#but that sense of dread is so meaningful still

[inthecarpets]

Kabru is such a character

it's interesting how from i.e. Laios' perspective the story is like fun adventure mixed with drama when his sister is gone.

but from Kabru's perspective it feels like a thriller or a horror story and Laios is one of more terrifying things in it due to the simplicity of how enthusiastic he is around it.

Kabru's there, in the place that terrifies him the most, meeting a person who loves said place and everything involved with it with all his heart. And the longer he knows said person, the more he's terrified of him.

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Hypothetically speaking" - Juice Ortiz x Reader

SUMMARY: It's basic etiquette to not try your luck with a friend's girl. But when that friends seems to have no respect for the girl, perhaps it's basic etiquette to give her the affection she deserves.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3k

Truthfully, everyone knew it wasn't going to work out - everyone except for you. Whether you are too pure or delusional, the thought never even occured to you, while the other members of the motorcycle club knew the bitter end the moment they saw you. At first, none of them thought much of it. That's just how Jax Teller rolled, there is nothing new in that matter. It was the subsequent weeks that made them dread the inevitable:

Jax brought you around the clubhouse to help out with the accounting, housekeeping or party-throwing. Usually, you were holding a pan, a broom or a pen in your hand. Or certain other things whenever Jax needed tending to his more carnal desires.

Nonetheless, the other Sons have gotten to know you personally and it was that new friendship that bore dread in their chests. You seemed to have a curious talent for making people feel seen. Even the smallest of details never escaped your attention. Refilling the bar for the night, you'd always find time to ask Happy about his mother's health and how he was holding up. Chibs and Tig have come to expect you to ask them about their children. Their answers rarely changed and so did yours: 'I'm sure they're thinking about you.' The biggest surprise came from the prospects as they had grown accustomed to everyone pushing them around and yelling at them. So when you'd ask them whether they were hungry, at first they were sure it was some kind of a test or a ruse.

For Juice, those little signs of a soft heart were nails in his coffin. Whenever he was spending several hours in front of the computer, you'd appear with a drink and a small snack. On top of that, you always made it seem like these small acts of service are something obvious - it would be entirely strange to not care for others simply because you can. Usually, your presence would slow down his progress as Juice was willing to exchange his worktime for a conversation with you. As desperate as it may sound, he came to the conclusion that his job will still be there in twenty minutes but you will be gone the moment Jax enters the clubhouse and takes you away. Sometimes he wondered if he had Teller's charisma, would you give him a chance? Considering you were seeing his friend, he never planned on acting on his feelings. Even the thought made him cringe: fantasizing about fellow member's girl? That's a rather large 'no-go'.

As usual, the dread settled in the men's chests when you entered the clubhouse. Then, it grew ten sizes as they all silently realised that the inevitable was about to play out in front of their hungover eyes. You passed the threshold in a somewhat hesitant manner like you always did, unsure whether you're interrupting something or are even wanted there. Bobby, Tig and Chibs greet you but they're unable to hide a strange sadness to them. None the wiser, you chalk up their lack of humour to the aftermath of a night filled with vices.

The clubhouse is a temporary ruin. Bottles and glasses are scattered across all flat surfaces. One of the tables is slanted, missing one of its legs. A few pairs of bright-coloured underwear are lying here and there. Something tells you that yesterday you missed a truly historic night of fun.

"Is Jax around?" you ask. The men exchange a meaningful gaze but it goes unnoticed by you. "He left his shirt at mine yesterday afternoon, I was hoping to return it."

Tig's face cringes. There's a sorry look in his eyes. "Sweetheart-"

"He just left, actually," Bobby interjects. "Don't know when he'll be back."

You look between them, beginning to sense tension. "Alright," you answer, unsure what to make of the situation. "Then I'll just leave it in the dorm room."

Their silence makes you wary like there's a piece of information that you're missing while it's fairly obvious to others; something hidden in plain sight. You walk past them, when Tig's conscience puts up a fight once more. He makes a step towards you, hoping to stop the disaster about to unfold. Chibs, however, grabs his arm before the man can realise his plan.

"He's made his bed, brother," the Scotsman says in a low voice lest you hear their conversation.

"Come on, man," Trager answers with a look of disbelief on his face. "She doesn't deserve that."

"Aye, she doesn't." The man nods. His stern expression reveals that he, too, is more than unhappy with the unfolding events. "But it's already happened."

Juice is either really lucky or terribly unlucky to be walking down the corridor at the same time as you. His lips widen in a smile and he's about to call out to you, when he notices the white t-shirt in your hand. In a split second of considering his selfishness and your feelings, Juice decided to act against his own interest. He picks up his pace and manages to block the dorm room door just as you were about to put your hand on the handle.

"You really don't want to go in there. Trust me." Juice is trying his best to sound like he's joking but he's not a good liar - especially when you're the one he's attempting to deceive. True feelings are slipping through the cracks and you notice his nervousness.

"What do you mean?" you ask. The weirdness of the guys' behaviour that day is putting you on edge. What on Earth is going on? "It's not like there's a biological warfare behind that door."

Two laughing voices are audible from inside the room: one belongs to Jax, the other probably to a woman. Something stirs inside you, anxious and dreadful but you push it further down. No need to get upset before you get all the facts, right?

"See? Everything's fine," you say to Juice, although the reassurance is really for yourself.

The door swings open with a slight moan of the hinges. Then, as you take in the scene before you, it feels like time has slowed to a halt. Jax is sitting on the edge of the bed, scandily clad in the thin bedsheets. Maybe he covered himself when he heard the door open or he wasn't planning on getting up just yet. In the bathroom doorway stands Ima, dressed in a rather tacky purple lingerie - the cheap kind that desperately tries to have some semblance of luxury. Had the situation been less agitating, maybe you'd think that it's a fitting piece of garment for a woman of her sort.

It's hard to say whether it's the shock or resilience but you manage to keep yourself whole. The last thing you're going to do is cause a scene.

"Brought your shirt." You disturb the akward silence. Jax's expression is unreadable but Ima appears rather amused - there's a sly grin on her face. Her quiet snickering makes tears pool in your eyes. "Thought you might want it back."

Wanting to evacuate as fast as you can, you lay the t-shirt on the dresser by the door and turn around to leave the room. Juice hesitantly whispers your name as you brush past him but you can only muster a quiet apology.

Jax, suddenly realising the consequences of yesterday's impulsiveness, hastily puts on a pair of pants. He keeps yelling your name, begging you to stop and let him talk to you properly but you don't give in. Running out of the dorm room, he's stopped by Juice, who grabs his arm.

"I think you've done enough, man," Ortiz states in an angered tone.

For a moment, the two of them stare each other down in silence. The tension feels like a forest fire - one moment of carelessness might lead to a true disaster.

Both men are aware of the other's affections. It is only now that they admit this knowledge.

"You need to back off," Jax whispers. Juice is disillusioned that the Vice President would have no inhibitions in caving his face in.

But lovers oh-so-frequently tend to grow just a little unwise the more they love. Perhaps that has made all the difference on that dreadful morning.

"No," Juice says while shaking his head, "I think I should go after the crying girl who just saw her boyfriend naked in a bed with someone else."

"That's not your concern."

Looking over the blond's shoulder, Juice catches Ima's malicious amusement. She knew exactly what she was doing and not for a moment did she feel bad about it. When he looks at Jax again, his dark eyes carry more contempt than anger. "Apparently, she's not your concern either."

Before the young Teller can continue their argument, Ortiz is running down the hallway. Bobby, Chibs and Tig ask him something but he only gives them a disinterested 'later' and continues his search for you.

Despite the perfect view of the parking lot from the rooftop, you didn't notice Juice approaching you. Only when you heard the rattling of the ladder did a wave of shame flood your mind. You didn't want anyone seeing you like this, especially people of formidable grit. Some part of you dreaded being considered weak. If you were just a little more honest with yourself, maybe you'd realise that what you were truly afraid of, was the outside confirmation of what you'd already believed about yourself - too weak, too emotional to ever fit in this life.

The shame, however, seems to evaporate the moment you see Juice's apologetic expression. He always had a strange air about him, an aura you couldn't quite explain. Something about the man makes you think that you could tell him the most asinine or embarrassing thing and he would never think less of you.

With a hesitant, quiet 'hey', Juice sits down next to you. Despite his own desires, he leaves a gap between the two of you. His eyes keep switching between looking at his fiddling hands or the side of your face as though he's unsure what's the correct course of action.

"I'm stupid, aren't I?" you finally speak up. Turning your head to look at Juice, you notice a sudden change in his expression - for some reason, he looks like he's about to burst into tears, too. "Believing that he would settle for me?"

There's so much he wants to say. An entire monologue is prickling at his tongue. You'd be the one settling for him, not the other way around. Never. But Juice manages to keep those thoughts to himself for now as they are not what you need to hear at this moment. Maybe, just maybe, one day he'll get to show you that whoever you decide to marry, no matter how noble or rich, you will be the one settling for them.

"There's only one stupid person in this situation and it's not you," he says in a serious yet gentle tone. "Okay, maybe three stupid people."

Despite his resolve, Juice is only a man and he, too, must break at some point. His hand fearfully reaches for your cheek. When you don't pull away, he hesitantly wipes away a tear rolling down your face.

"Three?" you ask in a quiet voice.

"Jax is one, for obvious reasons." With the back of his hand, Juice wipes away the other side of your face. "Ima is two. And the third... is me."

Confused, you furrow your eyebrows. "You? You're not stupid, Juice. Why would you say that?"

"I'm the king of stupid, actually." He lets out an airy, bitter chuckle. Suddenly feeling small, he retracts his arm. "I just tried to cover for my dick friend, so the girl I'm in love with doesn't get her heart broken. Extra stupid points for running after her like a lost puppy that just wants to make her happy."

"That sounds more lovely than stupid," you manage to whisper before another wave of emotions wreaks havoc. Tears stream down your face again but this time it's not only the bad feelings - there's something nice among them, too. A sense of relief and belonging; an overwhelming realisation that you're loved as a person and not only as a woman.

He doesn't complain or lecture you. Neither does he attempt empty words of comfort and encouragement. Juice doesn't know what he should say, so he settles for silence. However, his quietness speaks volumes. With a soft expression on his face, he keeps wiping your tears away.

"What do I do now, Juice?"

"Whatever you want," he answers with a strange lightness to his voice. It appears that his response is not something carefully woven but rather a cliché.

You sniffle loudly and although there's nothing attractive about that, it's candid. In Juice's eyes, it only makes you more beautiful. "Right now, I don't know if that list is very short or ridiculously long."

A corner of his mouth rises in a nostalgic smile. He seems to be recalling a memory.

"Remember that one time when you couldn't sleep and found me working at the clubhouse?" Juice asks. You only nod, unsure why he would suddenly remind you of that. "Remember what you told me when I talked about all the things I still needed to get done?"

"It's only three things," you repeat under your breath. Truthfully, you have almost forgotten entirely about that conversation. Juice had been going on about all the complicated steps that had to be done before calling it a day but, in the end, it was only three things. Granted, three time-consuming, challenging things but only three nonetheless. You never thought your comment meant so much to him.

"Exactly," he says as though he had just given you the perfect recipe for anything and everything. "I'm suggesting, you do two things now. First of all, get over the guy that couldn't appreciate you."

"Sounds smart but I'm not sure I know how to do that," you admit with a nervous chuckle. Jax Teller has been a tornado to your soul: came suddenly, wreaked havoc and simply moved on. There is no one to clean the mess, no one to put the pieces back together except those that survived. And you're still at the stage of debating whether you have, actually, survived Jax Teller.

"I guess the first step is not going back to him."

As simple as it sounds, the solution might just be one of the hardest things you've ever done. Nothing good comes easy, as they say. If it's true, you're going to reach for something truly incredible with this resolution.

"And the second thing I should do?" you ask. Deep inside, you're paying he's about to suggest something silly or relaxing.

Suddenly, Juice turns shy. This biker guy with tattoos and a loaded gun is fiddling with his hands and stubbornly avoiding your gaze. Despite his appearance, you think he's adorable.

"Well, uh..." He clears his throat in a vain attempt to get rid of his shakey tone. "If you want, no pressure of course but if you find it in yourself, then maybe you could at least think about grabbing dinner with me?" Whatever your expression looks like, it must make him even more nervous as Juice immediately begins downplaying his question. "Like I said, no pressure. I know it's bad timing all things considered, so it's cool if you don't want to, it's okay-"

"I'd love to," you interrupt him.

For a moment, he silently stares at you like a deer caught in headlights. "Cool. That's, um... nice."

You see him ever so slightly cringe at his awkward response but you don't think him weird. No, the nervousness makes you all the more convinced you want to go out with him - the anxiety proves that he cares more than he's brave enough to admit.

"Can we add a third thing?" you ask hesitantly.

Juice smiles at you as if today is the best day of his life; the kind of smile that slowly mends broken hearts. "What's on your mind?"

"Say, just hypothetically, how annoying would it be if Ima's car had slashed tires?"

He nods slowly, a shadow of mischief dancing across his handsome features. "Really annoying."

"And if she had to pay for new ones and there'd be a bullshit charge on the receipt like premium air or something?"

The man laughs. How can a sound leave you breathless?

"She would have a really fucking shitty day," he answers.

"Just hypothetically, I'd be satisfied."

"I think I know a guy. Just hypothetically."

Silence falls between you again. It's not tense. No, it's quite the opposite - the silence of two people who can just be. Now that happiness or at least a lack of sadness has entered your face, Juice is staring at you with an expression you can't describe beyond soft. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was not looking at you but at a rare, priceless treasure he has spent his whole life searching for. But you do know better; you know that, perhaps, people can be priceless, too.

A dark thought suddenly clouds your mind: Jax used to look at you the same way. Not always, not for long but he did. And yet, as he has proven, it meant nothing for him.

You push those thoughts away with all the almost-depleted strength you have left. It's no use crying and ruminating about the past when you have your future sitting right next to you. A bright, terribly good-looking future, one might even say.

"Can you just hold me?" you ask him quietly. The heartbreak of Jax's choice and the elation of Juice's confession have left you tired and vulnerable beyond all imagination. Such opposite emotions are ripping you open in conflicting directions. It's like dying and being reborn all at the same time.

"As long as you need, baby."

Juice wastes no time happily fulfilling your request. He brings your legs over and across his own, nudging you even closer towards him. Gently, he pulls your head to rest in the crook of his neck. As strange as it may sound, the man feels like a fortress protecting you from past and future heartbreaks.

[ninmnoi]

— Stop, you’re losing me.

mingyu x reader || angst.

summary ; trying to save an already failing relationship is a lot harder when he forgets your birthday.

(not proof read lol)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Its your birthday, you’ve never made a big deal about it tell you met him. You still remember his shocked face and loud “WHAT” when you told him you dont found your birthday a big deal, its just another day. Ever since then, he always celebrated your birthday in fun surprises and dinners. He made it so important and meaningful for you, and the big part of that is because you know he’ll be there.

So your nothing short of despair when its past 5pm and he hasnt once messaged you. It’d be another thing if he just didnt message happy birthday, you wouldve been okay with goodmoring.

You sigh putting your phone down, bitting your lip as your eyes water. It shouldnt be this serious, you’ve never even cared about your birthday before, so why dose it hurt so bad now?

Mingyu

That god damn Mingyu.

He used to be such a soft spoken soul, aiding to your needs as you do with him, those first few years of your relationship. He confessed to you in your own backward, he put his effort and time into it. You can even smell the flowers that lead to Mingyu, see the lights that brightened his soft smile, that swift hair and tall figure standing nervously fiddling with the bouquet in his hands. And who could forget the blush that tainted his face and ears, tears threatening to jump out after you said “yes.”

Now, your even lucky if he stays with you a whole day. Its always this or that driving him away. When he left your sisters engagement dinner because a friend of his needed help moving in, or when he canceled a date because he forgot a “really super duper important project” as he said. The nights he wouldnt call, the empty king bed. The second toothbrush that hasnt been moved in 2 weeks.

It drove you insane, but you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“Maybe he’s busy”

“Hes probably sleeping”

“God his phone must’ve died”

Your friends would yell at you over text, spamming you with the reality check you needed, but never could deposit. After pacing around the kitchen trying to ignore the cute cake you bought with a sad candle slowly sinking into it. You pick up your phone and call him.

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

*click!*

Did he just hang up on you..?

No, he would have to be crazy.

You call again.

Same fucking thing, even quicker just 2 rings in.

You open his contact info, trying to see where his location would put him.

“No Location Found.” You curse, what is he hiding? Your mind leads to the one scenario you’ve been dreading, infidelity. The thought of him cheating makes you wanna throw up, but sadly its a most common event. You’re just so done with everything, putting the cake away into the fridge and changing clothes. Its now 6:42pm and with the major headache you have, you simply decided to sleep it off. Hugging the build-a-bear Mingyu bought you a year back, it muffles your sobs, soaking in the tears.

It’s cold and dark when your awaken by an extra weight adjusting it’s self onto the right side of the bed. You recognize it all to well. Mingyu pulls the covers over himself, giving you a small peck on the tip of your ear.

“You’re home” you say, your drowsy and hurt voice clear.

“Yeah- im sorry im so late” he whispers to you

“There's cake in the fridge”

“Cake? For what”

You sigh, “My birthday”

You can hear his breathe hitch.

“Fuck- Baby im so sorry. I didnt mean to forget. I was just so bus-.”

You sit up.

“Busy,? from what? So busy you couldnt even text? Because clearly it wouldnt have taken as much time as hanging up on me and turning off your location did. So if ‘busy’ is some new slang for ignoring then that makes way more sense.”

“I didnt even know you called, i swear. My location should be on babe.. I” He mumbles on

“Then whos hanging up on me? Making sure i dont know where your at? Is she fun?”

Mingyu’s eyes widen

“What are you talking about?”

“Her, you know.. Is she attractive? What is it huh? Skinner than me? Or maybe blonder? Or is because you dont need to be responsible for her?

“Baby no, its none of that.” He grabs your shoulders.

“I love you, calm down”

“How can i?” You exclaim, jumping off the bed.

“You missed my birthday! I waited for you like some stupid dog! I felt so stupid.”

“I dont understand, birthdays were never that big of a deal for you”

“They werent until you made it a problem! Now look at me” you say, the tear stained face and puffy cheeks evident.

Mingyu gets up, walking over to you.

“I know ive been distant, let me make it up to you”

“Where were you tonight?”

He stays quiet for a moment, taking a deep breathe

“My friend he uh… invited me to a club” he quietly says.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Okay..?”

“Mingyu, get out”

“What?” His heart drops.

“Get out! Did the club music deafen you?? I want you gone” You yell, tears streaming down your face as you push him out. Though you have little to no affect of moving his body, it makes it all the more depressing.

“Okay…Okay..” He quietly says, grabbing his phone off the dresser. Looking down at you with remorseful eyes. His heart aching at the messed up state your in. And its because of him, god.

You slam the door behind him, locking it. You sigh before faintly walking back to your bed.

And theres your build-a-bear, ready to be hugged and to soak all your tears again.

Atleast, that comforts you.

[fleetingcalypso]

Hello! I just stumbled across your blog, and find the way you write and portray Henry in your stories absolutely captivating. I just finished reading the book for the first time ever today and managed to do so without seeing any spoilers beforehand, so safe to say that Henry's suicide blindsided me completely. In hindsight it made complete sense, but I'm still in denial about it and would love a story about him actually surviving his wounds. Henry gives me the vibe of hiding everything that was happening from anyone but those in the Greek class alongside him, which, in my opinion, would even extend to his partner as well. I think it would be really interesting if his partner comes to visit him in the hospital after he's just woken up (ignoring the logical fact that he'd probably be heavily brain damaged) and is just absolutely devastated because she/they thought he was genuinely taking his life because he was depressed. To me, even then I don't see Henry fessing up to what's actually been happening, and I think it'd be cool to see the way he would try and talk his way out of it. (Henry seems pretty closed off emotionally, but I'd love some genuine hurt/comfort, only if this idea intrigues you of course.) thank you! (:

≋ The dread of losing a loved one, the knowledge that someone's time could have come faster than expected, the paranoid of could have happened had help on arrived on time, the fear of the future holds. These feelings are not foreign to me. At any rate, everyone sails away from Ogygia one day or another, I am accustomed to it. For anyone else, I want to emphasize that themes of this narration are quite heavy, if need be please don't be afraid to reach out to me for help or simple communication. You're not alone and you are deeply loved. Going back to Henry, I am of the opinion he'd try to manipulate his way out of a truly meaningful conversation. He's quite the orator, after all.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 2190 words.

≋ TW: Attempted s*icide, angst, manipulation, reader feels an exorbitant amount of guilt, somewhat hurt/comfort.

≋ CW: As the themes are quite heavy and Henry is a pragmatic, stoic character, I feel like there could not be much comfort in a scenario like this. He'd be too busy trying to find another way to get out of the mess he's in, to take the time to comfort his loved one. I beg your forgiveness for not including most of the genuine comfort you were searching for, but if you were to enjoy this nonetheless, I'd be thrilled.

On my way to Henry’s hospital room, sprinting through the haunting sterile hallways I ran into Camilla Macaulay, a girl -the only one- in his class, she was just here to bring him some flowers she’d tell me before her body began trembling trying to hold back sobs and I was left to watch her scurry away, I could not get a word in to ask her anything at all, if he was awake, if he was alright, why he did it, why they all waited days before telling me he had tried to end his life. The intensity of the drum beating in my chest could barely compare against the headache I brought upon myself, drowning in my own salty tears. 

I nearly went into cardiac arrest when I spotted him, the only thing reassuring me that he still had a pulse was the rhythmic movement of his chest, rising with each breath he took accompanied by the beeping of a heart monitor I can’t bring myself to glimpse at. “I can feel you staring.” He said, his croaky voice already tugging at my heartstring. I can’t look away even if I wanted to: it’s a sight I never thought I’d see, as abominable as it is I fear that if I avert my gaze then the puzzle pieces might never fall into place and I might never know the motive of his extreme action. 

Does he hate me? I can’t help but wonder if during what could have been his last breaths he thought of me, if maybe he wished I was there to stop him and remind him of how loved he is. The image of him searching for my body next to his as he collapses lifeless makes me shudder. I come to the conclusion that I failed in everything when it comes to Henry. Not being able to read between the lines, I barely scratched the surface of him while I thought I was in deep waters. 

He was content in life, I think. Yes, in one moment where exhaustion took ahold of him and he was more asleep than awake, in the comforting hiding place under my blankets he confessed to me that he had a lot on his mind. I never could have imagined it would lead to this: two gunshots to the temple, according to what Richard -another one of his classmates- told me over the phone, the second being triggered by the gun’s recoil.

I wasn’t there, I thought at that moment, Henry had taken a gun to his head and I wasn’t there. Henry had tried to kill himself and I wasn’t there. He could have been lying in a pool of his hot blood, flowing out on the ground and expanding like a stain on a white shirt, and I wasn’t there to hold him in his possible final moments. He could have died and I would have found out thanks to a desolate phone call from a stuttering man I didn’t know that well, or maybe even from a serious police officer just doing his job. Nonetheless, Henry’s finger had pressed the trigger in front of a handful of people and I wasn’t anywhere near him.

Cement bricks become chained to my ankles, getting heavier and heavier with each hesitant step I take towards him. I would have flown to him if I could have, crashed at the side of his bed, thrown my arms around his neck in ecstatic joy for his survival, kissed him a thousand times for each second I spent unaware of his whereabouts or his feelings.

“How do you feel?” I foolishly ask, being rewarded with his eyes cracking open and settling on my figure which I know will look indistinct and blurry to him given the absence of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “Dead,” he answers me. To think the fierce storm he held in his irises was something that could very well have been a sight no one in the world could have appreciated in full. 

The mattress shifted and dipped under my weight when I sat at the edge of his bed, the chair at his side remaining empty. I wanted to feel him, touch him, try to be as close as possible and a sad little chair putting even the smallest of distances between us was the last thing I desired. Reaching towards the night table I found his glasses with ease, the only other things sitting on the surface were a pack of unopened Lucky Strike cigarettes, his wallet and the fragrant bouquet of flowers his friend had brought. I cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief and then tried my best to not look at the seemingly infinite bandages wrapping his head as I set the glasses on his face.

He blinks once, twice, thrice before he finally sees me as I am, without a hazy cloud over my face.

“Well, you’re not,” I inform him, swallowing the ‘what-if’ stuck in the middle of my throat, “By a miracle, I heard a nurse say. A miracle saved you Henry, do you hear how lucky that sounds?”

“I hear you.” He exhales, a sinkhole forms in me when I catch that small tone of disappointment hidden layer after layer under his voice, “Lucky indeed.” It’s dreadful how he keeps his gaze low, set in my direction but never quite reaching my eyes. It’s even more embarrassing to admit I do not understand him, I haven’t been able to do so since the very beginning.

That is to say, me not understanding him, does not mean I do not love him. He’d been the best lover a human being could ever ask for, there were no fights, no arguments, no disagreements, just pure unapologetic passion. Only once did we not see eye to eye and even then it was soon enough resolved over a glass of whiskey and a couple cigarettes: when he travelled to Rome with his friend Bunny without so much as a “I’ll be back soon,”  leaving me worried to no end as to where he might be.

“Talk to me, Henry. What happened?” I knew what happened of course, he’d shot himself in the head, but what I craved wasn’t a rundown of events, a bullet point list of the movements he made to get two bullets in his cranium. No. I desperately needed some way to understand what led him to attempting to do such a drastic thing. Were there signs I missed? Was I not loving enough? What hurt him so much? Was he truly that miserable in life, and if so, how had he hid it so well?

“Don’t cry,” he said, lifting the one arm that did not have the tube connecting him to the IV drip, his finger made contact with the corner of my eye and only then did I realise the salty diamonds rolling down my cheeks. I did not want to cry in front of him, not if it would add onto his miseries. As if I was kneeling in a confessional I have to come clean, I did not think I had any more tears left in me after having cried myself to sleep the night prior. Guilty of not appreciating the beauty of Selene as she brightened the darkened world, guilty of living only for the hospital doors to open and seeing him again.

“I have to ask, you know I have to.” Now that I was aware of the tears, nothing could have stopped the stinging feeling that seemed to spread from my eyes to every inch of my being, “Why did you do it?” There was no sugarcoating it, he’s never been one to beat around the bush and he often would not appreciate me going around in circles trying to find the nicest way to say or ask something. 

His jaw clenched and I watched hopelessly as Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His lips parted but no sound that made proper sense came out. In my head I had already formed some hypotheses, none of them struck me as much as what he said. “I had to.” He apathetically said and I vaguely registered the sharp pain in my palm as my nails digging into my skin to stop my body from doubling-over and breaking into a gut wrenching sob.

“I-” Never has my mind been blank like this moment, it made so much sense and none at the same time,“I- Just- Why? Give me a reason- a concrete reason, Henry.” I all but begged him, sniffling like a whimpering child. That was exactly how I felt, like a child: small, lost and with no way to do something that could actually make a difference. 

Through my glossy vision I observed as he stiffened in pain while he shifted in his bed trying to sit up, the bedsheets moving along with his every movement made me nauseous. They weren’t supposed to be hospital ones, he wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, this should have never happened. Alas, it has happened and he is not sitting in the armchair he claimed as his own in my apartment, reading a book and letting the cloud of smoke from his cigarette expand until my entire house looks like a misty field.

Ignored and useless was my attempt to stop him, to get him to lay down and not do anything straining, “Come here,” Instead he requested, hinting towards the spot he’d left on the bed, right next to him. Sheepishly I shuffled to his side, my back against the bed’s headboard, hoping and praying that no nurses would spot us and ask me to move away. His arm found its way around my shoulders, pulling me into a protective side hug and I shattered in small, countless, infinite pieces: a pathetic catharsis. Broken sobs, gasps and hiccups filled the room yet i could hear him over the sound of my desperation, “Don’t cry,” he’d say softly in my ear, “There’s no need to cry,” he’d insist kissing my temple, “Everything is going to be fine.” He’d promise me solemnly, with his enchanting way of making me feel like his words were gospel.

My heaving breaths did everything they could to send oxygen into my lungs, but air was not what I needed. Henry was my air, and the idea that I could have lost him for eternity plagued me, it made me look over my shoulder each moment expecting to see the grim reaper. The panic I felt gave me the strength to cling onto my lover as if he was my only lifeline, as if my love filled embrace could be the only thing able to bind him to the mortal realm. I know that could never be, sadly. Love, as much as it is a primordial force in the world, rivalling hate and rage, oftentimes can’t be the holy saviour we need.

“Why?” I found myself once again begging, I could not accept his previous answer, I pitifully needed something concrete, something I could fix. Before I could break into sobs again he leaned even closer, his lips moving against my hairline, his voice barely audible - like he was telling me a secret- only for me to hear, “I have been through some dark moments of my life, ones that I have never mentioned to you, not because I do not love you, the very opposite of it. I love you, my love for you is as incandescent as the sun, you know it, certainly. I did not want you to be concerned with those parts of me, hidden pieces that I rarely even let myself recognize as part of myself. Your pure hands should never be dirtied with the corruption that runs free inside of me. Cease your tears now, it is okay.” 

“So instead of letting me help you, you decided to just shoot yourself?!” It might have been harsh, but I felt at an impasse, raising my voice was my undignified way of getting ahold of control over life, “Are you listening to yourself? What about me? What would I have done without you? I’d do anything for you, isn’t it obvious?! I don’t care what you’re hiding, I don’t care how corrupt you think you are, I love you and I want to assist you through the darkest times of your life.”

He seemed to think about it, perhaps my words had made an impact on him or perhaps he was just tired of arguing with me. When he kissed me, slow and delicate, that was enough for me to postpone the debate I was already preparing in my head. I'd talk his ear off about letting me be a hand in easing his burdens when he would be well enough to be discharged and go home. “I want you to live forever,” Henry all but implored me and I just nodded. Whatever in the world could I say other than yes, but on one condition: he was to live alongside me.

[alleycatchitchat]

Kung Fu Panda 4 Initial Reactions

Just got back from the theater! Here are my thoughts. I'll try to be vague about the plot, but be warned: spoilers below.

---

So I went into the theater with rock-bottom spirits. I had seen the cringeworthy previews, read the disheartening reviews, connected the unsatisfactory dots and concluded that the movie I was about to see would be a nasty dumpster fire of a train wreck. And yet kfp played such a big role in my childhood that I couldn't just stay away. Filled with dread and morbid curiosity, I braced myself for the worst.

And it wasn't that bad.

Don't get me wrong; this movie made some decisions that I HUGELY disagree with. And compared to the other kfp movies, it's undeniably lousy. But it didn't ruin the franchise for me and I actually enjoyed myself in the theater.

Listing off my thoughts in no particular order:

Zhen. She is, to my surprise, a lot less irritating that I expected. The trailers don't do her justice and Awkwafina's voice was a whole lot less jarring than I expected. In terms of actual personality and even backstory, I liked her! However. Let's be honest, her design is shit. She looks like someone's Zootopia self-insert. She feels totally out of place in this movie -- particularly, during the end credits when she's side-by-side with the five (who all have the most beautiful stylized designs). Also, plotwise, WHAT is she doing in this film? Spoiler alert: she becomes the new dragon warrior. Spoiler alert again: yes, this is every bit as random and undeserved as you can imagine.

Furious Five: Were not in the movie. First of all, fuck you dreamworks, how dare you withold my children? My darlings? The loves of my life? Their absence is keenly felt and the plot is emptier without them, and I mean that with complete sincerity. I’m also going to point out the obvious; if there has to be a new Dragon Warrior, and I’m not saying that’s a good plot idea, but if there has to be, it should be Tigress. It makes the most sense thematically and the possibilities are just so good – developing her relationship with Po as he provides guidance, facing her feelings of inadequacy, exploring her connections with Shifu and the rest of the five — I could go on and on. The wasted potential is breathtaking. To be honest, it kinda feels like Zhen was written to replace her(using a hug to de-escalate a fight with Po, anyone?). Fanfic writers, I need a rewrite of this movie with Tigress, stat.

TAI LUNG! He was obviously played for nostalgia and there was no concrete point to his lines or presence. He was also written, if you ask me, pretty out of character. I’m still fuming over the fact that they brought him back and we don’t get to see Shifu’s reaction at all. Again, the wasted potential is breathtaking. When compared with Kai and Shen, who have NO speaking lines, it’s obvious that dreamworks just didn’t want to pay for extra actors. I thought that his acceptance of Po as the Dragon Warrior at the end was super cool, but there was NO lead up, NO meaningful character development to make this feel sincere, and again, it would have hit much harder if Tigress or Shifu were also there or if Po was NOT giving up the title. That being said, I never thought he would appear in a movie again, and I’m happy to have any crumbs I can get. They did a bad job, yes, but they BROUGHT HIM BACK. 

Po’s dads! Their side story was goofy and unnecessary but fun, and I enjoyed it. Also maybe it’s just me but the romantic tension between them is AMPED UP – does Li, like, live at the restaurant now? And they spend the movie acting like the most married couple ever. And when Li bursts into the tavern to rescue Mr. Ping, who looks at him with those starstruck eyes – well. I’m just saying. I think there’s something going on there.

I liked the Chameleon! Yeah, her whole gimmick is a little bit ripped off from Kai, but she’s sinister and greedy and badass, so she’s the real deal. I actually thought she was scarier than previous villains – there was less comic relief, maybe? I can only think of one instance where she’s presented in a comedic light, and even then, the tension just picked right up from where it left off. Which is strange, because the rest of the movie is a lot more lighthearted than previous films.

The pacing was weird. Too fast.

Shifu was cute in this movie. More Shifu please!

The reaction to Tai Lung’s return was WEIRD. It’s obvious Dreamworks didn’t want to dedicate time or effort to what was, essentially, a red herring. But. Plot-wise, it’s SO WEIRD that Po would try to face him with no backup. And the fact that we didn’t get to see Shifu’s reaction AT ALL, ugh. Realistically speaking I think Shifu would try to go face Tai Lung, no matter how “inner peace”-y he is now. Like come on, Tai Lung was his son, for crying out loud! 

The goats at the start? Also weird designs. Feel out of place.

Mantis got married! What the heck? (neutral about this, but it was definitely unexpected.)

In general, the plot was weird. It didn’t feel meaningful and it didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the kfp universe. Storytelling decisions were just plain bad. But as a standalone movie, it was not… terrible. Not irredeemable. I think, if Tigress had taken Zhen’s place, this could have actually worked. But she didn’t, and it didn’t.

So I’m going to headcanon it as fake and just stick to loving the first 3 movies. I don’t regret watching it, but there were huge problems that prevented me from enjoying it to its full potential.

[saintmurd0ck]

our loss

masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x reader

summary: matt doesn't really know what to think, now that you're not his anymore

warnings: breakup, established relationship, sadness and grief, crying, feelings of numbness

a/n: i'm going through something. please bear with me.

Matt doesn't know what to say. How to respond. Or how to communicate his feelings; words, thoughts, desires and damnation all left unspoken.

He replays your voicemail more times than he can be bothered to count, because for the moment, it feels like that's all he has left. He knows it isn't entirely true, because you're still here — living, breathing, in the apartment two blocks down and to the left he's become so familiar with — but you're not his. Not anymore.

He knows your routine intimately, being that it's a Thursday night. Usually, you're out at dinner with one of your hometown friends, ordering the same thing every time, adorned with your favourite red lipstick that you'd leave on the sides of his neck. It scares him that he doesn't quite know what you're doing now. He could always take his cane and meander towards the city, taking a route he's committed to memory, letting his brain wander but his feet carry him subconsciously to his destination. Then, he could simply listen. Drown out the wails of the city, the hopes and dreams that manifest and shatter in the same minute. 

He could focus on you, and the salt distilling in the air, your body-wracking sobs, or the kind of silent cry that has your mouth open in an unending, soundless scream. Maybe you've buried your face in the pillow — his pillow — clutching one of his shirts and wishing, begging, somehow, for the pain to stop.

But he won't do that.

It'd be too tempting to make his way up; hell, to scale the side of the building, just so he could hold you and remind you that you're safe, that you're loved, and that you'd have a man who'd raze the whole world at your command, Catholic values be damned. 

Matt contemplates all of this for a second, having resigned himself to his sofa, his head propped uncomfortably against the armrest and his plaid blanket draped haphazardly over his torso. He blinks slowly, feeling the tension building in his temples and jaw, letting his hands curl and unfurl not into fists, but muscle memories of tenderness. It's like his hands know what they're missing, instinctively moving into the same positions he'd take up when holding your waist, when caressing your face. 

He murmurs a sound, what he thinks is a butchery of your name, laying there unceremoniously as his heart squeezes over and over again, as dread and loss and grief twist in his stomach. 

Why does it feel like every time something good happens to him, it just as quickly is taken away? He knows what you'd say — that this is untrue, that it isn't his fault, and he shouldn't beat himself up for things out of his control. But it's hard not to default to his programming in times like these. He tries to move past, to edge his thoughts along, perhaps not for himself yet, but for you.

He shuffles downwards, allowing his head to fall flat on the seat and his feet to hang off the edge of the couch. He thinks that his shivering could be attributed to the cold, or simply the fact that he doesn't really know what to do next. He's bristling, his own body unsure of whether to send blood to his muscles or his brain.

All his relationships, or the meaningful ones, at least, have crashed and burned in the sense that they failed and he moved on. It's always been simple: never hang onto one person for too long, because you're too important, you've got too much at stake to hold onto dead feelings. 

You're different. 

You're the ray of sunshine in his otherwise bleak life of justice and bloodstained glory, the grounding tether to the tangible world. Goodness was wrought from your warmth and love. 

He grits his teeth, shoving down the pangs of nostalgia: of nights spent in his bed, of the softness of your lips on his skin, of the unadulterated joy you'd unearthed.

A breakup won't change the fact that you still make him whole. It won't change much, truth be told. It's the little things, however, that have begun to fall away, like the fact that he might not be privy anymore to your innermost thoughts, that you're beginning to plan your future without him in mind.

He thinks back to an analogy he once heard: one about a well-loved plate, one that's been dropped and pieced together time and time again. The plate is still round, still held together by glue that has stood the test of knives and forks, of microwaves and dishwashers, of constant use. 

Except now, there are chips around the rim, sometimes appearing a few at a time, others days or weeks apart. They won't damage the structural integrity of the plate, and they shouldn't be used as an excuse to throw it away, but they mar its surface. Each chip is a loss in its own right, however insignificant or large. They can be repaired over time, but for now, they exist. 

As wounding as they are, Matt needs to allow them to exist in order to move on, because dwelling on them, wanting to throw the whole dish away without recognising its beauty or resilience would be a waste. At least he thinks it's the right answer.

He reaches for his phone on the coffee table. As much as Matt finds the notion of seeking help difficult, and often irritating, the hollowness in his chest demands to be shared, to be discussed and picked at until he can't bother to dissect it anymore. He aims to call Karen because he's positive she out of all people would know just what to do, but he hits play on your voicemail again.

You're crying. 

"Matt," you start, bursting into sobs at the mere utterance of his name. "I just... I don't even know if I want to leave you this message. I don't know what to say to you, only that I needed to say something to you." There's a shaky pause, a jagged breath, and your voice trickles to a whisper. "I loved you, Matt. I love you. I would've done anything for you. I would've gone anywhere you asked. And I don't know how to look at you without wanting more, without craving what has been and what could've been. Maybe someday it'll be different, and we can start fresh," — you hiccup, and Matt reels inwards, his lip quivering at the sheer agony in your words — "but we need time to figure that out." You sigh, plaintively.

And as he listens to your next sentence, he mouths the words in sync with you. They taste foreign, they're a sore in his mouth, but it's a kernel of light nevertheless. It's a drop of gold swirling in the inky mess of his soul.

"We'll find our way back to each other."

He whispers the next words out loud, doing his best not to talk over the voicemail version of you. "I know we will."

[minnie--verse]

Pen Pals — A Park Sunghoon Fic

!!PART 1!!

Summary: you, Ren, are a college student, taking what you would be a normal composition class—until you’re assigned a penpal with the professors’s later class. What happens when you fall for someone you know.. but don’t know.

pairing: Sunghoon x f!reader(Ren)

genre: strangers to lovers, non idol au, crack, mostly fluff, later chapters to include: possible angst/comfort, slow burn.

general warnings: College student!mc, slow burn, love square(between two ppl), swearing, possible adult content in future chapters.

word count: ~3.4k

chapter content: mentions of food, first meets, college lectures, and a silly bff:)

author's note: i reaaaallly suck about posting huh… oh well ig. I’m gonna be real quick about uploading this one while I have the mindset for it…

Please enjoy this little corner of my mind<3

!!this is NOT proof read!!

thx for reading!

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The tiny desk attached to your squeaky seat was pissing you off, the bright, fluorescent lights humming only amplifying the annoyance wracking in your mind. The clock on the wall ticks slowly, reminding you that it’s only 8:05 AM. The professor’s voice drones on about the thesis statements, but your mind is foggy, still walking up from the late night before. Your eyes feel heavy, and you can’t help but wonder why you signed up for an 8:00 AM class in the first place.

Ren, you tell yourself, this is necessary. You know you need to have some sort of English class to graduate, but right now the idea of analyzing other student’s essays feels like an impossible task. You glance around the room, noticing the other students, some furiously taking notes, others looking just as tired as you are. The professor, oblivious to the collective lack of enthusiasm, scribbles something on a whiteboard.

“...and that’s why I thought it would be interesting for us to connect with another group,” the professor says, his voice pulling you back into the present. You blink, trying to focus as he continues. “This semester, you will be writing to someone anonymously in my other composition class. Each penpal would be random, and will take up 25% of your final grade for exchanging letters throughout the semester.”

Great. Just what you needed. Another thing to add to your already overflowing list of homework assignments and to-dos. You can't help but frown, a sense of dread washing over you. The idea of writing to a stranger, even anonymously, feels like an unnecessary burden. Why can this be an optional assignment? Or better yet, why can't you just… sleep through this part?

”Remember,” the professor’s voice cuts through your thoughts, “this is a chance to really connect with someone. Think of it as an opportunity to engage in meaningful dialogue with someone you may not have chosen to speak to normally.”

Meaningful dialogue… sounds like something you’re not going to get from this. Instead, you imagine a semester of cringing every time you have to sit down and write a letter, trying to think of something—anything—worth saying to someone you don't even know.

The professor continues explaining the details, but you’ve already tuned out. You’re thinking about how you’re going to manage to write these letters on top of everything else. How you’re going to have to come up with things to say to someone you don’t even know. It all feels like too much. You sigh softly, leaning back in your chair, and stare at the blank notebook in front of you, wishing you were anywhere else but here.

”To get you started,” The professor says with a smile that you find entirely too cheerful for a Monday morning, “I’ve prepared a prompt for your first letter. It’s a suggestion to help break the ice, so don’t feel like you have to follow it exactly. But it might give you a good starting point.”

The screen at the front of the lecture hall illuminates and it reads.

“Write about a time that recently made you feel alive, a small moment in time, or something more significant--just be honest. It will help break the ice.”

You let out a quiet sigh. It’s not the worst prompt ever, but it still feels like a forced effort to bond over something personal with someone who’s just as much a stranger as the person sitting next to you on the campus bus.

You sit there, staring at a blank piece of paper in front of you. Around you, the other students were starting to write, some scribbling furiously, and some, like you, were hesitating. The professor has settled into his desk, giving everyone time to get started on their first letter.

You change around, half-hoping that the right words would just come to you if you sit there long enough. But the longer you wait, the more you feel like you’re just stalling. With a small sigh, you pick up your pen and start writing. Trying not to think too hard about it.

Dear You,

I’m not sure how to begin this, but I guess I’ll start with the prompt we were given. Something that made me feel truly alive recently… Honestly, nothing truly jumps out of me, but I guess there was one moment a few weeks ago.

I was walking through the park near campus, and it was one of those perfect days where the weather is just right--warm sun, cool breeze, you know? I found this spot under the tree on the east side of the park near the water fountain and sat down with a book, planning to read for a while. But instead of diving into the story, I just… sat there. I let the sun spots through the leaves soak into my skin, watched the trees rustle, and for a few minutes, I didn’t think about anything at all.

It was like everything slowed down, and for the first time in a while, I felt completely present. I could hear the faint laughter of kids playing in the distance, the soft rustle of the wind through the trees and the steady rhythm of my own breathing.

It wasn't some grand epiphany or anything but in that moment, I felt alive--like really alive. I don't know how else to describe it.

Anyway, that's my something I suppose. I guess I’m curious to hear what yours is. Looking forward to hearing from you.

Talk to you later--From Sunny.

You stop writing and look down at what you’ve just put on paper. It feels kind of personal to be sharing with a stranger, but then again, maybe that was the point of the prompt. You close the letter, fold it up and write your alias on the outside of the envelope, handing it to the professor as you leave class.

When you walk out into the lecture hall, you feel a mix of relief and nervousness. The first letter is done, but now you have to wait and see what kind of person you’ll be writing to for the rest of the semester. Just don't overthink it, everything will be fine, and maybe you’ll even make a friend out of it.

As you leave the lecture hall, your mind is still lingering on the letter you just wrote. The words feel like they’ve taken something out of you, as if sharing something tha small, peaceful moment tinder the tree was more intimate than you intended. You shake your head, trying to brush it off, but the thought keeps nagging at you.

Why did you write that? You could have picked something less personal, something that wouldn’t make you feel so exposed. Now, someone out there--some random student that you’ve never met before in your life--knows this quiet little detail about your mind and memories. You sigh, trying to push the thoughts away as you head out of the building.

Your feet carry you automatically in the firstion of the park, the one you mentioned in the letter. You don't really plan on going there, but the memory of that quiet afternoon had drawn you in. You watch your feelings move over the pavement, avoiding cracks and stepping over fallen leaves, completely absorbed in your own thoughts.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad? You think. Maybe this pen pal thing will actually be a good way to connect with someone in a way that’s different from all the shallow interaction you’re used to. Or maybe you’re just kidding yourself, trying to make the best of something that’s bound to be awkward.

Lost in your musing, you don't notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. Your shoulder crashes into something solid, jolting you out of your mind. You stumble a step, startled, and look up to see who--or what--you’ve run into.

“Ah, sorry--” you start to say, but your voice falters as you look up and see who you’ve bumped into.

He’s tall, with dark hair that falls just above his eyes, and he’s looking down at you with an expression that’s somewhere between indifferent and tired. He doesn't say anything, just stares at you like he’s waiting for you to explain, but also like he doesn’t really care enough to demand one.

You freeze for a moment, unsure of what to do. The words you were about to say evaporate in your throat, leaving you with nothing but the realization that you’ve just ran face first into someone who probably isn’t thrilled about it.

“Sorry, again,” you mumble out, feeling small under his intense expression. You nod your head at him and step around him, eager to escape his awkward encounter, but his gaze keeps you rooted to the spot for a second longer.

He gives you a tight lipped smile, one corner upturning with an unreadable expression. For a split second, you think he’s going to say something, but instead he gives you an imperceptible nod and steps aside, allowing you to pass. His eyes linger on you for a moment before he continues on his way, not looking back.

You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding and quickly continue down the bath, your heart beating a little faster than before. As you walk away, you can't help but glance over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of him disappearing into the crowd.

Shaking your head, you try to refocus on your original destination, but your thoughts keep circling back to the brief encounter. Who was he? And why did it feel like he looked right through you like glass, even in that split-second exchange?

As you reach the park, the familiar sights and sounds start to calm your nerves, but the memory of the bump still lingers at the edges of your mind, intertwining with your thoughts of the letter you just wrote. You find the tree, the one you wrote about, and sit down beneath it, just as you did that day.

— — — — — — — — —— — — — — — —

The guy walks through the campus with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he weaves through the crowd. The earlier encounter with that girl still lingers in his mind, a faint annoyance prickling at the back of his thoughts. He didn’t even catch her name, but there was something about the way she looked at him—wide-eyed and apologetic—that stuck with him more than he’d care to admit.

He steps into the Composition class, his usual indifferent expression masking the mild annoyance he feels about being here. The class is a requirement, not something he chose willingly. He would rather be anywhere else, but he knows he doesn’t have much of a choice if he wants to keep up his GPA.

As the professor begins to speak, his attention drifts. He’s always found this class tedious—too much focus on sharing and connecting with people he has no interest in getting to know. He just wants to get through the semester and move on. But when the professor starts explaining the new assignment, his ears perk up, and a frown creases his forehead.

“Each of you will be assigned an anonymous pen pal from my earlier class,” the professor says, scanning the room with a smile that he finds a bit too enthusiastic. “You’ll be exchanging letters for the rest of the semester, starting with a response to a prompt that’s already been given.”

He bites back a groan. The last thing he needs is to waste time writing letters to some random stranger. He can already imagine the kind of forced, overly sincere nonsense this assignment is going to generate. But there’s no point in complaining—it’s not like he has a choice.

“Here,” the professor’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and he looks up, realizing he’s being handed an envelope. “This is your pen pal assignment. You’ll be exchanging letters with a student from my earlier class.”

He nods curtly and takes the envelope, noticing the name on it: Sunny. The ink is a soft purple ink, and the font is small, cursive, and neat—definitely a girl. He sighs inwardly, already anticipating some overly cheerful or sentimental nonsense about love making people feel alive. But, 25% of his grade is a big chunk. So he unfolds the letter and begins to read it.

The words inside aren’t exactly what he expected. There’s something honest and straightforward about the way she describes her moment in the park. It’s simple, unpretentious, and somehow resonates with him more than he cared to admit. He pauses, almost feeling what she was describing, even if he’s reluctant to acknowledge it.

He taps his pen against the desk, considering how to respond. He doesn’t want to write something superficial, but he also doesn’t want to spill his guts to a stranger. After a few moments of deliberation, he starts writing.

Dear Sunny,

Your letter caught me off guard. I honestly was expecting to read something about falling in love and whoever they were to make you feel like you were alive, but your little moment of clarity in the park reminded me of something similar.

It was late—past midnight, I think—and the city was dead, completely silent. It was like that silence when the snow had blanketed everything, kind of muffling the unusual sounds. I was walking though campus to my apartment after spending the evening at work, and took a detour through a small side street.

It was snowing pretty heavily, but even with the large snowflakes falling it felt like everything paused. The streetlights were orangey in contrast to the weather, and it was completely still. No one was out, and I guess for a second it felt like the entire city belonged to me.

I stopped walking and just stood there by the café on 6th, letting snow accumulate on my shoulders and soaking my backpack while my cheeks pricked with pain form being outside too long. It felt like I was kind of waiting for something to happen I guess but nothing came.

So I suppose what I’m saying is that understand your little blip in time. The moments where things are quiet, or seemingly amplified, and then posing some kind of clarity. Maybe I’m talking nonsense but if I read your words right then maybe the professor knew we’d understand one another.

or maybe I’m just an idiot.

We’ll see.

Talk to you soon. -- Snow.

He rereads the letter once before folding it and sealing it back in the envelope. His handwriting is a little rough, but it’s legible. He writes his chosen anonymous name on the front, feeling a slight pang of curiosity about this “Sunny” person and why they wrote what they did. He pushes the thought aside, deciding it doesn’t really matter.

As he hands the envelope to the professor at the end of class, He can’t help but wonder what he’ll get in response. But that thought is quickly buried as he leaves the classroom, his mind already moving on to the next thing on his list for the day.

— — — — — — — — —— — — — — — —

You tossed your bag onto the floor as you step inside your apartment, the comforting smell of whatever takeout your roommate ordered hitting you thes moment you walk in. Callie is already lounging on the couch, legs draped over the armrest, with her phone in hand. She glances up as you enter, eyes gently lighting up as she greets you with a smile before a small laugh escapes her.

“Beloved—how was class?” She says, noting the unenthusiastic face you’re wearing, “Judging by your face, I’d say today was interesting?”

You snort, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the couch next to her, “Interesting is definitely a way to put it. Annoying is another. My professor wants my comp class to write pen pals.”

Callie arches a brow, “Pen pals? What are we back in elementary school? Should we pass notes under the desk with glitter pen too?”

”That’s my thoughts, exactly,” You retort, grabbing a piece of bread from her takeout and munching on it without thought, “It’s a semester long assignment worth 25% of my grade. We have to write them anonymously to his other comp class. It kind of just feels like busy work and an excuse to make people come to class.”

Callie grins, rolling over to face you, “So, did you pour your heart out in some tragic ode to life’s fleeting moments? Or did you just draw your buddy a stick figure and call it a day?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands, “Neither,” you sigh, “more like I enlightened myself about how little I want to be writing anonymous letters to strangers. I wrote about that day in the park. The one where I was supposed to be reading but ended up zoning out for hours under that tree?”

You peek through your fingers to see Callie looking at you with a mixture of laughter and thoughtfulness, “Ah, the day you turned into a sun worshiping lizard… sounds absolutely riveting.” Callie laughed.

”Yeah well, reptile or not, it was peaceful.” You say, finishing the bread in your hand before settling into the couch, “Anyway—I wrote about that and I guess it wasn’t the worst think I could’ve shared. At least I was honest and stuck with the prompt we were given.”

Callie’s head tilted at her upside down smile of amusement and confusion overtook her, “If you were honest you would have admitted to the sunburn you got after falling asleep.”

You roll your eyes again, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth, “I didn’t fall asleep, I was just meditating.. with my eyes closed.”

”Sure, sure,” she says waving you off, “So you dazzled your little buddy with your deep existential musings. What else happened?”

You think back to the letter, to the way you had tried to describe that feeling of being completely in the moment. Then, your mind drifts to the encounter in the park, the way you’d bumped into that guy with the dark hair and unreadable expression. The memory makes your cheeks warm, though you’re not sure why.

“Well, I wrote the letter in class, handed it in, and then headed to the park to see if I could relive the moment I wrote about,” you say, trying to keep your tone casual. “But on my way there, I accidentally bumped into some guy. Tall, dark hair, brooding vibes—the whole package.”

Callie’s eyes light up with interest. “Brooding vibes, huh? Sounds like your type.”

You shoot her a look. “My type? Since when do I have a type?”

“Since always,” she says with a grin. “You know you’re drawn to the mysterious, emotionally unavailable types.”

You groan, half in exasperation, half in embarrassment. “He wasn’t even that interesting. He just stared at me like I was some kind of freak, and then he walked away. End of story.”

Callie laughs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Sounds like you made quite the impression. Maybe he’s secretly pining for you now, writing tragic poetry about the girl who bumped into him in the park.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, though the thought would be cute if fate truly worked like that. “He probably forgot about me the second I walked away.”

Callie shrugs, still smiling. “Or maybe he’s out there somewhere, wondering who the mysterious girl was, who bumped into him and then vanished into campus. You never know, Ren. Life’s full of surprises.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“That’s why you love me,” Callie says with a dramatic hair flip. “Now, go get changed. We’re watching that show tonight, and I’m not letting you back out of it.”

You sigh dramatically, but you can’t deny that the idea of curling up on the couch with Callie and a bad movie sounds like the perfect way to unwind. “Fine, fine. But only if you promise not to get mad when I talk through the whole thing.”

“No promises,” Callie says, grinning wickedly. “But I’ll try.”

As you head to your room to change, you can’t help but replay the day’s events in your mind—the letter, the guy in the park, and Callie’s teasing words. Life is full of surprises, she said, and maybe she’s right. Maybe this pen pal thing will turn out to be more interesting than you thought.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

ending note —

*I am so so so so excited for this one chat.*

Sorry i’m in and out of writing, sometimes the lack of prompts make it hard to keep writing. I also started school for cosmetology and I work so finding time to write is hard. I will post this one more regularly!

I love you all and think you for reading my little corner of tumblr<3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey Raven, are you going to watch the upcoming new Disney movie "Wish"?

I've seen mixed reviews, but i'm lowkey excited since we get to see a new Disney villain, especially since Disney got really lame villains after all the old classic movies!

Have you seen the trailer for the movie? What are your thoughts so far?

I saw Wish with a friend recently! I'll give my thoughts on the trailers here (in case you don't want spoilers for the film itself) and put my full thoughts beneath the cut (if you're okay with spoilers).

Looks-wise, I think Disney was definitely trying to go for something more stylistic and painting-esque for this?? And while I commend the effort, it definitely doesn't look as interesting as Puss in Boots 2: The Last Wish. The humor also definitely isn't for me, it feels very "quirky" and "so relatable" (Asha reminds me of Mirabel in that sense), and other times too juvenile (like the goat butt joke). I do like the idea of the villain passing as a good guy in-universe and actually being vain and selfish, especially since the marketing is making it clear who the bad guy is rather than making it a "twist" villain scenario. Not sure if I like Magnifico himself though??? All the ads with him in it feel like Disney is trying too hard to make people thirst for him. From just the trailers, Magnifico does seem interesting and like more of a return to the traditional "villain" rather than the protagonist having to deal with an existential dread or concept.

***Spoilers for Wish beneath the cut!***

Right off the bat, my first impression is the narrative is SO ham-fisted. Within the first 5 minutes alone we're establishing so much information and in such a clunky, unnatural way. Like... Asha says hi to her friends but then they robotically have a dialogue where they overtly call each other "friends" just so it's clear to the audience (when in reality no one talks like that). It's telling instead of showing, and this happens sooo many times early in the film.

Could not for the life of me remember the friends or their names. There were just too many of them when 1 or 2 would have been just fine to move the plot along and to help Asha. (Yes, I know they're a reference to the 7 Dwarves but it's STILL not necessary to have so many just for a reference.)

Bruh, the makeup in this movie is on point. Every time there was a close up of a character, I was staring at their eye makeup (especially Asha and the queen's).

Asha as a protagonist was... fine? She feels very close to Mirabel and at times Rapunzel in her character. I didn't dislike her by any means, but she didn't reinvent what it means to be a Disney protag. Her motivations also come off as… really “out of nowhere”. We’re told she “cares too much”, but she initially only wants to save the wishes of her mom and grandpa; she randomly decides she has to free ALL wishes midmovie and that was jarring. There could have been a smoother transition. Instead, it was abrupt and Asha didn’t change in any meaningful way. Even her “I want” song was vague (what exactly is “to have something more for us than this”?) and didn’t connect well with her character.

I do really like her design though! Her freckles, earrings, and how her hair moves are my favorite details.

Valentino was not as annoying as I thought he would be. Still didn't care for his sass and brand of humor, but at least he helped out a few times.

I called it, the film is trying so hard to make Magnifico "hot" 🤡 I don't get it but okay, Mouse. I see your effort.

Loved his fit!! Very cool cloak and diamond/star motifs everywhere! His lab and study was also fun to look at.

I quite liked the moments when the queen talked to her husband and tried to smooth things over with him. “I can fix him energy”— Their relationship seemed very genuine at the start of the movie.

NOT THE WISH NEPOTISM...

If they were going for “sympathetic” with Magnifico, it didn’t work. He gave this backstory about how he was traumatized before + left as the only survivor of a great tragedy and so now he wants to use his magic to prevent that from happening to anyone else. Thing is, we only ever know about this via his word and staring at a half-burnt tapestry. We never see the event on screen, nor what was left of the tapestry. I was expecting a twist where it’s revealed that he lied all this time about his backstory and rewrote history so he could more easily manipulate the people of the kingdom he founded and live out the fantasy of being worshipped as a “good guy”. That was such a missed opportunity!!

Something else I was thinking of (this was during “This is the Thanks I get” was??? Maybe Magnifico started off genuinely good but became worn down over time as people’s wishes grew more selfish and they became ungrateful for what they had?? Then he could have become bitter and disillusioned by the behavior of his people.

Another idea is maybe Magnifico was “villainous” only in Asha’s eyes, since they don’t agree on how to best handle granting wishes. This would be more of a clash of ideologies rather than the traditional Obvious Evil vs Obvious Good that Disney is so known for, but hey, it could be a neat evolution of their storytelling from classic fairy tale roots.

This is to say that there were so many more interesting directions they could have gone with Magnifico’s motives, character, and portrayal 😭 but the second half of the movie never commits to any of these, they just blame his complete insanity and turn to the dark side on Forbidden Magic which is such a cop-out.

The trailers gave away the twist that Magnifico was the villain. It wasn’t revealed until like the second song into the movie. Would’ve worked better as an on-the-spot reveal rather than part of the marketing, in my opinion.

When they showed the wishes, the TWST fan in my was shouting, "OMG IT'S WISH UPON A STAR, THE LIMITED TIME STORY EVENT FROM THE HIT DISNEY MOBILE GACHA GAME TWISTED WONDERLAND!!!"

As Wish is Disney's anniversary film for 100 years, there were tooons of easter eggs scattered throughout. (I had fun looking for them!) Some were visual (I saw Aurora's dress, Snow White’s well, Peter's Pan's costume, Ursula's green smokey hands, Asha's robes resembling those of the Fairy Godmother, etc.) or extended imagery/scenes (Asha recreates Mulan's dinner and “Reflection" scenes), others were more overt lines of dialogue (Magnifico says the "Mirror, Mirror" lines along with others, a deer named “Bambi”, Valentino mentions an animal metropolis in reference to Zootopia, etc.).

In theory, the wish magic sounds cool but has so much that isn't explained??? And yeah, it's magic so it technically doesn't have to be. However, there are things not explained even when it is important to the plot. For example, Magnifico crushes some wishes and seems to absorb their power for himself (including the wish of Asha's MOM, so you'd think this would be important)? The consequence of this is that the wish's owners... become sad??? Okay, what are the long-term effects??? Why isn’t this fully explored?? But then later in the film we see the same people whose wishes were crushed... regenerate their wish??? So what, he has to keep reaping them??? And why are the wishes only taken at 18 years old? What if a wish changes? Ironically, the townspeople of Rosas have a scene where they question the technicalities of this wish magic. Magnifico essentially tells them to shut up, and it kinda felt like Disney was telling us to not question their lore www

It was weird that they never fully explored the ramifications of going without your wish. You’d think they’d show us people without ambition or hope (which would incentivize Asha to return their wishes), but everyone seems blissfully happy without their wishes?? The only exception is Asha’s friend that betrays her (cannot for the life of me remember his name), and that’s namely because his asshole friends keep ragging on him for it.

I thought the movie was going to go in a “you can make your own wish come true!!” direction but NOPE, turns out it’s just magic. Felt like Disney unintentionally wrote a whole movie about "wishes not coming true unless some big powerful entity allows it to come true” (Asha literally becomes the fairy godmother of Rosas at the end, making her ultimately no different than Magnifico)… ie a metaphor for how Disney owns so many properties it practically owns our childhoods www

"The power of friendship saves the day" ending 🤣 It was very Paper Mario ending-esque...

A song saving the day though?? It’s giving the Illumination Lorax film…

I was right about the humor. Too "quirky" and/or juvenile for me.

Animation was alright? Nothing awful about it, it just didn't feel as detailed or as experimental as other films with a similar style.

Songs were mid, which checks out with the recent Disney music excluding We Don't Talk About Bruno--

Some of the lyrics however were awful. “I let you live here for free and I don’t even charge you rent” is redundant. “So I throw caution to every warning sign” means you’ll show more caution than usual, not that you’ll forego caution. The correct expression is “throw caution to the wind”. Etc, etc, etc.

There was a cute after credits scene where they reveal that Asha's 100 year old grandpa (same age as Disney omg) wrote the "When You Wish Upon a Star" theme, which was sweet since his wish was "wanting to make a mark".

THE BEST PART OF THE MOVIE WAS STAR!! It was very cute (partly because it couldn't talk and just jingled and giggled, I was dreading another annoying mascot animal voice) and reminds me of my own pet… The way Star infused everything with glitter and formed unique shapes with the red twine was so fun 😭 I'M A STAR STAN, IT WAS ADORABLE AND KINDA BRATTY AND I'M LIVING FOR IT

Decent ideas, "meh" execution. Enchanted and Shrek did it better in terms of self-aware, fairy tale defying stories. It felt as though the movie was trying to deliver a profound message but got lost in the sauce of making as making Disney references possible and didn't fully commit to actually saying something meaningful. As a result, the film feels somewhat… hollow.

That one friend betraying Asha was the biggest surprise in the film but I still saw it coming 😂 I do get where he’s coming from though (being worried that his wish won’t ever come true) but it also felt like his conflict wasn’t resolved??? It might have gone better if the movie actually fully tried to push the “you can make your own wish come true” message (to reinvigorate the traitor to make his dreams a reality on his own) but they don’t 💦

Wish didn’t end up being “the wishing star’s origin story” because not once did anyone question where Star came from or why it was different from other stars (or what the significance of Magnifico blotting out the other stars was).

I think the people that would enjoy this movie are the people that are already highly invested in Disney and the nostalgia of it.

... Anyway, stan Star 🤩 (and the talking mushrooms 🍄)

[cursedvibes]

I know you like tenken, takaken and sukume but what are some other relationships or dynamics do you like in jjk and why? Could be romantic, platonic, familial, antagonistic or just plain toxic and fucked up, anything.

Thanks for the interesting ask! These are my favourites at the moment.

Mahito & Yuuji

I think it's the best antagonistic relationship Yuuji has in the entire manga. I like them both as a ship and platonically for what we get in canon. Although considering the scene in the anime where Mahito tries to murder kiss Yuuji, you could say it's one-sidedly canon.

I miss Mahito a lot lately and come to only appreciate him more and more with time. He was very good at building up a sense of dread and he has a viciousness to him that's lacking in the current Shinjuku fight for me.

He mirrors Yuuji without literally being related to him (so far, who knows what else Gege will reveal to be in Yuuji's gene cocktail). Yuuji learns something from him, reflects upon himself, his actions, who he wants to be and why he fights. They are both still figuring each other and themselves out. Both of them grow during their fights and become more dangerous, desperate and feral any time they meet. I love how Mahito is not only able to break Yuuji, but also to break him. Yuuji's hatred for Sukuna is smouldering, while for Mahito it is a raging fire. Yuuji has nothing to learn from Sukuna and no interest to engage with him anymore, while for Mahito it was raw and personal and resulted in Yuuji embracing the disgusting and ruthless side of himself that makes him so cold against Sukuna.

It's been great to see how even now Mahito still influences Yuuji. He was the first one who really taught him about the soul and what it can be capable of. Any time the soul is brought up, Yuuji's first thought is how Mahito was able to manipulate and contort it. He is able to hurt Sukuna so much because of what he learned from Mahito. As much as I miss Mahito and his personality, it wouldn't make sense to bring him back now, so I'm glad to see his continued impact on Yuuji this way. Overall, what I like about the two is how "juvenile" their conflict is. Cruelty of a child and innocence of a child clashing and both of them improving, growing and maturing through it. I also think it's very fitting that Yuuji never got to exorcise Mahito because the message is that Mahito represents a different side of him and he shouldn't ignore or destroy that side, he has to embrace it to be able to stomach what lies ahead.

Maki & Mai

If done right, I'm always a sucker for twin relationships, especially the codependency in it. I wouldn't say Maki & Mai are my favourite example of them or the best written one, but I still like them for what they are, particularly everything in Perfect Preparation and the Sakurajima colony. It could've been better and more consistently set up, but the payoff is still emotional and impactful and that's what I like them for.

Both of them need each other, wanted to help each other in their own way, but they never saw eye-to-eye or managed to communicate properly until after Mai's death. They were holding each other back through more than just the jujutsu consequences of being born a twin. Mai wanted Maki to give up and live with her at the bottom and Maki thought she had to shoulder all responsibility and could only go on and pave a way for them alone. Even after the have "become one" in a jujutsu sense and Maki unlocked her Heavenly Restriction, they don't immediately work together and have to learn how to communicate with each other and lift each other up, make up for what the other can't do. And through understanding Mai better and learning to hold her and fight together with her, she also begins to understand herself better.

I wish we got a more in-depth look at them, their past and relationship while both were alive before the Perfect Preparation arc. I hope Maki's arc will have a satisfying end and she will find something meaningful to do with her life.

Hakari & Uraume

Every time the leaks come out, I'm hoping for at least a glimpse at these two. There's been setup for some really interesting exploration of the themes of humanity and strength here. They are also just such a funny duo and it gets more and more hilarious the more chapters pass by and we don't see them. While Sukuna plays whac-a-mole with the main group, Hakari and Uraume have been "fighting" for 20 chapters now without seemingly getting anywhere except gossiping about what happens over at the main source of action. Wouldn't be surprised if we skip back to them to see them eating ice cream while watching the others get beaten up.

On a more serious note, I really hope the little speech Uraume gave in ch 245 gets picked up again and explored upon because it was the most interesting commentary we got so far on the source of sorcerers power, what it means to be human when you are so strong and also Uraume's background. Uraume's view of humanity and strength seems to slightly differ from Sukuna's and they also seem to reflect upon it more. They say forming relationships and fear of losing said relationships is what makes you weak and yet they have no problem following Sukuna and worrying about him. They are even open to forming bonds with others like Kenjaku or even Hakari. Hakari is actually the person we have seen them be most relaxed and friendly with so far. With Sukuna there is always a remaining formality and Kenjaku annoys them, but with Hakari they chat like a normal person. They make fun of him, but it's very colloquial. It seems like they actually came to see him as a true equal. There is no binding vow or old history binding them together, they simply want to keep Hakari from interfering with the fight and through that they got to engage with him without any pretence.

I just wish we actually got to see how their relationship developed over that now pretty significant amount of time and to see more of Uraume's worldview and maybe Hakari's too. He broke away from Jujutsu Tech and was left to build up his own independent existence together with Kirara. Very similar to Uraume and Sukuna. Now if we could only explore that connection between them more. On page. Not off-screen. I would've taken that any time over the pointless intervention from Geto's cult members or Kusakabe sacrificing himself.

Kusakabe & Yaga

I think this is Kusakabe's most interesting relationship and what actually gives him some depth beyond Exposition Guy. It's also where we see Yaga's more overtly caring side beyond his interactions with Panda. Unfortunately, it gets overlooked a lot, in part because Gege doesn't linger much on it beyond one or two chapters and Kusakabe's last words before getting cut down. There is literally nothing about this ship in fandom spaces. Probably because for some reason people think Yaga isn't hot enough (he's the literal definition of a dilf what more do you want?)...

Chapter 147 is interesting because it shows us the closest relationships and most hidden secrets both Kusakabe and Yaga have. We learn that Yaga not only makes autonomous puppets, but he actually has a whole Hundred Acre Wood-type of retreat full of the souls of dead people, children in particular. They aren't weapons like Panda, they don't fight, they are just allowed to live there. Protected by Tengen interestingly enough. She probably just doesn't care what he does or thinks it mildly interesting/quirky. This is also where we find out that Kusakabe has a sister (Usami?), who has been severely traumatized to the point of being catatonic and lost her son, Kusakabe's nephew. Despite the taboo, both Kusakabe and Yaga are willing to raise the dead not only to help her, but also to give Kusakabe something of his family back. It's the most vulnerable moment we've gotten of him and it speaks of their deep bond that Yaga was willing to do this. Doubt he would do this for just any jujutsu teacher (who doesn't even work for him). Creating that kind of cursed corpse isn't easy after all. But nothing strengthens a bond like necromancy. Kusakabe's last words about Yaga in ch 254 are also interesting. He fights for Yaga, knowing he wouldn't force him to do this, but reflecting on how they used to be able to fight together. They must have known each other for a long time. Kusakabe tells himself multiple times to not linger on the dead, but any time he does, it's because of Yaga.

A very interesting relationship with much potential that goes underexplored. I would've much preferred for his relationship with Yaga to be highlighted more in his fight against Sukuna than that out of place "interview" where people who barely know Kusakabe explain his character to us. If they could bring Gojo and Nanami back from the dead, they could've shown Yaga too. If you really want me to believe that Kusakabe is a kind person, show me more of how he acts around the people he actually cares about, i.e. Yaga and Miwa. He's a very different person around them, particularly Yaga and that's when he allows himself to be vulnerable.

So yeah, I think they explored each other's bodies to help each other through their grief.

[picklethanos]

I haven't finished watching Tua s4 compleatly but I have watched up untill Ep 3 for now. But I have opinions.

Ep 1

So the team lost their powers and are now living normal lives. Great, love the plot. But those lives are barely explored.

Lila and Diego are married and have 3 kids. Both are overworked parent trying to hold onto what they can. But a lot of the reletionship progression and dynamics is basically a "Tell don't show". Haven't seen any of the kids, Lila's parents are alive and have a strained relationship with Diego (we also never see them), Diego dialogs about all their problems in the relationship... (I also got spoiled of the ending of the relationship: 🤮)

Allison got her daughter and husband (Ray) back, Claire barely forms part of the the story in any meaningful way, Ray left (just cos...). No one in the family is too happy with her (for all that happened last season) but there's no actual hostile feelings (which would have been a cool angle), just light akwarness.

Viktor is the owner of a pub/bar (cute), has slept around with every woman in town and wants nothing to do with the family, tho still holds a grudge with Reginald. Gets kidnaped after vik dares him to and procedes to not even try to defend himself like he implied he would (ok?).

Five works undercover for the Cia investigating the keepers. He's just gotten less interesting honestly. Like, in every season he was dreading having to save the timeline once again (especially s3) but in this one he goes out of his way, willingly.

Claus is great, but what does he do? Unemployed? I do love the situation he is in during the episode. Sober for 3 years, mortal, and paranoid about it. (got spoiled again, I know the writers fuck him up)

Ben went to prison cos of crypto? (That's funny actually I give it a pass). Still hates the umbrella academy, makes sense. But, did we not have Ben in Korea at the end of s3? Is that referenced in later episodes? I bet not.

Luther's a stripper and genuinely the only sourse of light in the season, I would however love to see more mentions of Sloane throughout the season (there's 1 in ep2)

The dry cleaner plot was kinda wierd, kidnaped Viktor to get the whole family in one place at the same time but... They were already all in one place at the same time... And he was "watching them" so he should know... Whatever

Its not a BAD episode, it groups them up, sets stuff up and gives them a case.

It has however changed my opinion of the characters in comparison to other seasons, most have dropped out of pure characterization. It just seems out of character, idk if it's a popular opinion...

I believe the writers are mostly going for drama, but the petty kinda surface level "we gotta wrap this up at the end of the season" drama.

We'll see...

I'll write Ep 2 later

[rottenpumpkin13]

What do you think Sephiroth's life would've been like if Hojo had been a good father?

Hojo's ability to be a "good" father is automatically compromised given that Sephiroth is a human experiment. If he were a "good" father, he wouldn't have subjected his unborn child to alien cells that would later impact his entire existence. Sephiroth would've been a normal child and grown up away from the Jenova mess and SOLDIER.

But let's say Hojo does go through with Sephiroth's conception and later has a change of heart about his son. He's still an asshole who commits unspeakable atrocities to the adults that should've been in Sephiroth's life, but he decides to take a lighter approach to Sephiroth's upbringing.

• He would've let Sephiroth enjoy childish whims such as fairytales, toys, candy, etc. He would've even indulged him, using unscientific terms like "magic" from time to time to define perfectly explainable concepts.

• He would've let him see the outside world. My assumption is that Sephiroth was kept confined to the labs and some places in the Shinra HQ, so in this AU Hojo would've let him experience the world and befriend children his own age.

• He wouldn't have done whatever torture he was canonically putting Sephiroth through. He wouldn't have put a cap on the dissection completely, but he wouldn't deliberately subject his son to pain.

• Hojo would've shown him love as any parent would, and in whatever way that's natural to Hojo. Maybe he would've been capable of physical affection, or performed small acts of kindness like brushing his hair, offered fatherly advice, meaningful conversations, that sort of thing.

• Sephiroth would've grown into a happier, more well-adjusted man with a genuine bond with his father. The care he received would've fostered a sense of loyalty and devotion to their little family, since it's all he has.

• But Hojo, being Hojo, would still lie about his mother. He would continue to hide the truth about Lucrecia and the details surrounding the Jenova project, insisting that Jenova is his mother, and she did indeed die during childbirth.

• Sephiroth's curiosity and yearning for his mother doesn't go away, it's just lessened because he loves his father and knows that he would never lie to him.

• And then that dreaded mission to Nibelheim happens. It unfolds just as it was always meant to.

• Sephiroth finds himself locked in that library for a week. And he reads everything. Everything.

• Except this time, he comes out—seemingly—fine. He's a bit tired, yes and he could use some food and water. But it's nothing that can't be taken care of on the trip back to Midgar.

• The first thing he does when he's back home is go see his father—like always.

• Sephiroth greets him with the sharper end of the Masamune. He watches as the blade impales his loving father who he spent his whole life trusting and idolizing, the father who lied to him. He watches as Hojo succumbs to the blow.

• Then he turns and leaves.

• He burns the Shinra building to the ground, taking Midgar with him in his fit of rage as he incinerates everything.

• And he goes back to his mother. After all, Jenova is his one true parent, and she would never lie to him.

[mihai-florescu]

i think i feel pretty similar to you in that the world is terrible, depressing, it sucks. that’s it’s natural state and we will always return there. but i thank that even though it hurts there are ideals unhampered by reality, stories we can create where that cycle ends for a moment in a happier direction. it isnt our job or duty as there isnt any grand purpose like that, but there is an opportunity out there to create a story with our lives. whether it’s a well known story or lost by the wayside, those who acknowledge the layer beneath the cheery “reality” that is peddled can be writers of their own. i might be delusional and there really is no hope but i hope to create stories for people to enjoy that elusive dream in if only for a temporary respite and cant give up until i well and truly fail. i don’t know if any of my thoughts speak to you in any meaningful way, but i felt compelled to share as while i think we share beliefs we seem to have come to rather different conclusions. i want to give my life to a story, an art, that will hold ideals the real world can never truly embody and thus cannot really give up as every taste of the real reality only strengthens my resolve. is there something like that for you? i’ve read your blog for a while and in my mind (which is an inexperienced mind so I apologize for sharing its fallible perceptions) you seemed like a fascinating person who holds ideals the world refuses to embody and is slowly sinking under that weight. i know it’s not really my place, so i apologize for my audacity, but i believe that you are the sort of person who can create a true happiness for yourself eventually. well, i mean i kind of have to if i believe that for myself. i have more to say, but it seems this is become a ridiculously long message. i apologize, my words likely have crossed between ideas and lost sense at times. i hope they help, or at least don’t harm. i hope you find loveliness loveliness in your day as you deserve it.

I've been journaling about this yesterday... my entire outlook on life i guess? I know i used to be creative and make projects that i found fun, but i cant find this drive in me anymore, i'm more than ready to give up (if only upset at the way it ended so im pressuring myself to make a good Last Project, but nothing is good anymore. It's all so...plain. useless. banal. there's no wit or multilayer to anything i can come up with anymore. I cant develop an idea anymore. There are enough stories, enough artworks, plenty of them bad, theres no need for me to add to it). Im sure it's just burnout stacked on top of depression and general worsening misanthropy and paranoia, but i don't think i will ever feel more hopeful again.

However i do think art, literature, games, even just stories from other people are keeping me grounded. They're also humanity's only redeeming quality - imagination will save our souls... but my position isn't to be an artist anymore, i cant spare the energy and i dont see a point in it either. I cant do a single basic living thing anymore that others seem to be able to do? I very much feel like an npc trying to do my most necessary tasks as best i can, failing more often than not. I hate getting asked what i'll do on a day off (it used to be often at my internship. I dont even want to imagine what they thought about me, that's another can of worms that still haunts me and contributed to why i became like this). The answer is quite literally Pretend I Dont Exist. I will not do anything. I cant do anything. I stop existing the second you stop seeing me, im just in bed dreading the next time i have to be human. I think when other people say they didnt do anything it's a hyperbole, but i can go weeks, and i have gone months even, without leaving the house, if i wasnt expected to.

Part of me wants to think, hope, i could maybe even get interested in making things again if there was no expectation for me to be a person for a few years, completely disappear off the grid (the expectation to be a person that just doesnt come natural to me anymore... and a specific one at that - achieving goals and moving forward, working, with ambitions or any sort of drive, young and energetic, an only child with a good education earning a living... i despise the idea of making money. I despise consumerism too. I want to fund artists, family owned restaurants, bookshops, cafes, and i do, i spend so much money without realising, but i'm really worried i'll run out and not be able to make any to survive once im older and wont get funds from my parents anymore. So i try to save and fail... My family friends, same age or even younger, are buying their own cars and apartments, successfully working multiple well paying jobs at the same time, with plans for the future...? Id like to know both how and why. How do you have the energy and why do you care. But even if they tell me the answers it doesnt change how i feel in my own life)

But this also has skewed my perception of other people... it connects to how i dont actually understand friendships anymore, im sure i mentioned it recently. Like with being an artist, there was a time i did understand and had deep friendships, i think, but it's quite alien to me now? In the way im not real until i have to interact with someone else, and even then, debatable, theyre not real to me either. Like i know this isnt a good mindset to have but it's either everything is real and i genuinely believe we need to disappear, to put an end to this sad species soon, or nothing is real and everyone's just playing a role in a story i get to watch. In a way taking away people's humanity and making them characters in my head is out of kindness, im being delusionally optimistic and quite frankly parasocial even with "friends", but it keeps me floating, stable. Ish. Still kind of empty but entertained enough. But then actually having a conversation outside my head with them is scary, unpredictable... on good days that can be fun too. My roommate always says i end up on side quests a lot if i leave the house, i think im just open to witnessing new stories... just on good, no, great days though, i cant stress that part enough. Great days are getting rarer and rarer. Most days pass by while im in bed and in my head trying to process anything, where i can barely have a coherent thought, and i wait for the day to end. Today was good for example but i still didnt manage to do anything to earn me the title of person, yet it was good because i 1. Ate, and 2. Didnt cry.

The part of your ask that hit me the most was when you said i seemed like a fascinating person, past tense. Im sure i was, but nowadays im very little even a person. Cant be helped. I hope i managed to explain how and why. If you ever want to share your art, my dms are open, i can maybe tell you about my gallery of failure wips i cant stand to look at anymore. I saw the followup ask with your personal info but im not quite sure what else to say... even this ask took too long to answer and now i need a nappp

[snappydragon14]

Surprise!

Got bored, P.S not canon with the story line!!

Ike paced back and forth in the dimly lit room, his mind racing as he tried to figure out the best way to plan something special for Soar. He remembered how distant and indifferent she had always been about her birthday. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—perhaps, it was that no one had ever made it matter. This year, though, Ike wanted to change that. She deserved to be treated, especially with everything she had been through. He’d seen the weight she carried, the way she kept her walls up, especially with Mictlan always lurking nearby.

Mictlan—just thinking about him made Ike’s stomach turn. The dark figure had a way of ruining anything that even resembled happiness or peace. He knew Mictlan wouldn't take kindly to any celebrations or joy, especially if it involved Soar. That’s why Ike had to be careful. He couldn’t let anything slip. Everything had to be quiet, subtle, a surprise that even Soar wouldn’t see coming.

But how?

He stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. First, he’d have to find a way to keep Mictlan distracted—something to occupy his attention long enough for Ike to give Soar the one day she deserved. Ike didn’t know much about Mictlan’s weaknesses, but there were rumors, whispers of ancient stories. Perhaps he could find someone who knew more.

Second, the celebration itself. Ike knew Soar wasn’t one for grand gestures, but she did appreciate the little things. A quiet evening, perhaps a small meal with her favorite things, and maybe a gift—something meaningful but not too obvious.

Ike nodded to himself, determination settling in. He’d have to work fast and quietly, but if he could pull it off, it might just be the first real smile he saw on Soar’s face in years.

Mictlan sensed the shift almost immediately. There was something different in the air, something that gnawed at his instincts. He had always been attuned to the smallest ripples in the undercurrents around him—secrets, lies, whispers. They couldn’t escape him. It wasn’t long before he caught wind of Ike’s subtle attempts to keep something hidden.

Mictlan’s pale eyes narrowed as he watched Ike from a distance, skulking in the shadows of the crumbling hall. Ike had become careless. His actions, while cautious, betrayed a nervous energy, as though he was trying to cover something up. Something important.

So, Ike had foolishly thought he could plan something, something secret. A celebration? For her? The idea sent a dark chuckle bubbling up in Mictlan’s throat, low and menacing. He wouldn't allow it. Not only would he stop Ike, but he would twist it into something far worse than what Ike could have imagined.

He stepped out of the shadows, his large, crimson figure merging with the darkened hallway as he moved closer to Ike’s quarters. There was a chill in the air that followed him, an unmistakable sign of his presence.

Ike, unaware of Mictlan's approach, was hunched over a worn piece of parchment, scribbling something furiously. He was planning—plotting how to make the day perfect for Soar. He thought he was safe, thought he was still in control of the narrative.

Mictlan smiled coldly. That illusion of safety was about to shatter.

“Rodent,” Mictlan’s voice slithered through the air, causing Ike to freeze.

Ike’s hand tightened around the quill as he slowly turned to face the tall, dark figure standing at the entrance. The cold, creeping sensation of dread settled in his stomach. Mictlan’s eyes gleamed with malevolence, his lips curling into a grin that never touched his eyes.

“What is it you’re planning?” Mictlan asked, his tone light but dripping with malice. "Something... for Soar, perhaps?"

Ike swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for a lie, for anything that might deflect Mictlan’s suspicion, but he knew it was already too late. Mictlan always knew.

Mictlan moved closer, his voice lowering. “You thought you could hide it from me? Whatever foolish game you’re playing, it ends immediately.” The way he said it, as though it were poison, made Ike’s skin crawl.

“I wasn’t…” Ike stammered, but Mictlan raised a hand to silence him.

“Enough. You want to celebrate her Cumpleaños? Fine. Let’s celebrate,” Mictlan said, his grin widening into something cruel. “But it will be my way.”

A sinking feeling settled in Ike’s chest. Whatever Mictlan was planning now, it wasn’t going to end well. And worse, Soar would be the one to suffer for it.

..............................................................................................

Mictlan surveyed the ballroom from his perch atop the grand staircase, the colors of deep red and gold casting a regal, yet foreboding atmosphere around him. The heavy curtains draped against the stone walls of the dark tower swayed lightly as if whispering secrets of long-forgotten souls. Candles flickered in candelabras crafted from bone, their flames dancing in time with the slow, haunting melody that filled the room. The décor was meticulously curated to reflect his dark vision, a perfect tribute to his realm—a hellish scene masked behind elegance and grandeur.

Ike, the great annoyance, had been given a simple task: bring Soar, to the ballroom. Mictlan smiled to himself, the corners of his lips curling with a sinister satisfaction. He knew Ike would succeed. After all, he had ensured that the invitation was irresistible, even to one as cautious as Soar. The angel, always too forgiving, so patient, would never suspect the depths of the trap awaiting her.

Meanwhile, Itzquemitl was begrudgingly gathering the necessary materials for the cage—a masterpiece of craftsmanship, woven with ancient spells meant to imprison an angel of her caliber. Mictlan was well aware of Itzquemitl's reluctance; the Gargoyle had protested the plan from the beginning, claiming that it was too foolish and a waste of time. But Mictlan had silenced him with a single, piercing glare. This night would unfold exactly as he envisioned, and Itzquemitl, despite his reservations, would play his part.

At that moment, Mictlan’s gaze fell upon the entrance to the ballroom, where Soar appeared, accompanied by the ever-present nuisance—her companion, the rodent-like demon who scurried at her side. A grin spread across Mictlan's face as he watched them step into the room. He couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to have the demon's fur draped across his shoulders, or perhaps even his skull mounted on the wall as a trophy of the night. But such distractions could wait. For now, the focus was on the angel.

The plan was simple, flawless in its execution. Soar would be too entranced by the festivities to notice his presence, her celestial senses dulled by the intoxicating charm of the evening. Then, when the dancing commenced, she would be led to the center of the room—right where the enchantment would take hold. Itzquemitl’s cage, an ethereal prison of woven light and shadow, would spring to life around her, trapping her in place before she had any chance to react. Once ensnared, the cage would descend, relocating her to the tower’s dungeon.

Mictlan's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he watched the scene below unfold. The pieces were moving exactly as planned. The orchestra swelled, signaling the beginning of the first dance. Now, all that was left was to see how Soar would respond—and how quickly she would fall into his perfectly laid trap.

Mictlan's sharp eyes followed Soar’s every movement, hidden from view behind the velvet drapes that framed his vantage point. Despite the angel's graceful presence in the ballroom, he could see the faintest furrow of her brow as she glanced around, searching, no doubt, for the missing God of War. Mictlan stifled a chuckle. Soar was perceptive, perhaps more so than he had given her credit for, but her wariness would do little to save her tonight.

Below, Ike led Soar in a hesitant dance, his considerably shorter frame making the movements somewhat awkward. Yet, Soar, only shook her head, declining the dance and standing alone next to the long table of candles. Though her eyes never stopped scanning the room. She was looking for a threat, but not the one she should have been concerned about.

The moment was approaching. Mictlan’s heart quickened with dark excitement. His hand hovered over the mechanism hidden within the wall—an innocuous lever that, when pulled, would trigger the cage above. It was poised to drop like a predator’s snare, the enchanted bars already humming with faint light as they readied to close around the angel’s form.

But just as his fingers brushed the lever, Mictlan hesitated.

For a brief moment, a shadow of doubt crossed his mind. Soar was no ordinary celestial being. She was different—more aware, perhaps even more dangerous than he had calculated. A voice deep within him whispered of the risks. What if the cage couldn’t hold her? What if she fought back? His plan was intricate, yes. Would he be ready to handle the consequences if she turned the tables on him?

Mictlan’s fingers froze. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Soar once again. The plan, though elegant in its design, now seemed to carry the weight of uncertainty. He could proceed, cut the rope, and set the trap in motion—but something in the air gave him pause. What was it about her tonight? That quiet confidence, that silent strength beneath her outward calm—it unsettled him.

For the first time in years, Mictlan questioned his own certainty. He glanced down at the ballroom, watching the angel sway slightly with Ike. Soar’s steps were slow and measured, as if she knew something no one else did. Was she truly unaware, or had she already anticipated this entire setup?

His grip tightened around the lever. One pull, and there would be no turning back. Yet, the hesitation grew stronger. Was there another way to play this? To exploit her without the direct confrontation that might follow?

He released the lever and took a step back, his mind racing. Mictlan was many things, but he was not foolish. Perhaps tonight called for a different kind of trap, one less obvious but equally devastating.

He grinned to himself. Yes, perhaps a new plan was in order—one that Soar would never see coming.

Mictlan’s gaze remained fixed on Soar as he descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured steps.

Soar, despite her celestial poise, could not ignore the palpable shift in the atmosphere. Her eyes met his, and the recognition was immediate. The God of War had arrived, his presence as imposing as ever. Mictlan's gaze was unwavering, a mixture of dark amusement and calculated intent. It was clear that he had been watching her all along.

With a fluid grace that belied his size, Mictlan approached Soar and Ike. He gave Ike a dismissive nod, acknowledging the demon's presence but clearly signaling that he was not the focus of his attention. Ike, sensing the change, awkwardly stepped aside, leaving Soar alone with the powerful deity.

“Good evening, Soar,” Mictlan’s voice was smooth, each word carefully measured. “I trust you’re enjoying the festivities?”

Soar regarded him with a mix of curiosity and caution. “Mictlan,” she replied, her voice even. “I was beginning to wonder if you would make an appearance.”

“Indeed,” Mictlan said, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Tonight is a special occasion, after all. And I couldn’t let it pass without making my presence known.”

He extended a hand towards her, his dark eyes locked onto hers. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

Soar’s initial reaction was one of surprise, but shook her head.

Mictlan's expression shifted from one of calculated charm to a steely resolve. As Soar continued to evade his attempts to draw her into the dance, his patience began to wear thin. Her resistance was becoming a significant complication to his meticulously laid plans. He could see her trying to distance herself, crossing her arms defensively as she firmly reiterated her refusal.

“No, I don’t dance,” she repeated, her tone unwavering. Her eyes remained locked on his, a mixture of defiance and frustration. “I’ve never danced.”

Mictlan’s brow furrowed slightly at her insistence. His gaze hardened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. This was not the response he had anticipated. The dance was an integral part of his plan, a necessary step to set his trap into motion. If she refused to participate, it could jeopardize everything he had orchestrated.

Without a word, Mictlan’s patience snapped. He reached out with a swift, determined motion, his hand closing around the ethereal halo that acted like horns on Soar’s head. His grip was firm but not harsh, a calculated move to exert control and bring her closer. The halo, a symbol of her celestial grace, was now in his grasp, and he used it to tug her gently but insistently towards him.

Soar’s eyes widened in surprise and a touch of indignation as she was pulled closer. She tried to resist, but Mictlan’s strength was overwhelming. She found herself drawn into his personal space, their proximity now unavoidable. The ballroom around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them locked in this tense, close encounter.

Mictlan, his gaze fixed intently on Soar, leaned in slightly. His voice, though smooth, carried an edge of frustration. “If you could teach me how to read those lights in the sky,” he said, his tone implying that she had knowledge he desired, “then I can teach you how to dance.”

Soar’s expression was a mix of surprise and irritation. The offer, if it could be called that, seemed less like a genuine request and more like a challenge—a way to maneuver her into compliance. She could feel the weight of his grip on her halo, a reminder of his power and his unwillingness to take no for an answer.

She remained silent for a moment, her gaze steady. Despite her discomfort, she recognized the strategic nature of Mictlan’s actions. The dance was not merely a social engagement but a crucial part of his plan, and her refusal was evidently an obstacle he was determined to overcome.

Reluctantly, Soar allowed herself to be guided into position. Her arms, still crossed, remained a barrier, but her body language softened slightly as she accepted the inevitability of the situation. Mictlan, satisfied with her acquiescence, took her hand with a firm but respectful grip, guiding her into the dance.

The music resumed its haunting melody, and as they began to move, Mictlan maintained a careful, deliberate pace, his steps calculated to keep Soar engaged without overwhelming her. His touch was commanding yet controlled, a reminder of the power he wielded and the extent to which he was willing to go to ensure his plan succeeded.

Soar, though initially tense, gradually found a rhythm, her movements becoming less resistant as she followed his lead. The dance, though strained, began to flow, each step a testament to the complex interplay of control and cooperation between them. The ballroom, once a grand stage for deceit, now became a setting for a delicate negotiation, with Mictlan using every moment to his advantage, ensuring that the dance played out precisely as he had intended.

But soon, noticing the golden light against the fallen angel's cream and white feathers. It almost seemed like time had frozen between the two, what was even happening? How could time just stop in a moment like this?! This was all part of his plan, wasn't it?

He met her blue gaze, seeing the glimmer of divinity within the colors of gold and blue almost like the sunsetting sun against the beaches of the mortal realm. The way her feathers swayed with every movement of her large wings and the music seemed to match such a golden moment like this. She may have been a fallen angel, but she still had the divine energy of a powerful deity.

With Micte...he never saw this beauty. Whenever the goddess entered the throne room he only felt sparks of dominance and power, but with this angel dancing with him now....It was more like....a flicker of life- feeling his heart thump and echo within his head as it almost seemed to scream at him that this was both a curse, and a blessing.

What was happening to him?

Sep: 17.

Happy B-day Soar!

[atruthuniversallyunacknowledged]

~Of Letters & Dragons~

Aemond Targaryen x Male Reader

//

(Chapter 2)

//

Manuscript Excerpt found in the Chambers of Lord Baemond Velaryon in the Dragonstone Keep - Gathered by Maester Telmon.

======================================

‘If you think that you have earned my grace thanks to that pitiful act you performed for me the other day, you are seriously mistaken, nephew.’

As I heard my uncle's voice behind me, I turned around to look at him, mildly startled by his intrusion. He stood with his hands behind his back, the strands of his snow white hair dancing in the soft wind like the soft branches of a willow tree. I could sense the sheer intensity on his gaze, and it almost choked me.

‘I understand your reluctance to believing my apologies, but they were sincere, regardless you believed them to be so or not.’ I answered calmly after a quiet moment of contemplation. ‘It is also true that it was not my hand, but those of my brothers who hurt you, but the same blood runs through our veins, and as their successes are my own, so are their crimes.’

The intensity on his gaze didn't waver, even as he silently came closer to me, standing amongst the roots of the Godswood's heart tree.

‘Nobody comes around here anymore; the old faith dies in the south.’ I said quietly, almost to myself, as he stood straight in front of me, looking down on me as I sat in a natural nook made by the roots on the back side of the heart tree, an old heavy book firmly grasped in my hands.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked looking down on the book over my knees.

‘Maester Vaemar's Lessons on Court Survival.’ I answered almost amused looking up again to meet his still intense gaze.

‘Fitting reading.’ was all the answer I got.

‘Do you want it?’ I asked, handing over the book to him.

‘I have already read it.’ he said almost with contempt, still looking down on me.

After that, he turned around and walked away, leaving me to ponder the reason for his unexpected and seemingly inconsequential visit.

The next time we had a meaningful encounter was during one of my private training lessons. I would train with my brothers in the courtyard, yes, but that sort of training felt constrictive and all the way pointless. Training for jousting and fighting in the melee in tournaments felt alien to me, but still it was a duty I had to fulfil, and which I did with notable success. However, when the "official" training was over, I would see myself back into the Godswood's, and inside the root nook of the heart tree, I would train my mind with the volumes of long forgotten maesters’ chronicles, tales of heroes and philosophical lessons.

That day, nevertheless, wasn't the day for it, for as our physical training came to an end, the storm that loomed over the city started to pour heavily, and the training was forcibly ended. As I knew that my nook would be an unfitting place for my private training, I decided then to find myself another reading spot, this time, indoors.

After walking through great halls and crossing heavy doors, gates and dark hallways, I found myself in a candle lit chamber, clearly subterranean, adorned with the bones of the late dragons of the family. Presiding over them, hanging from heavy iron chains, loomed the huge skull of the great Balerion, the Black Dread, its eyes empty but still looking over the room. Underneath it, hundreds of lit candles took it upon themselves to cast long unsettling shadows on the dark and heavy blood red walls, as well as to magnify Balerion's presence, making myself wary of coming closer to it.

‘Are you afraid, nephew?’

I startled as I heard his voice in a whisper over my shoulder, and upon turning around, I found him standing still, very close to my back, and staring at me intensely with his remaining eye, his long white hair, as well as his clothes, soaked with rain.

All the answer I could give was a little puff, and as I looked at him with a complicit look, I stepped away from him with my book still clenched under my arm.

‘I wouldn't call it fear; more like, deference or respect. Only a fool would not feel such emotions in the presence of such a beast, even if it's bones all that remains.’ I was finally able to say as I approached the candle-packed altar, looking at the skull looming over me, heavy and ominous, hearing his steps come closer to where I stood.

‘It must not be such a humbling sight for you though; after all, you are the rider of Vhagar, the biggest dragon alive in the known world.’ I said moving my gaze from Balerion's mighty skull back to his face.

That seemed to strike something inside him, for his answer came almost immediately, with a taste of something I wasn't able to recognise at the time, but which seemed fairly similar to loathing.

‘And I paid the price for it, as everyone, including yourself, knows.’

There was no answer from me this time, and after holding his gaze in mine for a couple of silent seconds, I turned around to look at the room.

‘Is this your secret place? If so, I shall leave you alone.’ I said without looking at him.

‘No.’

‘No to the secret place, or no to my leaving?’ I asked now friskily, turning to look at him.

‘No.’ he repeated sternly as he kept on looking at me.

‘I see that you are as fond of words as I myself am. Would you care to elaborate a bit further for those of us ungifted with beyond measure semantic comprehension?’ I asked playfully once again as I walked back up to him, looking up to save the little distance in height between our eyes.

‘No.’ he repeated for the third time, a cocky smile slowly appearing on his lips.

‘Oh! So you do have a sense of humour after all?’ I teased with an even more playful grin on my own face as I saw his.

‘It was an eye your brothers took from me, not my sense of humour.’ he answered still grinning down at me.

That felt like a bucket of ice cold water being poured over me, especially because I realised he had guided me into that dead end with extreme precision, and only with three words.

‘I shall go now.’ I said after a moment of silence in which I could see him rejoice in his victory over me in our battle of wits.

‘No, you got here first.’ he said quickly to me, grabbing my free arm as I tried to make a go for the exit. ‘The early bird catches the worm; I should know it well.’ This last part he whispered to my ear.

Seemingly frozen in time, with my pulse beating wildly on my temples and the place where his hand held my arm, and as close together as we were, I looked up from his hand into his eye, finding it already staring at me with its usual intensity, almost without blinking.

After that, he stepped away, gave me one last look, and turned around to leave, his wet hair deprived of its usual grace and airiness, but still as alluring as ever.

Taglist: @ephemeralninon @joan2914 @demiromanticpansexualgorgon @lazypinkpig

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #16: Tape IX (Senseless)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, eye injury, brief dismemberment

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Heather was a mere mortal. Heather was nothing, compared to him. Jackie tried to keep this in mind the next day, when she returned with the scalpel. The threat of improvised surgery often dulled his sense of scorn.

“Stop that,” she snapped, the scalpel like a tiny spear in her gloved hand. “The table’s going to break.”

The table did shudder beneath him, but Jackie refused to move. On the contrary—he stepped farther along its length, farther away from the wicked glint of the blade. The scar on his chest had faded to a silvery line, but the memory of being torn apart was still alive and kicking. 

Heather now spoke in a tone that was marginally softer than before. Which wasn’t very soft at all, but it was something. “I have the drug, remember? You won’t feel anything.”

“Oh. Right.”

“So? Get down. Or would you rather do it without the painkillers?”

He clambered off the table with as much dignity as he could muster. He hoped to hell that the drug wouldn’t wear off early, or worse—not work at all. If it came to blows, he could start sobbing again, but somehow he knew that wouldn’t work a second time. 

There was that tiny red pill again. Two of them this time. And a glass of water, and that dreaded table with all the empty glass jars. All manner of steel implements were arranged before him, a bona fide orchestra of surgical instruments. Most of them he had seen before, which did not ease his apprehension at all.

“I’ll give you five minutes, then we’ll begin.” As she spoke, the recorder listened on from a safe corner of the table, away from all the jars. “Today's dosage is fourteen hundred milligrams. Administered twelve hours after previous dosage.”

“What’s the needle for?” The needle in question was at least six inches long, but otherwise indistinguishable from a normal sewing needle. Down went the water and the pills. Jackie now noticed a mild bitter taste, which lingered even after he swallowed. 

“Gee, I don’t know. It’s a surprise tool that will help us later.” She ripped the glass from his hands and placed it on the nightstand. “Stop asking questions, for God’s sake.”

Well, he wasn’t about to argue. When she was sure he would not speak, Heather turned her back to him. She began cleaning some kind of saw or blade with an abrasive-smelling, clear liquid and a soft white cloth. The room was filled with a chemical smell.

While he waited, the opioid took effect. The numbness spread through his body, at first through the tips of his fingers, then through his hands and arms, cutting off the feeling in his legs and chest, then finally his face. Even the bitter aftertaste faded on his tongue. The textures and touch of the outside world ceased to exist in any meaningful way. This time, even the dread in the back of his mind and the tension in his heart began to slow—not by much, but it was a noticeable difference. 

The cleaning of tools had concluded. She turned back to him. “Is the anesthetic working?”

He nodded.

Before he could react, she stabbed a scalpel into the side of his arm. Jackie opened his mouth to protest, but he hadn’t felt a thing. Not even the warmth of blood, dripping against his skin as she pulled the blade out. Those electric impulses had all but died. 

“The drug has blocked all pain receptors.” She put the scalpel down. “There aren’t many side effects, although Jackie’s immortality makes it unclear whether or not the opioid is toxic.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It doesn’t matter.” A spoon. Why was she holding a spoon? He couldn’t see any food. “It’s time for the experiment. Keep your eyes open. Try not to blink.”

Eyes? 

Oh. Oh no. 

Despite all the impossible things his body had healed, Jackie was not thrilled at this prospect. But it wouldn’t hurt, at least. And he couldn’t say no. He’d have to suck it up and let her finish the test. How bad could it be? What was a little bit of blindness to the undying, eternal Jackie? What harm could a utensil do to someone like him?

“I don’t see how this benefits science,” he did say, however. “Pun not intended.”

She gestured with the spoon, shrugging. “Oh, you know. Something interesting might happen.”

Something interesting. Right. To each their own, he supposed. 

“Sit down on the chair. Don’t move,” she added sharply. “Don’t start crying again, either. It won’t help you.”

He wasn’t planning to, anyway. He sat on the chair, next to his desk, as still as possible. Heather approached him, spoon in hand. It was funny to see such an ordinary thing held with such weight and importance. He could see his reflection on the surface, like a funhouse mirror image. The concave curve lit up as she moved closer. A stripe of shiny metal, one that would soon be embedded in his sockets, digging out the delicate jelly-like flesh. Ew. Why did Jackie have such a morbid imagination? It would be painless, but he still couldn’t help but flinch.

Her hand grasped his shoulder. “It will be okay.” Such a cold tone for such a comforting line. “Look at the stairs.”

Behind her was the flight of stairs. A straight line of steps. Underneath, there was a triangular section of wall. He noticed a sort of seam there, a ridge bumping out. There must have been a closet dug into that space, or another kind of storage area. Now, it was covered up, with nothing but a ridge to remember it by. He wondered why. Seemed pointless to Jackie. Waste of a good closet. Maybe there had been an infestation, or a—

Jackie didn’t feel the spoon touch his eye, but he saw it. On instinct, he screwed both his eyes shut. He tried to open them, but it was a struggle to stop blinking.

He heard her growl, even when he couldn’t see her. “I don’t need to cut your eyelids out, do I?”

That was decidedly not a nice mental image. “I can’t help it.”

“Fine.” Her hand lifted from his shoulder. Instead, he saw it grasp his face, from the corner of his eye. “I’ll hold them open. Don’t look away from the stairs, or so God help you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” What would normally be an uncomfortable position without the drug was now only a strange one, as she pried his right eye open. 

The stairs. Right. The stairs. What about the stairs? They weren’t carpeted, as they were in his childhood home. That was probably for the better, considering all the blood he shed. What else was there to say about them? It didn’t matter, anyway—his vision went blurred, unfocused. Dots of red filled his sight. He could hear the squishing sound as his eyeball was gouged out. Wet, loud, as if someone was crushing up gelatin. A wave of nausea plugged up his chest. He fought the urge to push her away. He fought the urge to pull back. His hands staggered to the arms of the chair. He grasped them hard, as someone in a car crash grasps the wheel. There was no pain, not even a slight pressure, but it was nevertheless unpleasant. 

Then, his vision disappeared completely. At least, in that one eye. Heather pulled away. There was a final squelching sound. Then, the sawing of a scalpel across nerves. A final snap… and then it was over. The spoon lowered to her side. 

With what remained of his sight, he glanced at the bloody eye in her hand—he then quickly looked back at the stairs. Her instructions aside, it wasn’t a pretty view. 

“You can’t see through this, can you?” The awe in Heather’s voice was evident. A stilted sense of pride flickered in him, even though immortality was less of a talent and more of an unconscious spasm.

“No.” He let himself blink—Jackie realized that he hadn’t felt the urge to blink for a while now. 

“Fascinating.” Her head tilted backwards, towards the recorder. “The eyes heal slower than the heart, which I hadn’t expected. That’s all semantics, in any case. On to the next eye.”

The removal of his left eye went a little more smoothly. He knew what to expect, so it wasn’t as big of a shock when his vision went completely dark. He hadn’t grown accustomed to those noises at all, however. It was a relief when the spoon left his sockets and all went silent.

Jackie closed his eyelids. He opened them. Still nothing. The basement had been plunged into a flat shadow, devoid of depth or direction. Touch and sight—he was two senses down.

The sudden loss was dizzying. Even the comfort of touch, the pressure of plastic against his palm and the solidity of the ground, even that was forfeit. There was nothing to steady him. Nothing to lean against. Nothing familiar, nothing loyal or true. That safety had been cut from his hand, leaving only the maps of memory to guide his movements. 

He could not halt the steady stream of panic passing through him, now that he only had his hearing and smell to rely on. And those senses were barren at best. The silence offered nothing, and all he could smell was blood and cleaning chemicals. 

“They’ll grow back, I’m sure.” Heather’s voice cut through his thoughts. Following that was the unscrewing of a jar and the squish of eyes pressed against glass. “Can you see anything? Anything at all?”

“No. It’s lights out for me, doc.” He rubbed his face—a pointless gesture, since he, you know, couldn’t feel anything. “You’re sure they’ll grow back?”

“Probably.” An uneasy silence broke her sentence. “I mean, all your internal organs grew back. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I hope so. I’ll be bored as hell without them.”

“Well.” Another pause. “I could get you a radio. If you want one. Maybe a record player. You like music, don’t you?”

“I guess.” 

She did not reply. In that awful intermission, he had nothing to occupy himself with but the sound of his breathing. The sound of her breathing, too, and the occasional rustling of fabric. His unease did not lighten or leave. How was he supposed to escape if he couldn’t see anything? The thought of being blind wasn’t nearly as upsetting as the thought of being dependent on Heather. The nausea rose in tempo, a steady roiling wave against his chest. 

He was ready to start dry-heaving, but just that moment his vision returned. Blooming, bursting into view, the bright light, the almost painful intensity of it. At first, there were only a few spots, which quickly bled into great patches, until it all returned. Never was there a more beautiful sight. He blinked until the white light eased into familiar shapes. Heather’s basement. He could see it all. The bed, the lightbulb, the uncarpeted stairs. And there was Heather herself! Jackie had to admit he was glad to see her, if only because it meant he hadn’t lost his ability to see.

The relief etched on her face mirrored his own. “See? I told you it would be fine.”

“I didn’t doubt you for a second.” He managed a weak grin. “Is the experiment over now?”

“No, actually.” She raised the spoon with a matching smile. “A few more rounds couldn’t hurt.” 

A… few more rounds. Once was enough, Jackie thought. But he couldn’t refuse, could he?

Her smile widened to Chesire proportions. “Oh, come on. Do you really not find any of this interesting?“

“If I’m being honest? No.” His disappointment was apparently not as subtle as he imagined. “Whatever. You’re right, it couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the kind of enthusiasm I love to see.” She paused. “Pun not—you know—“

“I get it. Hurry up and gouge me, will you?”

She frowned a bit at his wording, but continued. Three more times. By the third time around, he had acclimatized to this strange ritual. His vision would blank out, he’d wait a few minutes, and it would return good as new. The only real problem was his increasing boredom. He wondered how it looked from Heather’s perspective. Probably didn’t look very pretty, considering his entire eyeball was reshaping itself. Although, maybe there was a strange beauty in that. An uncanny sort of vividness. An evocative thrill in all that gore. 

At last, she put the spoon away, which was now covered in a mess of reds. In a jar resided a pile of his eyes. All exactly the same, dark irises and bloodshot whites, accompanied by splashes of crimson here and there. A revolting sight, dulled a little by how casually Heather was treating it.

Jackie leaned forward in his chair for a closer view. “You’re keeping those?”

She gave him a curt, chiding look, as she picked up the large saw. “That’s none of your concern. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the importance of this.”

Heather was correct in that regard. He didn’t have the faintest idea. “I don’t know. Seems like a waste of a good jar to me.”

The glint of silver entered his view before he had a chance to move away. The blade of the saw rested against the edge of his mouth. The motion was patient, almost tender. 

Heather leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to talk like that before I remove your tongue?"

“Please don’t.” He tilted his head as far back as it would go. “I’ll shut up now.” 

“Good.” Her reply came with an amused tilt. The saw lifted from his skin. She then examined Jackie, as a butcher examines a sow. Her stare gleamed with an excitement that made him profoundly uncomfortable. “Now, I think it’s safe to say we can try something bigger. How about... an arm?”

He sighed and held out his left arm. 

The saw she had chosen for the dismemberment was even longer than the bone saw, with a great rectangular section of steel atop a curved handle. She practiced her swing a few times, just below the elbow, grazing the skin like a batter preparing to strike out.

This was something he didn’t need to witness. Something he would definitely prefer not to witness. His dreams already had enough gore for one lifetime. Jackie turned his head away and screwed his eyes shut. He held his breath. If nothing else, he hoped it would be a clean cut. Nice and quick. 

“You can relax now. It’s done.”

“Oh.” That was faster than he expected.

“Hold on, I need to write this down.” Jackie did not open his eyes, but he could hear the shuffle of papers and the clicking of a pen. “Subject’s limbs grow back remarkably quickly, considering how much organic matter is removed. I would give it another ten minutes. That means the estimated total time is…” The pen scratched something down. “Fifteen minutes, maybe?”

“What’s it look like? My arm?”

She clicked her tongue. “Bad. Keep those eyes closed, I’d say.”

“Good idea.” What Heather was planning to do with his dismembered arm, Jackie could not imagine. Then again, Jackie wasn’t a cold-blooded killer who collected organs for fun. His imagination was somewhat limited. 

“Alright, that looks good as new.” Jackie opened his eyes to find her examining his arm, devoid of any injury aside from a raw scar that circled his elbow. “Try moving that for me.”

He lifted his arm, flexed his fingers, rolled his wrist. The injury hadn’t stiffened his movements in the slightest. 

“I expect you’ll feel sore later, but it’s nothing an Aspirin can’t fix.” And now, the needle. “One last test, okay? The opioid should wear off soon, so I’ll get this over with quickly.”

“And what is this, exactly?” He shifted further back into the chair. Now that she mentioned it, he was starting to feel the slightest hint of heat, pricking the edge of his skin. Along with that came the shudder of something colder along his spine, tensing his heart. What would he do if the drug cut out early? Whatever she was planning, it couldn’t be pleasant. 

“I’ve tested your sense of sight.” She leaned over him, placed her hand securely around his jaw. “Now, I want to see how your hearing is affected.”

The needle entered his ear. It wasn’t painful yet, but he could feel the cold steel, along with a slight pressure. Then, his other ear. 

The loss of his hearing wasn’t nearly as distressing as the loss of his sight, knowing that it would come back. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed it missing at first. All at once, every noise ceased to exist. The steady buzz of the light and the rhythm of his breathing, even the faint click-click-click of the recorder, all faded into a calming quiet.

Heather waved her hand in front of his face. He tilted his head. Oh, she was speaking. Saying something. He could not understand a lick of it, of course. 

“I can’t hear you, idiot.” He flinched as she tightened her grip on his jaw—he could actually feel it now, feel the pressure of her nails. “Sorry. But I can’t.”

She let go and gestured to her lips.

“I’m not good at reading lips,” he protested. “Write it down. You have a journal, right?”

She shook her head, now gesturing to the instruments, saying something with increasing passion. He caught the words expensive and waste of paper—a simple yes or no would work, but it got the point across. Then, she pointed to the journal, then at him.

“Are you asking about my notebook?”

She nodded.

“Do you… want it?”

She nodded slower, pointedly.

“Right.” He made a show of searching the room. “I must have… lost it. Sorry.”

That triggered another rant. The tone of it was evident on her face, even if it didn’t reach his ears. She gestured to the room as she spoke, then to him, then to the scalpel, then back to him—he hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it meant—then at his nightstand. 

And then, her lips stopped moving, with the tempo of an engine running itself down, as she seemed to realize how confused he was. Her expression softened, but not in a comforting way—in the way a cat goes still before its pounce. 

She tapped her watch, then held up five fingers. Five minutes. Then, she crossed her legs and waited. For his hearing to return, most likely. Jackie was dreading that moment.

A shrill pop, above the side of his jaw, interrupted his dread. It didn’t hurt too much, but it did hurt. The ache dragged along his face. He pressed a hand to his ear. The hum of white noise filled in that ringing silence, then the steady whirring of the recorder, then the sound of his sharp inhale, and finally the twisting of fabric as Heather moved to him. 

“Can you hear me?”

He nodded, before putting a hand to his other ear as it healed. 

“Good. Now explain.”

“I lost it! What do you want me to explain?” He straightened his shoulders from their unconscious hunch.

“You lost it.” She held up two fingers. “Jackie, you’re locked in a single room. There are two possible explanations. Either you’re lying—“ she put down a finger—“or you’re sneaking out of the basement.” The remaining finger tapped against his chest. “Do either of those options sound good?”

”No.”

“Then explain to me what really happened.”

“Well…” He’d gotten out of one bad situation with his words. He could get out of another. “I was using the notebook. Then I fell asleep. I must have dropped it under the bed or something. It’s fine, I’ll get it later.”

“What were you using it for?”

Should he be honest? No, that was more than he wanted her to know. “Writing.”

“Writing what?”

What did people write? Could he convince her that he was drafting a novel? It would be a hard sell. What else? “Nothing. Never mind.”

“You fucking liar.” 

“What? No, I—“ All the muscles and veins in Jackie’s body screamed at him to run, to get away, to hide, to fight, to do something and not just sit there like a terrified punching bag. Then again, where would he hide? In the bathroom sink? Fight with what, his stunning good looks? Running would make things worse. Better to wait it out.

After all, what good would this tiny rebellion do? The Americans had armies chock-full of weapons. Even the peasants of France had their guillotines and gun bayonets. Jackie had nothing. Appeasement was his only option. There was no point in shooting a rifle without any bullets. 

She stood up and stepped over to the recorder. The spools ceased to spin. Now he was alone with Heather. When had he started thinking of the recorder as a separate entity? It was a comforting thought, that someone else was watching, someone other than his captor. It meant that she couldn’t hurt him, not while a witness was listening in. He knew that was just pretend, but it was all he had. Grasping for straws like he was drowning, holding on to the riptides around him. 

And once that recorder cut off, the only barrier in his mind, his terror came flooding in. God’s holy cleansing in a world gone senseless, a wrathful sea to erase what remained. He was left to drown with the heathens and pigs. Left alone, all alone. 

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

[lya-dustin]

Shock and Delight

Chapter 7

Aemond knows exactly at what Helaena is hinting.

Subtlety has never been a skill she knows.

“She beat a man for burning down her school last I went to Dragonstone.” His sister said as she combed his hair like he was one of her children.

“I know why Rhaenyra wants me to wed her daughter, but why are you shoving her my way, sister.” He sat still for her but did make his displeasure known with a huff.

Had to be obvious with Helaena or she wouldn’t capture the meaning of it.

Oftentimes insults would be lost on her until someone explained it plainly and it was always Aemond who had the misfortune of explaining it to her.

“You are lonely, and you see her as Aemma and not the future queen of the realm.” His sister answered as if it had been obvious.

“I am not lonely, I like being alone, which is utterly different.” He says in his defense and ignoring the second part all together.

Helaena and Aemma had always been friends. Inseparable when they all lived in the Red Keep and always butting heads with mother and the septas in charge of their lessons.

Aemma and Aemond had bonded over their lack of dragons until the Pink Dread happened and she was taken to her grandmother for asking why Criston was still a Kingsguard after killing Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. She had been Aemee to him, Aemee who liked books just as much as he did, Aemee who claimed Silverwing the same day she turned eleven.

“Just give it a chance, for me.” Helaena looked at him with her dreamy and slightly misty eyes knowing he’d agree to anything because no one could ever say no to her.

Despite her naivety, Helaena could manipulate you to do her bidding. Often people forgot she was an adult and not a child stuck in her own world.

“Fine, but if it goes to hell, I need your word you won’t try again.” Aemond agrees and throws in his condition knowing his sister will keep her word.

Shouldn’t be that difficult, Aemond is the king of being rude and off-putting.

Sweet Aemma will end the night as disappointed as all the ladies before her.

It's almost mocking.

No, its actual mocking and Rhaena hates that she’s getting the best seat in the house for this wheelhouse wreck and having to water it down to prevent getting caught.

“When in Dorne do as the Dornish do.” Aemma said with an impish grin and twirled in her green satin dress.

Baela had chosen a teal too close to green and Rhaena had been bribed into wearing the matching one.

“I think Ser Criston might take offense at that.” Rhaena comments as she found the emerald earrings that matched her brooch.

“Oh, it’s just harmless fun, Rhae. Besides Rhaenyra said as part of these celebrations we may be forced to wear their colors and they ours. If we start now, we get the advantage.” Baela approached this as a battle strategy, a hobby of hers now that Jace is grandfather’s first mate aboard the Sea Snake. “As the Yi-Tish general Sun Tzu said, to know your enemy you must become them.”

The Stepstones were also Baela and Rhaena’s dowry, so it was in their best interest that they be completely under Velaryon control. A paltry excuse Jace gave as he joined grandfather’s latest campaign that did not work as intended.

For now, everyone believes he is doing it to gain an advantage over the Queen’s sons by being a warrior in the true sense of the word and not because he intends to wed Baela on their next name day.

“Aemma called the queen tacky for it.” She points out as if she hadn’t transcribed Aemma word for word that night.

“Yes, I did say that because it’s the truth. I merely want to fuck up her evening for sending Lyonel my way.” Aemma clarified as they left her rooms. “Who knows we might gain some ground by showing green is merely a color.”

“You’re playing with fire, Aem.” Rhaena cautioned.

“Oh, sweet sister, fire doesn’t burn a dragon.” The heiress dismissed her worries with a wave of a hand.

Green had become her armor since that night.

A safe and meaningful color that said she wasn’t the weak little girl wearing a crown too big for her. A color that said she wasn’t just Alicent, she was Queen Alicent.

A color that told you she would fight tooth and nail for her son’s rightful crown.

“That color suits you so well, niece.” She hears Helaena say sweetly with no malice whatsoever.

Queen Alicent chokes on her water when she sees her enemies’ children wearing her color.

“Lady Grandmother, are you well?” The doe eyed little snake has the audacity to ask as comes in as green as a honeydew.

A rotten honeydew.

“I am, thank you for asking, your highness.”  Alicent hides her irritation well enough. This evening can’t end soon enough. “I don’t think I recall you ever wearing green.”

“Well, it’s such a nice color, I don’t see any reason for me to pass up the opportunity to wear it.” The princess had already ended the fashion of ostrich feathers for girls coming out into society, now she came to end the fashion of wearing your factions’ colors to show your loyalty with a polite smile and gossip sheets.

Rhaenyra and Rhaenys did well. Had she been a boy or become a warrior like Princess Alyssa, she would have been unstoppable.

But the crown was Aegon’s right because of his birth, even if Aemma was Alysanne reborn as her mother’s faction has claimed, she couldn’t steal her son’s rightful inheritance.

Or your place in the order, a voice whispers in her ear.

Alicent resolves to put that out of her mind until she sees Helaena’s placements at the table.

On the outside they looked perfect together, the rider of the largest dragon, the prodigy who mastered all he could be taught by maesters and masters-at-arms alike, the worthier son sat beside the heiress, the girl who rides Queen Alysanne's dragon, the young woman who is more than capable enough to rule and knows it.

But they cannot. Not when they lose everything because what mother can choose which son dies?

No, Helaena must’ve not thought this through. Yes, it must have been a coincidence, there was no way her sweet daughter would encourage anything between Aemond and Aemma.

Aemma was meant to become their hostage by marrying Lyonel, Aemma couldn’t marry anyone else, least of all, her second eldest son.

Despite the tension and their attempts to lighten things up dinner is rather boring.

Aemma is made to sit next to Aemond, and he is not in the mood to humor her in the least. Speaks when spoken to and save for, could you pass me the bread rolls, he has not supplied conversation.

A very dull evening.

“Is the evening not to your liking, Aemee?” he asks mocking her with the childhood nickname she’d almost forgotten. If the question hadn’t been intended to aggravate her, she would’ve been touched by him remembering it.

And because Aemma has lived with Daemon for nearly eight years, she knows the best way to make him shut up is by ignoring him.

They thrive on provoking people and if she denies him his sport, he will look elsewhere for it.

“My sister has thrown this dinner for the sole purpose of sitting me beside you, I would think you’d be pleased about it.” He begins again, assuming she’d been part of this scheme.

“Well, you thought wrong.” Aemma said simply and helping herself to the simple but fine fare Helaena had put out.

He was the perfect suitor, a dragon rider, high enough in rank and in his mother’s faction to give them a good advantage, but unfortunately, he is Aemond.

Aemond who lost his eye to her younger brother, Aemond who calls her mother a whore and Aemond who loves his mother beyond anyone else save Helaena.

He was as unsuitable as Lyonel Hightower.

What the fuck was Helaena thinking?

“I’m surprised to know you aren’t part of my sister’s scheme.” He admits wanting to keep the conversation going despite her not wanting to. The tables have turned and Aemma is not liking this one bit.

When she wanted to talk to him, he barely gave her two worded answers. She should repay him with the same coin, but she is annoyed. It’s not like there is anything else to speak about other than the gossip sheet Daeron is so interested in or Daemon’s new campaign on the Stepstones.

“Are you so full of yourself you think every lady in court desires you?” Aemma asks, looking to hurt him and feeling some triumph when his eye shows she hit her mark. “Believe it or not, I still think you are the second to last man I’d ever consider for a husband.”

“Glad to know Cousin Lyonel is still dead last.” He remarks dryly.