#i have rather unkind and violent thoughts about this

[footsiepop]

The nature of the immigrant is any food they make is inauthentic, neither "authentic" food from their homeland nor "authentic" food from where they live. This is of course, not xenophobic in the slightest.

[mousemilf]

i feel like seeing the world through actions rather than character seems like you're subconsciously distant and dissociated from yourself; as though some deep-seated insecurity or anxiety about an inherent personality trait means that you place value specifically on behavior and not personality.

for example, is a person artistic simply because they make art, or are they compelled to make art because they have this specific inexplicable draw and desire to do so? would someone who was not innately kind or interested in being kind "do" kind things?

which innate trait were you born with that drives you to assume that different opinions must stem from a psychological issue?

anyway, no, i am not innately artistic. nobody (or everybody, which is essentially the same thing) is. i bothers me that we treat art as so much more sacred than other human activities. would you say the same about someone whos hobby is collecting funko pops? are they driven by an inexplicable desire to collect shit figurines?

making art is something i know how to do. its a skill ive acquired, like cooking or driving a car. to attribute it to an innate talent would be to erase the years of study and practice ive put in. if its more initially rewarding because i have any natural advantage, it might be that i have pretty good fine motor skills, but thats a neutral physical trait like my height or weight, which i dont glean any meaningful identity from either. but maybe that initial aptitude led to more satisfaction, encouragement etc which has naturally caused me to think about art more than someone who did not start with that immediate small advantage.

ive had the privilege of teaching hobby painting classes to people who are not skilled and would not consider themselves "artistic," and everybodys reactions when they learn a new technique and make something they thought they couldnt is proof to me that art making is rewarding to *everybody,* not just a special class of divinely ordained creatives. i fundamentally do not believe that i am unique for finding art fulfilling. it feels good to make stuff. thats just human.

as far as kindness goes, if there are intrinsically kind people, it would follow that there are intrinsically unkind people, right? people who are born without kindness as an innate trait... so then what would be the point of trying to rehabilitate people whove committed violent crimes? if they dont have that inherent drive for kindness that innately kind people do, then it would be hopeless, right?

if we can neatly divide people into categorically kind and categorically unkind people i guess it would be much easier for us kind people (im at least flattered that you assume id be on that side of the dichotomy) to like, just be confident that we are morally in the right and not ever have to question the actual impact of our behavior since our intentions are good by virtue of this innate trait we were born with. sure whatever.

assigning importance to intentions and feelings rather than actions and their impact is like very yuckydisgusting to me. like i said in my reblog right before this, if kind thoughts were enough to make someone a kind person, then negative thoughts would be enough to make someone a bad person. silly and obviously wrong. i've fantasized about all kinds of destructive actions, but it literally does not matter at all, the only important thing is my choice not to act on those fantasies.

wanting or trying to be a kind person does not make someone a kind person. some of the nastiest motherfuckers ive ever met were constantly agonizing over whether they were a good person and looking for reassurance that they hadnt done wrong. yet they continued to act selfishly and harm people around them. their desire to be kind did jack shit.

but yeah, i do place value specifically on behavior because thats the only part of personality that meaningfully exists to literally anybody outside of your brain. basically. i think thats the main point of all of this.

[overtsexting]

i haven’t been as active bcos head empty tgcf and i’m ranting abt that on main lol but

i have some Thoughts about swd and sqx. and also hx. [⚠️ MAJOR spoilers ahead ⚠️]

there’s something so fun to me about how swd is the water master and hx is a demon of water…

also the way bflf cannot possibly happen healthily makes me feel like there almost DEFINITELY could be some sort of psychosexual “haha why am i always attracted to people associated with water—wait what”

Anyway, imagine finding out that your best friend of centuries has been deceiving you and got close with you to get revenge on your brother, who you then learn defied nature and completely destroyed his life to protect you. Then your “best friend” takes everything from you that you were never meant to have, and kidnaps you to torture your brother. Kills your brother violently in front of you. But also maybe the friendship you had wasn’t… fake?

Imagine learning in one go just how violently overprotective your brother actually is, the extent to which he loves you despite how harsh and unkind he can be, the horrible things he’s done for you. Learning your best friend only befriended you and only exists to kill him. And then watching your brother die for you.

(Not to mention that many mortals believe you are your brother’s wife rather than his brother, and worship you as a couple!)

Fucked up love triangle if i’ve ever seen one!!!

[katheriensapple]

Soo, I guess I have a TAWOG AU now

Still learning how tumblr works so i'm probably breaking like a thousand rules of tumblr etiquette or whatever. But fuck it, i'm currently obsessed with TAWOG and all its fucking terrifying lore (the void, the missing characters, Rob, etc).

I just write a fic that takes place in an AU in where Gumball (of all people) is fully aware of the nature and fate of his world and super bitter about it. I love how it gave me the opportunity to explore the mind of a borderline sociopath with a huge ego but also an abuse history and depressing thought process.

sooo, there some of thoughts about this Gumball.

Diagnosed with CD (conduct disorder) but really full blown ASPD.

He hates TV's, radios and anything that has any form of static. But is, in fact, pretty good fixing and rewiring TV's when needed, and has a huge deal of training in hardware operation. Usually the first detecting signal problems or interferences.

He's willing to sit down and watch TV with Darwin, but won't do it out of free will.

Doesn't like studying for principle, but is pretty good at hearing or detecting crucial but completly random details and memorizing them. This advanced or educated vocabulary can make people think he knows more of a subject than he really knows.

A professional bullshitter. Good at telling lies and remembering them. Can ocasionally gaslight Darwin or Penny to make them accept and tell different versions of certain events.

Biromantic with preference for boys, may be ace but too young to know.

Demiboy/Bidemigender.

Has a really unclear/foggy vision of gender/gender identity. Those problems are probably related to trauma but he refuse to work on them. Uses he/him pronouns in person but any pronouns on internet. He try to not think to much of it.

Has the unexplicable skill to know when he's 'acting for an episode' or when 'the cameras are on', so his behavior can vary from a moment to another without any explanation.

Sometimes he is forced to remember himself that he's the main character of a 'for children of 7 or older' cartoon and has to tune it down. His secret wish is to be on Adult Swim. He's angry at the world for take away his 'stabbing previleges' and want them back.

Physically imprudent and without any self-preservation instinct.

He's in love with Rob and has no problem admitting so, the problem is that, for him, love and hate are basically the same.

Extremely possessive with his loved ones.

Usually don't like to describe his feelings as love or, for the contrary, uses the word carelessly or even with strangers. Almost always confused about it.

Not heartless, but yes shameless and ruthless and respectless. Violent, but not always.

Little to no emotional empathy and a huge deal of cognitive empathy.

His only consistent prosocial behavior is trying to no harm his friends or family.

"Rules are no more than pretty dumb suggestions that I ocassionally follow 'cause i don't have ODD". (being ODD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, other disorder he just read about in a DMS-V copy he stole from his psychiatrist).

Not in treament anymore because it's pretty useless for him. He has learned to behave in a socially accepted way for most of the time.

Try to do morally good things only for Darwin's sake.

Recognizes himself as an 'unkind creature' or as evil by nature. In some ways try to keep people (specially Rob) away because he knows he will hurt them eventually if them get too close. This is the main cause of his lying and pretending.

Emotionally shallow, superficial, but sad and angry to the core. His emotional outbursts tend to be brief, intense in some way but utterly infected with a persisting layer of numbness. He recovers from them rather quickly and returns to a normal, calm state for the rest of the day.

Doesn't care about the 90% of people he knows. Very fond of his family and some of his friends, however.

[sweet--sweet--muffin]

Ben 10 Aliens As Their Own Characters (Original Series)

This has been on my mind for a looooong, long time and I finally decided to share this here.

I’ve seen some cool concepts for the “Ben’s Omnitrix glitched out and caused the aliens to have their own sentience” AU (like @thisunknowngenius’ take on the AU for example, as well as @justmenoworries​‘ glorious @omniglitch-au​) and I thought of sharing my own take for this.

Gonna call this AU of mine Ben 10 Alienated.

Let’s start with the Original 10 here because I have no idea where to start with the others lmao.

Wildmutt - Considered as the family pet, he’s just like any other normal man’s best friend. He always strive to be close with his family (especially Ben) to show how much he loves them.

Four Arms - an extremely violent, short-tempered, and very brash berserk who tends to be quite unkind to others around him, especially towards the people who dare hurt his loved ones. He seems to think that punching things, including people, is the best way to solve problems and his hot head can sometimes get him into trouble.

Grey Matter - tends to be boorish, and sarcastic with a dry sense of humor. He usually has a stoic frown, though he does smile from time to time. Grey Matter is very honest and blunt about what is on his mind. His brutal honesty isn't so much out of a sense of morality, but because he doesn't want to waste brain space by making up a lie. Regardless, he’s willing to help his family with any problem that only relates to knowledge and tutoring.

XLR8 - an energetic and upbeat Kineceleran who loves to do all sorts of bizarre things and dislikes "dull" things, like reading and studying. He’s a menace in the pranking field, but thankfully, his pranks are all relatively harmless. XLR8′s also a good sport and loves doing some competitions with his siblings. Well, unless you’re cheating then you’re really asking for a pie in the face.

Upgrade - literally the nicest alien you’ll ever meet. Upgrade possesses emotions and acts more like a human than a normal Mechamorph. He’s a bit shy but is generally a very kind-hearted individual who speaks in a polite manner and is sensitive to others' feelings. Despite his typically shy behavior, Upgrade occasionally demonstrates more assertiveness, confidence and can stand up for himself without resorting to anger (Heatblast joked that Four Arms should take notes about this). He’s pretty much seen with Grey Matter in most cases as he is more like an assistant of his.

Diamondhead - If someone were to look up “father figure”, then Diamondhead is sure to appear in those results. He is very responsible and talks formal. He rarely loses his nerve and can maintain clarity in any situation. He’s like the loving father figure of Ben, Gwen and the aliens and has a closer relationship towards Max due to sharing the responsibilities of being the parent figure of the fam.

Ripjaws - Not exactly the most intellectual member of the aliens, as Ripjaws is clueless, easily confused by complex words and misinterprets insults and figures of speech. He is also very gullible, often easily believing things people say and is surprised when others tell him that they're lying. In general, his mood can shift very quickly. He can bounce between bored, to happy, to angry, and to happy again. Despite his easygoing and aloof personality, Ripjaws is a good-natured and well-meaning alien.

Stinkfly - the very definition of “lazy” and a good-for-nothing couch potato of the family. He may be laid-back, but he’ll do anything to help the world in need and protect his family. Despite this, there’ll be times that he can be cynical towards others, even to the aliens and Tennysons.

Ghostfreak - he’s quite hard to approach given his quiet, deadpan and distant demeanor. But that’s because Ghostfreak is simply not good at expressing his emotions and would rather do so through his poems. It does help with giving him ideas on how to express his emotions more. Regardless, he has a heart of gold to the people he truly trusts; his one big family.

Heatblast - he’s a sporty athlete with a fiery personality and is always eager to challenge someone when he’s being challenged. Heatblast is one of the more mature aliens unless he ends up getting himself caught into the childish antics of his siblings (mainly XLR8).

[riding-palominos-every-day]

Hyperfixation isn't back but I still think about the Spot and Elmer brothers AU a lot so here's another bit of writing for it

One thing every newsie in New York knew was to never get on the wrong side of Spot Conlon. Everyone knew what Spot was capable of if he felt he or one of his gang had been wronged, and when the Brooklyn leader was on the warpath you knew to steer clear.

Spot was currently on said warpath, and it was taking him over the Brooklyn bridge and straight to Duane Street.

"Kelly!"

Jack felt the whole building tremble from the force which the front door was opened with. Although 'opened' was something of an understatement; 'violently kicked in' would describe Spot's method of entry more appropriately.

"Easy, Spot. What's the problem?" Jack kept his tone light, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

"Y'know damn well what's the problem!" Spot snarled, stretching up to his full height and getting in Jack's face as best he could, "I ain't had much time to chat with your boys lately, thanks to your little speech at the rally, an' of course we've been busy since then, but d'you care to tell me why my little brother's head was wrapped up like that last time I saw him?"

Jack paused, choosing his answer very, very carefully. The knowledge that Elmer was Spot's younger brother was still a surprise, and it came with a whole host of trouble- for Jack, at least. Now the information was at least semi-common knowledge, Spot had no qualms marching over to Manhattan and making sure Elmer was being looked after properly whenever he felt like. He couldn't convince his brother to move back to Brooklyn with him, but he'd made it very clear to Jack what he'd do if anything happened to Elmer.

"The cops got involved during our first strike attempt, you know that Spot. Crutchie got arrested-"

"Yeah, yeah, like y'said, I know that." Spot interrupted, "Your boys got bloodied up pretty bad. What I wanna know is why you had the littluns involved. I'd rather die than let Vince or Pips anywhere near a proper fight. You took kids younger than them into a situation you knew could be dangerous."

Jack didn't have a response for that.

Spot nodded slightly, before pushing Jack roughly aside.

"Now let me see my brother."

Jack stayed out in the hall, his heart pounding. He almost wished Spot had gotten properly angry; he could handle being hit, even by Spot Conlon. It was the reminder he'd put his kids in danger he hated having to think about.

Elmer had been relatively unharmed aside from a cut on his head, but Jack had learned very quickly just how fiercely protective Spot was of his little brother. He prayed to no-one in particular Spot didn't inspect the still-healing injury too closely.

"Don't get mad at Jack, Spot. Please."

Elmer's voice drifted from the bunk room, breaking Jack from his thoughts. He didn't like to eavesdrop, but the fact Spot had left the door open implied they weren't too bothered about having a private conversation.

"I'll get as mad at him as I like." Came Spot's reply, "It's his job to be lookin' after you, not puttin' you in the path of strikebreakers or bulls. Lemme see that cut."

"I'm twelve, I don't need lookin' after! And I wanted to be there anyway." Elmer protested, attempting to push Spot's hand away from his head. The bandages were off and the cut was healing, but Spot still swore when he saw the size of the injury.

"Yeah, you're twelve. Still a kid last I checked." Spot muttered. He gave Elmer hair a brief ruffle before sitting back.

"You sure I can't convince you t'come over the bridge? You'd still be allowed to come visit here, and I'd-"

"I'm sure, Spot." Elmer's tone wasn't unkind, but it had an edge of finality, "These guys took me in, I... I don't wanna just up and leave. We both know how hard that is. I appreciate your offer, you know I do, but..." He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Spot wrapped an arm around him pulling him close to his side. In most cases Elmer would squeal and twist away, but this time he let himself lean against his older brother.

"I get it. I don't mean t'fuss over you so much." He said, "Well... I do, but that's 'cause it's my job. You're my brother, I'm s'posed to look out for you."

Elmer shifted closer, relaxing.

"I'm glad you're my brother."

[legaciestold]

@everythingheard (enzo) continued from x

no, bella supposes not all vampires do have the best manners, her dark hues scrunching up as she peers for anything in reach through the bars, enzo's words finally processing when her gaze comes up empty. she's seen what so called ripper vampires could do. she's seen what vampires who held control and chose not to utilize it could do. and, she's seen what vampires who did have control enough to be a doctor could do. though, perhaps, that vampire did have rather impeccable manners. strangely enough, if bella was going to miss any of that family, she thinks perhaps she misses that vampire most. or in the least, harbors the least upsetting feelings toward him because he had always been kind and even welcoming to her but he had also always been assuredly honest with her when she'd asked him things, even things edward or alice would usually skirt around. she was also pretty sure he wouldn't have approved of the whole leaving her to get lost in the middle of a massive forest thing.

he was edward's father too, in every way that mattered, and she didn't blame the man for following what seemed to be what his son wanted, to leave. and, despite the struggle she imagined befell him every time he went into the hospital, he strove forward to help others. carlisle was a hard man to hate or even feel ill will toward. she'd enjoyed their talks even if she didn't agree with some of his views. she rather thinks what'd happened with jasper was a point in favor of her argument on refraining from human blood (that could be gotten in a safe and unharming manner) wasn't doing anyone favors in relation to maintaining control. then again, she wasn't a vampire so what did she know? in any case, that man's family had been an anomaly and the majority of vampires she came across lately, present company exempted, lacked any form of manners. strange the tangents she allowed her mind to wander onto when her nerves were playing upon her at the notion of what she'd offered a moment prior. she'd never been bitten when she was willing, would it feel different than when it was forced?

enzo's next words bring her mind back in focus, throwing her for a loop. alright then, maybe feeding was off the table, at least until the bullet was out. "that's not surprising. i doubt he'd hit a bullseye on a dartboard." perhaps the comment is unkind toward maxfield, however, she didn't really care and well, if she was going to hate anyone other than victoria, maxfield was a prime candidate. she'd broken a pencil in half that one time he'd been spouting his hate and she'd had to sit there and pretend she agreed with him. she wasn't an inherently violent person under normal circumstances but a part of her had really wanted to shove it into his eye. "that makes sense. i really should have thought about that though, the healing around the bullet thing." a pause and then she speaks again. "i think we are well past the just met stage, after all, i did attempt to jailbreak you and now we're locked in a cell together." an attempt to bring some levity to the situation, if only to calm herself. "ask me again next time you get shot and i'll give it a go." she watches for a moment, seeing him lean against the wall and begin to pick at the wound. that's when she has to look away for even if she has conquered some of her aversion to blood that was too much.

frankly, she'd been more concerned with taking down vampires than how they healed lately. at least in respect to those victoria sent calling upon her and the campus. she turns around a moment later once she's fairly certain the bullet is out, and it was, though his wound seemed to fail to heal causing a frown to cross her features. so she wasn't completely wrong then. he would need to feed. as if he read her mind, his next words reveal as much, her dark hues meeting his and her heartbeat quickening. she had meant what she said, though her earlier ponderings also still apply. she isn't sure what to expect from a bite like this though she does, however much her father would have her head for such reckless faith, believe enzo won't actually harm her in any real way. he just needed to feed to heal. he wouldn't kill her.

"i did-- i do mean it. i want you to heal." bella states, a breath inhaling before she lets it out, allowing her feet to propel her a few steps toward him and giving him her hand. was he going to feed on her arm then and not her neck? was that how this was going to work? "i, um, where are you going to--" suddenly she feels more awkward than nervous, shifting her weight. "is it going to feel different because i'm giving you it willingly?" different than it did when she'd been bitten by james, she wonders and she thinks maybe he can infer from her previous statement. bella can't help her curiosity even if she knows she's going to find out in a few seconds anyway. "i won't change my mind either way. take what you need." and there was that trust again, the implications clear: she trusted he'd take what he needed to heal but not so much that it'd actually harm or hinder her. why did she trust him? bella wasn't sure, but she did trust him all the same.

[writingwrittenwriting]

Growing up, I always felt like I was missing something. In multiple ways, I sensed this. But this isn't about just missing things going on around me. Very young, I began to feel as though something were missing from me. I didn't know what it was, nor did I understand the feeling for many years, but a part of me always knew this. I was made with something important missing from my soul.

I tried to act the way I thought I was supposed to. I remember always thinking I had to act a certain way, even if I did forget myself a lot when I felt caught up in the moment. Some of my earliest memories are practicing laughing, or being told I wasn't smiling right. I seemed to lack whatever part of a person was supposed to learn these aspects. It seemed to come so naturally to others, but took conscious effort for me. It was always like this.

I was roughly five when I started to really feel as though I wasn't just missing little pieces, like a puzzle at a daycare. But rather, I was missing a whole chunk of my soul. As though my body was only partially filled with the essence of humanity, and the rest was hollow. There was something deeply wrong with me, and if anyone found out... I didnt know what bad would come when I was five. No one wanted to be my friend. The other kids ran away from me and laughed at anyone who was forced to play with me. I felt stupid and alone. I began to feel that hollow filling with anger and pain. It festered inside of me, an infected cyst in my soul.

When I was seven or eight, my world was very unkind in general. At school, I would see how the "special" kids were treated. I feared I would be labeled as such and further ostracized if my inner "rot" was acknowledged by parents and teachers. I was already on thin ice with the school, I was terrible at math and became upset and angry very quickly in social situations. I would be pulled out of class for "tutoring" sessions that were just the "slowest" or more disruptive kids being removed from the classroom and put in an unused office so the "normal" kids could do their work. I wasn't "retarded", I didn't need to be kept in a "sensory" room all school day! This was back in a time where any diagnosis of mental difficulties meant being labeled as "special" and seen as a disgusting dangerous problem. I had once been targeted by a boy during recess who was known to be violent on occasion. His "aid" had pulled him away during tag after he'd become obsessed with catching me. Instead of anyone explaining the situation to me, I was instead scared by this boy screaming in a rage that he was playing tag and being good while his aid unanimously decided he was getting aggressive and dragging him away. In hindsight, he likely wanted to be friends and was hyperfocused on showing me how fast and cool he was, and got caught up in his fun. Instead of the ad creating a teachable moment for either of us, I saw a dangerous freak get hauled away. And he likely got to feel like a criminal as he was dragged to the screaming room. I didn't want to be put in the screaming room.

Around the age of ten, the evangelical influences of my rural Snow-America town dug its way into me. I didn't believe in its religion or preachings, but it certainly created an environment where I felt the importance of... Im not sure what words to use to describe the idea of a good and proper human by evangelical American standards. Their definition of humanity, I suppose? Whatever label to call it by, I didn't fit. I wasn't a retarded freak with medical issues, there shouldn't have been anything wrong with me. But my soul didn't feel right. I felt so different from humanity, I began to question if I were something else. I began to wish I were something else. It would be easier to discover I was, or to become something inhuman, than to live among humans while missing such a thing as proper human soul. Remembering the fear the child I was back then had felt over the prospect of anyone knowing how they felt... I feel so much pain for that child, and any like them, who had to grow up feeling that way.

I couldn't tell anyone about my worries. About how I felt incomplete, broken, hollow, malformed and masking it. The few times I told the adults who were supposed to care for me had always ended in punishment. I was scolded for being different. Scolded if I didn't perform well enough to hide myself. I wasn't a monster, but they would treat me as such if they ever knew. There were already times I was treated as a monster...

If I couldn't act their stupid little plays out right, I'd be punished and gossiped about. With family, in public, at school... It's no wonder that hole inside me continued to fill with anger. It was filled with years of resentment, jealousy, fear, pain, and a loneliness that will never leave me as long as I live. I was born with a hole in my soul to hold the wonders the world could pour into me, but I was unfortunate. The little world I was born into filled that hole with nasty things. With uncertainty and doubt. With fear, despair, self loathing, and anger. Where I was meant to learn love, I learned I was a burden.

So if you feel like you're hiding a twisted horrible secret inside. That there's a darkness you cant let anyone see. You might be like me. You might be an Autistic or otherwise neurodivergent individual who was neglected and/or abused. That darkness inside of you, you weren't born with. It was put inside you by unpleasant people. Unfortunately it's a part of you now, but its only a part. It's not you. It's not in control of you. Think of it as a weird benign tumour that occasionally makes it hard to take a shit. Its annoying and you hate it, getting rid of it isn't easy because insurance and medical care is a nightmare. If you're close enough with a friend to tell them you're going to be in the washroom at the bar for 30 minutes cus your ass tumour decided shits going sideways right fucking now, well the friendship is strong enough to handle the truth. The darkness inside you always comes from somewhere, and it doesn't define you. How you handle that darkness it up to you, but if you can trust someone enough to discuss mental health stuff, they're most likely going to stick around.

And if they dont stay? If they freak out and say you're weird and dangerous and that your feeings are not normal? You don't need or want them as a friend. They're either hiding their own darkness, denying their own darkness, or brainwashed by a rural North-American evangelical cult. If its the last one, run far and run fast. They will rationalize anything and its scarier than your dark twisted secret evil ass tumour.

you ever feel like you were born with something rotten inside you and if people get close enough they’re gonna find out

[equinoxbloom]

Fleeting Friend

[FFXIV Write 2024 | Day 3 | Tempest]

The rain fell in a torrent, a cleansing rush from the heavens, and turned the dusty roads to mud. It wasn’t monsoon season, but the levin darted white and purple across the sky. She tucked her knees to her chest, bare toes wriggling against the smooth wood underfoot. She had not stayed a night in the Bokairo Inn in… how many years now? She exhaled, long and slow, and the sound disappeared into the percussion of the storm. Even under the shelter of the eaves, the wind whipping in from off shore skated across the surface of the hot springs and set long hair lashing against her cheeks.

“Imagine my surprise, seeing you step off that ship. Nearly that of seeing you in Ishgard,” Kyokuho was saying, his voice half lost to the gale. It was hard for her sensitive ears to focus, but it afforded them privacy too. Not that their familiarity was a secret. Rather, she had the sense that it was easier for her traveling companions to simply accept she’d arrived miraculously from the East and who, or what, she’d been before they’d pulled her into their fold was fine left at a distance.

She didn’t blame them, really. There was only so much humanizing anyone wanted to engage in when it was rapidly becoming clear she would be sent off to die again and again. Because she wouldn’t die. Because anybody else would be better off if they did. It didn’t really matter if they cared about her on some level. It might be worse if they did.

“It doesn’t rain like this as often in Eorzea,” she said. Kyokuho paused - he’d been saying something else - to stare at her, lips parted. 

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” he laughed, quiet with a passing affection that settled familiar over her shoulders. He’d always been so quick to call someone, ‘friend,’ and to mean it. Years hadn’t snuffed that warmth; she’d felt it, instant and sure, when he’d recognized her under the wide brim of her hat in the lamplight of the Astrologicum.

“I like to think I have, a little.” It would have been unkind to the memories of those she’d lost if she’d not been changed. He didn’t know the half of what she’d seen. He didn’t know the half of what she’d done. “It doesn’t snow here like it does in Coerthas.” But she was still just herself, as singular and impotent as that felt.

“Does it feel like home across the sea?” he asked. She rolled the thought over once, twice.

“The storms are different, but they still feel familiar. The dark nights still feel familiar.” Where she was speaking of, exactly, she wasn’t sure she could have answered. She had been told the places she would exist. Here and there. Had she found home in anything that wasn’t fleeting? Minfilia’s welcoming embrace. Haurchefant’s warm hand around hers. The weather that descended, violent and aether rich, and stole her breath away along with the rest of the world. Wind, snow, levin, rain.

“Have you found companions you trust? Miss Leveva seemed fond of you.” He kicked his legs over the edge of the engawa, letting the water spilling from the sweep of the roof drench his ankles. “I worried about you when you left,” he said. She frowned. He was younger than her by a couple years. He’d felt like a child when they’d parted ways. In truth, she’d never considered them close. She’d never considered anyone close, besides her brother.

“I have,” she said, though, and found she meant it. The sensation coiled deep in the pit of her stomach. A fragile happiness, a resounding dread.

“And the goddess…” he began, and she shifted to push a finger against his lips. In the rush of the storm, their words were lost as quickly as they were spoken but she stopped him still. The storm wind howled along the hall and set the folds of their hakama fluttering. 

“The rain will leave as quick as it’s come,” she said with a fleeting smile. He nodded slowly. And so will you.      

[waitingformyfavoritesongs]

6 March 2023 Monday 🌙 12:11 pmpdt

Bcz Nick didn’t plan anything with me for his birthday 🎉, no party 🎈 invitation & no date, to combat my disappointment I clicked into an aol chat 💬 room I think 💭 it was for teens. 12:13 pmpdt & I watched other people chat 💬 & then I received instant messages from 2 guys @ the same time but I think I remember one was on top of the other but I found it somehow maybe it was peaking from the corner? Or top? I forget. One from New York king long island 🏝 (autocorrect: head acid brain) 🧠 if he hits me again with acid in the brain 🧠 I will never forgive him it’s getting hot in my head left near front side 12:18 pmpdt long <- autocorrect changed to king 👑 many times. 5 minutes passed by fast 💨. I hope the incubus miñion is not staying in this hotel 🏨 . 12:21 pmpdt every time I doubt the incubus he cuts or tortured my vag. I figured (12:22 heart ♥️ stress 12:23 pmpdt throat acid pain heart ♥️ is beating a little fast 💨) I was going to write ✍️ things here but when I’m finally poised gum left hip bone 🦴 pain 12:24 pmpdt incubus made me afraid 😱 to write ✍️ it. Autocorrect I think said breathe me? Kill. Makes sense. 12:27 pmpdt

1:49 pmpdt incubus is attacking my anus area w/ acid I think. It hurts it’s hot & stings & burns. 1:50 pmpdt

3:04 pmpdt I don’t know 🤷🏻‍♀️ if the incubus is punishing me for saying that the futon frame & mattress I gave was nicer than the one my mom bought, the one I gave my ex boyfriend Bcz it I think 🤔 it had no sharp corners & maybe the mattress was thicker? Trying to remember... ours is substantially thick although I don’t know 🤷🏻‍♀️ how thick. Knowing the incubus I’m afraid 😱 he’s going to change things to double cross me. 3:08 3:09 pmpdt I think these acid attacks are double crossing me. Are guys like Nick carter really better than me Bcz he didn’t murder Shannon Ruth, so he’s allowed to commit crimes so the police 👮‍♂️ have their preys for the capitalist system to complete a cycle? Was that man 👨 who murdered a mother of 2 boys better than the woman he murdered & believes he’s better Bcz incubus probably told him so, so he can justify (he probably raped her, too? I should look for it Bcz the trial was recent I think) 3:13 pmpdt is it true? 3:14 pmpdt

3:55 3:56 pmpdt incubus has hurt me a lot. I guess it could have been worse. I didn’t enjoy being alone a lot in the first half of my life. I did have problems with my thoughts 💭 & words & I made excuses. Sometimes I tried to be honest w/ my feelings like not saying “I missed you,” w/ a coworker. I don’t think 🤔 I was disrespectful or unkind, I didn’t feel like saying it back to her after she said it to me, & then her facial expression turned angry, like w/ rage?, maybe even possessed by a demon. I was nice to her & she told me she missed me. But I was still having difficulty w/ my own feelings & my own ... personality? I think 🤔 there was a time I tried to change my personality in an effort to be more likable but I still wasn’t happy & feeling like I (acid like pain in lips 👄 4:06 pmpdt incubus is punishing me for writing ✍️ this) - this reminds me of the when they used to tell people if you smile or pretend to be happy you will become happy? Some happy go lucky 🍀 people surprise people with suicide probably Bcz it doesn’t really work like with my experience. Sometimes I said stuff that scared 😱 off people I shouldn’t have. & vag pain minutes ago head pain nausea 4:10 pmpdt. & then there’s the case w/ Scott biting me. Scott seemed to care too much about his own reputation I guess rather than owing up, that he felt it was right to shame/embarrass me in public & do something violent to me & he’s a very good actor he acted like he was sorry & he never took me to the hospital 🏥 to check the damage he did. 4:15 pmpdt back in 2017 online it said he was married but I didn’t find out who. Now it seems he’s not married. Some people will make you feel unsafe to express your real feelings & opinions. Unnecessarily critical am I? Maybe sometimes but all the time? 4:17 pmpdt incubus can put magic potion 🧪 in your mind to feel something such as love 💕, maybe 🤔 even other emotions. 4:19 pmpdt

4:28 pmpdt if you read all the posts in this tumblr, then you might see that I jump back & forth. (4:29 feeling something not sure if I can like it ok don’t like it cramps 4:30 🕟 pmpdt)

4:30 4:31 pmpdt woman 👩🏼 was beat up in jail? 44 year old woman 👵 tree 🌲 fell on her. I doubt she will be resurrected like Jesus. Mother of a Boy Scout. Head brain 🧠 pain 4:34 pmpdt makes me doubt incubus. 4:35 pmpdt

4:43 pmpdt I think I told a few people that me & Scott had s*x. I don’t remember describing the situation, what happened exactly, but I guess somehow he learned that I said something & he I guess did not like that. I think 🤔 he wrote without mentioning my name on his Facebook about me section that it’s not his fault he fell for an unethical whore. He NEVER said he loved 🥰 me to me. If he wants to do stuff right he should have bought a ring 💍 b4 doing that to me! 4:47 pmpdt

5:18 pmpdt I wish I could die a painless death ☠️ now. Incubus mislead me w/ signs 🪧 to interpret myself & random appearing thoughts 💭. I don’t believe in incubus anymore. He looks so happy & like he only cares about his own d*ck. 5:21 pmpdt

[alucarddear]

What do you think turn-ons and turn-offs would be for our pretty vampire boy

Alucard’s kinks*

[You] *CW: contains sexual themes, namely turn-ons and turn-offs. It gets specific.

Note: Ooh! Listen, I love this. I feel like our Sunshine Prince might’ve been a full-on Sub if the Taka+Sumi incident didn’t happen. I HC him to be a switch because of the need for some semblance of control!

Subject me to your thoughts and violent reactions. 😪

Turn-offs

He’s not a big fan of an overly potty mouth, in general. You can cuss here and there, but every time you speak is just too much. Please, have some class.

If you’re overly flirty with everyone, that’s also a no because he is a monogamous lover. He wants you all to himself and likewise, he gives his all to you. Being overly flirty with everyone can make him feel like he’s not special to you after all.

He will never fall for someone who is unkind or sadistic in any way at all. He will not even pay you any attention. That also goes for someone shallow who only likes him for his looks or status.

Bondage. Yes, you saw that coming, didn’t you? Anything that restricts his movement, he’s uncomfortable with for obvious traumatic reasons.

Facials. He’s not all about cumming on your face. He’d rather stuff himself deep inside you instead. He’s not one for degradation of any sort and doesn’t feel the need to do that to you. He gulps on that respect juice. However, he doesn’t mind cumming elsewhere—butt, stomach, etc.

Turn-ons:

Intelligence. If you’re well-spoken and your thoughts are logical and you’re not afraid to speak your mind, he might just fall in love with you. He wants someone who won’t shy away from discussions, but can remain respectful about it. Someone creative and intellectual who can match his energy.

He’s putty in your hands if you are caring and understanding yet also capable of being headstrong; someone with both conviction and compassion is someone he can admire.

When you wear his shirt and it looks like a dress on you cause his frame is much larger—the way it’s falling off your shoulder, the V-neck cut of it so deep on you that he gets a good view… It makes him want to take you then and there.

Hair-pulling, back-scratching, those little things you do that gives him a tiny bit of pain that’s also pleasurable. When you show him how much you’re letting go when you fuck.

A partner who fully trusts him, fully submits to him. He finds it so hot when you let him do as he pleases, when you show him how much you want him. When you let him roughly bend you over his desk and fuck you from behind, the wet slapping sounds echoing throughout the castle. But at the same time, when you take control and dominate him, when you ride him til he’s quaking and your legs start shaking, that’s just as hot.

To some smaller degree—breeding kink. Adrian isn’t sure if this is a vampire trait, like some sort of natural hunger to procreate, but… the thought of pushing himself balls-deep in you so he can cum deep inside you turns him on more than he lets on. Especially when you clench around him tightly and milk him for all he’s got as he’s cumming. The thought of putting babies in you, you carrying his offsprings… that’s hot. Needless to say, he is also crazy for a good creampie. 😌

When you moan his name… Honey, it’s over for you and him both.

[bludmystic]

When they ask if she has tried her blood trick on anyone else, Elyndra pauses, not out of hesitation, but because her mind stirs with fragments of memory. They are fleeting and violent, mere glimpses of flesh torn apart by the same invisible threads she had just demonstrated. The memory—or rather, the instinct—feels so close, just beyond the veil of her current existence. She knows she has done this before. Many times. Too many to count, perhaps. But those moments are lost to her, buried in the blood-soaked haze that clouds her past.

She almost answers immediately, but then Iago’s next questions follow swiftly behind, stirring that gnawing curiosity she has been carrying since their strange . . . reunion? Elyndra studies them with a small, amused smile, a subtle softening of her otherwise cold and statuesque demeanor. For all their cautious words and careful movements, she still senses an unspoken tension between them, a faint sense of fear masked by curiosity. And yet, it is their curiosity that gives her reason to trust them, at least for now. Knowledge seems to be a shared language between the two of them. Perhaps, through that shared pursuit, Iago’s fear might one day melt away, and the truth will come to light.

Still, she indulges their questions. Knowledge, after all, is meant to be shared. And though they may be hiding something, Iago’s queries seem genuine enough. Elyndra shifts slightly where she sits, her posture poised, as if she were about to deliver a lecture rather than a confession. ❛ To answer your first question, ❜ she begins, her voice soft but clear, a gentle cadence to her words, ❛ I have not yet tried it on anyone else, though I suspect this is not the first time I have done such a thing. It feels too natural, too . . . familiar. ❜ She glances at her hand, now clean and whole, as if the earlier display had been nothing more than an illusion. ❛ It is akin to muscle memory, but it resides in the mind. My mind is drawn to blood, to the way it flows, as if it calls to something primal within me. ❜

Her eyes return to Iago, sharp and inquisitive, though not unkind. ❛ And yet, I find it to be a hindrance, ❜ she admits softly. ❛ There is something extraordinary within my mind, something vast and full of potential. But it is tainted by these violent impulses, this hunger for bloodshed. I have not yet determined what purpose it serves or where it comes from, but it feels . . . unnecessary. Distracting. There is power in my mind—something perfect, absolute even—but it is riddled with these senseless, barbaric cravings. ❜

She allows a moment for the thought to linger before moving on to their next set of questions, her tone matter-of-fact, as though discussing a clinical observation. ❛ I do not possess a heartbeat, ❜ Elyndra says simply, her eyes glancing downward toward her chest, where no rise or fall of breath disturbs the stillness. ❛ Nor do I believe any of my organs are functioning. I have no need to breathe, and yet . . . ❜ She pauses, considering her next words. ❛ I still produce saliva somehow. I have shed tears, though my emotions do not seem as sharp as they ought to be. It is as though some functions of this body persist, while others have ceased altogether. In truth, I feel more akin to a puppet——held together not by flesh and bone, but by sheer will and thought. ❜

She lifts her hand again, tracing the lines of her own palm with a finger. ❛ Pain, however, remains. Though it is dulled, distant. ❜ She looks up from her hand, her gaze steady on Iago’s. ❛ I feel hunger as well. I have tried to eat normal food—bread, fruits, even meat—but it all tastes rancid, rotten, and my body rejects it. The more I consume, the stronger the hunger becomes, and it is not for food. ❜ She feels as though she doesn’t need to utter the words again, even as the rough voice in her mind screams, “FLESH. KILL,CONSUME,FEAST.”

❛ I have considered hunting, ❜ she adds, almost idly. ❛ Wildlife. Something living, something raw. I wonder if that might sate the hunger. ❜ She closes her eyes for a brief moment, letting the thought swirl in her mind. ❛ I have no true desire of my own to harm those who have been kind to me thus far. ❜ She exhales softly, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, the weight of her words pressing into the space between them. ❛ But if I do not feed soon, I fear something terrible may happen. If I lose control, I may become a threat to all of you. And should that come to pass . . . ❜ Her eyes flicker with a dark intensity as they meet Iago’s again. ❛ I want you to be prepared to test my theory. If I can die a second time, you may need to be the one to make it so. ❜

The cold, clinical tone in her voice never wavers, though there is an undeniable gravity to her words. It is not a request, but a statement of fact, a pragmatic acknowledgment of what might be necessary. For a moment, Elyndra allows herself to imagine that she is someone else——someone with a heartbeat, someone who fears death. But the thought slips away as quickly as it came. She is not that person. She is something else entirely, and until she understands what that is, she must rely on logic, on reason, and on those around her to guide her path forward.

closed starter | @accultant

The fire crackles nearby, casting long shadows that dance across the lich’s ashen skin. She feels none of the warmth from the flames, but watches the way it flickers in Iago’s eyes——violet, shifting, full of something they’re trying too hard to hide. Her gaze lingers on them for a moment longer before she takes her place beside them, careful to leave enough space that they don’t feel crowded, but close enough to speak without being overheard. There’s an odd serenity to the night, but it does little to ease the gnawing curiosity in her mind.

❛ I wanted to speak with you, Iago . . . if I may? ❜ She’s been watching them, of course. A week now in their company, and yet something about their very presence continues to prod at her subconscious, tugging at the threads of memories she cannot seem to grasp. They hadn’t said they knew her, not once, but she knows. The fear that flickered in their eyes when they first locked onto her wasn’t imagined. It’s a puzzle, one she cannot ignore.

She keeps her composure as she speaks, even though the hunger clawing at the depths of her stomach is a constant reminder of her body’s state. That cold, creeping sensation beneath her skin, the way her flesh doesn’t warm or pulse, the absence of breath unless she forces it——there’s no denying the truth of it, not anymore. ❛ I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I seem to be . . . well, quite literally dead. Right? ❜ Her tone remains calm, clinical, as though discussing something mundane, but her gaze sharpens, watching for the subtlest shift in Iago’s expression.

Elyndra pauses, glancing down at herself as if to emphasize her words. The lifeless pallor of her hands rests on her lap, unmoving. ❛ It’s the only thing that makes logical sense, ❜ she continues, her voice softening into a whisper, one meant only for Iago’s ears. ❛ and I’ve been thinking about it for days now… it’s the only thing that makes the—❜ She hesitates, searching for the right word, though there’s a quiet weight to the truth. ❛——the urges——make sense. ❜ Her lips press together in a thin line, her gaze steady, though beneath it all, the hunger swells, aching to be sated. It often times, like right now, will say terrible things like:

DEVOUR THEM. RIP THEM ALL APART. KILLKILLKILLKILLKILL—

She tilts her head slightly, studying Iago with that same unrelenting curiosity. ❛ You just seem like a smart person, ❜ she murmurs, the hint of a smile curling at the edges of her mouth. ❛ and I think I might be a smart person too. Really smart. ❜ Her voice is matter-of-fact, lacking any arrogance, merely a statement of observation. ❛ Maybe you can help me make sense of things. ❜ The words hang between them, a careful invitation, cloaked in the pretense of inquiry, but Elyndra knows there’s more at stake here than just her forgotten past. Iago is a part of that past. She’s certain of it.

Her gaze never wavers as she waits for their response, though her mind is already working, calculating. She has no memory of who she was, but her instincts have not left her. She knows how to read people, how to see beyond the surface of their words, and Iago——poor, skittish Iago——is no exception.

[archivedjuice]

okay listen daredevil noir fucks me up because i'd never noticed how much comic!matt on a whole depends on his ability to know when people are lying either to him or other people and i've never seen a writer explore what would happen if matt weren't there when a lie was told on a scale in which it's never revealed to matt, those the lie was told to and the reader whether or not what was said was actually a lie or was the truth. like i really sat, read this again today and realized eliza killed halloran before he could really ever reveal whether or not him telling fisk he was the one who killed jack was a lie or not.

it reads like waid's run where matt is made to question his sanity (which is funny since this came first) but instead he's made to question his ability, faith in himself and everything that's come before this in relation to 'how many times have i fucked up and didn't know it? how many people have i neglected to save because of my blind confidence and anger'.

this is a matt murdock new to daredevil and he's coming to terms with the fact that he won't be able to save everyone. he thinks he's already made peace with that but really, deep down he's been thinking that he can but it'll be done one person at a time and when he learns -- in this unfortunate, violent way where he falls in love with the idea of a person and they turn out to just be the worst of what's plaguing hell's kitchen -- that he isn't perfect in protecting hell's kitchen it uproots every belief he's ever had. (strangely close to s1 matt's conflict hmmm would the marvel's dd writers like to explain this?)

there are a lot of other aspects to this version of matt's story i like as well: foggy being more of a mentor, older brother or near father figure for matt rather than a best friend with usually less conflict. on a surface level, it might seem like it removes more of foggy's character for tethering him more to matt but this time in a more intimate way but i think if noir ever gets a full run (unlikely since it was published in 2009 and i think it's left better off finished there and never picked back up) it'd be cool to explore foggy's character from an elevated pov. i'm so in love with the ending, the conversation with foggy. foggy is dragging up every thought he's avoided, every thought he's refused to admit and shoving them in his face but because of the role foggy plays in his life it isn't unkind; it's this indifferent reality that weirdly comforts him in the sense that what he's just experimenced with halloran, fisk & eliza hasn't happened before but it will again in the same or another form and foggy will be there for all of it.

and then there's the fact that this matt's elektra is just straight up bullseye ('bull's eye'). like that's fucking genius? i don't think i'd ever seen such a clever use of an existing character or plot in such a new, unique way in an almost completely unrelated story since i first read soule's mike murdock arc. my favourite part about it was the motif of thin ice over moving water that turns into black water. i love how her character isn't directly tethered to matt (like elektra) but still she's a foil for him and challenges the way he thinks and feels for other people and himself.

[maldarchive]

the bad marriage of my body / the bad mirage of my body / the image I slipping into and out of like a spoon, gentle, willing, unfortunately bound by duty / it is perhaps true that I would rather live through than remember; it is perhaps true that my wants are childish, disrespectful, unkind; it is perhaps true that I do not know what I would rather because I have never had a choice / the violent tremor of my body / the trembling violence of my body / a body that I would in a second discard if I could, a body that I would love deeply if I could / a body that I have come to be unfamiliar with the further I go from trauma, the only thing that feels real about it is its pain / split down the middle like a snapped zip I am thinking of all the things I could try to forgive if I knew how / I remember everything: the way the light from the moon glimmered in the corner of your eye and I thought it was so beautiful to be full of grief, charged with it, a whole body glowing with misery / I was never evil even though I tried to compete with those around me, the best I could do were these silly thoughts / coming & going as if I have the strength to be anything but stationary / perhaps I would be wrong to say that I don't -

[sullustangin]

Alive

Time: 21 ATC/3631 BBY

Rating:  PG

Words: ~2000 (first 500 above the cut)

A/N:  This has been clawing its way out for awhile.  I found some free time at work to do this.  :) 

~~

Marcus Trant had lived in dread of the day that he would lose his best agent.

That day came.  It didn’t happen as he had expected it, sudden and violent. No.  It was a much longer, more attritional process.

Eighteen months had passed since that morning.  Trant had to confess there was a gaping hole in SIS where that agent had stood. 

Trant had not imagined this would feel so close to death, a loss so permanent.

These were the grim thoughts that flew around his mind as he made his commute from his latest apartment that he shared with his latest wife.  Spring had been permitted to arrive in the Coruscant biodome.  The cool morning was warming up, and the dew from the night before was evaporating, slowly.  After so many years and so many missions he couldn’t talk about (mostly because nobody else had survived to remember), Trant felt the cold and the wet in his bones.  His life came with aches and pains that nobody understood.

No, he had understood.  But he was gone now. 

Trant had lost his best agent and the only Republic operative actively engaged against the Eternal Empire.  The end had been inevitable. 

Theron Shan believed in the future. The Republic was wallowing in the past, picking the same old fights with the Sith Empire.  They preferred to squabble over whose mud was nicer to choke on as the Eternal Empire ground their faces into it, rather than throw off their conquerors.

Theron Shan believed there was more to existence than this. There were more people that could and would fight if it wasn’t under the Republic banner.

And so he resigned, less than three years away from his pension and a comfortable, deserved retirement. (Trant had hosted a convalescing Theron twice in his home, and oh, how his second wife had scolded him for putting that poor boy through all of that. 

For the Republic.)

Jace Malcom had had to be talked down in the middle of a diner before he put out an all-points intergalactic bulletin. 

Marcus Trant knew Theron didn’t want to be found or saved.  As Director of SIS, he should have considered him an enemy combatant or, even better for Trant, dead.  If he was dead, Trant could live with just the memory of some kid that wasn’t around anymore and didn’t make him worry.

…Trant remembered the first time he saw Theron at Coronet City Military Academy, in his own world, executing a gymnastics routine that should have been impossible for a normal teenager.  It would have been easy for a Jedi.

Theron was no Jedi, but he put the work in to make it seem like he was flying with help from supernatural forces (Forces?).

Theron had still held on to the tiny hope that he would be a Jedi, even at sixteen; he’d asked Trant on the transport to Coruscant whether SIS had any Force-Sensitive agents.  Just in case, you know.  

“There’s always a first.”

He couldn’t bear to be unkind to him and risk wasting that talent or dimming that light (Light?).

Trant had to admit there were parts of Theron that would always adhere to those high standards of a devoted order and a vision of the bigger picture, beyond just Republic vs. Empire.  It was, in the end, impossible to make Theron a soldier that took orders without question. Trant had admired his perseverance and his creativity.  

Theron made Trant go white, then bald. It was worth it.  He’d saved the Republic, more than once.

Best agent Trant ever had.  And he was gone.  Good as dead.

Why, then, by all the stars, was he delivering intel to a dead man?  Trant gripped the small piece of luggage by its handles and walked quickly past the SIS building instead of turning and flashing his credentials at the door, as usual.

Theron had referred to “it” as ‘potentially, the greatest con of all time -- or so my associate tells me.’ 

“It” had been the grand plan he left the Republic for.  Left Trant and the resistance they had stoked, two men standing against the odds, against an adverse galaxy. 

Trant was jealous.  He wanted to fight the war, but duty -- the same duty that had compelled Theron to stay for four years, that made him work on the endless lists of dead and vulnerable Sith assets and military gaps....officially.

Unofficially, Trant and Theron were classified as a terrorist cell for slicing into sensitive information and undermining Zakuulan authority.  The government didn’t know who they were.

And then Theron was gone.  He continued the work, for himself.  Then… for a new player in the galaxy.

Trant thought “it” was propaganda.  A ghost story.  A lie, bartered and resold, tarted up and trotted out.  The Outlander had escaped the clutches of Emperor Arcann, and now she and her resistance would save the galaxy.

Trant knew Theron believed in the future, and he would lie as needed to convince people to get off their asses and move.  It had surprised him, though.  Theron didn’t believe in victory at any cost.  Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t blaspheme the memory of someone --

.... someone.  Someone that had been in Theron’s life and had tried to remain. 

Someone that had to be dead.

Trant had wondered whether he understood love at all, after three ex-wives, two kids that barely spoke to him anymore, and one agent who had people constantly walking out of his life and had become too cagey to let someone in. 

Eternal Fleet had cost the Republic a valuable asset, and it disrupted the equilibrium of one of its best agents. It was a mortal wound, bleeding out over the course of four years.

And then Theron was gone.

Marcus Trant consulted his chrono.  An encrypted comm had come from, supposedly, Bespin.  Trant knew the code used –  from the Mandalorian films that got Gary promoted. Only three people in the galaxy had ever bothered to learn that code to transmit messages. One was dead.  One was Trant.  One was Theron.  The message offered an intel exchange: massive amounts of data on skytroopers and their variety of permutations.  It wasn’t enough for the Republic to start production on its own, but it was enough to make more efficient weapons to destroy them.  In exchange? 

A blind eye to certain planets... certain activities...certain rumors.  And maybe some spare confiscated goods at a few starports across the galaxy -- just some fodder to make friends and influence people. 

Trant started to wonder whether this was blasphemy or an actual miracle.

He was going to find out.  He’d agree to the exchange, on the condition that ‘a known entity’ take the drop.  They’d agreed on a tram stop, not far from SIS.  They would be ‘recognizable.’  No disguises.

It was simple.  It was so brazen and bold that nobody would expect it.  Nobody would believe it.

Just Theron’s style.

Trant had crammed a fistful of antacids into his mouth as he walked out the door.

Now Trant readjusted his grip.  Theron loved risk.  Risk gave Trant ulcers, and here he was, potentially committing treason in the hope that this insurgency had a better shot at toppling Zakuul than he did, running a one-man show now in SIS.

Trant served the Republic. Theron had always served the greater galaxy.  Trant knew Theron thought less of him for being willing to sacrifice a few planets in the name of the Republic and the great propaganda it would generate; Theron had never hidden that disdain thereafter.

It was another thing Trant admired him for.

Trant sat on a bench at the tram stop, suitcase in his lap.  He waited.

Time passed.  

The trams came and went every fifteen minutes, seven-and-a-half minutes for each direction.

Three trams.  No engagement.

Trant was pretty sure he’d gotten stood up.  That, or he was about to be made by some secret police force of Saresh – apologies, Chancelor Maddon.  

Well, this wasn’t the worst way to get his burn notice, Trant supposed.  He had some credits on him, could get some distance, maybe even back to his apartment to all his burner IDs and ----

A flash of red caught his eye.  Trant realized it had always been there, riding the waves of people that came and went on the tram platform on the opposite side of the tracks.  No, not on the platform itself – it was in outdoor seating area for the caf shop, appearing and disappearing and appearing again as people rushed by ---

Why hadn’t he seen him before?  He’d been looking out for him since he was a kid –

Trant began to wonder whether it was time for him to call it a day on his career, even as he got up and hauled himself out and around the tram station to get to the correct side of the tracks.  His silly ass had wasted 20 minutes while –

Trant paused under the shop awning.  From his vantage point, he could see the owner of the red jacket clearly now.  

He saw the profile of a familiar head, hair pomaded in an effort to contain would-be curls, managing them at the wavy stage.  Trant should have known that.  How had he --?

And then he saw Theron move.  

Different.  The movement was different, the body language was different –

Trant realized he’d never seen Theron with a partner before – professional, romantic, or otherwise. Theron was always alone.  

Not today.

Theron was –

Trant felt the ripple of shock, but he was better trained than most of his own agents; as he had told Theron ages ago, he wasn’t the Director of SIS just because he could do paperwork and look cute.  He checked any impulse to gasp, only flexing his fingers around the handle of the suitcase.

The asset was alive. Theron wasn’t peddling lies to save the galaxy.  

Eva.  All those other names she went by, including Outlander. But Eva, the asset, Theron’s asset, was most pertinent here.

…Eva was apparently not dead.  Dressed in ballet flats and one of those long sweaters, she looked like a generic brunette from Coruscant.  She was having midmorning caf and pastries with her –

Something was still alive enough to flutter inside Trant when Eva laughed at an amusing comment Theron made, and she reached to touch him.  The touch was received with a smile, and then with all ease and affection, he leaned just far enough to brush his lips over her cheek – a gesture equally well-received and then returned.

It was nothing special. It was nothing out of the ordinary. This was normal for most people on a caf date with their lover.

Trant hadn’t recognized Theron because he’d never seen him like this.   Happy with someone, completely absorbed in her, just as much as she was in him.  

Maybe Trant understood love after all, because after the initial surprise, everything in the universe made better sense.  

Once that final piece of intel clicked into place for him, Trant was all motion and guile.  “Hey.  Theron.”

Smoothly, as if expecting it, Theron turned his head to look at Trant. He grinned in greeting, eyes briefly bouncing to the suitcase before returning to Trant’s face. “Guess that’s all my stuff from my desk I forgot to clean out?”  

“You guessed it.  Consider the bag a going away present.”  Trant lifted his chin to acknowledge Eva. “Ma’m.”

“How’s tricks, Marcus?” she replied airily, and Theron choked on a laugh, somewhere between shocked and amused at her audacity.  It had always been “Trant” or “Director Trant” for him.

“The usual.  How’s that new business you started?”  Trant set the bag down, halving the distance between him and Theron.  Theron tucked the suitcase under the table and went back to drinking his fancy caf.

“It’s going,” Eva answered. “I got one of the best project managers in the galaxy.  Resources are a little hard to come by, but nothing I haven’t scraped through before.”

“Considering you stole my best man, I better hear good things about you in the near future.” Trant looked pointedly at Theron as he said this, and the younger spy gave him a smile.

Eva, turned in her seat at the chime of the tram station chrono.  “Hey, tram’s almost  here. We should probably get this one, get to the new site early for set-up.”

“You’re right.” Theron shotgunned the last of his caf, then grabbed the suitcase.

As Eva grabbed her caf in its little to-go cup, Trant took the spare moment to really look at Theron as he and Eva exchanged brief chatter about plans and lies about what they were actually doing on Coruscant.

Alive.  Theron was most certainly alive.

“Catch you around!” Theron slid his hand over his implants, paying the fare, and the tram gate opened for him and Eva.  

Trant realized they were really leaving, almost belatedly.  Impulsively, he offered the closest thing to an affectionate farewell he could, in the circumstances.  “Do me proud out there.”

Theron stepped onto the tram and set down the suitcase case.  He tossed Trant a cocky look.  “I can do better than that.”  

The door slide shut between them, and Trant laughed.  He let himself watch the tram pull away, Theron holding on to the commuter bar overhead, and Eva hanging onto him.   He saw them exchange words, knowing smiles on their faces…

Yeah, he would do better than that.  Always did.

[yournameyn]

Feeling Deeply Chapter 5

Genre: Arranged Marriage Fic. Fluff turning into angst?

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Summary: The story of two deeply feeling nerds who find themselves in an arranged marriage. (Details here). Our OC is called Brishti. It’s a Bengali name meaning rain. Namjoon calls her Rim (short for her pet name, RimJhim which means the pitter-patter of rain). She calls him Joon.

Warnings: NOT THE NAMJOON OF OUR DREAMS. Argument. Fight over tiny discrepancies that turn out to be a huge problem. Domestic violence. Not a happy chapter.

A/N: Have you ever felt this, reader? When you watch something and realise exactly what you need to realise in that moment? I’ve had that so many times - seeing my feelings mirrored in a show. That’s something that I’ve tried to have Brishti feel here. Also, this is how I see the natural progression of this Namjoon, the one who obliged to duty rather than his dreams. It took me a long time to write this but I love what’s come out. Let me know what you think!

Current Chapter: London, late 1963. Love fully blooms between Namjoon and Brishti. And yet, something’s not right. A visit to the ballet and a conversation brings forth realisations. The inklings that Brishti was trying to avoid transform into writing on the wall.

Previously in Feeling Deeply: Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The magic about new love isn’t really in romance or even in true intimacy. It’s in how violent new love is… and just how much time it takes us to feel it’s impact.

In the new love between Namjoon and Brishti, everything had been roses and honey, overflowing, swaying in a gentle breeze. They spent every second possible in each other’s arms. They had to tear themselves away from each other when they had to leave home. And even then, it hurt as though they were part of the same cloth.

Brishti had thought about how they had become woven, their souls an ornate tapestry. Namjoon had told her then about a Japanese tradition of weaving that was a sort of meditation and a kind of worship to a god called ‘Musubi’. The disciples say it is like being part of the cosmic tapestry. Being tied to each other.

“Just like we are… I felt a pull toward you and I followed it. I was scared… so full of doubts about who you were and how this was all going to go… I had promised myself that I would fulfil my duty… whatever happened ” Namjoon had said, petting Brishti’s hand gently, “And I… I still can’t believe it… It… you make me feel like I can… trust myself.” Brishti had looked at her genius then and wondered what a strange world it must be that made a man like Namjoon doubt himself, “Always, always trust yourself, Namjoon-ah.” and settled into the crook of his neck.

It was indeed a strange world that caused Namjoon to build an armour around himself. Because ‘London’ and ‘Lonely’ sounded just the same to him. His years alone in this strange place had been unkind, unrelenting. Brishti had been the only softness he had felt in a long long time. Armours built over years can break in an instant, though. For him, it was the moment when he and his wife had crossed the threshold to becoming lovers. High on the magic of new love, he had not realised it.

Sitting across from each other after that fateful evening, Namjoon and Brishti were both wide awake in the early hours of the next morning. Brishti buttoned up the shirt they never fully took off. Namjoon had tickled her with his toes. They propped their feet against the other’s to see just how vast the difference was (he melted seeing how small her feet were and hadn’t stopped playing with them since). Caressing each toe, he remembered something he wanted to ask -

“How did you know what Saranghae is?”

“Mm…” she stretched her arms, “I know what it means…” Brishti said.

“I know you know… from the way you… after I said it… You asked Yoongi about it?” Namjoon cautiously asked about the only other Korean Brishti knew. To his surprise, she nodded no, still denying him any information. Namjoon had to tickle her foot for the answer.

“Okay! Okay! Wait! Pleeeease!” Namjoon stopped and Brishti bent down to the bureau next to her bed and pulled out a textbook - LEARN HANGUL THROUGH ENGLISH. Namjoon looked more shocked than she had expected. “I asked Yoongi about the book-”

“You don’t need to Rim… I’m not learning Bangla, am I?” Namjoon said. He was touched but he didn’t want his love to do anything he couldn’t reciprocate.

“I would have asked you to learn it… if I wrote poetry in my mothertongue...” Brishti said. Namjoon was shocked. She went on, “You really think I didn’t know?”

Namjoon blushed and smiled and flopped over in Brishti’s lap. She brushed his hair as she explained, “You light up at the mention of lyrics and poetry, you keep a notebook by your side at all times, you’re moved by the things that people usually don’t pay attention to… I know you’re a poet, Joonie.”

Namjoon looked up at her and said, “No one has ever called me that…”

Brishti leaned down and kissed her gorgeous husband. “You are... From what I know, I bet all my books that you are a great one... And… I… I would love nothing more than to be part of your world of words, Joonie… It must be strange… to be understood but in a foreign language. If you would let me, I want to understand you in your language… Do you think that’s something maybe--”

He got up and all but jumped on Brishti, pinning her down to the bed with the cutest puppy-yell she had ever heard. “Yes! Of course, yes!”

They both understood that this was a proposal. The truest kind - a gentle request to explore Namjoon’s universe. They would later joke about how she proposed to him after a month of being married. Namjoon was completely delighted by this person with him, his person… one who really saw him.

He pulled her to him saying, “You’re the best part of my world, Rim...” and kissed her.

Each moment of love flowed through the next. When they had to be separated, they couldn’t wait for the next one, their moment again. On weekends they would visit museums and find their favourite paintings and sculpture or their favourite prehistoric relic and animal. Brishti hated the fact that Namjoon had to work overtime to compensate for these weekends and she often voiced how unfair it was.

In response Namjoon would just give her a peck and say, “As long as I have you, I’m happy.” This pricked her but she was too taken by the man before her to pay heed to it.

Namjoon was just about able to keep a straight face at work but everyone around Brishti was acutely aware of how much she loved Namjoon.

At one point, her colleague and best friend, Min Yoongi had yelled at her, “Yhaaaaa! Stop blushing?! It’s just a clock… what could be romantic about a clock?!” Sayuri-san, and she were hanging around Yoongi’s table when Brishti looked at his new flip clock and started blushing.

Brishti laughed along with everyone else but explained, “It’s involuntary… that’s what happens when you’re married to a poet.”

Sayuri-san corrected, “I know too many wives of poets to know that’s not necessarily true… It is true though, when you’re in love with a poet… Go on… tell us how exactly poet Namjoon makes you blush about a clock...”

Brishti blushed even more at that. Yoongi rubbed his arms and demanded, “Tell us because there’s some really weird things coming to my mind… like you guys have an exact time when...”

Brishti stopped his imagination, “No no no… it’s nothing like that… he loves digital clocks... because he loves to watch the time turn to 00:00… zero o’clock he calls it… and on days he feels sad, it’s like zero o’clock is always there to comfort him… like it’s a point when the whole world holds its breath and he can feel happy again… but these days… with me… he said he wants the clock to keep going after 23:59… he wishes time would stretch on… beyond 24:01…”

Yoongi sighed and sat back down, “You’re making me fall in love with Namjoon… ahhh that is beautiful. He should be published...”

“Imagine him saying this directly to you and you might know how I feel… I can’t stop talking about him...”

“Oh, we know. But honestly none of us care… your poet-librarian romance is getting us through our single-ness.” Yoongi reassured her.

The three of them continued to talk about the ways in which Brishti could repay Namjoon’s wordsmithing in graphic ways.

It was that evening, wasn’t it, when Namjoon had enveloped her back in the warmest hug as soon as he’d entered their flat. Brishti was in the kitchen when she heard him enter but hadn’t expected this. He kissed her neck while telling her the good news, “We got our first Korean client today… because of me… Mmmm… Why do you always smell so amazing?”

Brishti turned around and hugged him again, “That’s amazing! Namjoon-ssi! I’m so proud of you!”

“He’s from a wealthy family… so he can actually afford our firm… its not exactly the work I wanted to do--”

“It is a step toward that idea, right? It’s still good work, fighting for justice?” Brishti asked, stopping him from undermining his own work.

Namjoon nodded, “Yeah… He’s a dancer… Park Jimin. All the posh types know him as one of the best dancers in the Royal Ballet. They call him Jim… as if it’s too difficult to say Jimin?” Namjoon shook his head in disapproval. He began helping Brishti with the chopping and continued, “He was born in the UK and trained since he was 5... He got into the Royal Ballet but he’s been passed up to be a principal over and over even though everyone who has seen him dance apparently knows that he’s far far better… So recently he spoke to the director there... and of course the director made a racist slur and asked not to bother him with this again. He can’t even quit and work at another company because of the contract they have him on. There’s a non compete clause… meaning he won’t be able to dance with any other company. That’s all he wants… to be able to get out of that contract… I’m hoping to convince him to press charges on racial discrimination too. We’re not in the 20s anymore.”

When Brishti didn’t respond, Namjoon looked up at her. “That’s horrible… I’m so so glad you’re taking up the case. But please tell me what you ate when you were alone?” He looked down at the carrot he’d been failing to cut.

Namjoon scrunched his nose and admitted, “Canned food mostly.”

Brishti said, “I’m really really glad you’re getting to do work that you are passionate about, Joonie, you deserve it. Now, you should know how to cut a carrot.”

Namjoon pressed up against Brishti’s back. She reached back up to the nape of his neck and made him moan into her. Then… then Namjoon made her forget how to cut carrots.

He had these ways… Namjoon, with his touch, his voice, his languages both spoken and soundless. He was lighting new paths into her self. She loved learning him. Paths she didn’t know existed, that she’d been longing for.

The scars of the loneliness, emptiness that Namjoon had experienced had turned his longings into a kind of starvation. He needed to be nourished and also devoured. Brishti was just the creature to do it. He could feel her warm fingers trace rows of pleasure onto his skin. He felt them bear down and singe when the two of them had to move away from each other. He felt those ropes tug at him as the end of his workday neared. Namjoon closed his eyes each night at her touch, the feeling and fragrance of her body. He felt blooms of intimacy spring up like seedlings out of the soil of his skin. And deeper. In the earth of his soul. So he did the only thing he could. Reciprocate. Namjoon sowed his love, his desire, his need onto her, into her every night.

There were times, though, when she would feel his absence in the middle of the night and see him working in the dim light of a lamp. She knew he had to work hard to do what he wanted but she also saw he had to continually prove himself to people who weren’t even paying attention. The reason they weren’t paying attention was painfully clear to Brishti but she was yet to experience it’s full stab.

Namjoon wanted to shield her from it. He was counting on an armour that didn’t exist anymore to protect himself and his wife… the reason he liked his life again. Whenever she came out and switched on a brighter light, reprimanding him for straining his gorgeous eyes, he saw that it did prick her - this world and the unfairness he had to endure. She would say something small, an almost-complaint that alerted him… against her for some strange reason. She would say something that would be easy to ignore and yet would prick him, like - “I don’t know why they haven’t promoted you yet.” or “Why haven’t they taken up Jimin’s case yet? You’ve worked so hard on it.” Everytime she did that, he would have to pacify himself.

‘I’ve told her so much about the Jimin case… she’s just really invested’ Namjoon thought to himself. Just so he would avoid thinking, ‘I shouldn’t have told her.’

He would have to calm himself, give her a peck and try to convince her to stop worrying. “As long as I have you, I’m happy.” Namjoon would always say.

Then, Brishti smiled as she always did. While trying to understand why that sentence bothered her so much. After almost five months of exploring this wonderful man, some part of him still felt unfamiliar… like it didn’t fit in with the rest. Still, these things take time, she had heard from so many women over the years. Besides, she was blessed with a man far far above the norms. So, how could she prod? These are things Brishti had told herself - until the night she couldn’t stay silent.

The couple was coming up on their fifth month together and Park Jimin had gifted Namjoon a ticket to the final show of the season as a token of gratitude, for having heard his story.

Brishti was nervous about going to this kind of a gathering and had told her husband to meet her there.

She had enlisted the help of Sayuri-san to look appropriate for the event. Her slightly longer hair was clipped and her eyes were kohled. She wore a burgundy knee length fringe-ended dress that she had received from her gracious host, stylist and make-up artist - an inheritance of her brilliant life tucked into the black pearl beading and deco design. It was a big departure from the usual tie-die or band tees and jeans with her baggy coat. She had carried the coat but felt this strange sort of compulsion to stand in the cold air in the noodle strap dress, for him to see her.

She felt butterflies in her stomach and kept fiddling with the coat she had draped over her arm. It was electric when she saw him.

Namjoon looked gorgeous in a tux. All of Brishti’s nerves were soothed just by looking at him. He had brushed his hair back. Tall and dashing - better than any heathcliffe could ever be. And with his reading glasses, he looked like the lead of a romance novella that would make all the women swoon. Indeed she was swooning. Brishti was suddenly warm in the chilly, windy night. And when Namjoon saw her, blood rushed to her cheeks. Everything inside her was running helter skelter in a panic. Brishti felt everything drop in the few moments it took for Namjoon to reach the top of the stairs. Dolled up like this, outside of her element, she felt like an imposter. Some angel needed to be standing in her place. For the first time, feigning beauty, Brishti felt like she wasn’t worthy of her husband.

She was finally able to keep her feelings aside when he reached her.

Namjoon kissed her palm like a gentleman and whispered in her ear, “Let’s go home… I need a private kind of dance…” Brishti blushed. Namjoon put his arm around her and felt the chill that had settled on her skin. “Aren’t you cold? Why didn’t you wear the coat?” Namjoon asked. Brishti just shook her head no and the two of them walked in.

Brishti assumed that the ballet would be a welcome distraction from the storm that brewed within her. She had read up about the show, the piece they were going to perform -

Tchaikovsky’s venerated Swan Lake. The story of a young girl who falls in love with a prince who promises to save her but fails. Ofcourse there were finer nuances to the story but this was the basic plot. As the lights dimmed, Brishti felt pulled in by the music, the eerie beauty of it’s melody played in perfectly with the questions that were swirling around in Brishti’s mind -

Why do I feel wrong?

Is this what Yoongi was talking about? Anxiety…?

Why does Namjoon look so... different?

Why is he so quiet, so… distant…It’s like he’s keeping himself away from me despite being right next to me, arm in arm, like the true Namjoon is somewhere in a glass case? Deep deep beneath whatever this creature is who is next to me?

I’m thinking too much. No. What is this? Why am I feeling this way?

It’s the music… no its not just the music… something is fucking wrong because all I feel like doing is breaking that glass case that’s locked away My Namjoon and presented this fucking imposter. What the hell is going on?!

Brishti barely managed to keep it together. She kept her eyes on stage…

It was like seeing a moving painting being created by invisible hands and the music was the sound of the brushstrokes, amplified. Park Jimin was playing Rothbart, the owl-like magician who curses Odette into a swan until she finds someone who would promise to love her forever. The questions in her mind and the power of the spectacle before her forced her tears to keep flowing.

Namjoon saw Brishti cry and held on to her. But the more he tried to comfort her, the more uneasy she became, the more she coudln’t contain the tears in her eyes.

The curtain fell at the end of Act three when the prince realises he has been tricked. Brishti, somehow, mirrored his grief. The prince was cheated by Rothbart into believing that his daughter, Odile, was Odette. Rothbart relished his plan so despicably it made Brishti’s stomach turn. The prince had already declared to the ballroom full of people his vow to love and marry the maiden by his side - Odile, not Odette. Park Jimin played Rothbart so skillfully, so beautifully that despite being the villain, despite being covered from head to toe, he was the star. Rothbart giggled delightfully as he revealed to the prince that the girl in his arms wasn’t Odette at all. That Odette was waiting for her prince by the lake. The curtain fell as the prince felt the stab of betrayal and rushed to Odette.

Brishti rushed to where she did not know. She wanted to get away from Namjoon, from this feeling that she couldn’t understand, couldn’t explain. She was angry. She wanted to break something. Tears still flowing down her face, she found a corner that was hidden away in darkness. She went in. Brishti sat on the couch there, for what seemed like eternity, breathing heavily. Nothing made sense. It felt like her insides were twisting into each other. Suddenly, though, a door creaked open and out came an angel. A man, glowing, having just freshened up. He saw her, saw her fear and instead of pulling back in shock, approached with a strange kindness. He held her wrist and stayed silent for a moment.

His beauty was also a kindness to her. In that moment, Brishti could breathe a little bit better. He sat down by her knees, on the floor and when he spoke, his voice flowed like a tonic, “First time at the ballet? It’s overwhelming… I know. You’re okay. You are safe. Rothbart is not here. Talk to me… what are you feeling?”

The tears kept flowing. This man was different, she knew he understood what she was feeling like. She felt safe, but not as if she was with a saviour, rather as though she was with another victim.

“What are you feeling…” Park Jimin repeated. The pieces were falling into place in her head. This is Park Jimin, the man who danced as Rothbart. The man who should have danced the Prince. Who should have played Odette and Odile.

“I feel… rage.” Brishti trembled as she spoke. She could breathe again.

“Yes… Rothbart is… evil… I’m sorry-”

Brishti nodded her head no. “At the prince.”

Jimin was surprised. “Let it out. You can scream in here and no one would know.”

Brishti didn’t need another invitation, but her rage wasn’t a scream, it was a whisper - “I want to hit the prince. How could he not now? He couldn’t see that that girl was not Odette? Is he blind? The way she moved, the way she danced… which only means… it means that the prince knew… somewhere he felt doubt but he… He couldn’t fucking trust himself enough?! I don’t know why this is breaking my heart… Why can’t people trust in themselves?! It’s a pathetic fucking excuse and I can’t buy it… I just can’t. Why did the prince...” Her hands covered her face as she wiped her tears. She composed herself.

Jimin pulled out a kerchief. “May I?” Brishti nodded and he dabbed her face with care.

“The prince trusted his sight more than his soul. And now, Odette will die because of it. As always, the woman pays the price.”

“He dies too, you know.”

“What a waste…”

Jimin smiled, “Thank you… for watching the show, for feeling it so much.”

Brishti managed a weak smile, “Thank you.” Jimin stepped away and sat next to her, at a respectable distance. “I’m being lied to.”

Jimin nodded, “I know what that’s like. I feel that rage against the prince too. And still, we must be kind to our liars.”

Brishti clenched her teeth, “Why? Where’s the fairness in that?”

Jimin moves away, in a dejected kind of daze and pours himself a drink, “That’s the biggest lie, fairness. Cruel joke.”

Brishti walked toward the door. “I should go… Thank you.”

Jimin raised his glass to her.

Brishti wore her coat and walked toward the exit. She found Namjoon in a panic and suddenly felt like she could reach him. He looked so relieved to see her. She couldn’t help but feel awash with love as he crashed into her in the warmest hug. It was as if he was the one who was lost.

“Are you okay? Why were you crying?” Namjoon asked her as he stroked her head and held her in the hug for as long as she needed.

“I need to ask you something.” Brishti whispered as she pulled away. They began walking down the stairs of the theatre.

“Änything.” Namjoon replied.

“Your firm… they refused the Jimin case, right?”

Namjoon froze. His jaw locked up. “Let’s go home.”

The rest of the way, neither of them spoke a word. They entered their home in a cold silence. They washed the night off themselves and entered their bedroom, which was completely devoid of the heat and desire that usually filled it right up to the ceiling. What used to feel like an ocean, now felt like a vacuum.

When Namjoon walked in, Brishti reminded him, as kindly as she could,“I said I need to ask you something. You said, ‘anything’.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” Namjoon was cold again. Unfeeling. Unreachable.

Brishti tried her best to be calm… “When would you want to talk about it?”

Namjoon breathed in - “Why? Am I answerable to you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we disagree. I don’t think I am answerable to you. What would you have done if I wouldn’t have told you about it in the first place?”

“I would still be feeling what I’m feeling… I would be even more furious though.”

“Fu- why would you be furious? I have to work there, I lost the account. I’m feeling hurt and disappointed in myself and instead of helping me, you’re angry?! What the hell could you be angry at?!”

“I’m being lied to. I’m being tricked.”

“What?!” the contempt on Namjoon’s face made her head throb. He was angry now.

“There are two Namjoons here. I’m being told there’s only one and--”

“That is some philosophical trash that you learned from one of your books. Real life doesn’t work that way. But how would you know?! You don’t have a real job. You have a hobby. A hobby of stacking books in order. You’re just plain lucky that someone is paying you for your hobby. That’s not a job. You of all people cannot tell me about the things I have to do to keep my job. I have tried my best to be as honest as I can be--”

“As honest as you can --”

“Listen to me!” Namjoon thundered. His loud voice might as well have been a punch. It rang through her body and rattled her bones. She had tears in her eyes but clenched them down as Namjoon continued yelling, “Enough… enough with the fucking tears. What the fuck are you so sad about?! I don’t need you to pity me. I don’t need anyone to feel sad for me. I have tried to be a good man - do you even know how much other men don’t even mention to their wives?! I told you everything. EVERYTHING. And now I’m being punished for it. Time and time again I tried to console you… even though I was the one hurting… I tried to be there for you and tell you… as long as I have --”

Brishti couldn’t take it anymore “Don’t. Say that.” She didn’t yell. Her voice was just above a whisper and yet it sent a chill down Namjoon’s spine. She wiped her tears. “I didn’t ask to be consoled. I was just… curious. If a few questions from me hurt so much maybe you should ask yourself why. I’m not lucky that someone decided to pay me for my hobby. It’s nice to know what you really think of my job. But whatever you think, I created my job. I created my life. I fought to come to london. I fought for the right to earn--”

“Oh please... spare me the feminist lecture...” scoffed Namjoon.

“Sure. Take up Jimin’s case.”

Namjoon felt the burn of white hot rage. He wanted to strangle her. He was so used to touching her… and she was his… in this bedroom, he had made her his. He wasn’t thinking. Namjoon strode toward her and held one massive palm over her mouth and the other on her neck and pinned her to the wall. “YOU WOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THAT IF I DIDN’T TELL YOU.”

It took him a few moments to realise what he was doing. Brishti was shocked and tried to scream but no voice came out. She was trying to get him out of his daze when he finally saw her, saw his Rim, horrified… by him. Namjoon pulled his hands back instantly. He saw a red bruise bloom where his hands were - on her face and on her neck.

“This is how you make your conscience shut up?” Brishti’s voice was hoarse. “You think this has nothing to do with your conscience? With the best part of you? The part that you made me fall in love with? Are you really telling me you don’t know that this is why you can’t write the way you used to… You’re killing my Joon and asking me to stay silent. I can’t.”

The searing anger still hadn’t died and it burst out of him, “Why are we fighting like this… over Jimin… why don’t you take up his case if you fucking love him so much?”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?”

“You… Why are you fighting for him against me?!” It was here that Namjoon realised his armour was gone. The idea of who he is... suddenly vanished. And the one thing that had made him feel safe, like his true self, was slipping away. “You’re saying… just tell me… you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”

Brishti did him the only kindness she had left in her, she explained, “Jimin wants to leave but can’t. He stays because he needs to dance. He stays because he cannot get out of his contract. You say you want to help people like Jimin, you roll your eyes at white people who can’t pronounce our names, you feel guilty for asians who have much less than we do… but then you also don’t raise an issue when your boss holds meetings in clubs where people of other races and dogs and women are not allowed. You work overtime for the privilege of weekends… You say you are trying but… as far as I know… you don’t have a non-compete clause in your contract, Namjoon.”

That hit him like an iceberg. Namjoon’s legs gave way and he just sat on the bed.

He watched as Brishti put on her coat and left, covering her bruises with a scarf.

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Chapter 6 - to be posted.