#and that rawness never survives the final edit

[maximura]

DAY6 | Park Sungjin

[anoncryinginthecorner]

TL: You are Her Most Loyal Child (13/?)

TL notes before we get started: This is the 13th chapter in a series, but is good enough to be read as a oneshot. Despite what the author says about this being very fluffy, it is just unmitigated angst. Some context: Reader (Name: Peruvie) is an orphan of a fallen royal family from Natlan, who inherited a lost forbidden art that offers their entire being, soul included, as a sacrifice to gain its strength. Reader used this forbidden art in the fight against Celestia and the Heavenly Principles to sever Arlecchino’s curse from said Heavenly Principles, assuring Arlecchino’s survival and subsequently Teyvat’s victory. In true Shaoji fashion, Reader dies in Arlecchino’s arms after, exchanging their final goodbyes in silence. The original text heavily implies that Reader and Arlecchino never really had a relationship of Father and Child, even though technically Reader is a child of the House. More of this in post story TL notes.

EDIT: I have forgotten to include: Reader set up her own force, The Sixteenth Battalion, based in the Northern Wilds. In summary, they are a Battalion of Knights that are really strong combat wise and are loyal to Reader [There is a LOT of context in the original story that I am not shortening because I will not do it justice]

Reader here uses female pronouns. Not sure if the raw has AFAB. My brain was fried when I wrote AFAB.

Original here: https://hechushishen.lofter.com/post/74d05c86_2bbdd892b

53

The next time Arlecchino looked up, the aurora was dancing in the Snezhnayan sky.

Clervie… Peruvie[i]… One she tried to hold onto, one who tried to hold onto her. Alas, she lost both.

Arlecchino is tired.

She was taut as a bowstring, not really sure when she would snap. She never had the time to mourn your death, even five days later. There were too many losses made for the victory, too many sacrifices.

To The Knave, you were just one of her dead subordinates. To Father, you were just one more grave in the graveyard.

Handling the intelligence networks, placating the Sixteenth Battalion, expanding the influence of the House of the Hearth… Even with Lyney’s help, the workload was still taxing on Arlecchino.

She was nothing more than a robot, obtaining information, processing information, writing orders and giving orders.

Arlecchino really did want to turn into a machine.

So she wouldn’t feel the dull ache at the bottom of her heart reminding her – the person she had lost was important to her.

When you were around, she never felt that the (now suddenly) empty table was in her way. When you were around, she would never feel that her office was too quiet.

Sometimes, Arlecchino would fall into a daze. She would look at that table, seeing you fail to make sense of the intelligence reports, pout, and sneak a glance at her. And when you realised she took notice, you would turn beet red and mumble something trivial from the current report. When you sighed, Arlecchino would feel her mouth curve slightly, a curve that she would wipe from her face when you turned over and stare blankly at you instead, her concern remaining unsaid. Arlecchino’s heart melted from your antics, your small bursts of emotion washing away all her woes.

But when she comes to her senses now, the only thing that greets her is emptiness.

…

Right. You’re not alive anymore.

You died in that fight.

She buried you with her own hands.

She sealed your sword[ii], The Hearth, and sent it to eternal slumber with you in your coffin.

…

Time to wake up, Arlecchino.

Nobody will remind you that you’ve worked yourself to the bone, or ask if you want company on the way home anymore.

Nobody will remind you to eat regular meals anymore.

Nobody will stay with you on the nights your curse flares up anymore.

Nobody will risk everything just to love you anymore.

Arlecchino, night has long since fallen. Since you won’t dream, face your reality.[iii]

54

Lyney and the rest of the children stayed by Arlecchino’s side worryingly.

Arlecchino knew, even without anyone saying anything, that everybody thought she would not, cannot, accept your death.

After all, they were the ones who saw how she soullessly carried your body away from the battlefield into your coffin. They were the ones who saw how she emptily lowered your coffin into your final resting place. Her stare remained hollow and blank, a shadow of who Arlecchino was.

The children agreed – it was her grief. Her grief had brought her to her knees. The passage of time now only served as an exacerbating factor, one that would bring her closer to her breaking point.

They worry that Arlecchino would implode one day. Like a lover woken from their sweet dream to find that their love no longer existed in reality.

Even if Arlecchino never admitted that she loved you all this time.

But that never stopped the children from acknowledging that Arlecchino was just forcing herself to stay functional.

Because she is Father, and she needs to uphold the House.

Arlecchino doesn’t explain herself, letting the children’s thoughts run wild. Once enough time passes, they should forget. And they would learn how The Knave, Arlecchino, is an emotionless, cruel and bloodthirsty machine, one who would sacrifice anything and everything to achieve her goals.

“Father…” Lyney hesitated. He handed another stack of documents to Arlecchino, who worked over her ever-growing pile without looking up.

“Speak.”

“Would you like to take a break?” Lyney inquired hesitatingly, but honestly.

“Our comrades who sacrificed themselves have been cared for, and we have distributed the reparations to their families. The Sixteenth Battalion has returned to the North, and have settled there. Peru- She… She handed over everything before leaving for the battle, so there shouldn’t be any problems with succession.”

But to put it simply, everything has been settled. You can take a break now, Father.

“Excellent job.” Arlecchino praised. But she glossed over Lyney’s suggestion. She doesn’t want to stop working.

If she stopped, she doesn’t know what she would do. Or what she should do.

Lyney sighed internally. With Arlecchino’s response sidestepping the issue at hand, he had to raise it directly. Even if it was rude, trespassing on Arlecchino’s – on Father’s - boundaries, he had to make it said. You were dead, and Arlecchino cannot continue on like this, unless she wanted to work herself into her grave right then and there.

“You need rest, Father. The House of the Hearth is in good hands with us, you can rest assured while you take your break.”

Arlecchino looked up to face Lyney for the first time that week. “Perhaps you also feel that I cannot accept that Peruvie has died, and am using work to numb myself?”

Lyney’s silence proved his agreement.

“Grief, anger… These emotions will never affect me, Lyney. Your concerns are appreciated, but unfounded.”

~

Now that Teyvat’s crisis was over, the colored lights made the Snezhnayan sky their permanent home. They waltzed through the night sky, a stunning dance that served as a subtle reminder of the paradise Teyvatians were denied until their blood cleansed the Heavenly Throne.

It also served as a reminder to Arlecchino how half a decade ago, when you first came to her side and finished your first mission, you had wished for her company under the same night sky. Under the same dancing lights.

“I wish that you would be able to spend my birthday with me!”

A lifetime ago, she agreed. That day, she bought a cake and accompanied you on a stroll through Snezhnaya’s streets. That day, you gazed longingly at the products the different shops had to offer, living the life that you should have led.

That night, you were happy, and that brought joy to Arlecchino. As a prank, you spread some butter on her forehead, only to be met with a small smile instead of disapproval.

That night, she read your lips as you mouthed your wish.

I wish for Arle to remain healthy, happy and safe.

That night, the sky came to life with gold, a rare sight under Celestia’s watch.

“Arle, look! It’s the aurora!” “Looks like my wish will definitely come true!”

That night… how did she respond? Right. She patted your head softly. “I’ll try.”

You never heard Arlecchino’s response properly, and looked softly at her, a silent plea to repeat what she just said. But she never repeated it, and you decided to leave it there.

A lifetime later, she buried her feelings under the snow. The red, green and blue lights in the sky the only witnesses to the unspoken regrets left behind in Snezhnaya’s cold.

~

Lyney caught Arlecchino recovering from a daze again. And again, her eyes had a tinge of sadness hidden deep beneath the surface.

“Father. You need rest.” He emphasized. “This is Her Majesty’s order, too.”

“Noted. I will finish these documents first and hand them over to you.”

Arlecchino dropped her façade of strength, if only by a bit.

55

Her Majesty gave Arlecchino a summons to her Palace and let her off on long break.

The Tsaritsa still commanded an overwhelming presence, but her gaze was no longer cold. The warmth in it reflected the warmth that was now allowed to spread across her land.

“Peruere.”

Arlecchino was taken by surprise. She had not used that name in years. She knelt.

“Your Majesty.”

“My condolences.”[iv]

See? Even The Tsaritsa thinks that you’re grieving. But, other than the ache in your heart that permeated the numbness, you do not feel anything.

If Arlecchino had as much grief when every single child died, she would not be able to do anything but mourn. So why would this death be any different?

“I humbly thank Your Majesty” “Do you have any plans?”

Plans? Arlecchino does not. She was not supposed to be on holiday.

She only accepted the offer to put the children at ease. To show Lyney and Lynette that she is fine, when they inevitably watch her from the shadows.

She would show them that she was not heartbroken, was not grieving, was not… was not mourning the death of you to the point she forgot that she was human, too.

“Then walk in her footsteps.”

Neither party needed any hint. Much less Arlecchino, who knew who Her Majesty was referring to.

Walk in Peruvie footsteps? She never went to many places to begin with. Just a couple. Fontaine, Natlan, the Northen Wilds…

“I will.” Arlecchino agreed.

Silence hung in the air. Just before Arlecchino could excuse herself, The Tsaritsa spoke again.

“She loved you.”

Silence again. Arlecchino nodded. “I know.”

It was obvious.

She didn’t even need to look hard to know. Your eyes lit up brightly whenever she was around.

No matter how hard you tried, you were never able to hide it from her.

“Someone like her is difficult to find. When she established The Sixteenth, she wrote to me. She explained why she set it up.” “This is a force that is loyal to Arlecchino, and only Arlecchino. Its existence is to protect Arlecchino and her safety, and it will never be an aggressor.” “Perhaps The Captain has already known this, from the Sixteenth’s movements in the North. The Doctor did say that it was named after you. They are your battalion of knights.” “I approved this force’s existence in my land, because of her plea. For her sake, Peruere, travel in her footsteps. See the marks that her love for you has left behind.”

“You have done enough in these years. Put down your mask as Arlecchino, and live your life as Peruere.”

“This holiday will have no set length. The House of the Hearth will be under Lyney’s control, and he will take over the duties of The Knave in your place.”

Do not run anymore, Peruere. Accept your love for her. Accept Peruvie’s love for you. There will be a soul crushing sorrow awaiting you when you do, but then, and only then, will the past and its regrets stay there, where they belong.

56

After leaving Her Majesty’s throne room, Arlecchino took a small stroll through the vast hallways of the Palace.

The Sixteenth Battalion… Her name?

Arlecchino knew not where “Sixteen” came from. She mapped out all possible connections the number had to her, Her Majesty’s voice playing in the background.

No wonder The House of the Hearth did not have much movement in the Northern Wilds. No wonder her investigations into ‘Peruvie’ were always unsuccessful.

Many questions were answered, but many more arose and left unanswered.

For example, her grief. Her eyes went dry long ago. They cried for nobody. Her heart was cold and numb. The only emotion she could squeeze out was a small hint of sadness.

Song made its way through the halls.

It was the Damselette. Colombina.

Arlecchino followed the song to its source, finding the girl sitting on a windowframe, singing an old tune.

“A surprise seeing you here, Arlecchino.” “It has been a while, Colombina.”  

Outside the window, Arlecchino could see the sky’s colors.

That aurora again. Just like that night.

“Thinking of that child again?”

Colombina smiled softly and warmly. You had left your impression on her even in the few years you were around.

“No.” Yet the speed at which Arlecchino denied it all but proved that she was.

Colombina giggled. “Arlecchino, admitting that she is your weakness is nothing to be ashamed of.” “She was a girl worthy of such praise after all.”

Arlecchino leaned on the windowframe next to her. “I was not aware that The Damselette was this acquainted with my subordinates.”

The sudden quip of jealousy caught Colombina off guard, but it made her smile even brighter. She couldn’t resist teasing Arlecchino.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to transfer her over to me, then wouldn’t stop talking about her?”

There was nothing Arlecchino could say in response. She did do that.

She did think of transferring you to Colombina’s forces many times. When you finished your competency test as an agent, when you came back injured on your first mission, when you were pursued by The Narzissenkreuz Ordo, when you came back from the Northern Wilds…

But not once did she succeed. How could she, when she saw your love for her in your eyes.

“Someone like her, who loved you so much, who dedicated her entire being to you… Is such a rare find…” The Damselette sighed. When you were alive, she had her gaze on you many, many times. Yet the only person whom you truly looked at and served was Arlecchino.

She knew. That your feelings for her ran beyond that of an orphan and their caretaker.

“But I lost her.” Arlecchino’s eyes darkened, her voice soft and low. “I shouldn’t have hesitated.”

Arlecchino regretted many things. She should have known that you would have put yourself in harm’s way just to ensure her safety. She should have sent you away from the battlefield much sooner. But she couldn’t bear to.

The ache buried deep in her heart morphed into a knife stabbing pain, one sharp enough that her eyes felt wet again.

She thought that she would be by your side, protecting you from danger. She was overconfident. And now, the only thing she has left is regret.

“But you know she’ll do whatever it takes to remain by your side, right?” Even in death. Colombina shook her head, the smile never leaving her face. Even she knew that you would never leave Arlecchino alone to face reality, regardless if you were dead or alive.

“You should rest for a bit, Arlecchino. You’re too tired.” The children in The House were not the only ones who were aware of this. The Damselette, too, was well aware that the best phrase to describe Arlecchino as she is right now would be “precariously dangling off the edge”.

Take a break. Embrace your new life after you come back. By then, everything would be set in stone.

“I will be leaving Snezhnaya.” “On Her Majesty’s orders?” Arlecchino nodded; Colombina understood.

“Do you know what the word, ‘Sixteen’, has to do with me?” Arlecchino quipped suddenly.

“Sixteen?” “The Doctor said, The Sixteenth Battalion was named after me.”

“Sixteen…” Colombina sunk into thought. “I remember you mentioned, she likes Liyuean culture?”

Arlecchino nodded.

“Write your name in Liyuean?”

Arlecchino drew upon her flames, and traced her name in embers in the air.

“Yanre[v]… No wonder…” “Yanre?” “It’s your ‘no’.” Colombina smiled softly, pointing at the character floating in the air. She silently thanked Regrator for going on his endless tirade about the history of Liyuean characters for the first time in her long life.

“Yanre, her alias in Fontaine.” “Similarly, sixteen… Happens to be the number of strokes in your ‘le’ too[vi].” “That child really, really likes you, don’t you think?” “Oh, and Peruvie… When I first heard that name, I had assumed that you were the one who thought of it.”

Arlecchino ended that conversation there. She bid Colombina farewell, and returned to the House.

57

Yanre… Sixteen… Peruvie… Hearth…

Her mind travelled back. Back to a lifetime ago, when you gave yourself a name you chose. Your first name was bestowed upon you by her, so Arlecchino hoped that you would choose a name that fit you best in Fontaine.

You had stood outside her door for a long time before mustering the courage to tell her.

“Yanre? Why this name specifically?”

Caught unawares, you stumbled on your words, only mumbling broken phrases under your breath. She frowned. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, without hesitation.

“Then it is settled.” Arlecchino did not prod further on your nervousness and your beet red face. There was nothing suspicious going on since before that, there weren’t many times where her presence alone didn’t turn you into a freshly ripe tomato.

Were you scared that I would notice, and disagree with your choice? Arlecchino thought.

You had let her into your daily life in many ways. Even your personal sword, The Hearth. And she had questioned you before, a lifetime ago.

~

“Why this name? Not much why. Arle, I was really happy when I came back. Home is where you are. This name makes me feel at ease, just like… just like you Arle, how you stand by my side and protect me! Holding Hearth makes me think of it, and makes me fearless!”

You had answered back then.

The Hearth’s sword flames surrounded you, and under its soft glow, your smile struck Arlecchino’s heart.

She never asked you why you named your force The Sixteenth Battalion. Much less thought of how the force she thought was for your way of protecting yourself, was actually set up to protect her instead.

And only then, did Arlecchino finally, truly, understand the meaning behind Lyney’s words.

…

It was the night before that fateful battle.

She had ordered Lyney to take you away from the battlefield should the opportunity arose, by whatever means necessary.

Back then, Lyney hesitated before agreeing.

“Is there a problem?” “After Peruvie’s return, I did ask her why she came back. She said she wanted to leave a normal life, one with domestic bliss, without the worry of dying the next day.” “She had already achieved such a life in the Northern Wilds. She had no need to come back.” “But she said – ‘Brother Lyney, it’s because Arle is here. I need to make sure she is safe first.’” “‘Because before I learnt how to protect myself, I learnt how to protect Arle.’”

“I will follow your orders and make an opportunity to bring her away from the battlefield, Father. But I cannot guarantee that I will be able to do so.” “Because when it comes to matters regarding you, Father, Peruvie’s concerns were never about herself.”

…

‘Because before I learnt how to protect myself, I learnt how to protect Arle.’

Arlecchino found herself lying on her bed, holding The Sixteenth Battalion’s Seal of Authority[vii]. Her tears fell slowly, making small drops on the red gloss of the wood.

The color came from the rivers formed from bloodshed. There was your blood, your enemies’ blood, your comrades’ blood. The Seal only became more meaningful once one understood the sacrifices made to ensure its existence.

And you gave it to her, to Arlecchino.

This was your biggest strength, as it was your greatest show of love.

Arlecchino will only ever weep for two people. The first was Clervie, her comrade in arms in her youth. The last was Peruvie, her lover whose love went unanswered until it was beyond reach.

And now, Arlecchino has truly understood the love she has lost. Her realisation tastes like salt and tears.

TL Notes I thought this was going to be a relatively short translation, until I got to the 5th page and realised that I just read things really quick. That and Chinese is a much, MUCH more complex language than English (am a native speaker in both but it feels like I’m just dumb in two languages).

Thought this was a really good standalone even though it’s actually part of a longer series. My own writing style is similar to the original author’s, more fast paced if anything, so I found translating the style a bit easier.

According to the author (istg they’re like shaoji), there will be a continuation to this where the Arle isn’t left alone anymore. There is a chapter after this and I don’t doubt them after reading it. It’s just that I want to send them a flower bouquet of fake guns just for this angst. It had me sobbing the first time I read it. There is a LOT of two sided pining.

On the part of their relationship, Reader is indeed a child of the HotH but has never considered themselves as a child of Arlecchino. In the raw, Reader has always referred to Arlecchino as 姐姐 (jiejie), which means older sister. Similar situation to the Onii-chans you always see, just make it gay and turn it Chinese. Essentially she has never seen herself as being below Arlecchino but rather views Arlecchino as an equal generation wise. Reader's generation is also quite awkward, she refers to Lyney in a similar way that Lynette does but Lyney calls Arlecchino "Father". Granted, this can be excused because even in game, Arlecchino actually isn't that old. The age gap between her and Lyney is actually closer to a sibling age gap than a parent/child, it's just that Arlecchino has gone through enough that she's mentally a 40YO Dad.

I might translate the rest, but only if I can eke out the time between HSR, Genshin and touching grass

There were some subtleties I couldn’t really translate to begin with… They’re explained in endnotes below.    

[i] Reader being named Peruvie. The name for reader in the raw is 佩薇儿 (pei wei’er). The 佩 comes from 佩露薇利 (Peruere) and the 薇 can come from either 佩露薇利 (Peruere) or 克雷薇 (Clervie) since they both share the same character. The 儿 is usually what you put behind shortened names, and it’s usually used by (older) family members or close friends.

So I just went ahead and named reader Peruvie.

[ii] Swords are a huge thing in Chinese culture, and in situations like this where the parties actively use their swords as weapons for combat, they would have a personalised sword. One crafted for them and suited for their own needs. It’s essentially an extension of your body. In fantasy, high quality swords have been depicted to have their own consciousness, making for some interesting interpretations. 封剑 AKA sealing the sword usually happens when the owner intends to never use it anymore either through giving up combat entirely or when the owner dies.

The most well known one in the fandoms I’ve been to would be MDZS’s Suibian (随便), where after the death of its owner, the sword sealed itself in its sheath and never allowed anyone to use it.

[iii] This line is an absolute PAIN to translate. There are quite a few different interpretations to it, and the structure itself is impossible to bring over to English.

阿蕾奇诺，长夜已深 既然不睡，就该清醒

A lot of Chinese idioms come in fours, and there are a lot of things that you can explain in four characters. You simply don’t have this complexity in English.

阿蕾奇诺: Arlecchino, this one’s simple enough.

长夜已深: Here, 长夜 refers to a long night, which can be interpreted as an unending night too because the theme here is Death and Heartbreak, which usually is irreversible. 已深 means that it’s already quite deep into the night, which reflects the passage of time. Usually the time would be midnight, or sometime in the witching hours like 2-3am but the translation will not fit here.

‘The never-ending night has long since fallen.�� But translating this would break the writer’s style, which tends to be short but sharp.

既然不睡: 既然 has a meaning similar to “since”, which is why it’s translated as such. 不睡 , translated literally, means that one won’t sleep. But here, sleeping is dreaming, is falling into the delusion that reader is still alive and well, and that they are just away on a mission. Arlecchino knows that Reader has died and will no longer return to her, but she has not fully accepted the fact yet. She is not sleeping or dreaming to delude herself (which suits her character, see Arle’s story quest RE: Clervie), but she is not fully awake yet - ie she has not fully come to terms that Reader has died.

就该清醒: 就该 in this context sounds like a very harsh “you should, because that is what is expected of you”, which lends to the accusatory tone that the rest of this scene has. 清醒 literally means to be alert, and when seen next to the 不睡 of the previous line means that one should be awake AND alert. In this case, alert wouldn’t mean up and about, but refer to being accepting of reality and Arlecchino acknowledging the fact that reader is, well, dead.

Put together, it can refer to a monologue Arlecchino tells herself, or it can be her conscience hounding after her and denying her true rest. When seen in context to the rest of the scene, it sounds very accusatory. I’m inclined to think that this is her conscience (which is also seen in italics in later portions of the fic) bashing her, but this being her actual monologue would also be very in line with her character (accept the harsh reality and not sink into sweet delusion)

[iv] The raw here used is 节哀 which is a polite way to respond to someone who has a loved one who died. It has the politeness of ‘condolences’ but also has the double meaning of ‘don’t be so sad/cheer up’ albeit in a subtle and polite manner. Here it’s used to imply that even the Tsaritsa thinks Arlecchino is very upset, which is the case, only Arlecchino herself has not realised it yet.

[v] Oh boy. Yanre. The raw for this calls reader 言若. Arlecchino’s name in written Chinese is 阿蕾奇诺.

The last character, 诺 (nuo) has two parts. The left and the right. Think of it like a prefix, only this one is usually used in words that refer to speech or spoken language. 言 (yan) is used to describe that portion of the word. As for 若, it can be read two ways. One is ruo, which is used in a similar way as “like” in English idioms. It is also the most common way you read the word. The other one is re, which is used for nouns (though for a character’s name both would technically work). There are characters that use this word in two ways in different fandoms, like 若邪(ruoye) from TGCF and 阿兰若 (a’lan re) from Eternal Love of Dream.

Think of it as reader taking a portion of Arlecchino’s name and claiming it as her own! Which is why reader was so worried about Arlecchino finding out upon questioning (lol)

[vi] I am not translating this accurately here because the original character used is 蕾(lei). Le will not flow as smoothly off the tongue, so a character that pronounces as lei was chosen instead (is what I am inclined to believe). But yes, if you write this properly, it does contain 16 strokes, hence the Sixteenth Battalion. Reader is really smitten to see this, I bet she writes the name when she’s spacing out. Almost nobody in their sane mind would count the strokes unless they were really, really obsessed.

[vii] Seal. Seal in Chinese is 印 or 玺 (though the latter refers more to that passed down by the royal family). Generals tend to pass down 符(fu) which tend to be intricately carved objects. The raw here uses令牌, which is a flat piece of carved wood/jade/metal/(insert material). It’s not a seal per se. But the meaning is still similar, all individuals in the group must swear allegiance to whoever has possession of the item, in this case, Arlecchino having the authority over the Sixteenth whether its knights acknowledge her or not.

[mochiwrites]

last life au

in light of third life turning two years old today, I offer a wip I've had sitting in my google drive since february! if any of you remember this post I made a while back, all you need to know is that third life!grian has swapped places with last life!grian somehow. without further ado, here's my very unfinished and very rough last life au wip (pls don't judge it too harshly LOL)

happy two years to the series that changed me as a person! :D (edit: now posted on ao3! read here)

if you enjoyed, please reblog! reblogs do more than likes <3

To Grian, the desert was once a home.

It wasn’t perfect, not really. Perfection is nearly impossible in a game of death, but what he and Scar had came close. The desert was the farthest thing from a good location, all things considered. The days were hot, far too hot, and the nights were so cold that it left Scar and Grian curling up close for warmth. There was nothing but sand for miles, which made gathering materials a constant challenge. 

But they had their home. Their tower, their place of respite. Dogwarts was a constant threat barreling down their door, but together they made it work. Their home was far from perfect, but it was theirs and that’s what Grian came to love about it. 

Except now, as he stands in a ring of cacti, he has destroyed his home. 

His home is filled with lava and craters, a reminder of what they did to survive. Their desert was ruined days ago in what they had hoped to be the final showdown with Dogwarts and The Red King. They blew up their desert for a win they never achieved. 

Maybe that was the first sign that things were going wrong. Their desert, their home, their small temporary sanctuary in this hellish game was blown apart. 

Ends justifies the means, no?

After all, to Grian, their home was more than just the desert. Their home was with each other. The desert never mattered much to him, not when he had Scar, and vice versa. The desert was a symbol, more than anything. Of Grian’s debt, his guilt. He’ll never admit it, but it felt a bit liberating to destroy it. 

And maybe that’s why things went oh so horribly wrong. 

Maybe that is why his fists are shaking, knuckles raw and covered in blood. Maybe that is why he stares down at the bloodied corpse of what was once his partner, his other half. His insides twist and turn, creating a mangled mess of emotions within him. The sun beats down on him, sweat and blood mixing together as one. His hair is in his eyes, but he doesn’t care much. His tank top feels like too much but also too little all at once.

His knuckles ache, his body is sore. He’s hardly covered in bruises and scratches, and yet he still feels like he’s just been beaten half to death anyways. 

He can’t bear to look at Scar, to meet his gaze and see his own brightly shining eyes reflected in lifeless, empty ones. 

“For everything you’ve done to keep me alive this long, you may slay me and take the enchanter.” 

Scar’s words ring in his head, accompanied by his laughter. Grian puts a bloodied hand up to his mouth as a wave of nausea rolls over him. He doesn’t pay any mind to the copper twinge that fills his mouth. He tears his gaze away from anywhere remotely near Scar, instead turning and looking over the mountain. 

Their home is in ruins. Their home is gone. The last of their home has been destroyed by his own two hands, killed for the sake of winning some pointless game. 

His victory feels hollow. Empty. 

He had wanted to win together. Winning without Scar felt… wrong. It feels wrong. After all they’ve been through, after establishing something between them, winning alone just… didn’t look as appealing anymore. 

“I’m getting you! I’m getting you good!” “I don’t think you are!” 

His hands ache. His chest feels tight, as if his ribs have been coiled tightly around his lungs to constrict his air flow. He takes a slow step back, as if trying to escape the scene of the crime. His legs shake from the weight of both his body and his actions. Grian takes a shaky breath. 

“Can we win together?” 

He stumbles as he walks backwards, his world dipping and tilting. 

Grian won alone. 

He doesn’t feel like a winner. 

He doesn’t even want that title. 

The guilt is eating at him. Why? Why is he the one that survived? The point of all of this was so that Scar could win! That’s why Grian stayed with him! 

(He won’t admit to himself that there’s more to it than that. He won’t admit to himself that somewhere along the way his feelings changed. No longer was he staying by Scar’s side out of guilt or obligation. Without Grian even noticing, Scar grew on him. Scar broke through his walls with his ridiculous yet charming nature, and Grian found himself wanting to stay with Scar because he wanted to see him win. Because somehow, somewhere, Grian’s heart had been swayed and stolen. Somewhere, he had fallen in love.) 

For a moment, he’s angry. He’s angry at the blood lusting ghosts for demanding a final fight. He’s angry at Scar for letting him win, for making him win. Frustrated, bitter words lay on his tongue as he turns around to admonish the man, emotions getting the better of him. 

Only to turn and be met with his corpse. Blood pools around Scar’s body, bruises littering his face and chest. Grian had been throwing punches wildly. 

His stomach lurches, and he covers his mouth again. Copper fills his nostrils, heavy and thick. “Oh… I don’t feel good,” he mumbles, but there’s no one around to hear him. 

He tears his gaze away, instead surveying the desert around him. His blood is rushing in his ears, making it hard to hear. His head swims as he stands still, looking over at the rivers of lava throughout the desert. 

Grian’s eyes settle on the cliff face.  

This desert isn’t a home anymore. It’s vacant, empty. Pointless. His home doesn’t exist, not without Scar. 

He walks toward the cliff. 

“Scar, I’m so sorry!”

“I’m sorry too!”

The desert is unfamiliar, morphing and twisting into something dark and unwelcoming. It has become  a monster of Grian’s own creation. It has become something that Grian has ripped apart with his own two hands. Something that once brought him warmth is now cold and barren. The desert is a shadow, a weak imitation of what it once was. 

He stands on the ledge. 

He wonders what was going through Scar’s mind during all of this. What was he thinking? Does he hate Grian for being the one to survive? Is he at peace, having been the one to die? Does he hate Grian for killing him? Does he hate Grian for ruining their home? Or is he happy with the way that things have gone? Grian supposes he’ll never get to know. 

He shuts his eyes and jumps. 

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

Muffled noises surround him.

He can’t quite make out what the noises are, not when it feels like his head has been submerged under water. One by one, his senses return to him and huh, that’s weird. He’s dead, yet he can feel his body? That… shouldn’t be normal. Granted, Grian has never been permanently dead before. Do most dead people still feel their body? Is that even possible? 

The next thing he feels is something soft underneath him. Now Grian knows that isn’t right. The last thing he remembers feeling is his body slamming into the hard ground below, shattering his bones. The pain had only lasted a few seconds before Grian fell unconscious, but it had been excruciating while he could still feel. Darkness had come to claim him quite swiftly. 

But whatever he’s laying on… it feels nothing like the harsh sand. It’s softer, almost silky. Plush. It only serves to confuse Grian more, seeing as once more, he isn’t sure if feeling things still is normal for a dead person. 

Ever so slowly, Grian slowly opens his eyes. His eyes are met with a stone ceiling, which… is that supposed to be there? 

Grian had a few ideas of what the afterlife would be like – if he even has one. An empty void, or maybe the End. Perhaps he’d return to the wasteland that was once his home and haunt it as a ghost. (A kinder part of him had hoped that he’d reunite with his friends, and they could all cry and hug one another. And maybe he could see Scar again, and shake him around for making Grian kill him, and then hold onto the man so that he’d never lose him again.)

Experimentally, he wiggles a finger or two. Yup, there’s still a body attached to him. Alright. Though to his surprise, he isn’t in any sort of pain. Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, all things considered. 

Something wet touches his hand then, and Grian leaps up with a shriek. He pulls his hand back and looks at whatever touched him, finding a dog sitting on the ground. “Huh?” He looks at the dog, seeing a red collar around its neck. “Why is there a dog here?” The animal simply tilts its head to the side in response. 

It’s then that Grian actually takes the time to look around at where he is, and he pauses. The first thing he notices is that he’s laying in a white bed. There’s a chest and a crafting table in front of the bed, and there are dogs just about everywhere. Ah, so that’s what all the noise was. A furnace is set on the floor against the wall, and Grian finds himself feeling very confused. 

This is… definitely not the afterlife, that’s for sure. 

Did someone rescue him? How? Grian was the only one left on Third Life, everyone else was… 

Lips curling in a frown, he moves to slide off of the bed. Just as his foot touches the ground, he pauses, recognizing the extra weight on his body. Looking down at himself, Grian finds iron armor on him, which only worsens his confusion. Why is he in armor? 

Standing from the bed, he looks around at the room. He’s certain that he’s underground, if the walls of stone and dirt are anything to go by. He watches as one of the dogs (a pup) clambers onto the bed and circles the pillow before curling up and laying down. 

It leaves him feeling very confused. 

He casts a glance around at the stone box he’s in, looking at each of the dogs. Some of them don’t pay him any mind, and others are staring right at him. Who’s dogs are these? And why are they here, wherever here is. They seem friendly with him at least, but Grian doesn’t know if that makes him relaxed or more nervous. He remembers Joel’s pack of wolves. 

While looking around, he spots a ladder tucked against the wall leading down. He doesn’t go toward it, in case it’s trapped. Instead, he looks at the pickaxe he has on him and uses that to cautiously dig a little staircase up. 

It takes him a few minutes to get to the surface, considering he’s trying to dig out and also listen to his surroundings. When he finally pops his head out from the dirt, he does so carefully, peeking out to look around him. There’s no one around him besides trees and mountains. He sighs softly in relief. Though he still has to remain vigilant. 

Climbing out of the hole, he covers it back up with dirt (just in case if he was saved by someone, they won’t immediately notice he’s gone). Standing at full height, Grian takes a look around. The first thing he notices is how the landscape is completely different to Third Life. What is this place, he wonders. The terrain all looks different.

Lips dipping in a frown, he sets his hands on his hips, “Definitely not in Kansas anymore…” he mumbles to himself. If this is the afterlife, it’s quite odd, that’s for sure. 

While looking around, he catches sight of something in the distance. It looks like some kind of cobblestone building with roofs of dark oak. From where he is, he can spot four of them. One is at the very top of a mountain, being the most visible. 

The idea of approaching it leaves Grian hesitant, but maybe a little investigation wouldn’t hurt. He’s going to have to check it out if he wants any answers as to what this place is. So he makes a journey toward the direction of the towers. Trekking through the trees, he uses the branches for coverage. 

And when he gets to the big entrance of the four towers, he pauses. 

Grian stares at the front entrance, watching as pistons move up and down in front of him. Watching it, his eyes follow the movements curiously. Surrounding the entrance are walls of dark oak and cobble, wrapping around the base completely. He considers walking inside, maybe exploring whatever this new structure is. There was nothing inside the chest within the bunker for him. 

His inventory is an assortment of different items, none of which Grian knows what’s important and what isn’t. By now he’s ascertained that he’s in fact not dead. Which is… confusing. How is he alive? And where is he?

“Oh, Grian!” Someone’s calling his name, and the sound of someone else’s voice makes him jump. He looks up, seeing a familiar blue and red jump suit and dirty blond hair. 

Grian’s eyes widen, “Tim..?” The name escapes him with a sharp breath. No longer does his skin look sickly and gray, instead healthy and free of blood. His hair is vibrant, as are his brown eyes. A diamond chest plate sits over his upper body, iron leggings and boots. Grian almost feels like he’s seeing a ghost. The last time he saw Jimmy, it had been in the desert. Right before he died. 

It feels weird to see him again, considering he wasn’t meant to die in that fight. He was meant to stay safe. With Scar. 

Grief and regret crashes into him at once, nearly knocking him over. Images of that battle flicker in his mind, as well as the aftermath. They hadn’t spent long at Jimmy’s grave. 

(Grian paid Jimmy’s grave a visit late that night. He had been fully aware of the risks, knowing that anyone from Dogwarts could attack him. But Grian could bet with certainty they were too busy enjoying a perceived victory against the Desert. 

Jimmy’s grave was nothing fancy. Extravagance was a privilege they didn’t have there. Simple cobblestone walls and a poppy planted in the ground was all Scott could give him. 

Grian sat down, and apologized. He hadn’t even been there for Jimmy’s death. Jimmy wasn’t supposed to die. And Grian hadn’t even been there to help him. He apologized for that. He promised revenge. His death would not be in vain. 

At some point, someone had joined him. A warmth slotted against his side, and the smell of sweat, burnt sand, and summer heat filled his senses. He relaxed. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. Grian leaned against Scar, letting his thoughts wander. 

“I’m sorry the trap got messed up.” Scar apologized with a low mutter. 

Grian huffed quietly, gently knocking his head against his arm,“I don’t care about that. I mean, I do since the only one it got was me, but — I’m more thankful you survived.” 

“…I’m sorry you died,” was Scar’s response, “But on the bright side, your debt’s been repaid! You’re a free man!” Grian knew Scar well enough by then to know when he was forcing himself to act cheerful. He could hear the underlying sadness in his voice, the way he was holding something back. But most of all he could hear the fear. 

To that, Grian only pressed himself more firmly against him. “Then my first act as a free man is to see this through with you until the end.” 

He heard Scar take a breath; shaky and rough. An arm wrapped around him, and he heard a murmured, “Thank you.”)

Jimmy looks a little nervous as he stands on the other side of the pistons, “What’re you doing all the way over there for? Get in ‘ere already!” he exclaims, gesturing for him to come in. “Mumbo disabled the trap!” 

His body moves as if it’s on autopilot, legs carrying him toward the gate. He clumsily hops over the pistons and line of stone bricks, landing on the other side. His footing is a bit clumsy as he hits the ground, wobbling slightly. Jimmy laughs at him, and Grian tries to process the sound. 

Jimmy isn’t dead. He’s alive. 

What in the world is going on? 

Grian goes over to him, staring at him with something akin to marvel. Jimmy turns to him, still looking nervous. “So uh… I’m not going to be kicked out, right? I know we had the vote and all yesterday but just wanted to triple check you didn’t change your mind overnight,” he rambles to Grian, shifting back and forth on his feet. 

“What?” Blinking in confusion, Grian looks at him. “Why would I be—”

“Oi, Tim! Give the man some space to breathe, would ya?” Another voice joins them, and Grian tenses at the familiarity. “He only just got back last night. At least wait an extra five minutes before you start pestering ‘im.”

Glancing to his side, he spots The Red King’s right hand man approaching them. He’s dressed in iron, a shield attached to his arm. The familiar black bandana peeks out from underneath his hair and his blue eyes are creased with amusement as he looks at the pair. “Martyn?!” The exclamation escapes him before he can stop it. He takes a small step in front of Jimmy, knowing that Scott would be crushed if he lost him a second time (The memory of Scott in his mind would be, anyways). He keeps himself on guard. 

Martyn smiles at the pair, “Good morning to you too, fellow Southlander!” He grins. “How’s it feel to be yellow again, eh Grian?” he questions, which makes Grian bristle slightly. He remembers Martyn taking his first life very clearly.

“I’m–”

“Watch out!” A voice calls out, followed by the sounds of feet hitting the ground. Grian jumps as someone barrels past himself and Martyn, cutting right through them in a blur of black. “Hot lava bucket in my hands!” 

“I told you to wear gloves!” A second voice follows, and Grian catches a glimpse of yellow and black. He turns his head in the direction the two voices went, seeing them both by the entrance of the fort. Almost instantly, Grian recognizes Impulse from behind. But the one next to him… 

Grian feels his entire body freeze. His breath is punched out of him, eyes widening. 

The man next to Impulse is setting the bucket of lava down with a large sigh, shoulders sagging in relief. He straightens up, taking a moment to glance around. His eyes lock with Grian’s, and Grian feels rooted to his spot. His throat feels dry, as if he hasn’t drank anything in weeks. He swallows, but it does little to rid the feeling. 

Oblivious to Grian’s freezing, the man smiles wide at him, hurrying over. “Grian!” he exclaims, “Glad you got here before I reset the trap, mate, “ he greets cheerfully, but Grian feels too stunned to speak. 

Why is Mumbo here? Why? 

A multitude of emotions crash into Grian’s chest at the sight of his best friend. Relief, horror, guilt. They each roll over him, loud and vicious as they threaten to overwhelm him. He can’t look away from the man, the feeling of confusion holding his head above water. 

(“Do you think Mumbo would be proud?” The question had been half nonchalant as the pair ran through the desert, digging deep underground. The true meaning of the question was a secret, one between only himself and Scar.

Scar paused to consider it. He had lifted a finger to his chin as he thought, “Oh! Mumbo would be crying from happiness!”

“Be honest with me.” Grian had said. 

Scar hadn’t been.) 

Standing in front of the man, Grian does not share the thought. Not after the blood staining his hands. And isn’t that ironic? In a game where your aim is to kill and survive, he feels guilty over killing. But maybe that’s because of who his final kill was. Because of how it all ended. Grian had hoped he’d never have to face Mumbo after that, but apparently fate had other plans. 

“Speaking of getting here early,” Martyn’s voice cuts through the fog of confusion settling over Grian’s mind, causing him to look over at the other. Grian forces his gaze away from Mumbo with a painful pang, meeting Martyn’s eyes, “I see you’ve gone and scored another life on your way back from Scar’s.” He wiggles his brows.

Just hearing Scar’s name causes Grian’s stomach to curl with grief, “W-What?” he asks, the shock of Martyn’s statement sending him back a small step. 

“Don’t you try and fool me, G, the last time we saw you you were on yellow life. And now you’re green!” Martyn points at his wrist, and naturally, Grian’s gaze follows. 

His heart squeezes uncomfortably tight as he sees the familiar line of hearts down his wrist. There’s three hearts on his wrist, green, yellow, and red. Nausea rolls over him like a blanket, wrapping around him and tightening around his neck. He feels sick. Why? Why?! He thought he was done with all of this! Was killing Scar not enough? Was winning an empty, meaningless victory not enough?! 

Is this his punishment? Or some sick kind of joke?! 

He clenches his fists, watching the way they shake from how tightly he clenches them. Burning hot anger runs through him like lava, melting his insides. The warmth goes from top to bottom, engulfing him in an angry, vicious flame. He feels too much, yet too little all at once. He wants to scream. To cry. Maybe break something, or blow something up. Blood is pumping in his ears; his heart feels like it’s going to burst. 

This isn’t the afterlife. This is hell. 

“Grian?” Mumbo’s gentle, concerned voice breaks through the anger threatening to overtake him like a light. The sound of his voice snaps him from his spiraling thoughts, and he notices how his fingers dig uncomfortably into his skin. As if his nails can break the hearts on his wrist, shatter them. He lets go instantly, seeing angry red lines left behind. 

Lifting his gaze, Grian sees four pairs of eyes watching him. Yet the only eyes he focuses on are Mumbo’s, it’s been so long since he’s seen the man. His presence is normally a comfort for Grian, something grounding. But right now, all Grian feels is conflict. His grief and guilt is suffocating, and Mumbo’s presence does little to help that feeling. Mumbo looks at him with nothing but concern and kindness, with the way his eyebrows dip and lower, a worried frown marring his face.

Mumbo takes a step closer, hand reaching out to him, “You alright, mate?” Looking down, Grian sees the man’s wrist. Four hearts go down his wrist in a line. Two of them are already gone, looking faded and cracked. The sight of the hearts on his wrist sends his stomach dropping, heart lodging in his throat.  

Grian recoils from his outstretched hand as if it were a weapon, and Mumbo freezes in place. He pulls his hand back. His face falls, and Grian pretends he doesn’t see. 

“I’m fine.” Grian hastily replies, ignoring the burst of pain in his chest. He scans the people around him. Mumbo, Impulse, Jimmy, and… Martyn. He takes a breath. So he’s stuck in another life game. Great. And it looks like these four are his… alliance. 

A sudden thought strikes him. If those four are here then… who else is here?

His communicator pings, and he pulls it up, heart still firmly lodged in his throat.

<GoodTimeWithScar> oh team BEST~

<GoodTimeWithScar> A wizard *never* forgets his promise.

If seeing Mumbo made him sick, then seeing Scar’s message in chat plunges him into freezing cold water. Scar’s name is red (of course it is), and it sends nostalgia and grief tearing through him all at once. Everything suddenly feels like it’s too much, his head swimming. He stumbles slightly, nearly falling if it hadn’t been for Jimmy taking hold of him. “Seriously, you alright?” Jimmy questions, and Grian… Grian doesn’t know. 

All he can think about is his final moments with Scar leading up to that stupid duel. The splashing of water below him as he jumped down to meet him in that shallow pond. 

“Betrayer!” he had screamed. 

Well look who’s laughing now. 

Grian had thought about it very briefly, in his final moments, what it’d be like if he ever met Scar again. He had wondered if Scar would scorn him, or if Scar would pull him into his arms and congratulate him on a battle well fought. He had also considered keeping his distance, as far away as possible, as to never hurt Scar again. 

And yet, just as usual, his heart never listens to his brain. 

Because as he looks at his communicator, watching the others reply in chat, his eyes only focus on Scar’s name. There’s a part of him, a very deep part within, that cries out for him. It sees Scar’s name, and it reaches. It reaches far and wide, and it doesn’t concern itself with the logical side of Grian’s brain. No, it simply sees the fact that Scar is clearly alive and well and it wants to run right toward him. 

Seeing Scar’s name makes Grian’s chest ache with a deep yearning that he knows can never be satisfied. There is an ache in him that he knows will only continue to eat away at himself, until he is rotting and reaching. His soul is crying, begging for Scar at his side, and though Grian knows that he will only be the catalyst to Scar’s ultimate demise, he is weak to the pull of his emotions. 

Grian’s other half is alive! He is alive and that part of Grian feels incomplete without him. Empty. His heart aches at the thought of being with Scar again, of being able to give him the apology he deserves. Just the thought of being able to apologize to him is enough to break Grian down. 

“S-Scar,” he stammers, completely forgetting that Jimmy even asked him a question. “He’s – I have to get to him,” he says, turning to the others. 

He’s met with varying expressions of confusion, though it’s Impulse who says something, “Didn’t you already bring him his stuff after he died?” he questions, and Grian quickly shakes his head. 

“No I just – where is he? I-I need to see him, I–” he stammers, thoughts running far too quickly for him to actually think coherently. 

“Up north dude, where he always is.” Martyn replies, though he’s looking at Grian with… something. If he weren’t so distracted by the thought of Scar, he’d probably look closer into that. However, distraction is the card he’s been dealt, and he lets it play. He spins on his heel for the exit, walking briskly with purpose. “Make sure he doesn’t kill you!” Martyn calls after him, “Remember the guy’s on red!"

Grian knows he won’t. 

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

If Grian is being honest with himself, he probably should have put more thought into this. He didn’t even come here with a plan! He had just heard that Scar was north, so north is where he went. He was moving too fast for his brain to actually catch up. 

It was a bit of a journey, getting from the cobbled towers (the Southlanders, his mind supplies) to the big mountain in the north. But the second he saw the hut on top of the mountain, he knew exactly who lived there. 

Maybe what made the journey so difficult was the thoughts that accompanied him. 

Grian won’t say that he ran to Scar’s — because he didn’t. Not really. He had walked. And his thoughts consumed him with every step. 

He’s stuck in another life game. Scar is here. Mumbo is here. He doesn’t know what it means. This game isn’t Third Life, he knows that much. His mind is scrambling, trying to come up with some kind of plan. A strategy. He’s trying to lay out a safety net for himself but he should’ve known from the start it’d be pointless. 

There are no safety nets in a game of death. There are no “plans”, despite how badly Grian may want to use one. He learned in Third Life that plans don’t work, even the most carefully planned strategy blows up in his face. It won’t stop him though. A plan gives him something to fall back on, a faux comfort. 

A plan keeps him from running headfirst into danger, a plan keeps him alive.  

Which is why he probably should’ve come up with a plan before going to Scar. He doesn’t know what kind of state the man will be in. He isn’t sure how to even approach a reunion with him. It’s obvious that he’s in some kind of… who even knows where. Obviously his friends all know him here, but he isn’t sure if they remember him. Who he is. What he’s done. What they’ve all done. 

It doesn’t help that he’s apparently been dropped right in the middle of this new game. 

He doesn’t know how to handle an approach to Scar. Hug him? Smack him? Ask him if he knows who he is? A no on that last one, Jimmy and the others have already answered that. Besides, Grian isn’t sure if he could handle Scar looking at him like Grian was a stranger in every sense of the word except the literal one. 

He settles on just seeing what happens. Sometimes no plan is the best plan! 

But just — not in a death game. 

His thoughts trail off as he approaches the bottom of the mountain, and he looks up. He grimaces as he gets a clearer view of the hut up top, sighing. “Of course Scar had to put his base in the most precarious spot ever,” he grumbles before beginning to make his way up the mountain. He makes sure to be careful with each step, keeping himself aware of where he’s stepping. 

When he makes it to the top of the mountain, he’s rather out of breath, chest heaving from exertion. This mountain is a lot bigger than the one back in the desert. But he reaches the top, and is face to face with a hut made of wood and dark stone. The roof on top looks like a wizard’s hat, and Grian can’t help his fond huff. 

He focuses his gaze on the entryway, finding it wide open. This is it. Scar is beyond that doorway. Grian’s hands shake just at the thought of seeing him again. Anxiety runs through his blood like water, filling him completely. His heart picks up, beating against his ribcage. He swallows thickly. 

A small part of him wants to run away. A small part of him wants to turn around and head right back down the mountain and forget that he even came here. A small part of him is afraid to look Scar in the eyes. It makes him feel like a coward. 

And yet despite that small part of him, Grian walks forward. 

He walks right into the hut, and promptly stops. Right in front of him is none other than Scar. He’s digging around in a barrel, humming to himself. Grian isn’t sure what the tune is, or where it’s from, but the scene feels familiar. His chest aches. 

“Scar?” he says, causing the man to yell out. 

He jumps up in surprise, letting out the typical fearful scream he does whenever he’s snuck up on. It makes Grian smile softly, and god he misses this man. Scar spins around on his heels, turning to look at Grian. Grian gets a good look at his eyes, and he sees a dark red haze swirling in them. There is not a hint of warmth in his eyes, no kind of recollection or even joy at seeing him. Grian isn’t sure what he sees in Scar’s eyes, but he knows that there is anger in them. Bloodlust. 

(He thinks he might see hatred. And that is a thought that shakes him right to his core. He does not want to live in a world where Scar hates him, even if it is justified. Does that make him selfish?) 

“Oh, Grian,” Scar eventually says, and his voice is cold. Empty. He takes a step forward, something whimsical about his footing. Scar is dressed in dark robes, stark white hair peeking out from underneath. “If you’re here to nab another life from me, Grian, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. There is a promise of a threat in his voice. 

Grian frowns at that, chest panging. “I’m not interested in your life, Scar,” he says matter of factly. He’s already taken one (two, if his guilt counts the creeper), he doesn’t want another one. 

A laugh spills from Scar, something lacking any real humor. “Oh, don’t you play with me!” he exclaims, voice sharp and angular. The sound of it causes Grian to jolt in surprise. “You can fool me once or twice! Or…” he trails off, thinking. “Three times, whatever, it doesn’t matter!” 

“Scar…” Grian says, and he quickly realizes that he probably should’ve prepared himself a bit more. He lets the other approach him. There’s something different about him compared to Third Life. Something bitter, cynical. Grian isn’t sure if it’s because of the nature of this new game, or if it’s simply because Scar is on red. 

“No, Grian!” Scar exclaims, reaching for his diamond sword. “You know, I was planning on hitting Team BEST first, give ‘em a real good thrashing. Send a message and all that! Can’t mess with ol’ Scar! Not anymore, no sir!” He takes another step toward Grian. 

It’s the instinct of green life, Grian knows, that has him backing away slowly. He takes a few tiny steps backwards. 

Scar looks at him, something angry and hurt in his gaze, “But I think you’ll make a good first message to the masses. You were the first to take advantage of me, after all.” 

Grian’s back slams into the wall behind him, crushing his wings. He cringes at the feeling, but he doesn’t move. Scar is cornering him, holding the blade to his throat. He easily towers over Grian, putting just enough pressure on his sword to spill a bit of blood. 

Looking at him, Grian doesn’t see a hint of the Scar he once knew. He isn’t quite sure what’s going on here, what the Grian of this game has done to wrong Scar, but what he does know is this. 

He killed Scar. 

And the hatred in Scar’s eyes isn’t misplaced or even misdirected. 

He doesn’t fight back against the blade on his throat, the blade that is spilling his blood. He simply stands there and meets Scar’s hazy red eyes. To Grian, he thinks this is good retribution for the cactus ring. He sees no point in fighting against Scar when this is something he believes he deserves. 

Yet Scar thinks otherwise. 

See, he had expected a lot out of today. He’s on red now, and he had a goal in mind. He was going to make everyone on this forsaken server regret thinking they could just use Scar as they please. He was going to start with BEST, and then work his way to the others. But then Grian just came waltzing in like they were old buddies and Scar wasn’t going to let a golden opportunity slip past him. 

He has a whole separate issue with Grian, after all. 

But as he stares into Grian’s eyes, he sees something odd. Firstly he stares up at Scar with blatant confusion and hurt. It makes him want to laugh. What does Grian possibly have to be hurt over? 

Though that isn’t what makes him pause. No, what makes him truly falter is the guilt he sees in Grian’s eyes. 

He observes the green life in front of him (Wasn’t Grian yellow? Did he swindle someone else out of a life?) and notices that there’s no fight. Grian isn’t pushing back against him. He’s not arguing or drawing his own weapon. Not even as Scar draws blood and pushes the blade harder. 

Suddenly the appeal of killing Grian leaves him. What fun is a kill that rolls over and exposes their weak point? 

Scar scoffs at him before making up his mind and taking a step back. So much for that perfect message in chat. Looks like Team BEST is back as his number one target. He lowers his sword completely. 

Grian watches him with confusion, “Scar?” 

The red life meets his gaze, a deep frown settling on his lips. “Who are you?”

[alanjporterwriter]

Books Read in 2024 #23 - “Ernie Pyle’s War” by James Tobin.

Ernie Pyle was the most widely read and recognized American war correspondent in World War 2. His daily columns from across the different theaters of war from North Africa, Britain during the blitz, to Italy, post invasion Normandy, and finally, and fatally, the Pacific brought the raw sights and feelings of those on the front line home to those wanting to know what their fathers, brothers, and sons were fighting for.

Pyle’s focus of spending time with the front line troops rather than just regurgitating press briefings gave the regular G.I.s a voice and cemented their role and struggles just to survive. As a result he was welcomed into their ranks as a comrade.

This excellent biography reveals Pyle was in many ways a broken insecure man who never really fully understood his place and impact. It also points out that while many of his columns were hard hitting and poignant he was well aware of what he left out or glossed over in support of the nebulous thing called “the war effort.”

As well as being an excellent biography of one particular war correspondent it also provides insight into the role and process of news gathering and reporting during a major conflict.

Originally written in 1997 this 2013 edition includes an extra chapter on how in some ways it would be impossible for an Ernie Pyle to operate in a modern conflict zone, while reiterating that there is also always the need for folks who can provide empathic support for front line troops.

The book ends with an Ernie Pyle primer collecting a sample of columns from throughout his career, both pre-war, and during his front line experiences.

[kinetic-elaboration]

April 28: Today's Writing

Yet again a weekend where I just laze around becoming nocturnal for two days and then write on Sunday evening and finally start to feel better. This time, I worked on the Jonty fic and finally (finally!) finished it. It is done! Definitely too long at 13k but I also don't care. It's going to go into the vault for a bit because there are other stories ahead of it in the edit queue, and the I will polish it up and post it.

Here is a short excerpt. tw for references to suicidal ideation

*

Monty breathes in and his chest rattles. He hugs Jasper closer, as if to suffocate him, as if to impart the same level of hurt to him; the gentle, bleak words linger on in the quiet, and Monty feels a well of almost-tears in his eyes.

A part of him, distant: maybe wanting Jasper to live was selfish. Maybe he only cared about his own loneliness, and not what his best friend wanted. What he might actually have wanted, confusing and wrong as it seemed.

“No,” he murmurs, out loud and to himself. He feels Jasper stiffen slightly, but he doesn't repeat and he doesn't explain. In his own mind, the word echoes again and again. Jasper wasn't dying. He could still live. He is still living. He didn't welcome the end of the world with rationality; he has been so deeply wounded that he is no longer rational; he's winding his way without that instinct for survival that Monty so takes for granted in himself, that he needs. Without it, he can't access optimism or hope. Even his most beautiful, transcendent moments are tarnished with nihilism, the bleak acceptance of doom.

Such an obvious, raw wound. But he's never seen it. He thought he did but that was only on his own terms. They've been speaking for a long time now in completely different tongues.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

Jasper breathes in a hard, wet sniffling sound. He tangles their legs together. “For what?”

[lena-oleanderson]

for the past several months, i've been working on a little project and it's finally ready to share

SIDE WOUNDS is a short collection of poetry, and you can download it for free here

featuring 30 poems, some of which are never-before-seen, others edited versions of previously shared work of mine

in Side Wounds i gently guide your fingers into various wounds on my body and encourage you to prod around

deeply confessional, Side Wounds faces the raw reality of grief and mental illness head-on. interlaced are poems about survival and healing. much of life is mystery, I'll give you that, and here are some good reasons to endure it. overarching are themes of love, queerness and god - the collection opens on the line, “I still don’t know what I believe; I’ve started telling queer people God loves them.” which sets the tone for much of the rest of it

[owlixx]

CoD Notes: Advanced Warfare Beat

This is, what, the 4th game I’ve beaten since the last time I took notes?

I again went into this game wanting to like it. I was rooting for this to be an underdog hidden gem, and honestly I think that’s what happened. It helped that Ghosts was kind of a letdown and this game picked up the pieces.

Hit markers are back! A solid start. RPG profession is back! Another solid return from features BO2 had that Ghosts was missing.

Obviously the big thing here is the exo suits. I kind of like them but there’s some issue. My biggest one is that making us switch between two different kinds of rigs and even then having different abilities for each mission meant that I never knew what my abilities were which meant I just never used them. There was a singular missions towards the end where I finally started using my sonic blast and stim. I was constantly trying to double jump in levels where I didn’t have it. I do generally appreciate the extra mobility though.

I also really like the switchable grenades. It would be overpowered in multiplayer but this isn’t multiplayer so kudos for this feature. I also really like the invisible HUD in campaign where all the ammo/grenades are just visible on your gun itself.

Also the writing in this game is so much better than Ghosts! It’s pretty cringy to see Kevin Spacey so much but he does turn in a pretty great performance, as one would expect. I’ll admit that the “are we the bad guys?” mid-game twist is a little too obvious and happens a little too clumsily but it’s still more entertaining than anything Ghosts was doing. Gideon in particular started to really grow on me by the end.

Oh, also I like that getting stronger is tied to kills, headshot kills, grenade kills, and intel collected. I found the most intel in this game by far and felt actually rewarded for it. I also maxed out headshots like halfway through the game.

The best part of this game is the giant mech suit parts at the end, plus the section where you can’t use your robot arm so you have to just pick up a new gun every time instead of reloading. That section was genuinely such s great idea and is so fun to play through.

It’s not perfect, but AW feels genuinely so much more ambitious than Ghosts. I didn’t connect with his game as a kid but now I’ve really started to develop a fondness for Sledgehammer after being something of a MWIII defender. You can even see kind of connection between “smart grenades” and breacher drones, plus the AMR9 is in both.

Now, I did only play one multiplayer match, and I kind of hated it. I’m sure I’d get used to the movement over time, but I felt like I was just hitting buttons and dying over and over. I have zero desire to revisit this game’s multiplayer.

Also did one exo survival match, it’s fine. I like that it tries to evolve the MW3 survival formula, but both feel so basic compared to anything zombies. At least it means there’s something to do on the multiplayer maps eve when the servers go offline.

I also tried exo zombies since you are forced to get the “gold edition” with 1 DLC if you buy digitally. Here, it actually makes sense since you get a whole new game mode. I had never realized just how similar this mode was to treyarch’s zombie maps, but with everything shifted off a couple degrees. I ended up dying because I got infected and racing to the cure chamber got me killed, but overall this mode impressed me. This is the last one without any meta progression though so I won’t be likely to revisit.

Rankings wise, it’s not better than any of the “golden age” games (MW trilogy, BO 1/2) but it beats even BO3 in terms of raw campaign.

[reba-ceres]

A People of a Frozen City

FFXIV Write 2023 Prompt: Clear

Summary: The people of Ishgard begin to see things for what they really are after years of zealous dogmatism that overcame their common sense.

NOTE: As part of the FFXIV Write prompts, the idea is to get a story out as fast as possible and embrace the spontaneity of imperfection. When over, some of these stories will be fully edited into shorts, and some not, but for now, they will appear here raw and full of their natural errors. Enjoy!

Ishgard was always dominated with the gray tones that came with the constant, freezing cold. Even the evergreenery of the few plants that survived the harsh environment were a muted dirty green under the snow that covered their leaves and needles. The even fewer flowers were washed out and white under the constant frost that assaulted the city.

When the snows first came after The Calamity, Serina, like many others, hoped it was just a passing thing that would clear up in a few days. But those few days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months. People starved. People died. And the snow kept falling, covering all the bright tan stones in a gray icey wash that would never disappear.

Some claimed it was the dragons that had brought the cold, that it was their plot. So disconnected were the majority of Ishgardians from the outside world that it would be almost a year before they learned of the events that took place on the Cartinoux Flats. By then the fervor of Halone worship had hit a high, and even in light of the news, the fact that the primal Bahamut was a draconic entity didn’t escape the notice of the priesthood.

Serina had become just as devout, praying everyday for the return of sunshine and those days of rolling greenery and flowers in the garden that held bright color and painted the walkways in a rainbow of beauty. As time continued its never stopping march, those prayers changed to just wishing for a clear day, when the gray stone felt a little less harsh, when the sun could make the greenery shine through the frost, and the color pop out of the few flowers that had survived the cataclysmic change that had struck their city state.

She still remembered that first clear day. It was cause for celebration, and pop up festivities had appeared all across the Holy See. Soldiers stationed elsewhere took leave to see their frozen city in the bright sunlight on the first clear day since the snows first fell. People set out chairs, turning their faces skyward for that tiny bit of warmth the light provided. She remembered she had an iced tea, despite it still being cold, to celebrate the return of the sun with her family. The church had harped that their prayers for reprieve from the cold had been answered.

Time was ever merciless. The next day the snows came back with a fury, but instead of faulting their faith or the science of the changed aether currents, the people of Ishgard came to believe that it was because they hadn’t had a deep enough faith.

Faith in The Fury grew, and the cold still remained.

Walking the Brume on a rare clear day, Serina could see the changes that the end of the Dragonsong War had wrought. People no longer believed the lack of warmth was from their lack of faith or a plot of the dragons. More and more of them were seeing clearly that the aether of their region had been forever changed. Warm days may come again eventually, but it wouldn’t be within their lifetime, as the slow dissipating of this aether was sluggish and would last for a few centuries. The people made do, and some of the traditionalists were slowly losing their standing for stubbornly clinging to a dogma that no longer served to the betterment of the common Ishgardian.

On a clear day, it was a pleasure for the former daughter of Ishgard to see her people finally seeing clearly for the first time in years.

[ajwinter-is-a-nerd]

What Is A Monster By Any Other Name?

A Lawlight excerpt

“Did you ever read into Althusser?” L questioned without moving his eyes from the boy, who was fidgeting more and more with each moment.

“Not particularly. He was a sadistic fuck himself.” Roger coughed at his comment.

“He said, when you respond to a ‘hail’, you then identify the societal implications that are included within it. Instead of associating himself with ‘Light’, this boy has been told he’s an object, a killer, a monster. And he’s accepted the duties that come along with it.”

“Good to know you paid attention in at least one of my classes.” Quillsh snorted at the regurgitation of his speech.

“Calling someone a psychopath doesn’t make them a psychopath. They need to demonstrate the behaviour beforehand.” Roger clenched his jaw as the boy jumped to his feet.

The white pants Light had been provided were slightly too short, exposing his tan ankles on his bare feet as he spun towards the glass.

“It feels like he’s looking right at us.” Roger tugged at his tie, doubting the mirrored effect on the other side, even though he’d thoroughly inspected it himself beforehand.

Tapping his fingers along the glass, the boy paced the mirror, halting in front of L. A wicked grin spread across his face as he straightened himself up, reflecting what L could have been, had he not been saved earlier.

Blood dripped along the boy’s scrubs as his raw finger wrote ‘KIRA’ on the glass.

“Fascinating.” L’s eyes widened as he rested his forehead on the glass.

“That is morbid.” Roger gasped as the boy started chuckling.

“He ruined my case.” L sighed, woefully rolling his forehead against the glass.

“Pardon?” Watari stumbled at the concept.

“I was nearly there… but this… monster, this beautiful creature, took it all down before I could present my findings. He demolished any link. I don’t even believe the ring leaders could have been so efficient. The sheer power of this boy’s mind is phenomenal.” L paused, meeting the cackling brown eyes again.

“Yes, L, but we’re concerned about the ability to manage someone with such violent tendencies.” Watari nodded to Roger, a mannerism to bring peace.

“I’ll look after him.” L stated with confidence as the boy recoiled his steps.

“I don’t know about that…” Watari wavered as ‘Kira’ gained momentum.

The most effective way to commit suicide is one that takes the control from our hands. Whether our mind agrees or not, our reflexes and instincts are based within survival. This is why our muscles screech when we take risks we know may result in an early death. Evidenced by the shuffle marks left on the edges of cliffs or the twitched angle of a handgun aimed towards one’s temple.

Humans, at their core, strive for self preservation.

It was confounding how Light’s body did not hesitate or twitch as he sped towards the glass division. Quillsh found it further unsettling that as the boy leapt through the air towards the glass, instead of flinching, L calmly pushed his forehead harder against the target.

The impact of Light’s face smashing against the divider shook the frames that hung upon the walls of the observation room. Light’s foreboding demeanour never seemed to falter, even as he fell limply towards the floor; tumbling out of sight too quickly for L to ever see if the smug smile was finally wiped once his body connected with the ground.

All that remained of the scene was a blood stained window facing a deceivingly white room, with a hairline crack climbing towards the ceiling.

-

This is an excerpt from one of my WIPs. Because even a hamster in a wheel has more direction than me, because at least it stays with its head forward.

I did edit out one piece that would give away *which* Work In Progress it’s from (because what’s the fun in that?!) but I loved the “meet-cute” in this moment and wanted to share it!

In case you are wondering, they are younger in this scene, and in this particular piece, there is only a two year age gap.

Me, singing to myself for no other reason than being a complete dork: doo doo social theory 🎶 this is wh-yyy I love writ-te-te-te-ting Death Noteeeeee -> and then the beat somehow transforms into the Lion King opening song. So. Yeah. Just thought I would share my song writing capabilities with you.

[glitterytrashcan]

Alive

Severus Snape x OC/reader

Severus did not survive the battle of Hogwarts. Roman just barely did and lives with the pain of losing their love and closest friend. Through it all they have been struggling to feel alive. On the anniversary of his death, they find themself at his grave pouring out their heart and hurt and by the end they are ready to live and feel alive again. 

Heavily inspired by Sia’s “Alive”

Looking down on the wet dirt of his grave they take a shaky breath letting the cold rain wash away the tears flowing freely down their face. The grave was one among many who sadly did not survive the battle of Hogwarts, a gravestone marked with their own name and birth date is already placed next to his. Not many had faith they would survive the injuries inflicted, others doubted they would survive the grief and heartbreak of learning Severus was among the dead.

They are thinner now, pale, wearing one of his cloaks to fight off the rain though by this point its soaked through. Their eyes have long since lost their fire. It pains Severus to see his lover mourning him in such a way, watching from afar there is truly nothing he can do but listen. 

  “I got your letter. how dare you.... you lie to me and let me think we would have a future together you bastard... I forgive you.” their voice is heavy as the cloak they wear as told by the way they drop too their knees before his grave. “It's not fair I've been nothing like the person you once loved since you left. They didn't think I'd survive the physical injuries; little did they know it was the emotional ones that have nearly killed me.” 

   Finally, they manage to remove the cloak setting it off to the side. “Harry testified for you, told them all the truth. He let me see your memories to.... I missed you, still do. They have all started to look at me like I'm a ticking time bomb and in a way, I guess I am.... some poor student may never see me the same after saying something disgusting about you. At first, they looked at me like I was fragile now they look scared.” it caused them to laugh a little. “Minerva said i reminded her of you with how I hid my pain with anger, how I snapped at students. She cried with me that night... We all miss you. I'm not alive anymore I miss being alive. I know you wouldn't want this for me but it's so.... so hard to let the pain go. I've been trying so hard to let the pain fuel me every day but it's dragging me down. “ 

    There's a soft sob that manages to force its way out of their chest though they keep talking. “I need to live again Severus; I need to feel alive if not for me.... For you.” several deep shuttering breaths later they look up from the dirt and to his gravestone. “This is goodbye. I can't keep mourning you my love.... I'm going to do my best to celebrate what we had... Minerva offered me potions professor and I think I'm going to take up her offer. Carry on the Professor Snape legacy, in my own way... You deserved better, but so do I. I love you, and for you and myself I'm going to live starting tomorrow, tonight ill love you with all the pain and grief I have...”  their voice trailed off to a comfortable silence where he knows they are crying. Until Minerva walks slowly over sitting next to them rubbing small, measured circles on their back. 

   “Did you let it all out finally dear?”

   “I couldn't say it, no matter what I can't be mad at him...”

    “How does your heart feel?”

   “Raw, open, like a fresh wound... gods above it hurts so much Minerva.”

    “I know it does, now let's focusing on healing that hurt. No more hiding and holding yourself together with thin threads.” her voice was stern not taking No for an answer and for the first time in months they find themself smiling weakly. 

     “Yes mother” The sarcastic tone of voice said volumes of unspoken words. 

(again im not going to reread this or really edit. have my 3 am angst and comfort writing.)

[a-captions-blog]

[Image descriptions and plain text:

1. Tumblr post with two reblogs: mindfulWrath: honestly “I’ll do whatever you want” “then perish” is the single most powerful exchange possible in the english language and it’s from some bizarre “hewwo” obama rp falling-towers: And there was that other post where someone dreamt that Obama said “violence for violence is the rule of beasts” like what is it about Obama that makes people come up with such raw fucking dialogue for him TwoFingersWhiskey: my mother had a dream where he lived in the forest and she had a cigarette with him and he said “to become god is the loneliest achievement of them all” and put it out and walked into the mist and I’ve never fucking forgotten that

2. “I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me.”– Joshua Graham, Who Is A Fallout New Vegas NPC, Something Most People Throwing This Quote Around Don’t Realize

3. “If the world chooses to become my enemy, I will fight like I always have.”– Shadow the Hedgehog in what is widely considered one of if not the single worst game in the Sonic the Hedgehog franchise

4. Tweet by wint @ dril that says in all caps, ‘If the zoo bans me for hollering at the animals I will face god and walk backwards into hell.’

5. Edited comic panel showing Donald Duck talking to Mickey Mouse. Donald says, ‘Everything that we know and love is reducible to the absurd acts of chemicals, and there is therefore no instrinsic value in this material universe.’ Mickey replies, ‘Hypocrite that you are, for you trust the chemicals in your brain to tell you they are chemicals. All knowledge is ultimately based on that which we cannot prove. Will you fight? Or will you perish like a dog?’

6. Quote by Ultimate Warrior that says, ‘Every man’s heart one day beats its final beat. His lungs breathe their final breath. And if what that man did in his life makes the blood pulse through the body of others and makes them bleed deeper in something that’s larger than life, then his essence, his spirit, will be immortalized by the storytellers.’

7. A gif of a person asking, ‘Do you think god stays in heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he’s created?’

8. 4chan post that says, ‘But what is stopping you? Best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago. Second best time is today.’

9. Quote by Nick Nolle that says, ‘Nobody likes to change. There will always be resistance to change, and there always will be change. And the quicker you get to that, the easier it is. It’s not such a difficult thing. If you entrench yourself and go, ‘By God, I will not change, I will not have this.’ Then, you’re a dead man. We’re great at adaptability. It’s our strongest suit.’

10. Quote by Arin Hanson that says, ‘You’ve got to make a statement. You’ve got to look inside yourself and say: “What am I willing to put up with today?”’

11. Quote by Danny Sexbang that says, ‘Whenever you look at another creator or an artist that you respect, you're only seeing what took them a long time of work and doubt to push through. You never see the struggle behind it. So you think you're the only one struggling, when in fact, everyone goes through it.’

12. Fallout screenshot of Thomas Hildern saying, ‘Too many people have opinions on things they know nothing about. And the more ignorant they are, the more opinions they have.’

13. Quote by Paarthurnax that says, ‘What is better – to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort.’

14. “Pick a god and pray.” -Fredrick from Fire Emblem Awakening

15. Quote by MewTwo that says, ‘I see now that the circumstances of one’s birth are irrelevant: it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are.’

16. Animal Crossing screenshot of Katrina saying, ‘And remember that bad times...are just times that are bad.’

17. Tumblr post with three reblogs: personsonable: me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: [in all caps] I’m not fucking scared of you MiaIsLying: Hey OP? What the [word in caps: fuck] does this mean? Personsonable: decay exists as an extant form of life MiaIsLying: That’s a terrifying answer, have a nice day

18. Quote by Griffin Mcelroy that says, ‘When someone leaves your life, those exits are not made equal. Some are beautiful and poetic and satisfying. Others are abrubt and unfair. But most are just unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy.’

19. “You want to be a hero, Tommy? Then die like one.” - Technoblade from Dream SMP

20. We deserve a soft epilogue, my love - A Stucky fanfiction

21. Tumblr chain: MishaToesies: “if no art makes you feel anything, make your own art and feel something” is too raw of a line to have come from a jenna marbles video of her painting a rainbow/polka dot seahorse saying “it’s seahorse time” on a denim jacket StarSeekrr: [photo of the jacket with the seahorse] GreenyCrimson: Why do you people feel profound thought has to come from high places? The gutter looks at the stars too.

22. Haiku Bot: Grandma Arbuckle reading a love letter in A Garfield Christmas. Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

23. YouTube comment by BrianRusk37 that says, ‘”If violence was to ever be considered a work of art, this place would be the damn Sistine Chapel” is such a raw line and I can’t believe it comes from a video about pokemon.’ The comment has 689 likes including one by the creator. \End ID]

“i am a monument to all your sins” is such a fucking raw line for a villain it’s amazing that it came from halo, a modernish video game, and not some classical text or mythos

[skelegun]

Just finished rewatching George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead for the first time in like probably close to ten years. I remember really liking this film when it came out. I was a big George A Romero fanboy, and I was and still am a huge found footage fan, so combining the two was like a match made in heaven for a younger me.

When people talk about Romero’s final 3 zombie movies, I often see Diary of the Dead mentioned as the worst, and I always assumed it was just people not liking the found footage aspects of it. Upon rewatching it this time, I can absolutely see why people wouldn’t like it. Most of the dialogue is incredibly unnatural and feels like it was written by an edgelord, which is probably why I liked it as an edgy teenager. Also the sorta framing narrative that film is essentially meant to be some kind of in-universe documentary is really fucking stupid. Like they should have just gone with the typical “here is a bunch of raw footage that was found” setup that most found footage films go for. Hell it’s in the name of the genre. How shitty would the Blair Witch Project have been if it started out with an overdub of Heather being like “me and my two friends who DIED filmed this in the woods, and I edited this footage together and added spoooooky music to spook yah!”

That’s not to say it’s terrible, or that I wouldn’t (albeit somewhat hesitantly) recommend it to others. It’s an incredibly uneven film, but the parts of it that do work end up working really well. Somewhat minor thing to point out, but i really enjoyed how they emphasize that anyone who dies will come back as a zombie and the characters even discuss the implications of that. Which is like a thing in the other Romero films but it’s usually treated as a like background blurb. This is the only film in the series where you actually see someone die from a non-bite related injury and reanimate***, I just think that’s kinda neat.

I suppose It’s somewhat unfair to talk about this film in reference to Land of the Dead and Survival of the Dead without rewatching those films. Land of the Dead I remember being a rather vexing film that I could ramble on about but i feel it’d be better to rewatch it before doing so. Survival on the other hand?. You would have to pay me to sit through that shit. I’d rather eat broken glass.

***I suppose you could argue Johnny from the original Night Of The Living Dead counts, because we never see him get bit on camera. Also kinda unrelated but Dr.Frankenstein gets shot with a machine gun in Day of the Dead and doesn’t reanimate. Though how much of Day of the Dead is “real” and how much of it is a dream is up for debate.

[r0b0t1me]

woke up too early and i have time to kill lets talk about mikey

so mikeys prolonged use of mystic powers is slowly killing him/aging him way too fast, and using vey powerful spells is lethal, we know this.

i think his mystic powers derive some kind of life energy away from himself, like alchemy. energy cannot be created or destroyed so fuck it. become the living battery.

i kind of envision mystic energy working the same way that a lot of sonic fans interpret chaos energy. its something naturally ocurring thats present everywhere but only certain people can tune into it and weild it properly. (Edit: rewatched the finale and totally forgot about empyrean lmao. i still think this idea could be partially useful though.)

how come mikey only gets to do this? idk hes built different (#JustGiftedKidThings). or you could wrap his characteristic optimism/passion/kindness into this but now its twisted into something ugly. just a raw will to survive

i think anti mystic devices and the krangs suppression still works but it just takes a Lot to knock him down. the same way that he can use a lot of power but its very much draining to him after intense prolonged use (the only way i know how to visualize this is with the physical cracks like i did in the cassandra comic). its never permanent though, he'll rest and bounce right back

so what about draxum and the other yokai? i dont know. thats what im stuck on.

actually now that im thinking about it, whats stopping mikey from letting draxum experiment on him with mystic powers if it means mikey could have a chance to save his brothers? others refused because well draxum is still a criminal and this whole living battery situation is potentially very deadly. im sure draxum warned mikey that he might just explode into dust the way we see him do in the movie but mikey was like "no, i wont." with that steadfast optimism and that was that

draxum aint trying that shit on himself because "yes potentially killing the one mystic alchemist on your side is a wonderful idea." also hes already old as shit i think so after 10 years hed poof into dust or something

maybe the other yokai fought over it, the remaining mystic power, split themselves into warring factions and that was their downfall. shrug.

[autumnslance]

I was wondering if I could get your opinion on something from the Ultima Thule part of Endwalker? The way I understand it, each of the beings the scions come across represent a reason to yearn for the sweet embrace of death, and their sacrifices are them standing defiant against it (Thancred's "survive" to Metion's "die," Estinien's "keep fighting for a future full of hope" to Al End's "we have failed, there is no use fighting because the fighting might never end," the twin's "you don't have to carry this burden alone, people love you" to Metion's "i must hide my pain to protect the people I love") but I get a little confused around Urianger/Y'shtola's sacrifices, and everything about G'raha and the Omicrons.

So I'm like 60% sure Urianger's is about knowing that the end is coming but doing what you can now to make life good, but I have no idea about Y'shtola, and I don't understand how G'raha taught the robots to dream again? Is that when what his sacrifice was about?

(I also love the fact that it was Metion that accidentally brought about the ends of these worlds with her overwhelming negative dynamis because the statistic improbably of Elpis being the only life in the universe kinda took me out of the story for a bit, but the explanation pulled me right back in with a punch to the gut.)

Anyways sorry to bother you, it just seems like you understand the nuances of Endwalker's story a lot better than I. Hope you're having a good day!

There's a long note to be said in here about how these are still just my interpretations and readings of the text; while I've played multiple times and kept the raw text for my own records (and know where to look for it elsewhere too to back myself up), sometimes another perspective will differ but be just as valid. But that's it's own post about how literary criticism and textual readings works. Cuz trust me, this gets long enough. Hopefully it makes sense, and is if nothing else a springboard into one's own ideas and understanding of these answers.

We'll start with Krile's words to her fellow Scions as they left the Baldesion Annex that last morning:

"You must triumph. What that means will differ for each of you. To make it back home, or to simply avert doom, or perhaps something else altogether... Yet whatever it is that drives you, I have faith in its power to see you through. So please─triumph. Triumph, as we who remain behind believe you will."

So much of Ultima Thule is not just the culmination of WoL's journey so far, but our companions' as well, as bit by bit they tear down Meteion's preconceptions, leading to the WoL's final truth.

-- EDIT: Adding to the bottom of the post the brief reblog comment I added about 10 days later about how each of these five sacrifices (counting the Urianger & Y'shtola, and the twins, as 1 each) can also fit onto Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, none of which were really met for Meteion before, and how the Scions represent and prove each level so the WoL can finally get through to her and summon the Scions back.

Also added commentary in Urianger’s section about Hermes and things learned in the Rising 2022 short story about Meteion’s creation. --

A quick summary of the mentioned Scions, though trust me I could go on about each of these all day as well:

Thancred's determination to survive is there, yes--but also how he takes care of others. He is determined that the other Scions succeed; he even makes it so Y'shtola can see in what should be a realm impossible for her to do so. He triumphs by taking care of his family he finally understood in Shadowbringers that he has, and ensuring their continuation, fighting for them even after he's been pulled apart. Meteion sees his darkest thoughts and feelings, which he admitted to and accepted about himself, but she cannot understand how his wish for life yet remains despite that, why he keeps fighting the inevitable. He's the beginning of how the Scions will challenge Meteion's beliefs in the universe, and herself.

Estinien's triumph is in bridging the understanding of revenge and justice, hate and love; he's been demonstrating his emotional growth the entire expansion, and Hydaelyn even points it out, but that matter of fact acceptance of his past and how that lets him empathize with the dragons' grief, and call out Meteion's corruption of it, is what allows him to ensure his friends' survival and success. As a lifelong soldier, ensuring the mission succeeds is likely in his mind, but for Estinien it's really about his capacity to think of and feel for others, after so long consumed by his self-centered rage and grief--a realization Meteion has not made yet, so cannot stand against.

The twins are strongest together, yet also know how to stand on their own, to be their own persons, in a way the Meteia cannot comprehend. The collective mind is many, yet only one, and alone for it. The twins understand that bewildered, naive fear at realizing the world--the universe--is bigger, more complicated, so different from what one expected. They meet Meteion as peers, children who've grown into young adults and learned from those stumbles and failures, to face their fears, rather than give into them. Whose greatest wish is the happiness of another's future, when she cannot see beyond herself.

So where do G'raha, Urianger, and Y'shtola fit in?

Let's begin with G'raha, as I find him a bit easier. The conversation with the Omicron is where I'll start:

M-017: The Omicrons will never leave this star. M-017: They will stand by until their reserves of energy are spent. For I have no path to offer them. None.

G'raha Tia: It is not our place to pass judgment on the deeds of the Omicrons. G'raha Tia: But surely this does not have to spell the end of your people? G'raha Tia: With your power and knowledge, the possibilities are endless. Why not seek out a new purpose?

M-017: That is impossible. M-017: In the beginning, we had a higher purpose than our pursuit of power. M-017: But we lost sight of it when we so irrevocably altered our fundamental forms. M-017: When we cast aside our flesh, so too did we cast aside all that defined us. Nothing remains of who we once were. M-017: I have no aspirations. No longer can I dream. The vital spark is lost. M-017: Lost amidst circuitry and code and commands...

It's not only "we can't dream" (as in, have ambitions and goals that aren't "grow stronger through warfare"), it's the fear that in turning themselves into machines, they have lost their very souls, the "vital spark" that marks them as living, thinking, feeling beings who could imagine a life beyond this existence. They deal in concrete, in physical, in absolutes. We see this in the side quests where they struggle with things such as relationships and creativity. The ephemeral, they believe, is beyond them.

The G'raha Tia we knew in the original Crystal Tower story woke to a world 200 years past a Calamity. Everyone he knew was dead through violence and time, the civilizations he remembered had collapsed, and many despaired there was no way out, no future, and so were willing to let go of that world on the chance it could be averted. He agreed to a wild plan to send himself back in space and time to change history--and in so doing, changed himself. There was no way back, once he merged with the Tower. So he thought. No way to save the WoL from the corrupted Light except by sacrificing himself to the Rift. So he thought.

And he was proven wrong. He began to look for alternatives, because the Scions showed him compassion and friendship and their own sheer stubborn refusal to accept loss when there's a sliver of a chance of success. So for them he found a new way. And in so doing, decided to seek and find his own happiness.

G'raha figures out how to defeat the despair, but his decision is framed so differently from how he approached what he assumed was his end in Shadowbringers. Where the Exarch was quietly fatalistic and mysterious, assuming there was nothing in his future but a sacrifice he had to protect his people from the pain of, G'raha in Ultima Thule makes the WoL promise they'll go on more adventures together, making plans the whole time. He doesn't know if it'll happen, if this will work--but there's a sliver of a chance, and so he will cling to that hope as the other Scions have taught him (else Alisaie may flick him again).

A crystallized Exarch stands atop the First's Tower. But G'raha had changed himself yet again, merging his soul and memories with his younger, pre-Calamity self still in the Source's Tower. Memories of two worlds, two lives. A confusing situation for anyone. But G'raha spent the later Shadowbringers patches reconciling those two versions of himself--and we see the results through Endwalker in those moments of goofy awkwardness, and those moments when the music and his stance shifts and the Exarch comes out, as it does again with the Omicrons:

G'raha Tia: If you would humor me a moment─when we awaken each morning, how can we prove that we're the same individual who retired the night before? G'raha Tia: Through the remembrance of past events, we might say. We have our memories. Yet there are times when we forget, or recall incorrectly. G'raha Tia: What of our bodies, then? It is the same one, we might say. Yet technically speaking, as living beings, our bodies are constantly changing. It will never be as it was at an earlier point in time. G'raha Tia: Our souls are no more immutable. On our star, people are known to inherit the souls of others, yet they are decidedly different beings. G'raha Tia: For my part, I've subjected my totality to much and more. I've made my body into an extension of a tower. Blended my soul and memories with those of another self. G'raha Tia: And each time, I would ask myself: what is it that makes me, me?

M-017: Were you able to determine an answer?

G'raha Tia: No. But that doesn't mean I'm confused. It simply means I'm the same as everyone else. G'raha Tia: So I posit this: who we were need not prescribe what we now hold in our hearts. G'raha Tia: Whatever came before, what matters most is the present. G'raha Tia: For me, that is being here with my friends. Full proud of how much we've grown together. G'raha Tia: So I urge you to not give up. Heed your heart's desire, and hope that the future you long for shall be realized!

M-017: I...cannot. We cannot. M-017: We cannot understand desire, nor comprehend hope. We do not know how to create such things.

G'raha Tia: We're not unalike, you and I... I too have struggled to find the courage to express and embrace my wants. G'raha Tia: If you like, I will tell you a tale. A tale of a world on the brink. Of a people who never gave up on the future. G'raha Tia: Of a man who realized his grandest dreams, and then awakened to a grander reality.

Is G'raha talking about the 8th Umbral Source, or the First under the Flood when he speaks of "A tale of a world on the brink. Of a people who never gave up on the future"? I think both. While the characters have no way of knowing, we players know from the Tales from the Shadows that the 8th Umbral timeline did continue on--if anything, the Ironworks' success heralds a new Astral Era for them, another chance for their future, after they spent 200 years struggling for it. And the people of the First came together to help the Scions save their world, never giving in to the Light's tyranny (even if some of them had to be woken from their own indolence first).

However G'raha, as the Exarch, had given up. He hadn't known a way forward for himself, in finding one for the First and the Scions, for the WoL. Until he was made to consider the possibility.

A possibility he passes on to the Omicrons. He is a proof that Meteion had not met, could not consider. He defies the idea that changing into something else (as Meteion herself has changed) means one has lost oneself forever. That one can change again, for the better this time.

And as she does not know how to counter that hope, our Crystal Exarch creates for us a crystalline bridge to move forward.

Urianger is who we'll puzzle out next.

Our funny-talking fortune teller started as a mysterious prophet, making himself Garlemald's most wanted, and trolling Hildibrand into attempting to fly to the moon back in 1.x. Urianger ever worked behind the scenes, to the side, as a supporting figure, continuing in that role in ARR and its expansions. The trusty librarian and liaison with the Students of Baldesion and Sharlayan, the one who kept the lights on in the Waking Sands, the one who used Moenbryda's research to give us a leg up at random times.

The one who listened to the whisperings of an Ascian, and decided to take a dangerous path on his own without communication or support to learn more, bargaining Minfilia's life in the process. The one who listened to the Exarch's fatalistic plans and went along with them, lying to his dearest friends in order to save them.

These decisions tore at him, his regrets obvious both times, and both times he was forgiven, for the others understood--perhaps better than he did.

Urianger gets a lot of good moments in Endwalker, one of them on the moon, when the loporrits are trying to coerce him into their own secrets, but Urianger confides in the WoL, and for once, instead of following logic for the greater good, he follows his heart and refuses to play along, this time not only communicating with his friends, but also convincing the loporrits to look for another way.

In Ultima Thule, he draws WoL and G'raha into one last secret, as our wizard can't help himself to a bit of mischief; WoL, due to his promise to never betray their trust again, and G'raha...as payback for the Exarch's schemes. Urianger puts forth his idea on how Meteion unwittingly unleashed the end upon many worlds, mistaking their own despair for her own, as she had confused others' feelings in Elpis. And then Urianger tells us:

Urianger: Yet even if I must needs go to such lengths, I cannot well feign ignorance of the answer I have found within... Urianger: The answer to the question: in what moment might I stand strongest?

Urianger is never the first to challenge an enemy; that's for the others to do. He uses his magic to support them, to heal them. His knowledge is for their benefit. While he can fight as fiercely for his beliefs, his is a gentle soul more at home in contemplation. And he worries his will is not equal to that of his dear Moen, or of Thancred and Y'shtola, or Papalymo and Louisoix. His beloved friends who face fear head on to succeed, even at the cost to themselves.

But none of those friends have ever doubted Urianger's heart. It's why they forgave him those other times. Urianger's love is why Elidibus was unable to sway him with logic. Love was why the Exarch was able to coerce Urianger.

Urianger: That, most assuredly, is the Ascians' belief. 'Twas in the hope of opening mine eyes to said revelation that they first came unto me, imagining it sufficient to secure mine allegiance. Urianger: Nor would they have been mistaken─were my heart a temple to truth alone. But as a devoted follower of Master Louisoix's teachings, and for the love I bear him and his, I hearkened not to their words. (An Ending to Mark a New Beginning, Heavensward patches)

The times he stood alone and apart, the times he kept secrets, though it was Logical and things turned out in the end for the Greater Good, those were the hardest moments for Urianger, and they caused much grief for his dearest friends. It nearly led to Alisaie dying of a poisoned arrow, it led to the tragedies of the many Minfilias upon the First, led to the loss of their dear Antecedent, and nearly cost the WoL their life, along with G'raha's.

So when the time comes, it is in facing honestly his own failings and what he learned through them, and in support of someone he loves, that Urianger finds his answer. To shore up another, to bend his mind and emotions to solving the problem in collaboration with a fellow researcher. As a healer, as a support role, Urianger is part of the glue that holds the Scions together as a team. Where he stands strongest is in not letting a dear friend stand alone against overwhelming despair, to aid her in proving her own hypothesis, while accepting all of himself as well.

If the Ea could have turned their minds to supporting each other, instead of isolating themselves in their research, perhaps they may have been able to stand up to Meteion. If Hermes had been able to open up to anyone else, admit his own need for aid, to find the support and collaboration he needed in her creation and her mission. As it is, she doesn't understand the honesty and love Urianger is made of, to sacrifice himself in support of another, in the hope that those they leave behind will continue on.

EDIT: According to the Rising 2022 story Tales from the Dawn - A Question of Life, Hermes did get some input on Meteion’s creation from his colleagues; but only of her visual design and aesthetic, as he specifically noted that was not his forte. Her abilities, her mission, how she was to carry that out, remained his secret, and his fellows did not know of his internal struggle. That no one knew the full details of his “personal project” are made clear in the MSQ, nor did he get input on the questions she was to ask, as Emet-Selch’s response and Hermes reaction to it made obvious as well.

Y'shtola: Keep calm, and listen well. Y'shtola: Though my body will soon dissipate, there may be a way to restore it. Y'shtola: Azem's magick. So long as our souls remain, you can use it to summon us back. Y'shtola: But you mustn't, for it would mean losing our way forward. This, I only reveal so that you can promise not to invoke the magick. Y'shtola: We came here knowing what victory may cost, so press on. Press on, and do not look back.

Urianger: I shall join thee. As subterfuge is not required, thou shalt not suffer for mine absence.

Y'shtola: Urianger...

Urianger: My resolve hath never been as strong as thine. Full oft have I wavered in my decisions, and afterwards been stricken with regret. Urianger: In spite of this, I may still stand with my comrades, supporting them as they attempt the greatest of feats. Urianger: This truth, I have learned in the course of our journey. Urianger: And many though my shortcomings may be, I may also claim to excel in prophecies. My studies into which have granted me the flexibility of mind needed to bend this malleable reality. Urianger: Thus shall I hope... That thou mayest have the strength to resist, and our comrades the strength to continue.

Y'shtola: With you to urge us on, how could we possibly fail?

Which finally brings us to Y'shtola.

Our sassy cat hasn't gotten much focus, not the way the twins have over every expac alongside WoL, or Lyse in Stormblood, Thancred in Shadowbringers, Urianger in Endwalker; Shtola's overdue some story focus, in my opinion. Yet I don't know that she needs to grow or change in that focus. Some people know who they are and are happy with that, and Y'shtola strikes me as in that camp.

She also strikes me as being different than her beloved master, even while bemoaning the ways in which she's grown alike. Matoya hides herself in a cave, using familiars for various things, grousing about the state of the Forum while doing naught to change it. Grousing about people visiting and their disruptions to her solitude. She does care, in her own way, but you've got to earn it through sheer persistence with that old misanthrope.

Y'shtola, in contrast, lives in the world and seeks to make it better. She fights Merlwyb, the Forum, her fellow Scions, and anyone else who doesn't stand for decency and caring about others. She adopts the entire Night's Blessed, becoming one of their leaders, in Endwalker still using their traditions for her own and others' comfort. She nearly sacrifices herself with Flow again to save them. Even when being harsh and misunderstanding Thancred (cuz he wasn't communicating, so was she trying to make him?), she had the best of intentions, and confidence in his own heart and willpower. "Giving up (on people)" is not a phrase in Y'shtola's vocabulary. You will do better, if she has her way. And she likely will, sooner or later *looks at 5.4 and the Melee Role Quest.*

But like Matoya, Y'shtola is consumed with an overwhelming need to Know. To puzzle out the secrets of creation, to find the answer to every burning question, and there are oh so many questions! Not content with the many secrets of the Source, she is determined to find a means of traversing the Rift to visit the other reflections to plumb their secrets as well!

Yet she is all too aware of her finite time. It's an ongoing joke that Y'shtola lies about her age, claiming to still be twenty-two when she is, by pure mathematics, somewhere between Papalymo and Thancred, perhaps of an age with F'lhaminn (EDIT: As of the 6.x patches, it's indicated Y'shtola is closer to Thancred in age). Some of it is sheer vanity maybe--but given Y'shtola's drive for answers, and how long it will take to puzzle out even a fraction of them, perhaps it is more a bid to maintain the fire, the drive, the impatience, the time of youth.

So to meet the Ea, a people who had attained what she would consider the ultimate goal, and find their ghosts in despair, is an affront. They had defined goals. They had the time to see them through. They lost all will, due to finding an answer they didn't like. As a scientist, how galling, that that would be their response! That instead of looking beyond it to other answers, they simply stopped.

The Ea could not comprehend a reason to continue. Y'shtola can't comprehend their willingness to end. An answer is simply the start of a new question, after all.

(and I don't know about you, but when "Thunderer" kicked in for Y'shtola, I got chills and went "ohcrap!")

Y'shtola: So that's your story. Y'shtola: While I appreciate your advice, I will not heed it. Y'shtola: Convinced though you may be of this truth, it is yours and not mine. Indeed truth, I have ever believed, is in the eye of the beholder.

Coph-coodg: Are you suggesting that we have reached a faulty conclusion? That our science failed us?

Y'shtola: Hardly. As you yourself said, the subject matter is beyond my comprehension. Y'shtola: And that, I accept, is true. I do not possess the knowledge to prove or disprove your conclusion. Y'shtola: In my mortal years, I doubt I could even approach the wisdom of the Ea. Y'shtola: But of one thing am I absolutely certain: I would not be happier in ignorance.

Y'shtola: The most important lesson I've learned...is that learning isn't simply passing one's eyes over words. Y'shtola: Nay... 'Tis when understood for oneself that knowledge attains its true value. Y'shtola: This is what has sustained me. Driven me onward in joy and wonder. In anger and sorrow. Y'shtola: The universe may end, and all may be for naught. But I will live as I always have. Y'shtola: I will always seek out new knowledge. And no conclusion of yours, no matter how grim, can dampen my desire.

Y'shtola is righteous anger, a fierce fire--but also brittle, in her way. She relies so much on her drive, on her single passion, she hasn't left room for much else. This is where Urianger's malleability complements her hardness, his ability to bend supporting her rigidity.

And she is grateful for his aid. She accepts it, with no questions, no deflections, no insistence he save himself, no remorse. She does not order it, as she did Thancred in the Sil'dihn tunnel (and tried to save him anyway); Urianger comes of his own volition, and she allows it. She has stood alone often, in imitation of her master--but she is not Matoya. Y'shtola doesn't hide from people; she lets them into her heart, takes care of them, heals them, challenges them. While she doesn't need anyone to complete her, she has learned to allow others to take care of her, too. To let them heal, challenge, and love her, in a way Matoya cannot.

So she accepts a loved one's help in this terrifying moment, and together they challenge the idea that learning must end, that an answer is conclusive. That their passion for knowledge can be dimmed.

Meteion was sent to find an answer to a question. She thought she found it, and so stopped looking, giving into what she believed was inevitability. Y'shtola defies that response, asking new questions, demanding different answers. Y'shtola accepts help and support, as Meteion did not at any point in the journey. That passion undoes Meteion's naive understanding, her own fear, and a way lights for the others to move forward--to not stop seeking, asking, learning, and in so doing, triumph over despair.

--

That's what I'm taking from these moments, anyway. At least in this moment. In response to others opinions and pointing out of textual moments, on another play through, on a dev interview, on life changes in a year, I might read them differently. But for now, this is what I'm taking from our Scions' sacrifices at the edge of the universe, and how they allowed their own journey over the expansions at the WoL's side to ready them for these moments, and decide, as Krile asked, what Triumph meant to them.

--

EDIT: MY REBLOG ADDITION - MASLOW’S HIERARCHY & THE SCIONS Also now thinking about how the Scions' answers could each correspond to a level in Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, letting the WoL go a step beyond them at the end once the others show Meteion how she's come to the wrong conclusion about life, as her needs were never met/actualized, leading to her (and the rest of the universe's) downfall.

Five levels of the pyramid, five sacrifices made.

1. Physiological needs - Thancred (need to provide survival for his family) 2. Safety needs - Estinien (end of the war and the changes that wrought in him & Ishgard) 3. Love/Belonging - Y'shtola & Urianger (what I already said above) 4. Esteem - G'raha (all those changes & growing into his own hero) 5. Self-Actualization (The twins pretty much embody this)

This is what happens when I'm trawling very old posts on my main blog and get hit with old psych writing references.

Anyway just chewing on this in addition to what I said before under the cut in the original post

[battlemastercoffeeco]

No thots just cubi Din starving and heartbroken, shoulders braced against the mattress, hips up against the bed's headrest, weak and sloppily reaming himself with one of Fennec's meanest toys when the pack get back from their banquet

(I don't remember if you said precisely how or where he did this so I'm taking artistic liberties)

I had stuff typed up for this but then phone call of meandering confusion????? and it all went out the window uuuggghhhhhhh

EDIT: here's the "hunger..." outline

I was thinking along these lines, yeah. Boba, Paz, and Fennec have all been on rotation for missions, patrols, falling-asleep-in-the-office-bc-working-too-much, etc. they haven't been spending much time with Din (they also each might all think the others are spending time with him). they spend fleetingly affectionate moments with him, but brush him off when he tries to offer his assistance.

uuuhhhhhhhhhhhh the 2wks leading up to the banquet, none of them have been back to the suite. Din has been surviving solely on visits to Garsa and her staff. (this is pre-knowing he's Cubi)

anyway, the last mmmmm 2-3days? before the banquet, Din hasn't had the energy to even leave their rooms. he barely gets out of bed. he reaches the deliriously-horny state he used to find back alley hookups to avoid, but his body got so used to being well-fed that he can't do that.

so he tries Fennec's toys.

he knows it won't help, toys /never/ help, not without someone there with him. but he hurts so damn much, he's so fucking /hungry/ but anything he eats just comes back up. he's so horny, he's dripping /everywhere/, he's so dehydrated, he's cramping so hard he can hardly /breathe/ for 10, 30, 40 minutes at a time.

(awful thought here bc of another outline I just realized I haven't published: if he were pregnant when this happened, they'd find him with bloody thighs)

at first, his partners think it's a celebration, a reward: their hardwork has payed off and Din wants to have backbreaking ecstatic sex as congratulations

they realize as soon as they actually get close to him that:

his ribs are showing again, his hips are too prominent

the suite is in shambles, there's toys and lube strewn throughout, furniture knocked askew, Din's armor piled haphazardly on the ground, the sheets have been torn to shreds

Din clearly has no strength left, yet is trying to fit Fennec's most recent goal-toy--enormous and punishing and terrible--into his raw-red cunt, crying, near-silent sobs wracking him

he doesn't even seem to notice them, and when they rush to him, try to get his attention, he can't seem to focus on them; Din thinks he's hallucinating again

also, this is all Even Worse and More Life-Threatening bc Din's body, finally getting the sustenance it needs, had kickstarted his Cubi puberty. thats why he lost weight so fast and why the starvation is hitting/so much harder/ than any time previous.

there's some more pain and trauma points but I forgot them and they haven't come back 👿 however the "hunger...." outline has a section that briefly deals with this scene....I think?

(honestly idk anymore, I thought I posted an outline earlier but now I can't find it rip gotta copypasta again)

[ppersonna]

i’ll float away - myg | m

they show you how to swim, then they throw you in the deep end. what if I don’t float?  - float, the neighborhood.

↳ summary- years after the breakup, yoongi, a successful award-winning rapper with an unhealthy addiction, finds your wedding invite on Facebook.

↳ rating- explicit/18+

↳ word count- 12.6k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

↳ genre- idol!au, postbreakup!au, very heavy angst, smut, fluff

↳ warnings- discussions of drugs and death, penetrative sex, oral sex (m/f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, min yoongi being a mental health king

↳ a.n- hi everyone! some of you may recognize this fic.  this fic is my baby. i went through and edited it a little more and put all the chapters together to make it a one shot.  i think it flows better that way!  i hope you enjoy this.  this fic means so so so much to me and while it’s heavy, i hope you enjoy the ride it will take you on.  this fic got me back into writing and i will forever be thankful for that.

↳ this fic contains adult content, such as drug use, discussions of suicide, accidental overdose, discussions of drugs and addictions.  while this is not romanticized, or idolized, it is discussed.  please take care of yourself and proceed with caution.  18+ | discretion is advised.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt numb.

Yoongi always felt numb, but this felt different, wrong.  Like he was falling and had no ledge to grip.

It felt as if the world had stopped on its axis, and at any moment, gravity would turn off and he would just float, float away to nothingness.

There was no sound. Everything existed in silence.

His fingers couldn’t move. Eyes were glued to his phone screen where he stared at the wedding invite on fucking Facebook.

He wasn’t even sure why he was seeing it, considering you had blocked him on nearly every form of social media. Likely it was from your family, someone that still kept him around despite a million reasons not to.

It felt like centuries before Yoongi noticed his heartbeat again. And when it did, it hurt. It threatened to break his ribs, tear through muscle and sinew, erupt from the skin to go, get away, run run run from this.

The numbness was gone. Now all he felt was the pain.

Yoongi felt like his every cell, every fiber, was burning. Perhaps, they were mourning.

Perhaps, they were dying.

Water dripped onto his phone and it took him a few stunted breaths to realize the water was coming from him, pouring from his eyes like open wounds.

The numb silence surrounding him left him, and now he was too alert, too aware.  The sounds hit him like a tidal wave.

His body was reacting years before his brain could catch up. He could hear himself crying, choking on his sobs, and at first, it didn’t register as his own voice wailing your name.

And then emotion erupted and smashed into his psyche, nothing standing in his way to protect him.

He was heartbroken.

He had felt nothing in years, refused to face the sorrowful demons lurking around him. It was easier to hide, to run. It terrified him to think of what would happen if he allowed himself a chance to feel again. He didn’t think he would make it out alive.

Alive.

Was he? Had he been living since that day?  He wasn’t sure. He breathed, ate, drank, fucked, but he wasn’t positive he was alive at all.

Living? Sure. Existing? Yes. But alive, he couldn’t determine.

Now that he could feel every ounce of pain, his body accepted it tenfold. His throat felt angry and raw. He must be screaming—he thought. His fingers pricked with pins and needles as if they hadn’t moved an inch since the day he last touched you, refusing to believe you were gone. His arms wrapped around his own chest as his body wracked with sobs.

Yoongi hadn’t cried in years.  He hadn’t allowed himself to cry, hadn’t given permission to his mind to even think about it. Surely, once he started, he was confident he would never stop.

His mind reeled. He was only half aware of where he was, what he was doing. It wasn’t until he felt his legs moving, feet shuffling to his nightstand, that he realized what was happening.

He didn’t want to feel. His mind, in an effort to protect, to avoid, was doing the only thing Yoongi knew to do.

He grabbed the bottle of Oxy’s, poured out a handful and contemplated swallowing them.

He didn’t think he wanted to die. To be frank, he felt he was already living in purgatory. He just wanted it to stop, to end, to retreat into nothingness and stop fucking crying.

Swallowing them wouldn’t do. He would fall asleep, and likely stop breathing. Too much. He couldn’t die. He knew in his mind he would feel too guilty to die. He didn’t want death; he merely wanted respite, sanctuary.

He could continue surviving as long as his nerves dulled and frayed, mind sticky and hazy. Exist. Don’t feel.

With skilled hands and tools, Yoongi crushed some pills into a fine powder and sat on his bed to arrange the drug into 4 lines.

He always felt better this way.

He would add a line of coke had his situation been different. It was his go-to, enough to keep himself present, to do what he needed to get through the day while still feeling dissolved.  Sing, dance, record, smile for the cameras, sign for the screaming girls, plaster on that boyish smile, repeat.

He just wanted to sleep.

His body worked on auto-pilot. Yoongi was sure he was still heaving with sobs.  He could feel his chest shaking, and his hands were unsteady.

You were getting married.

One bump. Inhale. Hold it. Don’t think. Breathe.

Someone else was holding you, smiling as bright as your future. Handsome. Kind. Family man.

Alive.

Second bump. Inhale. Don’t let it go. Breathe.

He imagined your hands on someone else’s body, your voice crying out in throes of passion in someone else’s ear. Whispering someone else’s name as you succumbed to your climax.

Third bump, then straight to the fourth without stopping. It burned as it passed through his nostrils, straight to his bloodstream.

Children, a home and a dog. Family dinner. Movies, laughter. All of them without him. An outsider staring in through the window, wondering what it could feel like to be within; wondered what it was like to get what he wanted.

Yoongi leaned back on his bed, feeling the slow, syrupy wave wash over him.

‘Please, take it away’ he pleaded silently as if the drug were his doctor, his therapist. It was, in many ways. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

His eyes drooped and felt like lead. He was tired. So tired. He could feel his sobs slow, before ending in quiet little whimpers and sighs. His breathing mellowed, and he felt his chest deflate for what felt like hours before his lungs pulled in harshly more air.

He ached but felt as if someone had pulled a blanket over him, over his tortured heart and crumbling brain. No more thinking, just sleep. Can’t feel, can’t cry, don’t want to face it.  

Sleep.

Warmth.

Warmth surrounded him. It felt as if he were napping in the shady grass during summer. Warm and comforting.

You were there, in the meadow of his imagination. You were walking to him, a white dress and pretty flowers. Yoongi felt his heart tug at every artery in his body, as if begging him to stop, heel, resist, don’t go.

“Yoongi,” You called across the valley. Your dulcet voice rang through his head as if you spoke directly to his mind.

“Where are you?” You asked.

In a blink, you were in front of him. Your eyes were searching for him, even though he stood inches away.

He opened his mouth to beckon you, but no words came out. He was desperate to call out to you, embrace you. He strained to move his hand. He wanted to touch your cheek, feel real and alive again. His body would not respond.

“Yoongi, go!” You pleaded, eyes filling with tears, still seeking the male. “You can’t be here!”

His body stung, wincing at your words and aching at your distress.

“Yoongi, you need to wake up!”

The warmth faded.

It felt as if something had ripped his comfort blanket from him, exposing his body to the harsh chill of reality.

He could sense he was in a bed, and the lights were bright, so bright. He tried to open his eyes and groaned as the halogen pierced through his skull.

“Yoongi?! Oh my god, he’s waking up!” Distressed voices were too loud all around him, and he felt pokes and prods and beeping of machines.

“Ow-… loud.” His voice was rough as if he hadn’t used it in days.

Yoongi felt more acutely aware of his body as he struggled to wake up. He was so nauseated, stomach churning ferociously, even though he hadn’t eaten since… how long? He wasn’t sure. He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to sleep.

He lifted his eyes again and peered through the harsh lighting. His best friend Hoseok stood over him, along with Namjoon, his manager, and Jimin, his assistant.

Hoseok had tears in his eyes, and the sight made Yoongi wince with grief. Hobi hadn’t cried since high school when he got cut from the dance team. Something awful must have happened.

“Hobi…,” he murmured, coughing to clear his throat. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Adjusted to the light, Yoongi finally glanced at his surroundings and took stock of his environment.

He was in a hospital; he was the patient. An IV was stuck in the crook of his arm, his skin ghostly pale, enormous bags of saline attached overhead. He felt faint.

How had this happened? Did he hurt himself at practice? Was there a car accident? Yoongi could remember driving home from the dance studio but felt foggy about anything else. He didn’t even know what day it was.

His friends blanched at Yoongi’s questioning, side-eying each other.  Who would have to be the one to tell him?

Hoseok’s eyes flooded with tears again as he looked at the rapper and spoke. “Yoongi… you-… you OD’d.”

The words hit him like an oncoming train.

Overdose.  

It had never happened to him before.

He nearly died.

He had, unfortunately, been in the game long enough to watch it happen to others. Some were lucky to make it out okay, most weren’t.

It all flashed painfully in his mind as it all flooded back.

You. Marriage. OxyContin.

Inhale. Don’t breathe. Don’t feel.

“Oh, my god.”

Hoseok let out a soft sob. “Jimin found you in your bed.  Thank god you keep Narcan.”

Yoongi turned to glance at the gentle, pink-haired boy who had already done so much for him. Yoongi felt wrecked, utterly guilty for putting him in such a situation. How many times had Yoongi had to force a needle into a friend’s thigh, watch as their pinpoint pupils widened and lungs gasped for air as their synapses released?  Too many. Each time kept him awake all night and petrified for months. He regularly kept the overdose reversal drug on him, in the studio, in his home.

“Jimin,” he croaked, his own eyes filling with tears. “I’m s-so fucking sorry.”

Jimin couldn’t hold back the tears in his eyes anymore. “It’s okay, Yoongs.” Jimin’s voice was quiet, trembling.

Yoongi felt the tears slip down his cheeks at his best friends and team. He had put so much on them. So much.

“You saved my life, Jimin.” Yoongi’s quiet voice made the assistant cry more.

“You’d do it for me.” He whispered through tears as he pushed forward and fell into Yoongi’s chest, holding the rapper close. “Let’s just… get better, y-yeah?”

The rapper’s heart seized up.

Better.

What was better?  Surely, Jimin meant rehab. Sobriety. Meetings and sponsors.

To Yoongi, it meant feeling. It screamed hurting. It oozed heartbreak.

When Yoongi had been introduced to drugs at the beginning of his rap career, it had been fun and sexy. They used coke at the hottest parties, weed at all the clubs, acid at the raves. Yoongi sampled each like a buffet, found out which made him feel lightheaded and loose, which made him dizzy, which made him ache.

The drugs led to the girls. So many women begging for him. The cloudy haze of his mind found it hard to resist, even knowing you were still his, still waiting for him as you and he promised with thin silver bands symbolizing your shared devotion and dedication.

Therefore, drugs led to regret.

He left you. Days before your wedding. He exposed all of his misdeeds, his infidelity, his vices. He had promised you after he was famous, rich, well known that he would come back to you, start a family with you.

Instead, he turned away and left.

It was easier to avoid it all and leave; he rationalized. Seeing your heartbreak had been his undoing.

After the breakup, Yoongi self-medicated daily. He stuck with opiates and cocaine, finding it just the right combination to get him pleasantly numb from the guilt and loss of you while giving him the euphoric high he needed as a rising star rapper.

He had tried to keep it to himself as long as he could. Hoseok knew about the recreational use but hadn’t realized the extent of the problem until he found Yoongi too high to function, slumped in a chair in the recording studio.

Hoseok told Namjoon, his manager, who interrogated Yoongi’s assistant, Jimin. None had known quite how far Yoongi had spiraled down. And none had an idea to pull him out.

Yoongi didn’t want to go to rehab. He didn’t want the forced positivity. Group therapy. Social workers discussing ‘goals’ and ‘treatment plans’. He would risk his reputation. He was now a top-earning Grammy-winning artist. He was fucking Agust D. He couldn’t be just another celebrity who ended up in rehab. It would ruin everything he built.  He could do it himself, fix his problems alone as he always had.

“Yeah.” Yoongi croaked to his assistant. “I’ll get better.” His smile was weak, and probably unconvincing to the three men who knew him best.

As Namjoon opened his mouth to speak, a knock sounded at the door of his room. Yoongi’s brow furrowed in confusion. He did not know who it could be, the three people he interacted with most already present. His accountant? Wouldn’t seem likely. A fan? Definitely unlikely, Jimin and Namjoon had likely taken major strides to ensure his privacy and ask the hospital to provide security. Was it… you? Yoongi stopped breathing at the thought.

Namjoon strode to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. Yoongi couldn’t see who the manager was whispering too, but moments later watched as the door swung open.

It wasn’t you. He felt relief. He wouldn’t have been able to look at you. But the guest was only slightly better.  

Your mother.

The matronly woman’s eyes were full of tears. Yoongi’s mother had been your mother’s best friend from childhood, to the very day Yoongi’s mother passed away from breast cancer. Yoongi had been 17, void of any motherly contact at such an impressionable age.

Your mother had stepped in, no doubt or worry in her mind about caring for the teen. He was already such good friends with you and she even encouraged and supported the underlying feelings the two had for each other. Yoongi became family and nearly a son-in-law.  

Even after the breakup, after breaking your heart and leaving you at the altar, your mom still kept in contact with him. She still reached out, celebrated his achievements and ensured he was well. She was the picture of forgiveness and compassion.

Yoongi crumbled at the sight of her, suddenly feeling like a teenager again, and sobbed as she moved forward quickly to embrace him.  Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin stepped outside to allow privacy and Yoongi clung to the only mother figure he had.

“I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry.” He bawled. 

He didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. For hurting you? For avoiding her and the entire realm of anything concerning you? For almost killing himself? Maybe a mix of it all.  

His chest hurt, god it hurt so bad. It felt as if all ribs snapped from the crushing weight of his sorrow and guilt.  

Her hand smoothed his hair, mint-colored now, and held his face to her neck and cried with him.

“Shh,” She soothed. “It’s okay, little lion.”

Yoongi cried harder at the childhood nickname from his deceased mother that followed him to adulthood with the woman holding him.

Yoongi couldn’t stop crying. It wouldn’t end. It felt like an endless river, a torrential storm that never passed. He felt raw, ripped from the inside out.

“You’re alive, Yoongi.” She whispered and kissed his forehead. “You’re still here.  I love you.”

He wasn’t sure what he had done in a past life to deserve this kindness and unconditional love. Yoongi knew he didn’t deserve it, especially not from the mother of the girl he loved and broke completely. Not from the woman who he promised to make a grandmother, only to turn away and leave destruction in his wake.

“She’s getting married,” He choked out, the pain in his chest overwhelming him at his own words, so consuming he felt devoid of air. He gasped, struggling to breathe at all.  “T-that should be me.”

She sensed this and squeezed her eyes tighter, hugging the boy closer to her as sobs wrecked his tired, thin body.

“I know, love.” She whispered. “I know.”  She had no words to quell the heartbreak, just as she had many years ago when you laid across her lap, crying over the boy you loved completely.  Words wouldn’t fix the wounds.  She could only provide comfort; a band-aid on a bullet hole.

Yoongi allowed himself to sob, fully cry until he felt he might pass out. She held him, rocked him like a child, whispered words of comfort as his breathing eventually slowed and even out. His sobs turned to sniffles, and though he stopped crying, his eyes remained glassy and broken.

He had stopped crying; he noticed.  The tears had stopped flowing, the thick pleas escaping his throat dried. But he hadn’t stopped the hurt. It felt as though the hurt was a gaping, infected, open sore that would never heal. He could hide it from the world, cover it up for none to see, but he couldn’t ignore the sting or the pain with every breath.

Yoongi steeled himself to look into the eyes of his comforter, preparing himself for the look of pity or disappointment in her look.

He bit back another cry as he only found compassion, comfort and unconditional love in her gaze. He didn’t deserve her.

“Please, don’t tell her,” he pleaded. “I can’t…,” he gulped. “I can’t let her know about this.”

She grimaced.  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” She sighed, stroking her fingers through his mint colored hair. “She wanted to come to see you, too.”  Yoongi groaned and felt his heart clench. “I told her it wasn’t the best idea.” She murmured.  Yoongi was suddenly comforted and struck by how very much he did not deserve the grace of this woman.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “She thought I was clean. That was the last thing I told her.”

He recalled the last time you two had spoken when he promised to get clean. Instead, he had left and spent the next few years in a haze.

“I think you should talk to her,” she admitted. “Not now. Not until you feel better, but she was distraught at the news.”

The idea of seeing you again plowed through him like a freight train.

“Sure,” he whispered. He couldn’t understand why you’d be concerned. You had swung choice words at him as he left, insults he deserved. “Maybe.”

Yoongi spent more time with his mother figure, comforting him and whispering sweet revelations and promises to keep in touch before his doctor interrupted and encouraged Yoongi to get rest without distraction.

Soon enough, he was alone again. Stuck in the too bright, too white, sterile room he had landed himself in because of his grief.

His attention diverted between the discomfort of his withdrawal and the gaping wound of having to see you again.

Even if he made it out sober, withdrawal free, he wasn’t sure he would make it out for long.

He tried to stay away, stay clean. He managed for a few weeks, immersing himself in writing an album and using his creative expression to medicate his wounds.  And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

It started with the marijuana. He couldn’t resist the way it helped soothe everything. Not just the pain, but the world around him. He could sink into his bed, write away his feelings and worries, and relish in the sensation of absolutely nothing.

That lasted for a few weeks. He’d try to smoke every day, but the darkness continued to creep up, wrapping around his throat like a vice.

He demanded his schedule to get busier, to get tighter, despite the warnings from Namjoon. He insisted on shows, award dinners, radio interviews, everything. If he was busy, he wouldn’t think about you. He could survive another day if you weren’t the first thing on his mind.

That’s when the cocaine started again.

It helped him muster the energy he needed to plaster on Agust D, rapper extraordinaire. He could sing, rap, dance, wink at the girls, sign the scantily clad flesh, throw back a shot of vodka and charm the press.

A few lines of coke every few hours pushed him forward, and towards his end.

But he was handling it. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he working, being successful, making money?  He was rich. He was famous. He was beloved.  He was shining.

Did it even fucking matter?

The shine made his shadow darker. It made his fall from grace longer, more painful.

It didn’t fucking matter.

Yoongi found himself at the corner of the park, the same one you two had grown up playing in. It was in the center of the neighborhood you two lived.  It was where he first chased you around the swings, laughed with you over comics at the picnic table, and fucked you for the first time in the parking lot in the backseat of his car.

He couldn’t stop the memories rolling over him like a boulder, crushing his lungs and threatening to snap his bones into nothing more than dust.

It stunted his breath. He felt as if pulling in a full intake of air was impossible.

He finally sucked up his faux courage and scheduled a time to meet you here at this park. The park that held such significance to both of you.

If he thought it was hard to breathe at the memories of the park, it was even worse when you walked towards him, and planted your feet in front of him.

There was nothing. Stillness. Absolute silence as you both felt as if the barometric pressure dropped around your vicinity. A vacuum. Nothing but you two, and so much hurt it was palpable.

“Y-You’re getting married-..” Yoongi broke the silence, voice dry and quiet. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He couldn’t look anywhere but his feet.  Didn’t want to see a ring around your finger that wasn’t from him.

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “Yeah, I am.”

Yoongi couldn’t look at you, couldn’t look you in your eyes.  It was too much. Too painful. Those eyes used to look at him with so much love, so much pride. He couldn’t bear to see what you held in them now.

“Great, that is great,” his voice was flat.  “Happy for you.  I hope it goes well.”

You cringed and turned your face up to stare at the mint-haired boy. The man of your dreams. The one who took so much and left you with nothing.

“Hoseok told me what happened.”

Yoongi closed his eyes, as if blocking out the words.  Fuck. Of course. You and Hoseok were still close; it was bound to happen.

His world now was so dark, so ugly. Yoongi couldn’t bear ruining you any more. You had been the iron rod and lamplight that led him through the darkness. You were his lifeline. Without you, all stability, all light, gone.

“Yeah,” was all he could muster, flickering up to look at you. You were staring back, eyes full of unshed tears.

Yoongi inhaled sharply, feeling each tear from your eyes as a knife to his chest. He hadn’t seen your eyes in so long. Staring at you was like leaving a hand on a burning stove.

“Are you still using?” You asked. Your words weren’t callous or cruel. You asked to gather information, to determine an opinion, not to pass judgement. Yoongi knew you meant no harm and found himself powerless to lie to you, anyway.

“Just…,” he let out a puff of air anxiously.  “Yeah, sort of. Weed and some coke, I guess. Nothing else.” He rubbed his neck anxiously.

Your lips set in a line, and your eyes flicked back down, sadness washing over your features. He could feel it rolling off of you in waves, lumps building in his throat.

“I miss you,” He admitted, words tumbling out before he could catch himself. “So fucking much.  I know this isn’t fair, and I know that I fucked up. I just miss you more than anything else in the world.”

At first, you laughed.  Yoongi felt as if someone had punched him.

Then you cried. Yoongi felt as if he had been shot, point blank in the chest.

“You’re right, Yoongi. It isn’t fair,” You walked closer to him, a mix of grief and anger. “You ruined my fucking life.”

You pushed against his shoulder. “You left me at the fucking altar.  You cheated on me.” The tears came faster down your cheeks. “Then, you almost fucking died. And my mom won’t stop crying. And I can’t stop crying, I fucking cry my eyes out because my wedding is in 2 months and I realize I will never get over you.”

Yoongi felt another shot, execution style, to the head. He couldn’t speak and watched your anger, accepting the jabs to his chest.

“I thought I was happy, Yoongi. I really thought I would get the wedding and life I wanted so badly, and you took it away from me. Twice!” You were sobbing, pushed even closer against him. “You almost fucking dying made me realize I don’t want that life with him.  I want it with you, you fucking inconsiderate asshole!”

Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to speak. Any elation he might have had about hearing your revelation was quickly quelled by the fire of your anguish.  

“And, now you’re still using and there’s no way I could even think about seeing you high. I love you so much and it fucking hurts me knowing you do that to yourself, accepting no sort of fucking help. You can’t do it all yourself, Min Yoongi, no matter how fucking great you think you are!”

He couldn’t reply. He had no words, nothing of value to add. You were right. He couldn’t find a single argument. Your body pressed so close to him and his body ached. It yearned to close the distance and feel your shape against his, slotting together so easily as you always had. It was magnetic. He could almost weep at how badly he needed to hold you, to feel you, to touch you again.

You watched him, unable to stop the flow of tears you promised you would never shed for him again. “Look at me.” You asked quietly.

Yoongi’s own red-rimmed eyes lifted to yours. He looked so broken. So raw. He was crying, years of built up sorrow pouring down his pale cheeks.

You closed the distance and pushed together your bodies, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your face against his neck. He smelled as he always did. Dove shampoo, Old Spice, laundry detergent. You knew Yoongi nearly down to his DNA.

You lifted your face level to his and pressed a kiss to his lips. He felt no heat in the kiss, no desire.

It felt final, resolute.

“Goodbye, Yoongi.” You whispered, pressing your forehead to his.

And you turned. And you left.

And another piece of Yoongi’s broken heart slipped away with you.

Yoongi avoided any semblance of routine. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t feel anything but ache. He saw you in everything he did.

He tried to stay away from the drugs.  He sincerely did. He knew the risks. He knew he had nearly died.

But he could not bear to take the pain anymore. He could not continue fighting his very breath, forcing himself to breathe even though it hurt too much.

He was still standing on the outside of your world, so far away from you. It was so cold. He didn’t remember what warmth was. He didn’t think he deserved to remember, either.

It was easy to score a baggie of smack.  Yoongi had plenty of money and connections. But Yoongi had never done heroin intravenously. He had smoked it with his old dealer, the first man he ever had to revive with Narcan. IV use scared him. But it was what he could get a hold of, and what he needed.

Tie off. Fill up. Inject. Hold it. Breathe. Don’t feel. Release.

It washed over him quickly, the same fuzzy warmth that started at his toes and slithered up to his head. It felt headier than snorting it, less of a slow rush, more of an instant dive into warmth. Comfort.

The knot in his stomach loosened. Yoongi relaxed against his pillows and inhaled deeply before exhaling. He could breathe again.

He was so sleepy. So tired. He could sleep again without the torment of his dreams. He could live again without feeling his shattered heart. No hurt. Only comfort.

His only love.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept for. He didn’t dream. He couldn’t recall if five minutes had passed or five days. His head pounded him back to reality as he woke, and he realized it was dark outside his bedroom.

His phone was still on his bedside table. He checked it and groaned. It was the next day, next evening really. He had slept over 24 hours. He felt like shit.

The nausea and the chills came soon after. He felt as if he was burning. He couldn’t stop puking, even with minimal content in his stomach to begin with. Sips of water would come back up. His fever got worse. He became so drenched in sweat he stripped his clothes and sat in a bath, hoping to sweat the fever out. It chilled him to the bone.  He was so hot, and so fucking cold at the same time.

Yoongi cried as he held himself in the tub. He was alone. He was withdrawing. He wanted more, god he wanted to sleep and feel good again, didn’t want the sickness or the grief. It was so much. So fucking much.

His fingers danced along his phone, dialing your number out of habit, out of a need to hear you.

“Why are you calling me, Yoongi?” Your voice, flat, asked through the phone.

Yoongi croaked. His voice was hoarse due to disuse for over a day. “I fucked up, baby.”

Your heart clenched at the sound of the pet name. It had been so long. God, you had missed it so much. You missed him. You fucking hated him for it.

“Are you okay?” You asked, concern edging out the anger at his call.

“No,” he sighed, shivering and holding his knees to his chest. “I sh-shot up.”

He could not stop the whimper leaving his mouth. “I’m withdrawing. I w-want to keep using it, but I can’t!” Yoongi sobbed, openly weeping at the physical and emotional pain. “I’ll fucking die again. I don’t want to die. I love you.”

Tears poured down your face, heartbroken at his words and actions.

“Yoongi, where are you?”

Yoongi quickly replied. “I’m at home, in the bathtub. The front door is locked,” He whispered.  “I don’t think I can stand.”

“I still uh… have my key.” You admitted. Yoongi felt his heart clench, unsure of what to make of that idea.

Yoongi remained in the bathtub, holding himself and shivering violently when you arrived on scene. Your heart, already so broken, shattered at the impact of seeing the love of your life and the cause of your heartbreak, suffering.

“Fuck,” you whispered, quickly grabbing towels and kneeling by the tub at his side. “Yoongs, let’s get you dry, okay? Can you stand with me?” You grasped his clammy arms and allowed him to use your weight to balance himself on shaky legs.

You were so gentle. So compassionate. Yoongi felt his resolve breaking, wanting nothing but to wrap you up and never let you go again, tell your future husband to fuck off and allow the rapper to take his rightful place.

With your help, Yoongi stood and allowed himself to be dried. He normally would have felt the stirrings of arousal at such an intimate gesture, but all he felt now was unbridled affection and overpowering guilt.

You led Yoongi to his bed, settling him on the soft surface while you moved to dig through his drawers for clothes.

“Don’t make me go to the hospital,” he pleaded softly.  You stole a look back at him, at his words.  

“Yoongi, you need to see someone.  You’re not okay.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m… I’ll be okay.  I’ve gone through the worst of it already.” He rubbed at his sweaty forehead. “Will you just stay with me? I’m so cold.” He shivered.

You glanced at the man on the bed.  He was thin, so sickly thin.  While he had always maintained a lean physique, it looked as if the rapper hadn’t eaten in weeks.  His skin was sallow, paper white with bruises on his arms and legs that seemed onyx against his alabaster skin.

You weren’t sure you could argue with him, but he definitely appeared less ill for wear now that he was out of the bath and dry.

“Yoongs,…” you breathed, dropping the clothing in your hands. “Let me hold you.”  All reservations were held back. The anger dissipated. You couldn’t fight the need to help him, to nurture and hold him.

You moved to tear your thick jacket off your frame and toe out of your shoes before making towards the bed.  Together, you took hands and slid gently in between his sheets.  Yoongi’s body was trembling.  He didn’t know if it was from the withdrawal or his proximity to you.

You pulled the blanket up and over your bodies, pressing yours against his thin body. His skin was freezing, forcing out a shiver of your own.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, forehead leaning to press against yours. You didn’t reply, not sure you’d be able to form words.

You laid in a long, comfortable silence as your warm hands rubbed along Yoongi’s arms and back, willing the blood vessels in his body to expand and return his heat. His breathing was even now, but occasionally let out a groan.  He couldn’t tell if it was a groan of pain, or of pleasure. Your hands on his skin felt like heaven and hell, wrapped in one.  

Everything he loved and lost in one package.

Bringing him to life and sentencing him to death.

“I love you,” his voice was shaky, quiet.  

You nodded, tears now easily slipping past your cheeks. “I love you too.”  There was no use denying it. It was clear in the way you ran to him, in the way you held him tightly, as if he would disappear without you pressed up against him.

His lips found yours easily, as if magnetized.  The kiss was slow, gentle.  You felt your own tears slide down your cheeks and meet his own.  Yoongi couldn’t help them, couldn’t help the simultaneous ache and burn of your touch again.

His hand slid to rest on your hip, underneath your shirt, pulling you even closer.  The kiss deepened, tongues swirling in each other’s mouth, searching for each other in the only place you knew.

It didn’t take long for your shirt to come off, and Yoongi’s hands to slide down your hips to push at your jeans.  This wasn’t passionate or steamy.  It was broken, desperately seeking comfort in the solace of each other.  

Once your clothing laid strewn across the floor, Yoongi wrapped his thin arms around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he could.  He could feel your breasts press up against his chest and was positive you could feel his hardness pressing into your thighs.  

He didn’t want to fuck you.  He wanted to love you, to feel you again. He wanted to hide inside you. He wanted the security that being buried deep within you once gave him.  He wanted to feel alive, feel you. It seemed he could no longer separate the difference.

His tears wouldn’t stop flowing, neither would yours.  

There was no foreplay, no teasing or edging.  Yoongi laid you back against the pillows and kissed at your tears, eyes boring into yours to seek consent.  You nodded, opening up your legs as a response. You needed to feel him too, fill the ache inside of you that widened each day without him. Yoongi lined himself up and slid into the familiar, inviting heat.

You muffled a cry, thrilled at the feeling of him filling you completely.  You missed him.  You loved him.  You hated him. You never felt more complete.  The thought made you cry more, both in pleasure and in sorrow.  The man bringing you so much pleasure had wrought so much sadness and pain.

Yoongi kept a slow pace, uncaring about orgasms or getting off.  His desire to be within you was void of sensuality at this point.  Yoongi only wanted to be within you, to feel safe, to feel anything again.  He felt alive.  

Alive.

His thrusting moved quicker as your lips met and danced together, pouring out emotion through unspoken gestures. He didn’t have the words, couldn’t tell you every single thought ran through his brain.  He hoped he could convey them to you here, in each roll of his hips.

Yoongi felt his release quickly approaching, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what the moral code for cumming inside your ex fiancé was. He groaned as he kissed you.

“I love you, I’m close.  Where…?” He hoped you would understand his broken question.

You sighed with relief, feeling yours coming quickly too. While there had been no fire, no passion, the unadulterated emotion coursing between the two of you was enough to bring you close to completion.

“Inside me, please,” you sniffed, gasping at the tendrils of orgasm beginning to wrap around you.

Yoongi pressed his face against your neck, leaving salty kisses as he felt your channel pulse around him in completion, triggering his own end. He momentarily thrilled at his cum coating your cunt again, but the thought quickly left him.  Not that kind of night, nor that kind of fucking. Your moans were quiet, and he merely breathed a soft sigh into your neck.

It only took a moment for the reality of it all to hit you.

You had just fucked your ex. Who was in the middle of a withdrawal. While you were engaged to another man.  Who you had no desire to ever see again.

Fuck.

Yoongi pulled himself out of you, but pressed you close against him. Despite the agony in his head and his stomach from the pain of withdrawing, he felt secure again. He felt, for a minute, like he was finally on the inside of his dream, no longer looking in from the outside.

It was quickly wrenched away as you slithered out from under him, your tears quickening.

“I need to go,” you murmured. “I can’t believe I-we…,” you shook your head as you pulled your clothes on quickly. “I’m engaged.”

Yoongi winced and sat up as he watched you. “Yeah,” he felt his own tears slip down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re always sorry, Yoongi,” you snapped. It felt like a dagger to his heart.

He was. Always so sorry. He rarely felt anything other than sorry.

You felt guilty at the look that crossed his features.  Fuck.  

“I’ll-… I’ll call Hoseok to come check on you. Okay?”

Yoongi remained solid and didn’t move, only tracked you with his eyes as you shoved yourself into your coat and cried as you put on your shoes.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” you whispered. He wondered if it was the last time he’d see you.

The door closed; all that was left of his weak heart left with you.

Fuck.

Sorry. Always so sorry.

Yoongi mulled that phrase through his mind since you left.

He was sure at this point sorrow and grief fueled his body alone.

He stopped caring, only subsisted on weed and whatever cans of food he found in his kitchen, or what Jimin would leave out for him.  He stopped caring. The minuscule amount of care inside him evaporated.

He felt like he was wandering an empty, dark pathway with no light. No end in sight.

He hid from the world, stopped all the press conferences, the interviews, the shows. He dropped out of a three-month tour of Europe, one that would have brought him significant money and status. He wasn’t sure he could even perform anymore, drugs or not.

The tabloids started running about him then, too. Tales of drug addiction, of his deep and dark secrets he tried to keep away. They spun false tales of illicit sex, arrests, gang connections, violence. His career was on the precipice of crumbling around him.

He shined, he burned bright and fast.  

Now, he was ashes on the ground.

He burned through his money, ate nothing but packaged ramen and beer, and cried himself to sleep at night.

His life was fucking pathetic.

Namjoon avoided him, only talking to him about business-related concerns and the press. Jimin remained steadfast and loyal, constantly checking in, but only looked at him with pity and sadness.  Hoseok refused to spend time with him, citing his concerns about watching his best friend die in front of him.

Losing everything eventually broke him.

He stayed up all night, every night, so drugged out his mind, and cried. He looked at old pictures of you and him, of his best friends, memories of a time much easier and happier.

He had lost all of it.

For something that was going to fucking kill him.

He let you get away. He lost his friends. All for trying to be rich and famous. And that was quickly slipping through his fingers too.

It was time to stop. It was time to stop fucking around.

It was time to end it all.

With one last jab of the needle, Yoongi slid away.

Far, far away.

Rehab wasn’t as bad as Yoongi had painted it out to be.

There were group meetings, individual therapy, social workers and their treatment goals.  There was crying.  There was pain, so much it felt overwhelming. There were the withdrawals, likely the worst aspect of it all. The nausea, the fever, the stomach churning.  He wanted so badly to end it, just use one more time to stop being sick.

But there he found healing. He found each time he cried, a piece of his heart built back up, sturdier this time.  Each dry heave of sickness brought him one step closer to never feeling it again.

He found camaraderie.  He found wellness. He found his muse and his passion again.

He met new friends, Taehyung and Jungkook, both fellow opioid addicts. Through them, they formed a bond of sobriety and perseverance. They held each other accountable and held each other close through their subsequent relapses and returns to rehab.

Yoongi started working out, started putting weight back on in places it was meant to be: his cheeks, his arms and thighs, around his ribs. Jungkook was a personal trainer and guided him through personalized workouts and a nutrition plan. Yoongi found peace in each 60 minute cardio or weight-lifting session with his new best friend.  He realized he could pour out all his pent-up emotions through his sweat, his hard work.

Taehyung was an artist, a phenomenally gifted and talented man. Yoongi felt inspired by him. Yoongi wrote and wrote. He wrote songs, poems, stories, rap lines. He found that what he couldn’t release physically through his training, he could release through his gift of creative writing.

Yoongi released his album from rehab, with the help of Namjoon. He merely titled it ‘goodbye’. Taehyung’s creative muse helped him finish the lyrics to all his songs. Yoongi felt cathartic, releasing his last record, an ode to Agust D and a goodbye to the live fast, die young lifestyle he no longer wished to partake of.

Yoongi’s therapist, Kim Seokjin, likely made the biggest impact on him.  Yoongi learned about love, actual love. Loving yourself, respecting yourself, allowing yourself to feel the entire scope and range of emotions.

It was amid a therapy session with Jin that Yoongi decided he wanted to be a therapist.

Yoongi stepped out of the spotlight, out of the lifestyle of the rich and famous, and Yoongi returned to school in the fall for his Master’s in Social Work, with Jungkook at his side working towards a degree in exercise science and Taehyung working towards a Master’s in Fine Arts.  

Yoongi followed the Narcotics Anonymous guidelines to a T.  He admitted to himself his faults, his addiction.  He attended all meetings, called his sponsor regularly and in emergency situations where the need to use was so overpowering he felt he might give in.  He apologized to Hoseok, Namjoon, and Jimin. It was important to him to mend those relationships. He felt it was important to right the wrongs he brought upon them over the last five years.

He apologized to your mother.  He visited her weekly, checking in on her and surprising her with her favorite foods and flowers.  She bought 6 copies of his newest album, and together they wept over the lyrics, the intricately weaved storyline, and the stunning change the boy made.

She attended his graduation, too. She cried when Yoongi slid the tassel on his cap to the right, to the left. Yoongi felt a rush that drugs never compared to as he shook the hand of the president of his university and held that thick roll of paper.

He had accomplished something. He had done something; he had worked through incredible odds stacked against him and achieved it. No longer was Yoongi content with watching his life slip by in a haze.

Yoongi became a therapist, a social worker. The same people he thought would drag him down and ruin his career and reputation were the same people who lifted him out of his darkest place.

Min Yoongi, social worker.

He liked that better than Agust D, dead rapper, anyway.

Yoongi was leaving work, a group home for adolescent men suffering from addiction, when he ran into you.

His horn-rimmed glasses framed his face and newly bleached blonde hair fell around his forehead.

His heart stuttered at the sight of you. It all came rushing back.

Pain. Sadness. Drugs. Addiction.

You smiled at him, surprised to see him looking so healthy.  You had heard all about his progress from your mother, eagerness and pride in her voice. But seeing him was as if walking into another dimension.  He looked fit, strong, healthy, intelligent. Frankly, he looked sexy.

“Hi,” you meekly croaked, a blush floating to your cheeks at the thought of finding your ex so dashing.

“Hi,” he replied, a soft smile filling his lips as he practiced his mindfulness to allow the self-sabotaging thoughts to work themselves out, replaced with hopeful and insightful ones.  Min Yoongi wasn’t afraid to feel anymore.

He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to ask you out. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to fuck you.

He felt mildly guilty about wanting to fuck another man’s wife, but shook the thought away. He would settle for talking. You may have been his ex fiancé, but you were also his childhood best friend. He craved to just settle back into that role, alone.

“Do-…” he faltered for a moment, then swallowed harshly and summoned courage. “Do you wanna grab a coffee with me? I was just headed to get one.” He pulled his backpack tighter to his back, unable to part with the bag that guided him through school and into a real-life job.

You nodded, finding it hard to speak. “Yes.”

Yoongi couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so beautiful, so different while still so similar. Your hair was longer, healthier. Your clothes fit well to your body, accentuating your curves and sliding down elegantly and conservatively. Your eyes glistened with something. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was desire.

“I heard you’re a therapist now,” you murmured as you clutched the hot matcha latte in your hands, sitting across the tiny wood table from the ex-rapper.

Yoongi blushed and nodded. “Yeah, I am.” You didn’t miss the way his voice sounded so confident, so proud.  “I work at a group home for young men with substance abuse addictions.” He smiled, poised and content. The pride clear on his face had never been there when he was a musician.  

You couldn’t help the hard beat of your heart. “Wow,” you sighed. “That’s incredible, Yoongs. Mom said she’s proud of you,” you gulped.  “I’m proud of you, too.”

Yoongi took a moment to nod graciously, feeling a swell within him.  You were proud.  Of him.

“How’s errr…” he faltered, not remembering the name of your fiancé, or husband now, he supposed. “Your husband?”

You blanched at the words. “Oh, we, umm, didn’t get married. It didn’t work out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

You looked at the blonde boy, a smile reappearing on your features.

“It’s okay.  It was for the best,” you surmised. “Everything happens for a reason.”

Yoongi caught the look you sent and smiled. “You’re right.”

You two fell into easy conversation.  He told you all about his new best friends from rehab, Jungkook and Taehyung, and how seamlessly they fit into the friendships he already had.  He discussed stories of their escapades in graduate school and how Namjoon, his manager, quickly fell in love with Seokjin, his therapist, and how Yoongi had played matchmaker for the couple. He discussed concepts he learned in therapy, in school, and now in his practice as a therapist.

You were enthralled and captivated. You were so unabashedly in love with Yoongi and realized you had never stopped.

“Care if I walk you home?” He asked, standing suddenly as he finished his chai, holding out his hand.

Your heart leaped, and you nodded, chugging down the rest of your drink and slipping your hand into his.  He felt warm, strong. So much different from the pale, thin, clammy man you slept with years ago as he suffered through withdrawal.  

This wasn’t the Yoongi of your childhood, who wanted to be famous. This wasn’t the Yoongi who broke your heart, who wanted to hide away in his substances.  This was a culmination of all the Yoongi’s he had been and became. A strong, broken, healed, confident, loving man.

“I would love that.”

This was the Yoongi you were meant to be with. The man who you loved more than life itself.

Yoongi had courted you again since that initial coffee date. He sent flowers to your workplace, asked you out to lunch, kept things simple, proper and conservative.  Yoongi was in this now, for the long haul, and wanted to prove his devotion to you.

While in rehab, they had forced Yoongi to face the fact that everything he did in relation to you was self-sabotaging, self-deprecating; a self-defeating prophecy. Facing that was his greatest struggle through his entire treatment process. He fought against it, even relapsed a few times because of it, and refused to accept that as a possibility.

Yoongi, with the help of Seokjin and his new friends, found that a world that didn’t revolve around you was finally a world he could live in, possibly thrive in. While you could exist in his world, making you his sole singular reason for breathing was dangerous. In that mindset, being without you meant dying.

Yoongi had finally lived for himself.  Not for the money, the fame., the status, the reputation, or even you.  Yoongi loved himself, as he was.  Broken and healing.  Addicted and sober.  Yoongi lived for Min Yoongi, alone.

When he started seeing you again, he reached out to Seokjin. He was terrified that diving back in to you would be his undoing. Seokjin, in all his wisdom, spoke words of comfort.

“She is not your entire world, Yoongi. You are your entire world,” he spoke gently through the phone. “She can be part of your world, an enormous part of your world, but she cannot be the entirety.  Life does not stop without her. Life is better with her, but does not end without her.”

Yoongi had been so obsessed with the idea of never having you, that he lost you.  He stopped loving himself, stopped caring about anything but you and the pain he caused you.

“You hurt her, yes. But, it appears she is ready to forgive you now. Are you ready to forgive yourself and allow yourself to be vulnerable?” He asked the blonde boy.

Yoongi rolled the idea through his mind. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“You are allowed to love and be loved by who you want, Yoongi, but do not make your entire existence rely on that. Loving yourself will extend into all other relationships. And do not allow yourself to be consumed with the mistakes you made a long time ago. Focus on what you can do today. Living in the past causes us the most pain.  Do not run from the pain, allow it to sit within you and give yourself permission to hurt, and then move through it.”

Yoongi allowed it all. Every emotion, every feeling. He cried.  Jesus, he cried so much.  He remembered that he used to think if he started crying he would never stop.

It was true, mostly.

But what Yoongi didn’t know was that within all the crying, all the pain, was a high unmatched by any substance that could be snorted or injected or smoked.  

Yoongi no longer hid himself from feeling the darkness, but he allowed himself to remain in it until the light came back. And it came back ten thousand times stronger.

Yoongi felt encouraged to continue seeing you and progressed in his career and treatment. He took you on dinner dates, movie dates, picnics and theme parks.  The only reservation was the lack of physical intimacy.  He would hold your hand, kiss you, rub your back, but he always left your apartment without lingering. He wanted you to get to know him again, all of him, before he took that step. He wanted to do this right.

It was at the most recent date where things changed. It was a relaxing picnic in the park, the two of you laid in the soft sun-warmed grass, your head resting on his chest.

Yoongi felt content at the feeling of holding you against him. He thought of the dream he had when he was overdosing, nearly dying. Being so warm in the valley and meadows of his imagination, brain synapses firing off as his body shut down. You had been there, pretty white dress, telling him to go back, to wake up.

He admitted this to you, spoke out what he had told no one before. While he knows Jimin, with the help of Narcan, saved you, his subconscious attributed his revival to you.

“I’m in love with you, Yoongi,” you admitted, gently and easily with tears clouding your eyes, as you both watched the clouds roll by.  

Neither of you had uttered those words since you held him in your arms and within you as he came down from his high so long ago.

Yoongi let the words soak over him. If he thought drugs had been like a warm blanket wrapping him up, this was like an absolute inferno of satisfaction and comfort.

The arm he wrapped around your shoulder pulled you close.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Yoongi pressed you up against his wall, lips crashing into yours as his hands desperately sought the skin of your waist.  

After the picnic, Yoongi suggested taking you back to his place for a movie. The charged energy in his car on the way there spoke volumes, knowing you wouldn’t be watching a movie by a long shot. A giddy grin lit up your features.

“God, I missed this,” he mumbled against your lips as his hands lifted your white sundress you bought specifically for the date with your ex-fiancé, now-boyfriend.

You moaned an affirmative reply, gasping as his hands rolled over your breasts, encased in creamy satin.

“I missed you,” he mumbled over your lips, hands tugging down the cups of your bra to rub against hardened nipples. “You’re so pretty, so warm.”

You couldn’t hold back any sound, gasping and keening at his touch. You were soaked, absolutely dripping, from his ministrations against your neck and breasts.  You missed him too. Your short-lived engagement had ended without a wedding, for the second time in your life, and you pined after the boy who stole and broke your heart completely.

Yoongi pulled away from you, using the separation to tug the dress up and over your head and to gaze at you. Your breasts were haphazardly pulled out of the bra, your panties becoming slick against your core. Yoongi was sure he had never felt a pleasure this strong in any high.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured.  Your cheeks heated, you couldn’t help it.  Hearing him speak so gently, so lovingly, after so long and after so much pain flooded your senses pleasantly. His words wrapped around you like cashmere, warming and smoothing every inch of you.

“I need you, Yoongi,” you whispered, hand reaching towards his erection tenting his jeans. “Want to please you.”

Yoongi hissed at the feeling of your hand against his length. He nearly came right then. He hadn’t slept with anyone since your last time, the most heartbreaking sex he had ever had. 

The feeling of you both crying as he entered you kept him turned off of it for over a year. And now you were back, pliant in his arms, and most of all, happy. He never wanted to see your anguished grief during sex again, or ever, if he could help it.

Your eyes looked so determined to please him, how could Yoongi say no?  He nodded and leaned forward to kiss you, before switching positions and resting his back against the wall.

You thrilled at the switch and quickly dropped to your knees.  Being on your knees in front of Yoongi was so familiar, so comforting and so incredibly hot. He looked so good.  You could tell he had been working out. Muscles shone through his skin, and detailed lines appeared at his obliques and hip flexors. He was mouth watering.  You missed him.

You loved him.

You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning the black denim and pushing down the zip and sliding the tight pants down and off his legs. He stood in his tight underwear and shirt, eyes so full of love and grace, staring down at you. He couldn’t believe it was happening again, and on such better terms.

Yoongi knew he had so much to make up to you, so much trust to build and apologies to promise you daily. Yoongi was grateful you were giving him that chance again.

Within moments, Yoongi’s boxers laid on the floor next to his jeans and his thick, heavy cock laid hot in your delicate hand.

Yoongi nearly cried at the sensation. Not only had it been long since any stimulation, it had been so long since he had been with you. The fact it was you again after all this time held the most significance to him.

Your eyes flicked between Yoongi’s thick and delicious cock, and his own face.  No longer was the selfish, uncaring man present from so long ago.  No longer was the drugged out, sorrowful, too thin addict in front of you.  

As you pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock and swirled your tongue around the tip, you felt amazed that you now had the confident, lovely, compassionate Yoongi you were in love with.

Yoongi groaned out loud, uncaring if Jungkook or Taehyung heard from their respective rooms in his shared apartment.  

“Oh fuck, baby,” he whined, sucking air in through his teeth harshly. “So good.”

A smile danced upon your features as you stroked each vein and ridge of his cock with your tongue, flicking at the space he liked most.  The resulting gasp encouraged you more. With a quick, deep breath, you lowered your mouth and fully encompassed his length in the hollow of your throat.  

Yoongi nearly screamed, pleasure coursing through his veins as you allowed him to fuck your throat, a mix of gentle and rough. Your moans spurred him on and the visage of you with your lips wrapped around his cock and saliva streaming down the sides of your mouth nearly forced his undoing.

“Shit, C-Christ, baby,” he gasped. “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up… fuck.” He grabbed at your hair to gently pull your mouth away from him.

You pouted for a split second, already missing the luscious heat and weight of his hard cock gagging you. The pout was quickly wiped away as he wrapped his arms around your waist and carried you to the bed, unable to stop the giggles escaping.

“My turn then,” he grinned as he pushed you down to lie on the pillows. He quickly disrobed you of your bra, tits now fully on display.  He sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling over the bud, while his other hand pinched and tugged at the opposite. He remembered how much you enjoyed the pain of nipple stimulation. The thought made you wetter.

“Yoongi, holy shit,” you cried, dazzled at the pain in your nipples as he bit down gently at the one in his mouth. “Yes!”

Yoongi couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he switched hands and nipples, sucking the other harshly now and twisting at the wet and red nub he released.

“So good, princess,” he cooed. “So good for me.”

His mouth moved south, kisses burning up your skin as he trailed. He suckled at skin here and there, leaving delicious marks on your abdomen and thighs. You loved being marked by him, even more so now.

Yoongi groaned as he pulled your satin panties down your legs. Your cunt was slick and sticking to the fabric. His mouth watered at the sight.

“My sweet, you’re so wet for me. All from sucking my cock?” He murmured, teasing you by kissing at your thighs. “My dirty little princess.”

You mewled in response, aching to feel him where you needed it most.  Words escaped you, unable to speak except in moans and sighs.

Yoongi looked up at you, watched your cheeks turn pink, your nipples hard and moistened from his mouth, marks of him all down your body.   His cock throbbed, and he rubbed himself against the bed once to relieve some tension. He could hold himself back for now, but he knew as time passed he would be absolutely aching to plunge into your depths.

“I missed this cunt,” he pressed a kiss to the mound. “I’m sure you taste just as perfect as you always have.  I’m drooling for you, baby.”

“P-please, Yoongi, I need you,” you begged, squeezing your eyes closed in desperation. “So wet.”

“I love hearing you say please, little princess.  So sweet.” He kissed the outside of your lips, between your thighs. He loved teasing you, getting you absolutely fucked out before he even touched you.

“Please, oh god Yoongi! I need you so badly!” You were desperate now, nearly tearing up at the ache in your pussy.

“I can’t resist you when you put it like that,” he teased, before finally descending on your cunt. His mouth swirled around, sucking on your clit. You gasped your satisfaction at his touch, finally satisfying that burning desire.

Yoongi took his time, ensured pleasure at each twist and flick of his tongue.  He fucked into your cunt with his tongue, groaning at the sweet taste of your channel. His mouth suckled at your clit, transitioning between harsh sucks, and tongue flicks. As he flicked up against your bundle of nerves, he slid two fingers into your pussy, hissing at the tightness.

“So tight, my sweet,” he whispered. “Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.”  

You groaned in reply, nodding quickly.  Your fingers tugged at your nipples, relishing in the painful stimulation there and hot mouth coaxing an orgasm out of you.

“Close, Yoongi!” You gasped, unable to complete a sentence. “Right there! So close!”

His fingers thrusted faster, slipping a third to stretch you out. His tongue fired rapidly against your clit, suckling and swirling as he went.  

“Yes, baby, cum for me. Cum on my fingers, my love.” He encouraged, panting with excitement, to watch your undoing.

It only took Yoongi’s salacious words and skilled mouth and fingers toying a few more moments for the orgasm to completely take over.  It rolled over you like an avalanche. You screamed in delight, gasping as you felt your channel grip his fingers and milk them as if it were his cock.

Yoongi believed he was watching heaven, itself.  You looked divine, radiant. The feeling of your convulsions around his fingers made him whine, cock head oozing pre-cum and begging to be stuffed inside your heat.

“Fuck, my love. You came so good, you did so well for me,” he praised. “I love this cunt. I love watching you scream for me.”

Your breath was heavy, chest heaving with exertion. Every nerve, every synapse felt alive, alight with ecstasy.

“I’m going to fuck you, my sweet. I will fuck you and love you, all fucking night.” He sucked at the wetness on his fingers as he pulled out of you, before he kissed back up your body to your lips. The kiss was hot and messy, all teeth and no grace or finesse.

“Please, Yoongi, I need to feel your cock,” you gasped.

Yoongi could not delay any longer. His cock felt as if it might implode if it wasn’t buried into you. He pulled your legs up to his shoulders and gazed at your open slit.

“Mine,” he whispered as he lined himself up and allowed your pussy to swallow his length.

There were no words, no accurate description or way to describe how being inside you again felt. He couldn’t put into words the feeling of your slick heat hugging his cock close, your body heaving with ecstasy, your mouth crying his name in joy and pleasure. Yoongi would go through hell a million times over again to feel this again, to feel the physical and emotional love and pleasure he felt here.  

You were his, again.  He could work to make it right.

Yoongi started a slow pace, transfixed at the vision of you taking his cock so well. Your gasps and whines encouraged him.

“You were made for me,” he whispered as he quickened. “This tight little pussy was made for me, to love and to fuck and to ruin.” His words left his mouth without thought, acting on instinct alone. “You’re all mine. Only mine.”

You clutched at his arms, lifting your hips to meet his harsh thrusts. “Yes, baby, yours!” Your voice was five octaves higher. “All yours!”

Yoongi turned feral, his dominating internal narrative spewing from his lips. His cock thrusted into you quick and fast.

“That’s right, my love.  All fucking mine. Gonna fuck you so good every fucking day,” he promised through gritted teeth. His thumb ran down to the apex of your thighs and rubbed at your clit. “Gonna fuck all my cum into you, baby.  You’re mine.”

He continued his ministrations and your pussy felt like the definition of pleasure, itself.  Sparks felt as if they erupted from your coupling. You cried his name, gasping at his possessive promises.

“Gonna marry you, baby,” he intoned. “Gonna make you my wife.”  He felt his end coming close, your shattered cries and impossibly tight cunt bringing him soaring to the edge.

“Gonna fill you with my cum, gonna make you nice and fucking pregnant with our children,” the idea thrilled both of you. “My fucking perfect wife all swollen with our children.”

You agreed loudly. “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck, I want your baby!”

“That’s right, my little love.  Your greedy cunt takes me so well. I know you want all my cum, wanna be nice and full for me.”

The end was nigh, you could feel the burning in your stomach blaze higher and higher. You begged him for more, harder, deeper, which he was more than happy to oblige.

“Fuck, babe, I’m gonna cum, gonna coat your tight little pussy.”  

It only took a few more rough poundings before Yoongi crushed your lips together.  Your orgasm washed over you with the power of the sun.  Your eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets, gasping for air against his lips as your body convulsed.  You moaned loudly as your walls pulsed around him, as if begging him to give you more and more.

Yoongi closed his eyes and soaked in the feeling, biting your bottom lip as he spilled into you, moaning your name with each pulse. The feeling of emptying himself into you rivaled the highest emotion he had ever felt. It felt like the ultimate expression of his love, his devotion.

He held you close as you both breathed heavily, allowing the afterglow of intense orgasm to bathe you in serenity. He carefully slid his cock from within you, groaning at the sight of a slow drip of seed following out your lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, leaning to kiss your lips tenderly this time. “I meant what I said. I want you to be mine again, forever.”

Tears sparked at your eyes, feeling more full, more loved, more warm than you had ever felt before.

“I love you, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi held you in his arms as he showered you, kissed your body in the warm water, dried you gently with soft towels, and pulled you close in his bed.  You melted against his body perfectly, two puzzle pieces who had been trying to force themselves into the wrong spot, finally coming together.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt anxious.

His stomach flipped. His palms were sweaty. His breathing was faster.

A warm hand landed on his back as the ex-rapper stared at himself in the mirror.

“You did it,” a gentle voice spoke. Yoongi looked at the male through the mirror.

“Jimin,” he breathed, feeling a bit of his anxiousness float away with his friend’s words.

Jimin smiled, pink lips puffy and sweet as always.

Yoongi felt his heart clench slightly.  Jimin was the one who saved his life, who stuck a needle in his thigh and revived him when Yoongi was on the verge of death. He choked up at the idea that being here wouldn’t have been possible without the pink-haired boy.

He gazed at his trusted friend, no longer an assistant but a constant companion in the tight group of 7.  He wanted to tell Jimin so much, thank him for saving his life, for pressuring him to check into rehab, for feeding him when he was too drugged out to care.  

Yoongi didn’t need to say anything.  Jimin understood at the tears pricking Yoongi’s eyes.  Jimin’s cheeks turned pink, and he nodded slowly.

“You deserve this and more, Min Yoongi,” his voice was full of such care and sincerity. “I may have revived you, but you saved your own life. I just gave you the spark to continue it.”

Yoongi had started his adult life as an addict, as an award-winning musical artist with platinum albums and money, status, reputation.  Grief had consumed Yoongi, along with regret, sorrow, loneliness.

Yoongi fought back, pushed against the odds.

Yoongi was beginning a fresh life—as a recovering addict, a therapist, a best friend, a husband.

He smiled at himself in the mirror as his groomsmen surrounded him and joined in the moment of happiness. It was peaceful. It was joyful.  Yoongi smiled at each of the 6 men who affected him.  

Hoseok, from childhood who allowed him to face the ugly fact that he was killing himself.  Namjoon, his nurturing manager, who protected him at all costs and stood by his side through each dirt-dredging tabloid. Taehyung, his creative muse, his inspiration. Jungkook, his reason for health and wellness, his comedic relief.  Seokjin, the therapist that changed his life and course of his future. Jimin, the man who saved his life, who accepted and expected nothing in return except Yoongi’s sobriety and happiness.

Together, the men walked out of the dressing room and orderly into the reception hall.

Yoongi took his place at the altar, the very one he left you at, and inhaled a breath.

The piano played gently, a soft and light version of the traditional song. It sounded ethereal. Yoongi felt as if he was flying.

The large, oak double doors swung open and the parade of flower girls and bridesmaids walked down the aisle to stand opposite the groomsmen.

Yoongi stopped breathing as the music played louder, more intently, more beautiful.

You appeared.

You looked like an angel.

Your mother flanked you to give you away. You both looked more beautiful than he could have ever recalled.

Yoongi couldn’t stifle the tears that poured out of his eyes. He couldn’t pull his gaze from anywhere but you.

There you were. Walking towards him, as if a dream. The loveliest of dreams. Wrapped in silk and chiffon and lace, delicate pearls around your neck.

Yoongi would endure it all again, feel every ounce, to have this moment.

It was complete as you stood next to him, hands clasped in each other, tears sliding down each other’s face.

At the word of the pastor, Yoongi leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, sealing you as husband and wife, finally.  

Yoongi was on the inside of your orbit now, basking in the warmth he had desired before on the outside.  Yoongi simmered in the sweet, gentle glow of you and your encompassing love.  

Now, Yoongi knew what it felt like to be the one on the inside of your world, instead of looking in from the darkness. Yoongi knew it now, and knew, with all his heart, that he deserved to remember it for the rest of his long, healthy life.

Yoongi was living.

Yoongi was finally, truly,

alive.

© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.