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chimcess · 2 months ago

Text

Nachash || jhs

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Med Student!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count: 21.4k+ Summary: After the loss of both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell their home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place that she has little memories of despite 10 years of living in Harlem. Her world begins to shift, and she starts to lose sight of dreams and reality, and at the center of it all is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her a strange sense of deja vu, but she can’t help but wonder if he is who he says he is and why a strange bar keeps popping up in her nightmares. Warnings: Strong language, bad medical terminology (I tried), Hoseok has a demon side (like physically different), main character (somewhat) death (graphic), graphic violence, reader slowly losing her mind, heavy religious themes in a large chunk of this, explicit sexual content, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, manhandling, hard dom Hoseok, so much blood, low-key a yandere but not really, blood play, blood drinking, begging for life, extreme emotional manipulation, growling, over stimulation, unprotected sex (wrap it up), DARK ENDING, dubious consent (mind control/mood control/literally cannot leave Hoseok's presence), reader is severely mentally ill by the end of this, demonic possession, Stockholm syndrome, this is not a cute demon romance, read at your own risk, stopping here since there’s a lot just let me know if I missed anything A/N: After posting a teaser for this fic two years ago, I finally got around to finishing it! I’m still working on my smut skills, so I apologize in advance, but I hope you can get down with my favorite (and extremely evil) demon man. Happy Halloween (or, to my fellow Pagans, Happy Samhain)!

Prologue || Listen to the Playlist || Cross posted on AO3: here

Nachash (noun) "snake; serpent". Derived from the Hebrew root n-ch-sh.

July 1997

"How are you feeling?"

I sighed, pulling open another box. Unpacking was always the worst part of moving, like some cosmic joke designed to break you down piece by piece. Plates stared back at me from the box, and I clenched my jaw. The one on top was chipped—another thing on my growing list of replacements. I pulled it out and set it aside, determined to deal with it later. The rest of the plates went away in the cabinet. The broken one would be tossed.

"I don't know," I confessed. "Mom died. I'm everywhere."

My brother's hum of acknowledgment was all I heard. Miles had always been a quiet, distant sort, barely speaking to our parents. Their deaths hit him hard, but more so with Dad than Mom. Dad had been the stable one, while Mom was a relentless storm—never satisfied, constantly pushing, always demanding. To her, a doctor and a lawyer weren't enough. Miles had always seen her as aggressive, unyielding, and ever discontented. And Dad? Well, his complacency had its own way of grating.

Miles had moved to Oregon right after graduating from FSU, never looking back. We'd made the trek to see him a few times, but he'd never returned the favor. My stint in New York had mended our relationship somewhat. He visited frequently and spent his summers with me, and after Dad passed, he made a point to see Mom at least once a year. I didn't mind the trips to Portland; my Jacksonville home had become his family's vacation spot.

"So am I," he said, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue.

They'd been at each other's throats, arguing constantly, with his wife loathing Mom. Yet, I knew Miles held some affection for her despite their tumultuous relationship. He'd never truly made her proud, and that haunted him. I understood, but when I moved back home, the dynamics shifted. Mom used me as a weapon against Miles, making me the favored child, the one who came back. Miles was the ungrateful one who'd married the wrong woman.

Mom always blamed Trinity for Miles' "bad attitude." Dad knew better. I knew better.

"So," Miles shifted gears, "when can we come and visit?"

I smiled, "I'll be out there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So maybe next summer?"

"That's a long wait."

I chuckled, "Well, Rory starts school this year and Trinity's pregnant. You're just as busy as I am."

I'd been the one with the most on my plate for years. Mom, a real estate agent, rarely left home, while Dad ran a plumbing company. When Miles went to college, I was knee-deep in medical school applications. During my residency, Miles was grinding through law school. When I moved back to Florida, I was buried in ICU shifts while he graduated and started his own practice. He met Trinity, and the two became inseparable. Mom despised her, but I saw how they brought out the best in each other. My career-driven life had left me disconnected, and while Mom reveled in it, I resented it.

Kids changed everything for them. Aurora was their miracle baby. Trinity had struggled with fertility for years, and when they finally had a child, it was as if their world had transformed. My brother was spent, and Mom's resentment boiled over. She was always bitter that they hadn't uprooted their lives back to Florida for the grandchild. By then, Miles didn't care. He'd made the trips for Dad but after Mom's cruel comments about Trinity's weight and their daughter being "too pretty" to be her granddaughter, Aurora never set foot in the family home again.

"Aurora is driving me crazy," Miles groaned. "She won't stop talking about the baby."

"As a big sister, I can tell you she's just being a normal kid."

"I know that," I could almost hear his eye roll. "I'm just worried. It's still early, and I don't want her hopes to get too high. Trinity's scared of another miscarriage."

It would be her sixth.

"Try to stay positive, bub," I bit my lip, surveying the cluttered room. I'd never finish today. "If it happens, it happens. But don't go into it expecting the worst."

"Between Mom and this…" He trailed off.

I understood his fear. Trinity was a few years older than me, and her anxiety was palpable. At 38, any pregnancy brought its own set of worries. Last I heard, Trinity was considering getting her tubes tied if this one didn't make it. The heartache was becoming unbearable.

"Hey," I kept my tone gentle, knowing that riling him up wouldn't help. "Keep your head up. Her next appointment is soon. Ensure she's sticking to bedrest, and you'll be fine."

"What if it happens again?"

My heart broke for him. Miles had always been the rock, the one who seemed unshakeable. Seeing him this vulnerable starkly contrasted with the angry kid he'd been in high school. Mom had pushed his buttons mercilessly, and I had vague memories of our squabbles, but they paled compared to the constant battles he faced with her.

I wondered if he ever grasped how I felt. He always thought Mom liked me more, but it was more about her being able to overlook me. While he fought for her attention, nothing I did ever really mattered. It was like a fog followed me, obscuring me from their view. Sometimes, it would lift, and Mom would acknowledge me, but then it would return, and I was forgotten.

"You'll get through it," I assured him.

We chatted a bit more. Aurora was excited about kindergarten and had picked out new uniforms. She was obsessed with Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and her new backpack reflected that. She'd even given her Prince Wednesday stuffed animal to the baby. It was everyday family life, but the emptiness in my chest grew. I longed for laughter and the innocent joy of children in my home.

"Trinity's calling me," Miles said, his voice muffled by distance.

"I'll talk to you later. Love you."

"Love you too, sissy."

I smiled faintly, "Later."

He hung up before I could say anything else. I glanced around the room, eyes narrowing at the boxes that seemed to taunt me with their mere existence. All of them were my own—mainly books, a few other odds and ends. The sadness that gripped me was relentless. I'd always had the most demanding job, the tightest schedule, and the deepest insecurities. Miles was angry, and I was desperate to be seen, so much so that I followed every command without question. Now, here I was, alone, surrounded by regret.

Dating felt like a cruel joke. My time in New York had alienated me more than anything else. That fog of invisibility from my childhood had returned with a vengeance. Coworkers would barely look at me for over a second; people on the street seemed oblivious to my presence and dates. They always ended badly. They weren't evil men but would forget my name within seconds. It felt like I wasn't real, like I existed on some other plane.

The only person who seemed to remember I existed anymore was my brother and his family. Dad's Alzheimer's had robbed him of any memory of us before he passed. Mom, too incoherent at Hospice, never stayed awake long enough to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes, it felt like Miles would momentarily forget me, only for my name to pop into his mind at predictable intervals—like clockwork, only calling on specific days and times, usually if he was planning a trip. It upset me more than I could recall, but now I wondered why.

"This place won't unpack itself," I muttered aloud.

I'd talked to myself so much it felt almost normal. I knew I needed to make friends, that without connections, I'd end up as lonely as my father, but the idea seemed futile. No one saw me clearly. No one ever had. When I searched my memories for anyone who had seen me, I came up empty. No one had ever really seen me. No one ever would. Instinctively, I knew this despite the facade of normalcy I tried to maintain. I had a job, a family, a house. I wasn't haunted. Or… maybe I was just being childish. I was simply forgettable, unremarkable. This I knew.

"I exist," I whispered, the words reverberating loudly in the stillness of my apartment.

The silence that pervaded my life mocked me with its omnipresence.

"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?"

"It's a lounge, sha," came a voice behind me.

What a peculiar dream. I took a bite of my sandwich, returning to the rude awakening that morning. I rarely remembered my dreams, if I had them at all. But last night had been different. I'd found myself in a dimly lit room with a man I couldn't recall clearly, dressed in white and speaking with an accent I couldn't place. I woke up before anything significant happened. The dream had been woefully uneventful.

The floor was almost eerily quiet tonight. Aside from the constant beeps and monitors scattered around and George Gilmore in room 11 watching football, no one spoke. The nurses here seemed less lively than I was accustomed to, their faces vacant, their words few. I kept to my small office most of the night, avoiding their station.

We'd had one death so far—a patient with a DNR who suffered a stroke shortly after midnight. Another woman had been pronounced brain-dead an hour ago. We'd wait until tomorrow to pull the plug, so her daughter could say goodbye. I didn't count her in my tally. The night crew had a way of seeing me even less than the others, and I didn't like them much.

"Hello, Doctor."

I jumped, startled. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. My irritation took me by surprise. I wasn't typically agitated; my feelings were either muted or overwhelming. He pushed his hair back, revealing messy chocolate brown locks, and held a clipboard stained with dubious marks.

"Sorry," he mumbled, shifting awkwardly under my gaze. I was already weary of his presence. "I was told you were new and thought I should introduce myself before leaving for the night. I'm Damon Glass, one of the anesthesiologists."

"Y/N Y/L/N," I replied, my voice flat and uninviting. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," he smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth that reminded me of my father's. It was a rare sight among people my age. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to come to me. Dr. Whitlock is on the floor, and I believe Morgan Fletcher is on call."

I nodded, appreciating the information but ready for him to leave. My distaste had faded, but I preferred brevity in conversations, especially with outsiders. I disliked the feeling of interacting with them. It was why I preferred dealing with the nearly dead; they rarely spoke, and when they did, I knew they'd be too medicated to remember much. The families were more accessible to handle than the ones back in Florida.

It was odd how my thoughts could veer into such morbid territories. Almost as morbid as my enjoyment of overseeing dying patients. It was not as macabre as my unbidden glee at my mother's death alongside my brother, but it ranked high on my list of flaws.

"Have a good night," I said, returning to my computer to refresh my emails.

Dr. Glass seemed to take the hint, leaving with an awkward smile and wave.

August 1997

I stood outside the door, the muffled sounds of grief seeping through the walls like a relentless, jagged current. The family's sorrow was palpable, a heavy fog that followed me down the hallway. I hoped to catch them in a better moment, but the cruel truth of this place was that better moments were rare. With a resigned breath, I raised my hand and knocked. The room fell silent, and a strained voice called out, allowing me to enter.

Elizabeth Fraiser had lived a life filled with grace and elegance. Once a dancer whose feet had carried her across Europe's stages, she met her husband in Paris and married him there. They had settled in New York, where her days of ballet had given way to a quieter role as a ballet instructor in Jersey. She had raised a family, and her pride in her children was as evident as her passion for dance. She spoke of them with a joy that contrasted sharply with the emptiness of my own mother's words.

Now, Elizabeth was in the late stages of lung cancer. Her family had clung to the hope of letting her pass away at home, but the relentless pneumonia and ceaseless pain had pushed them to make the difficult decision to admit her here. Her condition had worsened sharply today, and her family was struggling to cope with the harsh reality.

"Good afternoon," I said softly, a gentle murmur in the oppressive silence.

"Nice to see you," Elizabeth's oldest son, Elijah, managed a weak smile. We both knew he wasn't fond of doctors, but he tolerated me because I didn't overstay my welcome. "Mom's been sleeping for a while."

I stifled a sigh. Her body was crumbling, and delivering bad news was never easy. The small comfort was knowing she would soon feel nothing at all. We planned to increase her morphine dosage and withdraw all other medications. Her family would need to agree, but I wasn't too concerned. Mary, her daughter, had debated extending her mother's life with her brothers.

"We're really at the end, aren't we?" Mary's voice was strained, her husband's arm around her for support. Among them, she was the calmest, but the edges of her composure were frayed. Her eyes were red, testimony to her unrelenting tears. "Will she be in pain?"

I explained our focus on alleviating her suffering. She would be less coherent in the coming days but occasionally rouse enough to interact with them between doses. We aimed to ensure she had the utmost comfort and relief in her final days. The youngest Percy took the news hardest and had to excuse himself. I held Mary's hand, appreciating the warmth of human connection. I prided myself on my bedside manner.

"I know home care wasn't ideal for you," I broached delicately, aware of their crowded lives and young children. "But I'm offering it as an option. Respite care is also available, though I understand it was stressful before. It's worth discussing."

Elijah shook his head firmly. Mary hesitated, but her husband's reminder to care for herself and their baby swayed her. Percy's wife raised concerns about her own health, cementing the decision. Elizabeth would remain with us in her final days. It was probably for the best—she was too frail and in too much agony without constant medication.

"Let me know if you need anything," I said, glancing at the family. The nurses are always available, and I'm on call until six. Is there anything I can get you before I leave?"

"Mom needs a bath," Percy reentered the room. A nurse had come by earlier, asking if we were ready to step out. Let them know they could come in."

The rest of my shift dragged on. Other families were terse and uncommunicative, and their responses were minimal. I understood their grief, but it did little to ease my weary spirit. The nurses seemed as disinterested in me as ever. I had long since given up trying to connect with them.

The air outside was crisp, almost biting. I walked to the subway, the city traffic too maddening to endure. I'd trade bumper-to-bumper frustration for the quirks of the subway any day. Last week, a man in a bunny costume rapped at six in the morning. The week before, a man argued with his reflection in the window. Last night, an elderly woman beside me commented on my disheveled appearance, lamenting that men didn't like that and worrying I'd die alone. I barely remember if I responded. I hated talking on the subway; her parting insult had stung me.

Tonight promised to be different. I left the hospital later than usual, after two code blues and an injury report for a nurse. Overdue paperwork and an insurance squabble later, it was past eight when I left. My walk was short, and the wait at the terminal was OK, but the train didn't arrive until 9:30. When I finally boarded, the car was almost empty.

Then a group of men entered. They were rowdy, pushing each other, their drunkenness a stifling cloud. I almost moved when they sat too close, but I didn't want to draw attention. I could feel their eyes on me. I clutched my bag tightly, fingers brushing the can of pepper spray hooked to its strap. I was almost home. Just three more stops.

"Hey," one of the men called out. I ignored him. "Hey, you."

I hated the subway.

"Leave her alone."

That voice caught my attention. I knew it—or thought I did. When I looked up, I was met with a stranger, yet his presence felt oddly familiar. He was striking, with tanned skin and sharp features that made his brown eyes stand out under the harsh fluorescent lights. He took the seat beside mine, and I didn't stop him. The men were back to their raucous laughter, and I was forgotten. I relaxed slightly, hoping to remain unnoticed.

"Sorry about them," he said, his warm and soothing voice a gentle tenor that evoked a sense of nostalgia. "Are you OK?"

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Something about him tugged at the edges of my memory, yet he wasn't a celebrity, and I was sure I'd never met him before. Perhaps we'd crossed paths on the subway? My brain was playing tricks on me.

"Yes," I said softly. "Thank you."

Despite myself, I stole glances at him. I had to remind myself to breathe when I ventured past his neck. He was slender, but there was a subtle strength beneath his clothes. If he noticed my scrutiny, he said nothing. He returned to his book, but I was convinced that his eyes were still on me when I finally looked away.

I jolted awake, my body wracked with shivers despite the suffocating warmth of the blanket. The room was deathly silent, save for the moonlight streaming through the window like a spotlight on a stage set for a performance I never auditioned for. I rolled over, trying to bury myself deeper into the cocoon of my blanket, but then I heard it—a voice, soft and faint, yet carrying an unsettling authority.

“Oh, Y/N,” the voice crooned, dripping with a sinister allure. “It’s time. Come to me.”

Confusion and dread clawed at my insides as I stumbled out of bed. The room was a far cry from my own—stone walls, thick and oppressive, casting shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent glee. The floor beneath my feet was icy, a stark contrast to the comfort of my bed. My nightgown, white and delicate, felt like a mockery in this alien environment.

This wasn’t my room.

The voice came again, seductive and commanding. “Y/N, come out, come out, now. I’m waiting for you.”

Compelled, I moved to the window. Below, in the moonlit expanse of the lawn, stood the man from the subway. His face was eerily illuminated, his head tilted back as if inviting me to join him in the darkness below. His eyes—glowing a brilliant gold—seemed to reach out to me, promising unspeakable things if only I would take the leap.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He raised a hand, crooking a finger in a silent invitation. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling me toward him. Entranced, my feet moved on their own accord. Barefoot, the cold stone beneath me was a cruel contrast to the warmth I’d just left behind. I wandered through hallways and passages that felt simultaneously foreign and intimately known, descending into the shadows where he waited.

As I emerged onto the lawn, his smile made me shiver. He approached, his fingers brushing the side of my face—teasing, tantalizing, yet never quite touching.

“I’ve waited for you for so long,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “So very long. And now, now you’re mine.”

A fragment of my mind screamed in protest, shouting that I didn’t belong to him, that I didn’t even know who he was or why I was here. But a deeper, more primal force tugged at me, pulling me closer until I was nearly touching him. His presence was unsettlingly soothing, and I took a breath, feeling the heat of his gaze.

“That’s right, my lamb, come closer,” he coaxed.

An overwhelming longing surged through me—irrational, illogical, yet so profound that I couldn’t resist. I needed him to touch me, to make the connection complete. I tilted my head to the side, exposing my neck to the moonlight.

He responded immediately, his fingers trailing along my throat, their cool touch sending shivers through me. I gasped, my body lighting up with each delicate brush.

“More,” I heard myself plead, pressing closer.

“Say it,” he demanded, his arms enveloping me in a possessive embrace. “Who do you belong to?”

“You. I’m yours.”

He cradled my head in his hand, leaning in. His lips were smooth against my skin, but his teeth were sharp as they pierced through flesh. I screamed as he drank deeply.

I awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, my hands clutching at my throat, searching for any sign of injury. The skin was intact, unbroken. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my racing heart that felt as though it might burst from my chest.

The lamp flickered on with a click, casting a harsh, unwelcome light that made me squint and shield my eyes. Grabbing my robe and a cup, I shuffled out of the room, the chill of the hallway hitting me like a slap. I closed the door quietly behind me, trying not to disturb the oppressive silence that hung heavy in the air. The bathroom, bathed in the sickly fluorescent glow, was as deserted as I’d hoped.

I filled my cup halfway with water from one of the sinks, then leaned against the cold, sterile tiles, watching my reflection in the mirror as I took slow, deliberate sips. The dream—the one that had shaken me awake—felt so unnervingly real.

I traced the line of my neck with trembling fingers, the blue vein just beneath the surface. What kind of twisted message was my mind trying to send me with that nightmare? It had been a full-on gothic horror—a relic of some crumbling English manor, not the kind of place I ever imagined myself visiting, unless I was buried in a pile of classic literature.

And him. The monster. Even now, as I closed my eyes, I could still see his face—a blend of dark allure and cruel beauty. His eyes, oh, those eyes. They’d held me in thrall, made me willing to surrender to any demand he made. I could almost feel his cold touch, see his smile that promised both ecstasy and agony.

Wasn’t the whole vampire-mother-stuff supposed to be a metaphor for sex? Maybe that’s what my subconscious was trying to shove in my face—sex, or the glaring void where it should have been in my life.

I studied my flushed reflection, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I shook my head, trying to shake off the nightmare’s grip.

The man sat next to me again. It had been a week since I last saw him, and my body still reacted to his presence. Today, I admired his chiseled jawline and elongated face. He was an exquisite oval with a strong profile. This time, he caught me looking and smiled shyly.

"I'm Hoseok."

The name sent a shiver, stirring something familiar and unsettling. I quickly brushed off the uneasy feeling. It was probably my own insecurity.

"Y/N," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from him.

He resumed reading, and I focused on crocheting a stuffed rabbit for my nephew. Miles had called that morning to update me on Trinity's appointment. The toy wasn't perfect—far from it—but I wanted to give it a try.

"How would you feel about dinner?" Hoseok's voice broke through my thoughts.

I paused my knitting. "I enjoy dinner. Who doesn't?"

He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that made me blush. "Cheeky."

I bit my lip, unsure if it was a compliment. I felt a pang of embarrassment, struggling to maintain my composure. The first date I'd been asked on since undergrad, and I was fumbling. Miles would have a field day.

"Would you like dinner with me?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

Hoseok's laughter resonated deeply within me, and I felt a jolt of warmth as he slid closer, his knee brushing against mine. He was impossibly warm. Instinctively, I shifted away, uncomfortable with his proximity. There was something off about him, an unsettling vibe that I couldn't quite place.

But then he smiled, and that soft, disarming grin evaporated all my doubts. He was dazzling. My eyes fluttered shut as his cologne enveloped me, weakening my knees. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was captivating.

"Do you like Italian?" he asked, his voice deeper now.

I nodded, struggling to steady my breath. Panic and embarrassment churned within me, but I couldn't ignore the physical response. My mind was flooded with inappropriate thoughts of Hoseok, vivid and intrusive. I gasped, feeling a flush of heat I hadn't experienced in a long time.

"Does two weeks work?"

Snapping out of my daze, I looked at Hoseok and nodded.

"I'm off on the 27th."

He smiled, and I stared at his teeth longer than necessary. They seemed different—sharper, perhaps, with redder gums. I blinked, reassured that they were just as I remembered. My sleep deprivation must be getting to me.

"Meet you here?"

We agreed to meet at six. I'd catch the 5:30 train to ensure I arrived before him. As the subway pulled into my stop, I waved goodbye and stepped out, only to realize I hadn't asked him where we were going. The thought lingered until the following day.

The voice is louder now, sharper, as if it’s cutting through the fog of my half-sleep. “Y/N? I’m waiting for you. Come to me now.”

I hear it, feel the tug of it dragging me towards him, but fear clamps down on me like a vice. My bare feet are numb on the cold, wet grass as I stumble through the twisting maze of hedges, trying to escape the invisible force that pulls me like iron to a magnet.

My breath hitches, coming fast and uneven, as I sprint around corners, the long white gown tangling around my legs and tripping me up. I’m not sure anymore if I’m searching for a way out or if I’m trying to find him.

I turn another corner, my ankle twists and pain shoots through my leg as I crash into an open space—a small, white fountain sits in the middle, surrounded by benches.

Through the flickering light of the moon dancing on the water, I see him. Not a figment of my imagination, but there he is, standing as he promised, waiting.

Hoseok walks towards me with a slow, deliberate grace. He bends, lifting me effortlessly from the mess of my tangled gown and into his arms. I feel a peculiar sense of completeness as he sits on a bench, cradling me like a precious artifact.

“Were you bringing me your gift? Or were you trying to run from me?” His voice is soft, almost tender, and yet it cuts through me. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes. I’m lost, adrift in confusion.

I’m mesmerized by his flawless beauty. My fingers move of their own accord, reaching towards his face. That smile returns, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes.

“You may touch me.” His lips part slightly, and I press my fingers against them. His tongue flicks out, wrapping around my fingertip and drawing it into his mouth. Before I can react, I feel a sharp bite.

I gasp as he licks the blood that wells up from the small wound. “A small treat,” he murmurs. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

I find myself nodding, helpless under his gaze.

He licks my finger one last time, savoring the taste before swallowing. “They told me you’d be extraordinary, worth every moment of waiting. Yet, your taste is beyond anything I ever dreamed.”

My body reacts to his words and his touch—still innocent but making my skin feel like it’s stretched too tight, like I might explode. I let my head fall back, exposing my neck to him as his tongue traces a path up the sensitive skin.

And then he bites.

I bolt awake, heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. I fumble in the dark, reaching for the light switch, feeling profoundly alone with Rose away for the weekend.

I throw off the covers and stagger to the mirror, desperately checking my neck. There’s nothing there, no sign of the bite.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I grab a blanket and a book, and huddle in the hall lounge, surrounded by the harsh light of every lamp and the incessant flicker of the television, trying to drive away the lingering shadows of the nightmare.

September 1997

I eased into my seat, the familiar weight of my bag pressed to my left side and draped an arm over it as if to claim it for my own. It was the first night off from the relentless grind of being on-call since mid-August and the first real night out in years. I’d never been much for the party scene, and medical school had only sharpened that aversion. The last time I went out for drinks was nearly six years ago, a fleeting memory of bar hopping that I’d abandoned early, too exhausted to keep pace with my friends.

Tonight, however, felt different. There was a nagging sense that I was misremembering that long-ago night, like a foggy half-remembered dream where something vital was missing. My life in New York had become a blur of medical texts and sleepless shifts, the grueling 24-hour days erasing the finer details of my existence. My final year had been a carousel of discomfort, but the specifics eluded me, lost in exhaustion. Perhaps a creep of some sort, some misguided doctor with a name I couldn’t quite grasp—maybe that’s what had soured my memory.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find Hoseok’s contact. The old SeaTAC was still a relic of the past, but I clung to it out of stubborn habit. Despite its age, it was a lifeline to the outside world, a way to escape the pager’s relentless beeping. I longed for the day when I could toss the landline, but the cost of cell phone minutes constantly reminded me of its importance. With his endless chatter, Miles made sure I burned through those minutes with alarming frequency.

“Hello?” Hoseok’s voice was silky, a comforting balm after a long stretch of clinical detachment.

“Hey,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just got on.”

“See you soon,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. I could almost picture the smile on his face, and it made me smile in return. His words seemed more benign over the phone, starkly contrasting the intensity of our recent encounters. “Save my spot.”

The car was beginning to fill up, Friday night revelers claiming their space, making it nearly impossible to save a seat. I promised I’d try, even as I felt the crushing inevitability of the crowd. His chuckle was soft, almost intimate.

“Thank you, sweet girl.”

I bit my lip, the endearment both flattering and unsettling. A tiny voice in my head cautioned me, even though Hoseok had never used his terms of affection demeaningly. The voice grew louder when he wasn’t around, whispering warnings I couldn’t entirely dismiss. It was strange, this constant inner debate.

“I’m going to hang up,” Hoseok said, his voice a sensual murmur. I moved the phone away from my ear, puzzled by the seductive undertone. Was he implying something more?

Was I expecting more from tonight?

“I’m running up my minutes,” he laughed, breaking the spell of my thoughts.

“Oh,” I blinked, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”

The recurring dreams of him were becoming a distraction. My nights were plagued with vivid, unsettling fantasies, leaving me restless and frazzled. I wiggled in my seat, pressing my thighs together to quell the unsettling arousal. Reality would surely disappoint, no matter how compelling he seemed in my dreams. I resolved to hold off on sex for now. I didn’t want to tarnish his allure with premature intimacy.

“Why did you want to be a doctor?” Hoseok asked, his fingers entwining with mine.

The wine started hitting, and the night air was crisp against my skin. Hoseok was the perfect gentleman; the evening was a beautiful respite from my routine. I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, and sighed.

“I wish I could say it was for noble reasons,” I said, my voice tinged with melancholy. “In truth, I just wanted my family to notice me. I thought graduating medical school would make them see me, but it never quite worked out that way.”

Hoseok hummed thoughtfully beside me. I turned my gaze away, feeling a strange mix of comfort and sadness.

“None of us are perfect,” he said after a pause, his voice low and contemplative. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, and my choices haven’t always been noble.”

I leaned closer, savoring his warmth and intoxicating scent. Despite my fatigue, the night felt lighter, almost magical. He was mesmerizing, and I was drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected.

“I have a hard time believing that,” I said with a soft grin, snuggling closer.

“Well,” he said, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You haven’t had me all to yourself yet.”

A shiver ran down my spine, a curious blend of fear and delight. The night had been a rollercoaster of emotions—enchantment and apprehension intertwined. Hoseok’s smile was disarming, melting away my unease, but I made a mental note to reflect on my feelings once I was alone. He seemed almost too perfect, and that nagging pit in my stomach grew again before vanishing.

“I don’t want the night to end,” Hoseok whispered, his breath warm against my ear as we waited for the train. “I’m having such a good time.”

I smiled, “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

“When can I see you again?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine longing.

“Soon,” I promised. “I’m getting the next few weekends off now that the other fellowship student is starting. My supervisor is trying to get me off every Saturday.”

“It’s a good thing my boss is flexible,” Hoseok purred, causing my heart to race. “Otherwise, I’d never get to spend time with you.”

I wanted to be annoyed by his clinginess, to remind him I wasn’t his girlfriend, but instead, I found myself grinning. His words made me feel seen and appreciated. Despite the anxiety he sometimes stirred in me, I was eager to be close to him. He looked at me so intently that I was willing to overlook my reservations. Maybe it was just butterflies?

“Where do you work?” I asked, trying to divert my thoughts.

Hoseok was a bartender at a speakeasy in Manhattan, where he’d worked since it opened. He had hinted at it throughout the evening, teasing me with its obscurity.

“It’s a smaller place,” he said amusedly. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Try me,” I challenged, my heart pounding strangely.

“Dauphine.”

The name hit me like a jolt. Images of dimly lit corridors and crimson hues flashed in my mind. I was sure I’d never been there, but the name stirred a disquieting sense of déjà vu. The dream from July, the man from my dreams—there was a connection, but it eluded me.

As we stood in the bustling, well-lit area, I edged away slightly, unsettled. Hoseok was a charming gentleman, but the name “Dauphine” had ignited an inexplicable dread. Despite his humor and warmth, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something—or maybe I was just afraid of what I might find.

I stole a furtive glance at him, and it felt as though I’d known him far longer than the scant time we’d spent together. His face was oddly familiar, like a recurring image in a dream half-remembered. I had met him before, somewhere.

“No, you haven’t,” his voice cut through the night like ice. It was cold, detached, far from the warmth he’d shown me all evening. A shiver snaked down my spine, and I forgot to breathe. His grip on me tightened as though sensing my legs would buckle beneath me. “You’ve never known me before.”

The fierce scowl on his face startled me. His eyes, glowing with an eerie golden light, seemed to burn through me. Everything about him felt otherworldly like he was something less than human. A fragmented memory of a man sitting alone at a bar surged up, only to dissolve into nothingness.

“I am Hoseok,” he whispered, his voice weaving a heavy spell over my senses. “I am your boyfriend. We’ve been together a long time, and we’re in love. You just tripped and hit your head.”

A sudden jolt of pain made me wince and try to pull away from him.

“Does it hurt?” His voice was deceptively tender, and I sighed through the pain.

“Yes,” I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “Does it look bad?”

Hoseok’s grin was unsettling, a blend of fake sympathy and amusement.

“You were lucky this time. Just a barely noticeable red mark.”

I chuckled at my own clumsiness. I wasn’t usually this awkward, but my heel caught on a pavement crack. I gingerly rubbed my ankle and was relieved to find it unscathed. Even my heel had survived.

“Jeez,” I said, looping my arm through his. “I completely forgot what we were talking about.”

Hoseok’s smile broadened, clearly enjoying my disoriented state. I rolled my eyes and reached over to gently tap his chest. He responded by sticking out his tongue, which only made me scoff at his childishness.

“We were talking about work,” I said.

I nodded as if on autopilot. “How’s the bar?”

Hoseok worked at a swanky speakeasy in Manhattan, though I was trying to remember its name. Despite being together for what felt like ages, I had never been there. I was never one for bars, while Hoseok reveled in the place’s gothic charm. The name eluded me again as I tried to recall it.

“Tae’s excited,” he chuckled. “With Halloween around the corner, business will pick up.”

I hummed, my thoughts still lingering on the name. I had thought his boss was Tristan, but I must have misremembered. I shrugged off the nagging thought.

“You should stop by the bar,” I heard myself say, sounding oddly mechanical.

“Sounds fun,” he replied, his tone laced with a predatory edge.

Looking back on that night, it’s almost laughable how easily he swayed me. The way he possessed me was undeniable; soon, he would own every inch of me. Those dreams of him were his twisted way of showing love—how much he craved to touch me, to keep me bound to him. It’s sick and vile, and the thought of what we’d become makes me nauseous, yet to him, it’s love.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, his arm wrapping possessively around my shoulders.

I remember leaning into his side, kissing his cheek as if I was floating. His presence was intoxicating. Even now, I can feel the ghost of his touch and his body's heat. It’s a twisted sort of longing I have for him. This place is cold and dark without him, without his reminders of how much he cares and wants me to scream for him. Here, time stands still, and life continues in a strange loop. I can’t say whether I’m alive or dead, but I know it no longer matters. Once I entered this world, my life ended and began anew. Hoseok made me feel both alive and dead simultaneously.

And as I write this, my heart aches for him. My fingers tremble at the thought of him returning to claim me again. The pain he inflicts makes my heart pound and my stomach clench. I miss him.

It both sickens and excites me.

October 19, 1997

My bones groaned and cracked like ancient floorboards beneath my weight as I fought to catch my breath. Sweat slicked my skin, and I began patting myself down, half-expecting to find something tangible to anchor me to reality. My surroundings slowly came into focus. The harsh fluorescent lights above stung my eyes, but their sterile brightness offered an odd comfort. I was at home, cocooned in thick blankets that had twisted themselves around my legs. The bed beneath me creaked with the effort of supporting my restless form. I sighed, flopping back down, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that still clung to me like a shadow.

The dreams had become relentless, evolving from vague echoes of past terrors into something far more insidious. These weren't fueled by mere fear but by an overwhelming, consuming desire that felt dangerously close to swallowing me whole. The weekends were the worst, and after seeing Hoseok, they had turned almost infernal. He was always there in my dreams, his skin smooth and flawless, his deep brown eyes burning into mine with an intensity that left me gasping for air.

Every time I closed my eyes, his image flickered behind my eyelids like a dark, seductive film. The scenes always ended the same way: I would climax, my body convulsing in a fevered rhythm, while I looked up to see his face contorted in ecstasy. His deep, guttural groans would reverberate through me as his grip tightened on my skin. He would finish inside me, and my spent body would collapse beneath him. He would drape himself over me, showering my chest with tender, lingering kisses. The setting varied—my bed, a chilling, unfamiliar void, or a dimly lit lounge—but the conclusion was always the same.

With a sigh, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers brushing the cool surface. An email from Hoseok awaited me, and a smile crept across my face despite the haze of exhaustion. He was the epitome of a perfect gentleman—never pushing beyond my boundaries, never demanding more than I was willing to give, always accommodating his schedule to mine. Even in matters of intimacy, something many men would aggressively pursue, he always respected my pace. In the hectic blur of the past month, we hadn’t had a moment alone. He hadn’t even broached the topic. As I thought about it, I couldn't recall the last time we'd been intimate outside of these dreams.

From: Hoseok Jung Subject: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 03:05 To: Y/N Y/L/N Good morning, love, I'm sorry for the early message, especially since this is one of your rare mornings off. I hope I didn't wake you. I'm heading home from work and couldn't stop thinking about you. Taehyung is throwing a simple Halloween party this year, and luckily, it falls on a Friday. Would you like to join me? I think it could be a lot of fun. I love you. Hobi

I grinned and began typing my reply.

From: Y/N Y/L/N Subject: RE: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 04:15 To: Hoseok Jung Hobi, Don't worry, you didn't wake me. I was tangled up in strange dreams and was deep asleep when your email arrived. Sadly, I doubt I'll fall back asleep anytime soon, so I plan on catching up on Buffy or Beyond Belief—whichever's on. Hopefully, I won't get stuck with reruns of Seinfeld, not really my thing. Lucky for me, I'm working mornings this week. I'd love to come to your party. Call me when you wake up. Love you, too. Y/N Y/L/N, M.D. Palliative Care Physician, New York-Presbyterian Hospital

It barely registered that, to my knowledge, I had never said "I love you" to him before. I had never really pondered the oddity of our relationship. My memories of our time together were a disorienting blur, but I never questioned it. It wasn't entirely my fault—he had ensnared me, body and soul, and any unresolved threads might make it harder for him to maintain control. Regardless of our tangled history or how elusive it seemed; I was simply glad he wanted to see me at that moment.

I lay huddled in my bed, my body a coiled spring of anticipation, each nerve ending tingling with the foreboding that had stalked me all day. His voice had been a persistent whisper, a sultry hum that turned my name into a haunting lullaby. It was a melody wrapped in an insatiable longing, a caress of words that promised more than I dared to imagine.

Tonight, I wanted to resist. I tried to muster the strength to ignore the insidious pull, that relentless tug drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. The very idea of defying him churned my stomach with a nauseous dread. But the threads of his influence were woven so tightly around me, it felt like trying to escape from silken chains.

Then it came, cutting through the murkiness of my thoughts like a scythe. His voice, now sharper, more insistent, shattered the fragile veneer of my resistance.

“Y/N. Come to me now.”

With a sudden jolt, the pretense of defiance evaporated. I threw off the blankets as if they were chains, leaping out of bed and flying through the darkened hallway. My feet barely touched the ground as I hurtled down the stairs, each step propelled by an unrelenting force, dragging me inexorably toward him.

He waited for me in the foyer, bathed in an eerie glow that made him look like an apparition from a fevered dream—or perhaps a nightmare. His smile was both welcoming and chilling, a promise wrapped in malice. When he took my hand, his lips brushed against my fingers with a cool, electric touch that set my entire body aflame.

The intensity of my reaction embarrassed me, but he tilted my face up to meet his gaze, shaking his head with a look of almost pity.

“Your blood knows what it wants, my lamb. You must let your mind follow.”

My face burned with fierce heat, but the compulsion pulling me to him was too overpowering to resist. He guided me through the meticulously manicured gardens to a secluded alcove framed by dense, sculpted hedges. He seated himself on a bench, drawing me onto his lap with a practiced grace that made me feel both cherished and helpless. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, never left mine, promising secrets I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“Are you ready, my lamb?”

Without a second thought, I bared my neck to him. The desperate craving for the bliss and torment of his bite had consumed me completely; waiting was no longer an option.

He lingered, his tongue tracing a tantalizing path along the delicate skin of my throat. The sensation was almost unbearable, and I found myself begging with a voice that sounded alien, strained.

“Please.”

And then he bit.

I shot awake, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. I had fallen asleep hunched over my desk at the hospital, my neck stiff from the awkward angle. Rubbing away the ache, I cursed the book that had plagued me with such vivid nightmares. I needed to talk to my brother again; this couldn’t be anything but a cruel trick of the mind.

The glowing digits on my alarm clock mocked me with their late hour. I stood up, stretching and feeling my heartbeat slowly return to normal. I changed into a t-shirt and shuffled toward the bed, determined to banish the lingering unease.

As I passed the window, something froze me in place. I looked down into the parking lot and saw him standing under a flickering lamppost, his gaze locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.

It was Hoseok—or at least, it looked like him. But the resemblance was grotesquely twisted. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, a sickly luminescence that cut through the night like a malevolent beacon. His skin was peeling away in ragged strips, as if he were shedding himself like a decaying husk. This was no longer my Hoseok. He was a creature of nightmares, a monster forged from my darkest fears.

My fingers clung to the windowsill as I stared, my body paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to run to him, to give in to the magnetic pull of his presence. I watched as his lips moved, shaping a single word that seemed to echo through the chill of the night.

“Soon.”

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the vision to vanish. When I opened them again, the parking lot was empty, the lamppost casting its pallid light over a sea of unmoving cars. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, snatched my blanket and pillow, and stumbled back to the on-call room, desperate to escape the sinister call that still haunted the dark corners of my mind.

October 28, 1997

"What should I do?" the nurse asked, her name slipping from my mind like a shadow lost in the night.

"Give them some space," I replied, my gaze fixed resolutely away from the room across the hall. Elizabeth had just passed away, her DNR a cold, ironclad barrier that left no room for last-ditch efforts. Her family needed their final moments with her while we waited for the body to be transported. Mary was still wailing into her husband's chest, and Elijah looked like he'd been dragged through a storm, barely able to stand. Percy stood like a marble statue, his eyes glazed over while his wife clung to him. The sight of Percy’s frozen, unseeing expression twisted my gut in a way I couldn’t ignore. It reminded me too much of what I feared—and I needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of grief.

"Should we get them out of the room?" another nurse asked, her thick southern drawl hinting at Memphis. "Seeing her like that can’t be good for their mental well-being."

I shook my head. "Let them have their last moments in peace. Offer condolences and check on them regularly."

I fiddled nervously with my ID card, the familiar unease gnawing at me. My wounds from the day seemed too fresh. Miles surfaced in my thoughts again, and I resolved to call my brother on my way home tonight. Hoseok wasn’t working tonight, so he wouldn’t join me on the subway.

"I'm going to check in with 211," I murmured, watching Percy leave the room, clutching his phone like a lifeline. "I’ll be back in 5-10 minutes to see if the family needs anything. Just make them as comfortable as you can."

"You got it, doc."

The subway ride home was a silent affair. My headache throbbed like a relentless drum, and my stomach churned uneasily. The day had been heavy with more deaths than usual. Elizabeth’s family had eventually calmed down, but their kindness on their way out hadn’t eased the knot in my chest. I knew their pain intimately.

I called my brother as I made my way to the subway. Despite his complicated feelings about our mother, he was always supportive. The conversation ended abruptly when Aurora entered the room, demanding his attention. Miles had never truly understood my emotions; I doubted he ever tried.

The short walk home from the subway was a blessing, though the cold night air bit at my skin. I was grateful for the proximity of my apartment, but the streets were alive with noise—tourists laughing, gang members shouting outside their apartment complexes. I was relieved to escape the chaos, though my street wasn’t entirely free of foot traffic. My old apartment in East Harlem had been more of a hustle, with late-night carpooling with a coworker whose name eluded me. I knew it started with an 'A,' but the memory only worsened my headache. I set the thought aside for another time.

After selling the family home in Florida and vacation properties scattered across the country, I’d managed to buy a house on Astro Row at 100th and 30th Street. It was an old building—too expensive for its size, and initially, it seemed far from beautiful. But over time, it grew on me. I loved the brownstones, the front porches, the grand trees, and the quiet streets. I couldn’t imagine leaving. Even the renovations I’d planned were postponed. The charm of the old place had won me over, and I’d made peace with its quirks. I even got along with my neighbor, a small but welcome relief.

Tonight was quieter than usual, and none of my neighbors seemed awake. I missed the old man at the end of the street who used to sit on his porch, sipping coffee and waiting for dawn. It was nearly 4:30 AM. I shrugged and continued; my mind focused on the comfort of my bed.

Fumbling for my keys, I cursed quietly when my pockets were empty. My purse, a cavernous mess of clutter, swallowed everything. As I dug through it, a sudden burst of laughter behind me made me freeze. Two women strolled down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing off the walls. They were both stunning, their pale skin glowing under the moonlight. One of them locked eyes with me, her gaze piercing through the darkness. She looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew me.

"Hello," she said, her voice as light and tinkling as a bell.

"Hi," I replied, feeling strangely off-balance.

The other woman seemed perplexed. Her beauty was almost ethereal, with blonde hair as pale as her skin and eyes as dark as night. Her gaze swept over me with an unmistakable disdain, her teeth bared in a slight sneer. Yet, despite her apparent coldness, she was undeniably beautiful.

"How are you?" the first woman asked, her voice soothing.

"Fine," I responded, my throat dry. "And you?"

The nagging headache intensified as I tried to make sense of the encounter, a sense of déjà vu wrapping around me like a tightening noose. The women moved on, their laughter fading into the night, leaving me with a lingering unease that clung to me like the shadows of my dreams.

She studied me, her face a shifting canvas of emotions before settling into a look of genuine confusion. I tried to place her but struggled. There was something crucial I needed to remember, something just out of reach, but my mind remained stubbornly blank. A frantic urge to call Hoseok seized me.

The realization hit me like a cold slap. Why did I think I needed him? I tried to convince myself I could handle this alone. But deep down, I knew I needed him here. He could make this headache vanish, soothe the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in my chest. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

“What's your name?” she asked, her smile both disarming and unsettling, making my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

“Y/N,” I replied, feeling dazed and disconnected.

“Cold night, Y/N,” she purred, her gaze never wavering. “You should get inside.”

I nodded absently, my words failing me as I fumbled with my keys. The blonde woman's giggle, filled with an eerie excitement, made me shiver. I wanted to retreat, to escape this strange encounter. I shoved the key into the lock, eager to shut out the unsettling night.

“Y/N,” the first woman’s voice halted me, her tone chillingly smooth. Neither of them had moved since they stopped. The blonde’s smile remained fixed, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet the other woman’s eyes. “Be careful out here. You never know who’s wandering around.”

I nodded, turning the doorknob, but her voice stopped me again.

“I work at a bar in Midtown,” she said, her words snagging my attention like a hook. I had always known she worked at a bar, but why was it important? “It’s called Dauphine. Ever heard of it?”

Yes, I wanted to say. That place haunted my nightmares, a dark shadow that clung to the edges of my memory. But I couldn’t piece together why. Hoseok would know. He’d make everything better. No, my mind screamed—he’d only make it worse. I couldn’t say how I knew this, but I wanted to listen to the little voice inside me tonight. Something was very wrong.

“You should come by sometime,” she offered. “We’re on 1st and East 54th in the far corner of the Diamond District. If you need anything, just ask for ‘Bootsy.’”

Bootsy…

“Are you okay with cherry liquor?” she asked.

I let go of the doorknob and turned to face them fully. I couldn’t meet either of their eyes. The sensation was all too familiar. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the answer I didn’t want to hear.

“Do you know Hoseok? He’s my boyfriend.”

The blonde hissed sharply. Bootsy gasped, her face a mask of surprise and something darker, more shadowy. It was clear that Hoseok was connected to these people, tangled up with my memories of New York, the root of all my confusion. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

No, I shook my head. Was that what he wanted me to believe? I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Yes,” Bootsy finally replied. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”

Before I could second-guess myself, I slammed the door shut and locked it. The blonde finally moved, stepping away from Bootsy and muttering something I couldn’t catch. She disappeared down the street, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

“What’s wrong with me?” I muttered through the door, my voice tinged with desperation.

Bootsy’s response came through with a sorrowful edge. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, my headache pounding with such intensity that I could barely keep my eyes open. “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s like I remember things but not really, and everything goes blank every time he’s around.”

Bootsy’s eyes, a deep crimson, darted around nervously. They seemed to glow faintly, like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly, glossy and sleek. Bootsy wasn’t human. What she was, I couldn’t say. But she was somehow tied to the nightmares that plagued me, and Hoseok’s shadow loomed larger than ever.

“He’s a demon,” she whispered hurriedly, her words laced with a fear that seemed almost tangible. “I can’t tell you exactly what he’s done. I’ve never known him to keep someone around for this long, but whatever you’ve done to make him want you seems to have spared your life. You should have died back in ’92 with your friend.”

A friend? Someone else had been involved? Hoseok was a demon? The fragments Bootsy offered were like pieces of a shattered mirror, reflecting a reality I could barely grasp. I believed her, though. I had no reason not to. My memories felt like they were being twisted, distorted by Hoseok’s manipulations.

Then I thought of the creature outside of the hospital and felt my knees go numb. I hadn't hallucinated anything. It was real. It was him. Oh my God.

“We can’t talk for long,” she said, a look of pained urgency on her face. “He won’t sleep for much longer.”

“What can I do?” I begged, clutching my head as if I could squeeze out the pain. It was unbearable. “God, it hurts.”

“Nothing,” Bootsy’s voice trembled. “Hoseok wants you, and he’s never lost a game. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do; he will win. Whatever you’ve been doing has kept you alive this long, but I don’t know how much time you have left.”

Her words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing over me and dragging me under. I had been a pawn in Hoseok’s twisted game, my life manipulated by his cruel whims. What did he want from me? My body? My soul? The realization was suffocating.

“Go to Dauphine and find Taehyung,” Bootsy instructed, her voice carrying a chilling finality despite its almost maternal tone. “He had a soft spot for you back then. If you’re lucky, he might be able to change you, make you like us. That might be enough to satisfy Hoseok.”

Taehyung. The name cut through the fog in my mind like a beacon, easing the throbbing in my head, if only for a moment. He had haunted my dreams, his image vivid: a white button-up shirt, his gentle hands, his voice firm yet tender, saying he didn’t want to share me. He had left me in that bar, but the details were fuzzy—how or why I had ended up there was a blur. All I knew was that I was lost, and he had once been my guide.

She paused, her eyes darkening with a weighty empathy. “You’d be luckier if Taehyung agrees to end your life before the demon does. I wouldn’t wish this half-life on anyone, nor would I be glad to see you die, but those are your choices. I can’t guarantee you’ll make it through this.”

“What happened in ’92?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, thick with desperation.

Bootsy shook her head, her expression darkening with sorrow. “He killed your friend and tried to lure you away. That's all I know, and I don't have time to explain the rest. The sun’s about to rise, and your demon will be waiting for you to fall asleep. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. If he knows you’re aware of him, he might decide to kill you.”

It felt wrong to just let it happen. What would this mean for me in the end? Would knowing about his influence change anything? I couldn’t be sure, but if I wanted to buy myself time, I had no choice but to take the risk. I needed answers, a plan, anything to regain control.

“Y/N,” Bootsy’s urgent voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Your memories won't come back unless he wants them to. Let it go. Either way you'll be dead.”

With those final, haunting words, Bootsy vanished as quickly as she had appeared. The weight of my predicament pressed heavily on my shoulders, my impending doom looming like a dark cloud. I stumbled back to the porch, unlocked the front door, and sought refuge in the sanctuary of my bed. Bootsy’s grim mantra echoed in my mind as I tried to push aside my troubling thoughts about Hoseok, grappling with the uncertainty that lay ahead.

He appeared to me then, in a vision that was both intoxicating and horrifying. His eyes sparkled with a predatory thrill, his touch setting my skin ablaze, igniting waves of pleasure that crashed over me with ruthless intensity. His worship was ceaseless, his lips warm and insistent, as if trying to devour every shred of my resistance. I was swallowed by him, lost in a whirlwind of passion that twisted the love I once felt (at least, I believed I felt) into something darker, more insidious. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

Bootsy’s words had struck me like a death knell, sealing my fate in an irreversible descent. She had unwittingly set my downfall into motion, transforming innocent affection into a ravenous lust that consumed every corner of my mind. When I awoke late in the evening, the decision to call off work for the rest of the week came with a grim resignation. The struggle to stay awake was in vain; it was becoming starkly clear how deeply Hoseok’s control had embedded itself within me. The inevitable was no longer a distant threat—it had already begun to unfold, dragging me into its dark embrace.

October 31, 1997

I tugged nervously at my skirt, my fingers trembling despite the cool night air that should have been a relief. The address that had arrived this morning was burned into my mind, glaring at me from the top of the paper—Dauphine, the bar Bootsy had mentioned. My plans were clear: find Bootsy, get directions, speak with this Taehyung, and figure out my options. But the gnawing truth was unavoidable—no matter what I did, it felt like my life was already slipping through my fingers.

Sleep deprivation had become my relentless tormentor. My eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by leaden exhaustion, and my attempts to feign illness to dodge work had morphed into a grim reality. It was a battle to stay awake each day, and I feared that simply making it to this bar would be a Herculean task.

I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust the wig perched precariously on my head. I’d opted for a lazy Halloween costume—a half-hearted Cher from *Clueless*. The yellow plaid blazer was a thrift store find, the skirt a serendipitous discovery. But the wig made me look more like a grotesque caricature than a character. Frustrated, I yanked it off and tossed it onto the floor. I’d have to go without it.

Yawning, I fought the overwhelming urge to collapse back into bed. My cab was on its way, and I had to be ready. I gathered my essentials—purse, house keys, phone, and a spare outfit—preparing for a night that could very well be my last. I steeled myself for the confrontation, even if it felt like a hopeless, losing battle.

My daily struggle with myself had turned into a monotonous grind. My feigned illness had kept Hoseok at a distance, but it had only given me more time to spiral into despair over his influence. My mind was a battleground, where fragments of my past life clashed with the twisted desires he’d implanted in me. Every morning, I awoke to a gnawing need, a desperate craving for him that left me feeling sullied and repulsed.

I stepped outside and drew a shaky breath of the crisp night air. Calling my brother was both a comfort and a torment. There was a chance this could be the last time I spoke to him, and the thought tightened my chest like a vise. I fought back tears as I dialed his number.

“Hello?” Miles answered, his voice warm and familiar.

“Hey,” I forced a cheerful tone, though it felt hollow. “Still out Trick-or-Treating?”

“We just got back,” he said. “Rory wants to talk to you.”

My heart ached at the sound of my niece’s voice. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, her voice sweet as ever. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby,” I sniffled, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah!” Aurora’s excitement was a bright spot in my darkness. “I was Katerina, mommy was Miss Elaina, and daddy was Daniel Tiger.”

“That sounds amazing,” I wiped away my tears. “What about your baby brother?”

Aurora’s voice took on a scolding tone. “His name is Corbin, Auntie,” she said as though I should have known better. “He’s still in mommy’s belly, so he wasn’t anything. Mommy’s giving him candy.”

I laughed, though it was tinged with sadness. “How’s your mommy?”

“She says ‘Hi,’” Aurora replied. “We got the best candy! A lady was giving out big Starbursts. Daddy’s letting me have all the pink ones because I’m special.”

“You are special, sweet girl.”

A painful thought intruded—would Hoseok make them forget me if I asked him? The idea was almost too agonizing to bear. He’d kept me alive for five years, a perverse form of flattery that I struggled to appreciate. My self-loathing deepened as I thought about the life I was about to leave behind.

“Daddy says I have to go,” Aurora pouted. “Bye, Auntie.”

“Bye, Rory girl,” I choked out, my voice cracking as the tears welled up. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” Aurora’s sweet voice drifted through the line, a beacon of innocence in my storm of dread.

I gasped, the floodgates opening as I fought to keep my composure. “Impossible,” I managed to whisper, my throat tight with sorrow.

“Why?” she giggled, her innocent curiosity slicing through my resolve.

“Because,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “I love you more than the world.”

Aurora’s laughter began to fade as she handed the phone back to Miles. The sound of her giggles and her mother’s laughter echoed in the background, a cruel reminder of the life I was about to lose. My heart clenched painfully at the thought of never hearing those sounds again.

“What’s up, sissy?” Miles asked, his tone tinged with concern.

“I was just heading out,” I said, forcing a tremulous cheerfulness into my voice. “Thought I’d call before my cab gets here. I’m leaving a little early.”

There was a heavy pause on the other end, a silence that spoke louder than words.

“Everything okay, Y/N? You sound upset.”

“No, no,” I hurried to reassure him, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. “Just tired. You know how it is.”

“You sure?” Miles pressed, his concern palpable. He was always too perceptive for his own good, but he never pushed too hard. I hoped he wouldn’t miss me too much.

“I’m positive, Bubba,” I said, my eyes darting to the cab pulling up to the curb. “My ride’s here. I love you.”

“Love you too, sis. Call me later?”

“I’ll try to remember in the morning,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat despite the crushing weight in my chest. “I know it’s late for you guys.”

I closed my phone with shaking hands and stuffed it into my purse, the weight of my decisions pressing down on me. The cab driver approached, his face a blur through my tears.

“Where to?” he asked, his voice a lifeline in the growing storm of my fear.

“1st and East 54th in the Diamond District,” I replied, offering a weak, strained smile.

“Dauphine?” The driver’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, a hint of something unsettling in his gaze. “Ever been there before?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying to steady my breath. “I don’t remember it all that well. Guess I had too much fun last time.”

“Watch yourself,” the driver said, turning on the radio with a slow, deliberate movement. “That place is crawling with freaks.”

“Welcome to New York,” I muttered, more to myself than him.

He chuckled, his voice a touch too jovial. “Been here my whole life. My name’s Jimin. Call me if you need a getaway driver.”

The car rumbled with the low hum of R&B, Jimin fiddling with the radio as if trying to mask the creeping anxiety that gnawed at my insides. I mouthed the lyrics, trying to drown out the terror that threatened to consume me.

My thoughts were a twisted mess of fear and longing. The image of Hoseok, tainted by his manipulation, flickered through my mind. The desire to escape him was overpowered by the suffocating grip of my own confusion. Taehyung was my last, desperate hope—a fleeting chance at redemption. But deep down, a gnawing realization settled in I was already damned, teetering on the edge with no way back.

The mantra echoed relentlessly in my head: I miss him, love him, and need him…

I was spiraling, caught in a web of my own making, and the thought of facing what awaited me at Dauphine was almost too much to bear.

“We’re here,” Jimin's voice cut through the thick fog of dread that enveloped me.

“Thanks for the ride,” I muttered, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the cash. I handed him a generous tip, a feeble attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy.

The alleyway stretched before me, a grim path between the upscale buildings of the Diamond District. It looked less menacing than I’d imagined, but its familiarity offered no comfort. Dim street lamps cast weak pools of light that barely touched the encroaching darkness. I hoped—prayed—that Hoseok wasn’t already here. The fading daylight gave me just enough visibility to navigate, and the murmur of voices outside the bar was a small, shaky comfort. I clung to the hope that these voices belonged to ordinary people, potential witnesses if I needed to make a quick escape.

As I approached, the group of people outside fell silent. My stomach churned violently, and bile rose in my throat, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face them; their gaze was almost a physical presence, making my skin crawl even though I never looked directly at them. A low, sinister snicker from one of them sent a shiver down my spine, amplifying my fear. I hadn’t even seen their faces, yet their mere presence was enough to make me quake.

The bouncer at the gate eyed me with a scrutinizing glare.

“Password,” he demanded, his voice flat and unyielding.

“I-” I stammered, my mind racing to recall the password Hoseok had given me. “Audubon.”

The gate creaked open, and I slipped past the security guard, my heart pounding like a drum. Despite my nervous bravado, the bouncer’s indifference did little to soothe me. Once inside, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, escaping the unsettling stares.

I gripped my bag tightly, knuckles white, and started searching for the bar. The interior was starkly underwhelming—plush couches and private booths scattered haphazardly, with red neon signs pointing to the restrooms. The oppressive red and black color scheme was heavy, but thankfully devoid of any overtly horrific scenes. I had no desire for strobe lights or dance floors; the thought of walking into a trap was more than enough to keep me on edge.

Navigating through the dimly lit space, I felt like I was moving through a maze. The long hallway ahead seemed to stretch into an abyss, the darkness intensifying with each step. The oppressive gloom and the eerie silence made my nerves jangle. The jazz music that had been softly playing in the background had faded, leaving me in a disquieting void.

At the end of the hall, the emptiness was almost a relief. The silence was oppressive but meant I wasn’t walking into a room full of hostile eyes. Perhaps this was how I’d met Bootsy—wandering aimlessly until she had found me and guided me out.

The bar seemed to stretch on forever, an architectural labyrinth that added to my growing sense of dread. I held my breath as the walls seemed to close in, my anxiety a tangible weight pressing against my chest. The high ceilings and claustrophobic spaces combined to create a sensation of being trapped. My heels clicked sharply against the linoleum, the sound echoing eerily in the silence. The place felt more like a mausoleum than a bar. Every step heightened my unease, and the hairs on my neck stood on end as I glanced around, trying to ignore the creeping terror that threatened to overwhelm me.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling as it cut through the oppressive silence. “Is anybody here?”

The sudden sound of a voice behind me made me jump, my heart racing as I spun around with a gasp that morphed into a shriek. My balance faltered, and I slammed into the wall, scraping my arm against the rough surface. The sharp sting of pain was immediate and searing. I clutched my injured arm, the pain and the shock making my vision blur. I turned to face the figure who had startled me.

He stood there, his white button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the dim surroundings. His tall, lean frame was framed by broad shoulders, and his long fingers seemed to move with an effortless grace. But it was his smile that made my blood run cold—a wide, boxy grin that stretched unnaturally across his face, his eyes glinting with a mischievous, unsettling light.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I glared at him, struggling to steady my breathing and regain my composure. “It’s fine. It didn’t kill me, did it?”

He chuckled softly; a sound that felt more sinister than soothing. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his gaze dropping to my arm.

I looked down and saw blood seeping through a tear in my blazer. The sight of my own blood was like a cruel reminder of my vulnerability. The pain, combined with the sight of my blood, pushed me to the edge. My hands shook as I raised them to my face, tears welling up uncontrollably. The enormity of my situation crashed down on me like a tidal wave. Everything felt chaotic; my life had been turned upside down, and the relentless pounding in my head was unbearable. I should have stayed home. At least Hoseok’s presence, while twisted, had been a semblance of comfort.

The despair was suffocating.

“Are you okay, sha?” His voice was soft, but his touch on my arm was disconcertingly gentle.

I laughed, a hollow, despairing sound. “Does it look like it?”

“No, you look upset,” he replied, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of sympathy and amusement.

“You don’t say?” I snapped, rolling my eyes and jerking my arm away from his touch.

Despite my evident distress, he remained unnervingly calm, his smile lingering like a dark shadow. His pleasure at my discomfort was unsettling, and the aura around him felt eerily similar to the disquieting presence of those outside. His attractiveness was overshadowed by a deeply disturbing quality that made me want to flee. It was as if fear had paralyzed me, pinning me in place.

Suddenly, a chilling realization hit me. As I forced myself to examine his face more closely, I recognized him from the shadows of my past. He was strikingly beautiful in a haunting way, like Bootsy. His pale skin was almost luminescent, and his eyes, once hidden in the darkness, now revealed flecks of red that seemed to glow with a menacing, otherworldly light. They were mesmerizing yet horrifying, a dangerous allure that made my skin crawl. The spell he cast was broken as quickly as it had begun, and I struggled to look him in the eye again.

“You’re looking for me, aren’t you?” His voice was a silky whisper that seemed to wrap around me, tightening with a sinister intent.

Embarrassed by my earlier outburst, I nodded slowly. My hope of finding help felt increasingly elusive as the night grew darker and more menacing. All I wanted was to escape, but the hope that things might improve clung stubbornly to me. Taehyung exuded a disorienting blend of warmth and menace, a mix of comfort and dread that left me feeling more lost than ever.

“I’m sorry for being snappy,” I said, my voice quivering as I wiped away a tear. “I don’t remember you all that well.”

Or at all, my mind whispered in the encroaching darkness. The more I looked at him, the more I felt Hoseok’s oppressive influence tugging at my thoughts. Images of Hoseok’s touch, his voice, his eyes—each one flared in my mind with an insidious intensity. He misses you; he loves you, he needs you…

“Requiem was wrong,” Taehyung murmured, his fingers chillingly cold as they cradled my face. “You’re too far gone.”

“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling and my head spinning. His touch was both numbing and intoxicating.

“Bootsy,” he cooed, his breath a mix of cotton and sweet pine needles. “She said you had a chance, but she was mistaken. My friend has already completed the bond.”

“W-what?” I whispered, dazed and confused. The throbbing ache in my head resonated with Taehyung’s presence. “What bond?”

“Maybe not,” he whispered, his proximity making my pulse race.

When his lips met mine, they were like ice, yet the jolt of electricity that surged through me made my knees buckle. His laughter was dark and twisted as he wrapped an arm around my waist, his tongue brushing against my lips. I mewled, clutching his shoulders as the electric sensation overwhelmed me. His groan sent shivers through my entire body, and the echo of Hoseok’s voice in my head was relentless. He misses you, he loves you, he needs you…

Suddenly, I shoved Taehyung away, gasping for air as a searing pain exploded in my head. It felt as if a sledgehammer had struck my temple. My vision swam, and I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably.

“Poor child,” Taehyung crooned, kneeling beside me. His scent, soothing yet oddly comforting, did little to ease the tremors wracking my body. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot help you.”

“I’m going to die,” I sobbed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “The pain will lessen once you accept it; accept him.”

“What does he want?” I managed to choke out.

“Can’t you see?” Taehyung’s eyes glittered ominously in the dim light. “He believes he’s in love with you. It’s a pity, really. I want nothing more than to keep you, but I can’t risk angering him. He would destroy Requiem for revealing his secrets; she is my most cherished friend. Do you understand?”

Numbly, I nodded. I’m going to die. I miss him. I’m going to die. He loves you. I’m going to die. I need him. I’m going to die. I love him. He needs you. I’m—

“Your eyes look just like his,” Taehyung marveled, his gaze softening. “He’s bound to you in a way I’ve never seen before.”

As I stared at Taehyung, my vision began to blur, and the voices in my head whispered louder in the dark corners of my mind. Their weight pressed down on me, my eyes rolling back until all I could see was a void. When I came to, I was horrified to find vomit splattered across Taehyung’s pristine white shirt. His expression twisted in horror and pain as he watched me unravel.

A dark, malevolent presence loomed near, its acrid stench of soot and kerosene overwhelming my senses. My head throbbed as if it had been cleaved in two, and a grotesque, pecking sensation gnawed at my exposed, vulnerable insides. Taehyung’s icy touch against my rigid form offered little comfort as I lay helpless against his chest, terror seeping in with every passing second.

“There’s my girl!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the haze of despair, and just like that, the pain evaporated.

I exhaled, sinking into Taehyung’s embrace. His body felt like ice against my fevered skin, a chilling contrast that brought an unexpected relief. His cool fingers traced my scalp, their touch a soothing balm amidst the chaos.

“I hope you understand Bootsy’s decision,” Taehyung’s voice was as cold as his touch, carrying a weight of finality. “She thought you were still playing games. But she was wrong.”

A deep, resonant rumble filled the space, and Hoseok’s voice emerged from the darkness like a spectral echo.

“Requiem has every right to her judgment,” Hoseok said, his voice a smooth caress laced with menace. “If it were anyone else, I might not care. But Y/N’s suffering is a consequence of her meddling. I had hoped to keep her alive.”

“Why?” I croaked, the question barely escaping my lips.

“You’re my special girl,” Hoseok purred, his voice dripping with a twisted, cruel fondness. “So innocent, so malleable. You’re perfect.”

A strange calm enveloped me as I lay against Taehyung, the tumult of emotions and pain fading to a low murmur. Hoseok’s presence hung over me like a dark, oppressive cloud, his words a cruel mockery of the comfort I desperately sought.

Taehyung’s fingers moved through my hair with a cold, almost clinical precision. “You’ve been chosen,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “It’s a rare bond that neither Bootsy nor I can undo. I wish there was something more I could do for you.”

My vision blurred, shadows of past anguish swirling around me. Hoseok’s voice echoed in my mind, a haunting lullaby that twisted my insides. “You’re mine, Y/N. No matter how you struggle, you are woven into my essence.”

The room seemed to constrict, the walls inching inward, shadows elongating and darkening. A biting chill settled over the space, the whispers of the damned intertwining with my deepest fears. I could almost see their forms, spectral and menacing, reaching out from the darkness.

I struggled to my feet, the world spinning dizzily around me. My head throbbed with a relentless ache, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. I stumbled away from Taehyung’s unnervingly composed presence, my eyes darting frantically for any sign of escape or salvation.

“Y/N,” Hoseok’s voice was a dissonant blend of soothing and threatening. “Don’t run from me. You belong here, with me.”

My breath came in ragged gasps, the overwhelming urge to flee battling with a stubborn thread of hope tangled in my despair. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, clinging to the faintest possibility of survival amidst the encroaching darkness.

I turned to Taehyung, my gaze pleading, desperate. “Is there no way out? Is there any hope left?”

Taehyung’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and sorrow. “Try to enjoy your final moments.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the corridor, each step deliberate and foreboding. My heart leaped as a figure emerged from the gloom. Bootsy. Her presence was both a flicker of reassurance and a shadow of dread.

“I’m sorry,” Bootsy’s voice was a murmur of regret in the darkness.

I looked at her, then back at Taehyung, and finally at the encroaching shadows that seemed to reach out with a ravenous hunger. The weight of the choice, of my impending doom, pressed heavily on my chest, threatening to crush me under its gravity.

With a shuddering breath, I steeled myself. “I can’t let this happen to me,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “I don’t want this.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the darkness thickening. Hoseok’s laughter echoed through the void, a low, mocking sound that sent icy shivers down my spine. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be writhing on the floor if you didn’t.”

The shadows deepened, the walls closing in as if reality itself was warping to ensnare me. A cold grip tightened around my soul, a force dragging me back into the abyss I had fought so hard to escape. An aching chill settled below my diaphragm, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My head spun again, his voice a soft whisper in the recesses of my mind. I miss you. I love you. I need you…

Don’t leave me.

Taehyung’s expression hardened into one of grim resignation. “You’re already bound to him. The bond is too strong.”

As I fought against the invisible chains tightening around me, the futility of my struggle became all too apparent. The darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me back into the depths I had desperately tried to escape.

“Please,” I whispered into the void, but the darkness consumed my plea. “Please, no.”

Hoseok’s voice filled the void, smooth and victorious. “Welcome home, darling.”

The last glimmers of light vanished, leaving me in an eternal night, a prisoner of my own choices and the dark forces that had ensnared me. My mind fractured under the weight of the consuming darkness, and as the final remnants of my resistance crumbled, I faced the harrowing truth.

There was no salvation. No escape. Only the endless, consuming dark.

And in that darkness, I was utterly, irrevocably alone.

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped in this suffocating darkness—hours, days, months, or maybe even years. Time has become an abstract concept here, slipping through my grasp like the thin veil of reality that separates me from the void. The only link to the world beyond this prison is Hoseok, a ghostly presence who appears with a gleam in his eyes that chills me to the bone. His voice, carrying the weight of a thousand tortured souls, always asks the same haunting question: How are you feeling?

We were never friends. Each passing day has sharpened my memories into a cruel clarity. I don’t know where my physical body is—doubtful it’s anywhere near this place. The ink and paper I use to write materialize out of nowhere whenever I need them, appearing and disappearing like phantoms in my disturbed mind. This place defies all logic and reason.

Initially, I fought Hoseok with every ounce of my being. Each refusal brought excruciating pain that felt like it would tear me apart. My screams echoed back at me from the oppressive void, unanswered and ignored. Hoseok would slip into the darkness with a silent, predatory grace, his hot hands roaming over my shivering body before I even knew he was there. I would scramble away, howling and begging him to take me home, but he always left without a word.

Eventually, I gave up the fight. I accepted that escape was impossible, even though my soul still ached for my old life. The pain eased only when I surrendered, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent. They were filled with idle chatter about his plans for me. I learned he was a demon, and I was destined to become one too. The possession would erase most of who I once was, but when I awoke, we would be forever linked as master and shade. My freedom would only come after I took my first human life, but that day seemed impossibly distant. Hoseok savored every bite of my soul with a mournful delight.

What I felt for Hoseok wasn’t love—it was an obsession, a malignant force that had seeped into every corner of my being. “A natural reaction of a shade to its master,” he said. I was bound to him, and escape was nothing but a cruel illusion.

The first signs of my unraveling appeared when Hoseok vanished for days on end. In the infinite darkness, where time had no meaning, his absence was a torment of its own. Despite his power to bend reality, he chose to leave me here, dependent on his presence for any sign of change. I began talking to myself, my voice the only sound in the oppressive silence. I spoke for hours, my throat raw and hoarse from the effort, desperately trying to fend off the encroaching madness.

I felt like an addict in withdrawal. I don’t recall when hallucinations began, but soon I was conversing with a phantom chorus of voices. Deep down, I knew it was Hoseok orchestrating these illusions, but my fractured mind twisted reality into something I could barely comprehend. My hatred for him only served to cloud my already distorted perception.

As time dragged on, I grew weary. My speech turned into riddles, convinced I was a prophet receiving divine revelations. Raised Catholic, I had long drifted from faith, but the darkness reignited an obsession with God. I clung desperately to fragmented Bible verses. Hoseok, ever the manipulator, provided me with a Bible. If I weren’t so far gone, I might have questioned his uncanny ability to fulfill my twisted needs.

When I told Hoseok about my religious background, he laughed, and the darkness morphed into a cathedral. For the first time, there was something tangible to focus on during his absences. It was both a prison and a gift. The pews were filled with spectral congregants, and every day became Sunday. I feverishly wrote sermons, warning of the apocalypse. Hoseok attended with a devotion bordering on reverence, but he always left too soon.

The withdrawal pangs paralyzed me, but incessant talking kept the crushing loneliness at bay. I remember the first encounter after becoming accustomed to this madness. My body trembled with need, yet my mind remained alert. Each denial of release brought physical agony, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent and prolonged. My breakdown was inevitable.

On the day of my final descent, I felt his presence before I saw him. My struggle had reached its nadir. Despite my lingering hope for escape, Hoseok’s presence shattered my resolve. I became an all-too-willing participant in his dark designs. Even now, as I lie prostrate in my despair, I can’t escape the haunting reality of my existence.

The words of the prayer rolled off my tongue like a ghostly murmur in the dim, solemn church. Each syllable was a desperate plea, a sacrament of my crumbling faith:

“Soul of Christ, sanctify me.”

“Body of Christ, save me.”

“Blood of Christ, inebriate me.”

This prayer was a twisted sacrament, a litany of sacred pleas that felt increasingly like cries into the void.

“Water from Christ’s side, wash me.”

“Passion of Christ, strengthen me.”

“O good Jesus, hear me.”

I bowed my head, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. My hands gripped tightly in a futile attempt to hold onto my sanity. I prayed not just for absolution but for a distraction, for him to stay away, for the sinful thoughts to dissipate like smoke in the sun.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, spectral and insistent, urging me to rise, to accept, to finally bend to its will.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself to the pulpit, my legs trembling. I focused on the Gospel before me, the rhythm of my breath, the rehearsed words of today’s homily. I could hear murmurs of anticipation swelling in the pews, bouncing off the stone walls like echoes of forgotten promises.

Did they know? Did they sense the darkness creeping into my soul?

To be honest, I was unsure if anyone was really there or if my mind was playing tricks on me. This place had a maddening ability to distort my perception. I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, offering a fleeting smile to the choir’s children—figments of my fractured mind. Their eyes, hungry for guidance, believed in my wisdom, though I felt utterly unworthy. Their gaze was a reflection of my own inner torment.

My eyes locked on a figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, as I beheld him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—an irreverent defiance slicing through the sanctity of the church. His gaze was a burning, unholy fire that cut through the darkness with unnerving clarity.

In that moment, the last vestiges of my sanity crumbled, leaving me exposed to the consuming darkness that had become my prison.

I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, and offered a fleeting smile to the choir’s children, who I no longer believed were real. My gaze wandered over the congregation, each face a testament to a faith I felt unworthy of. Their eyes, brimming with expectation, seemed to pierce through me, demanding guidance I could no longer provide. I questioned my own sanity, wondering if anyone in that room could see how profoundly empty I felt.

I once had everything figured out. Before this… before him.

My eyes locked on a single figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat. There he was: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—a casual defiance that sliced through the church’s sanctity like a blade. His legs were crossed, hands poised by his sides, eyes ablaze with a fire that seemed to burn straight through my composure.

No holy book in his hands, no righteous smile on his lips—just an unspoken, rebellious challenge. His presence was a magnetism that pulled me toward a pit of temptation and sin. I forgot my sermon. I forgot the vows and promises etched into my soul. The solemn pledges made to men of faith and to God. Promises I had written daily to stave off the creeping insanity.

Those promises now felt like distant echoes, overshadowed by him. His eyes, his lips, his rebellious aura—an inferno of forbidden heat that ignited a longing I could no longer contain. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to escape the searing image of him. Abs, legs, an all-consuming heat that seemed to draw me into its vortex.

When I opened my eyes again, the fire remained. A cough from the crowd jolted me back to the present. I tugged at my collar, the symbol of my childhood and a cruel gift from Hoseok. It used to offer comfort, a sign of belonging, but now it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.

The faces of the congregation were a sea of silent, unspoken questions. Their eyes bored into me, filled with unvoiced suspicions and judgments.

Shit.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the pulpit, trying to anchor myself amidst the spiraling chaos. The eyes of the congregation felt like spectral judgments, each one a reminder of my spiraling failure. Hoseok’s presence, fixed in my peripheral vision, was a constant, unsettling pull—a dark promise of chaos just beyond the edge of reason. It pressed heavily on my chest, a suffocating weight threatening to collapse my fragile sanity.

I forced my gaze back to the Gospel, attempting to focus on the familiar lines of scripture, hoping they would restore my fractured resolve. But the words on the page blurred and twisted, tangled in the storm raging inside my head. Each verse felt like wading through molasses, and a bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the cold sweat already gathering at the base of my neck. I cleared my throat, trying to regain control, but the sound emerged as a strangled rasp.

The whispers grew louder, like rustling wings pressing against the walls of my sanity. My heart pounded like a funeral drum, each beat a reminder of my mounting desperation. I could almost hear the devil’s laughter, mocking my feeble attempts to maintain a façade of righteousness.

Hoseok’s gaze was unwavering, a predator’s gaze that seemed to sear through my composure. His movements were fluid, deliberate—like a hunter preparing to strike. My mind raced, desperately searching for an escape from this hellish vortex. I glanced at the crucifix behind me, its hollow eyes and outstretched arms now a pitifully inadequate shield against the encroaching darkness. The sacred symbol that once offered solace now seemed like a cruel joke, highlighting how far I had strayed from purity.

The murmurs of the congregation grew insistent, a chorus of impatient whispers that echoed like an unholy chant. The church, once a sanctuary, now closed in around me, its weight suffocating. I took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of my willpower. I forced myself to meet Hoseok’s gaze again, confronting the fiery rebellion in his eyes. He offered no sympathy, only a silent taunt that echoed my own guilt.

With a trembling hand, I reached for the microphone. My voice cracked as I began to speak, the words spilling out in a disjointed stream. I struggled to reclaim my authority, but with each passing moment, my grip on sanity slipped further. The congregation’s expressions shifted from curiosity to concern, then to alarm. Their faith faltered under the weight of my unraveling composure.

Hoseok’s gaze remained fixed, a dark star in a sea of light, drawing me inexorably towards his gravitational pull. My voice faltered, becoming increasingly erratic, reflecting the chaos within. The church fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rustling of the congregation’s uneasy shifting. I felt every eye on me, their silent judgment a palpable force.

My final words came out as a barely coherent murmur, a defeated whisper lost in the oppressive silence. I stumbled away from the pulpit, my mind a tempest of confusion and dread. As I retreated from the glaring scrutiny of the congregation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stumbling towards some dark, inevitable reckoning. Hoseok’s gaze followed me, a constant, unsettling presence as I fled the sanctuary.

I collapsed into the shadows behind the altar, my breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed through the oppressive silence of the church. The darkness around me felt like a living entity, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing, threatening to suffocate me. Hoseok's eyes lingered in my mind, their haunting intensity a constant reminder of the sin and torment that had become my existence. The certainty of my spiraling downfall felt inescapable, and every breath I took seemed to deepen my dread.

The pews had emptied in an instant, leaving the room cloaked in a suffocating silence. My heart pounded as I watched Hoseok move toward me. The man before me was no longer the mortal guise he had once worn; his true form emerged, dark and unnervingly compelling. His eyes, once warm and inviting, now burned with a shadowed hunger that quickened my pulse with a mix of terror and something I couldn’t quite name.

“Y/N.” His voice, soft and reverent, seemed to carry a sacramental weight that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There was a truth hidden in those syllables, a meaning only he understood. As his nearness intensified, confusion and fear danced across my features. His calm, deliberate hand cradled my cheek, the touch both tender and overwhelming. The heat of my skin seemed to beckon to him, an invitation that terrified and enthralled me simultaneously.

"You're so lovely," he whispered, his voice a gentle murmur that barely masked the wild intensity in his eyes. His touch guided me backward with a grace that felt almost otherworldly. The church seemed to dissolve around us, melting away into a space that was unsettlingly familiar—a fragment of my life from New York. The red brick of the two-story house brought a strange, bittersweet comfort, like a fragment of a life I had once known. It calmed my racing heart with its eerie familiarity. He led me to the front door, his touch both comforting and possessive.

The lock yielded effortlessly, and as we crossed the threshold, the gravity of the situation settled like a stone in my stomach. The house, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in with a menacing intimacy.

"So perfectly lovely," he murmured again as he closed the door behind us. I stumbled back, my nerves crackling with an unsettling energy. It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was something darker and more confusing. A part of me ached for normalcy, for escape, while another part was drawn to him with a desperate, confusing need. The line between terror and an inexplicable, forbidden desire blurred beyond recognition. I clung to the last shreds of my sanity, even as I felt myself unraveling under the weight of my own conflicted emotions.

"Why are we here?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of breathlessness and an unspoken longing. My heart pounded with a confusing blend of fear and desire. It was as if clarity had returned to me for a fleeting moment, yet I was still tethered to the confusion Hoseok had woven into my days. His promises of relief had begun to erode the pain, even as they wrapped around me like a vice. I remembered the dreams he'd planted in my mind, their seductive whispers blurring my sense of reality.

"I thought you might feel more at ease here," he said softly, his tone smooth and soothing as he followed me through the cluttered living room. Each backward step I took seemed to draw him closer, his presence an inescapable shadow. "Do you like it?"

I hesitated, glancing around at the artifacts of my past—family photos, treasured mementos, relics of a life that now felt so distant. The room was a museum of a future slipping away from me, and Hoseok's eyes seemed intent on taking it all. "Yes, I do," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. The room, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a stage for his dark play.

"I'd like a drink," I said, placing a hand over my racing heart. I clung to the pretense of normalcy, desperate to maintain some semblance of control. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a flicker of my old self. "Is there anything here? Surely you would... like one... as well."

Hoseok, having long since discarded any pretense of humanity, closed the distance between us with unsettling swiftness. His movements were almost too fluid, his presence too intense. His hands, warm and steady, framed my face with a possessive grace, his gaze fixed on the pulse in my neck, the rich, inviting blood beneath my skin.

"Oh, Y/N, my sweet, innocent little lamb." His voice, a velvety murmur, sent a shiver down my spine. His touch, trailing down to my neck, felt both magnetic and maddening. His eyes lingered on my flesh with a hunger that was almost palpable, a craving that seemed to consume him as much as it did me.

I trembled in his embrace, my conflicting desires mirrored in his touch. A soft moan escaped my lips, my breath warm and trembling with a heady mix of fear and desire. His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes as he encircled my waist, his touch moving possessively lower, tracing the curve of my hips and thighs. The tension between fight and flight heightened the charged atmosphere, leaving me both desperate and disoriented.

His eyes traced the flush of my lips, a reflection of the flush between my legs. The scent of my arousal mingled with my anxious heartbeat, a call to the beast inside him. His senses seemed overwhelmed by the promise of my warmth, the floral sweetness of my skin, and the earthy musk of my desire.

"You don't want... a drink?" I stammered, struggling to grasp the situation, to find a shred of reason amid the chaos of my emotions.

"Oh yes, Y/N. I very much desire a... drink." His smile was amused, his lips hovering just above mine. The taste of his breath, mingling with his tantalizing scent, sparked a deep, primal hunger within me. I was alive with all these unfulfilled needs, caught between an overwhelming desire and a paralyzing fear.

I inhaled shakily, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. "What... would you like?" The question was a desperate plea for clarity, a tenuous grasp at the last vestiges of control in a world that had become a tumultuous blur of lust and dread.

A low laugh rumbled in Hoseok’s throat as he brushed his lips over mine, savoring the teasing trace of my flavor. "I want you, Y/N. I want to drink you." His honesty was laced with a raw, consuming need, a plea that mirrored the chaotic mix of longing and fear surging through me. It was clear he had no intention of letting me escape—not now. His tongue traced the corners of my mouth, and his body pressed against mine, making his heat seep through every layer of fabric that separated us.

I trembled, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions. The scents of my home—the cheap cotton sheets, synthetic pillows, and lingering traces of my perfume—led him with a haunting familiarity. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me with a purposeful stride, and placed me gently at the foot of my bed. The moonlight offered only a weak shield against the encroaching darkness that seemed to swallow us whole.

My heart raced, feeling like a delicate butterfly trapped in a predatory web. As he dropped his coat to the floor and drew me into a deep kiss, my earlier uncertainty dissolved into a raw, electric need. Each touch of his fingers against my body made me shiver, a mix of anticipation and dread coiling tightly within me.

The bed was unmade, its disarray a silent testament to my disordered state. His scent lingered in the tangled sheets and blankets as he lowered me onto them. My sweat-dampened palms gripped his hair, my fingers exploring the nape of his neck and shoulders. The buttons on his shirt came undone beneath my trembling hands, my desire growing bolder despite the icy grip of fear that clenched at my chest. His groan as his teeth grazed my throat made me arch my hips, pressing closer, driven by a need I couldn't fully understand.

My clothes fell away under his hands, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. His eyes devoured every curve of my body, his gaze as palpable as his touch. His mouth descended on mine, hungry and insatiable, and I was enveloped by him, lost in a swirling tempest of our shared desire. His touch became a language, one that read my body with an intimate knowledge I was helpless to resist.

As he explored my secret places, my soft sighs turned into desperate pleas. His searing touch brought goosebumps to my skin, but I pressed closer, overwhelmed by the pleasure he was giving me. I was caught between wanting more and the creeping dread of losing myself entirely.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice a dark promise. "I want to consume you." His words were a growl, a warning wrapped in seductive desire.

"Yes, I want you to. Do it. Take me," I panted, clutching at his shirt sleeve. My body spoke louder than words, arching upwards in desperate need. I knew I didn't fully understand what I was asking for, but the awareness was drowned out by the intensity of my longing.

His hands covered my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples. I gasped, pushing closer as his mouth found each tip, his low growl sending shivers through me. My heart raced beneath his lips, the rush of blood whispering of more delights to come. I arched again, my body twisting off the bed, craving more.

His mouth sucked at my nipple, his tongue flicking to heighten my pleasure. His thigh pressed between mine, the fabric of his jeans rasping over my nakedness, igniting a desperate heat. I moaned and bucked against him, my fingers digging into his arms as I convulsed beneath him, reaching the peak of my desire. The exhilaration of the moment was punctuated by the fear that clawed at the edges of my consciousness, a persistent reminder that I was teetering on the brink of something both irresistible and terrifying.

The climax left me gasping, trembling, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and overwhelming need. Each wave of pleasure only heightened my fear, and my body’s reaction seemed to betray my mind's desperate protests. His touch, relentless and insistent, found a rhythm that both seduced and terrified me. I cried out, unable to stop the sounds that escaped my lips, but a part of me wanted to resist.

I tried to pull away, my hand grasping his wrist with a frantic intensity. "What... what are you doing to me…?" My voice was a ragged whisper, trembling with a blend of confusion and fear.

He looked at me with a dark, hungry smile, his eyes alight with a dangerous fire. "Y/N, don’t lie to yourself," he said softly, his fingers curling in ways that made my body shudder. "You’re not overwhelmed. Your body is telling me you want this. You’re close to coming again. I can feel it."

My protests dissolved into incoherent moans as his touch stimulated a spot deep within me. The pleasure was a cruel paradox, blurring the line between ecstasy and dread. I could barely think, my mind clouded by the intensity of his actions.

"No, Hoseok, it’s too much," I whimpered, struggling to catch my breath. "I can’t..."

His mouth moved to mine, his lips teasing, his breath warm against my skin. "You’re a beautiful little liar," he murmured. "It’s not too much. You crave this. You know you do. Beg for it."

The force of his command broke through my haze of desire. "Please, Hoseok...," I gasped, my will crumbling under his dominance. My words felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t stop myself from begging. "Please, just... take me."

His satisfaction was palpable, a dangerous hunger in his eyes. His touch grew more urgent, driving me to the brink of madness. I was lost in a maelstrom of sensation, my mind screaming to pull away, but my body’s response only seemed to draw him closer.

The moment of his thrust was jarring, a mix of pain and pleasure that overwhelmed me. My body reacted instinctively, my hips rising to meet him even as my mind struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening. The intense pleasure was intermingled with a profound fear, a dread of losing myself completely.

His movements were urgent, almost desperate, as though he were chasing an elusive climax. I was limp in his arms, my breathing ragged, torn between an unbearable desire and an escalating terror.

Despite my growing fear, I clung to him, my hands fumbling for some semblance of control. My kisses were desperate, seeking to anchor myself amidst the chaos. His touch was relentless, and every stroke seemed to heighten the conflict within me.

He pressed closer, his hands exploring with a possessive intensity. My body’s reactions were at odds with my thoughts, creating a tumultuous storm of sensation and fear. My mind raced, grappling with the realization of what was happening, but the pleasure was so consuming that it blurred the line between consent and coercion.

As the moment approached, I felt his breath on my neck, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked beneath his seductive veneer. The final act was a blur, my fear mingling with an overwhelming rush of sensation.

I was a walking paradox—caught between heaven and hell, life and death, sin and redemption. His presence was a fiery furnace, consuming me with the heat of stolen life he had been deprived of for so long. My body clenched around him, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to drive him to the edge of his sanity. His pleasure was overwhelming, a torrent of sensations that painted the world in a chaotic blaze of colors.

“Hoseok, please…” I whispered, my voice a fragile breath against the overpowering cacophony of sensations. I wasn’t sure if my plea was for him to stop or to continue, a desperate cry from a place deep within me that I couldn’t fully comprehend. My fear was a gnawing presence, clawing at the edges of my desire, but the confusion of what I wanted and what I was willing to accept blurred together.

His eyes were dark with a twisted satisfaction as he sensed the last of my climax and my blood draining from me. The thought of taking me to the brink of death both exhilarated and haunted him. His grip tightened, and with a guttural snarl, he pulled away from my neck, his fangs retracting with a mixture of frustration and reluctant restraint. The rush of his thirst roared inside him, but he forced himself to temper his need.

I was an indulgence he wouldn’t be denied again, a forbidden pleasure he was determined to claim. He gently laid me back on the disheveled sheets, my heartbeat weak and fluttering. He licked the last drops of blood from my skin, his breath ragged and uneven. Each touch was deliberate, sealing the wounds with a final, lingering caress—a practical necessity for a demon who wanted to savor every part of me.

“Mine,” he growled, his voice a low, dark promise that vibrated through my core. “You are mine, Y/N. From now until death claims you, until I claim you.” His breath was warm and heavy against my face. My eyelids fluttered, barely able to focus, but his words penetrated my haze. “If any other man dares to touch you, I will tear him apart. Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to.”

“Hoseok,” I murmured, my voice a faint echo of surrender. His satisfaction was palpable, a twisted delight in my obedience and submission. He rose and slipped out of the room, leaving me tangled in sheets and blankets. From across the street, hidden in the shadows, he watched and listened, his gaze a persistent weight on my fragile state.

As dawn’s first light crept through the blinds, it painted the room in a sickly, eerie glow. I lay amidst the tangled sheets, each twist revealing new bruises and bite marks—a grotesque map of the night’s events etched into my skin. The aftermath was a haunting blend of pleasure and torment, an unsettling reminder of what had transpired.

Hoseok’s presence lingered in the room like a shadow that refused to lift. The darkness he brought with him clung to the corners, an inescapable reminder of the nightmare I had just lived through. My mind, once a storm of fear and confusion, now spun in a twisted acceptance—a deranged serenity that felt as liberating as it was unsettling.

The door creaked open like the groan of an old house settling into its own despair. Hoseok reappeared, his eyes still gleaming with that predatory glow, but now softened by an unsettling tenderness. He moved towards me with a deliberate grace, each step imbued with a dark reverence that made my heart pound with a blend of fear and reluctant desire.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive murmur that slithered across the room. “Do you understand now? You are mine, every inch of you.”

I looked up at him, my smile a grotesque reflection of the twisted contentment that had taken root in me. It was not a smile of joy or freedom but a shadowy acknowledgment of a reality I could no longer escape. My old life had withered into obscurity, replaced by the suffocating reality Hoseok had imposed upon me.

“Yes,” I breathed, the word barely escaping my lips. “I belong to you.”

The truth of my submission felt like a heavy, warm blanket, pressing down on me with an oppressive weight. Despite the enormity of what I had given up—my freedom, my chance to reclaim any semblance of my old life—there was an undeniable satisfaction in surrendering wholly to him. The pain and loss had twisted into a perverse form of fulfillment, filling the void in my chest with a dark semblance of love.

Hoseok’s smile widened, a dark curve that spoke of unyielding possession. He reached out, his hand caressing my cheek with a gentleness that clashed violently with the ferocity of his claim. The room seemed to close in around us, the air thick with a palpable tension, as if the very walls bore witness to my surrender.

“You will never leave me,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine with an unbreakable determination. “You are mine, forever.”

I nodded, the movement small and almost imperceptible, but it was enough. It was a surrender, a relinquishment of my will to the dark force that was Hoseok. He pulled me into his arms, and I felt my resolve melt away, my body becoming a canvas for his power, intermingling with the strange warmth of our shared connection.

As his darkness enveloped me, I felt a disturbing sense of belonging. In the shadows of the night, under his control, my fears and desires tangled together, creating a new reality that was both terrifying and intoxicating. In that moment, I understood there was no turning back. I was his, bound in body and soul by the twisted threads of fate and desire.

Hoseok’s eyes softened as he pulled me close, his cold skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own body. His embrace was a strange sanctuary, a place where I felt both ensnared and cherished. My mind, once a battleground of conflicting emotions, had slipped into a state of blissful madness. In Hoseok’s dark embrace, I discovered a twisted joy that defied all rational thought.

“I’ve given you everything,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. “We are bound now, Y/N. Forever.”

His words were a chilling promise that resonated through the marrow of my bones, a haunting echo that left me trembling uncontrollably. I clung to him, my grip a mix of desperate need and profound terror, as a disturbing form of happiness took root in the darkest corners of my mind. The loss of my old life, the sacrifice of everything I had once held dear, seemed like a fevered dream compared to the unsettling contentment I felt in his arms.

As the first light of dawn filtered into the room, casting long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed, I looked at Hoseok with a gaze that was both adoring and disturbingly fractured. The vibrant world I had once known had dissolved into a distant memory, replaced by a nightmarish existence defined by the twisted love and passion we shared. My heart swelled with a love so profound it overshadowed any lingering regret, even as my mind spiraled further into chaos.

Hoseok’s final words were a chilling promise wrapped in disturbing tenderness. “Remember, Y/N,” he whispered softly, his voice a ghostly caress in the dim light. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.”

As the door creaked shut behind him, the morning light seeping in like a reluctant witness, I was left enveloped in the oppressive embrace of the darkness we had forged together. My smile, twisted and unnatural, reflected the bizarre, unsettling happiness I had found in the abyss. I was forever bound to the night, my soul tangled in the shadows of Hoseok’s dark desires.

The room seemed to breathe with the remnants of his presence, each corner cloaked in an oppressive stillness that mirrored the void he had filled within me. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of fragmented thoughts that raged in my mind. Now, there was only the echo of his words, the haunting promise of a future forever intertwined with his darkness.

I lay there, wrapped in the aftermath of our twisted union, my body marked by the evidence of his possession. Each bruise, each bite mark was a grotesque map of the new life I had been forced into. The pain was now a distant echo, overshadowed by the profound and disturbing contentment that gnawed at my chest—a contentment born of both surrender and madness.

As the minutes ticked by and the morning light grew stronger, I found myself replaying his final words in my mind, my thoughts fracturing with each repetition. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.” The truth of those words reverberated through me like a haunting mantra, a binding contract signed with my very essence, even as my grip on reality slipped further away.

There was no turning back, no reclaiming the life I had once known. I was irrevocably his, a willing participant in the dark dance we had begun. The thought brought a grotesque smile to my lips, a smile that spoke of a happiness found in the shadows, a contentment born of surrender and madness.

At least, I wanted to believe it was madness alone that made me forget how afraid I was.

October 31, 2024

The house had become an enigmatic beast, its former guise of normalcy utterly transformed. From the street, it looked like any other home—silent and shadowy against the midnight sky. But within its walls, it was something else entirely. The shutters were clamped shut, keeping out any unwelcome glimmers of daylight. The curtains, heavy with dust, obscured the outside world, making everything inside a surreal, dreamlike blur.

Within this labyrinth of darkness, the house seemed like a twisted echo of a familiar nightmare. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old incense and stale dreams, creating a heavy, almost intoxicating atmosphere. Flickering candlelight cast eerie, jittery shadows that danced and twisted, as if mocking my attempts at normalcy. Silence pressed down on me, almost alive in its oppressive weight.

Days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the next in a fog of disorientation. Hoseok’s routines had become my own, though I couldn’t quite remember how or when they had taken over. My existence revolved around small tasks—cooking, cleaning, and performing acts of devotion—that had evolved into a kind of ritualistic pattern. It was as though each action was a silent offering to the enigmatic darkness that had enveloped our lives.

When I glanced in the mirror, the person staring back was a ghostly apparition of my former self. My face, serene to the point of being unsettling, bore a look of eerie contentment. I was a wraith, drifting through my days with a confusing mix of dread and satisfaction.

As night fell, the house came alive with an almost palpable energy. Hoseok’s presence was overwhelming, filling the space with his dark, commanding aura. His arrival was always marked by the ritualistic locking of doors, a subtle reminder of his control. The sensations of pleasure and pain that accompanied his touch had become a surreal symphony, a haunting reminder of the path I had chosen.

One particularly cold night, as the moonlight filtered through the grime-covered windows, Hoseok and I stood together, looking out into the void. The world outside was a distant blur, an irrelevant expanse that felt disconnected from my reality. The sky stretched above us, a vast, unyielding black, reflecting the emptiness of my existence. We were bound together by something primal and deep, though its true nature remained elusive.

Time inside these walls seemed to warp and distort. The house, once a symbol of normalcy, had turned into a crypt of our peculiar existence. The outside world had faded into obscurity, replaced by the certainty of Hoseok’s presence. I had found a strange form of happiness in this eternal night, where the terror of the outside world had been replaced by the dark, enveloping comfort of Hoseok’s embrace.

As I settled into my favorite worn leather chair, the house seemed to pulse with anticipation for Hoseok’s return. My knitting supplies were spread around me, with a scarf for Hoseok in progress. I hummed softly, my heart beating with a sense of calm and eager expectancy, as if I were awaiting a beloved dream to resume.

I replayed our last conversation in my mind, Hoseok’s words lingering like a haunting melody. “An old friend is coming for a visit,” he’d said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “She’s good at dealing with werewolves.”

I couldn’t suppress a bubbling laugh, the sound rising unbidden. “Isn’t she the one Namjoon’s obsessed with?”

His kiss on my temple had been darkly tender, sending shivers of pleasure through me. “Clever girl. It will be fun.”

I teased him playfully. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

His laughter resonated through me, sending a thrill down my spine. “When have I ever been nice, lamb?”

“Nice to me,” I’d replied, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Very, very nice.”

Settling back into the leather chair, the hearth’s flickering light casting long, shifting shadows, I resumed my knitting with a serene focus. Each stitch felt like a small act of devotion, a testament to my growing obsession. I hummed softly, my heart a silent witness to the peace I had found in this twisted, eternal night. The lines between fear and love, sanity and madness, had merged into a strange, intoxicating tapestry that I no longer fully understood.

Hoseok said I was perfect. His praise was a balm to my disoriented soul.

I smiled, pushing away any lingering doubts about my sanity. I was fine. I was perfect.

Pager Codes:

110 307 - Go To Bar

209 - On My Way

08 - OK

420 - You’re in trouble

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419 - I don’t understand

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biosblades · 1 year ago

Text

I’m always a little terrified to talk about my personal experience with gender for fear that the transphobes will take it and run with it as an example of how someone can “outgrow” being trans

I certainly don’t consider myself to be cis, but I’m not sure I’d necessarily say I’m trans either. More likely somewhere along the nb spectrum, but I have trouble pinpointing exactly where or finding a perfect label for it

I’m afab. When I was a toddler, my younger brother was born, which was when I learned about the anatomical differences between boys and girls. Friends, I, aged three (3) was seething with jealousy over this literal infant’s genitals. I didn’t know why, I just knew I really really wanted to look like that and it felt so unfair that he got to have a penis and I didn’t. I never told anyone, but that feeling persisted throughout my entire childhood. I’d tape any phallic looking objects I could find to my pelvis, I’d daydream about a fairy godmother turning me into a boy or freaky Friday style switching bodies with any of the boys I knew. This was early childhood, before sexuality was something I was even aware of and before I really understood what misogyny was or the societal advantages these boys had over me. I was just envious the appearance of their physical form, completely oblivious to how the organs even worked or what their function was. And I didn’t dislike being a girl. I embraced my femininity. I did ballet, I liked princesses and dolls and makeup. I wore dresses and skirts, bows and glitter and frills and anything and everything pink. I liked “boy” toys and clothes too. I had collections of trucks and dinosaurs and those monster truck dino heads on all terrain wheels. I could build hot wheels tracks and shoot nerf guns with the best of them. But I didn’t want to be a boy. I played with my brothers and “tomboy” friends, but I was perfectly content with my girly name and pronouns. I had all the girl power shirts and pencil cases and thought nothing of it. I didn’t even dislike my own body per say, I just liked what the boys had going on better.

That all changed with puberty. I was horrified when I saw those images of female development. I wanted nothing to do with it. As soon as the first signs started showing up, my self loathing began. Suddenly all I wore were loose clothes from the boys section. I started wearing boxers because little girls’ underwear was too childish, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of going into the teen girls’ underwear stores. I started hanging out with only boys. Everyone, myself included, thought I was crazily attracted to them. I was obsessed with the way their bodies were responding to puberty. I stared at them and followed them everywhere. I copied their every move, played the same games, watched the same shows and sports, wore the same clothes. I knew I wanted to be them and I was so so jealous of the fact that I was growing up to be hideous with stupid boobs and hips and they were getting muscles and facial hair and were so beautiful in comparison. But compulsive heterosexuality combined with the prevalence of teen girls hating their bodies made it seem normal. Misogyny had become incredibly prevalent in my life, so I thought I was just physically attracted to them and the feeling of envy was derived from the societal privileges they had over me. Those around me have remarked upon that period of my life as being my “pick me” phase.

As I got deeper into adolescence, I learned about the existence of trans people. I’d somehow never realized before then that changing your gender was even an option. And it was a tempting one… my daydreams became focused on the idea that if I could just push through to adulthood, I’d start T and get all the surgeries, undo all the damage puberty had done to my body. I kept lists of names I could go by instead in my diary. I couldn’t bear the idea of growing up to be a woman, but the idea that maybe I didn’t have to gave me hope. I used every ill advised binding strategy in the book and cut my hair short. A stranger “misgendering” me would fuel my confidence for months after the fact.

Then, when the pandemic hit, everyone’s idea of gender shifted. Suddenly, defying gender roles seemed so mainstream. So I started experimenting with painting my nails, wearing makeup, wearing girls’ clothes for the first time since I was 11. And I didn’t mind it. I’d even go as far as to say I liked it. Now that those things didn’t mean, under no uncertain terms, association with womanhood, I found I actually didn’t hate them. As people started erasing the idea that names and things were inextricably tied to gender, I found I didn’t mind my feminine name so much anymore. I could suddenly appreciate the fact that it connected me with my family’s culture rather than feeling restrained by its gendered connotations.

Now, I look more like a cis woman than I ever have before. I technically use any pronouns. The realistic result is that everyone uses she/her because I present female. It doesn’t necessarily offend me. But every once in a while when someone doesn’t it still gives me that spike of euphoria. I haven’t taken any hormones or undergone any procedures. Mainly because I’ve realized how logistically complicated it is and I can’t take that on right now. If I could magically move into a man’s body, I would in an instant with zero hesitation. But I hate my own body less than I did when I was younger. I know how to dress to de-emphasize the feminine proportions. I don’t mind dresses, so long as they aren’t the mermaid style ones that really draw attention to curves. I love how I look in the poofy dresses that completely hide your figure. And while I know from an outside perspective those fluffy dresses make me look way more girly than jeans and a tee, I personally feel like my gender, whatever it is, is perfectly affirmed by them.

From the outside, it looks like I outgrew my tomboy tendencies, my internalized misogyny, and my adolescent awkwardness.

Internally, I feel more satisfied in my nonconforming relationship with gender than I have since childhood. I’ve really unpacked whether it was internalized misogyny at play, or some effort to dodge the brunt of facing the hardships of being a woman in this world. And while I’ve concluded that it’s impossible to completely remove those factors, that was never the driving force in my discomfort. I’m not even attracted to men at all, so I wasn’t trying to get their attention by copying them. I was using them as a guide to bring out my own masculinity. If I had endless resources there are things about my body that I would change, but I’m no longer completely unable to conceive of a future in which they aren’t changeable. I think I’d identify as somewhat nonbinary even if I could change everything. I don’t exactly want to be a man. But I’m able to look like a woman externally, be perceived as a woman by most people, and yet for the first time in my life I’m comfortable enough in myself to know that those things don’t have to make me a woman.

Anyway, I haven’t been “cured.” I’m not a woman. I used to think of myself as a girl and now I don’t, so I’m actually more gnc in that sense. I’m able to accept that some traits of mine aren’t inherently tied to my sex, nor do they have to be. I rejected them because even though we live in such a strictly gender segregated culture, my clothes and hobbies don’t have shit to do with my personal idea of what my gender means to me. And that’s what really matters, not my great aunt Caroline’s insistence that only girls can like pink so anyone who likes pink must be a girl. Might transphobes still use my journey as their fodder for further hatred and discrimination? Maybe. But I’m still not cis. And I’m still a trans ally through and through. Any attempt to use this story as “proof” that gender nonconformity is just a phase is actually just proof that those people didn’t actually understand me or my story at all.

Anyway, thanks to all the people who put in the work deconstructing our society’s very narrowed ideas of what gender means. Thanks to everyone who normalized neutral pronouns and the idea of existence outside the gender binary. I never could’ve existed this comfortably within myself in 2015 or 2016. And as our ideas of gender become more flexible, I hope more people can find their self actualizing interpretation of who they are, whether that’s done externally with gender affirming treatment or internally via rejection of the mortal flesh

The hardest, but most important, part of my transition has been untangling what my personal dysphoria is, and what is more a result of cissexism.

What I mean by this is that I learned that I am not dysphoric about certain aspects of myself, my body, and my life, but my discomfort in these aspects was influenced by the cissexist culture I live in which told me I couldn't exist as myself.

It's definitely a slow process, but I have found that it helps me self-actualize and actually see myself instead of what others demand of me.

2K notes · View notes

imagine-docx · 5 years ago

Text

sneaky.

Summary: Being neighbours with a cute boy has some perks. Also, Sam is being the best wingman (no pun intended) he possibly could. [neighbour!chubby!buckyau]

Warnings: Swearing, and some insecurity mentions and some body shaming.

A/N: Hello, quarantine has me writing again as I am officially done uni for the year. So please enjoy this jumble of different AU’s thrown into one. - Amanda

➽───────────────❥

You have lived next to James Barnes for the last two and a half years and you guys never really talked, just smiles and nods whenever you see him, and occasionally swapping mail that accidentally went to your respective houses, this was mostly because your schedules conflict but also Bucky didn’t know how to talk to a cute girl but he won't mention that part.

You’ve heard rumours about how he was a serial abuser and other nonsense from the neighbourhood, because honestly Anita from five houses down creates random fantasies she might as well be an author.

He was so used to getting stares and glares for his left prosthetic and round stomach, due to the rumours that were spread around the neighbourhood and he always shied away from contact with anyone in the area. You on the other hand? God literally sent you, so warm and loving.

He was working on his car one day, while his cat was outside with him. Looks back to see Alpine and doesn’t see his cat, slight panic until he sees that Alpine wasn’t there, but that cat is everywhere so it doesn’t bother him that much.

He heard soft lo-fi music coming from across the fence, indicating that you were outside. He looks over and sees you sitting there, on your computer between papers and notebooks and his cat sitting with you.

To you, Alpine wasn’t much chaos, in fact, a designer, he would randomly paw at something and it clicked with you that the two outfits look good.

“I’m so sorry, my cat is bothering you.” Bucky called out.

“Not at all, he constantly is spending time over here, love him like he’s my own,” you smiled at him.

“Thank you for looking out for him,” he said, looking down at his feet.

“Not a problem. You look exhausted, come get some coffee!” You exclaimed, with the brightest smile he’s ever seen, plastered onto your face.

“Are you sure?” He didn’t want your reputation to be tainted by having him over for some coffee.

“Come! How do you take your coffee?” you said, trekking back to close all your notebooks because honestly, it's not everyday that your cute neighbour talks to you and work can always wait.

You went inside to make both of you a cup of coffee, his black, and yours with some cream and sugar. You also plated two lemon bars for the two of you, and grabbed a little yogurt from your fridge for Alpine to enjoy.

“I’m surprised you wanted to be seen with me. Especially with all the rumours, I found everyone believing them.”

“Honestly, half of them came from Anita and she is a whackjob. I’m surprised people listen to her.” You said taking a sip of your coffee.

He laughed, “You would be surprised, people look at me like I killed someone.”

“When I first moved in she told the entire neighbourhood that I got a divorce and needed massive space from my ex husband because I found him cheating with one of his juniors. People actually believed it which makes it worse. For like a year I was getting sympathetic looks for a divorce and relationship that didn’t even happen.” You cut a piece of your lemon bar with your fork.

He laughed, and felt so much more comfortable with you, like he has known you for so long. “My old place caught on fire, and I got trapped, lost m’arm. Girl left me because I had no arm, no place to stay, hit rock bottom, gained a few pounds, and Stark helped me by getting me this arm, even though I work for him and he paid for this place for me.” He said looking down, he felt comfortable enough for you to know what happened, but avoided your look, scared of judgement.

You reached out for his flesh hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, “You’re doing amazing James, don’t listen to what the neighbourhood chatties have to say. That’s why half of their men turn off their hearing aids when they talk.”

He smiled and you removed your hand, “Bucky.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me Bucky.”

“Alright, Bucky. So how did Bucky derive from James, because there is no correlation” you said, shoving the piece of lemon bar into your mouth.

“From my middle name, Buchanan, and I guess it stuck with me since.”

“Wait, you work for Stark Industries?” You said realization dawning on you.

“Yeah…” He said unsurely as if you would kick him off your backyard patio set and never talk to him again.

“I provide the latest and never seen before suits to Tony Stark!” You laughed.

“Insurrexon?” He asked.

“Yes sir, the one and only fashion director for Insurrexon.” You said.

He laughed, “So you guys are the reason he prances around his office saying his suit is worth more than everyone’s rent.”

“Sounds like a very Tony thing to do, but yes. I am the cause of that.”

You laughed and spent the remainder of your day talking with Bucky in your backyard while Alpine takes occasional nips at the yogurt left for him.

➽───────────────❥

Since that day, you and Bucky practically became best friends. With your schedule practically all over the place you two were constantly texting to help compensate for the fact you probably saw him for a total of 10 minutes or less a day.

He noticed some days you were coming home super late and noticed the lights in your washroom and bedroom are the only lights that were on when you came home and after that he assumed you fell asleep. He felt bad knowing you didn’t eat and were constantly on the go and eating probably the most unhealthy things possible just to stay alive. So he would drop you off extra portions of whatever he made.

Or that's what he likes to tell himself. One day on his break he saw the cutest reusable container, it was glass and had little black dresses on it with a hot pink lid, and knew it matched you perfectly. That night he had an extra portion of stir fry and rice leftover in your mailbox with a note saying, ‘make sure you eat something doll’, knowing you would check it before going inside and you would hopefully eat it.

The next day after the longest shift he possibly could have had, he checked his mailbox and saw the container was back in his mailbox, he frowned thinking that you didn’t eat it. He saw a yellow post-it note attached to the top ‘thanks for looking out for me, btw the stir fry was delicious’ and he smiled, picking up the container he noticed it was quite weighty. He opened it and saw a slice of red velvet cake, keeping the grin on his face, he closed the container, gathered his mail and went inside.

And that started the entire back and forth exchange of goods.

He would cook dinner for you to enjoy at night when you come home and leave it for you, the next day he got his container back with a form of a baked good.

Everyday on his way home, he was thinking of things to make you to impress you, there were lasagnas, soups with garlic bread, steaks with mashed potatoes, and he always went above and beyond to make it with love for you.

You on the other hand found it so sweet and kept giving him cute little desserts you would bake such as cupcakes, cheesecakes, and cookies, and when you couldn’t bake anything, you would make sure to pick something up on your way home from work.

This clockwork happened almost all the time.

➽───────────────❥

Bucky was in the break room at work with Sam and Steve, and Bucky couldn’t help but gush about how cute he found you.

“Aw Baby Bucky has a crushy wushy on his cute neighbour,” Sam said, reaching for his cheeks to pinch them.

“Knock it off Wilson,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

“Buck, I haven’t seen you this happy since Dot,” Bucky winced at the mention of his ex.

“She seems to like you, and enjoys your company, make a move,” Steve said, nudging his ribs.

“She doesn’t look at me that way,” Bucky muttered.

“Buck, she literally ignores what everyone said and openly hangs out with you, I think she likes you.” Bucky felt a little string of hope when Steve said that, but couldn’t help but feel insecure.

He was 34 years old, slightly overweight and had a prosthetic and was IT director for Stark Industries. You on the other hand were slightly younger than him at 30 years old, but, god took his time creating you, you were beautiful inside and out, had a killer personality and worked as a fashion director for one of the biggest fashion chains in North America. You two were on two different levels and you were nowhere in his league.

“So Buck, when are you gonna cook me dinner?” Sam said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Not in your lifetime.” Bucky retaliated, feeling a buzz in his pocket, he pulled out his phone and saw it was you and instantly smiled.

“His girlfriend messaged him, that's why he’s all smiley” Sam nudged him once again.

The three of them continued talking until Brock Rumlow, the resident dick and lead prosthetic designer walked in.

Brock pushed passed Bucky to get something from the cabinets. Brock had an attitude problem with everyone and it was still surprising that he worked at Stark Industries. “James Barnes has a girlfriend? Does she close her eyes when she fucks you? Because you are hideous.”

“Rumlow,” Steve warned.

And that’s when Bucky felt coffee trickle down his skin and the scent of coffee engulfed his nose. “Hope your girlfriend cleans you up, she might as well throw you out.” Rumlow said pushing past him.

“Buck-” Sam started before making a beeline to the mens washroom.

Bucky stood in the mirror and looked at himself, his hair was drenched with coffee, his cream coloured cardigan and white shirt were covered in brown coffee splotches, his pants and shoes got minimal damage. He dunked his head over the sink and tried washing out his hair.

As his head was over the sink, there were tears in his eyes. Of course his neighbour wouldn’t like him, he was weak. He looked in the mirror knowing he would have to sit in his coffee stained outfit for the rest of the day.

“Buck? Stark wants to see you whenever you come out.” Steve said from the other side of the door, giving him some space.

He managed to murmur out an “okay” knowing Steve’s quality hearing would have heard him. It took him a solid 30 minutes before he made his way to Stark’s office. “You wanted to see me?” Bucky said walking in.

“Ah yes, I heard about the coffee incident in the break room.” Tony said.

“Sorry about that.”

“Not your fault, it’s Rumlow’s. Also how do you deal with Sam? I heard him screeching from here about how he was gonna, and I quote ‘Brock Rumlow’s shit so hard he wouldn’t have seen it coming.’”

“A lot of alcohol and tuning him out.”

“Makes sense.” Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed him a card, “Take this, go buy something to wear. Can’t have my top IT director brewing in coffee like he’s a piece of tiramisu.”

“No Stark I can’t take this, you’ve done a lot already.”

“Nonsense. Take Sam and Steve with you, I can’t hear Sam screeching about fighting someone for the rest of the day, that’s gonna be one hell of an HR complaint I’m gonna have to deal with.”

“You got it.”

➽───────────────❥

And that is how Bucky, Sam and Steve spent two hours walking around Brooklyn attempting to find clothes for Bucky. Bucky couldn’t find anything that made him feel right, it was emphasizing his stomach which he didn’t want to show off.

This kept making Bucky smaller, and he didn’t want to be out anymore. Sam kept trying to hype him and Steve was reassuring that he looked fine. But after that altercation in the break room, they understood that he wasn’t in the best mood and just wanted to go back to the office and have this Friday be over.

➽───────────────❥

You were sitting in a tiny coffee shop called Dream Bean with Wanda and Natalia planning for the next collection that was supposed to drop for Valentine’s Day, the ‘Love Bomb’ collection.

“I’m thinking colours like pastels, reds, pinks, whites.” Wanda said.

“So take Valentine’s Day and throw it into a collection?” Natalia said.

“Pretty much.” You stated.

“Makes sense.” Natalia stated, taking a sip of her iced latte.

“Is this more date night and sexy lingerie?” Wanda asked, working out a sketch in her notebook.

“I mean a lot of people are single on Valentine’s Day, so why not make it a feel good collection.” You stated nonchalantly, sitting back into your chair and taking a sip of your iced coffee.

“Oh, I love having a creative genius,” Wanda exclaimed, brushing her pencil gently across the sketchbook.

“I mean it's a part of my job description,” you laughed, taking a sip out of your iced coffee and looked out the window. You noticed a familiar face. Bucky. Your heart skipped a beat, until you saw that he was drenched in coffee. Your heart hurt for him.

“Hey? Hello? Anyone home?” Natalia waved in front of your face.

“Oh sorry.”

“You okay?” Wanda asked.

“I just saw my neighbour-”

“Oh the cute one you’re so smitten by?” Nat wiggled her brows.

“The dinner one! Aw he’s so cute and treats her well.” Wanda said.

“He was covered in coffee and he seemed upset.” You started, wishing you could do something for him. That’s when it clicked with you, “Do we have any samples from the ‘No Guidance’ collection?”

“I think there are copies in my office.”

➽───────────────❥

Bucky got back to work and sat in his chair, and ran his hands over his face. He felt horrible and nothing could make this day better. Rumlow’s words managed to hit deeper than he wanted it too. Usually, Bucky was very dismissive about what Rumlow said, but now that you were a part of his life, it hit deeper.

The elevator dinged, signalling someone was coming up. Secretly he was hoping it was the grim reaper ready to come collect him. “Package for-” He read the package, “James Barnes?”

“That’s me.” He said not even looking up. When he did, he was greeted by a massive navy blue box with a yellow ribbon tied around it, and saw some white text but couldn’t make out what it said due to the distance. “Thank you.”

He noticed that the box said ‘Insurrexon’ and was confused. That was the company that you worked for. He untied it and was greeted by a white paper with black pen ink staining the paper on top of the red wrapping paper protecting whatever was in the box.

‘Was in a meeting when I saw you drenched in coffee and wanted to help you out. Hope you like it. Also, can’t have my chef soaking wet, it could get him sick’ and it was signed off with your name.

His heart burst with awe at the fact she went out of her way to get him clothes so he wasn’t wet. Part of him was embarrassed that she saw him in that state, but the joy overtook that feeling. He took the clothes to the washroom and was going to change.

He worried that he wouldn’t fit in it, but as he slid the items on, it fit. Maybe you did have a good knowledge at measurements and knew what would fit.

He looked himself in the mirror and grinned at the fact she picked an all black outfit with a light washed denim jacket and some black combat boots, he was upset at the fact that she knew how big he was, but was overtaken by happiness as his neighbour, someone he took such an interest in, picked this out, out of the goodness of her own heart.

Once he walked out of the washroom he was whistled at by Sam, “Looking good girl.”

“I thought you didn’t like anything.” Steve stated.

“His lovely girl at Insurrexon sent him stuff,” Sam said, holding up the note with his hands.

“Hey!” Bucky grabbed it. “None of your business.”

“Alright ‘chef’.” Sam mocked.

Bucky reached out to slap Sam’s head. “Hey, hey, hey, no workplace violence!” Steve said, breaking it up.

➽───────────────❥

It was the end of the day and Bucky had to drop reports back off to Tony. He walked in and gave him all the files that Tony needed. “Is that Insurrexon?”

“Yeah,” he responded.

“Look at you go, getting into the big leagues, huh?” Tony punched his shoulder, “Wait, was it on my credit card?” Tony nearly cried out.

“No-”

“Wait, this collection didn’t even come out yet. How did you get this and how much did you spend?” Tony cried out.

“One of my friends work for Insurrexon and sent it to me for free.”

“Was it a lady friend?” Tony wiggled his eyebrows. Bucky blushed, “IT WAS! But honestly Tinman, you had a long day. Go home, get some rest, spend some time with your girl. I’ll see you Monday.” Tony said shooing Bucky out of his office.

➽───────────────❥

Upon reaching home, Bucky realized how expensive the brand truly was, and the amount of hype behind it. He also realized that Tony wasn’t lying and this was a collection that didn’t even come out yet, yet you still gave him a copy of it. He paced around his living room, even though his paycheque said he made quite the amount of money, the worth of this collection laughed at that amount. He couldn’t possibly pay it back. He was running through scenarios on how to bring it up and pay her back. He finally looked back at the clothing that he folded and put into a bag to return, and saw Alpine looking up at him, “What should I do, bud?” Alpine just meowed back at him before leaving and returning to wherever he was.

It was close to eight pm when he noticed that you came back home. Your car was in your driveway, and your living room light was on. He had to pump himself up before walking over to your door, he knocked on it three times before you opened it.

You looked even more beautiful, and he didn’t even know it was possible. There you were, makeup free, hair dampened signalling you showered, a pair of black shorts, and an oversized grey NASA shirt. He noticed you were on the phone and mouthed, “I’ll come back later.” He turned around and was about to walk off.

That’s when you grabbed his flesh wrist and pulled him inside. Closing the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and admired your living room. He was unsure if he should sit, he looked at you as you were talking to whoever it was. You looked back at him, and signalled for him to sit down. He cautiously sat on your couch. Pen in your hand, you wrote on the post-it note.

“That’s just gonna delay ‘FIVE’ and we’re going to have to push back ‘Love Bomb’ which will have to be scrapped until next year,” you said running your hand through your hair.

Whoever was on the other line said something, you sighed, “It’s a Friday night, I can’t worry about this. Send out an email scheduling an interview on Tuesday for all the directors of different divisions.”

He admired you, even in comfortable clothes, you were a business woman strategizing ways to not prevent any delays. “Yeah, so me, Nat, Wanda, Okoye, Nebula, Val, Carole and Erik.” You wrote it down on your little post-it note, “Alright, thanks Gamora. Have a good weekend.” You said before hanging up.

You turned around being greeted by Bucky sitting there, “Hi,” he said letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“Hi there. Sorry about that, work has my ass on a platter right now,” you said, chuckling, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“It’s okay,” he looked down and remembered why he came, “You didn’t have to do what you did.”

“And what was it I did?” You asked ridding your dining room table of the computer and a few sheets of paper that were littered across the table.

“Give me clothes.” He responded watching your movements.

“Bucky, it’s not a problem. You looked upset and I wanted to help you,” and after those words left your mouth, his heart nearly exploded into tiny pieces.

“I can’t possibly pay you back for this. Even Tony said it was too expensive.” Bucky said rambling.

“Bucky, do not worry about it. You don’t have to pay me back,” you said gently.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“If you want to do something, hang out with me,” you said.

“Pardon?”

“We could order dinner? Dessert? Mario Kart? I am open to criticism.” You said jokingly.

“I’d like that,” Bucky said grinning from ear to ear.

“Alright soldier, what are you craving?”

“Pizza?” He said.

“Alright.”

➽───────────────❥

Of course it was a Friday night and your favourite pizza joint had an hour wait time before they could make your order, and don’t forget the 30 minute delivery window. And honestly, you both didn’t mind and enjoyed each other’s company. Yet here you were sitting on your couch playing Mario Kart together. “I fell off again,” he grumbled at rainbow road.

“Hah- oh no,” you said, getting blue-shelled.

“I just fell off, how can I possibly fall off again?” He exclaimed.

“No no no, don’t red shell me.” You said, rushing to the finish line. The moment you crossed it, ‘FINISH’ flashed across the screen.

Bucky got up at the sound of the knock on the door, “Pizza’s here.”

“Oh, use my card to pay!” You said going to get your wallet from your bag.

“No Doll, I owe you,” he went to the door.

You stood hovered over your bag due to your cheeks burning from him calling you ‘Doll’. You went to the kitchen and grabbed two plates, and two cups getting ready to set the table. Bucky joined you in the dining room with the extra large pepperoni pizza, wings and soda.

For some reason, to the both of you, this felt right. Like this is something that you two should be constantly doing. You two were laughing at childhood stories, work stories and other funny things that have happened to you two. He helped you clean up the table and wrap up the extras.

You took out two pieces of plum cobbler and warmed it up, “Ice cream?” you asked.

“Do you have?” Bucky asked.

“What kind of girl would I be if I didn’t have any?” You joked.

“You have a point,” he laughed.

You two were back at the dining room table. Bucky let out a heavenly groan as he took a bite of the plum cobbler, “I love plum so much, and this tastes amazing.”

“Plum is that fruit that you can always enjoy,” you said, taking a bite of your own.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, where do you get these desserts? They’re amazing,” he said, taking another bite.

You sheepishly said, “I bake the majority of them.”

“They’re amazing, doll. Maybe you should get out of the fashion industry and get into baking.” He joked.

“I don’t know about that part,” you chuckled, “Wanda and Nat might have my head on a stick if I leave.”

“You guys are that close?” Bucky asked.

“Practically attached by the hip. We met in freshman year of college because of this stupid textile course. Here we are ten years later, in the same company. What about you? Any close friends that are work friends but would also commit manslaughter if you left the company?”

He laughed at the comment, “I have Steve, him and I have been friends since childhood and he kept getting beat up in alleys and I had to save him. Then there’s Sam, the drama queen. Him and I met through Steve.”

You nodded your head, signalling you understood. “I don’t want to intrude, but what happened today? Why was there coffee all over you?”

He shifted in his seat, “Oh, uh.”

“You don’t have to answer. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m feeling much better now, sugar,” he said, grabbing your hand and giving a gentle squeeze with his flesh hand.

“That’s all that matters,” You said squeezing back

The two of you continued eating your dessert in harmony, occasionally making jokes.

➽───────────────❥

Bucky didn’t want to go, but it was nearly 1:30 am and he should probably let you sleep. He was strategically trying to leave the clothes on your couch without you noticing, which obviously failed.

You leaned against your door with one bag containing the clothes you gave him and the other containing leftovers and a good portion of the plum cobbler he seemed to enjoy. “Goodnight,” he said, prior to trying to walk off your porch.

“Wait, Bucky?” You asked.

He turned around, “Yes sugar?”

You hugged him, at first he couldn’t believe it, but knew this possibly wouldn’t happen again and hugged back. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Anytime doll,” he was so ecstatic, he didn’t notice that you slipped the two bags into his hands.

“See you around?” You asked, sheepishly.

“Of course.”

You let out a smile, “Night Bucky,” before the door closed.

He smiled, before realizing she slipped him food and the clothes. He shook his head and trekked his way home.

➽───────────────❥

Over the next 2 weeks, you and Bucky got so much more closer. He came to Insurrexon when she was in and could take breaks. Other than that you tried to meet up at random diners, restaurants, bakeries, wherever was convenient to the both of you.

➽───────────────❥

It was a Friday afternoon and Bucky was irritated, Brock was making sly comments about him knowing that Bucky heard it. And on several occasions, Steve had to hold back Sam from swinging and Sam stating that, “Rumlow isn’t ready for this smoke.”

Bucky sat at his desk looking over the file Tony gave him this morning and making notes in the margin for him and Bruce to look over once Monday hit. He felt someone’s presence next to him, “Brock I don’t wanna deal with this right now,” he mumbled out, not even looking up.

“Brock? From Pokémon? I always thought I was more of a Rosa from Black and White two,” you joked.

Once he heard the familiar voice, his head snapped up and grinned, leaning back into his chair, “Thought you were more of a May from Sapphire.”

You laughed, “Is that my favourite fashion director from Insurrexon?” Tony called out.

��Of course it is,” you turned to Tony, smiled and pushed back your hair.

“Are you bringing me some new designs? Or are you terrorizing my IT director?” He said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I prefer the second one.”

Bucky enjoyed the banter between you and Tony, “Then you are banished from my company.”

“Before you banish me, can you at least let me steal your IT director for an hour for coffee? I will bring him back in perfect condition.” You pleaded.

Tony pretended to think, “Fine, I’ll give you an hour and fifteen, but I want him back in mint condition.”

You said, “Scouts honour.”

Bucky got up and stretched his knees, “If anything comes up, let Sam deal with it until I get back.”

“I would rather not, I’ll pass it off to Banner and hopefully he doesn’t rage out.” Tony joked.

“See you at the Rocket fashion show in a few weeks?” You asked Tony.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll bring Tinman with me,” he joked.

“Doll, meet me at the elevator? I want to pass my file to Banner before I leave.” Bucky asked.

“Of course. Bye Tony,” you said before walking back to the elevator you just rode up.

Bucky grabbed the file off the desk, “So this is the girl who has my Bucky Barnes smitten?” Tony said, examining his movement.

He blushed and stuttered, “N-no, where did you get that from?”

“Buck, you literally called her doll, and the way you look at her says otherwise,” Tony said, “Don’t let her slip out of her fingers, she is a wonderful person and I can tell that she genuinely likes you back,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed him a card, “It’s on me, now go get your girl.”

“Thanks Tony,” Bucky murmured out.

“Don’t worry Buck, now I will pass this on to the big guy,” Tony spoke, taking the file out of his hand.

Bucky met you at the elevator, you were leaning against the wall on your phone waiting for him. He finally took in how gorgeous you looked today. A quarter sleeve baby blue button up that was fashionably tucked into the high waisted dark blue skinny jeans, some black heels and rose gold jewelry to accent it all. “You ready Doll?”

“Been ready, let’s get some coffee. You look like you need it.” You said.

He smiled and pressed the button for down, you two were laughing and Bucky’s face dropped when the elevator doors opened. Rumlow. He got in, and you could feel the tension. You grabbed his hand and reassuringly squeezed it and kept your fingers interlocked.

Earlier when you were walking in the building, you ran into Steve and Sam by accident who were coming in from their ‘afternoon stroll’ and Sam went off and told you everything about Rumlow. “You know you don’t deserve someone like Chubs over there, why don’t you get with me instead, I’ll show you a good time.” Rumlow said.

“And you don’t deserve a job here, I can’t wait to go to Tony and let him know there’s a harassment claim against one of his employees. He wouldn’t like to hear that his favourite company can’t be providing him fashion anymore because of a harassment claim, would he now?” You gritted.

“Bitch,” Rumlow muttered before getting off.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bucky said, trying to let go of your hand.

You kept a grip on his hand, “I don’t have to, but I do. You don’t deserve any of that.” “So where do we wanna go?” Bucky said.

“Up to you,” you smiled at him.

“Well, we are going somewhere expensive because Tony gave me his card,” he chuckled.

You laughed, “Can’t wait.”

➽───────────────❥

You stuck out your tongue, turned back around and walked in the direction of your home.

You and Bucky enjoyed your time at the cafe. He ordered a large black coffee and a plum tart, you ordered a large iced coffee and a rainbow bit cake. His hour was up and you were walking him back to Stark Industries. Your left hand in his right hand, everything about this seems normal.

You two laughed in harmony. You turned towards him, “I’m done for the rest of the day. Movie tonight?” You asked.

“Of course.”

Bucky was about to walk off, before you called out, “Hey Bucky?”

He turned back, “Yeah doll?”

You reached out and grabbed his hand, and pulled him closer to you. You planted a soft kiss on his lips. His eyes widened, upon realization, he kissed you back.

You pulled away, “I promised Tony his IT director back, I’ll be waiting for you to come back.”

He kissed your knuckles, “I can’t wait.”

You were walking away, but turned back. “Also, don’t kill Sam. He told me everything.”

He blushed then realization hit him as to what you just said and let out a loud groan, “You two are the sneakiest.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #captain america #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky #neighbour!bucky #neighbor!bucky #chubby!bucky #chubby!bucky barnes #bucky barnes au #james barnes #james barnes x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel au #winter soldier #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n

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our-future-is-up-to-us-2 · 3 years ago

Text

It Won’t Be Long Now

A/N - I'm shipping Ninessa here because I can and you can't stop me >:D

Lyrics are in italics, both in and out of speech.

'Rosie' is Vanessa's nickname for Nina, derived from her last name, 'Rosario'.

'Nessa' is quite evidently Nina's nickname for Vanessa!

Based on Melissa Barrera's 'It Won't Be Long Now'!

The elevated train by my window doesn’t faze me anymore…

Vanessa Morales had a secret suenito. It was one she carried everywhere with her, quite literally in notebooks, in her hands, the back of her mind, pockets filled with ribbons and fabric. Even though those notebooks may be jammed, pockets stuffed with everything as if to give it all away, she’d never give the proper answer when asked.

‘What’s all that for?!’

‘A project.’ A sweet smile would lace her face and she’d let the other person process for a minute, before continuing about her day. There was no doubt that a girl like her was attractive, which is perhaps what made it all the more believable. Currently, in her apartment, she filled up a bright pink backpack with one of her many fashion notebooks, a pen or two, and her application. She was out there now, in the big, wide world, looking for a job. She’d been training hard, creating, sewing as many fabrics as she could get her hands on, spending numerous days inside, all for this. This nugget of hope that she could project herself and her passion into the world. Fulfil that suenito.

She swiftly changed into a pastel top, a geometric print jacket, heels still and denim shorts, ripped a little at the bottom. Just like that, she was ready to go.

Through the busy barrio streets, her eyes remained ahead, focused on one thing only. Her destination. She knew she exuded attractiveness in her swagger, demonstrating confidence, and as established prior, good looks. This in turn, only drew several men to her, all desperate for such a jewel. ‘Vanessa!’ They cried, ‘You’re precious! Stay here, give me a chance! Please, precious Vanessa, please!’

The boys around the way holler at me when I'm walkin' down the street

Thеir machismo pride doesn't break my stridе—

It's a compliment, so they say

The boys around the way holler at me every day, but I don't mind, oh no

If I'm in the mood, it will not be with some dude

Many made cries from the sidewalk, unable to speak, whistling and snapping their fingers to catch her attention, all of which was a regular occurrence. She honestly… Hated it, but she tolerated it. She didn’t reveal any weakness, show any disgust. Vanessa was completely composed, always, or at least to the public. She could dig into herself while no one was around, laugh more, shed a few more tears, whatever was necessary. She continued to look ahead despite everything trying to capture her in the present, swindle her away from her goals.

Who is whistlin' 'cause he has nothing to say

Or who's honking at me from his Chevrolet!

And one day… I'm hoppin' in a limousine and I'm driving away!

It won't be long now!

Vanessa turned a sharp right, pulling into a quieter city street and slinking into a crystal white building. A minimalist, bright space, with luxurious windows, plenty of wardrobe space, cupboards, artwork, a desk larger than anything she had currently. Her mind was already envisioning the studio. She had everything laid out for her. Every possible question the realtor could ask financially? She had a comeback! She felt her body shake with excitement, eyes darting from side to side as the realtor stepped into view.

“Hi, I’m Amanda!” She held her hand out for Vanessa to shake.

“Right, Amanda, hi!” A bright smile laced her face as she reciprocated. “Vanessa. I actually emailed you about this a few days ago, but I can give you a rundown right now. I’ll just grab my sheet of paper…” She trailed off, opening her backpack to pull out the application, her neat handwriting filling out all the appropriate boxes. Amanda took the page, examining it with keen eyes, and Vanessa leaned back on the spot, adrenaline running through her veins. I can just picture it all…

“I can’t accept this. Someone has to co-sign.” Amanda furrowed her eyebrows in disappointment, as if this was something to be known by all. Not everyone was so business savvy, and Vanessa least likely of all people. She was a creative spotlight, not an economics master like Kevin Rosario, owner of the dispatch and more importantly, father of Nina Rosario, her girlfriend. She’d likely talk to her later about all this… The thing with Nina was that she was so kind and supportive, and they both shared their own goals, bettering one another, talking about them constantly and knowing each other so well! A connection arose since Vanessa joined the salon, and Daniela tasked her with styling Nina’s hair. It had been much more than that with school connections as well, but threading her hands through her hair, talking to her for a solid hour each appointment?! It became clearer and clearer to her and the salon girls that ‘little Nessa’ was falling deeply in love.

She’d zoned out a fraction upon thinking about her girlfriend, but she blinked, catching the words in her ears. Shock invaded her body, disbelief lighting up her face, and incredulousness leaving her mouth wide open. “What?! I have everything! All my money lined up, bank checks-” She rattled off, hands fidgeting, “First, last, and security- I had to call about that to get it in order! Amanda, you can’t be serious-” She was speaking so rapidly to protect her case- This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening.

“I’ll say it again. You have to have this co-signed. We can’t give you the space without it. Maybe a parent could sign for you, Vanessa?” Her voice didn’t have an ounce of kindness. It was silky and smooth, but made to run her down simultaneously. It immediately taunted her, You can’t have the job! You don’t have the space! You can’t have any of it! “Assuming they can pay up! Income plus 40 times the rent?” She held the application out for Vanessa to take back, a slight smile lacing Amanda’s face. It was one Vanessa grew to hate instantly. All her life had built up to this space, this studio, the expansion of her work and lifelong dream and passions and-

“Thank you, Amanda. I’ll consider it.” She snatched the sheet and stuffed it into her bag, swivelling around on her heels and walking back out into the streets. Light up that smile, don’t act annoyed, don’t get angry, you’re fine. Act natural, act natural, act natur-

“Nessa!!” A voice squeaked from the end of the street, Vanessa having to do a double-take, speeding over to the voice. A woman came closer into view as she frantically raced in her heels. None other than Nina Rosario. She paused right in front of her, catching her breath and simultaneously admiring her. Her soft brown curls and chocolate eyes… Vanessa would never get sick of looking at her features. “Were you coming from the realtors?! Sure seems like it! How did you go?!” Her face lit up, “Surely you got it, it’s you!”

Where Nina’s face beamed, Vanessa’s actually continued to smile. She kept that on her face, looking around. Who was here? Could she be seen by others? “Wanna head back to mine?” Her voice was far softer than she expected it to be. A sign of withering, cracking under this newfound anger. “It might be easier to talk about it there as opposed to the middle of the barrio-” She chuckled softly, her face contorting into one of urgency. Please, precious Nina, please…

“Of course, Nessa! I love your apartment. It’s so cozy…” She hummed, offering her hand for her to take. Vanessa took one look and latched onto it, holding it tight. She wanted to walk down the street with the same amount of confidence as she did before, but it was all gone. It was like she was a child, clinging to her parent, a calm level, headed Nina, and she was the bewildered child, lost in the world.

She took her shot. She saw the red light, ran it, and got hit by the car. Vanessa felt like a failure. All her efforts simply amounted to nothing.

Silence invaded the air as they walked back, and she kept her head high, staring straight ahead, not daring to face Nina. She couldn’t reveal herself now, not yet, maybe not even ever...

-----------

Little did she know she’d be crying on her bed, head dropped in shame, Nina’s arms wrapped around her in a supportive hug. No words were exchanged for those past 5 minutes. The minute she entered her apartment, she burst open like a broken pipe, her cries of anguish and upset unknown to the Stanford student. She’d never seen Vanessa crying, and for good reason. It was vulnerability, weakness, everything opposite to her. All the more reason for her heart to get broken.

Blinking her eyes open, she clutched her bag and pulled on the zip, a piece of weathered paper in her hand. She held it out to her girlfriend, barely looking at her own writing. Filling out the application was the highlight of that week, but now looking back, it was a mistake. Of course, she had no idea of the future looking this bleak. “The realtor took one look at this and went, ‘Nope!’” She further leaned into Nina, watching as her eyes widened when making eye contact with the page. “Well, nope on her! My whole life-”

Nina put the page to one side, kissing Vanessa’s forehead gently. She knew just how determined she was to make this goal. It was everything to her and more. Every time inspiration came to her, the light in her eyes shone a thousand times brighter, she’d be happily sketching, rambling on about all her processes and thoughts whilst creating, she’d maybe go as far as to sew up a few! That was left for her apartment though. Sewing in public was ‘finicky’, as the aspiring designer spoke on many occasions. It was adorable to her, honestly. All of it made her special, and she had to let her know… Her life continued on past this! This was not a dead end.

“Shh, Nessa, it’s ok…” She pulled her closer towards her, just wrapping her up in this embrace. It was safety for Vanessa. Sure, the apartment was safe itself, very secure and cozy in all its ways, but this? It brought something out of her, something she cherished. This warmth and comfort is what she cherished from Nina. She just felt it all come in these light waves, slowly travelling through her body.

“But, Rosie,” She whispered, finding one of Nina’s curls and playing with it, “What will I do now?”

Nina sighed, searching for the answer in her head. The truth was, there was no real answer, rather small reassurances she could give. “Well… You’re still working at the salon! Why don’t you tell me all about that? I don’t have anywhere near enough money to be constantly booking appointments…” She joked, letting a chuckle slip from her mouth.

“Alright…” She sighed, glancing up at Nina and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. It gave Vanessa that momentary happiness along with the extra motivation to keep going.

“The neighbourhood salon is the place I am working for the moment. As I cut their hair, ladies talk and share… Every day, who's doin' who and why…”

“Sounds like a fun conversation,” Nina remarked with a bright smile, “Daniela and Cuca are surely in the loop! Carla… Carla, not so much.”

Vanessa sat up a little more, turning to face her girlfriend. She knew so much… It was like her head was a boundless pool of knowledge. She rested her hands on Nina’s shoulders, adoring the touch and her face, now that her confidence was growing, albeit soft confidence, and that she could take in the view. “Right… Carla’s innocent, and I love that for her.” She sighed. “Shall I keep going…?” Her hesitance kicked back in, but Nina gave her a gentle nod. She understood. She always did.

“The neighbourhood salon doesn't pay me what I wanna be making but I don't mind… As I sweep the kerb, I can hear those turbo engines blazing a trail through the sky! I look up and think about the years gone by…” It prompted the designer to examine the ceiling for a moment in pure awe of the passage of time. It felt like yesterday when she’d found her Rosie, confessed her love for her, made so many advancements in her life, so many fashion lines made- Even before Nina, so much had happened, caught up in the whirlwind of dating, she had found Usnavi as more than a friend, periodically. He was certainly head over heels for her… But it didn’t work out. She’d always been fascinated by the girls in magazines, marvelling at their beauty and jaw-dropping appearances. Didn’t take long at all till she found a stunning one to call her own.

She paused to watch Nina again, blinking softly. “Your dreams don’t end here.” She spoke, tickling her nose by giving it a kiss. “You have so much time to work it all out. Where else would you like to head, Nessa?”

One immediate thought popped in her head, but it wasn’t very specific. Her brain was slowing down, her emotions really putting her in a spin. The world… It rang gently inside her, The world…

“But one day! I'm walkin' to JFK and I'm gonna fly! It won't be long now…”

A dainty yawn escaped Vanessa’s mouth and she once again leaned back into Nina’s arms. She could rest easy here, really. She could fall asleep for hours and not have to worry about a single thing… Her eyelids fluttered, dropping to a close, and she hummed softly in her sleep, body curling up to fit neatly in her girlfriend’s arms. Nina threaded one hand through her hair, sighing.

“Any day…” She finished up for her, opening her mouth to say something, but it didn’t leave her immediately. She felt Vanessa’s chest rise and fall, so calm and content in every moment… It lit her up in a billion ways she’d never be able to express. “I love you, little Nessa. Sweet dreams.”

#it won't be long now #in the heights movie #in the heights fics #in the heights #ava writes #fluff #cuddling #hurt/comfort #ninessa #lesbians!

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psi-psina · 5 years ago

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Tour19 This Way to Self-Destruction Kanazawa & Fukuoka ♡

金沢市文化ホール

Kanazawa was a day of reunions and meetings with many precious people so it’s a day that will always stand out in my memory. Kanazawa Bunka Hall is a lovely venue but felt a little odd for a rock concert. Due to various circumstances I ended up with a front row seat in this hall, dead in front of Shinya and Die. I was extremely excited about it but it also felt quite odd, because the circumstances that led to me getting this ticket were really unfortunate. Anyway.

The edge of the stage was barely over an arms length away and there was this hilarious little rope on the ground at our feet for the ‘barrier’. I think they only raised it during the encore? I was concerned I’d be going head first into the stage when headbanging, but thankfully it wasn’t a problem and I quickly realised we’d have to be far more careful of the photographers crawling around in front of us trying to get their pics of the guys 😂 Thankfully they were very accomodating of our enthusiasm and we were no trouble to them 😂 I hope. Although I think during one song a guy may have got whipped by my hair. I’m sorry bro. So yes, DEAD IN FRONT of Shinya and Die…It was Bliss…I think this is probably the deepest engagement I’ve ever been able to have during a live because there were just no mitigating factors…the stage was right there and there was no one in front of me or crushing me or hindering me in any way. Unbelievable. The stage in Bunka Hall was pretty large and not just wide but quite deep. Kyo’s box was placed way further back than usual, like easily a good few steps between it and the stage edge.

I believe that both the SE and the SE footage used on this tour are the same as in TIW spring tour. There maaay be some variation in the footage but overall the impression is exactly the same. I was surprised by that because I had thought that this being such an extensive tour with a new single at the helm that they might develop the visuals a bit more, and mix things up a bit, but this tour is no different to TIW tour aesthetically speaking. It’s also a less varied setlist, which surprised me at first, but now makes complete sense due to the nature of The World of Mercy.

絶縁体谿壑の欲 Downfall Devote My Life Celebrate Empty Howls 人間を被る赫 Merciless Cult Rubbish Heap 軽蔑と始まり Values of Madness Ranunculus The World of Mercy

EN. HYDRA -666- 鬼眼 Followers NEW AGE CULTURE 詩踏み

Seeing Zetsuentai up that close for the first time was incredibly moving, and then the transition right into Keigaku created this most hypnotic atmosphere. It was a really nice opening pair especially for a seated venue, it let the atmosphere really blossom before jumping into the more energetic songs. They started Downfall and I lost it, I think the only song I was looking forward to hearing again MORE from The Insulted World was Ningen. I cannot believe I was meh about Downfall until I experienced it live! On record, at first I thought it just sounded choppy and a bit generic, but live it just explodes with emotional intensity and I am absolutely crazy about the bridge. Major highlight was Die coming right up to the edge of the stage at literal arms-length away and just rocked out there for a moment while I threw down my SPINE. He was wearing these glittering wide-leg trousers that really caught my eye when he was right there…And his hair is magnificent 💞 And then IN DEVOTE Kaoru came over from shimote during the second verse and stood in the same place…right over me and Britti and, made his rock star face…pretty sure I lost control of my entire face and possibly shouted “TO DIE IN” right at him, RIP…I cannot fully remember but he was, enthused. Oh my god…I love him. So I have very little memory of Kyo from Downfall > Ningen due to the fabulous antics of Die and Kaoru, but Kyo’s wonderful dancing in Celebrate obviously always stands out. He does this irresistible jerky dance with his hips and arms and flops his head around during the main riff and like, it’s impossible to NOT move watching him do this. This song is so much FUN live.

Every time I hear those opening chords of Ningen I experience, like, a physical anticipation and pleasure that is pretty much unique to this song. No other song gives me a physical sensation like this one, I just find it really, really intensely emotional. And I know this song is sooommmewhat derivative and hardly like groudbreaking-ly original or anything like that and I DON’T. CARE. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Stanning 人間 till DEATH, bye. Also during the second interlude, after Ningen (I think) we were calling out for Shinya, which I do not do ENOUGH. I mean I was standing RIGHT in front of him, I had no excuse not to stan. Called for Kyo as well bc he was sitting on the drum stand like RIGHT THERE and I was like “oh fuck 🤡”

ALSO one important tidbit I don’t want to forget about, is a friend telling me she could see Die glancing at my hair all the time while I was headbanging 😂 the thought of this makes me feel all glowy

I have only the vaguest memory of Aka…I was thinking about it as I was looking at the setlist and trying to remember each song and I could barely conjure Aka at all. It just didn’t stand out especially tonight which is weird for me, because last spring it was paired with undecided. Played as a ‘pair’, those two songs created an unforgettable and incredibly distinct moment in the set each night…on this tour Aka is somewhat marooned, alone in the middle with all the really energetic songs. I do recall Kyo creating his loop out of the mic chord and dragging it around his neck during the guitar solo, and watching Die’s passion at various moments. And I do so so so love being called on to sing during this song…I love singing Aka so much, the melody is so smooth and melancholy and the words just flow off the tongue so beautifully…I love it

After Aka we smashed into Merciless Cult and I have a lot of trouble remembering anything from Merciless > Values with any cognisance. Kyo moved around a LOT during Rubbish Heap and Values and I think Die and Kaoru also did. Kyo was energetic and interactive during this part of the set and he was demanding MORE from the audience. I wish I had seen more of Toshiya tonight but I honestly barely saw him, he did not visit our side at all or move to the front much and a lot of the time Kyo obscured him from my line of vision. Bby! I was able to see Kaoru most of the time but I only turned to him at select times bc, guys. Die was RIGHT in front of me and I love him. As if I’m going to treat him so poorly?

Then it was time for Ranunculus & The World of Mercy. I have listened to The World of Mercy incessantly since it’s release, but for me, the effect of it’s ‘pairing’ with Ranunculus in this set, almost as a Part 2 of that song was just…after the experiences and emotions of Ranunculus on the previous two tours… in a way it was deeply heartbreaking. Kyo was extremely emotional during Ranunculus today, but it felt different…I couldn’t put my finger on it until we talked about it afterwards, but it was rattling. I couldn’t tell if he was weeping, but he screamed, and tore at his clothing and thrashed his body around and then at the end of the song, he fell and bent into the foetal position. Delay was used on the mic as they transitioned out of Ranunculus into the soft open of Mercy. He began making these desperate, abstract sounds that immediately reminded me of his inward screams. Perhaps he was using words but to me it sounded like wordless pleading murmuring and gurgling and breath. I could clearly see his face on the floor while he was doing this and it was unpleasant to watch…it’s hard to describe at all. He sounded like he was crying, but I don’t know if there were tears. He sat up slowly, cradling the mic and then began laughing horribly. Letting out these hopeless forced cackles as he sat there looking crumpled, and that was how he vocalised the first lines of Mercy.

It was difficult to watch. I wanted to cry but also wanted to hide. I did not feel this horrible hopelessness in Mercy at the following 3 lives I attended, which is not to say that it wasn’t there, but perhaps was more poetic and contained, and less raw than it was tonight. The following 3 shows also had a far greater sense of intimacy and rapport between the band and the audience imho. When Mercy came to an end the hall was just engulfed in dead silence. The backdrop went black, and then glowed with DIR EN GREY + the tour title in bright red text. I almost completely burst into tears. The members all left quietly and applause broke out, and then the call for encore went up. I collapsed momentarily to drink some water but then had to stand back up bc lol if I’d stayed seated it would have all been OVER for me.

The encore was LIT, but it was a bit odd having Followers right in the middle of all the rowdy songs. Hydra 666 mates…mates UGGGHHHHH IT’S JUST SO FUCKIN LIT ugghhh the mask experience is insane and seeing Kyo projected on the backdrop like THAT…in THAT song. Epic iconic immortal ugh this influence this legacy. I almost FELL head first into the stage during Kigan, it was a CLOSE CALL. New Age was absolutely manic, Kyo was running everywhere and I’m pretty sure it was on his way back from kamite here that he gestured at us as he danced past hahaha I was too close to the stage to see anything he was doing on his adventures, and I think Kaoru came over again and Die visited shimote 💞At the end of the song Kyo was right at the edge in the centre, and he was grimacing with his effort not to smile. He failed and smiled hugely for a moment with his face turned on side.

They closed out with Utafumi which I can honestly never remember well, like the song is just too hectic and always ends with me bent over bashing my brain against my skull. At the end Shinya was being EXTREMELY PASSIONATE with the drums, it was RATTLING my whole body and Toshiya was like…. .. .. . . . … .. . . …. . .. . (are u done???) lajsndflkas 💞At the end Kyo stood on his crate and briefly took in the hall with an unreadable expression, he clapped and then departed. The other guys threw a few goodies, and then also departed. None of them seemed displeased, and from my vantage they all seemed to have had a good live but I was told the audience was rather stoic so they weren’t excessive with their gifts at the end of the night. I have a very distinct memory of Kaoru doing his thing…standing DEAD in front of me hardcore ignoring us 😂 Die and Toshiya did the same but they are like, not so deliberate about it. They just like, cruise along while Kaoru deliberately stands there with that smirk like. hahahaa….ur not getting one alskjdnflaksjd. It makes me LAUGH 😂 The backdrop was emblazoned with the band’s name and tour title again, and Kaoru was the last to leave. He left with smiles and waves and gestured strongly at the backdrop which got an additional cheer. Then he left! And I immediately became a boneless blob…I think my muscles took a whole week to recover from this show.

Zepp Fukuoka

This is a VERY Kyo centric report I am sorry for all the things that ESCAPED ME!

So this show made me never, ever want to miss a Dir live in Fukuoka ever again. Tonight was so emotional!! This is the third time I’ve seen Dir in Fukuoka and the second time I’ve seen them at the Zepp, although I believe it has been completely re-done and is a different venue to the time I saw them there in 2015. To get inside the hall we had to go down two flights of stairs and inside it felt very intimate. I had a good number and had a nice spot just at the back of the pit in front of the first rail which is where I love to be. I was right between Toshiya and Kyo, and it was such a good spot.

絶縁体人間を被る Downfall Devote My Life Celebrate Empty Howls Merciless Cult 谿壑の欲赫 Rubbish Heap 軽蔑と始まり Values of Madness Ranunculus The World of Mercy

EN. 理由 Followers 凱歌、沈黙が眠る頃 NEW AGE CULTURE 詩踏み

Kyo’s outfit tonight I absolutely LOVED, he was wearing the HELL out of a calf-length pleated black skirt with his tabi boots and a white dress shirt done up at the neck with a black ribbon, plus a slim black harness over the shirt as well. There were several times where I was just completely transfixed by his silhouette, and the ‘flow’ this long skirt gave his body and movements.

Zetsuentai had a BIGGER impact tonight and honestly there were a couple of moments for me where tears came on…when he broke into ”aa, damashi au koto de dare…” my heart felt like it was being squeezed and tears just came out…the second one, after “kono sekai mienakereba jibun no mama de ireru”, was even worse..and then when he broke into “shinjite mireba…” I was practically gasping for air…not due to heavy crying, because i wasn’t, but I was just overcome with emotion that couldn’t find it’s way out in tears…my whole body felt like a prison and I just wanted to scream. So Zetsuentai was…amazing tonight, it was only topped by the second night in Okinawa. Because that night, it was mid-set… I was VISIBLY not the only person having an emotional breakdown.

The final riff in Zetsuentai ground to a halt and the hall erupted in feral screaming, completely drowning out the final notes of the track and then oh my god…we slid into Ningen and I experienced extreme catharsis lmao oh my god…Kyo spoke as those opening chords sounded and we roared at him and that’s all I can remember except for headbanging and singing my heart out…it was Bliss. At the end of Ningen there was an break and Kyo sat on the drum stand and just looked at the crowd, and Toshiya left the stage. They did this during every break this evening. The screaming was deafening, just absolutely amazing. Growling. It drew to an end we had Downfall, Devote, Celebrate and Merciless. I just can’t…Fukuoka LOVED Downfall, we were singing the FUCK outta that bridge well before the section that Kyo gives to us and he LOVED it, and then Devote started and Kyo was moving all over the place and did the whole song basically right at the edge of the stage, pointing and gesturing and making faces. Celebrate was a DANCE, we had some BOPS. There was this super passionate guy right next to me who just got down SO HARD for this song as well, we had the SPACE to dance and bop so we just did it and I just lajskdnflaksjd the Toshiya fangirls to my front-left were also just having the BEST fucking time. I kept hearing this girl sing out “Toshiyaaaaaa” in this really quite melodious voice all night laksjdnlf. Kyo’s dancing was also wonderful, his long skirt accentuated his hip movements uhuhu 😭

Merciless Cult is a blur, I could DIE. At the start Kyo snarled “掛かって来い!!!” at us and there was a lot of shrieking and oh my god that mosh…Kaoru and Die were LOVING it and Kyo was shaking his entire body at us as we screamed “GASP” and oh my god oh my god… Kyo just wordlessly howled at us to sing “kurikaeshi tsuranuku…aaaa, doko ka, kowarete yuku” and people SCREAMED with Kyo as he broke out at the end of the line and threw ourselves back into the riff….I am honestly shaking just thinking about it.

And then Keigaku came after the second interlude with a lot more feral screaming and oh. my. god. This Keigaku is INCOMPARABLE and probably my FAVOURITE performance that I have ever witnessed of this song. Kyo sighed creepily into the mic at the start, making these sinuous movements with his body and voice that were just COMPLETELY captivating and then slid into those obscure words…before each heavy riff he just HOWLED, it was like his body was taken over by the song completely. During the thrash sections the crowd went WILD and I don’t mean just movement I mean people were screaming, i was losing my mind. By the time the second verse sidled up we were so hypnotised it felt like everyone there was swaying in sync and we drew into that riff again, Kyo was singing COMPLETELY different lyrics and in that small empty space before Kaoru crashes in he CACKLED into the mic and then just shrieked…oh my god oh mygod. He sang “me o mukeyou to wa shinai, sou made shite itsuwarita…” with such a sensual quality like he was winding in on himself… then as it ended he uttered those omitted (?) words…はやく死ね (“fucking die quickly”; personally i feel like the sentiment is very like “i hope you drop dead” but that’s my impression)…

and those words led straight into Aka, which left a MUCH bigger impression than in Kanazawa because god following Keigaku… In the second verse he sang different lyrics and then called on us to sing…it felt very subdued and hopeless. Kyo looped the chord around and around again… ugh. And then Rubbish Heap ohhhhh my god. Kyo went straight to kamite at the start of Rubbish Heap and held his fist up and SHOOK it at us, and I saw more people than USUAL make fists lmao. Me and old mate next to me were jump-punching the air with every “FIST” and Kyo gestured in our direction and I know Die saw us 😂 Keibetsu and Values are just…a blur of adrenaline. I know the guys moved around during Values but I was too busy dancing to remember ljhgkhgkj.

Ranunculus was so incredibly soft tonight…At the start Kyo was breathing into the mic and the opening verse was so beautiful and during the second he became teary…he beat himself with the mic and screamed three times before the final chorus … ;_______; As it ended Kyo kept repeating “わたし…一人で…” with delay on the mic again and then just lapsed into silence. He sang those first lines of Mercy almost with a kind of lethargy…like he’d just woken up. His body looked limp as well…he started moving the mic around so his voice was smaller and more distant…and when it reached “majiwaru ima…” he just wailed it and screamed out as Shinya broke in…I was absolutely beside myself and was just standing there crying…he vocalised “mada minu mirai de kusarou” in this desperate elongated wail that is probably the most vivd memory I have from the entire concert. As he repeats “yuugi…yuugi…yuugi…” he turns and slowly draws his arm around in circles…he uses his whole body to make this shape though, using his hips to create this undulating motion that is completely hypnotic.

During the interlude after the first heavy section Kyo gnaws on his wrist. He did this in Kanazawa as well, but tonight it was rather more intense for me I think because I was more directly in front of him and he was making extremely erotic moaning and sighing and sucking sounds into the mic. >.< In Kanazawa this part was slightly alarming bc it looked like he was really BITING his wrist, but after seeing it a few times there is far more tongue than tooth action and it can be appreciated as a more ritualistic/symbolic performance. After gnawing he holds his wrist over his cupped hand as though collecting blood in it, then scoops with his fingers and smears it across his lips and eyes…all you can hear is piano and his breathing. Then he wailed “majiwaru ima…” and I immediately started crying again, as I already felt quite FRAGILE watching this. >.<

The encore was a blast. Wake + Followers was an absolute pleasure and then THEY PLAYED GAIKA and I’m pretty sure I fuckin astral projected because I can’t remember a GOD DAMN THING that might have happened!! New Age is a DIFFERENT STORY during New Age Kyo made fish-hooking gestures in his mouth with his pinky finger, dragging one side of his mouth up into a deranged smile before flinging his hand out, I remember him doing this both at kamite and in the centre, dancing around and pointing and eyeballing people. And it was during the breakdown in this song where Kyo was right in the middle and he bent forward and started doing this STOMP DANCE in time with the riffs and it was SO FUCKING DOPE UGGGHHH his expression and posture were so ON POINT it’s literally one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. Kaoru also came to the middle and I absolutely screamed and shook my fist at him like a lunatic and he just jutted his chin lmfao. I cannot remember a thing from Utafumi either, it is hopeless.

Kyo stayed at the end longer than he did in Kanazawa, it was kinda sweet, with each show I attended he stayed a bit longer. He clapped and fox-kissed us and waved bye-bye and then left. the other guys stayed longer as well and threw MUCH more stuff than they did in Kanazawa. And everyone left GLOWING. Band and fans. Everyone looked so full and pleased, it was wonderful. I feel like the whole band and everyone in the crowd had a wonderful night. ❤️

#dir en grey #tour19 this way to self destruction

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jcmorrigan · 4 years ago

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I don’t know if anyone here has been following the saga of my OC’s, which consists of me finally being brave enough to talk about them on Tumblr because what’s the use of guarding characters I don’t even have a manuscript for? And I wanna have fun. But mostly I’ve just been tagging fashion sets that belong to them, and as of late last night, too many prompts

I had been attempting to write a piece that introduces my villains in a SERIOUS manner by showing off the evil circus I plan to house them all in where each has a different tent they devote to an “act” that’s really their brand of villainy (dancing with deadly weapons, serving poison at the drinks garden, slaying innocent monsters for show, training horrific monsters from the deep sea), but I keep slacking on it, and I also keep adding new villains to the mix that would shake up the outline, so that’s stagnant.

But you know what I did figure out? Last night, I found a prompt that asked which of my OCs would go to Wal-Mart at midnight for fun. And my answer was that Alivain (the villainous leader, a smug young man who is not at all a Mozenrath ripoff) would take all his villain bros to Wal-Mart for a legitimate errand run, then turn around and realize they had all immediately scattered and just go “Oh no.” So here, I’m gonna introduce you to my villain squad by telling you what shit they would start in a Wal-Mart

Versafina is a weapons aficionado, so she’s gonna be looking for things that she can add to her repertoire of melee weapons. Especially small things that can fit in her hidden pockets...and not get noticed by security as she smuggles them out without paying. She spends way too long in the hardware section trying to figure out if a socket wrench is as good for scooping out eyes as she thinks.

Phantasia is busy giving herself a makeover in the cosmetics section, being the glam queen she is. She’s also opened it up for any teammates to come up to her and receive makeovers. She’s not paying for any of it either. Phantasia has also tested all the spray perfumes, then ran out of skin to spray, so she dragged Anastasios over. Anastasios is the physically oldest of the group, a rather elderly man who is about done with all these rowdy millennials (he’s just the character that’s there to say “OK Boomer” to), and he wanted to actually shop for the thing Alivain wanted except Phantasia is using him for more test perfume sprays and he won’t admit he likes smelling pretty.

Zangary is my resident monster hunter and also one of the sane men in the group and he probably ACTUALLY went to get what they came for in the first place and paid for it like a normal person, but no one noticed because no one expected anyone to actually do that. (*sweats nervously* Stoic monster hunter who wears purple and is shippable with the attractive sorcerer? I...I didn’t...it’s not the ADJL Huntsman no)

Dweixyn is lazy as hell and just found some patio furniture to collapse into and take a nap. Except she wears sunglasses everywhere she goes for the aesthetic, so the staff members who pass her briefly don’t realize her eyes are shut at first.

Belador wants two things out of life: to blow things up and to party hard. And because it’s probably not a good idea to blow up the Wal-Mart right now, he’s in the process of attempting to arrange several electronics and lamps to create a tiny pseudo-nightclub. He may also have hijacked the PA system for this purpose and is blasting techno.

Yridel is an angsty cyborg. She went right to the electronics section to see how many things she could connect to and corrupt. Eventually, she found a portable speaker through which she could just blast “Born Depressed” by Drill Queen on repeat, because it’s #mood for her, and just starts strutting around the store doing this to show off how edgy she is. Her snooty boyfriend who is usually narcissistic except when it comes to her, Lainnhartt, is following her and tossing confetti or an acceptable substitute in her wake, going, “That is my GIRL!”

Sherida is a monster who has a humanoid body, so she usually wears a bodysuit and a motorcycle helmet to pass among the general public. Well, tonight, she’s decided to take a walk in the mostly-deserted Wal-Mart with her helmet off so she can have a breather, but she came across some midnight shoppers who saw her paper-pale skin with blue veins, her lack of nose, her slit-pupil eyes, and her wide mouth full of fangs, and started panicking. So Sherida did the reasonable thing and began to eat them right there on the floor. Blood everywhere.

Lirian and Calpurniko are two teen girls - though Lirian is actually Fair Folk and has been alive for hundreds of years, but physically and mentally, she’s a teen. Lirian is a yandere and very exciteable; Calpurniko is a doomsday-device mechanic on a constant sugar high. So the two of them head right to the toy aisle to have a Nerf gun fight. Which is all fun and games until Calpurniko disappears into the hardware section for fifteen minutes and emerges with an augmented Nerf that can shoot (poisoned) foam darts at actual ballistic speeds.

Rachneira and Tomagi are also teens. Rachneira is a morbid Goth and also a variant of Fair Folk who is derived from spiders and therefore can spin webbing (and maybe has four arms? Undecided). Tomagi is an angsty sorceress who is mute. So the two of them decide to rifle through the cheap DVD bin, as kids do, and Rachneira keeps pulling out increasingly more disturbing horror films and stating in an ennui-laden tone that Tomagi should probably see them all before she dies. Then security blows by on their way to stop Belador from creating a mini-rave, they realize these kids are with the troublemakers, they turn on them, and Rachneira just webs her way up to chill out on the ceiling for a bit (as you do) while Tomagi gets angry and magically blasts the guards across the entire store, taking out several shelving units.

Diamandian puts on the airs of being a high-society man. What he is is a former manservant who killed his employer and usurped his fortune. He carries a white lace parasol wherever he goes. He heads right to the clothing section for the entire purpose of roasting every piece he finds, ripping it all off the hangers and throwing it to the ground because it’s all “Trash for the peasants!”.

Maraya is a pirate queen who is also an Eldritch Abomination thanks to an ancient tome of horrors. (Pink skin, silver or purple hair, the tattoos she previously had of nautical symbolism are now bright silver, pupil-less glowing eyes, stores a bunch of tentacles in her back.) She has a first mate, Soligeo, who has no eyes and many spidery limbs because he used the same book. Being that they’re pirates, they’re going to steal stuff, and they’re not gonna be subtle about it. They start ransacking the shelves and bragging very loudly about the fact that they will NOT BE PAYING FOR THIS. Unlike Sherida, Maraya doesn’t care so much about covering her monster exterior, and she likes scaring people for fun.

Kaxhalen is an intergalactic alien warlord (blue skin, silver hair) who acts like a stoic in the general public but is secretly neurotic and exciteable. He has sequestered himself in a fort made of bedding with several craft supplies he’s stolen to work on a therapy project.

Osmend Osmodias is a smug gambler, so he just sets up a shell game in the corner of the store and starts charging shoppers to find the hidden bean. When the guards try to oust him for soliciting, he argues that he’s not technically selling anything, and they can’t get anywhere unless they have the right charges on him.

Valencindri is this team’s token idiot and steals the toilet paper out of the men’s room, holding it up in triumph and screaming about how awesome it was that he got away with the (free) toilet paper without having to pay for it (it’s still free)!

Dr. Hope Lessness is a mad-scientist supervillain and sadist with cybernetic augmentations. She at first just starts breaking things at random to cause mayhem and monger fear, but then she hits the electronics section and gets distracted trying to wire together an iPod with a Fitbit and hook them to a drone mechanism that is somehow also a weapon. Her snarky robot companion, Mercy Lessness, makes several cracks about her attention span that she doesn’t dignify.

Orianelle is a biker witch swordswoman who likes to dress in leather shorts and tanks. She heads to the automotive section to pick up supplies to maintain her bike, but then some jerk dudebro makes a pass at her and she suplexes him into the nearest shelf, which causes an outcry. This somehow tuns into a mass brawl with Orianelle knocking ten men unconscious.

EDIT: I forgot Siersyrei on the first go. She’s a werewolf, but the joke is she’s more like a “were-human” because she defaults to acting wolflike even when in human form and refers to herself in the third person. So she’s over here literally eating dog food and looking for any sudden motions indicating prey she can hunt until Lirian shows up with a laser pointer to drive her insane.

By the time security has dispersed enough to actually be a problem, Alivain hijacks the PA system to announce “I’m going to bomb the Wal-Mart,” which is his code word to let the others know that he’s going to bomb the Wal-Mart. Everyone evacuates, and he dramatically activates a bomb that reduces the store to a column of flames as he dances in the parking lot victoriously with his back to the carnage.

Also, Zangary probably bought the wrong thing, so now they have to find a new Wal-Mart and start all over.

#my oc's #blood cw #horror cw #bombing cw #just villains being bros

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spidermaninlove · 5 years ago

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Hey. This is a rollercoaster ride I can barely hang onto. I’m such a fan I literally had to type out my feels about it. Hope it brings you/us some peace. As a die-hard Tomdaya shipper, waking up and seeing pics of Z on a Grecian vacation with her family, close friends, and…Jacob Elordi, of all people, was initially heartbreaking for me. However, I’ve been analyzing this every which way for the past couple of days, and I’ve narrowed it down to two possible scenarios derived from Tom wearing the YSL jacket and supposed Z necklace: 1) We misread every piece of evidence in the past 3 years, and they really are just super best friends…that share clothing and gift each other jewelry. Plausible, for a few reasons: There have been some interview questions/answers where I’ve thought, “If they were together, shouldn’t they know that about each other?” Perhaps they were playing along with the questions though, actors and all…And if they were together, it doesn’t seem to me that they get a whole lot of quality alone time - Z seems to bring Darnell and/or Whitney with her everywhere. And you have a month or two off before a crazy rest of the year, wouldn’t you want to be with your SO??? All plausible…but HIGHLY unlikely. 2) They’re together. Everything’s fine. Tom’s at home getting skinny(er) and would have been a WAY bigger distraction from her vacation if he’d gone along. The evidence over the past three years is insurmountable. The heart eyes/chemistry were crazy on the press tour. Some of those interviews gave off major bf/gf vibes. If they weren’t together, she would’ve posted about him more on IG for Spider-Man, or in general, rather than keep it minimal. Her birthday post for him was literally the cutest. She liked his “needed this” IG post after the July apocalypse. She’s low-key liking golf posts. Etc. There’s so much more, I know. Still doesn’t explain how f***ing weird it is for JE to be on that trip as her solo Hollywood friend. I don’t get that AT ALL. Literally SO confused. And it’s nagging at me so much that I think we must be dealing with option 1, but then option 2 is so much more powerful. And so, I go in circles, waiting for more tea on the half-sunken…half floating? ship. Hang in there, y’all!

Thanks, @healthyk!

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skaldish · 6 years ago

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Sigyn UPG!

February 24, 2019

Oh my gosh you guys I had the most EXCEPTIONAL experience last night and I just have to share it all! And you know me, I’m not one to share this kind of personal stuff as much these days.

After scoping online for as much as I could about Sigyn and coming up with very little, I decided to leave an offering for her and actually invite her into my home to get to know her myself. And boy howdy did I get some UPG from that experience! Because so little is known about this goddess I’ve decided to talk about it.

Disclaimer: This is ALL UPG. The only thing we know about Sigyn in lore is that she’s Loki’s wife and that she held a bowl above his head to catch dripping snake venom until Ragnarok. That’s it. The following is derived from my experiences, and you can take it or leave it as you wish.

—

The best way to tell this is to tell it like a story, so please account for metaphor—this stuff didn’t LITERALLY happen. Let’s be smart here.

Anyways.

It began when I invited Sigyn into my home with an offering of chocolate-covered strawberries, which seemed to make the most sense out of what I had on hand. One of the first things she did when she arrived was express great approval for how much I was spoiling her husband, particularly honing in on the framed watercolor I made for Loki that I keep on his side of the altar.

She and Loki were both there, and a few things became obvious at once: Sigyn’s got a really bright energy to her, and she and Loki are MADLY in love. Given any opportunity Loki would sweep her off her feet, or dance with her, or carry her, as if to say, “Who’s the arm-burden now?”

Like a goddang conversation over tea I began to ask Sigyn about herself—”So, uh, what do you DO?” My intention was to figure out what she was the goddess OF, but her reply went something like, “Oh I take care of the boys and the garden, sometimes I paint.” And I was like “huh?” because that’s not what I expected.

And then

AND THEN

Friends, there were IMAGES that came to mind after that moment. A cottage in a meadow, charming as heck, all wooden on the inside with carefully organized clutter and colorful glass lamps. Overgrown but well-loved and cared-for plants. A sprawling garden, well-tended to, complete with at least two garden cats. Feelings of a mild summer night and fireflies, but also the gentle cool breeze of a spring day. It all had the vibe of something Hayao Miyazaki would draw, and something Jason Mraz would sing.

Sigyn IS artistic—actually, I think the whole damn household is. Instruments everywhere and art supplies. The house is FULL of DIY furniture and things. I got the very strong impression that Loki acts as Sigyn’s muse, happy to be WHATEVER she desires in order to spark joy and inspiration in her (this is my experience with Loki as well! I think he loves artists). It’s such a lovely relationship I could die.

In the kitchen I was shown the tea cupboard, and OH MY GODS YOU GUYS this woman has so much TEA! A tea for every reason! Colds, relaxation, stomach pains, sleep, you name it! And it struck me right then that Sigyn was very prolific at low magic: Kitchen witchery, green witchcraft, herbal remedies, etc. You know, more of the earth-based things as opposed to Frigg’s and Freyja’s lofty Seidr.

At this point I began to get a sense of what Sigyn looks like. Bear in mind, this is just how my brain interprets her since deity appearances are metaphorical to me: A woman on the cusp of entering middle age, with a middle-sized build, dark blond hair, hazel eyes, olive-toned and sun-darkened skin, and a couple of sun-spots and moles. Her face is charming and charactered, but definitely NOT the “young maiden” or “hollywood beauty” I previously imagined. She has some serious Cool Aunt vibes to her, actually.

As far as personality goes, she’s fun and playful at her default, bright as a sunflower, but her eyes and smile can quickly take on a cunning look to foretell some quip she’d say. She’s sharp. I got the sense she’s very fond of doublespeak—saying one thing and meaning another:

“Angrboda and I exchange recipes.”—She means witchcraft methods.

“He’s a Jotunn. He needs his exercise.”—The reply to my question about whether or not it bugs her that Loki’s so promiscuous.

(Also, fun fact, I asked her about that nasty “child bride” UPG and she LAUGHED and patted her [child-bearing] hips and said something like, “You better believe I’m a WOMAN!”)

A VERY good pick for Loki. She’s more grounded than he is but still just as bent on having fun. It’s such an amazing relationship I could die and I want to protect it forever.

This all being said, I quickly began to associate Sigyn with some of the following:

Low magic: kitchen witchery, green magic, etc.

Tea (all kinds)

DIY crafting

Art for art’s sake

Gardening and cooking, particularly as magical acts

The tidiness and happiness of a home

Personal balance

Steadfastness, resilience, and personal fortitude

And here’s some miscellaneous UPG:

Sigyn’s bisexual, which pairs well with Loki’s gender-nonconformity.

I guess she has tea with Angrboda from time to time and the two are good friends.

She considers Angrboda’s children her children as well.

Vali and Narfi are young adults and Sigyn’s doing a damn fine job making sure they don’t get into trouble at their rowdy and promiscuous age. xD

She’s not much into the “rabble of the Aesir” these days and I don’t blame her for it.

I now want Sigyn to be my aunt and tell me vibrant stories on her porch during a summer rainstorm with candles and tea.

Even if you don’t agree with this UPG (and you don’t have to) I wanted to provide it here in case some of you find it useful. It really, really bugged me that all Sigyn was defined as is “Loki’s wife,” and framed in senses that reek of 50’s-nostalgia. I’m glad I finally got to know her on my own terms and I hope we’ll become great friends. ^^ She’s really a wonderful goddess and deserves tons of love.

#shen speaks #sigyn #sigyndeity #she of many teas

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toddlazarski · 5 years ago

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The Best Bites of 2019

Shepherd Express

2019. The year before, hopefully. The prologue to 2020’s change, maybe. God or Kali or whomever you wish to charge with these sorts of responsibilities, willing. The end of the beginning of the end of discord, the endless fire, the storms and dread, the corruption of soul we’ve all learned to live with over the past few years that feel like a lifetime.

In Milwaukee, 2019 was the year we were rewarded the Democratic National Convention, and the year we immediately tried to grapple with how we would handle hosting the Democratic National Convention. It was the year, as if we were Austin, as if we were Portland, as if we were ourselves a plucky place of progressivism and forward-thinking, our very own food truck park opened. And, at the same time, it was the year it became impossible to log onto any social media without being inundated by hems and haws and shouting-at-cloud mewls that the city suddenly had legal electric scooters on the street. It was the year Syrian civil war refugees opened a Mitchell Street gem of kefta and baba ghanoush and good nature at the most destination-worthy restaurant in town. And it was the year a racially-charged acid attack occurred against a Latino man entering a southside taqueria. It was the year Sherman Phoenix rose, literally, out of the ashes of the 2016 Sherman Park riots. An opening that barely preceded Milwaukee becoming the first city to name racism a public health crisis.

For me, calorically, it was also a calendar stretch of one step up and one back. It was a time of too many fancy burgers, of swearing off fancy burgers, and then reading about The Diplomat’s Diplomac, and then the Birch & Butcher happy hour special, and then the other one with the ampersand (Glass & Griddle). It was the time of swearing off meat entirely, tempering that to limiting meat, trying to go “Impossible” meat, then realizing my daughter had never been to Sobelman’s. A frigid Monday, empty dining room, impossibly cheery waitress and a jalapeno and three cheese-smashed double patty was all that it took to fall back off the wagon. Or is it on the wagon? Either way, it was also the summer that felt like I spent half of, at least, inside a car with intermittently functioning AC, pit-sweating, contemplating which tiny to-go plastic container of bright green or dark red or burnt orange sauce to douse on yet another pastor taco. I ate at every taco truck in the city in ‘19, or tried, or got close, maybe. Out of curiosity. Out of assignment. But as much so out of moral obligation, as some kind of personal corrector to the current tenor of division, of strife, of unease. And as a reminder of comfort, of the spicy, dangerous, gaseous whiff of hope.

Here are some of the other ways I’ll remember ‘19.

13. Italian Beef - Rosati’s

I grew up in the hyper-regionally-specific sandwich heaven of Buffalo, NY. There a “beef on weck” order from near any corner bar or grocer or butcher will yield a horseradish-spiked roast beef stack piled within a crusty German baker concoction known as a kimmelweck—a roll topped with caraway seeds and coarse salt grains of the likes you might use on your sidewalk in February. Whether it’s a little bit drippy or dry, it will likely singe sinuses, bloviate with beefiness, finish with unnecessary and addictively enjoyable sodium-ness. Everywhere that isn’t there, you can find Western New York ex-pats gathered in some corner of some bar, Bills hatted, commiserating, whispering of favorites from places with foreign-sounding names like Schwabl’s, bemoaning the wonder of why it’s so hard. But there’s a difference between hard and unknown.

Here, Chicago’s Italian beef is another simple, but under-served regional sandwich delicacy. Offering even an apt representation of the au-jus-dripping bombs that can be found on every other corner in our big city neighbor to the south would be itself somehow singular. Rosati’s is a Chicago chain that serves just such a purpose.

Of course, aesthetically or on paper, there’s not much list-worthy about a soaked Italian hoagie roll, barely holding it’s earthy contents, leaking greasy debris all over wax paper like it was an old Saab who’s main attribute was character. But then you get closer: it’s a living sandwich form of a closeup on an Arby’s commercial, with infinite folds of beef wedged like an overfull linen closet, so bursting with folded towels you’re afraid to open the door. The thin rug of plasticky, half-melted mozz is optional. Though the glossy, shimmering hot giardiniera should be mandatory, with its oil-slickening and bright, peppy pickled punch.

But this is still a package of lizard brain enjoyment, of Ditka-esque machismo, with an essence and soul that is all two-fisted, garclicky pigout. It’s the perfect brown meal when you’ve had too many, when it’s too cold, when football is on, when it is followed by a slice of either thin or deep dish—both also apt Chicago representations here. Enjoy life and don’t be ashamed. You can love an Italian beef and still, later, after you swallow, sing along to “the Bears still suck.”

12. Sloppy Johnny - Boo Boo’s

A 6-buck price tag and a name that harkens cafeteria appetites and Adam Sandler jams doesn’t really inspire notions of much other than a nostalgic budget lunch.

But then you see one on the table in front of you, alongside the inspired rotating roster of obscure hot sauce bottles, and ideally next to a steaming bowl of creamy onion-cheddar soup. The sandwich, which derives from a New York City bodega specialty known as a chopped cheese, comes in a fresh-baked, beautiful baguette—crusty outside, pillowy inside—which houses barely visible meat, all the scrags seductively tucked under blankety rivulets of piping white cheddar and pickled peppers and rumors of mushrooms. While I used to come to this address for whiz-spattered ribeye, the Johnny is a bit perplexing in its polish. It is fat guy food all cleaned up, as button-down and put-together a presentation of chopped beef indulgence as might exist in town.

Giving the flat-topped package a second to cool off is the only challenge. Along with the lack of alcohol to wash it down, or assuage said wait. But there seems to be no other shortcomings to the lunch, or anything about the quirky, aggressively friendly spot that replaced and immediately made us all forget the Walker’s Point Philly Way. The sister biz of nextdoor Soup Brothers, Boo Boo’s shows the Milwaukee Soup Nazi’s comfort food flavor rigor and peculiar touch extends neatly to the realm of sandwiches.

11. Carbonara - Zarletti

It’s hard to balance summer in Milwaukee. There’s an at-once need to makeup for six months of living in a place where it hurts your lungs to breath natural air with an overwhelming roster of stuff to do. Of stuff to do outside. One solution might be doing something of calendar noteworthiness with a level of relaxed removal. For me I’ve found an annual tradition of attending Bastille Days’ nighttime 5K. Yet instead of stretching and putting on too-short shorts, I park myself at a table on Milwaukee Street, sip a Negroni, spoon roasted lamb and perperonata onto charry bread, and await a big, hearty pasta while watching the more ambitious sweatily charge toward a finish line and away from their true appetites.

Zarletti’s sidewalk cafe on a summer night can feel very European, very sophisticated, well-heeled. But the carbonara is at it’s core quite basic. Yes, it is the embodiment of those aspects of Roman food anyone recently back from the Old Country will annoy listeners with: simplicity, freshness. Egg, Pecorino Romano, garlic, onion. Here too there is a vomitorium-like abundance of sauteed pancetta. And a reminder of how that perfect deep bowl of al dente can somehow hit all the comfort points of all the different life epochs: childhood mac n’ cheesiness, first apartment spaghetti nights, that trip to Italy. And now, in the night’s growing darkness and fanfare, it’s a special new tradition to feel apart from the race, and part of a different one—finishing every last salty morsel of piggy meat before my stomach says to stop.

10. Tacos de carbon, desebrada, chorizo, pescado - El Tsunami

I’m not entirely sure the silky, sour creamy, Serrano-based light green emulsified salsa found about so many southside taquerias is homemade—such is the ubiquity. And, at this point in our relationship, I’ve gone too far to ask. So, I will continue to happily, ignorantly, scoop and spurt over every possible meatstuff served between National and the Airport, from 35th to the Lake.

Of these, the fare at El Tsunami holds a special sort of siren song sway, pulling me past La Canoa, away from my beloved Chicken Palace. In fact, of the two locations of Tsunami, this is the one without alcohol. And the fact it is still somehow preferred should be all the endorsement necessary. The petite counter-focused diner always feels like a happier, spicier Edward Hopper vision, especially with snow falling and cozy smoke plumes billowing about from the flattop that seems to be always full of approaching-happy meat.

In taco form, an order of carbon yields smoky, charcoal-forward, tiny-diced and juice-spurting nodules. The desebrada is a chocolatey, shreddy deep-stewed beef, with the depth and earthiness of the kind of thing grandma might cook when it’s cold out, when she hasn’t seen you in a while, when she got up real early, even by her standards, to start. The chorizo balances salty, greasy, satisfying pork bombast with foodie subtlety—what is that? Cinnamon? The pescado makes fish fries seem benign, lacking abundantly in tortillas and salsa.

There are other routes—the diablo sauce, a color only seen in dangerously fast and tiny sports cars, is a special coat for any fish dish. But it is the tacos, cilantro-y and satisfying, that remain the supreme vessel for green salsa dousing. And, either way, I’m leaving with some to go: a few containers of verde, just enough to carry a little Tsunami with me back home, to the fridge, enough to pull me through the far too many non-taqueria meals of life.

9. Any pizza - San Giorgio

Maybe it’s because I’m not a car guy, and get no thrill from “peeking under the hood,” and not enough of a cook to have much interest in “seeing how the sausage is made,” but I’ve never cared a great deal about the concept of “open kitchen.” They wear aprons, can handle industrial-grade pans, are comfortable working close to a flame—I get it.

But then I found myself for the first time at San Giorgio’s “pizza bar,” contemplating how beautiful a concept, how perfect a term, when I heard one pizzaiolo, upset about peel placement or arugula quantity or something or another say to the other, “I’ll kill you.” Huh, I thought. They really care.

While few inside the scene seem to put any stock in the VPN certification (the official delegation delineating true Neopolitan style pizza, regulating everything from oven type, to temp, to how much your dough balls must weigh—yes, it’s a bit ridiculous, and, yes, it’s a cost), all aspects of the pizza pedigree of San Giorgio show just such immense, aggressive, sure, threatening, pursuit of craft. In the Sopranos sense of the word, all ingredients, all dishes, seem to be worthy of respect.

Try the Quattro Formaggi, a delightfully oily meld of mozz, provola, fontina, and gorgonzola. Or the San Giorgio, bright with arugula and fennel, salty with crispy pancetta, topped, almost unnecessarily, somehow cohesively, with a sunny side egg. Pay plenty of appropriate focus on anything featuring San Marzano tomato carnage. As a gravy it goes well with anything from basil to spicy soppersata. As Instagrammable goopage, it is bright and popping, with no need of a filter, reminiscent of all things you picture of Italy in your mind.

It all still ties back to the beating heart. And by that, I mean the 900 degree Stefano Ferraro oven, hand-crafted, of course, in Italy. It is a muscular, room-dominating hulk, a ravishing blue-tiled beauty, fire-kissing, turning doughiness halfway to toast, letting the Maillard Effect do its enzyme action work, warming, blackening, making a messy marriage of tomato and cheese. Airy corpuscles form around the crust edge, yielding heartening bites of carb char. It is quick cooking, piping hot delivery for all satisfaction points. What pizza was for us as children, pizza can be for us again, here, downtown on a classy wine-soaked date night or pre-Giannis show.

On subsequent visits I’ve found myself, while pulling away the first slice, lifting the edge and checking the undercarriage to admire the cooking and note the sweet char. Each pizza pattern is unique from the last, like the spots on a Jaguar. So, maybe I am into looking under the hood afterall.

8. Burger - Foxfire

The last thing anyone needs from the internet is another burger list. Or even a list with burgers on them, ranked, in some kind of personal application of rules and regulations that strives toward objectivity, scientific method, a justification of juiciness pontificating.

Yet, in 2019 arriving on a listicle is the only validation. And the burger at Foxfire, served Thursday’s out of the back of Hawthorne Coffee, deserves to make listicles that aren’t even covering burgers. So, while Palomino griddles the best sit-down double-digit-dollar burger in town, and Kopp’s remains the heavyweight of gluttonous eat-in-your-car, American Graffitti old-school comfort and mouthfeel joy, Foxfire strikes the perfect balance between craft and simple. The double patty package is reasonably affordable, is cooked basically to temp, is coated with unfussy American cheese. But the availability is limited, enticingly so. It is topped with only pickle and onion. But the counter is suggestively stacked with esoteric hot sauces. It is what to have for workday lunch, generally, in a coffee shop. But the meat crust and luscious give are worthy of foodie discourse, elevated terms like elevated. The duality in a microcosm: the fries here are reminiscent of the stringy, crispy spuds found at McDonald’s; but they can be topped with little-seen Aleppo pepper.

My grandfather used to say that it is impossible to declare a “best,” that such distinction has to be qualified. He lived in the innocent era before internet lists. And, unfortunately, before being able to try the burger at Foxfire.

7. Chicken 65 and Garlic Naan - Cafe India

My wife often jokes that I only want to eat food in taco form. And they say all good jokes are based in truth. So it came in handy that my natural instinct for bread-as-vessel kicked in when, aggressively, irresponsibly, I ordered my Chicken 65 “extra hot” at the Bay View Cafe India. Within two fork bites it became clear something, anything, more than water, was needed to extinguish, to buffer, to assuage boiling buds. Garlic naan was handy, was originally used like a starchy tongue sponge, and then, somehow inspired, I packaged all subsequent chicken bites within the cozy, garlicky, craggy confines of the bendable bread. Thus my version of Indian tacos was born. Built out of necessity, maintained out of deliciousness.

The Chicken 65 has long been my Indian deep-menu go-to. Huge-bite, deep-fried chunks of tender boneless chicken, bathing in fiery, oily, red-orange stew chocked with hunks of pepper and onion and curry leaf. With its shimmering finish and intense afterburn, it’s a dish that often feels like a turmeric-laced Southern Indian version of Nashville chicken.

Apparently nobody really knows where the dish name came from—some claim the number just refers to the birth year. Others, to either the number of chile peppers or the number of pieces of chicken. It doesn’t matter, historians likely have just had too difficult a time stopping eating, or slurping water, or fanning the mouth. But now at least we all have documentation of the dawn of the Chicken 65 taco.

6. Chicken Shawarma, Kufta Kabob Sandwich - Pita Palace

Sometimes go-to’s are made by convenience, sometime laziness, maybe it's economics, every now and then it just comes from plain exceptional, ceaseless taste, of the kind you never tire of, week after week, appetite after appetite. When I became Iucky enough to stumble into a house purchase a pita toss from this sprawling Layton Ave chateau of Mediterranean comfort food, the “go-to” calculus began to spin endlessly, like a slowly turning vertical rotisserie.

From hummus to arayes to lentil soup, all of the counter service spot’s dishes ring true. But it’s the sandwich section that brings me back, never wears out, with cheap, voluminous meat torpedos nestled inside tender, stretchy shrak bread. They are made of tight, but ambitious construction, braced by pickle buttons, onion and tomato wedges. The chicken yields variable cubes and scrags of spitted meat, some crisp, some soft, velvety garlic sauce making the bundle swim, sing. Or there is the kufta kabob, two skewers-worth of beefy, grainy-textured links, slicked with creamy tahini, the whole deal rife with mint, parsley, sumac, and the kind of otherworldliness that you watch Bourdain for a taste of. Kick either up with a side of the piercing, pungent Thai chile garlic sauce, a sauce with a confrontationally acidic spice profile, a flavor reminiscent of little else at all, just this side of a manageable amount of mother-in-law spleen.

It’s the kind of place you spot from the air on approaches back to General Mitchell, a giant red neon glow of ‘Welcome Home;’ the kind of place your realtor might not mention, but you find it and know your property values will sustain, that it will also salve rote Mondays of yawns and kitchen ennui for years to come. It’s the kind of place you are endlessly happy to live near by, for when you don’t know what to cook, or, really, even when you do.

5. Xiao Long Bao Dumplings - Momo Mee

“Eat with care” the menu warns, an enticing challenge, like something you might find on a waiver from a restaurant you learned of from “Man vs. Food.” To me it reminds of an internet-learning wormhole of food blogs and Youtubes on where to find the Shanghai delicacy in a back alley shop in Chicago’s Chinatown. And then, more challengingly, more importantly, how to actually eat a dumpling filled with soup. As an experienced Xiao Long Bao taster—twice—I can state the process is mostly so: Put a drop of soy sauce in your soup spoon, lift the dumpling from the top, place in the spoon, nibble a tiny hole in the top as a steam valve, slurp some broth out, and then, when the temp feels right, shoot it like an oyster. Then you sit back and feel worldly, self-satisfied, sated.

But as long as you don’t puncture and spurt, or, really, as long as you “eat with care,” you are bound to end up happy, letting umami zest and warm salty pork wedges in hand-crafted dough baste the tongue. The disparity of eating this, here, in the base level of a building seemingly still warm from the factory, hits with the arrival of the steaming bamboo basket. Or, really, with the Schezuan wontons, or the Cantonese claypots—anything you can order amidst the plasticizing Walker’s Point condo sprawl. As the neighborhood loses its soul, it’s character, one more hastily constructed Millennial molehill at a time, Momo Mee more than holds the line.

4. Alambre - La Flamita

Certainly one of the buzziest events in town this winter would have to be a recent Ash Kitchen takeover, featuring James Beard-nominated Minnesota chef Jorge Guzman. The spot, an open hearth concept from Dan Jacobs and Dan Van Rite, is the new restaurant of the Iron Horse Hotel. The event spotlighted Mexican street food. Yes, at one of the priciest hotels in town. Black beans were $6; rice, a cool $5. And while probably delicious, probably well-intentioned, it sounds a bit like paying Fiserv prices to see a really great high school team: gimmicky at best, condescending at worst, and to any that spend time contemplating what and how we eat, a bit puzzling. If you want taco truck fare, why don’t you go to an actual taco truck?

That very same Sunday night anyone with the hankering could have taken a short cruise west, on National, and subjected their appetites to La Flamita’s weekly special of one-buck pastor tacos. Cut by a big man with a large knife, direct from the trompo—one of the few of the Lebanese-rooted vertical spits in town—greasy, salty, piggy turns of earthiness are spiked by pineapple hunks, upped by arbol salsa that pokes through each bite like it has something to prove. Or, even better, it being Sunday and a day of fun after all, you could have an alambre. Mix your pastor with asada and with chorizo and with gooping, melting queso, the whole thing congealing into a warm, grandmotherly embrace of a taco mix mash, everything punctuated by peppers and onions. Plopped on top is a steaming baked potato, because they want you to be happy, full.

It is the ideal meal for someone who can’t decide, yes, but also who wants it all, who won’t settle, who wants to soar, like Costanza on the wings of Pastrami, to an Epicurean taste fete of grease and meat sweat pleasure. But you can also stay comfortably on the street, barely 12 bucks in the hole, with leftovers certainly, alone in the car, beyond judging eyes or the formalities of waiters, to ponder life and appetite decisions, and wonder how many more you have room for.

3. Tlayuda - La Costena

If you have little kids you probably go to the Domes 300 times or so per year, or so it seems; and because it’s there, you probably go to Honeydip Donuts across the street maybe just a few times less. Heading south then, passing La Costena and it’s beckoning redness, the HGTV optics of an A-frame mini house-cum-taco truck is refreshing, promising in its cutesiness, alluring if only for the hope of something different.

And different it is. Start with a pastor, my personal barometer of a taqueria’s worth. So often simple scraps of salted pink pork do the trick, but here it is decidedly less piggy, moister, deeper, somehow more seasoned and cheffy. Or try the asada, a 100-level taco order, but here redolent of butcher freshness, liberal salt, flattop love. Really you can tell from “hola,” by the friendliness, by the slowness, by the perfectly-quoted wait times from the counter man: Costena may well be the premier taco truck in town.

Then, working your way through the menu, you get here, to a Mexican pizza, a NYC-slice-consistency, corn-shelled ship of salty flavor. The tlayuda is basically begging for you to take a picture, posturing with the bright allure of the flag of our neighbors to the south, popping with the reds of tomato and chipotle salsa, the greens of lettuce, avocado, the whites of queso, svelty sour cream, it all kept grounded by a swab of creamy refrieds, topped by a generous smattering of your carne of choice. Objectively, that choice should be chorizo, the grease-running ground sausage bits so rife with garlic, so equally charry and wet, that it makes any other kind of meat cover seem a bit tepid, a bit too-healthy.

And sometimes this is how traditions are born, out of a need to get a little person out of the house, out of a desire to let them sleep off dreams of cacti and sausage fruit trees from Namibia in the backseat while dad sates creeping hunger and insoluble curiosity. Such is the joy of family, when you realize even proximity to Sobelman’s, to Oscar’s, can be beat, by this, a whole new world of car-meal, of pizza-esque joy, of something different. Long live the Domes.

2. Brisket Burger, Hot Chicken Sandwich, Pimento Cheese, Cheese Curds - Palomino

It’s hard to keep track: Where are we all now on Palomino? Are we still mad they raised prices? Disappointed that it’s less bar and more restaurant? Stuck in a provincial mode that makes us yearn for cheap frozen tots and Bingo? Are we upset that they took a look in the mirror, didn’t coast, made an effort, and made their food much, much, much better? Or have we all just kind of forgotten it?

Maybe I shouldn’t question. Just appreciate the fact I can walk in on a Friday night at 8, find whatever table I want, or a spot at the bar, and order any one or combo of my favorite things to eat in Milwaukee.

There’s no better way to ruin an appetite and a doctor’s wishes than starting a feast with the curds. Elongated oblong bricks of a battered, sheeny shell, barely housing liquefying magma ooze, seem to get almost transported from fryer to wherever I’m sitting and leaning forward. Such is the temperature, the still oil-shimmering, post-bath promise. Stretchy and rich, airy and crispy, endlessly goopy, it’s a snack only matched in Southern-leaning decadence by the pimento cheese. This is piquant-popped velvetiness, the dream of what grown-up grilled cheese can embody, when plopped atop the accompanying charred toast.

It takes will, recklessness, irresponsibility to keep going at this point. The hot chicken thigh, barely saddled inside a buttery brioche, is helped by two things: greasy slicks of mayo and house hot sauce aid gullet passage; also the heft is constructed so that if you put it down, it might fall apart. One must push forth, in delicious punishment. Then there is the brisket burger. No other burger in town is so good at avoiding overtopping, overhyping, overpricing, a balance of kitchen art and pleasure. Like it is no big deal: fresh ground meat, American cheese, onion, pickle, silky mayo-y special sauce. Here is what it would feel like if you could sit down at a Bay View bar and eat a Kopp’s masterpiece sided by an IPA on a chill Friday night, where you can also remember your growth-spurt 16-year-old appetite, even while pushing 40.

If there were ever a case to be made for it being OK to find a rut, to never stray or explore, to find your caloric Cheers and never think about going anywhere else, Palomino would lead my argument.

1. Bahn Mi - Pho Hai Tuyet

There’s rarely a person that borrows my phone that doesn’t make the comment, the note: “You have a Pho Hai Tuyet app?” It’s there, near the front, proudly prominent, a bit out of place near Lyft and Instagram because it’s a by-the-airport dive in a converted fast food shack with endless out-of-commission fish tanks, and, for some reason, a stage. It is also known, has garnered a bit of a cult following for a fat guy sandwich of near-perfection. Or, it was, actually.

Pho hai shuttered quietly, but inevitably, to anyone who’s been recently, sometime between this past spring and the future of our discontent. Still there was shock to those of us who thought the sandwich would always be there: the big French baguette bed, crispy, succulent pork scrags, garlicky mayo, heaps of cilantro, crispy jalapeno punches.

To write about it hurts, like a eulogy, where you need to remember the bad and mix it with the strange to paint a picture. As it happens I have a friend who informed me that, once, while eating inside, he could hear something audibly scampering in the ceiling panels. Out of loyalty, out of sandwich-love, I practiced willful ignorance. I have another friend, a writer sort, who sports a Pho Hai polo shirt in his author bio pic. It seems like some sort of hipster ironicism, unless you know how much he loves—loved—the sandwich. And, really, what are we but not physical manifestations of our past meals and meal memories? A collection of those calories and reminisces.

Even as we look ahead, to more eating, to big city, big event pedigree, to maybe ending the national embarrassment, to 2020, to a promise of new vision, as we yearn for responsibility and reason, to, well, to... who knows? Whatever happens, whatever is next, I will never delete my Pho Hai Tuyet app.

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upontheshelfreviews · 5 years ago

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Last year I talked about Fantasia, which is not just one of my favorite Disney movies, but one of my favorite movies in general. And if I may be self-indulgent for a moment, it’s also one of the reviews that I’m the proudest of. Fantasia is a visual, emotional masterpiece that marries music and art in a manner few cinematic ventures have come close to replicating. One question that remains is what my thoughts on the long-gestated sequel is –

…you might wanna get yourselves some snacks first.

As anyone who read my review on the previous film knows, Fantasia was a project ahead of its time. Critics and audiences turned their noses up at it for conflicting reasons, and the film didn’t even make it’s budget back until twenty-something years later when they began marketing it to a very different crowd.

“I don’t wanna alarm you dude, but I took in some Fantasia and these mushrooms started dancing, and then there were dinosaurs everywhere and then they all died, but then these demons were flying around my head and I was like WOOOOOAAAHHH!!”

“Yeah, Fantasia is one crazy movie, man.”

“Movie?”

Fantasia’s unfortunate box office failure put the kibosh on Walt Disney’s plans to make it a recurring series with new animated shorts made to play alongside handpicked favorites. The closest he came to following through on his vision was Make Mine Music and Melody Time, package features of shorts that drew from modern music more than classical pieces.

Fast-forward nearly fifty years later to the golden age known as the Disney Renaissance: Walt’s nephew Roy E. Disney surveys the new crop of animators, storytellers, and artists who are creating hit after hit and have brought the studio back to his uncle’s glory days, and thinks to himself, “Maybe now we can make Uncle Walt’s dream come true.” He made a good case for it, but not everyone was on board. Jeffrey Katzenberg loathed the idea, partly because he felt the original Fantasia was a tough act to follow (not an entirely unreasonable doubt) but most likely due to the fact that the last time Disney made a sequel, The Rescuers Down Under, it drastically underperformed (even though the reasons for that are entirely Katzenberg’s fault. Seriously, watch Waking Sleeping Beauty and tell me you don’t want to punch him in the nose when Mike Gabriel recalls his opening weekend phone call).

Once Katzenberg was out of the picture, though, Fantasia 2000, then saddled with the less dated but duller moniker Fantasia Continued, got the go-ahead. Many of the sequences were made simultaneously as the animated features my generation most fondly remembers, others were created to be standalone shorts before they were brought into the fold. Since it was ready in time for the new millennium, it not only got a name change but a massive marketing campaign around the fact that it would be played on IMAX screens for a limited run, the very first Disney feature to do so. As a young Fantasia fan who had never been to one of those enormous theaters before, I begged and pleaded my parents to take me. Late that January, we traveled over to the IMAX theater at Lincoln Center, the only one nearest to us since they weren’t so widespread as they are now, and what an experience it was. I can still recall the feeling of awe at the climax of Pines of Rome, whispering eagerly with my mom at how the beginning of Rhapsody in Blue looked like a giant Etch-A-Sketch, and jumping twenty feet in the air when the Firebird’s massive eyes popped open. But did later viewings recapture that magic, or did that first time merely color my perception?

We open on snippets from the original Fantasia…IN SPAAAAAAAAACE!

It reminds me a little of the opening to Simply Mad About The Mouse, where bits of classic Disney nostalgia fly about to evoke the mood of this upcoming musical venture. In a clever conceit, snippets of Deems Taylor’s original opening narration explaining Fantasia’s intent and music types plays over the orchestra and animators materializing and gearing up for the first sequence, which jumps right into –

DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUUN – I mean, Symphony #5 – Ludwig Van Beethoven

Here, a bunch of butterflies flee and then fight off swarms of bats with the power of light – I can’t be the only one who saw these things and thought it was butterflies vs. bats, right?

It does look cool with its waterfalls and splashes of light and color bursting through the clouds, but this brings me to a bit of contention I have with the movie.

When I planned this review I was going to do a new version of “Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing”, except there were only four major complaints I could think of that. On further introspection, I admit they are legitimate grievances worth addressing. I’m going to get them out of the way all at once in order to keep things rolling.

#1 – This Seems Familiar…

Certain sequences are noticeably derivative from the first movie. It’s as if they were afraid of trying too many new things that would alienate audiences so they borrowed from their predecessor in an effort to say “Hey, we can do this too!” Symphony #5 is clearly trying to be Tocatta and Fugue with its abstract geometric shapes swooping all over to kick things off. Though I love how much character the animators managed to give two pairs of triangles, Tocatta’s soaring subconscious flights of fancy leaves me more enthralled. Carnival of the Animals literally began as a sequel to Dance of the Hours until the ostriches became flamingoes. And Roy E. Disney openly stated he wanted the last sequence, The Firebird Suite to have the same death and rebirth theme as Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria, which they got, right down to a terrifying symbol of destruction emerging from a mountain to wreak chaos.

‘Sup, witches?

#2 – Too Short

Speaking of repeating the past, the original idea for Fantasia 2000 was to follow Walt’s vision in that three favorite segments would make a return amongst the newer ones – the Nutcracker Suite, which was eventually cut for time, Dance of the Hours, which I’ve already stated morphed into Carnival of the Animals, and finally, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the obvious choice to keep since that’s the most popular piece out of any of them. Cutting things for time doesn’t make that much sense, however, when you realize that Fantasia 2000’s runtime is only 75 minutes. A very short animated film by today’s standards that lasts barely half as long as its previous installment. I don’t see why they couldn’t keep at least one other sequence from the first Fantasia to make things last a little longer and keep in the original idea’s spirit.

#3 – All Story, No Experimentation

Unlike the first Fantasia, all of the sequences have a linear narrative structure that’s easy to follow. Not a bad thing and kudos to you if you’re among that group who prefers Fantasia 2000 for because of that, but again, I admire how the original film didn’t stick to a coherent story the whole time; how it was unafraid to let the music, atmosphere, and visuals speak for itself without sticking to a three-act plot and designated protagonist for every piece.

#4 – The One You’ve Been Waiting For, The Host Segments

One of the things that turned Fantasia off for its detractors was Deems Taylor’s seemingly dry narration. But maybe Fantasia 2000 can fix that with some folks who are hip and with it, perhaps a wild and crazy guy or two…

Eh, he’ll do.

Now, the idea of varying segment hosts isn’t an altogether bad idea. Most of them work well: Angela Lansbury gives the lead-in to the Firebird Suite plenty of gravitas befitting the finale, as do Ithzak Perlman, Quincy Jones, and James Earl Jones, who build plenty of intrigue for Pines of Rome, Rhapsody in Blue and Carnival of the Animals respectively; this seriousness makes James’ reaction to what the Carnival segment is really about a successful comic subversion. Even Penn and Teller for all their obnoxiousness kind of works with The Sorcerer’s Apprentice due to the linking magic theme.

I suppose what turns people off is the self-congratulatory tone and seemingly forced attempts at comedy you get from Martin, Penn, Teller, and Bette Midler. But you know what? They still make me laugh after all these years (well, you have to laugh at Bette Midler’s antics or she’ll come after you when the Black Flame Candle is lit). In fact, I have to hand it to Midler’s intro in particular. Fantasia 2000 came out right around the time I began taking a keen interest in what animation really was and how it was made. For me, her preceding The Steadfast Tin Soldier piece with tidbits about Fantasia segments that didn’t make it past the drawing board was like the first free hit that turned me into an animation junkie (plus this was before you could look up anything on the topic in extraneous detail on the internet, so it had that going for it). If I have to nitpick, though, The Divine Miss M referring to Salvador Dalí as “the melting watches guy” is a bit reductive. That’d be like calling Babe Ruth “the baseball guy” or Walt Disney “the mouse and castle guy”. Plus, Dalí and Disney were close compadres with a layered history. They planned on many collaborations, though the fruit of their labors, Destino, would not be completed in either of their lifetimes. Couldn’t show just a modicum of respect there, Bette?

Ahhh! I take it back! Don’t steal my soul!

So, I wouldn’t say I hate or even completely dislike the host segments. Sorry to disappoint everyone who was hoping for me to rip into them. They’re not awful, just uneven. And if you think they ruin the movie for me, you’ve got another think coming.

Pines of Rome – Ottorino Respighi

The idea for Pines of Rome’s visuals came about due to an unusual detail in some concept art. Someone noticed that a particular cloud in a painting of the night sky heavily resembled a flying whale. So why make a short about flying whales? The better question would be why NOT make a short about flying whales? A supernova in the night sky miraculously gives some whales the ability to swim through the air over the icy seas. Again, seeing this in IMAX was incredible. There’s just one minor issue I have with. This and another segment were developed well before Pixar made its silver screen debut, and unfortunately, it shows twenty years later; the worst cases are the close-ups.

Okay, who put googly eyes on the moldy beanbag?

There are ways of blending CGI and hand-drawn animation well, and this isn’t one of them. I understand the necessity of having expressive eyes but simply dropping one on top of a CGI creature gives it a bit of an uncanny valley feel. They should have either stuck with traditional all the way or made the whales entirely CG. The CG animation of the whales themselves isn’t too shabby, so they could have pulled it off.

Because simply giving whales flight apparently isn’t enough to hold an audience’s interest, we have an adorable baby whale earning his wings, so to speak. Once he gets his bearings above the surface, he swoops ahead of his family and bothers a flock of seagulls. They chase him into a collapsing iceberg, leaving him trapped, alone and unable to fly. The quiet dip in the music combined with the image of this lost little calf adds some genuine emotional weight to this piece. The baby navigates the iceberg’s claustrophobic caverns until he finds a crevice that elevates him back to his worried parents. From there a whole pod of whales rises out of the ocean to join them as they fly upwards to the supernova’s source.

“So long, and thanks for all the krill!”

As the music reaches its brilliant crescendo, the whales plow through storm clouds until they reach the top of the world and breach through the stars like water. It’s an awe-inspiring climax of a short that, flaws and all, reminds you of what Fantasia is all about.

Majestic.

Rhapsody in Blue – George Gershwin

The music of jazz composer George Gershwin? Timeless. The art of renowned caricaturist Al Hirschfeld? Perfection. All this brought to life with the best animation Disney has to offer? It’s a match made in heaven. Eric Goldberg, who animated the Genie among other comedic characters, idolized Hirschfeld and drew plenty of inspiration from drawings, so getting to work alongside him while making this was nothing short of a dream come true. That attention to detail in rendering Hirschfeld’s trademark curvy two-dimensional style goes beyond mere homage. It is a love letter to a great artist that encapsulates everything about him and his craft, and to a great city that we both had the honor of calling home. The story goes that Goldberg screened the final product for Hirschfeld shortly before his 96th birthday and his wife told him after that it was the best gift he could have ever received.

All this to say I am quite fond of this particular short, thank you very much.

The piece follows four characters navigating 1930’s Manhattan and crossing paths over the course of a single day:

Duke, a construction worker torn between his steady, monotonous job and following his dream of drumming in a jazz band,

Joe, a victim of the Great Depression desperately looking for work,

Rachel, a little girl who wants to spend time with her parents but is forced to attend lesson after lesson by her strict governess,

and “Flying” John, a henpecked husband longing to be free from his overbearing wife –

And her little dog too!

By the way, John is modeled in name and in looks after Disney animation historian John Culhane, who also was the inspiration for The Rescuers’ Mr. Snoops, hence why the two look so similar. He’s not the only name who appears in this sequence: Gershwin himself makes a surprise cameo as he takes over Rachel’s piano solo halfway through the story.

Speaking of, my family used to compare me to Rachel because at that point in my young life I was doing or already did the same mandatory activities as she – swimming, ballet, music, sports, all with the same amount of speed and varying degrees of success.

No one can argue that art is where we both excelled, however.

The physical timing of Rhapsody in Blue’s animation is hilarious, though it doesn’t rely wholly on slapstick for its humor. The sight gags and clever character dynamics all weaved into the music milk plenty of laughs, and envelop you in this living, breathing island that is Manhattan.

I speak from experience, this is the most accurate depiction of commuting on the 1 train that there ever was.

Even with such a premise and two masters of combining comedy and art, there is still enough pathos to keep the story rooted. Take when all four characters are at their lowest point. They look down on some skaters in Rockefeller Center and picture themselves in their place fulfilling their deepest desires. Seeing their dreams so close in their minds and yet so far away while paired with the most stirring part of the score is heartwrenching.

In the end, things pick up as the characters unwittingly solve each other’s problems. Duke quits the construction site, leaving an opening for Joe to fill. Joe accidentally snags John’s wife on a hook and hauls her screaming into the air, allowing him one night of uninhibited fun at the club where Duke performs.

“Anyone hear something? Nah, it’s probably just me.”

Rachel loses her ball while fighting with her nanny, which Duke bounces off the window of her parents’ office, which in turn gets them to notice their daughter about to run into traffic and they save her. Everyone gets their happy ending and it ends on a spectacularly glamorous shot of Time Square lit up in all its frenetic neon glory.

And not a single knockoff costumed character hitting up tourists for photos. Those were the days, my friend.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I adore Rhapsody in Blue. It’s easily my favorite part of the movie; a blissful ménage-a-trois of art style, music and storytelling, and it’s so New York that the only New York things I could think of that are missing are Central Park and amazing bagels. This sequence is gut-busting, energized, emotional, and mesmerizing in its form. I don’t often say I love a piece of animation so much that I’d marry it, but when I do, it’s often directed at Rhapsody in Blue.

Piano Concerto #2 – Dmitri Shostakovich (aka The One With The Steadfast Tin Soldier)

This piece has an interesting history attached to it. Disney wanted to do an animated film surrounding Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales – including The Little Mermaid and The Steadfast Tin Soldier – as far back as the 30’s, but the project fell by the wayside. During Fantasia 2000’s production, Roy E. Disney asked if they could do something with Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto #2 since he and his daughter were attached to that piece. He looked over sketches and storyboards made for the unrealized Tin Soldier sequence and discovered the music matched in perfect time with the story.

This is the second sequence that features CGI at the forefront. Unlike Pines of Rome, though, it works because the main characters are toys, and you can get away with your early CGI looking shiny and metallic and plastic-like when you’re animating toys.

Hell, it worked for Pixar.

The story centers on a tin soldier cast with only one leg who is shunned by his comrades for routinely throwing off their groove. He falls in love with a porcelain ballerina when he mistakes her standing en pointe as her also missing a limb. Despite his embarrassment when he learns the truth, the ballerina is enamored with him as well. This rouses the jealousy of an evil jack-in-the-box who I swear is a caricature of Jeffrey Katzenberg minus the glasses but with a goatee and Lord Farquaad wig.

“MUST. CHOP. EVERYTHING!!!”

The jack-in-the-box and the soldier duke it out for a bit before the former sends the latter flying out the window in a little wooden boat. The boat floats the soldier into the sewers and attracts a horde of angry rats who attack him, because animated rodents seem to have a natural hatred towards toy soldiers.

Case in point.

The soldier hurtles into the sea where he’s eaten by a fish – which is caught the following morning, packed up to be sold at market, bought by the cook who works at the very house he came from, and he falls out of the fish’s mouth on the floor where his owner finds him and places him back with the rest of the toys. Now the story this is based on hints that the jack-in-the-box is really a goblin who orchestrates the soldier’s misfortunes with his malicious magic. But based the extremely coincidental circumstances of his return home, I’d say the soldier’s the one who’s got some reality-warping tricks up his sleeve.

The soldier and jack-in-the-box duel again that evening, but this time the harlequin harasser falls into the fireplace and burns up. Our hero gets the girl and lives happily ever after. A nice conclusion, though a far cry from what happened in the original tale: the ballerina is knocked into the fire, the soldier jumps in after her, and all that remains of them by morning is some melted tin in the shape of a heart. I gotta say, for all my love of classic fairytales, Disney made the right call. Andersen’s life was far from magical and it reflected in his stories, making many of them depressing for no good reason. The triumphant note the music ends on also would have clashed horribly if they stuck with the original. Even the Queen of Denmark agreed with Disney’s decision to soften their adaptations of Andersen’s work. I don’t know if I’d call The Steadfast Tin Soldier one of my very favorite parts of Fantasia 2000, but in the end, s’all right.

Carnival of the Animals: Finale – Camille Sant-Saëns

This shortest of shorts (clocking in at less than two minutes) kicks off with James Earl Jones asking with as much seriousness as he can muster from the situation, what would happen if you gave a yo-yo to a flock of flamingos?

The answer –

Good answer!

Fie on those who dismiss this part as a silly one-off that doesn’t belong here. Fie, I say! It’s a pure delight full of fun expressions and fluid fast-paced action. Once again we have my man Eric Goldberg to thank for this, though this time he animated it entirely by himself. I’d call it a one-man show except for the fact that his wife Susan handpainted the entire thing with watercolor, making it look like it sprung to life straight from a paintbrush. It’s a simple diversion about a flamingo who wants to play with his yo-yo while the other snooty members of his flock try to force him to conform. As you can see from the still, they fail quite epically. Nothing beats the power of nonconformity and yo-yos (also every yo-yo move featured here is authentic; I love when animators go that extra mile).

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice plays next, but since I already touched on that in the first Fantasia review, I’m skipping over it. The segment ends with Mickey congratulating Leopold Stokowski (again), then crossing the barriers of time and space to inform the conductor, James Levine, that he needs to track down the star of the next segment, Donald Duck. Levine stalls by explaining a bit about what’s to come while Mickey frantically searches for his errant costar. The surround sound sells the notion of him moving around the back of the theater accidentally causing mischief all the while. Thankfully, Donald is found and the sequence commences.

Pomp and Circumstance – Edward Elgar

This famous piece of music was included at the insistence of Michael Eisner after he attended his son’s graduation ceremony. He wanted to feature a song that everyone was already familiar with. Of course, since this was after Frank Well’s untimely passing and no one was bold enough to temper Eisner’s worst instincts with common sense, his original pitch had every animated couple Disney created up to that point marching on to Noah’s Ark – and then marching out with their babies.

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Okay, A: Unless you’re doing a groin hit joke or are Ralph Bakshi or R. Crum, cartoon characters don’t have junk as a rule. And B, one of the unwritten rules of Disney animation is that barring kids that already exist like the titular 101 Dalmatians or Duchess’ kittens, the established canon couples do not in any official capacity have children.

To which Eisner laughed maniacally and vowed that they would.

But in order to placate Eisner’s desire to turn every branch of the Disney corporation into a commercial for itself, the animators compromised and agreed to do Pomp and Circumstance with the Noah’s Ark theme, BUT with only one couple – Donald and Daisy Duck. In this retelling of the biblical tale, Donald acts as Noah’s beleaguered assistant (I guess Shem, Ham, and Japheth were too busy rounding up the endangered species). Daisy provides emotional support while preparing to move on to the ark as well. It’s refreshing to see these two not losing their temper at each other for a change. I wish we got to see this side of their relationship more often. Donald returns Daisy’s easily lost plot device locket to her and as the rain rain rain comes down down down, he starts directing the animals on board; the lions, the tigers, the bears, the…ducks?

Anyway, all the animals and Donald get on board – well, most of them do.

The world’s first climate change deniers.

Donald realizes Daisy hasn’t arrived yet and runs out to look for her, unaware that she’s already boarded. Daisy sees Donald leaving but is too late to stop him before the first floodwaters hit their home. Donald made it back to the ark in time, however, though both of them believe that the other is forever lost to them. I find it astounding that they never run into each other not even once during the forty days and forty nights they’re cooped up on that boat. It’s the American Tail cliche all over again, and well, at least it’s happening in a short and not the entire movie.

Soon the ark lands atop Mount Ararat and the animals depart in greater numbers than when they embarked on their singles cruise. Daisy realizes halfway down the mountain that she’s lost her locket again, which Donald finds at that very moment while sweeping up, and the two are joyously reunited.

“I thought you were dead!” “I thought YOU were dead!”

I kid around, but I truly enjoy this short a lot. There’s so much warmth to Donald and Daisy’s relationship that makes their reunion at the end all the sweeter, and there’s plenty of great slapstick to offset the drama in the meantime. I will admit it’s nice to hear there’s more to Pomp And Circumstance than just the famous march, and the entire suite matches flawlessly with the visuals, though the main theme itself is so ingrained into the public consciousness that it’s difficult to extricate it from that what we’ve seen accompany it countless times.

Come on, you all know what I’m talking about.

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“What? Don’t tell me YOU don’t think of heads exploding like fireworks when you hear Pomp and Circumstance! Name one other life-changing moment could you possibly associate it with…you weirdo.”

The Firebird Suite – Igor Stravinsky

Fantasia 2000 comes to a close with a piece that has some emotional resonance if you know your history. You might remember from my first Fantasia review that Igor Stravinsky was disappointed with how Rite of Spring turned out, especially since he was a big admirer of Walt Disney and really wanted to do more projects with him beforehand. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they picked his premiere ballet to end the movie on decades later. After all these years, Disney worked hard to do right by Stravinsky – with a few twists, though. Instead of a balletic retelling of Russian folktales involving kidnapped princesses and immortal sorcerers, we have a fantastical allegory for the circle of life.

No, not that circle of life.

A lone elk who I’m fairly convinced is the Great Prince of the Forest walks through the forest in the dead of winter. With his breath, he awakens the spirit of the woods and one of the most beautiful characters Disney has ever created, the Spring Sprite.

I. Love. This character. Her design is gorgeous, shifting from a shimmery opalescent blue as she steps out of the water into an eternally flowing fount of live greenery spreading from her hair in her wake. Wherever she moves, grass, flowers, and trees blossom, fulfilling the idea of a springtime goddess more than Disney’s own Goddess of Spring ever did. The Sprite was a massive influence in developing my art style, particularly in her face and expressive eyes, and I used to draw her a lot. Visit any relative of mine and chances are you’ll find a picture of her by me hanging up on a wall somewhere in their house. Yet there’s far more to her character than just a pretty representation of nature; there’s plenty of curiosity, spunk, determination, and a drive for creativity. I love her frustrated expression when she’s dissatisfied with the tiny flower she sculpts out of the ground and how her face lights up when she morphs it into a buttercup as tall as she is.

The Sprite paints the forest with all the colors of the wind (mostly green) until she reaches a mountain that isn’t affected by her magic. Perplexed, she climbs it until she finds a large hunched over rock figure – or is it an egg? – standing inside. She reaches out to touch it and…

The Sprite has awakened her counterpart, the wrathful and deadly Firebird. Think giant evil phoenix made of smoke, flame and lava. And it goes without saying that seeing this on the biggest screen left quite the terrifying impact. One of the biggest inspirations for this sequence was the eruption of Mount St. Helens (though the shot of the Sprite surveying the breadth of the Firebird’s destruction reminds me far too much of the Australian bushfires going on) and the sheer horror of nature’s irrepressible chaos is fully captured here. But the Firebird refuses to settle for merely destroying the Sprite’s handiwork, oh no. It won’t rest until creation itself is consumed, and the Sprite is reduced to a powerless mite as she scrabbles to escape the Firebird’s relentless pursuit of her. Try as she might, however, the towering monster corners and devours her in one fell swoop.

The forest is reduced to gray ashes in the wake of the Firebird’s rampage, but the Great Prince has survived. Once again he brings the Sprite to life with his breath, only this time she is tiny and weak (the animation of her slowly developing from the ash into her huddled ragged form is breathtaking). Now, I didn’t think I’d get emotional revisiting a small part of a single movie I’ve rewatched countless times before but viewing this through a mature eye combined with the beauty of the Firebird Suite’s climax and its timely message has caused me to see it in a new light:

The Sprite is utterly broken by what she’s been through and the destruction she carelessly caused. She’s lost all faith in herself and in the idea of returning the forest to what it once was. Even so, the Prince gently insists on carrying her on his antlers to the remains of their favorite cherry blossom tree. Where her tears fall, grass shoots begin to sprout. This fills the Sprite with hope, and she soars into the air becoming one with the sky and rains life down on the forest. New trees burst from the earth. The air is filled with leaves and pollen and new life flowing from her essence. The Sprite’s joy and power grow so strong that she even encircles the Firebird’s mountain in all her verdant glory. Life and creation overcome death and destruction. It’s not Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria, but it’s close.

And unfortunately, that’s the biggest problem Fantasia 2000 has.

While working on the original Fantasia, a storyman made the mistake of referring to the work they were doing in “the cartoon medium” in Walt’s presence. Walt turned on him and snapped “This is NOT ‘the cartoon medium’. It should not be limited to cartoons. We have worlds to conquer.”

And conquer they did…just not the way Walt intended.

The point I’m trying to make is Walt was breaking new ground and experimenting with things nobody ever tried when it came to Fantasia. While those risks were initially deemed a failure, it eventually gained the recognition it deserved from the animation and filmmaking community. Any attempt to recreate the magic of Fantasia is no small feat. But rather than taking new risks that not even the first film dared, the studio opted to adhere to Fantasia’s formula with pieces that recall if not flat out copy from the original segments. I hesitate to call it a pale imitation or cash grab however because this was done for the art much more than the money (though Eisner was probably hoping it would bring in some bank). There’s even a little bit of depth to it: while the first Fantasia had themes of differing natures in conflict – light vs. dark, fire vs. water, etc. – Fantasia 2000’s theme is accidental but brilliantly meta: CGI vs. traditional animation, a conflict Disney would become very familiar with in the decade following the film’s release. In some ways, it reminds me of Epcot’s genesis. The driving force behind it was long gone, but the attempt to bring it to life as close to the original vision as possible is still much appreciated.

For all my gripes, I really do enjoy Fantasia 2000. Perhaps not on the same level as its predecessor, but it has its moments, oh yes. And believe me, as far as Disney sequels go, you could do far, far, far worse than this one. Fantasia 2000 is Fantasia’s kid sister mimicking its beloved older sibling in an attempt to show it can be cool like the big kids too. But hey, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this review, please consider supporting this misfit on Patreon. Patreon supporters receive great perks such as extra votes for movie reviews, movie requests, early sneak-peeks and more! If I can hit my goal of $100 a month, I can go back to weekly tv series reviews. As of now, I’m only $20 away! Special thanks to Amelia Jones, Gordhan Rajani and Sam Minden for their contributions! I’ll see you in a few weeks when I and review the 1959 Disney animated classic, Sleeping Beauty!

Artwork by Charles Moss.

Screencaps from animationscreencaps.com

Yes, I know The Lion King and Lady and the Tramp ended with the titular characters having babies, but was there anyone out there apart from Eisner who demanded there be sequels to those films that focused on their offspring?

January Review: Fantasia 2000 Last year I talked about Fantasia, which is not just one of my favorite Disney movies, but one of my favorite movies in general.

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