#of course this is pretty grandiloquent
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I think the original thesis was that one's art will inevitably lack the character and authenticity that compels and invests people if it's created precisely to cater to people's expectation, rather than what compels and invests the artist. Which I entirely agree with and genuinely see no legit counterargument to.
But that's what has somehow mutated into the 'you should make art for yourself and yourself alone, people's engagement is simply a nice bonus' thesis that regularly crosses my dash lately. And I get the sentiment behind it, I do !! Especially in a time, it seems, of people engaging less and less with fanworks. I however have much more reservations towards this statement, and would go as far as suggesting that it is counterproductive, in a time of people engaging less and less with fanworks.
Because, writing in this very case, but that goes for art in general, is meant to be shared. Art is about making connections, it’s a conversation. It’s saying ‘this is how I see the world, is this how you see it too ?’, and it expects a response. Stories were told long before they were written, and we started writing them to ensure they would be passed onto future generations, because we wanted to share them beyond our finitude. But to our peers that were there now, we kept telling stories because it’s not simply about transmission, it’s about reaction. Why would you tell the epics of great heroes if not to galvanise your audience ? Why would you elaborate horrors that chill your own bones if not to frighten your audience ? And why would you tell these stories if not to know whether they did galvanise or frighten your audience ? Why tell these stories if not for the comfort that your peers find courage, or fear in the same things that you do ?
Of course it’s an easy thing to overlook in our epoch where stories are most often recorded, in solitude, and then ‘consumed’ asynchronously, often also in solitude. Stories nowadays are written and read much more often than they are told and heard, and I see how we’ve come to disregard the need for response. However, something I have been formally taught as a librarian in that same epoch, is that people read because they seek something, and not for sole distraction. I believe people write for the same reason.
I can promise you as a writer that I make up stories for my own entertainment entirely. I wish you could see side by side the history of my first 5 years on AO3 and the monumental amount of potential fics I have elaborated in the same timespan. The act of writing was Difficult for me for various reasons during that time, so I never gave this myriad of stories a shape that allowed to share them on the internet. Because I was content enough vividly imagining these characters and situations; essentially, telling myself these stories. I believe other writers may need to tell themself their stories in a more tangible manner so they write them out, and then do so for themself solely.
However, if I have started to write regularly as of late, to compose and shape my stories into a form to convey to the best of my ability what my brain envisioned to a reader’s brain; if we writers put our stories out into the world for anyone to see, it’s because we want to share them, we want them read, we’re extending ourselves out to say ‘this is how I see the world too, this is how I feel too’. And we want to know that we aren’t alone in seeing the world as we do, in feeling as we do. We put our stories out instead of keeping them to ourselves because we want, and need response. As have all the storytellers that came before us.
So I honestly won’t suffer seeing another post on my dash telling writers that they need to write for themselves and disregard engagement because we do !! We write for ourselves !! But we share our writing publicly because we want, well, to *share* it. Because that’s an integral part of being human.
And if you are a reader who think that commenting on a fic is solely an ego boost for the writer and that a much-less-time-consuming kudos is ego boost enough, or that a story is between a writer and themself solely and that voicing your feelings about it is superfluous, I’m begging you to reconsider, your vision and what writers are truly offering.
#writing#writeblr#fanfiction#fanfics#ao3#the sandman#the gazette#kaamelott#tagging the fandoms I've written for or in the circle of which I've seen that thesis shared but certainly these posts originated and#have been shared widely outside of these fandoms#I would really like this to be seen#and discussed !!#of course this is pretty grandiloquent#and seemingly talking about Art™#but this is entirely true if the way you relate to a story#and share the writer’s vision boils down to ‘yes I agree this is character A’s love language towards character B’#and ‘I found my own pleasure in the way you’ve written these characters pleasuring each other’#genuinely#... forgot a whole paragraph I had in mind about how fanfictions are in conversation with canon in the first place#oh well my point comes across well enough I believe
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Hello! <3
For the Weird Questions for Writers…
2, 4, 7, 18 and 25!
(I'm greedy and they're all super interesting questions, of course feel free to ignore some if they aren't appealing or make you uncomfortable)
Hey! <3 Thank you for asking me!! I just answered 2, but here are the others c:
(Question list)
4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?
Ooooh so many!! I loooove fun words. Whenever I hear a new one my brain just keeps playing it over and over until I write it down somewhere. I have a whole list in my writing notebook for use as titles (that's where the title for Misericordia came from, for example---another word for mercy). I couldn't pick just one, but here:
Asperity (harshness in tone or manner): I like this bc it sounds like you are spitting it kind of? the form and function match.
Grandiloquent (pompous/extravagent in language or presentation in a manner intended to impress): Again, this one is long and fancy and it means being fancy on purpose---I just love that.
7. What is your deepest joy about writing?
This is going to be so full of metaphors---but the moment when you are profoundly and perfectly inspired to write something. It feels like a conductor raising their baton and the whole orchestra readies themselves to play. Writing in that mode is just this beautiful denouement that feels inevitable, cascades of letters building to the climax of harsher trills and then soft sweeps back to the conclusion. When I finish something and I know it sounded right, sometimes I just rest my hands on the keyboard and exhale like I would have when I performed with an instrument and finished playing a piece.
25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?
Elowen's Thing about her hair started when people would just start touching it growing up. It was long and soft and pretty, and others would just pick it up and run it between their fingers while they talked. She hated it, but didn't feel like she could object at the time. In most universes, when she leaves the clan for the Conclave one of the first things she does is shave both sides and trim the middle so there's less chance of people touching her. Cutting it is one of the first actual decisions she makes for herself.
18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.
I am sticking this under the cut because it's long haha. So here is a piece of Your Fate For Mine, the first fic I posted on AO3.
“The rifts!” she said, “Didn’t any of them tell you? I was not chosen by Andraste, Cullen; it was all a horrible misunderstanding. Or worse, some kind of lie–I’m just a–just a scout, expendable enough to the clan to send me to spy on what the humans were doing.”
“No,” he said evenly, “You are–”
“The Wardens needed Stroud,” she interrupted, raising her voice, “He is the only one who spoke out against their mad plans. The only one, amongst hundreds, who stood up for the right thing. They cannot rebuild without him. You know that’s true. And Hawke has people who depend on her, who need her–”
“Do not speak to me of people who depend–” he interjected.
“–do you think I could leave her behind to be slaughtered by the largest, most horrifying demon I’ve ever seen just because Mother Giselle sang a nice song once and people liked it?”
“Sang a–” he sputtered, “That isn’t at all what–”
He had thought they could discuss this with level heads; clearly, he had been wrong. His headache beat at him, exacerbated by the way their words were ringing off the stone in the room.
“And fine, maybe it was a selfish choice!” Her voice continued to rise; she was well and truly shouting by now, “Perhaps I had no right to decide for the Inquisition who ought to be leading them, but how could I choose? How could I look at these people and decide–yes, actually, because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I think you should die here instead of me. How could I–when they have lives, and responsibilities, and people who need them, people who love them –”
“ I love you!” he roared, and she rocked back onto her heels as if struck.
“I… love you,” he said, more quietly, his pulse pounding in his ears, “I need you. Your friends need you. I should have said something before Adamant; I should have found the time. But I didn’t, and then you–I thought you were gone , Elowen. I thought you were dead!”
She didn’t say anything. He took a breath and grasped at the ragged edges of his composure.
“You put yourself in danger every day. I know that. I knew it when we decided to be–to be more than we were. To be together. I would never– never –ask you to place what we have over your duties or responsibilities, but after everything I have told you–did you not consider that it was my worst fears realized? To watch you disappear before my very eyes, to have you lost in a place I could not reach you, where I knew you would be prey for any kind of demon and Maker knows what other horrors? To watch you lose yourself, lose your own thoughts?”
Shakily, she sat down on the bed and stared at him. He hated that he’d put that expression on her face, but if he wanted honesty between them there was only one way for that to happen. He lowered his voice even more, until it was slightly quieter than he usually spoke.
“You say your life isn’t worth more than theirs? Fine. But it isn’t worth any less , either. We need you; the Inquisition needs you. I have always told myself: if something happens, we can find her and bring aid . Her friends are there with her when she walks away, and they wouldn’t let anything happen to her that she can’t manage . But Elowen–when you go, you leave me behind every time and I–I accept that. I must; it is what has to happen if we are to succeed. But this time–you chose to stay behind. You chose to be alone, where you could not be found or helped by anyone. My worst fears, Elowen, and you–did you think of me at all when you decided to stay?”
Silence.
“It wasn’t about us,” she said softly, “I couldn’t think like that. Not there.”
Okay, so this is one of the very first passages I planned for Your Fate for Mine---this fight, where Elowen tells him she isn't that important and Cullen tells her she is wrong. The argument admission of love is---ah! *chef's kiss* That is my shit. I wanted to see Cullen pushed over the edge of his patience, I wanted Elowen to have to confront the consequences of an act she thought was selfless (stranding herself in the Fade), and I wanted them to have to confront what it means to be a good partner to each other.
I had two scenes in mind when I started writing this fic: the scene where she gets herself stuck in the Fade and this scene, when they are reunited. Actually, this was originally just about the end of the story---I'd planned for them to have sex afterward and then do a little epilogue about her readjusting to life in the realm of the living. I knew I wanted it to be the emotional climax of the story, but originally there was a lot more interrupting each other in the dialogue.
Ultimately, I decided that---since Elowen feels sort of perpetually misunderstood and one of the things she appreciates about Cullen is that he listens to her---they needed to clearly lay their feelings out. Cullen needed to confront his sense of abandonment at her leaving him behind. Elowen needed to know that she specifically mattered to him and that she is loved.
I've mentioned recently how much I love writing arguments, and this is definitely no exception to the rule. I could write them arguing and then making up over and over again. If I wrote this today, there are things I would do differently, but I still absolutely love it.
#ask game response#ask response#dixeram#long post#writing#everything is music to me tbh#when you are outside and the wind is blowing just right and the hummingbird on the porch is buzzing by that is music too#and ooh when you take a sip of your first cup of coffee in the morning and it is prepared just right and you sigh that is also music#idk if this is like a universal experience but when i was a kid and i heard an interesting word#sometimes i would repeat it out loud over and over until my parents told me to knock it off#sometimes you just have to shape the words in your mouth to *get* them you know??#also re: cool words when i was taking latin there is the scene where dido dies and she uses her second name in her last words#she says something like 'pity elissa' and apparently vergil chose that version because 'elissa' sounds more like someone's dying breath#than 'dido' does#anyways that stuck with me; form and function
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[A/N]: This is shorter than usual, but I thought the idea was cute.
Geten/Iceman’s Crush is a Bookworm:
❈ You always have your nose in a book, which is something Geten can't comprehend. What's the value in a book? It's just paper and words! Your attention is so easily diverted, and he's jealous
❈ He still tries to read your favourites, but it's a chore and his brain isn't interested. The books bore him, but he wants something in common with you. He wants to understand you, wants to get closer to you. He wants to get so close that you forget what it's like to be apart.
❈ He yearns to be as important to you as your books. Your heart should be his to claim and to command.
❈ He'll demand that you read certain books to him, and add your own commentary. It's just a ploy to keep you talking. Your voice makes him feel all warm and fuzzy.
❈ You're an expert wordsmith, but Geten's convinced that half of your vocabulary is phoney. Grandiloquent? Really? How does that word actually exist? He'll call you out, superiority complex working overtime, only to be shown that yes, that is a real word. He still doesn't believe you
❈ You have a random assortment of books that Geten bought for you. Of course, he won't admit that he bought them. He'll claim he found them, and he only picked them up because the covers were pretty. But he buys so many that it's obvious he's lying. The money doesn’t concern him. He just wants to make you happy.
❈ His illiteracy embarrasses him, though he didn’t care until he met you.
❈ He accompanies you to your favourite haunts - bookshops and libraries - and he'll hold your books while you browse. You have him whipped, and you love it. He knows you'll kill him if he drops anything
❈ Has 100% walked in on you wearing all black, and sobbing while you mourn the death of a fictional character. He thinks you're insane
❈ He'll stare at you while you read, adoring your catalogue of expressions.
❈ He listens as you talk about your fictional crushes and ships, but he's wistful, frustrated. Why can't he be your crush? He's real!
❈ When you're trapped in a book and forget to eat or drink, Geten's always there to remind you. He's so thoughtful! Forgot your book at home? Don't worry - he's carrying a spare! Don't have enough money for your books? He can pay! Finished a book at 3am and need to vent? He's awake and happy to listen!
❈ TEACH. HIM. TO. READ. PLEASE.
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set your world alight (m)
genre : fluff, smut, tiny lil bit of angst
pairing : jeon jungkook x reader (f)
word count : 24k (eye-)
warnings/content : mentions of bruises, mature language, long haired jaykay, awkwardness & cutesy overload, clumsy frustrating idiot(s), bratty reader, explicit sexual content (fingering, handjob, protected penetrative sex), HARRYPOTTER!AU (i cant believe i forgot to precise that in the teasers), jeon as charlie weasley, pretty much.
Jeon Jungkook is a mystery. Master of dragons. Long dark locks hiding a face most have never seen. Skin covered in scars. A brave, unpenetrable, curious being that you don’t know much about for, the very few times you’ve seen him in your life, you didn’t dare talk to him. Of course, you’d have the fatest crush on him.
“If we add roses instead of eucalyptus, wouldn't it turn into a love potion?”
You could have predicted it. If you were to have spent your evening scribbling the course that this morning, with the introducing of a new potion to your year 6 class, would take, solely based on intuition and experience, you would have gotten it right. Down to who's asking the question.
“No, it won’t.”
“Are you sure?”
Are you? After having spent your whole schooling career in Hogwarts, having studied the art of potion-making for five years filled with internships in the four corners of this Earth, in the greatest House of Potions there are, are you sure?
You could say all that. You could even tell to this annoying Gryffindor to shut the hell up because everyone, and you first, can’t stand to hear her voice anymore, interrupting constantly every lesson either with pointless questions or with obnoxious jabber.
But you don’t. Obviously, you don’t.
“For now, let’s just focus on learning what the actual recipe is. We’ll worry about interchanging ingredients later.”
Which is almost a lie. You won’t ever do that with them. You have your tight program, with a limited amount of recipes, that you’re supposed to go through with them. And creating new potions, or adapting already existing one to discover new effects are not on the plan. Not with Mrs Umbridge watching closely over every Hogwarts teachers' shoulders.
If they ever still find themselves obsessed with their dating life and enlarged pores once they'll be done with school, they will worry, on their very own, about creating the magic juices and ointments they need -given their lack of attention, investment and overall talent, you do sincerely hope they drop it because the results might lead to catastrophes but that's beside the point.
Miss Gryffindor sighs loudly. Turning slightly on her chair to roll her eyes to her friends, who snicker along, they’re whispering Merlin knows what about you and you’re just left there, trying to find your way back to the lesson without losing too much of your composure.
It doesn’t take you so much effort because unfortunately you are used to this. This class of Gryffindor is terrible. In your couple of years of teaching, you’ve never fallen upon a class filled with so many disinterested, awfully rude teenagers. Naively, when you just walked out of Hogwarts yourself almost ten years ago, when you were wondering with a certain dreadful desperation, what path to head for, you had finally chosen the teaching one, believing that by the time you’ll become a teacher, you’ll be old enough and teenagers would stop being scary by then, you might even grow a little fond of them, embodiment of a something long time gone, of nostalgia.
You were wrong. At twenty-six, you still feel like a barely done with teenagehood human, hardly an adult yet. The weapons you thought you’d gather along the way didn’t appear in your robe’s pockets as you thought they would.
Instead, you only have one, effective on an immediate use, but pretty useless on the long run: a monk’s patience.
You can ignore them. When they’re being so aggravating, you consider sometimes taking a hundred points away from their house -but you don’t because you’ll have to justify to the very biased Head of Gryffindor and fucking Umbridge-, you can ignore them. It’s the most effective way to react as it doesn’t feed them much, they just get annoyed with your unresponsiveness and decide to contain their disruption between themselves. The thing is, the steam has to blow some way, somehow. It’s fine when you can wake up early and spend an hour or so meditating, to gather all of your monk's potential, or if you ever have a Draught of Peace laying around, that can help too.
These days, it’s just harder to meditate, to try and keep your mind light, unbothered and calmly content.
So much harder that by the end of the class, only fifteen minutes left, you snap and end up taking off ten points from Gryffindors.
There’s a lot of whining, of strident eruptions of indignation, however, you’re smart enough to do it the moment you’re dismissing your class and they have to leave, sulking and hating you with a passion, for their next lesson.
“What have you done?” It’s Taehyung asking. He has a little alarmed look shading his abnormally handsome face, but a tiny little tremble of the corner of his mouth gives him away.
“Ten points.” You state with a bored raised of your eyebrows. What a bunch of babies.
“You suck. They’re going to hate me too, now.”
Which is not true. Immature profiles like them would tend to hate a teacher simply by association -it is to say that Taehyung is well known to be always stuck to your shoes, you grew up together anyway- but they would never Taehyung. He’s too handsome, has a voice way too sultry, too much charisma for anyone to hate him, especially his students. They can't stand his lessons though. He’s the worst option for a History of Magic teacher. He is passionate about his studies, really really passionate. Therefore his classes, in summarise, turn into him ranting non-stop, jumping from the main point to tiny insignificant streams made of pointless anecdotes that leave his students lost and confused, holes in their parchments, hands burning from their poor attempt at trying to take notes. His classes are Hell, made of boredom and confounding. The only upside being that he’s very nice to look at. He’s like an ancient mage stuck inside an elf body.
“Do you know how many times this year I’ve had to tell them that ‘no, this potion that has nothing to do with a love potion can’t be turned into one’? Why do I have to deal with their hormones all the time, seriously?”
“You mean, on top of yours?” It freezes you on the spot You could have heard that coming, with the big old ton-heavy boots. You don’t bother looking up from your papers you are reorganising. It’s pointless because you already know what you’d see. The smart ass’s shit-eating grin, singularly square at the edges, with the mischievous squinted eyes and subjective dance of the eyebrows.
“Shut up.”
“I can’t. I know you love talking about him since you don’t talk to him.”
The shame is burning the back of your neck. It’s climbing up your cheeks, taking over your ears in the process. If there’s one person who does wonders at not-making-you-feel-like-an-adult, it’s Kim Taehyung. Because of course he saw you grow up, and of course, he’s noticed that the timid, coward of a little Ravenclaw you used to be, hasn’t changed one bit.
“You’re so mean.”
“Am not too.” He giggles as he leaps from the front table he had been sitting on to your desk, where he takes a seat, not caring about your quill holder that he knocks down. “You’re never going to try?”
“I don’t know, Tae.”
“He doesn’t look mean. A bit gruff but I guess that’s what living like a wild creature surrounded by the wildest creatures makes you look like.”
You hum non-committally. You have come to the same conclusion already. But you hate the idea that you could be right because it gives you one less reason to not dare approach him. “He must be nice.”
“He must?” You cackle a bit. He doesn’t even sound so sure of this statement. Taehyung smiles along, shrugging with a tilt of his head.
“Well, I don’t know. But you have to talk to him. Soon he’ll be portkeying back to his Transylvania-“
“Romania.”
“-you won’t see him ever again. And also, seriously, it’s been like, what, three months since he’s back?”
“Actually, it’s been barely a month.” The idiot is pretending, with a grandiloquent theatrical performance, that he doesn’t believe you, that somehow you’re trying to deceive him. And it’s ridiculous because no matter how dramatic he always aims to be, no matter how long indeed this whole pinning over the pretty guy without having the courage to act on your feelings has been lasting, it still has not been three months. It’s been three weeks and four days, not that you're counting.
He arrived on a rainy Friday morning, you remember it well because the wet weather agitated the frogs an awful lot and you ended up spending your ten minutes of break between two classes, on all fours, crawling along the hallways of Hogwarts to try and retrieve three escapees.
A real joy.
Especially when he appeared at the end of the hallway. Soaked to the bones but not seemingly caring, as opposed to Mr Filch who seemed even angrier than he usually does. You barely recognised him, from so far, looking up from the ground, with the hood of his heavy coat low above his eyes, nothing peculiar in his appearance that would give him away, not a word uttered that could have helped. Until he turned the corner of the hallway, and the emblem of this foreign school of wizardry appeared. With the purple embroidery contouring the white seagull, it just clicked. You remembered the rumours spreading wildly, excitedly around the castle, that despite the very vindicative Mrs Umbridge's opinion, dragons would be introduced this year to the course of Care for the Magical Creatures and real dragons, seen by their master, would be flying to you and inhabit the grounds of Hogwarts for this semester.
And of course, it would be him. With his impressive resume, or that unauthorised biography written about him by that one stingy journalist singing his lauds that you could read anywhere -there was even a version, presented as fiction, that’s been published in the muggle world- and also, his first and last visit to Hogwarts, two years ago, for the Triwizard Tournament when he proved his talent and bravery in front of all by forcefully regaining control over a Horntail that was just about to chew a few students’ heads off after having eluded his chains -and conveniently, it's also the same time when you fell head over heels for the stranger.
It was ridiculous because you never talked to the guy. But two years later, just his silhouette and the bouncing of his heavy head of curls you have to come to the shameful acknowledgement that your heart hasn’t gotten over the crush.
It’s ridiculous.
It precisely why you shouldn’t have talked about it to anyone. It’s just too hard to keep anything from Kim Taehyung though. Even if your life would have been so much easier if you’d only have to listen to your own nagging about this and not his.
“You’re going to end up as a crazy old spinster if you keep acting like that.”
“And you’re going to be late for your class if you keep on bothering me.”
“I don’t have a class.” Taehyung stares, dubiously. Now that you don’t have to face head-on your shame, attention slightly steered away from your useless self, you can stare back, glare even, as you challenge him with a raised eyebrow.
“You do.”
You relish in the sickly white suddenly brushing all over his face. He curses under his breath, grabbing his briefcase with one of his gigantic hands, before he’s flying out of your classroom.
Quite frankly, you’re not sure if he does have a class at the moment. You do know for a fact that he doesn’t know either because strangely enough, for a teacher whose whole subject depends on memory and a good one at that, he’s never been able to memorise his planning.
An easy escape you’ve come up with.
Everyone needs those.
Especially whoever’s having their ears talked off by the crazy old howl, Umbridge, down the corridor. You can hear her from your room, even with the door almost shut close. Her whole monologue is hard to decipher. You do hear that it has something to do with “her disapproval” and someone else's “irresponsibility” and “pure lunacy”.
By curiosity, you lean your head through the thin entrance your door is offering, picking discreetly to see who the victim is.
It's the guy. Jeon Jungkook. Standing with his feet pointing away from Umbridge, hands tucked deep in the pockets of a thick winter vest, you can’t see half of his face because of his hair, as always sitting low down his forehead, but you can tell from the thin line of his mouth, his tensed shoulders and something else, maybe his aura, so loudly screeching annoyance, that he's not having a good time.
It’s him. And for some reason, for the first time ever, you recall words Taehyung has said to you, loud and clear and pressing and inspiring. You don’t want to become a “crazy old spinster”. Therefore you decide to become a crazy something else you don’t bother to identify right this second.
“Oh, Mrs Umbridge!”
“Miss ___, as you can see, I am already-“
“Oh!” The loud gasp, hand clasping on your gaping mouth, wide eyes completing the look. You can’t find the courage to turn to him to reinforce -in case it wasn’t clear enough- that you just, now that she mentioned it, realise the man was here.
Mrs Umbridge has this quality to her. You find her so awfully ridiculous that you turn yourself in a clown, subtly mocking her -though you don’t think she fathoms it since you’ve always acted this way around her- each time you share any kind of conversation.
It can work and you can go along with your usual antics only if you forget the obnoxiously troubling presence of the dragon master.
“I am so deeply embarrassed, I didn’t realise. I’m not wearing my glasses, I’m an incorrigible mole without them.”
“Is that so?” From above the frame of her pink glasses, her beady eyes scrutinize. “You should wear them on your nose then, Miss ___. Now, if you will-“
“I’m sorry, I needed- It’s very important.” You cut her off with such speed and enthusiasm, you know she can't shut you off. “After discussing with my students about the program, I thought about something. Maybe I could introduce a new-“
“Miss ___!” She screeches, the triggering words -”introduce” and “new”- having hit perfectly right. “The program, as you owe to know, has been carefully crafted by the great Minister for Magic and doesn’t need for an airheaded little teacher like you to add any changes to it.”
“Oh yes, of course, how could I forget?”
“It is bad enough as it is that this foolish Hagrid has been able to convince my confreres of bringing a useless study on the most dangerous creatures there is-“ She pointedly glare from the corner of her eyes to the man who remains silent and immobile. His hands haven’t moved from the depth of his pockets, you can’t see his eyes even up close, because the curtain of dark curls hiding them is even thicker than it looked like from the other end of the hallway. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered. You wonder if he’s even listening. Barely swinging on his long legs, waiting for his presence to be dismissed it seems.
“Dragons are quite interesting creatures. I suppose that’s why they were added to the program. The Ministry for Magic must have thought so too since they voted...”
She gnarls at that. She tries to be discreet, conceals a bit of her spite but there’s no doubt in your mind that her mouth's just filled up with a distasteful repellent aftertaste.
Since the main goal was to distract her from him and free him from her claws, you start again with the suggestions for a revised scholar program. Her cheeks grow pinker than her jacket, her eyes start reflecting a fire alike the ones from Hell, her usually perfectly well-combed hair releases a few angry frizzes. She’s beyond herself and without letting you finish your little act, she’s going over all the things that are so wrong about you, about Hogwarts teachers in general, about young people and their disrespectful tendency to want to add their little spice to every tea.
You take the nagging like a champ. Because you’re used to it and to be perfectly fair, you’ve mastered a certain state of meditation whenever she’s coming your way with some complaining.
None of her words successfully reach you to stick around.
She holds strong for a good, fat fifteen minutes. At some point, you even worry that this time, her pit of nonsensical arguments won’t ever show a bottom. Until it does.
She looks all dishevelled from her heated argument. The hair worsened, with now drops of perspiration shining on her forehead. The mean beady eyes are dull, exhausted from the fight as she contemplates the void between you and the man. With a last dismissive wave of her hand, she leaves, stumbling on top of her lacquered Fuschia heels.
How can someone work themselves up so badly with so little provocation -and no further response too?
It leaves you alone with the dragon master and only now, even though you had plenty of time to take in this present, you realise how inconvenient for your coward self the predicament is. You are meant to talk to him now, aren’t you?
Maybe the same question raises in his mind however he certainly doesn’t reach the same conclusion. Deeming it unnecessary, he turns his back to you and heads down the hall without much of a look spared to you. Maybe he did check, through or maybe under the impenetrable curtain of hair, for the identity of the idiot that thought he needed help to escape the annoying old owl but you wouldn’t know.
Watching in pure despair, your heart prickling uncomfortably in your bosom, you wonder if you somehow upset him. He did look irked from what you could tell. Anyone else, anyone less grumpy, anyone feeling anything but discomfort or discontent would have said something, wouldn’t they?
That’s what you explain to Kim Taehyung. Emphasising on the fact that you did try to approach the guy. You did. You created the situation, you faced him fully, you did miss the moment when you were probably supposed to say something to him but he left, too soon, and clearly is not interested in getting to know you, and whatever, you’re fine with that you just want your friend to note and remember for later reference that you did try this time.
Taehyung who’s never keen on trusting your words, no matter the fact that you’ve never lied to him -or maybe just a few times so he would leave you alone, but nothing major really- decides that you are wrong. That somehow you misinterpreted the whole thing and surely you need to hop back on the horse and try, again, maybe this time more vindictively.
It takes quite a couple of days for him to convince you. You’re not sure how. It might be from exhaustion, it might come from those three too many butterbeers you drank even though you didn’t remember ordering, back when you were gloomily celebrating your never-ending celibacy in Jjang Jjang -the magical bar held by your friend, Min Yoongi, in the far end of Hogsmead.
You promise that if an opportunity appears to be showing the very tip of its nose, if the universe is kind -and delusional- enough to gift you another chance, then you would try.
It’s funny how the laws of attraction work. Or rather, probably more accurately, it’s funny how Taehyung can be so shameless and volunteer when he has his mind set on something. He has no problem manipulating people and situations as if the universe is his and he decides whatever happens to the little pawns inhabiting it.
A week later, when he, the dragon master, is the curious apparition manifesting itself in front of you when you open the door to let your class free, it doesn’t fall into place right away.
It’s a strange coincidence. Maybe he messed up and meant to find another classroom, any other classroom but yours. He doesn’t budge when he sees you, doesn’t seem startled by your presence. He only takes a step to the side once he realises that a wave of hurried teenagers is about to swarm him in their way out.
“Miss, are we still going to study this potion next time or will we move to something more interesting?” It’s that same Gryffindor. The same as usual. She’s just made of attitudes, eye rolls, hand on the hip and all.
“Once you’ll be able to make it without cooking a hole in your cauldron, we’ll be starting with a new one.”
You’re snarkier than usual, there’s no denying that. It’s your fifth class of the day, everyone seems to have signed an agreement on messing with your patience and he’s here, hearing and seeing an umpteenth attempt to humiliate you from this kid and you’re not having it right now, not today. She grows red on the cheeks, eyebrows frowning dangerously low, they might fall from her face when she barks, “I told you the hole was already there!”
“I understand. Next time, I’ll lend you my old cauldron so there won’t be any issue, alright?”
The angry wands she owns for eyes shoot you a good dozen of curses and she departs, with her friends, as angry as ever.
There’s a heavy silence, setting around you both, engulfing you. The wood of the walls, dark and cold, make it old the more uncomfortable until you can not take it anymore. You’re about to mumble something, maybe point out the end of the hall and suggest he tries there, to find whatever or whoever he is looking for. He beats you to it. Having reached the very limit of handling this silence at the same time as you do.
“Good morning.” He starts, clearing his throat. A husky, quiet yet somehow soft voice that he doesn’t seem to have used quite often. “Here’s the stuff for your potions.”
He holds out a strong hand to you, all veiny and sparkled with tiny bruises, a dark bag made of linen held in his fist. If he can see you, he can undoubtedly take in your confusion. You have no idea what “the stuff” is. If it’s a badly expressed thought. If he meant to say, “some stuff” for your potions. Because you’ve never asked for anything from anyone for your potions -even though, the thought crossed your mind that he, with his magical pets, must have some fantastic ingredients for your searches. You don’t know if it just comes from him. If he thought you may need it and generously prepared this for you -you doubt that one highly. The other reason, way more evident, quite obnoxiously obvious actually, that doesn’t reach your brain which is only working at a quarter of its habitual capacity given his standing here, and his smelling like woods and smoky and something subtler, you can’t pinpoint but feel addicted to as soon as it reaches your nostrils, is that someone -Taehyung- must have put him up for it. He must have gone behind your back, mumble some basic potion ingredients knowledge he owns to him and asked him to bring it to you.
“I put my Norvegian Ridgeback's scales in a separate bag because they’re very sharp -and poisonous too- so be careful when you open it.” He’s done talking, he clears his throat again, this time you’re pretty sure it’s out of discomfort as your gaping silently like a dumb fish must not be the easiest response to receive. A little inviting shake of his fist brings you to your senses, and you reach forward to grab the present. Your arm drops down from the surprising weight of the thing, fortunately, as if he expected it, he catches you before you topple over, a hand on your shoulder and the other encasing yours holding the bag, squeezing around your own as he lifts some of the weight up.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect it to be this heavy.” because you carried it like it was filled with dragons feathers instead -you mean to add.
“It’s fine.” He simply mumbles. You add your free hand to cup the underside of the thing, pressing the whole to your bosom and he lets go there, letting you step inside your room to find a place on a shelf to put it away. You probably take a second to long, your back facing him, as you stand staring at your new possession. It’s the heat remaining on the back of your hand that troubles you. As if not only have his pets decorated the top of his skin with scratches and bruises, they’ve sighed enough fire in his palms for them to forever feel this warm. And he touched you so naturally so. Pressing his large hand around yours that seemed so tiny in comparison. Probably without even acknowledging it while you are shook to your core.
This added to your confusion born from his surprise apparition, are the reasons why, as I said, your brain doesn’t reach its full capacity. Still, the idea that Taehyung is behind it all, that it can’t solely come from this man here, just won’t do in your idiotic head.
You’re enamoured, even more than before, just by a touch and by the gentleness his words hold under the tougher surface. And you decide, that if you turn around and he’s still standing there you’ll ask him out.
You do so, spiralling in slow motion, filled with apprehension. He’s here. His hands back inside the pockets of his jacket, the shadow of a sparkle coming from his eyes, under the heavy protection he’s wearing in front of them.
“Jeon Jungkook?”
He’s startled at the call of his name, the top of his mop of hair bouncing slightly and you just find it adorable. Maybe he didn’t expect you to know his name, he must not even know yours. Of course, he could not have expected that you had spent way too long, two years ago, back when he came to Hogwarts for the first time and you had heard his name amid a conversation, trying it out for yourself. Not to wear it out but repeating his name to yourself, appreciating the way the syllabus formed, how they felt so well chosen for each other’s, for him, and the feeling, light heading, that it gave you to pronounce it.
“Would you like to have a drink with me? On Fridays, I like to go to my friend's bar in Hogsmead and I was wondering, maybe you’d like to come?”
More clearing of the throat. It’s stalling the delivery of his answer, you hate it and almost jump to your cooking station to sort out a quick remedy for it. Your heart is beating so furiously, you might pass out and he’s just taking his sweet time to answer. You feel the awkwardness. You don’t see it. You can’t see anything, the bottom of his face not telling any secrets on his feelings. You must look terrifying, red anywhere it’s possible for you to blush, sweating and fidgety like you’re on a Girding Potion bad trip. And he doesn’t show anything. You’d rip the hair out of his eyes if only you could.
There’s only one telling sign that manifests in the form of his hand, slipping out of his pocket to reach for the back of his neck where it scratches for a bit.
It’s no. It must be a “no, I’m absolutely not interested and this moment is very awkward”.
“I have my dragons to exercise. Sorry.”
“Oh. It’s ok.” It is not.
You hope, with all your might, that he doesn’t notice how upset you are. Through your prickling eyes, through the trembling pout you try to hide behind a casual smile.
It is terribly not ok but fortunately, he doesn’t stick around. That’s probably the thing you’re the most thankful for at this moment, his laconic tendencies. Anyone else may have tried to say something else to make you feel better, to make you feel like the rejection isn't worth throwing you off one of Hogwarts high tour. Instead, he just quits, swiftly. Leaving you alone to compose yourself back enough to handle your very last class of the day. You manage to feel fine, sort of numbed out for long enough until you don’t have to pretend anymore and you can let all the emotions out.
Bent over on the wooden tabletop of Yoongi’s bar, you’re crying out your whole soul, face laid in a pool of your own tears, a gentle hand petting awkwardly the top of your head.
“I hate you Taehyung!” It hardly comes out, half mumbled, half coughed out. The hand on your hair still in the air for a second so he must have got the jest of it until it resumes to its previous activity.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d reject you.” He sighs deeply. “I didn’t even think you’d ask him out!”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” You rise from the depth of your despair, hidden in the centre of your crossed arms. Yoongi looks extremely distraught. Your face looks awful, you know. But seeing him this shaken upsets you even more. You feel mad and vengeful and you’d like to flood his shitty bar with your tears to teach him a lesson -you’re not sure which, maybe: don’t look so disgusted when your friends look indeed disgusting, that’s mean- but the realisation downs on you that you cried so much you don’t have any tears left. Just the rashness around your eyes and nose, no snot left because Yoongi had maternally cleaned it for you, tiny pathetic sniffling around nothing but heartbreak now.
“He sent him to me!” You bark, punching Taehyung in the shoulder, not caring the least that half of his drink gets spilt everywhere.
“You didn’t have to just ask him out! You could have just, I don’t know (he pretends to think deeply, the tip of his fingers tapping lightly his chin), talk to him! Like a normal person that’s never spoken to him would have done.”
You gasp, eyes burning with fire. “Yoongi, he called me a freak!”
“When have I ever-“
“Normal people, my ass!” You continue, sort of having a lone conversation parallel to theirs. “What do you know about normal people, you fucking Grindylow.” You swallow down your fourth butterbeer, one furious finger indicating Yoongi that you need another one. Taehyung is just rolling his eyes, not taking offence of the nonsensical insult. “I hate you so much, Merlin, how am I supposed to face him again?”
“You do like everyone else’s does. Just start hating him until you don’t care anymore.”
“People do that?” Yoongi asks curiously. He’s slid you a new pint, filled to the brim.
“I know I do.” You slap the back of his arm there, without giving him any explanation, just because you’re sure he’s bullshitting you -the guy surely never has been rejected.
“Doesn’t matter. How could I ever hate him anyway?” A lone survivor tear falls from your lashes into the calm, quiet amber lake topping your glass. It doesn’t hit you there that there’s no foam. Yoongi watches you carefully, one of his hand is patting your forearm.
“Is he really that great?” Taehyung just shrugs. He’s such a dimwit. You nod, heart growing big with sadness before it breathes it out, turning into a tiny, squeezed on itself pained creature. You leave the conversation then. Simply trying to rest with your hurting bosom. It needs nurturing and a benevolent yet firm healing hand to tell it to rest for a bit, and stop overreacting.
[“What's he like?” Yoongi asks directly to Taehyung as he can see, clearly, that you’re not here anymore, for now.
“He’s... uh...” Taehyung starts with very flimsy conviction. “He’s into dragons.” More shrugging.]
Honestly, you might be exaggerating. You do not know much about him. Most of what you believe to know, assumed by what little you do know about him. You believe he is nice and sensible, from the way he treats his animals and the way they treat him.
[“Oh. Holy Dumbledore!”
“Stop saying that! I told you it’s fucking disrespectful.”]
You’ve seen how much respect and trust lay between them. It’s blatant. And to create this kind of relationship with some of the fiercest creatures in the magical world, he must be something else, something exceptional.
[“It’s him. It’s fucking him!”]
And you read about him, a lot, the two books he wrote solely about his creatures. They don’t directly tell much about him but indirectly, they hint his humility and humbleness. It’s not like that stupid Gilderoy Lockhart and his autobiographies on magical creatures. And there are the numerous articles that were written about him and his exploits and alleged character.
[“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
Sharp short nails are jabbing annoyingly in the skin of your forearm. It’s Taehyung, of course, he never stops bugging you. It’s his second passion after the soporific subject he’s decided to teach. You close your eyes, frowning a bit because he won’t stop, trying to annihilate him from your existence, to annihilate yourself from it too.]
Simple, humble, smart and strong. Passionate, sensible and a beautiful set of thick dark locks you want to slip your fingers through as the cherry on top.
“It’s apple juice!” You screech in disgust, pushing your fake butterbeer far away from you. The hocus-pocus, if it irritates you, at least brings you back to earth, and back to the noisy bar. Min Yoongi mouths something about you having drunk enough but his attention is elsewhere, along with Taehyung's.
“Oh, Merlin's beard.”
Of course, he would be there. He’s been back to Hogwarts for over a month now, you’ve never seen him around here, but of course, the day he rejects you, he has to come to your retreat, and witness the mess he's made of you. What kind of sick joke from the stars is that?
“Holy shit. Isn’t he a bit much for you?”
You know exactly what the barman means. It makes you blush slightly under the tipsy flushing already adorning your cheeks.
If Jeon Jungkook may or may not be made of all the qualities you’ve named for him -with or without reasons-, he has some very visible, very obnoxious other qualities to him. Qualities that you’re not proud of pining over because it makes you feel shallow and superficial. The expression on Yoongi's face makes it feel better though. Justified. As if, well, here they are, you can’t deny it. And since you like his imaginary personality, you might as well like the body imaginarily hosting it.
Jeon Jungkook is tall as a tree and as strong as one. It’s hard to tell, from here, with the layers of clothes he’s wearing on his back to protect himself from the cold, to what extent he fills them but it’s obvious he’s broad, wide. He walks with strong determined steps, with his fists tight to his sides, as tight as his jaw, square, sharp.
He’s big. Both in appearance and aura and you can understand how Yoongi wonders if he’s not “a bit much” for you.
“Don’t call him over!” You whisper-yell, digging your nails in the tender skin of Taehyung’s forearm. He whines, curses and tries to let himself free while telling you that of course, he’s not that dumb, he won’t. He doesn’t need to, anyway, because the guy, after seemingly exploring with his gaze the bar, sets his aim on your table, slowly starting to make his way towards you.
“He’s coming.” Taehyung mumbles, bewildered.
You are too. Could it be you misunderstood earlier when he said he couldn’t come because he’d be “exercising his dragons”? It can’t possibly be true. You don’t even know what the heck is up with this excuse. Because it can’t have been anything more than an excuse. Since when do dragons need to be exercised and by a wizard at that?
And now he is here.
Literally, he’s standing right in front of your table, a hand reaching for the back of the empty chair, next to yours, but stops mid-track and backs away to his side.
“Hi. Do you mind if I sit here ?”
You can feel, physically, the two heavy heads of your friends, turning slowly on their necks towards you, like an idiotic audience, not wanting to miss one beat of the drama playing for them.
There’s a little snappy answer that rises to the back of your throat. Something inspired by what Taehyung said earlier, about hating him. You almost tell him aloud that he can do whatever he wants, that you don’t own this fucking chair.
Jeon Jungkook is still raspy but soft voice. With his bruised hand with the fingers red from the cold, not assertive and confident enough to dare grab the chair yet and you can’t do much but nod your head, swiftly sliding your own chair to the side to draw a little distance between you.
It takes forever for the initial tension to drop a little bit. You can’t say anything, Taehyung the chatterbox can’t either, Jungkook probably feels too awkward by your behaviours to find a casual way to start the conversation. It’s Yoongi who realises the successful start. By doing what he does best, serving your new guest the best butterbeer there is in Hogsmead (Yoongi would say that it’s the best in the world, both magical and muggle, but given he hasn’t stepped two feet outside of this village for the past two decades, you wouldn’t give him that).
“My name’s Jungkook, by the way.” He starts quietly, in the direction of Yoongi. The latter nods and smiles a bit too eagerly. He tries to be natural, you can tell. And fail miserably, you must add.
“I’m Min Yoongi. Welcome to Jjang Jjang!” Taehyung cringes visibly. Yoongi leans further, towards yours and Jungkooks side of the table, wanting to ignore at best the unhelpful clown beside him. “You must already know...” With a vague hand gesture, he points Taehyung and you. It makes you want to die, the idea that he knows your name, he knows you. You’re unsure what’s going on. Why he’s here, where this will lead. But it would all feel infinitely better if you knew that somehow, he didn’t know anything about you. It’s hard to remember people without their name. It’s the first thing you learn about someone, really, like a tag they’re wearing on their foreheads and when recalling about them, ever, consciously or not, the name comes always. He knows yours so he won't forget you.
It takes all of you a short eternity to warm up to each other. The bar is still noisy, with its occasional rough burst of laughter from the tough-looking wizards, maybe missionaries, the high giggles of a group of Hogwarts 7th year students hidden in a corner. You’re all nurturing your drinks, even you with your stupid apple juice and the unease is even louder, the silence deafening in the middle of the concert of voices and shatters of glasses.
Until Taehyung says something weird, “So you like dragons, uh?” You don't understand why he persists on making it sound weird, like he's romantically interested in them.
You hit him under the table, a good kick to the kneecap but it’s clear to everyone that his yelp comes from you. That makes Jungkook laughs.
He pretty much giggles, sounding like a boy, head tilted down forward with his locks sadly hiding his smile.
“Yeah, you could say that.” He finally answers, clearing his throat, words coming out sweet and sheepish-like, as if he’s embarrassed from having been caught laughing.
“Oh, that explains this.” Yoongi says, pointing at his skin and the numerous bruises orning it. You’ve never hit Min Yoongi because 1) he’s older than you, 2) he’s a tiny little thing that you’re scared to hurt but you are this close, the width of a hair away, from throwing your foot up again and hit him in the junk. For a second, Jungkook seems awkward. Staring himself at his hands, one sliding over the other, the tip of his thumb grazing with insistence on a deep scar. Until he raises his head again, you assume to let his eyes go over your faces, studying them silently and something he sees there, maybe innocent benevolence -even if Yoongi's comment was lowkey inappropriate, he didn’t mean any ill- and something else, childish excitement probably suffice to relax him. Letting his hands be, one wrap around his pint, the other flat on the tabletop, tip of his fingers drumming quietly every now and then, out in the open for anyone who'd like to to see.
“They tend to be a bit playful.” He says this with a sly smile raising the corner of his mouth. Something ridiculously sexy that makes you choke on your fake beer and back away from him even more. You shouldn’t raise an arm to plant your elbow into the table, as a sort of shield between you two, because it’s rude and lame, but you do it anyway. Because it’s all a lot.
He's a lot.
Yoongi, probably, knows you better than you could ever imagine. Seeing right through you, added to the statement he raised earlier -and maybe he was right, maybe he's a whole lot, and a whole lot too much for you-, he reconsiders forbidding you from consuming any more alcohol. Kindly, he manifests a glass of sparkling juice, right in front of you. It's a light peach colour, from the first sniff of the aroma, you can tell it won't knock you unconscious any time soon. It's more sugar than alcohol but at least, it succeeds to soothe the harsh edges of your nerves. Because your nerves are on the verge of a fucking spontaneous combustion.
"Hey! Why does she get another one?" Since earlier, Taehyung, too, has been switched to a strictly non-alcoholic beverages diet. He's not happy about it but you understand easily Yoongi's train of thought. You need to relax so you deserve a little something -especially given the fact that Jeon Jungkook's appearance had you almost entirely sobered up-, while Taehyung's stupid mouth is way too loose and needs to be fed something soft and safe.
"Because he likes me and he hates you." You mutter, not daring to look up from your glass by fear of coming across your neighbour's attention. Your comment is well received though. You allow yourself to joke like that because everyone, Taehyung included, knows that Kim Taehyung is everyone's favourite. No matter the competition. No one can hate him, even when he's boring as hell, even when he's too loud, too nosy, dumb or annoying. He knows it as well as you do and each time you throw one of these snarky taunts, a glint of amusement sparkles his almond eyes and he loves to act all hurt and offended.
He turns all gasps and bombastic hand movements, claiming unfairness, misery. You start nagging back at him, adding more about how dumb he sounds and stupid he looks, while he counteracts with more dramatic appalled cries, as Yoongi just shrinks onto himself, shaking his head in disconcertment -even though, he's too used to your antics to be any surprised nor confused.
You're so caught up in your childish bickerings that slowly, only you two, and the amusement you're trying to contain in your stomach, matter and exist. Jeon Jungkook disappearing entirely. It has your voice turn louder, mimicking Taehyung's, your insults getting bolder, your face raises as you squint your eyes menacingly at your friend.
It's once Taehyung grabs the wand from his pocket and aims it at you, threatening to turn you into a pile of ghoul's shit if you won't shut up, that he's reminded to you.
The giggles, like earlier. Boyish and rusty, uncommon, that can only be his, ring and bless your right ear. It has you shut up instantly. Startled, you stare at him, only for a soft smile to grow on your lips, fond as you are to see him laugh like that, because of you.
You must look stupid as your eyes jump to Taehyung, silently begging him to acknowledge the wonder taking place just next to you, too giddy, too excited, too blushy to be part of it. He just grins back at you, nods his head even though you're not exactly sure at what, one of his elbows poking Yoongi's side.
"How long have you two been friends ?" He asks once he's managed to calm down his fit with a bite on his lower lip. Your heart is running a marathon and you're not sure for how long it'll keep holding up, you might need to focus all of your energy on the course, on not breaking a leg or pass out in the middle of the run, but you refuse, because he's talked to you again, because your best friends are accessorily here to help out, ease a bit of the burden of having to face the terrifying idea of being rejected (again), of failing at being good enough, somehow, to a guy you don't know much but like a lot.
Therefore you answer, aiming a joking dark glare at Taehyung because it helps to look at him, "Too long." Jungkook sniggers at the answer as Taehyung slips his ugly tongue out to you.
Somehow the tension diffuses itself. As if now that all of you had placed a word in the conversation, played somehow a role in it, it feels better, the ice has been melted and you can all, finally, relax.
Without even realising, your elbow slips from the tabletop, you're still wary, still very much aware of him sitting so close to you but you're fine with it.
As the drinks, more or less loaded, flow, Jungkook's cheeks fill up with mountains upon mountains of the fried wonders Jjang Jjang's beloved house-elf, Seokjin, has to offer, the discussion runs smoothly, tongues untied and excited.
It starts with Taehyung telling a very inaccurate version of your first meeting and blooming of this decades-old friendship (you add now and then, when the exaggerations and blatant lies get too much, little modifications to the tale that have Jungkook snigger and nod his head discreetly to you in secret confidence). It continues with Jungkook, pressured by a very adamant audience (which you are not part of, even if you are probably the most interested in the topic, in any topic that would have him speak a bit more, you don't want to bother him with your curiosity which Taehyung and Yoongi do not seem the least disturbed about) telling about the couple of last years he'd spent all around the world, in the most secluded corners of Earth, where only dangerous creatures like his beloved pets live and where only the foolhardiest or most suicidal wizards dare to adventure. As you expected, he's quite humble about it. He doesn't insist on details that make your heads spin in bewilderment, shrugging his shoulders lightly when you're the one whisper-yelling that "but you could've died?!". After a lot of cooing, from all angles of the table, tiny whispers repeating some of his words like a strange echo as you all try to handle the admiration -and intoxication-, he starts feeling himself, a tiny, discreet but visible smile, slyly redrawing the corner of his mouth. He shrugs a little less, nods his head firmly a little more, voice louder and more confident, shaping in the full form it's able to take.
He sounds lovely when he doesn't care anymore. When he feels unrestrained, comfortable and easy-going. He laughs a lot, you notice. It colours almost every single one of yours and your friends' comments, and maybe the fact that you're all a bit dumbed by shock and interest and starstruck and tipsiness makes it so that they're pretty ridiculous, hence him laughing so much. It's not so much that you're all hilarious, rather than you all being pretty stupid but it doesn't matter. You note how easy his laughter, that you couldn't even picture before hearing it for yourself, can come out. How open he is to meddle with you.
He fits so well in your bubble. This personal place only Taehyung and Yoongi have ever been authorized to inhabit. He matches perfectly. It fills your heart and mind with so much content, you feel your cheeks hurt from smiling constantly without meaning too. It's what he does, you suppose, making you smile. And when you notice the pink tint colouring his cheeks, rounded out lovingly so by a grin, you assume he's feeling the same, enjoying his time with all of you, your heart dips in the warmest bath.
"Dude!" For the umpteenth time, he's trying to wave himself some air with a hand. Taehyung has had enough and just slammed his fist to the table, making everything on it knock against each other, Yoongi's eyes this close to falling out of their sockets. Jungkook just giggles some more, he might be a bit tipsy. "Just tie your hair up, you're making me sweat just looking at your mop!"
"I don't even have-" Taehyung's already up from his chair, he bumps his leg in the process but pay it no attention, marching over his future victim with a little hair-tie that seemed to appear from thin air -probably did too. Jungkook is so lenient with your best friend, too lenient you'd say, you wouldn't even have it in you. When he excitedly reaches forward, his long fingers parting the dark locks in two, he's trying to tie one end into a little side ponytail. Before he's even done with the first one, you roll your eyes, knowing what he's aiming for. Of course, he wouldn't just give him a regular manbun or something.
For the first time, you meet one of Jungkook's eyes, the one uncovered thanks to Taehyung's shenanigan. It's round, dark but warm like rich chocolate, sparkling with exhilaration but concerned.
"What's he doing?" He asks you, unbeknownst to the fact that meeting half of his face for the first time, the endearing pretty thing, stole every single little last word from you. With two fists hold to the side of your head, you attempt to show him the cute girly hairstyle Taehyung has in mind. He winces at that, nose scrunching into itself so high, the round thing turns into something adorable, shaking his head to try to free himself from your friend's prying hands, a grin still on his lips.
"Stop being such a baby!" Taehyung growls, trying for a little while to keep ongoing, his hand desperately holding onto the second bunch of hair. He's soon forced to stop as the victim turns to be too unwilling. "Ok fine! You do it then!"
It's you he is barking to. If the hair tie thrown straight in your eye is any teller. It renders you blind for a second. Until you can blink the stingy discomfort away and you’re greeted by Jungkook and his endearing face with the oh so adorable tiny tail hanging from the side of his head, observing you with great attention, single eye blinking worrisome. He looks cute, half dolled up like a girl, fearful and curious to discover how you’ll treat him. For a second, you are tempted to follow your friend's design. Because how cute would this man look with two ponytails hanging on top of his head, with maybe even tiny hair clips to perfect it all.
He’d be pissed though and wouldn’t keep it probably so what’s the point.
The real point is that you have a hair tie in your hand, fingers itching on instinct to play with the shiny raven locks and the owner of said pretty locks, silently permitting you to do just that.
Maybe Taehyung is not as dumb and as useless as you thought him to be. Your prior reflex would be to assume he didn’t even mean to create this opportunity for you. He’s just invading as a person, touchy-feely and very comfortable with anyone entering his vicinity. You do owe him more credits and you willingly give them to him for this time. Because if he didn’t intend to put your foot on the stirrup, he surely did anyway, with a natural and a smoothness you couldn’t imagine coming from him.
Standing behind Jungkook's chair, hands hovering centimetres away, you feel so blessed, you’d jump over to Taehyung's side to snug him to your fervent heart if you didn’t have better at hand -and if the idea of actually having him this close to you did not fill you with an immense cringe.
Taehyung is watching, over the rim of his glass, with an obnoxious, kid like excited sparks burning you uncomfortably. You curse him out, soundlessly but with such great articulation, he can’t possibly miss the words.
Yoongi who watches all of it notices and understands it all as he always does even when he pretends he doesn’t, starts talking then. Something about Brazil where Jungkook had spent nine months, living alone in the wild forest of Amazonia, and about the curious plants and fruits he heard that could be found there. It’s a nice distraction. Soon Jungkook is on it again, Taehyung partakes a role in it too, leaving you alone to handle the grandiose yet terrifying fantasy that is touching and messing with Jungkook's hair.
The first ponytail comes undone easily, the hair tie simply slipping off with just the tip of your fingers to guide it.
When you timidly start, reaching with two hands to grab all of the hair from him, you feel a rush of blood to your cheeks, heart skipping beats and perspiration bubbling at your temple. Your fingers just have to graze slightly the skin of his neck, all warm and soft, you have to do it a few times even because his pretty locks are rebellious and your fingers too willing to let them run in between them, silky as they are.
There’s a strand refusing your gentle taming, slipping from your grasp and falling in front of his eye. You go to catch it back, meeting hot fingers on his temples. Yours surrender immediately. Jungkook from the corner of his eye, over his shoulder, throw you a glance and a smile. A small one, small but fond.
"Doesn't it get lonely?" Yoongi asks as Jungkook tucks the strand behind his ear.
"Not really. I'm used to it." He shrugs. You take your sweet, sweet time to finish the half-bun, half-tail hairdo you're working on. Somehow something lovely has settled. Something comfortable, domestic. He's not wary of your touch, letting you mess with his hair, not even flinching when, tentatively, just taking a chance, just once, the pad of your thumb stroke the hot skin of his neck. "Dragons can be very affectionate-" That makes Taehyung cackles as Yoongi gasps in disbelief. You have a hard time picturing those creatures as affectionate. Jungkook is different anyway. You need to be different to go after the path he's chosen for himself. "I swear!" Taehyung rolls his eyes, shaking his head.
"Have you considered all this time spent away from civilization turned you mad?"
The bun is done, sadly. You made it last for as long as you could but eventually, as every perfect moment, it has to come to an end. You don't even bother to hide your dread as you let your ass drop to your chair, puffing.
"Leave him alone, moron." A few peanuts to his stupid head and Taehyung stops messing with Jungkook, stops acting like he's insane and starts telling about something no one cares about -so much so, Yoongi leaves to go chat up an old goblin who's just entered the bar.
Jungkook turns to you, leaning a bit. Smiling quietly, gently. As if he doesn't realise the face he owns once his hair isn't hiding the majority of it anymore.
It must be a joke. He must know. He must have noticed how his straight, dark eyebrows, with the cut splitting the right one in half, gives an irresistible, dark, mature shape to the roundest, sparkliest set of eyes the world has ever seen. He must know his face is a wonderful work of art, with the tiny little details, here and there, adding charms and depth and uniqueness, that only the greatest, only a special artist would know to use -like this faint scar linking a mole under his lip to the corner of his mouth, or the one craving in the top of his cheek. His colours are splendid too. While you'd always seen him with black everything, black hair, black clothes, quiet sombre aura and a tiny bit of red, you'd catch sometimes, where he'd hurt his hands. Never would have you thought, he's more harlequin than monochromatic. Golden scopes, tipsy patches of red matching the tiny pout he owns for a mouth, eyes not dark but the richest shade of chocolate.
"You," Jungkook starts in a whisper, now so close you have a whiff of his smell, torturous scent of pinewood, of soot, and something else, more natural, sweat most definitely but turns out to be the better element of the mixture, suave, awfully addictive. "you believe me, don't you?" You need a full minute to get your brain's vessels to connect. A full minute during which you have no idea what the hell he's talking about, what words are and how to use them, and all you can focus on is not dying from a heart attack -and also, not show that you are having one.
You shake your head up and down, still unsure to what you're agreeing to. It does not matter that much because he's smiling the way he does. The adorable smile another wonderful novelty, shaped like a bunny one, eating up his upper lip into the thinnest cupid bow. The sparks in his eyes, on his cheeks, from excitement, mirth. He's really here with you, warmer than you've ever thought him able to be, and somehow, different than what you had expected, but thousand times more endearing. Having developed a crush on him previously makes more and more sense by the second.
"Thank you for the invitation." He says quietly. You don't miss a single word, nor the least flinch in his intonation (soothing, genuine), even in the loudness of the bar, because, for some reason, he's never leaned back. He remains there, hardly a dozen of centimetres away from you.
"No problem." You lie, effortlessly after a few gulps of liquid courage. If you're enchanted by the evening, the unexpected turns of events, he still made you go through a short misery for this. He must see your awkwardness, he must notice how you're sweating bullets and swallowing with difficulty. How your eyes keep battling between wanting to bath in his and avoid them at all cost. Jungkook doesn't budge though and it almost gets annoying, almost upset you how he doesn't care -or maybe simply doesn't realise- the effect he's having on you. "I thought you couldn't-" You start, meaning to sting him a bit because he deserves it.
"I finished early, and um-"
"Was it even real?" You ask, genuinely curious to have him clear this out for you. It's not like you're mad anymore. On your face, you only feel a tingle at the apple of your cheeks from how many smiles and waves of laughter you've shared, the desperate tears from earlier long dried and gone. "The excuse, I mean."
"It wasn't an excuse..." Jungkook turns his face away from you then. Biting hard on his bottom lip, a traitorous grin hardly contained. The tip of his ears are flushed, you wonder from what, until you see his hand raising to the top of his head where it flats down hair that doesn't need it. "I- I just-" Maybe it's seeing him this abashed that pushes you forward, literally, scraping your chair to the wooden floor, thigh meeting his in the process. "I was startled when you- asked. When you said my name even, I wasn't- like- expecting it and I'm not used to-" He cuts himself off, a hand vaguely motioning the room.
"To what?" You insist, mimicking his murmuring tone, terrified as you are to pop out the little bubble now only he and you dwell.
"Going out with people or just- hang out, I don't know." He looks inherently embarrassed now. Possibly even a bit saddened, you note. Still, his face remains open, kind, the ever-boyish smile teasing at least the corner of his lips. You don't mean to be so sappy but you wish, consciously, right this second, for this very moment to last an eternity or at least, for your memory to take a picture realistic enough, as in-depth and detailed as possible so that you'll be able to recall and relive it for years to come.
"Oh. Dragons don't like to go clubbing?" He bumps your thigh with his knee, chortling at your words but shaking his head nonetheless. As you stare at his thigh, covered by a cheap black cloth stretched to the very limit, stuck to yours, almost supported by yours, sending a continuous channel of heat from there to the pit of your stomach, it seems like you've reached a determining point. A definite phase where you can handle him (more or less). Enough not to liquefy on the spot at his every glance, while remaining way too aware of him, his smell, his warmth, every sound coming out of his mouth, his lovely, lovely charms.
You really like him.
"My head hurts." Taehyung's half-dead on the table. You're not too worried because as his head lies flat, his hair marinating in a pool of spilt beer, he can mumble with a lot of coherence about how heavy his head feels, and how it will probably weigh this much until Monday. Jungkook grabs a bunch of tissues to try to slip under Taehyung's head as an absorbing pillow, it's no use though, because Taehyung, strangely enough, feels too comfortable in this position to let himself be disturbed. Jungkook seems concerned, a bit bothered even -way more than you are because you are very much used to this depiction of lame- until Yoongi passes by, observing with deep disapproval written all over his face. He kicks on purpose one of Taehyung's chair legs, making him groan, and leaves.
Greediness turns you bold. Knocking Jungkook's leg the same way he did earlier, you call back his attention on you. For some reason, he stares at your legs, touching. You wonder for a second if you shouldn't have. It's not that much, he did it earlier, but maybe you shouldn't have. He's too pensive. Doesn't budge a muscle. In deep reflection. You hit him again, a tiny little push, and a few others to follow, like an annoying bratty kid trying to steal someone's attention. His hand finds its way to your knee then, enclasps it entirely, thumb pressing and you have no idea if any of this means anything, but it does send a rush of jolt straight between your legs. Surely he doesn't mean this use of firmness to turn you on, does he? How could he even guess it having this effect? You didn't even know it yourself.
It does work though. You stop acting like a feisty little brat, patiently waiting for him to be ready to listen to you. He pretends, mean as he is, that the hand won't stay, letting it slide slightly away from your knee. It doesn't go far though. Somehow it's comfortable a bit higher on your thigh. Not very high. It's awfully PG, awfully casual and platonic, but it serves to drive you a little breathless.
With the wide glassy eyes, the small smile that keeps finding its seat on his lips each time he turns to face you, he's all ears, all eyes, just for you. It's infuriating. Galvanizing. You lavish in it.
"You said it doesn't get lonely?" You blurp out, putting all efforts on focusing on the question you are sincerely curious about. If you didn't have it blinking loud and bright in your brain for the past ten minutes, you would have had it long lost and forgotten. He's messing with your head. But you owe to ask. The curious sadness, that you may have imagined for all you know, you saw briefly earlier needs to be addressed.
If it ever were there, it's gone anyway. As he stares into your eyes, seemingly pondering his next words around in his head, there's a gleam shining to you personally there.
"It doesn't when you don't know what you're missing."
"I don't feel too good, puffskein." Taehyung burps out. Thanks to some miracle, he doesn't end up vomiting all over the table but it's obvious he's this close to it and needs to be taken home. It takes all the goodness of your soul, all of it, to control your urge to grab your wand and throw a forbidden curse on his stupid ass.
The asshole makes you out to be an ungrateful friend, appreciation long gone, aggravation deeply grounded. It was going so well.
"Sorry about Taehyung." You start, wincing a bit. Your back leaned against the door of your room, it's late, quiet and badly lit up in Hogwarts' hallways. Taehyung is sound asleep in his bed, fully clothed and wrenching of a burp who turned down to be vomit. You've managed to use your wand on him, something to make sure he'll have a long and safe night and a rather gentler awakening tomorrow.
Jungkook pretty much carried him on his back, all the way to his bed, without much of a complaint, only a growl or two when Taehyung showed himself difficult in the capricious stairs hall -because it's the best and safest place to try and stumble, blindly, drunk out of your mind.
"It's fine. I had a great time."
"Dragging Tae's drunk ass all the way here was fun to you?" You tease, squinting at him. You know what he means. You know that he knows what you mean. You're only trying to earn time. Just a little bit more time. It's late, he's about to leave you for his room, you assume, and you're not just ready for it yet.
"Maybe not this part."
You don't know what to say to make him stay. It's not like you could possibly invite him inside, is it?
Yoongi would say it's way too soon. Another version of you, maybe a twenty-four-hour younger version of you, the one that didn't know him from this close yet, that didn't get to talk and undergo the full experience that is Jeon Jungkook, to feel his hand on your thigh, his pretty eyes -Merlin, there is a time when you didn't even suspect he hid those wonders right here- would agree. It's not your kind, to have hook-ups. You wouldn't even know how to.
That being said, it's not like you often meet Jeon Jungkooks.
You're not that greedy. You're sure of it. When he's leaning himself against the wall, shoulder pressed against it to support himself, head slightly tilted, watching you soundly, the corner of his lips always curled upward. His eyes say it all. Completely black in the shadow, hooded, tempting. Sending heat to your core, shudders along your spine, tingles to the tip of your fingers.
If he says something, if he suggests anything, you'll say yes. He just has to say it. You've been courageous enough already. Asking him out, talking to him, and everything else. You just can't. You can't imagine admitting out loud what you wish to happen now, exposing yourself to him again by asking him if he'd like to stay the night.
And it's too soon, isn't it?
But Hell, you still have the lucid memory of his hair, running in between your fingers and it's become undeniable how bad you'd like to have it again except this time, you could be less delicate.
"I should probably go."
The disappointment is the language you speak because you're too tired to filter the vexation in your voice, "What, your dragons need to be tucked in?"
"Uh?" He chortles. All teeth out, eyes a bit wide, he regards your face, evidently amused. "Is there anything on your mind you'd like to share, maybe?"
"Absolutely not." You're bratty. It's the tiredness and maybe the butterbeer too. Undoubtedly the frustration. Arms crossed, looking away, pouting because somehow you are unable to relax your mouth and need to be so obvious about it all.
"Are you mad at my dragons?" Jungkook asks lightly. If you don't dare look at his face right now, you can guess it. He must have that smirk you've seen a glimpse of a few times tonight. From your peripheral vision, you can tell he's mocking you. Standing away from the wall, a step closer to you, chest puffed out and arms crossed on it.
"Why would I be?" You mumble, ever so vexed.
"Exactly." He's holding back a laugh, you can hear it louder than if he were to let it out.
Continuing, same tone, same pout, squinting harder at the void that is the end of the hall, "They sound awesome, I have no reason-"
"They are. You should meet them."
Startled, you look up to him, eyes wide with both fear and interest. "Should I?"
"Yeah." His tongue swipes swiftly over his bottom lip before he bites on it for a second, pondering. "Go to bed now so that you're in good shape tomorrow and I'll introduce you then."
Of course, he'd be so casual about it but the idea kind of blows your mind. "Really?" You've seen dragons from afar a very few times, during competitions or this one time, with Taehyung at that circus in Wales. But never have you approached one. Like most wizards, at least all wizards holding the basic amount of worth necessary to their life, it's not something you want to do: approach a dragon. You know that for the Care of Magical Creatures class, Jungkook only brings one dragon at a time. The class with their professor standing on one end of a wasteland, and Jungkook, at least a hundred feet away, presents them the animal.
"Yeah," Jungkook says again, bobbing his head along. You're dazzled by the light the grin adorning his face brought. He really wants to show you his dragons. "But early. Like super early. They're tired in the morning so they won't be too... agitated."
"Is this supposed to reassure me?" He shrugs with the same cheerful beaming.
"Did you hurt yourself with Taehyung?" For the third time tonight, you've seen him reach a hand over his shoulder, messily massaging the muscle with a tiny grimace on his face. He hasn't mentioned it so you did not bring it up but the thought that maybe it's your dumbass of a best friend who's responsible awakes your guilt.
"No, it's not Taehyung." He scoffs. Almost offended that you could imply he hurt himself that way. "I had a bad fall."
"On your back? How do you fall on your back?" There are, actually, a lot of ways for someone to fall on their back but somehow, you can only imagine Quidditch players to have the occasion to do so. You haven't fallen to the ground since you were twelve and finally mastered the skill of flying on a cheap broomstick. But Jungkook is different, right?
"Tina. You'll meet her tomorrow."
Tina. One of his dragons. Of course. He sounds so excited to introduce you to a mythical creature who manifestly attacked him, you start to wonder if that's not the thing that is wrong about him. Because everything is too sweet and lovely and perfect about him, something must be wrong -or else, it's not fair. And maybe his thing is that he is batshit crazy.
"Anyway," A clearing of the throat -you almost missed those, "go to bed. Sleep tight. Tomorrow, I want you-" Your heart stops in your bosom. There's the tongue winking at you again, through his pink lips, it's indecent, makes you forget it all about his alleged insanity, "alive and kicking."
You roll your eyes, raising your eyebrows, bewildered by his choice of words. He laughs, again. The boyish one but quieter, as if he's scared to wake the castle or just a grumpy painting possibly hanging somewhere in the dark. It's lovely. "Thanks for walking me to my room. And for Tae." You say, sincerely, turning to your door to open it.
"You're very welcome." Before you disappear in your suite, you glance his way. It's sappy-you again, needing to take a mental picture of his face, with the hair still pushed back, the rebellious strand from earlier curling against his cheek, his handsome everything, his soft expression and charming smile. He doesn't seem to mind. If anything he's doing the same, not hinting to a departure until you take it upon yourself that maybe, it's enough staring at each other wordlessly for tonight and you wave him goodnight, closing the door behind you.
By Merlin's beard, what the hell happened today?
And what the fuck is going on, now?
Your ass down on the hard ground, head dizzy, with a little warm tingling sensation in the crook of your neck.
Jungkook is standing, looking like he’s a thousand feet tall with his long legs, chest puffed out and leaning upward. He’s facing Tina, the infamous Tina, about his height if you put aside the long tail laying flat to the ground in between her legs. She's a bright degraded of a deep purple and a fire red, covered in scales, sharp and standing upwards every few seconds as if they're breathing along with her lungs.
He has a forearm blocking her jaws open, glaring with the most severe set of eyes you could never have imagined on him boring holes in her flamboyant ones. He’s growling things in a language you think you recognise as Romanian, barking in her face as he forces his arm deeper, gagging her, not caring about the sharp teeth digging in his skin.
After a while of the strangest and scariest staring contest you’ve ever witnessed, the tail lying between her legs flap once and she whines a heartbreaking mewl.
His face softens at that, slightly, he frees her from his arm, taking a step back while keeping an attentive eye on her.
Tina snivels more, as soon as her master’s attention hints at leaving her, rubbing the tip of her gigantic snot against his shoulder blade.
“Not now.” He says, sending her away with a pat to the side of her neck.
This is the weirdest thing you’ve ever experienced.
You simply remain there, staring, gaping, trying to process it all.
You’ve been jumped by a dragon and Jeon Jungkook is-
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry.” He still has his hair pushed back in a messier bun than the one you made for him yesterday as if he knows that you like him a lot like that. Therefore nothing is hiding the most pitiful look you've ever seen on anyone's face when he looks down to you. Eyebrows dropping low above shiny wide pearls, his two hands reaching for you, munching nervously on his lip.
-Terrible. You just had the biggest fright of your entire life -and probably, hopefully, the last one of the kind- and all you can think about, is how wet you got from Jungkook growling like an animal, and somehow intimidating the fiercest animal there is to submission.
“She doesn’t- I didn’t think she’d be that excited, I’m sorry, ___.” He mumbles, guilt laced in every syllabus he pronounces. You accept one of his hand, sliding yours against his palm, hot and calloused, sending warm all over your body as he squeezes around your fingers. “It’s my fault. She’s used to playing rough with me and she doesn’t control her strength very well yet-“
He bends over, catching your second hand in his and lifts you, a bit too strongly given how you are entirely made of mush right now. You hit his chest in the process, he has to steady you once you’re up on your wobbly legs. He holds you with a hand to your upper arm, still hot, still firm, it has the blood to your face boil even more. What kind of experience would it be to bathe entirely in this warmth, to have not the least stupid barrier in between yours and his skin, to feel his firm hold grabbing you, his whole body covering you and pressing you down?
You need to focus on the pets.
Tina seems upset, a few meters away, her tail slapping the ground impatiently but her head held low. There are three others, different sizes and spices, quietly laying above the trees forming the forest glade. They’re watching inquisitively, quiet, as cats would, you had no idea they could behave like that but then again, they were raised by this fucking guy.
The guy still holding you close, breathing hard over your forehead, who’s most definitely searching for your eyes you are deliberately not allowing him to meet. You’re not mad. A bit shook still maybe. You’re just soaked, head filled with inappropriate thoughts you're terrified he might hear from how loud they are. And the oblivious idiot keeps apologising and asking if you’re fine because you should not be, you should probably be more traumatised, certainly not aroused as you are, especially when he’s feeling this guilty. You catch a wobble in one of his words and wonder if he could even cry from a guilty conscious.
Therefore you grant him a glance.
“I’m fine, Jungkook. Really.”
He must see something there, hear the subtle tilt your voice, too soft, has taken because he nods, visibly relaxing. His hand departs slowly, fingers grazing your skin.
“Jungkook, I have something for you.” You say it like you know where it’ll lead. Frankly, you have no idea. You can hope, wish very loud and clear in your mind, but you can’t bet on it. “For your back.” You fish out of your shoulder bag a tiny flask. With its shimmery blue content, the tag on it with his name and a short note consisting of wishes of healing you’re somehow embarrassed to show him. “I made it before coming. It should fix your back in no time.”
“That’s very kind of you, ___. Thank you.” He grabs your hand along with the bottle as if he couldn’t take it on its own, and now you’re sure he knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t be innocently stealing all of these touches from you without knowing how intensely pleasing it feels all over.
“Don’t thank me yet, you might not like the... process.” He raises an eyebrow, head slanting to the side. “It’s a bit uncomfortable for like... 30 seconds and then it gets better.”
“How uncomfortable?”
“Well... Nothing too bad. I’m sure you handled way worse.” He can see you’re not completely honest with him. For your defence, looking at all the scars scattered on the very few skin your eyes have access too, he must be used to some kind of pain. It’s not painful per se. It is uncomfortable. Like dipping a firstly warmed up skin in a cryogenic liquid for half a minute kind of uncomfortable. He senses it. Watching the strange liquid carefully, suspiciously, he’s not certain he’ll use it.
“Is it dangerous?”
You scoff, hands raising to your sides, “No, I mean- Not if you apply it correctly, it’s fine.”
“If I-“ He worries at his lip, frowning, mentally debating the subject as if it’s that much of a big deal. Honestly, the risk, is, not that tragic. An over-application can cause a curious discolouration that will, later on, turn into a marble-like blue patch -it might be definite but you’re not sure-, you can potentially burn your skin too but usually, it only happens -and it’s the case with any magical ointment really- if it’s mixed with another ingredient it shouldn’t come in contact with or on a body that’s already under certain charms -which is not his case, you assume-, and of course, an ointment made for local application should in no circumstances be ingested. It’s not that complicated. He doesn’t need to look so scared and suspicious.
“For Merlin’s sake, Jungkook! Don’t use it if-“ You aim to snap it out of his hand but he’s quicker, holding up where you can’t reach, the corner of his eyes crinkling cutely.
“No I want to but- can you do it for me? You worried me.”
“You really are a big baby, aren’t you?” He shrugs, doesn’t deny it. He looks cute like that. Dancing on his two feet, munching on his lip, hands deep in the pockets of his pants. “Fine.” You say without meaning it. You wouldn’t say that you’re fine or that you’ll be fine.
When he walks you to his cabin, twenty meters away from the dragons' playground, your heart starts beating hard and fast, more furiously at every step. It might not mean much more than a nurse job. At the same time, would it make any sense for you to not take the opportunity to take a step and make it more than that? Kim Taehyung would turn you into some kind of pile of whatever gross creature's shit if he were to hear that.
The cabin is super tiny, rustic and barely equipped. Wooden floor, wooden walls, wooden furniture -if you can call them that. Mentally, you curse at Mrs Umbridge. If she didn’t plan this on purpose just because she despises the guy and his pets. You can tell he sleeps in it because of the shitty mattress sitting on a pile of wooden boxes, with the sheets unmade. Discarded used clothes in a corner, a little tower made of books that all seem to be about travelling, magical creatures and travellers’ autobiographies. It’s dark, smells like soot with a tint of something sweet, as if the remnants of a pastry made of cinnamon is hiding somewhere.
Jungkook excuses himself for the mess, even if it’s not much compared to the poor condition he must have received the cabin as, jumping to the only window to tear open the dusty curtain.
It brings a bit of light inside, a subdued but warm yellow-ray coming straight from the barely awakening Sun.
It feels a bit stuffy in here. With him taking over the whole space, and your lungs struggling to pump normally. It feels too intimate, to be standing a few steps away from the place he sleeps in at night. Too intimate because you're not used to it, and two days ago, or even fucking yesterday morning, you would have never thought you'd ever be standing here.
"It's cosy."
You comment, humming to yourself, at the same time as he asks,
"Should I take off my shirt?"
You almost choke, tilting your head, watching him with misplaced shock. He's already holding the hem of his black shirt higher on his stomach, exposing smooth golden skin, tight on a thin, sculpted waist, a trail of teasing black hair under his belly button, yet looking at you with his wide round eyes, unsure, quite innocent somehow.
"I don't think you need to- the whole thing." Coward-you hurries to answer, trying to divert your attention to anything but him.
Jungkook turns around, giving you his back and raising his hands to the back neck of his shirt, wincing silently, as he lifts the cloth. The back is almost worst than the front. The thin waist you had a glimpse of, the smooth skin with the golden highlights, the cute dimples at the bottom of his back, the developed, beautifully drawn muscles. A dizzying hot flush takes over your head.
This guy is a mystery. Under his thick, oversized clothes, you knew he was well built, but never would you have expected that. It's not like you care about it usually but with him standing in front of you, smelling so wonderful, with this thing, intense and unique, linking and running in between you two, you can't ignore it all. You can't ignore nor deny how attracted you are and giddy and greedy at the idea of seeing it, of touching it all -when most people don't even get close enough to him to suppose what he's hiding.
It's easy to get back to Earth and the present moment with the large, blue hematoma marking his right scapula. It looks painful as hell, so much so you wonder how he's been handling it so far, how he hasn't visited the infirmary yet, how often it happens and if he always simply tighten his jaws and take the pain until it just leaves.
He turns you cheesy again. You'd like to lean forward and press a kiss to make it better. You wouldn't dare though, and you know, for a fact, that the ointment you prepared for him would be an infinite amount of times more effective to heal him.
He shudders at some point. Probably because you're taking a short eternity to do anything, or just say anything, silently contemplating instead.
Gulping hard, you start, "Bear with me, ok? It'll be better in no time." He grumbles something to himself, way too quiet for you to hear over the loud popping of your potion's bottle and the even louder rummaging of your heart in your bosom.
The first drops seem to be fine. He's not squirming under the gentle touch of your fingertips, handling the strange sensation that the potion causes at first, instantly warming up at the contact with skin. He even relaxes, letting you spread evenly all over the bruise, calm and still as the perfect patient.
Until he squeals.
"Fuck, what- ah!"
On reflex, he tries to bend and twist, attempting desperately to avoid the inhumanly freezing discomfort burning his skin. You try to hold him still, hands clasped to his shoulders but he wouldn't stop wriggling, whining like a hurt puppy.
For a tough guy, he can't handle much, you decide. It's amusing but concerning as you see him move around so much, you can imagine how he's stimulating the pain coming directly from his injury rather than the ointment.
"Jungkook, stop!" He manages to knock the pile of his books down with a blind kick. "It'll last just a few seconds, calm down!" Your hands fully pressed against his bruise, the heat coming from your overly agitated heart helping, it releases some of the cold. Somehow your tiny hands on his broad back are enough and he sighs in contentment, just a tiny whimper uttered as a remnant of his short but intense torment.
"Are you ok?" You ask after a few minutes. His breathing has quieted down too. His shoulders hanging low, his head relaxed, ease and comfort have taken over his body and mind.
"Yeah. But-" Tentatively, he tests out his right shoulder, rolling it up and down a few times, a tiny impressed 'wow' escapes him and you grin to yourself, enchanted to see him acknowledge your talent. "When you said discomfort-"
"Sorry about that. I thought you wouldn't want to try but it's worth it, isn't it?"
"It is." He has a sudden burst of laughter when he turns around, flashing you a relieved smile. You can read in his eyes that he's a bit surprised, a bit confused himself about what's so funny, probably settling on the little fright the experience gave him. You won't mention that the potion, if it's so effective and this, so quickly, is because it has very highly active ingredients that mess with the organism as soon as it penetrates the skin and his insides might be a tiny bit all over the place for a few moments.
Suddenly, a big whooshing sound comes from outside, seemingly knocking against the front wall of the cabin and making it shake on its hinges. It just makes him chuckle some more, not worried the least and beyond amused by your reflex to step towards him, hands raised, this close to grabbing a hold of his shirt.
"It's just Tina getting impatient, don't worry."
"Don't worry?" You scoff. The mention of her name brings back the memory from earlier. For some reasons, Jungkook's presence now and inside that memory, make it all seem rather mundane but you're sure, you're positive that you should feel traumatized by what happened. A dragon fucking attacked you.
Jungkook shoots you a crooked smile you can't say you recognise. With a little bite on the corner of his bottom lip, dark eyes squinted yet shinning mischief.
"You're safe with me." He says, voice low, teasing, as one of his hand reaches for his index and thumb to pinch lightly at your waist.
"Because they're scared of you somehow?" He laughs again, hand now encompassing your side, staring down at you. He looks so inhumanly attractive. You're confused where this intensity comes from. If it's simple lust, coming from a genuine natural place, the same as yours. Or if the potion is not still messing with him, and his hormones, possibly. It shouldn't. It's been a good ten minutes and his build wouldn't entail this long of a repercussion.
"They're not scared. They just know who's the alpha." He explains with the cockiest shit-eating grin you've ever seen. Even greasy Gilderoy Lockhart doesn't have those. You'd find him gross if he was a hundred per cent committing to the act. There's a lurch though, in the way chocolate marbles shine in childish amusement, the tendentious beam turning into a boyish one, biting back something you know would sound like a giggle if he let it escape. You chuckle yourself, hitting him on the chest -because now that he's healed, he can take it. He doesn't budge an inch, doesn't back the slightest away from you. If anything, the hand holding you slide a bit further behind your back, keeping you close. "I'm just kidding." He whispers, voice as soothing as his attentive gaze as turned. So attentive you feel your face burn with shame.
As a poor attempt to deflect your focus on this, your hand raises to his chest again, fingers scrapping at a tiny default in his shirt.
"You're not." He snickers. "I still don't understand how you're not scared of them..." The question somehow was never brought up. The whole night, the day before, your friends and you spend your time praising him and asking so many questions about his life and dragons in general, the things he's seen, the things he's done, the reasons that push him to take this orientation -something about adventure and wanting to see where the world ends was the answer however you could tell it wasn't entirely the real one- but you never actually asked how come he's not terrified of these deadly creatures.
"Honestly, your students are way scarier to me than they are." Your eyes grow big with surprise as you simper. You naturally lean a bit back as you laugh, and he follows you, for some reasons, eyes fixed on you, a tiny smile shaping his mouth. "That one girl the other day, the way she looked at you."
"Yeah, they can be real brats sometimes."
"My dragons, on the other hand, are super playful and soft." He sounds like a little boy, trying to brag about his alleged better pet. Of course, he'd be lethally sexy a second and undeniably adorable the next.
"You're a bit weird, Jeon." Jungkook shrugs, not sure what to say to that because he knows you're right. He can also hear in your voice that you don't mind and he's not sure how to say that he's glad you don't. Because he doesn't say anything you force yourself to look up, study his handsome face to read him. His expression is precisely what you expect yours to look like. Content yet expecting for something more, enamoured.
It's just hard to take the first step. Impossible to overcome.
Only now, from so close he can probably feel your breath hitting his neck, you notice he has a thin beard decorating his jaw. There's a patch missing on the left. You press the tip of your index to the tender skin, noting he's probably got burnt.
"That's what happens when a baby with a cold refuses to leave your shoulder."
"It sneezed on you?" He nods, grinning. "I could make something for that. And for your eyebrow too." You stare, your finger caressing the soft skin, cheating a bit and slipping to the side of his jaw where there's nothing except a barely unshaven skin. Jungkook sucks in a breath.
"Would you?"
"If you want me too. You'd be losing charm points for sure but-"
"Oh, I have those?"
For some reasons, it’s this moment your memory chooses to recycle your friend’s words. The ones about him being that great. With the pretty gold glimmer coming from his peculiar round eyes, you do not doubt that he is.
“As if.” You roll your eyes, jaded by his certain lie.
And the ones about him possibly being a lot, being too much to handle follow quickly behind. He is a whole lot, from head to toes, to the very essence of his character. The thing is he’s dipped in a thick pool of sweet honey, rounding his edges into something so much more accessible, too easy to swallow, how could you not try.
“Let’s not fix it then,” He starts, one of his hand roughly rubbing at his short beard. “you already have too many ahead of me.”
You give him a doubtful “oh really?” look he greets with an amused grin. He’s pretty smooth for a guy that hardly ever interacts with women and humans in general.
You almost ask if his pets give him dating advice but you decide to keep it for later. The cat and mouse game is getting hard to endure. You’re not bored of it but you know you’re both ready for it to turn a little less playful and a little more decisive -also you don’t know exactly what time it is, however, you do know you have a class in the morning. It (whatever it is) won’t happen with you bullying him restlessly.
Maybe one of you will get tired of watching so closely the other's face, you both know the details by heart by now, are probably even able to draw them with your eyes closed, and act.
There’s a subtle frown messing up his handsome face. A tiny dip of the starting lines of his eyebrows and a pout reshaping his lips.
“I’m really sorry about that.” He mutters, shame dripping from his words. The pad of his thumb raises to your neck, grazing ever so lightly the skin surrounding the tiny cut Tina gave you earlier.
It’s not that bad. Doesn’t even hurt anymore. When your heart is beating so fast, when your cheeks are burning so high, when your core is quivering so much, you barely remember about the cut on your neck ever hurting.
He seems so sorry though. And then he’s leaning towards you, dubious eyes not leaving yours until he’s hidden in the crook of your neck and can’t see you anymore, and softly, presses his lips to the bruise.
It feels like a seizure in your heart. It shouldn’t be much but it is, the softest touch, most delicate, also a beautiful promise for more to come.
You relax under him, his arm naturally sliding further behind you, pulling you flush against him. You tend your neck, expecting more, demanding more. He instead breathes in, nose buried in your hair, humming to himself as if the scent pleases him before he’s kissing your neck again, this time a more resolute kiss, with a tough pressure, a louder smack.
You can’t help but giggle, he sniffed you like an animal would, like a dragon would. The giggle turns into an embarrassing fit of laughter, the tension wearing you out probably helping a lot.
“What’s so funny?” Jungkook asks, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with curiosity and a smile translating his bemusement. He backs away for a second, just to see your face.
“Sorry-“ More giggles, he pinches your side, you barely manage to bite your laughter back in your throat. “Sorry but you’re really- I just didn’t realise to what extent you’ve been raised by dragons.”
He’s confused you can tell, frowning in deep thought yet not looking the least vexed. It makes you smile. Seeing him looking so adorable, a little lost, a little embarrassed. You kiss the palm of his hand, the one that’s sitting where it fits perfectly, tucked in the crook of your neck, his eyes grow big for a split second. “Cause I smelled you? Was it weird? I’m sorry, I’m just used to- like- smells are imp-“
He made it so easy for you to press your lips to his. Everything about him, from his smell to his warmth, to his smiles both from his pretty flushed lips and from the wonders he owns for eyes, his voice soothing, welcoming, words always gentle, always soft. He’s both the unknown and at the same time, the most comfortable aura you’ve ever wanted to dip in.
It’s hesitant at first, or more precisely sheepish, like testing the waters. Figuring out where you’re stepping in, noticing you’re barely keeping your nose up and afloat. It’s scary, new and exciting. Requires a little bit of practice, some intended nibbles, some timid lingering.
You’re both unsure, trying until you’re not anymore. Like a button blooming into a rose, suddenly turned bright bloody red, intense and passionate, with fierce thorns digging and scratching at the skin.
You sigh into him, he’s humming as in agreement. There’s a little agitation coming from outside. As if they know what you two are doing, how you’re feeling. As if impatient Tina can tell you’re stealing her human right under her snoot.
He is so willing to get stolen though. Chasing after your mouth when you worry for a second about the ruckus going on just behind the wall, arm tightening around you, hugging you as close as he can, his body melting with yours whenever your fingers dig in his skin.
You’re the first one to slip your fingers underclothes to just have a little sample of naked skin. It’s just past the hem of his sweatshirt, the soft and burning skin of his waist. It spurs him on. As if he was just waiting for you to give him permission, his hands find a home under your shirt. Flat on your skin, so large, so hearty, raw skin from someone who’s worked with those hands a lot, feeling so nice on you, feel like he’s holding you captive in between the palms.
The hand against your back slides up, stopping an instant where your bra is sealed, toying with it as if he’s wondering if he can. Deeming that he can’t, for some unknown reason, he goes further to grip the back of your neck. You’re too busy with his tongue teasing yours, with the growing stiffness digging in your stomach to notice. Have your brain been less occupied, you would probably have the fingers playing with the ends of his hair, pulling a little harsher than they already are. He’s loving it, it seems. Moaning each time you do, groaning each time your nails slip through the hair to scrap at his skin.
Everything is too good. Everything feels made to be, bodies made to meet and make up. It feels like this could be enough. Highly satisfying, more delicious than any make-out session has ever felt because none of those boys before were Jeon Jungkook and never have you liked someone as much as you like him.
But Jeon Jungkook can’t be perfect. You don’t know if he means to be to tease or if it’s just him holding onto some doubts, some insecurities, not wanting to go too far without you explicitly telling him that it’s what you want -because, clearly, it’s not evident enough, the way you’re hanging off of his mouth, limp in his arms, subjectively grinding against his cock can’t be telling enough.
His second hand, the one closest to all the places you want him to invade, won’t give in. Set on your stomach, his thumb retracing the underline of your bra, this hand is the very incarnation of a tormentor. You don’t last long, grousing in your mind, losing your shit and your patience, giving him chances after chances to finally get to it but of course he never does.
Your frustration reaches its limits when you back away from him, hitting his chest with your fist, breathless and frowning.
He’s too dazed, hooded eyes barely seeing anything but your swollen mouth, to comprehend. Until you bark his name, punching him again.
Jungkook takes in your mad eyes, scrunched eyebrows and impatient tapping of your foot on the cabin's floor.
“Touch me.” You whine more than you demand. His light chuckles fill the suffocating air, diffusing a little bit of the tension and maybe it’s not for the worst.
“Is that all?” He asks, leaning in to place a soft kiss on your pouty mouth. “You scared me.”
“I don’t care.” He is so gentle on your lips. The sweetest touch you’ve ever received there. Your heart is growing exponentially, threatens to burst in your chest and you’re loving every single second of it.
“You’re a bit mean when you’re frustrated, you know that?” He can hardly contain his amused grin long enough to kiss you. Explicitly telling you, he doesn’t care much for your moody outbursts. “And,” Another kiss right in the centre of your awaiting lips. “I was touching you.”
“Not enough.”
“What’s enough, lil’ brat?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, biting a little at it, definitely grinning to himself there. You almost cum there.
“Touch me here.”
You can sense his cockiness drops to the ground when you grab his hands and press them to your clothed breasts. He just gapes, too shocked to act, as if it’s the first pair he’s coming in contact with. You have to do everything on his behalf and really, thankfully for him, you like him that much you don’t hold it against him. Tearing the cups of your bra down and under your breasts, guiding his long fingers to your tender mounds, he takes in a shaky breath, his curious eyes borne into yours.
Tentatively, he wraps his hands around them, weighing them, the pad of his thumb caressing the skin, enjoying taking extra time on the nipple. You can tell he wants it, he’s too willing to touch you, yet his mouth, the stupid thing, starts to stutter, “B-but, I don’t think righ-“
“Please.” And if this isn’t enough, you’re giving up. You’ve tried so hard. Asking, moving his hands for him, pleading with your boobs out and your shirt bunched up over them. If this isn’t enough, you’re giving up and probably kicking him in the dick in your way out.
His puppy eyes fall from your eyes down to your breast, almost reluctantly.
He leaves out a tiny whimper of pain. As if he’s the one hurting. As if it’s not you, the one suffering, the one tortured, because he’s been messing with you, shaking your insides upside down, baiting and lightening up sparkles but refusing to feed you accordingly the way you need to. As if he’s not the only one inflicting himself the torment, refusing to give in for reasons you don’t understand.
Until something clicks in his brain, finally, common sense meeting desires, his mouth fall from your neck and straight to your nipple, kissing hungrily. Licking and sucking and nibbling, moaning almost as much as you do. Once both your nipples are swollen and a pretty flush, he senses your sensitivity, deciding to drop from the buds, meaning to cover the whole supple surface of your tits with lovely kisses and infuriating grazing of the teeth.
The position is awkward. Him bent in half, you on your tiptoes, trying to ease the access for him while simultaneously ordering your wobbly legs to keep on supporting you. The task is not easy, so poorly executed he gets tired of it in seconds, big hands seizing you to pick you up, holding you close, your legs wrap around his waist, so comfortable, so natural, somehow more convenient for him, he doesn’t seem to be in the least amount of effort as he feasts gladly on your chest. His hands stay on your ass, fingers digging, occasionally dragging you up and down his front where you can feel him hot and hard against your centre, a few times squeezing and tearing your cheeks apart.
If this is not what paradise tastes like, then you don’t know what is.
It’s perfect pleasure, pure satisfaction.
But of course, you’re human.
Soon, it’s not enough, anymore. And more and more you want and you need. You can feel your cunt clench around nothing, drops of honey dripping from the side hems of your panties crotch. He’s so good to you, lavishing and ravishing your breast like it’s the only job he’s ever wanted but you want more. Maybe you’ll let him worship you another day. Place the kisses and paint the marks he wants on every inch of your body.
Right now you need release. Any kind. He’s pent you up to a point, you can’t handle the idea of not letting any steam out.
You’re about to get bitchy again. Getting saltier and saltier at every empty-handed clench of your cunt. If you don’t take a step now, make him take the step, you’ll turn into a sex-deprived gremlin again, this time worse than earlier, and it’s not a good look you wish for him to see -again.
“Jungkook?” You can sense him perk up at the call of your name, even though he doesn’t stop his ministrations. He hums against your nipple, held tight in between his wet lips. “Fuck, Guk- just- uh- your bed.” No reaction. You suspect he didn’t even listen. “Take me to your bed, Jungkook!” It’s the harsh pull on his hair that’s made him look up and pay attention to your words. Like an obedient puppy with unmatching dark eyes, he nods, swirling around to head for his bed, carrying you effortlessly like you're not a full-grown adult hanging from his neck.
You’re about to meet his sheets. You’re about to get ravished and treated so, so right. You can tell from all the promises his hooded gaze has no shame sharing. Anticipation is killing you. The tenderness and affection along with the evident intense lust you read in him are killing you. Your back is just about to meet his sheets when it just doesn’t. He’s holding you centimètres away from it, eyebrows frowned, preoccupation taking over his face and covering everything sexy that fitted it so prettily.
“I can’t have you on this bed.”
“Wha- why?!” Maybe you yelled a bit. He winces. You don’t know what you look like right now, lust turned into pure fury, you just hope if you feel and talk like a gremlin, you still don’t look like one.
“Have you seen it? It’s not even a bed, it’s just a pile of dirty rags probably a thousand years old-“ It’s sweet and annoying, infuriating beyond belief. He’s blushing too. One foot hitting with spite the pile of rags he was given to use as a bed.
You want to cry.
“Why are you so fucking difficult, Jungkook?” You spit his name with venom, forehead hitting his shoulder, defeated as you feel. He’s hugging you closer, hands less sexual and just warm tenderness as they slide along your spine, pressing you closer if it’s even possible. Feels nice. But your panties, the soaked ruined cloth that is uncomfortably sticking to your cunt are reminding you you’re hating this moment.
“I don’t mean to. I- you deserve better than-“
“But you sleep on it!”
“I can sleep anywhere, it doesn’t matter but you’re too pretty to be laying on this.” You huff at that. Too frustrated to just take the compliment and let it shake your belly with the butterflies in it like a kid would a Christmas snow globe. “I’m sorry.”
“Should apologise to yourself, why you’re sleeping in it if it’s shit? Don’t you deserve better?”
He can tell how you feel. You’re kind enough to let everything clear as day, written in a language he mastered in so little time, an intimate one he’s only allowed to see. He sees the disappointment. Also the ease you’re feeling. The lust that’s not left. The despair and frustration tinted by dark shades of anger. You look cute as hell. All pouty and mushy in his arms. Whining and complaining and so angry yet fingers gently caressing the nape of his neck.
He can tell you’re bitchy, feel like arguing but probably want something else even more.
“Wouldn’t it be better to use your bed instead? I saw it yesterday, looks nice.” He suggests, kissing your jaw to relax you.
“It is, it’s a troll size.” You lean your head back, giving more space for his mouth, mumbled words hardly falling from your pout.
“I saw that.” He says, amusement teasing the corner of his eyes.
“Professor Jeon!” The amusement completely annihilates from his eyes, his pretty rosy lips falling in a shocked o, along with all colours leaving his face. You gasp silently, wide eyes matching his.
There’s a terrifying succession of thuds shaking the little cabin, the call of his name again. Slowly, he releases you from his arms, making sure you meet the ground without emitting the least noise.
“I told you I had a class-“ he mimes with his mouth rather than speak.
“You never told me that?”
“I mean- I tried to but you wouldn’t- you wouldn’t list-“
“Professor Jeon?” More knocking on the door. You both hear the man outside mumbling to himself, a little commotion and you can tell, he’s trying to find a way to reach the window to have a look through it. Jungkook jumps on it, tearing the curtain in front of the blurry glass.
“Yes- uhm-“
“Are you okay? The class is ready for today’s demonstration! We’re all excited about that Opaleye you’ve talked ab-“
“Hagrid, I- I need to- finish get ready so- if you and the class could wait- f-five seconds?”
You are fuming. Glaring at him with the meanest eyes you own. Smoke probably coming out of every orifice, desperately trying to leave out some steam or else you’ll be spitting fire better than his fucking pets do. Tucking your boobs back in your bra, tearing your teeshirt back down, probably looking as miserable as you feel.
He’s apologetic though. One hand holding yours between gentle fingers, massaging kindly the palm of your hand. Looking guilty as hell, pouty with the watery eyes, a sweetheart.
And you like him. The realisation hits you once again, full force, you like him a whole lot. Frustration fading into compliance, leaving you helpless, about to forgive him wholeheartedly and suggest to come back later when his schedule sees it more fitting.
“Alrighty! I’ll show them that cute baby dragon I see over there-“
Jungkook winces visibly. Even you can tell it’s not a good idea to leave Hagrid alone with kids and dragons unsupervised, his reputation precedes him, unfortunately. He doesn’t hint a gesture towards the door though. Observing you with attentive eyes, the same from earlier, as if he’s trying to memorise your traits with utter accuracy, knowing he won’t be seeing it for at least the whole day ahead. You should suggest he takes a picture, it’ll last longer. But you’re overwhelmed with a vague wave of sadness, suddenly, so close to the parting from him and so unready for it.
You don’t know if he sees it, senses it, if when he kisses you hard on the mouth it’s to make himself feel better or if it’s just for you. It works in any case. Your heart filled up as it’d been, with lust and affection and something that can’t be but is so akin to love.
“I wish you didn’t have a class-“
“Do you want me?” He asks in a breathless whisper. The question is ridiculous, the answer being so fucking evident, you’d hit him to the side of the head if you didn’t like so much how intimate, how sexy he sounds murmuring against your lips.
You nod. Realising as you try and fail that he’s stolen all air from you -and probably a few other things like your heart and sanity along the way.
“Can you be quiet?” His hands have already dropped from your face, attached to the hem of your pants, hurried fingers proceeding to open them up. The situation in its entirety with the environment, with the people outside at most a dozens of meters away, the awkwardness, the everything can’t hit you, can’t take a sensible shape. No information able to be treated because of him, his everything, the whole lot that he is, infuriating, dizzying, shattering, moving. All you know is that you can be quiet, you can be whatever he wants you to be right this instant.
“I’m sorry for being so terrible at all that-“ He starts, sincere but light, amused, comfortable with you -and that’s the nicest look you’ve seen on him. “I’ll make it up to you until later when I- can really make it up to you.”
It’s funny to see the two facades of his personality clash like that. He’s apologising, red in the cheeks, but also a mouth, reshaped by a confident fatal crooked smirk, stating promises as facts.
How does he know he’ll make it up to you? How does he know he’ll make you feel good enough you’ll forgive his clumsiness?
“I’ll need more than five seconds, Jeon.” That makes him chuckle silently, shaking his head and squinting in defiance.
“You’ll need hardly more than that.” He says, dragging your pants and your panties at once, down a few centimetres.
Heat burns your face as air hits your centre. It feels shockingly exposing even if he can't see much from up there, with your shirt down, with little to no light coming from the curtained window and his large hand, that doesn’t wait for a second, slipping in between your thighs, covering your mound instantly as his mouth covers yours.
He’s right. This fucker.
You don’t time but you know he makes you come incredibly fast.
First starting by sliding a lone finger in your heat to quickly realise that you are soaking wet, sloppy to be exact, perfectly able to fit at least two and probably a third one easily. And he obliges so, filling the torturous void, fucking you with them slowly, dragging the pad of his rough fingers along your walls, teasing your sensitive entrance with lovely, lovely strokes. The sound -and he has to slow down to keep it quiet enough- is obscene. You don’t remember the last time you’ve been so fucking turned on. Dripping down your legs and unto his hand.
He spends only a few minutes on that, on fucking you nice and open when you both know he won’t even be able to fill you as you both wish he would until, well, some undefined time. It should be revolting, that thought, sort of a quick, immediate satisfaction for a long term painful wait.
But then his fingers leave your hole to migrate to your clit, as engorged as ever, as it’s not been for a long, long time, all of this for this stupid crush, from this stupid man, from his kisses and his scent, and his purposefully neglecting to give it attention. A few strokes only, fast and hard, messy and desperate with a sweet pet name he’s never used but fits so nice from his lips press to your ear and you’re coming, hole kissing emptiness, it sucks but you're invaded with so much content, legs shaking, heart beating fast, remnants of the orgasm reshaping the whole stance of your body, feels like you've just moved in an entirely new one, and head dizzy, feeling in love.
“Told you.” He’s chuckling to himself. Full of himself as he wipes you clean with a teeshirt he just picked up from an open travelling bag.
“Shut up, Jungkook.” You groan. One hand holding onto his bicep while his owns diligently tie back your pants, fixing you like nothing happened. The orgasm has been so good, it devoided you of all strength and energy you may have had.
You need to leave. Or more precisely, he needs to leave and meet the class, take them away probably in the forest so that you can escape and flee back to the castle. It’s inevitable.
You close your eyes for a second. Trying to empty your head, focus on breathing properly again, hiding how upset you feel. It’s not that dramatic. Surely, you’ll catch him again, today probably, later, tonight, but you feel so upset. Like a little girl. You don’t want to leave him yet.
Jungkook calls your name softly. You open your eyes, biting on your lip to contain all the emotions wanting to spill out right under his nose.
“Do you like me?” This time you have to throw a punch to his side -it hurts your knuckles more than it does him- because how dare he ask and look so unsure of the answer. “Well, I don’t know- I don’t- you never know with women and- and like- I- you never said-“
“I’ve liked you for two years, Jeon Jungkook.”
“Two...?”
You see the gears rolling, slowly, unsettled by big knots of confusion. You’re sweet, you’re generous and you just came in his hand, literally, so you have no issue admitting -with only a slight blush on the apple of your cheeks, “When you first came for the Triwizard Tournament.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t-“ Again with the apologies. With the looking so pitiful, with the guilt, with the him being so lovely of a man, especially when he’s so big and covered in all those warlike scars.
“Well you had this in your eyes anyway, would have been hard to notice me.” You joke, stealing one of the locks hiding behind his ear and tickling his eyelids with it. He scoffs, smiling before he slips it back where it was.
“Thanks to Taehyung, I have a hair tie now. So that I can see you better.” He’s beaming, staring at you fondly, it’s insufferable and you look away, embarrassed as ever because those big eyes being just yours, admiring you -for what too?- are hard to handle. You need practice.
“Is it your dragons teaching you all this cheesy garbage-“ He cackles at that, not even letting you finish and you’re loving the idea that it’s you causing that. “You need better wingpets.” He laughs even harder, you’re grinning even harder until a screech, ear-splitting, resonates through the whole surrounding forest. For a second you wonder if it’s not just Tina throwing a fit because she heard how her master is having so much fun with someone else than her but there’s a commotion following and what sounds like a seventeen-year-old Slytherin boy losing his shit, yelling and crying, and alarm takes over Jungkook's face.
“Can I see you tonight?” He asks in a hurry and you nod. “I’ll meet you in your room after I trained-“ A big smooch to your lips. “Actually maybe before, I don’t know, I-“
“Just go, Jungkook.” His eyes say something his mouth can’t, you can read the trepidation, as he sprints to the door, gaze not leaving you.
You can’t be sure a hundred per cent but you’re almost certain he just told you that he really likes you too and suddenly, you don’t feel as upset as you did, knowing you will find him back later.
« Thanks for earlier. »
For a second, you don’t know what he’s referring to. Until he points a finger towards his crotch, a little flush showing on his cheeks, where his hair doesn’t reach.
That makes you laugh. You shrug your shoulders, waving his thank away because of course, you wouldn’t let him run in the middle of a class full of teenagers with a rock hard cock showing through his pants.
Too focused on the possible catastrophe happening in his front yard, he didn’t seem to realise, if any discomfort or pain ever existed he couldn’t acknowledge it but you surely did.
After having it pressed to your crotch, having felt its hardness and its heat, there’s no way you’d be able to just stop thinking about it. Then in the cabin, with your tingling cunt and sticky panties, and the whole day ahead, no matter how far away from him you were, physically and supposedly mentally, it’s just all you could think about.
Blushing incessantly at the least stimulating moments. Gagging back giggles whenever a word, a touch, a smile of his recalled itself to you, and this in front of confused and suspicious eyes.
The whole day was a pain. It simply wouldn’t roll fast enough.
Now here you are, standing in front of him, not recognising him fully. He’s hiding behind his hair again. He’s quiet and awkward like he too forgot how to talk to you.
Maybe that’s what you get for meddling with him so quickly. Suppose you get separated for a short dozen of hours, he becomes a stranger again.
It’s an awful feeling. Seems like maybe you made it all up. The comfort, the noncommittal love and adoration, the ease, the lust, the warmth. Maybe all of it was just a hazy dream. Made up yesterday evening by alcohol and this early morning by fatigue.
Here you are sober and empty of any other commitment and you can’t picture how you could have gotten to that special place and how to find it back if it ever existed.
“You’ve let your hair down.” You simply say. Maybe it’s your way to point out aloud how you feel like you’ve been thrown a thousand steps back. He’s hiding behind his hair, being unreachable again.
“Yeah, I just- they were all staring so I felt awkward-“ You mean to interrupt, let him know because you’re sure that he doesn’t (the boy from the bar yesterday didn’t know) that if they were staring it’s because he is that beautiful and certainly no one has expected that. “I wanted to tie it back for now but I lost the little thingy.” You take a step forward, closing some of the distance between him standing against the wall and you in the middle of your room. The more you hear his soft voice, the more you recognise him. “I hope Taehyung won’t be mad, I can buy a new one for him.” You could probably point out that Jungkook probably did not lose anything. That probably Taehyung used a charm and like any of those, the object you didn’t pay for, that materialised itself from thin air, simply disappeared after some time. Maybe you’ll tell him later. Right now you’re close to him again, so close you can catch a glimpse of an eye under the pretty locks. Your ears recognise him, your nose too, and you’re impatient to see if your fingers would too.
You reach up, catching his fringe in between your fingertips and dragging them behind his ears, opening the silky curtain and smiling to yourself, eyes almost blurry with emotion, when you see his handsome face now on display. With the pretty brown eyes, the rosy lips, the cut eyebrow and that scar on his cheek, just above his timid dimple that shows up only when it wants.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” He squeaks out, flushing. “I must look ridiculous-“ He gestures you his hair your holding hostage behind his ears, taking advantage to caress his soft skin with the pad of your thumbs.
“You look cute.” He does. He looks a bit awkward, like a boy who just finds himself with too much hair and tries to do something about it. “Very cute.” You add, beaming when you see his embarrassment grow.
“Liar.”
He catches one of your wrists in his hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the thin skin of the inner part. Lips soft, eyes soft, voice tender. “I thought about you a lot today...” Somehow he found you back too. He feels comfortable saying this while you’re sure he’s not used to it. Therefore even if you hate it, you can’t help but admit it. That you too, obviously, could only think about him the whole day. “I’m not here to stay forever, ___.”
Your airy smile flatters until it disappears completely.
Way to ruin the mood.
He senses it. Press the hand leaving his face back against his cheek, pressing the second one to his mouth again as if he could bring you back to him and forget all about what he just implied.
Obviously.
Obviously, his life is not here, in Hogwarts. He’s not a professor, he doesn’t want to become one, he’s here for a project that has a defined limited time - Mrs Umbridge made sure of it. He’s an adventurer anyway. He only knows forest and lands and mountains and mythical creatures, extreme weathers and dangerous places.
Obviously, you two only properly met a few days ago, only started to get to know each other less than 24 hours ago, it’s too soon to be in love, too soon to be so attached that a separation would feel that devastating. But even if you’re not, you feel in love. You feel wonderful in his arms, under his gaze, with his pretty smiles lighting on you and his sweet voice rocking your heart.
It’s so upsetting to think about. You don’t want to. Just him hardly bringing it up makes you so upset you could cry.
“But I- I know that you know that already. Maybe it’s clear for you that- we can’t-“ The more he talks the less sense he makes. Every syllabus seems dragged out of his mouth. He struggles so bad, your hand distractingly playing with the neck of his shirt, only because his hand wouldn’t let it go, you can feel his beating heart through the thick vein of his neck. “What I mean to say is- I don’t know what this- could mean to you. If it means anything or it’s just- like- fun,” Your eyebrow ticks at that. How dare he? “either way I don’t mind-“ He’s quick to add. “Really! Whatever you want is fine. I just mean to say that we can’t- I mean- at some point, I’ll be very very far away so-“
“Does it matter now, Jungkook?”
The whole dilemma is not that hard to solve, on your part anyway. There’s nothing you can do about his future departing, is it? All that’s under your control is either you decide to indulge in him, have him the way you crave to, feed in this lovely thing that’s started blooming yesterday evening between you two and later on, deal with the heartbreak you’ll surely have once he leaves. Or will you deny yourself this, still get the heartbreak but way earlier on and have to nurture it for probably less long but in this peculiar case, through a thick coat of regrets.
You hate to think about it all. You hate to think about a time when he’s not going to be around, not even only appearing at the end of a hallway, not even noticing you, not doing anything special except existing and breathing the same air as yours.
It’s clear for you. He’s right here, right now, literally right under your hands, there’s no doubt in your mind that you’re going to consume as much as him as you possibly can, if only he’ll let you.
He looks worried, concerned. Not on the same page as you maybe. Guilty too. While it’s not his fault. It’s your own stupid, unpractical dumbass’s fault for falling for the only guy that lives like a fucking wild animal and is probably inept to leave his wild savage life for more than a couple of months at a time.
An attempt nibble to his bottom lip. Your eyes shut close slowly as to not squeeze a droplet menacing to fall from your eye. He sighs deeply, leaning into your mouth for a moment.
“I guess it doesn’t have to matter now.” He decides, pressing a new kiss to the relieved smile growing on you.
"Cause you had a few things to show me, I believe..." It's subtle. Sort of. The words may be but the eyes you give him are not, demanding, minxy. Your intentions are no secret to him and you can tell in the way he smirks, kissing you again, this time his warm palms holding your cheeks still. He's made up his mind too.
It's all you needed to wash it all behind. Everything that could be too heavy for your shoulders or your heart to carry right now. Anything that could affect this moment, tarnish it, make it lesser than it could be.
It just has to be good. Only good and nothing else. His hands everywhere, on your ass, squeezing, on your breast, fondling. He seems to have remembered what you like. He's not withholding, he's not overly gentle. He's still awfully tender, awfully sweet because it's just the essence of his person, you feel it in every breath you steal from him. The way he carries you so softly, sitting you down on his lap as careful as ever as to not have you tip over and fall off of the bed.
When you're so greedy and almost rude in comparison, lavishing in the position he just offered you, groaning when you feel his thick thighs stretching yours wide, grinding already, sliding forward to feel his hardness anew against you.
You touch him everywhere because his body feels surreal. Hard and taut and skin boiling even through his clothes. Your hands disorganized, impatient, start by unbuckling his belt to then jump to the hem of his shirt, dragging the cloth up and off of him.
You hardly catch a glimpse of fair honey skin before the light is shut off suddenly. There's the very recognizable thud of a wand hitting the wooden floor that hints at you that he's the one who did turn it off and you want to whine and complain and maybe even argue a little, and maybe more, enough for him to turn it back on but his wet mouth is sucking at your collarbone, the indignant scold dies into an insignificant, trembling whimper.
He lets you undress him. Even if you're missing the visual, you decide you'll enjoy the touch. His skin is so soft, too soft in a few spots where you guess he's been hurt, uneven, little bumpy traits, here and there, like the trace of a road on a map, scattered all over his chest, his shoulders, his arms. He feels wonderful under your fingers. Hot and soft. He smells heavenly, encaging you as he does, you're bathing in his scent, earthy, smoky, masculine.
You have the push him away, a hand on his jaw, another on his chest to have him quit mouthing at your skin and lay his back down on the mattress. In the very dim light, you catch his shiny eyes, wide and intense as they observe you in the dark. You lean over, pressing kisses you hope as loving as his on his skin, starting from his cheek, you feel moving under your lips from him smiling, descending to his hard belly without missing a spot.
Your mouth turns extra delicate when your lips meet uneven skin, as if you could hurt him, as if he hasn't been long healed and your lips aren't the last thing that could ever hurt him, it makes him gasps and sighs though, each time, you feel his abs tighten under you, his thighs stiffen.
"Am I hurting you?" You ask quietly, even if you doubt it.
"Yeah-" He sighs and you freeze. "I mean no! No, no, don't worry."
"Are you sure?" You insist and he groans in defeat. You might be palming his cock through his pants, which you should be patient enough to wait until he answers properly if you'd honestly like an answer. But the rock hard member has been poking your thigh for too long and you can't help it. He's so responsive too, concealing poorly his groans and his moans, his whole body and cock twitchy under you.
You're close to giving him more. To give him fully what he came for. Nails grazing with intent the line where the hem of his underwears lay but not moving down further, hinting at something more but not giving in yet.
It's exhilarating to have him so docile under you, waiting, hardly patiently, for you to give him what he wants and you can tell, from how hard he is, that he really does want it. He sucks his breath in one more time, loudly, and you snickers above him, excited as you are.
Until he decides it's enough. Raising one thigh fast and hard, pushing at your ass, making you tip over with a squeal. He catches you with the cheeky chuckle you've grown to adore, rolling you unto your back so he can hover over you.
You feel so tiny under him, with his strong thick arms encasing you, the line of his wide shoulders barely decipherable in the dark. Your hand follows the line, appreciating him to be so willing to be touched, always leaning onto your fingers. When it stops at his chest, your fingers mean to play a little but you're stopped in your track by the thudding hitting your palm. It takes you a hot second to realise it's his heart, being so loud and agitated, so expressive from where it's hidden. Of course, someone as reserved as him would have a heart that vocal.
"Your heart's beating so hard." You comment quietly. You don't mean to embarrass him. You don't even mean to reverse the power button hanging between the both of you. Yours in your own chest has to be causing a similar ruckus. But it's his that matters right now. You can't get over the fact that it's for you.
"Stop teasing me." He grumbles. He's not even vexed. He's embarrassed, but you hear the slim smile in his voice, a sheepish one.
"I'm not. You should feel mine." He hums against your mouth, then backs away laughing a bit.
"Smooth."
"It wasn't-" You sigh in defeat. It was not a subtle attempt to have him take care of your tits. Seriously. He's too glad to comply though, you're not one to complain.
You only have a vague notion of time passing, of things progressing. Somehow a second he's suckling on your nipples through the thin material of your top and the next, both of you are naked, panting in each other's face. Your nipples erect and still wet, occasionally rubbing against his chest, two of his thick fingers pumping in between your folds, a third one occasionally teasing the entrance, hinting at a stretch you're so greedy to feel even though you're not sure you can take; your hands wrapped around his shaft, pumping furiously, squeezing hard to have him hiss and curse against your lips, with your thumb teasing the slit of the tender slick head.
His free hand is at your neck, resting there, fingertips pressing in your skin, his thumb toying with your swollen bottom lip whenever he's biting too hard on his own to kiss you properly.
"I'm close..." You whimper, nibbling on the flesh of his thumb. He smiles vaguely at you, hooded eyes unfocused, eyebrows scrunched from pleasure. "I want you, Jungkook."
"Like now?" Fuck. You really have to like the guy a lot. He dares stop fucking you too, all attention now driven to your face. You don't say anything, your eyes telling enough. He nods to himself. "Okay, now. But uh-"
"Jungkook, sometimes you're half-useless." You try not to be mean but you can't help some snarkiness to escape. You have patience. You have a lot of it. But he just makes everything so difficult. How can you be sin and temptation embodied and at the same time, be so fucking clueless? He's like the cure but also the disease.
You roll over on your bed, grabbing a condom from your bedside table that a certain friend I don't need to name provided you with, to then face him again, brandishing the foil packet in his face.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to-" He seems confused for a second, struggling to get the thing open and you wonder if it's been as long as it's been for you since the last time he's been with someone like that, or if it's been even longer. "but-" Growing even more impatient, you jump on your knees, kneeling next to him, taking the thing from him and tearing it open for him. "You're, like, a lot."
You stay silent for probably too long, frozen, hit by his words probably too intensely.
"In a good way! In a- in a, you're- I like you a lot and it makes me all-" He's talking too much you decide. Stuttering the sweetest things you have a hard time hearing while you're both naked in your bed, so near to get even closer, even more intimate to each other in a way you're too excited about to handle any extra pandering -especially given, you know exactly what he meant. Who would have thought? Jeon Jungkook talking so much you'd have to kiss him quiet.
"How do you like it?" He asks in a whisper, kissing your jaw in a way that makes you shudder. He's making you lightheaded, so dizzy, with the stupid jumps between his sexy lust-filled self and the adorable clueless dude he can also be.
"Just- however you'll have me." You answer, ignoring blatantly that it doesn't mean much.
So he decides. Laying you down on your back, hovering you. The thought that maybe you are made for each other hits you full face then, because that's exactly how you'd like him to have you. Just like earlier, so close, so intimate, sort of intimidating, dominating too. All yours and you, even more, his, with his soft locks caressing your forehead, lips so close you hardly have to make any effort to reach, not that he lets you have your mouth for your own for too long anyway, every few seconds, claiming it with lingering kisses tasting of greed.
You know you're in trouble as soon as the very tip of his cock squeezes in. It's somehow a tight fit, even with his earlier ministrations, even with the ones from this morning that made you feel loose all fucking day. Jungkook only fucks you with the head of his shaft for a while, feeling you so tight around him, savouring the sensation but also worried he'd hurt you if he were to go further.
You're on edge. On edge of a devastating orgasm, already too fucking close, and even if you could blame it on the foreplay, on your hormones or whatever else, he'd know. He'd know it's because of him, because of how much you like him, of how good he makes you feel, how much he turns you on.
You don't really care. He's already panting in your ear, groaning and moaning with tight jaws about how good you feel and how pretty you are, when he's only half of the way inside and that's more than enough. It's kind of too much. Kind of impossible to handle.
It's a mewl to the shell of his ear and the digging of your nails in his firm ass that push him further and balls deep inside you. It feels like discovering new places within yourself, places you haven't reach before alone or with someone else, brings a rush of excitement to your whole body that translates in a vice tight clench around him.
He fucks you so good, it feels so nice, his cock was made for you. His rhythm steady, rather slow but powerful, sending you a tiny bit higher on the bed at each thrust, with one arm slid behind your back, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck to hold you still enough. It's little to no effect but it drives you crazy, having him own you like that. From all those places, his dick, his thigh pressing yours higher, his hands, his mouth, his words. Bewitching, he is. Everything feels and sounds and touches him, the air you breath tastes like him.
You wish it'd last forever but it can't. Like everything that tastes that wondrous.
"Jungkook, I think- uh- gonna come." You lie because you don't think, you know you're about to come even if it's been a couple of minutes since he's started.
Conveniently, the moon chooses this very moment to come out of wherever she was hiding, shining right through the only window of your suite and hitting him right in the face to bring clear light to him and to his grin, the smug grin you've only caught glimpses of. Your nails dig deeper in his flesh, he gasps lightly and bites on his lip but the smirk doesn't leave, even though it looks ridiculous with his heavy droopy gaze, his red cheeks and his heaving. He's as affected as you are. And that's that precise revelation that throws you over the edge. You mewl aloud, turned euphoric with how incredible it feels to have him keep fucking you through your orgasm, with his cock dragging along your tight, sensitive entrance with his movements.
Soon he follows. You don't exactly catch the moment, too lost in your own euphoria to decipher when his begins, but you feel the change in his thrusts, sloppy and harsher, skin slapping louder in the quiet room and once you've both bathed fully in the pleasure, came back to the now calmer, quieter Earth, you realise your ear rings with the ghost of a raw, low scream that certainly was his.
Fuck, you need to hear this again but this time with your full, undivided attention.
But another time.
Right now, you're half dead. Your hearts have just started coming down from their high. With him laying almost entirely on you. The most of his weight he safely pressed to your side but he's clinging to you, the round tip of his nose buried in your neck, hands holding you tight against him and legs intertwined with yours. Your hand has found its way to his hair, the ungodly mess, fingers gently massaging his scalp, rolling the curls in between.
"So warm..." He hums against your skin, almost purrs. You smile lazily. "Never wanna leave."
"You don't have to." It's the exhaustion that renders your filter ineffective. You know you shouldn't have said that. You know even more so when he doesn't say anything back. "For now, I mean." You don't even know how much of this is a lie. If you really were only thinking about this moment, this night or if the future you both know too well, ugly but very real just waiting its moment to play out, was also on your mind. You're too tired and concretely, fucked out, to even think properly.
"I still have four months." It's a poor consolation. You don't mean to spoil it all. After having spent such a precious, wondrous time with him, you don't want to fuck it all up but you can't help your heart from squeezing painfully in your chest, your throat from struggling to swallow down the heavy ball that's lodged up there. Jungkook senses it. You know he does by the way he holds you tighter, pressing one of those kisses, the most tender ones, at the corner of your lips. "We'll figure something out." He says with an assertion you didn't expect and don't know the origins of. Yet, you trust him and the lump in your throat decides to leave for now.
Somehow, persuaded that you and your heart are safe with him.
A/N: i can’t believe i finished this fucking monster. i need sleep. i’m sorry if it’s not super well edited, i did the 33 pages in one go and yeah. also it’s been so long since i wrote actual explicit smut, i have no idea how it turned out. 😳 let me know :)
to anyone who’s made it this far, thank you so, so, so much. you have my infinite gratefulness and i sincerely hope you enjoyed it.
i’m off to sleep, i hope you are having a wonderful day. stay safe, lots of lots of love 💜
#ksmutclub#networkbangtan#btswriterscollective#ggukienet#bts fluff#bts smut#jungkook fluff#jungkook smut#jungkook scenario#jungkook fanfic#bts scenario#bts fanfic#my writing#when posting will stop being so scary lmao
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📕 - "Read to my muse" perhaps? (the-old-and-the-hapless)
Orsino’s brows furrowed as he scanned the shelves of the old Skyhold library one more time.
Both he and Alexius had agreed that it was the best place to turn into a proper arcane laboratory and study spot for the needs of the Inquisition, but despite their combined efforts to make the place as welcoming and cozy as possible, still they were the only ones who’d venture into it with delight. Dorian always complained that it was too dreary for his tastes and that it reeked of blood magic, Vivienne looked down upon it for being too cold and humid; even Solas found some excuse to make the rotunda his studying place instead. Orsino was pretty sure that Alexius wouldn’t set foot into that place either if it wasn’t for the fire glyphs they had drewn onto the stone floor -of course neither he or Alexius bothered to inform Vivienne of that development because noone would want her stick her snobby nose into their research-. Or if it wasn’t hosting all the equipment and books he had shipped from his family home in Tevinter, for that matter.
For now, the ex magister layed on a velvet recliner under four blankets, cradling a cup of herbal tea -a dalish cold remedy that Orsino tried to make a bit more palatable for the tevinter’s refined tastes, to little avail as he suspected-. It was only natural that sooner or later the harsh weather would wear upon Alexius’ disposition, which was already burdened by all manners of hardship since he came south -be it his imprisonment, his crossing of the freezing fereldan terrain upon his escape from Haven, his endless hours of resarch and teaching and so on. It certainly wasn’t like Alexius was going to die because of a simple cold, but knowing how stubborn the magister could be, Orsino didn’t want to take any chances either.
However, of all the books there, there were so few to read to a sick person.
Sighing, Orsino retrieved an old dusty tome and returned to Alexius side.
“Forgive me for the poor selection, vhenan. I am afraid our library is lacking in the literature department, although its academic one is oversupplied I’d say. And before you complain, yes, I used to read this to children back in the Gallows; if it benefitted them it will benefit you also.”
He added some more tea to the magister’s cup, opened the book and assumed the grandiloquent tone that bards usually used when reciting their tales.
“The circle's turns that rise and fall, and those of the wheel that now mount high and now plummet to the depths, time's changes that never rest but advance and speed to good and evil, the turmoil of arms, hostilities, suffering, the power of Cupid and the charm of friendship - all these have today moved me to tell the story of what they caused and brought for a maid and a youth who were enmeshed in a pure and blameless love. So whoever has at some time been a slave to passion, let him come and hearken to what is here written...”
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ao3: “sun dappled”
rating: T
warnings: royality
genre: fluff
description: Roman and Patton go on a walk. ( @tsshipmonth2020 prompt: royality)
Butterflies swarm in Roman's stomach as he holds open the door to the Imagination with a grandiloquent flourish, letting a blushing Patton sidle on by. It isn't the first time he's been to the Imagination (or at least, Roman's side). All the other sides have been there at one point or another.
But Roman's been working really hard this time on creating the perfect date ambiance, and he'll only know whether or not he's succeeded when Patton sees it for the first time. As he closes the door and turns back around, he tries to see his creation through Patton's eyes. A sprawling forest marks one edge. Softly rounded, grassy hills extend to the horizon. The sky is a perfect bright blue, studded with wispy puffs of cloud (a sharp contrast to the turbulent grey he can see in his brother's direction. But Remus likes the stormy weather.)
"This way," he says, leading the way down a narrow path he's created just that morning. Patton's warm fingers slip into his, and he feels his cheeks heat up at the tentative brush of Patton's fingers against his hand.
"It's beautiful, Ro," Patton says in awed appreciation. "Every time I come here, I love it more and more!"
"You haven't even seen the best part," Roman says grandly.
"I can't wait!" Patton says. Roman steals a glance at his boyfriend to see Patton's eyes sparkling and his mouth upturned into the brightest smile Roman's ever seen. He has to face forward again to quell the giddy bubbles spilling up his throat.
"Here," Roman says, stopping at the turn off to the magical clearing he's worked so hard on. "It's okay if you don't like it," he hastens to say. "It's just a little old thing, that's all, and-"
"Ro," Patton softly interrupts him, and he stops mid-sentence. "It's important to you, and I'm sure that I'll love it. Show me?" He tilts his head to one side, a wistful smile coming to his face. Roman swallows.
"Right," he says, willing his voice not to shake. "This way."
It's a clearing, surrounded by foliage. The branches overhead criss cross, leaving sunlight to dapple the grass. Varicolored flowers bloom in assorted profusion, while a tiny stream burbles happily to life along the edge. Patton exclaims in surprised delight as Roman tugs him past the last tree.
"Roman, this is gorgeous!" Patton says, turning this way and that, his eyes shining. "I love it."
"Really?" Roman asks. Patton nods, throwing his arms around a surprised Roman and squeezing him tightly.
"Yes," he assures him. "I absolutely love it. It looks like our own little paradise!"
"Well, that was the intention," Roman admits. "I just- You really like it?" Patton nods solemnly.
"I love it, Ro," Patton says. "It's absolutely beautiful. I wish I could never leave."
"Well, I can't promise that," Roman says. "But would you like to spend the rest of the day here? I can conjure up a picnic."
"I'd love that," Patton says. He leans up on tiptoe and kisses Roman's cheek. "Thank you for bringing me here. For creating this. It must have been so much work!"
"Not as much as you'd think," Roman assures him, with a slight laugh. "Thank you. It- well, it means a lot, hearing you say that."
"Of course, Ro," Patton says. Then he drops to his knees by a particularly colorful patch of flowers. "These are so pretty! Can you tell me what they are?"
"Why, yes, I can," Roman says, his nerves dissipating once and for all.
Now all that's left is how much he loves Patton.
tag list: @k9cat @paravigilant-virgil @ancient-fruity @airiervessel @bexxbeauty @yalltookmyurlideas @ambersky0319 @matthindavick @killjoy-3000 @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @littlestliu
#🍬 txt#sanders sides#royality#romantic royality#tsshipmonth2020#roman sanders#patton sanders#fluffuary#roman#patton#sanders sides fic#sanders sides fanfiction#sanders sides fanfic#📚#ok to rb#peach writes
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Before The Last Grain
My first true AU ever! No Avengers at all. I hope you’ll enjoy!
Chapter 1
Time is a strange concept. It's impalpable yet heavily perceptible. It can make a moment linger forever or go by fleetly. It stretches or shrinks. It is mysterious and unfathomable.
Or so, it was.
It all changed fifteen years ago when scientists finally deciphered its secret code. At a time when divorces were skyrocketing in the world, a company came up with an algorithm capable of determining when you were to meet your significant other and encapsulated it in the modest form of a watch.
LOVE IS ONLY A TICK AWAY the slogan read on every TV commercial and banner in the streets and online.
Skepticism gave way to curiosity and hope. And as hard as it was to admit— and still is for some — the Watch had startling results. Every encounter predicted led to a successful relationship. Love blossomed everywhere and never perished. The divorce rate fell significantly across the world and the efficiency of the Watch became indisputable.
The principle is astoundingly simple. The Watch activates around the wrist of the wearer the first time it is worn and sets automatically. When the countdown reaches 0, which means you are standing in front of your soulmate, it beeps (along with theirs) then turns off completely.
Of course, a small, trivial object with such power stirs strong opinions. People began to argue over it — some asked to make it illegal and have it banned. The initiative was strongly supported by the main Churches, but not only. Over time, — after the heated debate wore off—, you could pretty much find three categories of people. The overwhelming majority — who wore the Watch and waited expectantly waited for the last tick; the minority — those who'd refused to buy or activate it altogether; and those who knew, but vehemently tried to fight against fate...at their own scale.
Now, whether people live by or abhor it, the Watch has become a trivial object omnipresent in your everyday life. Like a phone or tablet.
The many people currently bustling in the small Manhattan coffee shop are walking past, waiting in line for their orders with a Watch around their wrist. Or not. It's something you don't dwell on.
Natasha Romanoff is sipping coffee at her usual table by the window, right next to the tall plant. She looks up from the book she's reading and notices a man is staring at her from the sugar counter across the room. She dismisses it and goes on to take another sip before resuming her reading. Her cup is nearly empty when a tall, broad figure comes to stand above her.
"Excuse me," a male voice calls. She takes her eyes off of the page and looks up. It is the same man from earlier. He's holding his cup and has a notebook clutched under his arm.
His blue eyes stare into hers with an unexpected combination of boldness and bashfulness.
"I couldn't help admiring you from across the room and, as I was about to leave, I thought I had to take a chance and come and speak to you."
She raises her eyebrow. His advances certainly are flattering. And she'll admit, he is strikingly handsome. His sharp, square jaw, his full lips, and the golden hair, without mentioning his incredible athletic figure — the man has it all.
"May I?" he asks, pointing at the chair across from her.
She nods. He smiles and sits down. He puts down on the table what she realizes is a leather sketchbook, creased in the middle for often being folded with the corners worn out. He attentively watches her.
“You come here a lot?” he asks.
“Probably more than I should,” she says with a smirk. “You?”
“First time, actually. And I’m glad I did.”
The smirk tugging at his lips is compelling. Almost irresistible.
“Yeah. Their lattes sure are the best,” she chimes in. Her humor makes him smile.
They chat, mostly banter in the most natural and familiar way until he finally asks:
“Can I give you my number? See how things could develop…”
She eyes him without a word.
“They wouldn’t develop much unless you are…,” she trails off as she pulls up her sleeve, “3 months, 5 days and 37 minutes early.”
He brushes his thumb over his bottom lip with a slightly stern expression. He takes a breath in and leans back on the chair. His eyes dive into hers, unwavering.
“You didn’t come off as the type to wear the Watch,” he says. He doesn’t sound disappointed or judging. Maybe the contrary intrigued and willing to tackle that unexpected challenge.
“I like to keep people on their toes.”
“3 months, huh? That’s quite close,” he comments.
She smiles unabashedly. He nods to himself.
“I’ll admit I didn’t see this hold-up coming but I’m a good judge of character.”
“And?” she cocks an eyebrow.
He extends his forearms on the table and leans over, creating an unsettling kind of intimacy.
“You’re not the type to let an algorithm take control of your life.”
His bold statement and the quiet confidence he displays draw her in. She smiles and glances away quietly.
“Or maybe I believe in destiny.” A short, contemplative silence follows.
He quickly looks at the clock on the wall across.
“Time seems to be against us today. But I’m pretty stubborn. What’s your name?” he asks, casually.
“Natasha.”
It makes him smile. “Let’s make a deal, Natasha,” he purrs her name like hot and sweet liquor. “If we meet again, you’ll owe me a date. It’ll be my honor to ask you out again.”
“Why would I make such a deal?” she questions daringly.
“Because if we meet again we can definitely agree it was meant to be, right?”
The corner of his mouth curls up. He takes his sketchbook, folds it under his arm then gets up. As he walks away, she calls out.
“If I choose to honor this deal, I should at least know your name.”
His large shoulders spin around. He smiles triumphantly.
“Steve Rogers.”
That evening Natasha Romanoff comes home from work and smiles as she finds herself almost wishing to meet that stranger in the coffee shop again.
_____________________________
2 MONTHS, 30 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 12 MINUTES AND 33 SECONDS
And indeed, they do. It happens very randomly about a week later. Natasha is chatting alongside her colleague and friend Maria Hill at a fancy but relaxed banquet party they have been invited to when she sees him, watching her from across the room. He is standing with a group of people who are laughing loudly, totally oblivious of the scene that seems to unfold in slow motion.
He is wearing an elegant black shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms with a pair of black trousers. It strikingly contrasts with his light hair and turquoise blue eyes. He is a guest, too, but he has the attention of half the females in the audience without even trying. But he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on her with a satisfying smirk playing on his lips.
He lets the moment linger as a way to savor his victory. And oddly perhaps, she is too. Maybe she likes the thrill of this adventurous curve in the straight and steady path lying ahead of her.
She whispers a couple of words into Maria’s ear, apologizes to her company and goes out on the large terrace looking over Manhattan and its skyline. It only takes a few seconds before she hears him approach.
“Quite a lovely evening, isn’t it?” he says after standing by the guardrail.
“And full of surprises,” she finishes with a smile.
She turns to face him. “Ok, what’s your secret? How’d you know you’d find me here?”
He leans an elbow on the rail and turns towards her, too.
“I didn’t. I’m pleasantly surprised too, to be honest.”
She snorts and shakes her head, then gazes at the floodlit landscape in front of them.
“So how come you were invited? Who are you friends with?”
He points at the exuberant man giving a grandiloquent speech to his assembly.
“I’m Tony Stark’s lawyer.”
She nods to herself. “I guess that explains the whole ‘good judge of character’ talk.”
“Becoming his lawyer may not have been my brightest moment,” he jokes. “And you?”
“I’m a pianist. Stark has been funding many of my concerts across the city.”
“You must be very good at it, then. Tony doesn’t choose to be someone’s patron lightly.”
She smiles silently. She can feel his expectant gaze upon her.
“So…Natasha, will you have dinner with me? And who knows? I might even surprise you.”
His boyish smile forces a giggle out of her. She reaches over to take the flute of champagne in his hand and takes a sip.
“Maybe you already have,” she murmurs.
_______________________________
The date was agreed on for the following Friday in a busy street in Brooklyn. She finds him standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. He is wearing a dark brown leather jacket. She has put on a pair of blue high-waist jeans with a silky maroon cropped top with a jacket. Her hair is up in a bun.
He flashes a wide when he sees her coming up.
“You look stupendous,” he says. For a pair of jeans and a jacket?
“That’s…quite an enthusiastic response.”
He chuckles. “You’ll understand later.”
“So where are we going?” she asks.
“I know a local Italian around the corner. It’s been open for as far as I can remember.”
They make their way there. The interior is as modest as the outside façade. It surprises her — not a common choice for a Wall Street lawyer. He’s not trying to dazzle her and she likes it.
“Steve!” a man calls loudly in a thick Italian accent. He warmly shakes his hand and taps his shoulder then turns to greet Natasha with the same friendly enthusiasm. “Welcome to Giovanni’s, darling. I have kept the best table for you.”
They go and sit and Giovanni lights up the half-used candle.
“They serve the best lasagna. I know, I’ve tried at other places.”
Giovanni casts him the glare. Steve gulps. “Not that many.”
The wine is exquisite in an authentic type of way. There is nothing glittery or arrogant at Giovanni’s but it’s charming all the same. She can see why he’s chosen this place for their first date.
"Of course we could only meet again, and in these circumstances. This is Tony Stark's world and we all live in it," she remarks and they both laugh.
The conversation eventually shifts to the Watch.
“What’s your story? Why aren’t you wearing one?”
“Why should I?” he laughs. “Half my family is obsessed with it and I’m not sure they are any happier.”
“So your family doesn’t share your views?”
“The day my parents got theirs it struck the end of their marriage. My father was never truly involved anyways; it simply gave him an excuse to leave us. My mom’s Watch beeped eventually and she re-married. He’s a nice guy; his wife had passed many years before. They’re doing well. His son — my step-brother — who’s about my age, has patiently been waiting for his Watch to beep.”
“And what’s so wrong about it?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “Call me old-fashioned or stubborn, but I like the idea that I have chosen the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“Some people need a little help, sometimes. It is scary to fall in love.”
“It’s always been. I’m not scared to have my heart broken so long as I allowed it to work.”
She eyes him from behind her glass of red wine.
“You think people don’t fall in love nowadays?”
He stares into her emerald eyes. “I think they forget to be spontaneous.”
They’re words she hasn’t heard in years and that bring back fond nostalgia.
“Spontaneous?” she trails off as she plays with the spoon of her dessert. “Show me.”
He cracks a smile.
He lays bills on the table and gets up, flaunts his leather jacket over his shoulder then stretches a hand out to her. “I was hoping you would ask.”
She looks up at him with inquisitive but beguiled eyes then glances down at his hand. She gently slips her fingers onto his palm.
A couple of minutes later, they are walking along the street. He halts and looks at her.
“Why are we stopping?” she asks.
He smiles. “Our ride is here.”
She stares in disbelief at the big motorcycle parked behind him. She chuckles.
“You’re the first lawyer I meet who rides one of these!”
“I guess I like to keep people on their toes,” he echoes her words, earning a smirk from her, then leans over to get the helmet. He steps in front of her and gently lays it on her head. He then fastens the clip.
He teasingly pokes the tip of her nose with his finger. “It looks cute on you.”
He puts his helmet on and straddles the motorcycle. She watches with an agape mouth — what a sight!
“When you’re ready,” he says kindly.
Her heartbeat quickens. The exhilaration is slowly surging up her body. It feels like old times again. She smiles and gives an encouraging nod to herself before getting on. Her hands gently slip around his waist.
The engine roars fiercely. It sends shivers down her spine. Steve pulls back slowly then engages on the road. As they enter the freeway, his hand swiftly pulls around the handle, launching the bike forward. Her fingers grasp the fabric of his shirt. They soon get away from the bustling city and the light turns dim as they dive into the night. Steve drives fast along the deserted roads lined with trees. She slowly looks up and catches sight of the thousand stars glowing in the sky. It seems like ages since she last saw them.
The mild air sweeps across her face and she breathes in the scent of humid grass and leaves. She loosens her grip and bends backward, taking in the view, enjoying the moment. She lets out a joyful and carefree squeal whose echo dies down in the distance. He smiles from where he is sitting.
Thirty minutes, he pulls over on the side of a quiet rural road. They are both leaning on the bike, gazing at the splendorous untouched nature in front of them.
She taps her finger on the screen of her Watch.
“My father bought it for me when it came out. I’d just turned 18. He had great hopes for me which involved being in a happy marriage and having children. But I wasn’t ready for any of it. I was…,” she smiles blankly, “rebellious. Hardly contented with anything. I took his gift as a leash so I protested. Commitment meant little to me. I’d date around for the sake of proving I could. Then I met this guy, a singer, he offered me my ticket out. I went with him on a tour around Europe. It was fun, and I felt free. Alive.” She pauses and takes a deep breath in. “My father had a heart attack. He died alone and it took days before someone even realized and found him. It took even longer before I came back and claimed his body. After that, I saw why family was important. And I put the Watch on.”
She turns to look at him with watery eyes and shrugs slightly as she sniffs and forces a smile. “Never took it off once ever since.”
Steve is watching her quietly. She notices his eyes are slightly gleaming too under the moonlight. “I’m sorry,” he says.
She shakes her head. “It’s ok. It was years ago. Anyways, when I came back I settled down and resumed my studies. I started a new life and it hasn’t been an unhappy one so far.”
The corner of his mouth goes up slightly. “Has it been a happy, fulfilling one, though?”
She runs her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know. It’s been so long. But it feels safe.”
“I get it. I really do.”
They look at each other without a word. She bites her bottom lip and shuts her eyelids. Her mind runs through a thousand thoughts, once of which is far more obsessive than the others and she can no longer pretend to ignore. Looking back at him staring at her with such candor and yearning, she feels the pull to lean in.
She makes a resolute nod and stands on her feet. She turns to face him.
“If we’re doing this,” she begins, “we can’t get attached. We’re just being spontaneous and going along with it…for the time it lasts.”
Still sitting on the bike, he looks at her with meek, but lustful, eyes. He looks down and shakes his head, snorting.
“Natasha. I like you,” he admits. “I like you. I think part of me will always want more but I can’t risk losing it all for being too greedy. We’ll go with your terms.”
She smiles. “Great,” she says and holds her hand up to make it an official shake.
He laughs softly. He swiftly puts a hand to her waist and pulls her to him, crushing his lips against hers, sealing the deal with a kiss.
2 MONTHS, 28 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 41 MINUTES AND 7 SECONDS
#romanogers#Steve Rogers#Natasha Romanoff#stevenat#fanfic#writing#Before The last Grain#inneedofinspiration#capwidow#captasha#AU
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My Five Most Influential
Someone asked:
Who are the most influential writers in your life?
Good question.
The broad answer is that one gets influenced many different ways by many different sources. I enjoy poetry and song lyrics because they find ways of conveying the strongest emotional content in the most concise manner, music brings a sense of dramatic rhythm and fulfillment, the visual arts suggest ways of subtly adding many insights to a single strong idea, etc., etc., and of course, etc. (and that is also an example of a creative influence in my work).
But…to boil it down to those whom I most consciously made an effort to emulate, we find ourselves facing five creators that primed the pump.
This is not to say others whom I began following after them didn’t wield a lot of influence (thanx, Ernie, Bert, Jack, Bob, and Hank!) but these are the foundation of everything I’ve done in my career.
(And to those who notice a lack of diversity, I know, I know…but to be honest I have to acknowledge the truth, and the truth is for whatever reason, by chance or by choice, by fate or by fortune, these five dominated my sensibilities. I trust that I’ve grown and expanded my horizons since then, but they’re the hand I got dealt.)
. . .
Carl Barks
I loved ducks as a kid and my grandmother and aunt would always bring me a passel of duck-related comics when they came to visit.
There were some Daffy Duck comics mixed in there but while I know I looked at and enjoyed them, none of them stick in my mind like the Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge stories of Carl Barks.
Typically my grandmother would read these comics to me and I’d imprint the dialog and captions in my brain, replaying them as I looked at the pictures over and over again.
Barks never wrote down to his audience, and his stories covered a vast array of genres, everything from straight domestic comedy to oddball adventures to screwy crime stories.
Donald and his nephews encountered dinosaurs more than once (another big favorite of mine), and Uncle Scrooge setting out to explore the asteroid belt in order to find a new home for his fabulous money bin was another tale I loved literally to pieces, but A Christmas For Shacktown remains my all time favorite graphic novel.
I’ll concede there are better graphic novels, but none of them warm my heart the way that Christmas story does.
Barks showed it’s possible to combine heart (not to be confused with sentimentality or =yuch!= schmaltz), vivid characters, and strong, intricate narrative. His plots where typically filled with unexpected twists and turns but his characters were always deeply involved in them, not just along for the ride.
He’s one of the greatest storytellers in the 20th century, and his work remains timeless enough to last for several centuries to come.
. . .
Ray Bradbury
The first Ray Bradbury story I remember encountering was “Switch On The Night” in its 1955 edition, read to my kindergarten class towards the end of the school year.
This would place the event sometime in the spring of 1959.
“Switch On The Night” captivated me because it was the first story I’d ever heard that showed what could be seen in the dark that couldn’t be seen in the day.
Even as a child, it made me realize the night wasn’t scary, but contained wonders and insights we miss in the harsh glare of day.
I don’t recall if the kindergarten teacher told us the name of the author, and if she did it didn’t stick, but boy howdy, the story sure did! Did it open the doors of the night for me, or was I already inclined to be a night person and it simply confirmed that as a valid identity?
I dunno, but I’m typing this right now at 12:24am.
And the thoughts Bradbury planted in little Buzzy boy’s brain stayed and grew and flowered, as you can read in my poem, “The Magic Hours Of The Night”.
The next time I encountered Ray Bradbury’s writing was in grammar school, certainly no later than junior high. I was already interested in science fiction by that point, and had read “The Pedestrian” in one of my school English books (we weren’t taught the story in class; the teacher skipped over it for whatever reason but I read it anyway then re-read it and read it again and again).
Anthony Boucher’s ubiquitous 2-volume A Treasury Of Great Science Fiction was in my grammar school library and in it was Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” (which I would later learn was one of his alternate Martian Chronicles and a crossover with Fahrenheit 451) and in that story he offered up a veritable laundry list of outré and outlandish fiction to be tracked down and read, authors to dig up and devour.
Oh, man, I was hooked.
So of course I began looking for all the stories and writers Bradbury listed in his short story but I also began looking for Bradbury’s own work and before you could say, “Mom, can I get a subscription to the Science Fiction Book Club?” I’d read The Golden Apples Of The Sun and A Medicine For Melancholy and R is For Rocket never once dreaming that at some point in the future the roadmap Ray plopped down in my lap would eventually lead to us being co-workers (separate projects, but the same studio at the same time) and friends.
There is a beautiful yet deceptive simplicity to Ray’s work, and even though he wrote his own book on writing (The Zen Of Writing) that has lots of good insights and professional tricks & tips, he himself wasn’t able to explain how he did it.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a good Ray Bradbury parody.
I’ve seen parodies that clearly are intended to evoke Ray Bradbury, but only in the same way a clumsy older relative might evoke Michael Jackson with a spasmodic movement one vaguely recognizes as a failed attempt at a moonwalk.
But, lordie, don’t think we didn’t try to emulate him, and while none of us fanboys ever came close, I think a lot of us did learn that less is more, that the right word carries more impact than a dozen paragraphs, and that there’s magic in even the most ordinary of things.
And of course I discovered the film and TV adaptations of his work, and in discovering them I also discovered that there are some things that just can’t be translated from one media to another, and that the light, effortless appeal of Ray’s work on the page (paper or pixel) can at best be recaptured with a good audio book reader but even the best dramatic adaptions -- even those by Ray himself -- are cold dead iron butterflies compared to the light and lively creatures flying about.
So eventually I stopped trying to write like him, and instead picked up the valuable lessons of mood and emotion making an impact on a story even if the plot didn’t make much logical sense.
Decades later I would become a fan of opera, and would learn the philosophy of all opera lovers: Opera doesn’t have to make logical sense, it just has to make emotional sense.
Ray Bradbury, opera meister.
. . .
H.P. Lovecraft
As noted above, Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” tipped me to numerous other writers, first and foremost of which turned out to be Howard Phillips Lovecraft.
Okay, before we get any further into this, let’s acknowledge the woolly mammoth in the room: H.P. Lovecraft was a colossal asshat racist.
He was a lot of other terrible things, too, but racist is far and ahead of the rest of the pack.
It’s a disillusioning thing to find people one admired as a youngster or a teen later prove to have not just quirks and eccentricities and personal flaws, but genuinely destructive, harmful, and offensive characters.
I’ve posted on that before, too.
How I wish it were possible to retroactively scale back that hurtfulness, to make them more empathetic, less egregiously offensive (in the military sense of the word), but that ain’t so.
We have to acknowledge evil when we see it, and we have to call it out, and we have to shun it.
Which is hard when one of its practitioners provides a major influence in our creative lives.
Here’s what I liked about Lovecraft as a kid: He was the complete opposite of Ray Bradbury.
Bradbury’s instinctive genius was in finding the right word, the simple word that conveyed great impact on the story, drawing the reader into the most fantastic situations by making them seem more familiar on a visceral level.
Lovecraft achieved the exact opposite effect by finding the most arcane, bedizened, baroque, florid, grandiloquent, overwrought, rococo verbiage possible and slapping the reader repeatedly in the face with it.
If Bradbury made the unreal real, Lovecraft made the weird even more weirder.
And let’s give this devil his due: The Strange Case Of Charles Dexter Ward and The Dunwich Horror are two masterpieces of horror and serve as the bridge between Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King, not to mention his creation of Cthulhu and other ancient entities existing beyond the ken of human knowledge…
…oh, wait, that’s where the story simultaneously gets messy yet provides a convenient escape hatch for fans.
While Lovecraft created Cthulhu, he did not create the Cthulhu Mythos.
That was primarily the invention August Derleth, a writer / editor / agent and H.P. Lovecraft’s #1 fanboy.
Lovecraft had some loosely related ideas in his stories and several themes he revisited repeatedly (in addition to racism).
He also had a circle of fellow writers -- including such heavy hitters as Robert “Psycho” Bloch and Robert E. “Conan” Howard -- who picked up on his ideas and, as way of a tribute, incorporated them in some of their stories.
Derleth took all this and Lovecraft’s unfinished manuscripts and short ideas he jotted down and turned it into a whole post-mortem industry, linking all of Lovecraft and other writers’ tales.
And he did a damn fine job of it, too.
So much so that the Cthulhu Mythos has taken on a life of its own, and pretty much anybody can play in that cosmic sandbox now (including Big Steve King and a ton of Japanese anime) and so Lovecraft’s works have an enormous influence on pop culture…
,,,but Howard hizzowndamsef can be -- and is -- cancelled.
Derleth and various biographers downplayed Lovecraft’s virulent racism for decades, and I don’t think Ray Bradbury was ever aware of the scope and tenor of Lovecraft’s bigotry when he name checked him in “Pillar Of Fire” and other stories.
In a similar vein Bradbury didn’t know -- because thanks again to overly protective literary executors, nobody knew -- just how big a racist asshat Walt Whitman was, either. It is one thing to call shenanigans on a Bill Cosby or a Harvey Weinstein or a Donald Trump because their egregious behaviors were noted long before they were held accountable, but quite another to do so on a creator who died while hiding their most awful behavior from thousands if not millions of fans who felt inspired and uplifted by their work.
It’s one thing to call out a contemporary bigot and not support them by not buying their work, it’s quite another when their bigotry has been shielded from view and fair minded, decent people have used their work to draw inspiration into their own creativity.
Of course, I had no way of knowing all this when I was in junior high and seriously began tracking down Lovecraft’s work.
He possessed a flair of the horrific and unearthly that to this day is hard to match (but easier to parody). He was a tremendous influence on my early writing (truth be told, I zigzagged between Bradbury’s stark simplicity and Lovecraft’s overarching verbosity, giving my early oeuvre a rather schizophrenic style) and the ideas he sparked still reverberate to this day.
If only he hadn’t been such a giant %#@&ing asshat racist …
. . .
Harlan Ellison
In a way, I’m glad neither Harlan nor his widow Susan are alive to read this.
I cherished Harlan as a friend and greatly admired his qualities as a writer.
But damn, by his own admission he should have been thrown in prison for aggravated assault on numerous occasions (he was courts martialed three times while in the Army).
We’re not talking about arguments that spiraled out of control until a few wild punches were thrown, we’re talking about Harlan by his own admission stalking and ambushing people, knocking them unconscious or causing grievous bodily harm.
We’re talking about sexual abuse and humiliation.
We’re talking about incidents he admitted to which if true put people in life threatening situations.
And yet ironically, in a certain sense Harlan (a bona fide Army Ranger, BTW) was like the U.S. Marine Corps: You’d never have a greater friend or a worse enemy.
I became dimly aware of Harlan in the late 1960s as I started diving deeper into literary sci-fi, transitioning from monster kid fandom to digests and paperbacks. Harlan first caught my attention with his macho prose (years later a similar style also drew me to Charles Bukowski) in stories like “Along the Scenic Route” (a.k.a. “Dogfight on 101”) in which Los Angelinos engaged in Mad Max motor mayhem but soon it became apparent the macho posturing was just a patina, that the heart and soul of much of the work reflected great sensitivity and often profound melancholy (ditto Bukowski).
Harlan was a fighter, and again by his own admission, he acknowledged in his later years that he was not a fighter because his cause was just, but rather sought out just causes because he knew he would be fighting regardless of his position, yet possessed a strong enough moral compass to point himself in the direction of a worthy enemy…
…most of the time.
He hurt and offended a large number of innocent and some not-so-innocent-but-certainly-not-evil people.
He also helped and encouraged a large number of others, people who had no idea who he was, people who had no way of adequately reciprocating his kindness and generosity.
He defended a lot of defenseless people.
He also mistakenly defended a lot of terrible people.
If someone tells me Harlan was a monster, I’ll agree: Monstre sacré.
What made his writing sacred was that no matter how outlandish the situation, Harlan dredged up from the depths emotions so strong as to be frightening in their depiction.
Skilled enough not to lose sight of humanity, outlandish enough to conjure up ideas and emotions most people would shy away from, Harlan hit adolescent Buzzy boy like an incendiary grenade.
Unlike my first three literary influences, Harlan was and remained active in the fannish circles where I was circulating at the time. He regularly wrote letters and columns for various fanzines, including a few I subscribed to.
In a literary sense he stood, naked and unashamed, in full view of the world, and that willingness to go beyond mundane sensibilities is what made his work so compelling.
He certainly fired me up as an adolescent writer, and proved an amalgam of Bradbury and Lovecraft that got my creative juices flowing in a coherent direction.
I don’t think I ever consciously tried to imitate him in my writing, but I sure learned from him, both in how to charge a story with emotion and how to fight for what’s right regardless of the blow back.
I loved him as a friend.
But, damn, Harlan…you could act so ugly...
. . .
H. Allen Smith
Who?
Most of you have never heard of H. Allen Smith, and that’s a damn shame.
I’d never heard of him either until I stumbled across a coverless remaindered copy of Poor H. Allen Smith’s Almanac in a Dollar General Store bin in Tennessee in the late 1960s (it was a memorable shopping expedition: I also purchased Thomas Heggen’s Mister Roberts and Let’s Kill Uncle by Rohan O'Grady [pen name of June Margaret O'Grady Skinner]).
Reading Smith’s editorial comments (in addition to his own essays and fiction he edited numerous humor anthologies) I realized I’d found a kindred soul.
Smith had a very conversational tone as a writer; his prose seemed off the cuff and unstructured, but he slyly used that style to hide the very peculiar (and often perverse) path he led readers down.
He sounded / read like a garrulous guy at the bar, one with a huge number of charming, witty (and delightfully inebriated) friends in addition to his own bottomless well of tall tales, pointed observations, and rude jokes.
Of all the writers mentioned above, that style is the one I most consciously tried to emulate, and one I seem to have been able to find my own voice in (several people have told me I write the same way I talk, a rarity among writers).
Smith was hilarious whether wearing an editor’s visor or a freelancer’s fool’s cap. If you know who H. L. Mencken was, think of Smith as a benign, better tempered version of that infamous curmudgeon (and if you don’t know, hie thee hence to Google and find out).
Compared to my other four influences, Smith didn’t need to add the fantastic to his fiction: The real world was weird and wacky and whimsical enough.
A newspaper man turned best selling author, Smith became among the most popular humorists of the 1940s-50s-60s…
…and then he died and everybody forgot him.
Part of the reason they forgot is that he wrote about things that no longer seem relevant (TV cowboys of the early television era, f’r instance, in Mr. Zip) or are today looked upon askance (and with justifiable reason; the ethnic humor in many of his anthologies may not have been intended as mean spirited, but it sure doesn’t read as a celebration of other cultures, viz his succinct account of an argument following a traffic accident between two native Honolulu cabbies rendered in pidgin: “Wassamatta you?” “’Wassmatta me’?!?!? Wassamatta you ‘Wassamatta me’? You wassamatta!”).
I’m sure I picked up a great many faults from Smith, but Smith also had the virtue of being willing and able to learn and to make an effort to be a better person today than he was yesterday, and better still tomorrow.
I’ve certainly tried applying that to my life.
Smith’s style was also invoked -- consciously or not -- by other writers and editors, notably Richard E. Geis, the editor of the legendary sci-fi semi-prozone, Science Fiction Review (among other titles). Smith died before I could meet him, but while I never met Dick Geis face to face we were pen pals for over 40 years.
Geis certainly sharpened specific aspects of my writing style, but the real underlying structure came from H. Allen Smith.
Smith’s work is hard to find today (in no small part because whenever I encounter one in the wild I snap it up) but I urge you to give him a try.
Just brace yourself for things we might consider incorrect today.
. . .
So there’s my top five.
With the exception of Carl Barks and Ray Bradbury, none of them are without serious flaw or blemish (though Smith seems like a decent enough sort despite his fondness for X-rated and ethnic humor).
In my defense as an impressionable child / teen, I was not aware of these flaws and blemishes when I first encountered their writing (primarily because in many cases efforts were made to hide or downplay those aspects).
The positive things I gleaned from them are not negated by the negative personal information that came out later.
I can, for the most part re the more problematic of them, appreciate their work while not endorsing their behavior.
Ellison can only be described in extremes, but his fire and passion -- when directed in a positive direction -- served as a torch to light new paths (his two original anthologies, Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions, pretty much blew the doors off old school sci-fi and belatedly dragged the genre kicking and screaming into the 20th century).
Lovecraft I can effectively ignore while finding entertainment value in the Cthulhu Mythos.
But I must acknowledge this isn’t the same for everyone.
For example, as innocuous as I find H. Allen Smith, if a woman or a member of a minority group said, “I found this in particular to be offensive” I’d probably have to say, yeah, you’re right.
But I can still admire the way he did it, even if I can no longer fully support what he did.
. . .
By the time I reached high school, I’d acquired enough savvy to regard to literary finds a bit more dispassionately, appreciating what they did without trying to literally absorb it into my own writing.
I discovered for myself the Beat generation of writers and poets, the underground cartoonists of the late 60s and 70s, Ken Kesey, Joseph Heller, Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. LeGuin, and a host of others, some already alluded to.
Some, such as the Beats and Bukowski, I could enjoy for their warts and all honest self-reflection.
Yes, they were terrible people, but they knew they were terrible people, and they also knew there had to be something better, and while they may never have found the nirvana they sought, they at least sent back accurate reports of where they were in their journeys of exploration.
By my late teens, I’d become aware enough of human foibles and weaknesses -- every human’s foibles and weaknesses, including my own -- to be very, very cautious in regarding an individual as admirable.
While I will never accept creativity as an excuse for bad behavior, if a creator is honest enough and self-introspective enough to recognize and acknowledge their own failings, it goes a long way towards my being willing to enjoy their work without feeling I’m endorsing them as individuals.
It’s not my place to pass judgment or exoneration on others bad behavior.
It is my place to see that I don’t emulate others’ bad behavior.
Every creator is connected to their art, even if it’s by-the-numbers for-hire hack work.
Every creator puts something of themselves into the final product.
And every member of the audience must decide for themselves if that renders the final product too toxic to be enjoyed.
© Buzz Dixon
#how this writer's mind works#writing#Carl Barks#Ray Bradbury#HP Lovecraft#Harlan Ellison#H Allen Smith#influences
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G. MacKay x reader / Fluff
Inspired by "Freak in me" sung by Mild Orange. Different timelines attached to this and overall FLUFFY as in VERY FLUFFY. Light cursing. I figured I might as well write the one inspired by Birdy ft. Rhodes that I mentioned earlier.
January 2020
Y/N was a friend of Dean-Charles Chapman for the longest time since they had attended the same primary school. She had decided to change her habits by going out for once as did George. That in itself should have raised doubts about the chance that there was a star up there helping the two of them. They had known enough about love to be careful about it. Misfortune seemed to be printed on their skin by now. Surprisingly, they did not give up on it though. Which turned out pretty well.
"Hey, you made it!", Dean greeted Y/N with a pint in his hand.
"The chance of seeing you getting hammered, come on, I would not have missed it for the world! And it's been ages anyway"
Dean nodded as he gave George a small hug before introducing him to his long-time friend. It was in the very first seconds his eyes crossed Y/N's that he knew she would change his life, whether for good or for bad. He was willing to find out. She had only rarely gotten this feeling that her life could take a hard left, being a game-changer permanently. Of course, she had felt that pulse beating under her skin seeing her friend and his co-star in 1917 but now was different. In a very good way. Dean had probably seen this coming, probably even set up the whole thing as he was perfectly able to. Y/N for once paid no heed for what the next day could bring. She was to celebrate as if it was the last night.
Once again, a sign came in the way as "Freak in me" started resonating in the bar. For days it was the only song Y/N could listen to (or more like, the only song she would willingly listen to on repeat) and now she had a chance to actually dance on it without looking like a maniac in her living-room. After all, Y/N was a hopeless romantic and an indie band would make no exception to it. For a couple of hours before that George and her had talked whereas Dean was getting closer with a waitress. It was all naturally that the actor had an epiphany by gazing at Y/N's angelic features were prancing about with more and more energy to it. He had to make a move.
Lately, I think of you lots
'Cause my mind's in circles for you
Please connect the dots
"Would you consider dancing with me?", he innocently asked looking straight into her eyes with all the confidence he could pull.
Y/N looked around at the unshaken crowd glued to the counter. That bar was not famous for being a popular dance hall. Suddenly, self-consciousness kicked in. Her brain could only process questions starting by "What if?" or "What will people think?". Y/N did not even know how to dance and would most probably make a fool out of her, she thought.
"Trust me on that one?", George kindly muttered. Fuck it. What ifs never lead anywhere and that song was way too good not to be danced on. Y/N applied to George's suggestion with a huge smile on her face.
For a moment of bliss, time had stopped. It was just him and her against the rest of the world. Fire and water could get in the way, their bodies close to one another was all that mattered. George went full on with a courtship ritual that he had no power over. It was as if his body lived independantly from his free will, like a magnet, it could not stay too long far from Y/N's.
And bring me, bring me to you
'Cause you bring out the freak in me
It's only for you
Just you
The parting was as inexorable as violent. Another song soon replaced what they just had experimented as a holy experience, like dying only to knock on Heaven's doors. It was difficult to get back to a proper conversation right after but then again, hours with such a company appeared like seconds to George.
June 2020
George and Y/N had quickly moved in together. Ever since their odd encounter, there was not a single day without them dancing on the song that had made them fall for one another. When George was away, he would call Y/N to sing it to her, whether as she would be on her way to sleep or she had just awoken. Although they had not actually shared their feelings, it was getting obvious that it was more than just another rebound relationship. Their family and friends were the collateral damages of this blooming love as any moment was a good occasion to show the world just how much they cared for each other.
So kiss me
There's something in the air
And whether it's love or lust
Should we care?
In spite of George being prone to grandiloquent acts to show his feelings as he could easily get bashful and needed the whole package not to chicken out, him confessing his love for his beautiful girlfriend came to him as naturally as when he had asked her to dance with him.
Y/N and him had been teasing one another for minutes when Y/N was out of the blue having George right under her body. It would often happen that Y/N and George just teased themselves until arousal would take over. But the angle George was now facing ignited a new feeling. Was it the moon in the sky, was it his thoughts wandering in his brain, he grabbed Y/N by her hand that was carelessly laying on his chest.
"Do you remember when we talked about love a few weeks back?", George seriously stated. Y/N was now all ears. Of course she remembered. She also remembered that she had felt stupid right after for not taking the chance to confess her love.
"Well, I've been thinking about it again lately and love to me is just what I feel every morning when I realize a star struck me by allowing me to wake up besides you. Love is what makes me wonder why on Earth you chose me out of all men and just to enjoy every minute. Love is going to bed at night with you on my mind and what the next day could bring us"
Y/N could now swore her heart was being rejected by her body. Cause of death: an abnormal heart rate increase. She could not express it any different way than by kissing George. Which she religiously proceeded to.
"I love you too, George", she whispered in between two kisses.
December 2020
Well, it was to happen someday. George and Y/N were soulmates despite the fact that they actually banished that kind of vocabulary. But sometimes, stars shine too bright. Or the planets are simply not aligned. They barely argued and in nearly a year, it had never damaged their relationship. Except for this one time.
It was a silly question of schedules. George had forgotten to show up at a date they had planned and when Y/N would most of the time feel no resent, she did not feel like it this time. Things had gone so messy that for the first time since they shared beds, George had found shelter on the couch. He knew he had fucked up but at the same time could not get his mind to make amends. In fact, it had been a whole terrible week during they could simply not find common grounds. That night was just the apex of a hill they had been climbing up all week.
Both of them could not find sleep as anger was inevitably taking over them.
As minutes became hours, George decided to call for some truce. Besides, he could not bear to know that Y/N would be mad at him when it was possibly the very last thing he wanted. He thought that Y/N would be asleep when he came near the threshold leading to their bedroom. He just had to make sure she was doing fine. Not only was he quite surprised to see that Y/N was awake but if he was even more assured that he was doing the right thing.
'Cause you bring out the freak in me
It's only for you
Just you'
Cause you, you bring out the freak in me
A side that only you could see
his phone sang the lyrics to their song when he knew he would fail talking for now. He then sat on the edge of the bed and talked the two last lines through, before apologizing.
"You're an arse, George"
"I know"
"But man, do I love you"
"Yeah, I know that too"
June 2026
The house was suspiciously still when Y/N came back from work. It had not been this quiet for quite a long time so it could only lead to further investigation. Little did she know that a gathering was going on in the other side of the house.
"Dancing on that song, aren't you?", she heard George who was now her husband say through the door. "Do you know that's how mom and dad met?"
His husband only had eyes for the tiny human being that was painfully standing on his two feet so it was fairly easy for Y/N to get in without being detected. Their son was trying his best to dance on his own to one very familiar song but for the moment had to rely on his father's help to do so. He was awkwardly moving on his father's feet who occasionally lifted him in the air.
After a few seconds, babblings from their son replaced George's voice singing the lyrics as the baby was now pointing at his mother. George turned around as he took his child in his arms. Making his way towards the woman of his dreams and the mother of his son, he kept on singing:
Lately, I think of you lots'
Cause my mind's in circles for you
Please connect the dots
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Please help me find a scent! When I enter a room, I want people to acknowledge my existence. I want to demand their attention, but they can't approach me. No! I want people to automatically realize that they can't play me. No time for nonsense. Serious business only. I'm in charge. I want to be intimidating and mysterious. Which perfume should I get?
So... something potent, sensual, with monstrous projection, unsweetened, but thorny, a little cold perhaps..?. In one word: tantalising.
As a matter of fact, we could go in a lot of directions, depending on your own version of ‘intimidating’ and ‘mysterious’ alone. Or your co-workers’ take on the subject, since some people are likely to feel intimidated in the presence of a powerful green floral, or any spice whatsoever now I come to think of it. As for the approachability factor, the ultra-chic grandiloquence of Rouge Hermès has been known to traumatise its fair share of opponents. Yet, I don’t suppose you’re after something quite so, er, ‘sultry dowager’. Ahem.
Never have I met a perfume so evocative as Grimoire, or so strange. One of Anatole Lebreton’s very best, it resembles nothing you could smell anywhere else, unless you could transport yourself under the robes of a young monk daydreaming over his illuminated manuscript as the window open on the herb garden carries tranquil yet troubling scents into the dusty library. It might be too contemplative for your purposes, but it is a perfume to behold, arresting, beauteous, imaginative, at once familiar and aloof.
Now, if the frankincense and dust have you parched for a wetter perfume, I cannot resist the temptation of slipping a floral in my list, though not others might think of spontaneously: Un matin d’orage, by Annick Goutal, and here you would have a difficult choice to make between the eau de toilette and the eau de parfum versions, as they happen to be quite different, the latter featuring a pretty dirty tuberose on a woody bed of myrrh and guaic, whereas the former is a little spicier with ginger and greener, in my opinion the real ‘stormy morning’ (to be perfectly honest, I wear one in the morning, and the other come afternoon) of the two. Beautiful, energising, but a little cold.
Practically on the opposite, why not something by house Frapin? One of the most respected cognac maker, in 2007 they launched a successful line of wonderful perfumes, generally thought to be leaning on the masculine side (I suppose women are meant only to sip their minute glass of sherry daintily, whereas men can haz the better spirits...) but in truth quite unisex, usually heavy with alcohol and elegantly exotic, like a casket of precious wood so often used to carry bottles that even empty the rich smell of winy fruit and spices linger. Frapin perfumes are usually well-blended and fairly close to the skin, so I’d recommend the probable loudest and my favourite: Caravelle Épicée, ‘spicy caravel’, a classy spicy-boozy juice, peppery, delicately woody with a whiff of tobacco, and a subtle slide of sexy patchouli.
I almost recommended Speakeasy as well but I find it a little close to the skin, all things considered, even though it must be sniffed once. It was made by one of my nose darlings, Marc-Antoine Corticchiato, who runs his own independent house, Parfum d’Empire, of which I dislike exactly zero creation. His very first, back in 2003, was one of the ballsiest ambers ever made, and could drink any Frapin under the table with its intoxicating head of vodka and champagne, like a very tipsy White Russian still too well-educated to lose control of his senses entirely, but he’s almost there, and he’s rambling; and his leather boots are waxed in birch tar, and his perfume is something herbal and masculine with juniper and spices... The result is a smoking Russian tea with a hefty dose of alcohol: the much-beloved Ambre Russe. Also particularly worthy of note in the house for me, with added ‘mystery’, are Wazamba, all incense, balms, resins & woods, and it is to Serge Lutens’ Fille en aiguilles what green leather desk covers are to red ones (ctrl+F, then search for ‘sage-green’.), as well as the bashful and daring Aziyadé, the forbidden Turkish delight of a girl. A lot more luxurious, and not an easy wear for everyone, and it evolves along the day marvellously (very different notes come up depending on who’s wearing it, too, which is never a bad thing), depending also on the weather. Honestly, on me it smells so much like spicey, liqorous orange that I’m incapable not to wear it on Christmas, but on most other people it does smell less like a fruity pomander.
Now, since I cited one of my favourite ambers, I must mention another, which is one of the most splendid ever created: Lubin’s Akkad, which could have been the ultimate ‘perfume of an empire’, as nose Delphine Thierry sought to make the mystical fragrance that emperor Sargon, who ruled Mesopotamia twenty-five centuries ago, might have wished to offer his goddess Ishtar, who presided over love and war... The offering is a startling beauty, sombre and luminous at once, a combination of precious incenses—elemi, olibanum, styrax—with hypnotic herbs (labdanum, clary sage), hot spices (vanilla, cardamom), on a bed of amber embers. Must always be compared with its incestuous cousin Idole, based on ebony wood and a hint of leather. Darker somewhat, more dangerous, and just as heady.
Dangerous also... This one has its share of haters: Serge Noire, by Serge Lutens. It has many notes in common with Idole, including its ebony heart, but instead of rich alcohol and macerated fruits, there are strong, dark peppers and a bag of cloves that knocks you down on first sniff. I adore it, because I can’t have enough of filthy musky notes and clove, like cumin, can be (and is often) worked into a civet-like smell of sweat and sex. (The title is a pun on Lutens’ first name—the nose behind his perfumes being English mad genius Christopher Sheldrake—but serge is French for ‘twill’, a nod to Lutens’ youth designing hair, make-up and jewellery for the high fashion world.) Serge Noire is a contrasted and demanding perfume, burning hot and cold, a dark fur with hints of ash and earth, some have spoken of ink, but it ends on a more suave vanilla-scented leather. You have to be patient for this layer to appear, though.
On the civet-spice spectrum, one of my favourites: Rose Poivrée, which now-retired Hermès in-house perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena designed for The Different Company, is exactly what it says on the tin, a dark red rose with loads, but loads of pepper, black, pink, coriander, and a frisson of vetiver to better underline the insanely exciting duality of this hot-and-cold perfume. I wear it in autumn for some reason, and it keeps changing, alternating between the rose and the sweat-like cumin. It has a magnificent lookalike, with less dirty notes and added gin and leather, in Penhaligon’s Much Ado About the Duke, with the downside of the ridiculous price of their ‘Portraits’ collection, and I hardly ever see it on EBay, unfortunately, but one never knows.
Intimidating, mysterious, commandeering, quite a little bit dangerous, and of course horridly expensive, I frantically advise you to discover the entire line of D.S. & Durga perfumes. Based in New York, perfumer David Seth ‘D.S.’ Moltz and architect Kavi Ahuja ‘Durga’ Moltz are married, crazy, and brilliant; both are obsessed with the way odours allow us to armchair-travel everywhere, and their olfactory universe ventures into pre-industrial America, ‘turning things [they] love into scented stories of cowboys, open terrain, Russian novel characters and folk songs’. This is how you get one Burning Barbershop, inspired by a fire that ravaged a Westlake barbershop in 1891, hence a fragrance like old-timey tonics, lavender, mint, lime, vanilla... as well as smokey notes. (My personal favourite is Bowmakers, a homage to the violin and bow makers of the Bay Colony in 1800s New England, which is only woods—rosewood, mahogany, pine, maple—, resin, varnish, nut and leather.) In the ‘Hylnds’ collection, Pale Grey Mountain, Small Black Lake is an unbelievable chypre with herbal, mineral and aquatic notes reminiscent of an entire Scottish landscape. Even more apothecarial is Mississippi Medicine, with its camphorous head and its resinous, vegetal body of cypress and cedar mixed with coriander, juniper, olibanum, and birch tar—so powerfully, so troublingly organic, intimidating, mystical, that if it heals, it must also be a poison.
Here, impossible not to mention James Heeley’s Esprit du Tigre, the sensuous transposition of a famous Asian liniment commercially known as ‘tiger balm’, but it is surprisingly tasteful and decidedly discreet in the end. So, by Heeley, I’d rather recommend two great classics, his wondrous incenses Cardinal and Phoenicia, the first a sensually blasphemous blend of myrrh and olibanum on white linen, a peppery rose with labdanum, earthy and aerial with patchouli and vetiver; whereas Phoenicia is an imaginary voyage on the Mediterranean Sea, inspired by the merchants who brought so many precious woods, spices and fruits to the west in the Antiquity: dates and grapes, incense and labdanum, oud, sandalwood and birch, and vetiver. It has a lot in common with Aziyadé in fact, except the latter is a spice market while this one is a merchant ship with a heavy cargo of precious woods. (Have both, is essentially what I’m saying.)
So, is it showing that I’m completely obsessed with incenses? I shall refrain from adding to the list Olibanum and Oxiana by Profumum Roma, then, but I’ll have some trouble not mentioning my darling Arso and its resinous beauty with a side of grilled hazelnut... Well, if I really must stop, perhaps instead something like the intensely aromatic Victrix (oakmoss, bay leaf, vetiver, peppers and musk) or the fizzy mint & patchouli of Thundra. Profumum Roma bottles are expensive, yes, but this is because the perfumes are highly concentrated, at 43% (a higher dosage than anybody else I know), which means that they last forever with the smallest spray. Do come back to me for advice in the spring when I’m the mood for greener recommendations because Acqua di Sale, ‘salt water’, a startling seaweed, myrtle and cedar blend, might interest you.
In the meantime, because it is horribly late and I have to post this before I start waxing poetry over sticky florientals and how they too can be intimidating and stuff, but above all, before I begin waxing poetry over most of Pierre Guillaume’s catalogue (his creativity is somewhat epileptic and that catalogue seemingly endless) I’ll leave you with a note on a strange, strange flower, which is Daniela Andrier’s Une amourette Roland Mouret for zany house État Libre d’Orange, where the usually well-behaved classic orange blossom gets loose and lascivious, thanks to a temptress of a perfumer who knows how to play the indolic—that is, the fleshy—notes of the white flower, before lying her down on a bed of crazy neo-patchouli, synthetic molecule Akigalawood®, which possesses the peppery, oud-like notes of the undergrowth. Snow White and the wolf in a bottle.
#answers#nonnies#aromaphilia#you never said how office-friendly that scent should be#remind me to tell you of timbuktu later
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History pt. 4 - Lareine
Part 3 <---
When Iris woke up, she was greeted by a bare, grey stone ceiling. She was just looking at it for some time, not sure what to think of or do next. She didn't have a clue where she was, but at the moment she was too tired to care. If this was the afterlife, it wasn't even mediocre. Why the hells did people make up such grandiloquent stories about it all the time?
When her currently sluggish brain finally caught up, a little panic started to crawl into her consciousness again. She was so thirsty... For how long had she been unconscious? If she was still feeling thirst or pain, she couldn't be dead. Iris had been staring at such ceilings a few times before too, and every time it had been in a gaol. She tried to get up, but after the first, miserable and painful attempt she decided it wasn't worth it, and stayed on her back.
Despite pain she couldn't feel her right hand and left leg at all, and they had probably been in worst shape. Was she paralyzed? Or were they beyond saving and had been chopped off? Who was the au ra anyway? Was he one of those shady doctors who stole body parts from their patients and sold them? If he had kept her alive, what was he going to do to her? Iris forced her heavy head up to see did she still have all her limbs, and somewhat relieved, she let herself drop back after noticing there were bulges under her blanket at the places they were supposed to be. So, she still had her limbs... but what if she could never walk again?
And what about Rosaria? Pavel wasn't supposed to know about Iris. She didn't want to even think about the possibility Rosaria would've told him. Not on purpose at least... But if the damn filth had beaten her and forced her to tell... The thought and everything related to it was unpleasant and Iris pushed it aside for now.
She had either lost consciousness or fallen asleep for a while, because next time she woke up, it was a lot darker outside. Was she just exhausted or had she been given something? Or did she have permanent brain damage from the beating? There was still enough light to see around, and she wasn't feeling sleepy despite the persistent, numb feeling in her head.
Iris started to glance around the rest of the room. To her relief it wasn't a gaol, but a simple, scantily decorated hospital room. Besides her bed there was another one right next to it, but it was empty. There wasn't even blanket or pillow, just a mattress without a sheet. Between the beds was a small, wooden table, where someone had brought a crude, wooden flower pot with a single sunflower in it. On the other side of the room was a wooden wardrobe, and on her left two big, arch-like windows without curtains.
Iris made some remarks to herself. All movables were wooden. She couldn't break anything and use as a weapon. She already guessed there wouldn't be a mirror inside the wardrobe, since there wasn't one on the walls either. The beds were robust, made of metal and bolted into the floor. If her room wasn't located on the ground floor or the first, escaping through the windows would be impossible, since there wasn't enough sheets in one bed to make a durable rope.
Had thinking always been this exhausting? Well... at least for now Iris didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, so at least she could benefit from this warm bed and clean clothes, before she would find out more about her whereabouts and happenings since... wait. Clean clothes?
A feeling of dread tightened her stomach. Iris lifted the blanket with her better hand and peeked under it. She was wearing a black, sleeveless shirt and white panties, which were both way too big for her. Someone had bathed her when she was blacked out?
"Wait a moment...", she said with a hoarse voice that barely sounded her own. "Oh, Rhalgr's balls... That means... Oh no..."
A sudden, short series of knocks on the door made her flinch. Immediately after Iris cursed the pain like a sailor. For a moment it was silent at the other side of the door, until finally a friendly voice asked:
"Are you awake, young miss?"
Before Iris could answer, the door was opened and an old elezen man stepped in. Iris yanked the blanket tightly against herself, like he could've stolen it from her at any time. It wasn't like her to be so bashful, but then again, no one had ever before seen or touched her without her consent and no less while she hadn't even been awake. How unforgivable and rude!
Despite of the fact that the elezen's chin-length hair - combed tidily back - and short beard had gone all white and he was all wrinkled, his age didn't show from his movements and posture. Judging from his black suit, fancy shoes, a silver monocle and a tray full of food he was carrying towards Iris, he was a butler. Not a nurse? Wasn't this supposed to be a hospital?
When the old man was right next to her and put the tray down on the table next to the sunflower, Iris saw his pale yellow eyes from close. She had definitely seen them before. Last night... or whatever night it had been, when she had awakened for a short moment. He had opened the door when Iris had been brought in.
"Oh, master... didn't we just have a long discussion about bringing your works home? No one is immune to stress, not even you."
"This is not permanent, I assure you, Arsene. She is out of here as soon as she can walk. Prepare a bath and a room for her."
The au ra carrying Iris had turned to some room or behind a corner, and during that moment, before passing out again, Iris had seen the old elezen looking at the bloodstained and muddy, fancy carpet in their even fancier hallway, hands on his hips and shaking his head.
"Are you feeling well enough to eat, young miss?"
Iris had forgotten herself to stare at the old man for gods knew how long time. She blinked, glanced at the tray on the table and sniffed towards it, and immediately her stomach grumbled. The old man tried to hold back a grin. How dared he? There was absolutely nothing fun in this situation.
"Was it you, gramps?" Iris splurged without thinking.
"I beg your pardon?" the old man asked, slightly frowning.
"The pervert who bathed me while I was unconscious."
"Ah..."
The old man tried to hold back a grin again, making Iris even more furious. If she had been able to move, she'd have punched his teeth into his ass by now.
"No", he said, forcing himself a bit more serious again. "It was my master. It's what he does for a living", he added, after noticing Iris' darkening expression. "He's a healer, you see. If it's of any comfort to young miss, he's more of the type who mixes medicines and gives first aid to trauma patients. Actually taking care of patients is the task he likes the least. But it's part of the job and despite not liking it he's very good at it."
"Healer, huh?" Iris snapped, feeling her anger no longer even knew any limits. "Pretty shitty healer in my opinion. How long has it been since he found me, hmm?"
"Five days tonight", the old man answered patiently.
"Five days and I'm still feeling like crap", Iris proclaimed.
"Your injuries were very severe, young miss", he explained calmly. "Your leg was broken, bone completely snapped. Only flesh was keeping it intact. Your arm was dislocated, and also broken from two places. Couple of your ribs had likewise been broken, and they had punctured your lungs, alongside several stab wounds, which your abdomen was also full of. You had lost so much blood it was a matter of a couple of minutes you would've been a goner. Healing magic may look omnipotent to a commoner, but it has its limits. Fortunately for you, my master is skilled both in healing magic and traditional medic skills. And with or without magic, it's very important for you to rest well to heal completely."
Iris was biting her lip and couldn't come up with anything to say. There was a short silence.
"Now... if you aren't feeling like eating yet, how about we let your dinner cool off and take care of the official business first, young miss?" the old man took a scroll of parchment from his breast pocket, straightening it and offering it towards Iris for reading. "Or should I say... Lareine Kira."
"What?" Iris asked, baffled, while weakly grabbing the parchment from one corner with her better hand and squinted, trying to see better. It was a new ID, for her. Why in the hells?
"My name is Iris", she declared stubbornly. "I like it and I'm not with the intention of changing it."
"My master demands it", he stated apologetically. "And I must say I fully understand why. Shortly after bringing you in he informed me you may have some people from lominsan underworld after you. I did some digging, and it is indeed so. When there isn't a body to be found, of course the first assumption is the body has gone walking. Speaking frankly, if you want to stay under our roof until you've recovered, you'll go with a fake identity. After that you're of course free to change it back."
"Well, what if I don't even want to be here?" Iris asked. "This isn't a hospital, is it?"
"No", the old man admitted. "This is my master's manor."
"Why in the hells am I here and not in a hospital?"
"Too dangerous to keep you in there. They’re searching for you. Ishgard has its own underworld as well, and criminals are closely connected. There aren't many viera in the city. Becoming a patient in a public hospital would be like a red flag to the ones who are after you", he explained.
There was a short silence again. It seemed Iris was forced to be stuck with these people for a while, so for the sake of comfort she should at least try to get along with them. Though, Lareine? Pff, didn't sound like her at all. Too fancy. She'd definitely change her own name back right after she was out of here.
"Gramps..?" she asked, hestitating.
"You may call me Arsene", the old man said and offered a polite bow.
"Gramps", Iris repeated. "Could you... like... help me sit?"
Grinning, Arsene carefully helped Iris into a half-sitting position, since apparently - after a couple of attempts and lots of cursing - sitting wasn't available. Seemed also an independent drinking and eating was out of the question, since even Iris' better hand was so weak and shaking she couldn't hold a spoon with it, even less a glass. Seven hells... If she was going to need care like this for an undefined period of time, she was at least going to make sure the one giving it was Arsene and not his master. Iris decided to attempt some small talk.
"That's... uh... a very nice flower over there", she tried to come up with something to say in the almost empty room she couldn't properly see out from. "I like flowers."
"Thank you. That means a lot to me", Arsene said, delighted. "I raise them. There's lots of them in our little garden. My master isn't much into flowers otherwise except in the medical sense, but for some reason he likes sunflowers as well."
"Oh...", Iris noted. Suddenly she noticed she no longer liked sunflowers.
---> Part 5
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[Short Story] The Act of Existing
Yo!!! I wrote a short story for a workshopping group that’s starting up with a group of friends, and I figured I’d post it here for people to read. It’s been a while since I've written seriously, so any feedback is appreciated as FUCK!!
WHAT REMAINS OF THE DAY is a quickly waning sliver of light that filters greenly through the window. The bright veil is split into two distinct floods right through the middle by a peculiar mountain, stretching up from the ocean and into the sky, narrowing as it climbs up until one can scarcely see the top. When one traces it down all the way to the bottom, one sees the ocean and the red clouds beneath, billowing from the depths and spreading all throughout the sea. From Lysander’s window, he can just barely see the ring of blue that extends from the base of the long, long tower that the city’s platform is perched upon. He pops a plum candy into his mouth, and flicks the paper wrapper off so that it may plummet listlessly into the miles and miles of current carrying it. Though, the wrapper fades into an imperceptible spec long before it hits the water. For a moment, there’s an intrusive thought, the unwanted desire to chuck something of substance out over the edge, just to see if it makes a satisfying plop. But as the sun’s soon swallowed by the horizon, he departs from the window, having to be content not knowing the things he doesn’t know.
As the last of the day sinks into the inner edges of the sky and the sun is swallowed into the horizon, an urn rattles on Lysander’s shelf, the brassy sheen flickering along the crystal light bouncing off of it. A stream leaves the very top, a massless and shapeless consciousness that speaks into the very deepest cortex in his mind. “Mornin’, mornin’, darlin’! If you think you’re gonna’ hit the snooze button on this shit today–.” The voice stops itself mid-thought, then deadpans. “Alright, what gives? You’re up way too goddamn early today. No sleep?”
Lysander slicks a look towards the urn and then to the presence. It is not quite visible, but it is a burly distortion of space, refractions of the world’s Essence that is as present as the very air itself. No one seems to notice it but him, and he can’t figure out why. He hums something absently and relays himself in a cool tone, “I had another bad dream, and there was only another hour until sunset. I went through our notes again.”
“Eh? Why?” The presence smooths over the room and flushes over the bed, coiling around Lysander and flopping his blonde ponytail and bangs with an exertion. “What’re you worrying your pretty little head over? Ain’t nothing more than a snooping session, yeah?”
“I would like to think so, Bram.” Lysander flips through a small notebook, a tiny black thing that he commands with only a motion of the finger to open to the desired page. “But I can’t help but to take precaution. Even the oldest and most stubborn noble families do not ignore the scientific advances of the day. If anything, they see more reason to be paranoid.”
The presence scoffs. “Yeah? And what science explains me, exactly?
Lysander shakes his head. “All the better that we add superstition to all of this.”
A deep, goading laugh, “Is it superstition if it turns out to be real?”
Lysander’s finger’s clench, bending into harsh angles like claws, “Oh my god. This is completely not the point. Let us be on our way, I’ve scheduled a tutoring session with the Vraccas family court mage for initial reconnaissance.”
“This is a helluva lot for exposing some minor corruption.” The presence remarks, slinking along Lysander until the form drapes around his slender shoulders like a scarf. “How much money did you spend on that?”
“Irrelevant. But the public works projects will never get better if we can’t make it clear that they’re being blocked in bad faith.” Lysander says, as he slips on his navy peacoat and wraps a deep maroon scarf around his shoulders. The loops and knots he has to undergo to maintain a manageable length are perhaps a touch too convoluted, but the presence happily slips into the fabric and nudges one side of Lysander’s slim jaw like a wavy appendage. This is enough to coax a smile that is slightly warmer than wan.
“You’re the boss, darlin’.” The presence says.
Lysander makes his way from the single dorm room and down the halls until he’s free from the building and out on the bricks streets of the Bacchus district. From there, he makes his way past the parked carriages and navigates through crosswalks of busy roads until he reaches the skyrail station. The building stands with grey bricks where the rest of the district blends into a sandy, contemporary shade of tan. Lysander looks up towards the monotype sign and flickering neon rails – pink like all essence – when suddenly his scarf tightens around his collarbones. “Do we gotta’ take the rail tonight?” The presence pleads.
Lysander chews on a thought. “It’s on the other side of town, otherwise–.”
The presence cuts him short. “I know, I know. But you’re a fast walker, aye? It’d be good exercise. Could stop and get a galaxy cup. Oh, oh! You might see a cute dog along the way! Maybe tip a street performer. Please?” The tone tries to play this off in some winsome charm, but Lysander knows the desperation that nips at his heels.
Lysander frowns gently, but concedes with a hand resting on top of the drape. “I’ll walk, but I’ll only have time to do maybe one of those things. This will be cutting it very close.”
“S’fine, baby! You got it, which thing?” The relief in his tone stings at Lysander.
“Galaxy cup. I’m parched.” Lysander murmurs, as he makes off around the building. When he reaches the stall about halfway to the estate, he stops by a cart with bricks of cooling runes scrawled along the bottom. Lysander floats him a few coins and receives a slushy, snowy concoctions that glitters and shifts like a swimming universe threshing with stellar life. This is swiftly consumed before they reached the front gates of House Vraccas.
The hedges are almost as oppressive as the sterling gates themselves, truly. Dotted along the uniform structures of plant life are wreathes of grown amaranthine flowers, enchanted to take life in a deeply purple hue. The meaning to Lysander is starkly clear, an expression of the eternal and reoccurring power of the nobility. As he touches his finger to a runic pad, he signals his arrival with an exertion of his energy, an Essential impulse of his latent power – a baseline level of expression for most people.
The gate lumbers open as Lysander touches the scarf once more. “Have care, Bram. Do not venture any further than I go. I will signal when I feel it is not safe for you to linger.”
The scarf’s end flutters on top of Lysander’s hand. “Worrywart.” Teasingly.
With that, Lysander chuffs and presses onward, where he is greeted by an attendant who graciously shows him the way. Passing through the silvered door, he is taken into halls of pure and pristine marble, blindingly white and adorned with lavish painting and rich purple silk drapes. Where their heels don’t find purchase on lush carpets, there is the chilling echo of clacking heels against marble. But as they make turns, and the attendant slows down, he pushes the grandiloquent aestheticism aside and begins to discern with his proverbial third eye. Color fades from his normal vision and fine details begin to blur as he searches the door frame for any runic wards. He finds nothing, and the door opening reveals no flood of Essential residue.
Bram speaks to him, “Safe to go in?” And Lysander’s answer is a reassuring touch to his collarbone.
Waiting just past the door is a lavish court and dining room, with gold braids hanging and looping from the ceiling, though the head of the table – the seat belonging to Harlan Vraccas – is empty. There are known magistrates and various official idling and partaking in lain out delicacies. Though, the gaze that slicks itself onto Lysander belongs to a mustached man in mage’s robes.
“Target spotted.” A sing-song inflection in Lysander’s mind. “You good if I snoop around for something juicy?”
Before Lysander scrutinizes the court mage, he sweeps the room with his third eye once again only to find nothing. His vision blurs just slightly from two exertions in a row, composing himself and sweeping a hand across his shoulder to signal that Bram may survey their surroundings. The scarf loses tension as Lysander approaches the man.
“I am humbled to finally meet the newest addition to Class VIII.” The smile that the court mage brandishes is oddly warm, though Lysander knows better than to expect seasoned swindlers within the Vraccas family ecosystem to always gleam so keenly like sharpened daggers.
“And the sentiment is shared in equal measure, Magister Halliday.” Lysander affects a minute incline of the head and a delicate fingertip to his own chest. “It has been quite some endeavor to adjust myself to the new curriculum,” He lies, “But I have been shown nothing short of absolute grace by both my professors and my peers.” Lysander flashes his third eye once more and sweeps over the magister.
The Essence thrumming within Halliday is an orderly ecosystem – nothing short of expected, mind – but nothing in the Essence along the man’s eyes would suggest the same anomaly present within his own. Bram is safe for now.
“Of course,” Halliday flashes a fancy flourish of his fingers, fanning faintly for effect. “Helios Academy does so well to nurture the potential within its ranks, and none would so much as doubt the Dean’s judgement in his scarce selections for Class VIII.” He rises from his seat, and gestures towards another door. “But your schedule must be pressing you for spare time given that you requested this so late in the eve.” He begins to glide effortlessly off, “Professor Bateaus was kind enough to provide the slides for his last lecture, we shall go over the sections you have trouble with in my office.”
“Of course. I will give him my thanks after Friday’s lecture.” Lysander says, as he feels a faint stiffness in the coils of his scarf once more.
After signaling his return, Bram chimes smugly, “Ooh-hoo boy! I hit some goddamn paydirt in the other room, found out a couple ‘strates have been talking about lobbying at parliament seats. Some people got some interests in making sure some curriculums in Helios are carefully edited. Gimme the clear and I’ll start digging around.”
Lysander slides his forefinger along the scarf in both approval and affirmation, though there is a tension within the bend. Lysander didn’t make a scan of the other rooms, he didn’t give him the go-ahead to venture off. Hell, he’s not even sure which room he entered or if he went into more than one. While the existence of ghosts is something unprecedented within even the deepest Essential academic communities, he cannot be comfortable with Bram acting outside the scope of any contingencies he can muster. Should Bram trigger any anomalous vacuum behaviors within any of the Essence constructs present in the building, he will be forever associated with the thought-seed of ‘anomaly’ and ‘Lysander’. Should that come to pass, the unique advantages that have been such a boon will slowly and inevitably mutate into his greatest liability.
Regardless, with a cleansing breath, Lysander slips into the office and takes a seat on the oaken chair. The room takes on a different, more personalized aesthetic. Like slipping into a different building entirely, the wood panels exude their own rustic charm. The dark finish and lack of polish communicate rugged earnestness, with décor evocative of a sophisticated hunting lodge rather than the bare and muted prestige of cutting-edge academia. Bram once remarked about these kinds of people, the kinds that go to hunts in flashy outfits, then toss prey of their own design and have hounds ceaselessly trail them the helpless animal is hopelessly tired. Only after fatigue outweighs the tremendous dread is when the self-purported hunter slugs a measured bullet into their skull. This room feels as if the center of a Venn diagram describing the worst aspects of philosopher and warrior kings.
He can practical feel the hostile vibrations making waves in the air, sourced from Bram’s presence. As if responding, Halliday’s smile is thin and wan. Lysander touches his hand to his scarf in an attempt to calm Bram, and he offers the magister a slow and humble smile. “Now, I believe the exact slide where I felt clarification was needed was when Essential energies shift from potential ether to active flux, and the exact syntax required when rewriting axioms to compensate for when it shifts from a pseudo-gaseous state to semi-solid matter.” For Lysander, the process was more time consuming than truly difficult, but the tedium of it will allow Bram to sift through surface level qualities and information so that he can give Lysander the necessary information to help steer the conversation to more productive avenues suiting his own purposes. As well, the repetitive nature of these axioms will allow Lysander the free mental capacity to active his third eye once more, letting his gaze drift naturally about the room so that he can discern any Essential patterns in the airspace.
As Bram sifts about the room, Lysander is sure to activate and deactivate the perceptive trance as per conditioning training as to not overtax himself in projecting his mental facilities, typically in between responses. As Bram snoops about, he slides pithy comments idly, “Hee hee, look at this! He’s got romance novels stashed away. Ooh, comics, too!”
Lysander suppresses the urge to roll his eyes as he continues, remains intent on obfuscating his understanding of the mathematics at play while displaying just enough competence to not frustrate the magister.
“Boring, boring, useless, nada, nope.” The waft of distortion flutters about, visually rifling through the room without sinking into any particular object or drawer. “I mean, if you’re interested in knowing about his taxidermy collection, maybe he snuggles with his kills at night.” Lysander continues to try and ignore him as he sifts about. Eventually, he sinks back into his scarf and waits for a small lull while Lysander writes dummy notes to buy time for the rundown. “H’alright, we got some drawers under the desk. Most are unlocked, but there’s one with a keyhole and another with a rune lock. Give that shit a peep and gimme the signal for what you wanna do. As well, he’s got a family picture facing his side of the desk, but beside him is Gresham Volte, the bootlicker parliament guy. Weird, huh?”
Weird, indeed. But there is no time to speculate. He musters another opening of his third eye and flicks his gaze to where Bram indicated. He searches for the rune’s structure and syntax, and makes sure to respond blithely to another inquiry before trying to cross-reference what he sees with other Essential wards that do not react to Bram’s spectral presence. He mimics needing a moment to write and look through his notes before he confirms that the spell Halliday used was mundane and non-reactive. He indicates to Bram to proceed with a small scratch to his scarf mimicking a subtle checkmark.
Halliday deviates from his explanation of theoretical Essence applications to cant his head and peer briefly into Lysander’s gaze. “Is everything alright, Lysander? Do you require coffee, or should we continue this at another junction?”
Lysander disengages with all other matters and computations as he aims to course correct, “I won’t say no to coffee, but I am merely churning through the theorem. Your insight has spurred quite a bit of progress in my understanding.”
Halliday’s smile is a slow thing for how bright it becomes, chin jutting out just so in equal measures amused and proud. “I am glad to hear, Professor Bateaus has always described you as quietly contemplative. I come to wonder just what goes on in that head of yours.”
Lysander does not like that. He plays it back in his head, tries to run it through several times in an effort to detect anything that might hint that he might mean more than surface level context would imply. “No more or less than anyone else, perhaps. Merely the things on my mind.”
Bram, all the while, is echoing absently as he digs through the contents of the hidden drawers, “Lots of financial shit, not really stuff I can make heads or tails of. Nothing so juicy as a candid photo, either. Pretty lame.” Quietly, Lysander begs him to be serious to no avail.
Halliday continues with his theorem untangling, rotely going over definitions as things start to stagnate.
“Wait! Love letters! One sec, one fuckin’ sec!” Bram pipes up, “Ooh, he calls them mommy. Hee hee.” Lysander groans internally, but the presence goes unfortunately on, “Oh my god, Sandy. Sandy! He gets findommed! He gets mommy dommed into giving away money!” Bram is cackling, he’s practically feral at this point.
Lysander has to maintain his composure at this point, so if Bram doesn’t stop being an insane and incessant goof he might actually try to throttle a ghost.
But Halliday begins again, almost thankfully, so that Lysander has literally anything else to focus on, “So in keeping with the spirit of Class VIII, I will provide a demonstration of the Flux parameters shifting the nature of Essence manipulation.” He splays a hand, utters something in an arcane tongue, and conjures an orb with spinning fractal runes. “I want you to perceive with your third eye and observe the way Essence must be carefully monitored and adjusted as it changes states.”
This is a problem. This will be the fifth time he will need to project his senses once more, and the strain has already proven to pose a challenge with a fourth invocation of the third eye. Should he be caught struggling, he will not be able to play this off as some physical lack from the time of night, it is a different resource altogether that will ignite suspicion if it can be inferred that he thought to use it so extensively.
Bram pipes up, “Yo! Hey, Sandy, I got something!” The presence briefly flutters from the drawer and coils excitedly, “You’re never gonna’ believe what I managed to dig up! So, you see–.”
But before Lysander allows Bram to continue, he languidly, casually, draws a gesture of an ‘C’ over his scarf. A safeword, should Lysander require Bram to cease for one critical reason or another. With silence assured, Lysander has the mental space to prepare his faculties for projection. With no more than a moment, he calls on his third eye and reserves the scantest of efforts in maintaining composure, as if this didn’t take any effort at all.
Easier said than done, though, seeing as Halliday takes his time to carefully run his fingers along the anchor points, drawing over specific runes while he explains, “Essence, being entropic in its nature, rarely goes dormant. When it solidifies and converts into potential energy, it is stored in such a way that creates a high pressure bubble that will create cracks in all known containment measures. Thus, it is critical to maintain focus and a steady diction as you incant, as you reshape the apparatus accordingly.” And it is thus, with Halliday making careful sure to enunciate with attention to clarity and purpose. The flow of energies rapidly shift, like electricity with the intelligence to seek out cracks in the barrier – and more importantly, like it has the intelligence required for an uncompromising desire to be free.
Lysander musters the mental alacrity to speak as he watches, but the dull gray of the physical world comes to fade just a touch as he splits his attention. “This is remarkably similar to the mechanics governing the powerlines of the skyrail.”
“It is, and thus the expenses required to maintain it have a lot to do with requiring an abundance of experts able to maintain the diction and switching out seamlessly. Far, far less expensive than the internal battery system used for auto-carriages.” The orb seems fit to burts even just from the mall break taken to make that sentence, and with the effort taken for concentration he doesn’t muster what it takes to conceal an obfuscation. Bram vibrates uneasily, as if wanting to speak.
“With the use of phoneme incantation, yes. Would not graphene methods be more prudent in maintaining consistency?” Lysander asks, and struggles not to show he’s buckling under the strain.
Halliday frowns, tracing over new burgeoning cracks, “Observe the erratic behaviors of the shifting Essence. The lack of a predictable pattern does not suit the static nature of graphemes. There are simply too many variances for graphemes to accurately predict.”
Lysander considers, has to try and formulate a response that does not put too fine a point on his intentions. He now has to stop and start the third eye strategically to maintain the state with the ease required to escape without suspicion. This is becoming a problem, seeing as he’s starting to make some real headway. “But it is known that graphemes will always be a spell’s natural conclusion. The nature of the spoken word is always imprecise, always in some way terrifyingly improvised, no matter how rehearsed. Perhaps research on shifting algorithmic grapheme matrices could–?”
Halliday cuts him off with a simple raise of the hand. “A convoluted wish-fulfillment proposal by an idealistic contrarian. The practicality has been brought into question with only gawks in response from Magister Sykes.”
Bram suddenly pipes in, which causes Lysander to need to rub his eyes to maintain the perception. “That’s what I was going to say! The dude in the picture is related to the CEO of Auto-Auto!” Autoflux Autoworks, this is making sense. An acceptable deviation from the safeword, thankfully.
Halliday begins to carefully begin retracting his hand, saying, “Now I want you to try and maintain the feedback loop yourself. Remember that precise diction is key, articulate at the tip of your tongue.”
There’s no way this is feasible. He needs this demonstration to end. He’s on the outer limits of what he’s capable of maintaining, to try and run through the mnemonics for equations he needs to process in order to shape the Essence. While Halliday is busy concentrating to time his disengage, he flashes a fleeting, pleading look towards Bram’s distortion. “Got you, dear.” He assures quietly.
Lysander reaches out as Halliday commands, “On the count of five, I need for you to incant as the notes specifically say. Quickness and precision are of the utmost importance, Lysander.”
Lysander gulps quietly, and attempts to pull together the fraying strands of his mind – splitting like images taken in by crossed eyes – and tries to run through the processes to project his will onto the flowing gouts of Essence starting to flow from the cracking sphere. The sphere cracks, failing to hold, and the energy begins to flicker dangerously.
“Just a touch quicker, Lysander.” Halliday instructs. He cannot. He feels like he’s about to lapse into a dream.
But before that could happen, a loud crack resounds through the room, the sound of metal clacking hard against the wooden desk. The lamp crashes through the sphere and sends a wave of kinetic force, the sound like a bell warped through tunnels of light and passed through black hole. Or at least, that’s what Lysander had imagined as before.
Halliday frowns deeply, then squints about. “How in the blazes–?” He cuts himself off, then trails into nothing as his gaze narrows into scrutiny.
Lysander quickly draws a circle with a slash through it on his collar, a covert signal for Bram to exit immediately, and then there’s no sign of him.
“Shoddy fixtures, I will make a visit to the manufacturing plant on the morrow.” Halliday says as he shakes his head and then sets the lamp back where it was, where it wobbles once more. Despite the frown that motion provokes, he maintains his same blandly pleasant tone. “Sincere apologies for this. I know that you might have a sensitivity to…” He struggled to word it.
“The accident.” Lysander says flatly. “I am fine.”
“I am sure you are.” The tail end of Halliday’s statement immediately implies a ‘but’, and he continues, “Have care, do not tax yourself overmuch in your studies. I know Bram van der Meer was someone close to you, but…” He shakes his head. “To see him between the two cars, and to pull them apart as he still took breath–.”
Lysander holds up a hand and stops him right there. “As I am well aware.” Keen, sharp ice.
Halliday looses an awkward breath. “I think we may take the lamp as a sign that the night has grown late. I hope you may find time in your schedule for a timelier tutoring session.”
Lysander affects a deep bow of the head, “It is ia privilege to receive your counsel and tutorage, Magister Halliday. I will endeavor in navigating my schedule with these visits in mind.”
The magister smiles blithely. “As you will.” Final. “He comes to a rise, as beckons Lysander towards the door. “I believe you still yet have a full schedule, and I would not see you lose sleep over matters such as these.” The tone is pleasant, but Lysander searches for ambiguity.
“Until such time. I bid farewell for now.” Lysander departs, and Halliday beckons an attendant to see him escorted from the property.
It is nearing midnight, and Lysander is in a cold sweat by the time Manor Vraccas is far in the distance behind him. “The gall.” He murmurs, having been stuck on Halliday’s treachery for some time.
Bram, now safely coiled around Lysander’s shoulders once more, tightens in support. “Fuck that guy, at least we have our hunches confirmed, eh?”
“None of it immediately actionable, but it is enough to know that we’ve hit a lead.” He speaks quietly as he makes his way through the streets, “Auto-Auto has a vested interest in snuffing out public transportation, and has connections within House Vraccas, Helios Academy, and Parliament. Auto-Auto keeps a stranglehold on public infrastructure with connections to Parliament seats, and exacerbates concerns with the Skyrail by stalling – or even tampering with – research on the Essential properties their technology uses by leveraging their connections with House Vraccas. Thus, developments are stymied on an academic level. There’s no other sense it would make to not attempt to develop past phoneme techniques and into grapheme.”
The loose threads on Lysander’s scarf visibly bristle at the explanation, “Everything’s fucking rotten all the way down to the root, you’re saying.”
“To a degree, yes,” Lysander affirms, coming upon the campus and navigating his way to the dormitory, “But none of the signs show in such a way that is admissible to any official as of yet, if such a thing is even feasible. The missing link, right now, is the individual or individuals influencing the parties necessary for this obstruction.”
Bram flaps both ends of the scarf upon Lysander’s body in frustration, “And will you manage to track the shit-lips down?”
“That remains to be seen, but such will come with time, dearest.” He pats the scarf as he makes his way through the halls, “With my partner on the case with me, we shall ensure this resolution as an inevitability. You are still my rock, after all.”
Bram chitters, “Y’know, one day you’re gonna’ oversleep and I’m gonna’ go out and possess a great big boulder, and I’m gonna’ sit right next to your bed.”
Lysander chuffs, “Break your cover and I disown you, darling.”
And with that, Lysander finally reaches his little dorm room. He’s thankful, at least, that the members of Class VIII are allocated individual rooms. Though not particularly fair, he laments, the circumstances of Bram’s continued presence necessitates privacy. Secrecy was his only chance at ensuring the change required to prevent another tragedy.
Regardless, Lysander tosses off his peacoat and slips off his shoes. Bram leaves his scarf as it’s hung on the rack, drifting off to take over a constructed, verisimilitudinous hand that scampers about on its fore and middle fingers, like they’re little legs. Lysander settles into a desk where he takes out a glass tablet, completely clear until he scrawls a specific rune onto its surface, using what little Essence he still possess this night to activate it. A scant interface fades into view, thin serif letters colored mauve and bright assembling into a journal-like structure. He begins logging the night’s events and finding in a neat, particular order with crisp specificity.
As Lysander is writing, the Bram-hand begins to make something simple with his limited capabilities. He assembles the ingredients for a sandwich of shredded chicken and provolone. He stacks them together on a brioche roll and slathers it with a bottle of buffalo sauce, then sticks it into a glass box on the kitchen counter. Bram makes a show of reading a list of sigils before he draws one on a panel that’s stained blue. The graphene incantation is inputted and the spell is cast, an orange light blooming from the panels of the glass. After some time has passed, he stops the heating spell and pulls the sandwich from the tray and onto a plate. With its mighty thumb and pinky, it balances the plate and skitters over to Lysander, who receives the food with a thankful incline of the head and a casual scrutiny.
“You pile these so high.” An absent remark from Lysander as he struggles to fit the gooey monstrosity into one hand.
A scoff from Bram, “Only ‘cause you get so caught up in studying that you forget to eat, buddy. Lookin’ out for you, you twig.”
“Never once have you complained when you rip me from my desk with ease.” Lysander counters, the lids of his eyes starting to sag with fatigue. Had he truly taxed himself this much with the meeting? He could scarcely feel it within Manor Vraccas, likely from the adrenaline of paranoia like Essential fluid afire in a spell engine’s tubes. Regardless, he does take some time from his extensive note taking to eat what’s prepared for him.
Bram leaps off the desk into a spectacular flip, landing in a stance reminiscent to superhero comics – wide, low, and like a dynamo. He scurries off to prepare Lysader’s outfit for the morning. Though, Lysander will inevitably make edits to the selection according to his own tastes.
When he finishes diagramming possible relationships between entities and parties, Lysander’s body begins to slump into the shape of least resistance as his energy wanes until it’s vapor barely keeping him awake. He tries to do more, to bring up a new page for extrapolation and conjecture, but he dozes off for a few scant moments.
During that time, Bram looses himself from the hand and floats off into Lysander’s comforter. He crawls along the ground and climbs up the chair until he drapes over Lysander’s form, two corners of the blanket conversing over his collarbone in an embrace. One reaches up, firmly nudges his cheek. “Sandy. Saaaandy, I think it’s time to go to bed, eh? C’mon.” And as Lysander’s eyelashes flutter, he numbly struggles against Bram’s attempts to pull him towards his bed.
“There’s still yet more that needs to be done before I sleep.” He murmurs, half sleep-drunk.
Bram doubles his efforts. “You still need to be awake for classes tomorrow, darlin’. It’ll be alright.”
Lysander considers grimly, “No, yes, I’ll be fine. Shh. I need–.” He murmurs as Bram continues his endeavors, “I will rest when this is all over, when you’re–. I just–. While I still draw breath…” He trails off.
Bram the blanket tightens, the shroud pressing deeply into Lysander’s lower back and waist. “I get you, I get you…”
A sob. “It’s not fair, Bram. That you–.”
Lysander feels fabric stroking at his cheek. “I know it’s not. I want to feel this as much as you want your goddamned justice. But please, don’t fuckin’ kill yourself. I knew what I was doing when I pushed you out of the way.”
Lysander shudders, eyes squeezing tightly shut. “Things will be made right.” He insists, toned as if he were contrasting the statement against a perceived contradiction.
Bram considers, then nudges again. “Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. But I’m here, Sandy, with you.” He wraps the ends around his neck and firmly squeezes. “I’m awful lucky for someone with sucker’s luck.”
Lysander heaves out a breath, squeezed out like a deflating balloon. After silence, he lumbers to a slovenly stand and zombies his way to his bed. “Thank you, Bram. You’re still my rock.” He collapses on the bed, and curls into his smallest shape.
Bram shadows over Lysander’s sinking body and clings to him, hard. “It’s what I’m here for. Love ya’, Sandy.”
Lysander clutches the blanket, hugs as tightly as he can. “I love you too, Bram. Good night, my dearest.”
“Good night, my darlin’.” Bram echoes
Then, finally, Lysander sinks deep into the waters of unconsciousness. Bram remains, keeping careful record of every crevice of his partner’s body. The hours before dawn are long, quiet, empty as they are every night. Until, at least, he finally slips back into the urn of ashes on the shelf with the sunrise.
When Lysander wakes up, he remembers the shadow of his late night exchange with Bram. As he settles exactly into the clothes Bram picked out for him, he considers the act of existing as its own intrinsic exertion of power.
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ASOUE’S CONVOLUTED PLOT COMES TO ITS FINAL DENOUEMENT
It all led to this. With The Penultimate Peril, ASOUE manages to encompass all the ingredients that made its success - adults being incompetent, children being too bright for their own good, self-deriding humor and dry fourth wall-breaking, big emotional moments (good and bad), secret organizations and of course, how could it not end up in flames ? The Penultimate Peril sees the Baudelaires arriving at the Hotel Denouement, which again channels Wes Anderson - The Grand Budapest Hotel, anyone ? - along with Kit who of course, cannot go with them because the too rare adults who seem competent at what they’re doing cannot be too helpful. Otherwise, where is all the fun ? Kit explains that the concierge of the hotel are twins, Frank and Ernest (both played by Max Greenfield), with each one belonging to one side of VFD. The entire first part of this penultimate installment is dedicated to a funny and intriguing detective game where the three children try to discover who is the mysterious J.S who has summoned (almost) the entirety of VFD while balancing their interactions with the aforementioned concierges. Going up and down the immense hotel - a grandiloquent retro-chic styled set reminiscent of the luxurious Squalor appartment, only make it ten times bigger - yields hilarious situations such as the oblivious children asking ‘Are you Frank or Ernest ?’ and getting a simple ‘Yes’ as an answer, the darkly noir-ish giant clock which has nothing better than to utter the word ‘Wrong’ each time it rings, or the numerous returning guest stars.
Because yes, just like in the book, it seems all the people that the Baudelaire orphans ever encountered on their disastrous misadventures - everyone that managed to survive, that is - is somehow present in this hotel. If this sounds like a big reunion for a grand finale, that’s perhaps not too far-stretched because this two-parter actually works as a finale of some sort. In addition to Mr Poe (sans Mrs Poe, unfortunately), we are happy to reunite with Larry-Your-Waiter (Patrick Breen), still trying and failing to be helpful, Babs (Kerri Kenney-Silver), Vice Principal Nero (Roger Bart) - who himself introduces a seemingly random piece of information on the deeds of Prufrock Preparatory; of course, this show has taught us to never let anything slip past our attention and this late in the game, this cannot not be relevant to the rest of the story - and Jerome Squalor (Tony Hale), still bitter and completely afraid of his ex-wife (though he technically still refuses the validity of the ‘ex’). Originally, Sir (Don Johnson) and Charles (Rhys Darby) were also present; due to the actors’ unavailability, they were written out. Given how this whole event ends, it’s perhaps for the best but Jerome still undirectly mentions Charles, referring to he and himself as an item.
The whole guessing over the identity of J.S is compelling enough for those who like me, had forgotten the book. There are enough characters with the initials to fit the bill, chief among them the dearly departed Jacques Snicket (Nathan Fillion who unfortunately only appears in a photo). But Jacquelyn Scieszka, Jerome Squalor, Justice Strauss (Joan Cusack) or Julio Sham could also be candidates. The first part of the installment culminates in the ‘denouement’ of the J.S mystery as well as the Frank/Ernest question, introducing one last VFD member, fan-favorite Dewey Denouement, the triplet to Frank and Ernest (because in this series, everything works better in threes). It must be said that Max Greenfield does a great job in portraying the three brothers. The show makes the relationship between Dewey and Kit more explicit than it was in the books, which allows two things. First, a sense of shock and suspense, as the pair is seen kissing and we are made to believe we are seeing Ernest, the evil brother; second, it makes it that much harder to watch when another trusted ally is ripped away from the Baudelaires. Just like Olivia (Sara Rue) at the end of last season, Dewey meets an untimely death, only this time, Olaf is not (really) to blame. The scene in question, which caps off Part One, is beautifully framed as everything unravels for both the orphans and Olaf himself who finally alienates himself from Esme. Lucy Punch really nails the break-up scene and leave it to ASOUE to finish it off with a daddy joke. But it’s really the subsequent scene that follows which is the real highlight of this first part. As Olaf threatens to harpoon Dewey, Violet, Klaus and Sunny all place themselves in front of him and reason with him over the attempted murder. It’s really the culmination of the twisted relationship they reluctantly, unwittingly developed - no more running, no more hiding on the part of the children, and no more chasing them around on his account. The face-off could very well be amplified to epic levels. Instead, it is handled subtly, quietly and in a very soothing way. Olaf’s arc continues to evolve and we see the facade cracking further. The Man With A Beard But No Hair and The Woman With Hair But No Beard may play a villainous role in The Penultimate Peril but overall as characters, they are more like the Sugar Bowl, narrative devices used to propel their former pupil forward, rather than formidable adversaries on their own.
The scene ends with one of the most beautiful cinematography the series has achieved yet (in fact, the whole episode is aesthetically wonderful) with the dead Dewey floating above the secret underground library that no one knows the existence of, now that its owner is dead. But again, this is upstaged by the next scene, which reveals the long-suspected identity of a cab driver who offers the Baudelaires a ride to safety after the catastrophe they caused. This season, Patrick Warburton gets to interact with the rest of the cast as his Lemony meets for the first (and only) time the Baudelaires. While the scene is insignificant for the children themselves, present-day Lemony goes to great lengths to explain how this brief and failed meeting caused him regrets and prompted him to go on his investigation about the lives of the orphans, which is essentially the premise of the whole show.
The second part is dedicated to Olaf's trial in what could be a reference to the Seinfeld finale which staged a similar story for its own conclusion. With the show coming to an end, it finally brings satisfying answers as to the backstory of VFD and the fateful night at the opera that provoked the schism. After 23 episodes of obscure references and mentions, Beatrice (Morena Baccarin) finally makes an (instantly delightful) appearance. The flashback is compelling and while clearly a toned-down adaptation of what transpired in the books, it does work in terms of explaining what turned Olaf against the Baudelaire and Snicket families. Back in the present, the trial allows Olaf, the Baudelaires (in their iconic book outfits! I swear, the love and respect for the book material sometimes really amazes me) and Esme to shine as they each take the stand. The theme of morality comes back in full stance as Olaf turns the table on the children and forces them to admit that in surviving, they too have sometimes indulged in grey areas. It's an arc that played out for two seasons and seeing the Baudelaires finally come to terms with it is a good payoff.
This being the de-facto finale, the producers pack as much as they can and there are many references to the show's trademarks - Olaf is cut short in one of his musical numbers, several recurring phrases return - but not so much as character arcs closure. Larry is the only definite casualty of the episode - the death itself was (kind of) hilariously stupid and fitting for the character but it is a bit unnerving to really think about it and about the contrast it draws when Olaf later cannot bring himself to kill the Baudelaires - but the fates of the giant supporting cast is left dangling in the air as the episode comes to a fiery end. Olaf plans to poison the entirety of VFD with the Medusoid Mycelium but he needs the Sugar Bowl first. The Baudelaires convince him to burn the hotel instead, stemming from the logic that a fire will be slower than the poisonous fungus and will allow some to escape. That's unfortunately overestimating the capacity of reasonable logic from the adults in this show and we are treated with a delightful scene where the Baudelaires try to warn various characters of the danger only to be rebuffed; even when adults do believe them, there is nothing further they can do. And so we bid goodbye to Esme, Carmelita, Mr Poe and pretty much all who assembled at the hotel. The feeling is perhaps frustrating but that's exactly how it happened in the books and at this point, the story has worked itself enough to not make us care that much about the characters that are left behind. I must say that I have never seen fire depicted so strangely beautifully anywhere else. The visuals really defy the expectations I had when imagining those fires as I read them.
The Baudelaires sail off with Olaf with two more lessons; justice can be blind sometimes, courtesy of the Man With A Beard But No Hair and the Woman With Hair But No Beard, and sometimes you do fight fire with fire. In trying to prevent Olaf from mass-murdering an entire hotel, they have possibly achieved the same result. The fire thus destroys almost the entirety of VFD, both sides of the schism, all evidence that could damn Olaf and perhaps the Sugar Bowl which was dropped in the secret library. This could very well work as the final scenes of the series. So many things are now resolved. We know the backstory of VFD and now it does not exist anymore. We have searched and failed at finding the Sugar Bowl and now it doesn't exist anymore. We have tried to prove that Olaf is guilty and we have (kind of) but the proof does not exist anymore and we instead have come to the realization that the Baudelaires are not as pure as they want to appear. In terms of what this series was about, this is as close to full-circling as it can get and as good a sign that the end is near as the visual clues - none better than the opening scene from the season premiere where Lemony walks through the now-decaying underground tunnels. Present-day Lemony continues his monologues in those tunnels, repeating that for him, the story of the Baudelaires stops here as he lost all traces of them. Past Lemony is seen sharing a heartfelt moment with Beatrice which explains why he's been on the run all series long and features, for longtime fans, his iconic declaration of love, in a toned-down version of its original form as it appeared in The Beatrice Letters. (If you have nothing else to do, treat yourself to the entirety of it, you won't regret it. As Beatrice says, he 'always had a way with words'.)
To complete the many parallels harkening back to the beginnings, we are treated to a reprise of the song ‘That’s Not How The Story Goes’ while moments from the past seasons recap the unfortunate series of events that graced our screens for three years.
The Slippery Slope | The Grim Grotto | The Penultimate Peril | The End
#asoue#a series of unfortunate events#asoue netflix#netflix asoue#asoue season 3#lemony snicket#count olaf#violet baudelaire#klaus baudelaire#sunny baudelaire#kit snicket#beatrice baudelaire
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Hey listen no one asked but I still think of these a lot
So I had linked this post introducing Lib, but there’s more and since it took me more than like .3 seconds to find these again I’m making my own reference post for introductory/promotional images for the KG kids. Will also include a lot of headcanons for this blog as well as @lvche, @khxra, @sonitvs, and @axisara.
I’m obviously biased, so first is Lib’s:
“Growing up alongside Nyx, Libertus was always the upbeat and outspoken one. When the situation turns serious, he must confront his fear and prove is valor.”
as I said before, I find it interesting, and perhaps this is an outdated observation, that Libertus was very much portrayed as the “kind of a loser best friend,” which, by this summary, isn’t true at all. To each their own, of course, but this struck me as a contrast between the two boys, making Nyx a bit more reserved and mild as a child. Or perhaps just the beginnings of the cool guy we see in the movie. But strictly from what we see in the film, I had originally imagined Nyx to be rather outgoing and popular, though it seems that, had they a group growing up, it might have been Libertus who was more the leader with Nyx’s cool demeanor at his side. And these are the headcanons I go with on this blog, unless a Nyx I am interacting with has different hcs ofc.
Next, ofc, Nyx’s, all this stuff common knowledge now, though:
“Saved by King Regis as a child, Nyx repays his debt by serving the Kingsglaive with distinction. His unique ability to wield the King’s magic and epic exploits in combat have earned him the moniker of “hero” among his peers.”
This is all pretty well known and accepted at this point, but I would like to point out the small implication as to how rare being able to use the King’s magic is. As we know from Comrades, there are far more Glaives than we see even in the background of the movie, so take from this what you will. Again, sorry there wasn’t too much else I have to say on this. Promise there’s more to come.
Next, Crowe:
“Crowe grew up an orphan on the outskirts of Lucis. Her rare gift of magic earned her a place in the Kingsglaive. Her fellow soldiers are the only family she knows.”
Okay so, again it has been quite a while since I have looked into the generally accepted fanon, but I remember being a bit shocked that Crowe wasn’t Galahdan like Nyx and Libertus. I think there is a snippet somewhere of Nyx and Libertus stumbling across a young Crowe somewhere, so someone do link me or let me know if I am crazy. The other thing that surprised me is there’s a lot of hostility toward Glaives as being outsiders. But I would think that, despite being on the outskirts, Crowe might be shown just a bit less aggression as she is Lucian, if not Insomnian. Though I doubt most people cared and just lumped her in, it is something to think about I think. What’s more is I do want to also specifically note the strong familial ties she feels toward the Glaive. There’s some mention of this in the movie too, and I am very much supportive of the idea that the group was somewhat like a rather large, extended family.
Now, Luche:
You may be suprised I did him before Pelna, but there is a personal headcanon I want to tie into their snippets here, so bear with me. Luche was also posted before Pelna’s but that’s kind of an aside. The previous three also just have named actors and actresses for image descriptions, but here we finally get an additional line.
“Respect is earned. ... A leader among the Glaives, Luche’s intellect has earned the trust and respect of his comrades.”
Couldn’t be shorter or sweeter, I think. As I will repeat many, many times I am sure, my memories of the mass accepted headcanons may have changed, but I do remember this being relatively accepted. However, I would like to point out there is no ill feelings in this item specifically. He has earned the Glaive’s respect and it seems very well implied that they choose his leadership because they trust his judgement. I think this is very important as, in the movie, I moreso got the impression that Luche was a boot-licking fool appointed as an underling to Drautos. And while there might have been some other things going on, I personally stand by his position among his peers being gained through their choosing, not Drautos’s.
And now, Pelna:
“Meet the Glaive who seizes any opportunity to fight. ... What young Pelna lacks in experience, he makes up for with his incisive mind and quick wit.”
Also very short and sweet. Now, I do like the emphasis on his young age relative to the other Glaives. I find that rather fascinating in of itself, but I’l jump right into the connection I personally headcanon. While I am sure there were many other bright and promising minds in the Glaive, Luche’s presence with Pelna’s group has lead me to believe two things about Luche’s character. I believe there was a sort of mentor relationship between Luche and Pelna, though I stress of “a sort.” I do think they treated each other more as equals a lot of the time, but the whole bit about lacking experience is something that I thought a lot about. Assuming my second headcanon as well-- which is that Luche was much more of a personal leader, liking to spend time with the different groups he lead-- I think he would have gained a lot of respect from Pelna, who we know from his insistence on repaying his debts to Nyx is one for more personal loyalty. Likewise, I think Luche would have seen Pelna’s sharp mind and asked for his input on things wherever he felt practical, both truly for his views and to deepen their relationship. Finally, I would like to go back to the first line and express my original surprise with it. Pelna never seemed to sort to seek out conflict, and truthfully it’s one of the few comments I tend to dismiss. Though, if pressed, I’d personally take it as meaning to say he’s always ready to prove himself in battle both as far as combat and strategy.
Now for the Traitorous Trio, who I will say now, I gleam far less than in previous notes. But, for sake of completionisim, here they are.
For Tredd:
“Cocksure and cutthroat, Tredd never shies away from a fight, and rarely loses.”
Another rather short and mostly known and accepted description. I would like to highlight the word choice of cutthroat. Perhaps the choice could be interpreted for it’s more audibly pleasing sense than actual connotation. I’ve always found Tredd to be hot headed perhaps, but not murderous to such a degree. I, however, like the not-so-subtle implications of just how competent he is in battle with that last.
For Sonitus:
“Meet the Glaive whose virtues seem boundless. ... A renowned man-at-arms, Sonitus’ virtuosity is exceeded only by his virtue.”
Just the slightest bit wordier than Tredd’s, but I think it’s a bit more to the point. Sonitus is exceptional in combat and has high regard for morality. I do like the stress on this latter point, though, as I firmly believe that those Glaives who betrayed the Crown weren’t evil, but only doing what they felt they had to. While Tredd seemed to express little tie to his homeland, I am a bit unsure whether or not his two companions shared these feelings. Either way, I think it was just as much of a shocking betrayal of trust to them as it was to the main four we follow. I’ll admit I am definitely not the best at wrapping around to conclusions, but generally I very much like the idea that they had their reasons, primarily that their actions followed own moral code.
Finally, Axis:
and I will say now it is rather insightful in my opinion.
“The soft-spoken Axis has always preferred letting his blades do the talking.”
I don’t think this is anything new, of course. I do like to think, though, that he takes this way of expressing himself liberally, generally letting actions speak louder than words as opposed to usually resorting to violence, but make of it what you will.
There are others I might as well add for other’s benefit, but as I personally I’m not reading into these as much. So, here you are.
Lunfreya Nox Fleuret:
“Before accepting sacred charge of the Oracle, Lunafreya was born princess of Tenebrae. As a girl she forged a bond with Prince Noctis, now her betrothed. Though she was to meet her fiance in Altissia, circumstances carry her into the crown city ahead of the peace signing.”
Regis Lucis Caelum:
“Merciful and wise, King Regis is revered by his people for all he has done for Lucis. After his son, Prince Noctis, sets forth from the crown city, the King turns his attention to forging a peace between his Kingdom and the Empire of Niflheim. “
Titus Drautos:
“As Captain of the Kingsglaive, Drautos holds his soldiers to the same unforgiving high standards to which he holds himself and trained Nyx in the art of combat. His respect can only be earned with blood, sweat and tears.”
Ardyn Izunia:
“For vastly enhancing the might of the Imperial Army, the grandiloquent Ardyn Izunia has enjoyed a meteoric rise to the rank of Chancellor. He now enters the crown city to deliver Lucis the empire’s terms of peace.”
Claurus Amicitia:
“True power isn’t bound by those who seek it. ... Sword shield and childhood friend to King Regis, Clarus is valued as much for his voice as he is his mettle. His son, Gladio, travels alongside the King’s in FINAL FANTASY XV.”
Ideolas Aldercapt:
“Just wanting doesn’t win wars. ... Wold domination’s close at hand for Niflheim’s cunning and cutthroat emperor, Ideolas Aldercapt, with only the Kingdom of Lucis out of his grasp.”
Ravus Nox Flueret:
“His homeland razed, he finds vengence the only way he knows how. ... Like his sister, Lunafreya, Ravus Nox Flueret also enters the crown city before the signing, but does so of his own free will under the auspices of the Imperial Army.”
I’ll most likely have more to say and note later, but I also intend on doing further notes on this post here.
#long#op#meta#i am back and forth on putting a cut bc my blog isn't the best for reading#maybe i should just change my theme lol sorry#ffxv#final fantasy xv#KINGSGLAIVE#ffxv kingsglaive#ffxv kg#libertus ostium#nyx ulric#crowe altius#pelna khara#tredd furia#axis arra#sonitus bellum#glaives#luche lazarus#i'm just tag spamming
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Mid Year Writing Round-up
I was tagged by the gloriously grandiloquent @rmh8402 (honestly IDK I picked a random polysyllabic compliment...) Thank you ^_^
Current word count for the year: Just under 140k on Ao3... I also write most of my first drafts by hand, and I’ve written 28 chapters of random things since January, so I guess that’s another 56k ish?
Number of stories (including drabbles) posted to ao3: 12 stories! Which is actually nearly as many as the whole of last year, but that’s partly because I wrote a few short fics this year - usually I do multichapters
Fandoms I wrote for: Mostly Fantastic Beasts/Harry Potter, but also Merlin, Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, Humans, Thor/Avengers, and even Eddie Izzard (though that was tagged as a fandom because of the VAST QUANTITY of quotes and chapter titles I used from his shows in Covered in Bees, a Merlin fic written for Fandom Trumps Hate
Pairings I have written for: I was kinda obsessed with Gradence for most of this year, and my current long WIP, Wicked Boys, is in that fandom. A lot of them have been Gen this year actually, but there’s been Drarry, MorGwen, Merthur and FrostIron too
Story with the most kudos: I kinda feel like this doesn’t count! It’s Reassembled, which is my longest running fic, mostly because it started out as random FrostIron and Avengers-as-family drabbles to follow up on Unconditional. But then it got plotty and I decided these guys needed a resolution, so hence the last 3 chapters! Essentially, imagine what would have happened if Thor had actually THOUGHT about Loki after the Bifrost. Imagine if he’d wanted to save his brother rather than punish him. And then imagine, after Avengers, they’re all living in Tony’s tower trying to cope with their collective PTSD and issues, and you end up with the Unconditional series!
Story with the most bookmarks: OMG my dark horse! I am in awe of this fic, honestly, if anyone can explain what’s going on I’d be absolutely fascinated! The Nature of Trust is a Gen Merlin fic written from Leon’s POV, and honestly, I thought that was pretty niche! But then, it does involve the knights, one by one, coming to trust Merlin’s judgement, and then there’s a magic reveal, so maybe that’s the magic formula? Because I finished this story back in March, and it’s still attracting hits and kudos at the same rate, it’s... honestly mind blowing!
Story with the most subscriptions: Reassembled, which makes sense because it’s in a big fandom, it’s been going the longest, and it was unfinished for a really long time
Story I’m most proud of: Oh my life, how do I choose? I don’t know! I guess Wicked Boys, because I’ve been writing it for the longest - I started the first draft of it over a year ago and I’m still posting, but we’re in the home stretch. I just love the idea of Credence and Harry being friends at Hogwarts ;_; But I could wax lyrical about ALL of my stories because I’m so emotionally invested in them!
What’s ahead: I actually have to finish drawing for the Dirk Gently big bang by early August - first time I’ve done a big bang, first time I’ve been the artist for a collab! So exciting ^_^ Also, and this is EXTREEEEEEMELY exciting for me, I’m almost ready to publish my second original novel, The Forest Hotel. It’s about growing up in rural Kenya, full of dysfunctional families and social inequality. I’m just waiting for my friend to finish the cover art, and then I’m not gonna shut up about it ;_; I’ve got 2 more original novels in the first draft stage, and I’m hoping to get at least one finished for NaNo this year. I’ve also got a huge Drarry fic, Lily’s Eyes, which might turn into a series. But, you know, I have to write to the end of Hogwarts first year while changing literally everything that happens... And because I didn’t have enough notebooks on the go, I’ve also just started a Dirk Gently (Brotzly) fic! Which I’ll probably finish first because I think it’s going to be relatively short, maybe 10-20k!
Oh plus I have to write an A level biology course. Best do that first hadn’t I?!
I’d love to hear from you guys! @red--thedragon, @gothyringwald, @wanderingnork, @gaslightgallows, @mosellegreen, @supercalvin, @turned-her-brain, @rocknvaughn, and there’s loads of others, but I tend to think in terms of AO3 names and I keep forgetting who’s who!! Please do this yourself if you want to!
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Book Reviews - Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency
Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency - Douglas Adams
- I’m honestly surprised it’s taken me this long to start reading any Douglas Adams; I’ve had my eye on a fucking huge and lovely printing of all the books in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series for fucking aeons now, but have been dissuaded for this long on account of the thirty fucking quid price tag, so the fact that this book cost me six quid is more my style
- I suppose everything that I have to praise about this book can fall under the category of ‘it was what everyone told me it would be’, and that may seem like a pretty mundane statement, but trust me it was a welcome surprise to read this book and get exactly what I expected
-> It is at once incredibly clever (or at least masquerading as such via excessive grandiloquence) and insanely fucking funny, featuring the kind of story additions that will make you simultaneously laugh your bollocks off and kick yourself for not thinking of it first
- Everyone bloody knows that Douglas Adams is an amazing bloody writer, but dude, seriously, he’s such an amazing bloody writer; this book’s matter-of-fact narrative voice proves itself to be so damn versatile, capable of conveying humour, shock, and fantastic descriptions of characters and settings, and by fuck do I envy it
- The characters in this are all great; you would have thought that a character such as Dirk Gently, with all his eccentricities and intriguing qualities, would overpower all the other characters, and whilst this is often the case I can’t deny that I have love for all the characters in some capacity; the protagonist characters are all strong-willed and face adversity head-on and are ultimately human, the antagonist(s) have some very interesting circumstances surrounding them that I shall not elaborate on, and then there’s also the fucking Electric Monk, who is my favourite character and goes through the entire story not knowing what the fuck he’s doing
- As complex as the story does get, I was very happy to find that everything gets tied up very very nicely, with some great time travel paradox malarkey and all the characters getting what they deserve and a few little fortuitous changes to the overall world that made me smile stupidly; though I will get into the problems that I have with this book momentarily, you bet your arse I’ll be buying the next one some time soon
- My biggest complaint with the book is that, whilst I found the overall setup very interesting, the explanation for all the events and the conclusion to all this deductive work is a colossal anticlimax and deus ex machina; in the story’s attempt to add in more and more ridiculous plot elements, it throws away some of its better ones to make room for new ridiculous ones that don’t match the story’s small scale (of course I won’t spoil anything, but rest assured that it is more than a little jarring)
-> When the story does completely change the direction that I thought it may well be going in, it kind of fucks itself regarding fulfilling some of the stuff that it set out to fulfil; for example, Adams himself describes one element of the book as being a ‘whodunit’ sort of thing, and there’s lots of mystery to be had, but this all seems wasted effort when, despite your best efforts to formulate ideas as to who did what or how everything links together, all explanations can be attributed to bullshit deus ex machinas
- The book is quite short, just shy of three hundred pages, and whilst this isn’t a problem in of itself, I would argue that the book’s short length perhaps doesn’t allow the most to be wrung out of the concepts it has, and doesn’t let the book grow to its fullest potential
- It’s also worth mentioning that with this short book length comes slightly buggered pacing; for a book called ‘Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency’, the eponymous Dirk Gently doesn’t actually appear in the flesh until around one hundred and fifty pages in, halfway through the damn book, so it would seem that half the book is literally just setting things in motion before Dirk can come along and ‘solve’ everything
-> As I reached this point, I thought back to exactly what I’d read about for the last one hundred and fifty pages, and I came to a wee epiphany about what differentiates this book’s subplots from something like The Eyre Affair; in this book, subplots that seem tangentially related to the main plot take the forms of long streams of dialogue about the mundanities of work life or mathematics or whatever, whereas subplots in The Eyre Affair take the form of hunting and murdering vampires in a school laboratory classroom
-> Of course this is hardly a deal breaker, as these sections are just as well-written and engaging as everything else, but in a book marketed as some clusterfuck epic tale, it does seem odd that many portions of it should take the form of such seemingly mundane things
- This is somewhat of a minor point compared to my previous statements, but it’s worth mentioning that a main theme of this book (or at least something that the book talks a lot of spiel about) is technology, but alas this book was written more than ten years before I was born, so all its talk about cutting edge brand new computer malarkey went right over my fucking head
- 8/10
I have a load of other book reviews on my blog, check that shit out.
#book reviews#dirk gently's holistic detective agency#dirk gently#douglas adams#fuck me that title is arduous to type out over and fucking over again#mate i wish i was an electric monk#i'd be living the fucking dream just cruising the streets on my gormless fuckin horse#more books need motherfuckin COLERIDGE REFERENCES#i myself consider myself similar to Coleridge in that i too write about magic men and never fucking finish anything#wonder when the second series of this show's coming out#i heard it was soonish maybe?
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