#griefful rancor

[the-crazy-echidna-lady]

Womp womp

[my-little-cuppy]

that one au of the au

[h5eavenly]

Fallen Star┃Jake Sim

Twenty-four - a little of me, warnings: slight mention of death and descriptions of grief etc..

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You had woken up feeling awful. It doesn’t really come as a surprise not when these exact moments have been recurring like daydreams that you somehow swim through with a hazy mind and aching limbs. It all started with a slight cough and a runny nose at the beginning of the week, nothing that was too hard to handle for you. The weather was starting to turn crueler, your clothes layered more, thicker in fabric so when you woke up the very next day completely fine you had guessed that the seven cups of tea you had dawned throughout the previous day had surely done their magic.

You were so wrong.

Your body had decided to collapse on you in the middle of the day. Dizziness sneaking into your mind as if you weren’t just running away from Sunghoon with a laughter so loud you were sure you were gonna turn someone deaf. Thankfully Jake was nowhere around to see you and as Sunghoon was fanning you while you lied down on one of the dressing rooms couches you had made him swear not to tell a soul about it – given his love to announce everyone’s news like they’re his own.

So, it didn’t take you long to figure out there’s definitely something wrong with your body, perhaps it was exhaustion yet no matter how many hours you manage to drown in sleep nothing seems to be helping. You make a mental note to get a checkup thinking it might be an iron deficiency or something along these lines.

And yet each day you open your eyes there is something else wrong with you. be your aching body or a scratch in your throat you can’t seem to cough. It’s torture and it feels like your body keeps toying between the line of being sick and healthy, not sure where to lean into more.

“Jesus. You look awful.” Sunghoon comments as soon as you meet him in front of the elevator.

“Yeah, what the fuck is wrong with your face?” Sunoo adds from beside him with a look of unrestrained disgust etched into his face.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence guys.” You reply with a roll of your eyes, sniffling as you walk into the elevator, and they follow while the cold seems to trail as quickly swirling through the space, and you tighten your arms around your shaking body.

You should have taken a painkiller before leaving your apartment.

“Do you even have makeup on?” Sunoo asks, his disgust is washed away by a look of pure worrisome instead. Although the way it’s directed at you somehow feels offensive rather than warming.

“Yeah. I have concealer on.”

“Yikes.” Sunghoon coughs.

“Maybe you should try a different brand. You know something that actually covers your dark circles” Sunoo pouts, his eyebrows knitting in what seems to be pity as his hand rubs your shoulder soothingly. It takes a few counted seconds for you to register his words. The insult sneaked into it has rancor slipping into your feature just as vast as you squint your eyes at him.

“Are you worried about me or the brands of makeup I use?”

“Your makeup. Duh.” Sunoo rolls his eyes, pulling out his phone and Sunghoon snickers from beside you.

You think you’re aware that you don’t look your best. Although to be quite honest you’re not as worried about your face as how the state of your body is stamping its anxiety deep within you. You don’t get sick often, make sure to take care of yourself in that sense at least and the thought of being home, cuddled up in your bed with a snotty nose and a pounding headache isn’t very exciting and nor do you wish for that to happen.

You’re really praying to every fucking god that exists you’re not actually falling sick.

You’ll be fine though – or at least that’s what you think. That’s what you keep praying for -

Please god please please please!!

At this point you have had your fair share of showing up to work half a mess a day then fully got it together the next day so a few of perturbed coated comments from Sunoo and Sunghoon aren’t gonna bother you too much.

However, it does get to you when you’re face to face with Jay and Soojin - who seem to have tagged along after the two of them sharing a breakfast together - You don’t think Jay has ever been this surprised or is he horrified? While looking at your face as he is right now. You blink at him and as his stare stretches a second too long you wonder if you have grown a third arm in the time you walked from the elevator.

“Oh, you look...” he crosses his arms, his eyes sweeping over your figure as he tilts his head. As if finding a word to describe your state is harder than it appears to be “not every good.” He settles with. Cringing at himself or at you. You’re not very sure of anything anymore.

“For fuck’s sake guys okay! I look like an ugly duckling I get it!” you exaggeratingly whine throwing both of your arms in the air as if it expresses your distress and throw yourself onto the couch with a dry sob and bury your face into one of the pillows. Nor your cry or attempt to suffocate yourself with the awful scent of fake leather seem to be working nor gaining you any grain of commiseration because Sunghoon starts cackling from behind you. Almost as clamorous as your sob.

“Aww yn. Don’t mind these silly boys. They’re just being dumb.” Soojin coos gently, sitting down next to you and turning you on your back and you welcome her with a pout that probably does resemble an ugly duckling.

“Like always.” She adds, raises an eyebrow at Sunghoon who shuts up almost immediately, his face turns expressionless in the blink of an eye, and he pretends to be busy examining the snack table. That is empty. while Jay looks away from you. With an awkward scratch to his neck, you could almost detect the wheels in his head finding error in his words. 

“Are you sick?” She asks, tone much softer and clement as she moves her hand up and down your arm. You could stare back for a few silent minutes, mouth slightly agape at the power Seo Soojin seem to contain with merely existing. 

You don’t think you could ever make Sunghoon shut up this quickly even with the presence of weapons nearby (not that you’ve ever tried. You definitely would never do such a thing).

“I think I’m just a little tired.” you reply, remembering to close your mouth when it feels too dry. 

“You don’t look a little tired though.” She rests the open of her palm on the skin of your forehead and you shiver “thankfully, you don’t seem to have a fever.”

“I do have a bit of a headache.” You say, sitting up probably when you almost feel your body slipping down the couch.

“Maybe you should head home.” She rubs your shoulder soothingly.

“And do what?”

“Rest.” Soojin blinks at you slowly as if the dumbest question has just tumbled out your mouth. You wonder if you have managed to lose braincells while growing a third arm.

“Oh, I’ll be fine don’t worry. Besides, I probably have so much to do and- “Soojin doesn’t even let you finish turning her head away from you towards Jay. Yet her palm remains. It’s warm against your shoulder in contrast to how freezing the weather outside is. 

“Jay, does yn have anything urgent today?” 

“Not really. Jake’s schedule is very light these days and I could pretty much handle it on my own.” The response comes immediately that you have trouble keeping up, eyes darting between the two.

“Great!” she turns to face you again; a smilemounts up her face and it’s somehow as warm as the heat of the missing sun “I’m getting you an uber and you’re going home to rest!”

“Soojin I’m fine seriously. “Once again, she doesn’t give room for you to argue, your words – or rather complaints melting off your tongue when she stands up from the couch, pulling you up with her.

“You owe it to yourself to take care of yourself yeah?” she says, and you hesitate for a few seconds, unsure of what to say back to such tenderness “we need to remember to be gentle with ourselves too.”

“Okay.” You sigh and she smiles “If I feel worse then I’ll leave!-“ you add and her smile vanishes, replaced by the shaking of her head.

“Jay.” She calls turning her face away from you and he straightens in his seat “call jake and tell him that yn is taking the day off.” Jay obliges almost as forthwith as your exhale. With no questions asked and you could only stare between the two, an amused smile tugging at the edge of your lips with a bigger strive to balance on your feet.

As Jay brings the phone to his ear he seems to notice your eyes on him, however he doesn’t seem to notice the sparkle that comes to life at witnessing affection tinting the air, at knowing there are deeper emotions between two people that they aren’t as aware of.

“Ivy’s the boss here. whatever she says, happens.” He says with a shrug, your eyes shift to Soojin, and you think your smile grows bigger as the slightest, lightest hue of pink settles upon her cheeks. It could be passed by as her red sweater bringing color to her face, the light of the room or maybe it’s the tint she applied carefully before leaving her house.

But you know, and she knows that such a display of sentiment comes from something a lot more cavernous and if not for her tugging you out the room while you’re still attempting to fight the decisions already made, you’d think you’re somehow intruding into a forbidden territory.

“That guy is whipped for you.” you comment, bumping your shoulder into hers with a giggle.

“No, he’s not.” Soojin denies, woven with stubborn rebuttal and a shake of her head “He’s that way with everyone.” She adds and it comes out much softer. Like a hushed conviction.

“He doesn’t even listen to Jennie the way he listens to you.” your voice grows louder in strives to prove your truth and she shushes you when you pass by a group of staff members “and she’s his actual boss!” you whisper yell. 

“Shut up your uber is almost here.” She chuckles tinting the air with sparkles of affection and it brings a warm smile to your face to witness such a tale.

“Why does he call you Ivy anyway?”

“It’s my English name.”

“That’s cute. You must be special.” You wiggle your brows at her and then a sneeze interrupts your teasing, followed by her giggle as she pushes you into the backseat of the uber.

“Very cute. Now go rest and if you need anything don’t hesitate to text me.” She urges a warning in her gaze that displays her sincerity and perhaps you are a lot sicker than you thought or maybe your head hurts a lot more than when you first woke up because a very strange ache to pout and cry like a child almost takes over you.

Deep down within all the regrets and the shame you keep locked away, a strand of guilt remains there at all the times you were mean to her before. A part of you wishes you could blame your foolishness on the declining state of your health.

“Thank you.” you tell her, and you think Soojin sees through it all and you think she knows you’re about to cry so in the next moment she’s slamming the door shut and points to her ears with her index finger.

“I can’t hear you!” her voice is muffled by the glass of the window and it’s more than ample room for your chuckles to fill the car and gains you a strange look from your uber driver.

On your way home a gentle rain grazes the rooftops across the city, and the sky remains gray even when you’re inside your apartment. You change your clothes and sneak into your very comfortable warm pajamas. You sniffle as you brew your close to 50th cup of green tea this week. Silence fills every corner and despite your throbbing body you realize you’re not sure what to do if you’re not working.

You have been working for as long as you remember, have taken up part-time jobs as soon as you were conscious enough to digest the fact that money was everything. Especially in your case so you always remembered to suck it up. Even when you were sixteen waiting tables in a shitty diner and your boss had thrown inappropriate comments your way daily. You sucked it up. and sure, you have had days off and you have fallen sick before, but it’s been so long. That you feel like a stranger in your apartment when it’s light outside, when your body knows you should be working.

That, accompanied by the fact that the silence gives voice to your thoughts, for your anxiety to bloom and before you gain enough power to shut it down you have already dived into them. Your mind drifting to all the events you have been too busy to think about.

Niki.

Jake

Niki

Jake

Niki.

You rub the sides of your head with your fingers and then you’re taking your hot cup of tea into your living room. You sit on your couch with a groan at the throb persisting in your limbs. You reach for your phone and take small sips of your tea when you dial the number of your friend.

“Thick or regular?” Heeseung asks as soon as he picks up your call.

“Uh-“ you blink at the black screen of your tv “What are we talking about exactly?”

“Soy sauce.” He answers, the voice of strangers around him gives away his crowded surroundings.

“I didn’t even know there’s such thing as thick soy sauce.”

“Apparently thickness is taking over the world. That’s why bbls are a thing yn.” you snort.

“Maybe you should consider getting one.” A clear offended gasp from Heeseung cuts through and for a moment you would think you have insulted the entirety of his family tree.

“Okay I’m surrounded by soy sauce and you’re talking about how flat my ass is I’m so overwhelmed right now.” The gravity coating every word of his has you bursting out in laughter “It’s not like I’m getting backshots soon.” He adds and you choke on your laughter, your tea almost burns the skin of your thigh if you aren’t careful enough.

“I will be the one doing backshots,” you can almost hear the prideful smirk in his voice.

“Okay moving on from you and your shots.” You snort sounding somewhere between disgusted and petrified “Are you at the supermarket?” you ask, placing your cup on the table and adjusting your legs on the couch.

“Yeah. I forgot to make an order of Soy Sauce for the restaurant, so my dad is punishing me by making me go buy some.”

“You seem to be having fun so is it really a punishment?” you chuckle, leaning your head against one of the pillows and for a moment your headache subsides for a bit. Heeseung hums an agreement.

“What’s up with you? you sound like shit.” He asks after a few beats of silence.

“Thanks, I only heard that like ten times today.”

“Are you sick?”

“Probably. I’m really overwhelmed right now too.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Unalloyed concern clads his tone, and you sink into quietness for a few seconds before sighing.

“I’m honestly still really worried about Niki.” You mumble.

“What did that fucker do?” The sound of a child crying rises in the background and your head slightly pounds at the noise.

“Nothing. I’m just worried about him. I know he said he’s gonna retake his tests, but he has never failed anything in his life Hee.” You lie flat on your back and the sound of crying grows louder “Never. Even when he was in and out of hospitals so I can’t help but worry about him.” You add.

“Yeah I know – hold on-“ there’s shuffling on the other line. Heeseung’s voice grows a tad further but still coherent enough for you to hear “Hey can you stop being a little bitch?” The sound of crying abruptly stops and you blink rapidly at your ceiling with attempts to make sense of what’s going on.

“Or go fucking cry and be a little bitch in a different aisle.” He adds and then there’s an unsettling silence. It doesn’t last long, and it’s interrupted by a loud wail followed by an ear piercing “MOM!!”

“Kids these days am I right?” Heeseung says, voice clearer and tone nonchalant.

“Heeseung did you just call a kid a little bitch?”

“Yeah. Anyways back to Niki,” you open and close your mouth a handful of times, closer to speechless but then you’re shaking your heard with reminders that this is Heeseung and at this point in your lives it’s little that surprises you with him.

“Yeah anyways. I was wondering if you know anything about what's going on with him? Maybe he felt comfortable talking to you about it.”

“Not really. He’s been acting the same too.” He replies and you faintly exhale. Feeling a little defeated and lost with what to do with your worry “If you’re that worried about his grades dropping, I can talk to him about doing less shifts at the restaurant until his exams are over.” He adds with a hum, seeming a bit absentminded “I don’t know if he’ll be happy about it though.”

You try to let his words permeate your mind with inhuman effort and as you tilt your head at nothing in particular it takes you 10 seconds to comprehend what he just said. You sit up with confusion and then shock pushing you forward.

“Hold on,” you suck in a breath and your brows scrunch “What do you mean shifts? He’s been working at the restaurant?”

“Shit yeah. it’s been a while now. You didn't know?”

“What the fuck? No I didn't know. Why would you give him a job Hee? You know his body can’t handle it.” you berate, frustration woven in your tone.

“I don’t fucking know bro. he told me he needed the money, so I gave him one.”

“Did he tell you what he needed the money for? He has been selling his paintings online why would he need more money out of nowhere.” You run your hand through your hair tiredly, your body growing hot and you aren’t sure if its irritation manifesting in your veins or a fever.

“I really don’t know yn.” Heeseung sighs on the other line “But either way I’ll talk to him when he comes into work later. Don’t worry.”

“That would be good, thank you.” you reply, not worrying is an impossible task.

“Of course.”

“I’ll talk to him about everything properly once I’m over this cold or whatever it is. I don’t want him to get sick.” You say falling back onto the couch and stretching your legs. They weigh heavy and your heart feels heavier in your chest.

“Yeah, you better rest for now. I’ll talk to you later and text me if you need anything.”

“Okay.”

As soon as you hang up, your anxiety seems to have doubled, Like ghosts swarming by your feet and slowly it feels like they’re taking over every cell of your essence. A strand of penitence comes to life in the midst of it all and you can’t help but wonder if perhaps were negligent of Niki due to how messy your life has been these past few months. Did you not pay enough attention to his struggles? How long has it been and when did he ever need anything and didn’t feel comfortable to tell you? Was there a stretching distance between you that you hadn’t noticed?

The thought is terrifying to you, it shakes you from within and when you check the time on your phone, it feels like it hasn’t moved ever since you stepped foot into your apartment. You close your eyes with a shuddered breath

Somewhere along the worries plaguing your mind like permanently sharpened needles and your hands digging for solution you manage to doze off on your couch. Curled with your knees held to your chest and wrapped with your arms. You aren’t sure how long you slept. It’s long enough for the rain to subside and short enough for the gray clouds to remain. The sky, mystified by the lack of light and night, is yet to unfurl.

The only reason that’s strong enough to pull you out of your sleep is the sound of your doorbell reverberating through your walls. And at first you think it’s a part of your dream but you’re picking apples and they’re crispy red and shiny but there’s a dying fish by your feet and who the fuck is at your door?

You open your eyes with a croaky groan. Your head pounds with an even worse migraine and your stomach is clenching in excruciating building nausea. You sit up and if you thought you felt awful earlier then it’s nothing compared to this. Like every bone in your body is aching and your fingers itch with an urge like sneaking through your flesh and squeezing tight.

Your doorbell rings again and this time it’s repeated, wrapped in evident panic at the lack of response from you and you finally decide to move. Shuffling to your door and maybe you are still in a hazy dream because as soon as you open your door Jake is standing there. Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that has you blinking into reality. His hair is undone, falling over his eyes naturally and his skin glimmers just the same. He looks like he just showered, and you almost don’t recognize him in his plain white sweatshirt topped with a brown jacket and jeans.

You eye him scrutinizingly, taking note of the two plastic bags he’s carrying.

“Jake? What are you doing here?” your voice is shattered, tinted by the remnant of your sleep and then confusion.

“Yn.” he exhales as if he’s relieved, he’s not stumbling upon your corpse and instead you’re alive “Jay told me you were sick and I was gonna send you some stuff but uh – “ he speaks hastily, hand scratching at the back of his neck and eyes fleeing from you and his words almost as scattered as your thoughts and perhaps that’s why it feels like you don’t understand anything he’s saying. His gaze finds you and he clear his throat. Almost like he falters at your silence.

You must be really sick or still dreaming.

“Anyways are you okay?” He asks hastily yet gently, and he remains gentle in the way his voice infiltrates your being, benign in the way he looks at you as his gaze darts over your figure and then they linger on the discomfort painting your features. It has his own brows furrowing deeper with growing concern.

He tells himself he shouldn’t be this panicked – this nervous. Shouldn’t let it show so obviously, clearer than the gray skies. Albeit he had practiced every word he wanted to say to you, all the excuses he was ready to spill upon finding his way to your home. Uninvited and perhaps unwelcome. For fuck’s sake he thinks he bought the entirety of the small convince store close to your apartment building and there’s embarrassment brewing in his blood, his excuses withering at the tip of his tongue the deeper your discomfort seep into your face.

And no words of his permeates your mind strong enough and instead all you could think about is your head is pounding, and you need to sit down or bash it against the wall. It’s solely why you don’t say anything back and instead turn around in search of relief.

“Yn.” Jake calls with scattered disconcertment as he follows you inside, the plastic bags are a hassle, and he curses himself yet remembers to close the door behind him and his voice echoes through your mind and your living the room when he calls again “Bunny.”

You sit down on your previous spot on your couch, the room is darkened by your blinds and when you bury your head in the palms of your hands it’s not quick enough for you to not witness Jake kneeling in front of you with no hesitation, his bags abandoned on the floor as if he hadn’t spent wasting minutes on deciding what to get, what’s best for you. he doesn’t touch you and his hand hovers awkwardly above your back and yet you swear you could feel its heat as if he is touching you.

“Bunny what’s wrong? Are you dizzy?” his voice betrays an unsubdued concern almost frantic, and you deny his question with a shake of your head.

“Can you talk to me? I wanna be able to help you okay?” He gently coaxes and you keep quiet because you could still sense his hand hovering, and you wonder why can’t his hand be as gentle “Can you tell me what you’re feeling? Mhm?” he suggests once again.

“My head hurts so bad.” You whimper and it feels so silly, the urge percolating into you to cry. It’s the type of pain that makes you wish you could peel your skin off. Abandon your skull somewhere.

“Okay.” He stands up and you peer up at him through your palms and he’s looking around as if he’s trying to decide what he should do next. Evidently nervous as he runs his hand through his hair “Painkillers. I’ll get you some painkillers.” And then he’s walking towards one of the bags he was carrying, digging through them with seemingly no avail as he curses under his breath.

“Fucking hell how did I forget to buy painkillers?” He berates himself, digging into the second bag only to end with failure. “Do you have any painkillers?” He asks looking up at you and the sight of you on your couch huddled up in pain even if it’s something as minor as a mere headache sends the same ache dripping from your fingertips and nestling its way right to the middle of his chest, digging and digging.

He doesn’t wait for your answer and seconds pass by and then you hear him rummaging through the cabinets of your kitchen. His search doesn’t last long thanks to the painkillers you had left on the counter this morning with complementation. You feel his presence and there’s a glass of water in his hand.

“This will make you feel better. Come on bunny.”

He’s standing in front of you again and weirdly enough the way he speaks as if the autumn sunlight is in his voice rather than the cruel winter outside makes you feel vulnerable and when he offers comfort in the palm of his hand, places the glass of water on the table you could only manage to shake your head once again with denial.

“I’m really nauseous and I don’t feel like I could take anything right now without throwing up.” You complain with a snivel and your tone breaks as if you’re about to shed tears and Jake feels it hit him in the pit of his stomach. It’s uncomfortable and unjust because despite how scratched and heavy his heart is your pain still manages to nip at him in different places. As if there’s no way for him not to feel you.

You leer at him and your eyes are misty, you see his hands clench then unclench by his sides and you imagine he’s fighting against restraints to not touch you. His teeth sink into his bottom lips, his fingers dig crescents into the tender skin of his palm. And you wonder how a feeling as tender manages to suffuse within you. You wonder how your mind finds room amidst the pain to fantasize about him when he is right in front of you.

But then Jake is kneeling right by your knees once again and your eyes widen only slightly when he replaces your hands with his. Pressing his thumbs into your temples.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh. Doing this helps me with my headaches sometimes.” He explains and you shut your eyes when he applies light pressure with his fingers. And yet you are overly aware of how wavering you persist to be.

You’re unsure if you’re dizzy because your body is catching up to how weary you feel or because he’s suddenly so close. Close enough to feel his breath hit your face, the pads of his fingers are rough and yet contrastingly warm and it’s been so long since he touched you.

“Is there anything else that’s hurting you?” He asks – whispers delicately - after a few moments of silence with only the sound of your intermingled breaths.

“My body hurts too.” You reply – whisper back just as delicately - and you can’t fight against the small pout jutting your bottom lip out. You think if you were in the right state of mind, you’d be cringing at how dramatic you’re acting.

“Thankfully you don’t seem to be having a fever.” The swipes of his thumbs circle your skin soothingly “You’ll be okay.” He reassures, applying harder pressure every now and then. For a fleeting moment you aren’t sure if he’s trying to comfort you or himself.

“I have you.” it’s a faint whisper. Barely inaudible and for a different fleeting moment it feels like a lie your sick mind had conjured up to feed your thirsting heart. The same fragile heart that pulsates against your ribcage and you don’t want it to be a lie or a heedless imagination.

“Do you promise?” you childishly ask, and Jake lets out a breathy chuckle that tickles your face. You open your eyes, and they prance around his. The chuckle that has melted onto a small smile slowly disappears from his face and you don’t know what kind of expression you’re wearing, what kind of mask you should be hiding behind.

“I promise.” He replies and you sigh because you don’t know if he means that you’ll be okay or that he’s got you, but you hold onto the latter. With clutches roughened by the selfishness of your own longing and shut your eyes with silly covets like not unveiling it.

It’s only when enough time has passed for your body to relax. No longer tense shoulders and shuddered breaths. Instead, the tranquil silence that has settled right between you two settles in the depths of your chest just the same as Jake speaks;

“Better?” He asks.

“Mhm.”

“Do you think you could try taking the painkiller now?”

“Yeah.” you clear your throat, pushing your eyes to open when his hands abandon your skin, and you wish you lied.

Even for a bit longer as he hands you the pills, he had picked up earlier followed by water that you chug diligently and it’s only when your glass is empty that you exhale. Wiping at the corner of your mouth at the few straying drops. He eyes you tentatively when you look up at him.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” His eyebrows furrow in clear confusion.

“For troubling you. Being a burden. I don’t know.” you slightly wince, eyes shifting somewhere else before catching his yet again and he abides unremitting.

“You’re not a burden bunny.” You can sense there’s more that linger at the tip of his tongue, and you wait “I’m here because I was worried about you.” he finishes and your cheeks splash with pink evoked to steal his attention by your pale face.

“Does your body still hurt?” He asks when you’re quiet for far too long, with running gazes and nerves colored hands and pretends he didn’t feel his face burning up at his confession.

“A bit.” You answer, scratching at your wrist and clearing your throat “Can you hand me my laptop, please?” you ask, pointing somewhere behind him and he raises a displeased eyebrow at you.

“For what?”

“There’s a couple of stuff I need to get done.”

“Like what? What’s so important that you need to do now?”

“Bills. Rent is due soon and there’s Yeonjun’s car fees. I was gonna do them earlier but I ended up falling asleep.” You explain, rubbing your forehead warily and the space between his brows deepen with confusion.

“Car fees?” he questions and you nod as if he’s supposed to understand “yeah I need to pay him. I need my laptop.” You move to stand up and your head is spinning a bit but you don’t get to make it far before his hands are on your shoulders pushing you to sit back down and then Jake is on his knees again, chasing after your eyes with a tilt of his head.

You wish he wouldn’t kneel so easily, as if he won’t swallow your heart up and flee.

“Are they urgent?” He asks tenderly and your chest tightens as if there isn’t enough room for your breaths to leave.

“No but I have to do them right now.” You insist with a shaky voice when his hands cradle your face with loving forbearance, one that has you feeling languid.

“Shh, you don’t need to do anything right now, okay?” he reassures as if you were panicked and perhaps you were, you aren’t sure if it’s because of your lack of work or simply because Jake is in the same space as you and you aren’t sure how to act without vomiting words lodged at the back of your throat.

I've missed you so much that I've been naming the stars in the sky after you.

“You’re on sick leave for a reason. Your body needs rest.” His thumb swipes at your cheek and his face is within centimeters of yours “You can do all of these things tomorrow or whenever you feel better, okay?” you let a shuddered breath out and for a second it feels like looking away from him is unobtainable, not when his gaze glints with golden specks, ones that feels like they are reserved for you.

“Okay.” You whisper back, overtaken by defeat and perhaps you never stood a chance.

“Good.” He grins, overtaken by triumphant.

Strands of his black hair fall over his face, and you don’t think you have ever felt this much envy towards anything aside from a human being. Your fingers itch on your lap with temptation to push it out of the way yet you hold yourself back, despite the lure entangled in every move he makes. You are too aware of the distance, too aware of the space you shouldn’t cross, and you will enough power not to slip again.

You fall into silence with purpose, mainly because you feel like a cuddled child and yet you have this growing fear inside of you. It slithers its path to your flickering glances, right into the skin of his palms as he strokes your cheeks. You’re so awfully scared of splitting yourself open, baring your insides and submitting your soul to disaster.

“How about I run you a bath?” He suggests with a slight hum, and you shake your head when his hands trail to your knees.

“No.”

“Why not? It will help you feel better.”

“I don’t really wanna move right now.” As if to prove your point you lie down on the couch, your hair spread like a halo around you and although the room is enveloped in darkness, and everything falls into one color he swears he could almost see the sunrays infiltrating through your strands. its warmth travels to him and he almost want to spread his arms wide open to welcome it.

And perhaps it is enough force to coaxes his smile to rise – his eyes sink into excruciating benevolence and there you are stumbling yet again. Unable to look away from him, not when he’s everything you wish to behold. It pushes you into folding your desire into itself. Tucking it into the space none of you dare to take.

“Weren’t you just fine moving a second ago to get your laptop?”

“That’s different.” You argue with a shrug, making no attempts to further strengthen your point.

“It will be warm, and it will help with soothing the ache in your body.” He says, try to persuade you with a hum and the air tastes fragile, enticing you with an ache to bury your face in the middle of his chest and sing a melody of your name into it, tattoo your name into the canvas of his soul, or maybe it’s you.

“My ache is fine actually, thank you.”

“Oh yeah? is that why your legs are shaking?” he arches a brow at you, smile tilting upwards as if they’re claiming to reach for the stars and you look down at your body, haven’t realized the slight tremble wrecking through it.

“That’s because I’m cold.”

Wordlessly he shrugs off his brown jacket and places it over your lower body, covering your legs and it provides little to no warmth but the scent of laundry detergent engulfs your being. It waters your fervent longing back to the surface. Drowning you in it and you wish to drown in everything that makes up Jake. You didn’t know you could miss someone when they’re right in front of you and you didn’t quite grasp how hard it is to shake the hallucinating thoughts of him – where touching him isn’t forbidden and looking at him comes easily – without threats for your words to spill.

“What about you?” you mumble, pointing at his thin , almost see through sweatshirt.

“I can handle the cold just fine.” He retorts “You know what would help you warm up though? A bath.”

“I’m gonna feel cold as I undress to get into the bathtub.”

“I’ll make it really warm to make up for the few minutes of coldness you’re gonna feel.” He counteracts with a chuckle emerging from his lips and landing right in the middle of your heart. You’re quiet, as if you’re contemplating his words and he thinks he won as your eyes flit elsewhere – he misses you.

“What if the water is too hot it burns my skin?” you ask, softly and yet seriously enough for him to feel the same feeling welling in the pit of his stomach again – as if a flower is fighting its way to bloom through cracks of sorrow and he isn’t sure how to deal with it.

The sunrays, the flowers and the sorrow. He won.

“I’ll make sure nothing like that happens to you.” he replies, just as softly as tender as gingerly. And it’s unfair because you feel your heart palpitate at his mere existence and you already know he won the minute he stepped foot in here.

“How about this,” he straightens, pushes his hair away from his face and you’re envious at his hands and grateful all at once for granting you a clearer glimpse to his features “I’ll go run the bath. Make sure everything is perfect for you and then if you still feel like you don’t want to go in, you don’t have to, okay?”

You don’t think you’re brave enough to accept his kindness as it is. You will always manage to find different facets of it. Dress it in the intensity of affection and stare at his smile as if spilled lullabies are woven to call for their home – within your soul.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

He shushes you and when he stands up, his hand lingers above your head. His own urges – hankerings to brush through your hair betray themselves in the flicker of light in his gaze so you cowardly look away because you’re scared of betraying your burning heart in yours. Scared of being rejected and falling between the walls of whys. 

“I’ll be back.” He whispers, flown away and you could still smell the rain on your skin.

Your house – a small apartment is the complete opposite of his. He never was into the intricacies of home décor. Hence why the space of his home remains plain and simple. His own touches of life lacking and the only thing close to boisterous are his forget me nots and the painting that somehow managed to lead back to you.

You, however, stay lively with scattered hanged pictures of Japan across the walls. And your dessert shaped candles, your bathroom smells like Sakura petals, and you manage to inject your love into everything you surround. He thinks he likes it here.

He’s gone for two minutes only; the bath is half full when you peak your head through the door of your own bathroom. Your hair is disheveled, and his jacket is now around your shoulders.

“Changed your mind?” He asks with a grin that churrs your insides.

“The thought of a bath didn’t seem so bad after all.” You answer as you step inside. You take a seat on the closed toilet seat and watch as Jake reads the back label of your pink bubble bath soap, his nose scrunches a little too adorably as if he is displeased of what it contains. Your heart warms at the sight and he still pours a generous amount of it into the tub, filling it with bubbles and then he follows it with your bodywash.

The scent of vanilla overtakes the Sakura.

“This smells just like you.”

“It is my bodywash after all.”

“I like it.” He says, eyes drifting to the water as he tests the temperate with his hands. How I smell or merely the scent? you want to ask but you don’t.

When the water is warm and full. He trudges towards you, his cheeks are slightly pink due to the heat and there’s a soft smile dispersing across his lips with coated fondness. It steals your breath away when he’s leaning down and taking off your socks for you. You slightly flinch with a bout of embarrassment.

“Y-You don’t have to do this Jake.” You fumble diffidently, with your words and your racing heart.

“I know.” He looks up at you “I want to. Am I making you uncomfortable?” He questions throwing your socks to the side. You’re left to wonder how you are supposed to accept his integrity, his attentiveness, the unfair ability to have you wavering on this warmth of his.

“No.” you admit, with a rattled breath and perhaps the tilt of his lips is worth it.

“Can I?” He still asks when his hands reach for the buttons of your pajama top, you shrug his jacket off and nod with a burning face.

Silence rushes in unwelcomed, and your keep your gaze downcast. watch as his fingers seemingly slower than you wish unbutton every single one. Your heart picks up speed with each one and breathing grows harder when your eyes dart towards his and yet still vacillating. Because it is not lust that fetters the air but rather something that feels much more intimate. Like exchanging words between your gazes that your tongue will not be able to match.

And it stays even when you’re finally in the bathtub. Encircled by a familiar scent, warmth and Jake at the edge of your tub. The water is as pleasant as he promised, and your body relaxes.

“Just call for me if you need anything, alright?”

Suddenly you’re inundated with a colossal amount of disappointment at being left alone. Your eyes shifting, fingers picking at the surface of your tub.

“Alright, bunny?” He asks again and maybe it is your tiresome tinting all logical thinking that you should have but then you’re shaking your head, kicking your pride to the side.

“What if I need something but I can’t call for you?” stupid, stupid yearning.

Jake looks perplexed for a few seconds, but his expression is softened by a fond smile. He had broken hearts before – not intentionally. And he never was the man to listen to others strives to grasp for his affectionate. And yet in this moment, he’d rather have you break his heart than refuse what your eyes are seeking.

“I’ll just stay then.” He tells you, tender and you’re shy. Cheeks glowing pink and he feels his fondness for you trickle into his blood and it bumps faster, rougher through his veins when you catch his gaze.

You lean back into the tub with your lips slightly tilting, pushing the entirety of your hair to the side. The ends swim alongside you and stray rivulets of water slips down your neck. Catching his gaze as it lingers for a minute too long on the necklace that’s always there.

It's just you, unadulterated with the weather outside and draped with effulgence as he always knew you to be. And it’s him, without the echoes of all his doubtful battles. Perhaps he managed to empty his mind in the water and your necklace – his – remains around your neck even when you’re bare. It’s like you’re wearing him, and he likes to think he’s woven into the fabric of your soul.

He looks away for a spilt second, a puff of a chuckle forces its way past his lips.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head to the side with a growing smile and God – you’re breathtaking.

“I just had a stupid thought.” He shakes his head, and the water slightly splashes when you move closer to him.

“Tell me.” you say, and he thinks you’re too tangled in his soul.

“It just feels like it’s been a while since we looked at each other.” He says softly “But we see each other every day so it’s stupid.” He continues and recognition fills your eyes like you know exactly what he means.

“It’s not stupid.” you reply, and you are too tangled in his soul “I have actual stupid thoughts all the time. And you know it.”

“They’re extraordinary, I wouldn’t call them stupid.”

“That’s just a nicer way of saying I’m stupid.” You retort with a playful snort; your smile remains soft.

“Shut up you’re not stupid.” He insists and a comparable softness traverse in his irises and it pushes you right into quietness.

You never were one for silence. Because silence is uncomfortable and it’s vast with its weight. It vocalizes everything you’ve been trying to evade all day, perhaps all week or maybe it’s been long enough to be called months. However, right now it doesn’t feel like that. It’s akin to placid waters, your reflection comes back crystalline clear rather than distorted.

“You’re the last person I expected it to see today if I’m being honest.” You speak after stretching minutes of none of you saying anything, fingers drawing star shapes into the water and his eyes watch you with faithful attention.

“What would have you done if I wasn’t here?” He doesn’t ask why, and you wonder if he knows or is merely uninterested.

“Probably become one with my couch until I felt better.” You shrug and he shakes his head with a tsk of disapproval. For an odd reason a knot forms in your stomach, impossibly tight and the skin of your neck ignites in flame. You tell yourself you’re growing too hot and that’s it.

“I wish you took care of yourself the way you take care of others.” He says, candor embraces every syllable with ease. A similar knot forms in the middle of your tongue. Deeming it useless. There is no peace in confessing that you aren’t sure how to do that. Not when you have spent a lifetime with amiability directed at anyone but yourself.

“I don’t think I know how to do that.” There’s no peace in confessing yet you still do it. Perhaps you were tired of trying to light a matchstick that refuses to obey, his eyes mellow down into nothing but adoration.

Was there a point in trying to save someone that refuses to be saved?

But Jake hasn’t been acting like himself. Following his impulses blindly, it’s evoked by the callings of his heart, yearning to be near so he showed up to your door like there’s room for him. He touched you like he wasn’t made from poison and he can scour through every rational thought but they’re all adjudged futile against the softness that is you.

“I’m here now.” He says, I’m here to take care of you, you hear.

The enormity of his desire disgusts him, it’s a craving beyond his flesh and it’s unjust. I’ll shape myself into something that’s worth taking care of you, he means.

“You have been working hard, your body is probably upset with you.” He adds when you’re quiet, eyes darting over your dubious figure and he thinks your cheeks have drained the colors from the world, they’re pink and the sky is gray.

He’s unworthy but it’s a great honor to think he’s the reason why.

“Tell that to my boss.” You joke and Jake narrows his eyes at you.

“I actually heard your boss is super nice,”

“Did you now?”

“Uh huh, super nice and handsome too. Ripped body. Killer smile. I could go on forever. Really.” He trails, lowering his fingers one by one and you roll your eyes with a forced giggle tumbling out your lips, one that you cannot seem to be able to hold back.

“Who’s feeding you these lies? Jay?”

“So, you don’t agree that I’m handsome?”

“Beauty is subjective.”

“Is that a no?” a look of faux offense clambers over his face and your giggle uprears in volume, grows further from fatigue and closer to how you usually sound. You pretend to zip your mouth shut, raising palms in surrender as if you can’t help it.

A deeper umbrage takes claim on his face, and he attempts to splash water at you, you turn your head with a laugh, and he sees Sakura petals bloom across your face, they come from within, watered by you.

“In all seriousness,” he itches closer to you. and your smile melts off your face at the sudden propinquity it has your body engulfed in heat that isn’t provided by the bath. His fingers trail underwater, and when his eyes catch yours, they’re soaked with softness and your reflection is so clear. when his fingers graze yours, they fail to intertwine, and your heart is beating so fast you feel like you could throw It up.

“You’re doing a good job, bunny.” Your eyes soften as marginally, you bring your knees up to your chest. Attempts to hide the joy that overtakes your sentiment – the warmth that caresses your heart. You allow yourself to bask in it and a faint voice whispers in your heart;

You have managed to stumble on a lost star – he shines so brightly and burns just as bright. And he calls for you in a sea of flesh.

“You’re doing a good job too, Jake.” He smiles and your mind careens.

“Tell that to my assistant.”

This time it’s you who splashes him with water and this time it’s him who laughs like the world shrinks into nothing but you and him in the middle of your small bathroom. And you smile like your heart has never known pain, but you don’t tell him that you didn’t let the water get to him on purpose, and you don’t show him that love writes itself in the corners of your face.

“Shall I help you wash your hair?” He asks when his laughter had died down and the glint in his eyes shines brighter.

“You don’t have to.”

At your answer he’s already getting up, hands reaching for your bottle of shampoo. When he’s behind you, hands entangled in your hair. You bury your face in your knees with a profound urge to weep taking over your sensitive heart. It’s foolishly emerging from the fog of your confusion at the reminder that you don’t remember the last time someone cared for you this deeply, this tenderly. And there’s unavoidable loneliness at the thought, there’s melancholy in the feeling, knowing that this tenderness is temporary.

No matter how selfishly you hope for it to last. Your mind is a battlefield, haunted by touches of love. Stories upon stories stitched together by great ardor. You have seen it all around you, in movies, written in pages of a novel and in ending relationships your friends had gone through – none of them are yours.

“Bunny I can’t wash your hair if you’re leaning that far off.” Jake comments with a chuckle.

You keep quiet, too embarrassed to cry over something as inevitable as Jake leaving. Too ashamed of the covetous ache brimming in your blood. You have tried to discard it, but you aren’t sure how are you supposed to drain your blood without kneeling into death.

Jake follows your silence. Maybe he thinks you’re stubbornly childish, maybe he thinks you’re teasing him or maybe he sees it through it all and your weakness is unabashed and it’s a glaring red siren coaxing him into the complexity of your essence. You don’t see him, but you feel him moving behind you, the sound of a lid uncapping and then his hands are on your back with lathered soup, vanilla fills the empty spaces of silence.

His hands aren’t soft against your skin, they’re rough, washed raw and dry. You could almost distinguish every scar that embellishes them, the healing ones, old ones you haven’t been there to witness taint his skin. His sadness – unrelenting guilt is unabashed, and you never knew such callous hands could be this gentle.

It’s another stupid thought – but maybe there’s room for something to belong to you.

When the sun sets outside. The lights in your hallway stay the same. While Jake takes an alarmingly long time to wash his hands. Long enough for enervation to sink deeper into your bones, it drains the color from your face. and it transpires itself into imaginary leg cuffs around your ankles making your movement closer to a harder task than breathing.

You somehow feel even more tired, dragged further down the hole of sickness.

“You okay?” He asks when he finds you in your bedroom, sitting on your velvet vanity chair and clothed in your robe. Your hair is slightly damp and the colors of the sun leaving seeps in through the openings of your curtains.

“Just a little tired.” You answer, throwing a glance at his direction and it leaves him wondering – perhaps for days – how you manage to look like you stepped out of the painting of his dreams.

In his dreams, his heart isn’t as filthy and merging into you isn’t as fearful.

In reality, he clears his throat and steps into your room, inhales your perfume and envelopes his filthy heart with faux courage.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Mhm.” You lean your head back onto his chest when he’s standing behind you. He conceals his surprise with immense force, not fast enough for the betrayal of his slightly widened eyes. cinnamon and vanilla overtake his senses, your face is doused in exhaustion and his mind is fuzzy.

“Not yet.” He inhales you.

“We’ll need to get some food in your system, yeah?” He whispers and you hum, eyes falling shut when he tentatively brushes his fingers through your hair “We’ll also need to do something about your hair – can’t have you getting sicker.”

“I don’t feel like doing anything.” You faintly complain, a small pout adorning your lips when you look up at him, the sunset glimmers in your eyes and reality pales in comparison.

“I’ll do it for you.” He replies with an amused grin at the way you’re acting. It gives room for the moon to rise.

You aren’t sure what he means by that – however a long sigh caged in your chest escapes when he starts brushing your hair. He’s extremely gentle, fingers coated in delicacy that you don’t even provide for your own hair. And there’s a peculiar domesticity painting the air. As if this was how everything was meant to unfold. For you to eventually end up here and for him to be behind you through it all.

“I never thought that the Jake Sim would be good at braiding hair.” You comment lightly when he starts sectioning your hair, he catches your eyes in the mirror.

“My mum taught me.” he mumbles, eyes returning to his work and seeming completely focused on your hair “I used to braid her hair for her all the time.”

“That’s really sweet.” You reply with a lowered tone – a hushed softness and Jake is quiet for a few moments. You think his words die here but then he speaks again.

“I vividly remember how each time the braid grew smaller and smaller because she kept losing so much hair.” His words flow as easy as autumn breeze, bittered by the winter as if the image is still fresh in his head. Rather than a distant memory. It’s an image that still glides throughout his reality.

“She always joked that it’s better this way. That it’s easier for me to braid.” He chuckles but it lacks life, joy, and his eyes deepen with distant – longing and your heart tightens, brows slightly furrowing at his undeniable grief.

I’m sorry. Lingers at the tip of your tongue but you’re well aware that’s not the kind of words that will bring him peace. It won’t ease his pain or lessen the depth of his sadness – anger. You’re well aware not to act upon the urges clashing inside of you. truthfully you want to know everything about him. The thoughts that invade his mind at night, in the mornings and right now when he’s dozing off with pieces of you in between his fingers.

What is he like when his anger isn’t restrained – what is he like when he’s not bottling everything up and what would it be like to peek into his sorrowful river. You don’t give room for yourself to decipher the cause of this urge. You know it’s not trivial curiosity, but rather the desire to peer into the corners of his souls. Like a book you wish to read, your fingers itching. Yet you manage to hold yourself back. You smile and night has painted the sky.

“She sounds like a lively woman.”

“She is.” He says absentmindedly while his hands braid the ends of your hair “She was.” He corrects in a fleeting second “She was the type of person to find happiness even on the darkest and gloomiest days.”

Jake’s lament displays itself in the floods of his existence with no shame. There’s softness twined in his gaze; one that appears naturally at the mention of a person he holds so dearly to his heart, yet the bitterness abides part of it all. It’s a wound that had yet to stop aching in pain, to stop bleeding. He doesn’t know why he tells you all this and doesn’t know how the words slipped out of his mouth but his eyes stumble upon yours there’s not a single cell of regret in his body.

You don’t look at him with pity nor sympathy. Jake had showed off his scars to you and you still look at him like it’s just – him. Not his shame, or grief. His existence had always felt like a garden of black and red agonies. Had seen it tickle down his cheeks with rivulets of his sorrow, witnessed the blood seep out his fingers and drench the ground with every step he takes. But you’re there, in the midst of it all and you’re not looking at him with disdain. Instead, you flourish with ease, as if he isn’t made of prickling thorns.

“I’m sure she’s still watching over you, proudly.” You tell him with a fragile smile, and it shouldn’t shake his soul the way it does. He looks away with a slight tremble in his hand. A labored breath and he can’t say anything back to you. You don’t look at him as shame or grief and he can’t let you look at him as his regret, his guilt.         

Jake is made up of a garden tainted with black and red agonies – his remorse remains a master of it all. He doesn’t find enough courage to come face to face with the fact that it’s not that. That if his mother knew, if you knew how he lived his life. Glory has no place to exist. So, instead he grins and ties your hair for you.

“All done.”

“Wow! it’s really well done actually.” You say, bringing your hair to the front and staring at it, between your hands. A pang of ache nestles its way into his stomach and it’s peculiar to feel like you’re holding a piece of him so delicately.

“it’s just one of my many talents.” He quips and you giggle slightly.

You keep your eyes glued to your hair and he senses something shifting in your eyes and your lips cast downwards faster than he’d like. He senses a realization in you unfold as your brows start to furrow.

“My mom,” you speak suddenly and then you’re looking at him, a smile doused in sorrow similar to his is on your face “my mom never really taught me anything.” You murmur like a confession pulled from the depths of your soul. For a moment he thinks he sees your scars too, they’re raw and have yet to stop bleeding, he thinks he tastes your heartache on your tongue.

It’s bitter and doesn’t belong in you.

“You still turned out wonderful.” He says, every word, tone is inundated with sincerity and your eyes flit to his with purpose to steal his heart. They glimmer and he wonders how envious the moon must be – he wonders if there’s room for him to linger around.

“You don’t have to be nice to me just because I’m sick.” You joke lightly, you ended up baring your insides after all.

“Have I ever lied to you?” He whispers, not colored with amuse like you had hoped.

“No.” you answer, and you think you can’t slip when you have already fallen, and he smiles like he knows he won.

You realize it then – how scary intimacy truly is. Not the one evoked by lust and hunger but this one. The one that saturates the air with vulnerability. Baring your soul with its ugly scratches, your hideous mistakes while blind to everything that’s coming your way.

And he realizes it then – that there’s so much of you he has yet to unveil, he sees parts of you everywhere, in the love you spill into everything you do. And in your so ever called hope. Jake was never optimistic. Life hadn’t given him the privilege to be and somewhere in the darkened nights in his garden he lost the ability to believe in such an intangible thing as hope. So, he wonders why he wishes for your hope to never wither away. He feels this immense urge to peer into your soul, look through the pages of your book.

You open your mouth to say something and the hairs on his body rise in anticipation to listen with devotion. It’s an odd feeling to thirst for someone like this. Not for their body to touch yours or unload accumulated stress through them but rather to intertwine with him, crave for your hand to mesh into them. How selfish it is, to crave someone this bad, as if he has any right to call you his.

Your phone dings multiple times on your vanity, seemingly with messages and your mouth closes, eyes averting and his anticipation is stripped away, overtaken by disappointment at your fleeting attention.

“Sorry,” you mumble, picking up your phone and going through the notifications. Your brows slightly furrow, and he grows hatred for your phone.

“Is everything okay?” he asks at your lingering worry.

“Yeah um,” your fingers move across your screen as you type to a response to whatever stole your gazes from him “Niki is here?” you add and it comes out more as a question colored with bewilderment.

“Did you know he was coming?”

“No,” you lock your phone and stand up “I told him to come up. He wants to talk to me about something.” You explain further, heading towards your closet in search of clothes to wear. You pull a plain thick sweater over your head, hands reaching for a pair of shorts closest to your hand.

The sound of your door unlocking has Jake’s eyes slightly widening at the speed of your brother. Did he fucking teleport to your floor or what?

“Anyways it probably won’t be long so just stay here.” You add and he cocks a brow at your choice of clothing .

“Are you seriously wearing that?” he asks eyes trailing over your figure.

“Yeah, why?”

“You have been complaining about being cold all day and now you’re wearing shorts? Do you want to die?” you blink at him slowly “Change. Wear something warm.” He adds crossing his arms and tone stern unlike how he has been talking to you gently earlier, it’s slightly amusing  and it has your lips twitching upwards.

“Yes boss.” You joke heading for your closet again and he rolls his eye and then your back faces him and you fail to see his smile, it’s adorned with affection.

After changing into thicker pajama pants and gaining a nod of approval from Jake, you make it out to your living room. Niki is on your couch and upon hearing the sound of your steps his eyes shift from the plastic bags on the floor to you. irritation paints his face quickly and you sigh warily.

“What the fuck yn?”

To be continued....

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[zoropookie]

SWEET MELODY

☆ chapter eight — i don't care abt the homeless 🎂

You unlocked the key to your home after returning that night, presence in the air riddled with the absence of your brother.

The door creaked open, being greeted by the familiar scent of old books and a hint of maple in the air, meeting with the faint trace of the cinnamon scented candle you keep buying just because he did.

The silence was oppressing you, especially with how rough the reception was for you. You took slow steps through the corridor, your steps echoing slowly on the floorboards, creaking at every turn. Rancor poured into your eyes like a glass, the main room of the home left exactly how it was for years.

Every article of clothing on the floor, every knickknack and miscellaneous object wasn't moved. You hardly found the strength to go in there yourself, knowing that you wanted it to be a snapshot in time. The blanket you both snuggled into was laying there on the floor, in a halfhearted attempt beforehand to be folded neatly by your brother.

You sighed deeply after taking it in again, feeling your shoulders wrack in defeat, the tears pooling relentlessly. Enveloped in grief, you took a sharp breath in and shook your head, immediately heading towards your room to find the letter.

You panicked to find the letter again, going through every box and every single faded out picture that you could find. Nothing ever worked as well as it did with that letter, a flicker of warmth crashing on your body as anxiety made it's way to your lungs, forcing you to manually breathe.

"Where... where??" You murmured to yourself, almost in whimpers.

In haste, you pulled open drawers, scattered old postcards, flipped through dusty photo albums, taking in a lot of things that just made your heart ache more, but you couldn't stop looking for it. You needed that letter, the only thing you knew could momentarily connect to his thoughts.

Your breathing grew more labored once you trashed your entire floor with the past, each inhalation feeling like a struggle against you. Like there was 8 tons pressing down on your chest, the tears ruthlessly burning against the ducts of your eyes. "Where is it...?" You sobbed out, voice cracking with desperation.

You fell asleep that night, failing to soothe the raw edges of your pain. You were now left with both the painful night you've been through, and a lack of drive for your own profession. You couldn't say which one of those were benefitting you.

It was time for Mona to go herself, if your employees weren't going to bring it up.

She learned a long time ago that if anything was going to be done on her terms, she was going to have it do it herself. The bitter thought of your employees betraying you like this in terms of a business proposal is tragic to her.

She gazed whimsically at the cute setup that the bakery had been decorated with — fairy lights to wrap neatly around the hedge bush for the strays that were left on the floor after taking care of the surrounding foliage. Their soft glow accompanied with the first light of dawn.

Mona sat there in her car with newfound resolve, getting out after taking procedure to hide her face. She opened the doors to the bakery, the golden lights of the early morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long and wide shadows across every seating.

As she noticed two of the workers bustling behind the counter talking about something she had no knowledge about, one of them was arranging a tray of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. The other was decorating a cake.

One of them, with beaming golden eyes, looked up at Mona as he wiped his hands on his apron. "Can I help you?"

She immediately cleared her throat, offering a gentle smile as she candidly lowered the mask below her lips to hover forward. "If you could tell me where (Y/N) (L/N) is, that would be lovely."

At first, the two seemed ready to comply. Until the one with the lighter blue hair raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms to his chest skeptically. "What do you need them for?" He asked, his tone cautious.

Her smile didn't waver. "I have an oncoming appointment with them that hasn't yet been finalized. I figure I come here myself and make sure everything's taken care of. Oh," She looked in between the two, holding a hand out, "I'm sorry for not introducing myself. Mona."

Suddenly, the golden-eyed worker's eyes squinted as if he knew who she was. He was quiet, inspecting her with little intention on pressing her further. "Like from the girl group?"

After a confirming nod from her, he hummed and nodded himself slowly. "Get me an autograph from Xiangling, and I'll tell you government secrets too."

"Deal."

The other's eyes narrowed. "You're such a sellout, Gaming. They're... just prepping banana bread right now."

Gaming's expression softened up, and he nodded. It looked like there were almost hearts in his eyes, easily swayed by yet another temptress. "Sorry for the precaution, Miss Mona~ We'll get our boss right away."

As he left to go fetch you, the other smiled apologetically at Mona. "Sorry...we have to be careful now. Last time we went to go get them for a customer, they started throwing things in their face and shouting for a refund. I told that guy not to get the peanut brittle because of his peanut allergy."

"No worries." She nodded, a small chuckle coming from her lips. "I understand, you guys do great work it seems."

Moments later, you came out from the kitchen, curiosity striking you as you made eye contact with the soon to be client. "What's going on?" You asked softly, eyebrows furrowing. "Were the cupcakes too dense yesterday? I knew they were a little off, but I sold them anyway...I'm so sorry—"

"No!" Mona shot her hands up, "No, no. It's not that. I have some business to do with you. I wanted to come here to discuss it with you, since that's one of the only ways I can get ahold of you directly."

"Oh..." You perked up again, smiling. "Of course...follow me!"

previous ☆ masterlist ☆ next

THERE ARE not many things that can sway your interest ever since the "incident", but in spite of that, you pushed forward. you are now the owner of the biggest bakery chain in your city, consistently seeing couples and catering to them as such. you've been a big host at weddings, events for celebrities, and even a big support for your friends and family. you've even earned yourself a niche following as well by how sweet you are to everybody around you. but, even with your kindness, you don't have a particular spark that keeps you going anymore these days. that is until one of your employees starts suggesting you write love letters to customers who request your services. at first you thought it was a horrible idea that could easily turn into trouble, but that was until you were tasked with writing one to your own (very very famous) ex-boyfriend.

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@feikyuu @tamikahoshiko @kissingkzuha @bbysatoruuu @rvoulte

@kinvasions @kukikoooo @adriannauodi @pumpkincitrus

[anghraine]

Oh, my best friend and I also talked about the unexpected glimpse of the Rancor keeper's grief in ROTJ. I was like, "even a monster can be loved by someone" and we're just ... oh.

Deliberate or not, it's very suitable for ROTJ!

[actual-bill-potts]

Finarfin shifted anxiously, smoothing down the front of his robes. He adjusted his sash. His braid had fallen over one shoulder and he hastily flicked it back, shifting from foot to foot.

Findaráto would emerge, any moment now, his firstborn son firstborn again. Where was he? His eyes strained for any hint of gold against the great dark gates of Mandos.

He and Eärwen had planned carefully every detail of this reunion. Well they had remembered the confusion that had attended the first Returnings of slain Teleri: how a joyous crowd had waited singing outside the gates, and how the newly-emerged Falathrim had flinched and drawn back from the noise, wept at the onslaught of body pressing near to new-formed body.  They had learned quickly to avoid large crowds, and keep the number of greeters to a quiet two or three.

Then there had been the confusion of the first euphoric rush upon the lifting of the Doom. The Great War over, loved ones coming home, and no decree from Finarfin could keep the Noldor who had waited for so long from gathering - until again Elf upon Elf flinched back from loud noises, from unexpected movements, from touch and from crowds. Then they had listened, and now only one or two at a time came to greet their child or parent, spouse or sibling.

When they had received the news, Finarfin and Eärwen had wrangled without rancor over every detail of this reunion. Should both go, or just one? Finarfin had wanted the former, afraid of giving his son offense; but Eärwen grimly recalled how many of those held by Gorthaur the Cruel flinched at first at familiar faces.

"You should go," she had said wearily, "for you departed from him in grief only, and I in deadly anger. I do not want to see my son afraid of me."

"Surely -" Finarfin had begun to protest. Then he stopped. He too had heard the stories from the prisoners they had rescued from Angband: prisoner upon prisoner, from tunnels that seemed to go on forever. He remembered how so many had fallen into despair at the sight of so many Elves, tall and shining: how many former thralls had cried out and begged for mercy at the touch of a friendly hand.

"Very well," he said; and then, tentatively: "are you still angry with him?"

Eärwen smiled at him, tired but there in all her silver glory. "I cannot be. This is a new Age, and one of my children is coming home. I have been angry for so long. I am weary of it."

Then there was the question of clothing. Should Finarfin wear his crown? Should he wear the style that had been the fashion in Findaráto’s youth, and which was now hopelessly out of date? Should they have new clothes made for Findaráto, or bring the old? Would he want to choose them himself? Would he be hungry?

The Returned, they had discovered, often came back full of the sensations they remembered most strongly, until their body reasserted its mastery over memory. Some wept unceasing and could not be comforted for days; some were overmastered by fear and flinched at every touch or motion; and some were simply - hungry, or in pain. And Findaráto, Finarfin and Eärwen remembered from the Lay of Leithian - how they had wept hearing it for the first time! - had been both before he died.

So Finarfin stood now, bareheaded and dressed in the softest robes he could find (he did not want to abrade Findaráto’s new-made skin, in case his son wanted an embrace), carrying a pack with food and water, miruvor and new clothing (soft as water within a tidepool), shoes if Findaráto wanted them, and the desperate hope he and Eärwen had felt when gathering the supplies, that their son would not feel the lack of anything.

There was a whisper, carried on a chill breeze. Finarfin shivered, then stilled as he heard the words: Thy son approaches. In mercy he is released. Live well and walk justly.

So many times he had heard those words spoken to others, presiding over reunions; and each time he had pushed down the desperate longing for his own children, brushed aside his grief-filled wondering: would his own sons come forth again? Would his daughter come home?

Then his mind was wiped clean of all as the shadows about the gate briefly grew lighter, and he caught the glint of gold hair to match his own for the first time in nearly eight hundred years.

All their careful preparations flew out of his head, the pack dropped from his hand with a clatter, and he stood rooted to the spot as first an elegant hand, then knee and foot, and finally Findaráto’s yellow-crowned head melted fully from the shadows and came together to form -

His son. His son! His first child, his beloved son who now stood blinking in the light of Anar, chest rising and falling, eyes falling upon Finarfin -

Finarfin held his breath as Findaráto’s brown eyes met his own. He kept every muscle perfectly still, for he knew if he did not exert the utmost control he would break and sprint for his son, and never let him go again - or else sink to the ground weeping. Findaráto, he thought, Findaráto Ingoldo, my firstborn, we love you, we have missed you so much; and from far away he could feel Eärwen’s spirit crying out the same.

Findaráto took a hesitant step forward, into the light, wavering as he found his balance. Then another. His eyes were very wide.

“Atya?” he said, in the Quenya of his childhood. “Thou art here?”

Finarfin felt his eyes fill, then overflow. Do not alarm him, he scolded himself, but he could not stop. Tears were running down into his cheeks, falling unheeded to the dirt.

“I am here, Findaranya,” he choked out. “Hinya - tyenya -”

Findaráto took another slow step forward. He was only an arm’s length away. This close, Finarfin could see the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. They had always sprung into full force whenever they visited Tirion and the light of Laurelin fell upon his son’s upturned face. Of course Findaráto would have had freckles in Beleriand, where Anar reigned, Finarfin thought, feeling oddly bereft. He reached out a trembling hand, slowly, ready to drop it back to his side in an instant at the slightest flinch.

Findaráto was still; then suddenly he fell to his knees in the dirt. The molten light of Anar lowering in the sky crowned him in fire.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I left thee. Thou wert grieving and alone, and I left thee.”

For an instant only Finarfin was stricken silent; then he knelt beside his son. “No,” he said. “Hinya, there is no - no debt between us, no grudge neither I nor thy mother bear thee, nothing - nothing thou needst apologize for, tyenya, hinya, Findaranya. Thou art -” he was weeping too hard to speak for an instant. He had to cover his face in his hands briefly; then he continued, through the tears. “Thou art here. Here, and alive.”

Findaráto turned to look at him. He was still so quiet within himself. Finarfin did not dare reach out and touch him, lest he dissolve into the lowering rays of fire and leave them again childless and bereft.

“I have missed thee, Atar,” he said, staring again at the road.

“And I have missed thee. Every day of thine absence.”

Findaráto looked up. “I have been - there is so much grief,” he said. “So much lost.”

“I know,” said Finarfin.

“But thou art here,” said Findaráto. His eyes flickered briefly up to meet Finarfin’s. “And Ammë?”

“She waits for thee,” said Finarfin. “I told thee she bears no grudge.”

“Thou art here,” repeated Findaráto. 

“Yes,” said Finarfin, “and I shall not leave - thy mother and I - we shall not leave - and I will kneel upon the road with thee all the night if that is thy wish.”

He meant it, he found, with skin and bone, muscle and sinew. He would cast aside his crown in an instant and sit upon this dusty roadside for an Age, if it meant his son would not leave again.

Findaráto blinked, and blinked again; then he pitched forward. His arms wrapped about Finarfin’s shoulders as they had in his youth - smaller then, but still his - his tears were wetting Finarfin’s braid set all askew, his pulse was beating against Finarfin’s chest.

Finarfin gathered him close as he wept, tears coursing anew down his own cheeks. “Hinya,” he said again. He could not stop saying it. “My child. My child is home.”

[deancasbigbang]

Willow

Author: thatpeculiarone

Artist: 7hunnyybunnyy7

Rating: Mature

Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel, Minor John/Mary, Minor Chuck/Becky, Minor Bill/Ellen, Minor Sam/Jess

Length: 71059

Warnings: Mentions of Alcoholism, Mentions of Past Conversion Therapy, Mentions of Internalized Homophobia, Minor Character Death

Tags: Reunions, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Pining, Childhood Friends, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Enemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers

Summary: Castiel Novak had known Dean Winchester his entire life. Growing up together, the two friends' worlds revolved around one another, each of them looking forward to their annual summer get togethers at the Winchesters' farm and winery, located in the rolling hills of Napa, California. However, it only takes one night for seventeen years of friendship to all come crashing down. When Castiel confesses his feelings for Dean, his friend’s rancorous reaction sends him packing. Castiel leaves, and stays away for ten years. When Dean’s father John falls ill, Castiel begrudgingly visits the farm again for the first time in a decade. Castiel is nervous to relive that night. He is nervous to be back at a place that holds so many memories. He is nervous to see Dean for the first time in so long. While he grapples with his anger and hurt, he also has to grapple with the fact that the feelings he holds for Dean may still be there after all this time.

Link to Fic | Link to Art

[theofficersacademy]

In the end, it is a battle not only of wills, but also of strength. Exhausted of her last tricks, the Projectionist had no choice but to throw everything into one last head-on assault with the students, staff, and residents of Garreg Mach at her back, with nothing but her spite and rancor left to drive her.

In the end, her resolve is great, but it alone is not enough. Melanthios is a being hardened by centuries of persistence; never once has he relinquished the path on which he set his feet long ago. He would stop at nothing to obtain it, even the betrayal of his once-closest ally.

It is this ally he strikes down now in pursuit of dreams they once shared, for that dream would triumph over any one of them as individuals.

The Projectionist might have known this was coming, as perhaps did Astarot. With her name, her memories, and her very existence rapidly deteriorating, it was only a matter of time until the last of it gave way. When the sundering strike of Melanthios' lance lands, it's unclear if it is this or her own unraveling that is finally her undoing. Either way, the scripter fades from history for the last time. There is only a constellation of colors across a mask that it has never shown before. It is not resentment, disappointment, grief, relief, or acceptance, but perhaps all of that and some things more.

From deep within the earth, the formless Astarot feels the loss of his master as the loss of half of himself. After countless millennia and many changes, it is long past time for his second death. He goes as he was brought into being: silently, with plenty to celebrate what he could do for them but none to celebrate him. And in that passing, the land is granted its final boon: a rush of lush earth and vegetation, the promise of bounty never before seen, eclipsing the barrenness of winter and the deep hold of death. Life breathes back into every creature that has withered, every tree that has burned, and every soldier that has fallen.

Just in time for a voice to echo out from beyond the skies.

"Time's up, Melly."

An incomprehensible shape opens up between sun and cloud: it looks like a vortex or perhaps a pattern of geometric light that can't be said to be any one color. Melanthios' grim expression in the wake of the Projectionist's disappearance changes to fear, and he begins to struggle. "Wait! No, I almost have it. I even killed our traitor—Please—!"

Then he is gone.

And a strange peace settles over Garreg Mach.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　— EPIPHANY, end.

Closing Procedures (please read carefully!)

The events of Epiphany have drawn to an end! The Projectionist is dead. Astarot is dead. Pasithee is dead. Melanthios disappeared right before your eyes. And Aeschylus has been granted shelter by the church. The monastery and much of Fódlan is a wreck from Melanthios' siege, but you and your allies are all alive at least. As for your friends who have been missing all month... some come crawling back to the monastery on their own while others are still unaccounted for. The fate of non-event muses, whether they sheltered somewhere, were kidnapped, had died and been brought back by Astarot's final sacrifice, or something else, is up to each mun. While the mod team doesn't like to give spoilers away, we'll tell you that their fates can be further explored in a task on February's mission board slated to be posted tomorrow at noon.

You are free to continue and wrap up any Epiphany threads you have ongoing, and you may start epilogue threads if you wish. These posts will no longer count toward the grand prize though.

Discord

All event channels will be closed on February 11th, so save what you want from them before then.

Prizes and How to Get Them

PARTICIPATION PRIZE.

All muses who made at least one IC event post automatically received the participation prize described in this post.

GRAND PRIZE.

The prize package below will be awarded to any muse who reached a minimum of 12 IC event posts. This can be any 12 event posts made to the dash, or a combination of dash posts and weekly chatplays. Each week that you actively participated in a chatplay will count as 3 posts toward your grand prize. For example, if you participated in 1 chatplay during Week 2, you would then need 9 dash posts to make up the rest.

Be sure that your posts have been tagged appropriately and that any chatplays have been compiled into documents that you can send to us. This year, we ask that you tell us exactly what you will be using to claim your prize. If all of your posts are on the dash, simply tell us that the posts are dash posts. If you’re supplementing these posts with chatplay participation, please send us the links to your chatplays.

If you made 12 IC posts during the month, you will be able to claim the following:

Knowledge Gem: A special gemstone that grants a drop of knowledge to the user. (One free skill point towards the user’s skill of choice.)

Two event-limited prizes from this list. (Your muse must have the corresponding rank to claim)

And a special item of your choice: 　　　　— Shard of Astarot 　　　　— Shard of the Projectionist 　　　　— Shard of Pasithee 　　　　— Shard of Melanthios

CLAIM SCHEDULE.

Please send the masterlist an ask to claim your event prizes during the allotted days for your team. Claims sent outside their respective windows will be deleted.

2/1-2/2: Regular claims from the January activity point, mastering classes, etc. This does not include ranks gained from the Knowledge Gem, so please wait if your claim requires that. 2/3-2/4: Epilogue units 1 to 4 participation, grand prize, knowledge gem ranks. 2/5-2/6: Epilogue units 5 to 7 participation, grand prize, knowledge gem ranks. 2/7-2/8: Epilogue units 8 to 11 participation, grand prize, knowledge gem ranks. 2/9-2/10: Epilogue units 12 to 15 participation, grand prize, knowledge gem ranks. After 2/10: Regular claims resume

The submission period is from 12:00AM EST the first day to 11:59PM EST the second day. We at least need to receive it during this time frame. Use the clock in the Masterlist’s sidebar to double check the date and time if you are not sure.

If you miss your window to claim your Participation or Grand Prize, you forfeit these prizes. Do not procrastinate.

If you missed the initial 2/1-2/2 period to rank up with an activity point, or if you claimed your grand prize but forgot to rank up with the Knowledge Gem, please wait until after 2/10 to send in these regular claims.

HOW TO SEND IN CLAIMS.

When sending claims, please send separate asks for event-specific claims vs. regular claims, even if the regular claim is due to the Knowledge Gem.

Event specific claims: participation prizes (including rank chart picks), personal skills, grand prize claims Regular claims: activity point rank up, knowledge gem point rank up, class access/mastery

As always, please feel free to ask any questions!

Event Feedback

As always, we earnestly welcome and solicit your feedback on your experience with this month's lore event. Please take some time to fill out the feedback form here. This is coming a bit earlier this time so it doesn't get lost in the new mission board rush.

Some of the questions this time are different from the usual and geared toward both clearly communicating our intentions in event design as well as gaining a stronger understanding of our members' priorities and motivations during lore events. Please don't rush through your feedback, and try to be as honest and reflective about your answers as possible to best help us in understanding our member base. Thank you!

- The House Leaders

[mulderscully]

i can not not be parasocial abt when i listen to ttpd a bit because it's so heavily focused on her personal life and it is absolutely insane to me how quickly she went from writing lover about joe, wanting to marry him, to getting bored and wanting to fuck matty while still dating him then when they break up she dates matty and wants to marry him and then they obviously have a really toxic relationship (and keep in mind he also was like this to halsey and fka twigs, taylor isnt the only person to like get this feeling from him???) and she wants to marry him??? and it's so intense for such a short time and it's like okay is she projecting her feelings for joe onto matty? she wanted joe to be matty, she wanted matty to be joe. and you know she loved joe and he didn't actually hurt her from how little rancor she has toward him, it's all just grief she feels for him when she does sing about their relationship. And now she's dating travis and she's probably gonna marry him lbr and how did she get over matty that fast like girle had a YEAR. but the silence of joe in her songs is so shocking. i feel like the only ones about him are so long, london, how did it end, and the prophecy and maybe down bad? that's so... like wow idk i'm just ruminating what people expected vs what we got and how Little we know abt what actually goes on in even the most famous persons life

[blackjackkent]

As I mentioned in my previous post, it's very interesting to me that Durge gets custom dialogue about how they really want to kill Minsc, but never got any similar dialogue about Jaheira.

Honestly, this whole next cutscene (besides being my one of my favorites in the game and one of my favorite Jaheira moments in general) is just deeply interesting to me with Rakha specifically...

Narrator: Against the darkness swarming his senses, a single light glows - rage, flaring brighter every moment.

Minsc, in person and up close, is terrifying. He is the largest human Rakha has ever met, a hulking behemoth of a warrior, and even battered almost into unconsciousness by Minthara's sword and Jaheira's claws, he still curls his limbs under himself and tries, again and again, to rise.

His head lifts. Blood drips from his nose and his mouth. Pain stabs in Rakha's temple as his tadpole, lashing out wildly, connects with hers. Unlike so many past first connections, this one carries no images, no history, no information at all - just a growling flare of blind and agonized fury.

~Killed... her...~

"He won't stay down for long!" Jaheira shouts, the words tumbling over each other before her wildshape has even finished fading. The tension in her voice splits the air like a knife. "Tell your illithid to protect him from the elder brain's influence! Quickly!"

Another twinge, another voice breaking through the static of Rakha's mind - the Emperor this time, its ice-cold baritone a sharp counterpoint to Jaheira's shrill urgency.

"No," it says flatly. "This one will not aid our cause. Get rid of him."

And then the deepest and darkest voice of all, the beast in her head, rising into the milieu and roaring hungrily, the scent of blood from the dead Bhaalists, from Minsc, from her own wounds all combining into a nearly blinding temptation to simply strike, to pull her dagger and sink it into the tempting solidity of the Rashemaar's shoulders and slide the blade all the way down his spine...

Narrator: This wretch has stood against your Father before. You tremble to end him, every part of your rancorous body yearns for it.

Rakha goes utterly still, squeezing her eyes shut. Her breath comes quick and shallow with the effort of keeping herself from moving. It is too much, too many voices, all pushing and pulling at once, and the urge to kill - to kill this man in particular - is stronger than she has ever experienced before. She is almost salivating with it, hungry and eager.

She struggles desperately to shove back the feral instincts and think.

The beast wants Minsc dead.

Jaheira wants him to live.

The Emperor does not care - but does not want to waste resources on protecting him, and with the tadpole in Minsc's head, that is also a death sentence.

What do I want?

The Emperor's guidance has been good thus far, has been a central pillar of her fractured decision-making process. By all logic, perhaps she should listen to it, turn her back on Minsc, or even assuage the terrible hunger in her head by killing him after all.

But it would be a betrayal of Jaheira. A terrible one, one that there would be no coming back from. She made her position perfectly clear before the fight began. Lay a hand on Minsc with murder in your mind, and I will not stay my hand in answer.

She's known the Emperor longer, though only by a few months, and it has brought her peace in dark moments. But Jaheira has sat by Rakha's bunk through all hours of the night, protecting her from herself. If it is merely a question of where she owes most, she is not sure where the scales fall.

But in the end it is not the Emperor or Jaheira that tips the scales most. It is Minsc himself, and the tenuous connection between his mind and Rakha's.

"Killed... her..." Again that rumbling growl of pure grief and rage. The image of Jaheira flashes between them like lightning, along with an impression of friendship and loyalty so deeply entrenched that even the tadpole could not tear it out.

Ever since Jaheira first told Rakha of Minsc, Rakha has suspected that there were similarities between herself and the berserker. And these suspicions are now proved true, for she sees inside his mind and what she sees looks very much like her own. An off-kilter view of the world, something not quite madness but not quite sanity, and underlaid with a hunger for violence.

A hunger to do good with that violence, in spite of the rage.

To kill with purpose.

He is no Bhaalspawn, but he is like her. And yet Jaheira loves him with the same ferocity that Rakha sees in his mind for her.

Try to protect him. I must defy my Urge.

Roaring with pain and fury, Minsc makes it to his knees. "AAAAAAARRRRRRRGHHHHH!" His fists clench, ready in another moment to lurch up, to lash out--

"Don't be foolish," the Emperor growls. Its disdain is obvious. "He is too unpredictable. He will only be a hindrance to us."

And I am not? Rakha thinks - and for the first time a flash of anger at the Emperor shoots through her. To her mind, the similarity between herself and Minsc is obvious, and therefore the Emperor's underlying message is equally clear. It protected her on the nautiloid because it needed her - but if it had met her now, it would discard her as a useless threat.

(A/N: This is another one of those thought processes that didn't occur to me until just this moment as I was writing it, but oh man! Did not have Minsc's arrival being the first chink in Rakha's trust in the Emperor's good will towards her on my bingo card.)

Her jaw sets and her head lifts, her eyes narrowing. You will do as I command, she snarls inwardly.

I have followed your guidance all this time. Now you will follow mine, if you know what is good for you.

"No." The Emperor's voice is flatter even than usual. She can feel a sudden straining tension in her connection with the Astral Prism that she has never felt before; it sends an unpleasant streak of ice down her back. "I will not be coerced into protecting him. You do not see what I do. His thoughts, his mind. Pure chaos."

I do, Rakha thinks bitterly. I see it in him - and in myself. If it is worthless in him, it is worthless in me too.

Jaheira has been watching the subtle twitch of muscles on Rakha's face with increasing concern. Her eyes narrow into slits, and she wipes rapidly at a trickle of blood moving down her cheek. "The mind flayer pours poison in your ear, I think," she says coldly.

Stepping forward, she squares off with Rakha, and despite their difference in height she might as well be staring directly into the half-orc's eyes.

"Tell it I will tear the Prism from your grasp," she growls, sounding more wolf than woman now in her furious desperation, "and throw it in the deepest lava pit I can find. Long after our bones are dust and ash, the walls of its prison will still be burning!"

The Weave flares around her; Rakha can see every bit of magical energy inside her drawing itself up in preparation for a final, furious stand. "NOW HELP MY FRIEND!" she thunders, her voice echoing to the cistern ceiling.

Rakha's head spasms. The beast is still scrabbling furiously at the inside of her mind under the surface of this conversation, and she catches herself reaching unconsciously for her dagger, shoves her hand behind her back with a quick, spasmodic motion.

"She bluffs," the Emperor hisses. "Surely she would not risk the fate of all for one simple life..." But she can sense the flicker, almost imperceptible, of its uncertainty.

Rakha draws a hoarse breath, clenching her fists to steady herself. Perhaps Jaheira is bluffing, and perhaps she is not. In truth, Rakha doesn't know. But it doesn't matter - her decision is made already, and after everything, it has turned out to have nothing to do with Jaheira at all.

It doesn't matter, she tells the Emperor - and she's surprised at the sense of certainty that she's not sure she's ever felt before. Help him.

There's a long, strained pause, while Rakha struggles as the beast tries again to rise into the silence. Then the tension with the Prism eases.

"Fine," the Emperor mutters - just a touch petulantly. "Have it your way."

Sudden pain. Familiar pain. The tadpole connection clicks into place in earnest now, the binding Rakha has experienced with all of her infected companions, a view straight down through Minsc's mind into his soul.

Narrator: His mind unfolds beneath yours. A still lake pulls you down into its depths. Images flash by - battles fought and friends fallen. His rage grows colder, burrows deeper, as a familiar face crystallizes before you.

Again the image of Jaheira passes between them, saturated with grief and fury. Minsc rises to his feet, fists clenched, eyes wide and starting from his head. Though he is only human, he towers over Rakha by several inches, something she has rarely experienced.

"Jaheira!" he roars, and for a moment Rakha finds herself reckoning with the fact that all the magic in the world will not protect her from the impact of one of those massive fists. "You killed her!"

"You are being dramatic," Jaheira says matter-of-factly at his side.

Minsc's head snaps back and he blinks rapidly at Jaheira's voice. He turns, meeting her eyes, and--

Narrator: The instant's hesitation is enough. With a sensation of terrible rending, something vast and nameless falls away from his mind.

"There," the Emperor mutters. "It is done."

Minsc's body spasms and he clutches at his temples with both hands. Rakha watches dispassionately as the transition passes and the Prism's protection takes hold. She knows the pain he is undergoing - but also knows it will pass, and she can see the moment where the rage drains away in favor of confusion.

"...Jaheira?" he mumbles shakily, staggering backward a few steps. Instead of rage or grief, his eyes take on a bewildered air, a pleading question which he waits expectantly for Jaheira to answer. "I... do not understand."

Jaheira laughs - and the sound takes Rakha a little by surprise. After so many days of increasing tension, it is a sound of wild relief. "Good," she says dryly. "That means you're back to your old ways." She shoots Rakha a look. "We have a lot to discuss, but first - you have someone to thank."

Minsc turns towards her with guileless, wide eyes, opening his mouth to speak, when--

WHAM.

The tadpole connection slams through them again, and this time Rakha staggers with the impact of it.

Narrator: In the sudden silence, your minds merge once more. More memories, sensations, but passing too quickly for you to track. In the same breath, you share everything that happened to you - the nautiloid, the Absolute, the Chosen of the Dead Three.

Rakha is, by now, no stranger to sharing all her memories with others. It's a small enough collection, after all. But the connection is a different experience with every person, and with Minsc it is... particularly unique.

He rolls through her like a wave, a strange thundering avalanche of personality and perception and instinct. And there are familiar notes in that avalanche, more than with any other connection she has yet experienced.

She sees him on the forefront of an adventuring party, veins bulging from his forehead and vision reddened with rage, tearing apart foes in his path. And she sees quiet nights in a camp she does not recognize, a series of women's faces each marked with that bone-deep loyalty, camaraderie and warmth and joyful certainty. And she sees a faint, skittering form, a constant presence, wise and unwavering, crawling up his leg and into his pocket.

The images fade. Her vision clears to find Minsc looking at her with deep curiosity.

"You," he murmurs wonderingly. "You saved Minsc while he danced like a mind flayer's meat-puppet. Why?"

Rakha considers trying to explain her standoff with the Emperor. The way she saw her own instability and rage and struggle for purpose in his own, and realized that the Emperor would gladly thrown Minsc aside for those same qualities. But she barely has the words for it to herself, let alone to this man who - in spite of the mental connection - is still ultimately a stranger.

"Jaheira insisted," she says gruffly.

Jaheira snorts softly. "Suggested," she murmurs, with heavy irony.

Minsc brightens. It's clear that, as far as he sees the situation, with the threat past and his friend at his side all is well, regardless of what lies ahead or behind. "You do well to heed her," he says earnestly, with a broad smile. "Jaheira was very wise even *before* she was very old."

He reaches in a casual gesture towards his shoulder, a movement clearly so natural as to be completely unconscious. "There is someone you must meet," he goes on eagerly. "He is--" He breaks off. Whatever he was reaching for at his shoulder is not there, and he begins to paw frantically at the rest of his clothes. A new agitation is in his eyes - not the same grief-filled rage as before, but a sort of anxious panic instead. "He is..."

"Where is he?!"

Moving far faster than his enormous bulk should make possible, he spins and darts away, barreling unhesitatingly through the solid brick wall at the end of the room.

[shadowthestoryteller]

Recently found a drawing method that I vibe with for characters, so behold the Bad Batch! At least their Adventures!AU version from my canon-divergent fic series ✨✨✨✨

When I say Crosshair's hair gave me so much grief, I mean it. He's likes to cause problems on purpose, doesn't cooperate for drawing or when I'm writing. But that's on brand honestly.

All had the same "base" but are tweaked slightly to reflect them not being 100% reg. None of them have only human DNA either; Hunter has Karkadon for his electromagnetic sensitivity, Crosshair has Nexu for his vision and his infrared sight capabilities, Wrecker has rancor for strength, and Tech... he has something. It's anyone's guess, his files were permanently destroyed.

Due to a subscription payment coming up for me, I'm also tentatively opening comms. My goal is $60, so that's roughly six headshots like this at $10 each (humanoid only). Or get two for $15. Or, if you have a clone oc you'd like, I can do those for $5 each. Payment would be through Paypal, and once the $60 threshold is met I'll probably close them again.

Hope you liked the Adventures!AU batch! Both TtFR and FNF are set to return in June!

[the-crazy-echidna-lady]

Nightmare Cinnamon, just in case he never lets go instead of forgiving. Griefful Rancor ig

[uninhibited-introspections]

The legacy left by you

3 months post your death and i wonder if you have any idea what you and your wife have done to your daughter, somedays I wish you had been kinder to her perhaps then I wouldn’t have been left to drown in the wreckage of her unprocessed grief and pain. The endless screaming matches, sharp-edged words, suffocating tension and I’m so damn tired of it all, done of walking on eggshells, done pretending it’s what families do.. I don’t want to pick up her pieces, her pretentious offers of help or bear the burden of her blood. I just want out- a desperate need to escape this house and to finally breathe where everything is mine alone. The thought of it alone maddens me so look at what i've become your beloved granddaughter reduced to a crippled liminal presence..unable to run or stay, unable to live or die caught in purgatory someone worse than a disappointment,unrecognizable, fragmented and hollow. To say that you abandoned your daughter would be unjust when you see her wry smile, but I see her crumbling every night..and it is often horribly true. A truth so terrifying and tragic that everytime i see her bleeding all over the upholstery and see her bloodied face, injuries.

A maddening smile always greets me stretching on her bruised face and it sneers "Do you like what you see? here are the remnants of your beloved grandparents abuse to their sole kin, look at your wretched mother". Her voice raw and trembling filled with devastating fury consuming the room "Look at how they've stripped my life from me and see what their neglect and hate did to me" always collapsing with soft broken whimpers of "Won't you save your mother?" a plea soaked in despair clinging to the hope that i might rescue her from this hell created by you. A routine performance of hers so painful and devastating leaving a deep rancor in my heart for her..I abhor my mother making me detach myself from you all. Isn't it strange how happier i felt doing that, how weird i feel sitting with her feeling nothing but vexation? Growing up and seeing your mother's flaws is like losing a part of your soul, i don't believe in love anymore and i don't believe in her anymore, and oh what did i even expect? to leave a hemorrhage of violets wherever i walked? A lost daughter is just lost and maybe my mother is just my mother till i remember. You never replied to my pleas that day dadu because you knew that we are inevitably the same.. same but not the same to abandon me like you did..like you did to your own. Here i am left wondering again would life have been different if you had cherished her, would i then have been saved from the wreckage caused by your neglect?

[malecius]

how does the gang feel about optimus prime. and is it rancor, disappointment, anger, and grief

[mahvaladara]

"We did it, Haurchefant. Goodbye, my friend, my love."

Khal had seen the weight of rancor and resentment time and time again, consume and take what the world had best. He had seen in Estinien the way the anger of the dragon consumed him. He would not follow the same path. He would not let rancor and anger besiege him.

And that's what he would do. The pope and his knights had fallen, and in the darkness he had found the way to the light and stars guiding his path. He would not let fury consume him, instead, he would brave on on his resolve. He would fight for the dream of his fallen friends. Peace among man and dragon and an united Eorzia.

He would hold on to the memories and do what lead him down this path in the first place. To guide and aid others in any capacity.

Though he would never forget Haurchefant or what he meant to him, now with a lighter heart, Khal felt the weight of grief leave him day by day. He would move on, and fight the battles of his fallen loved ones. Besides...

A smile better suits a hero.

"May you rest at last knowing Ishgard is safe."

[anghraine]

sambargestuff replied to this post:

Interesting. Having watched ROTJ in the theatre when it was released, I can tell you that the grief of the rancor's keeper was played for laughs. And it worked. People in the theatre around me laughed at the keeper. Of course, people think Boba Fett is the hero of the movie, so people are fucking stupid.

I mean ... I'm not sure the reactions of the theatre tell us much about what the intended purpose of the scene is or how to interpret it.

Roger Ebert's 1983 review opens with:

Here is just one small moment in "Return of Jedi," a moment you could miss if you looked away from the screen, but a moment that helps explain the special magic of the Star Wars movies. Luke Skywalker is engaged in a ferocious battle in the dungeons beneath the throne room of the loathsome Jabba the Hutt. His adversary is a slimy, gruesome, reptilian monster made of warts and teeth. Things are looking bad when suddenly the monster is crushed beneath a falling door. And then (here is the small moment) there's a shot of the monster's keeper, a muscle-bound jailer, who rushes forward in tears. He is brokenhearted at the destruction of his pet. Everybody loves somebody. It is that extra level of detail that makes the Star Wars pictures much more than just space operas.

Lucas said, "I like the idea that everyone loves someone. And even the worst, most horrible monster you can imagine was loved by his keeper. And the rancor probably loved his keeper."