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n-ugg · 3 years

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When Sam accepted this job, he thought it'll be fine. It'll finally be a challenge with his building and engineering. The pay will be so helpful too with wanting to make sure that one of his sons will have enough armor and weapons for a while without needing to go out and search for the supplies.

It would've been a good trade off.

So why is this back firing on him so badly?

When the prison was completed, Sam reported to Dream and asked for a higher pay. Dream immediately complies, gives him an extra three stacks of diamond block. Sam didn't question it.

Why would he? This will help him out so much and he wont need to worry about getting supplies for weeks. Months even!

Dream speaks up after the transaction, about how Sam knows who it is and it should be easy to get him in. Sam didn't pay much attention to what he said. He was too blinded by the pay to even ask who is going to be in.

The night was spent with Sam breaking apart the blocks to form into multiple full suits of armor and multiple swords. He even went the extra mile to head over to Punz to place in extra enchantments to make sure his son won't hurt himself as much.

He did all of this to make sure that his son won't get hurt. So why is he currently being ordered to put his son in the cell?

Sam was frozen in the prison. Seeing his son. Seeing Quackity calling out to him. Begging him for an answer on why did he make this prison for him. Why was he working against him this entire time.

Sam's voice was lost. He can't speak. He cant move. He's stuck between both of Dream and Quackity's yelling match, yet Sam can't hear either of them.

He felt his body move on his own the moment he noticed a shine from the corner of his eye coming from Dream.

Sam was standing in front of Quackity with his shield raised up with an axe at his side to push back Quackity. The sound hits him all at once as he hears the netherite axe hit the wooden surface.

"Sam!" He looks past the shield to make eye contact with Dream. His face was hidden, but you can tell behind the smile the rage continues to rise. "You agreed to a job and you need to complete it." His voice was back to his normal tone but you can tell theres a venom being held back.

Quackity raised his voice behind Sam. Please don't continue, Sam doesn't want to go forth with this. "I didn't do shit Dream! You're being a tyrant that you claim to never be! I don't deserve to be locked up by my own damn-" he cut himself off. Please stop, Sam still cares and views him as a son. "locked up by Sam." His tone noticeably gotten lower when he conpleted the sentence.

Sam felt the guilt in his stomach grow as the grip on the shield and axe gotten tighter. He just wanted to help. This was never supposed to happen.

"Quackity! You're a threat!" Dream's voice rose again. Why can't this yelling match just end? "You bombed Eret, who is neutral! And planned an army against Technoblade! What else are you planning to do?! You're a ticking time bomb! I need to put you away to protect the others!"

"Oh yeah?" You can hear a smile from Quackity's end. Why is he smiling in a time like this? "I only went against Eret because he fucking killed Karl! You're upset because I was able to see the king as a puppet! And Techno literally tried to kill us all by spawning withers! Why is he still running around?"

"Because he hasnt done anything to make himself known or done any harm yet! I can't just thr-"

"Shut up! Both of you." Sam finally spoke up. He just wanted it to end, so he'll need to listen. Sam did a final side glare at Dream before turning to back. "Quackity." Sam takes a pause to let out a deep breath he's been holding. "Please walk in the prison."

"I already told you Sam, Im not going in." Quackity stated with the smile off of his face as he refuses to look at Sam in the eyes and keep his contact with Dream, definitely noticing the grip on the axe tighten.

Sam can feel the murder behind Dream's eyes and what might happen if Quackity continues to protest. "Please, I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want to do this" Sam was pratically begging but he still kept his composer.

Quackity's smirk returned. "Yeah, like getting tossed in a inescapable cell by my own 'dad'-" those air quotes managed to do so much internal damage towards Sam. "-isn't hurtful enough. Heh, I thought I was able to trust you, man." The smirk faded away as Quackity started to focus on Sam. "Never would I ever thought that you'll backstab me like this by working with my biggest enemy. To fucking lock me away like that."

Sam took in another deep breath before letting it out. "I'm so sorry." Before Quackity was able to make a comment, Sam grabbed him and dragged him into the prison. It was easy due to the massive height difference. Quackity was trying to break away and make a run for it, but made absolute no progress.

Sam threw Quackity in and locked the doors. Quackity ran to the door and started to bang on it while screaming to be let out. Sam kept his own walls up to not break at the sight of seeing his son. The person he built the prison, to just get a generous pay for he can make the armor and weapons for, curse at him to let him out as he bangs on the walls while being on his knees.

Dream walked behind Sam and placed his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Good work, make sure he doesn't get out and you dont help. You know exactly what will happen." Sam simply nodded as he feels Dream's hand lift from his shoulder and hears him walk out of the prison.

Quackity was already away from the walls as he observed his new home. Sam wanted to look away, but he can't. He is completely unable to look away from the mess he's made. Sam tried to speak up, but felt his throat dry up the moment his mouth opened.

Quackity started to let out a laugh as his hand trailed along the wall. "You really made this inescapable, huh?" Sam didn't respond, just nodded as he took a couple of steps forward. Quackity let out another laugh as he walked towards to where Sam was at.

Sam was confused and cleared his throat before speaking. "Why are you laughing?" His voice was raspy. His throat still felt tight and dry.

"Because I trusted you! And then you backstabbed me by helping my biggest enemy!" Another cackle filled the cell. Sam cringed at the sound, not liking how his son has already broken down in the cell. "You need to help me with something. As a way-"

"Im not breaking you out." Sam's voice was stern as he tries to push down the thought of Quackity getting killed by Dream to the back of his head. "You'll get hurt. Badly."

Quackity shoke his head, "Not that." He stuffed his hands in his pocket and his posture straighted out.

"With what then?"

Quackity raised his hand over his beanie and pushed it back to reveal small horns, already having a small curve forming. "Remember the Frankenstein's monster arc?" Sam was taken a back seeing the horns, he also notices how Quackity basically had sharper nails then before and his eyes containing a really faint yellowish glow in the dark cell. "Want to finish it for me?"

So many thoughts rush into Sam's head. This could mean that all of the crimes that Quackity has been accused of can be forgiven since it isn't him. It was just Schlatt the entire time.

If he brings him back, he'll let go of Quackity.

He can have his son back.

He doesn't need to keep him locked up.

Sam quickly nods his head as a smile forms. "Anything for you."

#mcyt #dream smp #dreamwastaken #quackity #awesamdude #possessed quackity #jschlatt #if you squint #I know how unlikely this is #so I need to fill the void and lack of content with this scenario before canon completely take it away from me #my writing #i have edited to fix it #i was sleep deprived while writing this at first #but now fix

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volleychumps · 4 years

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hey hey hey i love you & your work 🥺🥺💕 can i request hc or scenario (up to you, love) of akaashi, ushijima, & tsukki being cramped on a busy subway train with the girl they like and having to like be v close & trying to give each other room but there IS NO ROOM and ! there’s a pervert feeling her up and they see she’s Very Uncomfy and save her from it? thanks ily 💓💓 congrats on 3k

Thank you for 3.4k! Have some fwuffy scenarios you guys seem to like protective boyos tehe

Protecting their Crush on a Subway w/ Akaashi, Ushijima, and Tsukishima

Warning(s): depictions of harassment

------------------------------------

Akaashi

He knew you rode this train.

It was an evident fact that stood out in his mind when he would board after a grueling practice, instantly seeing you in the same spot at the same time of the day after your own club activities, either immersed in a book or your playlist, a light tune in your throat. Akaashi would make sure to always sit on the other side, risking a glance at two at you from the other side of the subway train, always keeping a distance- yet always keeping you in sight.

And it was evident that the setter had no intentions on acting on any blooming feelings he felt emerging from your small giggles reserved for yourself, or even the tasteful choice of book of the day you flipped through. He was satiated from his distance, hands tucked away in the warmth of his pockets as he watched you hurriedly tuck your novel away and get off at your stop.

Until the day came where the distance was closed. Harshly.

He wondered where you were as the sun set and the train conductor was making their final calls, the subway growing unbearably cramped- a fact he noticed as soon as he realized your absence- not being able to handle the small quirk to the corner of his lips when you stumble on out of breath just as the final call was being heard.

Blue-green eyes watch from a peripheral view as you bite your lip at the sight of your seat being taken, looking around kind of lost before your eyes fell on his school uniform. Akaashi tilts his head, scooting just enough towards the person next to him to make room that had your eyes brightening at the motion.

Your grateful smile had both corners of his lips quirking up now, and you sit graciously in the seat next to him while whispering a small thank you, now not having to stand up and hold onto one of the rails. He simply nods, looking down at his own book but not really paying attention to it, noticing a bit too late that your leg was pressed tightly up against his. He feels the blush emerge before he can stop it, but keeps his eyes on the inked words.

But his leg wasn’t the only one yours was pressed against.

He feels you stiffen mere minutes after the train began to move, and his blue eyes drifted to his left to break the ice and talk to you-

and he wished they had sooner.

Akaashi’s eyes narrow at the sight of a dirty hand inching towards your thigh, exposed from the skirt of your school uniform. You were quiet and reserved at school (one of Akaashi’s favorite traits), and was most likely not the type to speak up when an incident like this was happening. And he wasn’t either.

Until now.

He casts a glance to your face to see you near tears, face flushed in embarrassment as you internally struggle with the choice of making a scene, prompting Akaashi to shut his book with a sharp clap, feeling your trembling increase as the hand slides up further. You feel his breath tickle your ear as you look at him slightly, watery eyes blinking in confusion.

“Excuse me, L/N-san.”

Your eyes widen a little bit when Akaashi’s arm wraps around your waist, reaching behind you to snatch the other side tightly, pulling you into his side snugly so far away from the perv next to you that your leg is almost on top of his. Akaashi ignores the thump in his ears and heat in his cheeks as he rests your head on his shoulder, lifting his head slightly to shoot a venomous glare at your perpetrator over your head.

The old man laughs nervously, deciding it was a good time to get off as the train came to a stop, nodding once to Akaashi before making a hasty exit.

Akaashi sighs, narrowing his eyes further when he saw all the extra space, signaling that the old bag had been pressing up to you on purpose. He lets go of your waist immediately, not surprised you scrambled off him as fast as you did.

“I’m sorry for acting rashly, I-”

“Thank you!” You bow deeply, now having the room to do so as the volume of the train car had lessened drastically. “A-Akaashi-san, right? I see you around school sometimes so don’t freak out, I know you’re a gentleman! How do I make it-?”

“L/N-san.”

You tilt your head, and Akaashi hums, content look on his face as he opens his book back up.

“You missed your stop.”

“You...know my...?”

“Will you allow me to walk you home when my stop comes?” Akaashi rushes out, internally beating up for his mistake before a warm smile crosses your face, the setter relaxing at the sight of it as you nod once.

“I’d like that.”

“Very well.” Akaashi clears his throat as you shift a bit closer to him despite the distance you could easily put between the two of you.

“What are you reading?”

Akaashi feels his lips curl again, anger fading away as he tilts the book in your direction to explain, legs touching one another voluntarily-

suddenly glad the distance had been closed.

Ushijima

He always stood two hand rails down from you.

The train ride home had always been a rather cramped one, but the regulars on this train were the same people who knew that the certain railing you were holding was yours at this time of the day. And Ushijima’s railing was his.

Two away.

Ushijima saw the way your face lit up when you talked to Tendou, the kind smile gracing your features enough to make a foreign feeling bump around in his chest as he stood off to the side awkwardly. Tendou had flicked your forehead, and you had pouted in his direction with the most adorable eyes-

“Are you just going to let your friend bully me?”

And then you had taken his arm, sticking your tongue out at Tendou as you pretended to begin to pull him in another direction.

“Just for being an ass, I’m stealing your one and only Ushijima~”

“YOU WOULDN’T DARE-”

But the funny thing? He found himself wanting to go in the direction you had wanted him to, your small hand wrapped around his bicep as the wing spiker tried to translate just what he was feeling.

And when you let go, he blinked. And blinked some more as you giggled and waved as you walked off, suddenly wishing Tendou hadn’t interfered as the redhead places a curse on you from afar.

He glances at you, hand loosely holding onto the holder above your head, eyes cast downward. You probably didn’t know you were on the same train, seeing that you never looked at your surroundings much due to your focus on your phone.

But he suddenly wished you looked around you before you left yourself vulnerable to the person who wasn’t a regular on the train.

Ushijima’s glances turn to a full on-stare at what was happening, eyes hardening at the sight of some geezer approaching you from behind, resting his front against you as you freeze. The brunette boy watches as your face contorts to one of fear, the phone screen turning off and stopping it’s illumination on your face.

And then you glanced around for help, instantly locking eyes with him.

Ushijima moved hastily, maneuvering around the oblivious passengers before stopping to tilt his head intimidatingly at the man pressed up behind you.

Two handrails away.

“Y/N, there you are. I was starting to think you missed the train because I didn’t see you.”

Ushijima smoothly steps between your harasser, taking his place and ignoring the slight stumbling of the pervert, keeping a respectful distance from you before his hands rest on the same handrail. Olive eyes peer down at you, his worry for you winning against the anger in his head.

He glances behind you, eyes narrowing down into a glare as the old perv whistles and looks in every direction except his, Ushijima’s height and pissed-off expression now very apparent.

“Something you needed, sir?” The words come out lacking any form of respect, and the geezer only shakes his head no hastily before making an excuse to go to the other side of the train car, leaving as the train comes to it’s next stop.

Ushijima doesn’t take his eyes off of him until he’s out the doors, huffing through his nose with a shake of his head before glancing down at you, seeing a slight quiver to your shoulders before sighing. He goes to move away, wanting to give you much-needed space-

but your hand grabbed the side of his school jacket before he could take a single step.

“U-Ushijima-Kun...”

Olive eyes widen at the tear that slipped your eye as you looked up at him, tremble in your voice.

“Could you...stay there?”

And the thump was back in his chest, Ushijima merely nodding once as you relax your grip on the side of his jacket, facing forward again as you hastily wipe at your eyes.

“Um, sorry to ask, but could we maybe ride the train together going forward-?”

“Yes.”

You turn again at his abrupt response, the kind smile filling your face in relief as Ushijima finds himself giving a content one back, tightening his grip on the railing-

now no longer two rails away.

Tsukishima

He preferred to stand.

Lesser chance that people would have to be so close to him, easier to mind his own business, his height giving him an innocent view of...

You.

You who sat with one leg crossed over the other as you absent-mindedly stared at the outside flashing by with the speed of the train, lost in your thoughts as the tall blonde who held the railing a few feet away could watch as you entered your head- void of reality. He would watch as a book lay-half open in your lap, your thumb holding your place as you watch the world from outside the train window flit by.

Tsukishima liked how lost you got.

Like the day you had bumped into him, the blonde already pissed about getting to school late before now having deal with disheveled you, jacket hanging halfway off your body and still pulling a shoe on. You had looked up at him with a doe-eyed expression, apologizing profusely as Tsukishima remained indifferent, this close to snapping before-

“Here! Take this, you’re late too so you probably didn’t get to eat anything-”

And then a pastry was shoved into his hands before you were running off into the entrance, waving backwards before turning around slightly, the blonde boy bewildered as a wide grin passed your face-

“See you around!”

Tsukishima found himself wanting to do the same as well, unwrapping the pastry that was much too sweet for the morning-

still chewing on it as he mildly walked up to the entrance you had darted off in, now not annoyed at the fact that he had been late in the first place as sugar coated his tongue.

Tsukishima kept you in his line of sight, immersed in his phone while knowing if you had caught him it would probably be translated as some creepy action, but you never had looked away from the outside. He wondered what would happen in the case that you did, knowing he surely wouldn’t be trying to get your attention-

And he suddenly wished you would look away to notice the odd man oh-so-casually gripping the railing that was in front of your seat, stepping in front of you with no good-intentions behind his smirk.

Tsukishima loses his grip on the railing above as the man begins to talk you up, you flinching at the sound of the voice in surprise before innocently peering up at him with that same doe-eyed expression-

the look on your face a bit too familiar with the blonde as the man nears even closer, a look of uncomfort passing over your face as it looks like you’re kindly telling him that you’re still a high-schooler.

Tsukishima feels his jaw clench when the stranger grabs a few strands of your hair, rubbing it between his fingers as you flinch away, his hand darting out to grab your face-

“Oji-chan, that’s not a very nice way to touch a girl, is it?”

The smile on Tsukishima’s face was feigned so-obviously, golden-brown eyes spinning in a dangerous glint as he tilts his head, smile straining as he raises his voice.

“If I didn’t know any better, it would be harrassment if that girl didn’t like it- oh! Is she crying?” Tsukishima clicks his tongue as the onlookers begin to take their phones out, whispering amongst themselves in judgement as the perpetrator stumbles over his words.

He casts a glare to the blonde as Tsukishima’s grin only widens, scoffing before getting off the train as it comes to it’s next stop. Tsukishima ignores the applause when the perverted man steps off, merely stepping in front of you and gripping the railing above as you look up at him with eyes brimmed with tears.

The grin fades as Tsukishima sighs, collapsing in the now-open seat next to you before looking straight ahead, voice now it’s signature monotone as he sits his bag next to him.

“Oi. You can cry. I won’t judge you. Much.”

And he doesn’t stop you as you lean your head on his shoulder and let your tears of relief slip freely down your cheeks, the blonde shooting glares at anyone sending you pitiful looks until your stop comes. You wipe away your tears hastily, looking behind you in confusion when Tsukishima grabs his bag to get up with you.

“What-?”

“Are you dense? I’m walking you home.” Tsukishima glares at you, daring you to comment on it before grabbing your forearm and dragging you off the train, your sniffling filling his ears as he begins to walk out of the station.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” You manage out after directing him to where your house is, the blonde still three steps in front of you as his hold on your forearm tightens just a little more.

“Wait for me after school. You’re riding with me from now on.”

“But-”

“Okay? Goodnight.”

Tsukishima turns on his heel, wishing he could hear your door open to ensure you get in okay before your voice makes him stop mid-step.

��T-Thank you! I’ll be waiting after school...Tsukishima-Kun.”

The blonde glances behind him, lips curling up into a smirk at the sight of a pretty smile now filling your face in the moonlight.

“You won’t get lost when you’re with me, idiot. Let me see you go in before I change my mind.”

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General Works: @takemetovalhalla @savemesteeb @kasandrafaye @dreebbles @yams046 @aprettyfruit @therestless101 @dai-tsukki-desu @lifeisntjustblackandwhite @curiouslilbeast @wisepandaslimeland @deadontheinsidebut @lmkjimin @h0ngh0ngh0ng @theworldupthere @itz-tooru @orangegiraffe7

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu akaashi #akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #haikyuu akaashi keiji #haikyuu ushijima #haikyuu ushiwaka #ushijima #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima fluff

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sneezefiction · 4 years

Text

please don’t go

Ushijima x Reader - Scenario

@moonlightaangel‘s event request: “congrats on reaching 600 followers!! 🥰 can i request ‘please don’t go’ with ushijima, if it hasn’t been requested yet! i need some angsty feelings in my life”

a/n: mmmm angsty Ushijima is my aesthetic :,,)) i also messed around with some flashback formatting, so i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: angst, breakups

wc: 1640

---

“Please don’t go.” It’s a soft, tearful whisper.

“I thought you would understand, y/n. We had established this.” His reply was blunt. Like a dull knife to the chest, digging deeply only to pull right back out, leaving you gushing and writhing at his words.

“Please don’t.” Your cry reached his ears this time.

“I need to focus.” He sighs, twinging with guilt.

Why didn’t you understand? Had you not known that his career would come first? Above everything else?

Or had he misspoken at some point, giving you the false assurance that this relationship would work forever? That he could always treat you as though it were possible to balance both you and his life’s work.

“Then I won’t distract you! Just don’t leave me. Please.” You begged, knees painfully falling to the cold floor, but your cries fell on deaf ears.

He remains resistant to change. Without accommodations. Nothing left to give or take.

“Maybe someday, y/n. But this isn’t working out for me anymore. I have to leave for now.” Ushijima’s response is icy.

He meant for those words to somehow be heartening. Promising, even. That maybe this was just the wrong time and place for a relationship. Where time could ebb and flow and someday he would be able to draw you back into his life.

Yes, there would be a day where you could take priority.

Because he wanted you… but not above his first love. Not above his skills and lifestyle. Not enough.

Volleyball comes first. Plain and simple.

And for that, he wouldn’t compromise.

---

White, crisp linens and fresh lemony scents.

Fluffed pillows fitted with new covers and soft patterns. Feather filled duvets. Curtains drawn to keep out the early morning light.

Everything has stayed clean, clear, and Pristine. Even the dust particles, dancing around the room, have always seemed to find their own peace, settling mildly in gentle formations.

You sleepily blink open your eyes, rustling your arms over the bedspread to what should be a happier sight. Soft pillows hugging your sides, the gentle birdsong outside your window, a conceivably delicious cup of coffee to be made in the kitchen.

Yes, you should be filled with contentment. You were safe. Physically you were fine, and nothing was on your checklist for today.

In fact, things had appeared fine for months now...

Yet all you notice is who’s missing.

There’s no longer a delicate divet where his dozing head used to lay. The scent and shape of the pillow had only recently dissipated thanks to your citrusy laundry detergent and the slow passing of time.

You don’t awaken to a recently showered, olive-green eyed boyfriend. You could still picture the water droplets, hanging freshly on the tips of his tufts of hair. How the towel draped around his neck, over his shoulders, catching the drips and drops as they fell.

That warm smile he shared with you before placing a chaste kiss upon your forehead, caressing the side of your face. It was pure. You can almost feel the ghost of his lips. Still lingering. Mocking you.

You were liberated from his presence… but you never wanted to be.

Being absorbed in his chaotic life had kept you busy, but you had never minded it. There was never a doubt in your mind that volleyball would be his first priority. That he would follow his passions. His plans. His abilities.

You just wanted to tag along. To sincerely celebrate his victories and mourn his losses. Supporting him and holding onto him when he needed it. Yes, he got home late at night, left early in the morning, and only connected with you on his very few off days… but you cherished every second of it.

Because you loved him. You poured your soul into watching him flourish and thrive. It made you feel whole.

However, eventually, to Ushijima, you started to rival volleyball, becoming a distraction. He had made space for you in his already complicated life. And at first, it was a welcome change. A breath of fresh air to his methodical and planned out character. You were complex, bringing new perspective and sunshine into his typically boring apartment. Beautiful in a natural, yet eye-catching way. Furthermore, you somehow knew how to keep up with his hectic pace along with his gruff personality.

In every aspect, you were perfect.

Expect one.

You were a diversion from the life he had in mind.

And even though you never pushed him to give you more… he longed to give you more of his attention. More time. To share his success with you. To love you deeper. To give you what you deserved. Because you are a profound being… and it burdened him to have to choose between his two greatest desires.

But, as most things do, these thoughts of love and devotion go unspoken, coming out all wrong. Mangled, unemotional, and misrepresented. Looking back, Ushijima wishes he’d been able to express it to you with empathy. To erase the tears that followed his brutal narrative. But softness isn’t his strong suit… and he needed you to know that, as powerful as he was, he wasn’t strong enough to balance you and volleyball.

---

“Ushijima, if you leave…” You take a deep breath, tears slipping down your face, “... you have to promise me you’ll never come back.” You choke out, your request came out in a sobering snarl.

For a moment, you question your own words- but your dignity was on the line.

“You can’t just break up with me and expect me to be there when you get back. I’m not disposable, you know?”

His body goes rigid. He hadn’t meant it that way.

You meant more to him than words could express… so why couldn’t he get it out clearly enough? How could he make you understand the gravity of his choices?

“...Y/n, it doesn’t have to be like that. I just need to concentrate right now.” The alarm, though subtle, shines in his eyes.

His usually composed, confident figure began to show cracks of uncertainty. He didn’t want you out of his life… Not at all.

He just needs you out of his mind for the time being. Just until he had things settled. You could come back at some point and he could love you so well. Just the way it was supposed to be.

But clearly he’d struck a deeper chord. He’d selfishly assumed you would wait for him. You weren’t some prized pony.

You’re a person. Someone with worth, plans, and dreams, just like him. He’d failed to acknowledge just how demeaning the truth of his actions were. But it’s too late.

You haven’t replied and the pain is etched intricately across your face.

“Okay, fine.” He breathes in deeply, letting out one final exhalation of defeat, “I... I’m sorry, y/n.” His brows furrow in deep, conflicted thought, but his mind is made.

He won’t be back.

---

Ushijima’s life hasn’t changed much.

It’s the same old routine. The standard, grueling workouts. Typical volleyball practice, group meetings, finances, paychecks, physicals, doctor’s appointments, fan meet-n-greets.

The usual.

But there’s a void settling like glacial frost in his soul. A snowy blue that seemed to melt into his bones, slowing him down.

He didn’t go a week… a day... a minute without thinking of you.

Even now, lying in bed, the room cloaked in a tranquil darkness, you rest on his mind.

It’s not just the emptiness of the bed or the lack of physical touch. It’s the bitter, clawing memories of what he’d done to you and your gentle spirit. His body is frigid and forever frozen in the recurring visions of his foolish explanations, by how heartless and indifferent he’d seemed.

He’ll never get over the venomous tinge to your words.

You’d felt used.

He’d never meant to make you feel that way.

But since he moved out of your apartment, everything has felt glaringly hollow. The icy, barren tundra he crosses every time he realizes he won’t come home to your sunbeam smile and those thoughtfully lit candles, wears on him. How you would lavish him in comforting words, lulling him into a restful sleep.

Ushijima hardly remembers the last time he slept well.

Those dark circles under his eyes follow him everywhere. His whole team can see the exhaustion seeping into his execution of serves and spikes. He’s never struggled with his game performance before, but somehow the crashing reality of you leaving him has broken his patterns and systems.

He’s weary from searching for an answer to his emotions. Your warmth gave him life… and with that gone, what was the point of all of this?

And then it struck him, the realization sinking its needle-sharp claws into his soul, shredding it in seconds.

He’d found something far more valuable than any unique skill. More remarkable than the legacy he’d built as a world-class volleyball player. Someone who wanted to be with him just for the sake of… love.

And for the first time since he was young, he lets a tear slip into his white pillowcase.

Just one.

But it’s for you.

Because in chasing after what made him feel known and alive...

He’d lost the only person who had ever wanted to show him that he was important all along. The only person who was satisfied with his bizarre schedules. Someone who expected nothing more than gentle kisses and weekend dates.

But you were right.

You aren’t dispensable. Nor are you someone to drop for the purpose of picking up later, like loose change on a sidewalk. You deserved to be cherished. Held tightly. Given the love that you offered others.

He wishes he’d listened when you’d pleaded with him to stay. That he’d thought it through and functioned on more than just logic and reasoning. If only he’d known what it really meant to choose you.

Because if you were here now, he’d be the one begging,

“Please don’t go.”

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @kaidasen, @miss-rin

(comment or send an ask to be added to my general tag list)

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #ushijima x reader #ushijima #hq #ushijima scenarios #ushijima imagine #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuucreations #hq ushijima #hq scenarios #hq imagines #shiratorizawa #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fanfiction #600 follower event #sneezefiction

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simpingforsoftboys · 3 years

Text

Curiosity Killed the Cat

ft. Kuroken

G/N Reader

Read this first

Mini Series Here

Thanks so much for the request anon! I actually went back and forth with this- but I’m finally satisfied with how this turned out! Hope you enjoy!

Kenma hated these types of events. Blaring music, flashing lights, horny drunk people, crowded spaces. Yes, parties were the worst- but it wasn’t like he could tell Kuroo “no, I’m not going to attend your best friend’s 27th birthday party just because.” Which is why they’re in Osaka and not Tokyo at the moment. Kuroo had gone off to god knows where- claiming he was going to get some drinks for them- but that was 15 minutes ago and he still hadn’t returned. Shoyo was arriving late, so there was no one the dyed blonde felt comfortable with speaking too. Seeing no other option, he decided to seek Kuroo out on his own.

“Excuse me.” The short male muttered as he nudged people aside to get to the bar. No one seemed to mind, too caught up in their dancing- probably thanks to their alcohol induced haze. His skin crawled in disgust as he passed by some chick who was making out with Miya Atsumu- if Shoyo was right with his suspicions, Sakusa Kiyoomi would not be happy. He pushed that thought aside. Eventually he made it to the bar- successfully locating Kuroo. “I was waiting what’s-” He was shut up by his fiance’s hand over his mouth.

“Shh... look over there, across the counter- is that Y/n?” Kenma followed where Kuroo was pointing, they couldn’t see the persons face, but they had a similar figure and skin tone to your own. Suddenly the person turned- but they realized that it wasn’t you.

It had been two, nearly three years since your emotional breakup, and they still found themselves looking for you in every room they entered. Kenma hadn’t gotten over his love for you- he doubted he ever would, but it was just another thing he had learned to live with. Kuroo slowly began to realize how much of an impact you had on his daily life, things he had previously taken for granted like a homemade meal at the end of a long day, hot bath prepped and ready, folded clothes and cute little notes. Those things were gone now, so he and Kenma had to step up and do it- until eventually they just decided to hire someone to do it for them. It wasn’t the same- sure, the housekeeper did an amazing job, but the difference was palpable. It sounded dumb but they could just feel the lack of love- your absence had created a void in the large penthouse.

It had taken time, but Tetsuro realized that yeah, he did love you- not as much as Kenma- yet, it was a tangible love all the same. Which is why it hurt him that day- not only because you left them, but because you didn’t feel loved by him. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at you- that was his own doing. All you had done was leave him with happy memories.

Kenma found himself reverting back to his old habits. Their home was a lot lonelier without you. Kuroo often went on weeks- if not months long- business trips for the volleyball association, leaving Kenma home alone for lengthy periods of time. No longer did he have you to keep him company or monitor his sleeping or eating habits. Even his viewers had noticed his unhealthy lifestyle and urged him to take better care of himself, but it wasn’t the same. So, without anyone there to stop him, he would fall into ruin- because then, when he was exhausted or kept occupied by the newest trending game title- he wouldn’t be thinking about all that he was missing.

Neither of them had spoken- or even checked up on you since that day, those few years ago. You had blocked them on everything, made your accounts private, changed your phone number, and asked your mutual friends to not share anything about you with them. It hurt- because how can you so easily shut out the people you love- but after much thought and consideration, they realize you had to be hurting twice as bad as they did. Unlike them, you had the time to simmer in your pain, hurt, and longing, while they remained oblivious.

Ignorance was bliss.

The two of them left Bokuto’s party early that night, Kuroo said something about an emergency Skype meeting in the morning as an excuse. In actuality they found themselves driving to one of your favorite restaurants- they hadn’t stepped a foot inside the establishment since the last time they ate here with you. But- as it was for many things apparently- tonight seemed to be one all about stepping out of their comfort zones.

“What are you getting?” Kuroo tried to act casual, but Kenma had known him much too long to fall for his act.

“I think I’ll get (f/f).”

Kuroo nodded. “I think I will too.” Neither of them particularly liked (f/f), but it had been your go to order. Maybe by being here and eating the familiar dish, they could pretend that they were simply on a date as a triad- and you were running late- instead of dealing with the reality that they were a couple now and not a throuple.

Their food arrives and they dig in, eating slowly, eyes shutting occasionally, it seems like they’re merely savoring the flavor- when in reality they’re trying to picture you dining with them. No words are exchanged between the two- they’re together yes, but it’s somehow a lonely occasion all the same.

If you were here, the table would be filled with easy conversation- you were always so neutral when you spoke, teasing when you felt particularly daring (they realize now that this was such a rarity because you were hesitant about starting an altercation- which no one should have to be afraid of in any relationship). Kenma would let himself loosen up and exchange snarky words with Kuroo, who quipped back savagely, and you would watch them- laughter spilling from your lips. Too bad they didn’t try harder to include you in the conversation- not that they intentionally alienated you- just that they were enjoying themselves too much to bat an eye in your direction.

Yeah, it was better for you that you weren’t here. That was a fact they still had trouble stomaching.

They hear the restaurant’s door opening in the background, but don’t care enough to look who entered. It doesn’t matter to either of the two that it’s late at night and logically there shouldn’t be anyone else here but them. Their imagined scenario is much more appealing than real life.

“Put me down Tsutomu!” A male scolds from the lobby area, despite their best efforts, they’re unable to block the newcomers voices out.

Another male laughs in response. “Calm down Kenji, I got you!”

“Hahah! Why are you so red Kenji-” Someone else adds, this person’s voice is familiar. Kenma and Tetsuro freeze at the sound. It’s kind of weird how they recognize it- despite having slowly forgotten what it sounded like over the course of passing time. You know how each time you recall a memory it actually ends up altering it a little? That’s how it was with your voice. Eventually their recollection of it was changed to the point that they couldn’t quite remember how exactly your laughter sounded, or even how your pitch changed with various moods.

Their ears were filled with you- wonderful, gorgeous, breathtaking you- the one who cared too much and pushed aside prioritizing yourself until eventually you couldn’t take it anymore. The Y/n that they still, could never seem to love enough- even now. But it was dissimilar all the same, since you sounded so happy, so content- what was weird was that they didn’t even need to see your face to confirm it.

Neither of them dare to look in your direction, afraid that you’d disappear right before their eyes. It isn’t until they see your approaching figure in their peripheral that they glance over.

You’re positively glowing. It feels like you’re an entire galaxy- so far and out of reach- and they’re merely stargazers. They’re stuck on Earth, forever fated to watch and appreciate your splendor from an impossibly wide distance.

The purple-nearly black haired man that accompanies you pulls your chair out, gesturing to your seat with exaggerated motions. You laugh, sitting down in the most graceful manner possible and let him push your seat in. He places a kiss to your temple before going to pull out a chair for the other brown haired male- whose cheeks are still tinted red.

The three of you order appetizers and speak about many things- Kuroo can overhear ‘volleyball’ and ‘hospital’ mentioned somewhere in the mix. The two men- your apparent lovers- don’t even have to make an effort to include you in their conversation, it’s like second nature for them, just as it should have been for him and Kenma. They listen intently as you ramble on about whatever, the shorter brown haired one adding his two cents in occasionally, while the taller male questions or presses you for more details.

“Kuroo I’m not hungry anymore.” Kenma says, and only now does Tetsuro notice how upset his fiance is. Normally the half blonde is composed and neutral, but right now his face is scrunched up like he smelt something sour. The feeling is mutual. He isn’t happy with the situation either.

"Do you want to head back to the hotel?”

“No, let’s stay a little longer.”

So they stay, silently watching as you make lively conversation with your lovers. Observing as you polish off your plates and finish dessert, they’re still seated when the throuple pays the bill and walks out the exit. Eventually the elderly owner comes out and asks them if they want to order anything else- a polite way of letting them know that they’ve overstayed their welcome.

They tell her no, pay their own bill, and head back to their car. They sit there in the parking lot a little longer.

“Hey Kenma.” Kuroo murmurs, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Hm?” Kenma hums.

“Do you think we could have made it work?” It’s a question that they’ve never actually voiced out loud- not even once- in the years since the breakup.

“Why do you ask? You already know the answer.” Is what he receives in response. Kenma’s right, he did know.

“I... guess I needed to hear it.” He says lamely.

He turns the key and starts the ignition. They drive back to their hotel in silence.

They made their beds a long time ago. So it’s only right that they lie in it- even if the bedsheets are uncomfy and the blanket threatens to suffocate them.

Kenma regrets wondering about how you were doing now. At least before tonight he was able to take comfort in the fact that you still might be in love with them.

The old idiom was right. Curiosity killed the cat. And he certainly felt like he was dying.

A/N: Believe it or not the inspo behind this was the song Good Stuff by Griff. I really liked the whole idea of Kuroken x reader ending on semi good terms. The difference between how their emotions for the reader portrayed here vs IwaOi is an example of this. Unlike IwaOi, Kuroken is able to identify their emotions when given time and space, they’re not necessarily prideful and can acknowledge that despite being broken up with, they’re still the ones who were left with “the good stuff.”

They miss you sure, but they know it’s unfair to want you to come back to them when they’ll never be able to love you as they should. So they don’t even bother wishing or seeking you out. Of course, they do their best to maintain some semblance of a connection to you (like why they look for you in crowded rooms and eat your favorite food), but they’re fine with remaining curious. Of course no one can remain willfully ignorant forever though.

#answered.requests #haikyuu poly au #kuroo x reader x kenma #kuroken x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x reader #kenma kozume x reader #kenma x reader #kenma x y/n #kenma x you #kuroo x you #kuroo x y/n #shirabu x y/n #shirabu x reader #shirabu kenjiro x reader #goshiki x reader #goshiki tsutomu x reader #shiragoshi x reader #shirabu x reader x goshiki

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quicksiluers · 3 years

Note

for the writing prompts, maybe…48 (could be college rather than high school?) or 23? no need to do both, pick whichever gets the words flowing! (and Grant/Sherman for the ship, unless you’d rather write something else lol, I don’t much mind)

so I went with 23. meeting on the train au, but I love 48 as well so I think I MAY write something for that?? I'll keep you posted!

Once again, I went overboard...cause why not, it's what I do best. Under the cut, hope you enjoy! (and yeah it's Grant/Sherman, I'm on a roll with them so why not lol)

“Folks, we appreciate your patience during this time. Our crew is working hard to fix the issues we seem to be having with the controls. We’re estimating another half hour before we start moving again…”

Grant sighed, gazing out the window. The leaves of the trees were slowly starting to change over from deep green to a smattering of orange, yellow, and red. Some of them blew off their branches, dance like in the wind as they spun around. His eyes followed them as they blew further away before they were lost to him. If he was resulting to watching leaves being pushed around, then Grant knew he was truly bored out of his mind.

Normally, the train was more reliable than this. He had been riding this same line for years and never once had any issues. There was a first time for everything of course. Luckily it was for a trip where he wasn’t in too much of a rush. As much as he wanted to see his family, he didn’t mind a small delay in having to confront another issue with his father. He could already play out the scenario in his head and was exhausted by the idea of it.

Something poking him in the shoulder brought him out of his thoughts, “Hey, do you know if the outlet is working?”

“I believe so,” Grant looked down at his phone, noticing the little charge symbol still over his battery. His eyes caught the brown ones looking back at him, his fellow passenger with a scowl on his face. Either he looked like that all the time or the wait was making the redhead impatient.

It could be a mix of both.

“It is, let me just…,” pulling his charger from the outlet, he held out his hand to the other man, “I can plug it in for you.”

“Thanks,” the other man muttered, “Can’t believe we’re stuck sitting here like this…”

The plug was passed over to him and quickly Grant pressed it into the outlet. He had seen the redhead a few times on the train before. It was hard to miss him. Going to school in DC as he did, it still was rare to see someone with such red hair. He liked it, though he wouldn’t tell his fellow passenger that. He’d think he was some type of creep.

“Well, hopefully, they can get it fixed.”

Scoffing slightly, the ginger raised his eyebrow at him, like the idea of that happening was foolish, “Do you really think they will? I’ll bet it takes another hour.”

Grant frowned at that, the other man’s tone striking a nerve, “Well I think it’ll be a half-hour like they said. Care to make a bet on it?”

Amusement flashed in the stranger’s brown eyes, “What’re we betting?”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want from the dining cart.”

“I have a better idea,” the redhead grinned, “What stop are you getting off at?”

Confused, but unwilling to back down, Grant replied, “New York City.”

The other man’s grin grew, “So am I. Whoever wins has to buy the other one’s dinner. At any place of their choosing.”

“Is there a price limit on this?”

“Why?” He crossed his arms smugly, “Think you’re going to lose?”

The stranger was pushing buttons. Grant stared at him, trying to see past the overconfidence, “Just want to make sure I don’t run you dry when you lose.”

Laughing, the other man put out his hand, “Funny. Fine, how about $50?”

“Seems fair,” he grabbed the other hand, giving it a firm shake, “Grant, by the way.”

“Sherman,” the grin stayed in place, looking down at his phone, “We’ll have to wait and see. Just know that I like spicy food, so hopefully, you can handle that.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I still can’t believe those assholes fixed it that fast.”

Grant bit into his noodles, covering up the grin on his face. His new friend had been cursing about losing for over an hour.

About five minutes after their bet, the conductor came back over the speakers and said everything was back up and running, much to the delight of the other passengers. Grant kept his face neutral as he watched Sherman’s drop, much to his delight. It wasn’t often that the things he bet on won out in the end.

There was a ramen spot he always stopped at when he was in the city. When he had mentioned it to Sherman, the taller man tried to not be too pouty about it, making Grant laugh.

“Well, maybe next time you’ll have more faith in them,” he teased, mixing over the noodles, trying to absorb more of the flavor into them. Though tempted to find a more expensive spot, he knew better than to be boastful about his win. Any free meal was a good mean in his book, “It is their job.”

Slurping loudly, the redhead grumbled something under his breath that Grant didn’t catch. He rolled his eyes before digging into his food again, savoring the simple flavors. His eyes caught Sherman’s hand going for the spices again and he shook his head, “How can you even eat anything with that much spice?”

“I should be asking how you can eat something with such mundane flavors,” Sherman countered, catching himself at the annoyed expression on Grant’s face. He sprinkled a few more flakes onto the noodles, “I mean…I just don’t understand how you don’t like any spices.”

“I like some,” objected Grant, “They just can’t be…too spicey.”

“Which defeats the purpose,” Sherman pointed out, emphasizing it with his chopsticks, “The spice gives it a rich flavor! And there are so many different kinds, combining them makes anything better. You’re missing out.”

Grant frowned, eyes flickering over to the spices on the table. Why was it bothering him? He barely even knew this guy! People always teased him about his lack of taste before and it never bothered him. But it was different with Sherman, though he couldn’t place why.

Reaching out, he grabbed the container and sprinkled it on top of the remaining noodles. Mixing the flakes in, Grant gathered up a good portion of the noodles and stuck them in. It didn’t seem too bad…

Sherman stared at him, his eyes slightly wide, “Oh shit Grant, you really…”

That determination he prided himself in melted away quickly. His mouth felt like it was on fire, the flavor overwhelming, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to choke or suffering finishing up the food. Quickly, he swallowed the rest, his throat burn as they went down. Grant began to cough into his elbow, squeezing his eyes shut as the burning sensation found its way to his chest.

A glass was pushed into his hand and without even looking he brought it up to his lips, swallowing the contents. It took him a second to realize it wasn’t water, but milk. The pain slowly ebbed away, his tongue still tingling.

A low whistle brought him out of his heat-related pain. Grant looked up, watching Sherman thank a waiter before turning back and looking at him with that dumb smile on his face, “You weren’t kidding about that lack of tolerance.”

He couldn’t tell if it was from the heat of the spice or the rush of embarrassment that made his cheeks burn. Grant grabbed a napkin, whipping his nose with it while glaring at Sherman, “You could have mentioned it was really hot.”

“Hey don’t blame me cause you went all gun-ho with that,” Sherman held his hands up, trying hard not to laugh, “I didn’t dump all of that spice on your food.”

Abandoning the rest of his food, there was no way in he was going to finish it now, the two got up and paid, leaving the restaurant behind. The cool fall air refreshed Grant as they walked along the sidewalk, his tongue still tingling from the awful sensation. The pair walked in silence, the constant city noises filling the void.

“Hey,” Sherman pointed out, grabbing Grant’s arm lightly, “there’s an ice cream place over there. Let me make it up to you since you didn’t get to finish your food.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Grant reasoned, “I was the one who did it.”

“I insist,” the redhead replied, stepping in front of him. Grant’s eyes gazed up at him, furrowing his eyebrows. He hoped he didn’t make Sherman feel bad about what happened. It was just a dumb, spur-of-the-moment decision on his part.

A screeching horn made them jump closer together, heads whipping around toward the noise. The drivers were cursing at each other, one of them shaking their fists, before speeding off on the green light.

Typical New York City, Grant thought, laughing to himself. He felt himself pressed up against something warm and quickly realized how close he was to Sherman. Heat rushed to his face, embarrassment taking over, “Sorry, didn’t realize the car horn made me so…”

Looking anywhere but the redhead, he went to step back when he felt the grip on his arms tighten. Grant froze, looking down at Sherman’s hand. His head felt like it was spinning out of control, emotions all over the place.

“It’s fine…”

Their eyes locked, the noises of the city life around them fading away. Grant wasn’t sure who made the first move but it didn’t matter when their lips came together, the redhead’s chapped slightly from the colder air. Tilting his head, Grant was overcome with a taste of spice that lingered in Sherman’s mouth. He felt his eyes close as he melted into the kiss, sighing softly when Sherman’s lips left his for a moment before taking them again. His hands slide under Sherman’s arms, gripping the back of his coat tightly. Another wave of warmth ran through him when he felt the ginger’s arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Their noses bumped into each other, causing them to part.

Grant stared up at him, trying to catch his breath. Sherman’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, a pink hue covering his cheeks.

“…If that’s how you insist on ice cream, I guess I’ll have to say yes.”

The redhead stared down at him with a bewildered expression before laughing, leaning his forehead against Grant’s. Grant leaned back, trying to dig his hills into the cement to support the sudden weight, smiling. Their noses brushed briefly, Sherman lightly kissing again.

“I’m happy to hear it.”

#replies #aceofthyme #writing prompt ask #i also mixed in a bit from araiz's drawings...you'll see how :D #again i got overboard but ugh...i'm having fun with these dumb little meat cute aus

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tarithenurse · 3 years

Text

Nightingale - 24

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Hatake Kakashi &/x Fem!OC Contents: Bit of everything – fun, challenge, angst, feels, fluff, confusion, fear, violence. A/N: A long chapter for once o.O As usual, ASK or REBLOG for tag!

Ch. 24

Kakashi's mind is pendulumming between serene quiet and something similar to a wasp nest. One that has been kicked. As someone who's used to logical thinking, he finds the status quo unsettling...but also strangely invigorating despite not carrying any direct risks as supposed to many of his past experiences. Perhaps, at least this once, something can dull the ache he has known for years? Looking at the monument with its sharp lines defining the stones – a design befitting the weight of loss and memories – guilt rears its ugly head.

"Surviving while others pass on can be a burden sometimes," the creaky voice of the Hokage interrupts, "but perhaps our very duty is to do more than just survive. It's to live...because they cannot."

"Hmm." I refuse to forget them even if I one day move on.

The silence between the two men is not enough to stop the rustle of the wind as it rushes between the leaves.

Four days have passed since Kakashi found out he was the warden of Uguisu and he has been doing his best to pay attention to both her and Team 7 and keep their focus on training – a task that's annoyingly easy with the former. Where the trio barely contain their curiosity, the woman has become withdrawn. A logical reaction, the jōnin reminds himself often, but one that leaves him awake most of the night with a head full of worries and nightmarish scenarios.

"She never got to mourn her loved ones, Kakashi. A lone survivor, stranded in the middle of a war-to-be. Our new comrade will need time before she can recognize friend from foe," the old man wisely ponders."

"Haï." I can't push her. Only wait and be ready.

...

Two out of three genin are paying attention to the exercises, refining their techniques to minimize waste of chakra. The last, however, is obviously ogling the fifth person in the clearing and as a result earning his sensei's disapproval.

It isn't the first time Uguisu joins when she's finished her lessons at the Academy. In the beginning, she would sneak closer in the cover of the forest and sit down in a partially obscured spot where she could observe from. To Kakashi, it had brought a sense of familiarity. From the kids, once they noticed her, the primary reaction would be insecurity and it had forced her out of hiding and eventually into training along side them even if her focus had been on other techniques.

The kunai zips past the fox boy’s face and slams into the trunk of the stump with a thud.

“Hey!”

But the boy’s complains fall on deaf ears. “Stay aware of your surroundings at all times...without losing focus of the task at hand, Naruto.”

A mix between a scoff and a laugh slips from Sasuke, causing his team mate to cringe.

In a way, it feels like Kakashi has been in charge of the four “students” for years because he has already figured out their strengths and is trying to find ways to amend their shortcomings. And as the session comes to an end, bringing about sweet free time for the kids, the sensei has made a decision concerning Uguisu’s training.

“Iruka tells me you’re a diligent student,” the jōnin admits as they watch the trio leave, “not much for him to do but fill in some voids and have you polish off the theory. That’s good.”

“Thank you, Kakashi-sensei.”

It’s strange how a title he’s heard before without blinking can morph and affect him all of a sudden. The heart beats a little bit faster. The air is a slightly stuffier under the mask. And something in his pelvis tightens enough to tell him he’ll have a different task at hand later.

“Yeah...well...” He pulls out a little bell from a pocket and ties it to one of his belt loops. “I’m maybe more critical.” She arches an eyebrow as an unspoken demand for an explanation. “Genjutsu. Ninjutsu. They’re not the problem...taijutsu is. It made sense for Orochimaru to teach you according to your role off the battlefield and so close combat really isn’t your forte, is it?”

Uguisu scowls. “I can defend myself.”

“I’ve seen. But can you attack?” Gut tightened, Kakashi hates himself for what he’s asking of this woman who has been through hell and finally is beginning the long way back.

Maybe to the untrained eye, the change in her stance wouldn’t be noticeable – it is to any shinobi worth their salt. A slight inwards rotation of the right foot, knees bending a smidgen, hands flexing before summoning the hardness needed to land proper blows. Show me what you’ve got.

Planted solidly, he easily dodges the first blows by bending and twisting, but then Uguisu buckles down to the task. Step. Jump. Parry. They are reflexes rather than active decisions. All too obviously, she prepares for a roundhouse kick which Kakashi can avoid by back flipping away.

“You’re wasting energy with the big movements. Keep it tight and clean -” the jōnin instructs and exemplifies -“to minimize your opponent’s chance to read your actions beforehand.”

Returning to a defensive role, he observes as she tries to implement the pointer. Precise...yes. Pushing a flurry of jabs aside, Kakashi steps around her with ease. And at least she’s quick to orient herself, he admits while scrambling backwards because the student has followed him.

“The perfection of your defence -” he leaps over the woman before continuing -”is what you have to bring into an assault.”

The thin line of her mouth is probably the result of biting back some snarky comment, and Kakashi smiles behind the mask. Fear can lead to fight, flight or freeze...but anger and frustration, on the other hand. So to taunt her, frustrate her, he presents the body language of a bored person and offhandedly blocks and dodges anything Uguisu throws at him.

“Umph!”

Although the strength behind is lacking, the kick still sends the man stumbling backwards, sucking in deep breaths of air to replace what was forced from his lungs. It carries the scent of damp earth, bark, and cotton.

“Ha!” Uguisu triumphs briefly.

“It’ll take more than that.”

A single sign is all it takes for a second Kakashi to appear next to the real one in a puff of white smoke.

“Cheater,” she smirks, seemingly unsurprised by the added figure.

You’re smiling now... Already, he hates himself for what he’ll be doing and the only comfort is the sparring that precedes. Throwing himself into the battle (and keeping the copy on the sidelines), the jōnin coaxes and coaches is student through the moves she has trained on the dummy targets day in and day out.

Slowly, her confidence grows. Not perfect, but better.

“Come at me like you mean it.”

She manages a wry smile. “Intent to kill?”

Yes. A glint of steel in the lowering sun is the only warning the warden has, but he doesn’t mind as long as they follow his plan (one of them without knowing). Kakashi chooses to cheer the woman on instead, finally having to defend himself in earnest although she isn’t on the top 20 of dangerous opponents.

As if in a dance, they circle and move with each other. Step, and leaps, and rolls create a pattern in the trampled grass while continuously bringing the sparring partners closer to the Shadow Clone. Now! The smoke bomb obscures the entire area and forces the combatants to separate until the cloud has blown away – somewhere, Uguisu is using the pause to regain her breath and calm the nerves while the jōnin applies the disguise he’s prepared.

The smoke slowly dissipates, revealing how Uguisu has backed off and prepared herself for anything – almost anything as it turns out when she lays eyes on the adversary and her face contorts in fear. Don't freeze. But how can she not when the mask and wig resembles Orochimaru?

"Take a moment to refocus. Calm down." At least the voice isn't that of her former tormentor. "Breathe."

A kunai shakingly reflects the low sun, knuckles are white from the tight grip on it even as the woman's immediate reaction morphs into bitter resolve.

Kakashi barely manages to dodge the trio of shuriken and is granted no respite as he finds himself under a powerful assault. Pent up hatred swirls and coalesces to drive the blue-haired fury forward – and he lets her for a while. Counting each unused opportunity, the jōnin keeps tracks of how many times he could have fatally wounded her for a while.

"Enough!" A kick to the midriff sends Uguisu tumbling backwards, landing on her butt. "If you want to beat him, you've got to keep your wits!"

She's panting and sweating from the fruitless efforts, but the pallor of fear still clings to her skin. "Haï."

Looks like she means it. Kakashi's own view is restricted more than normal, but he recognizes the way a fighter would evaluate their target: dark eyes are identifying the weak spots, the disadvantages of the opponent. He can see, she has formulated some sort of plan as she pushes to the feet.

"Cheap trick," the woman comments, "but I get your point, sensei."

This time, both of them give as good as they get and the disguised man tries to push every single button he can in an effort to test Uguisu's mind and skills. Hmm, he parries a kick, technique's lacking. Too often, the strikes aimed at him are deflected, resulting in a waste of energy and a gain in frustration. As he begins to outmatch her efforts, he can see the fear return along with the dangerous openings. Using one of those weaknesses, Kakashi strikes quick as a snake, his fingers brushing the delicate skin on her throat before she evades him.

Twice more, similar near-finishes happen.

Finally fed up and pushed to her limits, Uguisu charges. Ignoring any inkling of self-preservation, she attempts a feigned attack towards his right flank followed immediately by a punch which could have broken his nose if he hadn't moved in time. Guiding the woman's movement into a spin, the jōnin leans into her back, a hand on her shoulder to illustrate a potentially fatal situation.

"Never rush in mindlessly." His voice is muffled by the Orochimaru-mask.

Under his hand, Uguisu is tense and shivering, her breath superficial even if she tries to control it enough to say, "I might've left myself open, but at least it's a draw."

"Huh?"

A slight pressure to the inside of Kakashi's left thigh makes him look down between them to find a kunai resting against between the creases of his trousers at the groin. Femoral artery. A slight jangle catches his ear from their other side.

"You used your frustration to distract me and let you close enough," he comments with an unseen smile.

"Hm-m. Now let go and get rid of that hideous stuff!"

...

Uguisu is silent as they walk side by side back to Konoha. I might have gone too far. Still pale, lips reduced to a thin line, the woman appears to be swept away by thoughts, and her warden is loathe to leave her alone in her current state.

"How 'bout a bowl of victory ramen?" he offers quietly.

Nodding silently, a strand of blue hair disentangling itself so she has to push it behind the ear, the girl follows.

It's not until they're sitting with each their own bowl of steaming hot noodles that the usual healthy colour returns to her cheeks although she remains quiet.

...

Kakashi can't sleep.

Again and again, he replays the evening's test and categorizes everything he has learned throughout it. As suspected, close combat isn't the woman's forte although there's hope for further improvement. What worries him the most, however, is the emotional burden she carries. It'll become a lia-

A gentle tap on the windowpane disrupts his thoughts and he turns to see a familiar silhouette perched outside which he waves to welcome in. The jōnin wants to reach out to her when she has settled in the window sill, wants to take her hand and apologize for the hardships and the trauma lingering. Instead, he lies quietly with the hands behind the head and watches her squirm for a while.

"Can I sit on the bed?"

Even without the small, shaky voice, he would have agreed in an instant and scoots over. Uguisu waits until he's in place once more, then she comes to sit in silence.

One minute. I wouldn't have to stretch my arm to reach her hand.

Three minutes. When does her breathing calm?

Eight minutes. Is that...? A thin path down her cheek glitters in the moonlight breaking through the clouds randomly. Shit. This is my fault. A logic thought protests against the claim to blame but is immediately drowned.

"Ugui-"

"Please, don't talk," she interrupts.

He shuts up not just because she asks him but because she reaches out and grabs his hand, sending a bucketful of nerves into overloading as they race to relay the input. Warm. Soft, despite the expected patches of callouses that match his own. A slight tremor runs from her to Kakashi and only diminishes as he caresses her knuckles with a thumb.

"Is't..? Would..?" Her blush is unreasonable adorable when combined with the meek stammer.

Pushing the pillow sideways, Kakashi tries to contain a giddiness. "You don't have to ask, just make yourself comfortable."

"Carte blanche to do anything I want?"

"Well..." He contemplates the possible risks. "Yeah."

Uguisu insists that he keeps the pillow as she lies down on the side with an arm under her head instead. Knees tucked towards the chest and a hand still clasping his, she finally seems to find a sort of peace. I should apologize. But as he formulates and discards a variety of sentences, the woman's eyelids grow heavy and soon, she's sleeping. It's a light sleep, disturbed by dreams that furrow her brows and the slightest movement by Kakashi – when he tries to reach over and pull the covers around her, she's startled awake.

Through the night, the jōnin doses on and off, comfortable with the sound of the second heartbeat travelling through the mattress and into his ear. Finally calm.

...

Maybe it's the cold, emptiness of his hand that wakes Kakashi...at least it's the first thing he registers, quickly followed by the awareness that the mattress is only giving in to the pressure of his own weight. When he opens the eye, the weak dawn is battling against clouds and the mind of the jōnin takes time to theorize that they grey layer won't recede during the day. Something else adds to the shadows still filling the room: Uguisu is standing by the window.

"Mrug'shu?" At least the curses are clearly articulated in Kakashi's mind.

A sad smile tugs at the woman's cheek, softened by the light. "Go back to sleep, 'Kashi...and...thank you."

"Always."

The window swooshes as it slides back and forth in the rail, cutting off the connection between the two of them. Whyyyyy? Rubbing his face hard and scratching the white hair until his scalp tingles, he's left with no answers and only the scent of cotton that lingers in the sheets next to him. That's it...the unbeatable Copy-Ninja has been defeated. I'm done for! If anyone was watching him, though, they'd see the mask pulled askew by a goofy smile.

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feel199x · 4 years

Text

TO PROTECT OUR DISTRICT ; CHAPTER XI - THE SUN, THE STARS

CHAPTERS: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI M.LST

mafia!au, ceo!hwang hyunjin, mafia boss!hwang hyunjin

♟️ warnings: blood, graphic depictions of violence, gun mention

♟️ summary: all that comes up must come down

♟️ a/n: hopefully this chapter builds some escalation!!

♟️ song rec: sunmi - black pearl and sunmi - curve

“I can’t depend on anyone but myself, Yugyeom.”

He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. You opted to let your eyes unfocus as it gazed up to the ceiling. The swirls in the ceiling blurred into a harsh nothingness and then it shifted into the comfortable void of dreaming. Well, lack thereof.

For the first time in a long time, you felt peace. It didn’t even matter that you knew it was fleeting. You just wanted to breathe. Wrapped in a warm void, you could feel time slipping and the clock turning, it was nothing, nothing at all. And it filled you up, immensely, gave you the content you needed.

When you awoke, you found yourself curled up in a ball, covered by a heavy blanket. A pang of nostalgia hit you, as you remembered the warmth of Hyunjin’s warmth. You furrowed your eyebrows, staring into the dark room. Damn him. What was happening, what you were doing was bigger than any man, any woman, any person. You stretched your limbs, a dull ache resting in your muscles.

You were bigger than him.

You sat up in your bed, listening as your back cracked, and fell back into place. You could continue sleeping, but you felt the energy creep back into your veins and into the grooves of your bones. Feet hitting the floor, door opening and closing, you ended up in the living room. There he was, sleeping soundly with a blanket from the storage. He looked so peaceful, his lips slightly parted and eyelashes long, that was the peace you were longing for.

But, now you were at a crossroads.

You couldn’t leave Yugyeom at your house, but there was also trouble with taking him out. His gang certainly wouldn’t be happy if they saw him roaming the streets, and you couldn’t risk taking him into the office. You leaned on the kitchen island, your mind scanning all scenarios. Rubbing your temples, you paced around the kitchen.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” you murmured, “But, this is all I can think of right now.”

He put his hand on your shoulder, rubbing your back. “You saved my life, _____. You’ve done more than enough.”

“I’ll come back before the day ends. Please be careful,” you handed him a handgun, “Just get through today.”

He took it carefully, almost like it would’ve gone off. Like he was scared of it.

“Don’t worry about me, okay?”

You smiled, “Someone has to.”

You turned on your heels, refusing to look back and think too hard. The bus ride was unremarkable, stuffy and full to the brim. You watched as the sun finally climbed it’s mountain and bore the weight of Prometheus. You gripped the hanging strap handle. The rubber burned the palm of your hand, but it was over as soon as it started. The chair behind the reception desk waiting for you, and you almost sighed as you sat on it. It was god awful and boring, and it lit you aflame like you were made of gasoline. You watched everyone come in, watching them watch you, their eyes unfiltered and patronizing. Taking calls as normal, writing notes, recording messages. It was mundane and unfulfilling.

You wrote a note to Jeongin, keeping it brief and vague just in case it was compromised.

Hyunjin knocked on your desk, and you looked up. He gave you a sickly sweet smile and leaned across the counter. “By the way,” he tapped his fingers, “Do you have the proof?”

You reached into your pocket, not breaking eye contact and let Yugyeom’s lock of hair fall. Hyunjin grabbed it and examined it for a few moments. “Great. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Extremely.”

He smiled again, “You’re gonna show me the body. Do you really think you could get by with something shit like this?”

You shrugged, “Killing him was more than enough. What did you want, a finger? Let’s go.”

He grabbed you by the wrist, “Let’s make something very clear, _____. You are my subordinate.”

“And what are you going to do about it daddy’s boy? Are you going to take me out execution-style?” Your voice rose, no doubt attracting eyes and ears to your scene. Before you could continue, Changbin pulled you back.

“Relax,” he murmured, “Don’t put it all on stake because of a little pettiness.”

You unclenched your fists and smoothed your pencil skirt. You smoothed out the static heat in your palms and waited for Hyunjin to make a move.

“Well,” Hyunjin motioned for the rest of the team to come on, “Let’s move past this high school drama, shall we?”

You opened your mouth, but Changbin squeezed your shoulder, giving you a slight shake with his head. You scolded yourself, not believing how juvenile you let yourself get. Chan gave you a concerned look, and then looked back at Hyunjin.

“It’s okay,” Changbin spun his keys around, “I’ll take _____.”

You pursed your lips and crossed your arms, gripping your biceps tightly. You looked up at Changbin, who asked you to wait without words. Your foot tapped harshly against the floor, and you stared at the neatly tiled floors beneath you. Once everyone was on the first elevator, you and Changbin descended into the entirely empty new one.

You bit your tongue, reminding yourself not to ask any questions that could compromise you, and especially not in a Hwang building. In silence, the both of you walked to the car. Once you were settled in, seatbelt buckled, and only when you were on the road did Changbin start to speak.

“I’m supposed to be leading the way, where did you dispose of the body?”

“Where else? The ocean. I took a boat way out into the open, and dropped him in there.”

“Did you really?”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Changbin was silent for a few moments, tapping the wheel in thought as his eyes stayed on the road, “How do you expect me to help you if you don’t trust me?”

“Trust you with what?”

Changbin scoffed, and gave the road a humorous smirk, his tongue grazing his cheek. “I know you know that I have some idea of what’s going on. Why wouldn’t I have told Mr. Hwang if that was the case?”

“Prove it, then.”

“I was assigned to follow you one of these nights, they’re not stupid enough to leave cameras in your house, and they know that you can tell when you’ve been searched. So, I watch you. I’ve seen you get up to go to the bathroom one too many times, I’ve seen you stay there a minute too long. I know sometimes you go out, but I never find out where.” he paused, then spoke up again, “This what they think I’m doing right now too. Mr. Hwang wanted to take you, but his mouth got to him,” he sighed, looking as if he were trying to word things carefully, “He loves you, ____. In spite of what he does, he loves you.”

“Fuck him.”

He opted to stop the conversation there. Soon, the car was trembling as your rode onto unpaved paths and dirt roads. The car came to a stop at a lonely, solemn pier with only one boat riding miserably on the sea’s sobs. He parked the car, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But if it goes to shit, know I got you- but you owe me. You need to tell me what’s going on so I can help. It’s big, and I know it. If it’s tearing this place to shreds, you need to let me know. I might not hate this place as much as you do, but I hate it enough to watch it burn and dance in the ashes.”

You rolled your shoulders back, looking onto the horizon as if you could dream of a better future on the other side. “Okay.” you resigned, “Okay.”

You stepped out of the car and crossed your arms, staring at the legion of luxury cars that sat in front of you.

Hyunjin stepped out first, everyone else following suit and falling behind them as if they were merely puppets, clay, and molded to Hyunjin’s liking.

He had his hands in his pockets, and stared at the sea before him. “You think you’re smarter than me? I’m gonna have a team here by nightfall, and you better have something to show for it.”

“Sorry, is daddy’s boy gonna throw a tantrum because he didn’t get what he wanted?” you scoffed, “Go fuck yourself.”

You walked back to Changbin’s car, slamming the door shut as you sat angrily. Changbin came in after you, giving you a look but saying nothing. You watched through the the side-view window as the cars pulled out.

For someone who’s usually so good at controlling her temper, it irks the bones out of your skin to let Hyunjin get to you like that. Not even his father can push you like that, and if you can’t pull this off, you’d get yourself killed soon enough for being disrespectful.

You looked at Changbin, “You swear, Changbin, you swear that you’re gonna get me out of this? You swear I can trust you?”

“More than you could understand.”

You bit your lip, “Okay,” you breathed, “Okay. Meet me here, okay? I’ll let you know when.”

He nodded, taking the receipt you had found on the floor that now included an address. You hoped to whatever powers there were in the universe that you had another ally. You hoped, god, you hoped this wasn’t the end.

The sky fell into darkness much faster than you hoped, but it was ideal to have no shadow in the void of night as you went to pick up Yugyeom. It was nothing too disheartening, he was in the abandoned building, the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants.

The ride back was quiet, even if there was an unspoken anxiety as you took Yugyeom back to the Hwang Estate. You tried to keep yourself upright, but your eyes were heavy. You kept slumping over, but the drumming of your heart kept you awake.

The night was heavy, neither of you sleeping. A gun was in your wake, your hand gripped on the handle. You roamed around the house, trying to make it seem like you were just getting up for some water, but you were aware that it was not at all convincing. Yugyeom tried to make it seem like he was sleeping, but he moved too often for him to be asleep. Sitting next to his torso on the couch, finally, you spoke up.

“Yugyeom.”

“Yeah?”

You heard him get up, you turned your head, his nose touching yours. But, instead of turning away, you looked deep in his eyes. “Tell me something. Anything. Who were you before this?”

He turned his body all the way, completely facing you and you mirrored him. “I did it ‘cause it paid, it seemed like a no brainer at the time,” he paused, but didn’t avert his gaze, “My favorite color was red,” he looked away, taking a longer pause, “ I like r&b, you ever listen to it?”

“No.”

“I’ll show you some time,” he murmured, “when all of this is over.”

“Yugyeom?”

He hummed in response.

“Can you sleep with me tonight? Just in the same bed. You don’t have to-”

“Yeah. It’s better than the couch, right?”

He told you about his childhood friends and his parents. He described the playground from his elementary school and the fights he got into in high school. There was an ache in you, heavier than nostalgia. He told you about slides and woodchips, about sandboxes and swings, and getting cuts and bruises from playing too hard. He got a dreamy look in his eyes when he talked about his friends, and when he reminisced about how good his mother’s cooking was.

“Why are you crying, ____?”

You let out a little gasp, and wiped them off of your face, but they kept coming anyway. He cupped your face, wiping them off with his thumbs. “I’m not,” you laughed, “I’m not.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m just sorry, sorry you ended up here. I’m sorry this is happening to you and it probably hurts so much and I,” you gasped for air between your tears, “I miss your childhood for you.”

“Each day comes with a new death, _____. We just pray it’s not our reason for living.”

“Your peace is not a martyr to be sacrificed.”

“Death comes with a rebirth, we will find our peace again.”

“Death will be my peace.”

He shushed you, shaking his head, and wiping your tears again. “New days are coming.” He brushed your wet hair off of your face. “Get some rest.” You turned around, the burden of existing coming down at you like godly wrath and righteousness. It burned inside you, and you felt the ashes of your soul choke and simmer. When your eyes finally gave up to the thankless tire of keeping yourself up, you found yourself in a wasteland.

Your mother and father, standing in a picturesque scene, holding a bouquet of wilting flowers. Sir Hwang appeared in the middle, his face obscured, but his suit bright and shiny. In his hand, he held a pair of crimson scissors, and he cut the flower’s stem, making the bud fall to the ground. You looked down to see the same color blood streaming down your hands, dried blood under your nails. You panicked, wiping them off on your arms and clothes. You could feel yourself cry, but it was everywhere. You ran through the fields, a continuous space of green that stretched and stretched. You woke up then, crying.

Yugyeom immediately hugged you. “You will find peace,” he said, “I promise you will find peace.”

He pulled you in, and having the weight of his arms around grounded you. Even with your back pressed against his chest, you could feel the steadiness of his heartbeat. It fell into a familiar rhythm, one that seemed so human, so comforting. Your face still tear-stained and sticky, you stilled your breathing enough to get Yugyeom so he’d think you fell back asleep.

Soon, you guys had fallen into a routine. Routines were dangerous, you had told Yugyeom. It worried you, knowing that not having a variety of routines would put everything at stake, and then burn it. But, he assured you, that he could handle himself, and each day you handed him one of your handguns and he disappeared into the dark of the abandoned works. Each day, as you left and returned to the building, a fear arose in you like flames of a burning bush, as if an omen was brought up to you and you hadn’t listened to it. Each day, you feared that you’d find Yugyeom lying on the floor in a bloody mess.

As more time passed, the more it worried you. To find a gaping hole in his flesh, to see his livelihood spill onto the floor. You didn’t know what was worse, that you’d see his life stain your hands in bright red or that you’d find it dried on the rotting tiles around him.

“____, ____.”

You jumped a little, looking up from your keyboard. “Sorry, Changbin, what can I do for you?”

“I need you to fax something for me, please take a look at it.”

You took the paper, relaxing your shoulders. “Of course, no problem.”

You looked at the paper, glancing over it quickly.

The port for the arms and drug paraphernalia has been changed again, below is the new address. Scheduled for tonight. There have been new updates on who is attending the festival.

Shit, shit!

Your shoulders tensed, and you suddenly remembered the gunshot wound. You had forgotten to take care of it the past couple of days, and it seems the stitches have come undone from stress. Blood began to prick the blouse you wearing, and suddenly you remembered Sir Hwang’s fingers and the pain seemed to increase, possess you with the spirit of the past.

You felt eyes on you as you winced, pressing your index finger upon the wound before deciding what you were going to do. You turned, and found Hyunjin staring at you from his office. The glass windows provided little privacy for him, a man who seemed to bathe in mystery. He didn’t glance down either, instead lifting an eyebrow.

You couldn’t read the expression on his face, and you were sure it was because he didn’t want you to. He wanted you to be shrouded in mystery, always wondering if what once was can be again.

You ignored him, making your way to the bathroom. Babylon fell, and this empire will too. If that means Hyunjin burns in the sacrifice, then so be it.

As you made your way to the bathroom, the elevator dinged and you saw all the other boys come onto the floor. It had been weeks since you’ve seen them last. Woojin nodded his head at you respectfully, and you made a mere moment of eye contact with Jeongin.

Now, the both of you seemed to say.

You turned on your heel, suddenly finding the meeting much more important that tending to your wound. All the world’s a stage, you suppose.

Hyunjin stood at the door, and put his hand up once you got to the door. “You’re bleeding.”

“So? This is more important.”

“You’re not necessary. And your blood stained clothes set a bad image, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth and Hyunjin shushed you, brushing his thumb across your lips for a moment too long. You swore, you swore you saw a look of longing in his eyes. “Watch your mouth, ___. Don’t embarrass the honor of the district you swore to uphold,” he moved his cold hand to the back of your neck, and traced the number nine at the nape of your neck, “Don’t forget who you belong to.”

You bit your tongue, and smiled sweetly, “Yes, Mr. Hwang.”

He smiled, his eyes turning into crescent moons and the little birthmark under his eye becoming even more apparent. “Don’t you forget, I’m your god and your will is mine.”

And you were in that room again, Sir’s fingers deep in your wounds, the white that made your blood freeze and blinded you. “Of course,” you choked out, “Of course.”

It was unlike you, but you left. You needed to get out, leave. You wish you could disappear, just become the wind and let it’s current take you. You walked for a long time, a very long time. You could feel the warmth of blood still dripping from your wound, but you didn’t stop. It was night, and you found a phone booth. You dialed the anonymous hotline and whispered to the operator and address.

An eye for an eye, maybe the whole world would go blind but you sure as hell had your sight.

There was the bridge that overlooked one of the lesser used ports in the city, there were nearly no boats, except for a few modest ones. You walked, trying to find the fire escapes that lined the walls of a few buildings, and hoisted yourself up. It was risky, you knew, but soon they’d have bigger problems on their hands than a local tending to their rooftop garden. Still, you made sure you were non-existent to the naked eye. And soon, you heard it. The wailing of the sirens. There was nowhere to go, and god it felt good to see divinity fall. Everything seemed to move in a blur, you dropped to the ground as soon as you heard the gunshots. You reached for your gun, keeping it close to your face and crawled carefully to the edge of the roof.

The cops and men from District Nine stood behind each of their respective cars, and it was a reckless and unstrategic mess. You couldn’t stay for long, you knew that much, but you picked up on something. One of the girls from the file, there she was. Her ponytail up high and whipping with the wind of the ocean breeze.

You remembered Yugyeom, suddenly, and panicked. The impulsivity of your actions finally dawned on you, and you threw yourself onto the roof of an adjacent building. How far were you from the abandoned building? You weren’t sure. But you knew you had to get there, you knew and your knowledge might not be enough to save you.

You collapsed into the building after running for who knows how long, you could feel your ribs right like a corset around your organs, but you screamed, “Yugyeom? Yugyeom! Yugyeom, please?”

You felt a hand on your shoulder and gasped, pulling and aiming your gun. “_____, it’s just me. I was worried about you. And, uh, some of your friends are here.”

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you along gently to a secluded area. There sat Changbin and Jeongin, and you were glad their faces were obscured by the dark.

“I can explain-”

“No need,” Changbin put his hand up, “Yugyeom here has done quite a bit of talking.”

“Plus,” Jeongin added, “You must be exhausted. How long have you been out in the cold?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “time tends to slip by me.”

Changbin sighed, folding his hands on his lap. “You know, we’re here to help you. I’m sure you could handle this by yourself, but it doesn’t hurt to have friends.”

“Did you hear about the bust?”

“You reported it? Just like that?”

“There were so many cops, I watched them from the rooftop,” you went on, “it was amazing. And that girl- Yeji, she was there. We can use her help.”

“Oh, shit,” Changbin sighed, “Listen, ____, I’m glad you were able to pull it off, but that was supposed to be just a tip. They should’ve watched the port before making a move. Which isn’t your fault, of course. It just means we’re gonna have to keep it low key, so try not to do anything like that without talking to us, okay?”

You stood there for a second, “You’re right,” you murmured, “I’m sorry.”

But you know you would’ve done it again if you had gotten a do-over.

“Well, we have an in now.”

“I think it’s a gamble. Sir Hwang and Kim have ties everywhere, and I still think it’s too much of a risk.”

You pursed your lips, “I think the best thing we can do is dismantle the current system. If we can make them question their loyalty, then they weren’t all that loyal in the first place. I mean, what’s their main reason for doing whatever Sir wants? Take that away, and all you have is the fear. And that’s more powerful than anything.”

Changbin’s voice arose, “That could take months, years even. We need to do that on an accelerated basis, and a very careful and precise one at that.”

Yugyeom chipped in, “I could help. They told me a lot of stuff, in our gang. I was in charge of some of the stuff. Then it’d be harder to tell where the information came from.”

Everyone stood silent, and Yugyeom’s voice came out from the darkness, “I think we’re at a standstill, for now, I think that we should take a moment and think. A lot has happened today, and from what it sounds like, if any of you are gone any longer.”

You parted ways, and followed a very careful route back to the estate. You made sure the coast was clear, and let Yugyeom come back into the house. And as he fell asleep in your bed, you made your way up to the garden.

Winter was coming and taking it’s toll on the earth. It’s cold was harsh. Uncaring, and it splintered the slight frost on cheeks. It forced the sun to a slumber, and even when it is known that it will awaken again, we all seem to forget. We forget until it arises, bleeding its life all over the sky, and then we forget there was ever a time when the sky was barren.

You smoothed your hair down and into your hoodie, pulling your scarf up your nose. Although the bitterness of the cold would freeze the soil and mercilessly kill all the plants, somehow, the garden’s plants seemed to thrive. It was unsettling, but their beauty still entranced you. The nostalgia killed you.

The koi pond was icy at the top, the water still running but thin sheets of glassy water floating on the top. It didn’t bother the koi fish, who merrily swam in the large pond that stretch across the garden in forks like a river. You stepped in, feet first, feeling the frost in your toes immediatedly. You took a step forward, but it was deeper than you thought, stumbling, suddenly you were just below waist deep with the koi. You raised your arms above you, drop of water falling on the crown of your head and cascading down your face. The koi fish, surprisingly, did not mind your presence, and circled around you; nibbling at the hem of your shirt. The koi fish let you stroke your finger at the top of their head, and you enjoyed it, even as the frostbite started to eat at your fingertips.

“It’s been a while.”

“Go to hell.”

“Only when I buy it, my dear.”

You remained seated in the cold pond water, the fish swimming far from you. The cold water began to intrude your clothing. It rose and prickled your skin, the way ice splinters through its cube. It was numbing, and it a comfortable hold on you.

“What do you want?”

“You know, I have been walking this garden everyday in hopes to see you. You and I both know you don’t just come here because it’s pretty.”

Your eyes stayed upon the water, and you looked up at him. “Aren’t you tired? Every time you’ve tried to hurt me, to catch me in some kind of act, or to set me up for some sort of failure, you’ve failed. So tell me, who’s pathetic here?”

He grabbed your face and dunked you underwater, you could barely make out what he was saying. He held you by your throat, letting the water fill your nostrils, and letting short eternities pass him by with shallow grace. You couldn’t see, his figure blending in with the void of night. He let go finally, opting to pull you by the hair. His hand sat on the crown of your head, pressure on your scalp as he forced you to look at him.

“I won’t kill you, because you’ll end up doing that to yourself. You’ll end up just like her, if you don’t watch it. The only end you’ll see is yours. I can’t wait to see you hanging from the ceiling fan.”

He let go of the fistful of your hair, throwing you back and then kicking you in the chest.

“The funeral is in a week. You’re speaking, and think twice of what you say.”

You watched him walk away in silence, blending into the night before him. Your mind went blank, the cold freezing you up. You floated there, on top of the pond. Body bobbing, your face sometimes dipping underwater.

Yugyeom was sitting at the edge of your bed as you arrived, a stream following your steps. He took you into his arms suddenly, and you felt the squeeze at your ribs, feeling your bones crack. You didn’t try and slither out, you just lay there like a ragdoll in his arms.

“Are you okay?” he spoke softly, his voice barely a murmur.

“No,” you cried, “No, I’m not, Yugyeom.”

He let go of you and you collapsed on the floor, rubbing your eyes so hard they felt like they were bruised. He left the room and brought back a towel and some clothes, helping you up, he put your arms around his shoulder and aided you in walking to the bathroom.

“You could catch a cold.”

“He’s so evil, Yugyeom. I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t bring him down, I can’t save you,” you gasped, “I can’t even save myself.”

He sat you down on the toilet seat and cupped your face, and you looked up at him, barely making out his face between your cloudy eyes and raining tears. “You’re gonna get through this. Just take it day by day, okay? Let’s just get through right now.”

Yugyeom began to sing to you quietly, a last attempt to get you to calm down. He was crouched by you, holding your hand. Your head found it’s resting place on his shoulder, and he used his free hand to move your hair to the side, the nape of your neck exposed. He stopped singing briefly, and squeezed your hand tightly.

“Get cleaned up, okay? I’ll go get you some warm blankets. I don’t want you to get pneumonia.”

Somehow, you fell asleep. Yugyeom held you close, even as your wet hair stained his shirt and you knew you were stealing his warmth. He laid there, with you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe. The gun sat in the drawer of your nightstand rather than clenched inside your hand.

The next morning went by quietly, but loudly in actions. Yugyeom’s looks lingered. His touches lasted for a moment too long to be entirely friendly. Before leaving, Yugyeom pulled you, his face maybe a breath away, his lips-

“Be careful,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead, “please.”

You rubbed the middle of your forehead, smiling to yourself as the memory replayed yourself in your head. But then there the feeling was again, water rising from the bottom of your lungs, drowning you inside out. You coughed, gasping, and this elicited a look from everyone around you. Your mind was full, bursting, you thought about the necklace of rope, you thought of the last image of your father. You pressed your hands together, your palms burning and aching for blood to return them.

The Hwang building loomed over, stretching over you and peeling the sky off the heavens. How much longer could it last, and when would god strike it down into the fragments that had once come together?

Hyunjin stood idly by your desk, his arms crossed as he looked at the mass of cubicles that filled the office. He smiled at you as you came in, and you gave him a polite smile. It was still dark as settled into your designated space.

Something seemed off, the air shifty and you were losing your mind. Chan appeared by your desk and you looked at him warily, “How can I help you?”

“I just wanted to know if you were okay. The funeral, you know.”

“I’m a big girl, Chan. I can handle myself.”

He sighed, “We’re here for you, okay? You can trust us.”

“Sure.”

“Hyunjin,” he paused, “We think it’s best if you go home. Take a break.”

“No, thanks.” you hadn’t meant to, but you seemed to hiss it, “I could miss another important meeting.”

“We let Changbin take you back, he cares about you, ____. We all do.”

You hated it, hated every word. The pity, the “poor girl” glances, you hated it. You were not a wounded animal.

“Fine. Fine. Changbin, let’s go.”

Changbin knew to keep silent, and you silently fumed in the expensive car. God, you hated all of this. He picked up Yugyeom, and left the both of you to walk to the estate wordlessly.

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Don’t you know that I’m sunshine?”

Yugyeom snorted, “Yeah, okay, Ms. Raincloud.”

“That means I have lightning. But even without it, I could kill you, so watch it.”

“Feisty,” he nudged you, “That’s hot.”

“I’m going to commit first degree murder.”

“But, seriously, can you teach me how to fight?”

You shrugged, “Sure.”

Oh, the things we do to rid ourselves of reality’s wounds.

You bounced on your feet, and Yugyeom did the same. You showed him how to move around an opponent, but he couldn’t follow you. He was awkward with his long legs, stumbling over himself. You flipped him over, and he landed on his back, groaning.

“I thought you were gonna go easy on me.”

You tilted your head, “This is me being easy.”

He got up cautiously, eyeing you with a newfound hesitation. He kept his hands ready, and started to bounce on the balls of his feet. You came behind him again, your back pressed against his, and swept his feet. He tumbled again, and laying on his back he closed his eyes. Out of instinct, you leaned over him. “Hey. I didn’t mean to hurt you too badly, are you-?”

Before you could finish, his knees met your chest and he threw you up, his arms throwing you over his own body. You slapped the mattress, your back feeling a slight sting even with its inherent softness.

He was on top of you, heaving, his arms on either side of your face and his legs trapping your frame under his. His hair stuck to the top of his head, sweat glistening his face. You laid there awkwardly, taking in his details. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the curves of his lip, and the birthmark beneath his eye. He got up suddenly, clearing his throat.

“I must be pretty good if I beat you, huh?”

“If you call juvenile pranks and not knowing how to counter strategically, then sure, you’re pretty good.”

You gasped as a pain shot up your entire upper body.

“Oh, shit.”

Yugyeom turned and looked at you feeling the mistreated wound. “What happened?”

“I got shot.”

“You what?”

“It was at that diner, I keep forgetting to take care of it.”

“Dumbass. Let me take care of it.”

“No, listen, I can do it myself.”

He cupped your face, “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

Yugyeom smiled at you, glancing up at you every few moments. He was sitting across from you, tending to your wounds gently and carefully.

“I learned it ‘cause my friends are dumb too,” he said quietly, “And I was the only one smart enough to tend to it.”

You kept silent, unsure of what to say. It hurt however, and you grimaced every once in a while, making a small whimper. He paused every couple seconds, asking you if it hurt. Finally, he finished placing the bandage like a cherry on top.

He pulled you up, and he held your hand tightly for an awkward moment even as you were standing straight. He let go, giving you a small smile.

“You should wash up first,” he said, “you have a long day ahead of you.”

Your breath caught in your lungs, and you looked away. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

The reflection that the mirror held up in an unholy grace seemed unfamiliar to you, the person standing before it. Spilling form your eyes was the image you found of your mom, there where you found her. You hadn’t seen your father since the ceremony. Your eyes reddened, thinking of all the things you could’ve said to your parents. All the things you should’ve said.

You cried as you applied makeup, pulling at your face roughly. You felt so stupid, so incredibly stupid. The black dress you wore made you look like the angel of death, weeping silently and solemn.

You bid Yugyeom goodbye, making sure not to look at him as you stepped out. You took your time, walking through the long halls. Your heels clicked against the marble floors, echoing infinitely down the hall. You were not the first at the service, but everyone gave their regards to you. Sir hwang, however, stood at the pulpit near the caskets. You looked at you father, and his face looked strained even in his place of rest. How could that be? You gripped the casket, and your head dropped over his body.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, “I swear, I swear, I will give you the peace you dreamed of.”

You let out a deep gasp, and sucked a breath back in. And walked towards your mother. You felt so much, you wanted to scream at her for leaving you and you wanted her back. You could see the makeup around her neck and you couldn’t look at her anymore.

You sat at the front, feeling everyone’s eyes flicker to you every few moments. Everyone spoke, and then, right before you went up to speak, Sir Hwang took your place at the pulpit. He stood upon his soapbox, and you knew whatever he was going to preach was retribution for whatever sins had condemned you.

“____ 's parents have not lost their lives in vain, I hope. All of you know the great assets that they were to this district. ____ 's father took his life to avoid interrogation. To protect our integrity, our legacy. And her mother, in grief, and in danger of compromising a mission, took her life. But she, too, did her job well. Espionage is not easy, after all.”

He smiled at you, “And our dear, ____. How much trouble she’s caused. I don’t know where she got her mouth. Such a witty girl, knows a lot. Too much, perhaps. My son, she’s embarrassed him several times to rivals- nay, subordinates and leeches, because she is headstrong. I don’t know where she was taught this, but I believe that we must nip this in the bud. ____ is such a beautiful flower, why should she wilt? And as their parents have proved their dedication to this district, to all that we have worked for and protected. For the empire that takes over, now is the time that she proves herself to us.”

Your heart was ramming, trying to escape your chest. Sir Hwang beckoned you to his side and then pulled you in front of him. The both of you stood in between your mother and father’s casket, Sir Hwang put one hand on your shoulder, and lifted your hand with his free one. And in your hand, he slipped something.

A match.

#hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin imagines #stray kids hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin fic #skz hwang hyunjin #skz #skz fic #skz imagines #skz au #stray kids #stray kids hyunjin #stray kids imagine #stray kids imagines

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lovingsiriusoswald · 5 years

Text

You Look Peaceful When You Sleep - Sirius Oswald x Sophia Olympia [Cradlesona]

|| see soph’s profile ||

Genre: Angst, fluff

Notes: I sent this on cradlesona discord a long while back when I couldn’t sleep and I’ve been lacking content on here so orz

Warnings: Implied character death

✧༝┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉༝✧

He fell asleep on his seat again.

Sophia entered his room to drop off some tea, but it looked like it was no longer needed to encourage him to take a break. She sighed, her lips painting a gentle smile at the pure sight.

She quietly placed the tray down at the table, then grabbed a blanket to tuck him in.

Sirius looked so peaceful when he slept. The stress and worry of his workload were temporarily non-existent in these moments -- a much needed break for always working so hard.

She sat down beside him, a little close to the edge of the sofa to gaze upon his effortlessly handsome features. She giggled softly, just before leaning close to his eyelid and planting a heartfelt angel's kiss on his warm skin.

His eyes slowly fluttered open, softening to a loving gaze as he realized that it was her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close again, her hands on top of his shoulders and her leg rising to kneel on the sofa to support her balance.

"I love you, my little breath."

The words turned into blue butterflies that perched on her shoulder, the undeniable feeling of her adoration for this man in her arms continuously growing at every second.

She places another angel's kiss.

His warm skin turned cold against her lips and her eyes shot wide, realizing that he was now laying down against a bed of white lilies. The butterflies' wings shed their majestic blue hues to dull brown ones and fluttered away, creating a maelstrom overhead. Her hand was placed against his chest -- perfectly still, unbeating, and empty.

Tears were falling from her eyes and onto his cheek, not even flinching against the feeling of her confusion and grief. The clouds darkened and she felt the pit in her stomach increasing the longer she looked at his lifeless body.

But against all of these; he was radiant, glowing, and smiling.

He looked so peaceful when he was asleep.

She hoped that he would wake up when she kissed her against his eyelid -- but he was peaceful.

She was never one for wishing, but at that moment;

"I wish you woke up like you always did."

Her body shook as she shot awake, startled at the sudden drop of her heart. Sirius's hold on her tightened, snapping her out of her confusion.

"Are you alright?"

Soph's wide eyes stared back at his, still adjusting in the dark but she could clearly see the worry on his face.

It was just a dream.

Yet the feeling of loss and grief lingered at the too realistic nightmare and fed the void that filled her heart -- and she sobbed.

She threw her arms around his neck and clung onto him as if the world would take him away so suddenly like in the scenario she's just witnessed, desperately trying to stop her fears from taking over and convincing herself that he was still there, alive and breathing and living.

"It was just a dream, my little breath."

He whispered very softly against her ear, holding her much closer to him and she nodded against the crook of his neck. Her tears stained his shirt and the skin of her bare neck and collarbone while the cold wind wrapped around her legs and reminded her of the heartache.

"You'll stay alive for me, right?"

He stilled for one moment, then brought the gold band on her finger against his lips.

"I will. I promise."

He smiles wider, the reassurance of his promise dissipates the void in her stomach and the weight off of her shoulders. He cradled her in his arms until her breaths calmed from shuddering to rhythmic. He gently kissed the swollen, warm skin of her eyelid.

She finally looked peaceful when she slept.

#cradlesona #ikerev #ikerev oc #ikemen revolution #sirius oswald #ikerev sirius #ikerev fanfic #fanfiction #wowowow soph is writing #this was honestly a vent bc wow i suddenly felt very sad that day at 2 am #also little breath is a nickname that i will die for

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fortunatelylori · 5 years

Note

Hey, fortunatelylori! I'm sorry if this question is dumb or if this is just not "your sphere of interest", but what do you think of Tyrion Targaryen theory? Well, not a Targaryen actually, since he'd be a bastard according to that theory. I feel like we were given foreshadowing in the show, but my question is - where does it go? Why do we need him as a son of Mad King? What for, what'd it affect? I really don't want to bother you with this, I just felt like you might have the best explanation.

Hey, @casualpolicepenguin!

Your question is absolutely not dumb nor is there any need to apologize. I love talking about ASOIAF/GOT. That’s why I have a blog, after all. Also it’s nice to get asks that aren’t only about Jonsa/D*ny since talking about the same things over and over again gets stilted after a while. Particularly when there’s no new content … Still salty about that, in case you couldn’t tell. :)))

The Tyrion Targareyen bastard theory really frustrates me and I don’t believe there’s any real reason why it should have been embraced by the fandom at large with the amount of certainty that it has since the reasons why it’s so popular feel flimsy and more like wish fulfillment to me than anything else.

So I guess a good place to start is to attempt to break it down and see what the actual evidence for it is. In case I miss something along the way, guys, please feel free to step in and add to it. I think it’s important when talking about a theory, even one we don’t agree with, to analyze all the evidence presented and not just the pieces we can debunk.

So what is this theory exactly?

It all seems to hanker back to Aerys “Mad King” Targareyen’s acrimonious relationship with Tywin Lannister and Tywin’s insistence that Tyrion is not his son. The theory goes that during Joanna Lannister’s visit to King’s Landing when she presented child twins Jaime and Cersei to the court, Aerys raped Joanna and impregnated her with Tyrion, thus making Tyrion the blood of the dragon.

Based on this first assumption, the theory delves further and designates Tyrion as the 3rd dragon rider who together with D*ny and Jon are destined to save the world from the White Walker apocalypse, thus linking him to the “Dragon must have 3 heads” theory.

Right off the bat this theory is based more on assumption than canon evidence because several things need to be true in order to confirm this theory, all of them doubtful:

Joanna was raped by Aerys

This is based on the Anniversary Tourney in King’s Landing in 272 AC incident, during which Aerys insulted Joanna by asking her if nursing her children had ruined her breasts, and the king refused the outraged Tywin’s resignation the next day. Aerys, being the asswipe that he was, had expressed similar sentiments regarding Joanna in the past, going as far as to compare his wife to her and find her lacking because Joanna had given Tywin two healthy children unlike Rhaella who struggled with miscarriages through out their marriage (as well as systematic abuse and rape at the hands of her husband).

Does this mean there’s reason to believe Aerys would go as far as to rape Joanna? I don’t believe so. Aerys might have been attracted to her but the insults he piled on her were less for his own enjoyment and more towards humiliating Tywin in front of the court, because Aerys hated and feared him in equal measure.

I think it’s safe to say he wouldn’t go as far as to rape Joanna because that kind of thing wouldn’t have gone unnoticed and would have certainly provoked Tywin into some very serious war-related action and as mad as Aerys was I doubt he would have gone as far as all that considering he could have executed Tywin the way he did the Starks and never did.

Part of the reason why Aerys hated Tywin Lannister as much as he did was because he needed him. In fact he was dependent on him and slighting him by raping his wife would have been something that Tywin, one of the most vengeful people in this series, would have never tolerated, not only because he loved his wife but also because Tywin’s greatest fear in life is being made a fool of or for people to assume that he’s not strong enough to retaliate.

Which brings us to:

Tywin saying Tyrion is not his son

Should we take at face value that Tywin has reasons to suspect Tyrion is not his son? Again, I don’t think so. If Tywin had any inkling that Tyrion was not actually a Lannister, he would have killed him the moment he was born. He might have spared him had Joanna lived but since she died giving birth to him, there would have been no one to stay his hand from doing it.

The only reason why Tyrion survived into adulthood was because despite his hatred of his son, Tywin knew he was a Lannister.

This links back to the importance that Tyrion actually be Tywin’s son because if he isn’t, then Tywin’s rejection of him loses narrative import.

The way GRRM has set-up Tyrion’s narrative is that he is slowly but surely turning into his father: the increasing fear and resentment of being mocked, the terrifying degree of vengefulness, his increasingly abusive relationship with Penny, his cruelty towards the sex slaves he encounters in Slaver’s Bay, etc. - they all point to Tyrion becoming more and more like Tywin. What GRRM is doing with this character is applying dramatic irony: the son that Tywin rejected, the one that was most traumatized and in fear of him, that seemingly rejected his worldview is the one that ends up resembling him the most.

Tyrion not being Tywin’s son would take the narrative equivalent of a sledge hammer to all that development and declare it null and void.

“The Dragon must have 3 heads” prophecy is about the War of the Dawn

We simply do not have enough information about this prophecy in order to make that assumption. We don’t even know if Raeghar Targareyen believed it to be the case or if he was pursuing the fulfillment of this prophecy for different reasons. Also considering the utter mess that Raeghar inflicts upon himself and the world, it’s doubtful that even if he believed the 3 heads of the dragon to be the solution to the White Walker threat that he did, in fact, interpret it correctly. My suspicion is he didn’t but again we don’t know anything about this prophecy aside from Raeghar’s cryptic words and that D*ny has 3 dragons, two of which do not have riders at this time.

By making Tyrion the son of Aerys, and thus the blood of the dragon, GRRM would also duplicate Jon’s narrative role and arc. In this scenario, Tyrion would be a royal bastard, hidden away for years, ignorant of his origins or his true importance. I’m sorry but that feels repetitive as hell.

GRRM’s works with narrative foils as well as the “everything is something you have seen before” type of cyclical plotting but he’s already set up foil for Jon in this regard (Jon has several) and that’s the Young Griff. He’s the heir who has been hidden away and now sets on the path to reclaim his birthright. Except that if the Young Griff is Jon’s foil that, by definition, means he isn’t who he appears to be which is the twist in his story.

There is no twist in Tyrion actually being Aerys’ son, but rather a rehash of Jon’s plotline. Nor can he be a foil for Jon because he’s never been set up as one.Also considering the mountain of evidence GRRM set-up for the R + L = J theory, the flimsiness of the Tyrion Targ bastard theory is even more glaring.

Then there’s Bran’s arc to consider. His story parallels the legend of the Last Hero, the man that ended the first long night. If the 3 heads of the dragon are going to end the apocalypse, what is Bran’s importance to the narrative? It seems dubious to me that he would take a secondary role in the conflict that he’s linked to directly.

In terms of foreshadowing in the books/show, personally I find the pieces rather unconvincing:

Both in the books and in the show, Tyrion talks about dragons with wonder and awe and mentions having dreams about them as a child.

We do know that Targareyens tend to be plagued by prophetic type visions and dreams about dragons and fire so people assume that’s what Tyrion had as well. But I disagree.

From the way it’s framed, Tyrion talks about his childhood fascination with dragons in the same way a kid today might talk about a T-Rex. It doesn’t seem strange to me that a kid as intellectually curious and as fond of reading and stories like Tyrion would be fascinated with dragons.

In addition to that, this could foreshadow Tyrion meeting D*ny and playing a role in her council. Targareyen bastard isn’t really the only option why this might be employed.

Also, compare Tyrion’s recollection of his dreams with D*ny’s visions prior to hatching her dragons. Really not on the same level.

In the show, Tyrion interacts with D*ny’s dragons and they don’t burn him alive

This one is the only thing that truly gives me pause because I can’t figure out why the writers chose to include it. Partly, I assume it’s meant to show us how brilliant and awesome Tyrion is for not only figuring out that the dragons need to be unchained but also that he’s so persuasive that the usually violent creatures don’t harm him.

It would be interesting to see if GRRM has book Tyrion do the same thing at some point since it’s canon evidence that the last person who tried to enter the dragon lair (pun intended) ended up burned to a crisp (Quentyn Martell).

It’s not debunkable though since it’s also canon that during the Targareyen rule of Westeros, there was stables filled with dragons that were tended by people who did not have Targ blood so presumably the creatures do tolerate other people aside from the blood of the dragon near them. (as is also the case with D*ny’s entourage on Dragonstone)

my question is - where does it go? Why do we need him as a son of Mad King? What for, what’d it affect?

The short answer to your question is that Tyrion’s fans need Tyrion to be the son of the Mad King. However, the narrative not only doesn’t need this theory, it would actually affect both Tyrion’s narrative arc (him turning into Tywin) as well as Jon’s story (as the secret heir to the Iron Throne) and Bran’s.

So why do Tyrion’s fans need this theory? For several reasons:

It makes Tyrion special and keeps him plot relevant

Tyrion’s specialness is the reason why so many people love the character. He outsmarts everyone, he makes all the brilliant points, he plots his way out of everything. The fact that GRRM has a soft spot for him and, as such, he’s ended up having the most chapters in the story comes to enforce the idea that he is somehow crucial to the endgame.

I tend to disagree with this. GRRM loves writing from Tyrion’s POV and he’s also utilized Tyrion as the only Lannister POV character for a long time. However, his importance has waned in recent times with the addition of Cersei and Jaime as POV characters as well as by the increase of the magic in the story.

If the last two books are ever published, I think people are going to be in for quite a shock as Tyrion recedes more and more into a secondary character role in the narrative. His narrative importance will be taken over by Jon and D*ny. And partly that’s because he is, in no way, involved in the resolution of the White Walker threat, nor does he have the abilities or position to be a main character in the Dance of Dragons 2.0. He will be a support character, most likely, in D*ny’s storyline. Which is not something that Tyrion’s fans can accept lightly.

But, just to reinforce this point, look at how sidelined Tyrion has been in season 7 (compared to other seasons) as well as contemplate the idea of eliminating him completely from the narrative at this point (both in the books and in the show). Does anyone truly believe that the endgame is going to be significantly affected by his absence?

He’s not even essential in Cersei’s storyline since the most important roles will most likely be occupied by Sansa as the Younger, More Beautiful Queen (or D*ny or literally anyone but Tyrion) and Jaime as the the valonqar (or Arya, or Bran, or Euron or literally anyone but Tyrion).

That’s not to say he won’t have a story but since he’s not essential to any of the major plotlines, he can’t, by extension, be a main character in any of them.

If he’s the 3rd head of the dragon, on the other hand … you see where I’m going with this.

Tyrion is a hero

Tyrion’s fans have a very difficult time accepting the fact that Tyrion is a villain. A sympathetic, traumatized, entertaining villain but a villain none the less. But don’t take my word for it. Take GRRM’s

Interviewer: Do you have a favorite character?

Martin: I’ve got to admit I kind of like Tyrion Lannister. He’s the villain of course, but hey, there’s nothing like a good villain.

(source)

He’s molded on Shakespeare’s Richard III, for heaven’s sake. (further enforced by the Arya sample chapter in TWOW where the actors Arya is involved with stage a play that is modled directly after Richard III with the Tyrion actor giving a strikingly similar monologue to Shakespeare’s Richard’s famous speech)

He also has done the following: (there’s more but these are highlights)

1. Sexually assaulted a 12 year old that he married in order to become Lord of Winterfell.

2. Murdered his girlfriend/hired companion

3. Raped two sex slaves (repeatedly while bemoaning the loss of his wife whom he was coerced into raping by his father … another one of those pesky Tyrion is turning into Tywin warning signs)

3. Abuses Penny

4. Wants to rape his sister and cause harm to the child hostage he forced into marriage and assaulted.

To understand just how much his fans take offence to people mentioning these canon events, I’d just like to mention that a few weeks back I posted a vid by someone talking about whitewashing characters from book to film, in which Tyrion’s character is mentioned alongside him killing Shae and how that is approached in the books vs. the show. I tagged said vid “tyrion lannister” only to get an anonymous message telling me I was being disrespectful for posting “anti” opinions in the Tyrion tag.

Tyrion’s fans require that they be shielded not only from criticism of Tyrion but also from his canon actions.

The 3 heads of the dragon plays right into that because it places Tyrion firmly in the “good guy’s camp” even though he has absolutely no business being there in the first place.

Nevermind that in this theory Tyrion is the product of rape. Nevermind that it perpetuates the idea of Targ exceptionalism (all fruits of Aerys’ loins are awesome, special snowflakes - with the exception of Viserys, apparently). Nevermind that it goes against the narrative that GRRM set up. Everything is valid as long as Tyrion comes out looking white as snow, independent of how many women he rapes by the time he gets there.

Thanks for the ask!

#anti-tyrion #because tyrion's fans need to be protected from tyrion

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analisegrey · 6 years

Note

If you don't mind my asking, who is the author who left you the comment that made your day? You're one of my favorite authors and if you like someone I sure would like to read their stuff too! I'm happy for you to, that has to be such a nice feeling!

Firstly, thank you so much! And boy, do I have recommendations. Let me throw some amazing authors at your eyeballs :)

The author in particular who left the comment was @icypantherwrites. They’ve written:

A Name by Any Other - “To avoid another one of Shiro’s exhausting training scenarios, the Paladins settle on a bonding activity and opt to talk about their names. What they thought would be a light-hearted topic turns deeply personal when they realize that no name is as simple as it appears. For behind every name there is a story just waiting to be told.”

Sounds of Darkness- “Lance couldn’t see. Or hear. Or move. The silent darkness was all encompassing and it was pressing in; choking him, drowning him, blinding him. He screamed but it was swallowed whole into the void of nothingness. Lance trembled, pain shaking his limbs, and faintly wondered if he’d even made a sound at all.”

Infection- “Lance gets an infected tooth. The team is lacking in medical tools and cryo-pods as they head towards Earth. This… is not going to be pleasant. / “I’ve… I’ve got a few small implements in my tool kit,” Hunk offered, a green tinge to his face. “I think… I think one could work as a scalpel. And there’s…” he swallowed, “a pick, too.” Lance felt himself pale. Dios. They were going to operate on him with those?

I am also overly fond of:

@bosstoaster, who aside from helping me figure out the colored text from my most recent bingo fill, is an amazing author, and one of the first Voltron authors I came across in the fandom. I would highly recommend:

Let the Spectrum In series- So much Shiro…all incredibly written.

Don’t Let’s Start series- Boss’s take on the clone issue.

Bedroom Hymns verse (explicit content- under their Bosstoaster Smut pseud)- “His arm wasn’t the only thing the Galra changed. They also gave him certain… needs.Shiro learns to make it work for him.”

and if you’re a fan of gen works, there’s @maychorian, who’s written:

Boom Crash series- “The story of how a team becomes a family, starting with the two who need it the most.“

Bury the Sun- “Sam Holt has been a captive of the Galra for more than a year. He has lost all hope of escape or rescue. But when a new prisoner arrives in his underground cell, a boy who seems to carry the sun in his smile, everything begins to change.” (this story fucked me up in the best way. heed the warnings)

Dream Seam series (co-written with ardett)- “Lance is the blue paladin. The Galra realize this before he does.“

These should keep you busy for awhile :) There are of course many others, but these are a good place to start. Enjoy!

#analisegrey answers #analisegrey recs

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dezembergirl · 7 years

Text

Misery

Story: Apart

Chapter: 4

Relationship: Noorhelm

Fandom: Skam

originally posted on ao3

There was no Noora the next morning when he opened his eyes to an empty bed.

There was no Noora that day, or the next; it was only William and the nagging thoughts that she might not be coming back.

He stayed in bed, only occasionally dragging his body from the mattress for a glass of water or the bathroom. The early autumn temperatures in London were chilly enough to normally require a sweater but inside the bedroom the air felt heavy and hot, almost as if he was suffocating in his own misery. The shirt from two days ago was still half buttoned up around his torso and the watch strapped to his left wrist had left ugly marks on the pale skin beneath.

All of the pillows save for one had been disregarded to the polished wooden floor beside the bed. The one still in his grasp was covered in wrinkles and blotted from his sadness. The sent of her sweet and intimately familiar perfume had long faded but just like a small child clutching a stuffed animal, it gave him a false sense of comfort.

The early morning sun stretched its first rays through the tall window and left long strips of light on the sheets around him. It would be a beautiful day, not that he particularly cared, he didn’t have the slightest intention of leaving the apartment. It would be sunny outside, too much light, too bright and way to many people. London was always filled with people, and though that could be interpreted as a comfort, it seemed to do nothing but isolate him more; especially happy people with smiling faces and love drunk eyes, appalling really.

He closed his eyes, there was no point it going back to sleep, he had spent the past 15 hours switching between confusing dreams and nightmares bearing only one all too familiar face. He desperately sought to escape reality but sleep only intensified the cluster of emotions he couldn’t quite decipher. If there had been any bottles in the otherwise empty refrigerator he would have downed their alcoholic contents hours ago; anything to make this go away.

But just like the rest of their flat, he had found the family sized fridge empty. It shouldn’t have really surprised him, but the miserable version his current self presented seemed to have forgotten all common sense. After all, Noora didn’t drink and having a glass of wine or something stronger while she nipped at her sparkling water didn’t sit right with him. Alcohol had never seemed like a necessity since Noora had entered his life; at least not in the beginning.

Things had changed and there was no point in denying it. The time between their kisses had grown and their respective touches hardened. Her eyes had grown sad and his too tired to notice. The first weeks in London had been filled with laughter and happiness, genuine joy and life had never felt so easy for him. It had all worked out, the complicated edges had fit together in a perfect puzzle. His father was content, he had a good job at the firm and Noora had seemed excited about all the new possibilities the city had to offer.

He should have noticed the signs, should have paid better attention; and maybe he had but the fear of loosing her had refused to let him see the truth. It was almost prophetic he though, how the one thing he had feared most and had sworn himself to prevent with whatever means necessary, had caused just that very scenario to become reality.

The slowly increasing sensation of numbness in his left leg caused him to turn his body to the other side. His hip bone slammed into something metal causing him to curse out loud. Carefully feeling for the object, he retrieved his dead phone from the pocket of his dressing pants. The battery must have given out days ago and he dreaded the messages seething of his father’s disappointment he was sure to find.

Fishing for the charing cable beside the bed he plugged the phone in. Seven missed calls, six from his father and one from a work college, he gridded his teeth and tried not to think about the inevitable confrontation with his father.

What a failure he was, how unreliable, the only son, the only child, nothing but a disappointment. Nothing new really, his dad had never been one for tight embraces or fatherly bonding moments. If there was no money in it, it was worthless; emotions and feeling of sympathy were for the weak and the losers of this world.

Maybe his father had been right, a cold heart couldn’t break, could never cause this much pain. She had made him soft and weak, worthless in his father’s eyes no doubt.

He scanned through his new text messages and the aching pain drawing through his insides had nothing to do with the lack of food in his belly when he discovered Noora’s chat still as he had left it.

William: Noora??

She had read it, but there was no reply.

No, I’m ok.

I’ll be back.

Don’t worry.

And if this really was her leaving him for good, a line of text to give his fears certainty would hurt less than this empty void he was currently staring at.

It’s over.

I’m done.

Really anything but this, he thought.

He could try again maybe, write another text, demand an answer. After all, she couldn’t avoid him forever. Maybe later he decided, his brain was starved of calories and sleep had left his mind in a foggy haze.

The watch on his wrist showed seven, than eight, nine, ten, eleven and finally reached twelve. Somewhere in the distance church bells were ringing and the bright laughter of children crossing the street outside breeched the walls.

Of course, it was Tuesday. People were busy going about their normal lives, work and school would fill the city with briefcase carrying men in smart business suits and clog the tube with a surge of commuters. There were never this many people back in Oslo, hell the whole country was smaller than London city if judged by its inhabitants.

How had he done it, gone to work day after day, even on the weekends, for months? He had spent more time at the office than in the apartment, quite honestly doing his best to avoid coming home at night. Exel sheets and tediously long and detailed reports had consumed his every waking minute, just to escape. It seemed impossible now, he could barely find it within him to keep his eyes open let alone strip his body of the sweaty and wrinkled clothes to take a sorely needed shower.

Before he could drift even deeper into his hole of misery and self pity the phone in his hand buzzed. To his pleasant surprise it was neither his father nor anything else work related.

Chris, his best friend, his bro, the one person that had always felt more familiar than his actual family. They hadn’t talked in what must have been a week or maybe to. He really needed to pay more attention, everything that was once so important back home seemed to crumble in his desperate hands.

He opened the text and instantly furrowed his brows.

Chris: Bro wtf have you done?

William felt his heart beat increase and bit his lip, not really wanting to anticipate what this was about. He still wrote back anyways.

William: What?

Chris: Noora, she’s here in Oslo

Chris: apparently she’s at Eva’s right now

William stared at the texts. Was this good news or bad, he couldn’t decide. At least he knew she was okay and safe with her friends.

And most likely ignoring his text on purpose, the disappointment tasted bitter in his mouth.

Chris: Wait, are you in Oslo as well? Why haven’t you said anything, is this like your attempted at a surprise and I just ruined it haha

William groaned, of course it wasn’t really far fetched for Chris to assume he might have gone to Oslo as well. Him and Noora had been practically inseparable since the day Chris had put the car in reverse and William had missed the 6 pm flight to London.

William: No, I’m in London

Talking to his best friend made him wish he wasn’t. His work was in London, his dad, but everyone else were back home in Oslo. But what were friends without a successful career and a proud father. The irony almost made him chuckle, it truly was absurd.

Chris: ok, everything alright?

William: yeah, it’s all good

The truth would have been to complicated and his fingers didn’t have the patience or strength to type more than a few coherent words. He was only glad Chris wasn’t here now, he would have seen through the lies with one exchanged look and would have surely asked all the questions William himself didn’t really know the answers to.

Chris: ok, Skype later?

William: sure

He locked his phone and turned the display towards the bed. This had been more than enough personal contact for today. Hopefully Chris wouldn’t actually try to call him later as it would make for a miserable conversation.

Though sooner or later he would have to face the truth of his situation; but sooner was not now and later hopefully a long time ahead.

#skam #noorhelm #william x noora #noora x william #noora sætre #william magnusson #skam fic #noorhelm fic #again I meant to post this earlier #hope you like it :)

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wereikonics · 5 years

Text

Love Scenario - iKON analysis

@/bianxstan on Twitter - 7:51 PM - 29 Jan 2019

PS: Comment, RT or even re-post but I would appreciate it if you guys credit where credit is due. Thank you!

PSS: I don't claim to be an expert. I just share what I know and my interpretation of things.

Please find @/bianxstan on Twitter. This Tumblr is an archive and @/bianxstan is only reachable via Twitter.

Before you go on, I want you to focus on these lyrics as you read through: "...a pretty decent ending. That's enough for me."

When composers, imho, create music as simple as this one, the intention becomes clearer: the composer intended it to be SIMPLE. It is either because the musician wants to bring light into the lyrics or the musician wants the instrumentals to be focused on.

In Love Scenario, #Hanbin did both. And so, you have to find the beauty in that simplicity because the intention of the composer lies in it.

Take note that not all simple things are created with beauty in mind. Like the idea of minimalism, the purpose of it is to maintain a lifestyle centered on necessity with minimal regard for aesthetics. However, not all minimalist approaches are created without complexity.

#Hanbin created a complex minimalist approach to this song without compromising the beauty of it. I knew the song will be a sleeper hit. Why? Because the first thought that will come to mind is that it is SIMPLE.

However, it sounds weird from a musically inclined person's perspective. I won't get into the whys but to me that weirdness became the charm of the song. It was a hit because we didn't realize that a simple song like this can leave us feeling relieved until we hear it.

#Hanbin's usage of staccato (when notes are played as if each note is detached to one another i.e. Metronome and piano melody) and sustain (when notes are prolonged i.e. bass and synths) were executed with such sophistication. It NEVER got too much, just ENOUGH.

Staccatos tend to make compositions bare and empty. It usually creates discord between notes. But as I've said before, #Hanbin have always had his own way of creating fluidity in music so effortlessly like it's child's play.

#Hanbin compensated that feeling of emptiness with three main different things: another staccato melody from the piano, a syncopated but sustained bass, and the usage of vocal harmony to fill the void.

Sidenote 1.0: When I say staccato melody from the piano, the keys played from the left hand are not played in sync with the R. hand. So the piano melody is played like this: RLRL for the most part. Although notes are not sustained, no sec/beat was left empty in the piano melody.

Sidenote 2.0: I'm not sure if I'm using the right technical term here but from what I remember, syncopation is when the drop of the beat falls awkwardly than expected. It's like a delay of drop. It makes melodies really groovy. This is why the bass of this song is GOLD.

Sidenote 3.0: That metronome has a weird beat structure. It's as if it's confused b/w two different time signatures. This is why it's so hard to copy its beat. Even to this day, I can't figure it out. However, I love it because it actually makes the song into something else. LOL

Now, notice how even if the only predominant sound is the metronome (the tapping sound), you don't feel as if the bg is empty. For example (timestamp on vid), there's only 3 main things at play here: DK's vocal, vocal harmony at the bg, & the metronome.

But as you listen to it, you'll never think that the production is lacking. This is because the vocal harmony in the background grabs your attention away from the singularity of the instrumentation. The vocal harmony was used as the main instrumentation instead.

When #June's part enters, a whole different vibe is executed by the mere addition of claps, bass and the piano melody. The re-introduction of the metronome at the latter part of June's part was a perfect transition to #Jinhwan's part. It made the two sections cohesive.

But as you listen to Jinhwan's part, the vibe changes. Which may be surprising since it has the same accompaniments w/ June's part. However, listen to the electric piano (synth) that seems to sing along. That ALONE changes the ENTIRE feel of the section.

This is why I've always said that #Hanbin knows when to give & when to take. He knows the balance of things being too much and too less. Even their transitions per music section is done so effortlessly without breaking flow. The entire song just screams, "ENOUGH is ENOUGH."

#Hanbin created simple lines of bass, piano, & metronome. The musical composition was simple & 1+1=2. You would think that simple+simple=simple. But Hanbin managed to create a musical bg that is so charming that it rings in your ears once you hear it and that is no simple feat.

I don't know if you guys have noticed this but there are a lot of KPOP music out there that seems to be three different songs stitched together with a similarly over-layered MV. Imho, this is done to overstimulate the listener to keep them listening and watching.

However, what #iKON did with this song was that they took influences from different genres, crushed it, and blended it all together with such class and sophistication. This is why although the song have different musical influences, it still sounds cohesive and STIMULATING.

This is why the song sounds so familiar yet some can't exactly determine why it is so. In a saturated industry dominated by fast-paced & over-produced songs, Love Scenario came at the right time to give the industry a much needed breather. Love Scenario is refreshing.

#Hanbin's insistence to make the vocals the driving force of this song was ingenious. This is bec Hanbin didn't do it to show off their vocal capabilities. He made the vocals at the forefront to 1) bring focus to the lyrics and 2) to balance out the simple background.

Since the bg is simple, he tried to compensate it as well through vocal tones and the style of singing. Remember when #Hanbin said that he wants the members to sing as if they were just throwing words? That's one of the reasons why this song became a hit.

Singing is different from talking because you sustain notes & pitches. Sometimes, that idea becomes intimidating to those who don't know how to sing. Hanbin's persistent urge to the members to sing in a way of emulating the idea of speaking made song even more approachable.

The vocals are the main attraction but they’re not executed to show-off vocal prowess. It’s made to complete the simple background and express lyrics of contentment. The song was never sang in a way that it wasn't meant to be. There were no belting. There were no runs.

It was just sang as simple as all the other components in the song. However, the execution really is impressive. The song never tried to be anything it's not. It didn't try to be overly hip hop, ballad, or pop. It's just LOVE SCENARIO. That simplicity became it's identity.

"...a pretty decent ending. That's enough for me."

*Please manually search for Love Scenario on YT to help with streaming views.

Simplicity in music compositions can be the fruit of the most complex process of creation. In order to create a simple sound that works, you almost have to try to break the limit of the process of elimination. Or just be a musical genius like Hanbin. You guys decide.

That's it guys! Sorry it took so long. I know it's quite long but I felt like if I didn't include everything I wanted to say, I would've given it injustice. Thank you for reading!

Also, I would love it if you guys provide me some feedback. What do you want me to do better? Should I add anything? I would really appreciate it. Thank you again!

*Please reach Paula on Twitter to provide feedback.

#bianxstan twitter #bianxstan:iKON Song Analysis #Love Scenario #iKON

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bulletandsophia · 7 years

Text

The Promise

Part 1 | Part 2 | Read the series on AO3

The leaves have glistened and water drips from their little bodies ever since the pitter-patter of rain began at dawn.

Jon inhales the fragrant brew of his coffee as he listens to the continuous pour, delighted with the sound upon the glass rooftop of his study while happily ignoring the blank document on his laptop where he is supposed to write about something and submit the contents later this afternoon to his editor.

He tried countless times to fill in the void but he’s simply in a trance with the rain right now that no other scenario or topic or at the least, a proper word, crosses his mind at the moment—except maybe for a certain memory that transports him to that one particular day (lifetimes away) where he was standing underneath a shed and it was also raining just like this; not too heavy, no strong winds, but plenty enough to get soaked.

He was just there waiting on the next bus minding his own business, eyes downcast, when he saw a pair of red boots that stopped just beside him.

He looked up and there she was.

In red boots and a sundress; with a small smile to offer, then a few words, then a lengthy conversation; then he breathed in some courage and asked for her number, then a few days after, it was a date. Then another. Then another.

Jon had never been more in love with the rain since.

So now, he cannot convince, for the life of him, to ignore the weather and do his work. He sips from his coffee again and ignores the looming deadline. Jon settles the mug back on his desk and stretches, ending up slouching on his chair and looking up at his glass rooftop, mesmerized at the trickle and the ripples of the rain, his eyes following the stream down to the glass walls of the room, even further as the water lands on the shrubberies of the garden.

The room was supposed to be her reading area. What with the great and natural lighting of the glass house plus the surrounding scenery of their small patch, it’s just perfect for it and for her.

But Sansa—his Sansa—insisted that he takes it instead, concerned about the lack of space and proper ventilation of the basement.

“How could you even be inspired to write in that hole?” she said then.

When he took over the glass room though, Jon was not prepared for another kind of writing distraction. Because like her, the beauty of the room is just overwhelming, sometimes even disabling him to think properly; unconsciously and carelessly dropping his guard, and that perhaps for once in his numerous lifetimes, he has forgotten that it may all vanish, that when he dreams of fire again, it will be all gone.

Evidently for Sansa, the summer rains have already washed away any remnants of their last encounter. He believes she doesn’t even own a pair of ice skates today.

And the heartache of her not knowing is still something Jon carries with him at every parting. Whenever he wakes up in an unfamiliar place, feeling empty because of Sansa’s absence, he almost instantly begins his search just to gain back a semblance of whatever pleasure and bliss he had possessed from the day before.

In the repetitiveness and yet the unpredictability of how he lives, Jon’s able to already build a ritual. Usually, when he wakes up to a new life, he starts with deep breaths and a concentration impenetrable in order to let his senses guide him towards Sansa immediately. If he feels nothing, next is to acquaint himself to the life the gods have given him.

This life, this life where he’s become a writer and Sansa a teacher, is not a difficult one to face. In fact, he basks in it.

When he woke up sweating from the nightmare that transported him to this life, there already was a manic energy running through his veins that Jon didn’t need to think twice to know that she was already nearby.

And nearby she was.

Just a few doors away from his small apartment then, the loud clanging metal bowls that crashed when he passed by the corridor prompted him to make a move and frantically knock on her door.

“Sorry,” Sansa shrugged sheepishly. “I was just trying to bake.”

She had flour in her hair and a hastily tied apron on her waist. She looks so alarmingly charming and just so Sansa Jon felt wobbly at the knees—an instance he still tries to deny for the benefit of his slightly bruised masculine ego (but who was he kidding, anyway? There definitely was a weak muscle jerk of some sort that occurred.)

Wobbly knees or not, and as archaic and passé it must have looked and felt, he protected what was his—is his—almost immediately. No blonde, blue-eyed, suitor can ever lay their claim on her.

Not on this lifetime.

Jon bitterly laughs at the thought, claiming his coffee mug again and shaking his head. Albeit considering that time is not his enemy, he knows that time is something he still fears the most. Because even if endless, it’s never the same.

He doesn’t know long or how short each of these episodes with her would be. Worse, Jon cannot reconcile still if this gift of never-ending beginnings compensates not only the loss of their first and original life, but perhaps and most importantly, compensates the loss of having a real life together.

Because what is infinity if without meaning?

Sometimes a version would allow him just a glimpse of her on a train compartment before instantly waking up to a different scenario. Sometimes, like most of the others, it is a life so full of her, almost always allowing him to reach an epiphany—a certain satisfaction—only to be played a fool once more.

She had been a ballerina, a chef, a painter, a model; a roster of beautiful versions of herself but all beginnings, all stories, all without end.

Jon stares at the blank document on his laptop again. Undeniably, whatever pleasures the rain has brought is starting to dwindle and get lost in his overstuffed thoughts.

Patience, he realizes, has never been his forte. And the painful truth that goes along with his impatience, that also sometimes hover just above his head, does not fail to make him wince whenever it presents itself:

He is tired.

He is tired of losing her. Of seeking her. Of finding her only to lose her again.

Sometimes, in the worst of days, he is not just tired but he is hopeless. Surely, Jon wonders, there is something in this sorcery he must learn? Because a wonder (or a punishment) such as the cycle of his life must come in with some sort of a grand reveal, should it not? Because in the scheme of things, why must this happen? Why him? Why Sansa? Should he not have saved those people from long ago? Should he not have listened to her?

Or perhaps, should he not have loved her so?

Faintly he remembers of a journey he took and the anticipation of coming back to her only to be welcomed by a crumbling castle; of people screaming, of monsters running amok, of Sansa desperately trying to wake up someone underneath a tree with the red leaves. He was not fast enough to reach the two of them before one of the monsters—the Night King—appeared and pointed a frozen sword to her neck. Then the wind howled and the whispers echoed amidst the falling snow. Quiet and creeping like a ghost. A prophecy; words spoken by a priestess in front of a blazing fire, as if reminding him, reminding her.

Whenever a new memory resurfaces itself, Jon now makes sure to write them all down. If he wanted answers and make light of what he has done, wrongly or otherwise, laying it all down on paper and deciphering it no matter how tedious and sometimes even far-fetched it all seemed, is his only chance of understanding.

Jon pulls his desk drawer and retrieves his second leather-bound journal where he has been jotting down more of his recent discoveries. He flips through the pages and sees accounts from his dream some previous days ago.

The dream on the newest entry was no different from the others before it—still grainy, quick, and flashing—and the bullet points on the journal mark what he randomly remembers: feeding crows, a training yard, a rounded man with a shy but sincere smile, some heavy chains, and lots and lots of snow.

But one in particular evidently stood out as he wrote it down in capital letters, two hard lines underneath: THE WALL.

Jon closes his eyes to fully picture it again—a view from a far where he sees the top slightly glistening from the sunlight and then another angle, this time closer where its crevices reveal hues of icy blue. Sharp and almost deadly.

In his mind, whether it was real or just his make-believe, the Wall is arresting and breathtaking.

Jon wonders if Sansa could have seen such a view, would she weep the way he almost did in that dream? More so, is the Wall something that is also hidden and kept in that selfish part of her mind that does not allow her to remember anything at all?

Partly, and feeling a thud on his chest because of some small guilt, maybe that’s what he only wants to happen. That maybe this infinity of beginnings is meant for him to fulfill this one thing:

For Sansa to remember.

Jon knows that it is his greed taking over whenever the idea crosses his mind. But he cannot shake it away simply because of the pure bliss that idea brings once fulfilled. Because how great would it be if Sansa remembers not only the Jon from this life but also the Jon that he truly is?

The bastard—and yet the man she first truly loved.

Sacrificed her life for.

And so, he insisted. In his selfishness, he insisted and he tried and he handed over his first leather journal to Sansa one night, masking it as part of a manuscript he intends to publish. Jon is hoping that even in the obscurity of his words, it could trigger something in her.

But in all the days that he has seen her read the journal, nothing seems to resonate. Sometimes, she’d even share commentaries at how awful it would be to live in a castle. He barely remembers it too but Sansa’s easy dismissal is like a puncture to his heart.

Uncharacteristically so, he never knew he could be that desperate. Or better yet, unfair.

Jon runs a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself for expecting too much from Sansa when he perfectly knows only he could remember even if his own memories are foggy, but after a while allows himself some reprieve because how many times had he done this chase again?

Too many.

He glances at the glass walls again, ignoring the certain dread not even brought about by the publishing deadline he knows he won’t be able to make.

The plants outside are lush and vividly green and the rain has turned into a drizzle, the sound of their fall on the roof almost nonexistent. Later he knows, when the rain stops fully, Sansa would ask if he would like to take a walk outside.

“To clear your head.” she’d always say. Then, she would take his arm and guide him through their garden’s mixture of wildness and grace until it is almost dusk, until he forgets his sorrows at least for another day.

“You’re not procrastinating, are you?” a voice rings in the room.

Jon turns his head to see Sansa standing in the doorway, arms crossed and with a teasing smile on her face.

He can only chuckle and shake his head in bewilderment. Of course, she would show up as if he willed her to do so. Their timing, as always, is just unexplainable.

He watches as she crosses the distance of the room and like a reflex, he reaches out to her and pulls her to sit on his lap.

“I think I got it.” she excitedly murmurs to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“What?”

“I couldn’t believe I haven’t thought of this before because it truly is just the best idea and then thinking about it now, why haven’t you thought of it, Jon, you basically spelled it all out—”

“Sansa.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Can you just please…”

She lets out a chuckle and playfully shoves him before replying.

“Eddard.” she finally whispers as if it is the most obvious thing.

Jon almost jerks at the name. He feels his nerve dance as she utters it and yet he finds himself unable to move. And before he can even force his hand to take hers, to probably pacify himself, Sansa speaks again.

“If it’s a boy I think I would love to name him Eddard, like the one from your book.” she lovingly caresses his face as she explains. “It’s such a lovely name.”

Slowly regaining his composure, Jon finally let his hand rest on her swollen belly, gently running against her softness.

Sansa smiles again, “What do you think?”

He cannot even begin to tell her what he thinks. That he is petrified and yet fluid as water? That he has forced himself to make her remember because this is the longest they have been together without nightmares or fires or the threat of starting over again? That she is carrying his child and there is nothing in the world that he wants but to see through the entirety of this lifetime; that he did not want this to end like a dream abruptly cut just when everything is perfect—like how she is, always in his life, a perfect dream so far out, so unreachable and yet just here, loving him, naming his son after a father she does not even remember…

No, having her for eternity is not even enough, not even close.

“You are quiet,” she takes a nervous glance. “You don’t like it?”

That is an understatement.

“I love it, Sansa.” Jon is finally able to say. “You cannot even imagine how much.”

Her smile is bright as he pulls her closer to him. “I think I can.”

The kiss, like their story, feels endless. And Jon hears himself moan as Sansa moves her head away from him only to speak again.

“Your deadline, Jon.”

“What deadline?”

She chuckles lightly before standing and offering a hand. “Maybe we could take a walk, to clear your head?”

Jon takes a second before reaching for her hand only to memorize her in this form—braid in one side, a sundress that hung snugly to her body—all pregnant and glowing—a warm smile, cheeks rosy perhaps due to his kiss, an arm that welcomes and waits, and her eyes, eyes that are so blue Jon could care less if he drowns in them.

He would not let this slip away.

This—this is the dream he wants to forever dwell in.

Closing the journal on his desk, Jon makes another promise. And he does not even need Sansa to say the words for they are already imprinted in his mind.

Save them.

And he finally knows just who.

Slightly enlightened, with Sansa still waiting in front of him, Jon finally stands from the chair and takes her hand, stealing a quick and determined kiss before saying, “Yes, I think I would like that.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Read the series on AO3

#jonsa #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #jonsa fic #endless #reincarnation

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grchcmisms-blog · 7 years

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Return || FB - 400 || Self

Walking home was a casualty as well as a time to rearrange thoughts. Graham always used this time to his leisure, prolonging the span between leaving and arriving, trying to spend as many waking moments as self-involved as possible. He no longer had a desire to share thoughts with words, to speak, even when spoken to. Since the painful loss of his mentor he found himself knit tightly with silence, almost having taken a personal vow. No one really noticed the exceptional quiet, he was never particularly talkative to begin with. The only words people had heard from him in his last living days came in the form of quill to paper, words on parchment. It was the last push he had needed to completely give up on the life he was never supposed to have. So broken heartstrings bled the blues. Graham had never considered himself suicidal, but he had found himself in questionable situations with rather morbid possibilities more and more often recently. Sometimes it was something small, like leaving the candles lit when he went to sleep, not caring if it were knocked over, sending himself up and the house up in flames. Other times, it was something bigger, more obvious, like when he would climb onto the roofs of buildings, claiming he was seeking muse, but secretly fantasizing about an earthquake, or a surprising noise that would knock him from his placement on the high safety to the ground. He wondered whether the noise would be dramatic, like a ’crunch’ or a maybe even a reasonable ’splat,’ or whether it would be a muted noise, a ‘thump,’ the sound of a rock hitting soft underfoot. Rather anticlimactic.

Some would say that he always had that mentality, that lack of self preservation and the urge for his life to diminish before his very eyes in a swirl of dust. They would be correct in that sentiment, at least in some way. Graham had never truly cherished his life, he was never thankful for it. There were very few moments, if any, where he found himself thinking he was glad to be alive, not even in passing, not even for a second. He flaunted the Earth in a blissful indifference as a child, an empty shell that held on only by pure coincidence. Then, as he grew older, as more people fell like crumpled sacks of mud around him, his blissful neutrality soon became a dull ache. A throbbing in his chest region, right below the heart, and another, pressed up against his brain and skull, telling him that this life was no longer worth living. His life was a death sentence from the moment it began. He had always known himself to be a beacon for destruction, and he always thought that perhaps that would end if his life did. Death was always a way out, a plan B lurking around every corner. It called to him from sharp objects and tall places, it cooed like a mother to a child, coaxing him to the edge of cliff, the waves offering a sweet caress. He always restrained himself, held back from going out of his way to cause such a messy fate, however, he always found himself in a constant swirl of ’if death barrels in my direction, why should I flinch?’ It was that exact notion that kept his feet planted in the path of an unruly horse.

His eyes found the horse quite quickly, it was hard not to with the commotion surrounding such a thing. A whip, a startled coachman, and quite a bit of screaming. He looked at the scenario unfolding in front of him slowly, as if the clock wasn’t ticking for him to move out of the way, his last moments to save himself from total destruction. He didn’t take it. He felt his fists close in on themselves instinctively, his body’s natural reaction to run being fought with every fiber of his being. He wanted it, actually, he needed it. All he found himself thinking as the carriage barreled towards him was ’so this is what’s it’s like.’ His entire existence was building to the moment he ceased to, that’s what he had always believed, and as the coachman screamed at him, eyes bugging out of his head as he tried to warn Graham, they made eye contact. Then there was a bright burst of light, a noise loud in his right ear, and nothing. The sensation of death is like drowning, even if the cause is nothing to do with water, swallowing mouthful, lung, mouthful, of something that isn’t quite air and then… numbness. It’s painful, and then peaceful. All at once. Once the pain subsided, Graham found that he liked death. Oh, how morbid a thought. He loved it; the feeling of it, the force. He always knew he would, and there was something so pleasurable in finding out he was right. The dull ache that had plagued him through his entire life was gone, empty, it left him with a feeling of pure freedom, of unadulterated nothingness that filled the desecrated void that he believed his humanity had been. They say there are stages of grief when it comes to dying, but what they don’t tell you is that the same stages apply for coming back. The next thing Graham saw was white, but not a light this time. It wasn’t a walkway to heaven, or whatever it is that people say you’re supposed to see when you die. It was smoke, shifting around his face, breathing into his lungs despite the fact he no longer felt as if he required oxygen. Sucking in air, or whatever it was that was corroding his vision, was a comfort. It drifting through his nostrils and lungs, clouding his vision. Cool on his skin. He found his arms, his hands, his legs. He pushed himself up, face searching for something other than white, and he was greeted with just that. Darkness, black. A long empty stretch of field and despite the smoke covering the sky, making him wonder whether there was really a sky at all, he somehow knew it was night time. If it were a time at all, that was. He half expected the clouds to part, to reveal a sky of stars or perhaps for him to jolt out of a dream. Was this this other side? The thought flooded quickly and he felt a gnawing at his stomach as he got his footing. Of course he would be damned to a life of spiritual limbo. He had heard stories, tales, myths, of this place, or of what he assumed this was. Was he a specter? Was this real? He felt a growing frustration, a growing confusion. Where was he? “Hello?” His voice was demanding, saturated with disbelief and vexation, agitated, and maybe even the slightest bit afraid. His voice echoed back to him despite the lack of walls or mountains, there were no barriers, not that he could see. His voice didn’t stop there, it continued it’s bounce, back and forth, back and forth, the volume increasing each time until he was screaming at himself, his voice so loud in his ears he crumpled back to the ground, hands covering his head as the word beat him like a brick. Then it went silent.

He woke up in a field, the same field, gasping for air he still wasn’t sure he needed anymore. His senses were blurry, coming back slowly, one by one as he coughed and spit, blood and God knows what pouring from between his lips as his vision streaked its way into existence. The shine of a bright early morning almost blinding him again as his eyes lids fought to open, his entire body protesting, as if it knew that he should no longer be there. Limbs cracked, trying to bring themselves out of positions they weren’t made to be in. His eyes flickered through the pain, through the light, taking in the surroundings. They were the same, while being entirely different in every way. The smoke was gone, the darkness was missing. That echo dissipated into thin air, as if it had never existed. Maybe it hadn’t, of that he was still unsure. The next thing he noticed was that he was covered in mud. It was caked to his clothes, his skin, his hair. He was drowning in dirt, and more than displeased to find the other inhabitants of his mouth were insects, hands planted on the ground as he struggled to sit up, dry heaving and his brain reeling as memories flooded back. Was the darkness a dream? He was hit by a carriage, that much was painfully obvious, how else would he have gotten into this situation? Another thing he knew, or was almost sure he knew, as he struggled on his hands and knees, still emptying his body of whatever fluids and contents had decided to make a home of it, was that he should’ve died. He should be dead. Did he survive? The question struck like lightening, sending pain down his spine that wasn’t quite physical. It looked, it felt as if he survived, but he died. He knew he died, he had felt it. Confusion and nausea over took his body, a shaking in his hands and arms that was caused entirely by his panic. He took another look at his surroundings, head not much clearer but more desperate and curious now. He was pushed off road, down a hill. Either the horse wasn’t to be stopped at even the collision or the coachman was in a hell of a rush. He stared at his hands with a sort of angry confusion, fists flexing to be sure they were real. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t place the reality for the situation, he couldn’t sense if this was right, if it was what was supposed to happen. He pushed himself off the ground, trying to dust dirt off his pants and matted tunic, both covered in blood that he could only assume was his own, as he struggling with the waves of emotions coursing through his head and chest, almost drowning him all over again. He wiped the blood from his mouth. This felt a lot like survival, a lot like something he wanted no part of. How long had he been in the field? Was he still alive? Had he died? Was this a sick joke? He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything and he felt the overwhelming sense of frustration and confusion from what he could only guess was real returning, and it wasn’t until he was taking slow steps towards the trail ahead that he realize he shouldn’t be able to walk. He was hit by a carriage, his legs should’ve been the first to give, they where bound to be shattered, broken, unusable. He could only feel the frustration and anger mounting at the thought, and suddenly he found himself at the verge of absolutely losing it. There was no way he’d survived that crash, it was completely implausible, unlikely to the brink of absolute insanity. The universe was laughing at him, as if he were some huge cosmic joke, a fluke.

As he found himself trudging up the hill, struggling to make his way back home, he had the thought, his anger and tension piquing. “To cheat death twice is an anomaly, a complete disassembly of the facts to life. No, I’m not cheating death. Death is cheating me.”

I. DENIAL & ANGER

The thoughts hit like a horse running at him full speed, except impossibly harder, because while that he expected, desired even, this was a page of a novel he hadn’t even known existed. There was an immediate anger that went hand and hand with the idea of being forced to continue living on this plane of existence, of surviving well past what he felt he was reasonable. No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that. He was a smart man but he suddenly found himself opposing logical ideas like a child who couldn’t get his way. This was a mistake, another happenstance were he, for some reason, avoided death. This was a joke, a blip in the universe, an i left undotted and a t uncrossed, a mistake plain and simple. He walked through town, covered in mud and blood, face hard as rock and eyes blazing with an anger that could only belong to someone who was scammed, who was betrayed. His veins were alight with an anger, a complete irrational blazing hot frustration that was driving him home, back straight and fists clenched at his sides as he strode with almost a confidence, a positivity. A woman looked at him with a shock, pulling her child from his path as if he were a monster, and he supposed he looked that way, eyes only meeting her for a moment as he continued his trek, his quick yet agile pace not slowing nor stopping for anything. He was going to finish this. He was tired of being laughed at, being picked on by whatever entity controlled life, whatever controlled him. He wasn’t going to be a play thing, not anymore. He had decided he was going to die today, he refused to accept otherwise. It was a breaking point, waking up in the field not once but twice. Something was messing with him, or maybe trying to save him. It is possible to save someone who has no desire to be saved? No, it isn’t possible, because while you could save them from situations, you cannot save them from themselves. An elderly woman in her rocking chair, she always sat in her upstairs window, looking out over the town in blissful silence. Graham knew her, he had bought apples from her from the market before, she was kind and always gave him a smile, asking him about his writing, but as she looked at him now, her face fell into that of fear. She wasn’t concerned, not like she would be when seeing him under normal circumstances, her face contorted into that of plead, her eyes shining. She would never look at him that way. He felt as if she was no longer looking at him, she was looking at something else entirely, like was gazing upon a man that is no longer Graham. She looked at if she was expecting him, and he felt a growing feeling in his stomach, he didn’t know what it was, but it was telling him no. She wasn’t ready. This was unsettling, it gave him a sense of anxiety, almost like he should turn around, that maybe there was something behind him, something on him. Something riding his back, a part of him that maybe wasn’t there before. He didn’t stop, not even with the concerning thoughts or the shocking look he was greeted with, his face didn’t falter, he didn’t flinch. He was being driven by insistence and anger, all the things he had felt throughout his life, all the loss and pain, all the emptiness, it built itself up like a tower, a castle teetering on the edge of falling over. It all screamed in his ears, only feeding into his determination, his persistence. Death was going to finally knock on his door, he was going to give it no choice. Two full grown men, drunk and making their way home after a long night knocked into each other, faces covered in confusion and alarm as they fumbled out of his way, eyebrows drawn together and eyes betraying a certain fear that could only be evoked by something truly horrid. What has he become? What have the last few hours, days, weeks, of time spans he isn’t sure, but what have they made him?

II. BARGAINING

Then he’s tying a noose, fingers quick with his anger, fumbling over themselves and only making his ferocity more intense. He undoes and redoes it several times because he couldn’t seem to get it right. His brain still isn’t processing what it is he’s going to do, it’s too overrun with emotion, and even if it had been able to understand, to keep up, it wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He was finished. Graham was no longer going to wait, he wasn’t standing in front of a carriage anymore. Waiting for death wasn’t an option, it was refusing him, it was pushing him away. He had to make it come to him, he had to force it’s hand. He was certain this time, there would be no way, no possibility of survival. He stood on the chair, neck wrung tight with a rope as he took what he felt was going to be his final breath, then he stepped off and the chair fell, he was in midair. First, there was the restraint, his breath being taken from him and pain, his eyes watering and mouth gasping for breath instinctively as his legs flailed. It felt like the first part of dying, that’s what he would tell you. Or, well, it did for the first twenty minutes or so, after that, it was just uncomfortable. He was hanging there, a rope digging into his neck, stopping air from entering his lungs, but he wasn’t losing feeling, not anywhere. His vision was fine, he could move his limbs perfectly. How long had he been hanging there? He looked at his curtains and tried to judge what time it was, tried to guess why the amount of light filtering through. It was only then that he realized that this wasn’t working. He was hanging there, for what felt like ages, and he could still guess the fucking time. He supposed that answered the oxygen question. He brought his hands to the rope and pulled himself up with a surprising ease. He had never been particularly strong or well trained in the physical regions. That fact, however, was taking a back seat, as he had more pressing questions, more upsetting and frustrating things to consider. His feet touched the floor once again and he flung a fist at the wall, punching a hole clean through it, something he had never be able to do before. There wasn’t new blood on his hands, his knuckles weren’t torn. They were fine. This thought brought a new one, of what the rest of him looked like, his clothes torn and matted with blood and dirt. Perhaps a bath was in order, maybe it would clear his head, wake him up. Maybe this is all a dream, a sick, twisted, hyper realistic dream that’s squeezing his mind, made to torture him even further. Looking at himself he knew he’d have to clean up, at least as best he could, before making his way to bathhouse. He couldn’t go back outside in this condition, he had caused enough of a stir in the town, and he couldn’t imagine that his appearance had improved at all since he’d reentered his home. His fingers touched his throat where he felt the rope indents still pressed into the skin.

III. DEPRESSION & ACCEPTANCE

He stripped off his tunic, face distorting at the sight of it, and the sight of his bare chest covered in earth. He could help but think that he had really had bled a lot, it had to have been more than he contained in his body, the red streaking over all his skin like a morbid oil painting not made for the faint of heart. Then he stepped into the mirror and saw his own face. His eyes were hardened more than he’d ever seen them before, they were harsh and unforgiving. The skin on his cheeks were almost unrecognizable, his face looked different. It looked hollow. Blue eyes gazed into blue eyes, staring with ferocity that didn’t belong to him. He could still see the lines where the rope had dug into his neck, the marks clear and prominent, even when opposing all the other marks and streaks covering his skin. He could remember every time he had done this. When his parents had died, that was the first. He had stared at himself with such a hatred, such a dislike. It was the first time he had really wanted to die, the first time he had gotten that ache in his chest. He saw himself, those same eyes, as a young boy, as a teen, as a young man. He had given himself that same look millions of times before, but now it was different. His eyes weren’t the exactly same. They were still crystalline blue, the pure physicality of them was the same, it was still exact, but there was a new sadness, a new immortality shining back at him like a beacon. It was screaming at him. The way his eyes sat and shone on his face, the line of his mouth, the sharpness of the bones on his cheeks and jaw and the color of the bright red contrasting his light skin. He finally knew, a new feeling running through his bones as disgust took over his features, his eye contact not breaking not even for a moment. All this time, all this fucking time he had been searching for death. Candles, cliffs, roof tops, carriages, rope, he had been searching, seeking, desiring. He had wanted it for so long, and this whole time he had been looking in the wrong place, peering around the wrong corners. Now, as he stared himself dead in the eyes, he finally knew. He had been confused, thinking that death would save him, thinking it would be the end, that it was waiting for him. It wasn’t a reprieve, it wasn’t destined to save him after a life of sadness and regret, he wasn’t meant for a clean ending, he was never designed for a peaceful rest. This whole time he had been looking, searching around him for the answer as if it were hiding when really, it had been here, in his polished metal mirror, this whole time. He shook his head slowly, subtly, lips drawing back to bear his teeth as he narrowed his eyes, his reflection mimicking the action. His gaze didn’t break as his mouth finally spoke the words, the disgust and realization, the displeasure, prevalent, obvious as he spit. “So, I finally found you, you son of a bitch.”

#selfpara #FB - 400 #death //#suicide //#return #blood //#vomit //#gore //

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ravikherva · 6 years

Link

If you haven’t set up Google Webmaster Tools yet, do so yesterday. It’s really easy and worthwhile. Just go to https://ift.tt/KlftTd, sign in with your Google account, and click add a site. Then you’ll be provided with several options to verify that you manage the site. Use the option that’s easiest and make it happen.

Add Every Site Version

The biggest mistake that I see people make with GWT is failing to add every version of every site they manage. It’s unfortunate, because it’s very easy to do. Failure to add every version of every site will result in data for only some of your site(s) ― at best, this stifles insights; at worst, this can cause you to make costly errors or neglect critical issues.

Obviously, if you have the domain thingamabobs.com and a domain called whatchamacallits.com, you should add both root domains.

You should also add all subdomains. If you have the subdomain https://ift.tt/1jVCiv2 and the subdomain http://www.thingamabobs.com, add them both. If you only add https://ift.tt/1jVChXO, that’s all GWT will track; and that’s all the data you’ll get.

If you have http://thingamabobs.com and http://www.thingamabobs.com, add them both. (Then fix your duplicate content issue).

If you have https://www.thingamabobs.com and https://ift.tt/1jVChXO, add them both.

Basically, if you can change what’s to the left of your root domain and still get a live page when you enter the URL in the browser bar, then add that subdomain. Also add any subdirectories that target specific countries. Google explains the versions you can add here.

Site Messages

Occasionally, Google Webmaster Tools will notify you if your site seems to have a very important issue. Make sure you set up the messaging forwarding so you can get these notifications emailed. The emails may inform you about some problems accessing the site, increases in crawl errors, unnatural link warnings, malware alerts, and more.

One caveat is that there can be a delay between the time the problem arises and the time you get notified. Another caveat is that there are plenty of bad problems GWT won’t notify you on. You definitely want to really pay mind to GWT emails, but they are merely an additional line of defense ― not a replacement for any other risk-mitigation measures.

Use the Help Files

Google has a lot of resources on SEO, and good practitioners gobble as much of it as they can. The Google Webmaster Tools Help Center is a treasure trove.

Make sure you use GWT with an inquisitive mindset. Most of the reports have limits, caveats, and nuances. Before you go rushing off to make a major decision, make sure the data is what you think it is and means what you think it means. Often, GWT data leads to important but unconfirmed hypotheses that you need to investigate.

Also, if you click the help button, you may get a quality, relevant suggested help article. So do that frequently. The articles are pretty good at explaining what the various data-types in reports actually are (insomuch as Google is willing to share).

However, the articles are frequently dry and lacking in pragmatic insights on what to focus on. Plus, there’s very little pictures. (We’re expected to just read words on the interwebs? Come on.)

The GWT reports help files can also be a bit inconsistent. I looked through the related help files for each GWT report I cover below, and I’ve listed the most helpful ones.

Be sure to click on those little question marks a bunch too.

Search Queries Reports

Author’s note: On 5/6/15, Google officially rolled out a vastly improved version of this report called the Search Analytics Report (in beta). A detailed help article on the new report is here. Please note that this section of this guide pertains to the old report and is out of date at the moment.

GWT help article here (for old “Search Queries” report)

This is the gem of the “Search Traffic Section” ― heck, it’s the gem of all of Google Webmaster Tools, and the data in this report can be found repackaged in many paid SEO tools suites. This report has some (nothing is truly comprehensive) data on the following:

impressions

clicks

click-thru-rate

rankings

That data can be displayed against the following dimensions: 1) keyword, 2) landing page, and 3) keyword/landing page.

You can then filter data by location (but only certain countries) and Google search vertical (regular web, image, mobile, video, or news). And you can download that data and have a field day.

Sweet, right? Well, naturally there are some…

Limitations and Caveats of the Search Queries Report

This data has gotten extremely popular as folks must compensate for missing data on keyword performance due to keywords (not provided) in Google Analytics. The search query data seems to have gotten much more reliable too. And more specific.

Unfortunately, while Search Queries are one of the most important ways to fill in the (not provided) void, Search Queries data is far from a complete replacement for the (not provided) keywords. Why?

There’s no engagement or conversion metrics.

You don’t have all rich secondary dimensions like “metro area” or “time of day” like in Analytics.

Not every keyword is shown (not even close).

A click in this report is technically different than a visit (session) in Google Analytics.

Historical data only goes back 3 months (a workaround is below).

Additionally, one should be aware of some caveats:

The Image search vertical gets many times more impressions than web search, due to many more listings per page. Never analyze CTR or impressions for “All” verticals simultaneously ―always analyze Web, Image, Mobile, or Video separately.

I’ve seen instances where multiple listings for a single keyword appears to multiply impressions, driving CTR down unnaturally (or example, having two totally unique listings for a keyword may double impressions, cutting CTR in half.) Sitelinks do not appear to multiply impressions though.

The expected CTR varies widely depending on the scenario, so take care in benchmarking.

Outliers. All the metrics can be prone to unexpected results. For instances, Avg. position can be massively impacted by uncommon personalization of results. Also, I am unaware if there is any accounting for multiple clicks or views by the same user, or if bots are taken into consideration. That said, the more clicks a keyword has, the less you need to need to worry about outliers, generally speaking.

New Search Queries report in development― Google announced January 27 that it is working on a new early alpha version of Search Queries. If you want to be a guinea pig, you can request to preview it here.

Cool Insights with Search Queries

Despite the caveats, there’s a ton you can do with Search Queries. Obviously, it’s very good to know which keywords people are Googling to get to your site.

And you probably know how to make use of rankings data. By the way, GWT “avg. position” data has been demonstrated to be relatively consistent with other ranking-checking methods, .

Below are a few other fun insights.

Non-HTML Pages

I find that many, if not most, web marketers have never looked at search engine traffic data on PDFs and other downloads.

Out of the box, Google Analytics can only pull data on HTML pages. Well, one method (here’s more) to get more data on non-HTML pages is the Search Query report. And this is the best way to get keyword-level data on non-HTML pages. Just bust out your ctrl+f and look for the filetype extension (.pdf, .doc, etc…) in the URL.

Image and video SEO

It can be useful to look at web-only (regular) queries, image-only queries, and video-only queries. This data can explain weird things you might see in Analytics.

For example, a quick look at image-only queries revealed why we (still) get a lot of low-quality traffic to a random old blog post about naming the then new office pet.

Rest in piece Link Bait

Image and video data can also help you determine the need for and effectiveness of SEO for images and SEO for video.

A very important thing to remember is that clicks do not equal visits ― especially for images. Whenever you compare GWT clicks to images to visits by image in Analytics you get wildly different results. Image clicks will be waaay more than image visits. Below, you’ll see those 4,000+ image clicks resulted in only 132 sessions in our site (these sessions do not include visits to only the image file URL; these are only sessions on HTML pages.)

To find Google image traffic in Analytics:

Go to Acquisition -> All Traffic.

Set the advanced filter to Source Contains Google and Referral Path Matching RegExpimages|mgres|imagedetail.

AJ Kohn has more details on tracking image search in Analytics.

I haven’t verified 100%, but I’m almost positive that GWT is counting any click on the image SERP, not just clicks to your site. On a related note, a change in the image SERPs in 2013 drastically decreased Google image traffic for everyone.

Another thing to note is that the image data has incredibly high impressions and low CTR compared to the other verticals, so it can really skew your data if you are viewing All search queries.

Mobile vs. Web

Mobile users often do different kinds of searches than non-mobile. For example, mobile users are more likely to be looking for a business near them. Use the Search Query data to get insight on how mobile and non-mobile Google users search differently to wind up on your site.

Another question to ask is “Are rankings are drastically different for the same keyword on mobile vs. non-mobile?” If you rule out that mobile image or video results are not skewing the data, then maybe it’s possible your page ranks lower on mobile. While it’s probably them (Google) and not you, make sure you’re not making any big mobile SEO mistakes.

CTR Analysis

Looking at click-thru rate can reveal a number of opportunities and insights.

First, CTR data will help you understand the relationship between rank position and clicks.

Second, CTRs can also help you understand the SERPs for your niche. Often the CTR is highly dependent on external factors such as competition, number of advertisers, and amount of specialized results (like rich snippets, local carousels, images, etc…). Understanding which search queries tend to have lower CTR in your niche can help inform your future keyword research and SEO strategy.

Third, CTR may help tell you if your page is what the people are looking for. For example, we ranked #1 for “link bait” despite having vastly inferior backlink metrics to other articles on the topic. It appears our ranking was driven by our CTR being well above average. My theory is that most people Googling “link bait” just want to know what the term means, and that the title of our page seems to users to be most likely to be the straightforward answer.

Fourth, sometimes the organic CTR is something you have some direct control over; and you want to find opportunities to directly improve CTRs. Below-average click-thrus may indicate an opportunity to employ rich snippets or tweak Meta descriptions.

Another important insight is the CTR of searches for your brand. While it will never be near 100%, you usually want to get it as high as it will go. See if you should try to win more real estate in the SERPs.

Finally, combine CTR analysis in both GWT and AdWords to guage total CTR. This can aid in AdWords decisions, such as bidding.

Benchmarking CTR is required for the above analyses. You could look to the varying results of external studies for a figure on average CTR. If you ask me, my take-with-a-grain-of-salt go-to “average CTR” for the #1 position is 30%, but I’m sure you’d get a dozen answers if you asked a dozen SEOs.

You could also take the average CTR for your data. First, export the search query data into Excel. Then isolate a bucket of queries for a given rank (all queries for position 1, for example). Then take the average for the bucket.

A third benchmarking method is simply to note current CTR and aim to improve upon it.

Search Queries Hacks

Integrate GWT into GA

Viewing GWT Search Query data in Google Analytics (GA) is super easy. All it requires is for the admin of both GA and GWT to log into GA and, in the left nav, go to Acquisition -> Search Engine Optimization -> Landing Pages.

If you’ve never connected GA and GWT, you’ll see a screen that states “This report requires Webmaster Tools to be enabled.” Simply click the set-up button and follow the easy instructions.

But there are limits.

One limitation of connecting the accounts is that you can only connect one GWT account to one GA account, and a GWT account can only be for one subdomain. So, if you have multiple subdomains, an individual GA view will only display some of your GWT query data. Another limitation is you can’t view Search Query data by landing page together in GA. These limitations can be overcome by viewing the data directly in GWT.

Export keyword by landing page

Viewing keyword data without landing page data is like having chocolate without the more chocolate. Unfortunately, GWT doesn’t let you download the search query data by landing page without clicking on every landing page in the report.

Well, LunaMetrician Noah has created a great bookmarklet that will automatically “click” on every landing page to reveal the search queries and then download it. So now you can have double chocolate. (OMG.)

Automatic exports One problem with the Search Queries report is that it only goes back 90 days. That’s no good if you love historical data like I do. The obvious solution is to export it periodically, but this is a pain to constantly do manually. Fortunately, you can automate downloads: here’s a PHP method and a Python method.

Other GWT Reports

Change of Address

GWT help article here.

Unlike the rest of the reports described below, the Change of Address toolis not located in the left menu. It can be found in the top right. There’s three main things to know:

If you’re changing your domain name, submitting a change of address here with Google is essential (likewise for Bing).

Never, ever submit a Change of Address unless you are actually changing the domain name for your entire site.

Carefully follow all the steps Google gives you on the Change of Address Page. Google’s

(More major migration tips here, btw).

Structured Data

GWT help article here.

Hopefully, you know by now how Google uses schema.org markup to inform rich snippets that get displayed in the search results pages as recipes, reviews, and much more. And, that by implementing the right data markup, you can hope to trigger the data on your site to display as these rich snippets and dramatically improve click-through-rates for a notable bump in search traffic.

If structured data matters much to you, the GWT Structured Data report is essential.

By viewing stats on structured data for your site as a whole and by type of data, you can verify that Google is picking up structured data.

You can also get nice details on the individual data pieces being picked up and also on errors.

If the numbers and data don’t seem to match what you hope to expect, start diagnosing by looking for errors. Then, find a page that should be triggering a rich snippet but isn’t and test it on GWT’s handy-dandy Rich Snippets Testing Tool.

Data Highlighter

Excellent GWT help articles here. Nice article by Portent here.

The Data Highlighter is a tool that basically tells Google the same things schema.org markup would. The Data Highlighter is very user-friendly and can be used to tag at least 9 types of data, and every tag corresponds with schema.org markup (for example, using the highlighter for Events is equivalent in Google’s eyes to markup with schema.org/Event).

I haven’t used the Data Highlighter much myself. Whenever feasible, I prefer getting schema.org markup actually coded onto a page’s HTML, because the Data Highlighter is only seen by Google, and does not help Bing, Yahoo, and other search engines. It’s also not as robust as hard-coded schema.org and is known for being a little quirky.

That said, you should definitely familiarize yourself with the Highlighter’s supported data types. If hard-coding schema is not practical, take the Data Highlighter for a spin. It’s a great way to win rich snippets with little initial effort without a developer or plugin.

HTML Improvements

The HTML improvements section can not only help you improve the appearance of your SERP listings, but also help you find opportunities to address keyword optimization and duplicate content issues.

Find title tags and Meta descriptions that need to be fixed.

However, the HTML Improvements report will do a good job flagging pages that don’t conform to the following best practices for Title tags and Meta descriptions:

Have a unique one for each page.

Don’t make it too long or it will get truncated.

Be informative.

Sniff out duplicate content. As you likely know, it is generally a bad practice to have pages that do not contain content unique to that page. The first step in dealing with duplicate content problems is identifying them, and GWT offers one way of doing so that is too simple to ignore ― simply check for duplicate Title tags and Meta descriptions.

Find out which pages share which Title tags and, if there’s a lot of duplicate Titles, download the data so you can play around with it in Excel. There’s a good chance the URLs are duplicates. While there are other good ways of finding duplicate content (like with Screaming Frog), this method’s benefit is that it will show you some duplicate content Google has indexed.

Caveat on non-indexable content data

I’ve worked on countless sites that have content that appears not to be indexed or even properly read by search engines that is not reflected in the “non-indexable content” data. I really have no idea what a page has to flagged here (I’d love to hear insights if anyone knows). I almost always see GWT say “we didn’t detect any issues with non-indexable content” ― even when it seems that would be incorrect. So use caution.

Sitelinks

Google your brand. Now do it on private browsing. Assuming you have sitelinks, do you like them? Occasionally, the sitelinks can link to pages that convert poorly or offer suboptimal UX. If you don’t like a sitelink, you can demote the Sitelink to reduce the chances of it appearing.

If you have a lot of branded traffic and a crappy sitelink or two, this is a big and easy win. The most common big win scenario I see is when a site was getting a lot of traffic to a page that has suddenly become dated (for example, a seasonal or out-of-stock product).

Just make sure this is the right thing to do. Factor in the possible impact of personalization, location, and device on the sitelinks you observe ― what you see may not be what everyone sees, and what you don’t want to see may be something some people do want to see. Also, if it happens that the vast majority of Google traffic to a page is coming through a sitelink (which you can determine by analyzing the page in the Search Queries and noting how many clicks are from branded queries), then you can guess on conversion and engagement for the sitelink in a Google Analytics landing page report filtered for only Google organic traffic.

Links to Your Site

Links to Your Site give you data on who links to which pages on your site. Since links remain the most important component of the Google’s algorithm, understanding backlinks to your site is important in understanding how to improve your rankings capabilities.

I don’t use Links to Your Site much these days, because paid link data tools have more actionable insights. We use Open Site Explorer by Moz. ahrefs is another link data tool. Majestic SEO is a third option, and has the largest database among the premium link tools.

If you don’t have a paid tool, then GWT is very much worth your while. You also should examine the free limited versions of the three above-mentioned tools. You should check out the Inbound Links report of Bing Webmaster Tools, which I believe has higher limits on how many links it will report (or, at the least, documentation on its limits).

Who links the most

Nobody crawls the web as deep as Google does. GWT might have data on some links when the other tools don’t. That said, GWT doesn’t always display all the links Google knows about (I’m not sure what the quantity cap actually is, but you may be able to get more than 1,000 domains if you download the data). You can download the linking domains and check to see if a given domain is linking to you. This can be useful if you really want to see if a specific site links to you or if you just want to see what the other link tools are missing (typically the dirty underbelly of the interwebs).

You might also note if the quantity of linking domains is growing from month to month.

The data from “download more sample links” or “download latest links” is very noisy; I find I need to scrub out links from the same subdomain in Excel to get any use out of it.

Your most linked content There’s a solid chance you can use this report to find your inbound-linked-to pages you won’t find elsewhere. Seeing which pages pull in the most links and why is my favorite thing I do when analyzing link-winning strategy. I don’t use GWT for this much, but it can help if you have a site that doesn’t get a ton of backlinks and every little link matters.

How your data is linked While anchor text isn’t as critical to rankings as it used to be, it’s still worth looking at now and then. Unfortunately, the GWT report only lists up to 200 phrases.

Mobile Usability

GWT help article here.

The year of mobile is no longer next year. As you may have heard in 2014, mobile internet usage exceeds that of desktop in the U.S, and mobile is the most popular form of any media worldwide.

In January 2015, it was reported that Google has been sending many mobile usability warnings to webmasters; that article also noted the many signs a new mobile ranking algorithm is incoming (count me among the bandwagon riders who feel mobile UX will be a ranking factor). Certainly, Google has been making a serious effort to communicate mobile SEO best practices.

This all underscores the importance of the new Mobile Usability report , which Google announced in late October 2014. It lists the following mobile UX issues (links go to Google’s associated lit on best practices):

Flash content

tiny fonts

fixed-width viewport (the viewport is a meta tag that tells browsers how to size a page)

missing viewport

content not sized to viewport

clickable links/buttons too close

The report lists URLs that contain a given error. The list does not appear to be comprehensive ― that is, that not every URL is reported ― but there should be more than enough reported errors for diagnostics.

Index Status

GWT help article here.

Index bloat is one of the most common problems SEOs deal with. When Google has way more pages indexed then deserve to be organic landing pages, the consequent dissipation of link juice and constrained crawl budget can have a significant impact on SEO traffic.

The converse of index bloat is when pages that should be indexed are not indexed, and this is an equally important problem. There’s no shortage of horror stories of a site’s organic traffic dying because indexation was blocked via a problem with something like robots.txt, Meta robots, rel=canonical, or nofollow attributes. Often, when these issues are in their early stages, the impact on traffic is not yet apparent.

Check the Advanced Index Status report and examine total pages indexed, the number of pages removed, and the number of pages blocked by robots.txt. If any numbers have moved in a way you wouldn’t expect, investigate immediately.

For more information on crawling and indexation metrics, read this.

Crawl Errors

GWT help article here. (links to articles on specific types of errors on right)

404s

A 404 is the HTTP status code for Page Not Found. This error occurs whenever there is no page for the URL requested. Webmaster Tools reports 404 errors whenever Google’s spider crawls a link to a URL that has no actual page associated with it. Common causes of 404s include typos in the destination URL of a link and failure to redirect the URL of a page that was moved or deleted. Both causes of 404s can be detrimental to both the user experience and your SEO endeavors.

Note that many GWT 404s are outdated, “false alarms”, or triggered by bad links from insignificant pages no one ever visits. These may not represent any significant inconvenience to your users or wastage of link juice, but many 404s will be problematic. Click on the URL to see the site’s linking if you suspect the 404 may be a problem.

Resolve problem 404s by 301 redirecting to the appropriate page, by changing the destination URL of the inbound link, or by restoring content to the 404, depending on what is most practical and most beneficial to your users.

Note that if you utilize the “MARK AS FIXED” button, you will have more up-to-date data.

This post explains the right perspective on 404s. While the GWT report is super useful for trends and is a great data point, I often look to some other data points like Google Analytic for taking action on 404s (see #9 in SEO Measurement Mistakes Part 3: Crawling and Indexation Metrics).

Soft 404s and Other Crawl Errors

404s get a lot of attention, but there are other crawl errors that can impact user-experience and SEO. For example 403s, 500s, and 503s are all non-crawlable. Other “not followed” URLs like redirect loops may not be crawlable. Google Webmaster Tools reports on all these.

Soft 404s are a user-experience and SEO issue, and GWT can be the best way to find them non-manually (though some might not actually be soft 404s).

However, GWT does not report on crawl issues like misplaced meta robots tags or 302 redirects.

Crawl Stats

The data in the Crawl Stats may not be as rich as server log file data, but it’s better than not looking at any spider activity reports at all.

Crawl Stats has pretty volatile graphs, but do look for big, weird spikes and distinct trends. For example, Crawl Stats can tell you:

If you have increase in # of pages sucking crawl budget ― if pages crawled goes up, but kilobytes downloaded does not,

If page load times suck crawl budget ― time spent downloading a page goes up and # of pages crawled goes down, or

If crawl budget increases/decreases ― kilobytes downloaded per day will trend, and pages crawled will likely follow.

Fetch as Google

GWT help articles here.

Ensure Google can read your page

Until October 2014, I didn’t use Fetch as Google nearly as much as I should. Then Google’s Pierre Far explained to me at PubCon that tools like seo-browser.com did not reliably show what Google can see with total accurately.

In my opinion, it’s wise to second-guess some Fetch as Google results as I don’t feel it always paints the full picture on SEO readability, but I certainly would not audit a site without Fetch as Google.

Fetch as Google is an essential tool in making sure your pages are SEO-friendly (or at least Google-friendly). I recommend requesting a Fetch and Render on every template you have and every critical SEO landing page.

If a page’s status is not “complete”, then you need to analyze the page to see if all important content is Google-readable. Google has a list of every Fetch & Render status and its description here.

Partial Render

The screenshot above shows a page that couldn’t be fully digested by Google due to robots.txt file blocking several scripts. Using Fetch as Google on many sites as showed me just how often this happens. (Incidentally, Pierre Far also told conference attendees that the biggest SEO error he sees is accidentally blocking Google from crawling all of your website.)

GWT’s robots.txt tester can be used to see if a URI is blocked by robots.txt. However, I prefer this robots.txt tester, because you can analyze multiple URLs.

Submit URLs for indexation

The other use of Fetch as Google is to tell Google you want them to crawl a URL and include it in its’ index of URLs eligible for inclusion in search engine results pages.

When you hit “Submit to index”, Google gives you an option to ask it to crawl just the page submitted or that page and all the links on that page.

Fetch as Google is no a replacement for best practices for crawl-friendliness (like good robots.txt, minimal duplicate content, ping plugins, Sitemaps, and good internal linking.)

However, Fetch should often be used for site upgrades, URL migrations, breaking important news, and launching batches of new content.

Note that hitting “Submit to index” does not guarantee a URL will get indexed, but does help get content in the SERPs faster.

Sitemaps

These are the kind of Sitemap numbers you look into.

An XML Sitemap(s) is an opportunity to tell Google and the other search engines what pages on your site you want to be crawled and indexed. For large site or sites with frequently updated content, a Sitemap is pretty important. The search engines don’t guarantee it will abide by the Sitemap, but anecdotal evidence has proven time and time again that XML Sitemaps help increase the chance your pages are found and found fast (especially if the Sitemap is up-to-date and “clean”).

Sitemaps can get tricky — especially when you have a large site or when you use special Sitemaps for images, video, news, mobile, or source code. To ensure you’re doing your Sitemaps right and getting the most of them, always submit them with GWT’s Sitemap feature.

It is recommended that you always validate your Sitemaps before going live. And what better way to validate than through the eyes of Google? Simply click the big red “Add/Test” button and test away.

Once you’ve submitted a valid sitemap to Google, you should not ignore it, however.

Check in regularly to see if there are any errors or warnings. Often, a sitemap error will reveal a larger problem with your site. Here is the list of possible Sitemap errors.

In addition, pay attention to the number of URLs (or images, videos, etc..) indexed versus the number of URLs or items submitted. It is not uncommon for there to be a discrepancy here, but one of your SEO goals is to get the search engines to index everything you want indexed.

The tricky part is seeing which pages are not indexed (in fact, this topic could warrant its own article), but this may be possible with Google site search and Analytics landing page reports. It’s very time consuming manually, but can be automated with technical hacks.

If the pages not indexed are important to you, there are a few things you can do to improve indexation. For example, you could add or adjust tags in Sitemap: the <priority> tag tells the search engine how important a URL is, and the <changefreq> tag indicates how frequently the page is updated (for example with links to new pages). Also, unindexed pages may be a red flag that those pages lack inbound links or lack content perceived by engines to be unique.

#IFTTT #Blogger

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topmixtrends · 6 years

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IN HER 1981 keynote address to the National Women’s Studies Association, the poet and freedom fighter Audre Lorde described the perils of some such gatherings. She told her audience that “I speak out of direct and particular anger at an academic conference, and a white woman says, ‘Tell me how you feel but don’t say it too harshly or I cannot hear you.’” Lorde then asked: “But is it my manner that keeps her from hearing, or the threat of a message that her life may change?” Lorde was up against “white fragility,” but the problem then lacked a name.

The person providing the name has been Dr. Robin DiAngelo, whose doctorate in education from University of Washington analyzed the racial discourse of white preschool teachers. An award-winning professor who has increasingly turned to being a facilitator of workshops designed to teach whites to frankly discuss their own racial position, she first used “white fragility” in a 2011 article. Her work has informed many experts in multicultural education and activists in social movements. In the book under review here, DiAngelo mostly lets readers figure out what white fragility is by trickling out interesting concrete examples, often from her workshop experiences. Through the years her most succinct definition has specified,

White Fragility is a state in which even a minimum amount of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering a range of defensive moves. These moves include the outward display of emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and behaviors such as argumentation, silence, and leaving the stress-inducing situation.

There rages among antiracists and those who imagine that we are past all that a pretty fierce debate over the merits of asking people to confront, in an organized way, the advantages accruing to them as whites. On the right, DiAngelo is already attacked, as is critical whiteness studies generally. Indeed, one perverse dimension of such venomous attack is an ability to perpetually gin up outrage and white fragility around academic studies of whiteness as if it were a new and intolerable thing, a quarter century after the first such attacks. Now that DiAngelo’s book has appeared on the New York Times nonfiction best-seller list, she is almost certain to become the outrage du jour.

At one extreme of progressive opinion is the position taken by the political scientist Adolph Reed and the literary scholar Walter Benn Michaels. They discern in activism and education around racism the diversionary initiatives of a “class” of academics, middle managers, and political hired hands who, consciously or otherwise, divert attention from the hard facts of economic inequality and keep us preoccupied instead with obsessing about identity. This “antiracism/industrial complex” — odd that a nation so bereft of industrial jobs is said to keep generating these complexes — allegedly expresses the interests of a professional/managerial class serving capital. The counter-positions to those of Reed and Benn Michaels hold that stark racial inequality continues and that something like what feminists called “consciousness raising” has value where whiteness is concerned. Whites — the feminist imagination of a process with the oppressed themselves at the center is perhaps insufficiently emphasized in the antiracist variant — might then puzzle out the miseries, to others and themselves, done in the name of adherence to a set of unexamined assumptions and fiercely defended privileges.

Neither position very much encourages constructing a balance sheet regarding what antiracist seminars, study circles, workshops, and certificates might achieve. Neither much notices the differing ideologies and material realities under which they operate. For Reed and Michaels, the antiracist consultant is a class enemy; the more sympathetic, myself included, are sometimes too tempted to then suppose that the well-meaning consultant ought not be criticized, or even that the critiques are themselves simply evidence of a desire for what DiAngelo calls “comfort” and “white-centeredness” among the critics.

To occupy more fruitful ground, treating the contradictions and success of the book together seems apposite before I offer a closing section on the challenges and possibilities of antiracism training. White Fragility fascinatingly reads as one-part jeremiad and one-part handbook. It is by turns mordant and then inspirational, an argument that powerful forces and tragic histories stack the deck fully against racial justice alongside one that we need only to be clearer, try harder, and do better. On the one hand, as its subtitle suggests, the book underlines how wildly difficult it is for mere conversation to break through layers of defensiveness among whites. The sedimented debris of past injustices conspire with current patterns of white advantage to make white employees and even white activists very hard to coach toward any mature questioning of racial oppression. Their practiced (in all senses of the word) resort to defensiveness and even tears in squelching talk about such advantage is both reflexive and conscious. That very fact adds to opportunities for race talk to devolve into a need to validate the good intentions of individual whites at the expense of serious consideration of either structures of white supremacy or its impacts on its victims. Seldom can anyone learn anything.

On the other hand, White Fragility and DiAngelo’s website offer lists, links, and rules for working antiracist magic, making the task seem at times straightforward and centered on the skills of the workshop facilitator and perhaps on lay people adopting and adapting her wisdom. “Robin DiAngelo is,” Michael Eric Dyson writes a little oddly, in a generous and apt foreword, “the new racial sheriff in town.” DiAngelo is able to bring a “different law and order to bear upon the racial proceedings.” She can, he holds, deliver results by making whites own up to fear, pain, and privilege. If we do things right, the movement, workplace, or the congregation will change and grow, at the very least coming to contain better people. In tone and content, the book jars against itself. The can-do spirit of the workshop and primer knocks against the sober accounts of the utter embeddedness of white advantage in structures of both political economy and of personality and character. Such jarring is not indefensible. We live in contradictions and we do what we can. “Optimism of the will,” the Italian revolutionary Antonio Gramsci enjoined, but also “pessimism of the intellect.” The danger perhaps arises when doing ameliorative work well begins to seem like a strategy for deep structural change.

The subtitle itself suggests how hard it is for a book to thread needles that a society and the states of its social movements do not provide us with the resources to thread. I never blame an author entirely for his or her title and subtitle, as I have unhappily learned from personal experience how the marketing department can commandeer the naming of books. But whomever gave it to us, the subtitle of White Fragility offers a telling example of the apt severity of the book’s analysis clashing with its search for a plausible fix. It promises to tell us “Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” a real problem, but one deepened even more by the fact that white people do in fact drone on about race and racism. They speak privately, rehearsing what I have elsewhere called “whitelore” and to a remarkable extent casting themselves as the victims of racism. When a Donald Trump or a Rush Limbaugh markets himself as having the courage to defend in public what “you” already know and say, they trade on an extensive, if intellectually impoverished, discourse.

Thus the challenge only seems to be getting whites to open up and fill a void. At its best, DiAngelo’s work knows this well and emphasizes likewise that whites are not in the main vexed by being actually fragile around race. The more exact and obdurate problem is that they tend to be sullen, anxious to defend advantages, and given to performing a stance of fragility. It is less clear that all readers will know as much or that allowing them to acknowledge what underlays their fragility will change their attitudes.

The author’s keen perception, long experience, and deep commitment make White Fragility revealing as to how whites hunker down and huddle together for warmth. In movement settings, I have seen the term white fragility deployed to great effect, especially in the least scripted scenarios. In its appreciation of the emotional content of white identity’s many associations with misery, it calls to mind the indispensable work of the theologian Thandeka in Learning to Be White, though the latter leaves more room to acknowledge that the pain of white racial formation is profound and real as well as contrived. As Katy Waldman has written in The New Yorker, DiAngelo has issued a necessary “call for humility and vigilance.”

Though at times White Fragility envisions race as a durable category — even calling for whites to have more “racial stamina” in order to question whiteness — it does not imagine anything redemptive about whiteness and hopes at least for so-called white people to become “less white.” It is uncommonly honest about the duration and extent of entrenched injustice and provocative on the especially destructive role of progressive whites at critical junctures. How often, in the age of Trump, do we read that: “White progressives cause the most daily damage to people of color?”

Nevertheless, for me White Fragility reads better as evidence of where we are mired than as a how-to guide on where we are on the cusp of going. Its pessimistic half convinces more than its optimism. Without more than appeals to logical consistency and to conscience, what lasts beyond the workshop is likely to fade. There is no firm sense of the politics that might be productively attached to the attack on white fragility and white supremacy to which DiAngelo is passionately committed. Between the book’s lines, some sort of reparations for slavery, Jim Crow, and mass incarceration would seem the logically desired outcome, but DiAngelo elaborates little regarding what comes after white fragility.

Part of the problem is a certain reticence to become curious about what antiracist training is, who it has as an audience, and what are its limits. Is the workshop the project of a union, a church, a radical collective, or, as is so often the case, an employer? This difference goes unexamined. It includes much textured description of training sessions, but perhaps too little about their contradictions and limitations.

Beyond the contradiction belabored above — the one setting powerful structural and emotional causes for white fragility against discursive and voluntary solutions — several other (potentially productive) difficulties arise. What voices and eventualities are relatively missing from the description of the workshops deserves consideration. As Waldman points out in her appreciative review, the role of people of color in the sessions described is pretty scant. They appear as rightfully suspicious and not active at times or as weighing in late in the proceedings or afterward with a critique that enables the facilitator to reflect and grow, modeling the overcoming of white fragility. But the substance of their contributions and the ways in which they might become more central to the discussions remain unclear. The very important and often transformative moments when people of color disagree with each other in discussions of race are perhaps subjects for another book. The labor historian in me also wonders how many antiracism workshops take place in workplaces, and whether we should not emphasize that those interactions are management-sponsored as well as workplace-centered. As much as Starbucks, for example, seems to enter the side of the angels by undertaking diversity training, they and other corporations also manage workers hierarchically, and use their antiracism training in marketing, in damage control, and in combating litigation. Such corporations are themselves in large measure responsible for the obscene racial wealth gap in the United States. Under their auspices may not be the most favorable setting for workers to find their ways beyond racism.

Full disclosure: I have had an inglorious and meager career — okay, the better noun is surely side hustle — in giving non-corporate antiracist workshops, in addition to being a historian of race and class. If asked to do so by unions or by friends wanting me to do something extra when in town to do an academic talk, I grudgingly assent. The critical legal theorist john powell and I long ago prepared a questionnaire on whiteness. I still sometimes trot out a few questions from it — “When are you white?” or “What would you put in a display on white culture?” — to try to break through to frank discussions very like those DiAngelo has honed strategies for encouraging.

Sometimes, such antiracism without a license has proven to be a wonderful learning experience, more for me than my interlocutors. The best examples came a quarter century ago. I was still trying to figure who the “white worker” was, past and present, and why so much of her or his political behavior accented the “white.” So I just asked, particularly in workshops in Missouri sponsored by the New Directions Movement within the United Automobile Workers and the summer schools of the United Steelworkers: “Why would anyone want to claim the identity of ‘white worker?’” The students were perhaps two-thirds white, and it was the white trade unionists who first answered. They said that if you were white you could get a job in higher-paying skilled trades, that you could get a better interest rate and buy a house in any neighborhood, that your kids could go to better schools, that cops were less likely to hassle you and your family. That is, they understood acutely — in that setting anyway — the advantages attending whiteness.

The remarkable matter-of-fact set of insights that those workers presented, reinforced by interspersed comments from African-American workers, suggests that White Fragility may — if taken as panacea rather than as a useful corner of a big problem — be too pessimistic as well as too cheery. Some of the critique of whiteness may already reside in the heads of ordinary whites, though sadly what they already know can increase defensiveness as easily as decrease it.

Long ago, in The Fire Next Time, James Baldwin invited a dis-identification from whiteness so that whites in the United States might join in the “suffering and dancing” around them. More than ever in our moment we need just that. In my view, such a change will come when whites are swept into social movements that express the interests of humanity and that probably will seldom have whites at their center. White Fragility — indeed any single book — cannot conjure up such movements. But it does much help us to get there.

David Roediger chairs the American Studies Department at University of Kansas. His recent Class, Race, and Marxism (Verso) has won the C. L. R. James Book Prize from the Working Class Studies Association.

The post On the Defensive: Navigating White Advantage and White Fragility appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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