alternative versions of the world.

Whether they are standing naked in George Square or reciting Shakespeare in front of baffled council workers or dancing “on stage” on a scaffolding plank or believing in dead football clubs, their version of the world looks a lot different from the one the rest of us are living in.

I am not having a go at those people. I respect the struggle that those who suffer mental illness go through. I wish all of them nothing but the best, and I am not making light of their problems … I am simply making a point about the nature of psychosis and how some folk view the world. And the more you listen to him, the more clear it becomes that Pedro Caixinha is one of those folk. I don’t know if there is a diagnosis on hand, but he is barking.

This isn’t the first time I’ve written those words. But read this, from today, and tell me that I am wrong. He even uses the phrase “a reality about the moment” … but it bears no relationship whatsoever to actual reality, as we understand it.

In Pedro’s “reality” his club is not as far behind us as the league table suggests. In fact, in his reality he has the gap down to a single point. You could not make this up, which is why I haven’t bothered to try. He gives me enough material for ten articles every day.

I think I show tremendous restraint in writing about him as little as I do.

“Since the first match, that we played against Aberdeen,” he said, “we created our own league.”

Did you guys know you were allowed to just do that?

Does it come with Champions League qualification?

Do you need audited accounts, or does any old crap you have lying around the office work?

“So we said, let’s reset from zero and let’s see what position we can get into seven matches from now. We’ve already played five. You know in which position we are? Second. One point behind Celtic. Six points above Aberdeen. So that’s given us a reality about the moment …”

And that’s where I felt myself losing IQ points, where I actually could feel them leak out of my head and dribble down the back of this chair.

This guy is on another planet. Sevco fans must read this stuff and cringe. Or laugh riotously.

That’s what I did on the morning Donald Trump was elected, and I realised the most powerful country on Earth and thereby the future of the human race was in the hands of a lunatic. Because you’ve got to. Because otherwise there are only irrational responses and the world has enough irrationality in it.

So does Ibrox.

And it’s not getting any better.

Of all the blatant pitches for season ticket money, this is the best yet.

Because either Level 5 came up with that line and he trotted it out – without thinking about how it would sound – or Pedro Caixinha is a guy with more than a few loose screws.

Either way, if I were a Sevco fan I’d be worried.

http://ift.tt/2qlk9FH