#and when seeing the same choice they had in the past

[slttygeto]

♡ ̆̈ loml ; loss of my life — Hanma Shuji

♡ ̆̈ content warning: heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, i honestly don't want to say more. discover for yourself.

♡ ̆̈ word count: 2.3k

♡ ̆̈ inspiration songs: loml by taylor swift, ghostin by ariana grande.

Was it normal to feel like a burden at all times? A second choice to someone whom you hold very dearly to your heart? 

It wasn't that you didn't know your worth, it was the fact that you didn't feel like a priority anymore. But people change, and life happens and major events are bound to change the way someone behaves. 

But it hurts really badly.

You're not too sure when you started to notice it --- the distance, the quiet hums in lieu of an enthusiastic nod accompanied with a loud laugh, a cold hand to your shoulder that never lingered anymore. You could lie to yourself and say that Hanma wasn't a tactile person, that his love language was anything but physical touch but you would be worsening the pain you were experiencing from his shift in behavior. 

And it wasn't like he said anything to you---no, you would prefer if he did. It was his silence that felt like a heavy weight on your chest, pulling you down to the deepest and darkest parts of an ocean you knew you would drown in. You fight  back tears as you stand in the quiet bathroom, the sound of your breathing echoing in the large space your husband had once designed specifically for you. The excitement shining on his face when you had mentioned moving in together as boyfriend and girlfriend felt like a breath of fresh air, and a shy giggle escaped your lips as he scooped you into his arms and whispered in your ear about how living with you might just be the highlight of his life.

Yet here you were, grasping the wedding ring delicately wrapped around your finger while you choke back sobs at how mean your husband has been lately.

"I'm going in the shower," you announce to the man from the door, peeking your head around the corner to see him approaching the bathroom.

"Good." He gives a curt nod but his eyes never meet yours---they're too busy focused on that damn phone, that same device that had been driving you crazy. 

He claimed that he was always busy, shrugging his shoulders at your questioning look when you pointed out the twelve missed calls he claims he hadn't seen. But you know him---probably better than he does, and you are certain that he had been blatantly ignoring you. 

Your heart shatters quietly in your chest, but you hold back tears as you choke out the next sentence. "Not gonna join me?"

Like you always do?

"Nah, I'm good." He pushes past you to wash his hands, tucking his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants before retreating out of the bathroom the moment you started to undress. 

Was it normal for married couples to go through a phase like this? 

Even if you wanted to get answers, nothing about your relationship with the criminal was normal---not the way the two of you met, or how quick you decided to move towards marriage. You couldn't explain your situation to anyone, not even your closest friends in Toman. Not only would it piss off Hanma that you were going around and whining about relationship problems to others instead of him, but you felt too pathetic to utter the words out loud.

I think my husband fell out of love with me. 

That night, like many others, Hanma sleeps with his back facing you. And like every time, you turn to face him in hopes that he could feel your eyes staring at the back of his head. 

You don't dare to touch him, but it had been a habit for your hands to be all over him---caressing his stomach, whining about the tough muscle in his arms, melting against the warmth of his neck and chest---it was yanked out of your grasp so abruptly, heartlessly, leaving you stranded in a place you thought would be your forever after with the tall criminal. 

But old habits die hard, it is the only explanation for what you do next, letting your fingers grasp the hem of his shirt. It feels warm on his body, and the material is a little worn out but you know Shuji doesn't mind. You squeeze the fabric in your hand, your bottom lip wobbling as you start to sniffle.

"I'm sorry," you choke out quietly, praying it doesn't wake him up. "For whatever I did, I'm sorry. Please. I don't like how you're so cold to me." Your stuttered breaths force you to sit up in bed, slowly slipping out of the bed so you could cry on the balcony without waking up your husband. 

It takes you a couple of minutes to calm down, the cold of the night numbing your skin and therefore your heart. You hug your knees to your chest on the patio chair, wiping the remnants of your tears with the paw of your sweater. 

A loud knock makes you jolt, you whip your head to the glass door where you find a grumpy Hanma with a confused look on his face. "What are you doing?" He mouths from behind the door and you shake your head as you gather yourself. You slide the door open, keeping your gaze down as your feet drag you towards the bed. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," is all he gives as a reply, his back facing you. You notice that he stands there for a while, unmoving and staring at the spot where you had been sitting. It takes him a couple more seconds to move, walking to the bathroom to do his business. 

Ironically, that had been the longest he had acknowledged your presence in weeks. But your heart takes it and makes a blanket of it, shielding itself from the storm you had been enduring for so long. Soon enough, your eyelids start to feel heavy and sleep washes over your senses shortly after. 

--

You've only seen Hanma wear a special suit once. 

Despite the fact that his job was rather messy, it required him to look presentable at all times. However, he gagged at the idea of wearing that kind of attire to his wedding. It was insane even for a man like Hanma. 

"This feels like a shotgun wedding," Kisaki mutters to the tall man who grins at his reflection in the mirror. "I never thought you'd be the type to have a small wedding."

"You mean, you never thought I was the type to get married."

Kisaki makes a face at the thought, realizing that his right hand was indeed about to settle down. And with a girl he fell in love with during his reckless teenage years. "That too."

Hanma straightens up after fixing his tie, hair brush fixing a few strands before turning to look at his boss. "So, how do I look?" 

"Presentable for once. Now let's go."

And true to Kisaki's words, the wedding was indeed small. A short, intimate ceremony with a couple of people who had been present in your and Hanma's lives up until this point---the venue wasn't that large, but it was impressive enough for you to feel nervous as you walk down the aisle, grasping your older brother's arm.

"Out of everyone," Ran mutters under his breath and you roll your eyes, nails digging in his forearm. "You chose him."

"Shut up." You say through gritted teeth, but it was nothing serious. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see that Ran's eyes were glossy and he refused to look at your face. His body was stiff, and his chest was puffed out as he swallowed thickly. Those were all tell-tales that he was on the verge of breaking into tears, and it makes your heart swell. 

That night, Hanma kissed you deeply in front of everyone. He held you in his arms like a fragile being, beaming at the wedding ring adorning your finger before bringing his lips to your knuckles. You teased him about how good he looked in the suit, and he replied, 

"I can't wait for you to take it off of me."

"Maybe I won't," your fingers wrap around the end of the tie, grinning at him. "You look pretty handsome in it."

"Oh, so the suit stays on?"

"Mhm," you shift on his lap, wrapping both arms around his neck as you whisper in his ear. "And we can use the tie for something else."

After that night, he took the suit to the washers and hid it deep in his closet once he retrieved it. 

Then life was great for a while after that---three years of bliss in a marriage you never expected to happen given the long separation the two of you had endured. You wished you had appreciated the small moments better, but you knew they were tucked in a memory box in the back of your head. It was only a matter of when you could retrieve it. 

So why was he wearing that special suit again? And why did he look so...peaceful? 

He had been excited on your wedding night, he was full of life as he dragged you to the dance floor so you two could warm up. But was it all a show? A façcade to convince people that marrying you was what he wanted, especially after chasing you for many years, a web of lies you found yourself tangled in because he couldn't be honest with you? 

That suit was supposed to be special, it represented the day he swore loyalty to you and you did the same---it felt disrespectful that he would dare wear it again, with rosy cheeks and hair combed in a way he would never choose for himself. 

And he was supposed to be standing tall, smirking proudly at the fact that he easily towers over everyone. He would then shake his hands once then twice, feigning confidence as he fixed his posture. 

Not so relaxed and moving.

Then, he would run a hand through his hair like he hadn't spent minutes fixing it with his comb.

Instead, he doesn't attempt to touch it, and you figure it's because he hates the gel that's keeping it down. 

His grin would look boy-ish, but along with his chiseled jaw, he would look the right amount of manly. Just about enough for the woman standing at the end of the aisle to be swooned. 

Yet the smile adorning his lips was doing anything but---and you push yourself, forcing your body to approach him as you try to make sense of the situation. 

"Someone did your hair," your voice shatters the stillness in the room, and you choose to ignore the other people standing there watching you. Hanma doesn't say anything in return, and you shake your head as though he had given a reply. "No, no it looks---it looks good. Just not something I've seen before."

Hanma remains silent, unmoving, and you brace yourself to keep the conversation going. "Your cheeks---I've only seen them this red when you're sick--are you sure you're not?" 

And when nothing comes, you shake your head. "I just wanted to know."

But the longer the silence stretched, the thinner your patience was running. Your hand grips the wooden box for support, and your chest puffs out as you hold in sobs. "That suit was fucking special, Shuji." And you had promised yourself, him, that you would never cry if it came to this---but the reality was harsher than expected. "That fucking suit--was the one you wore on our wedding! How fucking dare you wear it again!"

"Hey," Chifuyu's hand rests on your shoulder, but you swat him away.

"You can't---you can't be serious, you can't just lay here and say nothing!" You point to the people behind you, Toman executives you had both known while growing up. "You're going to let them see you like this?! You're gonna let them watch you sleep?!"

And you wait for it---for his loud retort, a dry chuckle, a low voice calling for your name and telling you to cut it out. But it never comes, and all you're met with is his innocent, peaceful smile.

"You can't fall asleep here---you can't do that Shuji," your hands scramble to grasp for the white material wrapped around the lower part of his body, but you pull it up higher, as though afraid that he might get colder. "It's not like you---" 

Tears finally start to spill like a faucet, you use the hem of your blazer to wipe them down as your other hand keeps tucking him in. "You can't leave me like this."

"You did this to me, Shuji." Your sobs are gut wrenching as you lean over the casket, your tears wetting the material of his suit. "You gave me everything---you can't take it away." 

Your brother approaches you from behind, hands resting on your shoulders as he attempts to pull you away. "It's time."

"I'll never forgive you. Ever. You fucking coward!" Your fist collides with the casket, and you lean closer to his face. "You could've told me! We could've run away--you could've...you could've been saved, Shuji. I would've done anything to save you." 

But as you watch them approach the casket to finally close it, you realize that the last thing Hanma would ever hear was that you'd never forgive him. You push yourself out of Ran's grasp, and no one tries to push you away as you lean down and press a kiss to his cold, chapped lips. 

He doesn't pull you in, nor does he try to kiss you back and your lips tremble as your thumb traces his cheek. 

"I love you. Even if you don't say it back, I love you so much." 

Then your lips meet his for the last time.

[lesbikaiser]

Hellooo :3

could you write how Lorenzo and Barou would react to if reader sent them nudes, please?

hii <3 ofc i can! im so sorry for taking so long :( idk how exactly to write reactions but i hope you like it!

proofread but you never know, so im sorry if there's any errors!

don lorenzo

lorenzo feels like drool might start leaking from his mouth. there's no way he isn't spotting a hard-on right now, he knows that. all thanks to the notification popping on his screen just when he got his break, his intention being only checking his phone to see if you left any texts and oh, sure you did.

"been missing you... [02:38 PM]"

'"come back soon <3 [02:46 PM]"

the first one was sent a few minutes before his break, he could even hear your whiny voice actually saying it, and just from this one message alone, he would be beaming for the rest of his practice while thinking about you.

well, that's until he noticed the image attached to the second one.

surely he'll be thinking about you for the rest of the day after seeing it. the one that made him click on your chat, the one that got lips curving into a smirk, the one that got the boner on his shorts.

it's a picture of you. your body lays on your shared bed, breasts free of any bra with your nipples perked up, one of your hands holding your phone up to your face while the other disappears inside the lacy panties adorning your hips, hinting what you've probably been done for the past minutes.

it's a mirror picture. the same mirror he got on the ceiling of your bedroom, specifically above your bed because he wanted you to watch when he fucks you in missionary.

he's totally making that picture his lockscreen. because he's just this kind of freak.

and he's totally excusing himself to the locker room to enjoy his break, fingers quickly moving to text back a response.

"keep cumming till you can't anymore [02:50 PM]"

"ya better be nice and wet for me when i get home [02:51 PM]"

oh, and he's 100% snapping a few pictures of his hand covered in his cum and sending it to you when he's done.

shoei barou

shoei barou can't believe his eyes. he thinks you might've gone insane at this point.

he knew it would come back to bite him in the ass sooner or later, to date such a nasty person like you... but what could he do? he loved you after all.

even when you decided to give him a boner in the middle of his cleaning.

he couldn't help but worry a little when his phone rang non-stop, the exclusive sound he gave your number so he would know it was you just from hearing it, indicating you'd sent him a few texts. and as much as cleaning was sacred to him, you were way more important than the dishes he was doing.

oh, what a right regretful choice.

"shoeeeeei [04:28 PM]"

"miss u sososo muchhhh [04:28 PM]"

"wanna be with youuuu [04:29 PM]"

unlocking his phone, the first messages got him to calm down, at least he knew that you were safe. he smiled to himself, reading through your sweet texts. he really thought nothing of it at first, he was used to your clinginess – especially when you had to go to work –, that was probably just you being your lovely self.

that's until he scrolled down and saw the image attached to your chat.

it was a picture of you. probably hidden in the restroom, your face is off the screen, just lips and chin showing but surely not the most eye-catching element in the pic.

his gaze is unconsciously attracted to your uniform, with enough buttons open to show your cleavage and the red, lacy bra framing your breasts, he can't deny his dick twitches at the sight. like a cherry atop the cake, a necklace hangs from your neck with a 'B' pendant resting right in the middle of your tits, a faint bruise on your skin thanks to the hickey he gave you a while ago.

he reads the caption.

"yk, it's soooo hot today [04:32 PM]"

"can't wait to be home and get rid of these clothes >.< [04:33 PM]"

he's too stunned to even think of responding, eyes bulging as he stares at his screen perplexed. he can feel his dick straining against his shorts, breath heavy as lust washes over him, heat creeping up his neck and reaching his cheeks the longer he looks at the picture.

it's your next message that takes him out of his trance, his heart pounding in his chest and blood rushing through his veins, eagerness getting the best of him when he places his hand over his bulge, squeezing it slightly as he reads your text.

"hopefully i'll be home soon [04:35 PM]"

"so wait for me my love <3 [04:35 PM]"

he's looking forward to it.

[lurkingshan]

I have a lot of feelings about The Story of Minglan (which I finally watched!) and its themes about patriarchy and class and intergenerational trauma and striving for survival under an oppressive system that demands fealty and will never just let you live by your own choices. We saw in every major storyline that these characters were granted no peace to live the way they wanted. Tingye had to fight for years to recover his reputation and attain status to give himself the freedom to build the family he wanted. Minglan had to battle through several unwanted attachments and couldn’t live a day in peace without someone trying to foist concubines on her or demand she use her status to buoy them. Heng was forced into marriages he didn’t want and had to give up the only wife he actually desired for the sake of soothing powerful egos, because the cost of not meeting those demands was actual life or death for his clan. In this story even the eventual emperor was not the emperor by choice��he was forced into the position as a matter of survival. There’s so much to unpack in this drama and it is far more than a romance.

That said, one of the most interesting things it did from a romance perspective is give us a smart, competent battle couple that spent nearly half of the drama married to each other despite being on the slowest of slow burn arcs to arrive at mutual love and affection. Ostensibly, you could call them a battle couple right from the jump in that they were a united front against enemies, backed each other up without fail, and talked together about (most of) their plans and schemes. But even as all of that was true, they were not on the same emotional wavelength, and they struggled to understand each other.

This is a couple that first connected and established some baseline trust in each other as children and always believed in each other’s intelligence and good character, and yet when they married as adults, they wanted completely different things from their marriage. Tingye wanted to be in love with his wife, and was, and couldn’t understand why it didn’t feel mutual. Minglan wanted to live up to the ideal image for a respectful and competent wife of that era, and did, and couldn’t understand why her husband was so discontent. As @dangermousie pointed out here, these are both trauma responses that make perfect sense given each of their backgrounds. And while the drama milked a lot of comedy out of their inability to understand each other on this impasse, I also found it so sad that their past trauma made it hard for them to communicate past this divide, and for Minglan to open herself to the vulnerability of loving someone.

I’ve seen a lot of complaints from viewers who were mostly here for the romance about how long it took for them to get on the same page. While there were definitely moments when I was ready to bang their heads together out of frustration, the fact that it took several years in story time for Tingye to effectively communicate that he genuinely wanted the real Minglan, and for Minglan to believe that and trust him enough to let her emotional guard down, is what makes it feel so well-earned and rewarding when they finally get there. It’s rare to get the luxury of sitting in a fictional world for this long to watch traumatized people slowly heal via their love for each other and build the family they want with each other. And it’s because we got to see that whole process that I feel confident their happy ending will stick.

[asarigg]

About: Part 3

DEVELOPMENT OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. PATH TO HEALING: part 3

Overall, I think they’ve dealt with the process and development of Koujaku’s trauma and healing in a pretty decent, kind and nice way, which is exactly what he needed. Koujaku kept everything to himself, locked in a cage where he was alone, immersed in agony and loneliness, without counting on anyone and simply ignoring his fears and traumas hoping that with time they would heal. But the path to healing is not achieved with time alone. Facing his traumas is not comfortable, it doesn’t feel secure, it doesn’t give him peace, he can only see his still bleeding wounds, and a reflection in the mirror of a body marked for life. He acts as if they’re not there, maybe thinking that the wounds will scar by hiding them under a layer of optimism, he gets used to living with the pain and makes it stand in the background, but it doesn’t disappear.

The healing process is complex, continuous, and nonlinear. When you think you’re getting better, in a few seconds you can fall back into that pit of darkness and pessimism. The solution is neither simple nor immediate. Being honest about your struggle and your vulnerabilities is important, so is the support you give and receive from others, facing and working through your pain instead of resigning yourself to living with open wounds. The shield that Koujaku used when interacting with his family no longer works because he’s no longer in the same situation, but that is how he has become accustomed to living and he continues to use the same cover, without breaking the cycle.

It’s only once Koujaku opens up, maybe not completely but it’s a first step, about his past and the reasons why he was so distant that things start to go better. Aoba could have forced it out with Scrap, yeah, but that’s not how he wants to do things, he wants it to truly be Koujaku’s will. When Aoba scraps him, it’s impossible to fail if you don’t do it on purpose because it’s so simple, because it’s when he’s letting Aoba into his world that he feels confident about what he has to say to help him. If he doesn’t let himself be loved, supported by other people and continues to insist on doing things alone, pushing Aoba away from him believing it was the best choice, that’s when Aoba feels so distant from him that he doesn’t know if he really knows him, he doesn’t know what to say anymore. Only then you can fail.

It’s probably more confusing in Japanese considering kanji and that they can be read very differently, specially if it’s mixed with a bunch of other kanji like it happens when you choose the “wrong” options, but still. If you payed attention, you know what you have to say.

What’s great about this is that things don’t get better just like that, things aren’t fixed with magic or quick and simple solutions, and they show you, they don’t skip that and pretend it happens off screen. Scrap almost feels like it doesn’t really do anything, we’ve already seen that it doesn’t affect that much whether Koujaku turns into a beast or not, that’s up to him. The only thing Scrap does is somehow carve Aoba’s words into his mind so that he never forgets that Aoba will be there for him, whenever he needs to talk, giving him the security he didn’t have before. (Althought this is partial, and you’ll see why. The thing is that, obviously, what Aoba says is important for everyone’s scrap, but they’re very different interactions, and the moment you can choose good or bad ending varies with each character. And with Koujaku it’s literally just words, words that Aoba had already said to him five seconds before that. So these two things, it being something he already says, and something that only solves the problem partially, is why it gives this sensation of that you’re really not doing anything, it’s nothing that only Scrap can solve, I don’t know if I’m making myself clear) It “destroys” the Koujaku who held himself back, who was caged and afraid to face his tattoos. He doesn’t even try to convince him that it was not his fault, because he knows that Koujaku won’t accept that because of the way he is and would probably not be helpful, he’ll never stop blaming himself. It’s an idea so rooted into the depths of his mind that maybe not even Scrap can change that, so instead he changes his speech to something that encourages Koujaku to think about the people around him that care about him, about making up for the lives he forcefully took instead of making everyone around him suffer with his death and live a meaningful life, by Aoba’s side. In Buddhism, in order to help someone it’s believed it’s better to have a flexible mind and change your approach depending on what suits the other person’s needs. Many times Buddha statues take different forms than the classic and original, they’re adapting to the needs of the person they’re guiding.

In Re:connect when Aoba wants to wash Koujaku’s back is when he gets uncomfortable, because he’s hyper-aware of his tattoo. Of course, Aoba is aware too. He doesn’t know how much he should push on his wounds to help him vent and face them because he understands that’s something that ultimately has to come out of Koujaku, he knows that forcing things or insisting would have a rather negative result. He only pushes a little, enough for Koujaku to notice he’s there, but not so much to suffocate him, risking him closing the doors again. He wishes he could erase them by washing them, if he keeps going maybe it would work, but of course that’s just a fantasy.

Aoba mentions that if Koujaku wants to act like those scars aren’t there, he’ll do that too, but his feelings are overwhelming and bloom, and without giving it a second thought he can’t help but impulsively kiss his tattoo and scars, acknowledging them as a part of Koujaku and a sign of his persistence and his strength to stay alive and trying to give them a positive meaning, so that when Koujaku remembers them, he thinks of his kisses and his caresses rather than the pain they’ve brought him. He whispers “I love you”, but he doesn’t seem to be even saying that for Koujaku to hear, maybe a whisper to himself, as if his demonstration of love, told directly over his tattoo, could penetrate his skin, like the ink once did, and erase it. 

And for now it seems that all Koujaku wants to do is comfort Aoba when he’s about to cry, but not acknowledge his tattoos and scars himself.

But it’s later in bed when they are relaxed and Koujaku is reflecting that he finally decides to talk about his tattoos and express what he feels, out of his own free will. And how those tattoos represent his guilt, his shame, his greatest vulnerability, it’s extremely difficult and he feels that a part of him doesn’t want Aoba to touch them because it would be like dirtying him, but another part of him, the one that is recovering, does want him to touch them, because it’s part of the process, he wants to be open with Aoba, he wants him to know the truth and he wants to let himself be vulnerable in front of him. He wants to feel the affection he was neglected of, he wants to heal, he wants to change, he wants to hope.

When the haircut happens, and the cherry blossom symbolism accompanies them, such a major change in their life for me that is representative of a much bigger life commitment, tied to marriage. Aoba is practically living with Koujaku, so for me this day also symbolically marks an engagement, or even the marriage itself. It’s funny that they have such a direct confession scene, because a lot of these things happen without really saying anything, but rather showing them. Saying or making gestures that could be literally referring to something different but are constructed in a way that seems like a marriage proposal, or promising to each other.

Btw I love Koujaku’s obsession with his visible neck. Apparently women started to pull the neck of their kimono back in order to experiment with some glue on their hairstyles and it has stayed a thing ever since, especially noticeable with Geisha/Geiko. There’s always a hint of eroticism and beauty to it and of course it’s Koujaku’s brainrot, bet he salivates wanting to bite it.

[midnight--sadness]

i need more hc of gihun being insecure over inho’s past and inho realizing whats happening please please please pleaseeeee🥸🥸

u got it 🫡😘

okay so anon is referring to this ask i got!

thank u for sending me this bc i kinda wanna expand it a bit!

i often talk abt inho's wife here, even in the context of inhun, because it think she is very important to his development into the person we know him has. her illness caused inho to burrow money from criminals which was seen as a bribe and cost him his job. her pregnancy and progressing illness caused him to be desperate enough to join the games so he might win enough money for her surgery. and her and their child's death broke inho to the point where he was longer the person he was before. she is integral to him even if she is dead. hell, the narrative directly compares her to gihun!

now, in the au we were discussing, where inhun are together and expecting children, i can see her still being brought up.

i personally believe gihun to be painfully insecure and those insecurities would be aggravated by knowing that the man he loves and is married to and is expecting children with, once had someone with whom he wished to go through this experience with. and that person was not gihun.

(inho doesn't have the same issue because gihun and his ex-wife divorced. she didn't tragically die while they were in love, they had their problems and grew apart and separated and nothing was left unsaid, no stone was left unturned.)

gihun would definitely have thoughts of "i'm only his second choice, if she hadn't died we would never be together". of course he feels horrible for feeling like this, and guilt weighs heavily. so, his mood turns and he becomes irritable, snapping at every little thing. he can't handle anyone looking at him because he thinks they'll see every horrible thing about himself that he's trying to him. this goes especially for inho.

inho, who has suffered such terrible losses, is now "settling" with gihun. he had wanted a wife and a baby. he hadn't wanted gihun, only whatever companionship he'd offer and the children he'd bear.

obviously we know this is fake, inho genuinely loves gihun and loves their children. he'll always love his wife but the two of them can fit in his heart. they are so similar after all!

so, inho notices the shift in gihun's mood and try to talk to him, get him to open up. and i think what finally makes gihun crack is when they're fighting over something trivial, maybe gihun hadn't eaten much all day because he was stressing himself out over the situation, and inho tried to get him to eat for the babies and gihun snapped that inho didn't even care about him, only the twins.

inho was stunned into silence and he asked gihun what he meant, but when gihun doens't answer, he gets a bit mad. how dare gihun say inho doesn't care about him when everything he does nowadays is for him only. inho says that gihun is being silly, that he obviously cares about him, he loves him like he never loved anyone before. and gihun quietly asks "what about your wife?" and inho sighs because he knows, he knows where gihun is going with this conversation.

gihun would lay his cards down on the table, would say that he feels like he is a second choice, that he'll never compare to inho's wife... and as he's explaining, he actually hears himself and breaks down crying, apologizing and feeling terrible (again). after this, he is even more sure that inho would prefer his wife since she was not an insecure idiot who hurts the people around him.

inho tries to explain, as much as he can as an emotionally constipated man, that his wife and their child are in the past. he had loved them deeply and their loss changed him forever, but he's made his peace with never getting that part of his life back. it's gone and he can't grasp at the wind, it'll only slip through his fingers. he can't change what happened, can't bring them back, no matter how much he had wanted. and the keyword here is that he had wanted that.

because now he is with gihun and he loves him to the point where he doesn't recognize himself. he hadn't thought possible to love someone as strongly and fiercely as he loves gihun. and he loves their babies so so much. he's thrilled to be a father and while he's worried that something might happen to them, he's never been happier.

they are his family now, and they will coexist with the family he has lost. one does not replace the other, they exist in their own times.

[whoops-all-jennas]

Final Duet pt 4. - c.s.

Cairo Sweet x fem!reader

"My thoughts will follow you into your dreams."

Summary: Winnie checks in on Cairo, where she finally answers after a year of isolation.

a/n: Inspired by Omori, if you haven't played it, do. The story is beautiful. There will be no spoilers in this so don't worry about that :)

Warnings - Bullying, Homophobia, Death

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The hot summer sun bakes my skin as I pour a watering can over my white egret orchids. I take a moment to admire the wing-shaped flowers before putting my watering can away.

It has now been over a year since we missed our recital, gardening is one of the few things I have where I feel close to you again.

This past year I've been isolative, lonely by choice. I know it isn't healthy, but discovering your premature death had a strong impact on me.

It doesn't help that, even now, my parents are never home to raise their child.

When I enter my house, I hear a knock at the front door. I see Winnie's silhouette past the glass. My eyes are lost at the door, deciding if I should answer it or lock myself away in my room once again.

I turn the knob, opening the door to reveal Winnie on the other side.

"You actually answered." Winnie looks at me, shocked. "I was, just wanting to check on you, maybe go out and do something."

Winnie has been trying to get in touch with me ever since your funeral. I've been evading her attempts, I know it's mean, but I just wanted to be alone.

"I guess." I say, in a low tone. I know I need to get over your passing, but locking myself away isn't going to help.

"I wasn't expecting you to answer, I didn't really have any plans." Winnie stands, pondering ideas, while my mind stays blank.

There is something I want to do, but it's not exactly a fun group activity. "Can we visit Y/n's resting place? I haven't been there in a long time."

While of course, your tombstone brings me closer to you, I just see it as a reminder of what I lost. I feel mean for never visiting, but I just couldn't.

"That's fine, it's a nice first step." Winnie says with a patient smile, the same type of smile you'd always give me during practice. You were always so kind and patient with me, even during what I imagine to be the tedious process of teaching someone a new instrument from scratch.

"I'll be back." I say, turning to walk to my back yard. I open the door, approaching the orchids that I've put all my love and time into that I wished I could've spent with you. I pick a few of them, making a small bouquet of your favorite flower.

Winnie and I are walking on the side of the road, the wing-shaped flowers flowing in the breeze.

"Did you grow those?" Winnie asks as I find her eyes before looking at the bouquet.

"I did, they were Y/n's favorite." I say, numbly.

She stares at the flowers. "It looks like you did a wonderful job, Y/n would be proud."

My throat closes for a moment, it has been awhile since I heard anyone utter your name. I open my mouth to speak, but no sounds come out. I opt to replying with a mere nod.

I approach your grave with Winnie staying by the cemetery entrance, white egret orchids whole and hearty surround your tombstone.

I stare at your memorial, forgetting I planted those seeds a year ago. It's a miracle that such a delicate and needy flower as been able to even sprout on its own.

I place the bouquet in front of your tombstone, the flowers flowing delicately in the wind.

"Cairo?" I hear a masculine voice behind me, causing me to turn around. I'm met with one of your two bullies, hulling a small wagon with gardening supplies.

I stare quietly, unsure what to do. He grabs a full watering can, approaching the grave before he waters the flowers.

"These were Y/n's favorite." He says, taking a moment to look at the bouquet I left. "But it seems you already knew that."

He smiles at the small patch of flowers that decorate your tombstone. "I've managed to forgive myself for what I've done, managing to find peace with Y/n's death."

He turns, facing me. "Yet you, you have nothing to be forgiven of, but you still let the weight of her passing pull you down. Why is that?"

For the first time in a year, anger bubbles past my numb surface. "You forgave yourself? After everything you've done to her that is not your responsibility."

He looks away for a moment. "I don't mean how I treated her. I'll never be able to forgive myself for that."

I find myself lost in my emotions. "What do you mean then?"

He looks at me, shocked. "Do you really not know?"

"Not know what?" I ask, now more confused than anything else.

He goes silent for a moment, his throat restricting his voice. "Y/n didn't just trip and fall down the stairs..."

He slips through the backyard, sneaking into your house through the backdoor. His footsteps fill the empty, dark house as he navigates up the stairs.

The door to your room opens as he twists the knob, quickly searching all the bookshelves to find your book of memories. He hears the front door open as he pulls it off the shelf, leaving the room as fast as possible.

He heads towards the stairs, you halfway up them. "What're you doing in my house?!"

He took a step back, shocked to find you here. "Taking back what's ours."

You quickly ascend the stairs, anger in step. "Yours?! I made that! You abandoned me!"

"Abigail said you threw it away one night before she gave it back to your mom!" He shouts. "You don't deserve it!"

You grab the book, trying to yank it out of his hands. "You think you deserve it?! Please! As if your homophobic ass does!"

He resists, pulling back on the book. "Let go, Y/n!"

"No!" You continue pulling as sweat builds under your palms.

Your grip slips, causing you to fall backwards, your body tumbling down the stairs. The loud thunks of your body hitting the steps fill the silence of the house until you land on your head at the bottom, your neck contorting to the pressure.

He stood there shocked, looming over your body from the top of the stairs.

Suddenly, a loud knocking is heard at the front door. He pulls himself together, quickly descending the stairs, leaving through the back.

"I turned myself in a month after her funeral." He says, staring at the ground, guilt squirming through his body. "I couldn't stay silent anymore, the guilt of what I did was destroying me."

I stand there silently, feeling numb to the truth just like how I felt the past year to your passing. I turn around, taking my first few steps to leave.

"Wait, Cairo." I stop in place to his voice. "Do you think I deserve forgiveness?"

Even though he says he's forgiven himself, it's clear he hasn't. The guilt of your death eating him from the inside out.

"I don't believe I'm in the mental state to answer." I respond, truthfully.

I walk back to the entrance, thinking about his words.

'Yet you, you have nothing to be forgiven of, but you still let the weight of her passing pull you down. Why is that?'

I find Winnie by the entrance. "I know something else I'd like to do, if that's okay."

My violin case rests over my shoulder, the dust from lack of use falling onto the street with each step. For the first time in a year, I hum that familiar tune you loved so much as we approach the school.

The sun is beginning to set beyond the horizon, finding the rays of golden hour nostalgic to your presence.

We walk through the back entrance, closest to the music room. The silence of the hall deafening as we approach the forgotten room, it's as if I can still hear you playing piano, muffled through the wall.

Winnie opens the door, revealing a dark room before flipping the lights. The same fluorescent light in the corner flickering.

The room looks more abandoned than before without you maintaining it, cobwebs and dust litter the room.

"Is it okay if I'm here alone for a minute?" I ask, quietly.

Winnie nods, giving me a patient smile.

I approach a music stand, setting it up to be able to be read from standing. The zipper of my violin case tears through the silence of the room, finding the picture we took on the first snowfall of January. You have the widest, happiest smile while my face is flushed red, looking away from the camera.

For the first time in a year, a smile finds my face as I reminisce.

I take the sheet music out of the case, placing it on the music stand. I stare at the blank space where a title should be, noticing small writing in blue pen at the top of the page in your handwriting.

why don't you think of a title for me? you read a lot, you must know plenty of words

I stare at the words for a moment, seeing merely your handwriting having a clear effect on me. I grab my violin, admiring the flowers engraved in the glossy wood before I check the tuning of the strings.

I tighten the bow and apply the resin, before doing the warm up exercises you taught me.

My eyes find the sheet music, hesitating for a moment as I take a deep breath.

I close my eyes, feeling your presence behind me, sitting in front of a glossy black piano. I'm standing on a stage, facing a small audience I can't see through a spotlight being cast over me.

The beginning notes of a piano fill the stage, your fingers gliding over the keys. The notes descend from it's initial high notes until it reaches a deep, low note. You transition the notes back up an octave, finding the middle of the piano.

The last note is followed by a chord as the tempo increases slightly, creating a bright atmosphere.

I slide my bow across the strings of the violin, the note stretching across the concert hall.

As I play, I can't help but reminisce on all the times I spent with you. The hours we spent in the music room, your patient smile guiding me calmly as you teach me the instrument I'm performing now.

I remember your tears the first night we stayed at my house, staining my clothes the same way you pleasantly stain my memories. My arms lulling you to sleep as I hold you comfortingly.

I feel the cold on my hands as I roll a snowball on the ground near you, making the biggest snowman I have, or will ever make. After we had a little snowball fight we warmed up by the fire. There's hardly a better feeling than thawing out after a cold day, but doing it with you is the true experience.

My legs find the red and white quilt on the soft grass as you place a flower crown over my head. This was the day you gave me the violin I'm playing. I will never forget the excitement on your gleeful face when you revealed the recital we were performing at.

That flower crown you gave me resides above my bed, wilted, but the memories still intact.

I see the blank audience once again, the experience I'm living that never happened. I draw out the final note of the song, feeling your presence fading behind me. A bare piano lies in your place, yet still warm by the idea of you.

I open my eyes, the complete song branding into my memory for the first and last time. I'll never get to hear the complete song again, as I will follow your wish of it being our song that no one else will perform.

The abandoned music room settles around me, clashing with the clean and well-lit stage I was imagining. It feels as if a weight was lifted off my chest, even if your presence will fade, the memories will not, and I won't let my grieving tarnish my happy ones.

I find a blue pen, drawing it to the blank space. There's only one thing I can think of that suites your masterpiece, albeit a long title.

My Thoughts Will Follow You Into Your Dreams

a/n: The song that's linked in all parts is the song you made in the story.

[utilitycaster]

Man, I didn’t want to believe the c3 stans on twitter were actually being that dense and hypocritical, but one quick search and woooooow. I can’t believe I’m seeing ‘I wish people could criticize CR without people jumping to CR’s defense!’ from the same people who’d call you homophobic for saying Laudna’s story arc has been poorly handled. Like these people aren’t even disagreeing that C3 has pacing issues now! But somehow they still can’t admit that maybe the naysayers had a valid point and it’s only a problem when their blorbos don’t get all the spotlight in the ending, something the naysayers were worried about ever since the Keyleth speed dial moment.

I’ve seen people say ‘to make up for BH not getting the full spotlight I want them to show up in C4!’ and like, that really does just highlight how all that matters to these people is their little blorbos getting more screen time. They see that pulling past parties into the current campaign can lead to them overshadowing the current party, and rather than arrive at the conclusion ‘we should limit the ability for past PCs to show up in future campaigns’ they think ‘I want C4 to focus on my favorite blorbos at the expense of the new party!’

YUP. One of the consistently worst, most unkind, and self-absorbed of the lot, who constantly takes anything that challenges the idea that their blorbos are not the most morally justified in the worst faith possible, made a post during their gross tantrum regarding the charity one-shot about how Bells Hells should crash the Fjorester wedding and like...I mean honestly it's just deeply sad. Like, most of the Bells Hells stans don't even like Fjord, Jester, Fjorester, or the Mighty Nein in general, and they probably wouldn't enjoy watching a one-shot (let alone paying to see it live) just to catch a brief glimpse of Bells Hells, and as someone who is paying to see it live my feeling is much more just...I mean that would be kind of weird, but like, the thing is, I like the Mighty Nein so much that a party I like less showing up is like, ok, weird choice, but the Nein are here. And they clearly hate the Mighty Nein more than they enjoy Bells Hells, and that is something of a tragedy.

A lot of us repeatedly said that the Bells Hells fans really wanted Campaign 2 but with Bells Hells and every time they jeered at us and now they're pointing to the time and space that the Aeor arc was given and crying that this is what they wanted. Hell, as someone else pointed out, they're too stupid to come up with a unique slogan - they've taken Liam's "what's sexier than wizards NOTHING" and swapped in sorcerers. They wanted Vox Machina in the story when it meant bringing back one of the most weakly conceived actual play characters to ever exist, and a lot of them even liked the Nein in episode 50 because they could write scenarios with Beau and Imogen, but suddenly, when it's apparent that this was never Bells Hells' campaign, it was the big trilogy finale in which Bells Hells were the current PCs, they're so bitter that they've already written off a Campaign 4 on every possible level. They can't ever extricate the party from past ones given Orym and Laudna's baked-in concepts and won't admit they got exactly what they signed up for.

They've been mad at us for literal years for calling various party members selfish, and we've known for years it was because they were, themselves, utterly selfish. It's really that simple.

[lightlycareless]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8L9nuR5/

I saw this and I thought what if something similar happened with Naomi and Naoya while he played the piano for her 🥺 Do you think Naoya would play frequently for his kids?

Heya anon!

Awww, this is so cute 😭😭😭 AND YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS he would!!!! Of course!!!! akghagkaga ok let's get to the good part.

warnings: none. fluff. you and naoya have 4 kids. a happy marriage do not come for me

Happy reading!

Undoubtedly, Naoya plays the piano to his kids.

But it wasn’t like that in the beginning; in fact, he was quite unsure if his kids would find enjoyment in something he once considered tedious. Weren’t children supposed to be all for energetic, exhausting activities?

However, Naoya’s quickly proven wrong after you encourage him enough to consider otherwise: you just had to tell him it would be another excellent opportunity to bond, get to know him a bit better, and of course, show off just how cool their papa is (once again).

“You think they’d like it?” Naoya quietly asks one last time, just to be sure. “I do not wish to bore them, I’d rather—.”

“Of course they will. They’re my kids.” You smile, referring to the day he serenaded you when feeling under the weather. Naoya could be extremely romantic when it came to it, holding this moment very dearly in your heart.

So, taking that into consideration, it was safe to assume they would love it too.

Besides, it wasn’t that hard to please your kids when considering just how happy they were to spend time with their often-absent father. The same man that always went above and beyond to make up for all the time days he’s missed when away for work, thus, an opportunity they could not dare waste.

And Naoya loved every single one of those moments too, he really did. To be with his children earned him a kind of fulfillment no title, nor promotion, or successful mission could ever provide!

… But spending time with them while playing the piano, though, might just be the exception.

Sure, he loved seeing their starstruck faces whenever showing what a particularly talented musician he was (just like in everything else he put his mind into), followed by their chubby little hands trying to jump from one octave to the other, earning him the title of giant! And why are your hands so big? And of course, watching them to play along him…

Yet, those moments became scarce once they found out they could use him as their own personal musician, someone they could dump all their song requests, and he had no other choice but to oblige. From the theme song of their favorite tv show, to whatever tune crossed their mind, Naoya became the kind of dejected servant that would place all his efforts to fulfill their every whim.

Even going as far as agreeing to join their small band of sorts, one that seemed to run on a tight schedule when it came to rehearsals (Rehearsals!!) evenfor such a casual thing.

“Come on, papa!! We have to practice if we want to get the song right this time!!” Naori exclaimed, grabbing him by the hand and running towards the studio. Naoya… well, he didn’t have many options, did he?

“Did you practice?” Naoko asks. “Because last time you got all the notes wrong, and that's unacceptable!”

His children were undoubtedly taking this activity far more seriously than anything else they’ve indulged in the past, and Naoya didn’t know whether to be impressed by their dedication, or slightly concerned…

But he supposes it wasn’t all too bad. Not when he still got to see their big, round eyes slowly growing heavy once their exuberant rehearsals began to take a toll on them, falling victim to his calming music that lulled them to instinctively gather around the couch, lay down, and finally fall asleep.

A smile can’t help but part his lips, admiring the sight of his tired yet well cared for children, and all that it represented on a bigger scale.

“I guess they do like it when I play the piano.” Naoya murmurs to you after putting the kids to bed.

“How couldn’t they? It’s their loving papa who’s playing for them!” you smile, standing on your toes to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. “But as much as I enjoy seeing all of you get along, I still gotta talk to them about cutting you some slack, you don’t look too… well when you’re done.”

“Whatever gave you that idea? I’m fine!” He asks, perhaps genuinely oblivious of the bags forming underneath his eyes, or the occasional twitching of his left eyelid. Is this the first time the great Naoya Zen’in has ever faced the possibility of disappointing his children?

Certainly so, but, well—such are the joys of parenthood.

🥹🥹🥹 naoya would play to little naomi when she was a baby, you'd just carry her while she's all fuzzy, unable to sleep, and then your husband starts playing and she's completely knocked out. 😭😭😭it's the domestic things y'all....

Anyways, I hope you were able to enjoy this little thing hehe. I'm trying to write more of the rest of the kids you two have, not that I don't loooove Naomi, but I think the others deserve a bit of the spotlight 🙈

Now take care, and hope to see you soon!!

[aleburton]

Alex’s eyes rolled at his remark, a quiet exhale of exasperation slipping past her lips. When she really thought about it, she did have an undeniable history with that kind of man. The untouchable, self-assured playboys who reveled in their own desirability. Even the ones who seemed more polished, the ones wrapped in old money and impeccable reputations, carried the same irresistible magnetism. No matter how refined they appeared, they were still the men every woman in the room wanted. She thought of Noah – the golden boy, the one she had been so sure would be her forever when she was just a naïve, love-starved teenager. He had adored her, worshiped her even. But like any young man brimming with hormones and opportunity, his eyes had wandered. She had denied her insecurities back then, pretending she was above them, but she wasn’t. And when he chose a college several hours away, Alex had made a choice of her own. She wouldn’t sit around waiting for him to break her heart, not when she could shatter it herself first.

That was when she learned. As she grew older, as she blossomed into the kind of beauty that turned heads and stole breath, the insecurities that once ate at her began to fade. The attention of men became a constant, an expectation rather than a surprise. She realized then that she wasn’t just desirable. She was dangerous. Her heart hardened, but she didn’t mind. It made her untouchable. Playboys? She could handle them. She could entertain them, date them, toy with them, and discard them before they even saw it coming. She knew their games, and she played them better. She stayed one step ahead, always prepared to clip their wings, to crush their fragile egos beneath her stiletto if necessary. And she had. Many, many times.

By the time she met Andrew, he had reached a point in his life where he was ready to leave behind the fleeting indulgences of his past. Like Zach, he had spent years sifting through an endless sea of beautiful women, each one dazzling, each one eager, yet so few offering the full picture. Intelligence, humor, charm, and, most importantly, genuine intentions. Los Angeles was a city of illusions, filled with people more interested in appearances than substance, relationships that functioned more like business deals than partnerships. Too many women wanted a man who could foot the bill for their extravagant lifestyles, a walking bank account rather than a lover. But Alex had her own wealth, her own name, courtesy of her father’s empire. She didn’t need Andrew to fund her existence. She just needed him to anchor it. And in so many ways, he was everything she thought she wanted.

They rarely argued. He never raised his voice, never aimed to hurt her, never sought out the vulnerabilities she buried deep just to see how much she could endure. They communicated like adults, voicing their issues without devolving into screaming matches, without breaking glasses, without lilac-colored bruises blooming across skin. Without cuts or scars, both the visible and the invisible kind. For a fleeting moment, Alex’s gaze flicked toward Zach, and an old, buried memory rose to the surface. That scar on his tongue. She had almost forgotten. Almost. She wondered how it had healed over the years. Her eyes settled on his lips once more. Plush, full, a perfect contradiction of softness and sin. And there it was again. That maddening, stupid, cocky little smirk of his, stretching slowly as he continued their effortless, cutting banter.

She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips because he was right. She did love making him squirm, loved the way his jaw would tighten, how his hands would twitch as if fighting the urge to reach for something. For her. But things were different now. They were bound to other people, devoted to partners who adored them, who deserved their undivided attention. There was no longer an outlet for the mounting tension that curled between them, thick and stifling. “That’s not fair,” she murmured, “I’m a changed woman. I can’t help that you still get jealous so easily.” Alex shrugged, pressing her lips together into a thin line, shifting her gaze back to the crowd. And then, almost as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, they both spotted them at the same time. Their respective partners, standing across the room, deep in conversation.

So animated, so expressive, laughing without restraint. Meanwhile, they lingered here, at the edge of it all, shrouded in shadow like two restless black cats, watching, prowling, waiting. That was when Zach cast his line, dangling the bait right in front of her, waiting for her to bite. Again. He loved to push. Loved to prod. But so did she and she could take it further if he wanted to play that game. Slowly, she rolled her neck, her gaze sliding back to him, feline and full of mischief. She held the moment, let the air between them tighten almost uncomfortably. Fuck it. “You really want to know?” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she turned toward him, so subtly, so deliberately, that no one would even notice how the space between them had shrunk to practically nothing.

She caught the scent of him. Familiar, intoxicating. That deep, musky cologne laced with the faintest trace of whiskey, lingering on his breath, on his skin. It wrapped around her like a ghost, threatening to pull her under, to unravel the restraint she was so determined to keep intact. But she wouldn’t fall prey to it. Not now. “There is something, actually,” she purred. Her index finger extended, the delicate tip hooking into the pocket of his dress pants. With a subtle tug, she pulled him closer. Not quite enough to be obvious, but just enough to feel the heat of his body, to let the fabric of her dress skim against his arm with each slow, measured breath she took.

“His big…” she began, her timbre dipping lower, a whisper meant just for him. Her fingers slipped further inside, grazing over smooth fabric, brushing along his thigh with a featherlight touch. “Thick…” she muttered, her fingertips curling around something firm and solid. Then, in one swift motion, she withdrew her hand, gripping the supple leather of his wallet and pressing it against his chest with a triumphant little giggle. “Wallet,” she finished, her lips quirking into a simper, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I won’t bother asking you the same,” she added, flicking her gaze toward his girlfriend across the room. “It’s obvious why you’re still together.”

Her confidence was like a gooey trap, and he got wrapped up in it mortifyingly easily. Even when he knew she was fucking with him, he waltzed right on in, allowed her to pick up and smash anything she well liked. Perhaps their predisposition to one another was as simple as being able to scratch invisible itches nobody else was even capable of knowing existed. The thing about a behemoth like Zach was nobody ever wanted to challenge him, say no to him, argue with him. They saw his tendency to lock horns at the first sign of unrest as a warning, when it was really an invitation. Alex always saw him for exactly what he was, and rose to him. She had loved him anyway. Had needed him anyway. It made him insatiable. When she flashed her engagement ring at him, cocky and undeterred, a surge of hot want flooded his veins. He kissed his teeth, as though he’d been got. And maybe he had. But it certainly didn’t feel that way.

And perhaps he was right not to feel it. She paused upon hearing her name fill his mouth, flood it like sweet nectar. Her face gave away little, and neither did his. But it was there. The pressure. Building, fighting against the bubble they created. One day, he’d find it’s weak point. And then… pop. A slight colour arose in her olive cheeks. A small, irritating smile materialized on his face as fast as he suffocated it. Found you. But in his challenge, she found her footing once more, an earnest laugh leaping from her open throat. Mocking. Perfect. Head thrown back, like she might swallow something whole. He gulped, watching her delightedly as she both latched onto his bait and cast some of her own. It was just too fucking addictive, this dance. A tiny smirk imprinted upon his plush mouth, eyes alight as they kept hers like a secret. “Daddy Andy, a retired playboy...” Zach giggled a little at the prospect. “Bet you fucking loved that,” he taunted, drawing it out like it was a luxury to torment her. Which, truthfully, it was. “Your history with playboys as it is.” His tongue rolled over in his mouth, sticky with her memory. 

Zach smiled, rotten. “Never doubted the man’s taste.” Alex looked at him, and his eyes slid to hers, watching them in real time turn from deer in headlights to a threat on his life. His head jerked slightly, lip quirking as he anticipated some kind of attack. But the voice she adopted, velvet sharpened to a deadly point, he knew it. Remembered it vividly. Her intonation slid through him like water, tangled up in all his nerve-ends. It was the same voice she used once upon a time, when she would intentionally dismantle him by sending every drop of blood he’d use for his brain right down between his thighs. His eyes rolled, though he played it off as irritation rather than what it was; ardor. “Alex…” he chastised unconsciously, breathy. Something of a warning, though he wasn’t sure as to what. Only that it felt dangerous, her spurring him like this. Or perhaps it was an utterly in-earnest telling off for bad behavior. Her gaze rolled over him languidly, taking her time, as if he were food to consider. His abdomen tightened involuntarily under it. Did he want him to come over? It would certainly spoil the fun, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the thought of Alex using her fiancé to spark some sort of jealous arousal in him. He shook his head and laughed through his nose, a little in disbelief at her gall.

Though, it was admittedly only a mirror of his own. Each daring the other to say something, do something worse than the last. Alex relaxed back into herself, sighing and flicking away the notion like some bothersome fly. Zach was both irritated and enchanted. Story of his fucking life. Her final sentiment made him laugh quietly, eyes fluttering in incredulity. “Oh, no, I’m sure you wouldn’t. That doesn’t sound like you at all,” he affected in a faux-empathetic tone. Breath filled his chest as he looked at her, eyes flitting over her in unconstrained desire, in direct opposition with his need to fight with her until his breath ran out. Or perhaps the marriage between the two emotions was a healthy, happy one. A uniquely enriching one. “You know, I’d actually fucking love to see it,” Zach mused, an annoying cockiness about him. His eyes floated into the crowd, pin-pointing the man himself. He and Kylie chatted animatedly now. How ironic. Zach squinted at his broad shoulders, crisp jacket, inkless arms and wig-pristine hair. He was so perfect, so cookie-cutter. Everything Alex claimed her young heart ever wanted. So why was she here, entertaining Zach Winthrop, flushing when he said her name? He smiled to himself, knowing what he planned to say next would enrage her. “There surely must be something beyond that painfully boring surface biting into your rotten little heart.”

[dykedvonte]

I think the most baffling thing about the Tulpar as a vessel to me is the fact that the ship really did only have a one way communication system.

I know it was cheap but even the most basic of vessels regarding major transport would have some way, shape or form for outside communication. Not only that but there was absolutely no form of innate emergency signal to show they may have been offline or in trouble despite clearly having a system to dock credits if they went off course. It's another factor that really shows that bad situations are made to get worse by design. One person who is required to relay all information to the crew and make all the choices without feedback. No way to update or call for help in case of a dire situation. No way to inform of inner personal conflicts and acquire procedures accordingly.

It really is like they are all in some sort of fucked up solitary confinement. They have their own world with strict roles that are meaningless in the end, as long as the cargo makes it, it doesn't matter what happens on that ship to the company. They don't want to hear anything and will come to conclusions on what happened based on how much pay they can withhold from the workers. Even what they do send is short, sterile and corporate to the extent it was likely written and sent out with a command by some random unmanned computer in an office.

There's something to be said about how unfair it is to force absolute power and control onto one person when you as an entity could do so much more to offload it but I've said it many times before so I won't again.

[moomimob]

do you ever see a take so bad and shocking you just kinda stare at it in disgust for a little before blocking and moving on

[devotionreforged]

Understanding both the flower and the thorns of Haarlep's offer and nature - at least, what had been shown to him - allowed Zevlor to see both. This would be a night spent with a fiend, a release of stress on his part and a feeding on the other's, one which would leave Zevlor's soul and oath intact.

Yet to walk with tails interwound past the very same ruined buildings he'd helped sort through for keepsakes, in the direction of the nearest pleasure house he knew still stood? Darker red burned at the tips of his ears once more. Zevlor only answered Haarlep's tease with a huff through his nose and a small upward flick of his brows. No, indeed.

He glanced further away at first, as if he could also ignore his own blush creeping down his ears onto his cheeks. That he could feel so flustered by a fiend's honeyed praise... Helm guard him. Nonetheless, Zevlor swallowed at the mental image conjured by those latter words.

Glimpses of civilians retreating to or within what shelter they could find was a comfort - in part because it meant they weren't staring at him and Haarlep.

Zevlor's gaze returned sidelong to Haarlep at last, when the questions were presented. He studied that enticing face for a long moment, both to watch the other's expression and to gather nerve to voice his decision in public, even softspoken. "...Gentility then, if I'm given the choice."

Whether it would be a change of pace or not, whether it would be more or less or equally honest as the latter option, that was Haarlep's business. And whether it might be a way to better unravel himself for a night, only Zevlor need know for certain.

The care Haarlep seemed to take with something as small as the grasp of their hands made Zevlor swallow. An echo of that earlier sensation hit him again, that warm feeling of 'home', or at least its vague concept. No doubt some manner of influence from the other, but one that Zevlor allowed nonetheless. He knew what he was getting into.

So though he flushed deeper at Haarlep's promises, Zevlor followed the incubus' guidance without complaint. A part of him was glad they wouldn't be spending the night in the small rooms allotted to him in the temple. Letting the clergy and his fellow Hellriders overhear wouldn't make for an enjoyable time.

In the meantime, Zevlor replied to the question after that surprising laugh, with a little glint of lighter humor in his expression. "Not in this way," a glance to their hands, then to Haarlep's face, then ahead, "but yes, I have."

[faaun]

i feel rly sad and conflicted abt one of my best friends on earth but idk who to ask for advice bc i usually would have consulted her in this situation lmao

[caterjunes]

now, i KNOW people are sooo horny for prince sidon. and i *guess* i get it? but my standout interactions with him were

him repeatedly interrupting me as i'm sneaking & battling desperately upstream through the rain towards zora's domain, to remind me that he's there, watching, not helping me, being unceasingly chipper

him giving me inadequate instructions to prepare for the attack on vah ruta, leading to me having no idea what the deal with the giant ice cubes is or how to handle them, resulting in me immediately getting hit by said cubes. at which point he contemptuously shouted "GET A GRIP, LINK" at me.

[medicinemane]

At least I could disable the suggestions but just... I'm sick of it, I'm sick of companies trying to think for me

I'd rather be miserable but doing shit my own way than placid and glass eyed and just taking whatever companies tell me to

Like... literally just asking what I get out of writing a post on tumblr... zero suggestions, just letting me say whatever dumb stuff comes to my head

[crownednight]

__________✨       HER    STOMACH    TWISTS    AT    HIS    WORDS    &&    SHE    SHAKES    HER    HEAD.    ❛    you've   misunderstood   me.    ❜    she   doesn't   offer   an   explanation   to   prevent   further   disparaging   of   her   character    (    not   when   the   choice   to   do   so   means   revealing   the   rift,    midgard    &&    her    son    )    she   cares.    mother    above    she    cares    so    much    she    bleeds    out    on    her    feet.    these    people    need    better    than    what    wreckless    damage    her    magic    has    been    used    for    in    the    past.    if    she    closes    her    eyes,    she    can    still    see    the    faces    of    all    those    whose    minds    morven    forced    her    to    break.    she   stiffens   at   the   question,    feeling   the   room   close   in   on   her.    hearing    the    same    question    she    had    been    asked    on    avallen    all    those    centuries    ago    that    had    sealed    her    hell.    ❛    my   magic   is   illyrian.    different   than   fae   magic   to   be   sure,    but    not    ancient.    ❜    her   breathing   is   shallow   as   she   thinks   of   the   origin   of   her   power   for   perhaps   the   first   time   in   her   long   life.    how    different    ??    how    old    ??    could    he    be    correct    in    his    reasoning    ??    &&    how   much   danger   is   she   in   if   he   has   the   truth   in   hand    ??    ❛    starlight,    shadow    –    &&    warding.    ❜    her    daemati    &&    illusion    crafting    skills    are    her    secrets,    her    shame.

Frustration prickles under his skin, and it takes a conscious effort to keep his powers under control. Not her concern? As his dark eyes track her movement, it's only her evident fear that stops him from snapping at her. "Must be nice not to feel concerned over the lives of ten thousand Fae," he mutters icily, and he rests his face in his hands for a second. The crown has never felt heavier than in that precise moment: the wards did not fail under his father or grandfather's rule, nor under any previous monarch before them. An eyebrow curves upwards at her words, for despite her plea to the contrary, the thought that she might hold ancient power is just the perfect - albeit rather terrifying - explanation for her sudden arrival in Essetir. "Don't you?" he queries, his voice markedly softer as he allows just a flicker of hope to ignite within him. "That would explain how you managed to enter the island, unharmed." And damage his wards. "What powers do you have?"